2
The phone was ringing when I shut the door a little while later. I knew it was my mother and deliberately left without picking it up. Thankfully, she never called me on my cell phone, too afraid I’d be driving when I answered. Poor Julius looked a little forlorn as he sat in the window. Instead of his favorite smelly fish, he’d had to settle for tastes from my container of yogurt. You’d think he’d appreciate that I was broadening his food horizons.
My yellow Mini Cooper was parked in the driveway next to the converted garage that had once been my home. I had stayed living there for months after my aunt died, feeling strange about moving into her house. But finally I had accepted that she would want me to have the place and I had moved in. I was glad for all the space and now I just used the guest house to store the supplies for the retreat. As expected, the sky was white. By now I had come up with various descriptions of the exact level of cloudiness. This morning’s was the standard issue. Flat opaque whiteness, no shadows, and light that would look the same all day.
My house was on the edge of the small town, but even so, I was in downtown Cadbury in about five minutes. The fact there was never much traffic helped.
I had put on two retreats so far and learned a lot in the process. I now knew I couldn’t run the retreats on my own; I needed to be very familiar with the program and to be prepared for any disaster that might happen. In the past that had included murder. The meeting I was on my way to was part of my plan to be hyperprepared this time. No longer would I depend on only one person to handle the workshops. Now I was going to have two people, Crystal Smith and Wanda Krug, and I was going to make sure I understood the process as well.
I usually met Crystal Smith at Cadbury Yarn, the store she ran with her mother, Gwen Selwyn. But today since Wanda was going to be there, too, we’d decided to avoid all the activity at the store and meet at Crystal’s house. Well, not exactly her house. It was really her mother’s house, just like the yarn store was really her mother’s business.
I found a parking spot on Grand Street, which was the main drag in town, and walked down a side street that sloped toward the water. Cadbury by the Sea was located on the tip of the Monterey Peninsula, and the ocean was visible from just about everywhere. In this part of town the houses were more like small cottages and were on top of each other with barely any yard. It made me grateful for the space around my place. The only open space was a small park with a beautiful old Monterey cypress tree. The foliage was a dark water retaining shade of green, and like all of them, the wind had shaped its branches into a graceful horizontal pose.
I had never been to Crystal’s house before and had to check the house numbers as I walked down the street. The houses were a mixture of styles, pastel painted small Victorians, Craftsman bungalows with long front porches and Spanish cottages with large arched windows and red tiled roofs. There was no strip of grass between the sidewalk and street, making the houses seem very close to the narrow roadway.
Crystal’s address matched up with a sweet-looking dusty blue Victorian on a corner. It wasn’t like the large grand old Victorians on appropriately named Grand Street. They took up whole corners and had elaborate gardens and also happened to now mostly have been turned into bed-and-breakfast inns. Crystal’s place was a single story and much smaller but still had some of the touches like fish scale siding and a bay window. A white picket fence surrounded the small yard. Even with all the cloudy skies and fog here, there wasn’t much rain, and water was at a shortage. Most people either left their small yards to go to native plants, which was a nice way of saying weeds, or like this one, had no lawn, but plantings placed around the yard filled in with wood chips. A pot of flowers brightened the bottom step leading to the small porch that ran up the side of the house to the door.
Crystal must have been waiting for me because she had the door open before I’d reached the top stair. “Wanda’s already here.” The words were benign, but her tone made it sound like Wanda was already ruffling feathers. She stepped aside to let me in. “C’mon inside and please don’t mind the mess or the fact that it’s a little crowded.”
Even though I was relatively new to the town, I knew a lot of the backstories of the inhabitants. For example I knew that Crystal had run off with Rixx, a rock musician, when she was a teen. Eventually they got married and she had two kids. She’d stuck it out through his career ups and downs, along with his personal issues (i.e., drug problems) before Rixx (how pretentious can you get) traded Crystal in for a younger model. Crystal and her kids had moved back to town and in with her mother.
As we walked inside, I saw what she meant. The house was charming, but small and very full. I’d never met her kids and somehow pictured the girl and boy as being small, but when I saw the size of the boy’s sneakers sticking out from under the couch in the living room, I realized they were teens. I instantly wondered how her kids felt about the way Crystal dressed. She had a whimsical way of mixing and matching—never wearing pairs of anything, even if it was earrings or socks. Her black hair naturally fell into tiny curls, which bounced when she walked. And her makeup—she could pull off the heavy dark eye makeup. I’d tried it and ended up looking like a raccoon.
She let out a sigh as I walked behind her. I wasn’t used to seeing her like this. At the store she always seemed like a free spirit, but looking around the house, for the first time I realized the weight of her responsibilities. “We were hoping to do something like your aunt did and turn our garage into living space. Maybe someday.”
I followed her into the dining room. The mystery bags had been Crystal’s idea. She’d explained they had a family tradition of using odds and ends of yarn and leftover beads to make one-of-a-kind items. Eventually they had started making up grab bags of stray skeins of yarn and small amounts of beads, buttons and charms and selling them at the store. Sometimes they’d even had displays of the different things their customers had created with the mystery assortment.
A round oak table sat in the center of the room. Wanda Krug had been sitting, but stood up and took a step toward me in an eager manner when we came into the room.
“Good, you’re here. We really need to talk about the plans for the retreat.” Wanda struck what seemed to be her natural pose. She had one hand on her hip and held the other one out. I couldn’t help it—between her short stout stature and the pose, all I could think of was the Teapot song with her arms being the handle and the spout. She glanced at Crystal, who was shaking her head at the comment.
“Wanda, we’ve already agreed on the program for the retreat,” Crystal said. She viewed Wanda’s job as just a helper during the retreat.
“And you’re headed for disaster,” Wanda added, looking at me. Both women were native Cadburians and only a few years different in age. It was hard to believe Wanda was actually the younger of the two. Between her manner and her wardrobe choices, like today’s pale yellow polo shirt over loose-fitting navy blue slacks, she looked years older than Crystal.
It was a little unsettling that both of them were also about my age. I could practically hear my mother’s voice with her oft-said words: “When I was your age, I was a wife, a doctor and a mother, and you’re what?”
Crystal stepped up to the table and showed off the three recycled plastic tote bags that matched the one I’d brought. “This will give you an idea of how the contents of each bag are unique. My grandmother made the bags up with real leftovers, but since we were making so many, we actually ordered the yarn and supplies for them,” Crystal said, emptying the contents of each bag and laying it on the table. Each one had three skeins of worsted weight yarn in different but complementary colors along with an assortment of small balls of yarn, some of which were novelty yarns, along with a plastic bag with assorted beads, and other embellishments.
“I have some samples of the kinds of things people can make,” Crystal said, pointing out an arrangement on the sideboard. I was amazed at the
selection of scarves with different colors and textures of yarn with random beads added in. A small purse had fun fur mixed in with the other yarn and a whole row of beads, which made it look flamboyant. There was also a lovely shawl. She’d put out some toys as well. A bear and a cat were made out of a mixture of yarns and dressed in little coats of many colors, but it was the doll on the end that really caught my eye.
“We will have patterns for all of these available,” Crystal said. She saw me admiring the doll. “My grandmother made the bear for me, but she’s all my idea.” Crystal picked up the soft doll with her colorful dress and wild hair. A face had been created with bits of felt and the expression looked so concerned it made me laugh. “It’s a worry doll,” she said. When both Wanda and I seemed confused, she added an explanation. “It’s my version of those dolls that come from Guatemala. The idea is that you tell her your worries at night and by morning they’re all gone.”
Wanda was still standing and looked over the selection of items. “It’s a terrible idea. The people will spend the whole weekend trying to decide what to make. I say we just give them one scarf pattern and redo the bags so they all have the same supplies.”
“That’s no fun,” Crystal said. I could see the anger flashing in her eyes and I suddenly realized hiring them to work together might have been a mistake. I had been so busy thinking about having two people to help with the workshop I hadn’t considered the difference in their styles.
I knew both of them had been knitting since they were kids and were light-years ahead of me in ability. I had thought they would just get along. But Wanda kept voicing her opinion and Crystal didn’t back down. The situation reminded me of my time as a substitute teacher. When the kids started acting up, I’d found the best way to deal with them was with a distraction.
“I’m sure you both know that there’s another much bigger retreat going on this weekend, at Vista Del Mar, too. It’s called My Favorite Year 1963. I’m not sure what it entails, but Kevin St. John did hire me to bake trays of sweets for the opening reception. He wanted something authentic from that time. Apparently cream cheese brownies were a big thing then.”
“I hope we get some samples,” Crystal said. Wanda agreed and suggested that I make a batch for our group to be sure. I breathed a sigh of relief realizing the old trick had worked.
“I heard Kevin St. John tried to change the dates of our retreat,” Wanda said.
“He did,” I said with an annoyed nod. “The My Favorite Year retreat came up recently. Supposedly the place they’ve been holding it in Cambria had a fire and they had to find a new venue. They needed facilities for a couple hundred people. The dollar signs lit up in Kevin’s eyes. He shifted a bunch of reservations around so he could get their business. But I wouldn’t budge. Just because he got a last-minute gig for some history club was no reason for us to be tossed out on our butts.”
“It’s more than this one retreat. He knows that if the event goes really well, Vista Del Mar could become their regular spot. I heard they have a number of events a year,” Crystal said. “I can see why Kevin would want to please them. He’s been rushing around town checking thrift shops for anything he can find from 1963.”
“He’s not just looking for things,” Wanda said. “He rounded up a local celebrity. I know because I overheard him talking about it at the resort.”
Wanda was more than a great knitter and spinner; her real profession was golf pro at one of the nearby posh Pebble Beach resorts. She didn’t really look the part, but she’d won numerous golf tournaments. Several months ago she’d been demoted to giving golf lessons to kids, but recently had talked her way back into her original position of giving lessons to adults and being available to play a round with the guests.
“Who?” Crystal asked. It amazed me how they’d forgotten their previous fussing.
“His name is Bobbie Listorie,” Wanda said, sounding less than enthusiastic. “He’s a singer. Some song—‘Look into My Eyes’ or ‘In the Eyes,’ or something like that—was a big hit in 1963. The resort where I work for peanuts pays him an absurd amount of money to hang around, schmooze with the guests and be available to make up a foursome on the golf course.” Wanda shook her head with disapproval. “I don’t get it. What’s the big appeal with him? If they are interested in a good game of golf, they’d be better off going with me. But they gather around him like ants to honey.” She shook her head again with dismay. “He usually does a few songs on the weekend in the bar. It’s supposed to be impromptu, but of course, it’s planned. You should see how the women go on about his green eyes.” Wanda rolled her eyes. Clearly she had never been a groupie.
Crystal made a face. “You don’t have to tell me about that. When I used to go on the road with Rixx, women would throw themselves at him when I was standing right there. I can just imagine what happened when I wasn’t there.” After that her expression brightened. “Kevin St. John has some other celebrities from that era coming, too,” Crystal continued. “Someone in the yarn store said he found an old baseball player who played on the San Francisco Giants in 1963. You know the guy, he’s the pitch man for that energy drink Boost Up. And last but not least, he rounded up Dotty Night. If my mother has pointed her out once, it’s been a hundred times. She owns a hotel in Carmel and calls it the Dotty Night Inn. Her claim to fame, according to my mother, was starring in a string of movies during the sixties. She was always a perky good girl who got the guy. The big one from 1963 is Bridget and the Bachelor.” Crystal rolled her eyes. “Not exactly like that reality show The Bachelor.”
Now that they both had cooled down, I brought up our retreat and the solutions I’d come up with while we were talking about Kevin St. John’s efforts for his retreat. It was my call anyway.
“Here’s what I propose,” I said. “We keep Crystal’s bags as they are. We offer a pattern for a scarf.” Wanda nodded, looking triumphant without realizing I wasn’t finished. “And we offer them the pattern for the worry doll.” Wanda’s expression dimmed and Crystal smiled. “And if anybody wants to make something else, we do our best to help them.”
I was shocked when they both agreed.
3
“You look frazzled,” Lucinda Thornkill said when I walked into the Coffee Shop. It was just a short walk from Crystal’s and I had arranged to meet my best friend and boss for a coffee drink after I met with my two helpers. The plain-sounding name for the coffee place was just what the Cadbury town council insisted on. So there was no Ye Olde anything in this town. They wanted everything to be called what it was, rather than any cutesy name. It even extended to my muffins. When I’d first started baking muffins for the various coffee shops, I’d called them things like Merry Berry, The Blues and Simplicity until I saw that the places that sold them had changed the names to the essence of what they were after some council member complained. So they became mixed berry muffins, blueberry muffins and plain vanilla ones. I think the fuss about the muffin names was a bit much, but I had begun to understand their point about not having any “ye olde” anythings. They wanted the town to feel real instead of some place that catered to tourists even though the natural beauty of the area attracted travelers from around the world.
“What was I thinking when I hired Crystal and Wanda to work together?”
“I was going to say something when you first told me, but you seemed so certain about it,” Lucinda said. It was hard for me to think of Lucinda Thornkill as my boss, even though she and her husband, Tag, were the owners of the Blue Door restaurant, where I baked the desserts. She was really my best friend in town. It helped that we were both transplants to Cadbury and it didn’t seem to matter at all that she was much older than me. Or that everything she wore or carried had a fancy designer name on it and the only designer piece I had was an Armani jacket my mother had given me as a gift.
“I think I have it worked out so they are both happy, at least with the retreat plan.” I let out
a sigh. When it got down to the wire of putting on the retreat, I got nervous. Maybe because of past problems. Lucinda slipped off her Burberry jacket and hung it on the back of the chair.
“You know you can count on me to act as a host during the meals.” Lucinda had let her hair grow and wore it pulled back in a ponytail. She’d started getting some gray streaks and was counteracting them by coloring her hair. Not that anyone would notice. The stylist had done a masterful job of blending in some golden strands with the dark shade of brown so it appeared very natural. It figured that someone so into designer wear wouldn’t be a do-it-yourself colorist.
“I feel guilty letting you pay for the retreat and then work it as well.”
“I love helping. Isn’t that part of the definition of friendship? And I’m so accustomed to working in a restaurant, I think it would make me more nervous to not work the meals.”
I suddenly felt guilty for not telling Lucinda about my so far unsuccessful search for the Delacorte heir. Maybe it was time to share. I must have been shifting my eyes around as I thought about it because her face registered concern.
“Is there something on your mind?”
“Yes,” I said. First, I tried to explain my reticence by saying, “You’ve lived in Cadbury longer than I have, and I thought you might be concerned about shaking things up.” Then I told her about the contents of the envelope. “It probably doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve reached a dead end—the most I know is that the mother’s real initials are possibly M.J.”
Lucinda shrugged off my concern. “I think this town could use a little stirring up. The Delacorte sisters have oodles of money, so if they had to share it, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.” Lucinda’s eyes began to dance with wicked merriment. “And just imagine how upset Kevin St. John would be if the mystery heir felt differently about owning Vista Del Mar than the Delacorte sisters do and didn’t let him act like the lord of the place anymore?”
Wound Up In Murder Page 2
