If Hooks Could Kill

CHAPTER 8


With the production shut down, the bookstore stayed quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Mrs. Shedd probably wasn’t happy, but I was relieved. It was still haunting me that I’d visited Kelly shortly before she’d been killed and I figured it was only a matter of time before word got back to Detective Heather about the timing of my visit. Instinctively, I glanced toward the door half expecting to see her walking in ready to question me.

And then tussling with the shoplifters. Why had Mrs. Shedd left it up to me? Did she think that came under my title of community relations coordinator? Frankly, I was still shocked by Barry’s reaction, or should I say, lack of reaction. I called Mason, hoping to talk it over with him, but I got his voice mail and had to leave a message.

With my thoughts still racing, I took advantage of the quiet and headed back to the yarn department where I took out the cowl in progress I’d stowed in the cabinets for times like this. Adele had given me the pattern, anxious that I turn some out for the upcoming sale. I wasn’t so sure about that, but it was a simple and repetitious pattern and was just what I needed. As I sat working the cream-colored cotton yarn, I felt all the tension go out of my shoulders.

Refreshed, I went back to the customer service booth as customers filtered into the bookstore. After helping a woman find a book listing local hiking trails, I was surprised to see North Adams sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window. He had a book open in front of him, but seemed to be staring into space. After a moment he got up and went outside. I thought he’d left, but when I looked back at the chair, he was in it again.

Why was the star of L.A. 911 sticking around the bookstore?

As I tidied up the customer service booth, I found my eye wandering back to where North was sitting. He had a slight resemblance to Barry—both had close-cropped dark hair and stubborn chins, but North’s eyes were the color of those clear blue mints and Barry’s were an earthy brown. It was odd seeing North as himself. When I’d seen him on the set, he’d had a very different kind of persona. He’d had an air of authority and seemed like someone who could corner a suspect into a confession. He’d become that person when he’d helped with the shoplifters. But sitting in the bookstore chair, he barely resembled that character. Partly, I suppose it was the clothes. The suit and dress shirt had been replaced with jeans that had no doubt gone through extensive abusive treatments to get the soft worn look. No old cotton tee shirt for him. The fit of his black vee neck had “imported from Italy” written all over it. His detective shoes had been switched out for a pair of tasseled loafers he wore with no socks.

Still, he had charisma. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly, but something about him kept drawing my gaze back.

I helped some more customers, and when I looked his way again, he was on his cell phone. I saw him look up at me with interest. Still on the phone, he walked across the bookstore and pushed the phone toward me. “Somebody wants to talk to you,” he said.

“Hello,” I said tentatively and was surprised to hear my son Peter’s voice. Before I could say anything more, he told me just to listen.

“No comments on anything. Just say uh-huh,” Peter ordered. There was a pause. “Well?” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I answered. Peter was my older son and a talent agent specializing in TV. He didn’t share as much of his life with me as Samuel did, so I had no idea, until he explained, that North Adams was one of his clients. I started to express my surprise, but Peter cut me off.

“Mother,” he said dragging the word out with disapproval. “I said just to listen. No comments. Don’t give away what you’re hearing. Just smile.”

I forced my lips upward hoping it didn’t look too phoney as I said, “Uh-huh.”

Peter groaned and said I should do all this while appearing natural. I couldn’t help it—despite all his orders I said, “You missed your calling, you should have been a director.”

For that I got another drawn out “Mother,” with an extra dose of disapproval.

“This isn’t some kind of joke,” Peter said annoyed that there might have been a touch of sarcasm in my uh-huh. “I need you to take North home with you now. I’ll pick him up at the house. Don’t ask him any questions. And take the back roads home.”

“Uh-huh,” I said in a noncommittal tone. It was all very mysterious. Peter entrusting one of his clients to me? Just before he hung up, Peter implored me just to do what he said and not mess anything up. Maybe I had a bit of a reputation of putting my own stamp on things. But not this time. Whatever was going on, I didn’t want to cause my son any problems.

I handed the cell phone back to North and told him to hang on for a moment. I was relieved when Mrs. Shedd didn’t mind me leaving a little early, though when she saw me walking out with North, she gave me an odd look.

I couldn’t blame her. What was going on? Peter was always horrified that I was still driving the greenmobile. And now he actually wanted me to give one of his clients a ride in it—to my house? Peter didn’t approve of that, either. He thought I should have downsized to a condo when my husband Charlie died. He hadn’t liked Barry when we were a couple and was completely against me letting him stay at my house.

He was also upset about his brother Samuel moving back home and bringing a pair of cats with him. The only thing in my life Peter seemed to approve of was my friendship, or whatever you wanted to call it, with Mason.

North made a comment about my car being a classic as he got in the passenger seat. Already I liked him a little more. I took Wells Drive home as Peter had instructed instead of taking the shorter route via Ventura Boulevard. I tried to make conversation and asked North what he knew about Kelly’s murder. I didn’t refer to her as Kelly, but instead called her the woman whose backyard they were using, and I never let on I’d overheard his conversation. He didn’t seem to want to talk and just muttered something about being in his trailer.

It was just getting dark as I pulled into my driveway behind Barry’s Tahoe. For weeks the Tahoe had just sat there. He’d only recently been given the okay to drive. North got out of the car and followed me as I went through my backyard. Peter hadn’t said anything, but I wondered if I was supposed to give his client dinner.

As we walked into my kitchen I noticed a bunch of white takeout cartons on the counter and a smell that definitely seemed like Chinese sweet and sour something. A moment later, Jeffrey came in carrying his plate, no doubt for seconds. He gave me a hello nod and started to glance back toward the Chinese food, when he did a sudden double take.

“You’re that guy,” he said to North as awe gushed through his voice. “You’re Jake Blake on L.A. 911. North Adams, right?”

North smiled at Jeffrey’s exuberance as the boy actor put down his plate and stuck out his hand while telling North that he was an actor, too. “You should have seen me as Curly in Carousel. Everyone says I really nailed it.”

“I bet you did,” North said in a friendly voice. Jeffrey seemed to have forgotten why he came in the kitchen and stood watching North with wide adoring eyes.

Barry walked into the kitchen. His brows were furrowed and he clearly had something on his mind. He stopped in front of me before jumping in. “About this afternoon at the bookstore,” he began. “I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry—” But suddenly he stopped short and his expression went to neutral—he’d noticed there was a visitor present. Ever the cop, he scrutinized the actor’s face. I had the feeling Barry thought North looked familiar, but couldn’t place him. Was it because he was on a wanted poster somewhere or had they met?

My two dogs came in to check out what was going on. Cosmo, the bolder of the two, sniffed North’s shoes before sitting down. Then Samuel’s cats, Holstein and Cat Woman, arrived silently and moved through the group before going to check their food bowl.

I stepped in and did introductions, explaining that Barry was an LAPD homicide detective and that North played one.

North seemed interested in meeting Barry and asked Barry if he would pass along some hints. “I like to put in the little touches to make my performance seem real,” North explained.

“I don’t really watch the show,” Barry said, “although I might have caught it once or twice. But for starters, if you want to make it accurate, you could have a few wrinkles in your dress shirt. Try spending all night going over a crime scene, and then knocking on somebody’s door at five A.M. to tell them their son’s been killed over something stupid like road rage or he owed somebody a few bucks for some weed, followed by getting a lead that takes you to a homeless encampment in the dirt under the freeway, and then see what your shirt looks like.” North seemed a little overwhelmed with the information, but said he’d tell the wardrobe people.

When Barry looked away, I caught his expression of distaste. I knew what he thought of TV cops. He said they were all flash with no cash, meaning they had the swagger, but nothing to back it up with. Hoping to avoid an awkward silence, I mentioned that Barry was working cold cases at the moment.

“Oh, yeah?” North sounded interested. “What made you switch?”

There was a flash of irritation on Barry’s face. “It’s only temporary. Once I settle the two cases I’m working on, I’m going back to homicide. I just went back to work after an injury.” Barry started to talk about the cases as a way to direct the conversation. Not that it worked.

“What kind of injury? Like something in the line of duty?” North asked.

“Something like that.” Barry turned toward me as if he was trying to figure out what I was doing with the actor. Meanwhile North tried to ferret out more details.

Remembering that North was an important client of my son’s and I was supposed to be keeping him happy, I answered for Barry and said that he’d been shot by a shoplifter. Barry blew out his breath in consternation.

“Molly, you make it sound so lame,” Barry said. He glared at North. “If you’re looking for something for your show—just remember that any situation can turn deadly.”

North’s face was suddenly animated. “I remember hearing about that. You’re the one who was trying to help the newbie cop arresting the shoplifter at some discount store. The shoplifter got hold of the newbie’s gun, right?” Without pausing a beat, North stepped closer and patted Barry on the shoulder as if they were somehow connected. “Our writers loved that story and were writing something like it into an upcoming show. You’ve got to admit, it’s kind of funny being shot by a guy in handcuffs.” Barry’s response was a glower.

I heard the kitchen door open behind us. “What’s going on?” Mason said coming into the room. He joined the group and said hello to Barry and Jeffrey and introduced himself to North.

Both Mason and Barry looked at me with questions in their eyes. I knew they were wondering what I was doing with North. There was nothing to say because I didn’t even know what I was doing with him. This was getting more awkward by the minute. Peter had only said he would pick North up, not when or why.

Finally, I heard the front door open and close. At least I’d gotten the answer to when.