Murder, She Knit Read online

  She’d reached the stately brick apartment building at the corner of her block.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his handsome face puckering with concern.

  “You startled me.”

  “It was either that or have you run me down.”

  “Sorry,” Pamela said. “These leaves are wet and I didn’t want to slip.”

  “Well, no harm done.” He took a step toward the parking lot, then paused. “I understand we have a friend in common,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Amy Morgan—and I should say ‘had.’”

  Pamela blinked. How would he know she’d been a friend of Amy’s? Had Amy mentioned that she was on her way to a knitting club at Pamela Paterson’s that fateful night? So he knew right where to find her when he went after her with a knitting needle?

  Her mouth wasn’t sure what words it wanted to form so she found herself stuttering. Dr. Randolph continued staring into her eyes. Finally he spoke again. “Mr. Gilly,” he said. “It’s never a good idea to discuss anything with him unless you want the world to know it.”

  With a nod that Pamela wasn’t sure would be called friendly, he continued on to the parking lot. A few steps further, he turned to add, “Is it you who’s been wondering about my schedule at the hospital?” Pamela felt her mouth drop open. “Too many people in the world have nothing to do but mind other people’s business,” he called before heading for his car.

  With no pressing errand in Arborville’s commercial district, Pamela turned right on Arborville Avenue instead of left. The day was bright and brisk, and the air fresh after the previous night’s rain. The trees’ bare branches traced delicate patterns against the clear sky. But her pleasant daydream involving Penny and a Thanksgiving pie that she had just about decided would be pecan had been driven from her mind. In its place was the image of something like a board game in which Dr. Randolph and Karen Dowling were advancing toward a final square labeled “MURDERER.” Trailing them, but not too far behind, were Olivia Wiggens and the unnamed knitting protester. In the middle of the board sat a large ball of soft wool that glowed with a strange golden light.

  Pamela usually enjoyed her strolls along this stretch of Arborville Avenue. It featured some of the town’s older and grander houses, with landscaping that evoked an earlier time and featured birdbaths, garden statuary, and in one case a fountain. But today she was oblivious. When she reached the sign that, with a flourish of gold and an elegant script, welcomed people to the neighboring town, she crossed the street and headed back the way she had come.

  She was indeed preoccupied, but not too preoccupied to slow down as she turned onto Orchard Street. The encounter with Dr. Randolph had rattled her. She’d neglected to make her usual detour to inspect the trash cans hidden behind the wooden fencing at the edge of the stately brick apartment building’s parking lot. As she made her way across the asphalt, she noticed that indeed there were castoffs today. Some had even escaped their corral. A rich orange casserole dish, like one of those expensive Le Creuset ones, sat atop a lamp table. A sleek leather armchair sidled up next to a bookcase.

  Pamela stepped closer. She absolutely did not need another chair, but leather armchairs bought new went for hundreds of dollars. Maybe Penny would be able to use it someday . . . But as she stroked the smooth leather, bending this way and that to inspect for scratches, her eye strayed to the bookcase, and then beyond.

  Something was tucked between the bookcase and the last trash can, something large and flat, like a painting. A strip of canvas about as tall as the bookcase but only a few inches wide was visible. But pictured in that narrow strip were a ball of yarn and a swath of knitted fabric. Pamela tugged at the edge of the painting and succeeded in exposing the hands and knitting needles that were creating the knitted fabric. The hands were slim and graceful, and they came to life in the dabs and swirls of oil paint. The artist was clearly not an amateur.

  Pamela tugged again, and the entire painting slid out. Now the owner of the hands was revealed—a young woman poised on an old-fashioned chair, her in-progress knitting trailing over her lap. But someone had slashed the canvas savagely down the middle, focusing particularly on the knitter’s face. Despite the disfiguring slash, the knitter looked familiar—the dark hair, the wide eyes, the sweet mouth. Pamela looked closer. It was Amy Morgan!

  Mr. Gilly emerged from a door in the back of the building and paused to light a cigarette. “Pretty girl,” he said, exhaling at the same time. “It’s a shame what happened. And I guess somebody didn’t like the painting.”

  “Why is it out here?” Pamela asked.

  “Her sister took away everything anybody in her family wanted. Then she told me to clean out the rest.”

  “Was it damaged like this when you took it out of the apartment?”

  Mr. Gilly took a drag on his cigarette and nodded. “Like I said, I guess somebody didn’t like the painting.”

  “I guess I could take it if I wanted? It’s just going to the trash.”

  “Sure, help yourself. I don’t know who else would want it in that condition.”

  In her excitement about the painting, Pamela forgot all about the leather chair.

  * * *

  Pamela pressed Bettina’s doorbell again, harder this time. She waited, but there was still no answer. Both Wilfred’s ancient but lovingly cared-for Mercedes and Bettina’s solid Toyota Corolla were in the driveway though. And a strange sound was emanating from behind the front door—a low hum. She retreated from the porch and pushed her way between a pair of rhododendron bushes to take a look in the living room window. What she saw revealed that Wilfred, at least, was home, and it also explained the sound. Wilfred was vacuuming the living room rug.

  She tapped on the window to no avail, so she returned to the porch, where, instead of ringing the bell again, she pounded on the door. At last it opened a crack as Wilfred peeked out, then wider as he recognized Pamela and smiled.

  “Let me make sure my shoes are clean,” Pamela said, scuffing her feet against the door mat. “I was creeping through your shrubbery.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I couldn’t get any answer when I rang the bell.”

  “Come on in.” Wilfred stepped back and waved Pamela into the house.

  “I do admire the way you and Bettina handle the division of labor,” Pamela said.

  “A happy wife is a happy life,” Wilfred said cheerfully. “And I guess you’re here to see the boss.” His eyes shifted from Pamela’s face to the painting. “Hey—is that another one of your antique-store finds?”

  “Not quite.” She swung it around so the front was visible.

  “Hmm.” A little crease appeared between his brows. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  Just then Bettina’s voice floated down from the second floor. “Is that Pamela down there, Wilfred? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Just about to, love.”

  Bettina hurried down the stairs. Before she was even at the bottom, she paused to ask, “Have you been hitting the tag sales already this morning?”

  “This is a clue,” Pamela said. She waited until Bettina stepped into the living room to add, “It’s a painting of Amy Morgan, complete with evidence that someone didn’t like her very well.”

  “My, my.” Bettina stooped to examine the painting more closely. “She was a lovely woman.” She turned to look up at Wilfred. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Only if I liked them that young,” Wilfred said loyally. He picked up the vacuum cleaner and moved off toward the dining room.

  “I think we should show this to the police,” Pamela said, raising her voice over the hum of the vacuum. “A person who’d slash a painting of Amy could easily be a person who’d stick a knitting needle into her heart.”

  A disgusted puff of air escaped from Bettina’s lips. “Clayborn just laughed about the Brooklyn yarn and the argyle socks. As far as the slashed painting goes, he’d probably say it sounds like a clue from
one of those British TV mysteries.”

  “But the knitting needle I found in my sofa,” Pamela said eagerly. “That could really mean something if it matches the one that killed Amy.”

  “He did get back to me about that,” Bettina said. “Karen Dowling isn’t a suspect.”

  “She isn’t!” Pamela’s voice rose in amazement. “I don’t really want her to be, but how can they say that?”

  “Maybe they know things we don’t know.”

  “But maybe we know things they don’t know.”

  Wilfred reappeared, vacuum cleaner in hand, and headed for the stairs.

  “Coffee?” Bettina said. “And how about a slice of that good Co-Op bakery crumb cake? I know you hardly eat anything for breakfast.”

  In the kitchen, Bettina bent to comfort Woofus the rescue dog, who was hiding under the table.

  “Poor thing,” Bettina said. “The vacuum terrifies him—not that he’s that brave under normal circumstances.”

  She busied herself pouring coffee into her handmade mugs from the craft shop and set a loaf of crumb cake on a wooden cutting board. As she watched the preparations, Pamela described almost running into Dr. Randolph that morning.

  “It’s Bob,” Bettina said, handing Pamela a cup. She cut two slices of crumb cake and slid them onto napkins. “Bob Randolph. I heard back from my nurse friend at the hospital.”

  “And?” The cup Pamela had been lifting to her lips paused halfway up.

  “She isn’t allowed to give out information about people’s schedules. But now we know his first name is Bob.”

  “He knows we’ve been asking about him.” Pamela set the cup back down on Bettina’s pine table without drinking from it. “He didn’t seem very happy about it.”

  “Have some crumb cake.” Bettina nudged one of the napkins toward Pamela, but Pamela had other things on her mind. “You may be right about the police not being interested in that painting,” she said. “But I certainly am. So many questions—or at least two. Who slashed it, and who painted it? It shouldn’t be impossible to answer the second one at least.”

  Pamela fetched the painting from the living room and balanced it on the kitchen table with the upper edge leaning against the wall. She and Bettina studied it from their chairs. The artist had emphasized Amy’s pale skin and her dark hair, contrasting them with a deep garnet background. She was dressed in a simple blouse that could have suited the heroine of a nineteenth-century novel. Part of an ornate chair back was visible over one shoulder. Its curves echoed the rounded blooms arranged casually in a vase nearby. The strand of wool twined around one of the skillfully painted fingers was a rich shade of indigo.

  “Does that look like a signature to you?” Pamela pointed to the lower edge of the knitted swatch that flowed from Amy’s needles. Barely visible against the indigo, an angular scribble interrupted several rows of neat stitches.

  “I think it starts with a ‘C.’” Bettina touched the canvas. “Or is the corner of that thing she’s knitting just curling up a little?”

  “It’s definitely a ‘C.’ And then there’s a squiggle, and then a period.” She lined her finger up next to Bettina’s. “See where there’s kind of a bump.”

  “Or it says ‘Cho.’ That squiggle is an ‘h.’”

  “If it’s a period, then the ‘Ch’ could be short for ‘Charles.’ Or ‘Chet.’ Or ‘Chad.’”

  A deep voice behind them said, “Whatever his first name is, his last name is ‘Lawrence.’” They both turned to see Wilfred, vacuum cleaner in hand, staring at the painting. “You’re too close,” he said. “If you stand back here it kind of comes into focus.”

  Pamela jumped up and joined Wilfred in the doorway. “He’s right,” she said excitedly. “It says ‘Ch. Lawrence.’”

  Bettina pushed her chair away from the table, tilted her head, and stared at the painting. “Yes,” she said. “Definitely ‘Ch. Lawrence.’ This is a job for Google. Let me get my fancy phone.”

  Five minutes later they had determined that “Ch. Lawrence” was Chad Lawrence and that his work was handled by the Grainger Gallery on Washington Street in Hoboken.

  “Do you have anything on your schedule this afternoon?” Pamela asked Bettina.

  “Hoboken,” Bettina said. “Let’s do it.”

  “How’s one p.m.?” Pamela said. “I need to check in with the magazine.”

  “Perfect! I’ll drive if you navigate.”

  Chapter Twelve

  From across the street Pamela could see that her mailbox was overflowing. She collected the box’s contents, carried the stack of envelopes, circulars, and catalogues to the kitchen, and spread it all out on her kitchen table. Much of it proved to be intended for her neighbors, suggesting that the usual mail carrier hadn’t yet returned from wherever he had gone. The only piece of mail for her, aside from a few items addressed to anyone at her address who answered to “Resident,” was a utility bill. Among the mail for her neighbors was a catalogue of expensive lingerie for the house three doors down and a letter in a business-sized envelope addressed to Richard Larkin, AIA.

  Pamela’s late husband had been Michael Paterson, AIA—an architect. So that was Richard Larkin’s profession too. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel about him. But he had cleaned up the garbage mess, and there had been no repeated raccoon incursions. Perhaps she’d drop the letter in his mailbox when she headed out again instead of handing it over to the substitute mail carrier to misdeliver a second time. The stationery looked expensive. Maybe the letter was important.

  Upstairs Pamela checked her email to discover a rush editing job from Fiber Craft, an article on handmade rag dolls. It had been accepted months ago but her editor had decided at the last minute that it fit the holiday crafts theme of the upcoming issue. She set to work and was finished just in time for a quick snack of bread and cheese before hurrying back out to rendezvous with Bettina. The jeans and sweater she’d worn for her morning walk would have to do for the Hoboken outing. She grabbed her jacket and scarf and the letter for Richard Larkin, AIA, and stepped outside.

  Pamela raised the flap of Miranda and Joe Bonham’s mailbox and dropped the letter for Richard Larkin, AIA, inside, where it joined a batch of envelopes, circulars, and catalogues rather like the pile she had pulled out of her own box. Turning away, she glanced at the ceramic planter Miranda had tended so carefully, with pansies in the spring, marigolds in the summer, chrysanthemums in the fall, and holly boughs in the winter. The Bonhams had left in September, before Miranda had time to plant chrysanthemums. The remains of last summer’s marigolds, leaves shriveled and black, flower heads shapeless knobs, made a woeful spectacle.

  Well, she said to herself as she stepped off the porch, you couldn’t expect a man, even an architect, to take the same interest as a woman would take in details like flowers on the porch. And obviously girlfriends that were replaced every few days wouldn’t have time to develop an interest in how Richard Larkin’s porch looked.

  Bettina waved from across the street. “What are you doing?” she called when Pamela reached her driveway.

  “Mail for my new neighbor,” Pamela said. “That sub mail carrier is hopeless.”

  “You’re telling me. Did you know Daryl Roberts gets catalogues where you can buy those pipes people use to smoke marijuana?”

  “Shelley Huber buys really expensive lingerie.”

  “He’s quite nice-looking,” Bettina said.

  “Who?”

  “Your new neighbor.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “A couple times,” Bettina said. “He’s an architect, you know.”

  “I know,” Pamela said.

  “Wilfred has talked to him—about the dollhouses. He was very interested. Maybe you should get to know him. Now that Penny is away at college you could—”

  Pamela shook her head vigorously. “I’m not even thinking about that.” She continued shaking her head. “Besides, he has girlfriends. Lots of them, and they’re really
young.”

  “You look young.”

  “Not interested.”

  * * *

  Heading down the Turnpike in Bettina’s Toyota, they chatted about the knitting club and the new granddaughter Bettina was expecting in December. When they left the Turnpike at Exit 17, Pamela began to navigate, watching for the Weehawken/Hoboken exit as they headed east, lest they get swept up in the traffic surging toward the Lincoln Tunnel.

  “Parking will probably be hopeless on Washington Street,” Pamela said as they skirted the top edge of the little city. Bettina turned down a residential street, and they cruised past lovingly tended row houses, doors and window frames freshly painted in deep, glowing tones.

  “I remember when only starving artists wanted to live in Hoboken,” Bettina said. “Now each of these little houses is probably worth a few million dollars.”

  They continued along the narrow street, slowing down only to discover that a likely parking place was actually a fire hydrant or that the sign looming from the curb read “NO STANDING.” At last Bettina pulled up next to a spot near the end of the block.

  “Grab it,” Pamela said. “I have no idea how far along Washington Street this gallery’s address will turn out to be, but it’s fun to window-shop in Hoboken.”

  Pamela reached into the back seat for the painting, which they’d wrapped in a plastic garbage bag. The two women strolled a few blocks to Washington Street, checked the addresses of the shops near the corner, and decided the Grainger Gallery must be to the south. Washington Street was actually a wide avenue, lined with flat-topped nineteenth-century buildings, their rooflines and window frames softened with Victorian flourishes. Five or six stories, each with a row of narrow windows, were stacked atop sidewalk-level storefronts. Broad awnings shaded bow windows that displayed each shop’s artfully arranged offerings.

  They passed a florist with masses of chrysanthemums braving the chill out on the sidewalk. A bakery window featured crusty oval loaves in colors ranging from pale wheat to deepest pumpernickel. Shops offered vintage clothing, antique furniture, handmade silver jewelry, and clothes for impossibly pampered babies. A door opened, and a young woman pushing a stroller stepped through it. The smell of fresh-ground coffee wafted toward the street until the door closed behind her. Then, suddenly, they’d reached the Grainger Gallery. Displayed in its window were a series of shadow boxes constructed from what looked like wood rescued from an earlier use. In the boxes, small plastic figures carried out puzzling activities in settings clipped from decorating magazines.