By Hook or by Crook cm-3

by Betty Hechtman

  By Hook or by Crook

  ( Crochet Mysteries - 3 )

  Betty Hechtman

  Meet the happy crafter who believes every mystery should be unraveled. Meet the happy crafter who believes every mystery should be unraveled.

  Molly Pink's crochet group has a new mystery on their hands when they find a paper bag that contains a note that speaks of remorse, a diary entry of the sorrow of parting, and a complicated piece of filet crochet that offers an obscure clue in pictures. Things get even more complicated when they find the talented crocheter-murdered by a box of poisoned marzipan apples.

  Praise for

  Hooked on Murder

  “Hooks the reader from the onset with likable characters

  . . . Readers will admire the feisty, caring Molly.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Readers who enjoy craft-and-hobby-related cozies will find lots to like in Hooked on Murder . . . Betty Hechtman does it all so well: writing, plotting, and character development.”

  —Cozy Library

  “Hechtman’s writing is fun and introspective, and Molly is

  a likable character.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A great start to a new mystery series.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “A gentle and charming novel that will warm the reader

  like a favorite afghan. Its quirky and likable characters are

  appealing and real.”

  —Earlene Fowler, author of Tumbling Blocks

  “Betty Hechtman has written a charming mystery. Who

  can resist a sleuth named Pink, a slew of interesting minor

  characters, and a fun fringe-of-Hollywood setting?”

  —Monica Ferris, author of Thai Die

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Betty Hechtman

  HOOKED ON MURDER DEAD MEN DON’T CROCHET BY HOOK OR BY CROOK

  Acknowledgments

  I didn’t know filet crochet existed until Sue Meyer of the Lace Museum in Sunnyvale, California, pointed out a sample of it on the wall. It opened my eyes to all kinds of possibilities.

  Thanks to Paula Tesler for the Thursday crochet and knit group and all the crochet advice. Thanks to Roberta Martia for her enthusiasm and friendship, and for trying out the crochet patterns.

  Appellate Defender and friend Judy Libby always comes through with answers, even if I keep asking the same question over and over just to make sure.

  I want to thank everyone at Berkley Prime Crime for all their efforts and particularly my editor, Sandy Harding, who continues to be great to work with.

  I will always be grateful to my agent, Jessica Faust. The crochet mysteries wouldn’t have happened without her.

  Thanks to Spike Tretsky for being the inspiration for Mason’s dog.

  And a special thank-you to Burl and Max for not thinking I’m nuts when I talk about my characters like they’re real people and for always being available any time of the day or night to taste test recipes.

  CHAPTER 1

  NOBODY NOTICED THE BAG AT FIRST.

  It was just a plain brown grocery bag sitting on the end of our table at the fund-raiser for Los Encinos State Park. I must have moved it at least once during the day and never given it a thought. The park was really what was left of a rancho and had an old house and some outbuildings, along with either a small lake or a big pond, depending on how you look at things. The pond attracted all different kinds of ducks and geese, and they were already looking for places to roost as the sun faded on the February afternoon.

  We were packing up the few things we hadn’t sold. The we were the Tarzana Hookers—that’s hookers as in crochet. We had made a bunch of scarves, along with some teddy bears and baby blankets for the fund-raiser and were donating all the proceeds to the park to help keep it afloat.

  Well, most of us were clearing up the table. CeeCee Collins was posing for a photo with the park ranger and at the same time eyeing the brownies left on the bake sale table. Actually, her name was Connie Collins, but everybody called her CeeCee. Up until just recently, she’d been referred to as a “veteran actress” because her old TV series, The CeeCee Collins Show, was practically ancient history. But ever since she started hosting Making Amends things had changed. Every week the reality show gave another “guest” a chance to right some old wrong. There was always lots of embarrassment, usually some tears and hopefully some laughs. The program was a big hit, and CeeCee was enjoying being referred to as simply an actress once again.

  “Look what I got,” CeeCee said when she rejoined us. She held up a white bag that had telltale grease stains and a strong chocolate scent. “There are still some goodies left over at the bake sale table.”

  “Oh no, I’m late,” Ali Stewart said as she caught sight of the time. “I have to go. I promised to help my mother with something.”

  Ali Stewart was our newest member. Adele Abrams liked to think of herself as Ali’s mentor, though from what I’d seen of her crochet work, Ali didn’t need any help. The crocheted pink miniskirt she’d worn over leggings was adorable and expertly made. She had topped it with a white mohair poncho and finished the look with a dainty choker of tiny crocheted pink flowers. She was in her early twenties, tall and slender, and carried off the look with ease.

  “That girl has a problem with time,” Dinah Lyons said. “She’s always late and then has to leave early because she’s already late for something else.”

  Adele glared as if Dinah’s comment were a personal affront to her. I wondered if she was identifying too much with Ali. Adele was in her late thirties with a generous build and a voice that carried over a crowd. Her outfit almost matched the one Ali had worn, only the effect was different. Ali looked cute and Adele looked silly.

  Sheila Altman, another of the younger Hookers, remained speechless as she put several small teddy bears into the box. She kept looking at the darkening sky with a tense expression. Even though she tried to control it, Sheila tensed up about most things. I could understand why: She didn’t have much money and was working a bunch of jobs while trying to go to school at night to become a costume designer. Lately she’d been making exquisite scarves and blankets with gorgeous color combinations that she had begun selling in some local boutiques. “We better hurry up,” she said anxiously. “The park closes in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re not going to lock us in,” CeeCee said. “Besides, we’re almost done anyway. Brownie anyone?” She held out the bag. “Wouldn’t you know just when I went to the bake sale table I ran into the executive producer of my show and his wife. They asked me a bunch of questions about the crochet group, but I think it was just a cover to see if I was going to buy any baked goods.”

  CeeCee’s sweet tooth was legendary, but being the host of a show made staying trim important. “I don’t know what they’re concerned about. The stylist I hired is a wonder,” she said, laying the white paper sack with her purse. “She’s a wiz at making an extra five pounds disappear with a long tunic.”

  CeeCee’s attention turned back to helping us clear up, though there wasn’t much left. She absently picked up a red fuzzy scarf and started to fold it.

  “Watch how you’re folding that,” Adele said, taking it from CeeCee. Adele and CeeCee were still trying to work out who was in charge of the group.

  “Dear, I can handle folding a scarf,” CeeCee said, taking it back and rolling it into a tube. “It seems to be the only one left.” She checked the items still on the table. “No wonder—it’s so cold.” As if to punctuate her comment, she shivered.

  Dinah rolled her eyes. “Cold?” she said with a laugh.

  “Yes, cold,” CeeCee repeated. “It is winter. For once everybody was buying scar
ves for warmth instead of style.”

  Dinah rolled her eyes again. She was my best friend and taught English at Walter Beasley Community College. She claimed teaching English to rowdy freshmen had prepared her to deal with anything, including the Hookers’ personalities.

  Dinah pointed to the green grass and the orange trees loaded with fruit still visible in the low light. “Yes, it is February, but this is Southern California. What is it—maybe fifty-five degrees?”

  “Yes, dear, but you have to factor in the windchill,” CeeCee said, wrapping her charcoal gray shawl around her shoulders. “And look, the sun’s setting. You know how the temperature drops in the evening.”

  Adele stepped between them and turned toward CeeCee. “Are you kidding? Windchill factor?” Adele nodded toward me. “Pink, I can’t believe you’re not saying anything.”

  I tried to keep my smile intact even though it grated on me that Adele insisted on calling me by my last name. She only called me Molly by mistake. Adele and I had had a problem since day one, when I’d been hired for the position at Shedd & Royal Books and More that she wanted. She couldn’t seem to see that I was more qualified to be the event coordinator-community relations person. I had experience in public relations thanks to my late husband Charlie’s business. True, I hadn’t really been a salaried employee for Charlie, but I had arranged launch parties at hotels and set up TV interviews for clients. Adele had just been a clerk at the bookstore.

  As a consolation, Mrs. Shedd had given Adele kids’ story time. Adele hadn’t taken it well or given up. I’m not sure how it happened, but Adele had ended up working with me on some store events.

  “Yes, but this is the Valley, and the temperature is always extreme compared to the other side of the hill,” CeeCee was saying. There was some truth to that. We did bake in the summer and sometimes got frost in the middle of the night in winter. Technically both sides of “the hill,” as the Santa Monica Mountains were referred to, were part of the city of Los Angeles, but the Valley was considered a bunch of suburbs with all that it implied.

  Attempting to bring the debate to an end, I suggested we adjourn to the café at the bookstore.

  “Wait. You can’t forget this,” Sheila said, pointing at a brown paper grocery sack as CeeCee started to close the box of leftovers. Sheila spoke so fast, she choked on her words, and she began to tap the fingers of her nonpointing hand on the table. Then she took the pointing hand and used it to stop her moving fingers.

  “What’s in that bag? I don’t remember putting anything in a bag,” Adele said, glancing at the rest of us. We all shrugged in reply and eyed it ominously.

  “Pink, why don’t you check it out?” Adele suggested. She stepped away from it as she pulled on a long denim coat over her leggings and miniskirt. Adele had adorned the coat with doilies. She hadn’t said anything, but I knew she thought it was a walking advertisement for the wonders of crochet.

  Sheila had edged down the table and was standing next to me. I felt her hand grab onto my arm.

  “Too bad Eduardo isn’t here,” CeeCee said, referring to our other member. Eduardo Linnares was a hunky cover model/poet/expert crocheter. He was also a gentleman and would certainly have dealt with the bag that was creeping us all out if he hadn’t had to skip the fund-raiser do some of his cover-model work.

  “Stop being so silly,” Dinah said, moving along the table toward the sack. Dinah was a gutsy ball of energy. She flipped her long, intertwined purple and orange scarves over her shoulder and out of the way, and grabbed the bag. She opened it with abandon and looked inside. She seemed perplexed but not horrified, which I took as a good sign. What were we expecting? Maybe something dangerous like a gun or a bomb? Or something furry and dead? Or something forgotten like a dirty diaper? Everyone had moved to the other end of the table to distance themselves from the threatening bag, and Sheila was gripping her purse with white knuckles. We held our breath as Dinah dumped the contents on the table. Nothing exploded nor did anything disgusting spill out. Just something colorful and some papers. Dinah started to sort through them, but CeeCee stopped her.

  “We can’t do anything about this here. Let’s just take everything with us.” The park ranger was locking up the buildings, and all the other people were gone.

  “Yes, yes,” Sheila said quickly. “The ranger is going to lock the gate any minute.” Between concern over the bag’s contents and the ranger shutting things up, Sheila had started to hyperventilate. Adele took the empty grocery bag and handed it to her. Sheila began breathing into it in an effort to calm down. Meanwhile, Dinah gathered up the contents; she waited until Sheila was finished and then reloaded the stuff in the bag.

  A few minutes later, we all walked into the bookstore café. It felt warm and cozy after the chilly evening air and smelled of fresh brewed coffee and hot chocolate chip cookies. This aspect of the modern bookstore still amused me: It used to be that bookstores didn’t want patrons to come in with drinks or food, but now, realizing that selling refreshments was a good income source, they practically pushed snacks on their customers. Shedd & Royal Books and More went the extra distance: The café’s onsite baking sent the smell of freshly baked cookies wafting into the bookstore, which made the customers salivate.

  We all ordered drinks and were soon seated around a small table, onto which Dinah poured out the contents of the grocery bag. CeeCee picked up the colorful piece and spread it out, while Adele picked up what appeared to be a note and read it out loud:

  “I did something a long time ago that I now regret and would like to make right. I’m not sure everyone involved will agree. I’m leaving the enclosed for safekeeping with you. If I don’t come back for them, I trust you will know what to do. Please—”

  “And?” CeeCee said impatiently.

  “And, nothing,” Adele said with a snort as she looked at the back of the sheet and showed us it was blank. “That’s it.”

  “Since it ends in midsentence,” Dinah said, “I would guess the writer got interrupted. Just a wild guess, but I’d bet it is a she. I don’t see a guy writing a note like this.”

  “Here we go again.” CeeCee shook her head and sighed. “Ever since my show became a hit, people have started acting like I am the go-to person to fix their mistakes. Mostly, I get e-mails with their dark secrets, or regular mail. Sometimes they’re confessions and sometimes they want me to be the middleman between them and their Aunt Sara to help patch things up.” She looked at the small pile of stuff. “Chances are the person who wrote the note will come back looking for her things. We had enough signs on the table saying who we were and where our group meets. But in any case—” She pushed the pile toward me. “Molly, you’re the one who deals with mysteries.”

  Was that my rep now? It was a long way from my old life. Before my husband Charlie had died, I’d been a wife, mother and occasional helper with his public relations business. My only dealings with murder were distant, like reading about it in a book or a newspaper article. I’d never seen an actual dead body, and certainly had never been considered a murder suspect. But all that had changed and I’d begun a whole new chapter in my life.

  If Charlie could see me now, I wondered if he’d be surprised. I had a regular job, belonged to the crochet group and had been in the middle of several murder investigations. My two sons were having trouble with the new me. I suppose it is uncomfortable having your middle-aged mother change, but what choice did I have?

  I had assumed the colorful thing in the bag was some kind of scarf, but now, as it lay spread out on the table, I realized it didn’t look like something you’d wear around your neck. It was shaped like a scarf—long and rectangular—but something was off.

  “Anybody have an idea what it is?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but the style is called filet crochet, Pink,” Adele said with a generous amount of attitude.

  “I know what kind of crochet it is,” I said. CeeCee had told me about the particular kind of thre
ad crochet and shown me samples once when I was at her house. “I meant what is it supposed to be? Maybe a table runner?”

  “Filet crochet—what’s that?” Dinah asked. Right, Dinah hadn’t been with me at CeeCee’s. I was about to explain the method of crochet when Adele stepped in and pointed to the open mesh and areas that were blocks of solid stitches. By now I’d begun to see that the filled in areas formed images. I recognized one as that of a cat, though because it was formed by squares, it had a slightly awkward geometric shape.

  Adele was in full form now. There was nothing she liked better than to lord her superior crochet knowledge over someone. “The open spaces are made with double crochets and a chain stitch, and the solid areas are continuous double crochets.”

  Dinah picked the piece up and held it at distance for all of us to see. It seemed to have ten or so panels that had been joined together, and viewed from afar, the images became more apparent. Or some of them did.

  “What’s that?” Dinah said, pointing to what looked like a big ring.

  I shrugged and indicated another panel. “This looks like a guy with a bow and arrow,” I said.

  “This looks like a house of some sort.” Dinah pointed to an adjacent area. “And here’s a vase of flowers.”

  “Isn’t that another cat?” Sheila said. The one I’d recognized had been sitting down facing front. This one appeared to be walking.

  “Well, that looks like a bath-powder box I have on my dresser,” CeeCee said. She’d obviously tried to keep out of it but ultimately couldn’t help herself. “And that looks like the Arc de Triomphe.”

  “Molly, you better come quickly,” a voice said, interrupting. When I looked up I saw that our main cashier, Rayaad, had come in from the store and appeared troubled. “There are some people doing strange things in the bookstore.”