Gone with the Wool

by Betty Hechtman

  Dane was much more than a pretty face. He practically oozed character. When his father had disappeared, leaving him and his sister with an alcoholic mother, Dane had taken care of the family. I’d heard he did a good job pretending to be a bad boy, but he was also the one who took his sister shopping for her first bra.

  Growing up that way could have left him angry and bitter, but instead he really did want to keep the streets of Cadbury safe. He knew bored teenagers were likely to get into trouble, so he converted his garage into a karate studio and gave the kids lessons and let them hang out. On top of that, he fed them copious amounts of spaghetti with sauce so delicious my mouth watered at the thought of it. He fed me, too.

  While I might excel at dessert, I sucked when it came to regular food and mostly ate frozen entrées. But the relationship wasn’t all take on my part. I left him muffins and cookies a lot of the time.

  It was probably because he was such a great guy that I held back even more. I had tried to explain my hesitation to him, and his answer floored me. He actually said he’d gladly have his heart broken if it meant he’d be able to spend time with me. Was he sure he was talking about me?

  I apologized again. I knew some of the kids who hung out at his place were on the football team, and I was sure he wanted to cheer them on.

  “It’s okay,” he said, not sounding too convincing. “I have more things on my mind.” He looked up and down the street. There didn’t seem to be any need of his services, and he continued. “Chloe lost that job at the diner in Gilroy and everything that went with it—including her own place.”

  “So she’s back staying with you?” I asked. He nodded.

  Chloe was Dane’s sister and kind of a wild child, the type of woman my mother would have described as hard. She dressed to show off as much skin as possible and had hair that looked like she used crayons to color it, and though Dane had never said anything about it, I had the feeling she wasn’t too picky about who she went home with. I didn’t mean to be judgmental, but she was somebody I couldn’t understand at all.

  “If only that was all there was,” he said. “She’s decided that she wants to be Butterfly Queen. She’s in the Princess Court.”

  “Then she made it into the finals?” I said, surprised.

  “It doesn’t work that way. Anyone can get into the Princess Court. All they need is a sponsor. I wish she had talked to me first.” He sounded dejected. “She went straight to the owner of the beauty supply store. Apparently, she’s a big customer.” Dane rolled his eyes as he gestured toward his hair. “I guess it’s nice that she got something out of buying all that hair dye.” Dane rested his hands on his equipment belt as he checked the street again for criminal activity, but there was just an old man walking a beagle. I guess the only chance he’d do something requiring Dane’s attention was if he didn’t pick up after his dog.

  “She’s really into this princess thing. She told me she thinks it’s going to open some doors for her. She won’t listen to me. Maybe you could help her pick out something to wear that looks like a princess for the event tomorrow night?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said, and he let out a weary sigh. I’m sure he knew that Chloe wouldn’t listen to me, either.

  “I just hope there isn’t any trouble,” he said.

  2

  Sunday morning I awoke to the phone ringing. Julius jumped off the bed at the sound. Did he know it was the dreaded Sunday morning call from my mother? It was all her doing, but she had decided that instead of her random phone calls during the week, we should make it every Sunday instead. My mother was a cardiologist, but somehow she couldn’t seem to understand the time difference between her in Chicago and me on the tip of the Monterey Peninsula in California. Or maybe it was just her way of trying to force me to get up earlier.

  I didn’t really mind the early wake-up today, because the first of my retreaters were arriving this morning. Scott, Bree and Olivia had been with me from my first retreat and had come to every one since. By now they felt more like friends, particularly since they were always looking to help me out. They had started coming a day or so early to have their own pre-retreat, and I’d come to call them the early birds.

  I got the phone on the fifth ring. “Hello, Mother,” I said, trying to banish the sleepy sound from my voice.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” she asked. She always said that, and I always denied it. Why, I don’t know. What was wrong with being asleep on a Sunday morning at eight o’clock? I knew what was coming next. It was to my mother’s great disappointment that I wasn’t a professional something. To her, that meant having some kind of degree or certificate. So it didn’t matter that I was being paid to bake desserts at the Blue Door and my muffins were sold at a number of coffee spots around town, or that I had successfully resolved some local murders without some piece of paper to prove I was proficient.

  She had offered to send me to cooking school in Paris, and actually had the whole thing still set up, just waiting for me to agree. My mother was sure she knew me better than I knew myself, and she thought that the whole Cadbury experiment, as she called it, would never last.

  “There’s a new term starting,” my mother said in a cajoling voice. “The City of Lights, cafés, the Eiffel Tower—and you’d have a certificate from the finest French cooking school!” She went right from there to the Private Investigator Institute in Los Angeles and how the application she had put in for me was still active. “They give me a call about once a week and say they’re looking forward to you starting the program. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a real license?”

  I decided to take a new tack, simply not responding to what she said. I’d change the subject to talk about what I wanted just like politicians did.

  “The retreat I’m putting on this week is going to be different than the others. I’m including all the events going on in town. It’s the biggest week of the year here, with the return of the monarch butterflies.” I could almost hear my mother groan.

  “You mean like the swallows’ return to Capistrano?” she said in an unimpressed voice.

  “I don’t know what they do for the swallows, but the return of the butterflies is a big deal here. There are events all week and then a parade on Sunday when the Butterfly Queen is announced.”

  “How quaint and small town,” my mother said. “Casey, you’re wasting your talents staying there. I know you think you’re honoring your father’s sister’s memory by going on with these retreats, but really, you should be thinking of the future.”

  I figured I could distract her by bringing up some kind of conflict, and so I mentioned Rosalie Hardcastle and how I’d heard she’d wanted to make being Butterfly Queen a lifetime position—well, for her, anyway—and that now she was one of the judges. I mentioned that Dane’s sister was in the running, knowing my mother had seen her primary-color hair when my parents made their surprise visit to Cadbury. I waited, expecting some kind of firecracker response, at least about Dane’s sister and her suitability to be queen.

  But my mother pulled the same trick I did and simply ignored what I said and changed the subject. By then I was tuning out what she was saying, and all I heard was something about giving her regards to someone.

  It was only after we hung up that I realized she hadn’t offered me her usual line about being a doctor, a wife and a mother when she was my age. By the way, I think my mother would have given up the offers of cooking school and the detective academy if I’d added Mrs. to my name. Well, maybe not Mrs. Just Anybody. I think she was still hoping I’d somehow resume my relationship with Dr. Sammy, but that was a whole other story.

  * * *

  A short time later I was dressed in comfortable black jeans and a black-and-white-striped sweater under a red fleece jacket and on my way out the door, as Julius watched from the kitchen counter. I wished he would stay inside and not go wandering across to Vista Del Mar, wher
e he was a very unwelcome guest, but I think he knew he annoyed the manager and got some kind of perverse cat pleasure out of it. Julius had made it clear he was his own cat and it was useless to try to restrict him.

  As soon as I crossed the street and started down the driveway of the hotel and conference center, the scenery changed. My street was on the edge of town and pretty rustic—no sidewalks, streetlights or well-manicured front lawns. The front yards around me had either ivy or native plants, which was the politically correct term for weeds.

  But Vista Del Mar took wild to a whole new level. The hotel and conference center were spread over about one hundred acres of gentle slopes with narrow roadways running through them. The grounds were allowed to grow completely as they willed. If one of the lanky Monterey pines fell down, it was left where it was to decompose. It was rumored that the same was true if a deer or raccoon bit the dust on the grounds. As a result, I never looked into the brush grasses too closely.

  The color of the tall grasses ranged from a brownish green to a full-out golden toast. The only spot of real green was an area appropriately called the grass circle. The buildings were mostly over one hundred years old and, with their weathered wood shingles, had a moody look. Vista Del Mar had started out as a camp and was a run-down resort when Edmund Delacorte had bought it. He’d restored the place to its original state with great care.

  This was not a place with fluffy towels and sheets with high thread counts, or any of those kinds of luxuries. The guest rooms were spartan to say the least. We’re talking narrow beds that were almost like cots, bathrooms so tiny you could barely turn around in them and no phones or TV. The only amenity was a clock radio. The rooms were in two-story buildings that were spread around the grounds, and each had a cozy lobby with comfy chairs and a fireplace. Single-story buildings with the meeting rooms I used for my retreats were spread around the grounds as well.

  I walked down the driveway to what I considered the heart of Vista Del Mar. The Lodge was located in the center of the grounds, and the building was like a huge hotel lobby. Meals came with the rooms and were served in the Sea Foam dining hall, just down the way from the Lodge. A small chapel was set off to the side, near the entrance to the sand dunes. Finally, there was Hummingbird Hall, which could be set up as an auditorium or a ballroom.

  I was sure Edmund Delacorte would be smiling if he could see the condition of his beloved property. His sisters Cora and Madeleine owned it now, but it was run by Kevin St. John. His title was manager, but to me he seemed more like the lord of the place.

  Edmund would definitely approve of the refurbishing that had been done, as everything was kept to the original style. So in a certain way, walking into Vista Del Mar was like stepping back in time. What made it seem even more so was Kevin St. John’s decision to go unplugged, meaning there was no Wi-Fi, cell reception or even TV. Communication was limited to landline phones housed in vintage phone booths at the front of the Lodge and a big message board outside the gift shop.

  It was going to be less of an issue for my retreaters this time, as we were going to be leaving the grounds for activities in town. They would be able to get cell phone reception in town, and some of the coffee places had Wi-Fi. I supposed my retreaters would be happier this way, though I’d noticed that by the end of the past retreats, my group had realized the benefits of being unplugged.

  All the moisture in the air seemed to absorb noise, and I barely heard the waves though the beach was close by. I saw a group of guests gathered for a nature hike move toward the entrance of the sand dunes.

  As I passed one of the small parking areas, I noticed that most of it was taken up by something covered with a tarp, which I assumed was what I had seen being pulled in the previous day. Parking was at a premium because Vista Del Mar had been built without cars in mind. Curious what it was, I stopped and lifted the blue plastic to see what could be so important that it was allowed to take up so much space. It seemed to be a platform with a bunch of stuff piled up in the middle. The sides were painted white with something sparkly mixed in, and there were some decorations stuck to the sides. When I lifted the tarp high enough to let more light in, I saw the decorations were paper monarch butterflies that looked like they needed some refurbishing. And then I got it. I knew one of the big events during the coming week was the choosing of the Butterfly Queen, and this must be her float for the big parade on Sunday.

  I covered it up carefully and continued on my way to the Lodge. I had arranged to meet Liz Buckley there. She was the local travel agent, and she had gotten me two new people for this retreat. It was the first time she’d sent any business my way.

  I heard the echo of voices when I walked into the Lodge. I would call the cavernous room inviting, but it was hardly cozy with its high ceiling and open framework. Someone was shooting pool in the back of the room. The door to the gift shop was open, and there were several customers. At the other end, the door to the Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café was open, and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee spilled out.

  Kevin St. John was standing with Liz Buckley near the massive wooden registration counter. He wore his usual dark suit, white shirt and conservative tie, which made him look more like an undertaker than the manager of this rustic resort. Even though it was Sunday, Liz was in her usual business attire of dark slacks, white shirt and a blazer. Today’s was camel colored. I couldn’t make out their conversation, as they were speaking in low tones. They heard my footsteps on the polished wood floor and looked up.

  “Good morning,” I said in my best upbeat voice. Kevin, who never seemed particularly pleased to see me, grunted a greeting.

  “Hey, Casey,” Liz said with a friendly smile. “Ready to take care of business?”

  The arrangement for Liz’s people was a little different than for my other retreaters. She had been helping a foreign travel agent with arrangements for two of their clients, who were looking for a different experience. “I really hope this works out. It could be beneficial to both of us.” She handed me a manila envelope. “This has their information, and the check is in there, too.”

  “On my end, I have rooms lined up for them and everything they’ll need for the retreat.” I avoided looking at Kevin as I spoke. Personally, I would have preferred to handle the transaction in her office in downtown Cadbury, away from the manager’s critical eye, but she had wanted to do it this way.

  I noticed that her smile faded, and it was like she was suddenly under a dark cloud. I assumed she was worried about the two retreaters.

  “Don’t worry, your people are going to have a unique experience,” I said, trying to reassure her.

  “I hope you’re right. The last thing I want to hear is anybody asking for refunds.”

  “You and me both,” I said.

  “Well, I better go. We have a lot of setting up to do.” When I seemed perplexed, she continued. “The Butterfly Week committee is having their kickoff event here tonight.”

  “Then you’re on the committee who picks the Butterfly Queen?” I said.

  She shook her head. “No, we’re responsible for all the events of the week. The Butterfly Queen committee is separate. I wouldn’t want to be on it, since Rosalie Hardcastle has basically taken it over. Somebody needs to remind her that it’s just a small-town event and we’re not crowning somebody who is going to run a country.” Liz let out a sigh. “Well, I have things to do. We’ll be in touch.”

  She’d barely reached the door when Kevin St. John started castigating me.

  “Ms. Feldstein, I can’t believe your insensitivity. All you care about is your retreats. You could have at least offered her your sympathy before she started going on about your business.” He went back and forth between calling me Casey and Ms. Feldstein. When he used my last name, it was usually for some kind of rebuke, like now. I had tried calling him Kevin once, and he’d made it clear that was never acceptable. So, now even in my mind he was K
evin St. John. I didn’t mean to sound like a victim, but the man didn’t like me.

  All I could say was, “Huh?”

  “The game,” he said, as if he was trying to jog my memory. Apparently, he read my blank expression. “Then you didn’t go.” He shook his head in disapproval. “I see. You didn’t even have enough town spirit to go to the most important game of the year. Or even to find out the outcome.”

  “I don’t know what you mean about not having town spirit. I brought muffins for the chili dinner the night before. But from your comment, I’m guessing that the game didn’t go well,” I said.

  “It was a crushing loss for the team. The two star players came down with something the morning of the game and couldn’t play. Maybe it was from the muffins you brought,” he said.

  I wasn’t going to waste time defending my muffins when I knew there was no way they would have made anyone sick, but I was still a little baffled by why he thought I should offer my sympathy to Liz. “I didn’t know that Liz was such a fan.”

  Kevin made a tsk-ing sound of disbelief. “You really are out of the loop. Her husband is the coach of the team.”

  I had always heard of him referred to as only Coach Gary and had never wondered about his last name. “Now it makes sense why she seemed upset.” I glanced toward the window that looked out on the wood deck. Liz had already picked up a box that seemed to have decorations and was heading down the stairs. I considered going after her to offer my condolences about the game, but it felt fake to me. The whole importance of the football game escaped me. In fact, the importance of sports escaped me.

  “I suppose you have an opinion about Rosalie Hardcastle?” I said. It was only since the chili dinner that she had been on my radar.