A Tangled Yarn Read online

  Praise for the Yarn Retreat Mysteries

  “If you haven’t read this series yet, I highly recommend giving it a go. The mystery will delight you, and afterwards you’ll be itching to start a knitting or crochet project of your own!”

  —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  “Good characters I hope to see more of.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “A cozy mystery that you won’t want to put down. It combines cooking, knitting and murder in one great book!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The California seaside is the backdrop to this captivating cozy that will have readers heading for the yarn store in droves.”

  —Debbie’s Book Bag

  “What a great start to a new series . . . A real page-turner.”

  —MyShelf.com

  Praise for Betty Hechtman’s National Bestselling Crochet Mysteries

  “Will warm the reader like a favorite afghan.”

  —Earlene Fowler, national bestselling author

  “Get hooked on this new author! . . . Who can resist a sleuth named Pink, a slew of interesting minor characters and a fun fringe-of-Hollywood setting?”

  —Monica Ferris, USA Today bestselling author

  “Readers couldn’t ask for a more rollicking read.”

  —Crochet Today!

  “Fans . . . will enjoy unraveling the knots leading to the killer.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Classic cozy fare . . . Crocheting pattern and recipe are just the icing on the cake.”

  —Cozy Library

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Betty Hechtman

  Yarn Retreat Mysteries

  YARN TO GO

  SILENCE OF THE LAMB’S WOOL

  WOUND UP IN MURDER

  GONE WITH THE WOOL

  A TANGLED YARN

  Crochet Mysteries

  HOOKED ON MURDER

  DEAD MEN DON’T CROCHET

  BY HOOK OR BY CROOK

  A STITCH IN CRIME

  YOU BETTER KNOT DIE

  BEHIND THE SEAMS

  IF HOOKS COULD KILL

  FOR BETTER OR WORSTED

  KNOT GUILTY

  SEAMS LIKE MURDER

  HOOKING FOR TROUBLE

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Betty Hechtman

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780425282687

  First Edition: August 2017

  Cover art by Patricia Castelao

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.

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  Contents

  Praise for the Yarn Retreat Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Betty Hechtman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Knitting Pattern and Recipe

  Acknowledgments

  This book was a lot of fun to write. My editor Michelle Vega’s comments only made it better. Jessica Faust keeps helping me navigate the publishing world. Eileen Chetti did a great job of copyediting.

  The patterns included in the book are favorites of mine and the one for the baby blanket has a special meaning for me. By the time I had finished the sample, my grandson Jakey had arrived and could put it to good use. Thank you to Shule and the team at Zoe’s Yarn Studio for the help in figuring out the yarn and for teaching me the term “social knitting.”

  I have been part of a knit and crochet group for a while and never knew there was a term for what we were doing. Despite the fact that we lost our meeting place, our group has stuck together. Thank you to my friends and yarn advisors—Rene Biederman, Terry Cohen, Sonia Flaum, Lily Gillis, Winnie Hineson, Reva Mallon, Elayne Moschin, Anna Thomeson and Paula Tesler. I’m sure Linda Hopkins is keeping an eye on us from heaven.

  Dominic and Roberta Maria have been my staunchest supporters.

  It has been an interesting time for my family. Burl, Max, Samantha, and now Jakey—love you all.

  1

  Did I really want to do this? It wasn’t my nature to lurk and eavesdrop. I was generally more direct, but this was different. It seemed like my only chance to get the truth.

  And yes, I really should have been home preparing for the retreat I had starting later in the day instead of hanging around outside Maggie’s coffee place. I could see the couple through the window. I didn’t know them, but then Cadbury by the Sea attracted tourists from all over the world thanks to its quaint charm and position on the edge of the Monterey peninsula. Along with several coffee cups, one of my new breakfast muffins was on a plate in front of the man. At any moment he would take his first bite.

  I’d been working on the recipe for a while, but this was the first time I’d offered them to the public—though only at two of the regular places I made muffins for. I had to know if they were a hit or a miss.

  I slipped into the shop unnoticed and moved behind the brick-colored drapes Maggie had recently added. From here I had a slightly different view of the couple, though all I really noticed was that she had short dark hair and he was wearing a green cloth jacket. My eyes were glued to the muffin.

  I’d had to come up with a whole new way of preparation and delivery since this new version of a muffin was perishable. But what with the popularity of breakfast items at fast-food places and the big chains of coffee places, it had seemed like a good idea.

  Go on and taste it. I felt the tension rising as they kept talking instead of eating.

  I felt my breath quicken as the man used a fork to break off a piece of the muffin
and pick it up. All I could see was the back of his head, but I was pretty sure he put it in his mouth. When he replaced the fork, I waited for his reaction. But the woman kept on talking. “Nobody is expecting something like this in a small touristy town at the end of the earth. They could get careless when they make the exchange,” she said.

  “You’re right. The actors think they’re safe,” the man said.

  Okay, I got it. The muffin wasn’t uppermost in his mind. I considered coming out from my hiding spot and simply asking him directly for his opinion, but only for a moment. Even if I could pull off a sudden appearance next to their table, what was I going to say? If I just asked what he thought of the muffin with no explanation, it would seem weird. And if I explained that I’d made it, I would most likely get a polite answer that might not be the truth.

  “I’m just worried,” he said. “This has to come off—or else.”

  A booming voice from across the coffee shop grabbed my attention, startling me. “You can’t call that a muffin. It’s that Feldstein woman again,” the man said. “When will she understand that here in Cadbury we call things what they are. None of those cutesy names of hers, like The Blues for blueberry muffins. Calling this a muffin is absurd. Muffins are cakey even if they aren’t sweet. This, this . . . ,” he sputtered. He was standing at the counter holding a plate with a half-eaten one on it as Maggie looked on. “The only thing it has in common with a muffin is the shape. She ought to call it what it is—a portable frittata, or maybe a round breakfast mélange.”

  I’d forgotten all about the couple now and focused on the man at the counter. By now I’d gotten a look at him and recognized him as one of the members of the town council. They’d been on my case since I’d first started baking in Cadbury. You’d think I was committing some kind of capital crime calling my mixed-berry muffins Merry Berry, or the walnut ones Just Nuts.

  It was all about the town wanting to be authentic. There were no ye olde shoppes of any kind, and if the buildings appeared to be Victorian architecture, with bright colors and fish-scale siding, it was because they were the real thing. I could definitely see the town’s point, but I didn’t see why giving my muffins clever names was a problem. To keep the peace, though, I had gone along with it. So, the Ebony and Ivory muffins were just called chocolate and vanilla and the Plain Janes became vanilla muffins; the Monkey Business muffins went back to banana. But I was drawing the line with my new creation. Calling them portable frittatas—no way.

  But then he said something that made me calm down a little. “Well, at least it seems like a healthier option, and it tastes pretty good. My wife would probably approve.” He stared down at the refrigerated glass case. “That is, if she found them.”

  So, I had gotten an answer about my new creation, but I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I waited until he left before I exited my hiding place. Maggie looked up from behind the counter and seemed baffled by my sudden appearance. She had a bloodred bandana tied over her dark hair. Wearing something red was almost a trademark for the coffee-shop owner. Everyone in town knew it was her way of keeping a cheerful outlook after the tragedies she’d had in her life. She’d lost both her husband and her daughter in a short span of time. It had not ruined her, though, and she was a kind, giving person who doled out warmth with her coffee drinks.

  “I guess you heard, then.” She looked toward the street as the town councilman walked past the window. “At least he seemed to like them.” I knew she was trying to spare my feelings. “Maybe we can figure out a way to present them differently. Nobody seems to understand what they are until I explain,” she said.

  I looked over to my couple, thinking of asking their opinion, but their table was empty and most of the muffin had been left behind. “Let me think about it,” I said. “It’s time for me to change modes now, from muffin maker to yarn retreat leader.”

  “No problem. Maybe things will pick up. You said these muffins will stay fresh all weekend.” She offered me a coffee, but I said I didn’t have time. “What’s the plan for your retreat this time?”

  “Arm knitting and finger crochet,” I said, making my way to the door.

  “Really?” Maggie said with a laugh. “Good luck.”

  This was going to be my fifth yarn retreat, and I was still dependent on my two helpers to come up with a program. Maggie’s tone made me wonder if I’d made a mistake this time.

  It hadn’t been my plan to be running yarn retreats when I relocated to Cadbury. I hadn’t really had any plan of what I was going to do when I made the move. It was more about avoiding moving back in with my parents. Their apartment in the Hancock building in downtown Chicago had a great view of Lake Michigan, but at thirty-five, living with them seemed like the ultimate sign of failure. I should add that my parents are both doctors and high achievers. Unfortunately, I hadn’t exactly followed in their footsteps. I’d tried law school, but after one semester I knew it wasn’t for me. I’d baked for a bistro that had gone out of business after six months—it had been their bad management, not my desserts. I’d been a substitute teacher at a private school, another profession that was not for me, and I’d been relieved when they didn’t renew my contract. I’d turned to temp work, which at least wasn’t boring. I’d handed out samples of a new flavor of chewing gums on a street corner, and offered to spritz women with a new scent as they came into a department store, among other things, but my favorite gig was working for a PI. I’d hoped it might have become something permanent, but he couldn’t afford to keep me on. Which brings me to why it seemed like my only alternative was to move back in with my parents.

  My father’s sister, Joan, lived in Cadbury, and when she offered me her guest house, I’d pretty much jumped at the opportunity. It was thanks to her that I’d gotten the job baking desserts for the Blue Door and started making the muffins that I supplied to the local coffee spots.

  The yarn retreat business was all hers. She’d been an avid yarn crafter and had all the skills necessary, but she’d been killed in a hit-and-run accident. The only satisfaction I had was that I had managed to find the culprit and gotten justice for Joan.

  My aunt was single with no children and had left her house and the business to me. To say I was a fish out of water was an understatement. I hadn’t known the difference between knitting and crochet beyond that one took two tools and the other just one. But I had risen to the occasion and gotten some local help to handle the yarn part.

  My job was to arrange it all and deal with the people during the retreat. By now I had learned how to knit and crochet and tried to make the projects along with the group. I also had come to understand the appeal of yarn craft. But I was nowhere near my aunt’s level of proficiency, which was why I’d once again delegated it to my helpers to come up with the program for the upcoming retreat. I had a sinking feeling that I should have spent time seeing exactly how arm knitting and finger crochet worked.

  It took about five minutes for me to drive my yellow Mini Cooper from downtown Cadbury to my place on the edge of town. I forced myself to stop thinking about the muffin flop and to focus on the retreat. When I pulled into the driveway, Julius was sitting by the back door waiting for me.

  Julius was my first-ever pet—well, maybe I should say animal companion. If anybody was the pet, it was probably me. The sleek black cat had picked me out; that was for sure. I didn’t know anything about his history other than that he’d seemed homeless before he came to my place. And he seemed to be doing a good job of training me.

  “I can’t stay,” I said when I’d gotten out of the car. He blinked his yellow eyes and turned toward the back door with a tiny meow. “No, no stink fish right now,” I said in my best impression of a firm voice.

  Of all the foods in the world the cat could have liked, his first choice was a fishy cat food that had such a strong smell, I had to encase it in in numerous layers of plastic wrap and bags. Even then, a hint of its icky s
cent escaped. He let out such a disappointed meow, I almost relented, but then I saw the white airport van go by and turn in to the driveway across the street. How convenient to have Vista Del Mar, the hotel and conference center where the retreats were held, just across the street.

  “Later, I promise,” I called as grabbed my bag and rushed to follow the van.

  It was April, but you wouldn’t know it by the weather here. It was almost the same year-round—damp and never really cold or really warm. It was almost always cloudy, but after living here awhile, I’d noticed the variations in the sky. Sometimes the clouds were gauzy and the sun made an appearance through them, but at other times the clouds were spread across the sky in an even layer, like they were today. The layer was so thick, there was no hint of where in the sky the sun even was. When it was like this, the light stayed the same all day. And when the afternoon turned to evening, it was as if a giant dimmer made the light fade evenly across the sky.

  Here on the edge of town, it was more rustic than the rest of Cadbury. There were no lawns, sidewalks or street lights, but when I crossed the street and started down the Vista Del Mar driveway, the landscape went to a whole new level of untamed.

  The hotel and conference center had started out as a camp, and it still had more the flavor of a camp than a resort. It was more than a hundred years old, and the guest rooms were in moody, weathered-looking buildings spread around the sloping hundred or so acres. A narrow road built before cars were common looped around the grounds. The air always smelled of salt from the ocean mixed with smoke from the many fireplaces.

  The grounds were all left to grow wild. If one of the lanky Monterey pines died and fell over, it was left to return to the earth on its own. I’d heard the same was true with any of the animals that made their home on the grounds. Ever since I’d heard that, I’d always avoided looking in the brush any more than necessary. It wasn’t even an issue now since my eyes were glued to the van that had pulled up to the main building and was beginning to release passengers.