“It’s Brainard and Mary’s house,” Nell said as she took a seat beside Pamela on the bench. She was still panting slightly. “Someone—very ghoulish, if you ask me—wants to buy it. He was hanging around this morning, taking pictures of it, and he started chatting with Harold when Harold went out to fetch the newspaper. He asked if the heir or heirs lived locally and had been around.”
“Oh, Nell!” Pamela tightened her lips into a distressed grimace. She described the letter that Martha had found the previous day. “It could be the same person,” she added. “What was he like?”
“I didn’t see him,” Nell said. “He only talked to Harold. And Harold didn’t know about the letter, so he didn’t think that much of the encounter—not enough to give me a detailed description of the man.”
“But Harold probably remembers what he looked like,” Pamela murmured, then, in a more excited voice, she added, “and anyway, the man will come back if he’s so eager.”
“I’m going to tell Martha about him,” Nell assured Pamela with a vigorous nod. “She just hasn’t shown up yet. Herc will be interested in a possible buyer and—”
“Nell!” Pamela grabbed Nell’s hand, which was resting in her lap, clutching the canvas tote bag. Nell reared back and stared at Pamela with her eyes wide. “He could be the murderer!” The pitch of Pamela’s voice rose in an uncharacteristic way.
“What?” Nell’s other hand landed on top of Pamela’s and squeezed. She paused and frowned. “You could be right,” she said at last. “From what you said, it sounds like the Lyon-Covingtons were completely unresponsive to this man’s letters. Even if they didn’t want to sell, they could have been sympathetic enough to talk to him. A childhood house can really mean a lot to a person.”
Pamela nodded. “I’m going to Bettina’s right now. Detective Clayborn listens to her—sometimes—and he should definitely be told about this development.”
“When I get home from the Co-Op, I’ll ask Harold what the man looked like,” Nell said as she and Pamela untangled their hands and Nell renewed her grip on the tote bag. “And I’ll tell Martha to find out everything she can about him if he comes back.”
“Good.” Pamela rose from the bench, commenting, “This could be the breakthrough.” She took up her grocery bags and she and Nell parted, Nell heading north toward the Co-Op and Pamela crossing Arborville Avenue and continuing on down Orchard Street.
The Frasers’ front door opened before Pamela had a chance to ring, and from the other side of the threshold, Woofus stared up at her in alarm. The shaggy creature edged back in confusion, and the door swung open farther to reveal Wilfred bundled in a warm jacket and a voluminous scarf.
“Pamela!” he said as a smile creased his ruddy face. “What a pleasant surprise! Woofus and I are just going out on an errand, but the boss lady is in the kitchen. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.” He stepped back and bent to give Woofus a comforting pat and a reassuring word as Pamela entered.
“Is that Pamela?” Bettina had appeared in the arch between the living room and the dining room. She was dressed for the day in one of the tunic and leggings outfits she wore when she was scheduled to babysit for her Arborville grandchildren. This outfit was a rich indigo color that contrasted strikingly with her bright red sneakers, and she’d added a necklace of large red beads with matching earrings.
“There’s still some coffee,” Bettina added. “Come on back in the kitchen, put those grocery bags down, and have a cup.”
“I will,” Pamela said, “but I’ve got something really important to tell you—about the case.”
“I’m all ears.” Bettina turned and led the way to the promised coffee.
“There’s a sequel to that letter Martha found,” Pamela explained as she followed Bettina through the doorway that led from the dining room to the kitchen. Once she was comfortably settled at Bettina’s well-scrubbed pine table with a mug of coffee in front of her, she relayed Nell’s story about the early morning visitor asking about the Lyon-Covingtons’ house.
“This could be the breakthrough!” Bettina clapped her hands and smiled a red-lipped smile. “I will call Clayborn right this minute.” She jumped up and scurried from the room to fetch her phone. In a moment, she was back. “I’m sure he’ll take me seriously and he’ll be really glad to hear this,” she commented breathlessly as she tapped at the phone with a red-nailed finger. “He hasn’t had anything new to tell me about the case, and I’ll bet that annoying Marcy Brewer from the Register has been getting impatient. And”—she looked up, and her smile grew wider—“this means the killer won’t turn out to be that sweet Felicity Winkle or that nice Greg Dixon.”
Bettina lifted the phone to her ear, listened briefly, and then said, “Hello, this is Bettina Fraser from the Advocate, calling for Detective Clayborn.” She listened again, and as she did so, the cheer that had brightened her expression faded. When she spoke again, her voice took on a pleading tone. “It’s really important,” she said. “It’s a clue about the murders.” After another pause, she lowered the phone and poked at its screen to end the call.
She raised her eyes from the phone to gaze mournfully at Pamela and moaned, “He’s at a conference and won’t be in till Monday. And apparently, the person who answered the phone doesn’t know who I am.”
Pamela sighed. She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug, enjoying for a moment the warmth it radiated, and then took a consoling sip.
“I’ll call again first thing Monday morning,” Bettina said. “It’s all we can do. And I’m sure Nell will let us know if the man comes back to talk to Martha.”
Chapter 22
Back in her own house, Pamela put away her groceries, leaving the cheddar out on the counter because lunchtime was drawing near. She’d have a grilled cheese sandwich and an apple—and thinking of apples reminded her that she still hadn’t decided what to make for Knit and Nibble with the bounty of apples Bettina and Wilfred had given her.
She pondered that topic as she buttered the last two pieces of whole-grain bread from the previous week’s loaf, laid one buttered side down on her griddle, and topped it with sliced cheddar and the other piece of bread, buttered side up. Maybe an apple trifle, she thought as she watched the sandwich carefully, looking for signs that the cheese was melting. When a few melted cheese dribbles began to appear at the joint where the top slice of bread joined the bottom slice, she flipped the sandwich and waited until a check of the sandwich’s underside revealed that it had reached the ideal golden-toasty hue.
After she transferred the sandwich to a plate and set an apple on the table next to it, but before she sat down to eat, she selected a cookbook from the bookshelf at the counter’s end and laid it on the counter for future reference.
* * *
Work for the magazine awaited. Of the articles her boss had sent at the beginning of the week for her to edit, five remained, and the whole batch was due back Monday morning. After lunch, Pamela climbed the stairs to her office and spent the next two hours among the textiles in the Musée du quai Branly in Paris. She learned that, as an ethnographic museum, its collections spanned many different cultures, and the photographs that accompanied the article made the esthetic value of the holdings clear. But English was not the author’s native language, so Pamela’s copyediting skills were called upon many times per page.
At last, she clicked on “Save,” and when a quick check of her email showed nothing that needed a response, she allowed her monitor to lapse into sleep. Deciding to exercise her body after the workout the Fiber Craft article had just given her brain, Pamela devoted the rest of the afternoon to laundry and housecleaning.
As she worked, scrubbing floors, vacuuming rugs, dusting her collection of thrift-store treasures, she couldn’t help reflecting on the curious new suspect in the Arborville murder case—someone who had grown up in Brainard and Mary’s house and had wanted desperately to buy it for a long time. Did he think he could thus recapture the happiness he knew as a chi
ld? Had recapturing that happiness made killing three people—one by accident—seem worthwhile?
Pamela’s own house was over a hundred years old, quite a bit older than Brainard and Mary’s. With vacuum cleaner in hand, she paused in the middle of the entry. The ancient carpet, with its pattern of stylized foliage, covered an even more ancient parquet floor. Many generations had lived in this house before she and Michael Paterson bought it. People had been born, died, fallen in love, gone off to war . . .
By six p.m., living room, dining room, and entry smelled of lemon oil, and the cushions on the sofa had been fluffed and straightened, with the needlepoint cat turned right side up. Fresh towels hung in the bathroom and powder room, and both rooms had been thoroughly scrubbed, along with the kitchen floor. The sheets on Pamela’s bed had been washed and put away, replaced by a set fragrant with lavender sachet.
As the Co-Op sea bass baked in the oven and a pot of brown rice simmered on the stove, Pamela studied the recipe for apple trifle she’d found in Traditional Recipes from the British Isles. Many steps were involved, including making one’s own custard and stewing the apples—and she’d need a return trip to the Co-Op for ladyfingers. But the house was clean now. She’d have plenty of time on Tuesday to prepare the evening’s nibble.
* * *
Seated at her computer later, Pamela took a moment to check her email before opening the Word file for “Was Royal Purple Really Purple? Experimenting with Ancient Roman Dyestuffs.” The first message that popped up caused her to smile—a note from Penny was always welcome. But as she read it, the smile became tremulous and then disappeared altogether. It wasn’t that harm had come to Penny. The message read,
Hi Mom!
Everything is good here and I hope things are good in Arborville and you and Bettina are still leaving it to the police to figure out who killed those people.
I’m looking forward to my trip home for Thanksgiving. Laine and Sybil will be in Arborville then, and Laine said Jocelyn will probably be there too, so it’s a good thing they really like her. Have you met her yet? Laine said Jocelyn’s clothes are great and their father seems really happy.
Love,
Penny
Pamela stared at the computer screen. What with the housecleaning, and finding the perfect recipe for apple trifle, and the thought that maybe if Detective Clayborn tracked down the man who wanted to buy the Lyon-Covingtons’ house he’d capture the killer, she’d been feeling that all was right with the world.
But now . . . their father seems really happy . . .
Pamela left “Was Royal Purple Really Purple? Experimenting with Ancient Roman Dyestuffs” unopened and swung her chair around so her back faced the computer. All was not right with the world. The only solution was to sit down with her knitting needles and yarn and let the rhythmic motions of the needles and the caress of the spun wool work their soothing magic.
Catrina and Ginger leaped eagerly onto the sofa as soon as Pamela had settled into her customary spot and taken up the in-progress sleeve of the cornflower-blue sweater. The British mystery unfolding on the screen before her, with its refined accents and tastefully appointed interiors, was nearly as soothing as her knitting. With the climax drawing near, she was nearing the end of the first sleeve as well. She yawned and closed her eyes for a moment, and the next thing she knew, the characters in the mystery had been replaced by cats.
Ginger cats, to be precise. Unfortunately, both Catrina and Ginger had long since fallen asleep, one against Pamela’s right thigh and the other to her left on the arm of the sofa. But as the cats frolicked on the screen, a narrator whose tone was as portentous as if his topic was the rise and fall of empires explained that for every eight ginger males there were only two ginger females and it all had to do with the X chromosome.
As he spoke, Pamela recalled the dashing ginger tomcat who had for a time frequented Richard Larkin’s yard and who was responsible for Ginger’s existence. Against all probability, Catrina had given birth to three black males and three ginger females!
* * *
On Sunday morning, Pamela had a call from Nell before she had even taken her first sip of coffee. “He came back again this morning,” Nell announced with no preamble. But Pamela recognized Nell’s voice and understood at once who the he was.
“Detective Clayborn is at a conference and won’t be back in Arborville until Monday,” Pamela said. “But if you got a good description and found out where he’s living now and maybe even his name—”
“I got his business card,” Nell answered, sounding curiously unexcited.
“His business card?” Pamela laughed. “Well, he’s certainly not trying to hide his identity. He doesn’t sound like a very clever murderer.”
“He’s not,” Nell said. “That is, he’s not a murderer. He’s a real estate agent.”
Pamela moaned. It wasn’t unheard of for real estate agents to prospect for listings in Arborville. The town was charming, and Pamela herself had received phone calls asking whether she was interested in selling.
“He seemed quite nice,” Nell added, “aside from the fact that it’s awfully soon to pounce on an heir whose parents have both just been murdered.” In the background, Pamela could hear Harold commenting, “And he has a client who’s dying to live in Arborville.” Then she heard Nell’s voice, somewhat muffled as if she’d turned away from the phone—but not so muffled as to obscure its scolding tone—saying, “That is not funny.”
“So who wrote the letter?” Pamela asked, quite aware that there was no way Nell could have an answer.
“We might never know. But this man isn’t him,” Nell said.
“We’ll get the letter from Martha”—Pamela nodded, even though only the cats were present to witness her determination—“and we’ll pass it along to Detective Clayborn. The police have ways of tracing things like that. There could even be DNA.”
“Yes,” Nell said. “That’s what we’ll do. Something has to happen soon to solve this case. Our little town just isn’t the kind of place where these kinds of things should happen.”
It wasn’t, Pamela reflected as she hung up the phone. And if the real estate agent actually got the listing, would he hope potential buyers hadn’t followed the story of the “back-to-back murders” that had “stunned Arborville,” as the Register had put it?
Pamela had more articles to edit for Fiber Craft. They were due the next morning, and with the sky a moody gray, the prospect of staying indoors doing useful work appealed. So after breakfast, Pamela climbed the stairs to her office, got dressed, and sat down at her computer.
It came to life with its usual chirps and hums, and soon Pamela was untangling the convoluted syntax of an article on the economics of the modern hemp industry. Because it was so durable, Pamela read, the hemp fiber had been adopted by clothing designers aiming for sustainability. The author, in fact, was a designer herself—and quite a crusader for sustainability—and Pamela did her best to tone down the article’s polemical tone.
It was a relief, then, when she turned to “African American Designers Discover Traditional African Textiles.” The photos that accompanied the article didn’t need to be copyedited, of course, but Pamela lingered on the images of chic cocktail dresses sewn from vibrant prints featuring stylized animals and plants or angular abstractions.
One article remained when Pamela’s stomach reminded her that a slice of whole-grain toast and a few cups of black coffee did not satisfy for too long. Catrina had wandered in partway through the article on African American designers and African textiles and installed herself on Pamela’s lap, creating a zone of warmth as welcome as a lap rug. Pamela leaned back in her chair and raised her arms over her head in a luxurious stretch. Then she lifted the cat for a cuddle, set her on the floor, and together they proceeded down the stairs.
* * *
Half an hour later, Pamela was back at her computer, with Catrina once more on her lap, tackling an article called, “Art Reflects Life: Clues to Anc
ient Greek Textile Creation in Images of the Fates.” Unfamiliar words abounded—the Fates were the Moirai, it seemed, three goddesses. One spun the thread of life, one measured it out, and one snipped it off at life’s end. If you knew what they looked like, or could read the little Greek inscriptions that often accompanied their images, you could recognize them on vases and bas-reliefs. And here was a photo of a Greek vase, and another, and another. And yes, the same three figures appeared on each, one with a spindle, one with a thread, and one with shears.
Pamela worked methodically, adding a semicolon here, subtracting a comma there, as another part of her mind began to enjoy the author’s erudition and the way he teased such interesting insights from his material. After a few pages, though, she stopped and scrolled back to the top of the article.
Frowning, she leaned closer to the computer screen and reread the pages she had already read. A connection was begging to be made. But what was the connection?
Suddenly, she knew. She thrust her chair back from her desk and spun around until she could reach her phone. Catrina looked up in alarm and leaped to the floor.
She punched in Nell’s number and waited, holding her breath as her heart lurched in her chest and she counted off the pulses of the ringing phone. At last Nell answered, sounding puzzled at Pamela’s obvious agitation and even more puzzled when Pamela asked her to recall the details of a conversation about the Lyon-Covingtons that had taken place one day as she and Pamela and Bettina sat at Nell’s kitchen table.
But Nell’s memory was sharp, and she confirmed the crucial detail that Pamela had thought she herself remembered. She also mentioned that Martha had shown up that morning and was hard at work with her task of sorting out the Lyon-Covingtons’ belongings.
Pamela swiveled back toward the computer screen, saved her work, and closed Word. Catrina watched her, as if wondering whether a lap was going to be available again. But when Pamela popped up from her chair and hurried toward the door, Catrina chose the next best alternative. She leaped nimbly onto the vacated chair and thence to the computer keyboard.
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