A Stitch in Crime (21 page)

“I guess you didn’t see me when I waved for you to join us at the other table,” Adele said. There was no sarcastic edge in her voice. I don’t think it occurred to her that Sheila ignored her deliberately. Why wouldn’t Sheila want to sit with the reigning crochet queen?

“Whatever,” Adele said quickly. “Just be sure to get the containers of yarn for the crochet session.” And then, in a whirl of too much white, Adele caught up with her crochet groupies and rushed ahead to get in the front. She waved for them to follow her. It occurred to me that if she’d worn that outfit during the fogout, she would have disappeared.

“You think all this has gone to her head?” I said with a sigh. “C’mon, I’ll help you get the yarn.”

After a brief stop to put my phone in the charger, I led Sheila to Izabelle’s room. “Maybe I should just wait here,” Sheila said, hanging back. I knew she felt apprehensive about going into the dead woman’s room. Who could blame her? There was something eerie about seeing Izabelle’s toothbrush still sitting in a glass on the sink. Or thinking of the clothes in the closet she packed for the weekend and now would never wear.

I promised Sheila it was all right and she finally came in, but it was obvious she didn’t want to stay.

There were two containers marked “Supplies,” and Sheila grabbed one and headed toward the door. As I went to take the other, I saw the laptop sitting on the night table. With everything going on, I had forgotten all about the e-mail Dinah and I had sent to the ITA sponsor. Wondering if he’d sent an answer, I powered it up. I went through the motions of getting to Izabelle’s e-mails, and along with some junk e-mails there was a reply from Tom.

When I opened it, a full page of text appeared. He explained that he had never actually met Izabelle. He was her sponsor and everything between them was supposed to be confidential, and even though she had died, he was still going to honor that. There was only one small piece of information he offered. Maybe small to him, but very large to me. He said that ITA stood for Identical Twins Anonymous. As the information registered, I got it. We knew that Izabelle had a sister, and now I realized it was a twin sister. And suddenly the green contacts, the plastic surgery, and the voice coach made sense.

It had been all about creating her own identity. I always thought that it would be neat to have a twin, that it would be like having another you to be friends with. But apparently not all twins felt that way. I did a quick search on the organization. It had been started to help identical twins with an identity crisis. I went back and reread the original e-mail Tom had sent. It was obvious Izabelle had told him she was going to do something, and he was trying to stop her. Considering the organization, it seemed like a safe assumption it had something to do with her twin. Did that mean the twin was here?

I couldn’t wait to tell Dinah all that I’d found out. And Sheila couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

“I’ll help you get these to your classroom, but I’m stopping for a red-eye first,” I said when we’d gotten outside.

As we headed around the administration building to the side with the deck, I noticed that Spenser and his mysterious female companion were sitting on a corner bench with their backs to us. They were talking about something. I didn’t want to tell Dinah, but her undercover work had been a little weak. I’d hoped she would get information, but it sounded like all she’d done was give it.

“Why don’t you go on ahead to your meeting room?” I said to Sheila, never taking my eyes off the pair. This was my chance to find out what was really going on with those two.

Sheila saw me staring and asked what was up. Then she nodded her head in sudden understanding. “You think they have something to do with Izabelle’s death, right?” I motioned for her to keep her voice down, and she started talking in an excited whisper. “You’re going to eavesdrop, aren’t you?” She took another look at Spenser’s back. “I’m staying. Two sets of ears are better than one.”

The deck was raised off the ground, and the spot where they were seated was bordered by bushes taller than me. Sheila and I checked the area around us, and the footpaths were empty in all directions. Sheila stuck to me like glue as we walked closer to the deck, still carrying the boxes of crochet supplies. When we were even with the bushes, I abruptly made a side move off the footpath and behind a leafy bush. Sheila paused for a beat and did the same move, which sent her crashing into me behind the bush. We put our burdens down and slipped farther behind the brush.

At first I could only make out their voices, but not what they were saying. I took Sheila’s hand and we moved farther along the wall until we were directly beneath Spenser and his lady friend.

“Keep on good terms with Dinah Lyons,” the woman said. “She’s a good source if I need any more information. We took care of almost everything regarding Izabelle Landers. I can’t believe nobody figured out what was going on.”

“What else is there?” Spenser asked.

“I need to take care of the one who’s running the crochet workshop now. All I need is a clear shot, and I can check her off my list.”

MY HEAD WAS SPINNING BY NOW. IN A SMALL space of time I’d found out that the sister Izabelle didn’t get along with was her identical twin, that Commander Blaine may or may not have been tampering with evidence and that Spenser Futterman’s companion wanted to shoot Adele.

Sheila and I had slipped unnoticed from behind the bushes. Once I got my coffee drink, we’d found a bench and I was trying to regroup. I let the red-eye circulate through my brain. I was thrilled that Dinah was doing such a great job with the writers, but I missed having her to talk to. Sheila was definitely trying to be helpful, but she was already a wreck from driving with Adele, then sharing a room with her and then becoming her crochet assistant.

“The obvious priority here is Adele,” I said. “I have to warn her.”

“Good luck getting her to listen to you.” Sheila had taken out her tranquilizer crochet supplies and was adding a row. Her breath immediately smoothed out.

I sighed and asked if I could do some; I certainly needed something to calm my thoughts. Instead of giving me her crocheting, Sheila produced a ball of sunny yellow worsted and another hook and said I could do my own. A few minutes of crocheting did wonders for me, and I was ready to save Adele as we headed for her workshop.

“Adele, I have to talk to you,” I said as I came into the meeting room with Sheila close behind. Adele was standing at the front end of the table with seven women and one man arranged around the other end.

“Not now,” she said. “Pink, just put down the box. I have a workshop to run. She gestured toward the crocheters. “People, while I set up, you can work on the blocks for the shelter blanket.” She nodded at Sheila. “Leave yours on the table and go help them.”

Adele was in full attitude with her hand on her hip, glaring at me until I set the box on the table. She waved for me to leave and immediately began taking out Izabelle’s sample pouch bags, tee shirts with a row of trim along the bottom, and flowers that could be attached to anything from purses to jean pockets, along with several copies of
A Subtle Touch of Crochet
. Apparently ignoring Adele’s order, two of the women left their seats and began looking through what Adele was setting out. A woman with long, prematurely gray hair joined them, picked up one of the copies of Izabelle’s book, and began thumbing through it. Meanwhile, Adele was managing to totally ignore me.

The woman with the book held it open and showed it to the others. “Look at the doll clothes,” she said, and the three women started discussing making clothes for some dolls they had.

“People, please keep your seats,” Adele said, annoyed that no one seemed to be listening to her.

“Adele, it’s important,” I said, taking her arm, but she pulled it away.

“Pink, what’s with you? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Now the women had moved from discussing the doll clothes to the doll model in the picture. “Look at that nose,” one of them said. “That’s definitely not a regulation doll nose. I’m sure it’s one of those dolls I was telling you about.”

I caught a glimpse of the picture over one of their shoulders and recognized it as the doll in the background of the photo of Izabelle on the back of the book. “It’s an odd-looking doll,” I said, jumping into their conversation. “So you think it’s some special kind?”

“Pink, you’re interrupting. Leave,” Adele said, sounding exasperated. But it was too late; the women had already picked up on my question.

“We collect dolls, which I guess makes us kind of experts,” the woman in a red sweater said, “and this doll looks like what I call a ‘little me’ doll. There are various methods, some better than others, but the idea is the same—basically a doll is crafted from a photograph to look like a child. I’ve seen some where they just go for face shape and hair color, but this one looks like they went all out.”

Adele was out of patience. She took the book from the woman’s hand and strongly suggested all of them take their seats. She glared at me and pointed toward the door. I happened to look at the doorway behind Adele. Spenser’s friend abruptly stepped into view. I saw her hands go up. There was no time to consider alternatives, I just had to act. On pure impulse I dived toward Adele, tackling her, and yelled for everyone to hit the floor.

“Pink, you’ve really lost it this time!” Adele screamed as we landed on the floor together.

I ROLLED OFF ADELE AND SAT UP. TEN PAIRS OF eyes were all on me, mostly with a look of concern attached. Only Adele’s eyes had the additional flare that implied she’d like to do me bodily harm.

Of course, when I looked toward the door, no one was there. “Sorry everyone,” I said, getting up. I needed to think fast and give an explanation for my actions. “Just a little emergency drill.” I held up the rhinestone clipboard which had gone down with me. “It’s one of the duties that go along with having this.” Thankfully, nobody questioned what kind of emergency it was a drill for, and they all began to get up.

No problem getting Adele to talk to me now. She didn’t resist when I led her to the corner of the room. The rest of the group went back to their seats, and Sheila took a few deep breaths and resumed helping them.

I quickly told Adele what I’d overheard and mentioned seeing the woman at the doorway. When Adele rolled her eyes in disbelief, I called Sheila over to back up my story.

“Now you’re pulling Sheila into your investigations?” Adele said, giving us both a hopeless look. “You overheard who?” As I began the second telling of the story, even though I’d been there and heard what Spenser’s companion had said, it sounded ridiculous. Why would anybody want to shoot Adele unless it was the fashion police? As I tried to explain who everyone was and what I thought they might have done, it got too convoluted and I gave up. “Never mind,” I said walking away. “You’re on your own.”

There’s nothing like a little yelling with a few screams thrown in to attract a crowd. As I exited, I walked into a bunch of people who were straining to look in the doorway. Dinah pushed her way through the onlookers with her aquamarine scarf flying in the breeze. The woman with the turquoise earrings rushed past her and stopped next to me.

“Was that part of the mystery weekend?” She glanced around. “Is there another body somewhere we’re supposed to find?”

How many ways could I tell that woman there was no mystery game? I repeated that the weekend activities didn’t include a mystery game. She was one of Dinah’s writers, and my friend urged her to rejoin the others.

I waved to the onlookers and said everything was fine and they should go back to their workshops. Dinah glanced toward her people clustered on the path and stepped closer to me.

“We were on our way to the deck by the social hall for another outdoor writing exercise. What happened?” She turned away and called out to her writers to go on ahead and to pick out a tree and describe it. “Okay, tell me everything, and don’t leave out any details.”

I started with what I’d found out about Izabelle.

“So, Izabelle was a twin,” Dinah said, her eyes sparkling with interest. “A twin who didn’t like being a twin. No doubt that was why she made herself over. That would end her being a mirror image of someone. Izabelle probably isn’t her real name, either.”

I moved on to what I’d overheard, along with possibly saving Adele’s life.

“Hmm, so Mr. Futterman’s charm was as fake as mine,” she said. “If he thinks he’s going to keep me around to pump more information from—” She stopped. “All I talked about was Adele stepping into Izabelle’s shoes.” Dinah stopped and seemed worried. “I hope it isn’t something I said that made them want to shoot Adele.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“Maybe I did say something about Adele thinking Izabelle had stolen her work.”

I shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter. Adele wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to warn her.”

“What about calling Sergeant French and telling him about the threat?”

“I couldn’t even explain it to Adele without realizing how ridiculous it sounds. So, no, I’m not going to call Sergeant French. He already thinks I’m nuts.”

Dinah squeezed my hand in support and then went on to catch up with her writers. By then the onlookers had realized there was nothing to see and the path was deserted. The air was silvery with the morning haze and the light was flat. I didn’t even have my shadow as company as I walked down the path away from the low building housing the crochet and knitting meeting rooms.

I clutched the rhinestone clipboard to my chest and hung my head. That last little fiasco wasn’t helping my image as the person in charge. I thought coming up with the emergency drill excuse was pretty creative, though, and people seemed to buy it. At least the workshops all seemed to be a success. I sighed. But time was running out to figure out who killed Izabelle. There was just lunch, the afternoon sessions, and the last night party. After breakfast the next morning everyone would start to scatter, and Sergeant French would probably give up and say an unknown person may have been on the beach with Izabelle.