questioned. Thankfully, the photographer had been more interested in catching how many people were there rather than who they were, and nobody’s face, including mine, was recognizable.
“Talk about freaky,” I said, pointing at the article. “It was quite a scene.”
“You were there?” Mrs. Shedd asked, perking up with interest. When I nodded, she wanted details, and I told her the whole story of Sheila and her scarves.
“This didn’t have anything to do with the projects you’re doing at the bookstore?” Mrs. Shedd said, seeming concerned.
“No. She made them all at home. She just brought them in so we could drool over them.”
I mentioned that Patricia had joined the crochet group. Saying her name to Mrs. Shedd was like pushing the play button on a recording. Whenever I mentioned Patricia, Mrs. Shedd told the same story in the exact same words.
“She’s a genius. She got the pinot noir stain out of that blouse I had made in Paris. I don’t know what I would have done without her. You know I had that dinner with the mayor that night. She saved the day. Saved the day.” Mrs. Shedd always said “saved the day” twice. Then she went into the part about how she was happy to host events for Patricia because she knew from experience that the things in her book worked. I smiled and nodded, acting as if I were hearing this story for the first time.
“You must have known Ramona Brooks,” I said, trying to change the topic. “I hadn’t thought about it before, but it only made sense since Shedd & Royal was just down the street from the Cottage Shoppe.”
“She was a lovely woman,” Mrs. Shedd said. “And she adored that store. It started out as just an antique and vintage store. She had a knack for finding unusual items at garage sales and flea markets. Then she would add a little polish, display them to their best advantage and get a nice price. She started taking in things on consignment because it was easier. But she was particular about what she’d take. It had to be unusual and something that would pull in a big price. It was only recently she also started taking handicraft items on consignment. But they had to be special, like those scarves you mentioned.”
“Did you go in there much?” I asked, hoping Mrs. Shedd would keep talking. Who knew what information she might have that could come in handy?
She laughed. “Too much for a while, and I have the stuff to prove it. Ramona was a good saleswoman. She always pointed out that everything was one of a kind and that if you didn’t buy it when you saw it, the next time it probably wouldn’t be there.”
“I suppose she knew all about antiques and the values of things,” I said.
“She definitely knew a lot about the things she sold, but when it came to the consignment things, she really went by what the seller claimed.” Mrs. Shedd ran her thumb along her coffee mug and appeared thoughtful. “I was really sorry when she died. She was a lovely woman, unlike her nephews.”
Mrs. Shedd described how she’d stopped in the Cottage Shoppe shortly after Drew and Kevin had taken over. “I wanted to introduce myself and wish them good luck. I ended up walking in and out in almost the same move. The two men were having a yelling match in the living room. It seemed so out of place with such a genteel backdrop. I couldn’t hear who was saying what. One sounded viciously nasty and the other just seemed upset. I didn’t hear the details, and frankly I just wanted to get out of there.”
“I’d bet money the really nasty one was Drew,” I said. “He told Sheila if she didn’t like what he was offering, she could take her scarves somewhere else. He knew there wasn’t another place like it around here doing consignment. Kevin seems more pleasant.” I shifted my weight. “Maybe you should tell that story to the police.”
“I don’t want to get involved, and neither should you,” she cautioned. “You’re not a suspect, I assume, so the best thing you can do is keep a low profile.”
I tried to look as though I agreed. Mrs. Shedd was my boss, after all. It was just about ten and time for the crochet group to begin. Needing her approval, I told her about our plan to make comforting shawls for the Women’s Haven. She liked the idea immediately and said to go ahead and get the yarn. As I walked toward the door, she casually said, “By the way, a local children’s author offered to come to story time. I told Adele to handle it. I hope you don’t feel I’ve stepped on your toes.”
I just smiled and said I was sure it would be fine. As I passed the children’s department, I noticed the sign for story time had an extra sheet attached announcing in bright multicolor letters what Mrs. Shedd had just told me. Obviously, Adele had made the poster and whatever arrangements needed to be made.
Why was I upset?
THE CROCHET GROUP WAS ALREADY GATHERED around the event table when I got there. But when I saw Dinah wasn’t there, I began to worry. She hadn’t answered the message I’d left yesterday. Something was up that she really didn’t want to talk about. Everyone else was busy trading notes about the events of the day before and being questioned. While it appeared that life was going on, I think we all felt a little uneasy.
I brought up the man I’d noticed both times we’d been at the Cottage Shoppe. “Did you tell Detective Heather about the bald guy with the Harrods shopping bag? I don’t recall seeing him in the parking lot,” I said to CeeCee.
“Bald guy? I don’t recall seeing a bald guy anywhere,” CeeCee said. “Thank heavens I didn’t go upstairs with the rest of you. It must have been awful.” She turned toward me and made a strange segue. “Molly, I saw you on the news. Dear, when are you going to take my advice and get some of that makeup that doesn’t make you look so pasty? I always wear it when I think I might end up on camera.”
I shrugged off her comment. Not only had I not been expecting to end up on the news, but in my book, if you’d just seen a dead person with his face in a bowl of tomato bisque soup, it would be weird if you didn’t look pasty.
CeeCee didn’t seem to notice that I didn’t respond, and continued on. “Luckily, that Detective Gilmore helped me slip out through the alley so I didn’t have to deal with the press.” CeeCee took out some printed papers and handed them out. “Let’s move on to why we’re here. This is a pattern for a basic shawl. It’s easy enough even for a newbie like you,” she said to Patricia.
“Well, you certainly must remember the bald guy,” I said to Sheila. She shook her head and looked over the instructions, listening as Adele suggested it would be best to use a worsted-weight yarn.
I expected Adele to have something to add about Drew’s death, but she was uncharacteristically quiet. Was it my imagination or was Adele keeping a low profile? She’d said nothing about seeing or not seeing the bald guy or about anything else for that matter except her yarn suggestion. I had a feeling it had to do with the upcoming children’s author appearance and her concern that I might try to step on her authority.
“Mrs. Shedd gave us the go-ahead on the Women’s Haven project,” I said as Dinah finally arrived and slid into a chair.
“You remember the tall bald guy, don’t you?” I was relieved when she nodded. “We have to talk,” I said. Then I noticed there were a couple of children standing a little behind her chair.
“Are they with you?” I asked, joking, but my smile faded when she nodded in agreement. I thought back to the background noise from a couple of nights ago and rethought my impression that Dinah had had a hot date. “Okay, then, who are they?”
Dinah looked over at them and introduced Ashley-Angela and E. Conner to everyone, but she didn’t explain who they were. The both appeared to be about four years old, though the girl seemed more mature. Dinah looked at the table longingly but said she couldn’t stay. Then she took the shawl instructions and left. I mouthed “call me” as she walked away with the kids in tow.
Once they had left we started discussing Drew Brooks again.
“Oh, lets focus on something more positive,” Patricia said, making a slip knot with some yarn CeeCee had given her. She was still crocheting practice swatches. The rest of us took out our own projects.
CeeCee was working on something round and white. I laughed when she said she was making a birthday cake. CeeCee didn’t bake them, but apparently she did crochet them. “Best of all, it has zero calories,” she said, sliding the directions across the table. Actually it was crocheted, then glued to cardboard. When finished it would have pink roses on top and
Sheila was quiet. She had been more involved with Drew Brooks than the rest of us and probably was still
