line, picking out those from our group and checking them for resemblance to Izabelle. But after a moment I rocked my head in a hopeless gesture. “How can we tell? It’s pretty obvious that after all that work Izabelle had done, they’re no longer identical.”
“Look for height and build,” Dinah said, studying Jeen. She fit the bill, but so did a lot of others-Miss Lavender Pants, the woman in the safari jacket, even the one who kept thinking it was a mystery weekend. I was about to give up when I noticed a head of long, prematurely gray hair come into view.
“I have an idea,” I said, but when I turned to Dinah, her students were beckoning her to their table. Her whole demeanor brightened as she went to join them. I was on my own.
“Excuse me,” I said to the gray-haired woman. She looked up from her plate of macaroni and cheese and smiled. I asked her how she was enjoying the crochet workshop to break the ice, and then worked back to where I wanted to go.
“You mentioned something about the doll model in Izabelle Landers’ book.” She brightened with recognition almost immediately.
“It was quite something, wasn’t it?” she said. “Personally, I find those dolls a little too wax museum for my taste, but to each their own.”
“So you think the doll was made to resemble a real person?” I said, and she nodded.
“Just a guess, but since it was in her book, probably the author as a child. Personally, I’ll take a Madame Alexander doll any day over one of those.”
I thanked her and said I hoped she enjoyed her lunch. While I mentally went over what she had just said, I had a sudden desire to get another look at that doll. I slipped out of the dining hall, greeting people as they came in.
Outside, the sky was white. Even though it was midday, the light looked the same as it had in the early morning. I walked up the main path toward the meeting room that housed the crochet group. Since they were gathering again in the afternoon, Adele would have left everything as is. And the door was unlocked as well.
The table was littered with yarn and hooks. Izabelle’s sample flowers and lacy trims were in the center of the table along with several copies of the book. I felt a surge of excitement as I fluttered through the pages, looking for the doll model.
I looked at it through new eyes now. Was this how Izabelle had looked as a child?
“I’m glad to catch up with you,” Bennett said, coming through the open door. “The actors need a few props, and I wondered if you could snag them.” When he described what they needed, they sounded like the kinds of things Commander Blaine had brought, and I suggested asking him. It was the first time I’d really had a chance to talk to Bennett alone. I apologized for the bumps that had started off the retreat.
“It was too bad about the Landers woman, but hardly your fault, any more than the fog.” He smiled and I got a dose of his charisma. Like Dinah, he was enthusiastic about his group. “Even in this short time, it’s been fun watching them come out of their shells. I guess there’s a ham hiding in all of us,” he said. He thanked me, and with a wave said his group was saving him a seat in the dining hall.
I glanced at the book in my hands and hoped my idea would work.
Adele was in full crochet diva mode when I came back to the dining hall. She held up a purple pouch purse she’d just completed and was showing off the chartreuse flowers she was going to add. The women and one man around her all oohed and aahed. Adele didn’t seem happy when I interrupted.
“Adele, I have to use your car,” I said softly. She instantly made a negative face and shook her head. “It’s important,” I persisted. She still didn’t budge. “Okay, how about this-it might permanently get Sergeant French off your back.”
That got through to Adele. At first she’d seemed to like the attention she got from being a person of interest or, as she called it, an important witness, but after the third time Sergeant French had tried to get her to admit that she’d been on the beach with Izabelle, she had complained to me and wanted to know if I was the one who told him she’d been bragging about what a great campfire maker she was.
“I’ll have to see your license,” she said finally. “And what kind of driving record do you have? Any accidents?” Even though I assured her I’d had no bad accidents and yes, I would show her my license, she kept on, telling me I needed to be aware of her car’s little idiosyncrasies. There was something about how you had to turn the key to lock the door, and not slamming on the brakes or revving the engine. It was too much to absorb, but I was sure I’d do fine. What did she think, that I was some kind of teenage hot-rodder?
“Where are you going?” she demanded. “And how long will you be gone?” I mentioned the Del Monte Mall, and she threw me an exasperated groan. “Shopping, Pink?”
“Not shopping,” I protested. “I have to take care of something that has to do with Izabelle Landers. Are you going to let me use your car or not?”
Adele finally handed me the keys. “But I’m in charge while you’re gone, right?”
“Whatever,” I said, handing her the rhinestone clipboard.
A few minutes later, she stood watching as I got into her old silver Honda. She had actually made me show her my license. Sometimes she was just too over-the-top. What the fuss was, was beyond me. The car was well worn and not exactly what I’d call orderly. She’d re-covered the front bucket seats with what I hoped was fake black-and-white cow skin. The backseat was littered with skeins of yarn that were tangled together and a bag from a craft store with more supplies. I chuckled at the box of bubble gum packets. Who knew Adele chewed that stuff that came in shreds and was supposed to look like chewing tobacco? She never ceased to surprise me. I laid my tote bag with Izabelle’s crochet book on the passenger seat.
I started to roll down the window, but Adele yelled for me to halt and pulled open the door.
“Pink, did you pay any attention to what I said? My car is fragile. If you open the window, it won’t shut.” She touched the roof of the car protectively. “Maybe I should drive.”
I reminded her she had the rhinestone clipboard for now, shut the door and turned on the motor. I know she was watching as I finally drove away.
I felt strange driving out of the Asilomar gate, as if I was suddenly reentering the real hustle-and-bustle world. Well, maybe not exactly hustle-and-bustle, but suddenly there were stoplights and traffic, houses and stores and an abrupt end to the feeling of being off somewhere.
Shortly beyond the business area, the road became curvy as it went over a ridge and through a forest of Monterey pines before I saw the signs for the Del Monte Mall. It had taken a bunch of phone calls to listings in the yellow pages before I found someone at a photo center who said he could do what I wanted.
I found a parking spot on the perimeter of the large mall and checked the directory for the store I wanted. A tall, skinny college-age clerk looked up when I walked in.
When I explained I was the one who’d called, he said, “You understand we don’t have the actual software that does age progression, like they use for the milk carton photos. That’s strictly for FBI and law enforcement.” I nodded and he asked to see the photo.
I opened Izabelle’s book and showed him the picture. “You want me to age-progress a doll?” he said, giving me a weird look. Not a big surprise; it was an odd request. I thought of explaining why I wanted the altered photo, but I couldn’t come up with an easy explanation that didn’t make me seem even weirder.
“I think I can do it with Photo Shop. How about next week?”
“I was thinking of something more along the lines of in an hour or so.”
He swallowed hard. “Okay. I’m always up for a challenge.” He took the book and said something about scanning the photo, followed by a lot of computer mumbo jumbo. With that settled, I rushed back to Adele’s car.
I returned to Asilomar just as lunch was ending. The driveway was clogged with people from our retreat on their way to the afternoon sessions as I parked the car in one of the few spots near the administration building. Adele had made me promise to drop off the keys the moment I got back. She was already in the crochet workshop room. When she saw me, she put down the purple pouch bag she was finishing and got up, insisting on inspecting her car.
She walked all the way around it, checking for damage. I rolled my eyes in disbelief as she opened the back door and rearranged the yarn, bag of craft supplies and box of bubble gum packets in the backseat and complained that everything had gotten jostled around, no doubt because of my harsh driving.
She held out her hand for the keys. “Ah, there’s one more thing,” I said, giving them to her.
“What now, Pink? My people are waiting.” She began walking, and I followed.
