By Betty Hechtman
Molly and her Tarzana Hookers needs to untangle a twisted yarn...
Molly's been passed the reins for this year's inventive retreat-an exhilarating weekend out at the Monterey Peninsula, whole with crochet sessions. regrettably for one instructor, even though, the breathtaking surroundings is the place she'll take her final breath. Now Molly must discover a new teacher, and, if she will be able to squeeze it in, clear up this murder-with the aid of her associates from the Tarzana Hookers.
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Additional info for A Stitch in Crime (A Crochet Mystery)
I'm just so sorry I had to walk out on you all. come back, okay? I See you, darling. " Bridget took back my cellphone, passed me my night-bag and watched me while I checked its contents: socks, handkerchiefs, shirts, underpants, a sponge-bag, one grey pullover with V-neck. " about contact lenses? I shook my head. she murmured suggestively. " "Well, off you both go then," Mr. Anderson declared, and if he had raised his right hand and bestowed one of Brother Michael's floppy blessings on us, I would not have been surprised.
The grand hall that we entered had a painted dome for a ceiling, with white nymphs, and white babies blowing trumpets, and a regal staircase that halfway up itself divided into two more staircases curving to a balcony with a row of doors, all closed. And at the foot of the staircase, on either side, two more doors, grand ones, capped by golden eagles with their wings spread. The right-hand door was closed off by a red silk rope with brass fittings. I never saw anyone go in or out of it. On the left-hand door a lighted red sign said silence conference in progress without any punctuation, because I always notice punctuation.
But I sense that she regards such personal questions as an intrusion upon his privacy, just as I do. For why would a Rwandan man want to go and die on Hampstead Heath if he didn't want to be private? Then I notice that not only is she holding our patient's hand but she's holding mine too. And Grace notices it and is impressed, though not in a prurient way, because Grace knows, as I know, that her friend Hannah is not given to holding hands with just any interpreter. Yet there they are, my calf-brown, half-Congolese hand and Hannah's authentic all-black version with its pinky-white palm, both of them entwined on an enemy Rwandan's bed.