By Hook or by Crook

At that moment Eduardo and Sheila came in together. They weren’t a couple or anything, they just arrived at the same time.

“I finished a blanket,” Sheila said. She held up a small throw the same beige color as Dinah’s drink and then draped it on the edge of the table. We all praised her fine work, but the look of strain across her forehead remained. Fitting in the crochet group around her job at the gym, her costume design classes and assorted odd jobs was an ongoing struggle for her. I felt nervous just thinking of all she had to do. As usual, she was wearing the black suit she was required to wear as receptionist at the gym. I thought it an odd clothing choice for a place where the members all wore sweats or spandex.

“Lovely,” CeeCee said one final time before folding up the blanket and setting it at the end of the table.

“Sorry I had to miss the park fund-raiser,” Eduardo said, setting his leather shopping bag on the table. His shoulder-length black hair was loose, and he was wearing jeans and a soft blue tee shirt. Everything looked good on him—that was probably why he was such a successful cover model.

Eduardo was also a master crocheter. He’d learned the craft from his grandmother, and he did it as though it were second nature. Reaching into his bag, Eduardo pulled out the child-size blanket he’d completed. It was moss green and so soft to the touch I wanted to cuddle it. But wasn’t that the point? We hoped these coverlets would provide warmth and the comfort of something to hang onto.

“Eduardo, that’s beautiful,” CeeCee said, taking it and putting it next to Sheila’s. “I have three now. I’ll drop these off at the West Valley Police Station.” CeeCee pointed to the bags of yarn the bookstore provided and encouraged them both to start another.

Eduardo saw the filet crochet piece and his brow wrinkled. “Where did that come from?”

Dinah told him the story, and he examined it. “Nice stitch work, but what’s the point?” He spread it out on the table. “Is it some kind of tablecloth?” We all studied it and shook our heads. It was too wide for a table runner but too narrow for a tablecloth.

“I don’t think it has a practical purpose,” I said, straightening it. “I still have a hard time thinking this is really crochet.”

Eduardo had a deep hypnotic voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like poetry, so we were all rapt listeners when he started to talk about filet crochet. Even CeeCee.

“I understand your dilemma,” he said. “Filet crochet looks quite different than the blankets we’re making. I learned from my Gran Maeve that it was developed to make trimming that looked like lace for dresses and household items.” Eduardo grinned. “Not that I was interested in trimming anything.” Eduardo had told us how he was Irish on his mother’s side and, being the youngest in a family of boys, had been chosen by his grandmother to carry on the family tradition of Irish crochet. “But she made me learn filet crochet anyway. By the way, filet means ‘net’ in French.” He took out a hook and some yarn and proceeded to make a foundation row and then began a row of mesh spaces. “She said it was like drawing with thread because you could make pictures with it.” His fingers were nimble, and the yarn made the stitches easy to see. In the next row he made several open meshes with blocks, followed by more open meshes.

“If I was going to make a pattern or a picture, I’d make up a chart first. You can use graph paper, and then you mark in the blocks and leave the meshes open.”

Somehow when he said it, it all made sense. “Now, I get it,” I said as he handed me the little swatch he’d made. I compared it with the panel piece and was able to pick out the tiny double crochets and chains.

“Ah, but if you look so closely, then you lose the picture.” He took the panel piece from me and stepped away, holding it up. Sure enough, it was easier to see the pictures in each panel when I viewed the piece from a distance. It did not, however, make the meaning of the pictures any easier to figure out.

“Where’s Adele?” Eduardo asked, glancing up and down the table.

“No wonder it’s so quiet,” Dinah said.

“She called me early this morning to say she was going to be late,” I said. “She and her new best friend Ali went to some special yarn store this morning.”

“Oh dear,” CeeCee said suddenly, glancing toward the window. We all followed her gaze, but when she saw what we were doing she became agitated. “Don’t look. Keep your eyes on your work and maybe she’ll go away.”

“Who?” Sheila asked. She had looked up from the new blanket she was starting. She’d picked up on CeeCee’s upset, and consequently, her stitches were growing tighter and tighter. CeeCee and Adele had helped her deal with her too-tight stitches so many times, she now knew what to do herself. She pulled out a smaller hook, took some deep breaths and started the mantra of “keep it loose” as she slowly poked the hook into each stitch.

“Her name’s Camille Rhead Katz,” CeeCee said between her teeth.

“There was some man named Katz in here a little while ago. He said he was involved with your show. Are they connected?” I asked, nodding toward the window as I looked at CeeCee.

“Yes, he’s her husband.” CeeCee said, forcing her gaze away from the window.

“Why didn’t you tell me they were going to tape a show at the bookstore?”

“They are?” CeeCee said. “Someone should have told me.” She sounded perturbed. “I can’t believe I don’t know what’s going on at my own show. Whatever anyone says, I am the show. Why else would people be leaving me their problems to fix?” Her voice had grown a little shrill, and it wasn’t clear who exactly she was talking to, but it didn’t seem to be any of us.

When I glanced back toward the window, no one was there. Maybe CeeCee had gotten her wish.

Or maybe not.

The woman was standing next to the table.

CHAPTER 4

“HELLO, CEECEE. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE part of the Tarzana Hookers,” the tallish dark-haired woman said. One glance at her face was enough to figure she must have a charge account with her plastic surgeon. She looked as though she’d been lasered, Botoxed and injected with fills until her face had the too-smooth shape of a doll’s. Her most distinctive feature was her lips, which were big and puffy, but I didn’t think it was the work of injections. They were just imperfect enough to be natural.

“Camille, so nice to see you,” CeeCee said in an authentic-sounding sweet voice. CeeCee was certainly a good actress. If I hadn’t heard her comments about Camille just a few minutes earlier, I would have totally believed CeeCee was thrilled to see her.

CeeCee introduced her to everyone at the table in the same friendly sounding voice.

I tried not to stare at Camille’s clothes. If you threw in the Rinny Fooh shoes, I bet the jeans, loose-fitting top and cropped jacket cost as much as some people’s monthly mortgage payment. Though Camille seemed indifferent to her outfit. To her, wearing designer stuff was probably the same as wearing an old bathrobe.

“Well, thanks for stopping by. It was nice to see you,” CeeCee said in a tone of dismissal, but Camille made no move to leave.

“I don’t think you understand,” Camille said, turning toward CeeCee. “I’m here to join you.” Then she turned back to all of us. When she got to Eduardo, she seemed uneasy. “He’s not a member, is he?”

“Yes, he is. In fact he’s one of our best crocheters,” CeeCee said with just the slightest edge to her voice. “Obviously you have a problem with that, which is why I’m sure you wouldn’t be happy in our group.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that probably didn’t come out right. My life coach has been telling me I have to watch how I speak. I was just surprised that you had a male member.”

Eduardo sighed. “It’s okay, I get that a lot, and no, I’m not gay.”

Camille looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t implying you were anything. Oh no, I’m talking myself into a corner again.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe if I explain . . . I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. I have always been on committees for fund-raiser dinners and charity events of all kinds. I’ve arranged countless silent auctions. My life coach says I ought to try being on the other side of the auction table. You know, actually making something.” She saw the blankets at the end of the table. “Are you making these for poor people?”

There was a collective cringe at the table. Camille’s life coach probably wouldn’t have been happy with her, either. She said poor people as though they were aliens from another planet who had cooties besides. She caught herself again and apologized.