For Better or Worsted

by Betty Hechtman

  My cell went off and I answered. I’d taken to leaving it on while I was at work, since that was the number I was giving out regarding the parties. Good thing I did. It was Emerson asking if we could come to her rather than her bringing Lyla to the group for her lesson.

  “The customer rules,” I mumbled to myself as I clicked off. Adele was fine with going, but I needed to check with Mrs. Shedd. I found her across the bookstore near the event area, talking to Ben Sherman. His mop of black curls was cute in an unruly way, but despite the rumpled hair, he was a little too serious for my taste. He was on the slight side, barely taller than Mrs. Shedd, and wore as always, a slightly rumpled dress shirt over slacks. I heard a snippet of their conversation. He was pitching her the idea of starting a writing group for adults.

  “I like it,” Mrs. Shedd said. “Writing groups, parties, all these new start-ups with the fall.” My boss saw me and pulled me into the conversation, explaining I was the event coordinator for the bookstore.

  He repeated his pitch to me. It would be a short story workshop, and we could print them up at the end and sell them at the bookstore. Before I could say it was a good idea, Mrs. Shedd was already talking about all the coffee drinks we’d sell to the participants and how they’d browse in the bookstore. She began to describe displays we’d set up of books with famous short stories, because wasn’t it true that they should read what they wanted to write? We’d have a table of writing books and supplies for them, just like we did for the kids. “It sounds like a good idea,” I said. Everything went well until we got to discussing the time to have it. We agreed on once a month, but when it came to settling on an evening, we hit a snag. Mrs. Shedd and I thought a weekday evening would be good, but he was more interested in Sunday morning.

  “I have another job,” he said. “Well, jobs, and I can’t predict when I’m going to be working. I could guarantee Sunday morning.”

  “Writing jobs?” I said.

  He seemed a little defensive. “I’ve got some spec scripts out, but with all these reality shows now, it’s tough.” He seemed to want to leave it at that, but I was curious about what else he did, and I used the dead-air trick I’d picked up from The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation. I just didn’t say anything and let the silence hang in the air. It always worked, except this time.

  A short time later, Adele and I headed toward my car. “I could really go alone,” Adele said, “since I am the one giving the crochet lesson. I am in charge of the children’s department, and I handle story time all by myself.” She made references to a story time she had coming up, which was top secret and going to be so stupendous, Mrs. Shedd would want to make her an assistant manager. Now that she was away from the bookstore and Leonora, she was reverting to her old self.

  Even if I’d been willing to go along with it, Mrs. Shedd wouldn’t. But she was fine with us leaving to give Lyla a private crochet lesson, as long as we both went, and it was less than half an hour. Clearly, she worried that you just never knew what Adele would do alone.

  I have discovered the best way to deal with Adele is simply to tell her how it is. So I flatly told her we were both going.

  “Okay, waste your time if you want to,” she said as she slid into the passenger seat of the greenmobile. Emerson lived in a condo on the other side of the 101 on the dividing line between Tarzana and Encino. On the way there, I brought up the yarn bombing.

  “Did Barry say that Eric thinks I’m the yarn bomber?” She sounded incredulous.

  “Not exactly, but he implied it and said I should get you to stop.”

  “But it isn’t me,” she squealed. “If it was me, the pieces would be a lot better. I’d do it with embellishments, like maybe tie a bunch of crochet flowers to a stop sign.” She stopped to think. “Imagine if I made a really giant flower and hung it from a bridge over the freeway.” Then she stopped herself and turned to me.

  “Pink, we have to find out who’s doing it and stop them. I know I’m winning Eric’s mother over, but if he thinks I’m the yarn bomber, it won’t make any difference. He plays by the rules, and no way would he accept having a yarn graffiti artist as a fiancée.”

  “Fiancée?” I said with surprise.

  “He hasn’t said anything for sure yet, but you heard the comment his mother made about always wanting Eric’s bride to wear her wedding dress.”

  I nodded noncommittally, but I was thinking that all the diet powders in the world weren’t going to shrink Adele enough to fit into the dress of a woman who ate five grapes as her treat for lunch.

  I parked the car, Adele grabbed her bag of tools and yarn, and we walked up the street to Emerson’s town house.

  I guess because she was in the flower business, I was expecting to see floral arrangements and floral patterns all over her house, but when Emerson ushered us inside, I instantly saw that I was wrong. I admit to being nosy and immediately began to check out the living room. There was lots of color, and it was obvious she was very creative, whether she made the things herself or just appreciated handmade items. Throw pillows with bright strips of primary colors decorated a blue suede couch. Instead of the usual carpeting, there was a wood tile floor with throw rugs that added more color and softness to the room. The small round wood dining table at the end of the room marked a dining area and beyond a half wall was the kitchen.

  The fireplace was an unexpected bonus, and it made the room seem even more inviting.

  Emerson had her hair tucked back off her face and was wearing a peasant blouse over some washed-to-a-pale-blue jeans with a scarf thrown on for color. I wish I could manage that nonchalance.

  “I’m afraid we can’t stay very long,” I said, explaining we had to get back to the bookstore.

  “No problem,” Emerson said. “I appreciate you coming here. I just thought it would be easier for Lyla if she learned here.”

  Adele was all business and asked where she should set up. Emerson pointed to the table. As if on cue, Lyla came in the room. She looked like a miniature of her mother, down to the clothes she wore.

  I was pretending to admire the fireplace, but I kept glancing at Adele. I had no idea how she would be teaching a child. There were photographs on the mantelpiece, which I focused on. I certainly didn’t want Emerson to know how concerned I was about Adele, so to cover it up, I picked a photograph at random and examined it. The man was wearing a white coat, and I asked if it was her husband.

  Emerson said it wasn’t and explained that she and her husband had an unusual situation. “He works up north in Silicon Valley and is here only on the weekends, which is when I’m usually working.” She laughed and said at least they never got tired of each other.

  “That’s my grandpa, but he’s dead. That was his pen,” Lyla called out in reference to the photo. I glanced down and saw a fountain pen with a metallic amber body. “I wanted to take it to school, but my mom won’t let me use it.”

  Emerson’s face clouded over and she shushed her daughter, telling her she should concentrate on crocheting. But when she turned to me, she threw up her hands and said, “Kids,” in typical mother exasperation.

  “I didn’t realize two of you would come,” Emerson said, quickly changing the subject. I couldn’t tell her the real reason I was there, so instead, I said I wanted to talk over the food options and mentioned Bob’s cookie bars. She was firm on the cupcakes, but seemed a little confused. “What do you usually do for a birthday?”

  I must have seemed a little befuddled because Emerson appeared concerned. “How many of these parties have you put on?” When I’d first suggested the party idea to her, I had alluded to the many bookstore events I’d put on, but now that she was asking directly I told her the truth.

  “So, we’re your guinea pigs,” she said.

  “I’d rather refer to you as our premiere clients.” I was relieved when Emerson smiled. Lyla had left Adele at the table and j
oined us.

  “What exactly will we be making at my party?” Lyla asked. I was a little taken aback by her mature tone. I was still getting used to how grown-up kids were these days.

  “We’re still designing it,” I said. Designing sounded better than trying to come up with.

  “I’d like it to be something wonderful and maybe something for animals,” Lyla said.

  “I’ll make note of that,” I said. Adele didn’t want to be the only one at the table, so she joined us, too.

  “I’m doing a special animal story time that day,” Adele said. “Maybe we could move your party up so they coincide.”

  Both Emerson and Lyla looked horrified at Adele’s suggestion. “The party isn’t going to be in the part of the bookstore with the cows jumping over the moons, is it?” Lyla asked with grave concern in her voice.

  I looked at my watch and realized we’d already gone over the half hour and announced we had to leave while assuring Lyla and her mother that the party would be in the yarn department at the table the Hookers used.

  “So, did you teach her to crochet?” I asked Adele as we walked to my car.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Adele said. “I think she mastered the slipknot.”

  “But that’s just the first thing you do. It’s not even a stitch.” This was not a good sign for the party.

  CHAPTER 13

  “MOLLY,” BARRY CALLED OUT TO ME JUST AFTER I turned the corner onto Ventura Boulevard. I was on my way into the bookstore from the parking lot. Adele had already rushed on ahead since we were late in coming back. Barry was walking toward me with a man in a suit who I assumed was another detective.

  Barry’s detective face gave way to a smile as we stopped, facing each other. He said he and his detective friend were just coming from lunch at Le Grande Fromage down the street. I expected him to walk on after that, but he seemed to hesitate, like he was hanging onto the moment.

  “Well,” I said, finally. “I have to get back to work.” I nodded toward the bookstore.

  “Where are you coming from?” he asked. I noticed he caught himself and tried to soften his interrogation voice.

  “It’s a long story,” I said and took a step away.

  “I’d like to hear about it.” He called to his companion to go on ahead. Then he walked me the rest of the way to the bookstore.

  “I don’t suppose Mrs. Shedd would let you get a cup of coffee with me.” He sounded hopeful. “Then you could give me all the details of your long story.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” I said.

  “Why?” He seemed puzzled.

  “Because you aren’t exactly acting like yourself,” I said. Normally, Barry might have stopped in during the day to see how I was, but then he was out the door in a flash.

  “Maybe I’ve changed,” he said, and his smile grew warmer as it lit his dark eyes.

  I assured him Mrs. Shedd wasn’t going to want me to take a break, but that didn’t seem to deter him.

  “Do you want something? Information, maybe?” I said, still not trusting the way he was acting.

  “Why? Do you have some? You have been spending a lot of time with Thursday Fields. She must be confiding in you.”

  “I thought so. That’s what this is all about. You’re on an information hunt.” I walked through the bookstore, letting Mrs. Shedd see that I was back, and then I headed toward the yarn department. Barry kept pace with me.

  “I was joking about the information,” he said. “Of course, if you have any, I’d be glad to hear it.” He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down while I straightened up the yarn bins. “It’s just that I never get to see you alone.”

  I reminded him of our upcoming evening to see Jeffrey’s play. He started to fiddle with one of the hooks on the table. “I know I screwed up and was undependable and everything else when we were together. I miss spending time with you.”

  “But we’re still friends,” I said. “We can still spend time together.”

  He didn’t say it, but I knew what he was thinking—that it wasn’t the same, and of course, he was right.

  “So, tell me the long story.” He’d leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out.

  “Are you sure you really want to hear it?” I said, and he nodded.

  I told him about the Parties with a Purpose idea and that we were arranging the first one. He started to grin. “It’s not going to be like the author events. No smoke alarms going off, or floods when a Mr. Fixit turns out to be Mr. Breakit. It can’t be that way. If it is, there goes the business, and Mrs. Shedd is counting on me and Adele.”

  Now Barry laughed. “Adele’s involved and you think it’s going to go smoothly?”

  “You wouldn’t recognize her,” I said. “Your fellow cop Eric has had a big effect on her. Well, maybe it’s more the fact that his mother is visiting.” I filled Barry in on Leonora and the change in Adele.

  He was enjoying hearing about it all, even though he didn’t buy that Adele had changed or that the party would come off without a hitch. I did remind him that even though most of my events had some kind of drama, they were always successful, if success was measured by the book sales.

  “I hope you’re wrong or that Emerson is understanding if you’re right.” I told him that Emerson did the flowers for Thursday’s wedding, including the arrangement on the wedding cake. “It’s lucky she didn’t see what happened to her work.” I still had the image of Jaimee Fields sitting in the cake with the flowers Emerson had so carefully placed having turned into a bunch of crushed petals.

  “Really?” Barry said, sitting up.

  “Relax, she was only at the reception long enough to put the fresh flowers on the cake and make sure the flowers in everyone’s lapels were fresh. When she left, everyone was still alive.”

  “How do you know?” Barry said.

  “Because she told me she did. And because she didn’t even know the groom or any of the wedding party. Jaimee Fields hired her and must have given her the go-ahead to leave the reception.”

  “You’re probably right. Besides, I think Heather probably talked to her.”

  “How’s the investigation going? Any suspects?” I asked.

  Barry looked at me intently. “Maybe I should ask you the same thing.”

  “What makes you think I’m sleuthing?” I gave Barry an innocent shrug, but he responded with a deep laugh.

  “Let me count the ways. You walked into the middle of it. Thursday is staying at your house, and you seem to enjoy playing Nancy Drew.”

  “You left out that I’m good at it,” I said with grin. I waited to see if he was going to admonish me to stay out of it as he’d always done in the past. Maybe he really had changed because instead he suggested that we share notes. Though I knew the real meaning of that was I was to give up what I knew. He sighed when he glanced at his watch.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check on the information share,” he said as he stood. “I have to see a man at the morgue.” He didn’t elaborate if the man was standing up or on a slab, and I didn’t ask. “I don’t remember what the rules of being friends are. Is a good-bye hug acceptable?”

  I rolled my eyes and nodded. I expected a chaste hug that was mostly arms, but Barry apparently didn’t understand the different kinds of hugs, and the one he offered was full body and lasted long enough to be more like holding than hugging.

  I was so stunned at his display of affection—Barry had always been very reserved in public when we were together—I didn’t know how to react for a moment. I think Barry was as surprised at his actions as I was and suddenly dropped his arms.

  “Sorry,” he said and pulled away. “This whole platonic thing is still a little confusing.” He gave me a wave good-bye as he headed toward the door. He looked back just before he went out. There was something in his eyes I had never seen before
. He had let down his guard and finally opened the door to his soul. The look of regret and longing went straight to my heart.

  I sighed to myself. And I thought just being friends was going to be less complicated.

  I didn’t get much chance to mull it over, because a moment later I heard Mrs. Shedd point me out to someone.

  “You can give it to her yourself,” she said. Ben Sherman was standing next to her at the edge of the yarn department. He certainly had the writer look down pat. The day-old stubble, the mass of slightly disheveled black curls and the messenger bag slung across his chest.

  Mrs. Shedd walked away as he held out a piece of paper. “I wrote up a description of the workshop and a bio more aimed at an adult audience.” I took it and read it over. No mention of Janet and the Beanstalk in this one.

  “You’re like an all-around writer,” I said, noting that he’d listed a number of publications he’d written for and several television programs.

  “Some people say credits are like money in the bank. Personally, I’d rather have the money in the bank. But it could all turn around. I just found out I’m in the running for a regular gig on a series.” He held up his hands and showed off his crossed fingers. “Then no more juggling a bunch of jobs.”

  “Then what happens to the kids’ group and the adult workshop?” I said. “It wouldn’t look good for the bookstore if we set up these two workshops and suddenly had no one to facilitate them.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that pretentious word, but then that was how he was being listed for both groups.

  “How about I guarantee I’ll stick with both groups for six months, no matter what,” he offered. I wondered if I was being foolish taking him at his word, since I really didn’t know him, but I finally agreed. With that settled, I said I would use what he’d given me in advertising the adult workshop, and he ambled off, saying something about looking around to get some ideas for books he could suggest to the workshop people.

  I took what he’d given me and headed to what now served as my office. Mrs. Shedd had come up with the idea that if I did all the work for the events in the customer service booth, I could help customers at the same time. I actually liked being out in the middle of things, even though it came with lots of interruptions.