Dinah and I had always intended to check out the small yarn store but had never gotten around to it. I glanced ahead to the front window and noticed it was strangely dark. Hoping the store owner was just trying to save on electricity, I went to the door and pulled. It didn’t open. Then I noticed the colorful sign on the window.
Of all the times for the owner to close for three days so she could go to a wool seminar in Pismo Beach! I couldn’t hide my disappointment; I felt my mouth droop as I headed back to the car with the grocery sack stuck under my arm.
I plowed through part of the list for my mother and got the organic blackberry honey that had to come from Canterbury, New Zealand, and the organic meyer lemons, the cotton sheets and the natural detergent I had to wash the sheets in three times before putting them on the bed.
I had decided to put my parents in my room and had already begun cleaning the house and removing anything that might inspire negative comments like “You don’t really use that kind of orange juice, do you?”
I dropped my purchases off at home, took care of Blondie and Cosmo and went back to the bookstore.
It was dusk when I arrived, and the bookstore looked welcoming, its warm lights shining through the windows and inviting customers in. Bob had a red eye ready for me and handed me some cookies to go with it. In a moment of humor, he had decided to make sugar cookies that looked like dog biscuits. Whatever they looked like, they tasted delicious and the strong coffee drink was a good chaser.
He set up a coffee-and-cookie stand right in the bookstore while I went to the event area. Kimball was already there taking some boxes out of a shopping bag and putting them on the table with the books.
I picked up one of the boxes and examined it.
“It’s a test kit for taking a DNA sample,” Kimball explained, along with the fact that he manufactured them and was offering them to the bookstore at a special rate.
I was going to object, but the crowd began to arrive. Obviously there had been some kind of misunderstanding. Who knew I needed to mention the event was for humans only? It seemed everyone in the crowd had a dog with them. And not all of the dogs were that glad to see each other. More than once I had to separate two snarling canines and send them along with their owners to opposite sides of the arrangement of chairs.
Kimball started the program, reading some sample stories from his book about how owners had found out the ancestry of their mixed-breed dogs. “And now I’ll show you how to take a sample. It’s the same as for people. We look for the DNA in saliva. With people you can even get a sample off a licked envelope or a paper cup. With dogs, we just take a swab.” He opened up one of the boxes and asked for a volunteer. A woman with a dog that looked like a basset hound-poodle mix brought her pet up to the front.
“You just take a little swab of the inside of the cheek,” Kimball said, lifting the side of the dog’s mouth. The dog took it well, and then Kimball showed there was a container and a mailer in the box.
“I want to do that for my Rocky,” a woman said, pointing to a brown short-haired dog that looked like he was laughing.
“Me, too,” said a man, who had a tiny white fluffy dog sitting on his lap.
They made a move toward the tests and were joined by a bunch of others. I had to step in and in a nice way make sure the kits were paid for before being opened. I helped Rayaad cashier and rushed back to the event area just as Kimball was instructing the owners to open the boxes and take out the swabs. What had looked easy when Kimball did it was anything but when the owners tried. And their dogs were far less willing than the bassoodle had been.
Suffice it to say, there were suddenly dogs everywhere with owners chasing them holding swabs. Somewhere in the confusion one of the dogs got hold of the sugar cookie dog biscuits. When I looked over to the snack stand, an empty plate with some sugar sprinkles was all that remained.
Still, on the positive side, Adele wasn’t there to tattle on me to Mrs. Shedd, and none of the dogs had accidents. Finally, after breaking down the chairs and vacuuming up the dog hair and cookie crumbs, I went home.
THREE DAYS LATER THE TARZANA HOOKERS MET again. The proprietor of Yarnie’s was due back today, and I planned to head over there after the meeting. I had been bringing the bag back and forth to the bookstore every day, hoping the owner might show up to claim her things, but there was no such luck.
“You haven’t found the owner yet?” Adele said, picking up the grocery sack. “I practically handed you the name. What happened?”
The group was sitting around the event table, and everyone looked up at Adele’s comments.
“Dear, I thought you would have taken care of it by now.” CeeCee seemed a little put out.
“You said I ought to wait for the owner to show up,” I said.
“Yes, dear, I did, but I thought you’d use some judgement and when they didn’t show up after a day or so—”
“Hey, Molly has been busy. Her parents are invading—I mean, coming to visit,” Dinah said. “Have you met her mother, Liza Aronson, formerly of the She La Las?”
“Your mother was in that group?” CeeCee said. “I just loved that song of theirs—‘My Man’ something.”
“ ‘My Man Dan,’ ” I said.
“It was their only hit, wasn’t it? It must be difficult to be a one-hit wonder.”
Before I could comment on being the daughter of a one-hit wonder, Adele stepped in.
“So, Pink, did you go to Yarnie’s or what?”
I saw Dinah curl her lip in annoyance. Best friend that she was, she was going to say something to Adele the way she had to CeeCee, but I was a big girl and could fight my own battles.
I quickly put up my hand to stop Adele. She had her mouth open, about to say more.
“Here’s the way it stands with the bag of stuff.” I turned toward CeeCee. “When nobody came by the next day, I realized I should try to locate the owner.” I glared at Adele. “And I went to the yarn store you said would recognize the thread, but it was closed for three days while the owner went to some yarn show. I am expecting it to reopen today.”
Ali Stewart was sitting next to Adele following the conversations as if it were a tennis match. Her head was swiveling back and forth so much I was sure she must be dizzy.
“Okay, what did I miss?” Ali said. Everyone started to tell her at once, but Dinah took charge and told her the chain of events that began with us finding the bag.
Adele had her chair right next to Ali’s, and I noticed they both were wearing pink tee shirts with a white thread crocheted embellishment around the neckline. Ali was a great addition to the group in many ways. She was an expert crocheter, she liked the idea of making things to give away, and she was always upbeat. The only problem was her sense of time. She always arrived late and left early. In fact, it often seemed she was just passing through the meetings.
Her hair looked as though some toddler had cut it with kid’s scissors. But that hacked-off effect seemed to be in style. I guessed the shoe polish black color was in, too. Somehow on her the style and color were fun and arty.
True to form, Ali checked her watch and got up, announcing she had to leave. “I have to help my mom with something.” She glanced around the group, making it clear she was speaking to all of us. “She runs a business out of the house. Don’t worry. I’ll have several blankets to bring in next time.” As Ali started to go, Adele appeared practically heartbroken.
“Well, dear, if you have to leave . . .” CeeCee said. “But we really like having you here.”
“I thought we would roll yarn together after the group.” Adele held up a hank of hot pink yarn that needed someone to hold it while she made it into a ball.
Ali apologized and left, and Eduardo took the yarn out of Adele’s hand and placed it over the end of the chair and started to wind the yarn into a ball.
“It’s not the same,” Adele said in a disappointed voice. “It’s a girlfriend kind of thing.”
I glanced toward Sheila to
see how she’d reacted to the comment. Although she hadn’t said anything, she seemed uncomfortable with Ali. But then, Ali had displaced her as the youngest member in the group. The way CeeCee fussed over her didn’t help, either. Then there was the fact that Ali was always talking about her mother and father and how close they were. Sheila was alone in the world. The grandmother who’d raised her had died not too long ago and she had no other family. I sent a smile Sheila’s way to reassure her, but she’d already gone into stress mode and her stitches were turning into knots. Eduardo stopped winding Adele’s yarn and handed Sheila a smaller hook. He gave her a little pep talk, too, and she seemed to relax.
CeeCee glanced around the table and sighed with satisfaction. “I didn’t even realize until now who isn’t here. Camille didn’t come back,” she said.
“She hasn’t come back yet,” Adele said. CeeCee’s content expression vanished.
“Did she really have you give her crochet lessons?”
Adele nodded, looking very pleased with herself. “You made it sound like she had to be a superaccomplished hooker to join us. Well, thanks to me, she’s almost there. I discovered I’m a wonderful teacher. All she needs is one more lesson.”
“Dear, don’t say that. Didn’t you hear what I said about her being a spy?”
“No,” Adele said curtly. “I just heard you try to throw her to the knitters.” Everyone at the table cringed, knowing any second Adele would launch into her crochet-versus-knitting rant. We all basically agreed with her, but we didn’t make a federal case out of it.
Adele did about five minutes on the wonders of crochet and then sat down, and we resumed as if nothing had happened.
CeeCee took out a ball of bright yellow thread. “All this talking about filet crochet gave me an idea. Why don’t we make bookmarks for the upcoming library sales? It would give those of us who haven’t done filet work a chance to try it, and we could still keep up with the blankets.” CeeCee stopped and swallowed. “When I tell you all what happened with the blankets we made, you’ll realize how important they really are.
“I took the three blankets to the West Valley Police Station. A sergeant came out from the back to thank me and tell me about a call they’d had. There had been an awful situation where a man had killed his wife and one of the children had found her. The girl was seven and deeply traumatized. The officers who picked her up felt terrible for her and helpless to soothe her. But they had one of our blankets and wrapped it around her. Of course, it couldn’t make up for what she’d been through, but they said there was something in the way she hung onto it as she rocked back and forth that made it clear it gave her some kind of comfort. It gave the officer some comfort, too, because they didn’t feel so helpless.”
As CeeCee relayed the touching story, we all kept our eyes fixated on our crocheting, unable to look up. I saw Sheila wipe back a tear.
At the end of the meeting, I assured CeeCee I was well on the road to finding the owner of the items. I then turned to Dinah. “I’m going to see if that Yarnie’s place is open. I just want to find out who the bag belongs to and get it back to them. Want to come along?”
“I’ve always wanted to look in that store.” Dinah sighed in regret. “But I can’t go. I have a test to put together.”
I promised to keep her appraised of what was going on, and we parted company. On my way out of the store, I told Rayaad I was going to lunch. I certainly hoped Adele was right about finding the owner through the unusual thread. I wanted the whole thing off my plate.
I parked in front of Yarnie’s a few minutes later and went inside. It was a tiny store, three of its walls lined with yarn-filled shelves. In the middle of the store stood a small table surrounded by several chairs. Only one was filled: A woman who I figured was the owner sat taking skeins of yarn out of boxes and arranging them on the table.
“Are you the owner?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled. “My name is Dawn Yarnell, but everbody calls me Yarnie, hence the name of the store. Can I help you?”
I took out the filet piece and laid it on the table in front of her. “I’m looking for the person who made this, and a friend of mine thought you might be able to help.” I mentioned the group at the bookstore.
“You’re a Tarzana Hooker? Your leader comes in here a lot. Adele something. Quite an imaginative dresser, isn’t she?” Yarnie said.
I nodded in agreement as the store owner picked up the piece and examined it. She seemed to focus on the panel of the odd vertical rectangle with the window in the middle.
“Adele has a good eye.” She left the piece, went into a back room and returned with an orb of thread the exact aqua of the panel. “This is the last ball of Fiji aquamarine number 10 I have. It was discontinued, and I bought out their entire supply.
“I keep records of who buys what.” She paused a moment. “You can just leave it with me, and I’ll check my records and give the owner a call.”
I couldn’t really blame her for being protective of her customers, but I wanted to meet the person face-to-face. When I said I’d really feel better if I took it back to the person myself, Yarnie didn’t budge. I thought of The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation and what it would suggest under the circumstances. It usually advised being creative and not being afraid to stretch the truth, but I realized that in this situation, the best weapon in my arsenal was the truth.
“Do you know who CeeCee Collins is?” I began. Yarnie nodded and even mentioned the show. It was an easy segue into the package being left for CeeCee to deal with. And it was amazing what a celebrity name would do. “I promised CeeCee I would give it directly to the owner,” I said finally.
Yarnie considered what I’d said and then opened her laptop and fired it up. She typed something in and shook her head. “I’m afraid a whole list of names comes up.” She turned the computer toward me and I saw she was right.
Undaunted, I examined the piece again. “What about one of these other colors? If you look up who bought one of them it might narrow it down.”
“Good thinking. I’ve never actually done it in reverse like this.” She held the piece close and looked at the panel with the bath-powder box. “I think this is arctic blue 14.” She got a sample to be sure and then typed it in the computer.
She came up with another list, and we checked back and forth and found there were only two people who’d bought both colors.
“It’s not her,” she said, pointing at the first name. “She moved to Napa three months ago.” She pointed to the second in the list.
Mary Beth Wells.
Yarnie seemed to hesitate then finally wrote down the pertinent information on a piece of paper shaped like a ball of yarn. “Do you know who she is?”
I shrugged and she continued. “Well, you must have heard of Lance Wells?”
Of course, who hadn’t? He was before my time more or less, but Lance Wells was the premier dancing actor in all those tuxedo-and-evening-gown musicals. There was a nationwide chain of dance studios named after him. I’d just passed the one in Tarzana the other day and noticed how busy it was. Thanks to Dancing with the Stars and the shows it had spawned, everybody wanted to learn all the couples’ dances.
“Mary Beth was married to Lance Wells Jr.,” Yarnie said. “I think he died about six months ago.”
“Then you know her pretty well?” I said. The shop owner gave me a noncommital shrug. “Do you have any idea what all this means?” I asked, pointing to the motifs in the panels.
“She said she likes filet crochet because it’s like drawing. This is the first time I’ve seen anything she’s made. Mostly, she just buys supplies when she comes in. She said she likes all the colors I have.” Yarnie stared at the panel piece for a long time. “This is really an odd item. It’s not the kind of thing I expected her to make. Filet isn’t that popular. Mostly what you see are nameplates or trim on something.” She reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. “First thing I’m going to ask her is w
hat all this is.” She paused and I could hear the phone ringing through the receiver. Finally, someone answered and Yarnie spoke, but it was obvious she’d reached a wrong number.
She checked her computer again and saw it was the number she’d dialed. “Oh no, I must have transposed some of the numbers.” She appeared apologetic. “I’m a little dyslexic.” She looked at the screen. “I think the address is right. I know I’ve mailed her sale notices and they haven’t come back.”
“I’ll go there and if nobody’s home, I’ll leave a note in the mailbox,” I said. That seemed to set okay with her, and she gave me the address and even searched out driving directions from the Internet for me.
I was glad to have the directions. Although the house was in Tarzana, it was up in the hills where the streets reminded me of spider veins. They were squiggly and branched off each other in multiple directions. After much confusion, I finally found her street, which was so steep I was afraid the car would start slipping back down the hill. Where the street ended and the signs for the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy began, I saw the address on the curb. There was a wrought-iron mailbox in front and a solid blue-green gate across the driveway. I turned the car around and parked on the street, making sure to curb my wheels.
I climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk. A large house was a short distance below me, and from there a row of minimansions cascaded down the hillside. When I looked up, the whole San Fernando Valley spread before me and I suddenly felt like the queen of the world. I got caught up in the view. It was a clear day, and the San Gabriel Mountains appeared so stark, it was as if they’d been outlined in black marker. The top of Mount Wilson was dusted with snow, and farther east, I caught sight of Mount Baldy completely slathered in white. A plane at eye level was heading toward Van Nuys Airport to land. The grid of streets spread before me, and I could pick out landmarks and see how lush the Valley was, its treetops like tiny green cotton balls.
By Hook or by Crook cm-3 Page 5
