By Hook or by Crook cm-3

by Betty Hechtman

  “Why didn’t you tell me they were going to tape a show at the bookstore?”

  “They are?” CeeCee said. “Someone should have told me.” She sounded perturbed. “I can’t believe I don’t know what’s going on at my own show. Whatever anyone says, I am the show. Why else would people be leaving me their problems to fix?” Her voice had grown a little shrill, and it wasn’t clear who exactly she was talking to, but it didn’t seem to be any of us.

  When I glanced back toward the window, no one was there. Maybe CeeCee had gotten her wish.

  Or maybe not.

  The woman was standing next to the table.

  CHAPTER 4

  “HELLO, CEECEE. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE part of the Tarzana Hookers,” the tallish dark-haired woman said. One glance at her face was enough to figure she must have a charge account with her plastic surgeon. She looked as though she’d been lasered, Botoxed and injected with fills until her face had the too-smooth shape of a doll’s. Her most distinctive feature was her lips, which were big and puffy, but I didn’t think it was the work of injections. They were just imperfect enough to be natural.

  “Camille, so nice to see you,” CeeCee said in an authentic-sounding sweet voice. CeeCee was certainly a good actress. If I hadn’t heard her comments about Camille just a few minutes earlier, I would have totally believed CeeCee was thrilled to see her.

  CeeCee introduced her to everyone at the table in the same friendly sounding voice.

  I tried not to stare at Camille’s clothes. If you threw in the Rinny Fooh shoes, I bet the jeans, loose-fitting top and cropped jacket cost as much as some people’s monthly mortgage payment. Though Camille seemed indifferent to her outfit. To her, wearing designer stuff was probably the same as wearing an old bathrobe.

  “Well, thanks for stopping by. It was nice to see you,” CeeCee said in a tone of dismissal, but Camille made no move to leave.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Camille said, turning toward CeeCee. “I’m here to join you.” Then she turned back to all of us. When she got to Eduardo, she seemed uneasy. “He’s not a member, is he?”

  “Yes, he is. In fact he’s one of our best crocheters,” CeeCee said with just the slightest edge to her voice. “Obviously you have a problem with that, which is why I’m sure you wouldn’t be happy in our group.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, that probably didn’t come out right. My life coach has been telling me I have to watch how I speak. I was just surprised that you had a male member.”

  Eduardo sighed. “It’s okay, I get that a lot, and no, I’m not gay.”

  Camille looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t implying you were anything. Oh no, I’m talking myself into a corner again.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe if I explain . . . I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. I have always been on committees for fund-raiser dinners and charity events of all kinds. I’ve arranged countless silent auctions. My life coach says I ought to try being on the other side of the auction table. You know, actually making something.” She saw the blankets at the end of the table. “Are you making these for poor people?”

  There was a collective cringe at the table. Camille’s life coach probably wouldn’t have been happy with her, either. She said poor people as though they were aliens from another planet who had cooties besides. She caught herself again and apologized.

  “Oh dear, my life coach said I needed to try being like a regular person, but I have no experience at it.” She slid into a chair. “My father is Alexander Rhead—of Rhead Productions.” She left it hanging, clearly expecting we would understand what that meant. When no one reacted, she continued. “We do CeeCee’s show, and a lot of others.”

  “Then maybe you know who’s the subject of the episode they’re taping here,” I said.

  Camille’s mouth fell open as if I’d asked her an inappropriate question. “My father is the head of the production company, and my husband is the executive vice president. We don’t deal with what goes on with the shows. We have people for that.” She slouched when she finished. “That sounded haughty, didn’t it? You see, I really need to be in this group. I need to be around regular people so I can get in touch with the regular part of myself.”

  “Is that what your life coach said?” Dinah asked, holding back a smile.

  Camille brightened. “Why yes. How did you know?”

  “A lucky guess,” Dinah said.

  “You don’t know how to crochet, do you?” CeeCee said. Her acting ability was falling by the wayside, the edge in her voice growing more obvious.

  “Well, no,” Camille said.

  “We only take members who at least know the basics. You really need to know what you’re doing if you’re going to make the blankets.”

  I regarded CeeCee with surprise. New people showed up all the time and most of them were clueless. She or Adele were always happy to teach them. Why was she trying to scare off Camille?

  “Maybe I can find somebody to give me some private lessons first,” Camille said.

  CeeCee was shaking her head and about to speak when Adele made her entrance.

  “Somebody needs crochet lessons?” she asked Camille brightly. CeeCee gave Adele a dark look, which had no effect. “I’d be happy to teach you.”

  Adele took the opportunity to show off her latest project. Burgundy and gold striped mohair leg warmers. “Ali and I made these together,” she said to the group. “We met at the Yarnatorium this morning. They’re having a huge sale. She was going to come to the group, but she had to go to work.”

  “Work?” Sheila said. “What does she do?”

  “Why don’t you ask her next time she’s here,” Adele said, clearly not interested in talking about it.

  Camille had started tapping her finger against the table in annoyance. This unnerved Sheila, who began tapping her fingers as well. The noise made the rest of us tense. Even the usually unflappable Eduardo seemed unsettled.

  I had the feeling Camille wasn’t used to being kept waiting. And even though I insisted I wanted no part in running the group, I felt a responsibility for keeping Shedd & Royal’s customers happy. “Adele, why don’t you show us what you made later. If you’re going to give Camille crochet lessons, you ought to arrange it.”

  It was a toss-up who appeared more annoyed: Adele for being interrupted or Camille for having to wait. CeeCee didn’t look too happy, either.

  Camille moved down the table toward the filet piece and with her perfectly manicured fingers picked it up. She looked at it oddly for a moment, then let it flutter back to the table. “I’m not going to have to make something like that, am I?”

  CeeCee saw her moment. “You might. You know, crochet isn’t for everyone. You might like knitting better.”

  I could hear Adele sputtering behind me. She stepped between CeeCee and Camille. “Don’t listen to her. You don’t want to knit.”

  I traded looks with Dinah. Uh-oh. Adele went ballistic whenever anyone brought up knitting. We all thought crochet was superior, but Adele was rabid about it. Her voice rose as she started her crochet rant, and Camille took a step backward.

  “Crochet is more portable. Just one nice little hook instead of two poky needles. And there are so many things you can do with crochet.” Adele started to pick up the panel piece but apparently suddenly remembered Camille’s reaction to it and let it drop. Instead, she pointed to the yellow and white yarn daisy attached to her jean jacket. “You can make flowers like this, and granny squares, and afghans like you wouldn’t believe, and—”

  Camille interrupted and said she had to go. I wondered if despite her life coach’s suggestion she had changed her mind about joining us. Not that I could blame her. CeeCee had been anything but cordial, and Adele had been, well, just plain weird.

  “Okay, what was that about?” I asked after Camille left. Adele had written down her phone number and pushed it on her just before she walked away.

  CeeCee sighed and glanced around the table. “It is just a waste of time having he
r join. Do you understand who her family is? Besides my show, Rhead Productions does Squirrels in Space, that animated series all the kids are crazy for, and Malibu Beach Watch, or as I call it, an excuse to broadcast a lot of good-looking people in tight bathing suits, and The Highlands, probably the most successful glitzy nighttime series ever. And there’s one more. Hercules Crawford, PI. Only Alexander Rhead would figure out the public was ready for an old-fashioned detective series.”

  “I love that show,” Eduardo interjected, and CeeCee threw him an annoyed look. Undaunted, Eduardo said his agent was trying to get him a part on it. “Playing myself, of course. A cover model who ends up in the middle of a murder.”

  “And the list goes on. It’s the most successful production company around,” CeeCee said. “Camille has been brought up like a princess. No matter what she says about wanting to be a regular person, she’s the kind who’d bring her maid with her to the group and have the maid do the crocheting for her. Besides, I don’t think her showing up has anything to do with wanting to make blankets for needy children.”

  I shook my head at CeeCee. I’d never seen her react to anyone like this. “Is there something else you’re not telling us?”

  CeeCee groaned and started to run her fingers through her hair, but must have realized it would muss it and stopped herself. “Okay, the real reason is I think’s she’s a spy.”

  “What?” Dinah said. “A spy for what?”

  “I haven’t mentioned it because I hoped it would be resolved by now,” CeeCee began. “But my agent is having some problems with my new contract. The Rhead Productions people are trying to say it’s the show that’s the hit and that my being host doesn’t matter. I think it’s all negotiating, but who knows?” CeeCee sighed. Of course she was worried. Before she’d gotten the job hosting Making Amends, she’d been reduced to doing occasional guest shots on series or cameos in movies. People knew who she was and the paparazzi had still snapped her picture, but financially she had been struggling. Her late husband had blown all the money she’d made over the years and she’d had to start from scratch.

  CeeCee picked up a skein of iridescent white yarn and began to make a foundation row of chain stitches. “I’ve always been able to relax at our group get-togethers, but if Camille joined, I’d have to watch everything I said—or ate. When they were downplaying my importance to the show, they also made some comment about my not being as trim as they’d like.” CeeCee sighed again and glanced around at all of us. “I mean if you can’t have an occasional creme brulee, life just isn’t worth living. And I’m sure she can’t understand the hypnotic lure of a cream puff. If I were to take even a bite of one of Bob’s extraordinary cookie bars, Camille would go running to her husband and daddy and tattle on me.” CeeCee stopped talking and crocheting, clearly contemplating something.

  She turned toward me. “Dear, didn’t you say Camille’s husband was in here right before we started?” When I nodded, CeeCee’s eyes grew bright. “Aha, I bet it was his idea she join us.”

  “But we can’t keep anyone out,” I said. “Mrs. Shedd would have a fit, and I don’t like the idea anyway.”

  Sheila touched CeeCee’s arm in support. If anyone knew about feeling upset, it was Sheila.

  “I know, dear,” CeeCee said in resignation. “That’s why I did my best to try to make Camille not want to join.”

  “Good work,” Adele said with a snort, holding up her cell phone. “She’s already texting me, wanting to set up her lesson.”

  “Oh dear,” CeeCee said with a worried expression. We all assured her it would be okay and we finally got down to serious crocheting. But by now, most of the time for the group was over. Sheila had to rush back to her job at the gym. CeeCee had a lunch engagement, and Dinah had to get to the college for her office hours.

  Adele was the only one left at the table. She finished off a row on the blanket she was making. Her creations usually incorporated wildly vivid colors, but for this one she had chosen a soft butterscotch and snowy white and was following CeeCee’s pattern of stripes with a border.

  As I rose to clear off the filet crochet piece, she said, “So, Pink, CeeCee really did leave it up to you to deal with that.” Then she kind of harrumphed as if she weren’t impressed.

  Well, we were even there—I wasn’t too impressed with her, either. Especially her clothes. Since she’d started hanging out with Ali, her outfits had gotten several notches more ridiculous. Ali had the figure and style to pull off the miniskirts and odd combinations. Adele didn’t have either. Not that it stopped her. Today Adele wore a winter concoction with sheepskin boots that made her shuffle when she walked. She had tucked her black pants in and they puffed out, giving her a gaucho look. On top she had a short orange vest over a white tunic and about ten necklaces and a long yellow and black striped scarf. She’d added some highlights to her hair, but they were too regular and they made her hair look striped. Knowing Adele, I suspected it had been intentional.

  I informed Adele I’d made some progress and told her about the diary entry and the astrological sign. “Though I still don’t have a clue who the things belong to.”

  Adele held it up to examine it and then appeared way too pleased with herself.

  “Maybe I should change my name to Adele Drew,” she said, flipping the hair off her shoulder. “I know how you can find out who made it.”

  Okay, she had my attention and she knew it. She paused and kept looking at the piece, her self-satisfied smile widening.

  “Are you going to tell me or are you just going to keep it to yourself?”

  “I wish I had a drumroll or something,” Adele said, looking around as if some kind of musical flourish would appear. “It’s simple, Pink. See the aqua thread in this panel. It’s not your typical Super Craft Mart ball of yarn. I know because I made something out of it. There’s only one store around here that carries it—Yarnie’s. And they keep meticulous records.”

  Adele began to gather up her things, putting them into her patent leather tote bag. “Sorry I can’t stay and chat. I have an important meeting in the children’s department.”

  “Is it Koo Koo?” I called after her. She turned back and glared.

  “His name is William,” she said with a hiss of annoyance.

  Okay, his name really was William Bearly, but his nom de plume was Koo Koo the Clown. He wrote books about common childhood traumas from a clown’s point of view. He was also Adele’s boyfriend, but I suspected her important meeting was more about his upcoming event. Mrs. Shedd had started to let Adele handle the children’s authors programs. I’d seen the signage in the office. Apparently, this time, Koo Koo had taken to the skies. His current offering was Koo Koo Goes on a Plane Trip. I bet he had trouble getting his big red shoes through security.

  I called a thank-you as she disappeared behind the soft blue bookcases that separated the kids’ area from the rest of the store. I finally had a real lead.

  CHAPTER 5

  YES, I FINALLY HAD A LEAD, BUT IT WOULD HAVE to wait, at least for a few hours because I needed to clean up from the Tarzana Hookers and reset things for the evening event. I set up rows of chairs and a table with books, and made sure the signs were out front promoting Who Are You Really, Fido? The copy said that the author Kimball Oaks would read from his book describing individual cases in which people had used DNA tests to find out their mixed-breed dogs’ heritage. According to Kimball, such information helped owners understand their dogs’ behavior better. We’d already committed to this author event and one other, but Mrs. Shedd had told me to put a moratorium on arranging any others until after the bookstore’s TV debut.

  I expected it to be a simple evening. Kimball would read a case history, people would buy books, get them signed and leave.

  Why did things never go off as expected?

  Somewhere in the afternoon, I took a break, hoping to cruise by Yarnie’s and get a quick answer to who owned the bag of items. Then I hoped to make a chink in the list of things m
y mother had to have for her visit. The initial list she’d given me on the phone had been enhanced by numerous e-mails.

  My cell phone rang on the way to the car.

  “Hey, babe,” Barry’s deep voice said when I answered.

  Finally, a phone call from him. A certain tension went out of my shoulders. It always seemed to come when I didn’t hear from him for a while. I mean when your job involves guns, suspects and criminal activity, it’s only natural for people who care about you to worry.

  “Do I have a lot to tell you,” I said, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I unlocked the greenmobile. Barry said something but his voice was muffled, and then in the background I heard what sounded like someone making an announcement over a PA system.

  “I just have a minute,” Barry said, apparently having not heard what I said. He seemed to be talking to someone else, and I could still hear other voices in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “On a plane about to take off. They’re insisting I turn off my phone.” In a burst of words, he told me he had to go to Philadelphia to question a witness and that he was taking his son, Jeffrey, with him and was going to drop him off at his mother’s. Barry had been divorced for several years and his wife had just remarried. “I miss you,” he said quickly. “I’ll make it up when I get back.” And then there was silence.

  It took a minute for it all to sink in, and as it did, I felt the tension come back into my shoulders. Being in a relationship with a homicide detective was certainly a challenge. And again I questioned if it was what I really wanted.

  My husband Charlie had worked long hours in the public relations firm and he’d traveled frequently, but when we went out to dinner we never had to take separate cars in case he got a call in the middle of our meal because somebody had just found a dead body.

  I started the car and drove to the address Adele had given me for Yarnie’s—a strip mall on the Tarzana-Encino border. I felt my anticipation level rise as I pulled into a parking spot. Barry was off on his case, and I was about to find out the solution to mine.