“Adele has a good eye.” She left the piece, went into a back room and returned with an orb of thread the exact aqua of the panel. “This is the last ball of Fiji aquamarine number 10 I have. It was discontinued, and I bought out their entire supply.
“I keep records of who buys what.” She paused a moment. “You can just leave it with me, and I’ll check my records and give the owner a call.”
I couldn’t really blame her for being protective of her customers, but I wanted to meet the person face-to-face. When I said I’d really feel better if I took it back to the person myself, Yarnie didn’t budge. I thought of The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation and what it would suggest under the circumstances. It usually advised being creative and not being afraid to stretch the truth, but I realized that in this situation, the best weapon in my arsenal was the truth.
“Do you know who CeeCee Collins is?” I began. Yarnie nodded and even mentioned the show. It was an easy segue into the package being left for CeeCee to deal with. And it was amazing what a celebrity name would do. “I promised CeeCee I would give it directly to the owner,” I said finally.
Yarnie considered what I’d said and then opened her laptop and fired it up. She typed something in and shook her head. “I’m afraid a whole list of names comes up.” She turned the computer toward me and I saw she was right.
Undaunted, I examined the piece again. “What about one of these other colors? If you look up who bought one of them it might narrow it down.”
“Good thinking. I’ve never actually done it in reverse like this.” She held the piece close and looked at the panel with the bath-powder box. “I think this is arctic blue 14.” She got a sample to be sure and then typed it in the computer.
She came up with another list, and we checked back and forth and found there were only two people who’d bought both colors.
“It’s not her,” she said, pointing at the first name. “She moved to Napa three months ago.” She pointed to the second in the list.
Mary Beth Wells.
Yarnie seemed to hesitate then finally wrote down the pertinent information on a piece of paper shaped like a ball of yarn. “Do you know who she is?”
I shrugged and she continued. “Well, you must have heard of Lance Wells?”
Of course, who hadn’t? He was before my time more or less, but Lance Wells was the premier dancing actor in all those tuxedo-and-evening-gown musicals. There was a nationwide chain of dance studios named after him. I’d just passed the one in Tarzana the other day and noticed how busy it was. Thanks to Dancing with the Stars and the shows it had spawned, everybody wanted to learn all the couples’ dances.
“Mary Beth was married to Lance Wells Jr.,” Yarnie said. “I think he died about six months ago.”
“Then you know her pretty well?” I said. The shop owner gave me a noncommital shrug. “Do you have any idea what all this means?” I asked, pointing to the motifs in the panels.
“She said she likes filet crochet because it’s like drawing. This is the first time I’ve seen anything she’s made. Mostly, she just buys supplies when she comes in. She said she likes all the colors I have.” Yarnie stared at the panel piece for a long time. “This is really an odd item. It’s not the kind of thing I expected her to make. Filet isn’t that popular. Mostly what you see are nameplates or trim on something.” She reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. “First thing I’m going to ask her is what all this is.” She paused and I could hear the phone ringing through the receiver. Finally, someone answered and Yarnie spoke, but it was obvious she’d reached a wrong number.
She checked her computer again and saw it was the number she’d dialed. “Oh no, I must have transposed some of the numbers.” She appeared apologetic. “I’m a little dyslexic.” She looked at the screen. “I think the address is right. I know I’ve mailed her sale notices and they haven’t come back.”
“I’ll go there and if nobody’s home, I’ll leave a note in the mailbox,” I said. That seemed to set okay with her, and she gave me the address and even searched out driving directions from the Internet for me.
I was glad to have the directions. Although the house was in Tarzana, it was up in the hills where the streets reminded me of spider veins. They were squiggly and branched off each other in multiple directions. After much confusion, I finally found her street, which was so steep I was afraid the car would start slipping back down the hill. Where the street ended and the signs for the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy began, I saw the address on the curb. There was a wrought-iron mailbox in front and a solid blue-green gate across the driveway. I turned the car around and parked on the street, making sure to curb my wheels.
I climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk. A large house was a short distance below me, and from there a row of minimansions cascaded down the hillside. When I looked up, the whole San Fernando Valley spread before me and I suddenly felt like the queen of the world. I got caught up in the view. It was a clear day, and the San Gabriel Mountains appeared so stark, it was as if they’d been outlined in black marker. The top of Mount Wilson was dusted with snow, and farther east, I caught sight of Mount Baldy completely slathered in white. A plane at eye level was heading toward Van Nuys Airport to land. The grid of streets spread before me, and I could pick out landmarks and see how lush the Valley was, its treetops like tiny green cotton balls.
But I wasn’t here for sightseeing so I began walking back toward the mailbox, noticing an intercom on a stand just before the gate. I had the bag under my arm and pressed the button next to the speaker. A moment later I heard a voice say something, and I launched into explaining my mission. But all I got out was my name before I was interrupted.
A woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. It sounded almost like gibberish, but I thought she repeated my name.
“Yes, yes, I’m—” There was no time to finish again as the gate made a noise and began to slide open. I walked through quickly and stood at the end of a long driveway that curved and disappeared. The laurel trees on either side were old and gnarled and made a canopy with their knife-shaped leaves. The treetops blocked out the light, making it dark and shadowy. My heart rate kicked up as I began to wonder what I was walking into.
The house didn’t come into view until after I’d rounded the curve. It was an old Spanish style—two stories with creamy stucco, lots of arched windows and a red-tile roof. My breath caught as a deer darted in front of me and disappeared down into the brush on the hillside.
I reached the other end of the driveway and walked up the path toward the house. A red-tiled patio ran along the front with an overhang for shade created by the second-floor balcony. It took my breath away just imagining what the view must be like from up there. It was probably even better at night with all the lights.
The large wood door opened, and a woman in jeans and a red blouse came out. She seemed distracted and was looking past me.
“Mary Beth Wells?” I said. I took the bag out from under my arm. Her eyes focused on it, then she nodded and grabbed my arm.
She was saying something in Spanish and I couldn’t understand her. She waved at the driveway and seemed to be looking for something, then dragged me inside.
The inside of the house was dark. I glanced around quickly, taking in the giant pots of mother-in-law tongues on the shiny dark wood floor. I only got a quick glance as we passed the living room. There was a light-colored sofa with a bright Native American blanket draped over the arm. By now, the woman was even more agitated; she gestured for me to hurry.