“I took the three blankets to the West Valley Police Station. A sergeant came out from the back to thank me and tell me about a call they’d had. There had been an awful situation where a man had killed his wife and one of the children had found her. The girl was seven and deeply traumatized. The officers who picked her up felt terrible for her and helpless to soothe her. But they had one of our blankets and wrapped it around her. Of course, it couldn’t make up for what she’d been through, but they said there was something in the way she hung onto it as she rocked back and forth that made it clear it gave her some kind of comfort. It gave the officer some comfort, too, because they didn’t feel so helpless.”
As CeeCee relayed the touching story, we all kept our eyes fixated on our crocheting, unable to look up. I saw Sheila wipe back a tear.
At the end of the meeting, I assured CeeCee I was well on the road to finding the owner of the items. I then turned to Dinah. “I’m going to see if that Yarnie’s place is open. I just want to find out who the bag belongs to and get it back to them. Want to come along?”
“I’ve always wanted to look in that store.” Dinah sighed in regret. “But I can’t go. I have a test to put together.”
I promised to keep her appraised of what was going on, and we parted company. On my way out of the store, I told Rayaad I was going to lunch. I certainly hoped Adele was right about finding the owner through the unusual thread. I wanted the whole thing off my plate.
I parked in front of Yarnie’s a few minutes later and went inside. It was a tiny store, three of its walls lined with yarn-filled shelves. In the middle of the store stood a small table surrounded by several chairs. Only one was filled: A woman who I figured was the owner sat taking skeins of yarn out of boxes and arranging them on the table.
“Are you the owner?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled. “My name is Dawn Yarnell, but everbody calls me Yarnie, hence the name of the store. Can I help you?”
I took out the filet piece and laid it on the table in front of her. “I’m looking for the person who made this, and a friend of mine thought you might be able to help.” I mentioned the group at the bookstore.
“You’re a Tarzana Hooker? Your leader comes in here a lot. Adele something. Quite an imaginative dresser, isn’t she?” Yarnie said.
I nodded in agreement as the store owner picked up the piece and examined it. She seemed to focus on the panel of the odd vertical rectangle with the window in the middle.
“Adele has a good eye.” She left the piece, went into a back room and returned with an orb of thread the exact aqua of the panel. “This is the last ball of Fiji aquamarine number 10 I have. It was discontinued, and I bought out their entire supply.
“I keep records of who buys what.” She paused a moment. “You can just leave it with me, and I’ll check my records and give the owner a call.”
I couldn’t really blame her for being protective of her customers, but I wanted to meet the person face-to- face. When I said I’d really feel better if I took it back to the person myself, Yarnie didn’t budge. I thought of
“Do you know who CeeCee Collins is?” I began. Yarnie nodded and even mentioned the show. It was an easy segue into the package being left for CeeCee to deal with. And it was amazing what a celebrity name would do. “I promised CeeCee I would give it directly to the owner,” I said finally.
Yarnie considered what I’d said and then opened her laptop and fired it up. She typed something in and shook her head. “I’m afraid a whole list of names comes up.” She turned the computer toward me and I saw she was right.
Undaunted, I examined the piece again. “What about one of these other colors? If you look up who bought one of them it might narrow it down.”
“Good thinking. I’ve never actually done it in reverse like this.” She held the piece close and looked at the panel with the bath-powder box. “I think this is arctic blue 14.” She got a sample to be sure and then typed it in the computer.
She came up with another list, and we checked back and forth and found there were only two people who’d bought both colors.
“It’s not her,” she said, pointing at the first name. “She moved to Napa three months ago.” She pointed to the second in the list.
Mary Beth Wells.
Yarnie seemed to hesitate then finally wrote down the pertinent information on a piece of paper shaped like a ball of yarn. “Do you know who she is?”
I shrugged and she continued. “Well, you must have heard of Lance Wells?”
Of course, who hadn’t? He was before my time more or less, but Lance Wells was the premier dancing actor in all those tuxedo-and-evening-gown musicals. There was a nationwide chain of dance studios named after him. I’d just passed the one in Tarzana the other day and noticed how busy it was. Thanks to
“Mary Beth was married to Lance Wells Jr.,” Yarnie said. “I think he died about six months ago.”
“Then you know her pretty well?” I said. The shop owner gave me a noncommital shrug. “Do you have any idea what all this means?” I asked, pointing to the motifs in the panels.
“She said she likes filet crochet because it’s like drawing. This is the first time I’ve seen anything she’s made. Mostly, she just buys supplies when she comes in. She said she likes all the colors I have.” Yarnie stared at the panel piece for a long time. “This is really an odd item. It’s not the kind of thing I expected her to make. Filet isn’t that popular. Mostly what you see are nameplates or trim on something.” She reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. “First thing I’m going to ask her is what all this is.” She paused and I could hear the phone ringing through the receiver. Finally, someone answered and Yarnie spoke, but it was obvious she’d reached a wrong number.
She checked her computer again and saw it was the number she’d dialed. “Oh no, I must have transposed some of the numbers.” She appeared apologetic. “I’m a little dyslexic.” She looked at the screen. “I think the address is right. I know I’ve mailed her sale notices and they haven’t come back.”
“I’ll go there and if nobody’s home, I’ll leave a note in the mailbox,” I said. That seemed to set okay with her, and she gave me the address and even searched out driving directions from the Internet for me.
I was glad to have the directions. Although the house was in Tarzana, it was up in the hills where the streets reminded me of spider veins. They were squiggly and branched off each other in multiple directions. After much confusion, I finally found her street, which was so steep I was afraid the car would start slipping back down the hill. Where the street ended and the signs for the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy began, I saw the address on the curb. There was a wrought-iron mailbox in front and a solid blue-green gate across the driveway. I turned the car around and parked on the street, making sure to curb my wheels.
I climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk. A large house was a short distance below me, and from there a row of minimansions cascaded down the hillside. When I looked up, the whole San Fernando Valley spread before me and I suddenly felt like the queen of the world. I got caught up in the view. It was a clear day, and the San Gabriel Mountains appeared so stark, it was as if they’d been outlined in black marker. The top of Mount Wilson was dusted with snow, and farther east, I caught sight of Mount Baldy completely slathered in white. A plane at eye level was heading toward Van Nuys Airport to land. The grid of streets spread before me, and I could pick out landmarks and see how lush the Valley was, its treetops like tiny green cotton balls.
But I wasn’t here for sightseeing so I began walking back toward the mailbox, noticing an intercom on a stand just before the gate. I had the bag under my arm and pressed the button next to the speaker. A moment later I heard a voice say something, and I launched into explaining my mission. But all I got out was my name before I was interrupted.
A woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. It sounded almost like gibberish, but I thought she repeated my name.
“Yes, yes, I’m—” There was no time to finish again as the gate made a noise and began to slide open. I walked through quickly and stood at the end of a long driveway that curved and disappeared. The laurel trees on
