Murder, She Knit Page 6

  “He didn’t look like the argyle-sock type,” Pamela said, “and this is a bad time of year for people who are bothered by ragweed.”

  “She could have had other boyfriends,” Bettina said. “Maybe she broke up with someone else when she met argyle-sock man, and that someone else decided he could only forget her if she was dead. Maybe the blond man was the someone else.” She opened the car door again and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “We have a lot to think about,” Pamela said. “Can you unlock this door for me?”

  Chapter Six

  The Old Stone Inn was a rambling structure set on a grassy rise along the main road heading back into town. The central portion was indeed old stones, as old and random as the stones in the wall along the edge of the graveyard. A long clapboard addition had been grafted on, looking scarcely newer than the original building.

  The reception was being held in a spacious room with deep, many-paned windows and a floor of broad wooden planks, obviously polished by generations of faithful housekeepers. The windows looked out at a garden that was impressive even in its late-autumn state, with shrubbery in contrasting shades of green and vines bearing purple berries.

  A long table at the end of the room offered trays of little sandwiches, a cheese platter with tastefully arranged crackers, and bite-sized raw vegetables piled in artful patterns, all displayed on a smooth white cloth. Next to the table was a bar with a handsome young man in a white shirt and black bow tie at work pouring champagne into champagne flutes.

  Amy’s parents and Dorrie stood along the wall that faced the windows, talking to a middle-aged couple whose concerned expressions made their sympathy clear. An informal line of people stretched along the wall chatting, even laughing occasionally, waiting for their turn to offer their condolences.

  Pamela and Bettina stood uncertainly near the entrance to the room. They didn’t know anyone except Dorrie. “Nice-looking food,” Bettina whispered. “Shall we have a bite to eat and a glass of champagne while people who actually know the Morgans have a chance to talk to them?”

  As if reading their minds, a young woman, also in white shirt and black bow tie, approached and offered a tray covered with delicate bite-sized pies. “Fabulous,” Bettina murmured, reaching for one. From the other direction came another young woman miraculously keeping a tray covered with full champagne flutes steady.

  Champagne in hand, Pamela felt brave enough to nod and smile at a woman who glanced over and caught her eye.

  “Terribly sad occasion,” the woman observed, a little pucker of sympathy appearing between her brows. She looked about the same age as Amy’s parents and was wearing a simple black dress with a matching jacket. She had accented the outfit with a double string of pearls—real ones, Pamela was sure. As the woman stepped closer, Pamela sensed a faint hint of expensive perfume. “I’m June Seegrave,” she added.

  “Pamela Paterson,” Pamela responded. “And this is Bettina Fraser.”

  “Have you known the Morgans long?” June Seegrave asked.

  “Actually, we don’t know them at all,” Pamela said, and she explained her connection with Amy.

  “Lovely young woman,” June said. “And a terrible blow to her parents. They’re such good people, and so involved in the community. Always looking for someone to help.” She sighed. “It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “June! How are you?” said a voice behind Pamela. She stepped back, and a fourth woman joined the group, dressed like June in chic but sedate black, with pearls. “It’s been years.”

  “Maple Branch has missed you,” June said.

  “I’ve missed Maple Branch, but Andy’s job, you know. The offer was just too good to turn down.”

  More introductions—the woman’s name was Lydia Bostock—and everyone again agreed what a sad occasion it was. “It was sweet of you to come back for this,” June said.

  “I felt so bad when I heard.”

  The young woman who had offered the miniature pies reappeared with another tray, this time piled with miniature puff pastries, sliced in half and filled with something that looked very tempting. “Crab,” the server informed them.

  More champagne followed and no one said anything for a few minutes except to exclaim about the tastiness of the crab puffs.

  Lydia began to scan the room. “The crab puffs went that way,” June said with a wink, gesturing toward the retreating server.

  “Is that Katherine Waring?” Lydia asked, nodding toward a much older but also very elegant woman chatting with a group of women about her age and equally elegant.

  “Yes. She looks great, doesn’t she?” June said. “Widowed now, and thinking about following her children to the West Coast.”

  “Nate Waring was such a sweet man. I’m sorry to hear he’s gone. What else is new in town?” Lydia smiled at Pamela. “Excuse us just a minute,” she said. “I have a bit of catching up to do.”

  “Well,” June said, “the new middle school finally got built, and after four terms, Marlys Grover decided not to run for mayor again, and lots of people have been up to no good. Jim Steiner ran off with Elward Koster’s wife, and Tracy-Jean Slade disappeared with a quarter of a million dollars of the taxpayers’ money.”

  Lydia raised a tastefully manicured hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh,” she said.

  June nodded. “And after Jeff Morgan got her that job too.” She turned to Pamela and said quietly, “Tracy-Jean Slade was the Maple Branch borough clerk. Jeff Morgan is Amy’s father.” She turned back to Lydia. “A fabulous new restaurant opened in town, Fontani di Fiorenza, but then the chef at Taste of Tuscany accused the new place of stealing all his recipes.”

  “Taste of Tuscany was always so good,” Lydia said. “I miss it. Perhaps we’ll move back to Maple Branch when Andy retires.”

  The champagne server returned to claim empty champagne flutes, and June said, “Shall we pay our respects now?”

  “We should tell the Morgans goodbye and thank them,” Pamela said to Bettina as June and Lydia joined the receiving line, which had dwindled to just two young women about Amy’s age. Amy’s mother accepted a hug from the older woman she’d been talking to, the woman stepped away, and the two young women took her place. Now the older woman was talking to Dorrie, then suddenly there were four people in the receiving line. Dorrie and her parents had been joined by the muscular blond man who had been at the funeral. The older woman took both his hands in hers and pulled him away with her. The two young women moved on to talk to Dorrie.

  “It was a lovely funeral and reception,” Pamela said, taking Mrs. Morgan’s hand. “I wish we’d met under other circumstances.” Next to her she could hear Bettina murmuring something similar to Amy’s father.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Mrs. Morgan. “I wish the circumstances had been different too.” Her eyes strayed to Dorrie, who was looking fixedly at the blond man and the older woman who had claimed his attention. “At least we still have Dorrie,” she said. “The girls were so close—as close as sisters could be. Nary a fight the whole time they were growing up.”

  Dorrie frowned slightly and did a strange thing with her eyes. “Nice of you to come,” she said without looking at either Pamela or Bettina.

  Pamela was longing to ask who the blond man actually was, but before she had a chance to, Dorrie slipped away.

  Chapter Seven

  The young woman looked about the same age as Penny. That’s what made it especially shameful. She was wearing skinny jeans, fashionable wedge-heeled boots, and a striking plaid jacket cinched at the waist and flaring over her slender hips. She carried a roomy leather satchel.

  She came planning to spend the night, Pamela reflected grumpily. It was Friday morning and she hadn’t had her coffee yet. Richard Larkin had time for girlfriends—girlfriends much younger than he was, she was sure—but no time to clean up his spilled garbage. The trail of orange peelings, plastic yogurt containers, used coffee filters, and who knew what else still stretched from the remain
s of the black plastic garbage bag at the mouth of the tipped-over bin all the way to the front lawn. And while she was on the subject of Richard Larkin’s failings, judging from the buildup of fallen leaves, the lawn apparently hadn’t been raked in at least a week.

  Pamela watched the young woman hurry down Richard Larkin’s front walk and turn in the direction of Arborville Avenue. Probably catching the bus at the corner, Pamela decided. He can’t even be bothered to give his paramours a ride home?

  The whistling of the kettle brought Pamela’s thoughts back to her own concerns, and she set about making coffee and toasting a slice of the whole-grain bread that was a Co-Op specialty. Only a few scoops of coffee beans had remained in the can after she ground what she needed for breakfast, and so she added coffee to the grocery list fastened to the refrigerator door with a tiny magnetized mitten.

  Catrina had already been fed—the little creature had been peering through the oval window in the front door as Pamela came down the stairs that morning—and the newspaper brought in. She settled at the kitchen table with her coffee and toast and turned to the Arts and Lifestyle section of the paper. More serious news would have to wait until the coffee had done its work.

  Half an hour later Pamela was dressed in her cool-weather uniform of jeans and a sweater. She tucked her grocery list into her purse and retrieved a few canvas bags from her supply—long ago Nell had prevailed upon her to renounce paper and plastic. Then she grabbed her jacket and her favorite scarf, a recent knitting project she’d done with violet mohair yarn, and headed out the door. Her front walk was nearly hidden under a layer of newly fallen leaves in an intricate pattern of gold, orange, and rust. She’d have to do some raking of her own, she reflected, but the work would be a pleasure on such a bright, crisp day.

  She navigated the narrow aisles of the Co-Op, pushing her cart over the ancient wooden floors, picking up a loaf of whole-grain bread at the bakery counter, a tempting wedge of blue cheese at the cheese counter, and a new supply of coffee beans before turning into the produce section. As she paused over a bin of acorn squash, fingering the glossy dark green and gold ridges, a pleasant voice behind her said, “Excuse me.” The Co-Op’s aisles had been laid out in an era before people bought so many groceries at once that they needed large carts to accommodate all their selections. Traffic jams often occurred. Pamela had left her cart in mid-aisle as she pondered the squash. Now she turned to see a strikingly handsome man gesturing at the obstructing cart, but smiling as he did so.

  Too young for me, she thought, and was surprised at her reaction. She’d resolved not to date again until Penny was out of the house and off at school. Now Penny was out of the house and off at school, though she’d barely been away three months. Are you getting interested in men again so soon? she wondered. Perhaps, but this man really was too young, barely thirty, with carefully groomed dark hair, smooth olive skin, and unexpectedly bright green eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and steered the offending cart closer to the squash-bin side of the aisle.

  “No problem.” He smiled (lovely teeth too) and moved on. She contemplated the flattering way his buttery suede jacket fit his obviously well-toned torso. Nicely put-together outfit, she reflected as her gaze traveled downward. Then something about the outfit caught her special attention.

  She turned back to the acorn squash, selecting the smallest one she could find, and moved on to the apples. She’d eaten all the apples left over from making the apple cake for Knit and Nibble, so she tore a plastic bag from the roll hanging over the apples and began to fill it.

  As she asked herself whether she’d really seen what she thought she saw, she distractedly added apple after apple to the bag until it was bulging. Drawn back to the present by the weight of the bag in her hands, she laughed and hefted it into her cart. She’d be eating an apple a day for the foreseeable future.

  Pamela browsed along the produce aisle, adding salad greens, cucumbers, and tomatoes to her cart. The handsome man was still shopping for produce too, working his way through root vegetables. He paused to weigh a bunch of carrots in the old-fashioned scale that dangled from chains near the end of the aisle, slid the carrots into a plastic bag, and dropped the bag into his cart. Then, apparently ready to move on to the meat department, he wheeled his cart purposefully forward.

  Pamela watched him carefully, and as she watched, his long strides lifted his pants cuffs to expose his socks. Yes, they were argyle socks, with intricate diamond patterns intersected by lines that formed diamond patterns of their own. They had been knitted in a rich combination of maroon, dark green, and a buttery amber that matched the color of his elegant suede jacket. He turned the corner and was lost from view.

  There had been no one wearing argyle socks at the funeral, at least that she and Bettina had noticed, but here were argyle socks, right in the Arborville Co-Op. Were these the socks Amy had knitted from the pattern in the knitting booklet she and Bettina had pored over? And was this the man about whom she had written, “Love’s labor’s lost!!! Never again!!!”

  Pamela hastened past the root vegetables and lingered near the section of the meat department that offered freshly made sausage. The handsome man was looking at chicken. She waited, willing him to take a step, edging closer as he picked up a package of chicken thighs and deposited it in his cart. He was on the move again. She followed, eyes fixed on his ankles, as his long strides once again lifted his pants cuffs and the elaborate socks came into view. Yes, the socks had definitely been knit by hand, though very skillfully. The deep, rich colors made it clear that the yarn was wool, and high quality, not the synthetic yarn used in commercially produced argyles.

  Pamela added some chicken thighs to her own cart too, and headed for the front of the store to check out. Two bags of groceries were the most she could manage on a walking errand.

  Fifteen minutes later she was striding along Arborville Avenue, one of her reusable canvas bags dangling from each hand. She turned onto her own street and glanced over at the trash cans marshaled behind the stately brick apartment building where Amy had lived. Someone was just climbing out of a sleek silver Audi parked in one of the spaces behind the building—a familiar someone. It was the handsome man from the Co-Op Grocery. As Pamela watched, he opened the trunk of the car and lifted out two bags of groceries.

  He must live here, she realized with a quiver of excitement. Amy lived here. And she knit a pair of argyle socks. And he’s wearing a pair of argyle socks. But her note in the knitting pattern book suggested that whatever motive prompted her to put all that effort into her gift, she later wished she hadn’t made the effort. “Love’s labor’s lost!!! Never again!!!”

  The handsome man disappeared through a door in the back of the building, and Pamela stepped closer to the fencing that hid the trash from view, just in case someone had put out something interesting. She’d have to come back for it, of course. Her two bags of groceries were already weighing heavy on her arms.

  “Well, hello there! Haven’t seen you in a while.” It was Mr. Gilly, the building’s super, at work using a rake to scour the last of the fall leaves out from under the shrubbery. He was an easygoing man in his fifties, tall and wiry, and Pamela had heard from people in the building that he could fix anything. He also loved to talk. Pamela usually picked up her pace when she saw him working outside, but today she greeted him with a smile. He dropped his rake and strolled over.

  “Nice-looking car,” she said, nodding toward the Audi.

  “Belongs to Dr. Randolph,” he said.

  “The man who was just unloading groceries?”

  Mr. Gilly nodded. “That’s him.”

  “He’s a doctor?”

  “Emergency room. Englewood Hospital. Works the night shift. That’s why he’s around during the day.”

  Pamela stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. “I knew Amy Morgan,” she said. “So sad.”

  “Oh, cops all over the place.” Mr. Gilly felt around in his jacket pocket
and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “The residents didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “She hadn’t lived here very long,” Pamela said. “I wonder if many of the other people in the building had gotten to know her.”

  “He had.” Mr. Gilly nodded toward the Audi.

  * * *

  Pamela continued on her way, musing on what she had just learned. Two attractive young people with professional careers—definitely well-suited to each other in that regard. Living in the same apartment building, of course they would catch each other’s eye. Romance blooms, she knits him a pair of argyle socks, but then something goes sour, very sour.

  An idea struck her with the force of a physical blow. She stopped suddenly, halfway down the block, and stood blinking in the autumn sunlight. The handsome man in the argyle socks was a doctor. A doctor would know everything there was to know about the human anatomy—definitely enough to wield a metal knitting needle as a deadly weapon. And if you worked in an emergency room you’d probably see crimes committed with unlikely murder weapons all the time. You’d get ideas.

  But he looked like such a pleasant man. He had spoken to her so pleasantly in the produce aisle. And didn’t doctors take an oath to do no harm? But love was a powerful and dangerous force, and broken hearts could turn otherwise nice people into savages. Pamela knew this more from literature than from life. Still . . .

  Pamela resumed walking, but she didn’t go home, at least not right away. She stopped off at Bettina’s house to report what she had discovered. Bettina lived in the oldest house on the street, a Dutch Colonial that had already been standing for fifty years when Pamela’s hundred-year-old house was built. It had housed the owners of an apple orchard that had provided the name for Pamela’s street, Orchard Street. Then developers had come and the land had been divided into lots and more and more people had moved in. But a few apple trees still hung on in backyards here and there, grown up from the old root stock and yielding sour apples only good for pies.