Dead Men Don't Crochet

still isn’t back. If there isn’t something good, make it up.”

It wasn’t that hard to come up with more, and I didn’t have to invent any of it. I told her Barry had made a point of fixing a lamp in front of Mason and turning it off and on numerous times to demonstrate that it now worked. “Barry also kept acting very territorial, showing he knew where everything was and implying he belonged there. Then Mason made a point of loading the dishwasher.” I chuckled at the memory of Barry’s shocked expression. I hesitated, and Dinah knew I was holding something back.

“C’mon,” she urged, putting down her crocheting to listen.

I explained I had told Mason to help himself to something to drink. I was busy gathering stuff for the table and didn’t notice at first that Barry was standing behind Mason as he surveyed the drink offerings in the refrigerator.

“Why don’t you have a beer,” Barry had suggested, gesturing toward the four amber bottles of Hefeweizen on the second self. I knew what Barry was doing and I should have just closed my eyes and left it alone when Mason took one of the bottles.

It was ridiculous to think of it as Charlie’s beer, but I couldn’t seem to help it.

“You don’t want to drink that,” I had said, taking the bottle out of Mason’s hand. “It’s really old and probably flat and has beer cooties. I should throw it out.” Despite my words, I had put the bottle back in the refrigerator.

Mason had been clever enough to figure out whatever was going on had nothing to do with beer and took a Perrier instead.

When I finished the story, Dinah rolled her eyes. “Do you still have that beer?” she asked, shaking her head.

To avoid the lecture I knew was coming, I changed the subject and told her I’d gotten Mason to agree to help Sheila and it turned out he was on the board of directors of the Women’s Haven.

“That man is on the board of directors of everything,” Dinah said. When I started to say something she said it for me. “I know—he has to make up for being a lawyer. What did you have for dessert?”

I told her I’d thrown together something last minute. “I sliced up some apples and mixed them with a little cinnamon sugar, then I’d covered them with a mixture of flour, brown sugar and butter and baked it for a while.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

“It was even better when I added the vanilla bean ice cream. It was the only time there was any peace. Barry and Mason had their mouths full and couldn’t spar.”

Adele arrived as I was finishing the story. She gave us a hurt look as she put down her things. “Why didn’t you come get me?” she demanded.

“You seemed busy,” I said by way of an excuse. It was true. When I’d gone past the children’s department, she seemed to be poring over something.

“I was working on the plans for the Milton Mindell author program.”

My jaw dropped. I wasn’t even used to the idea that she’d be working with me, and she was already trying to take over. She pulled out a file and started going over her plans. They began with the idea that the program should take place in her section of the store and we should do it differently this time. I put up my hand to stop her. “It’s all about what Milton wants. Not what you want or I want. He has his own plans and we just implement them.” I wondered if Mrs. Shedd knew what she was unleashing when she said Adele could work on the event.

Just then Patricia walked in with CeeCee. I had to give Patricia credit; she was persistent. She was still working on CeeCee, trying to convince her to appear in one of Benjamin’s campaign ads.

As everyone settled in, I could see that none of us had done as much on our own as we’d hope to, and CeeCee clucked her tongue in slight disapproval. CeeCee laid a finished one on the table. It was beautifully made, so perfect it looked almost machine made. I picked it up and examined the sides. They were straight, unlike mine, which kept getting wiggly.

Patricia had an impressive bag for her supplies. She showed us how she had taken a plain tote bag and attached pockets on the inside and outside. She had one for hooks and needles, and another for supplies like scissors and a tape measure, and she had made a special section to hold a skein of yarn. “I’m considering putting this in the next version of Patricia’s Perfect Hints, though once Benjamin gets elected, I’ll probably be so busy with my duties that I won’t have time to think about new editions.”

I rolled my eyes. He was running for city council, not president. Did she think she was going to be first lady of Tarzana? Patricia started to take out knitting needles, but Adele gave her the evil eye, so instead she placed an unopened packet of crochet hooks on the table. “Which one do I use?” she asked.

Adele put down her own work and pulled out a K hook from the package. Then she helped Patricia with the slip knot and showed her how to keep track of her chain stitches by making a mark on paper every time she made ten. Adele was a little condescending in her tone until Patricia reminded her that casting on for knitting was similar and she knew how to keep track of her stitches.

I glanced toward the entrance. “Where’s Sheila?”

All I got were head shakes and shrugs as answers. It wasn’t like Sheila not to show or call, and I started to worry. It distracted me from my crocheting, and when I counted my stitches, I found I had lost a bunch and the shawl was again taking on an arrow shape.

“Good work, Pink,” Adele said sarcastically as she fingered it. She turned to CeeCee. “Didn’t you show her how to keep from losing stitches?”

“Dear, why don’t you handle it?” CeeCee said in a cheery voice. Not the answer I wanted to hear. But at the same time I wanted to learn how. “Show her how to handle her stitches of despair,” CeeCee added.

“Stitches of despair?” I said, looking at my work.

“That’s what I call them. They are the stitches causing you despair,” CeeCee said, glancing up from the cream-colored shawl she was working on.

Adele grumbled to herself and told me to begin the pattern row. I was supposed to chain four, which would count as the first double crochet and a chain. Adele stopped me when I’d only chained three and told me to mark the top chain with something that looked like a plastic safety pin. Then she let me make the forth chain.

“Pink, that’s your problem. Now when you do the next row, you’ll be able to see where the last stitch goes and hopefully you won’t mess up anymore.”

Adele waited while I finished the pattern row and then told me to do the next row. She stood so close over me that the beaded fringe on the scarf she had around her head kept smacking my face. Who wouldn’t get nervous when watched like that? I ended up getting the yarn twisted in my hook and dropping it with a loud ping. Adele threw up her hands as though I were beyond help and went back to her seat.

Without her hovering, I did fine and best of all realized what I’d been doing wrong so I wouldn’t keep doing it.

And still I kept checking for Sheila.

“Here she comes,” CeeCee said. Sheila came up to the table, looking pale as skim milk.

“This is so terrible,” she said, sinking into a chair. She explained Detective Heather had been hanging around the gym asking questions about her. Her boss was upset with her, and she was worried about losing her job.

“Did Detective Heather talk to you?” I asked.

“Of course. She talked to me first. She made it seem casual, but it was like she had a script. She said one of the salespeople at the Cottage Shoppe had said I’d been coming to the store for quite a while fussing with Drew over some money I thought he owed me.” Sheila sounded distraught. “I didn’t think he owed it to me, I knew he did. But I only went there once before you all came with me. I wasn’t stalking him, like she said.” Sheila swallowed a few times. “The detective kept saying, ‘It must have really made you angry, didn’t it?’ over and over. The trouble is her saying it over and over was making me nervous, and looking nervous is like looking guilty.” Sheila put her face in her hands. “I know she thinks I did it.”

I gave Sheila Mason’s card and told her to keep it with her. I didn’t want to freak her out by telling her to call him if she got arrested. I just said he had suggested the less she say the better.

“It’s hard. That detective knows how to ask questions so you’re saying things before you even realize it.”

“What did you say?” I asked, feeling a sense of doom.

Sheila swallowed hard. “I said I might have handled the paperweight that hit him on the head.”