Knit of the Living Dead Page 8

  “In a minute.” Pamela had opened her purse, which dangled from her shoulder. She probed inside until she found her comb. Then she laid a soothing hand on the brown llama’s neck and gently drew the comb through the woolly tufts of its fleece. A few hairs stuck in the comb. She nodded in satisfaction and tucked the comb back in her purse.

  She reached the car and slid into the back seat in time to hear Nell protesting that she had done nothing particularly brilliant.

  “But you did!” Bettina protested. Her profile, topped by a fringe of vivid scarlet bangs and the jaunty beret, was outlined against the windshield as she faced Nell, who was in the passenger seat. “If you hadn’t noticed the baby llama and commented on it, we’d never have learned that Germaine was somewhere that wasn’t the llama farm last Saturday night while Dawn Filbert was being murdered. You’ll make a detective yet!”

  “I agree!” Pamela exclaimed. “Otherwise we’d have come away from here with almost nothing useful . . . except—” She opened her purse once again and slowly drew out her comb, enjoying the mystified expressions on Bettina and Nell’s faces. She held up the comb and pointed to the tiny tuft of hairs that had been captured by a few of its teeth.

  “Llama wool,” she announced. “From the same llama that contributed the wool for Jordan’s sweater.”

  “The llama they sheared last spring,” Nell whispered, excitement brightening her faded blue eyes.

  “And Germaine spun the wool into yarn,” Bettina added.

  “So,” Pamela explained, “you’ll take a few of these llama hairs to Detective Clayborn and suggest that the lab compare them with the yarn from Dawn and Mary’s necks. And you’ll tell him that Germaine van Houten, who resented the fact that Mary brushed her off when she tried to interest Mary in blogging about her llama farm, may not have an alibi for the night of the bonfire.”

  Chapter 9

  A remarkable scene greeted Pamela when she ventured out to retrieve the Register Thursday morning. Wilfred was standing at the end of his driveway in a plaid bathrobe, apparently having a conversation with a llama. The woolly creature, a creamy shade of white, stood on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. Its graceful neck was extended to its full height and its long ears were tilted attentively in his direction.

  “I’m Wilfred Fraser,” he was saying, “but I believe you want to talk to my wife.”

  The llama seemed to nod. Parked at the curb was a narrow enclosed trailer of the sort used to transport horses, attached by a trailer hitch to a car that had seen better days.

  Instead of continuing down the steps of her porch, Pamela hurried back into her house, turned off the kettle, and pulled on her warmest jacket. The cold front that had arrived the previous day had settled in. A quick dash down the front walk could be managed in a robe and slippers, but a trip across the street to investigate who knew what kind of curious situation would require more protection from the chilly morning.

  By the time Pamela reemerged from her house, Bettina had joined her husband. She was in a similar state of dishabille, in her case a pea-green fleece robe with a bit of white lace peeking out at the neck. Wilfred noticed Pamela first, and his relieved smile told her that her presence would be welcome. Bettina was doing the talking now, seemingly inquiring how the llama had found her address.

  Upon crossing the street and joining Bettina and Wilfred, Pamela discovered that the situation wasn’t quite as curious as it had first appeared. A woman was standing on the grass behind the llama. As Pamela had gazed at the scene from her porch, the woman was hidden from view by the trailer. She was sturdy and broad-hipped and taller than Pamela, with bold features and dark eyes.

  “Not too hard,” the woman said. “You told Jordan your name, and everything’s on the Internet now. Ha, ha! I said to myself, somebody’s interested in llamas. So”—she reached out and gave Bettina’s hands a hearty squeeze (Bettina had been rubbing them together in an effort to get warm)—“you don’t have to come to me. I’ve come to you!”

  Without her makeup and with her hair in disarray, and doubtless in a pre-coffee state, Bettina scarcely seemed herself. She stared at the woman as if at an apparition and backed against Wilfred’s reassuring bulk. He wrapped both his arms around her.

  But Pamela spoke up. “Maybe we could talk in the house,” she suggested, not wanting to lose the chance to learn more about Germaine van Houten—for that was undoubtedly who their caller was. The llama swiveled its neck to study the new arrival.

  As if a spell had been broken, Bettina blinked, lifted her chin, and said, “Of course. We were just making coffee.” She set off up the driveway in her pea-green mules, her matching robe billowing behind her.

  Pamela started to follow, but she hesitated, turning to see what arrangement, if any, would be made for the llama.

  “I could put her back in the trailer,” Germaine offered, “but she was so relieved when we got here and she had a chance to stretch her legs. Weren’t you, girl?” She bent close to the llama’s face, and for a moment Pamela thought she was going to rub noses with the creature.

  “A guest is a guest,” Wilfred said, aiming a benevolent smile at the llama. “She can hang out in the backyard for a bit.” He laid a guiding hand on the llama’s neck, added a “Come along” directed at Germaine, and began to walk up the driveway.

  A few minutes later, as the invigorating smell of brewing coffee promised to redeem a day that had started so abruptly, Pamela watched from Bettina’s kitchen as the llama rounded the corner of the garage and ventured into the backyard, escorted by Wilfred and Germaine. Bettina’s house was a Dutch Colonial, and by far the oldest on Orchard Street, but she and Wilfred had added a large, modern kitchen with plenty of room for a table and chairs. Sliding glass doors opened onto a patio and gave a view of the backyard beyond.

  The llama nosed the grass tentatively, then raised its head. Germaine leaned close to it and seemed to whisper something into the attentive ear it cocked in her direction. Wilfred, meanwhile, stepped onto the patio and motioned to Pamela to unlock the sliding door she was peering through. She could see he was shivering despite his flannel pajamas and woolly robe, but he waited chivalrously while Germaine crossed to the patio, then he stepped aside and motioned to her to enter first.

  Germaine began to speak even before Wilfred followed her into the kitchen and the door slid closed. “When Jordan told me you’d come by, I said hallelujah!” she exclaimed, zeroing in on Bettina. “Because that very morning, I’d had my best idea yet! And now here was a reporter to bring it to the world!” Germaine’s prominent eyes opened so wide that the irises stood out as dark rounds against the whites. She paused, her expressive mouth agape. Then, without stopping for breath, she went on, seemingly possessed by the idea she was about to articulate.

  “Llama-rama cuddle-a-llama!” she cried. Her eyes darted from Bettina to Pamela to Wilfred. “People are starved for touch!” Pamela tried not to flinch as one of Germaine’s large hands suddenly landed on her shoulder. “So here’s the idea. Llamas are very touchable, soft, and they don’t smell as much as some animals do. I’ll charge by the hour, or maybe by the half hour. People can pick the llama they want, and I’ll set up a few separate pens, and they can stroke the llama and cuddle it—and I guarantee their blood pressure will go down and they’ll feel like they’ve just taken a mini-vacation. It will really catch on. I’m sure of it.”

  A session of knitting could have that effect, Pamela acknowledged to herself. And maybe part of the explanation was the yarn itself—the cozy feel of the in-progress swath in one’s lap, the caress of the yarn against one’s fingers as, stitch by stitch, the project grew . . . and what was a llama but a huge, walking heap of wool?

  Wilfred, meanwhile, had retreated to the cooking area of the kitchen. He’d ranged four of Bettina’s sage-green mugs along the high counter that separated the cooking area from the eating one and was filling them with coffee from a heavy Pyrex carafe. And Germaine had made herself at h
ome, settling into one of the chairs that surrounded Bettina’s well-scrubbed pine table. Bettina shrugged, motioned Pamela to sit, and took a chair herself. From Pamela’s seat, she had a view of the llama nibbling Wilfred and Bettina’s grass, its creamy white coat ruffled by the wind.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” Germaine said, surveying the kitchen and then craning her neck to get a glimpse of the dining room. She turned back as Wilfred approached bearing two mugs of coffee. He set one in front of Germaine and one in front of Pamela, stepping away to fetch another for Bettina.

  “Cream and sugar coming right up,” he announced when he delivered the steaming mug.

  “Do you have any llama milk?” Germaine asked, then she quickly added, “Just kidding. Ha, ha!” with a wide grin that displayed her large teeth and emphasized her boldly modeled cheeks. “They do drink it, or did,” she went on, “in the Andes. But I’ve only got one nursing mother now, and she needs all she’s got for her cria, her baby llama—that’s what they’re called.”

  Wilfred waited, listening politely, until she finished, and then slipped behind the counter, returning with Bettina’s sage-green sugar bowl, her matching creamer supplied with cream, and four spoons and napkins. Though she liked her coffee black, Pamela waited until Bettina and Germaine had availed themselves of sugar and cream and were ready for their first sip of coffee before tasting her own.

  “I was going to make omelets.” Wilfred spoke up from where he was standing near the stove. When Pamela first entered the kitchen, she’d noticed a carton of eggs, a stainless-steel bowl, and Wilfred’s favorite skillet at the ready. Probably he’d expected to dash out for the paper and then return to the pleasant domesticity of breakfast with his wife—hardly imagining he’d end up, instead, playing host to a llama and her keeper.

  “Oh, no, no, no!” Germaine hopped to her feet. “I couldn’t impose! But I—you’ve been so kind and—what’s this town? Arborville? Wait a minute! Mary Lyon lives here, doesn’t she?”

  She did live here, Pamela murmured to herself, after nearly choking on the extra-large mouthful of coffee she’d gulped in surprise. Was it possible that Germaine was so caught up in the world of llamas that she was completely out of touch with the news? The Register was the county paper and Kringlekamack was in the same county as Arborville—and Pamela was sure reports of Mary’s murder had been on the radio and television as well.

  “She isn’t kind at all, I can tell you that.” Germaine put her hands on her ample hips. “The things she said to me about llamas!” Her voice took on the mincing tone of someone parodying a snob. “It’s Mary had a little lamb, not Mary had a little llama. Like she thought she was so funny. Ha, ha! And when I brought one of my sweet llamas to visit her, to show her how lovely their wool is—of course, that was before I got my cuddle-a-llama brain hurricane—she threatened to call the police.”

  Pamela’s glance strayed toward Bettina, who was sitting directly across the table from her. She was sure the expression she saw on her friend’s face mirrored her own—eyes open wide as if to take in and process this remarkable development, but lips shut tight for lack of any suitable utterance.

  At last, Wilfred spoke up, having first ventured across the floor until he stood behind Bettina with a hand on her shoulder. “You may not have read the newspaper recently,” he said. The fact that he had tied an apron over his robe and pajamas detracted not one bit from his calm authority.

  “Why?” Germaine looked startled, perhaps more because of Wilfred’s manner than his words.

  “Mary Lyon was murdered on Tuesday night,” Bettina blurted out, tilting her head to look up at Germaine. She followed the announcement with a vigorous nod that set the tendrils of her bright hair aquiver.

  “What?” Germaine seemed to stagger. She raised her large hands to clutch her head. “That can’t be!” She bent forward to peer at Bettina, her eyes narrowed. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Trying to make me feel bad because I said bad things about her. I suppose she’s your friend or something. Well—ha, ha!—joking about murder isn’t very funny.”

  “It isn’t a joke.” Absent his usual cheer, Wilfred scarcely seemed himself. Pamela stared at his grim expression and relived the quake she’d felt when she, Bettina, and Nell first learned of Mary’s death. Now, Bettina’s kitchen floor seemed to shift beneath her chair, like an aftershock.

  Germaine sank back into the chair she’d occupied. “Oh my goodness,” she sighed. “I’m so sorry. What a terrible, terrible thing!” She folded her arms on the table and lowered her head until all that was visible was a mass of dark, wiry hair.

  Pamela, Bettina, and Wilfred looked at one another. Pamela was the first to shrug. Puzzlement contracted her brows and tightened her lips. Germaine’s display of amazement and then grief was as surprising as her apparent ignorance of Mary’s death had been.

  The mass of hair began to stir. Germaine raised her head, displaying large eyes brimming with tears. She mopped at them with the napkin Wilfred had supplied for her coffee and glanced toward the sliding glass doors. Beyond them, the llama was placidly helping itself to Wilfred and Bettina’s lawn. She shifted her gaze from the llama to her hosts, who were regarding her seriously.

  “I know what will cheer us up!” Germaine exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “I was going to suggest it anyway—for your article.” She stepped toward the glass doors and slid one side open. Ignoring the sudden blast of cold air, she darted toward Bettina, pulled her to her feet, and began to lead her toward the open door. Bettina hung back, reaching for Wilfred with the hand that Germaine wasn’t clutching.

  “You’ll like it!” Germaine urged. “You’ll see how cuddly llamas are. Warm too! They have built-in sweaters. Ha, ha!”

  Wilfred strode firmly toward the open door and slid it closed in one decisive motion. “I’m sure they’re cuddly,” he said, “but we’re still in our pajamas and it’s very cold out there.” He watched Bettina until she had gotten settled back in her chair, then he added, “Let’s all sit down and finish our coffee.”

  Germaine waved her hands as if to cancel out that idea. “I’ve intruded long enough,” she said. “I see that, so I’ll just take my llama and go”—she bent toward Bettina—“but I hope you’ll still write the article . . . and . . .” She closed her eyes, furrowed her brow, and raised her hands in a gesture that almost looked prayerful. “I feel another brain hurricane coming. It’s coming . . . coming . . .” She opened her eyes so wide, they seemed to be trying to escape their sockets. “Grief-counseling! Of course! Llamas as grief counselors!”

  And with that, she slid the door open once more and slipped through. The three friends watched as Germaine guided the llama back around the corner of the garage and the creature and its mistress disappeared from view.

  “Well,” Bettina sighed, “that was certainly an experience.” She picked up her coffee mug and took a long swallow, commenting at its conclusion, “The coffee is still quite warm.”

  “How about those omelets?” Wilfred inquired. “And some toast?”

  Pamela had taken off her jacket and was sitting at the pine table in her pajamas and robe. She normally ate only toast for breakfast and, besides, she didn’t feel she was dressed properly to accept an invitation to share a meal, even just breakfast. But the prospect of omelets and toast was so appealing—and besides, she and Bettina and Wilfred had so much to discuss—that she agreed with a vigorous headshake.

  “Let me help,” she added, starting to rise.

  “No, no, no,” Wilfred said from the post he had already taken up near the stove. “Please stay right where you are, and speak up if your coffee’s too cold. There’s some left in the carafe and I’m heating it.”

  Pamela sampled her coffee. The episode with Germaine had seemed to go on and on—but it had really only lasted about five minutes. In that space of time, her coffee had gone from scalding to just right and, sipping it now, she enjoyed the rich bitterness of the brew and its implication that the day was
finally off to a sensible start.

  From the cooking area of the kitchen came the clackety-clackety sound of Wilfred’s whisk beating eggs in his stainless-steel bowl. Bettina stared out at her backyard, perhaps making sure the llama was really gone.

  Pamela continued sipping her coffee, willing the caffeine to do its work, to help her arrange the morning’s events into some rational pattern. After a bit, she spoke, addressing Bettina’s profile.

  “Germaine was certainly odd, but she didn’t seem like a devious person,” she said.

  “Devious?” Bettina turned to face Pamela. Her lips, bare of lipstick, were twisted into a puzzled zigzag.

  “I don’t think she was acting when she seemed not to know that Mary had been killed,” Pamela explained, “or when she seemed so distraught after we told her. She seemed incapable of having a thought that she didn’t blurt out immediately.”

  Wilfred spoke up from his post at the stove. “So that means she can’t be the murderer.”

  “I think it does,” Pamela said. She glanced in Wilfred’s direction to see him tipping the stainless-steel bowl over his favorite skillet. A low, sizzling sound indicated that the beaten eggs had made contact with melted butter.

  “But she was so odd.” A little frown had settled between Bettina’s brows.

  “Odd,” Pamela agreed, “but not a murderer.”

  “I’m still going to take the llama hairs to Clayborn,” Bettina said. “And maybe he’ll have something new to tell me about the case. Are you going to be home later?”

  “I’m always home,” Pamela said.

  Woofus the shelter dog joined the group then, stepping timidly through the door that led to the dining room and aligning his shaggy body against the wall in his favorite napping spot. He was joined by Punkin, the ginger-colored cat that was the sister of Pamela’s own Ginger. As Wilfred cooked, expertly shaping his omelets and keeping an eye on the toaster as he cycled a few rounds of toast through it, Pamela and Bettina began to chat about topics more benign than murder.