A Fatal Yarn Read online

  It would have been hard to conjure up a more incongruous image than Bettina—in her pumpkin-colored down coat and lavender kitten heels, with her Faberge egg earrings dangling from her earlobes—chatting with Axel Crenshaw in his studio. The studio was a long and narrow room with a high ceiling formed from iron girders. At the far end, the studio’s only window was centered in a brick wall. Besides the shabby armchair, the studio was furnished with a rumpled daybed, a wooden table where the remains of several take-out meals shared space with a mound of clay, a huge cast-iron sink with a bucket beneath it, and a drawing board. Tacked to the walls were sketches of massive, angular sculptures.

  In the armchair, Axel Crenshaw smirked, but he pulled himself into a more upright position and squared his broad shoulders, as if flattered despite himself. Pamela had often noticed that, when it came to accepting flattery, men didn’t seem to ask themselves first whether an ulterior motive might be lurking in the mind of the flatterer. Clearly Axel Crenshaw, despite his blasé attitude, was no exception.

  Apparently not content to display his physique from the comfort of the armchair, Axel Crenshaw suddenly leapt to his feet and joined Bettina next to the stand that held the clay object, towering over her. “This isn’t really it,” he said with an indulgent chuckle. “This is a model.”

  “Oh, I know that.” Bettina craned her neck to meet his eyes. “The real SeaWall is going to be huge.” Her tone and the way she batted her eyelashes implied that the word “huge” was not only a description of SeaWall’s actual size but also a complimentary reference to the size of its creator.

  “It’s down at the fab yard”—he paused in the face of Bettina’s puzzled expression, then resumed—“fabrication yard, in Gowanus. Metal work. I don’t do that myself.”

  “Of course not,” Bettina said, gazing up at him in awe. “You’re the artist.”

  “What brought you here?” Axel Crenshaw asked, apparently coming out of the daze created by Bettina’s flattery.

  “Haven Griswold,” Bettina said. “I’m an old friend of the family and I’ve been out of touch for ages. Cassie’s dead now, you know, but for the longest time she kept me up to date on Haven’s doings, marrying an artist and all that.” Bettina punctuated the statement with a flirtatious wink. “I’d love to see Haven again, catch up with things, but I didn’t have a current address and I couldn’t seem to track her down. Then I remembered . . . she married Axel Crenshaw. So you, of course, with the genius grant, you were easy to track down . . .”

  Bettina’s voice trailed off. Axel Crenshaw was making an odd face. Was it the thought of Haven Griswold? A suspicion he’d been manipulated? Both?

  “Haven?” he said at last. “Yeah, she was fun, for a while.” The lazy offhand tone had returned.

  “You’re not married to her?” Pamela blurted out. Axel Crenshaw looked startled and Pamela realized she’d been nearly invisible for the past several minutes.

  “Not for years,” he said.

  “So you don’t know where she is.” Bettina took over, sounding too disappointed to even make the words a question.

  “Why would I?” Axel Crenshaw shrugged. “There weren’t any kids.”

  “The last we heard she was living in Manhattan and working as a freelance writer,” Pamela said, not quite willing to give up yet.

  An explosive laugh prefaced Axel Crenshaw’s response. “Manhattan? On a freelance writer’s earnings? Are you nuts?”

  Behind them, the studio door creaked. A lilting female voice called out, “I hope I’m not disturbing anything.” Axel Crenshaw’s gaunt face brightened and his mouth formed a close-lipped smile. Pamela and Bettina turned toward the door, which was open now. Framed in the doorway was a young woman who looked to be Penny’s age, surely no older. She was wearing a cropped black leather jacket over a filmy white ensemble and carrying a large paper bag.

  I brought you some foodies, sweetkins,” she announced and stepped lightly across the scarred wooden floor. Her filmy skirt ended in jagged points that swirled around her calves.

  Back in the hallway, Bettina paused outside the door of the studio they’d just left. “I don’t know why he thought we’d like birdbaths and wind chimes,” she commented. “But let’s just pop in for a minute.”

  When they emerged from the elevator half an hour later, Bettina was carrying a shopping bag that contained a carefully wrapped set of wind chimes. She consulted her watch as they walked toward the door that led to the sidewalk. “We could have coffee and a little nibble,” she said. “It won’t be dark for a couple of hours.”

  They strolled past buildings similar to the one they’d just left until, after a few blocks, they reached a cross street that had more of a commercial feel, with signage identifying restaurants providing vegan fare, artisanal pizzas, or grain bowls made to order. A signboard a few doors from the corner used curly script to list the day’s specials in colored chalk. One restaurant, more hopeful than realistic, was already offering outdoor seating, with chairs and a few small tables ranged along the sidewalk.

  “Something looks promising in this direction.” Pamela pointed to the right. “See that place with the big arched window? And up above it says ‘Coffee Break’?”

  “Sounds like they have coffee,” Bettina said.

  A few minutes later they were standing at a tall curving bar, polished wood with a silvery metal top, that could have been as old as the building that housed it. At one end of the bar, a broad glass dome sheltered trays of various sweet goodies. The same polished wood paneled the wall behind the counter, interrupted by shelves that held cups and saucers and glassware. A giant, gleaming espresso machine crouched on a lower shelf, tended by a young woman. With a satisfying hiss it was serving up a latte, which she then deposited on the counter in front of her waiting patron.

  The sight and aroma of coffee mellowed by steamed milk was all the advertisement needed. When the barista turned to them, they both ordered café latte, and as soon as their order was launched, Bettina edged toward the goodies on display further down the bar.

  “There’s tiramisu,” she announced delightedly.

  * * *

  The spacious room was bright with afternoon sun pouring in the arched window. Side by side at a long table that flanked the window, with tablemates absorbed in their smart devices or laptops, Pamela and Bettina at first concentrated on sipping the sweet, rich latte and nibbling squares of tiramisu. Each bite of tiramisu was a cool, smooth mouthful. Ladyfingers moist with espresso and a touch of rum had been layered with ricotta beaten to a creamy cloud. The dusting of cocoa powder on top added a hint of bitterness that enhanced the sweetness of the rest.

  “So”—when her square of tiramisu had been reduced to a sliver, Pamela turned to Bettina—“what about Haven?”

  “Axel’s version certainly didn’t match what Nell said about Cassie’s reports on Haven’s doings.” Bettina shook her head. “It sounds like he got tired of her and just cast her aside.” Clearly, female solidarity demanded a mournful expression, but Bettina’s face was still aglow with the enjoyment produced by the tiramisu. Nothing remained on her plate except for a smear of ricotta and a few ladyfinger crumbs.

  “I’m even more curious about her now though,” Pamela said, after a thoughtful sip of latte. “She lied to us. Maybe she’s found some way to survive in Manhattan on a freelance writer’s income—after all, if he hasn’t seen her for ages, how does he know where she’s living?”

  “He just wanted to say something mean,” Bettina agreed.

  “But,” Pamela went on, “she specifically mentioned her husband, and said he was at his studio in Brooklyn.”

  “Do you want that?” Bettina asked, eyeing the bit of tiramisu left on Pamela’s plate. Pamela nudged the plate in Bettina’s direction.

  “Maybe she’s married to someone else now,” Bettina said, shaving off a tiny bite of the tiramisu sliver. “Some other artist, who also has a studio in Brooklyn.”

  “There are a lot of them.
” Pamela nodded and attacked the tiramisu sliver from the other end. “But even if this other one exists, we don’t know his name. I just don’t see how we can figure out where she lives. And unless we can do that, we’ll never know if she was really at home the night Diefenbach was killed.”

  They sat in silence for a while, nibbling at the tiramisu sliver from each end and sipping the remains of their lattes, barely warm now. Out on the sidewalk, young people hurried along, more of them than before, as the workday wound down. The sun’s angle had shifted too, and the room was less bright.

  “We should get going,” Bettina said, checking her watch. “As it is, we’re going to get home late, with the rush hour traffic.” She looked around and smiled. “This was fun though, even if we didn’t find anything out. It’s nice to get away from Arborville once in a while.”

  “I just thought of something,” Pamela said as she stood up. The words came out in an excited burst. “The estate sale goes on again this Saturday. Haven will be back then. We’ll follow her when she leaves.”

  “I can’t wait!” Bettina was on her feet too, fastening up her pumpkin-colored coat. She groaned. “Too bad it’s only Monday.”

  * * *

  It was late, and dark, by the time Pamela nosed into the Frasers’ driveway. The porch light was on, and no sooner had Pamela turned off her engine than the front door flew open and Wilfred stepped out. Woofus stood in the doorway, gazing after him.

  “Oh, dear!” Bettina exclaimed. “He’s been worried. I should have called him.” She swung the car door open and climbed out.

  Pamela watched as Wilfred hurried along the walk that led from the porch to the driveway. “Dear wife,” he called, relief and distress mingling on his normally cheerful face. “Better late than never, much better, but . . .” They met in front of Pamela’s car, where her headlights illuminated the grateful hug with which he welcomed his wife home.

  Once parked in her own driveway, Pamela unlocked her front door and stepped over her threshold into her dark house. She was greeted only by two hungry cats, seemingly determined to trip her as she walked across the worn but lovely Persian rug that covered her entry’s aged parquet. She hung up her jacket and proceeded to the kitchen, where she opened a can of chicken-fish blend and served generous scoops in a fresh bowl. She replenished the cats’ water as well.

  As far as her own dinner went, an omelet sounded appealing, after the rich afternoon treat and recent dinners that had included pot roast and its remains as well as Wilfred’s magnificent sausage feast on Saturday night.

  Later she settled onto her sofa, with Catrina curled up along one thigh and Ginger along the other, and began to stitch the first long seam that would join the back and front of the lilac tunic. A British mystery unfolded on the screen before her, but the day’s driving and walking had taken their toll. She dozed off with a only a few inches of sewing completed and before the genteel lady who was the mystery’s sleuth had even been summoned to the crime scene.

  Chapter 14

  It was Tuesday morning. Pamela was sitting at her kitchen table sipping her second cup of coffee and checking back through the Register to see if she’d missed anything interesting the first time around. Catrina and Ginger had finished their breakfast and wandered off. The Register had been especially dull that day, and Pamela was glad for the distraction when the doorbell chimed.

  She was still in her robe and slippers, but an unannounced early morning caller usually proved to be Bettina, and that was the case today. Through the lace that curtained the oval window, Bettina’s pumpkin-colored coat was vivid against the winter-weary landscape. Catrina was dozing in the sunny spot on the entry carpet she sought out every morning. As Pamela pulled the door back and Bettina stepped inside, Catrina cast a lazy glance at the visitor, then returned to her nap.

  Bettina’s hazel eyes were bright with purpose, and she began to speak before Pamela even had a chance to say hello. “I spoke to Melanie this morning,” Bettina said, a bit breathlessly. “She called me first thing to say Roland won’t be at Knit and Nibble tonight and he didn’t want us to be waiting for him and wondering where he was.”

  “Oh, dear.” Pamela sighed. “Leave it to Roland. The poor man! He is conscientious! I doubt many people in his position would think of making sure their knitting group knew they weren’t coming.”

  Bettina nodded in agreement. “He’s interviewing lawyers. Roland is a lawyer, of course, but not that kind, the kind that defend criminals. He’s got contacts though.”

  “We’ve got to keep going on this Haven thing,” Pamela said. “If only there was some way to follow up before Saturday. Haven is our only real suspect.” She took a step toward the kitchen. “I can make more coffee . . .”

  “I’d love some”—Bettina conveyed her enthusiasm by opening her eyes so wide that Pamela could see white around her irises—“but I can’t stay. I’m on my way to the Advocate office.” She grabbed Pamela’s hand. “But Melanie said Roland would welcome a visit. He hasn’t been going to his office and he’s just been sitting at home knitting. He thinks people are afraid of him now because they think he’s a murderer.”

  “I’ve got work for the magazine today,” Pamela said (her morning email had brought four articles to evaluate), “but I can take a break.”

  “After lunch then? I’ll let Melanie know we’re coming.” Bettina turned toward the door.

  “After lunch,” Pamela agreed. “I’ll be ready.”

  The quarter cup of coffee remaining in the wedding china cup had grown cold by the time Pamela returned to the kitchen. She’d had enough coffee though, she decided, and rinsed the cup at the sink. Then she headed upstairs to get dressed and start her work day.

  * * *

  The first thing Pamela noticed when she and Bettina stepped through Roland’s front door was the swath of knitting that stretched halfway across his living room. It featured angora yarn the color of pistachio ice cream, and it was evidently a work in progress.

  It hung from knitting needles clicking busily away in Roland’s lap as he sat in the low-slung turquoise chair that faced the coffee table, and it curved up over the coffee table to land on the low-slung turquoise sofa, where it formed a fuzzy angora mound. Pamela had seen the yarn before, at the Knit and Nibble meeting from which Roland had been so suddenly removed.

  “It was going to be a sweater for his mother,” Melanie explained. She tried to muster an indulgent smile but gave up, and her pretty face sagged. “He had already started on the back, but then he just kept going. The knitting gives him something to do besides sit there and worry, but he can’t focus on directions. Fortunately he bought a lot of yarn when he started the project.”

  Roland was dressed, as he had been on Pamela and Bettina’s last visit, in dark slacks with a sharp pleat and a luxurious wool sweater. The sweater’s V-neck revealed the collar of a crisp white shirt, aggressively starched. Melanie, on the other hand, looked even more disheveled than she had been at their last visit. She was still in her robe and slippers, and her blonde hair hung in limp strands that looked in need of a shampoo.

  “You poor thing!” Bettina reached out and pulled Melanie toward her for a hug. Then she stepped back and studied Melanie’s face. She turned and applied the same scrutiny to Roland. “Have you been eating?” she demanded. “Either of you?”

  “Some crackers,” Melanie whispered. “I just can’t . . . and he . . .”

  “What about Ramona? And Cuddles?” Bettina sounded alarmed. “Are you feeding them?”

  “Of course, we’re feeding them.” Roland spoke without looking up from his knitting, his fingers busy with thrusting needles and looping yarn. “What do you think we are?” As if recognizing his name, Cuddles, who lay cozily tucked up next to Roland’s thigh, raised his head.

  “Well, I’m going to feed you humans,” Bettina exclaimed and headed for the hallway that led to the DeCamps’ kitchen. For a moment Melanie seemed uncertain what to do, glancing toward Roland and then t
oward Pamela. Finally she turned and followed Bettina.

  “I don’t know what you’ll find in there,” Pamela heard Melanie say. “Neither of us has been to the Co-Op since . . . since the night it happened.”

  “And all I bought was cat food,” Roland added, not in a voice loud enough to reach the kitchen, but as if rehearsing Monday night’s events to himself. “And that is the reason my car was seen near Diefenbach’s house.”

  “We believe you,” Pamela said. From the kitchen came the sound of rattling pots and the opening and closing of the refrigerator. “And you have access to good legal advice . . .” She edged over to the turquoise sofa and perched at the end not occupied by the heap of pistachio-colored angora.

  Roland continued to knit. “The police have what they think is solid evidence. I did argue with Diefenbach that day and my car was in front of his house that night. They didn’t find the murder weapon, so that means there’s no way to say my fingerprints aren’t on it. And any other people who might have had motives also seem to have alibis. I understand there was a jilted girlfriend. And then there’s MacDonald, of course. I suppose he came up with a credible alibi, at least credible to his pals on the police force. And don’t tell me a guy who was mayor as many terms as MacDonald was doesn’t have pals on the police force.”

  Pamela was about to mention Haven, but she bit her tongue. Roland didn’t need to have his hopes raised only to be dashed—assuming he’d even take seriously the idea that Pamela and Bettina could successfully challenge the results of a police investigation. And they wouldn’t be able to follow up their suspicions about Haven for several days.

  So she didn’t mention Haven. Rather, she said, “You must have been near his house right when the murder was happening. You told us you stopped at the stop sign on his corner. Did you notice anything? The police must have asked you that . . .”

  Roland shook his head, his lean face intent on the motions of his busy fingers. “I didn’t,” he said, “and they didn’t.”