Dead Men Don't Crochet cm-2

by Betty Hechtman

  Then, when no one was looking, I slipped E. Conner and Ashley-Angela, along with Mason’s grandson, in the tent. Mason and Dinah had found a table and were talking. Bob was talking to Pixie; his body language said he was offering his sympathy and hers said she was taking it, along with a creamy-looking drink.

  I leaned against a bookcase and took a deep breath. So far, so good. I’d been so preoccupied, I’d forgotten I was still holding the two pages Pixie had handed me. At first, it didn’t even register what they were. Then I realized they were a copy of the brochure she had mentioned. The title on the front was Palladian Estate Heirlooms. There was a picture of one those large English houses that looked like it probably had no heat. Because it was only a copy, the picture quality wasn’t great. Below the photo was the story of the house and the family that had lived there. Lady Sara Ratcliffe was described as Princess Diana’s third cousin. Though Lord Ratcliffe was mentioned, the only family photo was of Lady Sara. It appeared to be a copy of an old sepia formal portrait. Lady Rafcliffe wore a long dark dress and was standing next to a chair, her hand resting on it. There was a lacy thing around her neck and down the front of the dress, which was obviously the collar Pixie had talked about. It resembled a long scarf. I could see enough detail to recognize that the piece I’d seen on Drew Brooks’s desk drawer handle came from it. Her hair was piled on her head in one of those old-fashioned styles, but since the focus was soft and it wasn’t a close-up, it was hard to make out her features. Dr. Bullard was good if he could see she had an overbite.

  I looked closer at the face and covered the stylized hair with my hand. At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing. I stared so hard I had to look away to refocus my eyes. When I turned back to the picture, there was no mistaking who it was. And then all the pieces began to fall into place.

  The picture was enough to convince me I knew who had killed Drew for sure and probably Dr. Bullard. But it probably wouldn’t be enough for Detective Heather. Ah, but then a thought crossed my mind. Hadn’t someone mentioned the meticulous records Ramona Brooks kept when she was the owner of the Cottage Shoppe? A sheet listing the seller of the Ratcliffe Estate items would be the piece that tied everything together.

  And I even knew where the files were. I’d overheard Kevin mention putting them in the storage unit. I considered calling Detective Heather and telling her about Ramona Brooks’s records. But hadn’t Dorothy just said something about Kevin clearing some stuff out of the unit? I had to get that Ratcliffe Estate file now.

  Even though I was in the middle of Milton Mindell’s event, I couldn’t take the chance that the records would get shredded before I got the sheet I needed. I dashed to the children’s section and told Adele I had to step out for a few minutes.

  “Pink, you can’t go,” she wailed, looking at the kids sitting around her. Obviously my plan hadn’t worked so well; the kids were fidgeting and punching each other. She got up and stepped close to me.

  “You wanted to be in charge, well, consider yourself in that position for ten minutes or so,” I said. “It’s important. I know who killed Drew Brooks, and if I don’t get the proof now, it will be gone.” Adele demanded details of where I was going, and I pointed toward the Cottage Shoppe. “There is something I have to get before Kevin Brooks has a chance to throw it away. If you have any problems Dinah will help.”

  Adele sighed and marched back to the kids, asking if anybody wanted another round of spider punch.

  I was almost jogging when I passed Dinah and Mason in the café. I turned as I kept moving and told Dinah I had found the answer to everything and was going for the proof. She started to get up to come with me, but I waved her off. I thought something might be developing between them and I didn’t want to interrupt it. Besides, all I was going to do was slip into the storage unit and find a file. I started to jog down the street, but it morphed into an outright run.

  I rushed past the Cottage Shoppe, barely catching a glimpse of Kevin stirring some soup while Dorothy helped a customer.

  The doors to the storage unit were closed but, thankfully, not locked. I pulled one side open and slipped in. It was a full-service container and had a light. I walked down the narrow walkway between tall shelving units, quickly checking both sides for a box of files. The shelves were jammed with stuff from the store. On the upper shelves I saw pots and pans, the espresso machine, and giant glass jars of tomato products along with one-gallon plastic jugs of brown liquid. The yarn swift and the skeins of yarn Dorothy had put aside for me were sticking out from an eye-level shelf. The lower shelves held plastic containers of merchandise from the store and cleaning supplies, but nothing that looked like a box of records.

  My heart was pounding from the running and anticipation as I reached the spot at the back where the shelving ended. The whole area was filled with boxes, and I began to tug at them so I could get them in the light and see their contents. The first two I opened contained cookbooks and more merchandise from the store. And then I opened one that made me gasp. It was filled with the paperweights that had been on Drew’s desk. Apparently they hadn’t been such big sellers after all. All the complimentary coffee and tea things had been packed up in one box, and another had rolls of banner paper and templates to do the sign lettering.

  I was beginning to think I was too late and that my next stop would have to be Dumpster diving, but then I flipped the top off a box and saw what looked like file-drawer dividers. When I pulled the box into the light, I saw they were monthly dividers. I randomly pulled a sheet from the middle and read at it.

  Ramona Brooks had used a fountain pen to write up in her remarkable penmanship the description of a set of silver serving pieces and a bone china tea set. It listed the seller, the date the serving pieces had sold and the price. She’d written in the date she paid the consignee and gave back the tea set, which didn’t sell. Whoever had said she kept meticulous records was right. I sent out a silent thank-you.

  All I had to do was locate the sheet for the Ratcliffe Estate heirlooms. Since the files were arranged chronologically rather than alphabetically, I thought I was going to have to go through the whole box. I tried to remember if there was any clue as to when the items had been in the store to narrow down my search. Hadn’t somebody said something about when the time changed? Hoping I was right, I thumbed through October. This was taking longer than I’d expected, and I was getting a little frantic as I ruffled through the pale green pages. And suddenly there it was.

  As soon as I saw Ratcliffe Estate Heirlooms, I knew I’d found the sheet I needed. My eye went down the page as my breath grew ragged. Below the list of items I saw the name of the seller in Ramona Brooks’s perfect blue ink. Bingo, I had my proof. I was still holding the copy of the brochure Pixie had given me. That along with the sales sheet and Pixie’s story ought to be enough. Detective Heather would see who had a real motive to kill Drew Brooks, and then she’d leave Sheila alone. I pulled out the sheet and as I turned to go, a shadow fell across the page.

  “What’s your hurry?”

  I slipped the sales sheet and the brochure behind my back and looked up, having already recognized the voice. “Patricia, what brings you here?”

  “I stopped by the bookstore to drop off some autographed copies of my book. Adele was in quite a state. She said you were off getting something that proved who killed Drew Brooks. May I have it, please?”

  I held the papers tighter. “I was mistaken—there wasn’t anything. I need to get back to the bookstore. The Milton Mindell event and all.” I started to take a step toward the door, but the overhead light reflected on something in Patricia’s hand.

  “I don’t think so.” She raised her hand a little so there was no mistaking the small blue handgun.

  “I thought Benjamin was antigun,” I said, looking at the compact but lethal weapon.

  “He is—but I’m not. At least, for me. These days you’ve got to protect yourself.” She moved the gun a little closer. “Now hand me the paper.” When I
didn’t comply, she looked annoyed. “Molly, Molly, Molly, why couldn’t you just mind your own business?”

  “I don’t know what paper you’re talking about. I was looking for something I had put on layaway at the store.” I pointed at the yarn swift, but as I did the papers slid out of my hand and landed on the floor.

  Patricia bent down quickly and scooped them up. When she looked at the copy Pixie had given me, Patricia nodded in an annoyed fashion. “So Dr. Bullard made a copy of the brochure. Well, it doesn’t matter anymore.” While she was distracted I tried to edge around her and head for the door, but she blocked me and pointed the gun at me.

  “There wouldn’t have been any problem if that orthodontist hadn’t demanded a refund. How could you understand? You’ve never been a single parent wondering how you’re going to keep your children in private school.” She set the papers on the shelf and sighed. To my surprise she lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke.

  “Yeah, I smoke, so go on, give me a lecture.” She took another drag. “I was working two jobs and selling off my jewelry, but it still wasn’t enough. I had to do something to get money for the kids’ tuition. At first I thought of crocheting some things and selling them.”

  “But I thought you didn’t crochet.”

  “Are you kidding? Me, queen of the crafter, not crochet? The hardest thing was pretending I was having trouble. It’s kind of like if you’re an opera singer and you have to sing bad. I was watching one of those antique shows on TV and noticed that who something had belonged to affected its value. That’s when I got the idea for Lady Ratcliffe. At first I thought I’d make the pieces myself, but it was too time consuming, even with my skill. I found a place online in China that would create items to my specifications. They attached machine-made motifs to a ready-made backing for pieces like the collar and used machine-made trim for the hankies. Once I got them, I washed them in weak tea and rinsed them in fabric softener to age them, and I was ready to go.

  “I made up a whole story for Mrs. Brooks about how I was distantly related to Lord and Lady Ratcliffe and had some family heirlooms that I wanted to sell. I showed her the brochure I’d created. All I needed was a wig and a costume and I became Lady Ratcliffe. It’s amazing what you can do with a digital camera and a computer photo program. Once she read the story and saw the photo of Lady Ratcliffe wearing the Irish crochet collar, she believed the whole lot were real heirlooms. She didn’t even notice my resemblance to Lady Ratcliffe. If she had, I would have just said it was because we were distant family.

  “I guess all the buyers believed the brochure, too, because the items sold. And I might add, nobody but that unpleasant orthodontist complained or tried to return their heirloom.”

  I was trying to think of a way to get out of there. Between the gun and the confession about making fake antiques, I didn’t feel optimistic about the odds of her just taking the papers and leaving. I looked around the storage unit for some kind of help. If only I’d taken my cell phone.

  Now that Patricia had started talking, she kept going. “When Bullard demanded the refund, Drew got curious and went through his aunt’s records. When he saw how many other pseudo heirlooms were in the batch and that none of them had come back, the greedy so-and-so got an idea. He gave Bullard the refund to get back the Irish crochet collar and handkerchief so he could use them to blackmail me. Can you believe he threatened to go to the media and tell them what I’d done if I didn’t keep providing him with fake antiques for his new Internet store?

  “Benjamin would have dropped me like a bomb. I couldn’t let it come out. After struggling on my own with the kids I’d hit the jackpot with him. He’s rich, actually a nice guy, and he’s going to get elected. I couldn’t let that rat Drew ruin it for me.” She let out her breath. “It feels good to finally talk about it.” She looked at me and her eyes seemed kind of crazed, though she still didn’t have a hair out of place, nor a speck of lint on her black slacks. Black slacks? It must have been her slacks-covered legs that Kevin saw on the stairs.

  “I didn’t intend to kill Drew, you know. I just wanted to knock him out so I could get the crocheted pieces. I figured that without the items there was nothing he could do. By the way, it may look easy to knock somebody out, but it isn’t. I had to smack him a whole bunch of times. How was I supposed to know he’d fall in the soup?”

  Apparently when she’d heard Trina coming up the stairs, Patricia had slipped into Kevin’s office. Well, now I knew how the handkerchief got there and how the lacy piece had ended up hanging off the drawer handle. Patricia had ripped the collar as she made a hasty exit. She didn’t seem to care that Detective Heather had the hanky now, since the only thing that could connect her with the fake heirloom was the paper in her hand and me. I felt a strong uh-oh go off in my head. Maybe she didn’t plan for either the papers or me to get out of there.

  She dropped the cigarette and stamped it out, reached in her purse and pulled out a huge roll of silver duct tape with a cutting edge attached. “You have no idea how many things you can do with this stuff. I never go anywhere without it—I’m doing a whole chapter on it in my next hints book.” She secured the roll under her gun arm and pulled a long piece off with her free hand, snapping it off against the sharp edge. She wrapped it around my wrist and then pulled it against the other one, binding them together. “You can roll it up and use it for shoelaces or hair ties and even do an emergency repair on a hem.”

  She ripped off another piece and kneeled in front of me. She put the gun down and quickly tried to wrap the tape around my ankles. Seeing the gun on the floor, I attempted to kick it away. She grabbed it back and pointed it at my head.

  “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will. Although, I think I’ve come up with a better all-around solution.” She surveyed the small space crammed with stuff. “This place is a fire trap.” Having secured my legs together, she dropped the gun in her purse and stood.

  I hadn’t realized she’d cut another piece of tape until she was about to stick it over my mouth. I felt light-headed at the prospect and thought by talking I might be able to keep her from doing it.

  “Before you do that, I’d like to ask you a question.” I was using as many words as possible since as long as I was talking I didn’t think she’d slap the tape on me. “The question is—well, maybe it’s actually a couple of questions.”

  Patricia looked impatient and I realized I better get to the point or she’d put the tape on me just to shut me up.

  “Why kill Dr. Bullard?”

  “Who said I did?” she said with her eyes flashing. Then her expression changed to a thoughtful one. “It was perfectly done, wasn’t it? But I had a chance to plan, unlike with Drew.

  “Dr. Bullard recognized me at the book signing. He got in touch with me and started to lay into me for causing him and his wife embarrassment. I knew he could be trouble when he mentioned he still had the brochure I’d made up.” Patricia smiled. “I’m good. I really am. I told him I was oh, so sorry about the whole thing and wanted to make it right. I said I had the real piece of Irish crochet I’d used as a model for the fakes and wanted to give it to him. I asked if he’d give me back the brochure so I could put the whole thing behind me.” She shook her head with disbelief. “He said yes. I actually don’t think he would have ever turned me in, and he never mentioned Drew’s death, so I don’t think he connected it with the fake antiques. All he cared about was having something real to give his wife. But I didn’t have any authentic Irish crochet to give him. So, I had to get him out of the way.”

  Patricia didn’t seem to feel any remorse about what she’d done. But she did seem pleased with the perfection of her planning. She’d arranged to meet Bullard in his office in the evening. “I pretended to be his wife and ordered the soup and had it left in the reception area. When I arrived, it was there waiting. I dropped a roofie in it. They are way easy to get hold of,” she said as an aside. “I said he must be hungry after a long day and offered him the soup as a go
odwill gesture.” She snorted out a laugh. “He actually thanked me for it and said he’d missed lunch. A few spoonfuls and he was out cold. I grabbed the brochure, set off the bug bombs and I was out the door.”

  She looked at her watch. “I really must be going.” She lit another cigarette. “My, I am surprised they store something as flammable as this,” she said, pouring some citrus cleaning liquid on some rags and dropping them on the floor.

  “Sorry I don’t have another roofie.” She found the box of paperweights and took out the one shaped like the bust of Teddy Roosevelt. “I think I have it down now. I should be able to knock you out with only a few smacks.” To demonstrate, she swung her arm with the paperweight a few times. I flinched and tried to move. She got ready to do it in earnest, but then the cigarette fell out of her hand and hit the rags, and they began to smoulder.

  She glanced down for a moment and gasped at the growing flames. But still, she stepped toward me with the Teddy Roosevelt bust poised. Any second now, it was going to fade to black for me. I was helpless with my hands and feet taped together. Behind her I could see the yarn swift on the edge of the shelf. I couldn’t do anything with my hands or feet, but I still had my shoulder. With all the power I could muster, I threw my shoulder against the shelves. They made a rattling sound and shook. At first I thought it hadn’t done any good, but as the shelves vibrated, the yarn swift toppled off.

  As it fell, it opened, revealing an inner structure like that of an umbrella.

  The rags were really beginning to flame, and Patricia coughed and squealed. She threw down the bust and took a step back to escape. As she did, she stepped right into the yarn swift and her foot tangled in it. Panicking, she tried to break free, but the more she tried to pull out of it, the tighter it became. She tried to walk with it on her foot and lost her balance. Frantically she reached for something on which to steady herself. The only things to grab at were the shelves. I had merely tapped against them, but Patricia grabbed them full force, and as the big unit began to totter from side to side, everything on them began to shake, rattle and then roll off toward her.