“I told her she ought to stay out of it,” Patricia said to CeeCee. Then she turned to me and shook her finger like an annoyed parent. “You’re just going to get yourself in trouble.”
I glanced back toward the bookstore. “Where is everybody?” Then I felt a sense of panic. “Where’s Sheila? The police didn’t—”
“Not so far,” CeeCee said. “She called me sounding upset and said she was running late. And Adele said she’d be late, too. She said she had some important meeting at Le Grand Fromage.”
As I took out my partially finished shawl, Dinah walked up to the table. She pulled a pile of papers out of her leather tote and set down a cup of coffee. “I’ve got to get this all graded by this afternoon. I just want to get some of them done. Then I’ll take a break and work on my shawl.”
“The whole group seems to be falling apart,” Patricia said. She handed CeeCee another knitted shawl. “I know, I know, it’s not crocheted, but I’m sure the recipients won’t mind.”
CeeCee slipped it in her bag. “As long as Adele doesn’t see it, no problem. The way things are going I am glad for any kind of shawls. This is terrible. We made the commitment to the shelter, and now everyone seems otherwise occupied.” As CeeCee spoke, she continued working on her rust-colored shawl. Her fingers were flying as though on autopilot. The edges of her shawl were perfectly straight. Somehow she never got caught in the stitches of despair.
“Am I ever going to be able to crochet like that?” I asked, watching her hook move across a row at lightning speed.
“It takes practice, dear,” CeeCee said with just the slightest edge to her voice. “Instead of watching me—” She gestured toward my dusty rose-colored work in progress. Of course she was right, and I began to move my hook across the row. Ever since Adele had showed me how to use the plastic stitch markers, I hadn’t lost any stitches. I glanced at the edges and was relieved to see they were straight.
Patricia seemed preoccupied. She didn’t even seem to hear our conversation. She was finally crocheting, though I suspected there were knitting needles hidden in her bag.
“There’s just so much to do,” she muttered.
“Did you say something, dear?” CeeCee asked, turning toward her. The distraction didn’t slow her progress. It was as if there were little brains in CeeCee’s fingers.
“Sorry, I was talking to myself. There is just so much to do to get Benjamin elected. Did you see the window at Caitlin’s Cupcakes? Her husband Victor Ditner is Benjamin’s chief opponent. The whole window is full of cupcakes that say “Vote for Victor.” Even his name sounds like victory.” Patricia appeared disgruntled. “Have you seen the price of the cupcakes? People should realize Victor’s an elitist.”
“Cupcakes?” CeeCee repeated. Her hook slowed a little as her face softened. “I love cupcakes. The closet I’ve come to eating one lately is crocheting pincushions that look like them. I’ve never tried Caitlin’s.” Then her voice trailed off as she looked down. “They sound wonderful, but I have to get rid of these pesky five pounds before we go into production for my show again.”
Apparently the mention of cupcakes had cut through Dinah’s concentration because she looked up from her paper grading.
“You know, some people think it’s all about portion control,” Dinah said. “A cupcake would seem like the perfect answer to how to have your cake and diet, too.”
“I like the way you think,” CeeCee said.
Just then Sheila staggered in and pulled out a chair. Her hair was askew and her face sagged with exhaustion. She looked in need of something to revive her, and my immediate reaction was to offer to get her a coffee and some of Bob’s cookies of the day. Today’s were almond-butter cookies and again, he’d used one of my recipes.
When I came back with a mug and a plate with enough cookies for everyone, she was talking.
“That Detective Gilmore just won’t let up,” Sheila said, leaning back and closing her eyes. “She said I’m a person of interest.” She started to tap the fingers of her right hand against the table but then used her left hand to stop them. She was jittery in her seat as she quickly took out the shawl she was working on. There was certain franticness as she began crocheting. It was all about keeping her hands busy. At least she didn’t have to worry about her stitches becoming knots. CeeCee had noticed that ever since Sheila had come under the continued scrutiny of Detective Heather, her stitches had become permanently too tight, but CeeCee had come up with a solution. She’d made a revised pattern just for Sheila that let her use a Q-size hook. It looked like a baseball bat for a GI Joe doll, and no matter how tense Sheila got, she couldn’t do tight stitches. She was working in a deep plum acrylic worsted, and the shawl was almost half done. It was great that Sheila was turning her tension into something positive.
“She keeps taking me into the police station to talk to me. Do you have any idea how creepy it is to sit in one of those interview rooms? Again and again the same questions about why did I threaten Drew Brooks. Wasn’t I so angry when I finally confronted him that I had to do something when he refused to pay me what he owed me?” Sheila stopped crocheting. “She keeps saying, ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ And that she understands it was an accident. Who knew he’d fall in a bowl of soup and drown like that? She has me so confused I almost think maybe I did hit him with the paperweight. Detective Gilmore said it was the one shaped like a globe. I know I picked it up twice. My hand fit so perfectly around the bottom of the pedestal.”
“Shush,” I said instinctively. It was just like Dinah said. “Don’t even think about it. You haven’t said anything like that to her, have you?” I suggested that if it happened again, she should say she wanted a lawyer and call Mason. Sheila rejected the idea, sure that asking for a lawyer was like saying she was guilty.
“I’m working on finding out who really did it. Until then, though, don’t let her put words in your mouth,” I said, reaching across the table and touching her hand.
It didn’t seem fair that Detective Heather was so focused on Sheila when there were other possible suspects, but I knew what she was doing. Barry had mentioned once that detectives thought they had an uncanny ability to “just know” who the guilty party was. And Detective Heather had decided it was Sheila. I knew I’d better hurry and figure out who the real murderer was because soon Sheila was going to crack.
Under the circumstances I wondered if coffee had been such a good idea. Maybe some herb tea with a sedative effect would have been better. But the coffee seemed to work. Kind of like giving uppers to hyperactive kids calmed them down. She came over and gave me a thank-you hug. “You guys are like my family,” she said, almost in tears.
“Ladies,” CeeCee said, “let’s not forget why we’re here.” She held up her rust-colored shawl. Throughout everything she had kept working. Patricia gave her a dirty look. I didn’t think she liked being upbraided. With the exception of Dinah, who was still working on her school papers, we all began to seriously crochet.
I had to pay attention to my crocheting and be sure to mark the right stitches with the plastic pins, but I still kept my eye on the goings-on at the bookstore. It was relatively quiet in the morning and seemed unlikely there’d suddenly be a rush, but just in case, I was ready to help Rayaad.
During one of my surveillance glances I noticed a woman in exercise wear coming in the door. She had on a baseball cap that threw a shadow over her face, but something about her seemed familiar. There was nothing unusual about that—we had lots of repeat customers—but I just couldn’t place her. She stopped just inside the entrance, and the way her gaze moved around to the various sections of the bookstore, she was obviously looking for something. She took off the baseball cap, and then I realized why she looked so familiar: She was the bald guy’s wife.
I pushed back my chair and moved across the bookstore, putting on my best can-I-help-you face. Actually, I was more interested in getting information than giving it. There was a slight problem. As soon as I said, “Can I help you?” her face froze in horror and she began to back away.
“Omigod, it’s you again,” she said loud enough to cause people in the vicinity to glance up from their book browsing and stare. “Are you some kind of stalker?” She reached in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She pushed three numbers, and I didn’t need to see them to figure out what they were. She glanced back toward the event area, and her expression got even more upset when she saw Dinah.
“What are you, some kind of gang of crocheters?” Mrs. Bullard was about to hit the send button on her phone.
“No,” I yelled and reached for her cell. She pulled her arm away and the small phone went flying. When it landed, she dove for it and I started to talk really fast. “We’re not a gang. We’re real crocheters. I’m not stalking you. I work here.”
