Knit of the Living Dead Page 9

  Bettina enthused again over how cute her Arborville grandsons had looked dressed as Spider-Man and Winnie the Pooh on Halloween, and how fortunate it was that their parents had chosen to go home after the parade and skip the bonfire. Both agreed that Thanksgiving would soon be upon them, not to mention Christmas. That topic led to the cornflower-blue sweater, currently in progress, that was to be Pamela’s Christmas gift for her mother. And then Bettina was reminded once again of the tragic fact that the Boston children, as she called her younger son Warren and his wife, had declared that their daughter was to be given no girlie gifts of any kind.

  “Wilfred Jr.’s little boys,” she concluded forlornly, in a lament Pamela had heard many times before, “are adorable, of course, but I always dreamed of having a granddaughter . . . buying her wonderful dresses, and later we could go shopping together, and . . .” She broke off with a sigh.

  She cheered, however, as Wilfred approached bearing plates that he set in front of Pamela and Bettina. The plates were from Bettina’s set of sage-green pottery. Centered on each was an omelet—intensely yellow, glistening with butter, and folded into an elegant half circle. Tucked alongside each omelet were four triangles of buttered whole-grain toast. He darted away and was back in an instant with napkins, silverware, and a jar of blueberry jam.

  “Please begin, dear ladies,” he said with a genial smile. Intermingled with the smells of toast and omelets in progress, Pamela had detected the aroma of more coffee brewing, and indeed Wilfred announced that fresh hot coffee would be available momentarily and that he would join them with his own omelet.

  Chapter 10

  Later that same morning, Bettina was herself again. Lipstick and eye makeup had been carefully applied, and the tendrils of her scarlet hair had been tamed to curve gently across her forehead and tickle her cheeks. Standing in Pamela’s entry, she slipped off her pumpkin-colored down coat to reveal a chic forest-green jumpsuit accented by a chunky gold necklace that matched her earrings. Standing off to the side, Nell—who had entered with Bettina—was nearly invisible in her unassuming gray wool coat.

  “I’ve been with Clayborn,” Bettina announced, “and while I was uptown I stopped by the Co-Op.” The telltale white bakery box had been transferred to Pamela’s hands as soon as she opened the door, so the second part of the announcement was unnecessary, except that Bettina added, “It’s some of their pumpkin-spice crumb cake. And,” she went on, “I happened to run into Nell.”

  “Not at the bakery counter,” Nell said sternly. “I was in the produce department.” She slipped off her coat and laid it on the chair where Bettina had put hers. “I’ll try a bit of the crumb cake, though—just a bit.”

  Pamela had been expecting Bettina to check in after her visit to Detective Clayborn, so when the doorbell’s chime called her away from “The Persistence of Memory: Missionary Influence on Women’s Dress in Raramuri Culture,” she had closed her Word file and allowed her computer monitor to go to sleep.

  “Come on into the kitchen,” she greeted her guests, “and I’ll get water going for coffee and tea.”

  Bettina fetched a chair from the dining room for Nell and then reached down a wedding-china plate from the cupboard. She removed the string from the bakery box, folded back the top, and used a spatula to carefully transfer the large square of crumb cake to the plate. “Ummm,” she commented as she did so, “it smells just like pumpkin pie.”

  “Cinnamon, for sure”—Nell leaned close for a sniff—“and nutmeg . . . something else too. Allspice? I’ll have to check my pumpkin-pie recipe.”

  The last word was drowned out by the clank and whirr of coffee beans being ground. Pamela started water boiling in the kettle, arranged a paper filter in the plastic cone that fit atop her carafe, poured the ground coffee into it, and measured tea into her special, one-person-size teapot, a squat, blue-glazed thrift-store find. Meanwhile, Bettina set out three of Pamela’s wedding-china cups with their saucers and three small wedding-china plates, along with forks and spoons and napkins.

  Pamela transferred the sugar bowl from the counter to the table, along with the matching cream pitcher, which she filled with heavy cream from a carton in the refrigerator. Then, with nothing else to do until the water boiled, she nodded at Bettina with brows raised and said, “Well?”

  “Clayborn took the llama hairs,” Bettina said. “I put them in a ziplock bag.” She jumped up, fetched a knife from Pamela’s knife rack, and laid it next to the square of crumb cake. “I think he just did it to get rid of me—because he didn’t even ask me how I got them, or why. I told him anyway though. That is, I repeated the story we made up as a premise for visiting the llama farm—that I was doing some freelance work now besides the Advocate and pitched an article on llama farms to that glossy county magazine. And then I said it just happened to occur to me that if the llama hairs could be linked to the yarn wrapped around the necks of the murder victims—”

  The kettle began to whistle then, and for a few minutes, everyone’s attention was focused on steeping tea and brewing coffee and apportioning crumb cake among the three small plates. “Not too much for me,” Nell protested as Bettina aimed a generous slice in her direction. Bettina redirected that slice to her own plate, and soon the three friends were seated cozily around the table, each supplied with the beverage of her choice and just the right amount of crumb cake.

  Pamela teased off a bite and was delighted to discover that pumpkin-spice crumb cake married all that was delicious about crumb cake with much that was delicious about pumpkin pie. The hint of cinnamon normally found in crumb cake’s buttery crumble topping had been enhanced with additional spices—surely nutmeg and allspice, perhaps ginger too. And the aromatic result evoked a pumpkin pie with the surprising texture of a sweet sponge cake. A sip of coffee to follow up supplied a pleasing bitterness that made the next bite of crumb cake taste all the sweeter.

  “You were telling us about your meeting with Detective Clayborn,” Nell said.

  Bettina nodded toward Nell’s plate, which despite her often-stated reservations about sugar, was nearly empty. She winked at Pamela, then turned toward Nell. “He did take the llama hairs, like I said,” she explained. “And when I asked him if the Arborville police had any new leads, he was evasive. So if nothing else turns up in the way of a clue, he might explore the Kringlekamack llama farm angle.”

  Bettina’s plate was nearly empty too, and she paused to scoop up the last bite of crumb cake and convey it to her mouth. A minute later, after following the bite of cake with a swallow of coffee, she went on, saying, “I made sure to remind him that there was plenty of reason for the owner of the llama farm—Germaine van Houten—I made sure he knew her name—to resent Mary. And that’s when he told me that solving Arborville’s crimes myself would not make my property taxes go down.”

  Pamela was aware that she was frowning. Yes, Bettina had declared that she was planning to take the llama hairs to Detective Clayborn. And Pamela had been quite pleased with her own sudden decision to collect the hairs, and the ingenious way she’d accomplished the task with the only tool she had at hand—her comb. But . . .

  “I guess you still think Germaine could be guilty,” she blurted out a little more loudly than she’d intended.

  Bettina had lifted the top of the bakery box and was peering inside, and she looked up with a startled expression that could have suited a person caught in the act of sneaking an unauthorized goody. But that wasn’t what had startled her.

  “I wasn’t as convinced as you that Germaine wasn’t acting,” Bettina said. “And it was bad acting at that.”

  Pamela turned to Nell. “Did Bettina tell you that we woke up this morning to find a llama—along with its owner—on Orchard Street this morning?” she asked.

  “She certainly did,” Nell said, the skin around her eyes crinkling as a smile appeared.

  “Do you still think she could be guilty?” Pamela asked.

  “I wasn’t there to judge the performance,
” Nell said, laughing. “But Germaine van Houten does sound like a very dramatic individual.”

  “She wasn’t at the farm Saturday night,” Bettina pointed out, “even though one of her llamas was due to give birth.”

  “So, no alibi,” Nell commented.

  “I wish we’d thought of a way to work something about Tuesday night into the conversation this morning,” Pamela said. “But even with the coffee Wilfred made . . .”

  “I wasn’t awake either.” Bettina shook her head. “We could have brought up Saturday night too. Asked her if the llama farm gets many trick-or-treaters. . .”

  With a gesture that suggested sudden resolve, Bettina folded back the top of the bakery box, revealing that a goodly portion of pumpkin-spice crumb cake remained. She picked up the knife and glanced back and forth between Pamela and Nell, who both shook their heads no. Pamela, however, hopped up and stepped over to the stove, where she launched a low flame under the carafe, which was still half full of coffee.

  Bettina cut a slice of the crumb cake, talking as if to herself as she did so. “The medical examiner will probably analyze the yarn that was around the victims’ necks,” she murmured. “In fact, I’m sure she will.” The cake was in transit now, on the spatula and heading toward Bettina’s plate. “After all,” she continued, “in the second case at least, the yarn was one of the murder weapons. So if it turns out the yarn was made from llama wool, she’ll report that to Clayborn.”

  Cake in place and fork in hand, Bettina looked up with a smile. “And then he’ll be glad he listened to me and that he has the llama hairs.”

  “I would be interested in learning more about the yarn the killer used,” Pamela said. “And if it turns out to be made from llama wool”—her lips shaped a regretful half smile and she shrugged—“that would be pretty damning evidence as far as Germaine is concerned. But I’d like to know more about the knitting author whose books Mary panned.”

  “I would too,” Nell said. “The knitting author’s husband actually threatened Mary—at least according to Mary.”

  Bettina suddenly sprang from her chair and darted toward the door that led to the entry, dodging Ginger, who had just wandered into the kitchen. The cat took advantage of Bettina’s absence to leap onto the now-empty chair and rear up with her front paws on the edge of the table. She favored Nell with an unblinking jade-green stare.

  “Ginger is used to having just me and Bettina sitting here in the morning,” Pamela explained, advancing toward the table with the now-warm carafe. “She’s met you before, of course, at Knit and Nibble, but she’s wondering what’s up now.”

  Nell reached out a wrinkled hand and caressed Ginger’s head. Ginger leaned into the caress, closing her eyes, twisting her head this way and that, and folding her ears back to maximize contact with Nell’s gentle hand.

  Pamela refilled Bettina’s coffee cup and her own, and made sure Nell’s tea supply was adequate. She’d just deposited the carafe on the counter when Bettina reentered, absorbed in studying her mobile device. Ginger saw Bettina coming and vacated the chair by hoisting herself onto the table. From there, she hopped delicately onto Nell’s thigh.

  “I’ve got Mary’s blog here,” Bettina murmured, lowering herself back into her chair. Instead of sitting back down, Pamela stepped to where she could look over Bettina’s shoulder at the small screen where Mary’s photo and her website’s banner, with the legend The Lyon and the Lamb: Adventures in Woolgathering, were visible.

  Nell was still busy with Ginger’s head rub, but she tipped her own head in the direction of Bettina’s device as well. Bettina scrolled down rapidly, and Pamela blinked as words and images flew by.

  “Here!” she said suddenly. “Stop right here!”

  The text settled into place and Pamela began to read. “No reason to waste your money on Barbara Barrow’s latest booklet for the hopelessly lame Craftfest imprint,” Mary had written, “unless you fancy yourself in a ski hat with a pompom. (Even as a twelve-year-old, I knew that was a tacky look!)”

  “Oooh!” Nell shuddered. “I knew she could be prickly . . .”

  “So—the knitting author’s name is Barbara Barrow,” Pamela said. “Now we just have to figure out where she lives.”

  “Probably not too far away”—Bettina’s fingers were already dancing over the screen of her device—“because her husband came calling on Mary.”

  Pamela continued watching, and Nell gently lowered Ginger to the floor and joined Pamela at her post behind Bettina’s chair.

  “Here we are,” Bettina announced after a few minutes of searching. “Barbara and Stuart Barrow, on Angler Road in Meadowside.” She shut down her device and tucked it back into her purse. “I think,” she said, turning to wink at Pamela and Nell, “I need to research an article on how Meadowside celebrates Halloween.” She stood up. “I’ll need help with my interviews, of course.”

  Pamela transferred the cups, plates, and silverware to the counter while Bettina put away the cream and slipped the remaining piece of crumb cake into a ziplock bag. Soon, the three of them were tugging on coats and jackets in the entry. Catrina looked up from her nap in the patch of sunlight that appeared predictably on the entry’s thrift-store carpet every morning and then went back to sleep.

  “Here’s something else we should do,” Nell said suddenly, raising a finger. Pamela had been about to reach for the doorknob but turned back. “Mary’s funeral is tomorrow,” Nell explained, “and afterward, Brainard is hosting a reception at the Wendelstaff faculty club. Harold and I certainly plan to go—Mary was our neighbor, after all. But the reception, especially, might be a good venue for a little sleuthing, no matter what interesting things we learn today in Meadowside. And I’m sure the two of you would blend in just fine with the other mourners.”

  Chapter 11

  The houses on Angler Road looked to have been built more recently than most of the ones in Arborville, and on smaller lots, for people with smaller budgets. The split-level designs evoked the fifties, but the houses had been carefully maintained and the neighborhood projected an aura of contented respectability. No house seemed without a door decoration, or a festive banner, or an amusing wooden yard sign. The Barrows’ house was particularly noteworthy, with a bundle of Indian corn on the door, a bright orange banner with the word “Booo!” hanging from the porch roof, and a parade of skeletons marching across the lawn.

  Bettina cruised slowly past the house, then nosed her Toyota into a spot at the curb a few hundred feet farther up the block. “We’ll talk to some of the Barrows’ neighbors,” she said. “We’ll ask whether Angler Road gets a lot of trick-or-treaters, and whether people give out a lot of candy. If anybody wonders why we care, we’re writing an article for the Arborville Advocate.”

  “Clever idea,” Nell commented from the passenger seat, “though I don’t really condone lying. If the Barrows were at home handing out candy last Saturday night, they weren’t at the Arborville bonfire killing Dawn Filbert because they thought she was Mary.”

  “It won’t be lying if I really write the article.” Bettina twisted her key in the ignition and the Toyota’s engine rumbled to silence.

  They decided to fan out, with Bettina taking the houses to the left of the Barrows’ house, Nell taking the houses to the right, and Pamela taking the houses across the street.

  “We’ll ring the Barrows’ bell too,” Pamela suggested, “though it’s a weekday and they’re probably both at work. We might be lucky to find many people home at all, really.”

  “We’d better get busy then,” Nell said, and she began to climb out of the car. “Though we really only have to find one person who can vouch for the Barrows being on Angler Road Halloween night.”

  The air was chilly but still, and the day was bright and cloudless. Lawns on Angler Road were still green, with fallen leaves like bright paint spatters here and there. Pamela and Bettina joined Nell on the sidewalk. Bettina pushed back her coat sleeve to consult her pretty gold watch and sai
d, “It’s exactly eleven thirty. Let’s meet back here at noon and compare notes.” Squinting into the sunlight, Pamela and Nell nodded.

  They parted then, with Bettina heading for the nearest house and Nell heading in the other direction. Pamela stood near the car for a minute and studied the houses on the opposite side of the street. One had an elaborate Halloween-themed display on the porch—a whole family of pumpkins with faces painted on them, faces so realistic that Pamela wondered if they were meant to be portraits of the people who lived in the house.

  Such enthusiasm for the holiday suggested that whoever answered the door—if anyone did—might talk willingly about Angler Road’s trick-or-treaters. So Pamela made her way up the front walk to the porch and rang the doorbell.

  She could hear the bell echo inside and tilted her head toward the door in hopes of also hearing footsteps. But there was just silence. She rang again and waited. More silence. Either no one was home, or the occupant didn’t like to answer the door if no visitor was expected, or the bell was taken as a signal that a parcel had been delivered but could be fetched in at leisure.

  Pamela retraced her steps down the front walk and tried the next house, a split-level whose construction combined brick and shingles. At this house, the door opened almost as soon as Pamela pushed the bell, but the woman who opened it took one look at her and said, “We’re happy with our own church, thanks. Take your proselytizing somewhere else.”

  Pamela got only as far as “I’m not—” before the door slammed shut, causing the artificial flowers on the door wreath to vibrate.

  As she once more retreated to the sidewalk, Pamela noticed a woman emerging from around the far side of the next house. The woman was wearing baggy jeans and a down jacket that had seen better days, and she was carrying a pair of pruning shears and dragging a tall plastic bin. Leafy branches protruded from the top of the bin. The woman crossed the driveway, parked the bin at its edge, then stepped to the middle of the lawn and stared at the row of shrubs that softened the rather plain contours of the house.