Hooks Can Be Deceiving Read online

  Hooks Can Be Deceiving

  A CROCHET MYSTERY

  Betty Hechtman

  Acknowledgments

  I had a lot of fun writing this book. I am grateful for the invaluable help from my editor, Faith Black Ross. Jenny Chen is the best. It was her idea to add the cat to the cover in honor of my late great cat Rocky, who was appears in the book as Mr. Kitty.

  The art department at Crooked Lane keeps topping themselves with beautiful covers for my books.

  Jessica Faust continues to help me navigate the world of publishing. I am eternally grateful to her for the Crochet Series coming to be.

  My knit and crochet group offers me friendship, lots of conversation, yarn help, support, and fun on Thursday mornings. I’d be lost without: Rene Biederman, Diane Carver, Terry Cohen, Sonia Flaum, Lily Gillis, Winnie Hinson, Reva Mallon, Elayne Moschin, Charlotte Newman, Diana Shiroyan, Vicki Stotsman, Paul Tesler, and Anne Thomeson. Linda Hopkins will always be with us in spirit.

  Roberta Martia remains my staunchest cheerleader. There are so many people who have helped me on my literary journey. My writers’ group has long ago disbanded and the members scattered, some to the Great Beyond, but I will never stop being grateful to Joan Jones, Linda Bruhns, Jan Gonder, and Jack Warford for all their support, encouragement, and help with commas.

  Jakey has brought a whole new dimension to my life. I wonder what he’ll think when he gets a little older and finds out his grandmother writes murder mysteries.

  And thanks to the rest of my family, Burl, Max, and Sam, for keeping life interesting.

  Chapter One

  Exciting news is supposed to be good, right? Then why did I feel such trepidation when Mrs. Shedd called us into her office?

  Adele Abrams, or Adele Abrams Humphries as she wanted to be called now that she’d married Eric Humphries, didn’t share my concern and pushed ahead of me to get into the office of Shedd & Royal Books and More, where we both worked. I followed with my fingers crossed that this bad feeling would seem silly as soon as I heard whatever the news was.

  Despite her telling me that I could call her Pamela, I couldn’t bring myself to call the woman standing in front of me anything but Mrs. Shedd, which was even more laughable now that she had married her partner in the bookstore, Joshua Royal, and officially her name wasn’t even Mrs. Shedd anymore. She had briefly considered going by Pamela Shedd Royal but quickly decided that it would make things more confusing and so continued on with just one last name.

  I pulled the door shut behind me and looked at my two bosses with their back-to-back desks. Mrs. Shedd was sixty-something with a methodical manner and silky blonde hair that didn’t have a single gray strand. Joshua Royal was about the same age but wore it differently. There were plenty of gray streaks in his shaggy dark hair, but he always seemed up for an adventure.

  “Well,” I said, ready to face whatever it was.

  “Pamela will tell you all about it,” Mr. Royal said, smiling as he gave her the floor.

  Mrs. Shedd seemed barely able to contain herself. “It’s so wonderful. A dream come true as a way to promote the bookstore and get paid a nice chunk of change too,” she said. She was always on the lookout for ways to draw in customers. She took in her breath and sat a little taller. “We’ve been contacted by the Craftee Channel,” she began. “They’re starting a new program called Creating With Crochet, and they want to film the premiere show here in our yarn department. It’s all happening very quickly—they want to tape the show here two weeks from this Friday. They had another venue, but something happened and it fell through. We absolutely don’t want that to happen here.” She turned her attention to me. “Molly, you’ll be their contact.”

  And that’s when I knew I was right about the trouble.

  Adele’s head snapped to attention. “Why is Pink the contact? It should be me.” She looked at our bosses. “You do remember I did a guest shot on one of Craftee’s shows, What’s Up With Crafts.” Mrs. Shedd put her hand to her forehead and looked to Mr. Royal as Adele went on. “Everybody said I was a standout, and I’m sure they’ll want me back for another appearance.” Adele turned to me. “And when it comes to crochet, I’m the real expert.” She gestured toward her outfit. She was wearing a crocheted tunic in spring green with a ring of pink flowers around the neckline. The same shade of pink was picked up in her beanie. It seemed as though she was going to go on about being more worthy than me, but she suddenly stopped and stared at Mrs. Shedd. “Who’s hosting the show?”

  “They didn’t say,” my boss said. She tried to turn her attention back to me, but Adele started muttering to herself something about that must be it. Then she shared her thoughts with the rest of us.

  “I’m sure they just haven’t contacted me yet,” Adele said. “Though it does seem rather risky on their part. I mean, for them to assume that I’m available and all.” The three of us suddenly avoided looking at her, but that didn’t stop her from looking at me. “Pink, did you forget to give me a message?”

  I assured her I had not kept any messages from her. Was she really that clueless to think the show wouldn’t have locked down a host before now? I might have thought it, but I wasn’t about to tell her. Nor would I object to her calling me by my last name instead of Molly as the rest of the world did. I was sure Adele didn’t even remember why she’d started doing it, but I did.

  After the death of my husband Charlie, as I was trying to start a new chapter in my life, I’d gotten a job at the bookstore. There was no way I could have known at the time, but I got the job as event coordinator that Adele had expected to get. Calling me Pink had been her way of registering her annoyance. Adele had been given the kids’ department as a consolation, which hadn’t been much of a prize to Adele. She didn’t like kids, but it turned out that they really liked all her drama and outrageous outfits. I’d even heard some of them calling her Queen Adele.

  By now I’d moved up to become assistant manager and was also in charge of the yarn department. I know it seems weird that a bookstore would sell yarn, but it really grew out of the fact that the Tarzana Hookers met regularly at the bookstore. That’s Hookers as in crochet. There was lots of space, and bookstores being on shaky ground these days, Mrs. Shedd was always on the lookout for a new revenue stream, so when a nearby yarn store closed, she’d bought out their stock and the yarn department was born.

  Adele was far more proficient at crochet than I was and really more qualified to be in charge of the yarn department—except for one thing. Actually, one rather major thing. Adele had a problem with knitting and people who knit. It was all connected to a nasty stepmother and stepsisters who knitted and taunted Adele about her crochet habit. Even mention the word knit and she’d put on a storm-cloud face and give a speech on the superiority of crochet. As I said, Mrs. Shedd was looking for new revenue streams, and she certainly wouldn’t want to exclude a whole branch of yarn arts just because Adele didn’t like them. Crochet was my preferred craft as well, but I had no problem including knitting books and tools in the department. So it had been given to me. I knew the basics of knitting and made sure there were knitted swatches on the bins of all the yarns we carried.

  I think Mrs. Shedd was used to Adele’s shenanigans by now. She ignored the hosting nonsense and went back to talking to me. “They want the Hookers to be in it and some drop-in people from the bookstore. I don’t know all the craft terms, but the woman I spoke to said something about a Make-and-Take.’” My boss looked at me to see if I understood.

  “Sure, I know what she means,” I said. “They’ll have an easy project that’s quick enough to make in one sitting and probably have some customers drop in.”

  “I don’t know why you’d want Molly putti
ng that together?” Adele asked, interrupting. Mrs. Shedd looked at her new husband.

  Mr. Royal took over. “Adele, this isn’t about the creative side of things as much as logistics. I’m sure you’ll have a chance to make suggestions.”

  Pamela Shedd patted Adele’s hand, trying to calm her. She had lots of experience dealing with Adele. “It’s better to leave it up to Molly. I know how much effort you put into the children’s department. We wouldn’t want to divide your focus. Story time has become one of our premier draws. It seems like every day someone is telling me how much their children look forward to your productions.”

  Adele blinked her eyes in surprise. “Really? You think of them as my productions? Well, of course they are. I do put my all into them.”

  “And I’m sure you probably have some things to do putting together your next story time.” Mrs. Shedd looked toward the door. “We wouldn’t want to keep you from your important work.”

  Adele fell for it and got up quickly, saying something about a story-time throne she was creating. Just before she went out the door, she caught my eye. “We can talk about the show later.”

  Mrs. Shedd let out a sigh when Adele was gone, while Mr. Royal wore an indulgent smile. “She’s a handful, but no one does story time like she does.”

  They seemed to think the problem with Adele was over. I knew better.

  * * *

  With the meeting done, I went back to the information cubicle that served as my quasi-office. It was set in line with the entrance toward the front of the store. I took a few minutes to process what had just happened. So the Tarzana Hookers were going to get their fifteen minutes of fame.

  It was common around here to see film crews using a house or street for a shoot, but this time the location was going to be right here in the bookstore. I wondered if I’d need to have them explain why the group was called the Tarzana Hookers. The Hooker part was obvious, but since, I was sure, it was a national show, not everybody would know that Tarzana was a community in the San Fernando Valley, which had once all been part of a ranch owned by Edgar Rice Burroughs. He’d named the area after his star character, and the ranch had been broken up and subdivided but had kept a certain feeling that was different from the neighboring communities of Encino and Woodland Hills. I liked to think it had a more independent spirit.

  I couldn’t wait to tell the rest of the Hookers. As the afternoon began to fade, I went back to the yarn department to prepare for our gathering. The group had started meeting for what we called happy hour. Some people sipped wine and nibbled on snacks, but for us it was all about hooks and yarn.

  The yarn department was at the back corner of the store. We had a permanent table and chairs on hand for our meetings and also for anyone passing through who wanted to sit for a while and work on a project or try out some new yarn. The back wall was covered in cubbies filled with yarn, and it made for a colorful backdrop. I picked up some stray strands of golden-yellow worsted weight from the table and straightened all the chairs.

  “Getting everything shipshape for us?” CeeCee Collins teased when she arrived a little before five. She had kept her midlength brown hair in a similar style over the years, which somehow made it seem like she hadn’t changed. She still had the same merry smile and a tinkling sort of laugh.

  Up until recently, she’d always been referred to as a veteran actress, which translated to someone people recognized but whose career was over. But then CeeCee had gotten a supporting role in the movie about the vampire who crocheted. Now she was known as an Academy Award nominee thanks to the honor she’d gotten for that role. She was slightly self-absorbed, but none of it had really gone to her head. If anybody recognized her and wanted a photo with her or an autograph, she always obliged. And despite what Adele thought, CeeCee was the real leader of the Hookers.

  “You know me. Clean up before the group and clean up after.”

  My plan was to tell the group about the TV show when they were all together, but I considered giving CeeCee a heads-up on our shot to stardom. I was about to say something when some more people arrived for happy hour. We had a core group that had been together for a long time, and then we had drop-ins.

  It seemed to always go the same way. We’d see them hanging around the perimeter of the yarn department and invite them to join us. Sometimes they knew how to crochet, sometimes not, and someone, usually Adele, would give them a lesson. They’d come regularly for a couple of weeks and say how much they loved the group, then disappear, never to be heard from again. The two that had just arrived at the table had actually been coming for three weeks now, which could mean they were going to be a new part of our core group.

  I nodded a greeting as they pulled out two chairs. We didn’t have assigned seats, but it seemed that people always sat in the same place anyway.

  CeeCee gave me a nudge and we traded glances, then both looked at the pale-blue scarf one of the women had taken out. Even from a distance it was obvious that the stitches were uneven and the sides wobbly, as if she had lost and gained stitches as she went along.

  “Dear, I know she’s trying, but really? Is there anything we can do?”

  I shook my head. “It seems more about the experience of being here than making a great scarf.”

  These two had seemed more or less like our other new recruits at the beginning. They’d hung around the edges of the yarn department, watching us. We didn’t just crochet but talked and had a good time, too. We’d invited them to join us, but the one who seemed to be the spokesperson had shaken her head at the suggestion, and they’d backed away. A few more days passed and the two women had finally come up to the table.

  “My name is Connie Richards,” the one who seemed to do the talking had said, “and she’s Marianne Freeman.” Connie had looked around the table as if trying to figure out who to direct her comments to. As the bookstore representative, I’d raised my hand in greeting.

  “Your group seems really nice, and we were wondering about joining. I don’t crochet, but she knows a little,” Connie had said. Before I could assure her it wasn’t a problem, Adele had popped out of her seat and offered a lesson and some help picking yarn.

  The two women had conferred for a moment, and Connie had said something about having to get the okay from Errol.

  Whoever Errol was had apparently agreed to let them come back, because they showed up the next day ready to officially join us, and we put them on our roster. Adele gave them a lesson and helped set them up with hooks and yarn. Adele was of the belief that once you knew the basic stitches, it was best to make something instead of just endless swatches. She was the one who found the worsted-weight blue yarn and size J hook for Marianne.

  Connie had chosen to make squares for an ongoing project of ours. We would accumulate everyone’s squares, and periodically we’d have a get-together and sew some into a blanket, which was then donated to a local shelter. CeeCee had written up the directions for Connie and made a cardboard piece to show the correct size for the square.

  From then on, the women had come regularly. Connie talked a little, but it was never personal. Sometimes she’d tell a joke or repeat something she’d read online. I guessed she was in her late twenties, and she was always dressed in jeans and a loose top.

  Marianne would greet the group and say good-bye, but that was about all she said. She seemed older than Connie, probably close to forty. She was a pretty woman with wavy dark hair that framed her face, but there was something odd about her expression. She kept narrowing her eyes as if she was trying to focus. And she always carried a bottle of sparkling water, which she drank from continually. I had the feeling that she was wealthy. She dressed rather plainly, but the cut of her clothes made me think they were expensive. And she carried the kind of designer purse where even the knockoffs cost a fortune.

  At first we’d wondered about their relationship. They didn’t seem like sisters or really friends, either for that matter. Though none of us ever said anything to the others, I
was pretty sure we all thought Marianne was struggling with some sort of problem. Then, because they were so quiet, we let them be and any conjecture ended. Nobody said a word about Marianne’s wobbly-sided scarf, either.

  Actually, it was more that the rest of the Hookers let them be. I kept trying to draw the pair out. It was the busybody in me.

  Connie had taken out her hook and a skein of multicolored wool yarn. “I’m starting a new square,” she said when I stopped next to her. Marianne was already at work on the scarf and didn’t look up until I touched her hand and asked how she was doing.

  She appeared startled and then grabbed my hand in some kind of death clutch. It seemed to be her usual reaction, and I was used to it by now. I knew that after a moment she’d realize what she was doing. She muttered, “I’m sorry,” and released her grip before looking up at me and managing a small smile. “This is the high point of my day,” she said, and though her tone was flat, I felt she really meant it.

  “There you are,” Dinah Lyons said, coming up to me. She had an aura of exciting energy, wore her short salt-and-pepper hair in a spiky do, favored long scarves wrapped around her neck, and was my best friend. She pulled me into a warm hug and whispered something about us needing to talk that sounded like trouble. But when she released me, she was all smiles as she put her tote down on the table and greeted CeeCee, Connie, and Marianne.

  I would have liked to ask Dinah what the problem was, but she was busy already looking at the square Connie was working on. Even without any details, I was betting it had to do with her newly married state. She and her new husband, Commander Blaine, were both in their fifties, and adjusting to each other’s ways hadn’t been easy. Like Mrs. Shedd, Dinah had gone through a whole issue about whether to change her name. Dinah taught freshman English at the local community college, and everyone knew her as Mrs. Lyons. Even though Lyons had come from her skunky first husband, Jeremy, she was hesitant to drop it or add Blaine to it.