Dead Men Don't Crochet

elusive man I’d seen at the Cottage Shoppe?

“Does he shop at Harrods? I think he’s just the man I’m looking for,” I said quickly, then held my breath waiting for her answer.

As soon as I heard her tone, I realized she’d misunderstood my interest.

“Molly, I know you’re single now and probably looking for a new husband. I’m sorry to dash your hopes, but Byron is gay.”

“But he’s coming to your party,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“Yes, Molly, I already said he was. You did hear what I said about him,” Patricia cautioned.

“Of course, Patricia,” I said, then I accepted her invitation on the chance he was the bald man I was looking for.

She’d said it was business casual. I guessed that was somewhere between the khaki pants and shirts I wore to work and black tie. In the back of my closet was a stash of clothes left over from the business parties I used to attend with Charlie. I found the classic black linen dress I’d always paired with a red blazer. I debated between black heels and ballet flats. The heels won, though I knew my feet would complain.

After a quick shower, a blob of hair gel and some time with a hair dryer, I slipped into the dress and jacket and put on more makeup than I had worn in a long time. The shoes were last along with a pair of subdued gold hoop earrings. I almost jumped when I caught sight of my image in the mirror. Clothes definitely do make the person. I looked formidable and about ten years older.

I saw Patricia’s big white house almost every time I went out. It was perched on top of one of the ridges that ran south of Ventura Boulevard and was visible from all different angles. But I had no idea how to get on the street that led up to it. I went all the way to Corbin Avenue and back without figuring out the way in. I had to go home and check my street guide, and even then it was confusing to get through the maze of streets.

I whispered a wow as I finally pulled into the circular driveway that ran in front of the house. Of course there was valet parking. It seemed silly since the whole street was empty, but this was about image not reality. No wonder Patricia was hanging on to Benjamin for dear life. After her struggle as a single parent, she’d struck gold. I wasn’t sure where Benjamin’s money came from, just that his family was Bradford Industries.

A red-vested man opened my car door. He was discreet, but I did notice a slight look of disdain.

A uniformed maid answered the door and ushered me through the entrance hall into the living room, which had a panoramic view of the west San Fernando Valley.

I had heard of people’s houses so clean you could eat off the floor, but this was the first one I had seen where you could do surgery. There wasn’t a magazine out of place or a smudge on the glass coffee table. Every pillow on the cream-colored couch was perfectly plumped, and even with the twenty-five or so guests there wasn’t a stray cocktail napkin or empty glass sitting anywhere. I immediately started looking for my bald guy. But everyone I saw had hair.

A black-haired man set down a martini glass. Almost before it touched the table, a waiter appeared and removed it. A moment later, the same waiter appeared with a tray of drinks and offered me one. They were classic gin martinis with large green olives. I loved the smell of gin but was always disappointed by the taste. I took one of the offered wide-rimmed cocktail glasses, but knew I’d probably not get past a few sips. Besides, I wanted a clear head.

Thanks to The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation , I’d learned to check out every place I went to as though it were a crime scene. Patricia had definitely hired an interior decorator. Everything worked too perfectly. Nobody bought a painting of sunflowers, throw pillows and a vase in such perfectly blending shades of golden yellow by chance.

Though I did like the eclectic mix of furniture. There were some old, unusual pieces thrown in with the contemporary couch and chairs. I particularly liked the throne-shaped green velvet Victorian chair. Working as a table, an antique trunk sat next to an easy chair and made the room more interesting.

I surveyed the crowd for Byron Nederman and came up empty again. This time, though, I noted that everyone in the crowd had a similar look. The men all had short hair and wore well-tailored suits, and the women had over-styled hair, outfits that matched too well, lots of jewelry and red lipstick. They seemed older than me but probably weren’t. It was all about the clothes. These weren’t a bunch of campaign volunteers who stuffed envelopes or knocked on doors.

Patricia appeared from the center of the crowd and came over and greeted me as though I were visiting royalty.

“Benjamin, honey, look who’s here.” She slipped her arm around my shoulder and presented me to the other guests. “Everybody, this is Molly Pink. She’s the manager of Shedd & Royal Books and More and lead crocheter in that fabulous charity group I joined.”

Manager? Lead crocheter? Boy, was she laying it on thick. Adele would be green with envy and probably dressed to match. It was pretty obvious why I got the boost in status as she introduced the others. They were all CEOs and business owners, and giving me a title made me seem like I fit in. But the big question was why?

I tried to pull Patricia aside and ask her about Byron Nederman, but she was already stepping away.

“Just mingle for a few minutes,” Patricia said as she made her way to a couple who had just arrived. “Benjamin and I have something we want to talk to you about later.”

I took an occasional sip of the martini, nibbled on baked brie and joined a small group standing by the window. I listened for a few minutes and then added something to the conversation. I had learned how to make small talk from the years of going to countless charity affairs, award shows and social evenings where I’d often known no one. Charlie always had clients or potential clients he wanted to talk to at such events. That’s the way it was when you were in public relations. You worked the room.

“Patricia and Benjamin have the look,” the small dark-haired owner of a Ford agency confided in me. “City council is only to get his feet wet. Then who knows? Maybe the White House.”

He seemed like the type who had no sense of humor, so I didn’t bother pointing out they were already in a white house. But he was right. They did have that look. Old enough to have some character in their faces, but young enough to appear vital and energetic. Patricia had latched onto a comet.

I asked him if he knew Byron Nederman.

“Of course. Everyone knows Byron,” the man said. I asked if he had seen him, but the Ford agency owner shook his head, though he assured me he’d heard Byron was coming for sure. Then he asked how I knew Byron. I said I’d met him at a sale at Harrods. The Ford guy gave me an odd look and stepped away.

I ditched the rest of my martini only to have the glass whisked away before it even touched the table. I was beginning to get impatient both for the arrival of Byron Nederman and for an answer as to why Patricia was laying it on so thick, and I needed to use the restroom.

Certainly I could do that. I walked back toward the entrance hall, looking for a powder room. I opened a few doors and found closets and noticed a hallway going in the other direction. More doors, and finally one with the right stuff. When I came out I was disoriented. It was that big of a house. Instead of going back toward the living room, I must have walked the wrong way and ended up in the Patricia’s Hints room. I knew that’s what it was because a cute wooden sign on the door said so.

I was amazed. Not only did Patricia never have a hair out of place, but apparently she also never had any stuff out of place, either. There were shelves filled with neatly labeled boxes and lots of books—some on cleaning formulas and some old ones with illegible spines. She had a testing table, a computer and lots of photos. Boxes of her new books were neatly stacked against the wall. She had a section set aside for yarn arts, as the label read. I noticed the tote bag I’d seen earlier. Next to it was the pattern for it.

My crochet room had started out neatly organized, but with a little time chaos had ensued. I’d start working on something, the phone would ring and I’d leave it on the couch. Then there were the bags of yarn I bought and needed to organize. I had discovered it was fast and easy to buy yarn, but making something was another story.

Patricia clearly was more disciplined. On one shelf she had her shawl project and next to it a clear plastic bag with a some yarn, directions and needles. Adele would have a fit. One of our own still hanging on to knitting. There was also a small wooden chest on the shelf. I slid open one of the drawers and noticed a selection of steel hooks.