A Stitch in Crime

by Betty Hechtman

  The next morning I caught sight of the sky as I looked out my window. It was white, and I got worried about another fogout, but as soon as I realized I could see the administration building at the bottom of the hill, I relaxed.

  No time to loll under the covers. I threw them back and dashed across the cold floor to the bathroom. I showered quickly and pulled on sweats and was out the door. Dinah stepped into the hall, similarly dressed, at the same time. Mason was already on his way down the stairs.

  He had pulled a heavy gray hooded sweatshirt over his tai chi outfit and carried his boom box. He waited at the bottom of the stairs for us, and we headed for the beach together.

  Even with the chill and early time, a nice-sized group showed up. No Nora and Bennett this time, but Jeen and Jym Wolf, the knitting couple, came.

  Mason began by telling the new people to follow along and not to worry if they didn’t get it exactly. Jym interrupted and asked if there was a handout detailing the particular moves.

  “I looked into it. They have wonderful names like Wave Hands Like Clouds and Grasp the Bird’s Tail,” Jym said, speaking to the gathered group. He turned back to Mason and said the proper way to teach was with verbal instructions. I knew Mason was annoyed by the comments, but he hid it well and thanked Jym for his input, then turned the music on and began.

  The Wolfs stayed, but they had matching exasperated expressions that only got more pronounced, as they couldn’t keep up with Mason’s movements. Jeen stopped altogether and tapped her husband’s arm, making it clear she was going. With a last look of disapproval, the two headed off down the sand. Sheila arrived, nodding in apology to Mason. I saw her check out the group, and when she realized there was no Adele, her shoulders relaxed. Sheila joined right in and already seemed to be picking it up.

  I loved Dinah’s take on the tai chi. She was into the music, and even with its ethereal feel she was moving in time to it and throwing in a dash of attitude.

  Everyone scattered after Mason’s final move of making a door out of his hands, opening them and stepping forward, which marked the end of the routine. Dinah and I headed back, leaving Mason surrounded by enthusiastic retreaters. I was glad he was getting some positive attention for his efforts after Jym’s remarks.

  “I want to check my workshop room for my pen,” Dinah said when we were back in the Asilomar grounds. As we headed up the path, we passed Commander Blaine’s meeting room. The lights were on, and when we stopped by the open door, I saw that he was busy setting up cooking supplies. His silver hair was perfectly smoothed back, and like his other pants, today’s khakis had sharp creases. He waved at us, but the warm smile was all for Dinah. I wondered if she realized the smile she gave back. No matter how much she objected, the quality of her smile said he had a chance.

  When we reached the knitters’ room, Jeen was arranging some yarn on the long table. I stopped in to find out about her abrupt tai chi departure.

  Before I could speak, she began. “I’m speaking for my husband and myself when I say this. If you’re going to teach something, you have to map it out. You have to provide a handout with details of what you’re going to teach. Then do a demonstration while explaining what you’re doing verbally. You can’t just stand there and do it and tell people to follow along. Imagine if I did that with knitting.”

  She showed me the handouts explaining casting on, and more with instructions how to knit and purl. “Here, let me show you,” she said, handing me a pair of green metallic needles and a ball of moss green yarn. She pointed to the handout with directions and then began to demonstrate how to do her favorite method of getting the yarn on the needle.

  “I want to thank you and Jym for doing so well this weekend. What with the fog emergency and then Izabelle’s death, well, things haven’t exactly been going as originally scheduled.”

  After casting on only a few stitches, Jeen laid down the yarn and needle she’d been demonstrating with. “It hasn’t been the weekend we expected by any means, but Jym and I are good at going with the flow.” I almost choked at her comment. Going with the flow? Was she nuts? I hid my reaction by appearing to admire her Needle Mania tee shirt. I sputtered out a compliment, and she beamed a stiff smile and thanked me. As before, the tee shirt was tucked into the jeans that hung loosely on her angular frame.

  “It’s so sad about Izabelle. How, exactly, did you know her?”

  Jeen regarded me with an inscrutable expression and seemed to take her time gathering what she was going to say. It made me wonder—was she taking time because she had something to hide, or because she was such a precise person she wanted to get the facts exact?

  “We worked together a while back at The Yarn Source.” Jeen picked up the needle and yarn and once again began demonstrating casting on. She barely looked at her work as she talked. I was familiar with the Tarzana yarn store. It had been the original home of the Tarzana Hookers until it closed down. That was when Mrs. Shedd invited the crochet group to meet at the bookstore. Dinah and I hadn’t joined until after the move.

  “I didn’t realize you were that close. Then her death must have really been a shock.” Adele and I had our differences, but if something had happened to her, I would have been a lot more emotional than the woman in front of me. And, I reluctantly admitted to myself, I would have missed her.

  “It was quite a while ago, and we weren’t close. Izabelle never got close to anybody. I was already an accomplished knitter when I started at the store. On the other hand, Izabelle was a newbie at crochet, not that it stopped her from coming up with a plan. She had decided crochet was her golden ticket. I don’t know how she did it, but by the time she left The Yarn Source, she’d come up with A Subtle Touch of Crochet.”

  “And what did you do when you left the yarn store?” I asked. She’d finished demonstrating the single needle version of casting on and urged me to try. Actually, I was curious. After several muffed attempts, I finally got it and kept going until I had ten stitches on the needle.

  A hint of annoyance moved over Jeen’s face, and she dropped her voice. “I taught a knitting class at Beasley Community College’s Extension Program.”

  Okay, on one hand we had a woman just starting out who had managed to parlay her skill into a successful book, and an accomplished one who ended up teaching an extension class. Seeing how Jeen was so into rules and the proper way of doing things, I had to believe that didn’t sit well with her. I came right out and asked her how she felt about Izabelle’s success.

  “I was happy for her,” Jeen said in a careful tone. “But she was never happy with herself. She seemed obsessed with changing her appearance. I gather she still was—those green eyes were brown when I knew her, and she weighed more.” Jeen picked up her needles and began doing a first row on what she’d cast on. She nodded, encouraging me to do the same, as she pushed a sheet of paper toward me that had diagrams and instructions on how to knit. I hesitated, but she nodded again and I picked up the other needle. The pair felt awkward in my hands after using a hook. Well, at least Jeen did what she expected of others. She gave me verbal instructions, the written ones, and then she demonstrated by slowly moving her needles. After a stitch or two, I got it and went on down the rest of the row.

  “I really felt sorry for Izabelle. I think she kept going through husbands. And if she had any family, she never talked about them. She was all about making something of herself.” Jeen smiled. “I’m lucky to have a wonderful partner like Jym.” I took the mention of his name as an opening and asked if knitting was his full-time business, too.

  “Oh, no,” Jeen said with a laugh, as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing. “He’s a structural engineer.” She went on about how he’d taken up knitting so they’d have something they could do together. When she got to the part where he’d whittled special sets of knitting needles, I started to zone out, and when she took a breath, I changed the subject back to Izabelle.

  “Besides the eye color and weight, what kinds of changes did I
zabelle make in herself?”

  “I don’t know what she did before I met her, but while we worked at the yarn store, she kept changing the style and color of her hair, and she went to a voice coach. It seemed like she was trying to reinvent herself.” I had reached the end of the row, and Jeen demonstrated by turning her work and beginning another row. She said she wanted to make sure I had the knit stitch down before she moved on to purl.

  “The trouble was that no matter what she did to the outside, the inside was the same old Izabelle. I ran into her after dinner the first night. I tried to be friendly and ask about her new fusion craft, but she was barely cordial and in a hurry.”

  “Why be in a hurry here?” I said, gesturing toward the tree-filled grounds. “There was nothing going on that night.”

  “I think she was meeting someone,” Jeen said. “Or she might have just been trying to get rid of me. Izabelle was not a gracious person.” Jeen sighed. “Oh dear, and I wasn’t going to speak unkindly of the dead.”

  “Did you know about her peanut allergy?” I pressed.

  Jeen seemed to be getting tired of answering questions, particularly about someone she didn’t care for. She looked at her watch, readjusted some of the things on the table.

  “Izabelle always made a big fuss about what she ate. I never thought about it, but it was probably a cover-up of her allergy.”

  “Why did you tell Sergeant French you and Jym didn’t know Izabelle from before?” The question had been on my mind ever since Jeen had told me what she’d said to the police officer and asked me not to contradict her.

  Jeen’s calm demeanor suddenly got agitated, and her movements were jerky as she wound the yarn around her needle. “It’s nothing, really. I just thought that since I’m sure neither Jym nor I was on the beach with Izabelle, why say we knew her at all? Why should we open ourselves up for a bunch of questions for no reason?” She glanced at me. “What’s with all your questions?”

  I thought quickly and said I planned to say a few words in remembrance at the last night party, and since I didn’t know Izabelle, I was trying to get a feeling of who she was from people who did. I was going to use that as a spring-board to asking more questions, but there was suddenly another presence in the room. Someone whose outfit of shimmery white pants with a long white cowl-neck top finished off with a white turban could have been called fog.

  Adele stood at the table, staring at my hands. “I can’t believe it, Pink. You’ve gone over to the other side.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “YOU’LL BE GLAD I GOT YOU OUT OF THERE, PINK,” Adele said as we stopped outside the classroom. I didn’t look back, but I was sure Jeen’s face probably still had the look of horror. Adele’s actions must have broken every rule of Jeen’s code of proper behavior. My fellow Hooker had snatched the needles out of my hand and thrown them down on the table with such force, they bounced. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the room as if she was rescuing me from being kidnapped.

  Dinah came out of her classroom, holding the pen she’d been concerned about. “What’s going on?”

  Adele answered before I could open my mouth and launched into a tirade about Jeen’s efforts to turn me into a knitter.

  “She almost had Pink, too. First it was just casting on, then why not try a few rows, and the next thing you know, you’re making a baby blanket.” Adele adjusted her white turban that had gotten knocked off-kilter during my rescue.

  “You really should thank—” Adele said, but I put up my hand to stop her as I gave her my rendition of CeeCee Collins’s cease-and-desist look. Nobody could carry it off with the same power as our crochet group leader, but whatever I managed was sufficient to make Adele close her mouth without saying anything more.

  “Not that I have to explain, but nobody was getting me to do anything. I went along with learning how to knit to keep Jeen talking about Izabelle. It turns out they have a history.”

  “Oh,” Adele said as her frenzied expression relaxed. “Why did you want her to talk about Izabelle?”

  Dinah and I looked at each other, and Dinah gave me a why-not-go-for-it half shrug of one shoulder, so I told Adele I didn’t believe Izabelle had eaten the s’more on her own.

  “You think somebody killed her?” Adele appeared stricken. “But you’re not telling anyone, right?” She grabbed my arm. “Look, Nancy Poirot Fletcher Drew, nobody else thinks it was murder, and you’ve got to leave it that way.” She made some loud dramatic sighs. “Pink, if the cops start looking for a murderer, you know their first stop is going to be me.” It wasn’t enough for Adele to just say it, she had to point to herself with both hands as well.

  “You know I didn’t do it, right? I was just so upset when I saw she was wearing my work and calling it her own, I lost it for a minute. That’s all.” Adele tried to get me to promise to stop investigating, but I said nothing. I wasn’t going to lie to her, but telling her I planned to continue would only lead to more hysterics.

  I had hoped to change into a more in-charge sort of outfit before breakfast, but when I saw people were already gathering outside the dining hall, waiting for it to open, the sweats were going to have to do it for now. By the time the three of us reached the building, the bell had rung, marking the start of breakfast, and people were already filing in.

  The warm air inside carried the pungent aroma of coffee and bacon mixed with the slightly sweet smell of pancakes. As I watched people from our group head to the area we’d come to call our own, I noticed their animated faces and the friendly sound of their conversations. If there hadn’t been the fog emergency and Izabelle’s murder—no matter what anyone said, I was calling it that—this would have been an easy weekend. Asilomar took care of the lodging and food and provided a rustic backdrop. Commander Blaine was on top of activities. And the presenters were doing a good job tending to their groups. After registration, all I would have had to worry about was picking up sunglasses people left in the meeting rooms and replacing lost name tags.

  As soon as we cleared the door, Dinah was surrounded by some of her memoir writers. It was great to see how enthusiastic they were, and I knew Dinah was loving it. Adele started to gather up her people and marched them to one of the tables. She got a glimpse of Sheila coming in and snapped a sharp wave at her—clearly a command to join them.

  Jeen and Jym took seats and moments later were surrounded by their people. Commander Blaine drew his group to him like he was a magnet and they were iron filings.

  Mason was probably already on his way to Santa Cruz for his aunt’s eightieth birthday brunch. I felt a twinge when I thought of his invitation to join him. Just when it seemed I had worked everything out, he’d confused things.

  I went to the food line and passed on the plate-sized pancakes. It was definitely hearty food, but too heavy for my taste. I just took some fruit and a bowl of oatmeal which I flavored with a pat of butter, a light sprinkle of brown sugar, and a few raisins. Not that I expected to get to eat it. Why should this meal be any different from the others?

  When I reentered the dining area, Sheila got my attention and pointed to the empty seat next to her. I noticed it wasn’t at Adele’s table.

  As I took the offered chair, I saw that Sheila’s whole body seemed rigid.

  “The tai chi was great,” she said as she put a napkin across her lap. “It was really relaxing.” She glanced toward Adele’s table. “But I think I already need another session.” Sheila looked at the pancakes in front of her and gave the plate a little push away. “It’s nothing against the food,” she said apologetically.

  I laid my hand on her arm in a reassuring manner. “I know. You need a retreat from the retreat.”

  We both turned our attention to the reigning crochet goddess, who was parading around her subjects, letting them admire the white flowers she’d attached to the white cowl top.

  Sheila nodded in agreement and took something out of her pocket. Her hands started moving in her lap, and when I glanced over, I saw
she had a magenta metal hook and a ball of cream-colored cotton yarn. She’d already made a slipknot, and as the hook moved through the yarn, a longer and longer length of chain stitches dangled from the hook. She took a few deep breaths and began moving the hook back over the stitches. Her fingers started to move fast, and as the new stitches pulled tight, she mouthed “loose,” drawing it out into a long exhale. The mantra succeeded, and her single crochets became loopy. The tightness literally left her shoulders as she worked down the row. When she reached the end, she turned it and did another, then slipped the whole thing back in the patch pocket of her jacket.

  She knew I’d been watching her and turned toward me, her eyes now with a little sparkle. “I decided to call it tranquilizer crochet. When I feel my shoulders hunching, I just do a few rows. Since I’m not making anything, there’s no pressure to count stitches or worry if they’re uneven. It seems to be working pretty well.”

  Sheila had tried so many methods of dealing with her runaway nerves, I was glad this one seemed to work. And it had no side effects like medicinal tranquilizers.

  Some latecomers arrived in the dining hall, and I noticed a dark blue uniform among them. Sergeant French separated himself from the clump of guests and surveyed the room. As soon as he saw me, he nodded in acknowledgment and walked over.

  “Ms. Pink, sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” he said, stopping next to my chair. He mentioned trying to reach my cell phone and getting voice mail. While he explained he wanted to go over a few things for his report, I checked my phone. I’d forgotten to plug it into the charger, and it was dead. How many other calls had I missed?