By Hook or by Crook Page 2

  “And?” CeeCee said impatiently.

  “And, nothing,” Adele said with a snort as she looked at the back of the sheet and showed us it was blank. “That’s it.”

  “Since it ends in midsentence,” Dinah said, “I would guess the writer got interrupted. Just a wild guess, but I’d bet it is a she. I don’t see a guy writing a note like this.”

  “Here we go again.” CeeCee shook her head and sighed. “Ever since my show became a hit, people have started acting like I am the go-to person to fix their mistakes. Mostly, I get e-mails with their dark secrets, or regular mail. Sometimes they’re confessions and sometimes they want me to be the middleman between them and their Aunt Sara to help patch things up.” She looked at the small pile of stuff. “Chances are the person who wrote the note will come back looking for her things. We had enough signs on the table saying who we were and where our group meets. But in any case—” She pushed the pile toward me. “Molly, you’re the one who deals with mysteries.”

  Was that my rep now? It was a long way from my old life. Before my husband Charlie had died, I’d been a wife, mother and occasional helper with his public relations business. My only dealings with murder were distant, like reading about it in a book or a newspaper article. I’d never seen an actual dead body, and certainly had never been considered a murder suspect. But all that had changed and I’d begun a whole new chapter in my life.

  If Charlie could see me now, I wondered if he’d be surprised. I had a regular job, belonged to the crochet group and had been in the middle of several murder investigations. My two sons were having trouble with the new me. I suppose it is uncomfortable having your middle-aged mother change, but what choice did I have?

  I had assumed the colorful thing in the bag was some kind of scarf, but now, as it lay spread out on the table, I realized it didn’t look like something you’d wear around your neck. It was shaped like a scarf—long and rectangular—but something was off.

  “Anybody have an idea what it is?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but the style is called filet crochet, Pink,” Adele said with a generous amount of attitude.

  “I know what kind of crochet it is,” I said. CeeCee had told me about the particular kind of thread crochet and shown me samples once when I was at her house. “I meant what is it supposed to be? Maybe a table runner?”

  “Filet crochet—what’s that?” Dinah asked. Right, Dinah hadn’t been with me at CeeCee’s. I was about to explain the method of crochet when Adele stepped in and pointed to the open mesh and areas that were blocks of solid stitches. By now I’d begun to see that the filled in areas formed images. I recognized one as that of a cat, though because it was formed by squares, it had a slightly awkward geometric shape.

  Adele was in full form now. There was nothing she liked better than to lord her superior crochet knowledge over someone. “The open spaces are made with double crochets and a chain stitch, and the solid areas are continuous double crochets.”

  Dinah picked the piece up and held it at distance for all of us to see. It seemed to have ten or so panels that had been joined together, and viewed from afar, the images became more apparent. Or some of them did.

  “What’s that?” Dinah said, pointing to what looked like a big ring.

  I shrugged and indicated another panel. “This looks like a guy with a bow and arrow,” I said.

  “This looks like a house of some sort.” Dinah pointed to an adjacent area. “And here’s a vase of flowers.”

  “Isn’t that another cat?” Sheila said. The one I’d recognized had been sitting down facing front. This one appeared to be walking.

  “Well, that looks like a bath-powder box I have on my dresser,” CeeCee said. She’d obviously tried to keep out of it but ultimately couldn’t help herself. “And that looks like the Arc de Triomphe.”

  “Molly, you better come quickly,” a voice said, interrupting. When I looked up I saw that our main cashier, Rayaad, had come in from the store and appeared troubled. “There are some people doing strange things in the bookstore.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Adele retreating into the corner. Typical. Adele liked to be in the midst of book signings and the bookstore’s other notable events, but when trouble surfaced, she made herself scarce.

  Dinah, on the other hand, got up as I did and followed me into the store. She was my backup even if she wasn’t an employee.

  I watched as a man and woman I didn’t recognize walked around the main area of the store. They pushed on bookcases to see if they moved. They looked at the ceiling and periodically stopped to talk to each other, at which point one of them would write something in a notebook. They pushed two display tables together and started rearranging the books. They dragged over two comfortable chairs and appraised them quickly. Then they both got on their cell phones. I had heard of takeover robberies, but makeover robberies?

  They were definitely up to something. They moved on to the best-seller table and put all the books on the floor before pulling the table off to the side. Then they took photos of the empty area from different angles.

  Rayaad had rushed back to her station. She stuck the cordless phone under her arm and held up nine fingers, then one twice and looked at me with a question. I was about to signal her to go ahead when the phone rang. She jumped in surprise and the receiver fell.

  When she recovered, she put it to her ear. A moment later, she began waving me over, mouthing that it was Mrs. Shedd. Dinah moved closer to the duo to keep tabs on them while I went to the phone.

  “I’m glad you called,” I said. “There’s a couple doing weird stuff. They’re moving things around and taking pictures. I was just about to call the cops.”

  “Don’t,” Mrs. Shedd yelled. “Or you’ll ruin our big chance for fame. I’m sure they’re from the show.”

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. Just be helpful, Molly,” Mrs. Shedd said.

  “Show?” I asked. “Are they going to televise one of our book signings on that cable program?”

  “Thank heavens, no. Who can stay awake to see the end of that? Somebody could make a fortune taping those shows and then selling them to people with insomnia. I’m talking about a hot show. A show that millions of people watch. I wish I knew how to get in touch with Mr. Royal,” she said. The bookstore was called Shedd & Royal, but Mr. Royal seemed to be a silent partner. None of us had ever met him.

  “We have to make sure the place looks perfect,” Mrs. Shedd continued. “Too bad there isn’t smellovision—we could pump out the smell of Bob’s cookies.” Mrs. Shedd found that funny and chuckled at her own joke. Then she urged me to get off the phone and help the couple.

  I hung up, joined Dinah and the two of us approached them.

  As soon as I confirmed they were from the show I tried to be friendly. “You television people work a lot. Here you are and it’s Sunday evening.”

  “This is nothing. We’re just in preproduction. When we’re actually in production we’re 24/7,” the man said, explaining he and the woman were set directors. I introduced myself and said I was the event coordinator-community relations person. The woman handed me her card and shook my hand. They assured me they didn’t need any help and mentioned the filming date in a few weeks.

  In all the excitement I’d never found out the name of the program. I quickly asked.

  “Making Amends,” the man responded as they got ready to leave.

  I did a double take. That was CeeCee’s show! I was about to mention she was in the café, but they were already walking toward the door.

  I turned to Dinah. “I wonder why CeeCee didn’t say anything about them taping an episode here.”

  There was no chance to ask CeeCee about it. When Dinah and I returned to the café, the table was empty. Bob waved from the counter and held up the paper sack. It looked like the ball was stuck in my court.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING WHEN I FINALLY unlocked my back door. I put down the bag on the kitchen table and grabbed for the cordless as two fur balls danced around my feet and then rushed out into the yard. They raced around the perimeter and disappeared in the bushes. Thinking that CeeCee was probably right about the owner showing up for the package, I’d decided to just hold onto it. I had given Rayaad instructions to call me if anyone came looking for it.

  “Molly, why did you take so long to answer?” the caller demanded. She didn’t have to identify herself. Did anyone not recognize their mother’s voice and the emotional buttons she could immediately push with her intonation?

  I started to explain, but after a moment she was obviously bored with my description of the fund-raiser at the park. Even the mention of the mystery package didn’t capture her attention. I could tell by the sound of her breath and the fact that she started to talk before I finished.

  “Daddy and I are coming to visit.” She paused to let the information sink in, then continued. “Lana got a call from an agent. He wants to put us on tour. On a national tour,” she said.

  My mother had been part of a girl group, the She La Las, who’d basically had one hit—“My Man Dan.” But it had been a big hit and still got played on the radio, though mostly on oldies stations. The group had gone their separate ways, and my mother spent the rest of her career as a backup singer for various artists. In her own mind, though, my mother remained a star. In my father’s mind, too, I guess. He was a dermatologist with a quiet, even temperament that never threatened her center stage persona.

  My brother had developed his own life early and as a kid practically lived at his various friends’ houses. He never wanted her to come for parents’ day. I could see his point after what she did at mine. Do you know what it’s
like to have your mother come to a school assembly and insist on putting some attitude into “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”? Her voice rose above everybody else’s, too, which led to everyone in my class staring at me as though I were some kind of a freak.

  My parents had moved to Santa Fe years ago supposedly to retire, but all that sun meant a lot of business for a dermatologist, so my father was still doctoring. My mother kept her fingers in things, too. She had joined some group that toured senior centers putting on shows.

  “They’d put you on a tour with just one hit?” I asked. I detected a slight groan of annoyance in my mother’s breathing.

  “We might do some covers for other groups that have passed on or can’t travel anymore,” she said.

  “And how does that relate to you coming here?” When my mother got excited she often left out important details unless prompted. Now it came out that the tour wasn’t exactly set yet.

  “The agent wants to see us in action. So, the girls and I need to practice before the audi—I mean, meeting. You’re all alone in that big house now. It would be ridiculous for Daddy and me to stay in a hotel.”

  I wanted to suggest that it wasn’t, but of course I didn’t. I was in my late forties, and I should be able to handle a visit from my mother. We were both adults now, so it should be okay. Shouldn’t it? They say mothers never retire from their jobs, and well, I didn’t think daughters ever graduated from theirs, either.

  “Honey, there are a few things I need. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind picking them up before we get there. I’ll just grab the list.” She put my father on the phone while she went to find it. I’d always wished he’d called me some sweet nickname like Princess or Bunnykins, but he was too matter-of-fact and just called me Molly.

  “How’s your skin?” he asked after the basic hellos. “I’ll bring you a bunch of samples of sunblock and some new antiwrinkle cream. It’ll be good to see you and the boys,” he said, referring to my two sons, Peter and Samuel. My mother grabbed the phone back.

  “Here’s the list of things I need. Do you have a pencil and paper?” she said in her upbeat voice. An uh-oh went off in my head concerning the length of the list.

  But the “sure” was out of my mouth before I could stop it. You never said “sure” to Liza Aronson without knowing what you were agreeing to.

  The list went on and on. A humidifier, some exotic concoction of essential oils that stimulated her voice, one hundred percent organic cotton sheets that were washed three times in lavender-scented natural laundry detergent, a purple silk meditation pillow, some exotic tea that was good to bathe her vocal cords in, a particular brand of dark chocolate with raisins and cashew nuts and a bunch of other things that were going to keep me running all over the area to find.

  “Oh, and Daddy’s a vegetarian now. Won’t it be fun us all being together again? Just like old times,” my mother chirped. “And we’ll finally get to meet your boyfriend.”

  What? I’d never told her about Barry Greenberg. And boyfriend wasn’t exactly what I’d call him—he was in his fifties for heaven’s sake. I hadn’t planned on mentioning anything about him ever unless we got married. I could read my mother’s breathing, but she could read mine, too.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Samuel told me all about him, including the fact that he’s some kind of cop and you picked him up in the grocery store.”

  Was that story going to haunt me forever? You’d think I was some desperate woman who’d been hanging out in a singles’ bar that catered to twenty-somethings instead of someone who simply happened to strike up a conversation in the grocery checkout line. I explained to my mother that I’d already known him, slightly anyway since he taught the traffic school I’d had to attend when I’d gotten my ticket. We just fell into conversation in line at the store, and I’d invited him to the dinner party I was shopping for.

  My mother’s breathing said she wasn’t impressed. “Samuel said something about a nice lawyer who helped him get some gigs. Personally, he sounds more promising than your boyfriend in blue.”

  “He doesn’t wear blue. He’s a homicide detective and wears a suit, and he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Then what is he?”

  That was a good question. Recently our relationship had gone through somewhat of a change. All along I had tried keeping it casual, while he was always pushing for something with a name like engaged or married. I’d reluctantly given in and started thinking of us as a couple. But now that we were supposedly a couple, I was beginning to wonder if I could live with his job.

  Was this what I really wanted? How many times had I been left sitting alone at a restaurant because he got a call and had to go? Then with no warning, he’d show up and want to do something. The unpredictable nature of his work dictated our relationship. Sometimes days would go by and I wouldn’t even hear from him because he was so entrenched in a case he forgot about everything and everyone. But then he always made up for it when he did show up—I blushed at the thought.

  While I was thinking all this, my mother had answered her own question and said she’d decide when she met him whether boyfriend described him, and then she got back on the topic of the tour and where it was going. She barely took a breath during her recitation of details, and although my call-waiting was beeping, she didn’t pause long enough for me to excuse myself to see who it was. The call ended when she was ready. Some things just never changed.

  When I checked the phone for messages, I saw the call-waiting had been Barry. Short phone calls and messages had been the extent of our conversation lately. He’d bounced from one case to another with barely a night’s sleep. He sounded rushed as he explained he wasn’t going to make it to take care of Cosmo—his dog currently in residence at my house. He said something about missing me, but I could tell by his voice he was already looking away from the phone.

  As I hung up, the two flying fur balls came back inside. Cosmo and Blondie—my dog—stopped short and sat down at my feet. Two sets of dogs’ eyes let me know it was time to eat.

  I was relieved Samuel hadn’t told my mother about Cosmo.

  The black mutt really belonged to Barry and his son. When they’d adopted him, I’d cosigned as backup care. I could personally vouch for Barry’s undependability. I could get by if he called at the last minute and canceled dinner plans. A sweet little mutt couldn’t. And, Barry’s son was almost fourteen. Need I say more? So, Cosmo started out as a visitor but quickly became a permanent resident. And erratic as Barry’s dog care was, he really loved that dog and did try, which was why I gave him the key to my house. But it was supposed to be for dog care only. I still needed my boundaries.

  Actually, Cosmo was great for Blondie. My terrier mix had been in a shelter too long by the time I adopted her, and the experience had left her with a catlike, aloof personality. Cosmo had turned her back into a dog.

  “Okay, guys, you’re in for a treat,” I said as I put food in their bowls. “You’re going to get to meet the parents.” The dogs didn’t look impressed.