Hooked on Murder: A Crochet Mystery cm-1 Read online

  Hooked on Murder: A Crochet Mystery

  ( Crochet Mysteries - 1 )

  Betty Hechtman

  Craft lovers and mystery readers alike will flock to this great new craft-based cozy— FIRST IN THE CROCHET MYSTERY SERIES Delicious Recipe and Crochet Pattern Included!

  When bookstore event coordinator Molly Pink stumbles across the dead body of a crochet group’s leader, her complicated past with the woman makes her a prime suspect. But while Molly’s fending off a detective with a personal grudge and navigating the pitfalls of crochet group politics, the real killer remains at large. And it’s up to her to catch the culprit—before she winds up in a tight knot.

  CeeCee's Granny Square Washcloth

  Helen's Pound Cake

  Buttercream Frosting

  "We can do things with crochet that you knitters only dream about . . ."

  Detective Heather appeared a little stunned by Adele's barrage,but quickly shrugged it off . . .

  "As long as I'm here, I'd like to ask you all something. Was it common for Ellen to forget her hooks?"

  "Not at all," CeeCee began. "I was surprised when Molly told me. It was completely unlike Ellen. She was highly organized and into detail . . ."

  "Really," Detective Heather said, taking out her notebookand pen. "So, then you saw the bag of hooks after she left?"

  CeeCee shook her head. "Not me."

  The detective looked toward Adele, Meredith and Sheila. "You must have seen the bag of hooks?"

  They all shook their heads.

  "Hmm, so, Mrs. Pink, you were the only one who actuallysaw the bag?"

  This wasn't sounding good. I didn't like the way DetectiveHeather was staring at me. I thought about what I'd said to Dinah about has it wasn't my job to find out who killed Ellen. I'd just changed my mind.

  For Burl and Max.

  You guys are the best!

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank Sandy Harding for her enthusiasm and excellentediting, and for being fun to work with.

  This book wouldn't have happened without my wonderful agent, Jessica Faust.

  Los Angeles police officer Kathy Bennett's online class Cops from A to Z was fascinating and gave me a lot of valuableinside information.

  Thanks to Cathy Gendron, Rita Frangie, Kristin del Rosario and the axb group for making the book look so great.

  Not only did homicide detective Michel Carroll of the Fort Worth Police Department put on a heartrending presentation for the Kiss of Death Chapter of Romance Writers of America,but he also generously answered my questions and gave me insight into what it's like to be a homicide detective.

  I can't forget my cheerleaders, Roberta Martia and Judy Libby, who have been joined by Betty Mehling and Diana Lang.

  Although, like Molly, I did teach myself how to crochet with a kids' kit, Alice Kan and the Tuesday group helped me get past the basics. Paula Tesla broadened my crochet horizonsand became my go-to person. She also taught me about the generous spirit of crocheters, who really do make things to raise money for charity or to give to those in need.

  Crocheters rule!

  Joan Jones, Linda Bruhns, Jan Gonder and Jack Warford met Molly first and gave her a thumbs-up.

  And thank you to my cake tasters, Burl and Max, even if you couldn't wait until it was cool enough for the icing.

  CHAPTER 1

  When i stopped by ellen sheridan's house to drop off the crochet hooks she'd left at the bookstore, I expected to be in and out with maybe a thank-you and a few brownie points. I certainly didn't expect to end up in handcuffs.

  Finding her front door open, I assumed she was bringingin groceries. I did a courtesy knock and said a few hellosand went on in. I called out her name as I continued down the hall to the living room. It looked out on the backyard,and I was so intent on seeing how the landscaping had changed since I'd been there last, I didn't look down-- not at first, anyway. Not until I screamed at the shock of stepping on something other than floor. I screamed again, even louder, when I realized I had stepped on Ellen's leg and she might not be alive. She was sprawled across the champagne-colored carpet with a fireplace poker next to her head.

  My feet suddenly seemed unable to move and my mind unable to focus. The only thought that kept going through my mind was to check her pulse on the chance that her condition wasn't as final as it looked.

  With my heart pounding, dry mouthed and light-headed, I kneeled next to her. Just as my fingers landed on her neck, I heard a rustle.

  "Freeze." The voice was male and full of authority. I followed his command, turning my head ever so slightly to look over my shoulder and see who the voice belonged to. An LAPD officer with a crew cut and a grim expression had both his hands on his gun, and it was pointed at me.

  "Hands on your head," he ordered. Without hesitation, I complied, though as I did, the tote bag on my wrist slid down my arm.

  Only later did I find out how this moment of supreme bad timing happened. All afternoon, the Neighborhood Watch captain had been concerned about the open door. He thought it looked suspicious when I went in, and called to report it. The cop had been down the street, staking out a stop sign that was notorious for being ignored. He'd answeredthe call and been approaching the famous open door as I started to scream.

  Not taking his eyes off me, the officer stepped toward Ellen, crouched down and, releasing one hand from the gun, put two fingers on her neck. He was close enough for me to see that the name on his badge was Steven James.

  "That's what I was going to do." I hoped that would make it clear that I was trying to help Ellen. After a momenthe stood up and shook his head with an even grimmer expression.

  "This isn't the way it looks, Officer James. I just got here. I was dropping this off." I moved my elbow to show off the red tote bag. I had taken his command to freeze seriously and was still on my knees.

  "Drop it," he commanded, then realized the impossibilityof the order with my hands on my head, and told me I could move my arm to let the bag go.

  As soon as the tote bag hit the floor, Officer James pulled it away with his foot and I put my hand back on my head. He stepped behind me, and the next thing I knew, he'd used his free hand to slap a pair of cuffs on me.

  "What are you doing?" I squealed.

  "Ma'am, I need to secure the scene, and I can't do it if I have to worry about what you're doing."

  I promised I'd stay put if he took off the cuffs, but he didn't budge.

  With me restrained, he holstered his gun and got busy on his radio. The truth of what had happened really hit me when I heard him say "homicide." Someone had killed Ellen. My knees felt weak, and I was glad I wasn't standing.Otherwise I might have collapsed. My stomach began to do flip-flops, and I pulled against the handcuffs.

  When Officer James finished on the radio, he slid on a pair of rubber gloves, opened the red tote and dumped out the contents. A pile of red, green and blue metal rods hit the carpet with a jingly noise. He eyed them suspiciously. "Ma'am, you want to tell me what these are?"

  "Crochet hooks," I said. "They're for making scarves, and blankets and those cute little cloche hats. Not that I know how to crochet. I work in a bookstore, so the only yarns I deal with are tall tales." The kneeling had become uncomfortable, and I asked if I could stand up. He agreed and even helped me up. I was glad to see my legs had recovered.

  "Hmm, so then that's what that is." He gestured toward Ellen's hand. A wooden crochet hook lay across her palm, with a small ball of beige yarn next to it.

  I nodded. "I think that's one of the fancy kind. Her name is Ellen Sheridan. She leads"--I faltered--"make that led the crochet group that meets at Shedd & Royal
Books and More. That's the bookstore where I work. I'm the event-coordinator-slash-community-relations person. I handle authorevents and book signings, and usually arrange for groups to meet at the bookstore. But Mrs. Shedd is the one who invited the crochet group." I took a breath. "I know I'm rambling. It's what I do when I get nervous, and I'm really nervous for obvious reasons. And I'm afraid if I stop talking,I might throw up." Officer James's serious expression shifted momentarily, and now he looked nervous. He flutteredhis hand quickly to encourage me to keep going with the chatter. "I've never been in the middle of anything like this before, and . . ."

  "I have to check out the rest of the house," he said, apparentlyrealizing that the only way he was going to get a word in was by talking over me. He took my arm. "And it looks like you're coming with me."

  "Check the rest of the house? For what? Why do I have to go?" It came out like one continuous sentence. I couldn't see much of his face, since he was standing to the side and just a little behind me, but I heard him let out an impatient snort.

  "First order of business is making sure it's safe. I have to make sure there isn't somebody with a shotgun hiding somewhere. Second order of business is to make sure there aren't any more bodies. And it's safer for you if you're with me."

  After hearing the shotgun part, I was glad to go along.

  As he took my arm to steer me away from the living room, it registered for the first time that it had been trashed. Cushions were strewn around with their stuffing coming out, and the coffee table had been upturned. Papers were scattered over everything. Officer James seemed to notice it, but not react. I shuddered.

  He didn't seem bothered by going through the house, either. But, then, dealing with crime scenes was his business.It certainly wasn't mine, and I felt uncomfortable and intrusive going into the private areas. The worst was Ellen's bedroom. Did I really want to know that she had left her bra hanging on the door to the bathroom? Or that she had a pile of Hollywood Reporters next to the bed that she was never going to get to read? The hardest were the photos of her children on the dresser. Her son and daughter had played soccer with my boys. Somewhere they were going through their day just like it was any other, only it wasn't.

  I was relieved that we didn't find anyone hiding in any of the closets or under any of the beds. There were no more bodies, either. The rest of the house appeared untouched until we got to what looked like an office. The floor was a chaotic mix of papers, office supplies and furniture.

  "What do you think that means?" I said, continuing with my rambling. "She must have interrupted the burglar before they had a chance to go through the whole place, huh?"

  He didn't answer, and I'm not even sure he heard me as he pulled open the door to look into the powder room. Apparently,letting me blather on didn't include listening. I'd probably lost him at "crochet hooks." Though he did give me a couple of nervous looks when there'd been a lull in my one-sided conversation.

  Maybe his not listening wasn't such a bad thing. In my nervousness I had veered off the topic of Ellen and started giving way too much personal information about my husband,Charlie, dying a little over a year ago and how hard it was to start a whole new chapter of my life. I imagine a shrink would have a heyday with where my rambling had taken me.

  We made a brief tour of the kitchen. No one hiding in there, though coffee mugs, cereal bowls and even cereal were still out on the counter. Who would have thought the Sheridans ate wild-berry marshmallow puffs? I'd have figuredthey were more the shredded-wheat types. I also changed my opinion about Ellen's being a neat freak.

  As Officer James continued to lead me back to the front hall, a flurry of activity interrupted the eerie silence of the house. Two paramedics were walking in, along with a cop carrying a roll of yellow tape. Suddenly a petite ball of energywith spiky salt-and-pepper hair roared through the door.

  "Molly?" Dinah said, stopping short. Her eyes grew wide when she saw my handcuffs. "What's going on?" She glanced back toward the living room and noticed Ellen's body. She had the same response I'd had, and screamed.

  Officer James let go of my arm and stepped in front of her, trying to block her further entry. "You can't come in here."

  "Too late, I'm already in," she said, holding her ground.

  He gave her a dirty look. "Okay, fine. But now you can't leave until the detectives talk to you."

  "What are you doing here?" I whispered to Dinah. She explained that she had been driving by and had seen my car out front. It's a real standout, a vintage--i.e., old-- Mercedes in teal green. The color of the 1993 190E was so rare that when I saw another one, the driver and I shared a wave of solidarity.

  "When I saw the police cars, I had to find out what was going on," she said, glancing down the hall again. "Is that Ellen Sheridan?" she stammered.

  I nodded, and she gulped. I think Dinah is somewhere in her fifties, though she won't tell anyone, including me, her best friend, exactly where, insisting that people peg you when they know your age. She's an instructor at the local community college, and she claims that teaching freshman English to kids who still act like they're in high school has prepared her for anything, but apparently not this. She suddenlyappeared a little green around the edges as she pulled at the burnt orange scarf wound around her neck. Dinah goes for the arty look, lots of layers and scarves and danglingearrings.

  Just when I thought Dinah was going to lose it, Officer James escorted us into the front yard and then began draping the yellow tape across the entrance. Ellen's house was a one-storywhite wood frame house that took up most of the width of the lot. A tall pepper tree shaded the front yard with its lacy leaves. The grass grew on either side of the half-circle driveway, and the white picket fence that marked the front of the yard was lined with coral roses. It didn't look like a murderhouse. It looked like the kind of place that gave out big candy bars on Halloween and had nice parties with rental tents in the backyard and A-list caterers. It just showed you couldn't go by appearances.

  Beyond the low fence, it was beginning to look like a street fair. More cop cars and news crews were parked on both sides of the street. A police helicopter was circling, and there was the loud thwack of news helicopters in a hover pattern. And since all this activity was not a common sight in the upscale area, the neighbors had come out to see what was going on. I saw more than one familiar person look at Dinah and me and shake her head in dismay.

  I thought things were turning around when I saw a black Crown Victoria pull up and Barry Greenberg get out. That's Detective Barry Greenberg, who just happens to be my sort-of boyfriend. Though the sort-of part was in my head. He saw us as a sure thing.

  Barry would get this all straightened out and have me uncuffed. Then Dinah and I'd be out of there.

  I didn't like the way his expression darkened when OfficerJames walked up to him and pointed at us. There was a lot of talking and head-shaking, none of which looked like the easy fix I was hoping for. Finally Barry walked over to us, holding up his hands apologetically.

  "Sorry, but I have to step down."

  "What?" I wailed, expecting him to tell the uniforms that he knew us and he'd take over.

  Barry is your basic tall, dark and sexy in a mature sort of way. He was dressed in his detective outfit of a suit, white shirt and subdued gray-tone tie. He made a call on his cell with his back to us. When he clicked off, he turned toward Dinah and me.

  "I can't handle this case. You just can't be the lead detectivewhen your girlfriend was found hanging over a dead body."

  "It works for me," I protested.

  "Well, any defense attorney would make mincemeat of the prosecution if he knew that's what went down. I could lose my job."

  "All right," I grumbled. It wasn't as if I had a choice in the matter anyway, so I might as well agree. There'd be anotherset of detectives in no time, he promised, and no, he couldn't take off my handcuffs. The new detectives would.

  When I saw who the new detectives were, I almost choked. Detective Heather
Gilmore and her partner took over. It wasn't her partner, Rick Allen, I was concerned about. It was Detective Heather.

  Though Barry insisted it wasn't true, I knew she had the hots for him and a death wish for me. We had run into her at a beachfront restaurant, and it had been totally obvious to me how she felt about him, though Barry seemed mystifiedwhen I brought it up. All her hair-twirling and leaning in close to share some little cop story was just Heather beingfriendly, as far as he was concerned. All the hot looks she gave him didn't register, nor did the North Pole stare she gave me.

  Detective Heather was darling. She was slender and young, and had white-blond curls that framed her face. Even in her dark suit, it was obvious that she had curves. I was a little soft around the edges, with nice brown hair but no flowery word to describe the color. Still, Barry preferred me.

  I thought it might have something to do with my cooking.You knew Detective Heather was a microwave-heater of store-made stuff, at best. I was all about cooking from scratch, slow-cooked roasts with scalloped potatoes, cakes with buttercream icing. Not that any of this was going to help me now.

  "Don't worry. She'll just ask you what happened and let you go," Barry said as he headed over to speak to her. Even at a distance I could see how her face lit up when he got close. It got worse as they were talking. Barry's back was to me, so I couldn't see his reaction, but she leaned in close and touched his arm. It was even worse than the hair twirling from before. Barry said something to her, and they both looked my way. He kept talking and she kept staring at me with a hard expression, as though she wasn't that happy with what he was saying.

  I was getting more and more uncomfortable.

  Finally she seemed to agree to something and turned back to face him. I couldn't believe what she did next. She flicked her hair back from her face in what had to be the most obvious flirt move in the book. As he turned to go, she touched his shoulder, and I groaned.