Knit of the Living Dead

by Peggy Ehrhart

  * * *

  As soon as she walked into her kitchen on Saturday morning, the grocery list fastened to the refrigerator by a tiny magnetized mitten reminded Pamela of the first thing on her agenda. And the cats that had trailed her down the stairs made it clear that they expected their breakfast before she even thought about hers.

  Once Catrina and Ginger had been provided with several scoops of chicken-fish blend, Pamela set her kettle boiling for coffee. Before fetching the newspaper, however, she added cat food to the grocery list.

  Back inside, she slipped the Register from its flimsy plastic sleeve and unfolded it onto the table. As the kettle began to whistle, she checked the Local section for news about the two murders but, as she had suspected, nothing had happened that the Register judged worthy to report—and, in fact, she suspected that nothing had happened at all.

  Coffee and toast prepared, she settled down at the table to read the paper more thoroughly. When two cups of black coffee had been sipped from the wedding-china cup and nothing remained of the whole-grain toast but a few crumbs scattered across the small wedding-china plate, Pamela rinsed cup and plate at the sink and climbed the stairs to dress.

  Today, the sweater she chose to wear with her jeans was a bulky turtleneck in a rich brown with an interesting cable detail up the front. Back downstairs, she added a jacket and gloves to the ensemble—the turtleneck took the place of a scarf—and gathered a few of the canvas bags she’d used for her shopping ever since Nell convinced all her friends to renounce paper and plastic.

  The bright but chilly weather was continuing, and Pamela enjoyed her walk up Orchard Street. The last few nights had been cold, cold enough that more leaves had traded the deep green of late summer for gold or vibrant red. And Thanksgiving-oriented arrangements of corn husks, ornamental squash, and chrysanthemums were replacing the sometimes macabre Halloween displays in yards and on porches.

  Once she reached the Co-Op, she claimed a cart and headed toward the produce department. Browsing along the Co-Op’s narrow aisles, she added celery, carrots, and two onions to the cart, as well as a baking potato. A few stalks of celery, a carrot, and an onion would go into the chicken soup, along with the egg noodles she already had at home. The chicken soup would be lunch for many days. The other onion would go into the meatloaf that would be Sunday’s dinner, with a baked potato, and many dinners beyond that as well.

  Emerging from the end of an aisle where bins piled high with fresh greens in leafy profusion flanked bins of lemons, limes, and oranges, Pamela steered her cart toward the meat department. Faced with lamb chops, rib roasts, tenderloins, and more—all from local farms—it seemed a shame to pick only a small package of ground chuck. But she would be enjoying the bounty of the Co-Op’s meat department that evening in the form of Wilfred’s beef bourguignon.

  A detour down one of the Co-Op’s central aisles was necessary in order to add several cans of cat food to her selections. Back on the store’s periphery, she paused at the cheese counter where, instead of her usual Vermont cheddar, she requested a half pound of Swiss. The final stop was the bakery counter for a loaf of whole-grain bread. She pointed to a particularly appealing loaf—oval, gleaming, and just the right shade of toasty brown—and watched as it was sliced and tucked into a plastic bag.

  Exiting with her groceries, Pamela waited at the light to cross Arborville Avenue. Directly across from the Co-Op was Borough Hall, Arborville’s administrative center, a small, brick building dating from the early twentieth century. Two men from the town’s DPW were at work now in front of the building—Pamela recognized them from the trucks that collected Arborville’s garbage and recyclables.

  Since mid-September, the small flower bed in front of the building, as well as the steps leading to the building’s door and the landing in front of the door, had been decorated with materials evoking the harvest season. Dried cornstalks bearing dried ears of corn were lashed to the step railings with bright orange ribbon. More dried cornstalks bound into sheaves with more orange ribbon were stationed on either side of the door. In the flower bed, a bale of hay formed a seat for a scarecrow. Several jack-o’-lanterns kept him company.

  Now the men were adding potted chrysanthemums to the display, and removing the jack-o’-lanterns. Some had been nibbled by creatures and all had begun to collapse inward as their walls gradually decayed. Pamela had carried her own jack-o’-lantern to her compost heap several days before.

  The light changed and the little striding figure that indicated it was okay to cross appeared below the signal. Pamela started across Arborville Avenue with a canvas grocery bag in each hand and her purse over her shoulder. She watched as one of the DPW men collected a maroon chrysanthemum from a handcart parked on the sidewalk, and then her glance strayed beyond the handcart to the bus stop a bit to the south of Borough Hall.

  A couple, a young man and a young woman, stood together at the bus stop. A small wheeled suitcase was poised on the sidewalk near the young man’s feet. Each half of the couple looked familiar, but until this moment the notion that the young man and the young woman might actually be a couple had not occurred to Pamela.

  The young man was facing the young woman, displaying his classic profile to fine advantage when seen from halfway across Arborville Avenue. His russet hair glowed in the bright autumn sunlight. The young woman’s fair hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and she wore the white shirt and black pants of a server at Hyler’s. Then Herc Covington reached out a hand to caress the face of Felicity Winkle. Felicity raised her own hand to caress his.

  By this time, Pamela had reached the opposite curb. But instead of continuing on past Borough Hall and thus past the bus stop and the young couple, she walked only as far as the south end of the flower bed with the hay bale and the scarecrow. There she paused, affecting a great interest in the refurbishing of the harvest display.

  Herc was clearly on his way somewhere—probably into Manhattan to get a train or bus back to Princeton, and Felicity was clearly on a break from her job at Hyler’s.

  Pamela watched as one of the DPW men gathered up two of the rotting pumpkins. Behind her, she could hear Herc’s voice saying, “We just have to be patient.”

  “Can’t I come down there and live with you?” Felicity asked in plaintive tones. “I could get a job in Princeton just as well as here.”

  Yes! Pamela said to herself. Why can’t she?

  But young lovers must contend with the machinations of the old.

  “He’s got his pals in the classics department”—Herc’s tones were equally plaintive—“and they’re all spying on me. He’d cut me off without a cent.”

  The rumble of an approaching bus distracted Pamela from her study of the harvest display, where the other DPW man was now nestling a pair of chrysanthemums into the spots that had been occupied by the pumpkins.

  “I love you so much, Herc!” Felicity raised her voice as the bus drew closer.

  “I love you too,” came Herc’s response. “And when I’m done and I’ve got the degree and the job, I’ll have my own money, and my father won’t be able to keep us apart.”

  The bus wheezed to a stop. In the silence, Felicity’s voice was loud, perhaps louder than she meant it to be. “I can’t wait that long,” she said. “We have to do something. I just can’t wait that long.”

  As the bus pulled away, Pamela began to climb the steps leading to the door of Borough Hall, pretending that had been her errand all along. When she reached the top, she stepped in front of one of the cornstalk sheaves and turned back toward the sidewalk. Felicity stood at the corner, waiting to cross the east-west street that separated Borough Hall and the Co-Op from most of Arborville’s shops and restaurants, including Hyler’s Luncheonette.

  Once Felicity had proceeded on her way—most likely heading back to Hyler’s, Pamela thought—she descended the Borough Hall steps. She resumed her journey south on Arborville Avenue, turning onto Orchard Street at the corner with the stately brick apartment b
uilding. When she reached the spot halfway down the block where Bettina’s house on the north side of the street faced hers on the south, she paused at the end of Bettina’s driveway, even though the grocery-laden canvas bags were weighing heavy in her hands.

  As she walked, she had been mulling over the conversation she had just overheard. Herc and Felicity were a couple—or hoped to be—but Herc’s father, Brainard, objected to the match and was using his financial control over Herc to prevent the young lovers from realizing their dreams. That certainly explained Brainard’s rudeness toward Felicity at the reception—as well as Herc’s standoffishness on an occasion where one would expect son and father to console each other.

  Bettina’s Toyota was missing from its usual berth next to Wilfred’s ancient but well-cared-for Mercedes. Nonetheless, Pamela made her way up the driveway to the Frasers’ porch, where she rang the bell.

  After a few moments, the door swung back to reveal Wilfred, in his everyday garb of bib overalls and a plaid shirt. Before Wilfred even greeted Pamela, Woofus sidled up to his thigh, gazing at Pamela with a troubled expression that put his shaggy ears on alert. Wilfred rested a comforting hand on the huge animal’s back, then turned his attention to Pamela.

  “The boss lady’s gone to the mall,” he said.

  “She’ll be away for a couple of hours then, I guess.” Pamela took a step back as Woofus edged closer to the threshold and extended his muzzle to sniff at the grocery bag that held the ground beef.

  “At least,” Wilfred said with a good-natured laugh. “But I was just about to pay a call on you, so let me—” He emerged from the doorway and relieved Pamela of the grocery bag that had interested Woofus. Woofus remained inside, looking conflicted about whether to follow his master on who knew what kind of mysterious errand or remain in the security of his own house.

  Wilfred stooped toward the dog. “Come on, boy,” he whispered encouragingly. “You know Pamela.”

  Woofus joined them on the porch, Wilfred pulled the door closed, and they set out along the little path that led to the driveway.

  “What’s on your mind?” Pamela inquired as they began to cross the street.

  “Thyme,” Wilfred responded.

  “Time?” Pamela tilted her head to look up at his face and gave him a puzzled smile.

  “Thyme,” he repeated. “Fresh thyme. It’s a crucial ingredient in my beef bourguignon recipe for tonight, and I recall seeing a pot of it on your back porch.”

  * * *

  When Wilfred had been dispatched with a small posy of fragrant thyme sprigs, and a six p.m. arrival had been confirmed for her dinner invitation, Pamela put her groceries away. Then she checked her email, responded to a message from Penny, and settled down on her sofa. There, she gave herself over to the luxury of an afternoon with nothing to do but knit, and the prospect of a delicious dinner with her best friends.

  Chapter 14

  The Frasers’ house was fragrant with the aroma of beef bourguignon—the savory richness of stewing beef enhanced by notes of carrot and onion and a piquant hint of thyme. Bettina met Pamela at the door, hung her jacket in the closet as Punkin watched from a favorite perch on the back of the sofa, and ushered her into the kitchen, where Pamela offered the bottle of burgundy she had brought.

  “I know you bought burgundy for the recipe,” Pamela said, “but here’s a bottle for your wine cupboard or to drink tonight.”

  Wilfred greeted Pamela from behind the high counter that separated the cooking area from the eating one. He was wearing an apron over his bib overalls and his face was ruddy from kitchen heat. On the stovetop, a saucepan sat on a burner turned up high, its lid jiggling in a sign of the robust boiling within. A half-full bottle of red wine waited on the counter next to one of Bettina’s sleek, Swedish crystal wineglasses. Wilfred poured a few inches of wine into the glass and handed it to Pamela. Then he returned to his cooking duties and his own glass of wine.

  Bettina set the bottle Pamela had brought on the high counter and picked up her wine. Whether by accident or through calculation, her ensemble this evening echoed the burgundy theme. She wore wide-legged wool pants in a deep, rich red, paired with a silky, bow-necked blouse in the same shade.

  “You discovered something, didn’t you?” she said, regarding Pamela over the rim of her wineglass. “Something that has to do with the murders.”

  “I told her you came by while she was at the mall,” Wilfred explained from his post at the counter near the stove. He was coring apples and standing them upright in a ceramic baking dish. The apples were bright red against the dish’s creamy glaze.

  “Maybe not something to do with the murders—at least I hope not,” Pamela said. “But something to do with the Lyon-Covingtons, so that means it complicates things.”

  “I’m all ears!” Bettina raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth, inhaled, and froze, as if in the grip of suspense.

  “Herc Covington and Felicity Winkle are in love.”

  Bettina stared at Pamela for a moment. Then she exclaimed, “The ring! Felicity’s beautiful ring.” She went on, “That day we had lunch at Hyler’s—she wasn’t wearing it anymore, and she told us all about her boyfriend and the engagement being broken off, and he’s down in Princeton . . .” She broke off, a bit breathless.

  “The boyfriend was Herc.” Pamela nodded again. She went on to describe seeing the pair at the bus stop in front of Borough Hall and overhearing their conversation. “They see Brainard as the impediment to their being together,” she concluded, adding, “and then, as Herc climbed on the bus, Felicity said they would have to do something.”

  “Like what kind of a something?” Bettina inquired, caught up in Pamela’s story.

  Pamela had taken a sip of wine after her long narrative. She swallowed, offered Bettina a shrug and a puzzled half smile, and said, “I don’t know, but the something would be in the future, not the past.”

  “And the dead people haven’t been Brainard—at least so far.” Wilfred spoke up from his post at the counter, where he was now spooning an interesting mixture into the holes left in the apples when the cores were removed.

  “Oh, dear!” Bettina shuddered. “At least so far? Felicity is such a sweet young woman. I wouldn’t want to think—” She shuddered again.

  Pamela was shuddering too, but inwardly. She’d had longer to ponder this new development than Bettina had, and she’d convinced herself—or at least tried—that a couple as appealing as Herc and Felicity would never contemplate something as horrible as murder. And a young man murdering his father . . . ? Of course, there was that Oedipus story . . .

  She was relieved when Wilfred’s voice, now cheerful, summoned her back to the comforting environs of the Frasers’ kitchen.

  “The stew is out of the oven and resting,” he announced, “and the baked apples have gone in. I’ll have the potatoes mashed in a trice, and then we’ll eat.”

  Bettina was already bending into the refrigerator. She emerged holding a salad bowl carved from wood with a striking gnarled pattern. In the bowl, a tangle of curly arugula leaves was studded with cherry tomatoes. She set the bowl on the high counter and drizzled olive oil over the salad, tossed it with a large wooden fork and spoon, and added a sprinkle of balsamic vinegar to the now-glistening leaves. The finishing touches were a few grinds of pepper, a dash of salt, and another light toss.

  “What can I do?” Pamela asked as Bettina headed for the dining room, bearing the salad before her.

  “No need to do anything, dear lady,” Wilfred said. “Too many cooks spoil the broth. But if you insist, you can fetch me a bowl for the mashed potatoes.” He was energetically pumping his potato masher up and down in the saucepan where he’d boiled the potatoes.

  Pamela opened the cupboard where Bettina kept the sage-green pottery dishes that were her favorite and lifted a medium-size oval bowl from a stack of bowls and platters. She stepped around to where Wilfred was working and watched as he exchanged the potato masher for an oversize spoon
and added a goodly chunk of butter to the saucepan. He stirred the potatoes with the spoon as the butter melted, and then dribbled in milk until the texture changed from stiff to yielding. He lit the burner under the saucepan again and continued stirring.

  “Got to make sure they’re nice and hot,” he explained. He stopped stirring for a moment to pour a bit of salt into his palm. “Just a bit,” he said, tipping the salt from his palm into the saucepan and taking up the spoon again. “People can add more after they have a taste.”

  When the mashed potatoes had been heaped into the oval bowl, Pamela carried it to the dining room, where Bettina was refolding napkins, aligning flatware, and repositioning wineglasses, making sure that every detail of her carefully set table was perfect. After a satisfied nod, she lit the candles.

  “I know it’s just the three of us,” she said. “But I so enjoy getting to use my pretty things.”

  The table was spread with a striped cloth in a loose, homespun weave, the stripes in various tones of blue and green that complemented Bettina’s sage-green plates. Blue linen napkins were tucked beside the plates, along with knives, forks, and spoons in sleek stainless steel. Fresh wineglasses from Bettina’s Swedish crystal set awaited wine from the bottle of burgundy in the stainless-steel wine coaster. Centered between pewter candle holders with modern Scandinavian lines was a squat turquoise pottery vase brimming with sunflowers. A salt shaker and pepper grinder, as well as butter in a shallow bowl, completed the preparations.

  Pamela set the bowl of mashed potatoes to one side of the place setting at the head of the table where Wilfred would sit. To the other side, a large trivet marked the spot destined for the beef bourguignon. The salad bowl sat at the other end of the table, along with three small plates and three salad forks.

  “Dinner is served!” Wilfred announced from the doorway that led from the kitchen. He was still wearing his apron and, with his hands protected by oven mitts, was carrying a casserole in a vibrant shade of orange. He’d left the casserole’s lid in the kitchen, and a fragrant drift of steam rose from the stew. He set the casserole on the trivet and hurried away again, returning with serving spoons for the stew and the mashed potatoes.