Free A Stitch in Crime by Betty Hechtman Page A

Dinah.
    “All I can say is your fussy friend is a gem,” I said as Dinah and I walked into the dining hall.
    “He’s not my friend,” Dinah protested, “though he deserves points for breakfast and lunch.”
    The lights were on in the dining hall and something smelled good. Commander came out from the kitchen and said he’d set up the sandwich bar and hot soup.
    Everyone seemed satisfied with lunch. Mason had brought me some tomato soup and a Swiss cheese sandwich, but I was too keyed up about the afternoon to eat.
    I was glad I’d picked Dinah’s workshop to kick off with. Her years of teaching English to reluctant freshmen had made her a master at handling any kind of group. This crowd would be a snap. Right after lunch, I led the group to a small building that housed meeting rooms. A long table was at the front along with several rows of school chairs with table arms. From inside, the trees just a few feet away melted into the thick white. The bonus was that all the white reflected back into the room, making it seem brighter.
    Dinah set down her supplies while everyone but Commander found a seat. He hung around the front, offering to help. She gave him a stack of small notebooks and pens to hand out. Dinah leaned against the front of the table and began to talk memoir writing.
    I had never seen my friend in action, so I took a seat at the back of the room.
    “Anything can get you started,” Dinah began. “I’m going to give you what may seem like a silly assignment, but when we read what you’ve written, you’ll see how your take on it is unique and shows who you are.” She paused to build up the suspense. “I want you to write about orange soda for ten minutes.” I heard a collective huh, and for a moment I wondered if she knew what she was doing. She seemed to expect the panicky stares, and told them just to put their pens on the paper and write anything that came to mind. She set a timer, and surprisingly, after a few moments everyone began to write. When the bell went off, Dinah told them to stop.
    “Okay, let’s see what you wrote. Anyone want to start?” Miss Lavender Pants’s attorney brother raised his hand first. His piece had something to do with a client who claimed to have found a dead roach in a bottle of the bright soda.
    “My client took the settlement they offered before we went to court. I know I would have won if she had just agreed to let me go to trial. Like everything else, I just didn’t get my fair chance.”
    There was a smattering of applause as he sat down. Now I got what Dinah had said. Edward had certainly tipped his hand that he felt like a victim.
    Izabelle volunteered next. Edward had just read his piece—she presented hers.
    “Orange soda,” she said, making eye contact with members of the group. “Personally, I don’t like it. I think it looks like paint and tastes like carbonated candy.” Izabelle must have had very good recall of what she wrote as she glanced only occasionally at her paper as she spoke. No wonder she volunteered. She had said something about wanting as much opportunity as possible to be in front of a group before she went out on the road with her mystery craft presentations.
    “I was going to say I never drink it, but then I remembered there was one time. My sister and I went to Tina Geyser’s birthday party. It was in her backyard, and so hot I could feel the sweat drip down my sides. Some of the kids turned on the sprinklers and started running through the spray. Mrs. Geyser came out and yelled at them. I always thought she looked like the evil queen in Snow White . She said unless we all sat down at the picnic table, we would have to go home without having cake.”
    Izabelle made sure she still had everyone’s attention. Nobody could accuse her of having writer’s block.
    “Tina’s mother brought out plastic glasses of soda on a hammered aluminum tray. There were two glasses of orange soda, and the rest were lemon-lime. My sister got