You Better Knot Die cm-5

by Betty Hechtman

  The doorbell rang and Adele said it must be the inspector. She started giving me some speech about how William asking her to handle the city inspector meant he thought of her as more than just a girlfriend. “A girlfriend with a future,” she said, touching the door in a possessive sort of way.

  Adele took the inspector into the kitchen and I took the opportunity to look around, curious to see how William lived. The living room did nothing to change my initial impression of him as very orderly and on the austere side.

  I wandered toward the bedrooms. The smallest one was completely empty of furniture. There were just three pairs of the giant red shoes. He seemed to be using the next bedroom to sleep in, which was odd since it was clearly not the master bedroom.

  I understood why when I got to the master. It was his writing studio. A computer sat in the middle of a glass desk. The walls were covered with framed book covers of his books and some awards he’d gotten, along with reviews. One whole wall was a bookcase. He had an interesting combination of children’s books and reference books. There were books on the history of dentistry, ciphers and codes, and an encyclopedia of animals. He had a whole set of different kinds of dictionaries and even a whole section devoted to myths, angels and fairies. I was surprised to find a copy of Caught By the Hook sitting on a table next to a comfortable-looking chair.

  A large table sat against the wall. I was just checking out what was on it when Adele stopped in the doorway.

  “Pink, you shouldn’t be in here.”

  I didn’t move and she glanced around the room from her vantage point as it came out that William had never allowed her in the room. “He calls it his man cave and said it was strictly private. The door is always closed.”

  “It was open this time,” I said with a shrug. “It just looks like a workroom to me.” I said, laughing at the man cave name. It was so light and bright, calling it any kind of cave seemed ridiculous.

  “You’re right.” She took a tentative step into the room. I guess she went along with the in-for-a-penny-in for-a-pound approach. Once she’d stepped into the room, she must have figured why not check everything out. She went to his desk first and picked up an electronic frame and watched as it flipped through the photos.

  “None of me?” she said in a disappointed voice. “He probably just doesn’t have any.” She moved over to the table and did a double take when she saw its contents.

  “What’s he doing with crochet hooks and yarn?” she said, touching the selection of hooks and yarn that were scattered across the table. I looked over Adele’s shoulder as she checked out a stack of books.

  “This is one of mine,” Adele said, picking up the top book and waving it about. “William asked if he could borrow it for someone at his school.” She looked at the ones underneath. They were instructional volumes and had crochet patterns in them.

  “Maybe William took your suggestion and is planning to do a Koo Koo Crochets book.”

  Adele set the book back down and looked over the things on the table. She seemed concerned when she saw a sheet of green paper on the floor.

  “I guess this must have fallen out of the book he borrowed.” She scooped it up and waved the sheet in front of me. It had a drawing of something with squares and lots of notes all over it. “It’s just the notes I made about your neighbor’s afghan. I must have used it as a bookmark.” She appeared flustered—something I’d never seen before. “Did you happen to notice where it was in the book?” When I shrugged helplessly, she took a deep breath and stuck it in the middle. “William is very into details. I don’t want him to figure someone was in here.”

  She looked around the room again. “I wonder why he’s being so secretive. I could write the crochet book with him.”

  I didn’t want to say that might be the exact reason he was being secretive. I knew what it was like working with Adele. She seemed deep in thought as she moved around the room. She checked out the chair and books next to it. She looked at the bookcase and examined the titles and all of a sudden she screamed. “Pink, I know why he’s being so secretive.”

  She had pulled out a book and held it for me to see. It was an old book with a dark worn binding. There was no dust jacket; instead, it had paper plate on the cover. In gothic-looking type was the title—Vampire Legends. When I didn’t respond, she yelled at me.

  “Don’t you get it, Pink, he’s not writing an instructional book. Vampires and crochet research. William is A. J. Kowalski.” Adele’s excitement bubbled over into her jumping up and down. “It makes sense. He wouldn’t want to write the Anthony books under his own name because then people would expect them to be kids books.” She stopped jumping and put her hand on her hip. “You know people do that. Like Nora Roberts calls herself J. D. Robb when she writes mysteries.”

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the room and shut the door behind us. “I’m A. J. Kowalski’s girlfriend,” she said, dropping my hand and letting it sink in. “Pink, we can’t tell anybody.” She said, “wow” a bunch of times and then grabbed my arm. “I have to make him one of those vampire scarves. Thank you, Pink. If you hadn’t been so nosey, I’d never have found out.”

  Adele had a way with compliments.

  CHAPTER 15

  WE WENT BACK TO THE BOOKSTORE. MRS. SHEDD was with a customer, and as soon as they left, her smile faded. I took the opportunity to tell her the latest developments in the Bradley Perkins situation. Mostly I wanted to tell her about the SEC people not knowing who all the investors were. I suggested she might want to let them know she belonged on the list. I couldn’t tell if she planned to or not.

  The store was bustling with customers, many of whom seemed as if they needed assistance. Day off or not, I stowed my purse and went to help out. Mrs. Shedd looked over and her eyes softened and she mouthed a thank-you.

  There was a lull later in the afternoon and I slipped back to the yarn department. I managed to complete one crocheted swatch. I really got the point of the swatches when I looked at the finished little piece. The ball of yarn was pretty with its shades of blue and purple, but nothing compared to how the yarn looked when it was crocheted. The swatches were going to help sell a lot of yarn—if I ever got them finished.

  There was a surge of business in the late afternoon and I went back to waiting on customers. When I finally left I was determined to work on snowflakes all evening to add to the stock. I promised myself I’d only do a couple of rounds on the owl. I loved the sparkling white yarn I’d chosen to use instead of the plain white in the pattern. Our last holiday event before the launch party was coming up and we all agreed the snowflakes needed to be hung by then. I pushed away any thoughts that it might be our last bookstore holiday event altogether. It was too sad to consider.

  People always thought of Southern California as being warm in the winter, and maybe compared to the Midwest it was. However, the Valley occasionally got frost in the middle of the night. It wasn’t enough to kill anything but the most fragile of flowers, but the grass and leaves on the orange trees would have bits of ice in the morning. It felt like it was going to be one of those nights when I walked outside. There was a sharpness to the cold and it cut right through my fleece hoodie. The days were almost at their shortest and it had already been dark for so long it felt very late, though it was only seven. Before I turned into my driveway, the car’s headlights washed over the tall gangly figure of Ryder. He was sitting on the curb. His face was illuminated by the bluish glow that came off his video camera as he watched something he’d taped.

  I pulled in quickly and hit the brakes, making the car squeak to a stop. I cut the motor and jumped out of the car and marched toward him. Something in the way I was walking must have scared him because he stood up quickly and took a defensive pose. I couldn’t say I blamed him. I had a bit of the crazy-lady thing going by then.

  “What’s up, M?” he said.

  “I’ll tell you what’s up,” I said, getting so close to him, he stumbled back. “I know you are all
focused on your career in journalism or reality TV or being the YouTube king and you probably think the ends justify the means and all that trash talk. But you sneak in my house one more time and throw everything around, and I’m giving you up to the cops.”

  “W-what?” he stammered. “Why would I be sneaking in your house?”

  “We both know why. You want to scoop everybody and find out who the vampire book author is. You think I know who it is and have the information hidden in my bags of yarn.”

  “Wow, do you? Know who it is, I mean?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “You have to believe me. I wasn’t in your house,” he said. “I do want to be a journalist, and I know you have to walk that extra mile to get a story sometimes, but I didn’t. I mean, I wouldn’t—”

  My crazy-lady demeanor began to diminish. As much as I didn’t want to believe him, I did begin to think he was telling the truth. But if he wasn’t breaking into my house, who was?

  Ryder and I had just about finished conducting our business when Barry’s Tahoe pulled into the driveway and stopped near the street. Barry and his son, Jeffrey, got out. Barry zeroed in on me, and Jeffrey walked up to Ryder.

  “Hey, weren’t you Curly in the junior production of Carousel ?” Ryder said.

  Thanks to the floodlight on my garage that illuminated the end of the driveway, I saw Jeffrey’s surprised expression. When Jeffrey nodded with a confident toss of his head, Ryder held out a hand to high-five him. “Hey, man dude, you done good.”

  “Man dude?” I said, looking at Ryder.

  “I’m trying to start a new phrase. You like it? I want to include it in my next YouTube piece and maybe start a trend.”

  “You put stuff on YouTube?” Jeffrey said, impressed.

  “All the time, Columbia,” Ryder said. I heard Barry groan. He hated that Jeffrey wanted to be an actor and even more that he’d decided to go by Columbia. What Columbia /Jeffrey said next made Barry choke.

  “I think Columbia is too long. I’m considering shortening it to Cgreen,” Jeffrey said. Ryder mulled it over and proclaimed it very contemporary.

  “Or you can change it altogether and sound like one of those rappers and go by Ice Berg,” I said. Jeffrey, Ryder and Barry all glared at me.

  “Sorry. I should have added an LOL at the end. I was just joking.”

  The two boys stepped away and Barry stopped next to me. He was glaring at Ryder. “He’s the guy, isn’t he?”

  I tried playing stupid, but that only convinced Barry more that Ryder was the one I thought was breaking into my house. “I think I’ll have a little talk with him.” Barry made a move toward Ryder, but I grabbed his arm.

  “I already took care of it and he said it wasn’t him.”

  “And you believe him? Wake up and smell the coffee, Molly. People lie. The people I see lie twenty-four, seven unless you know how to get at the truth.” He seemed disappointed when I wouldn’t let him interrogate Ryder. Barry said he’d stopped over to check that his temporary repair to my front door was still secure. There was a delay with getting the new door, he explained.

  Samuel’s jeep stopped in front of the house. He got out and crossed the lawn. “Hey,” he said, nodding a greeting to Ryder and Jeffrey. The nod he gave to Barry was only marginally cordial. While Samuel wasn’t as bad as my other son, Peter, there was always a certain level of tension between him and Barry. Peter didn’t like Barry, but with Samuel, it was more about the problem he had with me dating. Dating? That was as out of place as calling Barry a boyfriend. Dating implied Saturday night movie dates followed by a hamburger somewhere. Barry showed up whenever. I usually cooked something, after which he fell asleep sitting on the couch while insisting he wasn’t tired.

  Samuel moved on to me. “I’m just here long enough to change. I got a gig,” he said before giving the details. Samuel could play a bunch of instruments, but this job called for him to play piano at a hotel bar in Woodland Hills.

  “How about I go with,” Ryder suggested. “I’ll video one of your songs. I’m a wiz at editing on my computer. By the time I post it on YouTube, it’ll look like a real music video.”

  “As long as you don’t cause any problems,” Samuel said.

  “I could go, too,” Jeffrey said, stepping next to Ryder. I saw Barry’s jaw clench and he put his hand on his son’s shoulder. He didn’t even have to say it, just the shake of Barry’s head got the message and Jeffrey slumped with disappointment.

  A dark sedan pulled behind the jeep. It was too dark to make out what kind of car or who got out until he was halfway across the lawn. What was Mason doing here?

  Barry apparently wondered the same thing and said as much.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot again,” Mason said, taking his crochet project out of the bag.

  Mason saw Samuel and they slapped hands. Samuel had no problem with Mason. Mason had helped him get his musical career going and I think he viewed him just as a family friend as opposed to someone I was involved with.

  By now it was getting pretty chilly and Samuel and Jeffrey didn’t have jackets on. What could I do, but invite everyone inside?

  Samuel looked at the crowd moving into the backyard. “Mom, you ought to start having the Christmas Eve party again.” I was surprised at his comment. The party had been a yearly tradition until Charlie died. It wasn’t that any of us made a decision to stop having parties, it had just sort of happened. The fact that Samuel was suggesting it meant he was finally beginning to move on. I certainly wouldn’t have any trouble finding guests. The group followed me in, and all RSVPed on the spot.

  I offered everyone dinner if they’d take potluck. I hadn’t managed to get to the grocery store lately and had resorted to eating whatever I could scrounge.

  “Not a problem,” Mason said, taking out his cell phone. “Everybody likes Italian, right?” There was a chorus of yeses, except Barry, who didn’t appear pleased that Mason was handling the food again. In an effort to make up for it, Barry made a big deal about going to check on the door.

  I said I’d make salad and Mason left to pick up the order. I reminded Samuel to take care of his cats and Jeffrey fed the dogs and took them out into the yard to play. Ryder made a video of me making salad. He was very interested in all the ingredients and interviewed me as I mixed a bag of herb salad with some wild rocket lettuce. I added grated carrots, kalamata olives, cucumber, fresh tomatoes and sun-dried tomatoes. I made my own salad dressing. It was really just olive oil and balsamic vinegar, but it was the way I did it. I poured the olive oil on first and tossed the salad. Then I sprinkled on the garlic powder and seasoning salt before shaking on the vinegar. I never measured, but it always seemed to work out. I finished the salad by adding gorgonzola cheese and walnuts.

  Dinner was a big success, though over quickly. Samuel had to get to his gig. Ryder tagged along with him. Jeffrey had some homework. Barry hesitated while Mason situated himself on the couch with the dog sweater. But finally he couldn’t stall any longer and left with a reminder to be sure to keep everything locked up.

  I took a ball of iridescent-flecked white bedspread-weight thread and a steel hook into the living room along with the instructions for a snowflake Adele had given me. Hers were more elaborate, but she said she was doing me a favor by giving me something more basic to make. There was probably a slap at my skill in there somewhere but by now I’d learned to just let it go. Mason moved next to me, saying something about it was a better arrangement if he needed help. He watched as I struggled to make a slipknot with the fine thread and do the beginning circle. My hook slipped and the yarn was hard to see. It always took me a little while to adjust to working so small.

  Mason took out the partially completed dog sweater and something else.

  “Is that for me?” I said, looking at the gift-wrapped package.

  Mason handed it to me and I commented that it was kind of early for a Christmas present.

  “No, this just something I think you really n
eed. I had something grander in mind for a holiday gift. Open it,” he said.

  “Wow,” I said as the paper fell, revealing a box that said BlackBerry. Mason took it out and told me about all the features. He had even charged it up. He took out his own and called someone. After a few minutes of punching in some codes to the BlackBerry, he had activated it and it was now my phone.

  He showed me the calendar and said if I put stuff in, it would pop up as a reminder. “So no more missing our crochet evenings,” he said with a grin before he demonstrated how to use the camera feature. I got in a mind muddle after that. The BlackBerry just did too many things to take in all at once. I hugged him a thank-you and when I looked up he was looking back at me. The usual smile in his eyes was replaced by something else. What was it? Longing maybe. I pulled away and he returned to his usual self.

  I pointed to the dog sweater he’d laid beside him as I went back to my snowflake. “We better get crocheting.” He nodded in agreement and picked up his hook.

  “Too bad the detective hasn’t taken up crochet. It would do him good.” Mason worked a few stitches. “I suppose he doesn’t think it’s manly enough.” Mason paused a beat. “I’ve always thought real men don’t have to keep proving themselves.”

  “Different strokes for different folks,” I said vaguely, not wanting to get sucked into their competition. I changed the subject and brought up Emily and the break-ins. Mason was always a good sounding board. This was the first chance I had to put together all the discordant pieces and try to make sense of them.

  “If this kid wasn’t the one sneaking in your house, then who was?” Mason said. He seemed doubtful about someone going to so much trouble to find out the identity of an author.

  “You don’t know how people are about the Anthony books. It would certainly take the thunder out of our launch party if somebody disclosed the real identity of A. J. Kowalski first,” I said.