Yarn to Go

by Betty Hechtman

  The kitchen reminded me of my aunt’s. These weren’t tract houses, but they had been built at the same time by the same builder, so it made sense that they were similar. The big difference was my aunt had taken the freestanding garage and turned it into a guesthouse. I was pretty sure Dane had turned his into a party room, since his red truck was always parked in the driveway and the music always seemed to blare from his garage.

  He seemed less imposing now that he was out of uniform. The cargo pants hung low on his hips and did a nice job of showing off—was I going to say his butt? I moved my eyes up to the gray T-shirt he wore on top and found myself noticing the bulge of his biceps and his well-developed chest. I bet there was a six-pack hiding under there.

  I chastised myself for my thoughts, reminding myself of his too many nights a week of entertaining. But it was impossible not to notice that he was very attractive, even if he seemed a little cocky. I suppose his height was considered average, but it just made him seem more compact and like he could spring into action. I’d seen him jogging by my place at night sometimes, and he could definitely move.

  In my worry about flirting, I’d forgotten to look at my page of notes. What did I want to ask him? Here was my chance, and I was blowing it. I searched for anything. If I couldn’t ask about Edie, maybe I could find out the details of what had happened to Amanda Proctor. “Do you know anything about a woman who fell off the bluff near the lighthouse?” I asked.

  He finished with the noodles and gave the sauce a stir. “I don’t recall her name offhand, but she was here for one of these retreats. The medical examiner ruled it an accident.”

  I noticed there was a question in his voice. “But you don’t think it was?”

  He shrugged. “I just thought it seemed weird that she’d be sitting on a bench, knitting, and then stand so close to the edge that she’d fall off.” He shrugged again. “The ME thought a gust of wind might have knocked her off-balance.” He glanced downward. “I was the first responder. She’d been there for a few days when somebody climbing on the rocks saw her and called it in.” He shook his head. “I won’t go into the gory details, but she was still holding a handful of yarn.

  “Sorry for the delay,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth dish towel and turning to face me. “So which is it, brown or white?”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Brown or white,” he said for the second time.

  I gave him a blank look and he winked. “The sugar you wanted, remember?” he said with a teasing smile as he picked up the measuring cup off the counter. “C’mon, sweetcakes, we’re neighbors. You don’t need an excuse to stop over. I saw you drooling over the spaghetti. Sit down and I’ll get you a plate.”

  “Sweetcakes?” I said, wrinkling my nose.

  “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Make sweet cakes,” he said. His dark eyes were dancing in a friendly way as he pulled out a large white plate and used a funny-looking tool to grab a bunch of noodles.

  “Muffin would be more accurate, but let’s not get into nicknames.” I was practically drunk from the smell of the spaghetti sauce, and my stomach was making all kinds of begging noises. Still, I tried to say no, but he said it was too late as he ladled on some sauce and added a shake of ground cheese.

  “Mind if I wash my hands?” I said.

  “Be my guest.” He pointed down the hall to the bathroom.

  Just like my aunt’s guest bathroom, this one had a door to the outside. How convenient for his party crowd. I didn’t intend to snoop, but after I’d finished with the soap and water there wasn’t a towel. I was just going to check the cabinet in the corner of the bathroom for something to dry my hands with. As soon as I opened the door on it, a stack of women’s clothes fell out. I put most of them back without looking, but I couldn’t help checking out the sweat suit on top. It was pink and one of those designer things that had words across the butt. This one said HOT. I quickly refolded it and put it back.

  The towels were on the next shelf, and as I pulled one out, I almost dropped it. Directly next to the stack of fresh towels at eye level were several industrial-size boxes of condoms. I shut the door fast, stifling an embarrassed laugh. I suppose you could at least give him credit for being prepared.

  His parties must be even wilder than I’d imagined. I had a hard time looking him in the eye when I came back into the kitchen. He’d put out a place mat, silverware and a napkin, with a plate loaded with spaghetti in the middle.

  He took another cookie and gave me a thumbs-up as I dug into the spaghetti. He pulled out a chair and sat across from me. I barely stopped eating long enough to give him a thumbs-up in return. Let’s say I more or less inhaled the whole plate. I was scraping up the last of the noodles and felt like licking the plate.

  “Look, I know you didn’t really come for the sugar, and you aren’t just dropping by to say hi. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you came by, but you want to level with me and tell me what’s going on?” While I was still considering what to say he continued. “I know you’re worried after what happened to that woman in your group. If you’re looking for reassurance, I’m here to give it.”

  “What do know about Edie Spaghazzi’s death?” I said, suddenly remembering what I wanted to know. “Like how exactly did she die? When exactly did she die? Did Lieutenant Borgnine notify her family? And did they dust those knitting needles for fingerprints?”

  He did a double take. “Aren’t you direct?” He started to give me the reassurance speech, but then he grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re doing the Nancy Drew thing.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m experienced,” I said. “I worked for a private investigator in Chicago, and he’s advising me.” When he continued to grin, I went on explaining that I felt responsible for the group and felt like I had to make sure whoever was responsible got caught before everyone went their separate ways. I started to talk about the group and how they were all panicky because they felt like they were both suspects and possible targets. “I can’t let them down. I have an issue with not finishing things,” I said. Then I rolled my eyes. “Why am I telling you?” I thanked him for the food and started to get up. I needed to get back and get out of there before his bevy of guests started to arrive.

  “Hey,” he said, following me to the door. “We’re on the case. True we don’t have a lot of murders in Cadbury, but we’ll get the guy. Don’t worry, even if it’s kind of weird. By the way, those silver needles weren’t the cause of death.”

  “What?” I said, stopping. I thought back to finding Edie and the rancid smell. “Of course, the red stuff wasn’t blood. It was throw up, wasn’t it?” I said. “There was no blood. She was dead when somebody stuck them in her.”

  “Very good that you figured that out,” Dane said before continuing. “After hearing from a number of people that the victim appeared very drunk after drinking only one glass of wine, and after finding a phenobarbital pill wrapped in a tissue in her purse, the medical examiner did some tests.” Dane stopped as if considering how to proceed. “I don’t know how to put this delicately, but the preliminary findings were that her vomit contained wine and phenobarbital. Alcohol and sleeping pills can be a deadly combination.”

  “So that’s what killed her?”

  “The sleeping pill in her purse wasn’t in a prescription bottle,” he said, ignoring my question. “Any idea where she got the pills?”

  I just shrugged and said I didn’t know much about her or for that matter anyone in the group except Lucinda. I didn’t want to mention Olivia’s sleeping pills and put any more heat on her unless I was sure she was the killer.

  “So are you going to tell me the cause of death or what?” I said.

  He cracked a smile. “Persistent, aren’t you? I like that trait, maybe because I have it, too. The medical examiner said the wine and medication might have killed her if she hadn’t thrown up. Actually, he said he thinks t
he cause of death was suffocation. At first, he thought she choked when she threw up, but then he noticed there were some markings on the pillow that matched the residue on her face.

  “So somebody used the pillow to smother her,” I said, and he nodded.

  “Here’s the weird part,” Dane began. “If it hadn’t been for those needles sticking in her chest, the medical examiner said he might have just considered it an accidental death from the drugs and alcohol. He probably wouldn’t have even considered the markings on the pillow. But those knitting needles changed everything. She couldn’t have stuck them into her chest herself. You better believe we’re looking at any prints on them. Any of your group missing needles like those?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

  Appear nonchalant, I told myself. There’s no way he could know the fingerprints were mine. I tried to cover by saying I was new at knitting and didn’t really know much about needles or who had what kind. I didn’t do well in the nonchalant part, and he gave me a pointed look.

  “I just shared with you. It’s only fair that you share whatever you know with me,” he said, clearly not buying my play at ignorance.

  I heard a car pull up in front and the sound of voices as some people got out. Instinctively I glanced toward the sound and at the same time started to get up. “Sounds like you’ve got company,” I said.

  “You don’t have to rush off. They’ll let themselves into the studio,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the garage. Studio, huh? Is that what he called it? What, was that a polite way of saying orgy room?

  “I have to get back to my group,” I said, grabbing my empty measuring cup. He followed me to the door and rushed ahead to open it for me.

  “Too bad you can’t stay. You could learn a few things,” he said.

  I’ll just bet I could.

  14

  “THERE YOU ARE,” KRIS SAID WHEN I CAME INTO the living room area of Sand and Sea. “I’m glad you made it.” Was there a little reproach in her voice or was that my imagination? But then she had made a point that it wasn’t part of her duties to handle this evening knit-together event. At first I had referred to her as the retreat leader, but then she’d made it clear she wasn’t. After that I wasn’t sure what to call her. Knitting teacher didn’t seem to cover it. So, I just used her name.

  When I’d gotten outside at Dane’s, his guests had already gone into the garage, so I never got a look at them. I just heard the instant boom of pulsating music. I’d hurried back to my place and picked up another batch of the butter cookies to share with the group.

  A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the soft lighting made the living room like area of the two story building feel cozy and inviting. Lucinda looked up from one of the easy chairs with a question in her eye and I tried to communicate that I’d talk to her later. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell the group about my trip to Dane’s.

  “I thought you understood what the knit-together was,” Kris said. “The idea is that everyone makes a predetermined-sized square and then they are given to a charity who puts them together into blankets before they are donated to a local shelter.” She looked at me, waiting for some kind of recognition. “Your aunt provided the yarn.”

  “Oh,” I said, glancing around at the group and noticing that some of them were knitting.

  “I had some sample skeins from the yarn company who is behind Retreat in a Box. But there wasn’t enough for everyone.” Kris watched as I set the plate of cookies down on the coffee table. “I was glad to help out, but . . .” She didn’t have to finish. I got it. It was really my responsibility. But what was I supposed to do?

  I asked about the concert as a stall. It seemed only Lucinda had stayed through the whole thing, and there wasn’t much to say other than you certainly couldn’t sing along.

  “It makes me glad I never made it,” Kris said. “Kevin St. John stopped me and wanted to talk to me about working with him on more retreats. He was trying to get me to commit to being the head knitting instructor. I had to explain to him that this is my last. I’m going to be too busy promoting Retreat in a Box, traveling around and doing demos at all kinds of yarn events.”

  I looked around to see what everyone was doing. Scott must have gotten some of Kris’s yarn and had positioned himself in a shadowy corner. His eyes kept darting toward the door, and he seemed ready to ditch his needles if anyone came in. Lucinda was holding a selection of needles but had no yarn. Bree said she’d had the ball of pale pink yarn and the white plastic needles in the backpack she used as a purse. I’m sure the whole group was glad she’d left her phone and tablet packed away for once.

  “I love that we’re all going to make the same thing,” she said. I noted that Bree had already completed several rows. Melissa and Sissy both had yarn, though not the same kind, and were sitting side by side, knitting in unison. Melissa stopped abruptly and looked at her daughter’s work.

  “I don’t know why you you’re using that red bouclé yarn. It’s so hard to see the stitches.” Melissa pulled out the other end of the royal blue yarn she was using and offered it to her daughter. “The skein is big enough to make two squares. We can knit from either end of it.” Sissy looked at her mother with such horror I almost laughed. Been there, done that. It sure looked different viewing it from the outside. Melissa was just trying to be helpful to her daughter. I leaned closer and saw that the red yarn was covered with bumps, while the royal blue yarn was smooth.

  “Maybe you can’t see the stitches in my yarn, but I can see them perfectly,” Sissy said, before making an irritated sound as she looked at her work. She turned away so her mother couldn’t see what she was doing, but even to a novice like me, it was obvious she’d found some kind of mistake.

  Olivia had chosen an overstuffed chair in the far corner of the room near a window that looked out over the dark slope in front of the building. She wasn’t knitting and didn’t seem to mind that her hands were idle.

  “You know enough to make a square,” Kris said to me. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I was supposed to actually take part in this activity, and I started to hem and haw, but Kris continued on and said that I could use any size needles or type of yarn and she’d help me make the adjustments so the square turned out the right size. I felt like I was being backed into a corner.

  Lucinda suggested we go to the gift shop and pick up some yarn.

  “Why don’t you get some of your aunt’s stash?” Melissa said. “There are probably needles, too.”

  The comment surprised me, and I perked up. “How did you know my aunt had a lot of yarn and needles?” I thought of the needles that had disappeared. Obviously for them to have been taken, someone had to know they were there.

  The group laughed at my question. “Everyone who does anything with yarn usually has a closet full of it and needles coming out the kazoo,” Bree said. “You should see what the other Ewes have.”

  I slumped, disappointed that Melissa knowing my aunt had needles wasn’t a clue. It also became obvious they weren’t going to let me off the hook from joining them.

  “I’ll get some yarn for me, Lucinda and Olivia and be back,” I said, getting up. I had been through the Vista Del Mar grounds enough times in the past two days that I easily found my way to the driveway in the dark. As I crossed the street, I glanced toward Dane’s. There were cars parked on both sides of the narrow street and light coming from the garage. Obviously, the party was in full swing.

  Just as I was about to go into my aunt’s through the kitchen door, Lucinda joined me. “I thought you might need some help. Not that I’m an expert.”

  “Compared to me you are, and thank you, I’m glad for any help I can get. Besides, now I can tell you what I did while you were snapping your fingers to the jazz chamber music.” Lucinda chuckled and rolled her eyes.

  “I must be desperate for entertainment to have sat through that. You have no idea. It was all pli
nk, plunk.”

  As we rummaged through my aunt’s closet, I told her what Dane had said, and maybe I also mentioned what I’d found in his bathroom.

  “I guess even Cadbury cops need some kind of release,” she said with a grin. “So the knitting needles didn’t kill Edie. Suffocated? Did he say how?” Lucinda said. Before I could answer, she remembered seeing the pillow on the floor.

  I told her about the contents of the throw up. “Barbiturates and wine? I guess that explains why she could barely stand up.” Lucinda poked through a bag of yarn. “Edie seemed so upbeat. It’s hard to think she’d do something like that. It seems pretty hard-core.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know she was mixing a sleeping pill with alcohol. Maybe somebody spiked her wine.”

  “But you said they found a loose sleeping pill in her purse,” Lucinda said.

  “Right,” I said, realizing that put in hole in the “spiked her wine” theory. “Besides, I’m sure she would have noticed if someone dropped something in her glass. It just seems kind of convenient that she was so loopy when someone put a pillow over her face.”

  We talked about who had access to the glasses and who also had control of who got which glass, and one name jumped out: Kevin St. John. “He was the one pouring and handing out the wine,” I said. “And Edie did know him from before. He looked pretty uncomfortable when she was first talking to him. Maybe she had some information on him he wanted to bury,” I said. “But we can’t figure that out now. And we better get back. I am supposed to be in charge.” That’s when I got it. The title retreat leader belonged to me.

  Lucinda found several skeins of light gray wool. There was enough for both of us and Olivia with some left over. “This ought to be easy to use.” She explained that certain kinds of yarn presented few problems. “Worsted-weight in a light color is the easiest to work with.” Lucinda chuckled at her own comment. “Don’t I just sound like an expert? Actually, I just heard that from Melissa.”