“Ladies, remember we’re supposed to be hooking for charity,” CeeCee said, obviously dropping the washcloth issue. “We need to come up with a new project. Anybody have any ideas?”
The mission of the Tarzana Hookers was to make projects to either give directly to those in need or to help raise money at a charity sale. It was because of the mission that Mrs. Shedd had invited the group to meet at the bookstore. And it was why she paid for the yarn for all the projects.
We all looked up from our work, except Sheila. She had managed to dig into the stitches with the smaller hook. CeeCee had reminded her to keep the next row of her stitches loose, and Sheila seemed to be mouthing the words as she worked. It appeared to be a kind of meditation for her, enabling her to put whatever was bothering her on the shelf.
“Is this some kind of meeting?” a woman’s voice asked, distracting us from CeeCee’s question. The speaker was dressed in what I’d call country-club casual: taupe slacks and white polo shirt with a navy sweater tied around her shoulders. I recognized the not-a-hair-out-of-place look that always made me pat my hair hoping to eliminate the usual flyaways.
“Hi, Patricia,” I said with a welcoming smile. “We’re the Tarzana Hookers.” I held up my hook and scarf as a visual aid. “Want to join?” I thought since it was a bookstore event and I was in charge of such things it was okay for me to do the inviting. “This is Patricia Orrington,” I said before introducing everyone at the table. I explained that she was the author of Patricia’s Perfect Hints, which was a big hit at the bookstore. I didn’t mention that it was self-published and the main reason Mrs. Shedd was so happy to stock it and host book signings was because Patricia had gotten a wine stain out of Mrs. Shedd’s designed-in-Paris white blouse.
“It’s Bradford now, Molly. You keep forgetting. As in Benjamin Bradford who is running for city council.” At that, she put a campaign button down for each of us. Everyone looked at theirs, except Sheila. She hadn’t even glanced up in acknowledgment when I told Patricia her name. Was I the only one noticing she wasn’t participating?
“So, you’re the Tarzana Hookers.” She walked around the table, examining our work. When she passed Sheila, she gave us all a raised-eyebrow look before moving on. “I would like to join you. This is just the sort of thing I need. You know, involving myself in some neighborhood thing.”
“Do you crochet?” Adele asked.
“No,” Patricia answered, turning her attention to CeeCee and asking more about the group.
When CeeCee explained we made things for charity, Patricia seemed even more interested. “Even better. What are you working on?” She checked out our varied projects, giving CeeCee’s donut a particularly puzzled look. Adele explained these were our own projects and that we were looking for a group project.
“Well, I have the charity,” Patricia said, sitting down. She opened up her large purse and took out some yarn. That seemed a little odd, as if maybe she knew all about us and had planned to join before she even got here. “The Women’s Haven. It’s a shelter for abused and homeless women and their children. It’s Benjamin’s pet charity. Bradford Industries donated the building they’re housed in.”
Adele’s eyes bugged out at what Patricia did next. She took out circular knitting needles on which hung the beginning of something sunny yellow. “This will be fun.”
“That’s not crochet. And this is a crochet group. A crochet-only group,” Adele said, looking like she was going to blow. “If we were a knit-and-crochet group we would be called the Tarzana Hookers and Needle Heads.”
CeeCee gave Adele one of her cease-and-desist looks. We all agreed we were crochet only and that we liked it better than knitting, but Adele was rabid about it.
“If you want to join us, you’ll have to crochet,” CeeCee said in a pleasant voice. “Adele or I would be glad to teach you.”
Patricia put her needles away and moved closer to CeeCee. “I think I’d rather have you teach me.” So far she hadn’t made any reference to CeeCee’s celebrity status, but I had a feeling the wheels were turning in her head, trying to figure out a way to get CeeCee’s endorsement for her husband. Patricia turned to me. “Didn’t I hear you were the one who solved Ellen Sheridan’s murder?”
“Right now, the only mystery Pink should be concerned with is what happened to the missing stitches,” Adele said, holding up my work in progress and pointing out how the brown scarf was getting narrower and narrower. “You’re missing the last stitch on each row,” she added with just a touch of triumph. “Time to unravel.” She turned her attention to Patricia. “That’s one of the beauties of crochet compared to knitting: the ease of undoing your mistakes.”
Sheila seemed to have lost the meditation aspect of her crocheting and was back to hunched shoulders and tight stitches. Suddenly her head shot up, and she threw her work in the center of the table. Her hook pinged against the hard surface. “That’s it. I can’t do it. I can’t do this anymore.”
She pushed back from the table and stood up. CeeCee picked up the royal blue yarn from the middle of the table and began to unravel it while at the same time suggesting Sheila sit down. “Is there something bothering you besides your crochet work?”
Sheila’s face said it all. Her brows were scrunched together, her eyes were filling with water, and her mouth quivered with sadness.
“Yes,” Sheila said in a tremulous voice.
“Why don’t you tell us about it,” Dinah said.
“Maybe we can help,” CeeCee offered. Then we all started encouraging Sheila to talk.
Patricia rapped on the table. “Girls, if you all talk at once we’re not going to be able to hear Sheila.” The talking stopped and everyone looked expectantly at Sheila, except for Dinah and me. We traded knowing smiles. Just what the group needed: another person who wanted to be boss.
It took a bit of doing, but CeeCee got Sheila to sit back down at the table. Sheila started drumming her fingers on the table, a sure sign she was really close to the edge. I went over and hugged her, both to make her feel better and to try and stop her fingers. Between the vibe she was giving off and the finger tapping, I was getting nervous. Patricia subtly edged her chair farther away from Sheila. She always seemed to keep herself under complete control, so I supposed seeing someone having a meltdown was upsetting for her. I stood behind Sheila and laid my hands on her shoulders, which for some reason seemed to have a calming effect. I urged her to take some deep breaths, and gradually I could feel her extreme tension release.
“Okay, dear, we’re all ready,” CeeCee urged.
Sheila had chin-length brown hair that hung straight and usually covered part of her round face. She was in her early thirties and the youngest in the group.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she began finally. “I mean, you all have such good jobs. CeeCee with your TV show, Molly does the event thing with the bookstore, Dinah is a college professor.”
“Just an instructor,” Dinah corrected.
“Whatever, it’s still a good job. And Adele runs the kids’ department here at the bookstore,” Sheila said.
I noticed Adele didn’t correct her. But she didn’t quite run the kids’ department. She only handled story time. Mrs. Shedd did the buying, and any book signings went through me.
“So, I thought you wouldn’t understand.” She stopped and took a few deep breaths. “My job as receptionist at the gym doesn’t pay that much. I tried to get more shifts, but it was a no-go. Something about they don’t want me to be full-time because they’d have to pay benefits. So, I thought maybe I could sell some of the scarves I’ve made.” At that she took one out of her bag, and as usual we all oohed and aahed.
It was hard to believe the beautiful scarf was made by the same person who had just thrown her work across the table. Patricia picked it up and examined it.
“You made this?” She didn’t have to say more. We all knew what she meant. We had had the same reaction the first time we saw one of Sheila’s creations.
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“When I’m alone I’m more relaxed when I crochet, and I use one of these.” Sheila produced what looked like a plastic crochet hook on steroids.
It wasn’t the stitches that stood out on Sheila’s scarf—they were just single and double crochet. It was the different yarns and the way she’d mixed them. The scarf on the table had a base of a royal blue ribbon mohair, but then she had made a pattern by mixing it first with a mauve eyelash and a delft blue worsted. Farther up, she’d taken out the blue worsted and changed to a green. The subtle change of color and texture created the effect of an impressionist painting. She had finished it with a blue fringe beaded with tiny crystals that caught the light.
“It’s beautiful. I don’t see why you had a problem selling them,” Patricia said.
“That’s not the problem. They have actually been selling very well. It’s just . . .” Sheila swallowed a few times and appeared agitated again. “I’ve been selling them at the Cottage Shoppe, and it was fine as long as Mrs. Brooks was running it. She kept meticulous records and always paid me on time. But she died.” Sheila’s eyes welled up again, and she did her best to fight back the tears. “Her nephews are running the place now. Really, one of them seems to be the boss. His name is Drew Brooks and, and . . .” Sheila sighed. “He gave me a whole story about the scarves not selling and he had to lower the price and some of them got lost, and the check he gave me was for half of what it should have been.” With everything finally out in the open, Sheila seemed spent but calmer. I gave her shoulders a squeeze and sat down.
I knew the store she was talking about. It was located in a house on Ventura Boulevard that had been turned into a business a long time ago. In ancient times in Tarzana, which was like the 70’s, there had been a number of houses that were turned into businesses along the main street. Most had since been replaced by bland-looking store-fronts. Only the Cottage Shoppe had survived, probably because Mrs. Brooks had been the original owner. It was a Tarzana landmark that sold antiques, some eclectic new items and things on consignment. I hadn’t realized the new owners had branched out into selling handicrafts, but then, I hadn’t been in there for a long time.
“That’s terrible,” Patricia said before turning to the rest of us. “It’s such a wonderful store. I placed some things there myself. Before I found Benjamin, I was struggling as a single parent. But of course, I only dealt with Mrs. Brooks, and she was always wonderful.”
“Well, everything’s changed,” Sheila said. “And on top of it, I had already given him more of the scarves before I knew about the money issue. I don’t know what to do. I really need to sell them, and there aren’t any other options.”
“That’s terrible that this Drew person tried to cheat you,” Dinah said.
“I don’t think he tried; I think he succeeded,” Adele chimed in.
Then suddenly everyone started talking at once again. Patricia rapped on the table and opened her mouth to speak, but CeeCee beat her to the punch. “We can’t let him get away with that,” she said, laying a hand on Sheila’s shoulder.
Patricia seemed miffed at having been ignored and said something about needing to leave. She was volunteering at the senior center. As she got up to go, she went on about her commitment to the community and how even though it was Benjamin’s name on the ballot, she and her husband were really a team.
“I have an idea for our next project,” Dinah said. “I don’t know if you noticed how Molly put her hands on Sheila’s shoulders to comfort her, and then CeeCee did something similar. The feeling of having some weight on your shoulders seems to have a comforting effect. What if we crocheted shawls for the Women’s Haven? They would be like comforting hugs.”
“And we could call them ‘hugs of comfort,’ ” Adele suggested.
We all liked the idea. Sheila said it was true that having something on her shoulders had made her feel calmer and if anyone was a good judge, it was her.
“Well, that’s taken care of, but we still have to do something about Sheila’s problem,” CeeCee said.
CHAPTER 2
SINCE THERE WAS NO EVENT AT THE BOOKSTORE that night, I left in the late afternoon. Mrs. Shedd knew I was likely to work more rather than fewer hours, so she let me make my own schedule. I was still thinking about Sheila as I headed for my car. It was great that she had found a place to sell her scarves, but terrible that the guy was shorting her. I, more than the rest of the crochet group, knew how important selling those scarves was to Sheila. The crochet group knew only part of her story.
Sheila came to a lot of the events at the bookstore. And after the program for the book Tea and Sympathy: An Anecdote to Stress and Anxiety, she had hung around talking as I handed out samples of the author’s special blend of herbal relaxation tea. Sheila had looked forlorn as she told me how adrift she still felt since the death of the grandmother who’d raised her.
“I know it’s silly since I am thirty-one, but I feel like an orphan without Granny Annie,” she’d said, tossing her paper cup but making no move to leave. I told her I certainly understood the feeling. I didn’t feel like an orphan, but I certainly felt adrift. Even though my husband Charlie had been dead almost two years, I still sometimes woke up in the morning and forgot. And then I’d realize he wasn’t there and feel a hollow emptiness that just ached.
“You have the crochet group and your boyfriend,” I’d said, hoping to make her feel better. I’d never met him, but she talked about him often. Frankly, he didn’t sound like much of a bargain. They seemed to be always off and on again, and he was always pushing her to take drugs for her anxiety.
“And I have school and my plans for the future. But taking one class at a time at night is making it take forever. I just want to finish and get a job as a costume designer at one of the studios.” At that she had sighed and smiled at me. “I don’t mean to sound so pathetic. Sometimes it all just gets to me.” She’d looked down and then met my eyes again. “Please don’t tell the rest of the group about my living arrangements. It’s so embarrassing.”
I had kept her secret, not even telling Dinah, though I didn’t think anyone would think the lesser of her. So, she rented a room in a house in Reseda and had to babysit for the owner on the weekend to pay part of the rent. Sheila had a lot on her plate, and it was no wonder she was nervous. And no wonder she was so upset about the scarves. I got angry just thinking about it.
I glanced at the Cottage Shoppe as I drove past on my way home. The wood-frame house was painted a blue gray, and the large windows that faced Ventura Boulevard had window boxes overflowing with red, white and deep purple petunias. How could a place that looked so charming on the outside be run by a total jerk?
We had continued talking about Sheila’s problem after Patricia left. Everyone agreed that Sheila should take back the check and insist on the fair amount. She seemed to go along with the idea, but I wondered if she could handle it.
My house was in an area raised off the Valley floor but still flat enough to have a big yard. A few blocks behind me, the land rose upward and became the Santa Monica Mountains. Houses dotted the slopes, and then it turned wild and green where the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy began.
I pulled the greenmobile into the driveway. My older son Peter had a fit every time he saw me driving the car. I called it vintage. He called it too old. It was a 1993 190E in a shade I called teal green that was so unusual that whenever I saw another car the same color we waved in solidarity. It was a good car, and I hadn’t seen any reason to replace it.
I stepped out of the car and headed toward the backyard, my usual path to my kitchen door. As I opened the gate still deep in thought, I heard rustling coming from inside. Somebody was in the yard. My breath caught, and I started to backtrack toward the driveway while reaching for my cell phone. Suddenly a ball of black fur roared up and dropped a ball at my feet. I felt my lungs release, the air pouring out in a gush. Was I ever going to get used to this?
“We didn’t scare you, did we?” The voic
e belonged to Barry Greenberg, my sort of boyfriend. The sort of was only in my mind. He saw us as a couple.
“As a matter of fact, you did,” I said as my heart rate returned to normal.
“I stopped by to drop off some dog food, and while I was here thought I’d give him a little playtime.” Though Barry shrugged defensively, his smile seemed self-satisfied. “Cosmo wants you to throw the ball,” Barry said, pointing at the red sphere at my feet.
I bent over to pet the little black mutt, and he did a happy dance in response. I lobbed the ball far into the yard, then walked in, shutting the gate behind me. Cosmo ignored the ball and followed me.
“Didn’t you see my Tahoe parked out front?” Barry said. “I’d think you’d be used to my visits by now.”
“I guess I didn’t notice your SUV.” To me all SUVs looked the same; besides, I’d been thinking about Sheila when I drove up, and there was a part of me that didn’t want to see his SUV parked there.
“I left more food for him in the kitchen. As long as I’m here I might as well feed him.”
Barry was a homicide detective—and very clever and very stubborn. His idea of calling before coming over was using his cell phone at my door—a problem for me. His excuse was that the nature of his job made it hard to make advance plans.
As we walked into the kitchen, Barry pointed out the cabinet door he’d fixed. He was a master with his hands and repaired anything in my house that seemed broken.
“Where’s Jeffrey?” I asked. Barry had been divorced for a number of years, but only recently had his soon-to-be fourteen-year-old son come to live with him.
Barry gritted his teeth. “At a rehearsal.” Jeffrey wanted to be an actor and wanted to be known as Columbia Greenberg, which he thought was a star name. Barry hated the name and the idea, and kept trying to steer him toward some kind of criminal justice career.
So, why was Barry in my backyard with Cosmo? The only way Barry and Jeffrey could adopt Cosmo was if they had backup. The adoption people knew that homicide detectives often worked odd hours and almost fourteen-year-olds weren’t always dependable when it came to remembering to walk a dog or feed it. Since I had a house with a dog door and a big yard, and I was a total soft heart when it came to animals or kids, I’d agreed to be their backup.
Dead Men Don't Crochet Page 2
