Silent Knit, Deadly Knit Read online

  “What can I carry?” came a cheery voice from the doorway. It was Holly, eyes shining and dimply smile in place. She caught sight of the tray of cookies on the counter. “Ohhh!” She clapped and her brilliant red nails glittered in the bright kitchen. “Did you make these?” She stared at Pamela. “I know you’re an awesome cook, but these are just too amazing.”

  “I can’t take all the credit,” Pamela said. “I baked them, but Bettina and Wilfred helped with the decorating.”

  Bettina stripped the plastic wrap from the cookie tray. “Wilfred did most of the Santas,” she added.

  Holly leaned close to inspect the colorful assortment that included Santas, wreaths, reindeer, stars, and Christmas trees. “The Santa even has eyes,” she exclaimed, “and a little red nose.” She reached for the tray. “I’ll take them in.” Bettina retrieved the carton of cream from the refrigerator and filled the cut-glass creamer, then followed Holly to the living room bearing cream and sugar.

  The hooting kettle summoned Pamela to the stove, and in a few seconds the aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen as the steaming water dripped through the fresh grounds and into the carafe below. Pamela refilled the kettle and set it to boiling again for the tea. From the living room came a chorus of praise for the cookies, a chorus that even included Roland’s measured tones.

  “Tea for Nell, of course, and everyone else wants coffee.” Bettina had returned. “I’ll take out these plates for the cookies then come back and pour some coffee,” she said before picking up the stack of small plates and heading through the kitchen door again. Once back from that errand, she removed the plastic cone from the top of the carafe and transferred the carafe to the table where the wedding-china cups waited. She filled the cups, pouring the dark liquid into the pale porcelain traced with delicate rose garlands.

  “Only five coffees,” Pamela reminded her. “I put out an extra cup before I knew Karen wouldn’t be here.”

  “Karen would be tea anyway,” Bettina said, continuing with her coffee-pouring task. “One last cup to fill, then I’ll start carrying them out.”

  “Take the spoons too,” Pamela said, “and an empty cup for Nell. I’ll bring the teapot and she can let it steep till it’s the way she likes it.”

  When the kettle began to hoot, Pamela added the boiling water to the teapot and carried it to the living room, depositing it on the hearth near the armchair where Nell sat. A lively conversation was in progress.

  “I think it’s a perfectly fine use of my tax dollars,” Nell was saying.

  Pamela resumed her seat on the footstool. She didn’t have to wait long to learn what use of tax dollars was being discussed and who wasn’t in favor of it. Nell had barely finished speaking when Roland leaned forward. The action was so precipitous that if Bettina, who was next to him on the sofa, hadn’t reacted quickly the plate balanced on Roland’s pinstripe-clad knee would have slid to the floor.

  “I don’t need to see tinsel, colored lights, and blinking stars festooning every light pole along Arborville Avenue,” he said, his lean face intense, “not to mention that they start appearing the day after Halloween.”

  “They’re not on every light pole along Arborville Avenue.” Bettina handed him the plate she had rescued, half-eaten Santa undisturbed. “Only the few blocks where the shops are.”

  “Then let the merchants pay to put the decorations up.” Roland accepted the plate and returned it to his knee.

  “Everyone enjoys the decorations,” Nell observed mildly. “Winter is such a sad, dark time. People have always used light to remind themselves it won’t last forever.”

  “It’s a frivolous expenditure,” Roland grumbled, “and our property taxes go up every year, and meanwhile the broken curb in front of my house has gone unrepaired for months.”

  “Everything doesn’t always have to be practical,” Holly observed. “Take these awesome cookies. They’d taste just as good if they weren’t shaped and decorated to look like Santas and reindeer. But aren’t we all enjoying them all the more because of the way they look?”

  “I certainly am.” Charlotte flourished a half-eaten reindeer. She’d pulled the rummage-sale chair with the carved wooden back and needlepoint seat closer to the coffee table, where her coffee cup sat, and she’d unfolded the lace-trimmed napkin and laid it neatly across her lap.

  “I am too,” Nell said, “though a little bit of sugar goes a long way.”

  “You must take some home for Harold,” Pamela said. “I’ll put them in a bag before you leave.”

  “The decorations are up in downtown Timberley too,” Charlotte said. “I think all the towns have them.”

  “Does Timberley have Santa come around in a fire truck scaring everyone half to death?” Roland asked.

  “Oh, Roland!” Nell laughed. “When people hear sirens in the afternoon on the Sunday before Christmas, everybody knows it’s Santa. It’s an old Arborville tradition. My children used to love it. They’d run out to the corner and watch him come up the hill, and they’d wave and wave.”

  “And what if there was really a fire while everyone was out having a good time?” Roland frowned.

  “I’m sure lots of the firefighters stay back at the firehouse.” Bettina turned toward Roland with an answering frown. “And there’s more than one fire truck.”

  “Too many for a town this size. Toys for overgrown boys, paid for by the taxpayers.” Roland’s frown deepened.

  Nell chuckled from the depths of the armchair, the delicate rose-garland cup that contained her tea poised halfway to her mouth. “Oh, you men all love your toys. And people are certainly happy to see those fire engines if there’s a fire.”

  “I do not love toys,” Roland said stiffly. “I do not have toys.”

  “What about that fancy watch of yours?” Bettina chuckled, but not as gently as Nell had done.

  Roland swiveled toward her and, jarred by the sudden movement, the plate balanced on his knee slipped to the floor. “My watch is not a toy,” he announced, his voice stern. “It’s a precision instrument.”

  But that clarification was lost in the sudden bustle, as Holly and Bettina dove for the fallen plate and Charlotte sprang from her seat. “It’s your beautiful china,” Charlotte moaned, leaning over the coffee table. Roland continued to frown, but he folded his arms across his chest in a defensive gesture.

  Pamela had felt a pang as she saw the plate tip and then slide. But she’d decided long ago that she’d rather an incomplete set of china remained behind when she was no longer around to enjoy it than twelve place settings in pristine condition because they’d never been used.

  Bettina’s muffled voice came from somewhere near the floor. “It’s okay,” she announced as she straightened up and eased her hand, bearing the intact plate, past the edge of the coffee table and through the space between her knees and Roland’s. “Your rug cushioned the fall, Pamela,” she observed.

  “And here’s the rest of the cookie.” At her end of the sofa, Holly triumphantly waved a Santa half. “I love your rugs, Pamela, and they go so well with your beautiful old things.”

  Looking chastened, and somewhat relieved, Roland accepted plate and cookie, and raised the cookie to his lips.

  “You don’t have to eat it after it’s been on the floor.” Pamela jumped up, seized the tray of cookies, and held it toward Roland. “There are plenty! Everyone, please have more.” She waited while the group clustered around the coffee table helped themselves, then turned and offered the tray to Nell.

  “No thank you! Really!” Nell patted her flat stomach. She was every bit as old as her white hair and faded eyes suggested, but her aversion to driving when she could walk and her devotion to healthful eating had kept her slim and limber. “You must save enough for dear little Penny to have her share. I will take a few for Harold though, before I go.” She waved a wrinkled hand. “Just a few. He does love your creations.”

  Pamela turned back to the rest of the group. “There’s more coffee in th
e kitchen. Whose cup can I refill?”

  “No . . . none for me . . . I’m fine” came a chorus, and soon needles had been picked up and knitting resumed.

  Chapter Five

  Bettina was the last to leave, and lingered in Pamela’s kitchen, where they’d worked together washing china and spoons, putting the cream away, and transferring the remaining cookies to a vintage cookie tin.

  “You’ll give some cookies to Richard Larkin, I hope,” Bettina said as she pressed the lid, decorated with a scene of Santa, sleigh, and eight vigorous reindeer, down onto the tin.

  “I can’t just march over there with cookies.” Pamela gave Bettina a fond but slightly chiding smile. “He’ll be embarrassed because he won’t have anything for me.”

  “He might have something,” Bettina said. “You don’t know for sure.”

  “Why would he?” Pamela shook out the dishcloth she’d been holding and hung it up.

  “It would be a neighborly thing. After all, you and he are neighbors.” Bettina studied Pamela’s face, which Pamela struggled to keep neutral. “You know you like him,” she said at last. “And it’s obvious he likes you.”

  “And if we did . . . get together, and it didn’t work out? What then?” Catrina strolled in from the entry and Pamela watched her make her undulating way across the floor toward the hallway that led to her bed in the laundry room. “I’m living here. He’s living there. Our children are friends. It would be more than awkward.”

  “I think it would work out,” Bettina said. “I know him and I know you.” She turned and headed in the direction Catrina had just come from.

  As she was slipping into her pumpkin-colored coat in the entry, she added one last thought. “You’ll wear something flattering to my Christmas party, I hope.” She accompanied the suggestion with a meaningful expression.

  “You didn’t invite Richard Larkin, did you?” Pamela wailed.

  “Of course,” Bettina said matter-of-factly. “He’s a neighbor.”

  * * *

  Pamela slid the Register from its flimsy plastic sleeve. She unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat on the kitchen table. Holding her breath, she hurriedly scanned the front page. Thankfully there was no photo of Penny or even any reference to Millicent’s murder. The big story for the day involved an upcoming vote in the state senate on raising tuition at the state colleges.

  Pamela poured the steaming water from the kettle into the plastic cone balanced over the carafe and slipped a piece of whole-grain bread into the toaster. As the coffee dripped into the carafe, she paged through Part 1 of the newspaper. It wasn’t until she set Part 1 aside to reveal the Local section that she came upon what she had feared. Millicent’s murder was no longer a breaking story but was certainly of ongoing interest, and would be until the killer was identified. And here was Penny, in her violet jacket and her mother’s violet scarf, standing in the parking lot shared by the police station and the library and gazing uncertainly at the camera. The headline read, “Crime Scene Described by Woman Who Found Body.”

  “I didn’t really feel like smiling,” said a voice, “and besides, it didn’t seem right.” Penny had appeared in the doorway, her eyes still sleepy, dressed in her fleecy pink robe and flannel pajamas.

  “The coffee should be ready,” Pamela said, “and you can have that piece of toast. I’ll make another.”

  As Penny helped herself to coffee, Pamela skimmed the article that accompanied the photo. It identified Penny as “Penny Paterson,” mentioned where she went to college, and explained that she was home for Christmas break. The article was short—most likely, Pamela thought, because energetic as Marcy Brewer was, she had been unable to wrest more details from Penny than those Penny had given the police. And those details had appeared in the original report on the body’s discovery. So tracking Penny down for a photo and interview had served no purpose that Pamela could see except making sure that every reader of the Register (including perhaps the very person who killed Millicent) knew that Penny had stumbled upon the body and knew exactly what Penny looked like.

  Pamela was a levelheaded person, not prone to wild surmises. But what if—a voice in her head suddenly asked—what if the killer had left behind a clue and just now realized it and feared Penny had seen it and would suddenly remember it if she wasn’t silenced?

  “Mo-om!” Penny was staring at her from the counter, a knife smeared with butter in her hand. “What on earth is wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Pamela blinked and tried to smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just . . . just . . . planning my day. So much to do . . . for Christmas.”

  Penny smiled back. “I’ll pour you some coffee. And should I put another piece of toast in?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” Pamela said. “But I’ll take some coffee.”

  Penny served her mother coffee, slipping a rose-garlanded cup in front of her and sitting down on her own side of the table with her own coffee and her toast. “Let’s see what that reporter said about me,” she murmured, reaching for the Local section and spinning it to face her.

  * * *

  An hour later, Pamela had checked her email, slipped on jeans and a sweater, and was gathering a few canvas shopping bags in preparation for a walk to the Co-Op. Cat food was already on the shopping list, and as far as meals for the humans went, she was thinking of making oxtail stew.

  She’d always cooked proper meals, even after only she and Penny were left, wanting Penny to feel that in most ways her life was the same as it had been when her father was alive. And when Penny went away to college, she still cooked proper meals, though a meatloaf or roast chicken lasted a whole week. With Penny home for the Christmas holidays, though, she had an audience for more elaborate creations. A comforting pot of oxtail stew simmering on the stove would make the house fragrant with thyme and bay leaf.

  Bundled in her warmest jacket and with a fuzzy hat pulled down to her eyebrows and a fuzzy scarf knotted up to her chin, Pamela set out up the street, canvas bags in hand. The day was bright and still, though very cold. Evergreens and ivy offered the only flash of color in the wintry yards, aside from an occasional cluster of red berries.

  At the corner she detoured through the parking lot behind the stately brick apartment building that faced Arborville Avenue and peeked behind the discreet fence that hid the building’s trash from view. Pamela had rescued the occasional treasure there—people in the process of moving often discarded perfectly nice things that they didn’t have time to donate to a thrift shop. The oxtail stew planned for that evening would simmer in a magnificent Le Creuset casserole she’d found there the previous summer, and she’d rescued a perfectly fine crystal vase. But nothing tempted her today.

  The Co-Op anchored one end of Arborville’s small commercial district. With its narrow aisles and wooden floors it was the antithesis of a modern supermarket, but it was cherished by the inhabitants of Arborville for its cheese counter, its bakery counter, and a meat department that offered meat from small, local farms. It was also cherished for the bulletin board mounted near the entry. Before the Internet, the bulletin board had kept Arborville informed of town doings and offered a venue where people could post notes about things they wanted to sell (or give away, like kittens). And many people still relied on it, rather than their computer screen, to keep them up-to-date.

  The Co-Op indeed was Pamela’s destination today, but instead of stopping when she reached it, she crossed Arborville Avenue. She continued on her way north, past shops, Hyler’s Luncheonette, the Chinese takeout, and When in Rome Pizza. At the end of that block, she crossed another street. A small forest of evergreens loomed in front of her, their boughs rustling in the wind and their spicy fragrance infusing the air.

  This was the town Christmas-tree lot, set up every year by the Aardvark Alliance (named for the Arborville High School football team) to benefit the school’s sports programs. An evergreen wreath on Pamela’s front door had welcomed visitors since the beginning
of December, but with Penny home now to help, it was time to put up a tree.

  She didn’t plan to buy a tree at this moment—it would be impossible to carry home on foot—but she wanted to check the lot’s hours. The lot was surrounded by a makeshift barrier consisting of stakes and chicken wire, with a gate along the stretch facing Arborville Avenue. From her position on the corner, she could see a sign on the gate, but she couldn’t make out what it said. So she proceeded along the chicken-wire barrier, inhaling deeply of the rich piney scent. Just as she was absorbing the information that the lot would be open for business the following Friday night and both weekend days from 10:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., the sight of a young man climbing into a car parked at the curb distracted her.

  He paused for a moment and leaned over the roof of his car toward the Christmas-tree lot, as if he too was wondering about its hours of business. Pamela turned to get a better look at him and they locked eyes for a moment. He flashed her a genial smile, even slightly flirtatious—though he was truly a young man, closer to Penny’s age than her own. He was quite attractive in a raffish way, but it wasn’t his attractiveness that had caught her attention. It was his ensemble—specifically the knitted scarf wrapped around his neck in a casual twist that let the wind tease it.

  The scarf was bright red, with green stripes at the ends. It was the scarf Bettina had traded Millicent Farthingale for the blue and violet vase, the scarf Bettina had seen Millicent wearing as Millicent prepared to go out on errands the morning that turned out to be the morning of her death. Pamela was sure this was the same scarf.

  Pamela thought she must look the way people look when captured in an unexpected photo—frozen in an awkward attitude of surprise. For a moment she didn’t move, and nothing else seemed to move either. Then the young man waved a cheerful wave, lowered himself into his car, slammed the door, and drove away. By the time Pamela thought to run to the curb and peer after him in quest of a license plate number, a contractor’s van had slipped in behind him and his car was hidden from view.