Gone with the Wool (8 page)

By midday, the Lodge was bustling with activity. The van from the airport was making regular trips, dropping off guests. There seemed to be an extra buzz of excitement in the air due to the coming week's activities. The early birds and Lucinda had joined me at the registration table before any of my retreaters showed up, and I shared the news about Rosalie. Olivia, Scott and Bree were concerned because they had seen her in the dining hall, but it was Lucinda who was most upset, particularly after I told her about Tag's call to me that morning.

She was about to rush off to the phone booths to call him when I stopped her. “There's something else.” I told her about the muffin situation and my concern about rumors flying around town. “I think you should tell Tag to take my name off the desserts for now. Just until I get to the bottom of things.”

Lucinda nodded in agreement. “I know there was nothing wrong with the muffins, but you know Tag. He's so meticulous, if there is even a hint of any problem, he takes it over the top. I'll just tell him that we're doing a test to see if having your name on them makes us sell more desserts.” She turned back before she left. “And of course, I'll help you figure this all out any way I can.”

A group of women came in and stopped in the entrance, looking around. Kevin St. John was circulating around the Lodge doing his host thing. He went over to them and then pointed them in our direction.

“Here they come,” I said to my helpers. Bree, Olivia and Scott assumed their positions. Olivia took half the registration list and Bree the other half. Scott was ready to assist with their rooms. Having their help made it so there was never a line for long, and everyone got a more personal welcome.

When I saw Liz Buckley come in the door with two dark-haired women, I said I'd take care of them. I was sure these were the two people that the travel agent had brought to me. I wanted to do everything to make their stay successful so that Liz would push more business my way.

Liz handled the introductions and gave me their names. I smiled and nodded, but I knew I'd never remember them. They were from Copenhagen, and their English was a little awkward. I had learned during the first retreat I'd done that I couldn't possibly remember all the retreaters' names. It was much easier to hook on to some identifying feature. The two women became simply the two Danish women.

I personally handed them their tote bags, and Scott made sure they got their room keys and directions to the building.

When all twenty-five retreaters had checked in and were
set up for lunch and some free time to look around Vista Del Mar before the first workshop, I went home. Julius was parading in front of the back door when I got there. He followed me inside and stuck close as I walked through the house. It was obvious Sammy had returned while I was gone. He'd gone all out. His shaving stuff was in the bathroom, and his robe hung on the back of the door. He'd left a pair of shoes with socks stuck in them, which was really very unlike Sammy. He wasn't a throw-your-socks-on-the-floor kind of guy. He'd left a stack of American Association of Urologists newsletters in the living room on the coffee table. The only thing he hadn't left was any hint of his passion for magic.

“It's just for show,” I said to Julius, who had jumped on the pile of newsletters and seemed intent on knocking them to the floor. The black cat didn't seem to believe me, and I decided to give him an extra serving of stink fish to pacify him. I'm sure that was probably bad cat training, but it worked. Julius did figure eights around my ankles in happy anticipation of his treat.

After I'd fed him, I turned on the oven to preheat and took out some logs of butter cookie dough. I sliced them, sprinkled on some slivered almonds and popped them in the oven. The sweet buttery scent filled the air as they baked. Presentation is everything, so once they were cool, I put a doily in the bottom of a round tin and arranged the cookies before putting on the lid.

I also did a little fix-up on my appearance. I'd settled on practically a uniform for the retreats of black jeans and black turtlenecks, with some of my aunt's knitted and crocheted creations to add some color. There were so many pieces to choose from. Today I picked a loose cowl made out of a
nubby yarn in shades of turquoise. I redid my makeup and added some lipstick. As I looked at my reflection, I wondered how Crystal managed all that eye liner and blush and didn't look overdone. On me, even simple red lipstick seemed blindingly bright.

The best outerwear for the area was fleece, and I had a whole wardrobe of different colors and styles of the cuddly material. I decided to go all the way for bright and picked out a red fleece that was designed to look like a shirt.

As I went across the street once again, I noticed that the air was a nice kind of cool—bracing, but not like a slap on my skin. Thanks to all the fireplaces in the Vista Del Mar buildings, the air always had a hint of wood smoke, mixed with the scent of the ocean. There was lots of activity now that lunch had ended and the newly arrived guests were checking out their surroundings. I'd included a map along with the schedule in the folders, so I felt confident my group would find our meeting room.

The meeting rooms were in single-story buildings sprinkled around Vista Del Mar. Some took up the whole building and some just half. All the buildings in Vista Del Mar had names. I'd chosen Sea View for our group. It was located on the top of a slope and, as its name implied, had a vantage point through the dunes to the water. The inside seemed cheerful and cozy after the flat light of outside. A fire was going in the fireplace, and coffee and tea service had been set up on the counter near a small sink. I put the tin of cookies next to the stack of white ceramic mugs.

Two long tables had been set up parallel to each other. I checked through the stack of boxes against the wall. They were filled with sets of long and round looms. There were also plastic bins filled with an assortment of yarns. I was just
considering how to distribute everything when Wanda and Crystal arrived. I was always struck by the difference in their styles. Crystal, with all her unmatched everythings and layers of colorful shirts and bouncing ringlets of black hair, made Wanda, in her comfortable beige slacks and pale yellow floral top, seem so bland.

We greeted one another, but they both seemed a little done in. I had successfully put everything about the previous night out of my mind, but seeing them brought it all back. I figured it was best to deal with it now, before the retreaters arrived.

“I suppose you know about Rosalie,” I said. They both nodded.

“It still doesn't seem real,” Crystal said. “It's almost as if it was somehow part of the service. I wasn't a fan of Rosalie's, but still.”

Wanda seemed to want to get on with the matter at hand and started looking through the boxes of supplies. “I'll put a set of looms at each place,” she said. She pulled out some marker pens. “They can mark the boxes with their names, take out the round loom we're going to use first and store the rest back in the big boxes.”

Crystal didn't object, and we all started taking out the sets of looms and distributing them around the table.

I knew it was best to find out what they knew while it was still fresh in their minds, but I didn't want to come across as grilling them. At the same time, I had to get to it, because our group would be arriving soon.

“Was there anything different about the service this year?” I asked.

Wanda stopped what she was doing. “No, it was the exact same program. So much the same that you could set your watch by what the pianist was playing.”

“So then everyone knew when the lights would be off,” I said. “Did either of you notice anything when it was dark?”

“There was just a lot of shifting around,” Crystal said. “The princesses all had to go out the front door and grab their cardboard trees and assume their positions. I was trying to look for my daughter, but with the music and the narration it was hard to focus on anything.”

“I wonder where Liz Buckley was when all that was going on,” I said.

Wanda put a set of the looms on the table. “She uses one of those cordless mikes, so she could have been anywhere.”

We'd finished setting the looms out, and the two of them began to distribute samples they'd made using the looms on their respective tables. There was no doubt as to which samples belonged to whom. Wanda's were all rather utilitarian, done in basic blues and tan, while Crystal's had mixtures of orange and purple and hot pink, usually paired with something with sparkle.

“Rosalie mentioned someone named Hank during her spiel at the podium,” I said. “Who is he?”

Wanda was quick to answer, which figured since she always liked to give an impression of superior knowledge about everything. “He's her husband. And he wasn't there, if that was going to be your next question. He's nothing like her, except in that they're both native Cadburians.” Wanda put her hand on her hip. “She was so into the importance of the Butterfly Queen. You know how she was queen herself three times and tried to get the town council to make her the permanent queen? When that didn't work, she tried to get it for ten years, then five years, but they threw out the whole idea of anything more than a year.”

Crystal added that they were rarely seen together,
something about him working odd hours. Wanda nodded in agreement, and I realized I was running out of time. The retreaters would start arriving at any moment.

I got to the point. “Do either of you have any idea who stabbed her?”

It was getting too weird to see them both in agreement, but in unison they said, “It was the girl with the blue hair.”

I wanted to ask more, but Lucinda came through the door, followed by the other retreaters.

“Showtime,” I said. It was silly, but I could feel my heart rate kick up and my breathing get shallow. The early birds and Lucinda spread themselves equally between the tables, and the rest of the group followed suit.

When they'd all filed inside, I noticed that Liz Buckley had walked with the two Danish women and was standing outside, watching through the window. I knew the travel agent wanted to make sure that nothing would go wrong, but I thought she was taking it too far.

I let my two workshop leaders do the welcoming of the group and stepped outside to hopefully reassure Liz.

“They're going to be fine,” I said as I reached her.

“I suppose I am overreacting. I think I'm still unnerved over what happened last night. It was supposed to be a happy time.”

“Then you know Rosalie died,” I said. Liz's eyes opened wide, and she sucked in her breath in surprise. Apparently, she'd missed the news. Then she did something odd. I noticed just a hint of what seemed like a hopeful smile.

“That might change everything,” she said, and abruptly walked away.

I went back inside and walked straight into chaos. Wanda had gotten right into things and had clearly told them all to
take out the correct round loom for their first project of a hat. As I watched, she gave them directions to mark their boxes and then get them out of the way. There were already grumblings from several of the women that loom knitting wasn't really knitting. But things really seemed to have hit the fan when Crystal told them to pick the yarn they wanted to use. Go figure. After Crystal's whole fuss about having different yarns so they could express their creativity while still doing the same project, they all wanted the navy blue yarn.

I stepped to the front of the room and put up my hands. I remembered dealing with an unruly group when I'd been a substitute teacher. I'd always found distracting the kids worked, especially if it was with something pleasant.

“Let's all take a break,” I said. “There's tea and coffee, and I brought homemade cookies.” None of them knew there was any question about my baking, and they swarmed the tin.

I told the women who objected to the looms that they could use needles, then I told Crystal to go to the Lodge and call her mother. I assured the group we'd have more navy blue yarn in no time.

The group was still sipping drinks, munching cookies and socializing when Gwen Selwyn came in, wheeling a stack of bins. She was a little breathless and I thanked her for rushing over. We set up in the corner, and I worked with her to hand out the navy blue yarn, while taking back the other colors. When she finished, she turned to the group.

“Ladies, and Scott,” she said, smiling at the male early bird. “I dropped off a supply of yarn and notions at the gift shop last night. I'm looking forward to seeing you all when you come into Cadbury Yarn later in the week. I know you are all going to love learning how to crochet a monarch butterfly.”

With her mission accomplished, she snapped the lids on
the bins and went outside. I followed, wanting to thank her again for all her help. And in the back of my mind, I wondered if this was the time to tell her about the proof I had that she was Edmund Delacorte's daughter.