“Adele, I have to talk to you,” I said as I came into the meeting room with Sheila close behind. Adele was standing at the front end of the table with seven women and one man arranged around the other end.
“Not now,” she said. “Pink, just put down the box. I have a workshop to run. She gestured toward the crocheters. “People, while I set up, you can work on the blocks for the shelter blanket.” She nodded at Sheila. “Leave yours on the table and go help them.”
Adele was in full attitude with her hand on her hip, glaring at me until I set the box on the table. She waved for me to leave and immediately began taking out Izabelle’s sample pouch bags, tee shirts with a row of trim along the bottom, and flowers that could be attached to anything from purses to jean pockets, along with several copies of
The woman with the book held it open and showed it to the others. “Look at the doll clothes,” she said, and the three women started discussing making clothes for some dolls they had.
“People, please keep your seats,” Adele said, annoyed that no one seemed to be listening to her.
“Adele, it’s important,” I said, taking her arm, but she pulled it away.
“Pink, what’s with you? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Now the women had moved from discussing the doll clothes to the doll model in the picture. “Look at that nose,” one of them said. “That’s definitely not a regulation doll nose. I’m sure it’s one of those dolls I was telling you about.”
I caught a glimpse of the picture over one of their shoulders and recognized it as the doll in the background of the photo of Izabelle on the back of the book. “It’s an odd-looking doll,” I said, jumping into their conversation. “So you think it’s some special kind?”
“Pink, you’re interrupting. Leave,” Adele said, sounding exasperated. But it was too late; the women had already picked up on my question.
“We collect dolls, which I guess makes us kind of experts,” the woman in a red sweater said, “and this doll looks like what I call a ‘little me’ doll. There are various methods, some better than others, but the idea is the same-basically a doll is crafted from a photograph to look like a child. I’ve seen some where they just go for face shape and hair color, but this one looks like they went all out.”
Adele was out of patience. She took the book from the woman’s hand and strongly suggested all of them take their seats. She glared at me and pointed toward the door. I happened to look at the doorway behind Adele. Spenser’s friend abruptly stepped into view. I saw her hands go up. There was no time to consider alternatives, I just had to act. On pure impulse I dived toward Adele, tackling her, and yelled for everyone to hit the floor.
“Pink, you’ve really lost it this time!” Adele screamed as we landed on the floor together.
CHAPTER 20
I ROLLED OFF ADELE AND SAT UP. TEN PAIRS OF eyes were all on me, mostly with a look of concern attached. Only Adele’s eyes had the additional flare that implied she’d like to do me bodily harm.
Of course, when I looked toward the door, no one was there. “Sorry everyone,” I said, getting up. I needed to think fast and give an explanation for my actions. “Just a little emergency drill.” I held up the rhinestone clipboard which had gone down with me. “It’s one of the duties that go along with having this.” Thankfully, nobody questioned what kind of emergency it was a drill for, and they all began to get up.
No problem getting Adele to talk to me now. She didn’t resist when I led her to the corner of the room. The rest of the group went back to their seats, and Sheila took a few deep breaths and resumed helping them.
I quickly told Adele what I’d overheard and mentioned seeing the woman at the doorway. When Adele rolled her eyes in disbelief, I called Sheila over to back up my story.
“Now you’re pulling Sheila into your investigations?” Adele said, giving us both a hopeless look. “You overheard who?” As I began the second telling of the story, even though I’d been there and heard what Spenser’s companion had said, it sounded ridiculous. Why would anybody want to shoot Adele unless it was the fashion police? As I tried to explain who everyone was and what I thought they might have done, it got too convoluted and I gave up. “Never mind,” I said walking away. “You’re on your own.”
There’s nothing like a little yelling with a few screams thrown in to attract a crowd. As I exited, I walked into a bunch of people who were straining to look in the doorway. Dinah pushed her way through the onlookers with her aquamarine scarf flying in the breeze. The woman with the turquoise earrings rushed past her and stopped next to me.
“Was that part of the mystery weekend?” She glanced around. “Is there another body somewhere we’re supposed to find?”
How many ways could I tell that woman there was no mystery game? I repeated that the weekend activities didn’t include a mystery game. She was one of Dinah’s writers, and my friend urged her to rejoin the others.
I waved to the onlookers and said everything was fine and they should go back to their workshops. Dinah glanced toward her people clustered on the path and stepped closer to me.
“We were on our way to the deck by the social hall for another outdoor writing exercise. What happened?” She turned away and called out to her writers to go on ahead and to pick out a tree and describe it. “Okay, tell me everything, and don’t leave out any details.”
I started with what I’d found out about Izabelle.
“So, Izabelle was a twin,” Dinah said, her eyes sparkling with interest. “A twin who didn’t like being a twin. No doubt that was why she made herself over. That would end her being a mirror image of someone. Izabelle probably isn’t her real name, either.”
I moved on to what I’d overheard, along with possibly saving Adele’s life.
“Hmm, so Mr. Futterman’s charm was as fake as mine,” she said. “If he thinks he’s going to keep me around to pump more information from-” She stopped. “All I talked about was Adele stepping into Izabelle’s shoes.” Dinah stopped and seemed worried. “I hope it isn’t something I said that made them want to shoot Adele.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“Maybe I did say something about Adele thinking Izabelle had stolen her work.”
I shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter. Adele wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to warn her.”
“What about calling Sergeant French and telling him about the threat?”
“I couldn’t even explain it to Adele without realizing how ridiculous it sounds. So, no, I’m not going to call Sergeant French. He already thinks I’m nuts.”
Dinah squeezed my hand in support and then went on to catch up with her writers. By then the onlookers had realized there was nothing to see and the path was deserted. The air was silvery with the morning haze and the light was flat. I didn’t even have my shadow as company as I walked down the path away from the low building housing the crochet and knitting meeting rooms.
I clutched the rhinestone clipboard to my chest and hung my head. That last little fiasco wasn’t helping my image as the person in charge. I thought coming up with the emergency drill excuse was pretty creative, though, and people seemed to buy it. At least the workshops all seemed to be a success. I sighed. But time was running out to figure out who killed Izabelle. There was just lunch, the afternoon sessions, and the last night party. After breakfast the next morning everyone would start to scatter, and Sergeant French would probably give up and say an unknown person may have been on the beach with Izabelle.
I walked up the hill to the Lodge building. Even the smell of pine trees and the air fresh off the ocean didn’t cheer me up. Somebody was going to get away with murder if I didn’t get going.
The housekeepers had finished their duties and were rolling their cart down the first-floor hall as I came in. The building was quiet as I walked up the stairs and down the hall toward my room. When I got inside, I sat down on the bed and checked my cell phone, which was now fully charged. I’d been in a hurry when I dropped it off and hadn’t checked my voice mail, but now I had time. Three calls from Barry, starting late last night and ending early this morning. He’d sounded more and more upset with each message. I punched in his number and held my breath.
