Dead Men Don't Crochet

by Betty Hechtman

  Peter couldn’t understand why I suddenly sounded so happy. “You should seriously think about spending some time with Mason Fields and not hanging out so much with that Dinah. I think she’s a troublemaker.”

  And the calls just kept coming. Samuel was next. Thankfully he didn’t hassle me. He was just checking that I got home safely. Got home as opposed to going to jail.

  “Morgan was impressed with how cool you were,” he said.

  “Morgan’s there?” I asked. Though he hadn’t said it exactly, it was pretty obvious they had some issues. If she was at his place, maybe they were working them out.

  Patricia Bradford was next. I went through the details of the story, and then she fired questions. By now, I was pretty tired. It really had been the longest day.

  “You didn’t mention Benjamin’s name or that you might be part of the team, did you?”

  Might be part of the team? She’d certainly changed her tune. But did I really want to be on Benjamin’s team, anyway?

  “Molly, I’m concerned about your judgment. First the whole Byron Nederman encounter and now this.”

  I knew I should let it lie, but I couldn’t help it. “You’re the one who told me Byron was gay.”

  “I was just trying to circumvent what happened from happening.”

  Patricia was taking this Mrs. Politician thing too far. “I wasn’t boyfriend shopping. I know you said you didn’t see the bald man at the Cottage Shoppe the day Drew Brooks was murdered, but he was there and the time before, too. I thought Byron Nederman was him. It doesn’t matter anymore because I found the right bald guy.”

  I heard Patricia suck in her breath. “The guy on the news? You think he’s the one who hit Drew on the head? Why?”

  “Maybe Drew Brooks tried to cheat him, too,” I said. “That’s why I’d like to talk to him—but under the circumstances it’s going to be tough.”

  “I think it’s nice that you want to help Sheila, but you should stay out of it. Leave it to the police. Everybody on the team has to be squeaky clean,” Patricia said before hanging up.

  And then there was quiet. I turned off the TV and sat on the couch, worn out from the day and yet wired. It wasn’t every day I had a helicopter hovering over me.

  I heard the scratch of a key in the front-door lock. It started to turn, then stopped. Next the phone rang. It was Barry.

  “Good move not using the key,” I said. “That’s for dog care only.” I went to the front door and let him in. “Though I still don’t think calling at my door counts as calling first and making arrangements.” I said it before I really got a look at him. Whatever he’d done after he’d left me must have been rough because he looked all done in. His tie was gone and shirt collar open.

  “I know. I know I shouldn’t have followed the bald guy home,” I said, beginning his lecture for him, but he held up his hand.

  “That’s not why I’m here. It’s about the other night.” He hadn’t sat down and began to pace. “I wasn’t about to say anything when you and Dinah had your hands on the car roof. Remind me later to get back to that.” He ran his hands through his neatly trimmed dark brown hair.

  “I can deal with the Hefeweizen, and your sons. I can deal with your inability to commit. I understand you need time and space.” He turned and his eyes flashed. “But I can’t deal with Mason Fields.” His usually calm voice had grown in intensity. “You seemed awfully glad to see him. What’s going on?”

  “I was glad to see him because I wanted to ask him about Sheila. She’s been a wreck ever since she realized her fingerprints were on the paperweight that knocked Drew out.”

  Barry stopped. “They are? Are you so sure she didn’t do it?”

  I made a grrr face. I was getting tired of everybody saying that. “I’m not interested in being some swinging bachelorette. But you have to understand you don’t own me.”

  Barry seemed less than happy with that last part. “So what exactly is going on with you and Mason?”

  I tried rolling my eyes to show how ridiculous he was being. “Nothing.” There was no reason to mention that Mason kept asking me out to dinner.

  Barry stepped closer, lifted my chin and looked at me intently. “So, there is no relationship between you and Mason Fields?”

  I hesitated. I wouldn’t call it no relationship, but then it wasn’t really anything, either. But only the no relationship answer would give Barry any peace.

  “There’s nothing,” I said while Barry watched me intently. Then I got what he was doing. Mr. Cop never turned off.

  “You’re doing that thing with the eyes, aren’t you?” I asked. I’d read about something called kinesics in the The Average Joe’s Guide. Most of the time people looked in one direction if they were telling the truth and the other if they were lying. I couldn’t remember which direction my eyes had gone, so I quickly began to flip them back and forth.

  Barry caught on to what I was doing. “It’s too late,” he said without a smile. “We detectives are fast. It looked to me like you’re confused.”

  “Okay, so maybe there’s not exactly nothing.” Then I felt bad for saying it. “But I haven’t done anything about it, so far.”

  Barry glanced around the living room. “Where’s your houseguest?”

  “Not here,” I answered. I’d done enough explaining for one night. I stood up as though I was going to walk him to the door, but he stood his ground.

  “What’s so hot about Mason?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Wouldn’t you rather lecture me about not playing detective?” I took a step toward the door but ended up walking right into Barry’s arms.

  “I don’t want to talk about anything, either,” he said, holding me close. “I’d rather do something,” he said, tugging at my buttons as he began to kiss me like he meant it.

  CHAPTER 17

  WHEN I AWOKE, SOMEONE WAS KISSING MY FACE. I thought Barry had stayed over, but when I opened my eyes, I saw that it was Cosmo. He was standing on his short little legs, licking my face as a way to tell me he wanted to go out. Blondie still slept in her chair. She had never wanted to stay on the bed. But Cosmo declared it his spot from his first overnight stay. He slept nestled next to me with his head on my arm. Barry’d had to bribe him with chicken treats to get him out of the room. Barry said it made him feel strange to have an audience. Blondie just stayed in her chair with her paws over her eyes.

  I smiled contentedly and hugged the pillow. For a moment I missed feeling Barry’s warmth next to my bare skin, but then I was relieved. I had a lot of things to do, and his presence would have slowed things up.

  I showered, got dressed and made coffee. Apparently Morgan had come back during the night because she came into the kitchen, following the aroma. I ground it fresh and the fragrance alone perked me up. There was never a problem getting Morgan to drink coffee, but she passed on my offer of cereal and half-and-half as though I’d just offered her cooties and cream. She had some low-calorie stuff she called cereal—I called it puffed cardboard. Then she added water. Yuck.

  An hour later I was heading toward the event area in the bookstore and distressed to see most of the chairs were still there from Romance Night. In my hurry to pursue Mr. Bullard, I’d forgotten all about cleanup. The crocheters must have found the worktable and set it up.

  “Dear, even my special makeup wouldn’t have helped you last night,” CeeCee said as I laid my things on the table and pulled out a chair. What with Barry’s special visit, I’d almost forgotten about my appearance on the news. “You certainly lead an interesting life,” CeeCee added. “You always seem to be ending up on the news.”

  “It wasn’t planned,” I said. Then I explained that Dinah and I had just been trying to find out who the bald guy was so I could pass along the information to Detective Gilmore.

  “I told her she ought to stay out of it,” Patricia said to CeeCee. Then she turned to me and shook her finger like an annoyed parent. “You’re just going to get yoursel
f in trouble.”

  I glanced back toward the bookstore. “Where is everybody?” Then I felt a sense of panic. “Where’s Sheila? The police didn’t—”

  “Not so far,” CeeCee said. “She called me sounding upset and said she was running late. And Adele said she’d be late, too. She said she had some important meeting at Le Grand Fromage.”

  As I took out my partially finished shawl, Dinah walked up to the table. She pulled a pile of papers out of her leather tote and set down a cup of coffee. “I’ve got to get this all graded by this afternoon. I just want to get some of them done. Then I’ll take a break and work on my shawl.”

  “The whole group seems to be falling apart,” Patricia said. She handed CeeCee another knitted shawl. “I know, I know, it’s not crocheted, but I’m sure the recipients won’t mind.”

  CeeCee slipped it in her bag. “As long as Adele doesn’t see it, no problem. The way things are going I am glad for any kind of shawls. This is terrible. We made the commitment to the shelter, and now everyone seems otherwise occupied.” As CeeCee spoke, she continued working on her rust-colored shawl. Her fingers were flying as though on autopilot. The edges of her shawl were perfectly straight. Somehow she never got caught in the stitches of despair.

  “Am I ever going to be able to crochet like that?” I asked, watching her hook move across a row at lightning speed.

  “It takes practice, dear,” CeeCee said with just the slightest edge to her voice. “Instead of watching me—” She gestured toward my dusty rose-colored work in progress. Of course she was right, and I began to move my hook across the row. Ever since Adele had showed me how to use the plastic stitch markers, I hadn’t lost any stitches. I glanced at the edges and was relieved to see they were straight.

  Patricia seemed preoccupied. She didn’t even seem to hear our conversation. She was finally crocheting, though I suspected there were knitting needles hidden in her bag.

  “There’s just so much to do,” she muttered.

  “Did you say something, dear?” CeeCee asked, turning toward her. The distraction didn’t slow her progress. It was as if there were little brains in CeeCee’s fingers.

  “Sorry, I was talking to myself. There is just so much to do to get Benjamin elected. Did you see the window at Caitlin’s Cupcakes? Her husband Victor Ditner is Benjamin’s chief opponent. The whole window is full of cupcakes that say “Vote for Victor.” Even his name sounds like victory.” Patricia appeared disgruntled. “Have you seen the price of the cupcakes? People should realize Victor’s an elitist.”

  “Cupcakes?” CeeCee repeated. Her hook slowed a little as her face softened. “I love cupcakes. The closet I’ve come to eating one lately is crocheting pincushions that look like them. I’ve never tried Caitlin’s.” Then her voice trailed off as she looked down. “They sound wonderful, but I have to get rid of these pesky five pounds before we go into production for my show again.”

  Apparently the mention of cupcakes had cut through Dinah’s concentration because she looked up from her paper grading.

  “You know, some people think it’s all about portion control,” Dinah said. “A cupcake would seem like the perfect answer to how to have your cake and diet, too.”

  “I like the way you think,” CeeCee said.

  Just then Sheila staggered in and pulled out a chair. Her hair was askew and her face sagged with exhaustion. She looked in need of something to revive her, and my immediate reaction was to offer to get her a coffee and some of Bob’s cookies of the day. Today’s were almond-butter cookies and again, he’d used one of my recipes.

  When I came back with a mug and a plate with enough cookies for everyone, she was talking.

  “That Detective Gilmore just won’t let up,” Sheila said, leaning back and closing her eyes. “She said I’m a person of interest.” She started to tap the fingers of her right hand against the table but then used her left hand to stop them. She was jittery in her seat as she quickly took out the shawl she was working on. There was certain franticness as she began crocheting. It was all about keeping her hands busy. At least she didn’t have to worry about her stitches becoming knots. CeeCee had noticed that ever since Sheila had come under the continued scrutiny of Detective Heather, her stitches had become permanently too tight, but CeeCee had come up with a solution. She’d made a revised pattern just for Sheila that let her use a Q-size hook. It looked like a baseball bat for a GI Joe doll, and no matter how tense Sheila got, she couldn’t do tight stitches. She was working in a deep plum acrylic worsted, and the shawl was almost half done. It was great that Sheila was turning her tension into something positive.

  “She keeps taking me into the police station to talk to me. Do you have any idea how creepy it is to sit in one of those interview rooms? Again and again the same questions about why did I threaten Drew Brooks. Wasn’t I so angry when I finally confronted him that I had to do something when he refused to pay me what he owed me?” Sheila stopped crocheting. “She keeps saying, ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ And that she understands it was an accident. Who knew he’d fall in a bowl of soup and drown like that? She has me so confused I almost think maybe I did hit him with the paperweight. Detective Gilmore said it was the one shaped like a globe. I know I picked it up twice. My hand fit so perfectly around the bottom of the pedestal.”

  “Shush,” I said instinctively. It was just like Dinah said. “Don’t even think about it. You haven’t said anything like that to her, have you?” I suggested that if it happened again, she should say she wanted a lawyer and call Mason. Sheila rejected the idea, sure that asking for a lawyer was like saying she was guilty.

  “I’m working on finding out who really did it. Until then, though, don’t let her put words in your mouth,” I said, reaching across the table and touching her hand.

  It didn’t seem fair that Detective Heather was so focused on Sheila when there were other possible suspects, but I knew what she was doing. Barry had mentioned once that detectives thought they had an uncanny ability to “just know” who the guilty party was. And Detective Heather had decided it was Sheila. I knew I’d better hurry and figure out who the real murderer was because soon Sheila was going to crack.

  Under the circumstances I wondered if coffee had been such a good idea. Maybe some herb tea with a sedative effect would have been better. But the coffee seemed to work. Kind of like giving uppers to hyperactive kids calmed them down. She came over and gave me a thank-you hug. “You guys are like my family,” she said, almost in tears.

  “Ladies,” CeeCee said, “let’s not forget why we’re here.” She held up her rust-colored shawl. Throughout everything she had kept working. Patricia gave her a dirty look. I didn’t think she liked being upbraided. With the exception of Dinah, who was still working on her school papers, we all began to seriously crochet.

  I had to pay attention to my crocheting and be sure to mark the right stitches with the plastic pins, but I still kept my eye on the goings-on at the bookstore. It was relatively quiet in the morning and seemed unlikely there’d suddenly be a rush, but just in case, I was ready to help Rayaad.

  During one of my surveillance glances I noticed a woman in exercise wear coming in the door. She had on a baseball cap that threw a shadow over her face, but something about her seemed familiar. There was nothing unusual about that—we had lots of repeat customers—but I just couldn’t place her. She stopped just inside the entrance, and the way her gaze moved around to the various sections of the bookstore, she was obviously looking for something. She took off the baseball cap, and then I realized why she looked so familiar: She was the bald guy’s wife.

  I pushed back my chair and moved across the bookstore, putting on my best can-I-help-you face. Actually, I was more interested in getting information than giving it. There was a slight problem. As soon as I said, “Can I help you?” her face froze in horror and she began to back away.

  “Omigod, it’s you again,” she said loud enough to cause people in the vicinity to gla
nce up from their book browsing and stare. “Are you some kind of stalker?” She reached in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She pushed three numbers, and I didn’t need to see them to figure out what they were. She glanced back toward the event area, and her expression got even more upset when she saw Dinah.

  “What are you, some kind of gang of crocheters?” Mrs. Bullard was about to hit the send button on her phone.

  “No,” I yelled and reached for her cell. She pulled her arm away and the small phone went flying. When it landed, she dove for it and I started to talk really fast. “We’re not a gang. We’re real crocheters. I’m not stalking you. I work here.”

  She picked up the phone and eyed me warily while keeping her finger over the send button.

  I quickly offered a complimentary cup of our coffee of the day and some of our cookies. That seemed to help. “I guess a stalker wouldn’t offer snacks,” she said, pushing the clear button on her cell phone before she slipped it back in her purse.

  As we went into the café, I introduced myself and she did the same, saying her name was Pixie. It had to be a nickname. Who would really name someone that? She didn’t have a pixie sort of look, but she wasn’t the opposite, either. You know, like someone called Tiny who is really a giant. She was short and on the round side with a certain earthy quality. Maybe it was the raspy voice. But what I noticed most was her hair—not the color, which was kind of an ash blond, but the style. She had a short wedge cut. It reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place who.

  Once she had her drink and cookies, we sat down at a table by the counter. She took a sip of her coffee, held up her cup and smiled at Bob. “My compliments to the barista.” She fluttered her eyelids just enough for me to figure out she was a flirt; Bob fell for it big time.

  “Maybe we overreacted last night,” Pixie said, finishing off a cookie. “But Arnold’s an orthodontist, and we’ve had a few problems. Occasionally there’s been a disgruntled patient whose smile doesn’t turn out quite as they envisioned. It certainly isn’t his fault. The man’s a perfectionist. Nobody works harder or cares more about their patients. Even more so now that our kids are away at college. He’s started keeping evening hours several nights a week to make it easier for his patients who work. Of course, it makes it harder for me. He doesn’t want me going out places alone. He’s the jealous type, you know.”