Dead Men Don't Crochet

by Betty Hechtman

  I was moving before I realized it. Patricia had her arm linked with mine, and we were heading toward the door. She had almost ushered me outside when I remembered I’d had an agenda, too. I didn’t have time for the soft-soap technique and had to get right to the point.

  “But I didn’t meet Byron Nederman yet.”

  Patricia’s expression darkened, and she talked under her breath. “Molly, I told you he’s gay. Go to some bar if you’re looking to pick up men.” Someone came up behind her and she did a complete about-face in the expression department as her eyes lit up with a warm smile. “I’m so glad you finally made it, Byron. We were just talking about you. All good things. Go on in and have a martini. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  She held tightly onto me as we advanced toward the door. I turned, but all I could see was Byron’s back as he walked across the room. He certainly looked like the man I’d seen at the Cottage Shoppe.

  Omigod, this was my chance. I pulled away from Patricia’s grasp and moved toward him. She was not going to keep me from having my little chat with Byron. As I approached him, I racked my memory for what The Average Joe’s Guide suggested about questioning someone when you might only have a minute or two. There was definitely something about getting right to the point.

  I was going to follow the book’s advice, so touched his arm to get his attention. “Byron, it’s so good to see you again,” I said. “I saw you at the Cottage Shoppe the day Drew Brooks was murdered. I guess you didn’t see me. It was just horrible what happened. So, how did you know Drew Brooks? Were you, like, dating?” The man had turned completely toward me by now and was looking at me as though I were totally out of my mind. As I took in his features, I suddenly had a bad feeling—a really bad feeling. So, maybe he wasn’t the bald man I was looking for after all.

  It got worse when I heard some woman introduce herself as his girlfriend.

  Oops!

  CHAPTER 15

  WHEN I GOT HOME I TRIED TO DISTRACT MY thoughts from the unfortunate incident with Byron Nederman by cooking a quick dinner. Besides, I was still hungry; Patricia’s appetizers were really appeteasers, being more about looks than substance. The bits of brie and tiny mushroom puffs were just enough to remind me I’d skipped lunch. And I still had Romance Night at the bookstore to deal with.

  I changed into the ballet flats, went into the kitchen and wrapped an apron around the black linen dress. I put some water on to boil for pasta and swirled some olive oil and garlic in a frying pan over a low fire. I took out a bag of cut-up vegetables and a jar of sun-dried tomatoes while I called Dinah to give her an update. I hoped this time she could talk. It turned out she knew Byron Nederman or at least who he was. It seemed everybody knew him but me.

  “He owns a chain of health clubs, including the one where Sheila works,” Dinah said.

  “Great,” I said with a groan, making a mental note never ever to run into him again. “As I was leaving I heard Patricia making excuses for me. Something about my being distraught because I’d been recently widowed. I think her whole spiel about being part of the team might be bogus.”

  “Not necessarily. You do have publicity experience. He’s probably going to win, anyway. I think the only other person running is the guy whose wife owns Caitlin’s Cupcakes.”

  Dinah was making me feel better. But just when I thought I had my friend back I heard the sounds of crying on her end and Jeremy’s agitated voice.

  “E. Conner just poured grape jelly all over the floor. Got to go.” As she clicked off, I heard her mutter something about having to get out of there.

  As I put the phone back in the charger, a door down the hall opened and Morgan drifted out of her room. She laid some crochet work on the table to show me what she’d created. She had only done the beginning of a shawl, but it was perfect. Not a surprise as I was getting the feeling she demanded perfection from herself. I complimented her on it and dropped some shredded carrots, broccoli florets and sun-dried tomatoes into the olive oil and garlic.

  “Want to join me for dinner? I always make too much.” I took out a package of angel-hair pasta and dropped it in the boiling water.

  She hesitated. I knew the smell had gotten to her. But she shook her head.

  “I’m being supervigilant about my diet.” She went to the freezer, took out a frozen diet dinner and put it in the microwave. “But we can still eat together. I’ll even set the table.”

  “You know, if you don’t eat enough you won’t have the energy to give the auditions your all.” Then I backtracked and apologized for minding her business.

  Morgan smiled. “I kind of like it. My mother is so wrapped up in her own life she never pays any attention to what I do.” She put plates and silverware on the kitchen’s built-in table. She was dressed in warm-up pants and a tiny tee shirt. I still didn’t know where she was going to find that five pounds she wanted to lose.

  But I liked having her around, too. It was almost like having a daughter.

  I strained the pasta and mixed it with the sauteed vegetables, then made myself a plate. When I joined her at the table, she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off my dinner, which seemed a lot more appealing than her reduced-calorie macaroni and no-fat cheese with a side of green beans. If I’d had just a little longer, I bet she would have weakened and had some of mine.

  As we ate I told her about my debacle at Patricia’s party. “My only hope is that I never meet him again.” By now I could see the humor in it. Morgan laughed at the story—something I hadn’t seen her do before. The way her face brightened, it really was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day.

  “How’s it going with your murder investigation?” she asked.

  “Are you joking?” I asked, checking her expression, which was completely serious now.

  “No,” she answered. “Why would I do that?”

  I went down the list of people who either were telling me to stay out of it, like Barry, or were afraid I’d do something to embarrass them, like Peter or Mrs. Shedd, or who were just hoping I’d do something to give them a reason to arrest me, like Detective Heather. Samuel, I realized, was only worried I might get hurt.

  I couldn’t believe what she did next. She came around the table and hugged me. “Molly, I think what you’re doing is wonderful. You’re trying to help a friend.”

  Fueled by Morgan’s support, I told her what I knew and mostly what I still didn’t know about Drew’s murder. “His brother Kevin seems to have gained the most from Drew’s death. Now the whole place is his, and he certainly didn’t waste any time starting to remodel. Kevin certainly had the opportunity. I wasn’t paying any attention to his whereabouts before the murder. He could have hit Drew, and when he heard Trina coming, stepped into his own office.”

  I looked up as if a thunderbolt had just hit me. “That’s how the hanky ended up under his desk!”

  Morgan’s confused expression made me realize she didn’t know what I was talking about. I had put the hanky in a plastic bag for safekeeping and then put the bag between some cookbooks to flatten the handkerchief out. I pulled the bag out from the kitchen shelf to show her. She wrinkled her nose when she saw the red spots, so I quickly explained my soup theory. She became more animated than I’d ever seen her before, though I was disturbed to notice she’d barely touched her dinner.

  “Then you think Kevin Brooks did it for sure?” Morgan’s hazel eyes were keen with interest.

  “He certainly could have. But I’d still like to talk to the bald guy—the right bald guy. I’d like to know what he was so angry about and why he wasn’t anywhere to be found when the police showed up.”

  Morgan helped me load the dishwasher when we’d finished eating. Then she said she was off to an evening dance class. No matter how I tried to tell her that too much of a good thing like exercise could be bad and suggested instead an evening of romance at the bookstore, she wouldn’t budge.

  Since Barry hadn’t come by, I assumed he was tied up with work so I let Cos
mo and Blondie in the yard and fed them. Then I slipped back into my heels and headed for Romance Night.

  All was still quiet at Shedd & Royal. I was glad I’d already done all the prep work. Since we always got an extra large turnout, I had put out all the chairs. The black dress, red jacket and heels I was wearing were more formal than what I usually wore for Romance Night and certainly not good for moving stacks of chairs. Tonight was supposed to be extra special. Not only did we have the author of Gina and Captain Blackhart, but the cover model was coming as well. I’d seen the book cover, and although bulging biceps and shirts ripped open to expose six-pack abs weren’t my thing, the long, flowing black hair and shimmering dark eyes definitely made an impression.

  Bob the barista had made plenty of scones, and I brought out the special blend of tea and spices we called Romance in the Night. Our romance authors liked to read an excerpt, and they usually chose something really sexy, which tended to inflame the crowd’s appetite. We always sold out of whatever snacks we had.

  As people began to trickle in, I noticed right away the crowd was even bigger than usual. From the buzz of conversation, I gathered it had a lot to do with the appearance of “Captain Blackhart.” No one was hanging around not wanting to be the first to sit down. The early comers went right for the seats in the middle of the front row. Everyone dressed up a little more for Romance Night, but tonight they’d gone over the top. I’d never seen so much cleavage. They were all ages, from teens on up to granny types.

  Dorothy and Trina came in and sat in the third row. I walked over and greeted the two saleswomen from the Cottage Shoppe. Something occurred to me from The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation. There was a whole section about interviewing people but making it seem like informal conversation. Maybe I could find out something about the handkerchief. But, there wasn’t any way I could casually ask what Kevin might be doing with a lacy hanky. The only thing I could come up with was to say I was looking to purchase such an item and ask if the store had any.

  However, Dorothy and Tina seemed more interested in admiring the covers of their copies of Gina and Captain Blackhart.

  “Lucky we snatched our copies early,” Dorothy said, pointing at the end cap display of the books. The crowd usually waited until the end of the program to decide if they wanted a book. Tonight they were more concerned with making sure they got one. The display was already close to empty.

  “We have more in the back,” I said. “But back to that hanky I’m looking for . . .” I let my voice trail off, hoping one of them would jump in.

  “I don’t think we’ve carried anything like that for a long time,” Trina said.

  Dorothy thought for a moment. “Ramona Brooks liked that sort of thing. Someone brought in some family heirlooms, but that’s the last time we had anything like what you described. Sorry.”

  Even The Average Joe’s Guide said the conversation technique didn’t always work. Besides, I suddenly had something more immediate to deal with.

  Adele chose that moment to make her entrance. Everybody turned as she sashayed toward me. In an effort to look like some pirate princess, she wore a full black skirt, part of which she’d caught in her belt, revealing far more thigh than anyone wanted to see. This was topped off with an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. She had layered on a week’s worth of makeup, giant gold hoop earrings and a bandana tied around her head. The final touches were a big eyebrow-pencil-induced beauty mark and a toe ring on her bare feet. And she was acting as if nothing was strange.

  She draped herself across the table set up in the front and toyed with the stack of books. Was it my imagination or did she run her fingers across the lower lip of the picture of Capain Blackhart?

  “Pink, since you’re helping me out with the horror guy, I thought it only fair I help you out with tonight’s program. Besides,” she said, looking me up and down, “I’m dressed better and I talk his language.” She said the last part in her impression of a sexy growl. Being a woman, I guessed I was not a fair judge, but the voice thing didn’t work for me. As for the clothing issue, that didn’t work for me, either. My attire was businesslike, while she looked like she was on her way to a costume party. However, I had to admit, it was a crowd pleaser. People were even coming up to her to have their pictures taken with her. I heard some comments about the fun atmosphere. Maybe it was, but I was drawing the line at starting to wear costumes for book signings.

  And I wasn’t helping Adele with the horror guy, as she called him. I was handling Milton Mindell’s extravaganza; she was the one doing the helping. I certainly didn’t need her assistance with Romance Night, but she had gone to a lot of trouble with the outfit and it seemed important to her. I shrugged to myself. Why not?

  More people had come in, and almost all the chairs were taken. From the buzz of conversation I picked up a comment here and there about the cover model. Kat Wylde, the author, certainly knew what she was doing including him in her presentation. I’d never seen such a big turnout, nor felt such a high level of excitement.

  I saw Rayaad waving at me. The cashier was holding the phone and pointing at me and then at it—sign language that there was a call for me. I had a good view of the area right in front of the door as I took the phone and said hello.

  “Molly,” Dinah said in a whisper so low I could barely hear her. I held the ear piece closer, trying to hear her while I looked out the window.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, surprised to get a call from her at the store. “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m on my cell at the movies,” she said a little louder. I could hear swelling music in the background along with someone trying to shush her. Meanwhile I watched Kat Wylde get out of her Honda. The lights from the walkway spread out into the parking lot, making it easy to see her dusty rose-colored pantsuit. A man climbed out of a Ford Explorer, and by the way he was tugging at his black leather pants, I guessed he had a wedgy. There was no mistaking who he was. I recognized the flowing mane of raven black hair and the unbuttoned billowy white shirt from the cover of her book. All our signage referred to him as Captain Blackhart, and I realized I didn’t know his real name.

  Kat marched over to him, and they fell into immediate discussion. Sparks were definitely flying between them, but not the hot, passionate kind. Their body language said they were arguing, and it continued as they approached the door.

  “Molly, are you still there?” Dinah said.

  I apologized and started to explain I sensed a crisis about to happen, but Dinah interrupted me.

  “He’s here,” she said.

  “Who’s there?”

  “The bald guy. The one who had the Harrods bag. He’s sitting in front of me with some woman.”

  “Are you sure? Tarzana seems to awash in bald heads,” I said, forgetting my crisis couple for a second.

  “I’m sure it’s him.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” she said. “What should I do?”

  That was a good question and I didn’t have an answer.

  The author and cover model had moved their argument inside. It was not good for business and I had to deal with it immediately. I told Dinah to keep an eye on the bald guy and I’d get there as soon as possible, then hung up.

  Moving briskly, I stepped between Kat and Captain Blackhart and introduced myself, hoping to defuse their argument, but instead I became the referee.

  “Would you tell her that I am not just a good-looking face and well-developed muscles,” he said. “My understanding was that I was going to get a chance to read some of my poetry.”

  “And would you tell him that he is supposed to behave like the character in the book.”

  I had only read selections, but it was enough to know Captain Blackhart was an alpha male, and more interested in being a swashbuckling pirate than settling down. The women in the book were breathless about him, despite his dark moods and who-cares-about-you kind of attitude. He was definitely
not a poetry-writer type.

  “He’s just supposed to read a selection from the book and maybe glower a few times and let the women take pictures with him. And that’s it,” Kat said.

  Hoping to appease Captain Blackhart, I asked him for his real name, which was Eduardo Linnares. I persuaded Eduardo that if he agreed to read a selection from Kat’s book and do the photo thing tonight, he could come back and read his poetry another time. I said he’d be guaranteed a spot on Poetry Night. Up until that moment we hadn’t actually had a Poetry Night, but it sounded like a good idea.

  Then I brought Kat and Eduardo up to the front of the crowd and introduced them, and they took over from there. I had to hand it to Kat; the idea of having him read was brilliant. The book started out as the pirate’s diary, and Eduardo’s deep voice was perfect for the copy. It was all about being at sea looking for some ships to rob and some women to have his way with. I thought everything was going fine until Eduardo stopped reading and looked out at the crowd. “I don’t know why you want to read about a guy like this. He’s a jerk.”

  Kat put her hands over her eyes, and the whole group seemed to suck in their collective breaths in shock. When she recovered, Kat lunged for him. I blocked her, shut the book and announced we’d get right to the signing and anyone who wished to could take a photo with Eduardo. And by the way, there were complimentary scones and tea. That did the trick; the crowd rose from their seats and lined up.

  I had discovered that unexpected turns of events and even catastrophes could actually help book sales, and this night was no different. We not only sold out of Gina and Captain Blackhart, including the copies in the back, but also had to take orders. We also sold a ton of Kat Wylde’s backlist and a lot of books with Eduardo on the cover.

  Adele handled the photo line and tried to get in as many of the pictures as she could. Everyone seemed to want a picture of Eduardo kissing them, and he was very obliging. By the time he was done, his poor lips must have been chapped.

  When I left the store, the crowd had dispersed and Eduardo was in conversation with Adele. I overheard him say something about how hard it was being a cover model and her saying she understood, but I didn’t listen more because I wanted to get to the movie theater to see Dinah and the bald man.