A Fatal Yarn Page 17

  Chapter 18

  It wasn’t ten a.m. In fact it was barely eight. Catrina and Ginger were still crouched companionably over their breakfast, tails switching back and forth with pleasure, when the doorbell and then frantic knocking summoned Pamela to the door.

  Bettina stood on the porch, her pumpkin-colored coat pulled over a flowered nightgown that trailed to her ankles. Her face, still marked by signs of sleep, was bare of makeup and her hair was uncombed.

  “He’s giving LeCorbusier away,” she moaned. LeCorbusier was the name Richard Larkin had given to the cat he adopted from Catrina’s litter.

  “How do you know?” Pamela stepped aside to let Bettina enter.

  “Wilfred saw him, two minutes ago, when he went out to get the paper. Richard was putting a cat-carrier into the back of his Jeep Cherokee.”

  “Maybe it was empty,” Pamela suggested. “Maybe he’s loaning it to someone.”

  “He was talking to it.” Bettina’s hazel eyes were tragic. “Or rather to the cat that was in it. He was saying not to be nervous. Wilfred could hear him from across the street.”

  “Maybe he was just taking LeCorbusier to the vet,” Pamela said.

  Bettina shook her head, stirring the disordered tendrils of her scarlet hair. “He was saying that LeCorbusier would be happy in his new home.”

  “Oh, dear.” Pamela sighed. “What can be going on? He was so enthusiastic about the adoption.”

  “I don’t know.” Bettina shook her head again. “I don’t know. Maybe Wilfred can find something out. He and Richard often have little chats.”

  “I haven’t even started coffee yet,” Pamela said. “So why don’t I make extra, and we can—”

  Bettina grabbed Pamela’s hands. “I’d love to stay, but I’ve got to get dressed and hurry over to the Advocate office. Then we have our errands at ten.” She gave Pamela’s hands a squeeze, released them, and turned toward the door. “But I just don’t know how I can concentrate on anything,” she moaned, “when this tragic thing has happened.”

  Pamela’s own cats had vanished by the time she returned to the kitchen. But as soon as the sun was high enough to brighten the worn thrift-store rug in the entry, Catrina would seek out her favorite sunny spot, Pamela knew. And LeCorbusier would be fine. She was sure of that. Richard Larkin was a kind man, and he’d been a responsible cat owner. What could have happened, though, to make him decide he could no longer give a home to LeCorbusier?

  She set the kettle boiling on the stove, fetched the Register from her front walk, and slipped a slice of whole-grain bread into the toaster.

  A short time later, fortified by her morning toast and coffee and dressed in her cool-weather uniform of jeans and a sweater, she removed Ginger from her computer’s keyboard and sat down to work. When she checked her email, the article on Hmong story cloths reappeared, with instructions from her boss to edit it and return it by the next morning.

  Before embarking on that task though, she dallied a bit by scrolling through the photographs that had charmed her so much on first reading the article. The author had included images of story cloths that ranged from panoramic views of riverside villages to intimate scenes of women at work. Rivers, plied by watercraft large and small, teemed with fish. Farm yards boasted fruit-laden trees, well-fed poultry, and jovial pigs. Women squatted over fires, tending steaming cauldrons, while children frolicked nearby.

  Such a human impulse, she reflected, to express oneself with whatever art materials were at hand. And women, whose world was so much narrower in some cultures, had found in crafts like needlework or weaving or quilting or knitting vehicles for their artistry. She immersed herself in the article itself then, untangling a sentence here and there, correcting a bit of spelling, and making sure the punctuation and capitalization conformed to the Fiber Craft style manual. As ten a.m. neared, she saved her work and stepped into the bathroom to neaten her hair. By the time Bettina rang the doorbell, she was standing in the entry staring into the closet where she kept her outdoor wear.

  “You won’t need your winter jacket,” Bettina said as she stepped over the threshold. “It’s starting to feel like spring again.”

  Bettina’s homage to the change in the weather involved replacing her pumpkin-colored down coat with her bright yellow trench coat and her rain booties with her chartreuse pumps. A bit of chartreuse framed in the V of her coat collar suggested the dress beneath the trench coat matched the shoes, and dangling earrings set with chartreuse stones carried out the chartreuse theme.

  “Wilfred is going to talk to Richard tonight,” she added. “He wants to ask him for advice on the castle he’s building for the Arborville grandchildren, but he’ll find a way to inquire about LeCorbusier.” She smiled down at Catrina, who had claimed her sunny spot and was dozing on the entry rug.

  Pamela slipped into a favorite old tan jacket, parka style in cotton twill, with a zipper front.

  “The Advocate got a letter to the editor from that nutty note-writing person,” Bettina said as Pamela collected her keys and reached for the doorknob. “He—or she—wanted to remind people that it’s officially been spring for more than three weeks and it’s time for spring yard cleanup. But they shouldn’t put yard waste out on any night other than Sunday, and then not before six p.m. because it’s an—”

  “Eyesore?” Pamela suggested.

  “Eyesore.” Bettina nodded.

  “Well, he’s nothing if not consistent,” Pamela commented.

  “Or she,” Bettina said. “We don’t know for sure.”

  * * *

  The meatloaf and scalloped potatoes had been delivered, with instructions to microwave portions as needed, and gratefully accepted. Now Bettina was navigating her way up a curious winding road at the upper edge of The Farm where the slope that led to the cliffs overlooking the Hudson began.

  She left the last well-groomed block of The Farm behind and made a sharp turn onto a narrow road. The road ran through a bit of hilly woods that still remained from the days before anyone except the Lenni Lenape inhabited the land that was now Arborville. When the road emerged from the woods, it trailed off into a gravel surface that was little more than a wide path. Ahead were the community gardens, fallow now, and a gravel-covered lot where people parked when they came to work on their gardens. And tucked off to the left, on the edge of the woods, was a little one-story house that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

  Its shingled siding had weathered to a shade of gray-brown that blended with the woods, but the window frames, shutters, and front door looked freshly painted, and in a pleasing shade of dark green that complemented the color of the house. A tidy brick path led from the road to the door, and the yard seemed carefully planned. There was no lawn, not even a brown stubble waiting for more rain and sun to come alive, but rather trees just beginning to bud, and shrubs, and beds of dark earth where crocus and daffodils had already appeared and green nubbins suggested that tulips and more were in the offing. Near the porch was a neatly arranged pile of split logs. A wheelbarrow filled with mulch was parked near an open gate that gave a glimpse into the backyard. A smaller brick path branching off from the main one led to the gate and continued beyond.

  Bettina continued on for a bit and steered the Toyota into the lot for the community gardens. Then crunching over the gravel, Pamela and Bettina made their way back to Jack Delaney’s house. As they reached the brick path, the door of the house opened and onto the front porch stepped a man wearing faded blue jeans and a fringed suede jacket. His luxuriant moustache was a grayish blond color, as was the hair that flowed over the collar of the jacket. Jack Delaney, Pamela realized, was the man who had been so extremely vocal about his dislike of Diefenbach at the memorial reception. Had she known that he was the person they were coming in search of, she might have given more thought to a strategic approach.

  Bettina hesitated at the end of the path and Pamela hesitated with her. But Jack Delaney had caught sight of them. “Hey!” he called in a gra
vel-voiced but genial enough manner. “I won’t bite!”

  Pamela ventured forward, Bettina following. But as they got closer, his manner changed.

  “You two were at that confab for the fans of Daffy-brain, weren’t you?” he said scowling. “What do you want with me?”

  Pamela mustered her social smile, though Jack Delaney didn’t seem like the type who responded to conventional social signals. Bettina, meanwhile, stepped out from behind Pamela. “We’re from the Advocate,” she said cheerily, sticking out a hand. “I’m Bettina Fraser. Perhaps you recognize my byline.” She accompanied the words with a bright smile.

  “Can’t say I pay any attention to that thing,” Jack Delaney said.

  “Community journalism serves a valuable purpose.” Bettina’s smile was undimmed. “Most people are more affected by what happens locally than what happens nationally.”

  “Umph!” It was hard to read Jack Delaney’s expression because his moustache hid his mouth, but his eyes looked slightly kinder. “I don’t want to talk about politics, and I know that’s what’s on everybody’s mind right now.”

  “Oh, no!” Bettina made a pretty gesture with her hands, as if pushing away the very idea of politics. Her nails, lavender today, glittered. “I drove up here with my associate Pamela Paterson”—she thrust an arm around Pamela’s waist—“to report on the state of the community gardens. But I don’t think I’ll find anything there to compare with your yard.” Bettina left the brick path and stepped delicately over a bare patch of earth in her chartreuse pumps. She paused when she reached a stand of daffodils that softened the geometry of Jack Delaney’s porch railing. The daffodils were the exact bright yellow of her trench coat. “I love daffodils,” she said, “and I see you’ve got crocus coming up, and”—she pointed toward a bed where green nubbins were pushing up—“tulips?”

  “Imported from Holland.” Jack Delaney crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “I order new ones every year. Hybrids don’t come back the same, you know.” He uncrossed his arms and waved toward the stand of daffodils, setting the fringe on his jacket sleeve in motion. “Daffodils, on the other hand—plant bulbs once and you’ll have them for the rest of your life, more and more every year.” He edged toward the large tree that anchored one side of his yard. “She’s been with me forever too,” he said, patting its trunk fondly. “She’ll be getting her blossoms soon, and she gives me a good crop of apricots every year.”

  “Do you grow other food?” Bettina asked.

  We already know he does, said a voice in Pamela’s head. Brandon MacDonald told us that. But she stilled the voice and remained where she was, lingering at the end of the brick path. Bettina had ways of getting people to reveal things, and Jack Delaney was definitely warming up to her.

  “Most of what I eat.” The moustache made it hard to tell if he was smiling, but crinkles had appeared at the corners of his eyes.

  “You must have a very extensive vegetable garden then.” Bettina met his gaze with a wide-eyed expression that suggested amazement and respect. She glanced toward the open gate. “I don’t suppose. . .”

  “Awww.” Jack Delaney really did seem pleased now, if looking at the ground in embarrassment was a sign. “There’s not much to see yet, though I do have some tomatoes starting in a cold-frame . . .”

  “I always wondered how people did that,” Bettina said as she took a few steps toward the open gate.

  Jack Delaney strode ahead and moved the wheelbarrow out of the way. He stood aside as Bettina passed through the gate and waited as Pamela hurried along the brick path to join them.

  The garden was dormant, but its layout was clear—a rectangle that took up half the back yard, marked by long parallel ridges where crops would be sown in neat rows and valleys where irrigation water would flow. Here and there a desiccated stalk, a bit of stubble, or a brittle tangle of vines remained from the previous year’s harvest. At one end was a line of long stakes planted in clusters of three and joined at the top teepee-style. They were similar to constructions Pamela had seen in Nell’s garden—frameworks for runner beans to climb on Nell had said.

  Behind the garden was a mini-replica of Jack Delaney’s house, complete with faded shingle siding and dark green paint accenting the two small windows and the open doorway centered between them. A chicken-wire fence marked out an expansive yard surrounding the little house. As they watched, a rooster appeared in the doorway, a magnificent creature with glossy feathers that shaded from fiery orange on his neck and chest to the iridescent blue-black plumes that formed his exuberant tail. He strutted forth, turning his head this way and that as if to display the proud serrations of his bright red comb and his quivering wattles.

  With a delighted squeal, Bettina reached for Jack Delaney’s leather-clad arm. “Oh, my goodness!” she said. “So this is where the Arborville rooster lives!” She gazed awe-struck at the rooster then, without altering her expression, tilted her head to gaze at Jack Delaney. “That rooster certainly has plenty to crow about.” Jack Delaney gazed back at Bettina and fingered his moustache.

  Pamela was quite impressed by the rooster too, as she was by Bettina’s success in breaking through Jack Delaney’s defenses, though she hoped Bettina’s flirtation was no more than an act.

  “Does he live there all by himself?” Bettina had let go of Jack Delaney’s arm but was still gazing at him with wide eyes.

  “What do you think?” Jack Delaney asked in a teasing tone. “Could an impressive fellow like that be content to live alone?” The gravel in his voice lent the question a seductive quality.

  Bettina answered the teasing tone with a teasing smile and murmured, “That would be a waste . . .”

  “The house is actually a henhouse.” Jack Delaney nodded. “Heated, comfortable as can be. I’ve got a few Araucanas and a Faverolle and a Barnevelder—she’s a pretty little thing. My rooster has a whole harem. And I’ve got eggs for breakfast every day.”

  He was silent for a bit then, watching as the rooster scratched around in the dirt.

  “The cold-frames,” Bettina said. “You were going to show us the cold-frames.”

  “Over here.” Jack Delaney set off toward the back of his house. “Around the side here, the south side.” He led them to an area where what looked like salvaged windows had been set atop shallow wooden boxes built to fit them. Hinges fastened the windows to one long side of the boxes.

  Pamela was interested in tomatoes. She enjoyed growing her own in the summer, though she had never been so ambitious as to start them from seeds. So she should have been paying attention as Jack Delaney described to Bettina the ins and outs of cold-frames. But as he talked, she was reflecting that one of the questions she and Bettina had come with had been answered. Yes, Jack Delaney had hens, hens that laid eggs. But then there was the other question: What had Jack Delaney been doing the night Diefenbach was killed?

  “You must have more eggs than you can use,” she heard herself say. “With so many hens.”

  “Umph?” He had been stooping over the cold-frame, pointing out the tiny seedlings getting a head start on their growing season. Now he stood up and looked at Pamela. “Angling for a sample, are you?” he asked with a frown.

  Pamela took a step backwards, startled. “No . . . I . . . it just seemed . . .”

  “I guarantee eggs from free-range chickens don’t taste like grocery store eggs,” Jack Delaney said. “Lots of people don’t like them.”

  “Did Bill Diefenbach?” Pamela asked, ignoring the vision of Bettina, peeking out from behind Jack Delaney with a horrified expression on her face.

  “Bill Diefenbach? What does he have to do with anything?” The brusque manner that had been on display at the memorial reception returned. Jack Delaney lowered his head like a bull about to charge and clenched his fists. Pamela took another step backwards. He whirled around to glare at Bettina. “What’s all this about? Buttering me up so you can . . . because you think you’re—what?—an investigative journalist?” S
corn compacted the gravel in his voice and it rose in pitch. “For the Arborville Advocate? The lamest newspaper on earth?”

  He stepped back so Pamela and Bettina were between him and the gate that they’d entered earlier. “Interview’s over, ladies.” He flung his arms wide and gestured in a herding motion, causing the fringe on his jacket sleeves to flap wildly. “It’s been nice knowing you.”

  Pamela and Bettina headed obediently toward the open gate and retreated along the brick path that led to the road. But before they reached the road, Bettina stopped and turned. “I’m sorry my associate upset you,” she called to Jack Delaney, who was standing near his wheelbarrow watching them leave. “Thank you for showing us your rooster and the cold-frames.”

  Pamela wasn’t sure exactly what she was seeing at that distance, but it almost seemed that Jack Delaney winked. “I am the walrus,” he called.

  Chapter 19

  Bettina was silent until they reached the Toyota, stalking ahead of Pamela and crunching recklessly over the gravel of the parking lot despite the delicacy of her chartreuse pumps. Then, before even extracting her car key from her purse, she spoke. Glaring across the hood of the car at Pamela, who was standing near the passenger-side door, she said, “Why on earth did you ask him that? You ruined everything.”

  “I didn’t see that things were moving in the direction we wanted.” Pamela tried to keep her voice neutral.

  “You didn’t trust me?” Bettina ended the question with her brows raised and her bright lips parted.

  “You seemed so interested in the tomato seedlings. . .”

  “Of course I seemed interested in the tomato seedlings. Jack was interested in them and he wanted to show them off, and he was really warming up to me.” Bettina’s brows rose higher and she spoke in the dry tone of someone clarifying the obvious.

  “I could see that.” The statement popped out before Pamela had a chance to censor it. She tried to recover by adding, “But the tomato seedlings didn’t seem to have much to do with Diefenbach and . . .”