Free If Hooks Could Kill by Betty Hechtman Page B

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