If Hooks Could Kill (6 page)

I finally popped the lid on my drink and prepared to go back to the bookstore. Adele sailed into the café as Eric came in the door from outside.

“Hi cutchykins,” he said as a goofy grin spread over his face.

“Oh, Eric, you’re such a hero,” Adele said, rushing up to him. She turned to the smattering of people in the café and explained that Eric had been the first responder to the tragedy up the street. “The whole production had to shut down while they process the crime scene,” Adele announced to the café patrons. “But Eric, Officer Humphries to the rest of you, is still working. He’s never off duty.” He didn’t seem to mind her effusive comment about how wonderful he was. If anything he just stood a little taller. She linked arms with him and said that after what he’d done, Mrs. Shedd wanted to make sure he got a complimentary drink and cookie snack.

It was all a little too sugary for me and I escaped back into the bookstore, still thinking about the conversation I’d overheard. I’d just sort of glossed over the two prop guys when I’d seen them bringing stuff in the yard. It had never occurred to me that Kelly might have a connection with one of them. Maybe I’d spent too much time thinking about mysteries, but I automatically wondered if Fred had told the whole story. Or just enough to throw someone off the track.

C
HAPTER
8

With the production shut down, the bookstore stayed quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Shedd probably wasn’t happy, but I was relieved. It was still haunting me that I’d visited Kelly shortly before she’d been killed and I figured it was only a matter of time before word got back to Detective Heather about the timing of my visit. Instinctively, I glanced toward the door half expecting to see her walking in ready to question me.

And then tussling with the shoplifters. Why had Mrs. Shedd left it up to me? Did she think that came under my title of community relations coordinator? Frankly, I was still shocked by Barry’s reaction, or should I say, lack of reaction. I called Mason, hoping to talk it over with him, but I got his voice mail and had to leave a message.

With my thoughts still racing, I took advantage of the quiet and headed back to the yarn department where I took out the cowl in progress I’d stowed in the cabinets for times like this. Adele had given me the pattern, anxious that I turn some out for the upcoming sale. I wasn’t so sure about that, but it was a simple and repetitious pattern and was just what I needed. As I sat working the cream-colored cotton yarn, I felt all the tension go out of my shoulders.

Refreshed, I went back to the customer service booth as customers filtered into the bookstore. After helping a woman find a book listing local hiking trails, I was surprised to see North Adams sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window. He had a book open in front of him, but seemed to be staring into space. After a moment he got up and went outside. I thought he’d left, but when I looked back at the chair, he was in it again.

Why was the star of
L.A. 911
sticking around the bookstore?

As I tidied up the customer service booth, I found my eye wandering back to where North was sitting. He had a slight resemblance to Barry—both had close-cropped dark hair and stubborn chins, but North’s eyes were the color of those clear blue mints and Barry’s were an earthy brown. It was odd seeing North as himself. When I’d seen him on the set, he’d had a very different kind of persona. He’d had an air of authority and seemed like someone who could corner a suspect into a confession. He’d become that person when he’d helped with the shoplifters. But sitting in the bookstore chair, he barely resembled that character. Partly, I suppose it was the clothes. The suit and dress shirt had been replaced with jeans that had no doubt gone through extensive abusive treatments to get the soft worn look. No old cotton tee shirt for him. The fit of his black vee neck had “imported from Italy” written all over it. His detective shoes had been switched out for a pair of tasseled loafers he wore with no socks.

Still, he had charisma. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly, but something about him kept drawing my gaze back.

I helped some more customers, and when I looked his way again, he was on his cell phone. I saw him look up at me with interest. Still on the phone, he walked across the bookstore and pushed the phone toward me. “Somebody wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Hello,” I said tentatively and was surprised to hear my son Peter’s voice. Before I could say anything more, he told me just to listen.

“No comments on anything. Just say uh-huh,” Peter ordered. There was a pause. “Well?” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I answered. Peter was my older son and a talent agent specializing in TV. He didn’t share as much of his life with me as Samuel did, so I had no idea, until he explained, that North Adams was one of his clients. I started to express my surprise, but Peter cut me off.

“Mother,” he said dragging the word out with disapproval. “I said just to listen. No comments. Don’t give away what you’re hearing. Just smile.”

I forced my lips upward hoping it didn’t look too phoney as I said, “Uh-huh.”

Peter groaned and said I should do all this while appearing natural. I couldn’t help it—despite all his orders I said, “You missed your calling, you should have been a director.”

For that I got another drawn out “Mother,” with an extra dose of disapproval.

“This isn’t some kind of joke,” Peter said annoyed that there might have been a touch of sarcasm in my uh-huh. “I need you to take North home with you now. I’ll pick him up at the house. Don’t ask him any questions. And take the back roads home.”

“Uh-huh,” I said in a noncommittal tone. It was all very mysterious. Peter entrusting one of his clients to me? Just before he hung up, Peter implored me just to do what he said and not mess anything up. Maybe I had a bit of a reputation of putting my own stamp on things. But not this time. Whatever was going on, I didn’t want to cause my son any problems.

I handed the cell phone back to North and told him to hang on for a moment. I was relieved when Mrs. Shedd didn’t mind me leaving a little early, though when she saw me walking out with North, she gave me an odd look.

I couldn’t blame her. What was going on? Peter was always horrified that I was still driving the greenmobile. And now he actually wanted me to give one of his clients a ride in it—to my house? Peter didn’t approve of that, either. He thought I should have downsized to a condo when my husband Charlie died. He hadn’t liked Barry when we were a couple and was completely against me letting him stay at my house.

He was also upset about his brother Samuel moving back home and bringing a pair of cats with him. The only thing in my life Peter seemed to approve of was my friendship, or whatever you wanted to call it, with Mason.

North made a comment about my car being a classic as he got in the passenger seat. Already I liked him a little more. I took Wells Drive home as Peter had instructed instead of taking the shorter route via Ventura Boulevard. I tried to make conversation and asked North what he knew about Kelly’s murder. I didn’t refer to her as Kelly, but instead called her the woman whose backyard they were using, and I never let on I’d overheard his conversation. He didn’t seem to want to talk and just muttered something about being in his trailer.

It was just getting dark as I pulled into my driveway behind Barry’s Tahoe. For weeks the Tahoe had just sat there. He’d only recently been given the okay to drive. North got out of the car and followed me as I went through my backyard. Peter hadn’t said anything, but I wondered if I was supposed to give his client dinner.

As we walked into my kitchen I noticed a bunch of white takeout cartons on the counter and a smell that definitely seemed like Chinese sweet and sour something. A moment later, Jeffrey came in carrying his plate, no doubt for seconds. He gave me a hello nod and started to glance back toward the Chinese food, when he did a sudden double take.

“You’re that guy,” he said to North as awe gushed through his voice. “You’re Jake Blake on
L.A. 911
. North Adams, right?”

North smiled at Jeffrey’s exuberance as the boy actor put down his plate and stuck out his hand while telling North that he was an actor, too. “You should have seen me as Curly in
Carousel
. Everyone says I really nailed it.”

“I bet you did,” North said in a friendly voice. Jeffrey seemed to have forgotten why he came in the kitchen and stood watching North with wide adoring eyes.

Barry walked into the kitchen. His brows were furrowed and he clearly had something on his mind. He stopped in front of me before jumping in. “About this afternoon at the bookstore,” he began. “I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry—” But suddenly he stopped short and his expression went to neutral—he’d noticed there was a visitor present. Ever the cop, he scrutinized the actor’s face. I had the feeling Barry thought North looked familiar, but couldn’t place him. Was it because he was on a wanted poster somewhere or had they met?

My two dogs came in to check out what was going on. Cosmo, the bolder of the two, sniffed North’s shoes before sitting down. Then Samuel’s cats, Holstein and Cat Woman, arrived silently and moved through the group before going to check their food bowl.

I stepped in and did introductions, explaining that Barry was an LAPD homicide detective and that North played one.

North seemed interested in meeting Barry and asked Barry if he would pass along some hints. “I like to put in the little touches to make my performance seem real,” North explained.

“I don’t really watch the show,” Barry said, “although I might have caught it once or twice. But for starters, if you want to make it accurate, you could have a few wrinkles in your dress shirt. Try spending all night going over a crime scene, and then knocking on somebody’s door at five
A.M.
to tell them their son’s been killed over something stupid like road rage or he owed somebody a few bucks for some weed, followed by getting a lead that takes you to a homeless encampment in the dirt under the freeway, and then see what your shirt looks like.” North seemed a little overwhelmed with the information, but said he’d tell the wardrobe people.

When Barry looked away, I caught his expression of distaste. I knew what he thought of TV cops. He said they were all flash with no cash, meaning they had the swagger, but nothing to back it up with. Hoping to avoid an awkward silence, I mentioned that Barry was working cold cases at the moment.

“Oh, yeah?” North sounded interested. “What made you switch?”

There was a flash of irritation on Barry’s face. “It’s only temporary. Once I settle the two cases I’m working on, I’m going back to homicide. I just went back to work after an injury.” Barry started to talk about the cases as a way to direct the conversation. Not that it worked.

“What kind of injury? Like something in the line of duty?” North asked.

“Something like that.” Barry turned toward me as if he was trying to figure out what I was doing with the actor. Meanwhile North tried to ferret out more details.

Remembering that North was an important client of my son’s and I was supposed to be keeping him happy, I answered for Barry and said that he’d been shot by a shoplifter. Barry blew out his breath in consternation.

“Molly, you make it sound so lame,” Barry said. He glared at North. “If you’re looking for something for your show—just remember that any situation can turn deadly.”

North’s face was suddenly animated. “I remember hearing about that. You’re the one who was trying to help the newbie cop arresting the shoplifter at some discount store. The shoplifter got hold of the newbie’s gun, right?” Without pausing a beat, North stepped closer and patted Barry on the shoulder as if they were somehow connected. “Our writers loved that story and were writing something like it into an upcoming show. You’ve got to admit, it’s kind of funny being shot by a guy in handcuffs.” Barry’s response was a glower.

I heard the kitchen door open behind us. “What’s going on?” Mason said coming into the room. He joined the group and said hello to Barry and Jeffrey and introduced himself to North.

Both Mason and Barry looked at me with questions in their eyes. I knew they were wondering what I was doing with North. There was nothing to say because I didn’t even know what I was doing with him. This was getting more awkward by the minute. Peter had only said he would pick North up, not when or why.

Finally, I heard the front door open and close. At least I’d gotten the answer to when.

C
HAPTER
9

“What was that about?” Mason said when it was just the three of us. Peter had rushed in, waved to North that they were leaving and barely called a “thank you” to me before they went back out the front door. As the door shut, both Barry and Mason stared at me.

“I have no idea,” I said with a shrug. I’d been avoiding having Mason come over while Barry was staying at my house, but Mason had taken matters in his own hands and just walked in.

“Look at you,” Mason said turning his attention to Barry. “Your cast is off and you’re good as new. I hear you’re back to work and driving. So, then you’ll be moving out.” Mason turned to me. “Then Molly can get her stuff out of storage and life around here can go back to normal.” Mason stepped closer to me and put his arm behind me on the counter. It wasn’t around me exactly, but it made a point. Barry’s eyes rested on the position of Mason’s arm.

“When?” Mason asked staring squarely at Barry.

Jeffrey had drifted out of the room as soon as North was gone. I was glad he wasn’t there to see this confrontation. Barry hesitated, but something in his posture said he was standing his ground. “I don’t know exactly. I haven’t gotten the okay from my doctor yet.” To punctuate it, Barry moved his leg and grimaced in pain. Was it real or imaginary?

The whole exchange reminded me of something I’d heard about parking spots. When a man saw that someone was waiting for the spot he was in, he took much longer to pull out than if there was no one waiting.

“It’s a little crowded here,” Mason said, gesturing toward the rest of the house. “Molly, your message said you wanted to talk to me about a murder. I’m here to help.”

“C’mon,” I said to Mason. He was right, it was too crowded in the kitchen and awkward with a capital
A
. I led Mason out of the kitchen, across the living room and through the den. As he soon as he went through the doorway into the hall that led to my bedroom, I heard him sigh.

“Finally into the inner sanctum,” Mason said. “I’ll close the door behind me.”

“I know more than he does,” Barry said. I hadn’t realized Barry was right behind Mason until I heard his voice. Mason pulled the door to the hall shut before Barry could follow.

That was a laugh and a half. When had Barry ever been willing to share what he knew? From him it was stay out of it. The cops have it covered, blah, blah, blah. Mason had always been a better source of information.

“This is more like it,” Mason said walking into my bedroom. He looked around and suddenly seemed a little disappointed that with the small couch and wing chair, it looked more like a living room than a den of inequity. “Hmm, no round bed with mirrors on the ceiling,” he joked touching the basket of yarn next to the wing chair.

He sat down on the couch and I took the chair, but after a moment I got up. “Let’s go get some food or something,” I said. “I’m too tense here. I feel like Barry is standing by at the door.”

I wasn’t too far off. Barry wasn’t standing by the door to my wing of the house, but the chair he picked in the den wasn’t far from it. He had the TV on, but it was obviously all a ruse. Barry watching a dancing competition? His head swiveled as Mason and I walked through the den toward the living room, but he didn’t say anything.

“You need to remind Barry that he gave up all claims on you,” Mason said when we got into his car. “Even though I’m glad he did, I still think he’s nuts. If a woman said she didn’t want to marry me, but wanted to keep things as they were, I’d never tell her it had to be all or nothing.” Mason paused a moment. “I think Barry’s forgotten that he chose nothing.” Mason started the motor and pulled the car away from the curb.

We continued our conversation when we got to a small bar/restaurant that served the best thick-crust pizza. We ordered a large one with cheese and a salad to share.

“When he was laid up, it was no problem. He had people who came over and took care of things and who took him whereever he needed to go. I barely saw him. But now that he’s up and around and back to work, it’s gotten all strange. I said something to him about being ready to move back to his condo. He gave me the same story about needing his doctor to okay him going up and down stairs. But I’m sure it won’t be long.” I paused a moment and then told Mason how Barry had frozen when he saw me struggling with the kids stealing the e-readers in the afternoon.

Mason appeared stricken. “I wish I’d been there. I would have helped you. It sounds like Barry needs to get his edge back.” We’d finished off the salad and the pizza arrived in the black round pan. The waitress set it on its own little table after serving us each a piece. For a few minutes we were lost in pizza heaven. The tomato sauce was homemade and the mozzarella made a creamy counterpoint to the zesty sauce. And the crust. It had a little crunch and a delicious buttery flavor.

“Maybe when he takes care of the two cases he’s working on and gets back to his old job, it’ll come back.” I helped Mason and myself to another piece of the delicious pizza.

Mason shook his head. “He can’t go back to his old homicide job until he gets his mojo back. If he hesitates at the wrong time, it could get him killed. And anybody working with him. I’m sure he knows that.” I felt my shoulders slump. I knew what Mason was saying was true.

“So, tell me, sunshine, who got murdered this time?” Mason said trying to change the subject.

Between bites, I told him about Kelly. The whole story—how Adele, Dinah and I had gone over to her house in the morning and now she was dead.

“Are you three suspects?” Mason asked.

“No. The cops don’t even know that we were there.” I paused and had visions of Adele talking to Eric. “Yet, anyway.” I looked at the two slices still in the pan and debated whether to have one or not. Mason read my thoughts and scooped up one and dropped it on my plate, before taking the last one for himself. “I’m not really worried about being a suspect. I’m more concerned about Dinah. The murder happened a half block from her house. According to Adele, even though it looked like a robbery gone bad, the cops are zeroing in on Kelly’s husband. You know who he is. Dan from the Hollar for a Dollar
store. Oops, I mean More Bang for Your Buck. I suppose it could have been him. Actually I hope it is him instead of some random robber with a gun.”

“So, she was shot?” Mason said. “You’d think someone would have heard something with all those people around.”

“It is odd.” I said.

With the pizza finished, we ordered espressos and a vanilla gelato to share.

“Sunshine, I hate to say anything, but you do seem to keep getting caught up in murders. Maybe I should be worried,” Mason joked as he picked up the small cup of strong coffee. Then his smile faded. “I know I shouldn’t joke. It’s serious business. Your crochet friend is dead.”

I tasted a spoonful of the gelato. The creamy sweet taste was a perfect contrast to the espresso. “If there’s anything you can find out, I’d appreciate it. I’m concerned because Dinah lives down the street, but there’s something else.” I stopped. I knew I should be better than this, and not stoop to Adele’s level, but . . . “Adele is making this huge deal out of being the information source. I just need some little edge. I’m not proud of it, but any minute she’s going to start referring to herself as Adele Poirot, or Sherlock’s sister, or Adele Drew.”

“I get the picture,” Mason said, reaching over and touching my hand. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He squeezed my hand and let go. When I looked up, I was surprised to see the good humor had drained from his face.

“What’s the matter?” I said. He started to say “Nothing,” and then stopped himself.

“Old habits die hard,” he said. “I’m still getting used to the idea of talking about things, instead of just dealing with them.” He paused and took a breath. “It’s the wedding disaster and my ex-wife.” The words came out with a rush of air as though they’d escaped. He shook his head with dismay. “At least if she’d told me right away about the problem, I might have been able to do something.” Now that he’d begun, the words flowed and the frustration was clear in his tone. “You don’t know her, but it’s her typical MO. She’s going to take care of something, but only makes a mess of it. I can’t trust her to do anything on her own.”

“I know a little about event planning,” I said. “Maybe I can help.” Mason grinned at my comment and we both rolled our eyes. My events often ended up a little offbeat. They were always successful but there might be a police raid or the fire department could show up.

Not exactly what you’d want for a wedding

“Thank you for listening—and for getting me to talk.” His eyes were warm and I felt closer to him than I ever had. “All of this just reminds me of why we got a divorce. I think I’d rather talk about your murder,” he said. “The robbery gone bad thing is a common cover-up. It probably was her husband, the Dollar King. So I don’t think you have to worry about someone going after Dinah.”

“Okay,” I said, but I couldn’t help wondering. What if it wasn’t him? I thought back to the conversation of the two prop guys. They clearly knew Kelly and they certainly had access to her place. Could they have killed her? But why?