Dead Men Don't Crochet

“I know. You think all I care about is crocheting. Personally, dear, working with a pair of needles leaves me cold, but I can appreciate other’s work, like that heathery knitted blanket at the Cottage Shoppe.”

“You mean the one hanging on the rocker?”

“Wasn’t it lovely? Of course, there were lots of lovely things. I was going to buy one of the needlepoint pillows. The one with irises. But I never got a chance.”

“Do you think I could do thread crochet?”

“Maybe, with some help.”

I asked CeeCee the obvious question—would she give me the help? A sly smile appeared on her face.

“I’ve been on this diet forever, and I’ve had enough with yarn pastries. I’d just about kill for something delicious.” I got her drift. I put a ball of the bedspread weight thread and a set of the steel hooks in a separate part of the cart.

“Sure, when I come I could bring over some bake goods.” I was about to suggest setting a time when I noticed some movement down the aisle, in front of the yarn by the pound section. Two women were looking at us and talking to each other. Looking wasn’t really the right word. It was more like they were studying us. I tried to ignore them, but it was as if I could physically feel their eyes on me. I looked down to make sure I didn’t have my pants on backward or toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

CeeCee picked up on my discomfort. “Don’t worry, dear. They’re not staring at you.” She glanced at them and kept talking to me. “In the old days when I was doing The CeeCee Collins Show, you never would have found me in a store like this.” She laughed at the absurdity of it. “I had assistants to buy my yarn. In those days, there was more privacy if you were a celebrity. Fans might approach and ask for an autograph, but they were polite and kept a certain distance. Now everybody wants to get a picture of you with spinach in your teeth or in the middle of some clothing malfunction.”

CeeCee was wearing garnet-colored velour pants and a high-necked white knit shirt. She seemed pretty safe from clothing malfunctions.

“Of course, since the new show, dear,” CeeCee continued, “I’ve been getting a lot more attention. I have a whole new generation of fans.” She acknowledged the women with a regal smile and a gesture that was something like a wave. Their eyes widened as they giggled and moved closer. When they reached us, one of them held out a skein of kelly green merino wool and asked for CeeCee to autograph the label. I thought it was kind of strange, but CeeCee didn’t seem to have a problem with it and just happened to have a permanent marker handy.

“You knit, then,” one of the women said to CeeCee after noting her cart full of yarn.

“No, dear. I crochet,” CeeCee answered in her sweet, high-pitched voice. There were no hysterics like Adele would have pulled. In her sugary voice, CeeCee just pointed out the virtues of crochet. The women listened with interest, and apparently she gave a convincing sales pitch because they rushed off to the display of hooks. Both came back with a package of assorted sizes and wanted CeeCee to sign those, too. When they left, CeeCee picked up our conversation as if nothing had happened. But then she was used to being stopped by strangers.

“You were saying you thought the piece of something hanging on the drawer meant something,” CeeCee said.

“Yes, but I don’t know what. And I’m worried about Sheila.” I told her how Detective Heather had overheard Sheila when she was saying that Drew Brooks was going to pay her what he owed her or else.

“Oh dear. And then her fingerprints being on the murder weapon . . . Do you think that detective is going to try to pin it on her?” CeeCee’s expression grew serious. “I feel terrible bringing this up, but did it ever occur to you that she might really have done it?”

“Maybe for a moment, but we’re talking about Sheila. Shy, nervous Sheila,” I said as we moved closer to the checkout counter.

“Of course, you must be right. She couldn’t have done it. I’m glad I didn’t go up there with the rest of you. Imagining that man with his face in the soup is bad enough. I’ve been in my share of detective dramas, but ‘the body’ always got up when the shot was done.”

CHAPTER 7

BY LATE AFTERNOON I WAS BACK AT THE BOOKSTORE. I inhaled the welcoming scent of paper, bookbinding and coffee as I walked in. It took two trips to bring in the bags of yarn. When I saw how many balls of yarn it took to make a shawl, I knew we had a lot of work ahead. After stowing the bags in the office, I turned my mind to the evening event and the preparations still to be made.

As I walked past the children’s area, I couldn’t miss the life-size cardboard cutout of Koo Koo the Clown. It had a display shelf holding a supply of the book Koo Koo Goes to the Dentist. The author’s real name was William Bearly, and this was the seventh in the Koo Koo series. Adele was clearing off cups from the small table. She’d gotten her wish and handled an author—in this case, an author dressed as a clown—all on her own, though most of her “handling” had probably entailed helping him walk through the crowd of toddlers so he wouldn’t trip on them with his huge red shoes, and then having to serve the juice and cookies. Adele didn’t particularly like children or their books, but this event was a step up from just reading them stories or running activities. The kids had all left, and Koo Koo was scarfing down the last of the cookies with several juice chasers.

I moved on to the event area without stopping and glanced out the big window. There wasn’t much action on Ventura, just two boys with backpacks playing with a hacky-sack ball as they walked toward the bus stop.

The sweet smell of something chocolate perfumed the air. Bob, our main barista, must have just taken out a batch of cookies in the cafe attached to the bookstore. What bookstore, or any kind of store, these days didn’t have some kind of food and drink service? Even the Cottage Shoppe had Kevin’s soup. Our angle was the smell of Bob’s cookies. They acted like a magnet pulling people into the cafe. Whenever we had an evening event, he always made sure he baked something extra aromatic.

I put a sign in the window facing out. There hadn’t been room for the full title. All I could fit was Potty Training. The full title was Potty Training: A Beginner’s Guide to Container Gardening. The author, Poppy Roeback, hosted an indoor gardening show on PBS and promised to demonstrate planting a patio salad garden. I expected a mess.

Adele came my way as Koo Koo flapped his way to the door. I was on the floor unrolling plastic around the bottom of the demonstration table. In anticipation of Poppy’s rather excited approach to handling dirt, I’d set up a separate table to hold copies of her book.

“How did it go?” I asked, holding on to the table and pulling myself off the floor.

“I don’t know, Pink; you be the judge. Let’s see, I sold all the copies of the book except for the ones on the display, which I’m pretty sure will move by tomorrow. Oh, and Koo Koo asked me out on a date. Have any of your authors ever asked you out?”

I started arranging books while I processed the information. Her success was a bit of a surprise, and I hated to admit that I felt a twinge of upset. What if Adele’s event did better than mine?

Adele stood a little taller with self-importance. “Oh, and Detective Gilmore called. Since I was the one who did CPR on the victim, she wanted to know what position he was in before I tried to save him.” Adele by nature had a loud voice, but as she recounted her first-aid efforts, she seemed to ramp it up even more, causing a couple at a nearby display to look up. “She thinks I’m an important witness. She asked a lot of questions about you and if you knew the victim, and of course, she wanted to know about Sheila.”

“Like what about Sheila?” I asked as I finished with the signing table.

“Like if she was prone to outbursts of anger and if I’d seen her the whole time we were in the store. I just told the truth. Pink, you’ll be happy to know I didn’t say anything to implicate you in the crime. All I said was that you were trying to help Sheila get the money owed her. She wanted to know if I’d seen Drew Brooks after Sheila went up to his office. I had to tell the truth. I didn’t see him. Did you?”

“Don’t tell me that now you think Sheila did it, too.” It was worrisome that our own group had doubts about Sheila’s innocence.

“I don’t think so, but she could have. Didn’t she say she was mad enough to have done it? Add that to the fact that she was upstairs alone with him and her fingerprints are on the murder weapon.” Adele had settled on the