For Better or Worsted (9 page)

CHAPTER 11

B
Y THE END OF THE DAY, MY HEAD WAS SPINNING,
whirling between thinking about Paxton, all the unsettled details of the party, and my regular work. I still had to manage the yarn department and think about upcoming bookstore events.

I was really concerned about the project for the party. Whenever I went into the yarn department to help someone or straighten up, I took the opportunity to thumb through the crochet books, hoping something would pop out at me. It had to be simple enough for new kid crocheters to do, it had to be something fun, and it needed to be relatively quick.

“Hey, Sunshine.” Mason caught up with me as I walked out of the bookstore. I startled, even though his appearance shouldn’t have been a surprise. He’d called earlier and suggested dinner. He thought it would be nice for the two of us to go somewhere.

I’d barely said hello to Mason when Barry came from the other direction and joined us. “Greenberg,” Mason said with a note of surprise, and not the good kind, either. Mason tried to be dismissive by saying “See you later” to Barry and putting his arm through mine. But Barry made no move to leave and ignored Mason’s comment altogether. Instead, he brought up some sports game. Mason commented on it, and the next thing I knew they had a conversation going about balls and playoffs.

The ever-observant homicide detective commented that it looked like we were on our way to dinner and then stunned me by suggesting that he join us. “We
are
all just friends,” he said. “And we can talk about the murder case.”

Barry’s eyes flitted toward me with a little smile. He knew he’d hit Mason’s tender spot. And the next thing I knew, the three of us were walking into the family-owned Italian restaurant down the street. The air smelled of garlic and tomatoes, and I was already salivating at the thought of their homemade Caesar dressing.

We took a table by the window, and as soon as we’d ordered, Mason turned to Barry. “So?”

“We’d hoped to have a suspect by now, but things aren’t progressing as quickly as we’d like. Having all the workers dressed the same didn’t help. It’s almost like somebody deliberately planned it.”

Mason put up his hands. “It wasn’t my idea. Talk to my ex.”

Barry gave a weary nod and I knew what he was thinking. He had already talked to Jaimee and didn’t want to talk to her again. “We’re talking to all the servers again, trying to see if they noticed any of their own that didn’t quite fit in. So far, all I have is that someone thought one of the staff people was wearing different gloves.”

I flinched, knowing he was probably referring to Emerson. I wondered if I should mention that I knew her and explain why her gloves hadn’t been the regulation kind, but I decided it was better to stay out of it. I also wondered if Barry knew whether Jonah had any enemies? But then Barry would want to know why I was asking, and I didn’t want to bring up Paxton Cline—at least not yet. I’d investigate on my own, and if there was something worthy, I’d pass it on.

“Basically, what you’re saying is that you aren’t any closer to a suspect,” Mason said with a touch of annoyance.

Barry dealt with the comment by totally changing the subject to the yarn bombings. “It’s not my area,” he said, focusing on me, “but since it involves yarn. Do you know anything?”

The food arrived and Mason waited until the waiter left. “You don’t have a suspect in the murder at my daughter’s wedding, and you’re wasting time trying to hunt down some kind of yarn tagger.”

“I wouldn’t call them a tagger,” I said. “Taggers go around spray painting their logos on stuff. The yarn pieces hardly seemed to have a signature or an identifying quality to them. Even calling them graffiti seems over-the-top.”

Barry said they were afraid the yarn pieces were just a gateway to something more.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said, checking his expression as it lightened a smidgen.

“Maybe I agree with you, but some other cops are more concerned.” He pushed his salad away to make room for the plate of lasagna. “Your coworker Adele’s boyfriend for one.”

“I get it. Is this your subtle way of saying he thinks it’s Adele, and I should get her to cease and desist with the yarn attacks?”

“If you want to take it that way,” Barry said, “I’m not going to talk you out of it.”

Mason seemed unhappy with the line of conversation, maybe because it was going on between me and Barry. “Are you really making a fuss over some kind of yarn snuggie on a mailbox?” Mason said.

“You saw a crocheted cover on a mailbox?” I said. Mason nodded, and said there was one on Ventura near the Walgreens.

“Instead of it being USPS dark blue, it was wearing a wild piece that was all different colors. Personally, I thought it was an improvement. It was certainly cheerful,” Mason said.

Barry’s eyes lit up. “Aha, so then it is escalating. First it’s an innocent little jacket on a metal monkey, then hearts on a gazebo, a sock on a street sign, and now it’s a cover for a mailbox.”

Mason groaned and steered the conversation back to the murder investigation. “Really, you’re still interviewing and re-interviewing the same people?”

Barry got defensive. “There were over 250 people there, if you count the help. None of them was expecting to be a witness to a murder. Getting information out of them isn’t easy. We’re still sorting out who was there. We’re still trying to get a list from the caterer. They pay cash and don’t keep the best records. It’s not exactly a profession, and all their people have other jobs, sometimes several. Lots of actors and writers, and waiters.” Barry looked up at the young man refilling his water. “I’m just curious. Have you ever worked for Laurie Jean’s Party People? The caterer?”

The waiter seemed surprised by the comment, and then nodded. “I’m really an actor. You might have seen me in the crowd scene on last week’s
L.A. 911
. But yeah, I have.”

With that opening, Barry asked him about the wedding. The waiter’s eyes narrowed. “Nope, not that one. It makes me glad I had a shift here. What a crazy world. A few minutes after you’re married, you’re dead.” He held the water pitcher with both hands and got ready to leave. “Personally, I’m going with the murderer-in-law theory.”

When the waiter had gone, Barry turned to Mason. “How involved was your daughter with the planning?” I saw Mason’s expression grow tired.

“Greenberg, I know where you’re going. You’re thinking that whoever planned the wedding could have decided on the robot look, so that somebody could slip in and kill Jonah. It was all my ex’s idea.” Mason finished with his entree. “This dinner was supposed to be a chance for Molly and me to get away from it all for a while.” Mason put his hand over mine in a possessive manner.

Barry stared at Mason’s hand. “Is hand-holding permissible? This whole idea of friends is new to me, and I’m not familiar with the rules.”

I rolled my eyes to myself. The whole idea of keeping both men as friends was supposed to make things less complicated. Now I had to worry there were rules?

CHAPTER 12

“
A HUG IN GREETING IS OKAY.” “A LIGHT KISS AS A
parting gesture.” “No baggage, and no expectations.” “No cuddling and definitely no sleepovers.” After I gave a replay of the evening and explained how Barry had asked about the rules, the comments kept coming from around the worktable.

“What are we talking about?” CeeCee said as she fluttered up to the table.

“Molly had dinner with her two men friends. Only it sounds like
she
views them as friends, but typical men, they don’t get that kind of relationship. For them, it’s some kind of competition and Molly is the prize.”

CeeCee let out a burst of her musical laugh. “It’s just like the two neighbors Troy and Rock on
The
CeeCee Collins Show
. My character kept saying they were just friends, but Troy and Rock kept trying to sabotage anything I had with the other. It was a while ago, so everything was very innocent. In those days, even married couples were only allowed a peck on the cheek.”

“If Eduardo was here, you could ask him,” Dinah said. “I think he gets the idea of women as friends. I haven’t noticed him putting the moves on any of us.”

Adele was dressed all in brown and blended in so much with the table, I didn’t even see her until she spoke. “Speak for yourselves. He definitely had a thing for me, but I had to set him straight and make it clear we would never be more than fellow Hookers.” As the last words tumbled out of Adele’s mouth, she froze. “Did I really say that?” She looked around frantically. Some yarn and knitting needles were on the table next to her, but the chair was pulled out.

“Leonora went to the restroom,” Elise said. Adele began to gasp and started biting her lip. “Thank heavens, she didn’t hear me. She must realize I have a past, but there’s no reason for her to know that Eduardo was one of the men in my life.”

I never thought I would be happy to see Adele act outrageous, but she’d been so proper lately, trying to hide under a bushel basket of plain clothes and dull comments to please Eric’s mother. It only lasted for a minute, and as soon as Leonora even got near the table, Adele went back to her fake demure self.

“Yes, Molly, I would be happy to teach little Lyla how to crochet,” Adele said in crisp diction as Leonora returned to her seat. Acting surprised, Adele turned to her. “Oh, Mother Humphries, I didn’t see you come back. We were just talking about the first party we’re hosting at the bookstore.” Adele seemed ready to say more, but she began to bite her lip to stop herself. Could it be that she was finally recognizing how outrageous most of what she said was? I don’t think Leonora liked her moniker. I heard her grunt when Adele said it.

In the meantime, everybody showed off what they were working on. CeeCee went first and showed off another pet mat she was making. “I’m using up all my colorful scraps. No reason for the poor dears not to have something bright and cheery in the shelter.”

* * *

A
DELE BROKE IN WHILE WE WERE STILL ADMIRING THE
pet mat, showing off some earrings she was making by crocheting wire and attaching beads. When I saw them, it reminded me of what the girl in the cupcake shop had said, and I told Adele the girl needed a mate to an earring. Adele muttered something about having made the beads and having to make a whole new pair.

Dinah was next. “Did I tell you my ex’s kids with his newest ex are coming for Halloween?” She held up a partially done orange bag and explained she was making bags for them to take trick-or-treating. Leonora seemed confused and started to ask questions about Dinah’s relationship to these children. Adele’s eyes went skyward and she swooped in to point out what Elise was working on. That is, until she saw Elise was putting a red tassel on the black-and-white, worsted-weight, striped beanie. Sheila was easy. She was quietly working on a ruana in her trademark heathery colors, no doubt to be sold at Luxe.

Rhoda held up the lapghan she was making. She had a pile of small balls of different colors of yarn on the table. “We give them to cancer patients when they’re getting chemo.”

Leonora seemed impressed. “Finally a project I can identify with. Personally, I knit chemo caps.” I saw it register on Adele’s face, and she stopped biting her lip long enough to explain that making a chemo cap was her next project.

I was about to show off the ruffly scarf I was making, when Bob interrupted. Maybe
interrupted
is the wrong word. How could someone showing up with a tray of yummy cookie bars be interrupting? He focused directly on me.

“I understand you were in Caitlyn’s talking about cupcakes for a party at the bookstore.” There was a little edge in his voice, as if he thought I was some kind of traitor. “Cupcakes are already passé,” he said. “If you want to be ahead of the curve, cookie bars are it.” He began to circle the table, and he didn’t have to ask anyone twice, until he got to Leonora.

She waved them away. “I never eat sweets, except for the five grapes I have with my lunch.” Bob stopped by Adele next. Adele gazed at the cookie bars with wide eyes, and I bet she was already salivating. It didn’t help that the rest of us were eating them and saying how delicious they were.

“I really should taste one. As the party coordinator, I should be involved with the food decisions.” Adele started to reach for one, but I heard Leonora suck in her breath, and Adele pulled her hand back like a naughty child.

Bob finished where he’d begun, with me. “Well?” he said putting his hand on his hip and looking at me expectantly.

I explained the importance of the success of the first party and that I’d thought cupcakes would be the best choice for a bunch of kids.

“I can do a giant cookie bar birthday cake,” he said. “It would be much less messy. No little paper cups all over and cake crumbs ground into the carpet. Or, instead of one giant bar I could make the bars bite-size.”

Geez, Bob wasn’t making this easy. Finally, I said I would present the option to Emerson and Lyla and see which one they liked, reminding him that the customer ruled.

My cell went off and I answered. I’d taken to leaving it on while I was at work, since that was the number I was giving out regarding the parties. Good thing I did. It was Emerson asking if we could come to her rather than her bringing Lyla to the group for her lesson.

“The customer rules,” I mumbled to myself as I clicked off. Adele was fine with going, but I needed to check with Mrs. Shedd. I found her across the bookstore near the event area, talking to Ben Sherman. His mop of black curls was cute in an unruly way, but despite the rumpled hair, he was a little too serious for my taste. He was on the slight side, barely taller than Mrs. Shedd, and wore as always, a slightly rumpled dress shirt over slacks. I heard a snippet of their conversation. He was pitching her the idea of starting a writing group for adults.

“I like it,” Mrs. Shedd said. “Writing groups, parties, all these new start-ups with the fall.” My boss saw me and pulled me into the conversation, explaining I was the event coordinator for the bookstore.

He repeated his pitch to me. It would be a short story workshop, and we could print them up at the end and sell them at the bookstore. Before I could say it was a good idea, Mrs. Shedd was already talking about all the coffee drinks we’d sell to the participants and how they’d browse in the bookstore. She began to describe displays we’d set up of books with famous short stories, because wasn’t it true that they should read what they wanted to write? We’d have a table of writing books and supplies for them, just like we did for the kids. “It sounds like a good idea,” I said. Everything went well until we got to discussing the time to have it. We agreed on once a month, but when it came to settling on an evening, we hit a snag. Mrs. Shedd and I thought a weekday evening would be good, but he was more interested in Sunday morning.

“I have another job,” he said. “Well, jobs, and I can’t predict when I’m going to be working. I could guarantee Sunday morning.”

“Writing jobs?” I said.

He seemed a little defensive. “I’ve got some spec scripts out, but with all these reality shows now, it’s tough.” He seemed to want to leave it at that, but I was curious about what else he did, and I used the dead-air trick I’d picked up from
The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation
. I just didn’t say anything and let the silence hang in the air. It always worked, except this time.

A short time later, Adele and I headed toward my car. “I could really go alone,” Adele said, “since I am the one giving the crochet lesson. I am in charge of the children’s department, and I handle story time all by myself.” She made references to a story time she had coming up, which was top secret and going to be so stupendous, Mrs. Shedd would want to make her an assistant manager. Now that she was away from the bookstore and Leonora, she was reverting to her old self.

Even if I’d been willing to go along with it, Mrs. Shedd wouldn’t. But she was fine with us leaving to give Lyla a private crochet lesson, as long as we both went, and it was less than half an hour. Clearly, she worried that you just never knew what Adele would do alone.

I have discovered the best way to deal with Adele is simply to tell her how it is. So I flatly told her we were both going.

“Okay, waste your time if you want to,” she said as she slid into the passenger seat of the greenmobile. Emerson lived in a condo on the other side of the 101 on the dividing line between Tarzana and Encino. On the way there, I brought up the yarn bombing.

“Did Barry say that Eric thinks I’m the yarn bomber?” She sounded incredulous.

“Not exactly, but he implied it and said I should get you to stop.”

“But it isn’t me,” she squealed. “If it was me, the pieces would be a lot better. I’d do it with embellishments, like maybe tie a bunch of crochet flowers to a stop sign.” She stopped to think. “Imagine if I made a really giant flower and hung it from a bridge over the freeway.” Then she stopped herself and turned to me.

“Pink, we have to find out who’s doing it and stop them. I know I’m winning Eric’s mother over, but if he thinks I’m the yarn bomber, it won’t make any difference. He plays by the rules, and no way would he accept having a yarn graffiti artist as a fiancée.”

“Fiancée?” I said with surprise.

“He hasn’t said anything for sure yet, but you heard the comment his mother made about always wanting Eric’s bride to wear her wedding dress.”

I nodded noncommittally, but I was thinking that all the diet powders in the world weren’t going to shrink Adele enough to fit into the dress of a woman who ate five grapes as her treat for lunch.

I parked the car, Adele grabbed her bag of tools and yarn, and we walked up the street to Emerson’s town house.

I guess because she was in the flower business, I was expecting to see floral arrangements and floral patterns all over her house, but when Emerson ushered us inside, I instantly saw that I was wrong. I admit to being nosy and immediately began to check out the living room. There was lots of color, and it was obvious she was very creative, whether she made the things herself or just appreciated handmade items. Throw pillows with bright strips of primary colors decorated a blue suede couch. Instead of the usual carpeting, there was a wood tile floor with throw rugs that added more color and softness to the room. The small round wood dining table at the end of the room marked a dining area and beyond a half wall was the kitchen.

The fireplace was an unexpected bonus, and it made the room seem even more inviting.

Emerson had her hair tucked back off her face and was wearing a peasant blouse over some washed-to-a-pale-blue jeans with a scarf thrown on for color. I wish I could manage that nonchalance.

“I’m afraid we can’t stay very long,” I said, explaining we had to get back to the bookstore.

“No problem,” Emerson said. “I appreciate you coming here. I just thought it would be easier for Lyla if she learned here.”

Adele was all business and asked where she should set up. Emerson pointed to the table. As if on cue, Lyla came in the room. She looked like a miniature of her mother, down to the clothes she wore.

I was pretending to admire the fireplace, but I kept glancing at Adele. I had no idea how she would be teaching a child. There were photographs on the mantelpiece, which I focused on. I certainly didn’t want Emerson to know how concerned I was about Adele, so to cover it up, I picked a photograph at random and examined it. The man was wearing a white coat, and I asked if it was her husband.

Emerson said it wasn’t and explained that she and her husband had an unusual situation. “He works up north in Silicon Valley and is here only on the weekends, which is when I’m usually working.” She laughed and said at least they never got tired of each other.

“That’s my grandpa, but he’s dead. That was his pen,” Lyla called out in reference to the photo. I glanced down and saw a fountain pen with a metallic amber body. “I wanted to take it to school, but my mom won’t let me use it.”

Emerson’s face clouded over and she shushed her daughter, telling her she should concentrate on crocheting. But when she turned to me, she threw up her hands and said, “Kids,” in typical mother exasperation.

“I didn’t realize two of you would come,” Emerson said, quickly changing the subject. I couldn’t tell her the real reason I was there, so instead, I said I wanted to talk over the food options and mentioned Bob’s cookie bars. She was firm on the cupcakes, but seemed a little confused. “What do you usually do for a birthday?”

I must have seemed a little befuddled because Emerson appeared concerned. “How many of these parties have you put on?” When I’d first suggested the party idea to her, I had alluded to the many bookstore events I’d put on, but now that she was asking directly I told her the truth.

“So, we’re your guinea pigs,” she said.

“I’d rather refer to you as our premiere clients.” I was relieved when Emerson smiled. Lyla had left Adele at the table and joined us.

“What exactly will we be making at my party?” Lyla asked. I was a little taken aback by her mature tone. I was still getting used to how grown-up kids were these days.