That got through to Adele. At first she’d seemed to like the attention she got from being a person of interest or, as she called it, an important witness, but after the third time Sergeant French had tried to get her to admit that she’d been on the beach with Izabelle, she had complained to me and wanted to know if I was the one who told him she’d been bragging about what a great campfire maker she was.
“I’ll have to see your license,” she said finally. “And what kind of driving record do you have? Any accidents?” Even though I assured her I’d had no bad accidents and yes, I would show her my license, she kept on, telling me I needed to be aware of her car’s little idiosyncrasies. There was something about how you had to turn the key to lock the door, and not slamming on the brakes or revving the engine. It was too much to absorb, but I was sure I’d do fine. What did she think, that I was some kind of teenage hot-rodder?
“Where are you going?” she demanded. “And how long will you be gone?” I mentioned the Del Monte Mall, and she threw me an exasperated groan. “Shopping, Pink?”
“Not shopping,” I protested. “I have to take care of something that has to do with Izabelle Landers. Are you going to let me use your car or not?”
Adele finally handed me the keys. “But I’m in charge while you’re gone, right?”
“Whatever,” I said, handing her the rhinestone clipboard.
A few minutes later, she stood watching as I got into her old silver Honda. She had actually made me show her my license. Sometimes she was just too over-the-top. What the fuss was, was beyond me. The car was well worn and not exactly what I’d call orderly. She’d re-covered the front bucket seats with what I hoped was fake black-and-white cow skin. The backseat was littered with skeins of yarn that were tangled together and a bag from a craft store with more supplies. I chuckled at the box of bubble gum packets. Who knew Adele chewed that stuff that came in shreds and was supposed to look like chewing tobacco? She never ceased to surprise me. I laid my tote bag with Izabelle’s crochet book on the passenger seat.
I started to roll down the window, but Adele yelled for me to halt and pulled open the door.
“Pink, did you pay any attention to what I said? My car is fragile. If you open the window, it won’t shut.” She touched the roof of the car protectively. “Maybe I should drive.”
I reminded her she had the rhinestone clipboard for now, shut the door and turned on the motor. I know she was watching as I finally drove away.
I felt strange driving out of the Asilomar gate, as if I was suddenly reentering the real hustle-and-bustle world. Well, maybe not exactly hustle-and-bustle, but suddenly there were stoplights and traffic, houses and stores and an abrupt end to the feeling of being off somewhere.
Shortly beyond the business area, the road became curvy as it went over a ridge and through a forest of Monterey pines before I saw the signs for the Del Monte Mall. It had taken a bunch of phone calls to listings in the yellow pages before I found someone at a photo center who said he could do what I wanted.
I found a parking spot on the perimeter of the large mall and checked the directory for the store I wanted. A tall, skinny college-age clerk looked up when I walked in.
When I explained I was the one who’d called, he said, “You understand we don’t have the actual software that does age progression, like they use for the milk carton photos. That’s strictly for FBI and law enforcement.” I nodded and he asked to see the photo.
I opened Izabelle’s book and showed him the picture. “You want me to age-progress a doll?” he said, giving me a weird look. Not a big surprise; it was an odd request. I thought of explaining why I wanted the altered photo, but I couldn’t come up with an easy explanation that didn’t make me seem even weirder.
“I think I can do it with Photo Shop. How about next week?”
“I was thinking of something more along the lines of in an hour or so.”
He swallowed hard. “Okay. I’m always up for a challenge.” He took the book and said something about scanning the photo, followed by a lot of computer mumbo jumbo. With that settled, I rushed back to Adele’s car.
I returned to Asilomar just as lunch was ending. The driveway was clogged with people from our retreat on their way to the afternoon sessions as I parked the car in one of the few spots near the administration building. Adele had made me promise to drop off the keys the moment I got back. She was already in the crochet workshop room. When she saw me, she put down the purple pouch bag she was finishing and got up, insisting on inspecting her car.
She walked all the way around it, checking for damage. I rolled my eyes in disbelief as she opened the back door and rearranged the yarn, bag of craft supplies and box of bubble gum packets in the backseat and complained that everything had gotten jostled around, no doubt because of my harsh driving.
She held out her hand for the keys. “Ah, there’s one more thing,” I said, giving them to her.
“What now, Pink? My people are waiting.” She began walking, and I followed.
I broke the news that I had to go back. You’d think I’d just asked Adele for a seat on a rocket to the moon.
“What, exactly, is all this about?” she asked, putting her hand on her cloud-colored encased hip. She wasn’t going to give back the keys without the whole story. She stopped in the middle of the path and waited while I told her about the doll in Izabelle’s book and how I thought if I got it age-progressed, I’d know what she looked like as an adult.
“But we know what she looked like, Pink. I think you’re losing your detective touch.”
I reminded Adele how she’d brought up that Izabelle’s perfect looks weren’t natural.
“Right,” she said. “My eagle eye did pick out the fake cheekbones and redone nose. And the puffy lips, ha!” I threw in the eye and hair color. Then I dropped the bombshell and told her Izabelle had an identical twin and that she might be among us.
Adele took a moment to process the information and then got it. “And I bet if someone was on the beach with Izabelle, it was her,” Adele said, handing back the keys. “Okay, you didn’t wreck my car the first time, so you won’t this time, right?”
In all our negotiations, I hadn’t noticed that there were people around us until Jym called out a greeting. Jeen’s acknowledgment came out like a combination groan and sigh as her eyes locked on Adele. I looked past Bennett, who appeared deep in thought, to a dark blue uniform that immediately grabbed my attention.
“There you are,” Sergeant French said in a studied friendly voice. He stopped next to Adele. “Ms. Abrams, I just want to talk to you again about the afternoon Ms. Landers died.”
Adele grabbed the fabric of my corduroy blazer. “Here, Pink has some information for you. I really have nothing more to add. Like I said all those times before, I didn’t talk to Izabelle after the incident in the crochet workshop. I didn’t follow her to the beach. I didn’t have any of the s’mores. I went to my room alone, where I could concentrate, and tried to re-create the stitch she had stolen from me.”
The police officer shifted his weight and sighed. He obviously hadn’t given up on Adele being the person with Izabelle on the beach.
“Ms. Abrams, you know you’ll feel better if you tell me the real story.”
“That is the real story,” she protested. “Talk to Pink. She’s got it all figured out. I’ve got a workshop to run.”
She marched off, and Sergeant French turned his attention to me. “More amateur sleuthing, Ms. Pink?” he said with another sigh.
“I’m going to have something this afternoon that’s going to rock your investigation.”
“Right,” he said without looking at me, probably because he was rolling his eyes. Commander came by, carrying a grocery bag. He stopped to remind me that his group was making a special appetizer for the evening get-together. Sergeant French nodded at him.