Dinah was somewhere in her fifties. She wouldn’t divulge exactly where even to me, her best friend. She was convinced that people judged you when they knew your age. I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking she was old. She was practically bursting with energy, and she was always up for an adventure.
“Hello,” Dinah said taking the phone. I complimented her on Ashley-Angela’s phone manners, and I could hear the pride in her voice when she thanked me. No matter how much Dinah said she couldn’t wait for their father to come pick them up, I knew she’d gotten attached to them.
“There was something else in the bag. It seems like a diary entry.” Then I described how I’d been staring at the crochet piece and finally decided it was somehow the key to the secret mentioned in the aborted note.
“Read me the diary piece,” Dinah said.
My noodle pudding was getting cold and I took a bite. Dinah heard me chewing and wanted to know what I was eating. When I mentioned I had enough to share, she sighed.
“I love your California Noodle Pudding,” she said. “It is times like this I wish I wasn’t tied down.”
I promised to save her a piece and then took out the diary entry and started to read. I heard Dinah say “uh-huh” when I read the part about saying good-bye.
“It’s obvious she was having an affair and was upset about having to say good-bye. She said something about them being together eventually. Maybe that didn’t happen and that’s what she wanted to change.” Dinah stopped for a moment. “Hmm, it mentioned an island. I wonder what island it is.”
“There’s Balboa Island near Newport Beach, there’s the Hawaiian Islands. And there’s always Alcatraz,” I said with a laugh.
“But the entry doesn’t even indicate a state. It could be Bainbridge Island near Seattle, or St. Thomas in the Caribbean.”
“If the secret has something to do with an affair on an island, you’d sure never guess it by the crochet piece. I’ve been staring at it until my eyes are blurry and I still don’t get what a lot of the images are, let alone what they mean,” I said.
“Maybe the best thing to do is just wait and see if someone comes looking for it. It also might be the only thing to do,” Dinah suggested.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s odd, though, the way it was left on our table and the way the note breaks off—why just stop writing like that in the middle?”
“I can answer that one,” Dinah said. “Ever since Ashley-Angela and E. Conner have come to stay with me, I do things like that all the time. It’s called getting interrupted. I have to be really careful with comments on students’ papers and remember to go back and finish what I started. Telling someone, ‘Your paper has a powerful beginning,’ and telling someone, ‘Your paper has a powerful beginning but the rest doesn’t make sense,’ are a little different.” Dinah punctuated her comment with a chuckle. “What did the note say again?”
I pulled it out of the bag and read it to Dinah:
“I did something a long time ago that I now regret and would like to make right. I’m not sure everyone involved will agree. I’m leaving the enclosed for safekeeping with you. If I don’t come back for them, I trust you will know what to do. Please—”
“Hmm,” I said, looking at the diary entry and the note side by side. “The note seems different after reading the diary entry. Obviously whatever she did a long time ago is what she was talking about in the diary entry. Whatever she wants to fix probably has to do with the person she said good-bye to.”
“The diary page says something about the note writer getting back together with someone. Maybe they didn’t and she wants to make that happen now,” Dinah said. “The most obvious scenario is the writer had an affair with some guy on an island and maybe they were both married and the plan was they would go home and get divorces and then live happily ever after—but it didn’t happen. And now all these years later, the writer still wants her happily ever after.”
I pushed my plate of food away and held up the crochet piece. “All that makes sense, but what do all these weird images have to do with it?”
“Who knows? Maybe they represent lyrics to—” Dinah’s voice came in and out, and I could tell she was looking away from the phone. I heard kids’ noises and Dinah sighed. “See what I mean about getting interrupted? The end of that thought is lyrics to their song.” She sighed again. “I promised to read them a story. Why don’t you bring the bag to the crochet group. Maybe with all of our brains storming together we’ll come up with something.”
I agreed to bring it and then told Dinah about my impending houseguests. She laughed.
“Batten down the hatches! Liza Aronson is coming to town.”
I WENT INTO THE BOOKSTORE EARLY THE NEXT morning. Mrs. Shedd generally did her work when the store was closed, so I was surprised to see her sitting in her office. But there was no mistaking her hair. Although she was in her late sixties, she didn’t have even a lock of gray hair. The dark blond color was all natural, and the page-boy style reminded me of an old shampoo commercial. Her clothes were kind of old-school, too. She didn’t wear pants, she wore trousers along with feminine big-collared blouses. Everybody called her Mrs. Shedd. I had only recently learned her first name was Pamela. She was leaning back in her desk chair and waved me in as I passed.
“Tell me again about the couple who came in. Did they seem happy with the way the bookstore looked? Did they make any comments about the arrangement?” Mrs. Shedd sounded unusually nervous. “You know, Molly, the way the bookstore looks on TV is really important. It’s national television. Millions of viewers. This is the ultimate event for our little place. It will put us on the map, and we could become a tourist stop or at least the place in the Valley to visit for your book needs,” she said in an excited voice.
I nodded to show I was listening as she began to talk about how impressed Mr. Royal would be if he knew. I continued nodding and hoped my disbelief that he existed didn’t show. “So be sure and offer any assistance to anyone involved with the show,” Mrs. Shedd finished.
After assuring her I would do my best, I went back onto the bookstore floor. We’d just opened so there were barely any customers. Bob, our main barista, was brewing fresh coffee, and the pungent fragrance mixed with the sweet scent of his homemade butterscotch oatmeal cookie bars cooling on the counter. It was too much to resist; I went into the café, grabbed a cup of fresh coffee and some hot cookie bars and then headed back into the main store.
A man had come in and was standing at the front counter talking to Rayaad. When she saw me, she waved me over. The man’s slightly long gray-streaked hair, intelligent face and rimless glasses made me think he might be a college professor. But the manicured nails and designer tennis whites complete with a sweater made me think not.
The man nodded to me and held out his hand. “Hunter Katz.”
I balanced the cookie bars and coffee mug in one hand and shook his.
“I’m the executive vice president of Rhead Productions. We produce Making Amends. I don’t usually get involved with locations or the details of any of our shows, but since this is my neighborhood . . .” He pointed toward the view of the hills and Santa Monica Mountains dotted with homes, implying one of them was his. “So I thought I’d drop by and make sure the ball has started rolling.”
I mentioned meeting the set designers the previous day, and then I asked him the question I’d thought of after they’d left. Why were they filming at the bookstore?
Hunter laughed. “That’s because someone in the bookstore is the subject of the show. They’re the one someone is making amends with.”
“Oh really. Who is it?” I asked.
He winked. “Sorry, but the whole emotional arc of the show is based on it being a surprise.” He handed me his card. “If there are any problems with the setups or anything, give my office a call. Like I said, I don’t usually get involved with the nitty-gritty of any of our shows, but since it’s my local bookstore, I have a personal interest in things going
smoothly.”
Which really meant he didn’t want anything to go wrong. Oh dear, the pressure was on. Let’s just say that some of my author events have had a certain unpredictable quality to them, like the time a cooking demonstration led to the fire department showing up. I put on a confident smile and told him I was sure everything would go perfectly. “So, I guess you’re CeeCee Collins’s boss.”
“I’ve never quite thought of it in those terms, but yes,” he said, preparing to depart. “You have some kind of crochet group here that makes things for charity, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said tentatively, wondering why he was asking. “Does that have something to do with the show?”
He took a step backward while still looking at me and winked. “Sorry, I can’t give out that information.” Then with a wave, he was gone.
A busy morning already and it wasn’t even ten yet. I headed to the event area to do setup for the crochet group. The morning sun poured in the window that faced Ventura Boulevard. A city maintenance worker was giving a shot of water to the giraffe topiary that stood guard by the window. The ivy was finally beginning to cover the metal frame and mossy stuff in the middle.
Someone had decided a while back that the Valley communities along Ventura Boulevard should each have some kind of identity. Because we were located in Tarzana, there was the obvious Tarzan connection, and hence, we got the designation of Safari Walk. What that amounted to was a street sign announcing it, garbage cans with animal cutouts, an occasional sidewalk square made of red tiles with a big rock on it and topiary animals sprinkled down the boulevard.
Turning my back on the ivy giraffe and his keeper, I began to prepare for the group. I pulled out the long table and unfolded the legs. Dinah came in before I finished setting up the chairs. Actually, I heard the tinkle of her long earrings before I saw her. As usual, she had several scarves twined around her neck, but no kids with her.
“Thank heavens for preschool,” she said when I asked. “They’ve started going every day.” She dropped her craft bag on a chair and undid her sweater coat. She picked up one of my cookie bars and took a nibble, then said she was going for her own treats.
While she was gone, I took out the filet crochet piece and the note and diary entry.
“Wow, it’s different than I remember it,” Dinah said, glancing toward my display as she returned with a latte and more cookie bars. She set down her café purchases and gave all her attention to the stitched item. “I see what you mean. Who knows what most of this stuff is supposed to be? Cancel what I said about song lyrics.” She pointed at the aqua rectangle with the window in the middle. “It’s as if she decided to mix abstract things with recognizable ones. Like that.” Dinah pointed at the man with the bow and arrow.
Dinah took a sip of her latte and with a thoughtful look picked up the diary entry. She read it over several times, frequently glancing back toward the panel piece. Her eyes suddenly brightened. “I think I’ve found a connection.” She pointed to December 20 on the paper and then to the bow-and-arrow figure. “The zodiac sign for that date is Sagittarius.” She stared at me, apparently waiting for some kind of reaction. When it didn’t come, she continued. “Don’t you get it? You know, the ram is for Aries, the lion for Leo and the archer for Sagittarius.”
“Oh,” I said, letting it sink in. “You’re right. Wow, that’s impressive.”
“What’s impressive, dear?” CeeCee moved past me, pulling her craft case on wheels to the head of the table and positioning it next to her chair. The production company had hired a stylist to work with her when the show took off, and the new look suited her well. Gone were the reddish blond bubble hairstyle and the jewel-colored velour warm-up suits she’d worn before. Now her hair was a soft brown with natural-looking highlights. The soft bangs knocked years off her face, her outfit—slacks, shirt and long vest—hid any hint of extra curves.
Before I could answer her question, CeeCee had spied my last cookie bar. “Does that belong to anyone?” she said, reaching for it. When I told her it was hers, she closed her eyes and savored the flavor.
“Dinah just figured out something about the crochet piece,” I said, showing CeeCee the date and the archer.
“Oh dear, no one showed up for it, did they?” She threw up her hands, appearing upset. “I just can’t deal with this. You’ll take care of it won’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the items down the table toward me. “Besides, it’s distracting us from our real purpose.”
The purpose of the group was to crochet things either to give to those in need, or to sell to raise money for some worthy cause. Our current project was making blankets for the police or social service organizations to offer to traumatized older kids.
At that moment Eduardo and Sheila came in together. They weren’t a couple or anything, they just arrived at the same time.
“I finished a blanket,” Sheila said. She held up a small throw the same beige color as Dinah’s drink and then draped it on the edge of the table. We all praised her fine work, but the look of strain across her forehead remained. Fitting in the crochet group around her job at the gym, her costume design classes and assorted odd jobs was an ongoing struggle for her. I felt nervous just thinking of all she had to do. As usual, she was wearing the black suit she was required to wear as receptionist at the gym. I thought it an odd clothing choice for a place where the members all wore sweats or spandex.
“Lovely,” CeeCee said one final time before folding up the blanket and setting it at the end of the table.
“Sorry I had to miss the park fund-raiser,” Eduardo said, setting his leather shopping bag on the table. His shoulder-length black hair was loose, and he was wearing jeans and a soft blue tee shirt. Everything looked good on him—that was probably why he was such a successful cover model.
Eduardo was also a master crocheter. He’d learned the craft from his grandmother, and he did it as though it were second nature. Reaching into his bag, Eduardo pulled out the child-size blanket he’d completed. It was moss green and so soft to the touch I wanted to cuddle it. But wasn’t that the point? We hoped these coverlets would provide warmth and the comfort of something to hang onto.
“Eduardo, that’s beautiful,” CeeCee said, taking it and putting it next to Sheila’s. “I have three now. I’ll drop these off at the West Valley Police Station.” CeeCee pointed to the bags of yarn the bookstore provided and encouraged them both to start another.
Eduardo saw the filet crochet piece and his brow wrinkled. “Where did that come from?”
Dinah told him the story, and he examined it. “Nice stitch work, but what’s the point?” He spread it out on the table. “Is it some kind of tablecloth?” We all studied it and shook our heads. It was too wide for a table runner but too narrow for a tablecloth.
“I don’t think it has a practical purpose,” I said, straightening it. “I still have a hard time thinking this is really crochet.”
Eduardo had a deep hypnotic voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like poetry, so we were all rapt listeners when he started to talk about filet crochet. Even CeeCee.
“I understand your dilemma,” he said. “Filet crochet looks quite different than the blankets we’re making. I learned from my Gran Maeve that it was developed to make trimming that looked like lace for dresses and household items.” Eduardo grinned. “Not that I was interested in trimming anything.” Eduardo had told us how he was Irish on his mother’s side and, being the youngest in a family of boys, had been chosen by his grandmother to carry on the family tradition of Irish crochet. “But she made me learn filet crochet anyway. By the way, filet means ‘net’ in French.” He took out a hook and some yarn and proceeded to make a foundation row and then began a row of mesh spaces. “She said it was like drawing with thread because you could make pictures with it.” His fingers were nimble, and the yarn made the stitches easy to see. In the next row he made several open meshes with blocks, followed by more open meshes.
“If I was going to make a pattern or a picture, I’d make up a chart first. You can use graph paper, and then you mark in the blocks and leave the meshes open.”
Somehow when he said it, it all made sense. “Now, I get it,” I said as he handed me the little swatch he’d made. I compared it with the panel piece and was able to pick out the tiny double crochets and chains.
“Ah, but if you look so closely, then you lose the picture.” He took the panel piece from me and stepped away, holding it up. Sure enough, it was easier to see the pictures in each panel when I viewed the piece from a distance. It did not, however, make the meaning of the pictures any easier to figure out.
“Where’s Adele?” Eduardo asked, glancing up and down the table.
“No wonder it’s so quiet,” Dinah said.
“She called me early this morning to say she was going to be late,” I said. “She and her new best friend Ali went to some special yarn store this morning.”
“Oh dear,” CeeCee said suddenly, glancing toward the window. We all followed her gaze, but when she saw what we were doing she became agitated. “Don’t look. Keep your eyes on your work and maybe she’ll go away.”
“Who?” Sheila asked. She had looked up from the new blanket she was starting. She’d picked up on CeeCee’s upset, and consequently, her stitches were growing tighter and tighter. CeeCee and Adele had helped her deal with her too-tight stitches so many times, she now knew what to do herself. She pulled out a smaller hook, took some deep breaths and started the mantra of “keep it loose” as she slowly poked the hook into each stitch.
“Her name’s Camille Rhead Katz,” CeeCee said between her teeth.
“There was some man named Katz in here a little while ago. He said he was involved with your show. Are they connected?” I asked, nodding toward the window as I looked at CeeCee.
“Yes, he’s her husband.” CeeCee said, forcing her gaze away from the window.
By Hook or by Crook cm-3 Page 3