She was a tall, pretty woman, with shiny brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing jeans and a tee shirt with a green plaid flannel shirt on top and had some gardening gloves stuffed in her pocket.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked in a pleasant voice. When she got closer a flash of recognition crossed her face. “You’re Molly from the bookstore. Ali just loves being in the crochet group.” She laughed. “Though knowing my daughter, she is probably not too punctual.”
We made a little small talk, and I told her how much we all liked Ali. “She’s so much fun, and she’s stretched our ideas about crochet.” I pointed toward the crocheted cactus sitting on the patio table.
“She’s a good kid,” Iris said. “Things have been a little rough around here, and she moved back home to help me.”
I took a deep breath and prepared to proceed. I had no authority to demand information. My best bet was to try friendly conversation.
“I’m thinking of landscaping part of my yard with succulents. I saw something I like at the home of an acquaintance of mine. She said she got her plants here. I don’t know if you remember her—Mary Beth Wells?” I watched Iris’s face to gauge her reaction to the name. There was a flicker that was quickly replaced by confusion.
“She must have gotten them somewhere else. I don’t recall the name,” Iris said too quickly to be believable.
I persisted. “I’m sure this is where she said she got them. Maybe you don’t remember her. She was tall with golden blond hair.”
But Iris dismissed the comment and gestured toward the front yard. “Why don’t you look around at what I have and maybe you’ll see what you’re looking for.” She followed me as I began to walk through the rows of plants.
A car pulled into the driveway and two teenage girls got out. They waved and headed inside.
“Are those Ali’s sisters?” I asked.
When she said they were, I commented that they were quite a bit younger than Ali.
“And your point is?” Iris replied with the beginning of an edge in her voice.
“No point, just an observation.” I stopped at a pot filled with low-growing fleshy rosettes that had a reddish color. “I think this is it. Mary Beth had one in a pot in her house on Catalina.” Glad that I was wearing sunglasses, I again watched Iris for her reaction. She showed none.
“I hear it’s very nice there.” Iris picked up the pot. “Did you want to get sempervivum?”
Another car drove into the driveway. This time Ali got out. As soon as she saw me, she came to join us. “You came to the right place. My mother’s plants are the best.”
But her willingness to talk left a lot to be desired. So far I’d gotten nothing but the name of the plant I was holding. Sure, it was obvious Iris knew Mary Beth, but as long as she denied it what could I do?
“I forgot to ask you earlier,” I said to Ali, trying another tactic. “We have a thing at the bookstore for people’s birthdays. We send out discount coupons. If you tell me yours, I can add it to my file.”
“That’s so nice,” Ali said. She sounded so genuine I felt bad about deceiving her and decided right then to actually start a birthday-discount program. “My birthday is December 19,” she said. “I’m just barely a Sagittarius.”
Ali’s birthdate was in sync with the diary entry. I decided to push the envelope and ask one more question. “Were you born here in Tarzana?”
“Actually, I was born on Catalina.”
Iris appeared more uncomfortable but said nothing. Ali spoke for her. “Ali is just my nickname. It’s short for Catalina. Get it—Cat-ali-na?”
“I’m sure you’re in a hurry,” Iris said, taking the pot and heading for the patio. “Let me just write this up.” She looked for me to follow her, but Ali intervened.
“While you write it up, I want to show Molly the afghan I’m making.”
Before Iris could stop her, Ali had taken me inside. It was dark after the bright sun of the front yard. Paul was sitting in a recliner watching television. Ali led me to a small bedroom that looked out on the backyard. While I was trying to think of something brilliant to ask her, Ali brought out her work. It was beautiful. She’d made multiple creamy off-white squares, each with the pattern of an angel in the center. She was in the process of joining all the squares.
“It’s for my mom and the most traditional thing I’ve ever made,” Ali said, holding some of the squares together so I could see how the completed project would look.
“You have to bring that to show the group,” I said.
As we were walking back through the living room, I noticed a glass-fronted frame hanging on the wall. When I stepped closer, I smiled and took it down. Ali gave me an odd look as we went outside.
I stepped up to Iris and held out the frame. “I know you know Mary Beth, and no doubt quite well since she made this for you.” Confused, Ali turned to Iris, who reached out and angrily grabbed the frame from me, muttering something about how she’d forgotten all about it. Behind the glass was a filet picture of a cactus in a pot with a tiny MB embedded in the bottom of the cactus. The wishing well in the panel piece was signed the very same way, I was sure it was Mary Beth’s artistic signature.
“I think you better take your succulent shopping somewhere else,” Iris said, giving me a shove as she held my arm and walked me to the gate.
CHAPTER 26
“SHE THREW YOU OUT?” MASON SAID. FOR SOME reason he found that amusing, then he apologized. “I know this is serious, but I can’t imagine you pushing the Stewart woman so far she’d toss you out.”
“Believe me, I did and she did. I caught her in a lie and I showed her.”
Mason and I were on the way to a dinner for the Entertainment Fund for Kids Kamp USA. I’d called him shortly after my run-in with Iris and asked him if he could get some background information on Iris Stewart and anything more on Matt Wells. He’d dangled getting it in exchange for my going to the dinner with him.
“If you come it’ll be fun instead of a duty,” he’d said. How could I turn down a compliment like that? Besides, I really wanted the information. After a brief stop at home to change, I drove to Mason’s and waited while he fed Spike and took him for a walk. Then we drove into the city in his car. I hadn’t been over the hill for awhile.
In the old days, it was a long trip because of the poor roads. Now it was a long trip because of the traffic.
“You can tell me now,” I said, referring to the information I’d asked for.
“Patience, patience,” Mason said, steering his car through a twisty canyon.
“What? Are you afraid if you tell me now, I’ll jump out of the car?” I asked, laughing.
“It would be a long walk home,” Mason teased. “Does this make me your assistant?” Mason chuckled. “I haven’t had so much fun in a long time. First, I get to be a bad boy and antagonize my girlfriend’s mother, and then I get to be her secret information source.”
Girlfriend? I swallowed. Then I just let it go. Why make an issue out of a word I wasn’t sure applied. I was having fun, too.
“I think I might just have to wait until the way home to share what I found out. Or even better, save it for drinks at my place.” Mason was joking, but he was also seriously trying to lure me into his house.
“The ride home is as far as I’m going to go,” I said. My voice was light, but there was just a touch of seriousness and he knew what I meant: Not yet.
We pulled into the driveway of the Beverly Hilton, and a valet whisked the car away.
Mason took my arm and led me down the walkway to the main ballroom. As we entered, we passed through the area set aside for the silent auction tables.
The ballroom was filled with well-dressed people mingling over cocktails. Among the crowd I noticed several familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen since Charlie’s funeral. I met the gaze of one man and started to smile, but he quickly looked away. I’d lost my status when Charlie died—but apparently not
permanently. I almost laughed when the same person looked back and saw who I was with. He and his wife came over and gushed about how nice it was to see me again. Ah, the awkwardness of being a widow.
Mason grabbed my hand. “Let’s get a drink.”
We changed direction and squeezed around a clump of people. I felt someone touch my arm.
“Welcome to my world,” Camille said. “Hunnie, look who’s here.” She nudged her husband and he turned toward me.
“It’s the bookstore lady,” he said with barely a glance. But when he saw who I was with, his demeanor changed. Clearly, being with Mason made me somebody who mattered, at least to these people.
Mason picked up on what was happening. “Don’t take it personally,” Nodding toward Hunter and Camille, who were standing by their table greeting all who approached, he said, “Let me give you a refresher course in the politics of power.” He pointed out a couple and explained the guy was a William Morris agent like my son. He and his girlfriend were moving around. They’d stop, say a few words and move on. They were working the room. Then Mason pointed to Camille and Hunter. Sure enough, they stayed put and a continuing line of people came up to them.
“There’s lots of congratulating,” Mason said. “It’s been a long haul for him, but Hunter finally got the brass ring. Next week, he’s officially being made president of Rhead Productions. Everybody wants to be on his good side.”
Statuswise, Mason seemed to be somewhere in the middle. Some people approached him, and some people he approached. After we got our drinks, he continued socializing while I went to check out the silent auction. It was the usual things: a walk-on part on a sitcom, signed scripts of popular shows and a lot of spa days and golf vacations. One item surprised me: a small crocheted scarf donated by Camille. The uneven stitches and wavy edges showed it was very much a beginner’s first project. And yet the list of bidders had already filled the page. Yes, there was plenty of power politics going on.
Camille caught up with me. She was just checking on her scarf. “You don’t know what this means to me. This is the first time I’ve ever donated something I made. It makes me fee so authentic.”
I glanced at her dress. Like an actress at the Academy Awards, she was wearing a gown from the “Who are you wearing?” category. I looked down at my dress. Nobody was likely to ask me who I was wearing. More likely they’d ask, “What are you wearing?” in a tone that made clear it wasn’t a compliment. It was my standby black dress, which I now realized was dated. If I was going to go to more of these, I’d have to buy some new clothes. I stopped myself. If I was thinking about going to more evenings like this, then I was thinking seriously about Mason’s remark. Did I want to be his girlfriend?
The jury was still out when the evening ended. As we drove back to Tarzana, I turned my attention away from my future social life and refocused it on the information I’d asked Mason to get. He played his game again, trying to withold it until we went to his house, but I held strong and he backed down.
“Okay, here is what I found out. The property where Iris Stewart has her home and business is in the name Iris Woods, and she’s owned it for almost twenty-three years. Iris married Paul Stewart twenty-one years ago. Adoption papers were filed and Catalina Woods became Catalina Stewart.”
I was rushing to write down what he said. We were standing outside my car parked in his driveway. “It’s kind of cold out here. You must be freezing,” he said, looking at the lacy mohair shawl draped around my shoulders. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing that in front of a nice fire?” He tilted his head toward his house. Okay, maybe he had backed down, but he hadn’t given up. When I asked about Matt Wells, Mason shivered and said he was getting cold. I offered him the inside of my car, but he laughed and declined.
Mason gave in and repeated Matt Wells had been married three times and was currently single. He had four kids ranging from elementary-school age to late teens. “Which amounts to a lot of child support,” Mason said. “He’s currently living in a luxury condo in Encino, and his credit rating is kind of shaky.”
“In other words, he really needs a bigger piece of the dance studios,” I said. Mason nodded in agreement.
“Well,” I said, looking toward my car. “Thanks for all the info.”
“My pleasure,” he said, taking me into a warm embrace. Sharing his body heat felt good. Too good, and I knew staying wrapped in his arms was only going to lead to trouble, so I pulled away and said good night.
“YOU LET MASON BE YOUR SLEUTHING PARTNER again,” Dinah wailed. “I thought that was strictly my job.” She paused for only a second, then said the least I could do was fill her in on everything. I had driven to her house after leaving Mason.
On the coffee table Dinah had the usual stack of papers waiting to be graded, but there was something else.
“Yay, you’ve gotten past the kids leaving,” I said, holding up the form from Date-A-Lot. “You’re ready to work on your social life. Good for you!”
She deflected the comment by asking about Mason and me. I told her the truth. “He’s fun to be with, and the fact he doesn’t want to turn it into anything too serious is appealing.”
“And the downside?” Dinah prompted.
“I’m still getting over Barry. And it’s messy because of the dog and his son Jeffrey. Jeffrey leaves and we’re a couple, and he comes back and we’re not even friends. I did tell you he rejected the friend idea and even gave me back his key, didn’t I?”
“Several times,” Dinah said. “Okay, so what do you think the information Mason gave you means?”
“The most obvious is that Paul Stewart isn’t Ali’s father,” I said. “And somehow Iris had the money to buy the house for the nursery. Things were cheaper back then, but that was still a sizeable investment for someone so young.”
“Do you think she was blackmailing Mary Beth? Maybe that’s it. Mary Beth decided to go public so she couldn’t be blackmailed anymore.”
“I considered that, but Iris doesn’t seem the blackmailing type.” I wasn’t sure what the blackmailing type was, but I doubted that the hard-working owner of a plant nursery fell into the category. “Maybe Mary Beth gave her the money for the down payment.”
“That’s a lot of money to give,” Dinah said. “There must have been something she wanted in return.”
We went back and forth, getting nowhere. I had no choice but to go home and face the She La Las. Did those women ever stop practicing?
The weather had turned cold and damp by the time I drove home. I had narrowed things down a little. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the secret Mary Beth had wanted to settle focused on Ali. I was also sure Ali didn’t know what it was, but her mother did. How far would her mother go to keep the lid on it?
At home, I checked my phone messages. The third one made the hair on my neck stand up. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Just a harsh whisper telling me I was asking for trouble.
My father came in and handed me a large padded envelope with my name written in red. He said it had been on the front porch when Lana and Bunny arrived.
I ripped back the top with shaking hands. Something slid out and hit the ground.
When I looked down, I screamed. A big dead fish with a marzipan apple in its mouth had landed on my foot.
CHAPTER 27
“PINK, WHAT DID YOU DO?” ADELE DEMANDED, rushing up to the event table as I was setting up for the group. I stopped what I was doing and fortified myself with a big sip of my red eye.
I was still recovering from the previous night. It hadn’t been pretty. My father kept asking about the dead fish, and I didn’t have a good answer. Telling him it was some kind of joke didn’t work, partly because my son Samuel had told him I’d gotten involved in a couple of murder investigations.
“Molly,” he’d said, shaking his head. “I know you’ve had to make a lot of adjustments since Charlie died, but what are you doing getting mixed up with murder?” He shook his head again. “I’m not
going to tell your mother.”
I had refrained from voicing my thought that she probably wouldn’t pay attention anyway. If it didn’t have to do with the She La Las and their upcoming audition, she wasn’t interested. Then I had told my father not to worry and that I had the business with the fish under control.
“Well,” Adele said, glaring at me from across the table.
“What are you talking about?” I said, putting the box of yarn out. Sheila arrived and took off the jacket of her black suit before stretching her arms and sitting down.
“I’m talking about Ali quitting the group. She wouldn’t give any details. She said you would explain.” Adele dropped into a chair. CeeCee put her things on the table and stared at Adele.
“What? Ali quit the group? She was such a nice addition. What happened?”
“Ask Pink,” Adele said with irritation.
“What’s going on?” Dinah asked as she set down her things and checked out Adele’s stormy expression. “Did somebody call us a knit group?” Dinah said, smiling. Adele glared in response.
CeeCee was used to people coming and going in the group and recovered immediately. She glanced up and down the table. “Camille’s not here, huh?” Letting out a sigh of relief, she announced, “I think I’ll go and get some of Bob’s special cookies and a latte with whole milk. Anybody else want anything?” When no one responded, CeeCee stayed put. All eyes were on me. They were waiting for an explanation.
“You remember how Ali mentioned that her mother’s name was Iris like the flowers in Mary Beth’s crochet piece?” Everyone nodded but Dinah. She already knew where I was headed. “I thought it might be just a coincidence, but I decided to talk to her mother.”
I described my visit to the cactus nursery and my conversation with Iris. “She denied knowing Mary Beth Wells and I proved she was lying.”
“Ouch,” CeeCee said. “Dear, that sort of thing never goes over well. I remember a role I had in The Devil’s Mistress .” She looked at us for recognition of the title and continued. “It was a period piece, all bustles and rustling dresses. Thank God that fashion hasn’t made a comeback. I played the sweet sister who got killed for doing exactly what Molly did. My sister in the movie kept saying she’d never met the grand duke, and my character found a letter the sister had gotten from him that proved she was lying. She smothered my character with a pillow.”
By Hook or by Crook cm-3 Page 20
