Yarn to Go Read online

  Praise for Betty Hechtman’s

  National Bestselling Crochet Mysteries

  “What fun—crochet and mystery.”

  —Vanna White, cohost of Wheel of Fortune

  “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

  “A delightful addition to the mystery genre.”

  —Earlene Fowler, national bestselling author

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

  —Crochet Today!

  “Fun . . . Has a great hook and a cast of characters that enliven any scene.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A wonderfully woven tale . . . A well-crafted mystery that gets unraveled one strand at a time.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Hechtman’s charming crochet mystery series is clever and lively.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Betty Hechtman

  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

  Yarn Retreat Mysteries

  YARN TO GO

  Yarn to Go

  BETTY HECHTMAN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  YARN TO GO

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Betty Hechtman.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-62439-5

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2013

  Cover illustration by Patricia Castelao.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Acknowledgments

  I am so happy to be working with my editor, Sandy Harding. I appreciate her suggestions, which always seem to be right. Thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, for all her input and persistence. Natalee Rosenstein makes Berkley Prime Crime a great place to be.

  Nothing is ever wasted. Who knew the magic class with the Great Houdanni would come in handy or my experience as master magician Ricky Jay’s assistant?

  Thanks to Roberta Martia for all the encouragement and yarn help. Linda Hopkins once again was a wonderful help with the pattern. Her eye for detail is fantastic.

  Rene Biederman, Connie Cabon, Alice Chiredijan, Terry Cohen, Clara Feeney, Sonia Flaum, Lily Gillis, Winnie Hineson, Linda Hopkins, Debbie Kratofil, Reva Mallon, Elayne Moschin and Paula Tesler are all part of my knit and crochet group. They offer yarn help, friendship and so much more.

  Thanks to my muffin tasters Burl, Max and Samantha. What would I do without you guys?

  Contents

  Praise for Betty Hechtman’s Bestselling Crochet Mysteries

  Also 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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Casey’s It-Only-Looks-Complicated Scarf

  Heal the World with Chocolate Muffins

  1

  I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF LAYING OUT THE INGREDIENTS for my carrot muffins when the call came. It’s lucky I hadn’t started mixing them, because you can’t just run off and abandon muffin batter for an hour and expect it to be okay. I didn’t even understand who it was at first. All I heard was something about no refund on a credit card bill, the word retreat and that I “better do something about it.”

  “Who is this?” I said when the caller finally took a breath.

  “Casey, this is Tag Thornkill,” an exasperated voice responded. He could have left off the last name. I mean, it’s not like I know a bunch of Tags. Immediately my demeanor changed from irritated at the interruption to concerned. Tag is my current employer, or half of the pair, anyway. He and his wife, Lucinda, own the Blue Door restaurant, which is where I presently work. I’m the dessert chef. Tag doesn’t know it, but I also bake muffins for some coffee spots in town using the Blue Door’s kitchen. Lucinda had given her okay and saw no problem with the arrangement as long as I brought in my own ingredients.

  So every night when the restaurant closes and everyone has left, I come in and bake the restaurant’s desserts for the next day, along with batches of muffins for the next day’s coffee drinkers.

  Let me be clear from the start: I’m not one of those fancy cooking school graduates who does French pastry. I had never even thought of baking as being a career. It was just something I started doing when I was a kid. It might have been a reaction to having a mother who was a cardiologist and thought cookies only came in white boxes from the bakery.

  My first experience as a dessert chef happened at a friend’s bistro. He didn’t care that I didn’t have any formal training. The truth was in the cake. He loved what I baked and hired me. Unfortunately, he sold the bistro after six months and it became a hot dog stand that didn’t offer dessert.

  After that I tried law school, but by the end of the first semester, I knew it wasn’t for me. Nor was being a substitute teacher at a priv
ate school. Then I tested out a lot of other professions. In other words, I worked as a temp. I did things like handing out samples of chewing gum on street corners, spritzing perfume on anyone I could get to slow down at a department store, some office work and my favorite, working at a detective agency.

  My poor mother was beside herself. If I’d heard it once, I’d heard it a zillion times. “Casey, when I was your age, I was already a doctor and a mother. And you’re what . . . ?” Talk about knowing how to make me feel like more of a flop. My father wasn’t all that happy, either. He was a doctor, too—a pediatrician. When I broke up with Dr. Sammy Glickner, things really hit the fan. He was my parents’ dream come true: Jewish, not just a doctor, but a specialist in urology and nice. They said nice; I said bland. Well, not totally bland. He was very funny in a goofy sort of way.

  But I needed a fresh start. And who better to help me with it than my father’s sister, Joan Stone. Let’s just say we both had the black sheep thing going. Her main advantage was she actually had a profession—actress. She wasn’t an A-list star like Meryl Streep or Julia Roberts. Most of her parts were playing somebody’s aunt Trudy or the noisy neighbor down the street. Her one claim to fame was she’d been the Tidy Soft toilet paper lady long enough to build up a nice nest egg before she left L.A., moved up north and started a new career.

  But now back to the call.

  With a nice tone, I asked Tag to repeat what he’d said.

  “I was checking Lucinda’s credit card receipts. There is a charge for Yarn2Go. My dear wife explained that was your aunt’s business and the charge was for some kind of yarn trip.” He paused as if he expected me to say something, and when I didn’t, he continued. “I checked all of her later bills and there was no mention of a refund. What do you have to say about that?”

  The “oh no” was purely in my head. Barely three months after I’d left Chicago and relocated to my aunt Joan’s guesthouse in the northern California town of Cadbury by the Sea, my aunt had been killed in a hit-and-run accident. It was horrible. There were no witnesses, and the cops still had the case open, though it didn’t look like they were going to find the driver. I didn’t care that the cops, my parents and all of my aunt’s friends insisted it was just an unfortunate, random accident. I didn’t buy it.

  Here are the basic facts. It was six thirty on a Sunday morning. My aunt never got up before eight. No one could explain, at least to my satisfaction, why she would have been out walking by the water at that hour. It was barely even light. I simply didn’t buy the cops’ explanation that maybe she’d taken up an exercise program and not mentioned it to me.

  I mean, I was living in her guesthouse, which was just across the driveway from her house. True, we’d agreed to stay out of each other’s lives, but still . . .

  My aunt had left everything to me, and when I’d met with the lawyer, he’d brought up her retreat business. While Joan had still done occasional acting gigs, her real passion had become putting on these retreats that she called “vacations with a purpose.” Basically all I knew about them was that they had to do with making things with yarn and she used the hotel and conference center across the street to host them. Joan had tried to explain more to me, but she got totally frustrated when I kept mixing up crocheting and knitting. I knew that you needed two things for one of them and one for the other, but not which for which. Needles, hooks, not my thing. All my creative endeavors had to do with baking.

  I had told the lawyer I had no interest in continuing the business for obvious reasons. He’d looked through the papers I’d brought in and said they appeared to be for her taxes, so for all intents and purposes, the business was over.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Tag repeated, pulling me back to the here and now. I said something about checking into it when I got home, but that wasn’t good enough. I could practically hear him pacing. Tag was one of those people who went around straightening pictures on the walls at other people’s houses. He couldn’t deal with things being out of order or unsettled. He said he wouldn’t be able to sleep until it was straightened out. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was ten o’clock. I really wanted to continue making the muffins, but I knew Tag would be frantic until he had an answer, and he was sort of my boss. So I decided to run home and check. I’d finish the muffins when I returned.

  Even though the restaurant was in downtown Cadbury and my place was on the edge of town, the route was direct, and a little over five minutes later I pulled my yellow Mini Cooper into the driveway. When I doused the headlights, the yard became invisible. I was still getting used to so much darkness at night. In Chicago, wherever you were, there was some light coming from somewhere. Here, on the edge of a small town that didn’t allow streetlights, it really was pitch-dark.

  There’s something else I haven’t mentioned. I had inherited my aunt’s house, but after we’d cleaned out the refrigerator and I’d returned the packet of papers I’d shown the lawyer, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to go back inside, let alone move into it. The space would have been wonderful. The guesthouse was basically one room. But in my mind the house still belonged to my aunt, and in some wishful corner of my heart, I thought she still might come back.

  I fumbled with the keys as I headed toward her back door. A noise in the yard startled me as I pulled out the small flashlight I always carried. It was like my own personal headlight. I aimed the light around the yard and caught a deer nibbling on the petunias in one of the flower boxes. The delicate-looking creature blinked at the light but didn’t seem concerned by my presence. Not really a big surprise. Deer wandered around the seaside town at will, helping themselves to gardens and flowers. They really loved the small cemetery and were always lounging between the gravestones.

  “No more stalling,” I said out loud. In one swift move, I put the key in the lock, turned it and pushed open the door. The air inside seemed warm and a little stale. Was it my imagination or was there still a trace of my aunt’s signature scent, Penhaligon’s Elisabethan Rose? I couldn’t help it; my eyes filled with tears at the thought of her. I flipped on the light quickly. Everything was just as it had been. She could have walked in and felt right at home. The bunch of lavender flowers she’d been drying was still hanging upside down. Her coffee mug was rinsed out and sitting on the counter.

  I felt a real tug when I saw the shopping bag that the hospital had given me with the clothes she’d been wearing that morning. It had been sitting there since November, untouched since I brought it in.

  “I’m sorry,” a female voice said. I turned in time to see Lucinda come through the door. A quick glance at her face made it clear she’d overheard Tag talking to me on the phone about the yarn retreat charge. Her frilly pink nightgown showed through the opening in her Burberry trench coat. Only Lucinda would have thought to add a silk scarf and lipstick. “I tried to reason with him, but you know Tag. It’s exasperating how exacting he is.” Though the pair were in their fifties, they’d only been married a short time. They’d reconnected at their thirty-fifth high school reunion. Tag had been her high school crush. But years later she was divorced, he was widowed and they picked up as if no time had passed. Almost, anyway. Lucinda’s favorite saying was “be careful what you wish for.” Two seventeen-years-olds was one thing, but two people who have had years and years to develop habits and their own definitions of the way things should be—was something else entirely.

  “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t care,” Lucinda said, closing the door and standing in the middle of the room with me. “I was so upset about Joan, I forgot all about it.”

  “It’s got to be some kind of mistake.” I hung my head. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been such a baby. I should have come in here a long time ago.”

  Lucinda put her arm around my shoulder. “We’ll deal with it together.”

  From the first time I’d met Lucinda, I’d liked her. Like my aunt Joan, she had a sens
e of fun, and our age difference didn’t seem to matter. We were all on the same page, though visually we made an odd pair. Lucinda was smaller and lively looking with neatly styled black hair that softened her square-shaped face. She always looked put together, even in a trench coat over her nightie. I was a little rougher around the edges. Jeans, a long sleeve T-shirt and a fleece jacket was my usual attire. I had shoulder-length hair that resisted any style. It wasn’t straight and it wasn’t curly but went its own way. I tried to remember to put on some makeup, but it wasn’t my top priority. Besides, all that sea air gave me a lot of color.

  And when Joan had Lucinda taste my pound cake, she had gotten the idea of having me bake the desserts for the restaurant. I hadn’t known Tag then or I would have been more flattered that he approved the idea.

  Having Lucinda with me now made it easier to go through the house. We passed by Joan’s bedroom quickly. The door was shut, but I knew everything was still as she had left it that fateful morning. Her toothbrush was still in the bathroom, and tufts of her black hair were still caught in the comb. I turned on the lights in the living room. Examples of my aunt’s handicraft were everywhere. A colorful afghan was folded over the end of the couch. Purple irises graced a needlepoint pillow, and a soft fog gray shawl hung across a wing chair in front of the fireplace. It must have fallen off her shoulders the last time she sat there.

  “All the papers are in her office,” I said. We walked down the short hall. In an effort to make it seem like I was comfortable being in there, I pulled open a closet door. Yarn of every color tumbled out and bounced off my head.

  “What the . . . ?” I said, picking up a ball of cotton candy pink yarn that had hit my foot and rolled off.

  “It’s your aunt’s stash.” Lucinda noticed my confusion. “That’s what it’s called—stash. Joan told me everybody who gets into yarn has a stash. I’d probably have one, too, at least a little one, except for Tag. He’s a sweet guy in a lot of ways, but he’s nuts when it comes to details. He saw I had one extra skein of yarn and made such a fuss, I said I wouldn’t buy any more until I used that one.”