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

  He glanced back at me and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up as he headed for his car.

  Detective Heather took charge immediately. She sent Dinah off with her partner and then focused on me. I hoped she'd suggest we talk on one of the nice benches along the fence in the front yard, but she had other ideas. She led me to the backseat of one of the black-and-whites and gesturedfor me to get in.

  "It's more private," she said.

  And a lot more embarrassing.

  She waited until I was about to slide into the car to removethe handcuffs. "The officer was within his rights, you know. His first duty was for his own safety and then to securethe scene. He can do whatever he has to, to anyone he sees as a threat."

  I had a hard time with the last part. On what planet did I look like a threat? And I didn't buy her privacy comment. If that was really what she was after, there was always her black Crown Victoria. Even though it never showed in her even expression, I knew she was enjoying my discomfort. She stood next to the open back door and took out a nice-lookingblack ballpoint pen and a black reporter's notebook.

  Not only was it claustrophobic with that cage separating the front from the back, but the seat itself was some kind of indestructible plastic that gave me the willies. It seemed way too easy for her to merely shut the door and signal a cop to take me away.

  She started by asking the correct spelling of my name, as if there were many ways to spell Molly Pink.

  "Aren't you supposed to read me my rights?" I asked warily.

  She stopped writing and looked at me. "Only if I was going to arrest you." She paused for a beat, and then leaned toward me. "Unless you think I should arrest you." Her perfectlyshaped eyebrows rose into a question. "Is there somethingyou want to tell me?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. It was just a matterof bad timing."

  I explained my Good Samaritan act.

  I pointed to the red tote bag some investigator was bringing out. "Those are the hooks. You do know what crochethooks are?" I asked.

  She nodded and gave me a withering look. "Of course I recognize crochet hooks."

  She held up her handbag. It had wooden handles, but the body was made out of a variety of stitches of blue yarn. I had seen something like it in a fancy store at the mall, with a fancy price tag to match. "Looks just like that Balboabag, doesn't it? I made it," she said proudly.

  "Oh, then you crochet," I said, thinking our conversationhad turned friendly. But her eyes flared.

  "No, I knit." She pointed out the intricate cable stitches that gave the purse its sculpted shape.

  "Knit, crochet, it's all the same, isn't it? Yarn, metal things." I tried to sound light. She shook her head with a boy-are-you-stupid expression.

  "No, they're not," she said in a clipped tone.

  Who knew she was so serious about her yarn work?

  She scribbled some notes in her notebook and then asked if I had noticed anyone outside when I'd gone in.

  "Oh, you mean like the burglar?"

  "What makes you think there was a burglar?" She moved just a little closer to me as if she wanted to hear my every word.

  "I've seen enough cop shows to recognize a burglary scene. There was stuff all over the place. Obviously Ellen Sheridan walked in on them and they clobbered her. The fireplace tool was right next to her head."

  Heather's blue eyes locked on me. "Or that's what somebodywanted us to think." Something about her look made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Did she think that somebody was me?

  After a moment she straightened and asked for my personalinformation. Though she explained that it was just for identification purposes, I thought there was a certain curiosityfactor, too.

  She began with age. I knew I wasn't under oath or anything,but I gave her the truth, forty-eight, which compared to her perky mid-thirtysomething probably seemed ancient.If she asked for my weight, I was going to knock off a few pounds, which I doubted even counted as lying. But she skipped right to my marital status, and when she heard "widowed," I half expected her to ask if I planned to marry again. Instead she just muttered an automatic "sorry." It was in the same tone someone says "you're welcome" after you say "thank you."

  Finally she asked for some samples from me, so they could separate my fingerprints and hair from the others at the crime scene. One of the investigators showed up and took my fingerprints and a few strands of hair. Then, to my great relief, Detective Heather let me go.

  I was thrilled to get in the greenmobile and head for home.

  The phone was ringing when I walked in. I grabbed the cordless and started walking around the house turning on lights.

  "Mother." The word stretched into a sentence of disapproval."Why didn't you answer your cell phone? Are you watching the news?" It was my older son, Peter's, shorthand for "turn on the TV." I checked my cell in my pocket as I headed to the den. It had once again set itself to silent. I flipped on the flat-screen and swallowed hard when I caught the image of myself in the police car. Detective Heather certainly photographed well. I couldn't say the same for me. I looked like I'd felt, rumpled and upset.

  "How could you?" he said, and I could just picture him looking heavenward.

  How could I what? Did he really think it was part of my afternoon plan to trip over Ellen Sheridan's body and end up on TV so I could embarrass him? Peter's a William Morris TV agent and very concerned about his image. He's been the uptight Brooks Brothers type since he was a kid. He's a little short in the sense of humor department, though you'd think someone with a name like Peter Pink would have one.

  He wasn't happy until I apologized--for what, I'm not sure. Then, when he'd heard the whole story, he asked me if I needed a lawyer.

  "I hope not," I said with a shudder.

  Call waiting beeped, and I hit the button. It was a frantic Dinah. The detective had let her go almost immediately, and she wanted to make sure I was okay since, when she'd left, I'd been sitting in the cruiser. I assured her I'd made it home unarrested.

  Before I could click off, another call came in. It was my younger son, Samuel.

  "Ma, are you all right?" There was concern rather than disapproval in his voice.

  I was surprised he had even heard about my recent escapade,since he rarely watched television. It turned out Peter had called him.

  "I could come over," he offered. Samuel was totally differentfrom Peter, softer, less judgmental. But, then, he was a musician. Though he was head barista at a coffee place to pay his rent.

  "Peter said you were in trouble."

  " 'Trouble' is kind of a strong word. I had kind of a bad day, but it's over now." Samuel had taken his father's death hard, and I knew he was worried something might happen to me. I had to reassure him that I was fine. Well, I was, almost.

  After hanging up with Samuel, I took a shower and changed my clothes, but I couldn't seem to wash away the image of Ellen sprawled on the carpet.

  Blondie, the terrier mix I'd recently adopted, was sitting by the back door, staring at her leash. Her world was a lot less complicated than mine, and obviously she didn't think my finding a dead body was an excuse for skipping her walk. I thought it might do me some good, anyway. But I was still tense when we returned. Blondie had a catlike personalityand went off to the bedroom to sit in her chair.

  I tried watching TV, but it didn't help and I only made myself more nervous by constantly flipping through channels.I needed to do something. I wandered around the livingroom, feeling at loose ends. Normally I loved my house, even if Peter was trying to get me to sell it and move to a condo. He couldn't understand why I needed all this space now that I was alone.

  But tonight nothing felt right. I didn't even enjoy the way the whole back of the house looked out on the yard. The flower bed and the orange trees barely registered. If Charlie had been here, he'd have known what to do to get me out of this funk. But, then, if Charlie had been here, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have gotten the job at the bookstore, and I wouldn't have known anythingabout Ellen and her damn crochet hooks.

  There was only one antidote to my nerves that always worked--cooking. I went into the kitchen, considered my options and chose caramel corn. I'd make it and watch an old movie and try to forget about everything.

  None of that paper-bag microwave stuff for me. I poured oil and popcorn into the bottom of a saucepan, stuck on a lid and turned on the fire. The room filled with the smell of it popping, reminding me of movie theaters and events with the kids. I emptied the finished product into a bowl and got ready to make the caramel part. The candy thermometerwas already stuck onto the side of the pan holdingthe butter and sugar, ready to go. The butter portion looked a little scant. I opened the refrigerator, and my gaze stopped on the six-pack of Hefeweizen. I had noticed it on sale and without thinking bought it for Charlie. He loved the wheat beer very chilled with a slice of lemon.

  I felt my eyes tear up. "I'm past this," I said out loud, and then doubled the amount of extra butter.

  Once the caramel mixture reached the hard ball stage, I poured it over the popcorn. While it cooled, I looked through my DVD collection and found a frothy Audrey Hepburn movie.

  Popcorn in hand, I hunkered down in the den and started the movie. By the time it was half over, I'd stopped thinking about Ellen's body, and made a serious dent in the candy-coveredpopcorn. Was it my imagination, or were my khaki slacks already a little tighter through the hips? I really needed to find an outlet for my nerves with fewer calories.

  Just as Audrey sat down at her typewriter and William Holden began to dictate a love scene, I heard my kitchen door open and shut, and Barry called a greeting. A moment later he came in the den. He was still dressed in his suit, and was pulling off his tie.

  "You boug
ht Hefeweizen?" he said, holding up a bottle before taking a sip. "I didn't know you drank beer."

  There was an odd moment. I almost wanted to say, "That's for Charlie." Then logic kicked in. Charlie wasn't going to drink that beer, and neither was I.

  "I bought it by mistake," I said, finally.

  Barry's dark eyes clouded, and without my saying any more, he understood. He set the bottle down and didn't pick it up again. He eyed the bowl of caramel corn.

  "Have some."

  "There's no connection to Charlie with that, is there?"

  I shook my head, and he grabbed a handful. As soon as the flavor kicked in, he got a look of ecstasy.

  "Better than beer, anyway." He dropped his tie, took off his jacket and sank down next to me on the couch. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. Last time I saw you, you didn't look so good."

  "I think stepping on the leg of your dead neighbor will kind of do that."

  "Yeah, they always say your first body is the toughest."

  "First body!" I squealed. "How about first, last and everything-in-between body? I don't want a repeat performance."

  "And why exactly is it you were standing over said body?" he asked.

  Here we go again. I repeated the story about being a nice guy and returning Ellen's hooks. "Next time I think I'll just call," I said when I finished.

  "You understand why I couldn't take the case."

  I nodded halfheartedly. "Well, Detective Heather ought to take herself off it, too. She's personally involved. She'd like to buy me a ticket to the moon so she could have you all to herself."

  "You flatter me," he said, putting his arm around me and pulling me close.

  "No, you're just blind." I reminded him of the scene in the Sheridan front yard. He didn't seem to have any memoryof the hair flicking or arm touching.

  "She's a good detective, fair and impartial. Besides, you didn't do it, did you?" he said, his mouth sliding into a grin.

  I rolled my eyes. "Does the phrase 'all's fair in love and war' mean anything to you?"

  Blondie ambled in and looked at Barry.

  "Some watchdog," he said, shaking his head. "Doesn't she know how to bark?"

  "When the mood suits her," I said, reaching out to pat her head.

  "You shouldn't leave your back door open. You never know who might drop in," he said, leaning in to kiss me. "Got to go."

  He didn't have to explain. I knew it was something to do with his son. Barry was divorced. His ex lived back east and had had sole custody of him. Jeffrey was thirteen and had recently come to stay with Barry, who was very serious about the father thing. It cut into his social life and mine. But he as always reminded me that if I was willing to kick up our relationship a notch, by moving in with him, getting engaged or, even better, getting married, then things would be different.

  I got up and packed the rest of the caramel corn to go. We'd been over this before and again I told him I would rather have a chopped-up social life than a relationship I wasn't ready for.

  "Sorry, babe," Barry said. "But for me the few months we've been seeing each other are enough to know I want to move on to something more. I understand you still need more time."

  It wasn't just because of getting over Charlie. It seemed like all my life I'd been setting aside what I wanted, for somebody else. My older brother was conveniently always gone, leaving me to deal was my mother, the original diva. Her profession was backup singer, but she was all star at home. My father, the skin doctor, was either at work or quietlyletting her be the center of attention. I felt more like her road manager than her daughter.

  Charlie and I had married young. Peter and Samuel came along soon after. Whatever I had thought of for myselfsomehow went out the window after that. I loved doing all the PTA stuff, going on school field trips and attending every game either boy played in. I was glad to keep things together for Charlie at home and help him out at work. But then when he died, something had happened. Once I was semifunctional and realized I had to rebuild my life, I saw it was just that: my life. For the first time there was no one to defer to, and even with the occasional loneliness, I discoveredI liked the freedom. I could do laundry at midnight,fall asleep on the couch reading or have ice cream for dinner, and not have to answer to anyone.

  All those years I'd been the wind beneath everybody's wings. Now, for the first time, I was the one doing the flying,It was scary and exciting.

  I walked Barry to the door and handed him the bag.

  By now the fluffy feeling of the movie had worn off, and I had a stomachache from the caramel corn and was back to thinking full-time about Ellen's body and Detective Heather. There was something I'd forgotten to mention, or maybe I hadn't wanted to mention it. Either way, I'd said nothing about it. Ellen and I had more of a connection than crochet hooks.

  CHAPTER 2

  SHEDD & ROYAL BOOKS AND MORE FACED VENTURABoulevard, which was the main drag along the south end of the San Fernando Valley. Some city planner types had gotten the idea of trying to make Ventura Boulevard look different as it passed through the different Valley communities. Thanks to the Tarzan connection, the strip going through Tarzana had been designated "Safari Walk." They'd hung metal silhouettes of giraffes, lions and other animals from some of the streetlights and stuck some topiaryelephants, giraffes, etc., along the sidewalks. The final touch was an occasional brick sidewalk square with a boulderstuck on it.

  The bookstore had a topiary giraffe out front. The only time anyone seemed to notice it was when a red Ford Focus had jumped the curb and run into it. That ivy-covered animalwas pretty tough. The picture in the newspaper had shown it on its side, unscathed except for the loss of a few leaves. The car, however, had been a mess.

  The actual status of Tarzana was a little confusing. Along with Encino, Studio City, Sherman Oaks and the multitude of other Valley communities, it was technically part of the urban sprawl of the city of Los Angeles. But in most people's minds, there was the City and the Valley. The City side of the Santa Monica Mountains was more temperate, thanks to the ocean breeze, and made up of odd-angled main streets that had started out as cow paths to the ocean. It had Hollywood, Westwood, Brentwood and the supertrendy shopping streets frequented by celebs. Some people considered it hipper.

  The Valley had plenty of houses with rural-style mailboxes,and you could still find a lot big enough to have a horse. The streets were wider and mostly on a grid pattern. It was hotter in the summer and colder in the winter, but we had more trees, more parking, more sushi restaurants and the lure of mountain walks just minutes away.

  I had been working at the bookstore for about six months as community relations/event coordinator. It was my job to bring new customers into the bookstore, and to that end I had placed the event area in the window overlookingVentura. The plan was that passersby could look in and see something going on, and they'd come in and check it out. Though this morning it didn't look as though there was much to advertise.

  Even from across the bookstore it was obvious that not much was going on with the crochet group. Actually, "group" was a bit of a stretch. There were only three women sitting around the end of the long table. And one of them, Adele Abrams, worked for the bookstore. But, then, it was only their first meeting since Ellen's demise. As I looked at them, I realized I didn't know much about the group. I heard they'd been together for a couple of months, although they'd only started meeting at the bookstore a few weeks earlier. Before that, they'd been meeting Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings at the yarn store down the street until it went out of business.

  My thoughts turned to Ellen, and I realized that several days had gone by with no further word from Detective Heather. As far as I was concerned, no news was definitely good news. She had just been trying to make me sweat that afternoon and must have moved on to look for the burglar type who had done it. I was glad I hadn't brought up my history with Ellen.

  What would have been the point of telling Detective Heather that Ellen and Charlie had been partners in their public-relations firm, Pink Sheridan? Or what a mess there had been when he died?

  I had made the mistake of thinking I could take over his position. It wasn't as if I had no experience. I had worked with Charlie when he started out on his own, and even after he had gone into partnership with Ellen, I had done a numberof things, including setting up events and even some hand-holding.