By Hook or by Crook

tone changed back to business. “Mary Beth was young and beautiful and ambitious. I’ve seen lots of women like her. They’re bold and go after what they want, planting themselves and ignoring rejection while treating the guy like he’s a god.”

“You sound like you know about it from personal experience,” I said.

“Let’s say, I saw through it,” Mason said as our dinner began to arrive. It took two waiters to handle all the tiny plates.

Hearing all these details was changing my perception of Mary Beth and Lance Jr.; I could see them now as three-dimensional people instead of just names. I picked up my fork and prepared to eat the tiny mound of Caesar salad. I almost laughed at the artful presentation: baby romaine lettuce mixed with dressing and neatly arranged between two large croutons, a shaving of Parmesan cheese set like a tent over the top.

“The house on Catalina was probably a refuge for her. And maybe a rendevous spot,” Mason suggested.

I put down my wineglass. “I don’t know about that. The caretaker seemed to know everything, but he didn’t mention anything about that.”

Mason seemed unconcerned. “Maybe he was being discreet, or maybe she was, or maybe she just went to be alone.”

I told him about the fireplace motif and the book about Lance Sr. and his fascination with magic. “I’m thinking there is some kind of secret panel in the fireplace and that Mary Beth hid some important clue there.”

Mason turned serious. “Don’t even think about it, Molly. As your lawyer, I am advising you to stay away from Catalina. You saw how small it is. Do you think there’s any way you can avoid being seen by that deputy?”

What could I say? He was right. I changed the subject as the main course arrived. We each got four plates, each one with a tablespoon of food and a lot of fancy garnish.

“Did you find out anything about Matt Wells?”

Mason’s expression darkened. “Is this about the murder or are you interested in the guy?” It was my turn to look surprised.

“It’s about the murder—only.”

Mason ran down the information quickly. Apparently, Mason had gotten a staff member to call the dance studio claiming to be writing an article for Dance Journal. She found out Matt was divorced and had had a few small parts in some musical movies and plays but had never really broken through. When Lance Sr. died, he stepped in as the artistic director of the studios. In the old days they sent around movies of the dance methods. Later they sent videos and now it’s DVDs. It was the artistic director’s job to make up the DVDs and travel around to the studios. To ensure the quality of the instruction he was also the spokesman for the commercials.

“Pretty good job of getting you information, huh?” Mason said as he poured the last of the wine in my glass. I nodded and he appeared pleased with himself. “I shouldn’t jinx my good luck, but what happened? How long have I been trying to get you to go out with me, and now two dinners in a couple of nights. Did you finally have enough of being abandoned all of the time?”

“How’d you know?” I said, looking at the wineglass stem.

Mason had his usual easy smile. “I told you, I’ve dealt with a few homicide detectives. I know how they work.”

I broke down and told him the rest. “How can you trust somebody who would do that?”

Mason gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze. “For perfectly selfish reasons I’m glad it happened. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

Mason’s cell phone went off just as dessert arrived. The waiter was very serious as he set down a small plate of fingernail-size chocolates, and a big plate with a shot glass in the middle. The glass held a tiny hot fudge sundae next to which were two doll-size sugar cookies. I automatically stiffened at the sound of the phone and prepared for Mason to have to leave. Instead, without what appeared to be a second thought, he shut it off. As we tried not to laugh at our dessert, Mason asked if Camille was still in the crochet group. He seemed surprised when I said yes.

“She and my ex are friends of a sort. They always work on the Crystal Ball committee,” he said, referring to one of the top yearly charity events.

I explained Camille seemed committed to doing a down-to-earth kind of activity.

Mason found that amusing. “She’s spent her whole life with wealth, privilege and every advantage that money could buy. People always think the grass is greener on the other side.”

After dinner Mason drove me home and walked me to the door. He had suggested a detour to his place, but I said no and he didn’t argue. There was a comfortable feeling about being with him—maybe because he wasn’t always pushing the envelope, trying to talk me into more of a relationship than I wanted.

Through the window we could see the She La Las. They were doing their dance moves, which were showing improvement. I invited Mason in, but he took another look at the dancing trio and passed.

Who could blame him?

I went in quietly through the front door, but the dogs heard me and followed me to the kitchen door. Then they charged off into the dark while I checked the phone for messages. There were three from Barry. He wanted to tell me he was coming to feed Cosmo. The next message was after he’d left, saying since I wasn’t home he’d fed Blondie, too. The third call was just to say hello and tell me the new door was being delivered tomorrow.

“Barry was here while you were gone,” my mother said, coming into the kitchen to get some drinks for the group. “He’s pretty handy. We were having trouble with our microphones,” she said, showing me her headset. He knew just how to fix them. Then he stayed and listened and said we sounded great.”

Omigod, Barry was trying to soften up my mother.

And me.

When I went out into the yard to round up the dogs, I saw a vase of flowers on the umbrella table. The note said, “I know I’m sorry doesn’t cover it, but believe me I am.” And he signed it, “Love, B.” I came back inside just as my father was walking into the kitchen. “The doorbell just rang and I found this on the front porch,” he said, holding out a package to me.

I unwrapped the paper and saw it was a box of marzipan apples, with a note that said simply, “Enjoy!”

CHAPTER 17

“WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE CANDY APPLES?” Dinah asked. We were sitting around the event table waiting for the rest of the crochet group to arrive.

“I brought them with me,” I said, pulling the plastic box out of my bag to show her. “I couldn’t leave them home. Suppose my mother or father decided to try one. No matter where I hide stuff, she always finds it. Can you believe she found the bottle of love oil I hid in the back of the linen closet?”

“Love oil?” Dinah said with a chuckle.

“Never mind. Back to the apples. Obviously, I’m not going to eat them, but beyond that I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them. Even if I didn’t think they might be poisoned—marzipan, yuck,” I said with a shudder.

“You can leave them at my house,” Dinah offered. “Now that the kids are gone, I don’t have to worry.” She examined the box of almond paste candies. “Maybe you should get them tested.”

“I think someone gave them to me for the shock value. Besides who would I take the candy to?” I said. “I’m not contacting Detective Heather. If I showed her the candy apples, it would be like waving a red flag that I’m investigating. And I’m not calling Barry about anything.”

“I see your point. Nobody will bother the candy at my place,” Dinah said, tucking the package in her tote. She put her hand on my arm. “First the phone call, now the candy. Maybe you should think about dropping the investigation.

You never even met the woman, so why should you feel so obligated to take care of her business?”

“I know, but I keep thinking if I had been quicker on the uptake and found her faster, she might not have died.”

Dinah didn’t buy that as enough of a reason, nor did she think that either the She La Las practicing practically twenty-four hours a day at my house or my father’s martial arts skills were much protection. But best friend that she was, she was staying in it if I was. “It’s much harder to kill two people than one,” she said.