Dead Men Don't Crochet cm-2

by Betty Hechtman

  Either he was an Academy Award-caliber actor or he really had no idea what I was talking about. I was going with the latter.

  Adele was hiding in the children’s department when I got back to the bookstore. It was a sweet area decorated with carpet depicting cows jumping over moons and furnished with little chairs and tables. She was sitting on one of the child-size chairs as far in the corner as she could get.

  As soon as she saw me, she started talking about Eduardo and how wonderful he was and what a great program he’d put on. Her eyes had that dreamy look, and I suspected she thought she’d found Mr. Right. But I also suspected that she hadn’t noticed that he talked to each of us as if we were the only woman in the world who mattered. I wasn’t sure what to say to her. Even with all her barbs, I hated to see her get hurt. But leave it to Adele. In her usual manner she went right for the offensive.

  “Okay, Pink, I’m not angry that you almost made a scene with Eduardo. I understand that you were upset it wasn’t your idea and all. I won’t mention it to Mrs. Shedd.”

  All I could do was roll my eyes.

  CHAPTER 19

  I HAD HOPED DINAH WOULD COME WITH ME TO CeeCee’s, but she was planning on confronting her ex, had appointments with the students who’d failed their assignment because they’d written their papers using instant-message shorthand and had an evening class to prepare for and teach.

  As promised, I’d made my special cupcakes, and they were sitting on a paper-doily-decorated plate and covered with plastic as I walked to CeeCee’s. Her house was a little far for a walk but too close to justify driving, and anyway I needed the exercise. As soon as I got a couple of blocks from my house, the terrain was different. That was the thing about the area of Tarzana south of Ventura Boulevard. The lay of the land kept changing. My street was on a gentle upward slope, and the lots were wide and level. But just a short distance away there was the steep ridge Patricia’s house was perched on. CeeCee’s house was situated farther back, near the bottom of Corbin Canyon. There was a deep ravine behind it, and the front was like a miniforest, giving the stone cottage-style house a mysterious, very un-sunny Southern California appearance. I expected to see Hansel and Gretel or Cinderella show up any minute.

  She’d warned me about the front gate. Now that she was a name again, she’d started locking it and had an intercom installed. As she talked through the speaker, I could hear barking in the background. Maybe barking wasn’t the best description. It was more like wild yipping. She was still working out the kinks in her security system, so it took a few tries to coordinate her buzzing to unlock the gate and me pushing it open.

  I passed a trio of hummingbirds hovering around a red nectar feeder as I walked up the pathway. The door was open a crack, and she ordered me to wait while she scooped up “the girls.” She opened the door enough for me to come in, and three sets of eyes focused on the plate in my hand.

  “Oh, how wonderful, dear. Your cupcakes are cheese-cakes.” She kicked the door shut and let Marlena and Tallulah loose. The tiny Yorkies did a thorough investigation of my shoes and ankles. Now that I had Cosmo and Blondie and a double dose of dog scent, they went nuts. CeeCee relieved me of the plate, which was disposable. I made it clear the cupcakes were all hers to keep.

  “Tony’s going to love these,” she said, lifting the plastic and drinking in their creamy vanilla aroma. Tony was her boyfriend, though she thought calling a veteran soap opera star with white hair a boyfriend kind of ridiculous. Actually she didn’t like any of the variations, either, like man friend, just friend, significant other, or the more direct lover. When she had to give him some kind of definition, she’d settled on calling him her guy.

  She didn’t like the title widow, either, which I could completely relate to. It conjured up images of women wearing black veils and sensible shoes and tearing out their hair or something. Her late husband had been a world-famous dentist, and they’d had no children. She said with both of their careers, they’d just never had the time or emotion. The closest she had come were “the girls” and their predecessors.

  “Tony’s working,” she called as I followed her to the dining room. Tony Bonnard, aka Dr. Kevin McCoy, was a pillar on the long-running soap opera My Family and Friends. And like CeeCee, he hadn’t let his celebrity status go to his head.

  The house smelled of fresh paint, and I noticed boxes piled against the wall when I glanced down the hall that led to the bedroom wing.

  “I’m doing some remodeling,” she said as if reading my mind. The interior had been a replica of the set of her old hit sitcom, The CeeCee Collins Show. “It was beginning to look tired. I decided it was time to move on with something fresh,” she said with a dismissive wave. I was glad to see she was leaving the dining room furniture as is. I liked the dark wood trestle table. A long ecru runner ran down the table, and a royal blue ceramic bowl of oranges sat in the center. The walls sported a pleasing shade of peach with white trim.

  CeeCee had already brought out a ball of white thread and some steel hooks. She reminded me that the thread was called bedspread weight and that it was the most common kind used for thread crochet. I had brought along the supplies I’d purchased; I took out my thread and steel hooks, picked one from the bunch and looked at it. The end was so tiny I could barely see the hook, but then the thread appeared very thin, too. I had my doubts about being able to learn thread crochet. I had my doubts I’d even be able to see the stitches. I just wanted to get her talking about handkerchiefs.

  A woman came out of the kitchen, startling me. CeeCee handed her the plate of cupcakes and said something to her in Spanish. Another change—CeeCee had household help now. There seemed to be a lot of conversation back and forth and CeeCee leaned toward me. “I’m emceeing a charity event tonight.” She smiled and went on about how now that she was back in the limelight with the reality show, everyone wanted her to do a charity event. This one was a personal favorite of hers. “They help seniors who can’t take care of or afford their pets.” She touched my arm. “You know, dear, it feels good to be able to give back.”

  Underneath CeeCee’s overdone blondish, reddish pouf of hair and the jewel-colored velour outfits was a tender heart. When the original leader of the crochet group died, it was CeeCee who had carried on the idea of making projects for different charities. She was always making a lap blanket or a baby sweater for someone.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have as much time as I thought,” she said. “I have a stylist, and hair and makeup people coming over to help me get ready for tonight.”

  I sat down and fingered the runner on the table with new interest, wondering how it was made. It had a gridlike background and a design of butterflies and flowers.

  CeeCee saw my interest and commented, “It’s not real. They tried to make it look like filet crochet, but the background is machine made and the design is closer to embroidery.” She showed me how someone had created the design by running rather thick cotton thread over and under the grid.

  “Filet crochet? It sounds like something to eat.”

  “Dear, I’m afraid that comment isn’t any more original than your yarnoholic one. I’ve heard people call it filet of crochet or a crochet filet and joke about it being a crochet steak.” She laid a book of crochet instruction open on the table and pointed to a photo of a white dove in what looked like the middle of a grid.

  “That, my dear, is the real thing.” She pointed out how the open spaces were made by doing chain stitches and the filled-in areas were just double crochets. There didn’t seem a lot of room for error, and CeeCee said the design had to be drawn on graph paper first.

  I gazed at the photo for a long time as CeeCee read the instructions out loud. “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I said, thinking it looked nothing like the hanky.

  “I thought you could try all different kinds of thread crochet. But if you’re not interested in filet, we’ll do something else.” She set down the book. “So is it doilies you’re interested in?”
she asked, picking up a thin hook and making a slip knot with the fine thread. She quickly did some chain stitches and joined them in a ring, and then her hook moved so fast I wasn’t sure what she was doing until she explained the pattern called for a bunch of single crochets in the ring. She pushed some supplies my way and told me what she’d done and said to do the same.

  “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind, either,” I said.

  “Fine. Then just make a foundation chain of say twenty, and then turn it and do a row of single crochets just for the feel of the thread while you tell me what you did have in mind.”

  I tried to follow her instructions, but it was not easy. The thread was so thin it was hard to manipulate it, and the hook—I spent most of the time picking it up after it slipped out of my hand.

  “I was thinking about trimming something,” I began. “You know how there are those little linen hand towels with crochet trim, or even terry hand towels? Or a handkerchief. Yes, that’s what I want to know about. Maybe a small square of cotton with a lot of this doily kind of stuff as trim.”

  CeeCee gave me an odd look. “A handkerchief? Molly, what you’re describing sounds lovely, but you don’t want to defeat yourself when you’re just learning.” She pushed an instruction sheet titled Simple Washcloth across the table to me. “This is perfect if you want to try something simple to get the feel of working with the thread. Then you can try a handkerchief.”

  CeeCee’s simple washcloth was no help for my hanky dilemma, except to give me some appreciation of how difficult that lacy trim must have been to make. I decided to prod her further. “But if I were to make a handkerchief, how would I make some fluffy filigree kind of trim?”

  “Why are you so fixated on making a decorated hanky?”

  I wasn’t ready to tell her the real answer, so I changed the subject to talking about hankies in general. She put up her hand to stop me.

  “Why not just focus on what you’re doing?” She touched my hook, and I looked down at my work. It was a mess. She unraveled it, did the foundation chain for me and gave it back, urging me to practice with the single crochets.

  My shoulder blades were achy by the time I got to the second row. I felt tense and frustrated from trying to work with the tiny hook. CeeCee moved my hands down and my head up while telling me that staring directly at it would strain my eyes. I was thrilled when she suggested we take a cupcake break.

  “You have to get used to it,” she said in a reassuring manner. I wondered if that would happen in this lifetime.

  She gestured for me to stop working and called Rosa to bring in the tea and cupcakes.

  A few minutes later, Rosa appeared with an elaborate tray and put it on the table. CeeCee thanked her and winked at me. “It’s nice to have help again. I could burn water,” she said with her trademark tinkly laugh.

  CeeCee’s late husband had been brilliant about teeth and a moron about money. When he died she found out he’d gone through all their money. She’d had to start all over, and it wasn’t until the reality show that she’d finally started getting ahead.

  I’d dropped some deep purple pansies from my garden around the edge of the cupcake plate to add a little color. I’d learned during all the years Charlie worked in PR that presentation was everything.

  “I think this whole concept of portion control is just the thing.” CeeCee moved her gaze around the cupcakes and then picked the biggest one. “It’s all about not eating too much of anything.”

  Now that CeeCee had help, she’d gone all out with the tea. The tray held a dark blue pot covered with a blue and white cozy, a silver tea strainer and two white bone china cups. There was also a pitcher of cream, a small honey pot, a bowl of sugar cubes and even a half lemon all gussied up with a cheesecloth cover. Rosa had brought in plates and silverware separately.

  As CeeCee poured, I took a cheesecake. What can I say, I like my own baking. I was still wowed by the mixture of the creamy vanilla top over the buttery graham-cracker-crumb crust. I’d originally called the recipe Baby Cheese-cakes, but with all the hoopla about cupcakes, I renamed the recipe Cheesecake Cupcakes.

  No need to worry about portion control for me. One was quite enough. The tea was a nice accompaniment. I loved coffee, but every time I had tea, I was amazed how it made my insides feel calm and serene.

  The two Yorkies positioned themselves on the chair behind CeeCee. They each stuck a head under her arm and started yapping as they stared at her plate.

  CeeCee gave them each a bit of cheesecake, telling them it wasn’t good for dogs. They didn’t seem to care and were instantly back for more.

  The handkerchief was in my purse. I’d hoped there would be a casual way I could bring it out and show it to CeeCee, but it didn’t look as though that was going to happen. So, I just took out the plastic bag and set it on the table.

  “Do you have any idea what this is?”

  “So, that’s why you were asking all the handkerchief questions,” CeeCee said, glancing at the bag with the hanky inside. I had wondered what to do about cleaning it. The red stains were kind of icky, but if the hanky was evidence they might be important. In the end, I’d left it as is, only flattening it out. The fabric still had wrinkle marks, but at least it wasn’t squished into a ball anymore.

  CeeCee wrinkled her nose in distaste, and I knew she was noting the red marks. “It looks like a hanky in need of a bath.” She pointed at one of the spots with the metal hook. “Is that blood?”

  “More likely tomato bisque,” I said.

  CeeCee’s eyes widened. “Where did you get it?”

  I was hoping she wouldn’t ask, but in case she did I’d already worked out an answer. It was basically the truth without all the details. I said I’d picked it up by mistake at the Cottage Shoppe.

  “Do you think it was in the room when that Brooks person died?” CeeCee didn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s some kind of clue, isn’t it?” She picked up the plastic bag and began to examine the hanky. “I’d say the trim is definitely thread crochet. I’d guess it is old, since nobody carries something like this these days. It reminds me of a prop I had in a period piece I did at the beginning of my career. They gave me a hanky to hold in my hand, saying the lacy edge made my hand movements more dramatic.” She set the bag back down. “I’m afraid that’s all I know. You should show it to Sheila. Remember, she’s studying costume design.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but it was a good idea. I put away the hanky, and CeeCee gave me some directions for making a coaster with thread. The doorbell rang, and CeeCee made it clear our time was done. “I know you’re busy, dear,” she said, leading me to the door.

  As I walked out, a woman pushed a rack of clothes in. She was followed by a small brunette carrying a makeup case and a man dressed all in black with a blow dryer stuck in his belt. Apparently CeeCee’s stylist brought a crew.

  CeeCee was right. I was busy. After stopping home to change and take care of the dogs, I had to set up for Patricia Bradford’s book signing. And I had a feeling it was going to be a bumpy evening.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE BOOKSTORE WAS IN CHAOS WHEN I GOT there. Patricia’s people seemed to be everywhere. Someone was taking out the regular chairs I had set up, and someone else was bringing in better-looking ones from a rental truck out front. A woman was rearranging the top sellers’ table, taking off what was there and filling it with stacks of Patricia’s Perfect Hints, Volume 4. I’d expected a person or maybe two with a video camera, not the film crew that was setting up, complete with lighting and screens to soften the glare. More of her people were pushing bookcases out of the way and creating an event area in the middle of the store.

  This was way beyond what I’d agreed to. To make it worse, Adele was watching it all and taking notes. I tried stopping the progress of the chair people to no avail. I found the guy in charge of the camera crew, but he told me to talk to Patricia. Eduardo was hanging around near Adele and taking it all in. I certainly hoped that Adele
wasn’t promising him a production like this.

  I was at the front of the bookstore when a small bus pulled up. One of Patricia’s people flew past me and rushed outside to greet the passengers as they disembarked. It was like the Noah’s ark of the politically correct. An elderly Caucasian couple got off first, followed by a pair of prosperous-looking African-Americans, two Hispanic teens, Asian twins, an arm-in-arm couple of gay men and finally, two hand-holding brunette lesbians.

  Patricia and Benjamin came across the parking lot. Even from a distance, it was obvious they both were wearing stage makeup. When they reached the front of the bookstore, the bus passengers were arranged around them and a still photographer got it on film.

  How could I have been so dense? They were filming this to use it as part of a campaign commercial. The crowd moved inside, and I dodged the parade of chairs to get to Patricia.

  “You’re going to have to tone this down,” I said. She was all smiles as she reminded me it had all been spelled out in the paper I’d signed. Now I understood why she’d made it impossible to read when she’d given it to me to sign.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” she said in an artificially warm voice. “Look, Benjamin, here’s Molly.” She pulled me into their little circle.

  “We can’t thank you enough,” Benjamin said, greeting me. “It’s good to have you on our team.” Benjamin turned his head toward the camera and put on a sincere smile while he shook my hand and put his other hand on my shoulder.

  I could just imagine the caption: Benjamin Bradford takes time from his busy schedule to comfort widow.

  I let out a sigh and realized there was no way I could undo this circus, but maybe there was a consolation. People seemed to be attracted by the film crew. Maybe they were curious, or maybe they thought it was their chance to be part of history, but passersby kept coming in. And once they got bored watching the group from the bus be arranged and rearranged in the front rows, they browsed the rest of the bookstore. I noticed a constant line at the cashier. A surge in sales might smooth things out if Mrs. Shedd found out about the filming, which I’m sure she would, courtesy of Adele.