Knit of the Living Dead Page 21

  Pamela tugged on her jacket as she ran across the street, and she arrived panting on Bettina’s porch with finger already extended toward the doorbell. Bettina’s car was in the driveway, but Wilfred’s wasn’t—hopefully, the two hadn’t gone out somewhere together.

  Pamela pressed the doorbell once, twice, three times, and heard it echo inside. Then Bettina was at the door, her expression modulating from welcoming smile to alarm, undoubtedly startled by her friend’s intensity.

  “We have to look at all the pictures the Advocate photographer took at the Halloween bonfire,” Pamela exclaimed by way of a greeting. “I think we can get into the Advocate’s archives with your password.”

  “Of course.” Bettina backed away, looking flustered, and Pamela stepped over the threshold. “Why?”

  “Grab your phone and I’ll explain,” Pamela said. “It has to do with the murders.”

  As they sat side by side on Bettina’s sofa, Pamela described the puzzle piece that had fallen into place as she read the article about the Greek Fates. “And then I called Nell,” she said, “and that was another puzzle piece, and I remembered the shrieking person. I understand that too. Now we just have to . . .”

  Bettina’s fingers were busy on her phone’s screen, swiping through photo after photo. The two friends, their heads close together, bent toward the phone and stared as they relived the evening that had started as a pleasant community ritual and ended in the discovery of a murder. The photographer’s lens had captured zombies and witches, princesses and gremlins, even Pamela in her not-very-convincing cat costume, and—

  “There,” Pamela exclaimed with an excited lurch that jolted the sofa. “That’s the costume! In the background. See—there!” She pointed at a small figure garbed in flowing draperies, silhouetted against the dancing flames of the bonfire. “Keep going. Maybe there’s a close-up.”

  Bettina stroked the screen with her forefinger and a child dressed as Batman appeared, then a very recognizable Harold in his vampire costume. But in the next photo, the figure in the flowing draperies returned, still in the background but facing the camera.

  “Look,” Pamela said. “Look where she’s standing now, and look closely at her face. Isn’t that . . . ?”

  Bettina lifted the phone to within a few inches of her eyes, then held it out at arm’s length. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “So . . .”

  “She’s up there now.” Pamela rose to her feet. She was still wearing her jacket.

  “We’re not walking, though.” Bettina jumped up and hurried to the closet for her coat.

  “Don’t leave your phone behind,” Pamela advised as Bettina reached for the doorknob.

  Chapter 23

  “We just got to wondering how Martha’s doing with the clean out,” Bettina said after they’d climbed the curving steps that led to Nell’s front door and Nell had greeted them with a puzzled hello. “I’d hate to think she was throwing away yarn that could make infant caps or Christmas stockings,” she went on. “You should come over with us. Mary really had accumulated an amazing amount of stuff.”

  Nell tipped her head and narrowed her eyes, giving them a look she had probably perfected while raising her children. “That’s all you’re after, then?” she said as a half smile threatened to sabotage her attempt at sternness.

  “It’s up to you,” Pamela answered with a half smile of her own. “If you don’t mind missing out.”

  Nell’s glance traveled from Pamela’s face to Bettina’s and back to Pamela’s. Her faded eyes were sharp in their nests of wrinkles. “I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” she said. “I’ll get my coat.”

  * * *

  “More yarn? Sure.” Martha led them up the stairs to the craft room, which looked much the same as it had on Friday. The closet doors stood open, revealing the sewing and knitting supplies, and the magazines and pattern books—minus only the yarn that Pamela and Bettina had carried away in pillowcases. The oak table’s surface was still cluttered, and the drawers in the huge chest that dominated one wall were doubtless still brimming with linens . . . or blankets . . . or out-of-season clothes.

  With a cordial repetition of Friday’s I’ll leave you to it, Martha was on her way out the door. But Pamela nodded and Bettina recognized her cue. She hopped forward and touched Martha on the arm.

  “It’s you,” she cried. “What a coincidence!” She pulled her phone from her purse and said, “I’ve just been going over the Advocate photos from Halloween, trying to identify people for an article.” She tapped at the phone for a second and then displayed the photo where the figure in the flowing draperies was looking right at the camera, tilting the phone so Martha could see it clearly. “I want to use this photo, but it needs a caption.”

  Martha frowned. “Didn’t the Advocate already cover the parade, and the bonfire . . . and the murder? I think I found that issue out in the driveway last week.”

  Bettina smiled. “Our motto is ‘All the news that fits’—at least, that’s what people in town say. There wasn’t room for all the pictures in one issue.”

  Martha took a step back and waved the phone away. “Well, it’s not me,” she said. “I wasn’t even at the bonfire. Why would I be?”

  Bettina held up the phone and glanced back and forth between it and Martha, as if comparing the photo with the real-life person. “I’m sure it is you,” she insisted. “And the Greek outfit—aren’t you a classics professor, just like Brainard was?”

  Martha closed her eyes and tightened her lips. She continued to retreat, waving her hand more rapidly—flapping it, almost. She seemed to be trying to cancel out the scene unfolding before her.

  Pamela stepped close to her and took her by the arm. Martha halted and opened her eyes. “Is there some reason you wouldn’t want it known that you were at the bonfire?” Pamela asked. Her voice was calm, like the voice of a friend concerned about Martha’s evident distress.

  “Of course not,” Martha said quickly. She frowned, which made her look quite formidable. “What would I have to hide?”

  Pamela tipped her head toward the curious charm on the chain around Martha’s neck. As if she was just noticing it for the first time, she said, “Why do you wear the spindle charm?” She waited a moment, as Martha’s expression changed from irritated to pleased. But before she could explain the spindle’s significance in terms of her research project, which was perhaps what she meant to do, Pamela spoke again.

  “You should really wear the shears,” she said. “You cut the thread of life and tied it around your victims’ necks.”

  Suddenly, Martha was transformed. Her expression—brow furrowed, eyes wide, mouth gaping—might have suited a Greek Fury. She wrenched herself out of Pamela’s grip and plunged across the room toward the oak table that held the sewing machine. She seized the most lethal-looking of the various scissors lying on its cluttered surface and turned to face Pamela, waving the scissors menacingly.

  Pamela retreated a few steps, but she continued talking as Bettina and Nell watched from behind Martha’s back, at a post near the open closet. “You never got over the fact that your sister stole the man you loved,” Pamela said.

  Martha made a choking sound, and the hand waving the scissors faltered.

  “But why wait all this time to do something about it?” Pamela asked. “Over twenty years, a generation?”

  “I thought I’d recovered.” Martha’s voice had become small. “And I had the chance to spend a year out here—the libraries and museums in Manhattan have exactly the research materials I needed. I thought if I lived near Brainard and Mary, we could all just be friends. But then, to see the way she treated him—like she didn’t even care for him, and she’d stolen him away from me and ruined my life. Then after she was . . . gone, I threw myself at him.”

  Nell and Bettina looked at each other, their faces brightening.

  “That was you shrieking outside that night, wasn’t it,” Nell said, not unkindly.

&nb
sp; Martha nodded, and her head remained bowed. “I said awful things. I told him his son would have turned out smarter, and wouldn’t have been attracted to such a low-class girl, if he’d married me. He tried to calm me down, and he drove me back to the city. But I came back later that night, and you know the rest.”

  Martha’s arms had been hanging dejectedly at her sides as she spoke, but now her right arm jerked at the elbow and she aimed the scissors straight at her own throat. “I have nothing left to live for,” she moaned.

  Bettina jumped forward and grabbed Martha’s right arm. Martha twitched, and the scissors fell to the floor with a clunk.

  Then Bettina raised her phone and tapped in 911.

  Chapter 24

  Pamela’s favorite cut-glass bowl sat on the kitchen table, a layer of ladyfingers already in place on its bottom. She picked up a giant spoon and began adding a layer of the stewed apples she had prepared the previous day. The soothing rhythms of cooking had been a welcome distraction from reporters’ telephone calls and visits.

  Bettina watched attentively. She had dressed for the evening’s meeting of Knit and Nibble with her customary flair, in an outfit that paired wide-legged pants in a vivid mustard shade with a fetching waist-length jacket in large black-and-white checks. Her antique amber and silver earrings dangled from her earlobes. The two friends had already discussed Sunday’s adventure, agreeing that there was no harm in letting Detective Clayborn believe that they’d visited the Lyon-Covington house on Sunday with the sole purpose of rescuing yarn that might otherwise go to waste.

  “Martha had a very guilty conscience,” Bettina repeated for the umpteenth time, and Pamela nodded.

  There was probably a great deal of truth in that statement. Yes, they had paid their call on Martha with the express purpose of eliciting a confession—but Martha had been more than happy to oblige. And when the police responded to Bettina’s 911 call, Martha had repeated nearly verbatim the sad tale of her love for Brainard, her sister’s perfidy, and the desperate measures to which she had resorted.

  “Which apples did you use?” Bettina asked suddenly, glancing at the wooden bowl on the counter, which still contained a goodly number of the heirloom apples from the farmers market.

  “The firm, sour ones are best for this,” Pamela said, “so they don’t get too mushy when you cook them. I picked out all the Rhode Island Greenings, and I added a little sugar, but not too much.”

  “Clayborn is relieved the murders have been solved, of course.” Bettina returned to the previous topic. “I didn’t think it was necessary to remind him that poor Dawn Filbert was killed only because the borrowed Bo Peep costume caused Martha to mistake her for Mary—even though I suggested that possibility right from the start.” She watched as Pamela returned the giant spoon to the bowl of stewed apples, and her gaze followed the bowl as Pamela set it aside.

  “Could I just . . . do you think . . . ?” Bettina’s voice was apologetic, but hopeful.

  “Of course.” Pamela laughed. “Help yourself to a spoon from the drawer and tell me what you think.”

  Bettina furnished herself with a spoon and sampled the stewed apples, pronouncing them yummy as Pamela retrieved from the refrigerator the bowl of custard that would form the third layer. She spooned an inch of custard over the apples and then covered it with more ladyfingers, laid in concentric circles like pale, delicate brickwork.

  “When does the whipped cream go in?” Bettina asked.

  “At the end,” Pamela said. “It’s not one of the layers. It goes on top, and I’ll whip it just as soon as Roland looks at his watch and reminds us it’s time to nibble.” She continued with the layering, spooning apples over the ladyfingers and then spooning custard over the apples.

  “Shall I get out cups and saucers?” Bettina scanned the kitchen to check whether this task had been anticipated.

  “It’s done.” Without looking away from her careful work, Pamela nodded toward the door that led from the kitchen to the dining room. “And bowls too. Bowls are better than plates for trifle.”

  Bettina swiveled around to glance into the dining room, where Pamela had spread a lace tablecloth over the table and arranged seven each of cups, saucers, and bowls from her wedding china, along with spoons and carefully pressed linen napkins.

  “Oh!” Bettina’s bright red nails flashed as she raised a hand to her mouth. “Seven people—yes, Felicity is coming, but there’s to be an eighth. I forgot to tell you.”

  Pamela laughed. “Whenever we debate about adding more members, we usually decide six people is a perfect number. I know Felicity is moving down to Princeton when she finishes her semester at County Community and just wants to get some momentum going with her knitting. But who is this other person? And does she—or he—want to join for real?”

  “It’s Greg Dixon’s girlfriend,” Bettina said. “He’s that nice young man who reminded me so much of my Warren.”

  “And it turned out he really is a nice young man and didn’t kill anyone.” Pamela took up her rubber spatula and used it to coax the last bits of custard onto the trifle. “But why is his girlfriend coming here tonight?”

  Bettina started to answer, but both were distracted by the doorbell’s chime. Pamela checked the clock over the kitchen sink. It was only ten minutes to seven.

  Bettina hurried toward the entry, the words “I’ll get it” trailing behind her.

  The trifle was complete now, except for the whipped cream, and it would wait in the refrigerator until eight p.m. But Pamela left it on the kitchen table for a moment and stepped close to the doorway to listen.

  The front door opened, and a cheery—but unfamiliar—voice responded to Bettina’s greeting. Pamela took a few steps into the entry.

  A young woman who looked to be of the same generation as Holly and Karen was slipping out of a casual wool jacket as Bettina held a canvas tote bag from which knitting needles protruded.

  “This is Gwen,” Bettina explained. “Greg’s girlfriend, Gwen Talbot.”

  “I guess I’m a little early.” Gwen glanced toward the living room, with its unoccupied sofa and chairs. “I wanted to be sure I could find the house.” She was attractive in a pleasant sort of way, with light brown hair styled in a wash-and-wear bob and bright, eager eyes.

  “You’re very welcome.” Pamela gestured toward the living room. “I’m just finishing up in the kitchen, but you and Bettina can—” At that moment they heard a light tapping and then the door, which Bettina hadn’t closed all the way, swung inward. Nell’s face appeared, and then her whole body, as she stepped over the threshold.

  “Hello, hello,” Nell said. “The door was ajar, so I didn’t ring”—she turned back toward the porch—“and here comes Roland, right behind me.” Nell advanced farther into the entry and stood aside as Roland joined her, briefcase in hand.

  Bettina introduced Gwen to Nell and Roland, and Pamela urged them all to make themselves comfortable in the living room. Nell and Roland obeyed, and Nell beckoned Gwen to follow her, but Bettina tagged along when Pamela returned to the kitchen.

  “As I was about to say,” Bettina said, speaking to Pamela’s back until they had both resumed their previous positions at the table, “Greg Dixon emailed me at the Advocate yesterday.”

  Pamela had picked up the bowl containing the trifle, but now she put it down again. “Why?” she asked. Out in the living room, Roland was insisting that the hassock was perfectly fine for him and the ladies should take the sofa.

  “He saw the article in the Register about Martha confessing,” Bettina explained, “and how you and I and Nell were there and prevented her suicide and called the police—and he wanted to let me know he was glad everything had been resolved. And he also wanted to let me know that he was offered the job he had that interview for. I guess he could sense my motherly interest.”

  “And he mentioned that his girlfriend was looking for a knitting club?”

  Bettina smiled and shrugged. “I commented on the hand-knit
sweater with the missing sleeves when I emailed back. One thing led to another. But she doesn’t want to join. She’s moving closer to her new job soon.”

  The doorbell chimed again, and once again, Bettina hurried toward the entry.

  “Felicity!” Pamela heard her exclaim, then, “You’re wearing your beautiful engagement ring. I’m so happy for you and Herc.”

  Pamela slid the trifle onto a shelf in the refrigerator and then set about preparing her carafe for the coffee-brewing, filling the kettle, and grinding coffee beans. When those tasks were complete, she took her best teapot from the cupboard and measured in enough loose tea for six cups. Perhaps Gwen or Felicity would turn out to be a tea drinker like Nell and Karen. Then she added one more cup, saucer, bowl, spoon, and napkin to the arrangement on her dining room table.

  The doorbell chimed once again, and when Pamela finally joined her guests, Nell, Gwen, and Holly were lined up on the sofa. Karen was almost lost in the comfortable embrace of the big armchair while Roland perched on the hassock, immaculate in his pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, and lustrous tie. Bettina had brought in two chairs from the dining room for her and Felicity, and they’d saved the rummage sale chair with the carved wooden back and the needlepoint seat for Pamela.

  Holly greeted her by saying, “Of course, we’re all brimming with curiosity,” accompanied by one of the smiles that showed both her perfect teeth and her dimple to advantage. Her luxuriant hair flowed in loose waves to her shoulders, with her trademark colored streak—bright orange tonight—accenting her pretty forehead.

  Nell’s voice came from the sofa. “Nobody believes we just happened to be visiting Martha when she decided to confess and then turn a pair of scissors on herself.” A secret smile played about her lips. “I think they all know you too well, Pamela.”