For Better or Worsted (8 page)

Dinah’s long scarf caught in the breeze and wound around her neck. She seemed a little panicked by how tight it had gotten, and she pulled it off, stowing it in her pocket. My shirt caught a gust of wind and floated up behind me. Only Sheila’s short skirt and gauzy peasant top seemed windproof.

With the stores closed, the parking lot was almost completely empty. The few cars that were there were parked along the back wall and seemed a little creepy. “Let’s get this over with,” I said, leading the way to the back door of Luxe. I glanced at the window next to the door and it appeared dark.

Sheila took out the key and put it in the lock. “There’s an alarm,” she warned. “Let me shut it off first.” She walked inside and then came back. “That’s funny. It isn’t on. I’m sure I set it before I left.”

Dinah and I told her she must have forgotten, but not to get upset about it as it didn’t seem like anything bad had happened in the meantime.

The three of us went inside and closed the door behind us. A hallway led to a door that opened into the actual retail area. There were several doors leading off the hallway. I knew that one led to a restroom and the other to the office of Luxe’s owner, Nicholas. But once he’d admitted to writing the crocheting vampire books that our fellow Hooker Elise was so enamored with, he rarely came into the store anymore, and I heard he’d gotten a fabulous hillside home with an office that looked out over the whole valley.

“What’s in there now?” I said as we went by the closed door.

“Storage, I guess. Nicholas didn’t give me the key.” Sheila moved quickly down the hall. She had this phobia about turning on the lights, sure that it would look suspicious, so the three of us felt our way to the door that led to the front of the store and went inside. The street lamps illuminated the interior enough so that I could make out the racks of interesting clothes and shelves of shoes, scarves and household items, and the occasional piece of furniture.

Sheila went behind the glass counter and started feeling her way for the ball of yarn. I knew it didn’t make any sense, because we were only there to get something that belonged to Sheila, but somehow being in the darkened store made my heart begin to thud, and I felt like a criminal.

“What was that?” Dinah said. In the semidarkness, she cocked her ear in the direction we’d entered. I heard a definite creak.

“You locked the door when we came in, didn’t you?” I said to Sheila.

“Maybe I didn’t,” she began to wail. “If I forgot to set the alarm, I could forget to do anything. Suppose there were real burglars in one of those cars and they followed us,” she said. There was another creak, and I could’ve sworn I heard a footstep. The adrenaline was shooting through my body, and even my whispered command telling the two of them to hide sounded high-pitched. Carefully, I walked toward the door leading to the back. I’d grabbed an Italian leather boot to use as a weapon. What was I going to do, poke whoever in the eye with the pointy toe?

I had my hand on the door handle, counted three and threw it open, making some kind of karate noises, and threw the shoe into the dark hallway just as a hand grabbed my wrist.

“Nicholas!” Sheila squealed when the lights came on and she saw who the hand grasping me belonged to. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He glanced over at the three of us. Poor Sheila looked like she was going to faint. Not only was Nicholas her boss, but she also had the hots for him. This wasn’t going to help her case.

To save Sheila, I took the rap and said we’d talked her into coming in to get something. His face broke into a good-natured smile and he shook his head. “I just bet it has something to do with Tarzana’s best-known crime fighter.” He went into the hall and picked up the Italian boot, which had made a little dent in the back wall—maybe I wasn’t so off base choosing it as a weapon after all.

“I should have told you,” he said to Sheila. “The office with the view is too distracting. I’ve been coming here at night for a while to work.” He gestured toward the closed office door. “Well, now you know, in case you come back here again.” By now, Sheila had the ball of yarn. She showed it to Nicholas to make it clear she’d only come for something that belonged to her. He let us walk ahead of him toward the back door before he stopped at the one to his office.

I hung back, wishing I could get a glimpse inside. I’d seen the inside once, and there’d been that coffin, a Hollywood version of a vampire’s coffin, and that bottle of red liquid in the refrigerator that I’d heard was Bloody Mary mix, but who knew for sure? And why didn’t the light show through the window?

Nicholas opened the door, and I grabbed a quick look. The window was covered with blackout curtains, and the coffin was still there. He offered me a friendly nod as he stepped back inside. I rushed on to join Dinah and Sheila outside. I told them about the coffin and the curtains that kept out any light. “It makes you wonder,” I said.

Dinah rolled her eyes at me. “You’re beginning to sound like Elise. Vampires only exist in fiction.”

When the three of us had collapsed onto seats in Dinah’s living room, Sheila took out the ball of burgundy-colored yarn and began to unravel it. When she got to the cardboard core, she unrolled it and the three of us looked at the name: Paxton Cline.

“Well, you were right. It is a weird name. Paxton. I wonder what they called him when he was little. Paxie?”

Dinah had already gone to her computer and was typing in the name. A few moments later, she let out a triumphant sound. “Found him.”

The three of us gathered around the screen. It was filled with a news story about Paxton Cline and his family’s business, Cline’s Yarns.

I recognized the name of the company, but had never realized it was local. I’d bought from them for the bookstore, but through a trade show.

“I think I know where we’re going tomorrow,” I said.

CHAPTER 10

M
UCH AS I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HAVE GONE RIGHT
to Cline’s Yarns, there were other things to take care of first. Like my job. “How are the party plans coming?” Mrs. Shedd asked when I came in the next morning. Yes, she’d put me in charge of the parties, but ultimately she was in charge of everything that went on at the bookstore. She tried to keep her voice light, but there was an edge of nervousness.

“I have the food covered. Caitlyn’s Cupcakes has a special birthday package. A platter of cupcakes put together like a cake with decorations and ‘Happy Birthday’ written across the middle.”

Mrs. Shedd’s expression faded a little. “I was hoping we could keep the food in-house.” She left it at that, but I knew the bottom line was the bottom line. She was looking for ways to make the parties more profitable. We discussed it back and forth, and I convinced her to do it this way for the first party. Then we could see if there was a way our barista and cookie baker could come up with something for the parties. I mentioned the possible baby shower and Mrs. Shedd perked up immediately.

“That’s what I want to hear,” she said, asking for details. When she heard Isa Susberg was waiting to commit until after the birthday party, Mrs. Shedd gave me a pointed look. “I don’t care what you have to do, but you have to pull off that first party.”

“No worries,” I said brightly. She wanted to know what other details I’d locked in for the birthday party and was concerned when I said I was still working on most of them. But what she really wanted to know was if I had a deposit from Emerson.

“It’s too easy for her to just change her mind,” Mrs. Shedd said when I told her no. I could see her point, and I put my plans to go to Cline’s Yarns, Inc., off until later.

At least Mrs. Shedd had no objection when I left shortly after getting to work, because it was for the new enterprise. Rather than calling Emerson, asking her for the deposit and then trying to arrange a time to get it, I just went to her place of business. Once I knew she’d done the flowers for Thursday’s wedding, all I had to do was call Mason to get the location.

The small storefront was tucked into a strip mall on the border of Tarzana and Woodland Hills. The display window featured a metal floral arrangement and a sign that said “Event Florist.”

A bell on the door tinkled as I walked inside. The first thing I noticed was the smell, or should I say fragrance, of flowers mixed with the freshness of something green. There was a counter with a book of designs on it and a small cooler with some arrangements in it.

An open doorway led to a back room where several women were working with flowers and talking. Emerson looked up from a worktable on the other side of the tiny back room. When she saw it was me, she smiled and set down the stalk of white gladiolas she was about to add to a spectacular arrangement of assorted white flowers.

She took off a pair of almost-flesh-colored cotton gloves as she walked into the outer room.

“We don’t do walk-in business,” she said, assuming I was there for flowers. “This isn’t the way I dress for customers,” she said gesturing at her well-worn jeans and pale yellow polo shirt. She pointed to the cooler behind her and then to the book on the counter. “Those are just samples. We do strictly special events.” She started to say something about making an exception and letting me have one of the samples, but I stopped her and told her I wasn’t there about floral arrangements.

“I wanted to talk to you about Lyla’s party.”

Emerson seemed concerned. “I don’t want to make this into a big production. The pizza parties were easy to plan. All I had to do was make a reservation, order the pizzas and hand out a bunch of tokens for the amusement things at Bucky’s Pizza Palace.”

I assured her that all she would have to do was show up once we went over a few things. Included in that was the deposit, but I thought I’d work my way up to it. As soon as I mentioned getting cupcakes from Caitlyn’s, she looked happier.

“That’s much better than a traditional birthday cake,” she said when I showed her a picture of a tray of cupcakes with “Happy Birthday” written across them. “I’m sure Lyla will love it.”

One of the women came in from the back room and said there was a problem with the hydrangeas dropping blossoms and mentioned the wedding they were for. It reminded me that she’d done the flowers for Thursday’s wedding.

“I hope this one is more peaceful than the Fields–Kingsley reception,” I said. Then I explained that I’d been an invited guest.

Emerson seemed to flinch as I mentioned that I’d heard she’d done the flowers for it.

“I have tried to put it out of my mind,” she said. I asked her if she’d been questioned by the cops at the reception.

“Actually, when I left, everything was okay. My specialty is decorating the wedding cake with fresh flowers. I do it on-site, literally just before the start of the reception, so there’s no chance of wilted flowers,” Emerson said. I smiled benignly, wondering if she’d seen what happened to her work after Jaimee fell into the cake.

“I did a final check on it as the reception was getting under way, and then I left,” she said.

“And you gave out fresh boutonnieres,” I said. She seemed surprised when I mentioned that I’d heard it from Margo Kingsley.

I couldn’t help myself and started to ask if she’d seen anything suspicious, like someone who didn’t belong. “How could you tell? Everybody who was working at the reception in any capacity, including me, had to have that stupid robot look. I had to use a jar of goop to slick my hair back and then put it in a bun.”

“And the white gloves,” I added.

“They weren’t the right kind to wear when you’re working with flowers. I had brought my own. I’m just glad most of the weddings I do don’t make an issue about what I wear.” As a way of turning the topic back to the birthday party, she picked up the photo I’d brought of the cupcakes. She asked about the crochet project and what kind of supplies the kids would have to work with. She caught me off guard, and I had to admit that those details were still being arranged. I did my best to assure her that teaching them to crochet would be easy, and we would have a project they would like. Then I brought up the deposit.

Emerson seemed to hesitate as she got out her checkbook. “I am sure you will do fine, but I would feel a little better if you taught Lyla to crochet first. Then it won’t be all new to her at the party.”

I got it. She wanted us to audition. As soon as I agreed, she wrote the check and handed it to me. We set up a time and I assured her that we’d give Lyla more than one lesson if needed. Adele would no doubt fuss that I’d agreed to the pre-party crocheting, but I had no choice.

I rushed back to the bookstore just in time to tell Mrs. Shedd I was going to lunch. “Mission accomplished,” I said, handing her the deposit check.

Dinah was waiting outside. She had a break before she had to be back to Beasley Community College for her afternoon class, and we’d agreed to use the time to check out Paxton Cline, the deposed best man.

“I love playing detective with you,” she said as we walked to my car. Cline’s Yarns International, Inc., was located in a business park in Chatsworth. It was an easy drive up Corbin to get there, and we tried to come up with a strategy as we went.

“This should be easy,” I said to Dinah as we turned off onto Plummer. I’d even come up with a reason why I was coming in to see them. “The only thing is we have to make sure we talk to Paxton.”

“Uh-oh,” Dinah said, pointing to the police car in the parking lot as I pulled in.

“I wonder what’s going on?” I said as we got out of my car. Nobody could accuse us of being afraid to walk into trouble—we practically ran to the white double-door entry. We slowed when we reached a reception area and saw two uniforms talking to a woman wearing glasses.

I edged close enough to overhear. “You recognize this knitted thing?” a heavyset, olive-complected officer said, waving something made of colorful yarn. “We’re trying to track down the person who made it.” I recognized him from the first yarn bombing. He’d been the one to climb the ladder and strip off the monkey’s jacket.

The woman took it from his hand and looked up with an amused smile. “This isn’t knitted. It’s crocheted.” The officer shrugged off her comment.

“Knitted, crocheted, what’s the difference? All I know is, it’s trouble.”

She started to explain the difference, then seemed to realize it was probably a lost cause. “It is our yarn,” she said. She had laid the rectangle on the counter and pointed out some variegated yarn that was their trademark. “But we can’t trace it to a single user. The best I could do is give you a list of yarn shops in the area that carry our line.” She looked at it again. “Where did you say you found it?”

“Wrapped around a light pole on Ventura Boulevard,” one of the uniforms said. “This yarn bomber seems to be stepping up the attacks.”

Attacks? Was he kidding? How was adding a little color to a drab light pole an attack? Calling it vandalism seemed a little extreme, too. All they had to do was cut it down.

The woman with the glasses went to get them a list of stores in the area that sold their yarn. Great, the bookstore would probably be on the list.

While we waited our turn, I looked around the lobby area. Wow. They had items made up from their yarn on mannequins and hanging on the walls. There were a couple of desks behind the counter. Behind them I saw a doorway leading to what appeared to be a warehouse full of yarn. I was wondering how I was going to zero in on Paxton when the front door opened and a man in his late twenties came in carrying what appeared to be a food order. On a chance, I called out, “Paxton,” and the bland-looking young man with close-cropped brown hair turned at the sound.

“Molly Pink,” I said, holding out my hand. “And this is my associate Dinah Lyons.” Dinah gave him a little wave, and poor Paxton looked confused.

“We had an appointment,” I said. Okay, I was totally winging it, making it up as I went along. The cops got their list and left, and the woman with glasses looked over the counter at us.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“No, no. It’s Paxton here I was supposed to meet,” I said. I remembered that the article Dinah had found online had said that he was working in all aspects of the business, which no doubt included sales.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” I said, looking at the box he was balancing.

“Uh, sure,” he said, handing his load to the woman with the glasses.

Dinah was looking at me and I could read her thoughts. She was wondering what I was going to say. So was I.

I explained that I handled the yarn department at Shedd & Royal. “We’re going to be doing parties at the bookstore.” I explained the whole Party with a Purpose concept and how we’d be teaching groups of people to crochet, and they’d be making a project. “I’m looking to buy kits,” I said. “They’d have yarn, the tools needed and some kind of tote bag.”

Before I asked him if they could do it, I segued into the first party and brought up Emerson. From there, I brought up what she did and how she’d done the flowers for a wedding reception where there was a murder. I just kept on blathering about how terrible it was about Jonah Kingsley. Then I just stopped and looked at Paxton. I watched as a cloud passed through his amber eyes. This was it. He was going to start to spill his guts. Or maybe not.

“I did hear something about that,” he said. I waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, I tried to coax it out of him.

“He was right around your age,” I offered. “I don’t suppose you knew him.”

“Only in the vaguest sense,” he said finally. He gestured toward the front door. “Kingsley Enterprises, Inc., is across the street.” He seemed thoughtful for a moment. “I was at a baseball game the day of the wedding.”

Dinah and I nodded with interest and I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t, even when I gave him plenty of dead air.

“Really?” I said, finally. “He worked across the street and you weren’t invited to his wedding?”

Paxton chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t know him. Like I said, I didn’t go.” He looked at me intently. “What are you? Some kind of private detective?” I shrugged as an answer and let the air go dead again. This time it seemed to make him nervous. “I have nothing else to say. Like I said I was at a baseball game.” He quickly turned the conversation back to the kits. “What did you have in mind?”

When he heard I only wanted eight, and they needed to be very reasonable, in other words, cheap, he looked dubious.

“If it was up to me, I’d try to do something for you, but my grandmother calls the shots. She’s the one who started the business and keeps saying she’s going to start taking time off, but she doesn’t.”

He’d barely finished talking when he ushered us toward the door.

“He was certainly lying,” Dinah said when we drove away.

“It could be that he’s just scared and thinks that if he denies knowing Jonah he can stay out of the whole thing. Maybe he realized that being fired as the best man gives him a motive, or maybe he’s the one who stabbed Jonah.”