By Hook or by Crook

creamy off-white squares, each with the pattern of an angel in the center. She was in the process of joining all the squares.

“It’s for my mom and the most traditional thing I’ve ever made,” Ali said, holding some of the squares together so I could see how the completed project would look.

“You have to bring that to show the group,” I said.

As we were walking back through the living room, I noticed a glass-fronted frame hanging on the wall. When I stepped closer, I smiled and took it down. Ali gave me an odd look as we went outside.

I stepped up to Iris and held out the frame. “I know you know Mary Beth, and no doubt quite well since she made this for you.” Confused, Ali turned to Iris, who reached out and angrily grabbed the frame from me, muttering something about how she’d forgotten all about it. Behind the glass was a filet picture of a cactus in a pot with a tiny MB embedded in the bottom of the cactus. The wishing well in the panel piece was signed the very same way, I was sure it was Mary Beth’s artistic signature.

“I think you better take your succulent shopping somewhere else,” Iris said, giving me a shove as she held my arm and walked me to the gate.

CHAPTER 26

“SHE THREW YOU OUT?” MASON SAID. FOR SOME reason he found that amusing, then he apologized. “I know this is serious, but I can’t imagine you pushing the Stewart woman so far she’d toss you out.”

“Believe me, I did and she did. I caught her in a lie and I showed her.”

Mason and I were on the way to a dinner for the Entertainment Fund for Kids Kamp USA. I’d called him shortly after my run-in with Iris and asked him if he could get some background information on Iris Stewart and anything more on Matt Wells. He’d dangled getting it in exchange for my going to the dinner with him.

“If you come it’ll be fun instead of a duty,” he’d said. How could I turn down a compliment like that? Besides, I really wanted the information. After a brief stop at home to change, I drove to Mason’s and waited while he fed Spike and took him for a walk. Then we drove into the city in his car. I hadn’t been over the hill for awhile.

In the old days, it was a long trip because of the poor roads. Now it was a long trip because of the traffic.

“You can tell me now,” I said, referring to the information I’d asked for.

“Patience, patience,” Mason said, steering his car through a twisty canyon.

“What? Are you afraid if you tell me now, I’ll jump out of the car?” I asked, laughing.

“It would be a long walk home,” Mason teased. “Does this make me your assistant?” Mason chuckled. “I haven’t had so much fun in a long time. First, I get to be a bad boy and antagonize my girlfriend’s mother, and then I get to be her secret information source.”

Girlfriend? I swallowed. Then I just let it go. Why make an issue out of a word I wasn’t sure applied. I was having fun, too.

“I think I might just have to wait until the way home to share what I found out. Or even better, save it for drinks at my place.” Mason was joking, but he was also seriously trying to lure me into his house.

“The ride home is as far as I’m going to go,” I said. My voice was light, but there was just a touch of seriousness and he knew what I meant: Not yet.

We pulled into the driveway of the Beverly Hilton, and a valet whisked the car away.

Mason took my arm and led me down the walkway to the main ballroom. As we entered, we passed through the area set aside for the silent auction tables.

The ballroom was filled with well-dressed people mingling over cocktails. Among the crowd I noticed several familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen since Charlie’s funeral. I met the gaze of one man and started to smile, but he quickly looked away. I’d lost my status when Charlie died—but apparently not permanently. I almost laughed when the same person looked back and saw who I was with. He and his wife came over and gushed about how nice it was to see me again. Ah, the awkwardness of being a widow.

Mason grabbed my hand. “Let’s get a drink.”

We changed direction and squeezed around a clump of people. I felt someone touch my arm.

“Welcome to my world,” Camille said. “Hunnie, look who’s here.” She nudged her husband and he turned toward me.

“It’s the bookstore lady,” he said with barely a glance. But when he saw who I was with, his demeanor changed. Clearly, being with Mason made me somebody who mattered, at least to these people.

Mason picked up on what was happening. “Don’t take it personally,” Nodding toward Hunter and Camille, who were standing by their table greeting all who approached, he said, “Let me give you a refresher course in the politics of power.” He pointed out a couple and explained the guy was a William Morris agent like my son. He and his girlfriend were moving around. They’d stop, say a few words and move on. They were working the room. Then Mason pointed to Camille and Hunter. Sure enough, they stayed put and a continuing line of people came up to them.

“There’s lots of congratulating,” Mason said. “It’s been a long haul for him, but Hunter finally got the brass ring. Next week, he’s officially being made president of Rhead Productions. Everybody wants to be on his good side.”

Statuswise, Mason seemed to be somewhere in the middle. Some people approached him, and some people he approached. After we got our drinks, he continued socializing while I went to check out the silent auction. It was the usual things: a walk-on part on a sitcom, signed scripts of popular shows and a lot of spa days and golf vacations. One item surprised me: a small crocheted scarf donated by Camille. The uneven stitches and wavy edges showed it was very much a beginner’s first project. And yet the list of bidders had already filled the page. Yes, there was plenty of power politics going on.

Camille caught up with me. She was just checking on her scarf. “You don’t know what this means to me. This is the first time I’ve ever donated something I made. It makes me fee so authentic.”

I glanced at her dress. Like an actress at the Academy Awards, she was wearing a gown from the “Who are you wearing?” category. I looked down at my dress. Nobody was likely to ask me who I was wearing. More likely they’d ask, “What are you wearing?” in a tone that made clear it wasn’t a compliment. It was my standby black dress, which I now realized was dated. If I was going to go to more of these, I’d have to buy some new clothes. I stopped myself. If I was thinking about going to more evenings like this, then I was thinking seriously about Mason’s remark. Did I want to be his girlfriend?

The jury was still out when the evening ended. As we drove back to Tarzana, I turned my attention away from my future social life and refocused it on the information I’d asked Mason to get. He played his game again, trying to withold it until we went to his house, but I held strong and he backed down.

“Okay, here is what I found out. The property where Iris Stewart has her home and business is in the name Iris Woods, and she’s owned it for almost twenty-three years. Iris married Paul Stewart twenty-one years ago. Adoption papers were filed and Catalina Woods became Catalina Stewart.”

I was rushing to write down what he said. We were standing outside my car parked in his driveway. “It’s kind of cold out here. You must be freezing,” he said, looking at the lacy mohair shawl draped around my shoulders. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing that in front of a nice fire?” He tilted his head toward his house. Okay, maybe he had backed down, but he hadn’t given up. When I asked about Matt Wells, Mason shivered and said he was getting cold. I offered him the inside of my car, but he laughed and declined.

Mason gave in and repeated Matt Wells had been married three times and was currently single. He had four kids ranging from elementary-school age to late teens. “Which amounts to a lot of child support,” Mason said. “He’s currently living in a luxury condo in Encino, and his credit rating is kind of shaky.”

“In other words, he really needs a bigger piece of the dance studios,” I said. Mason nodded in agreement.

“Well,” I said, looking toward my car. “Thanks for all the info.”

“My pleasure,” he said, taking me into a warm embrace. Sharing his body heat felt good. Too good, and I knew staying wrapped in his arms was only going to lead to trouble, so I pulled away and said good night.

“YOU LET MASON BE YOUR SLEUTHING PARTNER again,” Dinah wailed. “I thought that was strictly my job.”