A Stitch in Crime Page 8

  “You better come with us,” one of the paramedics said as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. A police cruiser had pulled over to the curb, and two officers got out. They walked onto the beach, shaking their heads at the low visibility.

  Dinah had followed us. She stood with Commander and told me not to worry, they would take care of things in my absence. All of us were operating on nerves by then. I climbed into the back of the ambulance. When I looked back, Commander and Dinah were talking to the police.

  “I’m not an expert, but she looks like she had some kind of attack,” I said to the paramedic. He was too busy working on Izabelle to answer.

  The ride to the emergency room was painstakingly slow until we got out of the fogged-in area. The man monitoring her vitals was very quiet, and I had a bad feeling.

  Izabelle was taken right into the emergency room when we arrived. I was directed to a waiting room. The only good part was that it was empty. I think ER waiting rooms probably all look the same. Uncomfortable but indestructible plastic chairs, a gray linoleum floor, a TV tuned to CNN with the sound tuned so low you get only every fourth word and a vibe of worry.

  I wished I had brought some crocheting. I wished I’d brought my purse. Most of all, I wished I wasn’t there in the first place. A woman with dark circles under her eyes called me to the reception desk, and I gave her the information I had. Before we finished, a somber-looking doctor walked out. I figured his bad news before he said it. He said he was sorry but they’d lost her.

  “It appears she had a severe allergic reaction. It’s called anaphylactic shock.” He explained that it caused her throat to constrict so she couldn’t breathe and her blood pressure to drop. He asked me a lot of questions about Izabelle that I couldn’t answer. I didn’t even know how old she was, let alone if she was allergic to anything. “Sometimes people suddenly develop a severe allergy and it catches them off guard. A severe reaction can happen in minutes and requires immediate care,” the doctor said. “Maybe that’s what happened in this case. There was some peanut butter in the food item the paramedics brought in. That might have triggered it.” He asked me more questions regarding her family, and again I had no answers. While he was talking, a police officer came in and joined us.

  “Sergeant French, Pacific Grove PD,” he said, introducing himself to me. The doctor obviously knew him and nodded in greeting. The police officer turned back to me and spoke in a kind tone. “You look a little green around the gills. Are you all right?”

  “Not really,” I said, feeling my stomach churn and threaten to empty its contents. I suppose someone good at being in charge wouldn’t have said that. I should have sounded unflappable, like someone dying while under my authority was something I could completely handle.

  The craggy-faced police officer had good people skills. He tried to put me at ease and suggested I sit down. “I just need to get some information from you. When someone dies on the beach, we investigate,” he said, keeping a friendly voice.

  Of course, Sergeant French knew about the fog and how it had brought everything to a standstill on the tip of the peninsula. I told him about the creative weekend and Commander Blaine and the s’mores. He kept taking notes. When I mentioned finding the burned wood, he looked up. “Fires aren’t allowed on the beach,” he warned.

  It seemed kind of beside the point now.

  It was dark when the police cruiser pulled up to the administration building. The only bright spot was that the fog was finally beginning to dissolve. The ride back from the hospital had been at almost normal speed. Dinah was waiting for me, and when I walked in, she jumped up.

  “Tell me everything,” she said. She swallowed her words when she saw Sergeant French following me. I crossed to the registration table. Commander Blaine had collected the extra s’mores bags and the container of forks was gone. The folders for the campers were under the table, along with a folder Mrs. Shedd had included for me. I had thumbed through it once before and noticed information sheets for all the presenters and campers. I had wondered why they included emergency contact information. Now I understood.

  I pulled out Izabelle’s information sheet and showed it to Sergeant French. Her contact was Zak Landers and included a phone number. He wrote down the information and, to my relief, said he’d make the call. Then he left, and I collapsed into one of the easy chairs in the conversation area.

  “First of all, Commander took care of dinner and Mason arranged some kind of walking meditation. I told everyone that Izabelle got sick and you went to the hospital with her. They were all understanding.” Dinah glanced out the window as Sergeant French got into his cruiser. “She isn’t all right, is she?”

  I shook my head slowly and then recounted what had happened.

  “Did he say how she died?” Dinah asked nervously. I knew she was really asking did they think it was murder. I was embarrassed by the relief in my voice as I explained the doctor said he couldn’t say for sure, but he thought she’d had some kind of allergic reaction.

  “He said she might have gone into anaphylactic shock and asked me a bunch of questions. I had to tell him I didn’t know. I hardly knew her.” The word knew stuck in my throat. “I can tell you this because you’re my best friend and you won’t think I’m some kind of cold-hearted monster, but I was really hoping to get through the weekend without anybody dying. There’s no way this isn’t going to be a black mark against my leadership abilities.”

  “Yes, but at least it wasn’t murder.”

  “Right,” I said, getting up and going back to the registration table. The rhinestone clipboard and my tote bag were still in the corner. “But I still have to call Mrs. Shedd.” Reaching her turned out not to be an easy matter.

  “I heard about the fog emergency,” she said when I finally got her on the phone. “CNN is everywhere, even on the ship. Do they know when this fog problem is going to end?” I told her it had thinned considerably.

  “Good,” she said. “Well, if that’s all—” She was ready to wind down the call.

  “No, there’s something else.”

  “I hope it isn’t a dead body,” she said, obviously joking. When I said nothing, I heard her swallow. “Oh no, there is a dead body, isn’t there?” I told her about Izabelle, and she gasped. “How terrible! The poor woman alone on the beach—” Mrs. Shedd clicked her tongue in dismay. “I tried to tell Commander Blaine not to do the s’mores, but he was absolutely insistent about doing them. Then I tried to get him to go the traditional route, but no, he had to make them his gourmet way and stick in peanut butter.”

  As the news sank in, Mrs. Shedd realized it presented a problem for the weekend program. “That leaves you with a big spot to fill, doesn’t it?” Her tone changed, and it was clear she wanted to end the call. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re good at improvising. Just make the best of it.” I heard her call to someone that she’d be there in a minute and to save a space in the mambo class. “By now you’ve had some experience dealing with deaths. I’m sure you’ll do a better job than I would.” She started to sign off, but I stopped her long enough to explain that most of the campers hadn’t arrived yet because of the fog.

  “You said it was clear now. So, they’ll probably all show up tomorrow. Tell them we’ll do something to make up for the lost day. I have every confidence in you, Molly.”

  “Thanks, but—” I started to say. It was already too late. She’d hung up and probably headed off to her dance class.

  I considered calling Barry, but I wasn’t up for it. I knew what he’d say as soon as he heard someone had died: “Stay out of it.” But I couldn’t. As the holder of the rhinestone clipboard, I was in the middle of it whether I wanted to be or not. Though at least it wasn’t murder.

  I needed time to think, and I wasn’t up for dealing with Adele just then. I saw her march past the window on the driveway side of the building. Any moment she would come through the door and give me the third degree about Izabelle. I just coul
dn’t tell the story one more time.

  “I can’t face Adele right now,” I said, making a beeline for the other door. Dinah followed me out onto the deck. I was still getting used to being able to see beyond the end of my arm. I could actually see the fire circle, where a campfire was giving off a warm glow. I was going to suggest going there since it appeared the benches were empty, but as we crossed the path through the meadow, I saw two people sitting toward the back. The floodlights along the wall illuminated their faces. It was the guy who had made the scene with Izabelle in the kitchen—Spenser somebody—and his niece. I didn’t want to talk to them, either.

  “Adele won’t find us at the beach,” I said, pointing toward the entrance to the boardwalk.

  “So what was up with the cop?” Dinah asked as we started along the raised walkway. She stopped herself. “Sorry. You said you didn’t want to talk.”

  “To Adele,” I said. “I always want to talk to you.” The sand was light even in the dark, and the contrast made the silhouettes of the bushes and plants stand out.

  “He came to the hospital to write a report because Izabelle died on the beach. They don’t have much crime up here, and the police are very community-oriented.”

  “Which means what?” Dinah zipped her hoodie a little higher.

  “I don’t know. I guess you could say he was friendly when he asked questions. He wanted to know what Izabelle was doing on the beach.”

  “What did you tell him?” Dinah stepped from the end of the boardwalk onto the sandy sidewalk.

  “I told him about the s’mores and how everyone had gone their own way with theirs. He filled in the rest, saying she must have decided to take hers to the beach.”

  We reached the street and a white Toyota went by. I watched the red taillights and finally saw the curve of the street. It was like discovering the area for the first time. Seeing the sky and stars was a relief after feeling like I was stuck in a pillow. Once we crossed the street, we started down the opening to the beach. When I looked ahead, even in the dark I could see the waves breaking against the shore. We walked a little farther and the beach seemed empty and peaceful. “I guess they must have finished any investigation. There’s no yellow tape,” I said as we reached the remains of the fire. I kicked one of the hunks of partially burned wood. “It looks like the fire must have gone out. Otherwise, the wood would have just burned to ash.”

  “Or maybe someone put it out,” Dinah said.

  “I don’t think Izabelle was worried about the fire. I don’t think she had time to be. The doctor said her attack could have come on within minutes after she ate the s’more with the peanut butter.”

  “How awful. She comes to the beach to enjoy the goodies and then, blam! she’s sick,” Dinah said.

  “It’s kind of odd that she’d be eating the s’more. She seemed so careful about her diet.”

  “Maybe she was one of those people who watch themselves so carefully, and then binge,” Dinah said.

  “We’ll never know.” I repeated my relief that her death seemed to be from natural causes. It was bad enough that I’d come across murders in Tarzana, but a murder in another place—it would look like I was some kind of murder magnet. I flopped on the cold, soft sand.

  “Right,” Dinah said, sitting down next to me. “She just made a deadly choice in snacks.”

  “I wish I’d paid more attention to everything when we found her,” I said, getting up. The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation repeated over and over how important it was to examine a crime scene right away. Then I stopped myself. “But it wasn’t a crime scene, right?”

  “Right,” Dinah said, standing beside me. “I’m sure you’ve avoided Adele by now. It’s getting cold and damp here. I could use a little time in front of a fireplace. Commander Blaine set up board games and hot chocolate in the common living room of our building.”

  “Aha, so you’re changing your opinion of him.”

  “I still say he’s too fussy for my taste, but our campfire dinner the other night was fun, and he certainly came through during the whiteout. And those s’mores . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked down the beach. “Okay, maybe that was not the best example under the circumstances, but he certainly came up with a lot of variations on the original idea.”

  “You can argue all you want, but I think you’re softening.”

  “He’s not my type,” Dinah countered. “I see myself with the brooding poet type. You know: intense, wears turtle-necks. Yeah, and isn’t into relationships, and is probably a jerk, too,” she added with a groan.

  “I don’t think Commander is a jerk,” I replied. “He might be a little stiff and a little too enthusiastic, but definitely not a jerk.”

  “Maybe not, but what do we really know about him? Just that he has a postal center in Tarzana and he’s very into parties. Doesn’t it seem a little odd to you that someone who’s so into entertaining is alone?”

  I glanced in the direction we’d come from. “Even if he might have a dark past, that cocoa is starting to sound good. You’re right, it is cold and damp. We might as well go back.” We got up and started to walk toward the street. As we approached the fenced-off area, I made a visual sweep of the planted area. Something got my attention. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at a strange glow.

  We moved closer for a better view, but it still appeared to be just a ghostly light.

  “Maybe somebody threw one of those light sticks back there,” Dinah offered, walking on.

  I stood my ground and peered into the darkness. Curiosity had gotten the better of me. I had to know what it was. Dinah saw that I had stopped at the fence and came back. I tried leaning over it to see if I could reach the glowing spot, but it was too far away. “I’m going in,” I said, stepping over the low chain. But going in was as far as I got. There seemed to be no way to reach the glow without tromping on some plants. Dinah picked up on my plight and offered to hold my legs so I could lean over the plants without falling in them.

  She braced herself, digging her feet in the sand, and held onto my calves as I leaned and reached into the tangle of growth. I tried to avoid thinking what night creatures might be crawling around, just waiting for some tasty fingers to come their way. Instinctively I balled up my hand. I wished I had my son’s old Pinchy-Winchy claw toy to use, or at least gloves. I willed my hand open, and as I pushed through the wiry brush, I felt something soft and grabbed it. It came free easily and obviously wasn’t attached to the sand.

  Dinah pulled me up straight and we both looked at what I was holding. We couldn’t make out the color in the darkness, but the shape was clear.

  I was holding a small pouch purse, and the glow was coming from something shaped like a flower attached to the front.

  That was about all we could make out in the dark.

  “Why do I think this has something to do with Izabelle?” I asked as we trudged up the beach toward the street.

  CHAPTER 10

  “WOW, GLOW-IN-THE-DARK YARN,” DINAH SAID as I turned off the light in my room. We were examining the pouch purse, which we now knew was lime green and the six-petaled flower was a satiny pink and the whole thing was crocheted. In the darkness the purse disappeared, but the pink flower gave off an eerie light. We had slipped back into Asilomar without crossing paths with anyone from our group. We wanted to keep the bag under wraps until we could check it out, and had avoided the cocoa party by slipping up the back stairs in Lodge.

  I flipped the light back on. The purse was on my bed between us. “Okay, now that we’ve cleared up the strange light thing, you ought to see what’s inside,” Dinah said.

  I knew Dinah was right, but I still hesitated. There was something unsettling about looking into someone’s purse. By the design, it was hard to think it was anybody’s but Izabelle’s—after all, she was supposed to be the queen of crochet embellishment, and who else would think of using glow-in-the-dark yarn to make flowers? But what was it doing in an off-limits area?
/>
  I swallowed and opened the purse, reaching inside. Along with sand sticking to the fibers, I felt something cold and metal that had snagged near the top. It turned out to be a key with an Asilomar tag.

  “There’s an obvious way to be sure the purse belonged to Izabelle,” Dinah said. Of course she was right, and we went out into the hall. We made sure it was empty, then slipped toward the door to Izabelle’s room. I had the key in my hand but I hesitated again. In all honesty I didn’t want the key to fit. I wanted the purse to belong to some random person who had nothing to do with our group. If it was Izabelle’s, it brought up a lot of questions, like how someone in the middle of an allergy attack would decide to lob her purse into the bushes.

  Dinah nudged me and spoke in a low voice, urging me to stick the key in the lock. I took a deep breath and tried to put it in. It didn’t go. I felt a wave of relief and even laughed a little.

  “So, I guess we were wrong,” I said, turning to go. Dinah took the key from my hand and turned it around. That way it fit perfectly, and with half a turn the door was unlocked and slipped open.

  Neither of us made a move. If opening the purse felt strange, it was nothing compared to looking into her room. I was about to pull the door closed when something moved in the darkness and made a rustling sound. Both Dinah and I jumped as a shadow passed in front of the window. There was someone in the room. Instinctively I lunged forward, then slid on something as the shadow slipped out the window.

  A moment later the room was flooded with light as Dinah flipped the switch. I skated across the floor on a flutter of papers, rushing toward the open window. But when I looked out, the small balcony was empty.

  “What was that about?” Dinah said, her voice high-pitched with tension. My heart was still pounding as I took a deep breath.

  “Somebody was in here.” I began to scoop up the papers, looking at them as I did. They had copy centered in the middle of the page. When Dinah saw one, she said they were galley pages.