I popped some leftover noodle pudding in the oven, took out the paper sack and spread the contents on my dining room table. The three copper and green hanging fixtures bathed the items in bright light.
I folded out the filet crochet piece first and looked it over. It was made of two rows of loosely shaped square panels. Whoever made it was obviously an accomplished crocheter. The stitches were even and well done. A lot of time had probably gone into making it, too. But why put all that time into such an odd piece? And what was it for? Though it was sort of shaped like a scarf, I didn’t think it was meant to be worn. And if someone tried to hang it on a wall, the middle would droop. It wasn’t even that attractive, although I did like the colors of the thread, particularly the aqua.
I wondered if the panels that had nonsensical images were deliberate or mistakes. I ran my finger over the two panels with big rings. One ring looked like a donut that was all hole, and the other had a bar across the middle. Another panel depicted a cylinder on stilts attached to a trapezoid; this seemed too planned to be a mistake. Even the recognizable things were strange. Why would somebody stick a bath-powder box, an oddly shaped house, a sitting cat, something that resembled the Arc de Triomphe, a walking cat and a vase of flowers together in one piece?
And what about the last panel? It was twice the size of the others and was a solid aqua rectangle with a window in the middle. What could it mean?
I was getting dizzy trying to figure it out. I reread the note to see if maybe there was something I’d missed when Adele had read it out loud. I looked inside the bag and saw that something white had gotten stuck on the side. I pulled it out and took it to the light. It was a piece of paper, dated at the top, and appeared to have been torn from a book. The position of the date and the kind of paper made me think it was a diary entry. I sat down in one of the chairs and looked at the handwriting. My handwriting always went every which way and had gotten worse as I got older. This was done in fountain pen with clear, even letters. It was dated December 20, twenty-three years ago. The same year Samuel was born.
There was no salutation. It just began.
The island is decorated for Christmas. All the colorful lights brighten up the short, cold days, but it doesn’t help me feel any less sad. I hate to have to say good-bye even for a short time. I know things will work out and we will be back together again for keeps. Tomorrow I go back as if nothing has changed. I know I am doing the right thing.
“Nicely vague,” I said out loud. “A few specific details like who she was and who she was talking about might have helped.” The only effect of my solo conversation was that the two dogs came in and looked around to see if I had company. I was going to have to watch the talking out loud once my parents arrived. It might make me come across as a widow who spent too much time alone.
While I waited for my food to heat, I reread the note that had come in the bag. I even read it out loud thinking hearing it might offer some new meaning, but nothing new struck me. And it still ended with a cliff-hanger.
“What’s the rest of the story?” I said, letting the paper fall back on the table. “And why couldn’t you have just taken another minute to add your name.”
Oh, dear, I was doing it again. Did all this talking out loud to myself mean that I was lonely?
The buttery smell coming from the oven made my mouth water, so I took out my noodle pudding, but then my thoughts returned to the puzzle.
The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation, my own personal go-to book, said everything has clues, you just had to know how to pick them out. After reading over the note and the diary entry countless times, I started to think the crochet piece was some kind of code for the secret the note writer was planning to disclose. But no matter how long I looked at all those panels, they didn’t make any more sense.
Sometimes a fresh point of view helped, so I called Dinah. Besides, I thought, I need to talk to a real person.
CHAPTER 3
“LYONS RESIDENCE,” A TINY VOICE SAID. “ASHLEY-Angela speaking.”
It was hard not to laugh at how serious she sounded, but I knew if I did I would hurt her feelings. Was this really the same wild child from a few months ago?
I was the only one who knew the truth about why Ashley-Angela and her brother E. Conner, four-year-old fraternal twins, were staying with Dinah. Everyone else assumed they were her grandkids on an extended visit. But they weren’t even really related to her, unless you counted that they were her children’s half siblings.
Dinah’s ex-husband, Jeremy, was their father and the new ex-Mrs. Lyons was their mother. She’d dropped out of sight, and Dinah had taken the kids in while Jeremy adjusted to a new job out of state. It was only supposed to be for a few weeks, but that was months ago.
Dinah was somewhere in her fifties. She wouldn’t divulge exactly where even to me, her best friend. She was convinced that people judged you when they knew your age. I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking she was old. She was practically bursting with energy, and she was always up for an adventure.
“Hello,” Dinah said taking the phone. I complimented her on Ashley-Angela’s phone manners, and I could hear the pride in her voice when she thanked me. No matter how much Dinah said she couldn’t wait for their father to come pick them up, I knew she’d gotten attached to them.
“There was something else in the bag. It seems like a diary entry.” Then I described how I’d been staring at the crochet piece and finally decided it was somehow the key to the secret mentioned in the aborted note.
“Read me the diary piece,” Dinah said.
My noodle pudding was getting cold and I took a bite. Dinah heard me chewing and wanted to know what I was eating. When I mentioned I had enough to share, she sighed.
“I love your California Noodle Pudding,” she said. “It is times like this I wish I wasn’t tied down.”
I promised to save her a piece and then took out the diary entry and started to read. I heard Dinah say “uh-huh” when I read the part about saying good-bye.
“It’s obvious she was having an affair and was upset about having to say good-bye. She said something about them being together eventually. Maybe that didn’t happen and that’s what she wanted to change.” Dinah stopped for a moment. “Hmm, it mentioned an island. I wonder what island it is.”
“There’s Balboa Island near Newport Beach, there’s the Hawaiian Islands. And there’s always Alcatraz,” I said with a laugh.
“But the entry doesn’t even indicate a state. It could be Bainbridge Island near Seattle, or St. Thomas in the Caribbean.”
“If the secret has something to do with an affair on an island, you’d sure never guess it by the crochet piece. I’ve been staring at it until my eyes are blurry and I still don’t get what a lot of the images are, let alone what they mean,” I said.
“Maybe the best thing to do is just wait and see if someone comes looking for it. It also might be the only thing to do,” Dinah suggested.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s odd, though, the way it was left on our table and the way the note breaks off—why just stop writing like that in the middle?”
“I can answer that one,” Dinah said. “Ever since Ashley-Angela and E. Conner have come to stay with me, I do things like that all the time. It’s called getting interrupted. I have to be really careful with comments on students’ papers and remember to go back and finish what I started. Telling someone, ‘Your paper has a powerful beginning,’ and telling someone, ‘Your paper has a powerful beginning but the rest doesn’t make sense,’ are a little different.” Dinah punctuated her comment with a chuckle. “What did the note say again?”