By Hook or by Crook cm-3

by Betty Hechtman

  “It’s my profession of choice. So many people have houses here they don’t live in and don’t rent, it’s been a nice living. I drive the submarine once a week to add some money to the pot, and I bartend at a couple of beachfront places,” he said. “And I do the late afternoon city tour.”

  He pulled the small vehicle onto the grass and turned off the motor. The cats surrounded him when he got out; it was obvious he was the source of their food.

  Dinah and I followed him up the few steps and he unlocked the door. Purdue certainly liked the sound of his own voice. He was still talking. By now we knew that he had stayed in most of the houses he took care of, though not the Wells house.

  “Some of the owners have regular times they come to Catalina, but not Mary Beth Wells. She was all over the place. Summer, winter or fall, I’d just get a call that she was arriving on such and such a day and to please stock the refrigerator for her.” His voice dropped when he said her name. “You know, she died. I heard they thought it was natural causes, but it turned out to be poison.” He sighed and lowered his gaze. “I can’t imagine who’d want to kill her.” When he looked up his eyes were sad and watery. “She was a nice woman—a very nice woman.”

  As we walked inside, I noticed a stuffy smell with that touch of mildew places near the ocean seemed to get. He walked into the living room, saying he thought it was the best spot for the show to film.

  While he pointed out the view, which was outstanding, and the various spots he thought would be perfect to set up cameras, I tried to look around. I nudged Dinah and she attempted to distract his attention but had only limited success. I was able to admire the filet crochet window coverings, but when I tried to move into the other rooms, Purdue pulled me back, wanting to show me the handmade molding on the fireplace.

  Mary Beth might not have had even a crochet hook hanging around in the Tarzana house, but she’d made up for it here. There were examples of her handiwork everywhere. She seemed stuck on filet crochet; I noticed only one yarn piece—an afghan with stripes of varying shades of green draped over the upholstered forest green couch. There were framed examples of her filet work on the walls. Most were done in white or ecru, but some were done in colors.

  “She was quite the crochet artist,” Purdue said, noticing I was admiring one of the long panels hanging over the windows. “Maybe we should go back and pick up Ms. Collins. She probably wants to see the place.” He took a breath and then launched into questions about how the show was done and how he could get on with his story. He stood in front of me, expectant for answers.

  I did exactly what the Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation suggested for dealing with questions you didn’t want to answer. The book advised you to completely ignore the questions and ask one of your own, preferably on a different subject. I asked him about the history of the house, noting how unusual it was.

  “Lance Wells Sr. had it built. The round porch up top was his idea. He used it to practice all those ballroom dance moves. And he used it for parties, lots of parties,” the caretaker said with a knowing nod.

  “It was a little different with his son. Lance Jr. came here exactly once. He was so seasick I heard they had to practically knock him out to get him back on the boat to go home.”

  “But I thought you said his wife came here all the time,” I said, talking to him but moving around the room and dramatically using my hands to “measure” what a camera would see. Dinah had taken out a piece of paper and a pen and was pretending to make note of things about the house for the show.

  “She did. She came without him,” Purdue said, standing in the middle of the room. “Yep, once was enough for Lance Jr. But then from what I hear he was nothing like his father.” He mentioned that Lance Jr. had died about six months ago. He’d driven his car into a pole. The caretaker didn’t give any more details, but from what Mason had said about Lance Jr., I guessed the accident was alcohol related.

  “Now, Matt Wells is a different story than his cousin,” Purdue said. “You ladies probably know who he is. He does all the commercials for the Lance Wells Dance Studio. He has no trouble with boats. He only comes once in a while, but he always slips me a hundred when he does. Mary Beth was the one who used the place the most,” he added.

  As I did my fake measuring, I commented on how it must have been lonely for her. Purdue shrugged. I thought he wasn’t going to comment further, but when Dinah and I didn’t say anything, he kept on talking.

  “I think it was her getaway place. She said something once about him being very controlling, like he wouldn’t even let her do this crochet stuff in their mainland house.” He stopped for a moment and seemed to be thinking. I looked longingly at the row of photos on the mantel and the filet pieces on the wall. I wanted to get closer and examine them. Maybe they were a key to why Mary Beth had included the house in the crochet panel. But every time I made a move away from the center of the room, the caretaker corralled me back.

  I noticed how Purdue’s voice softened when he talked about Mary Beth. He obviously felt something toward her.

  “I’d forgotten,” he went on. “When she first started coming, she used to bring a woman with her. I barely knew her then. They kind of looked alike, but then maybe it was just that they both had long hair and wore baggy sweats all the time. Now that I think about it, they spent a lot of time here that year. First it was mostly just a few days, but then when it was really dead around here, they came for a month.”

  By now Dinah had stopped writing her phoney notes and was pretending to be looking them over. I moved my camera hands so they framed Purdue.

  “About how long ago was that?” I asked, hoping he would continue with his rambling and not realize the question had nothing to do with our purported purpose.

  His eyes gazed at the ceiling, and he knit his brow in thought. Then he let out kind of a snort. “Time sure flies. It must have been around Christmas twenty some years ago.”

  I felt a buzz of excitement; it sounded like he had just described the time mentioned in the diary entry.

  I opened my mouth to ask him for more details, but he suddenly consulted his watch.

  “Ladies, I have to get to my other job.” He rounded us up and directed us toward the door.

  Not giving up, I asked him as we walked outside whether anything strange had happened during that month-long stay all those years ago.

  He gave me an odd look, and I expected him to ask me what that had to do with the televison-show taping there, but instead, he shrugged and said, “I never exactly had the details, but I remember Delia—she works at the grocery store down yonder—saying there was something they wanted to hide.”

  He pulled the door shut and locked it tight before herding us back into the fancy golf cart. Five minutes later, he stopped the golf cart in the business district. “Ladies, I have to get back to the plaza. I’m doing the city tour. You’re welcome to come. I give lots of background on the island,” he said, trying to sound tempting.

  I thanked him for the offer but declined, and we got out.

  As soon as he drove off, Dinah and I walked out to a bench and sat down. I opened my bag and pulled out the crochet piece. I moved right past the image of the casino and the house. Dinah and I both studied the other motifs and then had the same realization at the same time.

  “It’s not the Arc de Triomphe,” I said, pointing at the panel done in tan thread.

  “It’s the fireplace,” Dinah said with exasperation. “If only we’d looked at this while we were in there, we would have realized that’s what it was.”

  “The Casino Building brought us here and led us to the house. And the house was supposed to lead us to the fireplace,” I said, sharing Dinah’s exasperation. “If only is right. Damn.” I pulled out the diary entry and read it over again. “It sounds like Mary Beth was saying good-bye to someone. Maybe the woman. Maybe she wasn’t her sister. Maybe their relationship was something altogether different,” I said in a hushed voice.

/>   Dinah glanced down at her watch. “What time are we supposed to meet everyone?”

  I shrugged off the question. “I have to go back in that house.”

  CHAPTER 12

  DINAH WINCED. “I SEE YOUR POINT ABOUT wanting to look inside the house again, but I don’t see how you’re going to do it. You heard the caretaker. He’s off to his next job, and if we catch up with him, I doubt even you could charm him into giving you the keys.”

  “Don’t have to,” I said with a satisfied smile. “I can let us in myself.” I proceeded to explain that while I’d been admiring the window covering, I’d unlocked the window and opened it just a touch.

  “You’re good. If the bookstore thing doesn’t work out, you could always try a life of crime,” Dinah said with a teasing smile.

  Since we didn’t have the golf cart anymore we walked back to the house. We were all alone except for the occasional golf cart heading to Hamilton Cove. We quickly hatched a plan. Dinah would keep watch while I went inside. I promised to be quick so we could get back and meet the others in time for our boat trip back to the mainland.

  I checked the area, and the only eyes watching me were those of a sleek gray tabby. The window opened with ease, and I slipped inside quickly. I made a beeline for the mantelpiece in the living room. I had never noticed before how much the Arc de Triomphe resembled a fireplace—well, if it were in the house of some giants.

  My eyes swept the top. I stopped at each photo and knickknack, wondering if it was a clue. I was sure the first photo was of Mary Beth. I hadn’t seen her face in the Tarzana house, but I immediately recognized the long golden blond hair as what I’d seen spread over the bed. So this was Mary Beth. Her features were refined, and a touch of patrician arrogance showed in her expression. The familiar hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she was dressed in a scoop-neck top that accentuated her long neck. When I looked again, I noted that despite the coolness of her expression, there was a seductiveness to her smile.

  I felt a rush of emotion—seeing what she looked like alive after having seen her dead. I thought of the crochet piece and how connected to her it was. And now I had it. Would it have made any difference if I had figured out where it belonged sooner? Whatever her secret was, Mary Beth had wanted to make right by it. I mouthed a promise that I would try to do it for her.

  But first I had to find out what the secret was. I moved down the photos and doodads. Most of the pictures were of Mary Beth at different ages and in different locations. There was one taken in the living room of the Tarzana house. She was dressed in sparkly evening wear standing between two men in tuxes. They made a good-looking group, but who were the men? Lance Jr. and Matt?

  I looked at every photo on the mantel twice and even slid the photos out of the frames in case there was something behind them, but I found nothing. Maybe the fireplace meant the area. I gazed up at the wall above and studied the filet pieces hanging there. Some were of people but because of the geometric quality of the designs, they weren’t recognizable.

  Could there be another fireplace? I rushed into the hall to check the other rooms and came up empty. I took the stairs up and at the top, opened a door and found I was on the round porch. It did seem perfect for dancing, but it was empty of everything but a view. I saw the Catalina Express pulling into its dock and realized it was probably our boat.

  Sure I must have missed something on the mantelpiece, I rushed downstairs. The fireplace had to be important, otherwise why spend the time to make a motif of it? My eyes rushed over the row of photos, a collection of seashells and a display of old postcards with views of the island, but I saw nothing new. I stepped back and looked at the fireplace as a whole. I hadn’t focused on the tiles around the opening until now. They appeared to have been custom-made and together created a scene of some trees and beyond them, the ocean. When I glanced toward the window I realized the scene was a re-creation of the view. Did that mean something?

  I was so intent on staring at the fireplace and everything on it, I didn’t notice the noise at first. When it finally registered and I looked up, Dinah was at the window waving madly. I leaned toward it to make out what she was trying to say. But before I could, I heard the door snap open and the rush of footsteps.

  I felt a surge of adrenaline as a deep voice ordered me to turn around slowly with my hands on my head.

  I did as I was told and found myself face-to-face with a tall man in the green pants and khaki shirt of the sheriff’s uniform. He had his gun drawn, but when he saw me, must have realized I wasn’t that much of a threat because he quickly holstered it. He ordered me to put my hands behind my back. He stepped around me, and I felt the metal rings of handcuffs on my wrists and heard an unpleasant click as they locked shut. I knew it was useless, but I tried pulling my hands anyway. They didn’t move.

  He patted me down checking for weapons as I tried to explain I had to get to the dock because my boat was leaving.

  “I don’t think so,” he said as he marched me outside. The area had been nearly deserted before but not anymore. A couple of men in black wet suits had come up from the beach, and several golf carts had stopped by the side of the road, their riders watching. Three people in warm-up suits stood beneath a tree, walking in place no doubt to keep their aerobic heart rates from dropping while they watched me being led to the sheriff’s SUV. The commotion must have scared the cats, because there wasn’t even one hanging around. Dinah had tried to blend in with the golf-cart people. She mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  I was glad she hadn’t been caught. But I really wished I hadn’t been, either. The black SUV looked big and out of place next to the golf carts. As the deputy opened the back door, I noticed the tour trolley stopped up the road. There were only three people on it, and they were all staring at me as though I were a point of interest. Purdue saluted to the man in uniform.

  Only later did I find out the caretaker had seen CeeCee on his way to the tour plaza and tried to pitch her on his services, during which time she made it clear no one from the show was on the island.

  Oops. I should have filled her in on the plan.

  The SUV drove slowly down the road back toward the main part of town. The roadway was lined with people. Apparently, seeing a suspect being taken in was a big event here on Catalina. I had the sudden urge to wave, like a beauty queen on a parade float. I resisted.

  “You don’t understand,” I said from the backseat. At least there was no cage and no icky plastic covering on the seat like in the usual patrol cars. “I dropped my keys when I was in the house. I didn’t want to trouble Purdue to let me in since I knew he had to get to work.”

  The deputy seemed unmoved and turned up toward the sheriff’s sub station. He pulled into a parking space, then helped me out and led me in the back door. A fluffy white dog stretched out on the floor got up, sniffed my ankle and then jumped up like it wanted to be petted.

  I started to go for it, but the handcuffs made it impossible and I apologized to the dog. I was in some kind of office, but I saw three doors with tiny windows off to the side; a sign warned officers to stay safe by keeping prisoners locked in.

  I felt light-headed. Was I going to get thrown is one of those cells? Would they give me one phone call? Who would bail me out? Would I ever get off the island?

  Instead of putting me in the cell, however, the deputy sat me in a chair and scratched his head. “Okay, so you say you dropped your keys, but Purdue said you falsely said you were looking for locations for some TV show.”

  I had to think fast and talk faster if I was going to get out of there. I explained that it was true that I didn’t exactly work for the show. I was just going to pass on the information to CeeCee Collins, my friend, and to the executive producer of the show, who happened to be a customer of the bookstore where I worked.

  By now the dog was sitting in his lap and the deputy—Deputy A. Daniels, according to his name tag—looked confused.

  “I didn’t take anything. You can search m
e if you want.” I stood up and turned model fashion. The young officer’s face suddenly turned very red.

  “Ma’am, sit down.”

  Oh no. He had misunderstood my offer. I slipped back into the chair feeling sleazy. It was probably useless to explain that I wasn’t suggesting what he thought I was suggesting. I went back to trying to talk my way out of there.

  “It was just a misunderstanding. If you want, you can go get CeeCee Collins. She knows me. She’ll vouch for me.”

  He sighed a few times and ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I’m going to do what I do when I catch the local kids making trouble. I’ll give you a warning. But if it happens again—” He pointed toward the three doors.

  I assured him he had nothing to worry about. I’d only come for the day and he’d never see me again. He unlocked the cuffs and showed me to the front door. I didn’t need any help getting through it.

  The lobby was so tiny there wasn’t even room for a chair, not that I cared because I was out the door in two seconds into the tiny government plaza.

  Dinah was pacing out front and ran up and hugged me. “I was so worried.” She held up her phone. “I called Mason. He was ready to hire a helicopter.”

  I flopped on the bench in front of the closed one-room library. My legs still felt rubbery and I needed to recover.

  Officer Daniels peered out through a window and his expression dimmed. He opened the door. “I thought you were leaving.”

  I thought I was, too. Until Dinah told me we’d missed our boat, which was the last one of the night. Luckily, Officer Daniels hadn’t taken me up on my offer to have CeeCee vouch for me, because she and the others had already left.

  Dinah and I had no choice but to spend the night. I felt obligated to explain to Officer Daniels, who by now clearly wished I would just disappear. I promised I’d be no trouble and follow all the rules. Shaking his head, he shut the door.

  Getting a hotel room was no problem, and the local drugstore provided us with toothbrushes and some extra-large tee shirts to sleep in. We shared a pizza and some ice cream and went to our room.