A Stitch in Crime

by Betty Hechtman

  There’s something about a cop’s uniform that makes it a magnet for attention. It seemed like most of the room was staring in my direction. I heard Sheila suck in her breath.

  “I just wanted to go over the sequence of events when you found Ms. Lander,” Sergeant French said, taking out his pad and pen. I hadn’t noticed before how big his head was compared to the rest of him. I repeated how Dinah, Commander, and I had gone to the beach to look for driftwood in the fog. We’d found the remnants of the fire first, and then Izabelle. The fog had made it hard to see, and we’d almost tripped over her.

  “And then what happened?” he asked, scribbling something down.

  “We thought she was still alive, but none of us had a phone with us. Commander Blaine said he’d go back to Asilomar and call 911. My friend and I stayed with Izabelle until the paramedics came.”

  “So Commander Blaine never came back to the beach?” Sergeant French asked.

  “He came with the paramedics. After he called, he waited for the ambulance at the back entrance to Asilomar, so he could help them find us.” I watched as he wrote something else down.

  “Did anybody mention to you that they were on the beach with Ms. Landers?” He said it like an afterthought, but I thought it was an effort to catch me off guard in case I’d been withholding any information.

  I shook my head in response and tried to see what he’d written down, but he did a good job of covering up his scribbles. “Are you going over your report because you changed your mind and think there was foul play involved?” I asked in a low voice.

  Ever the community-minded police officer, he was careful about his tone and word choice. There was nothing condescending in the way he told me what they had determined from the information they had. “No, Ms. Pink, no foul play. The medical examiner has ruled it accidental. We think that small purse was so lightweight, Ms. Landers didn’t notice she’d dropped it. She was carrying the shopping bag with the s’more ingredients and maybe even some wood she’d found for the fire. Commander Blaine confirmed that each bag had enough to make two s’mores. He also said the bags were marked, but admitted there could have been a mistake. We think there was a certain frenzy on her part to eat the sweets, and she might not have noticed the peanut butter. It is, after all, the same color as graham crackers, and according to Commander Blaine the blocks of chocolate stuck to it and probably covered it up. We checked, and the standard ingredients for s’mores are graham cracker squares, blocks of milk chocolate, and roasted marshmallows. There was a whole s’more on the beach, and we assume she ate the other one. At some point she must have detected the peanut butter and realized she didn’t have the bag with the EpiPen. It only takes a short time for anaphylactic shock to set in, and she was on the beach alone in all that fog. It appears that it was just the perfect storm of an accident.”

  “Or the perfect crime,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “Ms. Pink,” he said, straining to keep his friendly expression from fading, “I hate to pull rank on you, but I’m a professional, and other professionals like the medical examiner and the ER doctor all agree that Izabelle Landers died because of an allergic reaction from something ingested by her own hand.” He started to go, then turned back. “Think about it, Ms. Pink, what kind of person would try to kill somebody with a s’more? And how would you get someone to eat it against their will?”

  Okay, maybe I didn’t have the answer to either of those questions, but I could have provided Sergeant French with a list of suspects if he wasn’t so sure the case was closed. I wouldn’t have included Adele—even with all her shortcomings I didn’t believe she would kill anybody. Commander Blaine knew all about the contents of the s’mores, and he had admitted to being slighted by Izabelle. I really didn’t want to believe it was him because even though Dinah was still fighting it, I thought there were definite possibilities for them. Spenser Futterman belonged on the list, too. No matter what Sergeant French had said about the shadow Dinah and I had seen being a crow, I was just about a hundred percent sure it was Spenser. After all, the maid had identified him as the one who left the manuscript pages.

  Would there have been any point to telling Sergeant French what the maid said? Probably not. And what about Jeen? She seemed to take Izabelle’s success so well, but maybe it was all an act. Then there was Jym. Could there have been something between him and Izabelle? Maybe Jeen was trying to cover up something when she made a point that she was sure that neither she nor her husband had been on the beach with Izabelle. It was certainly odd that they had lied to Sergeant French and said they didn’t know Izabelle before the weekend.

  The conversation in the dining hall had dropped off during Sergeant French’s visit, and as he left, I noticed the volume came back up. I helped myself to a cup of coffee from the vacuum pot on the lazy Susan, but it was lukewarm and not the kind of industrial-strength caffeine hit I needed. A red-eye from the coffee wagon sounded a lot better. Dinah had left her charges, and stopped between me and Sheila.

  “What was that about?” she asked, nodding her head toward Sergeant French as he went out the dining hall door. I mentioned him asking about the sequence of events for his report and that he was still trying to find out if someone was on the beach with Izabelle. I noticed Sheila’s eyes getting rounder as she listened.

  “He must be questioning everyone,” she said.

  “And requestioning, too,” I added. “It’s obvious nobody has admitted to being on the beach with her, and he’s trying to get tricky now and see if someone admitted it to someone else.”

  I noticed Jym and Jeen had gotten up from their table. They had rounded up their knitters and were heading for the exit. At the next table Commander Blaine collected some tools he’d used to demonstrate carving an eggplant to look like a penguin. Something struck me about the way he put the tools in the canvas tote bag hanging on the back of his chair. It was the same canvas tote he’d used to collect the driftwood. I stared so long Dinah turned to see what I was looking at. And then suddenly I got it.

  “French was right. She wasn’t alone,” I said. It all came back to me now, and I reminded Dinah how we’d found the remnants of the fire first. “Commander was all upset because someone had left two of his wire forks on the beach. He used one of them to pull the partially burned s’mores bag out of the hot ashes.” I watched as Commander clutched the bag and got up. “And then he put them in that canvas bag.” We were all staring at Commander now. “I guess finding Izabelle made me forget about the forks. Do you remember him picking them up?” I stopped to think about the implications.

  “Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall him fussing about the two forks and I remember the bag,” Dinah said, growing more excited.

  “The question is, was he really concerned about collecting his tools and cleaning up litter, or was he trying to get rid of evidence?”

  “Great! It figures the guy who likes me turns out to be a murderer.” Dinah groaned.

  “Maybe I should call Sergeant French and tell him,” I said, but both Dinah and Sheila shook their heads. “Right, he already thinks I have murder on the brain. Besides, the marshmallow forks have probably been thoroughly cleaned and mixed in with all the others. So, what’s the point?”

  Dinah looked back toward her people. They were still in their seats, obviously waiting for something. “I have to go,” she said with a guilty furrow of her brow. “I promised to take them on an outdoor writing exercise. It’s just a little something extra I thought I’d do. They are so enthusiastic. Did I tell you how much I’m loving this workshop?”

  I laughed. “You might have mentioned it a few times. Go, go, I don’t want to stand in the way of anything that’s going well.” I took a sip of the now cold coffee and made a face. A red-eye was definitely a priority. The dining room was clearing out. Adele and her crocheters separated. They headed outside and she cruised by our table. Sheila’s shoulders sprang into a hunch as Adele stopped next to her.

  “I guess
you didn’t see me when I waved for you to join us at the other table,” Adele said. There was no sarcastic edge in her voice. I don’t think it occurred to her that Sheila ignored her deliberately. Why wouldn’t Sheila want to sit with the reigning crochet queen?

  “Whatever,” Adele said quickly. “Just be sure to get the containers of yarn for the crochet session.” And then, in a whirl of too much white, Adele caught up with her crochet groupies and rushed ahead to get in the front. She waved for them to follow her. It occurred to me that if she’d worn that outfit during the fogout, she would have disappeared.

  “You think all this has gone to her head?” I said with a sigh. “C’mon, I’ll help you get the yarn.”

  After a brief stop to put my phone in the charger, I led Sheila to Izabelle’s room. “Maybe I should just wait here,” Sheila said, hanging back. I knew she felt apprehensive about going into the dead woman’s room. Who could blame her? There was something eerie about seeing Izabelle’s toothbrush still sitting in a glass on the sink. Or thinking of the clothes in the closet she packed for the weekend and now would never wear.

  I promised Sheila it was all right and she finally came in, but it was obvious she didn’t want to stay.

  There were two containers marked “Supplies,” and Sheila grabbed one and headed toward the door. As I went to take the other, I saw the laptop sitting on the night table. With everything going on, I had forgotten all about the e-mail Dinah and I had sent to the ITA sponsor. Wondering if he’d sent an answer, I powered it up. I went through the motions of getting to Izabelle’s e-mails, and along with some junk e-mails there was a reply from Tom.

  When I opened it, a full page of text appeared. He explained that he had never actually met Izabelle. He was her sponsor and everything between them was supposed to be confidential, and even though she had died, he was still going to honor that. There was only one small piece of information he offered. Maybe small to him, but very large to me. He said that ITA stood for Identical Twins Anonymous. As the information registered, I got it. We knew that Izabelle had a sister, and now I realized it was a twin sister. And suddenly the green contacts, the plastic surgery, and the voice coach made sense.

  It had been all about creating her own identity. I always thought that it would be neat to have a twin, that it would be like having another you to be friends with. But apparently not all twins felt that way. I did a quick search on the organization. It had been started to help identical twins with an identity crisis. I went back and reread the original e-mail Tom had sent. It was obvious Izabelle had told him she was going to do something, and he was trying to stop her. Considering the organization, it seemed like a safe assumption it had something to do with her twin. Did that mean the twin was here?

  I couldn’t wait to tell Dinah all that I’d found out. And Sheila couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

  “I’ll help you get these to your classroom, but I’m stopping for a red-eye first,” I said when we’d gotten outside.

  As we headed around the administration building to the side with the deck, I noticed that Spenser and his mysterious female companion were sitting on a corner bench with their backs to us. They were talking about something. I didn’t want to tell Dinah, but her undercover work had been a little weak. I’d hoped she would get information, but it sounded like all she’d done was give it.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead to your meeting room?” I said to Sheila, never taking my eyes off the pair. This was my chance to find out what was really going on with those two.

  Sheila saw me staring and asked what was up. Then she nodded her head in sudden understanding. “You think they have something to do with Izabelle’s death, right?” I motioned for her to keep her voice down, and she started talking in an excited whisper. “You’re going to eavesdrop, aren’t you?” She took another look at Spenser’s back. “I’m staying. Two sets of ears are better than one.”

  The deck was raised off the ground, and the spot where they were seated was bordered by bushes taller than me. Sheila and I checked the area around us, and the footpaths were empty in all directions. Sheila stuck to me like glue as we walked closer to the deck, still carrying the boxes of crochet supplies. When we were even with the bushes, I abruptly made a side move off the footpath and behind a leafy bush. Sheila paused for a beat and did the same move, which sent her crashing into me behind the bush. We put our burdens down and slipped farther behind the brush.

  At first I could only make out their voices, but not what they were saying. I took Sheila’s hand and we moved farther along the wall until we were directly beneath Spenser and his lady friend.

  “Keep on good terms with Dinah Lyons,” the woman said. “She’s a good source if I need any more information. We took care of almost everything regarding Izabelle Landers. I can’t believe nobody figured out what was going on.”

  “What else is there?” Spenser asked.

  “I need to take care of the one who’s running the crochet workshop now. All I need is a clear shot, and I can check her off my list.”

  CHAPTER 19

  MY HEAD WAS SPINNING BY NOW. IN A SMALL space of time I’d found out that the sister Izabelle didn’t get along with was her identical twin, that Commander Blaine may or may not have been tampering with evidence and that Spenser Futterman’s companion wanted to shoot Adele.

  Sheila and I had slipped unnoticed from behind the bushes. Once I got my coffee drink, we’d found a bench and I was trying to regroup. I let the red-eye circulate through my brain. I was thrilled that Dinah was doing such a great job with the writers, but I missed having her to talk to. Sheila was definitely trying to be helpful, but she was already a wreck from driving with Adele, then sharing a room with her and then becoming her crochet assistant.

  “The obvious priority here is Adele,” I said. “I have to warn her.”

  “Good luck getting her to listen to you.” Sheila had taken out her tranquilizer crochet supplies and was adding a row. Her breath immediately smoothed out.

  I sighed and asked if I could do some; I certainly needed something to calm my thoughts. Instead of giving me her crocheting, Sheila produced a ball of sunny yellow worsted and another hook and said I could do my own. A few minutes of crocheting did wonders for me, and I was ready to save Adele as we headed for her workshop.

  “Adele, I have to talk to you,” I said as I came into the meeting room with Sheila close behind. Adele was standing at the front end of the table with seven women and one man arranged around the other end.

  “Not now,” she said. “Pink, just put down the box. I have a workshop to run. She gestured toward the crocheters. “People, while I set up, you can work on the blocks for the shelter blanket.” She nodded at Sheila. “Leave yours on the table and go help them.”

  Adele was in full attitude with her hand on her hip, glaring at me until I set the box on the table. She waved for me to leave and immediately began taking out Izabelle’s sample pouch bags, tee shirts with a row of trim along the bottom, and flowers that could be attached to anything from purses to jean pockets, along with several copies of A Subtle Touch of Crochet. Apparently ignoring Adele’s order, two of the women left their seats and began looking through what Adele was setting out. A woman with long, prematurely gray hair joined them, picked up one of the copies of Izabelle’s book, and began thumbing through it. Meanwhile, Adele was managing to totally ignore me.

  The woman with the book held it open and showed it to the others. “Look at the doll clothes,” she said, and the three women started discussing making clothes for some dolls they had.

  “People, please keep your seats,” Adele said, annoyed that no one seemed to be listening to her.

  “Adele, it’s important,” I said, taking her arm, but she pulled it away.

  “Pink, what’s with you? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Now the women had moved from discussing the doll clothes to the doll model in the picture. “Look at that nose,” one of them said. “That’s defin
itely not a regulation doll nose. I’m sure it’s one of those dolls I was telling you about.”

  I caught a glimpse of the picture over one of their shoulders and recognized it as the doll in the background of the photo of Izabelle on the back of the book. “It’s an odd-looking doll,” I said, jumping into their conversation. “So you think it’s some special kind?”

  “Pink, you’re interrupting. Leave,” Adele said, sounding exasperated. But it was too late; the women had already picked up on my question.

  “We collect dolls, which I guess makes us kind of experts,” the woman in a red sweater said, “and this doll looks like what I call a ‘little me’ doll. There are various methods, some better than others, but the idea is the same—basically a doll is crafted from a photograph to look like a child. I’ve seen some where they just go for face shape and hair color, but this one looks like they went all out.”

  Adele was out of patience. She took the book from the woman’s hand and strongly suggested all of them take their seats. She glared at me and pointed toward the door. I happened to look at the doorway behind Adele. Spenser’s friend abruptly stepped into view. I saw her hands go up. There was no time to consider alternatives, I just had to act. On pure impulse I dived toward Adele, tackling her, and yelled for everyone to hit the floor.

  “Pink, you’ve really lost it this time!” Adele screamed as we landed on the floor together.

  CHAPTER 20

  I ROLLED OFF ADELE AND SAT UP. TEN PAIRS OF eyes were all on me, mostly with a look of concern attached. Only Adele’s eyes had the additional flare that implied she’d like to do me bodily harm.

  Of course, when I looked toward the door, no one was there. “Sorry everyone,” I said, getting up. I needed to think fast and give an explanation for my actions. “Just a little emergency drill.” I held up the rhinestone clipboard which had gone down with me. “It’s one of the duties that go along with having this.” Thankfully, nobody questioned what kind of emergency it was a drill for, and they all began to get up.