“You found the yarn,” said a voice from the living room. Pamela looked through the arch that, just as in her house, separated the living room from the dining room to see the elderly woman who had greeted her.
“Marjorie Ardmore,” Haven explained. “Mom’s old friend. Popped up to help out when Mom got sick and she’s been in and out ever since.” Haven gazed at the bustle of people intent on their treasure hunting. “She’s been great though. I sure couldn’t have handled clearing this place out on my own.”
In the living room, Marjorie accepted a few bills from a woman holding a large crystal vase and tucked them into the zippered pouch at her waist. The next moment she had joined Pamela and Haven at the yarn table.
“Cassie was so talented,” she commented, picking up a red and blue striped sock. “All these beautiful things she made.” She put the sock down and regarded her hands, which were wrinkled but large and well-shaped. “I can’t do anything useful along those lines. But put me in a kitchen at canning season with a bushel of fruit and I’m happy as a clam.” She laughed.
Marjorie was a sturdy woman, and seemingly resigned to aging, with her unapologetically gray hair worn in a utilitarian pony tail, her sensible shoes, and her glasses on a chain around her neck.
“Hello!” called a voice from the kitchen door. “Is anybody in charge?”
They all turned to see a tall young man in a leather jacket holding a cast-iron griddle.
“Can I help you?” Marjorie asked. She took a few steps toward the young man. “Interested in a griddle? There’s a much nicer one.”
From the living room came another voice. “Can I leave an offer for the coffee table? In case you don’t sell it for what you’re asking?”
Marjorie paused on her way to the kitchen. “Haven,” she said. “Can you handle that, please?”
Then they were both gone, and Pamela turned her attention to the yarn spread out before her. She didn’t really need yarn—and she herself knew that she was on the way to amassing a hoard that Penny would have to deal with some day—hopefully far in the future. But some of the yarn laid out before her was clearly very good quality, and some of it was—she picked up a small ball of pale aqua yarn—familiar.
One of the yarn tails that she and Bettina had clipped from the tree-sweaters had been just such aqua yarn—and she remembered the tree-sweater. It had been a particularly beautiful one, The various colors of yarn that formed the stripes seemed less random than in some of the other sweaters. The knitter had chosen shades of blue and yellow that played off against each other to make each band of color seem particularly intense. Some of the yellows had been rich shades that veered toward. . . mustard.
A skein of yarn beckoned from across the table and Pamela reached over and snatched it up, provoking a disapproving stare from a woman who had been just about to claim it for herself.
Pamela summoned her social smile. “You saw it first,” she said. “I’ll give it back. I just want to check something.” The woman acknowledged the words with a scowl.
The yarn was heavy, suitable for a rugged garment, like the mustard-colored yarn tail the woman at the yarn shop had recognized. The skein still wore the paper band that identified it as “the wool that has kept Shetland Islanders warm for centuries. . . only the best from specially bred sheep.”
Pamela handed the skein of yarn back, and noticed that the woman had already collected several skeins of the same yarn. Most still wore their paper bands, suggesting that the project for which the yarn was purchased had never come to fruition.
The woman accepted the skein, added it to her collection, and looked up with another scowl. Mustard isn’t a color that everyone can wear, Pamela reflected, but she kept the thought to herself.
She scanned the table. So much yarn, but clearly some of the trove that Cassie had accumulated over the decades had already been claimed—by at least one of the people who had been so busy knitting the sweaters intended to protect the trees of Arborville from the axe.
Pamela resisted the urge to add more yarn to the stockpile that already occupied several plastic bins in her attic. Instead, she returned to the kitchen. A few shoppers had drifted into the kitchen as well and were browsing among the items piled on the counter. Pamela focused her attention on the table instead, where the blue-speckled pottery mixing bowl she’d noticed earlier still sat. She picked it up, enjoying its solid heft, and turned it over. The letters USA had been pressed into the clay before the bowl was fired, as well as a word that started with the letter “E” but was otherwise illegible.
Happy with her find, and happy that she had a reason to talk to Marjorie again, she stepped back into the entry. Marjorie was busy adding up prices for a large pile of goodies a middle-aged man had accumulated, including a carved wooden hippo and a gold-framed painting of a sailing ship. “Twenty-seven dollars total,” she announced, accepted the money and tucked it into the zippered pouch, and then turned to Pamela.
“It looks like you found something,” she said approvingly, then added, “Not interested in the yarn?”
“I have so much already,” Pamela said. “Not as much as Cassie had, but . . .” She let the words trail off, and Marjorie supplied just the response she was hoping for.
“Oh, there was more.” She gestured as if to suggest an expanding mass. “Haven carried bags and bags of it away a few weeks ago. Cassie knew she was dying and that the house would have to be cleared out so it could be sold.”
“Some of the yarn looks familiar,” Pamela said. “Like Cassie’s yarn could have been used to make those sweaters that somebody’s putting on the trees.”
Marjorie laughed. “Haven’s definitely one of those tree-huggers, or whatever they call them. I don’t know if she’s putting the sweaters on them but she sure goes on about how she disapproves of cutting them down just to protect the power wires. If anything should come down, she says, it should be the power wires.”
“Oh, my!” Pamela said it more to herself, but Marjorie overheard.
“Oh, my is right,” she said. “I like my electric lights.” A few more shoppers bearing their finds were milling about in the entry, as if eager to settle up and be on their respective ways. “Five dollars,” Marjorie announced, nodding toward the blue-speckled bowl.
Pamela was dipping into her purse for her wallet when the front door opened and a man and a woman stepped in. The woman was carrying a folded note. Before Marjorie could greet them, the woman handed her the note. “Somebody outside saw us coming to the sale and said to give you this,” she explained.
Marjorie unfolded the note and settled her glasses on her nose. As she read the note, she frowned. Then she laughed.
“Well, who ever heard of such a thing?” she said, holding the note up.
Handwritten in bold letters were these words: “Your tag sale signs are all over town. They are an EYESORE and they had better be gone the minute your tag sale is over. P.S. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.”
* * *
Cradling the blue-speckled pottery bowl in both hands, Pamela set out for home. Halfway down Orchard Street she noticed Wilfred’s ancient but lovingly cared-for Mercedes turning into the Frasers’ driveway. The spot usually occupied by Bettina’s Toyota was empty—she’d said that her babysitting duties were likely to stretch into the afternoon.
Wilfred caught sight of Pamela as he climbed out of his car. He waved and darted around the car to open the passenger door, whereupon Woofus sprang onto the asphalt. The shaggy creature stuck close to Wilfred as Wilfred backtracked to open the trunk. By this time Pamela was near her own house, but she crossed the street to greet Wilfred. Woofus looked up apprehensively as she approached, but Wilfred gave him a comforting pat on the head and murmured, “You know Pamela.”
“It looks like you’ve been shopping,” Wilfred said with a genial smile.
“A tag-sale treasure.” Pamela held up the bowl. “I have another just like it but bigger.” Wilfred lifted a large shopping bag from the trunk and she
added, “You’ve been shopping too.”
Wilfred held up the bag. “The main ingredient of our Easter feast—a hand-cured ham from Long Hill Farm, way out in Carringtown. Bettina said Penny would be home for spring break, and you’ll both join us, of course.”
“We’d love to,” Pamela said. “What shall I bring?”
“I’ll consult with the boss about the Easter menu.” Wilfred raised the bag higher as Woofus began sniffing at it eagerly. “Long Hill Farms makes sausages too,” he explained, “and they looked too good to pass up. That’s what he smells.” Wilfred gave the dog another pat and said, “You’ll get your treat too.” He slammed the trunk closed and Pamela turned to go.
* * *
At home, Pamela set the blue-speckled bowl on the kitchen counter to admire for a few days before she shelved it with its bigger mate. Stepping over cats, she returned to the porch to retrieve her mail, which consisted of nothing but catalogues and a sheet of free address labels featuring flowers.
The talk of hams and sausages had made her realize it had been quite a while since she’d eaten, and crumb cake and coffee don’t keep one going very long in any event. Back in the kitchen, she scrambled a few eggs and mixed in a bit of grated Swiss when they were nearly done. She ate them with a piece of toasted whole-grain bread.
Her house was clean and she was caught up on her work for Fiber Craft. She checked her email and found only a message from Penny. The message would be brief, Penny said, because she was busy with a demanding report that had to be turned in before she left for spring break. But she’d arranged a ride to Arborville with her friend Kyle Logan and unless plans changed she’d arrive a bit after noon on Friday.
Pamela responded with the news that they were invited to Easter dinner at Bettina and Wilfred’s to feast on a hand-cured ham that Wilfred had just bought. Then she happily settled onto the sofa for a few hours of knitting.
It was the first she’d worked on the lilac tunic since Tuesday night, when the Knit and Nibble meeting had been disrupted by the police showing up to arrest Roland. Now she pondered the swath of knitting dangling from her needle. It was a sleeve, the second sleeve, and the only piece of the project that remained to be finished. Then Pamela would sew the pieces together and the tunic would be ready for Penny when she arrived the following Friday.
The tunic’s lacy effect resembled filigreed shells with eyelets, and required careful counting of stitches. Where in the complex pattern had she left off? She’d been so rattled by the events of that evening that she’d simply stared at her project for a bit and then tucked it away in her knitting bag.
She studied the directions in the knitting book, turned her attention back to the nearly finished sleeve that lay in her lap, then frowned as she studied the directions again. So puzzled was she that she was relieved when the ringing phone gave her an excuse to set the knitting aside and climb to her feet.
“It’s me,” Bettina’s cheerful voice announced as Pamela put the phone to her ear. “I’d have crossed the street to visit but I’m worn out from chasing those little boys around all day. How was the tag sale?”
“I have many things to tell you,” Pamela responded. “I know who bought that mustard yarn, and I’m almost positive I know who’s been putting those sweaters on the trees—one of the people anyway.”
“Tell me in person,” Bettina said. “Come for dinner. Wilfred is cooking his Long Hill Farm sausages with apples and onions tonight.”
“Shall I make deviled eggs?” Pamela asked.
“Wait till next week.” Bettina laughed. “The Arborville grandchildren have a big egg-dying project planned, and I’m sure we’ll end up with many more hard-boiled eggs than anyone will want to eat.”
Pamela returned to her knitting project, and after she pondered a bit more her needles were clicking smoothly through the motions that produced the delicate lilac lace.
Chapter 8
On the Frasers’ kitchen counter, a piece of white butcher paper had been unfurled to reveal six plump pink sausages. Wilfred was working busily nearby, his bib overalls protected by an apron. The fact that Woofus was watching serenely from his favorite corner suggested that he’d been given his promised treat and was content.
“Have a glass of wine?” Bettina asked as she led Pamela toward the scrubbed pine table that furnished the eating area of the kitchen. “Or would you prefer hard cider? Wilfred needed some for his recipe and we chilled the rest.” Bettina was still wearing the turquoise tunic and leggings outfit she’d started the day in, but on her feet were furry slippers.
“I’ll have wine,” Pamela said, picking up an empty wine glass from the table. She recognized the glass, with its faint purple tint and elaborately twisted stem, as one of a hand-blown set Bettina had found at a craft shop. “How were the boys?”
“Exhausting,” Bettina sighed. “But they’re such little dears and Wilfred and I are lucky to have them so close.” She looked down at the slippers. “I put my feet up and napped for a bit after I talked to you, and I’m quite myself again.”
Bettina headed for the refrigerator and Pamela stepped up to the high counter that separated the cooking area of the Frasers’ spacious kitchen from the eating area. Bettina fetched the wine and poured a few inches’ worth into Pamela’s glass.
A sizzling sound and a tantalizing aroma drew Pamela’s attention to the stove, where a generous amount of butter was frothing in a large stainless steel frying pan. Wilfred was slicing an apple on a cutting board. Also on the cutting board was a small pile of sliced onions, and a bouquet of fresh sage sat nearby.
Bettina retrieved her own wine from the table and joined Pamela to watch as Wilfred poked each sausage with a fork to guard against bursting, then arranged the sausages in the pan. The sizzle immediately became more intense, and a moment later the aroma of frying pork replaced that of butter. “Well begun is half done,” Wilfred observed with a satisfied nod.
“So”—Bettina raised her glass as if offering Pamela a toast—“you said you have things to tell me. Spill!”
“I think Cassie’s daughter Haven is our suspect,” Pamela said.
“Really?” Bettina’s brightly painted lips stretched into a smile and her eyes grew wide.
Pamela nodded. “Cassie was a devoted knitter. There was tons of yarn at the sale—leftovers from projects, but also unused yarn bought for projects that never happened. Haven is a knitter too, and according to the woman running the sale—an old friend of Cassie’s named Marjorie—Haven had carted away bags and bags of it a few weeks ago.”
The sizzle modulated into a high, steady hum as Wilfred prodded the browning sausages with a long fork, rolling them from side to side. “Strike while the iron is hot,” he murmured, then lifted the cutting board and used the fork to guide the chopped onion and apple into the frying pan. There was a dramatic whoosh as they made contact with the pan’s sizzling contents, but as they settled around the sausages and began to gently fry the sounds muted.
Bettina’s smile had vanished as Pamela spoke. “Lots of people are knitters,” she said at last, after Wilfred had covered the frying pan and there was, for the moment, nothing to watch. “And lots of people stockpile yarn,” she went on. “I don’t see why—”
Pamela held up a finger. “The mustard yarn. Remember, we clipped a bit of mustard yarn from one of the tree-sweaters. The woman at the yarn shop said it wasn’t a common sort of yarn, but the shop had carried some and a woman from Arborville had bought it.” The expression on Bettina’s face grew hopeful again. “That woman must have been Cassie. There were skeins and skeins of it at the sale. Apparently Cassie never got around to making whatever she had in mind.”
Bettina laughed. “Or she thought better of the idea. Mustard really isn’t a color that everyone can wear.”
“Haven had already carried some off and used it for a tree-sweater, but there was still a lot at the sale.”
Bettina nodded. “Haven is a knitter and the mustard yarn isn’t a common
sort of yarn, but Haven had access to it and it was used in one of the tree-sweaters.”
Pamela nodded in return. “So that links Haven to the tree-sweaters—and I recognized at least one other kind of yarn from the tree-sweaters too—pale aqua.” She paused. “And here’s what clinches it! Marjorie said Haven really disapproves of the town cutting down those trees.”
At the stove, something else exciting was starting to happen. Wilfred had set a heavy cast-iron griddle on the stove’s other front burner and he was stirring up something in a large stainless-steel mixing bowl.
“Potato pancakes, dear ladies,” Wilfred explained, tipping the bowl to show grated potatoes bound together with egg and milk. “I’m warming up my collard greens”—he nodded toward a small saucepan on a back burner—“and when the potato pancakes are nearly done, the cider and sage go onto the sausages, and”—he paused to drizzle oil onto the griddle—“we eat in ten minutes.”
“Shall I bring the plates in here?” Bettina asked.
“Why not?” Wilfred turned from the stove, his cheeks all the more ruddy from the heat of cooking. “We don’t have to stand on ceremony. After all, we’re family.”
“I’ll put the salad on the table though,” Bettina said. She stepped around the high counter, opened the refrigerator, and took out a wooden salad bowl in which cherry tomatoes offered a bright contrast to delicate mesclun lettuce and chopped cucumber. Then she waited as Wilfred dressed the salad with a swirl of olive oil, a splash of balsamic vinegar, a sprinkle of salt, and a few grindings of pepper. He finished by giving it a toss with a large spoon and fork carved of smooth wood. Bettina seized the bowl up again and proceeded toward the doorway that led to the dining room, Pamela following.
Bettina had been a willing but uninspired cook for most of her married life. When Wilfred retired, he’d happily assumed most cooking chores. But Bettina had always enjoyed setting her table with the interesting hand-crafted dishes and table linens she collected.
A Fatal Yarn Page 7
