For Better or Worsted

Molly Pink and her crochet group, the Tarzana Hookers, are always game for a new adventure. But when their newest member is accused of turning her wedding into happily-never-after for the groom, Molly's chance to find the truth is hanging by a thread ...
When Molly is invited to a major society wedding, she expects some wedding drama. Though she never anticipated this much trouble. The bride is the daughter of Molly's close friend Mason—and has been planning this wedding for a long time. But at the reception, things go amiss when the wealthy groom ends up dancing with the grim reaper.
To make matters worse, the bride's mother is found holding the murder weapon—and, as the newest addition to a reality show, she's happy to fuel the media frenzy. Molly agrees to open her home to Thursday, the distraught bride, who needs a little peace from the paparazzi. But when it turns out that Thursday and her groom were on shaky ground, the blushing bride...

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Betty Hechtman

Crochet Mysteries

HOOKED ON MURDER

DEAD MEN DON’T CROCHET

BY HOOK OR BY CROOK

A STITCH IN CRIME

YOU BETTER KNOT DIE

BEHIND THE SEAMS

IF HOOKS COULD KILL

FOR BETTER OR WORSTED

Yarn Retreat Mysteries

YARN TO GO

For Better or Worsted

BETTY HECHTMAN

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2013 by Betty Hechtman.

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Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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^®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62667-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hechtman, Betty, 1947–

For better or worsted / Betty Hechtman.—First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-25294-9 (hardback)

1. Crocheting—Fiction. 2. Weddings—Fiction. 3. Reality television programs—Fiction I. Title.

PS3608.E288F67 2013

813'.6—dc23 2013026936

FIRST EDITION:
November 2013

Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgments

This is one of my favorite pages to write. It is my chance to thank everyone for their help with the book. The first thank-you goes to my editor, Sandy Harding, who is wonderful to work with and does such a great job on my books. Natalee Rosenstein makes Berkley Prime Crime the best place to be. The Art Department keeps coming up with fabulous covers. I will never stop thanking my agent, Jessica Faust, because there would have been no crochet series without her.

You could say Molly introduced Linda Hopkins to me. She has become a friend and has graciously helped fine-tune the patterns.

Roberta Martia continues on as my chief cheerleader and crochet and knitting consultant.

A thank-you to Scott Tretsky for setting up the meeting with Hamlet in the park.

The Thursday group of Rene Biederman, Connie Cabon, Alice Chiredjian, Terry Cohen, Tricia Culkin, Clara Feeney, Sonia Flaum, Lily Gillis, Winnie Hineson, Linda Hopkins, Debbie Kratofil, Reva Mallon, Elayne Moschin, Margaret Prentice, Vicky Sostman and Paula Tesler offer yarn help, friendship and a place to show off what I’ve made.

Thanks to Delma Myers and Amy Shelton for continuing to be my buddies at the Knit and Crochet Show. Suzann Thompson’s wonderful polymer clay class provided me the perfect clue for this book.

Lee Lofland and the High Point Public Library put on another fabulous Writers’ Police Academy in Greensboro, North Carolina. It was a great place to pick up small details like what a motor officer’s boots really look like, to pick up big details like checking out a murder scene (fake, of course), and to meeting people like Sergeant Yahya of the Gilford County Sheriff’s Department, who showed me his CSI van.

Finally, Max and Samantha, I hope you don’t mind that I used your wedding as research. And Burl, what can I say, you are still the best.

CHAPTER 1

Y
OU KNOW HOW THEY SAY WEDDINGS ALWAYS HAVE
drama? Well, this one had an overdose. My name is Molly Pink, and the wedding in question was my friend Mason Field’s daughter, Thursday’s. Yes, that’s really her name. I wasn’t invited to the actual ceremony, which was for immediate family only, but I, along with two hundred or so others, had been invited to the reception that was being held in Mason’s tented backyard. When I say
tent
, I’m not talking about some little open-on-the-sides thing. We’re talking about a structure that took up the whole backyard. And it only looked like a tent from the outside—the interior was done up like an elegant ballroom. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I would have already been inside the tent, but just before I was to go in, my friend Barry Greenberg, who is an LAPD homicide detective, happened to come by and I stopped to chat. The title of
friend
was a step down from his previous title as
boyfriend
. Don’t get me started on that.
Boyfriend
for a man in his fifties? C’mon. And I don’t think his arrival was an accident. It was a last-ditch effort to talk me out of doing something. The friendship between me and Mason was supposed to move up a notch after the wedding. He and I were to go up north for a get-to-really-know-each-other few days, if you know what I mean. Barry didn’t know that before he had even arrived, I had already changed my mind and had decided to keep Mason’s and my relationship at the friends-with-no-benefits level.

Barry had looked relieved, almost happy, until we both heard screams coming from the tent. Then we double-timed it inside. It was easier for Barry since he was dressed in comfortable jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers. But then he wasn’t an invited guest and I was. The narrow bottom on my apricot ruffly dress didn’t allow for a wide gait, and the heels—well, walking in them was a challenge, but running? Forget it.

When I got inside, it was as if the moment had frozen in time. Nobody seemed to be moving or talking. The only sound was the background music the DJ had put on.

* * *

I
COULDN’T FIGURE OUT WHAT WAS WRONG, BUT THEN
I looked across the wooden dance floor that had been laid over the grass and saw a long table toward the end of the tent. I didn’t mean to gasp, but it was an automatic response when I saw Jaimee Fields, the mother of the bride, sprawled on the wedding cake, holding a bloody knife.

Barry had gotten up close to the table, and now he flashed his badge and told her to drop the knife. It hit the floor with a loud thud. You didn’t have to be a detective to know that a bloody knife meant somebody had been stabbed. I was right behind Barry when he went around to the other side of the table. I almost didn’t see the tuxedo-clad man sprawled on the floor. My eye went right to the white dress splattered with red as Thursday Fields tried to help her new husband up. Thursday Fields, or should I say, Thursday Fields Kingsley.

The DJ finally cut the music, and I heard a gasp go through the crowd. I turned, and I saw that Mason Fields had just come in from the house. He had a happy smile and was carrying a wedding gift, oblivious to what he was walking into. When he caught a glimpse of the crowd, he seemed surprised. “What’s going on?” His question was met with the sound of two hundred-plus people sucking in their breath, and he seemed perplexed by the reaction. “I go into the house for a few minutes and the party dies?” Then he looked across the tent.

Mason was an attorney, and he mostly dealt with naughty celebrities who got themselves into sticky situations. But I doubt anything he’d ever seen equaled finding his ex-wife sitting in his daughter’s wedding cake. And that was before he knew about the bloody knife.

Barry ordered everyone to stay put and leaned down to check the groom. Mason and a dark-haired man in a matching tuxedo ignored the command and came behind the cake table.

The dark-haired man pushed me out of the way and fell to his knees when he saw the figure on the ground. While Barry searched for a pulse, the man—who I now realized was Jackson Kingsley, father of the groom—cried out in grief and disbelief. Then his eyes fell on Jaimee, who was somehow still stuck in the cake.

“You stabbed my son,” he bellowed in a deep voice.

Barry had already called it in, and it only took a few minutes before the place was swarming with blue uniforms and paramedics. The paramedics checked Jonah Kingsley, but I saw them shaking their heads; clearly, it was too late. They still got some business, though. A number of women grew faint as they were hustled to the tables that had been set up for dinner. As soon as the area was cleared, two cops stretched yellow tape across the whole end of the tent, and the area around the cake and Jonah Kingsley’s body was being curtained off with tarps. Somebody had finally helped Jaimee out of the cake, and she was surrounded by uniforms. Jackson Kingsley was standing nearby on the dance floor with a much younger woman, who, judging by the ring on her finger, seemed to be his wife.

“What are you waiting for?” Kingsley said to the uniforms. “How much more proof do you need? Arrest her.” He pointed accusingly at Jaimee Fields. I got the feeling Jackson Kingsley was used to being in charge and didn’t like it when he wasn’t listened to. And he had that kind of deep, melodious voice that got your attention.

Thursday was with another cadre of uniforms, and Mason was rushing back and forth between the two groups.

All I could think was that poor Thursday had only been married for a few hours, and she was already a widow.

I stiffened when I saw Detective Heather walking toward me. Her real name was Heather Gilmore, but with her Barbie Doll looks, I’d taken to calling her Detective Heather, of course, not to her face. There was a certain amount of animosity between us. Even though I’d helped her with cases a few times, she didn’t like my sleuthing.

She had her pad out and was ready to question me, when Barry interceded. “There’s no reason to talk to Molly. She came in after the fact.”

Detective Heather seemed disappointed, then almost annoyed when Barry explained that he and I had come in together. Apparently Heather still resented my relationship with Barry, even if he and I were just friends.

The whole tent had become a swirl of activity. Uniforms had spread out among the guests and help. The white-suited criminal-scene investigators had come in and were collecting fingerprints and DNA samples from the crowd. They had so much to deal with, it was mind-boggling.

After Detective Heather backed off, I watched the action, and for the first time, noted something odd. All the help had been gathered together, and they all looked the same. I mean, really the same. They all were wearing white shirts, black pants and white gloves, but it was more than that. For example, they all had their hair smoothed back, and if it was long, it was pulled into a small bun at the nape of the neck. And no one wore any makeup or jewelry. The androgynous, uniform look made it almost impossible to tell the men from the women or one person from another.

“Molly, it’s okay, you can go on and leave,” Barry said, coming up to me. As the police finished questioning the guests, each one was released and escorted out through the front entrance. Every time the door to the tent opened, I caught a glimpse of the newspeople already stationed out front. I dreaded going through the gauntlet of reporters.

Mason came by just as Barry was speaking. If it was possible, he got even more upset at Barry’s comment.

“Oh,” Mason said. I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “I was hoping you would stay, Molly. With your experience . . .” his voice trailed off, but I knew what he meant.

I was the event coordinator for Shedd & Royal Books and More. Let’s just say many of my events had a dusting of disaster about them. I’d had authors who got carried away with cooking demos and set off the smoke alarm, bringing the fire department. There had also been a Mr. Fixit, who broke the plumbing and started a flood. The thing was that, even with the touch of disaster, the events were always a success, and one way or another, we always sold a lot of books. But did Mason really think I could save this reception?

His head shot toward the knot of uniforms around his ex-wife. “They wouldn’t listen,” he said in an annoyed tone. “They’re taking Jaimee in.”

Jaimee appeared shocked and frantic. Her hands weren’t cuffed, but there was an officer on either side of her, holding her arms. Her cappuccino-colored dress still had hunks of cake stuck to it, punctuated with an occasional petal from the fresh flowers that had decorated the cake. I could hear her arguing with the officers as they started to move en masse toward the door.

“My ex is guilty of a lot of things, but not killing the groom,” Mason said. He turned toward the cops surrounding his daughter, who seemed to be in a holding pattern as she stared dazedly at her beautiful white wedding.

Mason turned to Barry. “You’re a father. You know how you want to protect your kids. If you need to question my daughter later, no problem. Just please don’t detain her now.” He and Mason weren’t exactly friends, and asking him a favor wasn’t easy. Jaimee and her cop escorts were going out the door. “I have to go,” Mason said, quickly. “Jaimee’s likely to say something stupid and get herself in more trouble.” He looked back at his daughter in her elegant dress spattered with blood and let out a heavy sigh, asking Barry again not to detain her.

“Okay,” Barry relented. “Your daughter can go. We’ve already got a statement from her, along with her fingerprints and a DNA sample.”

Mason gestured to me. “Can you look after Thursday? Her sister isn’t much help.” He pointed to a similar-looking young woman in a champagne-colored maid of honor dress. She was leaning against a young man in a dark suit as a female officer stood over them writing something down. “Nobody here is much help for her. Everybody is too upset themselves.” Mason walked backward toward the door. “I don’t know when I will get back here,” he said. “This is a hard thing to ask, but would you take Thursday home with you, Molly?”

Then Mason turned to Barry. “And could you help Molly get her out of here so she doesn’t have to go through that?” he said, pointing to the tent opening where the frenzy of reporters waited with their cameras and blinding lights.

Barry made a sort of grumbling sound, but agreed. Mason took off and Barry went over and talked to the uniforms surrounding Mason’s daughter. A moment later, Thursday was standing next to me holding on to my arm for support. She seemed to pay no notice to the blood spattered on her arms and dress. Barry glanced around the tent. “There must be another way out of here,” he said.

Thursday finally spoke and said the best way was to go through the house. Barry escorted us as far as a tent entrance that connected to French doors leading into the house, and told the uniforms guarding it that it was okay for us to leave. Then he went back to help his associates.

It seemed strange to go from the tent directly into the den. I was used to the room having a view of the pool and the backyard, not the white sides of a tent. I heard Spike barking from somewhere. Mason’s toy fox terrier sounded unhappy about being locked up. I followed Thursday out of the den and down the hall to the master bedroom. She suddenly noticed the blood on her and seemed horrified. She didn’t resist when I pulled her into the bathroom and wiped off her arms and hands. There was nothing I could do about the dress.

I’d never seen Mason’s bedroom. It was done all in earth tones and, as expected, was large and luxurious. But I only got a quick glance as Thursday led us through the room to another set of French doors. They opened out to a small private courtyard with a fountain and beautiful landscaping, surrounded by a stone wall. There was no time to spend admiring the secret garden, because Thursday took me out through a gate in the wall, and I saw we were once again in the backyard

I was disoriented, but Thursday pointed out a walkway that ran behind the tent. “This leads along the back of the yard, past the garage to the driveway,” she said, lifting her skirt as we went down the stone path in the darkness. She stopped as we passed an open flap in the tent. “I guess we could have gone out that way.” I looked in and saw that it was a service area, now deserted.

A dry wind was beginning to kick up and pushed against the sides of the tent. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard palm fronds rubbing together in an eerie cry. The wind was blowing in from the desert, and the air felt warm and unsettled. As we reached the garage, the stone path turned to sidewalk bordered by neatly trimmed bushes backed by the fence. Suddenly, one of my feet began to hurt big-time. It was no surprise since heels and my feet weren’t friends. I slipped off both shoes, and my bare feet practically sighed with relief. When I bent down to pick them up, I realized I was standing beside something white and crumpled.

Instinctively, I reached for it and picked it up. It was wet and slippery. When I held it up, there was enough light reflecting from the streetlight to see it was a shirt, and it was splattered with something dark. I couldn’t see colors in the darkness, but something told me the splatters were red.