Silence of the Lamb's Wool (A Yarn Retreat Mystery) (13 page)

The great thing about holding the retreats at Vista Del Mar was that the hotel and conference center included meals in the Sea Foam dining hall, there were plenty of spots for impromptu knitting groups to gather, and they offered a number of activities that fit nicely around the actual yarn workshops.

I had hastily redone the first page of the schedule and taken out the planned parade of sheep and the shearing that was supposed to have kicked off the retreat that afternoon. For now the afternoon was listed as free time, with suggestions of activities and the official beginning of the program was to take place after dinner.

I had left the description of the program’s beginning vague because I didn’t know what it was going to be. As I passed the grassy circle between the Lodge and the beginning of the dunes where the gathering was supposed to take place, I was still trying to figure out how I was going to explain the lack of sheep. I was so deep in thought I didn’t realize anyone had come up behind me until Dr. Sammy spoke.

“What’s up, Case,” he said. I turned, expecting him to make flowers pop out of my hair or coins from my ears, but he had his hands in the pockets of his very formal-looking jeans. He had told me it was the thing now for doctors to wear jeans so they would seem less imposing, but the white coat they wore over the casual pants kind of blew the concept.

Sammy had left his white coat at his office and wore an unzipped dark red fleece jacket over the very new and stiff-looking pants.

“Not much, other than my main instructor isn’t going to be here and the main event that was going to take place to start things off isn’t going to happen.”

Sammy took a step closer. “That’s a good way to explain Nicole Welton’s absence,” he said. “Much better than saying she committed suicide.”

“About that,” I began. “As a doctor, if you wanted to kill somebody, how effective do you think it would be to add poison to their coffee?”

“Geez, Case. You sure have a way with small talk. First of all, I would never want to kill anybody. I’m a lover not a fighter,” he said, looking at me with his soulful puppy dog eyes. “And since I’m a urologist, I usually deal with the other end.” He considered what I’d said for a moment. “But if I did want to off somebody with poisoned coffee, I’d make sure to add a lot of a fast-acting poison like cyanide and I’d add a lot of milk and sugar to cover up any bad taste.”

“Now a question for your magician side,” I said. “How would you get this big dose of poison in the paper coffee cup without getting your fingerprints on it?”

Sammy answered quickly. “The most obvious answer is to wear gloves.”

“Right, but would you take a cup of coffee from someone if they were wearing gloves?”

“That’s if the killer brought her the coffee. Maybe she brought the coffee with her.”

“And Nicole wouldn’t notice someone wearing gloves monkeying with her cup?”

“You have a point,” my ex-boyfriend said. “Why are you so certain it wasn’t a suicide? Wasn’t there a note?”

“On a smartphone. I didn’t see the actual screen, but it said she was doing something bad and couldn’t take it anymore.” I took out my phone and started fiddling around with it. I found an app that was for notes. I wrote something as a test and then set the phone down to see what would happen. Eventually the screen went dark, but when I reactivated it, it went right to the note. I held it up to show Sammy. “I guess it could work.” I mentioned that the fingerprints were all smudged, though I didn’t tell him Dane had been the one to tell me. I knew Sammy would get all mopey about me spending time with my neighbor.

“Case, if a killer thinks enough to use gloves to handle a coffee cup, I’m sure they would think to wipe off a screen after they typed on it.” His face brightened. “I like that you’re asking for my help. Particularly my magician skills.” His expression dipped when he said the last part.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” I said, easily reading his face.

“You caught me. I’m trying to give off the illusion of confidence, but I’m nervous about this weekend. I’m not so sure about doing table magic. That’s why I’m here. I want to walk through the dining hall and get an idea of who my audience is again.”

“You’re the master,” I said. “I’ve watched you wowing people over and over. You’ll do fine. At least you’re in control of your tricks.” I told him how my grand beginning had been ixnayed and instead of sheep, all I had was a pile of fleeces.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m sure it will work out just like you said my magic will. Thanks for the words of encouragement. It’s like I always say, Case, you’re the only one who gets me.” He had a hopeful look in his eyes. “I did a sample show at the B and B,” he said. “I should have had you come.”

Sammy’s relocation to Cadbury was on a trial basis and he was still living at the bed-and-breakfast across the street from the Blue Door restaurant. I was glad I could reassure him, but worried that I was leading him on a road to nowhere. I cared about Sammy. I really did. There just wasn’t that sizzle, and having my parents’ stamp of approval all over him didn’t help, either. We both had places to go and I got ready to go my separate way.

I always wondered how to say good-bye to him. Just the words weren’t enough, but some big romantic moment was way too much. I settled by giving him a hug and like always he hugged back more than I gave.

As I went across the street to my place, I looked down toward Dane’s. I saw him opening the passenger door on his truck. He helped a woman get out and then put his arm around her as they walked toward his house. I strained my eyes to get a better look, but they were too far away for me to make out much more than that it looked pretty serious between them. I tried to tell myself I didn’t care, but the trouble was, I did.

When dinner ended, I was waiting in the grassy circle holding a sign saying
YARN2GO YA
RN RETREAT
, hoping for the best. I hadn’t come up with anything more than giving a welcoming speech and trying to excite them about the upcoming workshops.

My group separated from the rest of the guests filtering out of the Sea Foam dining hall and began to gather around me. Lucinda came out of the Lodge and greeted me with a hug. She had just finished checking in and stowing her suitcase. I was glad for the moral support. Kevin St. John’s golf cart arrived with its whiney sound. He parked on the paved small road that surrounded the grassy circle and got out. He stayed to the back and I wasn’t sure why he was there. Did he think I was going to try to sneak in the sheep or was he just there to gloat over the dismal start of the retreat?

He seemed to have taken a new tack to getting me to hand over the retreat business. Instead of saying anything directly, he was doing everything he could to make it difficult for me, but not so unreasonably that I would go to the Delacorte sisters and complain.

When everyone was there, I put down the sign and did my best to speak loudly. “I want to welcome you to what I hope is going to be a fun learning experience, and a chance to get away from the busyness of your own lives and enjoy this rustic location.” Okay, so I may have borrowed some of Virgil Scarantino’s words, but I was looking for whatever I could to pump things up. “There will also be lots of time for you to work with yarn on your own projects,” I said, trying to make it sound like a bonus.

“I had hoped to have some sheep here, so we could begin with an actual shearing, but due to some . . .” I stopped talking as something seemed to be moving through the group. I watched people step aside to let it pass. There was also some kind of noise that was somewhere between whining and singing. I began to make out some words. It sounded like a cockeyed version of “The Whiffenpoof Song.”

“I’m just a poor lost sheep who’s here to give you my wool,” a woeful voice intoned. The crowd parted and something wool-covered crawled through. But not totally covered. I saw the bottoms of Sammy’s too-new jeans. As he lumbered into the circle, he launched full force into his version of the song. “I’m a poor little lamb . . .” (It was hard not to laugh at that line considering how big Sammy was. I could see now that it had taken two of the fleeces to cover him.) “. . . who’s kind of a ham. Baa, baa, baa. Just a nice little sheep with wool you can keep. Baa, baa, baa.” It was followed by a lot of
baa
s and ended with, “I’m just a poor little lamb, that’s who I am. Baa baa baa.”

Kevin St. John had started to react when the first sign of something woolly came through the crowd. He shot an angry look at me as he moved forward to stop the rogue animal. Did he really think I would ignore his command? But when the singing started, he stopped short and tried to make it look like he was doing something else.

“It looks like one of the sheep showed up after all,” I said as the faux sheep stopped next to me and with a flourish took off the sheets with the fleeces on them with a loud “ta-da!”

Sammy winked at me before he took a bow. “Case, I wanted you to have a grand beginning.”

Laughter broke out in the group, followed by applause, and Sammy took another bow. When I looked, Kevin St. John had gotten into his golf cart and driven away.

Sammy stayed next to me as I finished my speech and told them where we’d meet in the morning. He took the opportunity to remind them he’d be doing table magic in the dining hall over the weekend and took another hammy bow. Everyone seemed pleased with his performance and I heard someone shout out “Bravo!” though I’m pretty sure it was Lucinda.

When the group broke up, numerous people stopped and complimented me on the fun beginning. Bree, Olivia and Scott came up together and said the Sammy thing had come off as if it was planned.

Lucinda hung back with me as Sammy helped me roll up the fleeces in the sheets. I thanked him again and said he had saved the beginning. He seemed a little unhappy that I wasn’t alone.

“I was hoping you could express your thanks with a drink.” He gestured toward the café windows in the Lodge building.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a rain check,” I said.

“When?” he asked so quickly even Lucinda chuckled.

“How about Sunday night. I’ll be finished with the retreat and you’ll have completed your first weekend of magic. We can toast our accomplishments.”

“It’s a date,” Sammy said, looking so happy it made me want to cry.

There was a cheery spring in his step as he walked away. Lucinda watched me watch him. “I think Dane has some competition.”

“Don’t be silly. There is nothing with either of them,” I protested. She tilted her head and gave me a knowing look.

“Okay, I admit that Sammy always coming through like this does get to me. But that’s as far as it goes. And Dane”—I made something between a
huh
sound and an incredulous laugh—“he’s too busy with his company.”

“Company?” Lucinda’s face lit up with interest. I finally got to tell her about my awkward moment with Dane.

“He’s not even holding his karate workshops?” she said incredulously. Her expression changed to sympathy as she touched my arm. “I’m sorry.” I tried to tell her it didn’t matter and was for the best anyway, but she gave me another knowing look. She didn’t have to say the words; I knew what she was thinking: I was protesting too much.

As Lucinda and I passed the social hall, I saw Ronny Fiore walking alone ahead of us. I quickly explained who she was before we caught up with her. After I’d done the introductions, I mentioned that Virgil Scarantino would be talking about the background of Vista Del Mar and leading a night hike. “And I’m sure there will be groups of knitters and crocheters gathering in the Lodge.” I pointed to the large dark wood building we’d just passed.

“How quaint,” she said. “It’s just like my father said. This place really is more camp than resort.” Her gaze swept the grounds to the small chapel up ahead, next to the beginning of the dunes. “That’s where they’re getting married,” she said. When I didn’t get it immediately, she explained she meant her father and Cora Delacorte.

“Is she going to change her name?” I asked. Ronny shook her head.

“On one hand she’s old-fashioned and thinks married women should take their husband’s name, but at the same time the Delacorte name means too much in this town, so she’s going to keep it. What’s the difference? We’re all going to be family anyway. I’m sure Cora will be glad to have our help with all her responsibilities. People think it’s the sisters, but Cora is the one in charge.”

Kevin St. John came down the stairs of the Lodge. His dark suit and tie still looked impeccable despite his long day. “Good evening, Ms. Feldstein and Mrs. Thornkill,” he said in a managerial tone. I introduced Ronny Fiore, but didn’t explain who she was. He turned on the charm and said he hoped she enjoyed her stay and asked if there was anything he could do. She responded with a knowing smile.

The manager and Cora Delacorte’s stepdaughter-to-be both went on their way. He took off in his golf cart and she went in the direction of the dark wood-shingled buildings that held the guest rooms. With the cloudy sky there was no splash of orange and pink as it got dark. Instead it was like someone was slowly turning a dimmer switch.

“Do you think she’s planning on taking over his job?” Lucinda asked when they were both out of earshot.

“That and more. Can Cora be so naive?”

“Maybe I should talk to her. I know a little about late-in-life marriage.” Lucinda caught herself. “Did I really say ‘late in life’? For her, maybe. My marriage was more like middle-age madness.” Lucinda explained that she and Tag had drawn up a whole agreement before they got married since both had children with their previous spouses and stuff they had accumulated.

“You heard what Ronny said. Cora is old-fashioned and he’s probably done a whole number on her about a husband’s duties and sold her on the idea that he’ll take care of her. She might be so starry-eyed, she’ll hand over the control of everything.” I thought a moment. “You’re right, somebody should talk to her.”

“But would she even listen if she’s bought into the whole romance thing?” Lucinda brought up how her daughter had tried to point out some of Tag’s quirks, like having to have everything lined up perfectly. “But did I listen? All I remembered was how I’d felt about him in high school and thought this was our chance at happily ever after. And I thought he would change once we were actually married.” She sighed. “You would think I would know better by now. But even with the quirks, I’m still glad we’re together.”

The lights along the path came on. They were meant just to mark the edge of the narrow road and did little to light up the area. All the tall Monterey pines and bushy Monterey cypress trees blocked out the sky, making it seem even darker. There was a bite to the damp air and as usual it smelled of wood smoke from all the fireplaces. The last of the stragglers were gone and the lights from the Lodge shone through the windows with a welcoming glow.

“I guess we’re done here,” I said and made mention of stopping at my place before I went off to the Blue Door to do my baking. Lucinda pulled her Ralph Lauren jacket closer around her.

“I feel guilty going off to have a good time,” she said. “We could have just done the ice cream desserts during the retreat, like last time.”

“And go through Tag’s tantrum again about the menu saying the desserts were homemade and the ice cream being store-bought? A promise is a promise,” I said, though at the moment, I thought her idea sounded pretty good.

Lucinda hugged me. “Thank you, Casey. I didn’t want to say anything, but people were upset during the last retreat when there weren’t any of your desserts. We have people ordering their dessert when they make a reservation. They don’t even ask what it is; they just want to be sure to get a piece of whatever before it runs out.”

I must admit I loved the praise. Since I was a self-taught baker, it made me feel more confident. Lucinda went off toward her room to get her tote bag of knitting supplies. A group had agreed to meet in the lodge to do their yarn work and get to know one another.

I walked through the Lodge both because it was a shortcut and because I wanted to see this group she was talking about. I was surprised to see that Olivia seemed to be the center of it. The two long tables had been pushed together and she’d set out a stack of directions for the squares, along with some of the yarn I’d gotten from Nicole’s.

Scott and his friend from the business group were sitting in a couple of the mission-style chairs, knitting. Several of the men in red polo shirts were stopped next to them, watching in amazement. I couldn’t hear the words, but the body language said it all. Scott and his friend were pitching the guys on the wonders of yarn work.

Bree was sitting with the woman I’d called the Ginger. The redheaded woman seemed upset, but Bree seemed to be reassuring her. How nice to have them all helping out.

Virgil Scarantino was standing in the corner near a large sign announcing his night walk. I checked the group gathered near him to see if any of them were from my group. The yoga people were easy to pick out. They were all in stretchy pants and barely wearing shoes. The matching polo shirts gave away the business retreaters. The only person I recognized from my group was Ronny Fiore. She seemed to be listening intently to what Virgil was saying as if she was expecting to be tested on it afterward.

I stepped closer to hear what was so interesting. He was in midsentence, but I quickly picked up that he was talking about the history of Vista Del Mar. I’d heard bits and pieces of it before, but was still curious about what he had to say.

My ears perked up when he began to talk about Edmund Delacorte. “He ran this place until his death.” He gestured around the great room and commented on how the place looked very much the same as it had in the old days. He went on about how much the Delacorte brother had loved the place and wanted it to stay just as it was. He’d intended for his son to follow in his footsteps. Then he veered off to talking about Monterey Bay and what a mess it had been thanks to the Delacorte family and their sardine cannery. “Edmund felt personally responsible and helped spearhead the movement that turned the bay around.”

I remembered how Cora had said Edmund would be happy with the “unplugged” idea. Now it made sense. I could tell Virgil was getting to the end of his talk by the rhythm of his speech, and moved in closer. There was a small round of applause when he finished and then the group began to make their way toward the doors for the actual hike. I snagged Virgil as he followed behind them.

“That was very interesting about Edmund Delacorte. I didn’t even know he existed a couple of days ago and now his name keeps coming up.” I mentioned our trip to the sheep ranch and Virgil commented on how it had been a favorite spot of the Delacorte brother’s. I didn’t mention what a hunk Edmund was, but as I was speaking I was picturing the photo of him on horseback as he leaned forward. His expression was what I think in model language was referred to as making love to the camera.

“Did you ever meet Edmund?” I asked. Virgil was well into his seventies, which made him close enough in age to the Delacorte brother that their paths could have crossed.

“I would say it was more a matter of knowing who he was.” Virgil chuckled. “We weren’t exactly in the same social strata. The Delacorte family has always been like our local royalty. Of course, I saw him at the bank.” Virgil reminded me that he’d been a banker before he retired.

“There was a time when he came in every Friday, dependable as a railroad clock. Just before I went to lunch, I’d let him into his safety-deposit box.”

I started to ask for more details, but he looked down at his pocket watch. “Showtime,” he said with a happy smile. “I like to think I’m as dependable as a railroad clock, too.”

*   *   *

Satisfied that my group was okay, I went across the street for a breather before I went to the Blue Door to begin baking. I had left a window open so Julius could come and go as he pleased. The fluffy black cat greeted me at the kitchen door when I came in.

He jumped up on the counter and rubbed against me. I gave him some pets and he began to purr loudly. It was nice to have someone welcome me home even if I was pretty sure he had an ulterior motive.

The bowl of Tasty Treats dry cat food I’d left for him looked untouched. Julius dropped to the floor and began to parade back and forth in front of the refrigerator.

I pointed to the bowl of cat food and encouraged him to at least try it. I even took out one of the pieces and tried to feed it to him. He turned away as if I were offering him poison.

In the end we had dinner together. I had a frozen version of enchiladas and he had stink fish. What can I say? I was putty in his paws.

I had noticed it was all quiet down the street. Another night Dane wasn’t hosting the karate group. I knew how he felt about those teens. Whatever was going on had to be really serious if he wasn’t letting them hang out in his garage.

All the information I’d gotten in the past couple of days was floating around in my brain. I considered knocking on Dane’s door. Hadn’t he said he was always available for cups of sugar or investigative advice? Was I out of my mind? Since I couldn’t talk to Dane, I called Frank.

“Feldstein, these calls from you seem to be turning into a regular event. What’s up now?” Frank said. He was doing the gruff-voice thing, but I wasn’t buying it. I heard the squeak of the recliner and pictured him straining to push it back farther as the chair protested. One of these days, he was going to push it too far. I always had this picture that somehow when it broke it would catapult him into space, but in reality it would probably drop him on the floor.

“It’s the woman who drank the insecticide in her coffee,” I said.

“The cops are still calling it suicide, huh, and you’re still not buying it?”

“You tell me,” I began. “First of all, why come to Vista Del Mar if she wanted to kill herself? She could have taken the coffee back to her shop and done the deed there.”

“Except, didn’t you say the insecticide came from some stuff her husband had in a shed on the grounds? Maybe that’s why she did it there. That’s where the poison was.”

I slumped at his answer. “Okay, that’s possible, but I still say someone isn’t going to put down a deposit on a trip they really want to take just before they kill themself.” Before Frank could say anything, I said it for him. “I know. She could have been so upset about putting down the deposit that it pushed her over the edge, but the travel agent said she seemed happy about planning the trip.”

“So then, Feldstein, let’s just assume it was murder. I kind of recall you said she was in some kind of trouble. Any news on that front?”

“The so-called suicide note said she was doing something bad,” I said.

“Right,” Frank said. “And I pointed out that even if it was written by the killer, it might be true.”

“Whatever it was, it’s over with, according to her husband,” I said.

I heard Frank let out a big
hmmm
. “So obviously he knows whatever she was up to. And—”

“He could have killed her to make it end,” I said, interrupting. I told Frank how well liked Will was. “There’s a lot of weird stuff going on,” I began. “I found some things hidden in a box of moldy clothes and it looked like her shop might have been broken into, but the only thing missing was a tray of jewelry made out of hair.”

“Jewelry made out of hair? What happened to diamonds and gold?” I heard Frank let out a chortle.

“Burton Fiore was looking at that stuff,” I said, suddenly remembering seeing him in Nicole’s shop.

“Who’s he?” Frank asked, sounding confused. It didn’t get any better when I mentioned that he was engaged to Cora Delacorte and that his daughter was one of my retreaters. “Never mind,” I said, cutting myself off from explaining who everyone was. “The important thing is Burton Fiore came into Nicole’s shop while I was there. They seemed to be handling some kind of transaction,” I said.

Frank still sounded confused. “And what’s strange about a transaction going on in a store? Feldstein, nothing personal, but I think you might be losing it.”

“I didn’t explain it right. He gave her an envelope, but she didn’t give him anything in return.”

“I get where you’re going now, Feldstein. The envelope that Burton What’s His Name gave her could have had some cash in it. And if she didn’t give him anything in return then it could have been some kind of . . .” We both said “blackmail” at the same time.