Dead Men Don't Crochet

by Betty Hechtman

  I stepped away from the group. I didn’t want an audience. “I didn’t withhold evidence deliberately. And it might not even be evidence.” Detective Heather sure hadn’t wasted any time in telling Barry. “I didn’t say anything about it because I thought it would put you in an awkward spot.”

  “Well, it has.” Then he wanted to know where and how I got it. I told him the no-show sock story, but he knew enough to keep pressing until I explained exactly where I’d found it and what I’d been doing. I couldn’t see him, but I was sure he was hitting his forehead with the heal of his hand.

  “Maybe I better call Mason Fields,” I said. I had already been thinking about doing it. Mason got his celebrity clients off from really serious charges like murder—withholding evidence would be small time.

  The anger in Barry’s voice changed to something else. Maybe frustration that he couldn’t fix this, but Mason could, and worry about all the time I might spend with Mason discussing it. The picture of them trying to outdo each other barbecuing at my house came to mind.

  “No, don’t call him. At least, not yet,” Barry commanded. “Just please tell me, is that the only thing you had?”

  When I said yes, Barry sounded relieved and made me promise never to keep anything like that from him again.

  “I hope I never have anything like that to keep from you,” I said.

  His voice softened and he thanked me for having Jeffrey over. Then he made a big deal about making plans for an actual advanced planned date.

  It wasn’t until later, when Dinah and I were ensconced at Caitlin’s Cupcakes, that I thought about Pixie and the soup. Could Pixie have been involved in her husband’s death?

  Dinah had insisted on treating for drinks and cupcakes, which, after what I’d gone through, almost counted as medicinal. Dinah seemed more relaxed. She said she’d worked things out with Jeremy and he was taking over the care of his children, so she hoped all of them would be leaving soon. “I want my old life back.”

  I brought up my phone call with Kevin, and Dinah’s smile faded and her eyes widened. “Oh dear. Pixie got the soup.”

  I told Dinah I’d already come up with a plan. “I’m going to call her, give her my sympathy about Arnold and offer to bring over some food. Then while she’s eating I’ll tell her I know she got the corn chowder for Arnold.” Another hint from The Average Joe’s Guide. If you said you already knew something incriminating, the person you were talking to was likely to just break down and tell you the whole story.

  “I’d come with you, but I need to pack up the kids’ things. I don’t want to give Jeremy any excuse to delay their departure.”

  “It’s probably better if I go alone anyway. That way I can just concentrate on her.” Dinah told me to be careful, and I assured her I wasn’t going to eat anything there or let Pixie hang around behind me with anything heavy in her hand.

  I finished up my afternoon at the bookstore. I spent most of the time finishing the preparations for Milton Mindell’s book fiesta. Adele kept strongly suggesting changes, and I kept explaining that this was how Milton wanted it.

  “Pink, that’s old thinking. I’m sure Milton would appreciate some fresh ideas,” Adele said, interrupting me.

  I sighed with frustration. “I don’t think so. He’s very specific about how he wants his events handled, and that’s how we’re going to do it.”

  Adele stormed off with a “humph.”

  Returning home, I decided to make up for the fact that I hadn’t done much cooking lately. After putting a big pan of vegetable and cheese lasagna in the oven, I made a nice salad of baby lettuce with paper-thin cucumber slices, shredded carrots and a buttery avocado, ready to be topped with homemade dressing and a sprinkling of blue cheese and walnuts. I mixed up a batch of cookie bars and put them in the bottom oven. Then, while everything was cooking, I called Pixie.

  I told Pixie I knew the kind of state she was in and explained about Charlie. Instead of asking whether I could come over, I simply announced I was. She seemed grateful, particularly when I mentioned bringing home-cooked food.

  I cut a big hunk of lasagna and put it in a disposable pan. A plastic bowl with a cover became the receptable for some of the salad; I kept the dressing and toppings on the side. The serving of cookie bars was generous, too. There would be some for now and some for later. The rest I put in the refrigerator and then left a note on the counter for Barry—in case he showed up to do his doggie-dad thing.

  To get to Pixie’s I drove up the winding streets I’d been through once before. The cul-de-sac seemed quiet and dark compared to the last time I’d been there. Inside the house the lights were on, but the curtains were drawn on the big window that faced the street. I loaded up the containers of food and crossed the street. It took a while for Pixie to open the door. I almost thought she wasn’t going to answer. When she did, she looked drained and numb. Even her Princess Di hairstyle looked flat.

  “Come in,” she said in a worn voice. I started to walk in, but she nodded toward my shoes. There was a mat by the entrance with several pairs of shoes on it. I understood the reason for the no-shoe policy when I went inside. It reminded me of the Arctic—everything was white, from the thick white carpet to the white brocade sofa covered with furry white throw pillows. Even the glass coffee table didn’t interfere with the blinding brightness. Pixie looked like a bit of clear water in her baggy royal blue sweats.

  The scent of the food reached her, and I heard her stomach gurgle. She probably hadn’t been eating and was starving even though she didn’t feel it. I suggested making her a plate of food. She started to say no, but her stomach gurgled again and she agreed. We passed through the dining room, which looked as though it was probably used only on Thanksgiving. The kitchen was a little less white, and there was a table with a lone coffee cup. I set down the food and without asking for permission found a plate and silverware.

  Pixie was on autopilot; she sat when I told her to and began to eat when I suggested it. The food must have hit a nerve because she began to eat in earnest, as though she was starving. Color came back to her face and she looked up. I had already decided to let her get comfortable with me before I confronted her with the soup issue.

  “This is really good. Where’d you get it?” She named several groceries in the area known for their hot-food counters. When I said I’d made it, she stopped midbite, amazed. “You even made the lasgana?” I nodded, and she went back to eating.

  I put the rest of the food on the counter. No reason to put it away yet. I thought she might be going for seconds.

  I sat across from her and told her again how sorry I was for her loss.

  “You didn’t really know him, but he was a good man.” Once she’d started talking the words tumbled out. I knew the drill. She was staying strong for her family, but now with me she let it all out.

  She finally got to the present, and I was just about to bring up the soup when she brought up Detective Heather. “She’s acting like she thinks I could have done it. Don’t you think that is ridiculous?” I didn’t say anything, but I’d picked up enough from Barry and The Average Joe’s Guide to know that the first person to consider in a murder investigation was a spouse.

  Pixie sighed and then repeated what she’d told Detective Heather—that Arnold had made a few enemies with his temper. “I told her about Arnold punching Captain Blackhart, though I couldn’t give her his real name.” By now, she’d almost finished with the plate of food. It seemed to be making her feel better. She thanked me again.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you before,” she said, picking at the last of the lasagna.

  Her comment certainly got my attention, but I didn’t say anything. It was something else I’d picked up from The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation. The section on questioning suggested not talking, because the party being interviewed would be uncomfortable with the silence and keep talking to fill up the void, often saying more than they meant to. Pixie could have been an example in the
book. It took only a few seconds of dead air to get her talking again.

  “I’m sure Arnold was at the Cottage Shoppe the day you thought you saw him.” She put her head down. “I was just trying to protect him. I thought he might have killed Drew Brooks. He was certainly mad enough.”

  Even if it was against the book’s advice I couldn’t help myself. I asked why he was so angry.

  “Who wouldn’t be after what happened? Imagine not wanting to give him a refund.”

  She was speaking out of context and I wanted the whole story. “What exactly happened?”

  Pixie had gotten up on her own and gone to check the package of food. She closed the aluminum foil around the lasagna and put it in the refrigerator, but took two cookie bars and came back to the table.

  It had all started with her devotion to Princess Di. “Someone had brought in some family heirlooms and when Arnold read the brochure and saw that the items had belonged to a distant relative of Princess Di’s, he wanted to get something for me.”

  The something turned out to be two somethings and hearing what one of them was made my mouth fall open. Arnold had bought a decorative hanky with a lacy crochet trim and a large Irish crochet collar. When I looked perplexed at the second item, Pixie explained that the word collar didn’t do the item justice. “It was long and very decorative, almost like a scarf. The brochure had a picture of Lady Ratcliffe wearing it, and there was a photo of the family house outside London. Arnold wanted me to know the history of the collar and hanky and paid extra to get the brochure.

  “They cost plenty, too, but my Arnold knew what it would mean to me to have something from a family member of Princess Di’s.” She sighed and brushed the cookie bar crumbs off her lap. “I almost wish we’d never gone to the U.K. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

  She went on to explain how she’d taken the collar with her on their trip. Even though it was a collector’s item, she liked the idea of wearing it to its original home. And Arnold wanted to show off that he’d bought her something so valuable. They had even found the family house and stopped in for tea in a nearby town. Arnold had bragged to the owner that the Irish crochet collar around Pixie’s neck had belonged to Lady Ratcliffe of Palladium House. He’d even shown the owner the brochure.

  “She laughed at us and said there was no Lady Ratcliffe and Palladium was the style of the house, not the name of it. Then she referred us to a shop that sold antiques. The shop owner said the collar wasn’t even real Irish crochet. He was pretty sure it was made in China. Arnold didn’t take it well. He was angry for being embarrassed and felt taken advantage of. He’d bought the items when Mrs. Brooks was still running the show, but he expected her nephew to make good on them.

  “The first time Arnold went in there, Drew said absolutely no, but then out of nowhere he contacted Arnold and said he had changed his mind and if Arnold brought in the items, he’d give him a refund.”

  “Didn’t that seem strange to you?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think about it. I just wanted Arnold to stop being so angry. He took it way too personally.” She made another cookie bar stop and came back to the table. “When he went back, Drew gave him the refund. At least, that was what Arnold said. But when Drew turned up dead, I began to wonder. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  She took a bite of her cookie bar and swallowed it. “But then the other day Arnold said he was going to get me a real antique piece of Irish crochet. I figured he was going back to the Cottage Shoppe.”

  I asked her if she still had the brochure that had come with the original items.

  She said it ought to be around and went to look, but came back empty-handed. “I didn’t think Arnold took it back with the items, but maybe he did.” She shook her head a few times. “I thought I saw it in his home office.”

  I asked her about the picture of the woman wearing the piece. She shrugged and said it was just a reproduction of one of those old sepia-tone photos. All she remembered was that it was very formal and the woman had her hair piled on her head and she had her arm resting on the top of an old-fashioned Victorian chair. “I’m afraid all I really looked at was the crocheted collar. It felt like reaching back in time to see it on her and then hold it in my hand. I’m sure Arnold paid more attention to her face, being an orthdontist and all. He was always checking people’s bites and commenting on how they would benefit from orthodontia.” Her face crumpled at the thought of him.

  I had gotten so involved in her story I’d forgotten about the whole soup issue. She was finished with the food and also finished talking. Her worn look had come back, and I realized I was running out of time. I’d just have to confront her about the soup.

  As she walked me to the door, I grabbed my chance.

  “I know you were the one who got the corn chowder for Arnold.”

  She blinked back some tears and appeared shocked. “I don’t know who told you that, but they’re wrong.”

  CHAPTER 24

  SOMETHING WAS DEFINITELY FISHY. SOMEONE wasn’t telling me the truth, but who? I rushed to the Cottage Shoppe the next morning on my way to the bookstore. I wanted to talk to Kevin personally. I figured face-to-face I’d have a better chance of figuring out whether he was telling the truth. I had to wait while he took care of a phone call and dealt with a workman, but I was finding it hard to contain my impatience. I suddenly understood Sheila’s tapping as my foot began to do it on its own while I listened to the workman ask where to put something since there wasn’t any more room in the storage unit.

  “I just have a quick question,” I said, knowing I was interrupting. But Kevin gave me a dirty look and continued dealing with the workman. Who cared if he was going to get rid of a box of files in a little while so there’d be room for the boxes next to the workman?

  Finally, the man walked away and I got to talk to Kevin. “Who got the soup for Dr. Bullard?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Kevin said. “Like I told Detective Gilmore, Mrs. Bullard got the soup for her husband.”

  He certainly looked like he was telling the truth, but so had Pixie. They couldn’t both be right. Unless . . . “How did she order it? Did she come in and pick it up?”

  “No, no. It was a phone order. Dorothy took the call. We have Mrs. Bullard’s credit card on file. Then Dorothy took it over to him.”

  Maybe Kevin and Pixie both were telling the truth after all. I suddenly wanted to talk to Dorothy very badly, but she wasn’t in yet and I couldn’t wait around.

  It was Milton Mindell day.

  Most of our events were in the evening, but since Milton’s fans were kids, we always held his events on Saturday mornings, and no matter how hard I tried to have all the loose ends taken care of, there were always things hanging. Things Adele would try to take care of and probably mess up if I wasn’t there. I practically jogged down the street.

  Kids and their parents were already lined up outside the bookstore when I arrived. Milton’s appearances were more than events, they were extravaganzas. Large posters of his latest book, The Zombie Next Door, hung on the front windows, beckoning his loyal readers. As I walked inside, I passed Milton’s Horror Helpers bringing in the tent so the program could have its proper dark setting.

  I caught sight of Adele, who looked like a beatnik mortician. She wore a midcalf black knit skirt over black-and-white-striped tights. On top she had on a long black tunic with about six strands of shiny black beads. She’d topped off her ensemble with a black beret. And she’d gone the raccoon route with her eye makeup again. She looked askance at my usual khaki slacks and white shirt. To deal with the morning chill I’d added a long black vest. “Pink, I have a cape if you want to make your outfit more event appropriate.” I didn’t have time to answer.

  The event was so popular we had to give out numbered tickets for places in the tent and the guarantee of a signed book. I gave half the tickets out in advance and the rest the day of the event. The beginning of the line outside was for the people with
tickets and the back section for those hoping to get one. I could tell there were already more people in the line than I had tickets remaining.

  I knew when Milton arrived by the rising noise level in the line. Then the door whooshed open and he made his entrance. He was about five feet two, dressed in black, of course, with a pompadour hairstyle that had been sprayed until it wouldn’t dare quiver. He was flanked by two similarly dressed people of indeterminate sex who immediately left his side to fuss about the placement of the tent—some feng shui thing about the right energy flow.

  After greeting Milton, I realized something was missing. Well, really someone. Adele. I found her hiding in the children’s section.

  “Geez, he gives me the creeps,” she said. I considered telling her to stay put, but she’d already started following me, holding on to my vest.

  Milton’s eye’s brightened when he saw Adele. “I like your outfit,” he said in his squeaky voice. “Maybe you want to be in the tent with me.” He reached toward Adele, but she looked totally freaked out and clung to me as I walked across the store to give out the tickets.

  Dinah stopped me with the two kids in tow. “You have to give me tickets for them,” she said.

  I glanced at the line outside. Several mothers figured out what was going on and gave me dirty looks. I didn’t dare hand her tickets, but I also couldn’t let my friend down. I promised to get her in the tent at the end. I expected some remark from Adele, but she was too busy being my shadow. From across the store, Milton smiled at her and waved.

  “I thought Jeremy was picking up the kids,” I said.

  Dinah’s expression went to upset and she stepped closer to me and out of earshot of E. Conner and Ashley-Angela. “It’s a long story. No, it’s really a very short story. Jeremy left, alone. He’s up in Seattle supposedly locking in a job. He said he just has a hotel room and there’s someone who could babysit the kids, but he thinks the person might have an alcohol problem. Clearly he knows how to manipulate me. But it’s just temporary. He’s got thirty days. Then either he picks up his kids or I’m bringing them up there.”