By Hook or by Crook cm-3

by Betty Hechtman

  “Wow, there’s even an s to make it Wells,” Dinah said, pointing to the shape holding the bucket.

  “I can’t just do nothing,” I said, not taking my eyes off the crochet work. “I’ll feel better if I at least find out what Mary Beth was trying to fix and take care of it for her.”

  Dinah touched me to get my attention. “You know the secret and her death are probably connected.” I nodded and Dinah perked up. “Count me in. An investigation will keep me from slipping into the empty-nest blues.”

  I turned the piece back around right-side up, and we both went over the motifs to see if the new information made a difference in understanding the whole. It didn’t.

  “Didn’t you say Detective Heather said the death was from natural causes?”

  “No. She said it looked like natural causes. I bet anything that when they do an autopsy they’ll find out it wasn’t.” I caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall and jumped up. “I have to go.”

  CHAPTER 7

  GOT HOME WITH BARELY ENOUGH TIME TO TURN on the lights and take care of the dogs before the grand arrival. I was fluffing the pillows on the couch when the SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the house. Who would have thought my parents would get a sport-utility vehicle?

  I opened the door and waited for them. My mother floated in on the scent of Chanel No. 5 and hugged me. Then she stepped back and looked me over. They were hardly in the house and I was already girding for the onslaught.

  “Molly, the last time I saw you, you were wearing the same thing. Is your whole wardrobe khaki pants and white shirts and a black something? You need some color, some pizzaz.”

  Nobody would accuse my mother of lacking pizzaz. In fact, my mother, Liza Aronson, had pizzaz to spare. I wasn’t as obvious as she was, but I checked out her outfit, too. Unfortunately, there was nothing negative to say. It was depressing to realize my mother had more style than I did. She had on black jeans with a black turtleneck and a woven scarf of blues and purples wound loosely around her neck. An armful of silver and turquoise bracelets and long dangle earrings complemented the look, which she finished off with silver-toed black cowboy boots. I looked like queen of the frumps next to her. Even her hair was better. When I went for a cut, I just sat in the chair and let Gerardo decide how to snip. Not her. She always went to the salon with an exact plan of how she wanted her hair. It was a golden brown with mink highlights, cut to shape her face perfectly. But then, as she had always reminded me, she was a performer and I wasn’t.

  Next my father came in carrying some bags. I offered to help, but he insisted he had it under control. He wore slacks and a blazer, and though his hair was almost white he still had a nice head full. He dropped a bag of samples on the table. “I brought some of this great new sunblock,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he studied my face. I knew the look. He was checking my skin. It was second nature to him. He was always on the lookout for skin cancer. He seemed satisfied with what he saw and asked where to take their luggage.

  “I suppose you’re going to put us in one of the boys’ rooms,” my mother chimed in. Before I could stop her, she headed for Peter’s old room. When she turned on the light, she yelped in surprise. The last time she’d seen it, there was a pullout couch, a dresser and a bookcase full of sports trophies. Now it was a riot of color and plastic grocery bags. When I’d first turned it into my crochet room, I’d kept it orderly. All the yarn was in the bookcase, arranged by color. But then I’d gotten more yarn than there was shelf space for, and even though I had tried to squeeze it in, it had popped out and sort of landed everywhere. Then there were the projects. I’d start something and work on it for a while, then something else would excite me and I’d set the first one aside thinking it would just be for a moment until I got the next one started. And on and on. I’d discovered the best way to keep track of my works in progress was by putting each in a plastic grocery bag along with the instructions, notes on what I’d completed, a yarn wrapper and a hook. The grocery bags seemed to have multiplied like rabbits.

  “See, I do have some color in my life,” I said as I prepared to turn off the light.

  “What’s all this?” my mother said with concern in her voice as she stepped farther into the room and poked into the grocery bags. “You know, disorder is a sign of mental illness.”

  What? My mother was barely in the door and already she was calling me crazy.

  “It’s my crochet room.” I left the light on and proceeded to show her how sane I was. Would a crazy person be able to follow the pattern for an afghan that was finished except for half the fringe? I didn’t think so.

  “You made this?” My mother actually sounded impressed, and I figured she was now clear that I wasn’t nuts.

  “What about this?” She didn’t sound so impressed anymore, and when I looked to see what was diminishing her opinion of me, I saw that she had picked up Mary Beth’s piece. “Is this some kind of art piece? Were you trying to mix representational art with abstract?”

  “I didn’t make it, so I don’t know.” I debated whether I should tell her about Mary Beth being dead and my thinking it was some kind of clue map. But considering that she already seemed to have some doubts about my mental health—well, even I knew it sounded kind of crazy.

  “What is all this supposed to be?” my mother said, turning the piece around as if a different view would change things. “I recognize this—it’s the Casino Building on Catalina Island.”

  “Huh?” I said, looking over her shoulder. Then I saw she was right. I’d seen the round-shaped building countless times during the weather segment on the news. Here she didn’t even know anything about the mystery and she’d already turned over a clue. A bath-powder box, indeed. I almost wanted to hug her.

  My mother lost interest in it after that. “Then I suppose we get Samuel’s old room,” she said, heading down the hall.

  “No. I’m putting you and Daddy in my room,” I said. “Just stay here for a moment.” I dashed across the house to make sure I hadn’t left anything embarrassing around. Sure enough, there was the bottle of ylang-ylang pleasure oil next to my bed that Barry had brought over. I slipped it in my pocket just as I heard footsteps in the hall.

  “Irv put the bags in the hall,” my mother called to my father before coming in. She looked around with interest. She’d never spent much time in here before. When my parents had come to visit while Charlie was alive, our room had been our domain.

  It was really a wonderful large room with vaulted wood ceilings and a fireplace. There were large windows on two of the walls and a glass door leading to a little private patio. The bathroom was roomy with a window looking out on the same patio, and there was a hall with two closets and a door at the end. With the door shut, the bedroom suite became like a separate world from the rest of the house.

  I had gotten a new bedspread with pink flowers on a green background; an abundance of pillows complemented the decor. They also made the bed seem like a wonderful sleep nest; I was going to miss nestling in there. I closed the shutters on the windows and pulled Blondie’s chair with me. The two dogs followed me out. As I was going, my mother wanted to make sure the bed had the all-cotton sheets she’d asked for. “Yes, and I washed them three times in the organic soap,” I called out.

  As soon as I got across the house to my office—the tiny bedroom off the laundry area where I kept my computer—I turned it on and typed in Catalina.

  CHAPTER 8

  “SO YOUR MOTHER HAS NO IDEA THAT SHE UNCOVERED a clue?” Dinah said. It was a few days later and Dinah and I had met for a pregroup breakfast. Truthfully, we both needed a diversion. Her ex had picked up the twins the day before and her house felt too empty. My mother was in diva mode and my house felt too full.

  “And it’s going to stay that way. My mother already thinks I’m mentally unstable because of the mess in my crochet room. She’d probably try to call in some television shrink if she knew I got involved in solving murders. Anyway, it’s not the most im
portant clue, so far. That was the wishing well, which was like Mary Beth’s signature, and Ashley-Angela is the one who turned the piece around.”

  Dinah’s perkiness fell. “I wonder how they’re doing? I hope Jeremy doesn’t just forget them somewhere. He’s so irresponsible.” Dinah poured some coffee and steamed milk in her mug and nibbled on her roll. “Let’s talk about Mary Beth. Thinking about the twins is upsetting.”

  “What is there to say? All we know is that she liked filet crochet, had a secret and was married to the son of a famous dancer-actor.”

  “And there’s a Lance Wells Dance Studio down the street,” Dinah said, sounding like her usual self again.

  “Let’s go there now,” I said, downing the last of my coffee. We finished up quickly and headed down the street.

  The Lance Wells Dance Studio was on the second floor of a building facing Ventura. A stairway between the clothing store and real estate office on the ground floor led the way up. A plaque near the bottom of the steps announced that both the dance studio and the corporate office were upstairs.

  When we got to the second floor, a paper sign on the inside of the glass door said the studio and offices were closed due to a death in the family.

  “So much for trying to find out about her here,” I said as we came back out down the stairs and headed up the street to Shedd & Royal.

  When we got to the bookstore, a painting crew was just finishing up.

  “It’s about the TV shot, isn’t it?” Dinah said, watching a guy in white coveralls carry out a ladder.

  “Mrs. Shedd might have gone a little overboard. She figures this is the bookstore’s chance to become a star, and she doesn’t want to leave it to the production people to fix it up.”

  “Still no idea who the subject is?” Dinah asked on our way back into the event area.

  “Nobody’s talking, so your guess is as good as mine.”

  Dinah helped me set up for the crochet group. Once we had the table and chairs in place, we put out our things. The paper grocery bag had gotten a little worse for wear given all the dragging around and now seemed ill-suited to carry something as important as the filet crochet panels and the notes that came with it. I had put each of the notes in its own plastic bag, and I’d wrapped the filet piece around a piece of cardboard and put it in another, larger plastic bag. Then I’d put all of it in a Gelson’s plastic grocery bag and tucked it in my tote. I had saved the original paper one just in case it turned out to be some kind of evidence.

  “Nice presentation,” Dinah said as I laid all the clear plastic bags on the table.

  “I thought since all this was left on the group’s table at the park sale, I ought to tell them what’s happened.”

  CeeCee and Sheila arrived next. CeeCee had brought some balls of bedspread-weight thread and an array of small steel hooks for the bookmarks. She regarded Sheila with concern.

  “Dear, I don’t know how you’re going to do this. If your stitches get too tight . . .” CeeCee shook her head rather than complete the sentence. Sheila had been known to turn her stitches into little fists. So far she’d always gotten them undone by changing to a smaller hook, but the steel one was so tiny to begin with, her only alternative would be to try to loosen any too-tight stitches with a pinhead.

  I was actually a little concerned for myself, too. When I’d played around with crochet thread at home, I’d spent most of the time picking up the silvery hook after it slipped out of my hand.

  Adele came over from the children’s department. She was wearing some kind of long, loose yellow tunic over black leggings. She’d pinned crocheted flowers in pinks and oranges and yellows all over the top and had finished the look with a crocheted headband pulled over her head like a crown. As she sat down she looked at my attire. “Pink, you’re such a dull dresser. Do you own anything besides khaki pants and white shirts and black somethings. You look like an ad for bland.”

  I was used to Adele’s barbs, and they usually rolled off my back. This time, though, she got to me because her comment echoed my mother’s exactly. I wondered if there was some truth in their remarks.

  Eduardo made a stir when he joined us, beaming a bright smile as he greeted everyone. He knew he was fabulously good-looking, but he never let it get in the way of being a really nice guy.

  “More blankets, ladies,” he said, pulling out two blankets of cream and beige stripes from his leather bag. “There was so much waiting on my last photo shoot, I had plenty of time to crochet.” He started to hand his creations to CeeCee, but she pushed the blankets to me.

  “She’s the one with police contact.” CeeCee took in my surprised expression and then continued. “I know I set it up originally, but I was thinking your boyfriend is a homicide detective and you know that Detective Gilmore. You can just give the finished ones to them.”

  “Speaking of homicide detectives,” I began. I pushed Mary Beth’s things toward the center of the table where everyone could see them. I had planned out the order in which to tell them everything, but I blew it by pointing out to CeeCee that it wasn’t really a bath-powder box after all.

  “You’re right, dear. Of course that’s the building on Catalina,” CeeCee said. She had taken the panel piece out and unwound it from around the cardboard. She held it up in both hands and stretched out her arms to get more of an overview. “But you have to admit the Casino Building is shaped like a bath-powder box.”

  “Casino?” Sheila said. “Is it one of those Indian casinos with bingo and slot machines?”

  “No, it’s not that kind of casino. It turns out the actual meaning of casino is something like ‘meeting place.’ The one on Catalina has the only movie theater, a ballroom, a small museum and nothing related to gambling. It’s the landmark building on the island.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been,” Sheila said. Against CeeCee’s orders, she was trying the thread and steel hook and was working very slowly.

  “You’d like it, dear,” CeeCee said. “It’s very relaxing and charming. Even though it’s just a short boat ride off the coast, it’s like another world.”

  “Avalon is my kind of town,” Adele announced. Then suddenly something registered with her. “Pink, why do you still have the stuff? Haven’t you gone to Yarnie yet?” Adele turned toward the others and repeated her cleverness at sending me to Yarnie’s. “I ask you, who is the real Sherlock Holmes here?”

  I held up my hand to stop her. “There’s something I need to tell you.” I shot Adele an annoyed glare and said I had gone to Yarnie’s. Then I told them who the things belonged to—emphasis on the past tense.

  “Mary Beth Wells?” CeeCee said, putting a hand to her heart. “Didn’t I hear on the news that she died? It belonged to her?”

  As I was explaining what happened when I’d tried taking the bag to Mary Beth, Adele interrupted. “Geez, Pink, you’re really attracted to dead bodies. You really are a—”

  “Don’t even say it.” I stopped Adele cold. “I am not a crime scene groupie.” Adele snickered because I’d just said what I’d tried to keep her from saying.

  “Of course you’re not,” CeeCee said, patting my hand. She turned to the others. “Molly isn’t some kind of thrill seeker. She was trying to get the woman’s handiwork back to her.” Then CeeCee gave the floor back to me, and everyone wanted to hear all the details. They were on the edge of their seats as I described walking into the house and seeing the body, and when I got to the part about running out of the gate and nearly slamming into the cop car, they all squealed. All except Adele, who just kept rolling her eyes.

  “I showed the bag of things to Detective Heather, but she acted like I was ridiculous for suggesting they belonged to Mary Beth. She said nothing on either of the pieces of paper gave an indication they were from her, and she wouldn’t even listen to me when I tried to explain about the unusual thread. She said the death looked like it was from natural causes.”

  I noticed Sheila shrank back at the mention of Detective
Heather’s name. She reached out and touched my hand in support.

  “Did she take you to the station and lock you in one of those interview rooms?” Sheila had been caught in Detective Heather’s sights when a local shopkeeper was killed. She was still getting over the shock.

  “No interview room or even a trip to the station. I think she was closer to laughing at me. Too bad I hadn’t noticed this.” I took the panel piece from CeeCee and laid it on the table the other way.

  “Oh,” Sheila said with a tremble in her voice. She touched the MB embedded in the roof of the wishing well. Suddenly Sheila sat back and looked pale. “There’s a member of the gym who has a relative who works at the West Valley Police Station. She came in this morning just before I left. I heard her talking to some friend.” Sheila’s eyes were big and round. “She was talking about someone named Wells and saying something about her being poisoned.”

  “I knew it,” I nearly shouted. “They must have done an autopsy. Did you hear what kind?”

  “What’s the difference?” CeeCee asked. “It obviously did the job. I played a murderess once in an episode of Keeley Crumpfort, ME. It was so against character, the director thought no one would be able to figure out it was me until the denouement. My character used poison to kill her husband. She, I mean, I fed him small amounts of it so he had a record of being sick, and then whammo, I gave him a double dose and he died.”

  “I bet that’s what happened with Mary Beth. Detective Heather said the maid mentioned Mary Beth had been sick,” I explained. A picture of Mary Beth’s bedroom flashed in my mind. “And I bet I know how they could have done it. There was a half-eaten package of marzipan apples on the bedside table.”

  CeeCee and Dinah both made faces, not about the poisoning, but rather about the marzipan. CeeCee said it tasted like gritty paste.

  “It was probably a woman who did it,” Eduardo said. “Poison is considered a woman’s weapon.” We all looked surprised at his comment. “I read a lot of true crime,” he said with a shrug.