Behind the Seams (8 page)

“Forget it. You’re here now. And there is nothing to eat in my house,” I said, pushing the fridge door shut.

The original plan was to go to the market, but Whole Foods was pulling in their outdoor display of fruit in anticipation of closing and Gelson’s was doing the same with their outdoor tables. There were other markets that stayed open later, but we decided to go to a restaurant. As we drove down Ventura, most of them were shut for the night, too. Le Grande Fromage was so dark I could barely see the sign. The only place still open was an Israeli place. We found a table and ordered their special array of salads and freshly made humus that came with a circle of hot bread.

I filled Dinah in on what had happened after she left, and she shook her head with concern. “Poor Nell. I agree with you. Just because the cops let her go doesn’t mean its over.”

“CeeCee’s worried, too. She pulled me aside before they left and asked—well, begged me really—to get Nell off the hook. I think CeeCee is concerned about her own reputation, too.”

“In other words, she wants you to find out who really killed the producer—what was her name again?”

“Robyn Freed,” I said. The eleven o’clock news had just started on the flat-screen TV that hung over the bar. The anchor went to a reporter in the field. I recognized the street outside the Wolf Brothers Studio. Now the street was deserted and dark except for the camera lights. It was so ridiculous how they had reporters doing live feeds from places where something
had
happened. The overdressed blond reporter said, “Pandemonium broke out earlier this morning at the
Barbara Olive Overton
show when, according to witnesses, an audience member jumped up brandishing a weapon.”

They went to tape, and suddenly it was daylight and audience members were trickling out of the exit. There was another shot of people loitering on the street looking at the line of police cars and an ambulance. This short scene kept playing over and over as the reporter continued doing a voice-over. “The woman was escorted from the show and details are sketchy, but apparently paramedics and police were called in.”

“Pandemonium?” I said. I started to go on about how ridiculous the newscast was but stopped to hear the reporter.

“Unconfirmed rumors said that Ms. Overton had been taken hostage by the crazed fan. We tried contacting the production offices, but they were being tight-lipped about information and would only say there’d been an incident.”

After they’d repeated the scene of the audience leaving for the umpteenth time, they finally went back to the reporter standing in the dark.

“Can you believe they call that news?” I said. “They play a meaningless scene over and over and offer a story I know is absolutely not true. Whatever happened to getting the facts?”

Dinah and I did a knuckle bump in agreement. Apparently somebody else in the restaurant wasn’t happy with the news, either, and the station abruptly changed to one of those entertainment news shows.

The waitress brought us another hot circle of bread. I pulled off a piece and dipped it in the garbanzo bean puree. “Look,” I said, pointing at the huge screen. The screen had flashed the show’s logo before going to a scene that looked similar to the news program we’d just been watching. Pierce Sheraton was standing on the street outside the studio. He was the hottest entertainment reporter at the moment—so hot that the show was called
Pierce Sheraton’s Entertainment Zone
. As was his trademark, the tall lanky reporter was wearing a black tee shirt over dark-washed jeans. He’d been known to show up at award shows in the same outfit with a tuxedo jacket thrown on top. He had shaggy hair and a smirky attitude. For a moment, the screen showed the
Barbara Olive Overton
show, and I was curious what his report on the incident was going to be. When the shot went back to the street, he’d been joined by a tall woman with sharp features and a severe, short haircut.

“Rumors are swirling about what happened at the
Barbara Olive Overton
show this morning,” Pierce said to the camera, “but once again,
Entertainment Zone
has the real story. This is Talia Canon.” He gestured toward the woman standing next to him. “She’s an assistant producer on the show and has the inside scoop. Talia, tell us what happened.” Pierce put the microphone in front of Talia, and she proceeded to explain that one of the segment producers on the show had died under suspicious circumstances. Pierce asked her for the person’s name, but she wouldn’t give it. She’d heard the cops were still looking for her next of kin and thought there was some kind of rule about not making a dead person’s name public until their family had been notified.

“Thank heavens for that,” I said to Dinah. “It would be awful if that was how her family found out.”

Pierce kept trying to find out as much as possible about the victim and who might have wanted to harm her. “You were telling me a production assistant is the one who gave the victim the poison.”

Talia suddenly appeared uncomfortable. “I said
allegedly
might have given the victim some kind of poison. And please, no names for the victim or the sus—alleged suspect.” Pierce tried to squeeze more details out of Talia, but all she would talk about was Robyn’s job.

“We call them segment producers to separate them from the other kinds of producers on the show. It’s their responsibility to get all the pieces together for the shows. Like, they take care of all the video background pieces we always have. Sometimes it takes a year to put one together if they’re following somebody’s progress at, say, losing weight.” Pierce wanted to know what kind of shows the victim had been working on. She hemmed and hawed and finally would only say she had been assigned two shows—one featured an author and one a celebrity couple.

“And you worked for the deceased woman?” Pierce said and she nodded. “Is it safe to assume that you’ll be taking over for her?”

Talia must have realized how cold all of this sounded, and she suddenly appeared anguished or tried to appear that way. She insisted the whole staff was brokenhearted over the loss. “But Barbara can’t just stop her show and let all her fans down. I’m going to be doing my best to step into Ms. X’s shoes.” Talia seemed done, then she looked back at the camera. “And for all you fans out there. Under the circumstances, we’re doing a repeat tomorrow, but after that, it’s back to our regular schedule.”

“Barbara is certainly not letting any grass grow under her feet,” Dinah said.

“I suppose it seems that way, but they can’t just close up shop,” I said. “I sure hope CeeCee isn’t watching this. If she hears anything about a suspect, she’ll have to figure it’s Nell,” I said as we got our leftovers packed up to go. I drove the greenmobile, as I called my old blue green Mercedes 190E, back to my house. Dinah pushed me to take all the leftovers and then got in her car and left.

I called Mason as soon as I got inside. He listened as I relayed how Nell seemed to think she was off the hook because they let her go, but then I’d just heard somebody on TV say the cops had a suspect. “Could it be someone other than Nell?”

“Anything is possible,” Mason said. “But I wouldn’t get too hopeful.” He repeated his offer to talk to Nell or CeeCee. “This must be a whole new experience for CeeCee—having to focus so much attention on someone else.” He realized that had sounded wrong and corrected his statement. “I didn’t mean anything about her personally. It goes with the territory. Lord knows I deal with enough celebrity types to see how they are. They get so used to being the center of attention it’s hard for them to consider somebody else.” He brought the subject back to me, remembering I’d been pretty worn when he dropped me at the bookstore.

“You sound exhausted, Sunshine,” he said in a caring manner. I was agreeing with him when Samuel came in the kitchen door carrying his guitar. I had left the bag of leftovers on the counter, intending to put it in the refrigerator. He opened the bag and pulled out one of the containers and some bread and headed for his room. The door opened again and Barry came in. He was in shirt sleeves with his tie hanging loose. He touched my shoulder in greeting and started poking through the bag of restaurant food. He tried to look intent on the food, but I knew he was listening to my call.

“Do you have company?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” I said, feeling inhibited.

“And you can’t talk anymore, huh?” Mason said.

“Right.”

“You know where to reach me if you need anything. Sleep well.” And then he hung up.

I put the phone back in the charger and Barry didn’t say anything at first. Like I was supposed to believe that he hadn’t noticed that I was off the phone. He had made a plate of food but left it on the counter as he came up behind me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

“You okay?” His hand began to massage the back of my neck. “I don’t get it. Only you go to a talk show and end up with a corpse. You better let this one go. No investigating. Let the cops handle it,” he said.

“You know something, don’t you?” I said.

“And I’m not telling,” he said.

I WENT TO THE BOOKSTORE EARLY THE NEXT DAY to try to make up for the lost time. I picked up a coffee from the café and headed to the yarn department. Yesterday the group had hung out there almost until closing time, and I’d never gotten a chance to straighten up. We’d arranged the bins of yarn by color, and it was like being surrounded by a rainbow. Once I’d picked up the stray hooks and yarn bits off the table, I began to straighten out the bins so that all the skeins were where they belonged. I heard someone come into the area and turned to ask if they needed help.

“Oh,” I said, surprised when I saw that it was Detective Heather. She had walked over to the bins that we’d labeled “Just Socks.” She began taking out skeins and feeling the yarn. I had never made any socks and didn’t know how much help I could be but offered anyway.

“I don’t need any help,” she said with just the slightest edge. “I’ve been making socks for years. I’d like some really soft yarn, like a cashmere blend. You have no idea how sensual a pair of hand-knit socks can be. Men love them.”

“Oh,” was all I could croak out as she continued on going through our stock of yarn.

“I’m looking for something special for someone special,” she said, and then explained she was getting a head start on holiday gifts. On top of everything else, she had to be one of those organized people who probably had all her holiday gifts wrapped and ready to go before Thanksgiving. Not me. The night before Christmas, I would probably be trying to finish a scarf. Something in the way Detective Heather emphasized the phrase
someone special
gave me the feeling she was talking about Barry, but I couldn’t really ask.

“I suppose you’d have to be careful who you give handmade socks to. It might seem a little personal,” I said.

She looked at me dead-on. “That’s the point. Forget all this nonsense about the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Make his feet feel good and he’s yours.” She plucked two skeins out of the cashmere blend in a color called midnight rumble, which was really just black, and began looking at our display of needles.

“Just a heads-up,” she said. “You might as well save your sleuthing skills. There’s no question—Nell Collins killed Robyn Freed. Several of Ms. Collins’ coworkers said Ms. Freed was always picking on her because she thought her aunt had gotten her the job. One of the other production assistants even said Ms. Collins had said she wished Ms. Freed would drop dead.” Heather let the comment hang in the air a moment before proceeding. The rest had to do with Nell getting the drink and sweetener for Robyn. All the tests weren’t in, but they were pretty sure the cyanide had been in the sweetener. “We checked the rest of the supply, and if you looked closely, you could see where the packets had been slit open at the seam and reglued,” Heather said. “We searched Ms. Collins’ cubby at the production office and found a glue gun.”

I didn’t know what to say. I knew Robyn had hassled Nell, and I’d heard Nell say she wished Robyn was out of the picture. And yes, Nell had given Robyn the drink and the sweetener. But the last part? “So, the packets were reglued and Nell had a glue gun. There’s no proof the two things are connected,” I said finally.

Heather picked up the yarn and two sets of metal circular needles. Before she headed to the front to pay, she turned back to me. “Maybe not yet, but I’ll find a connection. The best thing she can do is confess, and then maybe we can get her a deal. I’m just telling you all this so you don’t waste your time playing detective.”

I had to sit down and pull out the apricot scarf and do a few rows after that. The whole conversation had left my heart thudding. The worst part was I thought Heather really meant it when she thought she was doing me a favor.

By the time the Hookers showed up in the afternoon, I’d decided not to repeat what Heather had said. Well, I would have told Dinah if she’d come, but she had a meeting with a student.

CeeCee was the first to arrive, and when I saw how tense she was, it only reinforced my decision. Since the previous night’s get-together of the Hookers had been a little off, we agreed to meet the following afternoon to make up for it. CeeCee sat down at the table and took out a ball of sunny yellow cotton yarn and one of white cotton yarn. In no time, she’d done a foundation and a couple of rows in yellow before she switched to the white.

“I make pot holders when I’m upset,” she said. She explained it was just a simple single crochet, then double crochet stitch throughout the whole thing, and then she’d put on a nice edging. For a moment, she forgot her tension. “You know, dear, it’s all about the finishing. If I just left this a plain square, it would look so blah, but add a couple of rows of edging and suddenly it’s adorable.”

She shook her head in dismay and her shoulders sagged as the momentary respite ended. “I’ve had lots of ups and downs with my life and just rolled with the flow, but this is different. It’s happening to somebody I care about, and I don’t know what to do,” she said. My apricot scarf was still on the table and I picked it up and began to work.