I pulled it out of the bag and read it to Dinah:
“I did something a long time ago that I now regret and would like to make right. I’m not sure everyone involved will agree. I’m leaving the enclosed for safekeeping with you. If I don’t come back for them, I trust you will know what to do. Please—”
“Hmm,” I said, looking at the diary entry and the note side by side. “The note seems different after reading the diary entry. Obviously whatever she did a long time ago is what she was talking about in the diary entry. Whatever she wants to fix probably has to do with the person she said good-bye to.”
“The diary page says something about the note writer getting back together with someone. Maybe they didn’t and she wants to make that happen now,” Dinah said. “The most obvious scenario is the writer had an affair with some guy on an island and maybe they were both married and the plan was they would go home and get divorces and then live happily ever after—but it didn’t happen. And now all these years later, the writer still wants her happily ever after.”
I pushed my plate of food away and held up the crochet piece. “All that makes sense, but what do all these weird images have to do with it?”
“Who knows? Maybe they represent lyrics to—” Dinah’s voice came in and out, and I could tell she was looking away from the phone. I heard kids’ noises and Dinah sighed. “See what I mean about getting interrupted? The end of that thought is lyrics to their song.” She sighed again. “I promised to read them a story. Why don’t you bring the bag to the crochet group. Maybe with all of our brains storming together we’ll come up with something.”
I agreed to bring it and then told Dinah about my impending houseguests. She laughed.
“Batten down the hatches! Liza Aronson is coming to town.”
I WENT INTO THE BOOKSTORE EARLY THE NEXT morning. Mrs. Shedd generally did her work when the store was closed, so I was surprised to see her sitting in her office. But there was no mistaking her hair. Although she was in her late sixties, she didn’t have even a lock of gray hair. The dark blond color was all natural, and the page-boy style reminded me of an old shampoo commercial. Her clothes were kind of old-school, too. She didn’t wear pants, she wore trousers along with feminine big-collared blouses. Everybody called her Mrs. Shedd. I had only recently learned her first name was Pamela. She was leaning back in her desk chair and waved me in as I passed.
“Tell me again about the couple who came in. Did they seem happy with the way the bookstore looked? Did they make any comments about the arrangement?” Mrs. Shedd sounded unusually nervous. “You know, Molly, the way the bookstore looks on TV is really important. It’s national television. Millions of viewers. This is the ultimate event for our little place. It will put us on the map, and we could become a tourist stop or at least the place in the Valley to visit for your book needs,” she said in an excited voice.
I nodded to show I was listening as she began to talk about how impressed Mr. Royal would be if he knew. I continued nodding and hoped my disbelief that he existed didn’t show. “So be sure and offer any assistance to anyone involved with the show,” Mrs. Shedd finished.
After assuring her I would do my best, I went back onto the bookstore floor. We’d just opened so there were barely any customers. Bob, our main barista, was brewing fresh coffee, and the pungent fragrance mixed with the sweet scent of his homemade butterscotch oatmeal cookie bars cooling on the counter. It was too much to resist; I went into the café, grabbed a cup of fresh coffee and some hot cookie bars and then headed back into the main store.
A man had come in and was standing at the front counter talking to Rayaad. When she saw me, she waved me over. The man’s slightly long gray-streaked hair, intelligent face and rimless glasses made me think he might be a college professor. But the manicured nails and designer tennis whites complete with a sweater made me think not.
The man nodded to me and held out his hand. “Hunter Katz.”
I balanced the cookie bars and coffee mug in one hand and shook his.
“I’m the executive vice president of Rhead Productions. We produce Making Amends. I don’t usually get involved with locations or the details of any of our shows, but since this is my neighborhood . . .” He pointed toward the view of the hills and Santa Monica Mountains dotted with homes, implying one of them was his. “So I thought I’d drop by and make sure the ball has started rolling.”
I mentioned meeting the set designers the previous day, and then I asked him the question I’d thought of after they’d left. Why were they filming at the bookstore?
Hunter laughed. “That’s because someone in the bookstore is the subject of the show. They’re the one someone is making amends with.”
“Oh really. Who is it?” I asked.
He winked. “Sorry, but the whole emotional arc of the show is based on it being a surprise.” He handed me his card. “If there are any problems with the setups or anything, give my office a call. Like I said, I don’t usually get involved with the nitty-gritty of any of our shows, but since it’s my local bookstore, I have a personal interest in things going smoothly.”
Which really meant he didn’t want anything to go wrong. Oh dear, the pressure was on. Let’s just say that some of my author events have had a certain unpredictable quality to them, like the time a cooking demonstration led to the fire department showing up. I put on a confident smile and told him I was sure everything would go perfectly. “So, I guess you’re CeeCee Collins’s boss.”
“I’ve never quite thought of it in those terms, but yes,” he said, preparing to depart. “You have some kind of crochet group here that makes things for charity, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said tentatively, wondering why he was asking. “Does that have something to do with the show?”
He took a step backward while still looking at me and winked. “Sorry, I can’t give out that information.” Then with a wave, he was gone.
A busy morning already and it wasn’t even ten yet. I headed to the event area to do setup for the crochet group. The morning sun poured in the window that faced Ventura Boulevard. A city maintenance worker was giving a shot of water to the giraffe topiary that stood guard by the window. The ivy was finally beginning to cover the metal frame and mossy stuff in the middle.
Someone had decided a while back that the Valley communities along Ventura Boulevard should each have some kind of identity. Because we were located in Tarzana, there was the obvious Tarzan connection, and hence, we got the designation of Safari Walk. What that amounted to was a street sign announcing it, garbage cans with animal cutouts, an occasional sidewalk square made of red tiles with a big rock on it and topiary animals sprinkled down the boulevard.
Turning my back on the ivy giraffe and his keeper, I began to prepare for the group. I pulled out the long table and unfolded the legs. Dinah came in before I finished setting up the chairs. Actually, I heard the tinkle of her long earrings before I saw her. As usual, she had several scarves twined around her neck, but no kids with her.
“Thank heavens for preschool,” she said when I asked. “They’ve started going every day.” She dropped her craft bag on a chair and undid her sweater coat. She picked up one of my cookie bars and took a nibble, then said she was going for her own treats.
While she was gone, I took out the filet crochet piece and the note and diary entry.