“Who knows? Maybe they represent lyrics to—” Dinah’s voice came in and out, and I could tell she was looking away from the phone. I heard kids’ noises and Dinah sighed. “See what I mean about getting interrupted? The end of that thought is lyrics to their song.” She sighed again. “I promised to read them a story. Why don’t you bring the bag to the crochet group. Maybe with all of our brains storming together we’ll come up with something.”
I agreed to bring it and then told Dinah about my impending houseguests. She laughed.
“Batten down the hatches! Liza Aronson is coming to town.”
I WENT INTO THE BOOKSTORE EARLY THE NEXT morning. Mrs. Shedd generally did her work when the store was closed, so I was surprised to see her sitting in her office. But there was no mistaking her hair. Although she was in her late sixties, she didn’t have even a lock of gray hair. The dark blond color was all natural, and the page-boy style reminded me of an old shampoo commercial. Her clothes were kind of old-school, too. She didn’t wear pants, she wore trousers along with feminine big-collared blouses. Everybody called her Mrs. Shedd. I had only recently learned her first name was Pamela. She was leaning back in her desk chair and waved me in as I passed.
“Tell me again about the couple who came in. Did they seem happy with the way the bookstore looked? Did they make any comments about the arrangement?” Mrs. Shedd sounded unusually nervous. “You know, Molly, the way the bookstore looks on TV is really important. It’s national television. Millions of viewers. This is the ultimate event for our little place. It will put us on the map, and we could become a tourist stop or at least
I nodded to show I was listening as she began to talk about how impressed Mr. Royal would be if he knew. I continued nodding and hoped my disbelief that he existed didn’t show. “So be sure and offer any assistance to anyone involved with the show,” Mrs. Shedd finished.
After assuring her I would do my best, I went back onto the bookstore floor. We’d just opened so there were barely any customers. Bob, our main barista, was brewing fresh coffee, and the pungent fragrance mixed with the sweet scent of his homemade butterscotch oatmeal cookie bars cooling on the counter. It was too much to resist; I went into the cafe, grabbed a cup of fresh coffee and some hot cookie bars and then headed back into the main store.
A man had come in and was standing at the front counter talking to Rayaad. When she saw me, she waved me over. The man’s slightly long gray-streaked hair, intelligent face and rimless glasses made me think he might be a college professor. But the manicured nails and designer tennis whites complete with a sweater made me think not.
The man nodded to me and held out his hand. “Hunter Katz.”
I balanced the cookie bars and coffee mug in one hand and shook his.
“I’m the executive vice president of Rhead Productions. We produce
I mentioned meeting the set designers the previous day, and then I asked him the question I’d thought of after they’d left. Why were they filming at the bookstore?
Hunter laughed. “That’s because someone in the bookstore is the subject of the show. They’re the one someone is making amends with.”
“Oh really. Who is it?” I asked.
He winked. “Sorry, but the whole emotional arc of the show is based on it being a surprise.” He handed me his card. “If there are any problems with the setups or anything, give my office a call. Like I said, I don’t usually get involved with the nitty-gritty of any of our shows, but since it’s my local bookstore, I have a personal interest in things going smoothly.”
Which really meant he didn’t want anything to go wrong. Oh dear, the pressure was on. Let’s just say that some of my author events have had a certain unpredictable quality to them, like the time a cooking demonstration led to the fire department showing up. I put on a confident smile and told him I was sure everything would go perfectly. “So, I guess you’re CeeCee Collins’s boss.”
“I’ve never quite thought of it in those terms, but yes,” he said, preparing to depart. “You have some kind of crochet group here that makes things for charity, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said tentatively, wondering why he was asking. “Does that have something to do with the show?”
He took a step backward while still looking at me and winked. “Sorry, I can’t give out that information.” Then with a wave, he was gone.
A busy morning already and it wasn’t even ten yet. I headed to the event area to do setup for the crochet group. The morning sun poured in the window that faced Ventura Boulevard. A city maintenance worker was giving a shot of water to the giraffe topiary that stood guard by the window. The ivy was finally beginning to cover the metal frame and mossy stuff in the middle.
Someone had decided a while back that the Valley communities along Ventura Boulevard should each have some kind of identity. Because we were located in Tarzana, there was the obvious Tarzan connection, and hence, we got the designation of Safari Walk. What that amounted to was a street sign announcing it, garbage cans with animal cutouts, an occasional sidewalk square made of red tiles with a big rock on it and topiary animals sprinkled down the boulevard.
Turning my back on the ivy giraffe and his keeper, I began to prepare for the group. I pulled out the long table and unfolded the legs. Dinah came in before I finished setting up the chairs. Actually, I heard the tinkle of her long earrings before I saw her. As usual, she had several scarves twined around her neck, but no kids with her.
“Thank heavens for preschool,” she said when I asked. “They’ve started going every day.” She dropped her craft bag on a chair and undid her sweater coat. She picked up one of my cookie bars and took a nibble, then said she was going for her own treats.
While she was gone, I took out the filet crochet piece and the note and diary entry.
“Wow, it’s different than I remember it,” Dinah said, glancing toward my display as she returned with a latte and more cookie bars. She set down her cafe purchases and gave all her attention to the stitched item. “I see what you mean. Who knows what most of this stuff is supposed to be? Cancel what I said about song lyrics.” She pointed at the aqua rectangle with the window in the middle. “It’s as if she decided to mix abstract things with recognizable ones. Like that.” Dinah pointed at the man with the bow and arrow.
Dinah took a sip of her latte and with a thoughtful look picked up the diary entry. She read it over several times, frequently glancing back toward the panel piece. Her eyes suddenly brightened. “I think I’ve found a connection.” She pointed to December 20 on the paper and then to the bow-and-arrow figure. “The zodiac sign for that date is Sagittarius.” She stared at me, apparently waiting for some kind of reaction. When it didn’t come, she continued. “Don’t you get it? You know, the ram is for Aries, the lion for Leo and the archer for Sagittarius.”
“Oh,” I said, letting it sink in. “You’re right. Wow, that’s impressive.”
“What’s impressive, dear?” CeeCee moved past me, pulling her craft case on wheels to the head of the table and positioning it next to her chair. The production company had hired a stylist to work with her when the show took off, and the new look suited her well. Gone were the reddish blond bubble hairstyle and the jewel-colored velour warm-up suits she’d worn before. Now her hair was a soft brown with natural-looking highlights. The soft bangs knocked years off her face, her outfit—slacks, shirt and long vest—hid any hint of extra curves.
Before I could answer her question, CeeCee had spied my last cookie bar. “Does that belong to anyone?” she said, reaching for it. When I told her it was hers, she closed her eyes and savored the flavor.
“Dinah just figured out something about the crochet piece,” I said, showing CeeCee the date and the archer.
“Oh dear, no one showed up for it, did they?” She threw up her hands, appearing upset. “I just can’t deal with this. You’ll take care of it won’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the items down the table toward me. “Besides, it’s distracting us from our real purpose.”
The purpose of the group was to crochet things either to give to those in need, or to sell to raise money for some worthy cause. Our current project was making blankets for the police or social service organizations to offer to traumatized older kids.
