“Don’t worry. I know just what to do with it,” I said. The crochet piece was just where Ashley-Angela had left it. Leave it to a four-year-old to figure it out. All the motifs were upside down now except one. I traced the shape with my finger. Instead of looking like a bunch of odd shapes stuck together, it was clear what it was supposed to represent. Dinah saw me staring and followed my gaze.
“No connection to Mary Beth Wells—yeah right,” I said. Viewed at this angle it was clearly a wishing well with an MB embedded in the texture of the roof.
“Wow, there’s even an s to make it Wells,” Dinah said, pointing to the shape holding the bucket.
“I can’t just do nothing,” I said, not taking my eyes off the crochet work. “I’ll feel better if I at least find out what Mary Beth was trying to fix and take care of it for her.”
Dinah touched me to get my attention. “You know the secret and her death are probably connected.” I nodded and Dinah perked up. “Count me in. An investigation will keep me from slipping into the empty-nest blues.”
I turned the piece back around right-side up, and we both went over the motifs to see if the new information made a difference in understanding the whole. It didn’t.
“Didn’t you say Detective Heather said the death was from natural causes?”
“No. She said it looked like natural causes. I bet anything that when they do an autopsy they’ll find out it wasn’t.” I caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall and jumped up. “I have to go.”
CHAPTER 7
GOT HOME WITH BARELY ENOUGH TIME TO TURN on the lights and take care of the dogs before the grand arrival. I was fluffing the pillows on the couch when the SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the house. Who would have thought my parents would get a sport-utility vehicle?
I opened the door and waited for them. My mother floated in on the scent of Chanel No. 5 and hugged me. Then she stepped back and looked me over. They were hardly in the house and I was already girding for the onslaught.
“Molly, the last time I saw you, you were wearing the same thing. Is your whole wardrobe khaki pants and white shirts and a black something? You need some color, some pizzaz.”
Nobody would accuse my mother of lacking pizzaz. In fact, my mother, Liza Aronson, had pizzaz to spare. I wasn’t as obvious as she was, but I checked out her outfit, too. Unfortunately, there was nothing negative to say. It was depressing to realize my mother had more style than I did. She had on black jeans with a black turtleneck and a woven scarf of blues and purples wound loosely around her neck. An armful of silver and turquoise bracelets and long dangle earrings complemented the look, which she finished off with silver-toed black cowboy boots. I looked like queen of the frumps next to her. Even her hair was better. When I went for a cut, I just sat in the chair and let Gerardo decide how to snip. Not her. She always went to the salon with an exact plan of how she wanted her hair. It was a golden brown with mink highlights, cut to shape her face perfectly. But then, as she had always reminded me, she was a performer and I wasn’t.
Next my father came in carrying some bags. I offered to help, but he insisted he had it under control. He wore slacks and a blazer, and though his hair was almost white he still had a nice head full. He dropped a bag of samples on the table. “I brought some of this great new sunblock,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he studied my face. I knew the look. He was checking my skin. It was second nature to him. He was always on the lookout for skin cancer. He seemed satisfied with what he saw and asked where to take their luggage.
“I suppose you’re going to put us in one of the boys’ rooms,” my mother chimed in. Before I could stop her, she headed for Peter’s old room. When she turned on the light, she yelped in surprise. The last time she’d seen it, there was a pullout couch, a dresser and a bookcase full of sports trophies. Now it was a riot of color and plastic grocery bags. When I’d first turned it into my crochet room, I’d kept it orderly. All the yarn was in the bookcase, arranged by color. But then I’d gotten more yarn than there was shelf space for, and even though I had tried to squeeze it in, it had popped out and sort of landed everywhere. Then there were the projects. I’d start something and work on it for a while, then something else would excite me and I’d set the first one aside thinking it would just be for a moment until I got the next one started. And on and on. I’d discovered the best way to keep track of my works in progress was by putting each in a plastic grocery bag along with the instructions, notes on what I’d completed, a yarn wrapper and a hook. The grocery bags seemed to have multiplied like rabbits.
“See, I do have some color in my life,” I said as I prepared to turn off the light.
“What’s all this?” my mother said with concern in her voice as she stepped farther into the room and poked into the grocery bags. “You know, disorder is a sign of mental illness.”
What? My mother was barely in the door and already she was calling me crazy.
“It’s my crochet room.” I left the light on and proceeded to show her how sane I was. Would a crazy person be able to follow the pattern for an afghan that was finished except for half the fringe? I didn’t think so.
“You made this?” My mother actually sounded impressed, and I figured she was now clear that I wasn’t nuts.
“What about this?” She didn’t sound so impressed anymore, and when I looked to see what was diminishing her opinion of me, I saw that she had picked up Mary Beth’s piece. “Is this some kind of art piece? Were you trying to mix representational art with abstract?”
“I didn’t make it, so I don’t know.” I debated whether I should tell her about Mary Beth being dead and my thinking it was some kind of clue map. But considering that she already seemed to have some doubts about my mental health—well, even I knew it sounded kind of crazy.
“What is all this supposed to be?” my mother said, turning the piece around as if a different view would change things. “I recognize this—it’s the Casino Building on Catalina Island.”
“Huh?” I said, looking over her shoulder. Then I saw she was right. I’d seen the round-shaped building countless times during the weather segment on the news. Here she didn’t even know anything about the mystery and she’d already turned over a clue. A bath-powder box, indeed. I almost wanted to hug her.
My mother lost interest in it after that. “Then I suppose we get Samuel’s old room,” she said, heading down the hall.
“No. I’m putting you and Daddy in my room,” I said. “Just stay here for a moment.” I dashed across the house to make sure I hadn’t left anything embarrassing around. Sure enough, there was the bottle of ylang-ylang pleasure oil next to my bed that Barry had brought over. I slipped it in my pocket just as I heard footsteps in the hall.
“Irv put the bags in the hall,” my mother called to my father before coming in. She looked around with interest. She’d never spent much time in here before. When my parents had come to visit while Charlie was alive, our room had been our domain.
It was really a wonderful large room with vaulted wood ceilings and a fireplace. There were large windows on two of the walls and a glass door leading to a little private patio. The bathroom was roomy with a window looking out on the same patio, and there was a hall with two closets and a door at the end. With the door shut, the bedroom suite became like a separate world from the rest of the house.
I had gotten a new bedspread with pink flowers on a green background; an abundance of pillows complemented the decor. They also made the bed seem like a wonderful sleep nest; I was going to miss nestling in there. I closed the shutters on the windows and pulled Blondie’s chair with me. The two dogs followed me out. As I was going, my mother wanted to make sure the bed had the all-cotton sheets she’d asked for. “Yes, and I washed them three times in the organic soap,” I called out.