A Tangled Yarn Read online

  The majority of my retreaters weren’t due to arrive until the afternoon, but I was going to greet the three early arrivals I called the early birds. They’d been to all my retreats and now seemed like helpers and friends. They had started coming early to have a pre-retreat. Usually it was for a day or two, but this time it was going to be more like a couple of hours.

  I was surprised to see Madeleine Delacorte get out of the van. She seemed thrilled to see me and rushed over to give me a hug.

  “Casey, you didn’t have to come meet me,” she said. I hugged her back, not about to let on that I was really there to meet someone else. Madeleine and I were friends, but not exactly on the same level. She and her younger sister, Cora, were like the local royalty. They owned tons of real estate, including Vista Del Mar, and were extremely wealthy. Madeleine had started coming to my retreats and credited the experience, as well as getting to know me, for the big change in her life. Basically she was kicking up her heels after spending a lifetime being overly proper. The perfect example was that at seventy-something she had bought her first pair of jeans and subsequently fallen in love with all things denim. The trip she was returning from spotlighted the change as well: she had gone to Peru alone, though I understood she’d met up with a tour group when she got there.

  “I brought you something, Casey,” Madeleine said with a happy squeal as she released me from the hug. “What a trip!” She reached down into her carry-on and pulled out a small cloth tote and presented it to me. “It’s alpaca yarn. I went to a ranch and saw the actual alpacas whose fleece it’s made from.”

  I was surprised at the gift and thanked her profusely as I looked over the bag of balls of soft yarn in shades of browns and beige before dropping it into the larger tote I had on my shoulder.

  “Look at the shoes I bought there,” she said, kicking out her foot to show off her espadrilles. “I think they are perfect with these jeans.” She gestured toward the shredded knees and I had to restrain a laugh. She seemed years younger than her actual age now. It was partly from her new style of clothes and her swinging bob haircut, but it was mostly from her attitude. It was as if she was doing everything for the first time. Well, actually, it was sort of true.

  There was something more that affected our relationship. She and her sister had offered my aunt a discount on the rooms and meeting space for the retreats and had passed it on to me despite the manager of Vista Del Mar wanting to take it away. Without the discount I couldn’t continue the retreats. It wasn’t that I kissed up to Madeleine, but let’s say I felt an extra responsibility to take care of her. It also made me happy to help her have new experiences.

  “I owe this all to you. If you hadn’t included me in the retreats and your investigations,” she said, dropping her voice at the last word, “I never would have had the nerve to take this trip. When I saw how independent you are, I wouldn’t even let my sister meet me at the airport. Do you know where they left my golf cart?” She didn’t wait for an answer and went on about how freeing it was to take the airport shuttle and then drive herself back home.

  Another van pulled up and people started to get off.

  “Madeleine, don’t leave,” someone called, and she looked up. Her gaze stopped on a man who had just gotten out of the other van. He waved and then got stalled as the bags were unloaded.

  There was an instant change in her demeanor. She began smoothing her hair and straightening her shirt with a definite expression of interest at the new arrival.

  “We met on the plane. Such a nice man. He was so friendly and interested in everything about Cadbury. I suppose it’s because of what he does.” She turned to look at me. “I couldn’t believe the coincidence that he was coming here to Vista Del Mar. His name is Don Porter and he’s a travel writer. He’s going to be one of the speakers at the writers’ conference going on this weekend.” She turned to me. “I did a lot of talking up about Vista Del Mar. We want to make sure he has a wonderful time this weekend. He didn’t say anything exactly, but I bet he’s going to write something about Vista Del Mar while he’s here.”

  “You should tell that to Kevin St. John,” I said, referring to the Vista Del Mar manager.

  “Of course, I’ll talk to him. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if Don wrote a piece just about your retreats, too?”

  I nodded at the idea and then gave him another look. He was nice looking, in an everyman sort of way. Of course, he was a travel writer, I thought with an inner chuckle. The clothes were a giveaway. His khaki cargo pants were made of that lightweight material that probably dried overnight, his vest had a million pockets and the camp shirt underneath seemed pretty wash-and-wear, too. But all was not right in his world. Through my assorted jobs, I’d become good at reading people, and the way his brow had a slight furrow made it seem like he was worried about something.

  “This is the person I was telling you about,” Madeleine said when he finally reached us. I smiled at him, but all his attention was on Madeleine. This was not the time to make a pitch about my yarn retreats. Besides, I saw the three early birds rushing toward me.

  “There she is,” Bree Meyers said as she threw her arms around me for a hug. I was going to excuse myself from Madeleine and Don Porter, but it wasn’t necessary. They’d moved off to the side.

  “I’m sorry your pre-retreat is only going to be a couple of hours this time,” I said to the three of them.

  “It’ll be fine,” Bree said. She looked the same as she had the first time I’d seen her. She had a frizz of short blond hair and was dressed in what I’d call busy-mommy wear, which was basically comfortable jeans and a gray hoodie. She let out a sigh of relief. “To think that I freaked out when I found out Vista Del Mar had gone unplugged. Now I’m the one who helps others.” She had her phone in her hand and then shrugged as she put it in her purse.

  Vista Del Mar had gone unplugged recently. There was no cell service, no Wi-Fi and not even television. There were vintage phone booths with landlines and a message board for guests to communicate with one another. I was always clear in the copy for the retreats about the modes of communication, but there was still always someone who had a meltdown. Bree loved to step in and calm them down.

  “It’s good to be here. There’s nothing like spending the weekend with kindred spirits,” Scott Lipton said. He’d come to his first retreat so he could knit in public. Even though the first knitters were supposed to have been men, he’d still felt uncomfortable about letting the world know that he knitted. At that time, even his wife didn’t know. He had a clean-cut, preppy look—always in khakis and polo shirts. He wore his honey blond hair in a short, businesslike style. The only things that stood out from his conservative appearance were the red knitting needles poking out from under his arm.

  His job was to help with any males interested in knitting, whether they were retreaters or guests who joined in one of our sessions. He turned to me. “That being said, I understand we have another of my gender coming this weekend.”

  “Yes,” I said, pulling out my phone. The service didn’t work, but my file of photos did. “Jeff Hunter is his name. He signed up online and for some reason thought he had to send a photo with it.” I held out my phone so Scott could see it. Jeff did not in any way resemble someone you’d think was a knitter. He had a square, stubborn-looking jaw with several days’ worth of stubble. It looked like he was wearing a leather jacket that had seen better days.

  “He looks like he’d knock somebody out if they looked askance at his needles,” Olivia said. Olivia Golden barely resembled the unhappy-looking woman who’d come to the first retreat. Her almond-shaped face seemed to glow with an inner joy now. “I hope he likes to do squares,” she said. She opened the big tote she was carrying. It was filled with small plastic bags. Each had a ball of yarn and a piece of cardboard. She’d channeled all the anger she’d felt toward her ex-husband into getting everyone and anyone to knit or crochet a square the size of the piece of cardboard. Then she put them all together into blankets that were donated to shelters and people in need. She was a perfect example of someone who forgot about her own troubles by helping others.

  “I’m glad to see you,” Olivia said to me, “but you really didn’t have to meet us. We know the drill, and I’m sure you must have a lot to do.”

  “As retreat leader, it’s my job to make sure everything is good for my people.” I started to lead the way to help them get registered, but the three of them shooed me away and said they were fine.

  I didn’t argue but went back across the street and let myself into the converted guest house. One of these days I wasn’t going to wait until the last minute to do the final retreat preparations, but that day wasn’t here yet. All the supplies for the retreat were on the counter that divided off the small kitchen area from the rest of the guest house and had served as a dining table when I’d lived in the small space.

  I set down my shoulder tote, took out Madeleine’s gift and put it out of the way. It was thoughtful of her to bring something for me, but I’d have to wait until the weekend was over to really get into it.

  I picked up the first scarlet cloth tote with Yarn2Go emblazoned on the front and filled it with a schedule, a map of Vista Del Mar, a meal ticket, a pad and pen, a name tag that probably wouldn’t get worn past the first workshop and a coupon for Maggie’s coffee place that mentioned there was free Wi-Fi. They’d get their yarn at the first workshop. I kept at it until I’d filled all of the totes and loaded them into a bin on wheels. I had to print up the registration list and gather the other sundry articles I needed to check everybody in. The phone rang just as I was heading to the door.

  Don’t answer it, I told myself. I was sure it
was from my mother. No time to talk now. I heard it go to voice mail as I went down the driveway, telling myself that this time, no one was going to die.

  2

  “What a perfect place for a murder.” The words made me stop in my tracks as I looked at the man who’d said them.

  “What?” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

  The man who’d spoken took one look at my expression and laughed. “Fictional, of course. We’re here for the writers’ conference. He showed off his name tag, explaining it had his name, where he was from and what he wrote. He did a Vanna White move, pointing out that it said Mystery. “My friend and I were talking about writing a scenario for a mystery weekend, and this place seemed like the perfect place to hold it.” He looked around the large room as if appraising it for his plan and then turned back to me.

  “What about you?” he asked. “What do you write?” He and his associate glanced over my black turtleneck for a name tag.

  I pointed at the bin I was dragging. “I’m the leader of the yarn group.” I gave my name, not that they seemed that interested once they’d heard the word yarn. “Hey, Miss Marple was a big knitter,” I called after them.

  I had been hearing about this writers’ conference for weeks. It had been arranged by Kevin St. John, and he’d told me numerous times that it would dwarf my small group. Still, he’d reminded me of the deal that we’d made. If my group was knitting in a public area and any of his writers wanted to join in, I was to make them feel welcome. If those two were any example, I didn’t think I’d have to worry.

  I continued to wheel my bin of supplies across the cavernous interior of the Lodge. While the buildings with guest rooms were scattered around the grounds, the common buildings were grouped in the center, or what I liked to think of as the heart of Vista Del Mar. A lovely chapel was tucked off to the side near the entrance to the dunes. The Sea Foam dining hall was down the walkway.

  But the heart of the heart was the Lodge. A massive wooden counter set off the registration area. On one side, a row of telephone booths awaited customers. On the other side, the door to the Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café was open, letting out the pungent smell of coffee.

  All the way on the other end of the long room, like a mirror image of the café, was a gift shop. The message board was nearby but for now seemed empty. A pool table, along with one for table tennis, was near the back wall. There were also shelves with board games.

  The writers’ group was set up under the windows that overlooked the driveway where the van had done the drop-off. Their registration had already started, and I couldn’t see their table for all the people crowded around it.

  My area was under the windows that overlooked the deck beyond. I could see the boardwalk that kept everyone from trampling the fragile plants that covered the soft white sand as I began to set out my supplies.

  A fire was going in the large stone fireplace in the center of the seating area. The lamps had amber-colored glass shades that gave off a warm glow and made the barn-like room seem a little cozier.

  It was hard to miss Kevin St. John as he circulated among the writers who were waiting to check in. He always wore a white shirt, dark suit and conservative tie, which seemed overly formal for the casual surroundings. The conference was the biggest event he’d ever put on, and I noticed some perspiration on his usually placid moon-shaped face. Welcome to my world, I thought. Who knew who was going to show up for the retreat? I always crossed my fingers that there wouldn’t be problems, but there always were.

  There was nothing in the room to absorb sound, and as more people came in, the din grew louder. I was anxious to finish the setup, put up my sign that registration would begin after lunch and then get out of the Lodge and away from the noise.

  Just as I was about to leave, a man and woman approached my table. They looked at the sign and then at me. “Can’t she check in now?” the man said. I saw that he had on one of the writers’ group name tags and had a computer bag on his shoulder, which seemed almost de rigueur.

  There didn’t seem to be any reason why not, so I asked her name. “Lisa Dryer,” she said, trying to look over my list. “I’m just a beginning knitter. I hope that’s okay.”

  I assumed she was worried that my people would all be experts and she’d feel out of place.

  “Don’t worry. You don’t even need to know how to knit for this retreat’s program. And I have two instructors who can teach you anything you need to know.”

  She didn’t seem completely convinced. “So then, there will be others like me?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, really. You’ll fit in just fine. I’ve found that yarn people are very accepting.”

  “I just thought if there was someone like me, we could kind of be buddies.” She looked over the list again.

  “It would be better for you to buddy with someone who is more experienced,” I said, but she didn’t seem interested in the idea. I checked off her name and turned to the man with her. “What about you?”

  He laughed and put up his hands in mock horror. “I’m with the other group.”

  “We’re married. This is Derek.” She gave his shoulder a pat and I noticed his green jacket. “It is just a perfect weekend for us. I can do your knitting retreat and he gets to go to a writers’ workshop.” As I glanced back and forth at them, something seemed familiar.

  “And in between we get to spend time together,” Derek said, shooting her a hot look.

  That was more information than I needed or wanted. “I hope the writers aren’t upset when they realize there’s no Internet,” I said, changing the subject.

  The grunt he offered in response made me think he hadn’t realized that when he’d signed up. Then I realized why they seemed familiar. They were the couple from Maggie’s, with my muffin.

  I knew I had supposedly put the new muffins on the back burner, but what harm could there be in asking what he’d thought of it? But I needed to ease into it. “I saw you two in Maggie’s coffee place earlier this morning. I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about actors. I suppose that means Derek is interested in writing plays,” I said in a friendly voice. I expected they might not have realized the name of the place where they’d had coffee, so I described where it was and then waited for some kind of recognition to show in their faces.

  “It couldn’t have been us,” Derek said. He seemed to be trying to cover it, but his expression had darkened. “We just got here. We drove from San Jose.” He saw me looking at his green jacket. “You might have noticed I’m not the only one wearing one of these.” It was true—when I looked toward the people registering, there seemed to be quite a few wearing the same style green cloth jacket.

  I looked at Lisa and Derek again and realized that neither one had any characteristics that stood out. It was almost as if they’d gone out of their way to be so bland they got lost in the crowd. “I guess I must have been mistaken,” I said finally.

  “No problem,” he said. I handed Lisa her tote bag and explained the contents. I didn’t have to be concerned about making sure they were checked into their room since the writers’ group had already taken care of that, and I didn’t have to do the explanation about the meals in the dining hall or that a bell would ring announcing mealtime. That had been covered as well.

  “Our first workshop starts at four,” I said, and they seemed about to walk away, but then Lisa turned back.

  “If there’s no Internet or cell reception, how do we get in touch with each other?” Lisa said. I pointed to the message board and explained that there was a pad of paper and a pencil attached.

  “Real old-school, huh? It must be a challenge to even see that you have a message,” Derek said.

  “It’s set up to be alphabetical,” I said. I watched them walk away, still thinking they certainly looked just like the couple I’d seen at Maggie’s. But why would they lie?

  All of a sudden, I got it. It was like a case my PI boss had had me work on. Well, work on might sound a little grander than it was. My work had all been on the phone, getting information from people who didn’t really want to give it. I had a knack for getting them to talk. In this particular case, a man had told his wife he was going out of town for a conference and she didn’t believe him. Turns out there was a conference, but it was just a cover for him to meet up with another woman. Maybe it was something like that with them. Like they were married as she said, but just not to each other. Thank heavens that was not my concern.