In the dining room, the table was already set with Bettina’s sage-green pottery plates, maroon linen napkins tucked at their sides along with knives, forks, and spoons. Under the plates were colorful placemats, rustic plaid woven from shades of maroon, rust, and cream. Fresh wine glasses had been provided, crystal, with a Scandinavian flair. The sleek minimalist lines of the muted silver candleholders suggested Scandinavian influence as well, as did the silver wine coaster.
Bettina set the salad in the middle of the table and took matches from a drawer in the sideboard to light the candles. Then she picked up two plates, Pamela picked up the third, and they headed back to the kitchen.
While they were gone, Wilfred had spooned six portions of his potato pancake batter onto the cast-iron griddle, where the low heaps of shredded potato, pale against the dark surface of the griddle, steamed and sizzled. He was watching them carefully, spatula in hand. Pamela and Bettina lined up the plates on the high counter and picked up their wine glasses, now nearly empty.
After a few minutes, the potato shreds at the edges of the potato pancakes began to brown and the tops began to look less glossy. Wielding his spatula, Wilfred lifted up the side of a pancake and bent to peer underneath. “Yes,” he whispered, and expertly flipped the pancake.
He went to work flipping the other five, and soon six tawny, plump pancakes steamed on the griddle as their undersides cooked.
Wilfred lowered the flame under the griddle, turned his attention to the frying pan, and removed the lid. A cider bottle stood ready on the counter, along with sage leaves, which he’d removed from their stems and chopped. He picked the cider bottle up and sloshed a good amount of cider over the sausages and the onions and apples, now caramelized to an appealing toasty gold. An impressive cloud of vapor, fragrant with apple and onion, rose as the cider made contact with the hot frying pan. He added a large pinch of chopped sage, and then another, and replaced the frying pan’s cover.
“Nearly ready,” he murmured to himself, teasing a potato pancake with his spatula. He lifted the lid on the small saucepan, peeked inside, and set the spatula aside in favor of a spoon, with which he gave the saucepan’s contents a quick stir.
He stepped away from the stove to open the refrigerator and take out a fresh bottle of wine. “Dear wife,” he said, turning to Bettina, “will you do the honors?”
“Please let me!” Pamela reached for the wine. “I have to do something.”
“There’s a corkscrew in the top drawer of the sideboard,” Bettina called as Pamela headed for the dining room bearing the chilly bottle of wine.
When she returned, the collards waited in an oval bowl on the high counter, their rich green all the deeper against the paler green bowl. Wilfred was standing at the stove holding one of the sage-green plates. The cover was off the frying pan. The contents, the browned and gleaming sausages surrounded by the supple golden slices of apple and onion dotted with chopped sage leaves, simmered and steamed.
“One sausage or two, Pamela?” Wilfred asked as he brandished a large spoon.
“Just one,” Pamela said, then—transfixed by the appearance and aroma of the sausage dish—she added, “at least to start.”
Wilfred nodded. He remarked, “Out of the frying pan,” and scooped up a sausage. He deposited it on the plate he held, and added a heaping spoonful of sage-flecked apple and onion.
“And how many potato pancakes?” He turned toward Pamela.
“Two,” Pamela said. “I can’t resist.”
In a moment the plate, with two of the tawny potato pancakes nestled close to the sausage and its fragrant garnish, sat on the high counter. Bettina added a serving of collards as Wilfred prepared another plate.
Soon the three of them—Wilfred still wearing his apron—had taken their places at Bettina’s carefully set table, and fresh glasses of wine had been poured. It was dark outside and the room was dim, except for the flickering candles. They cast a halo of light around the table that made the meal seem an intimate ritual.
“To family and friends.” Wilfred raised his glass.
“Family and friends,” Bettina echoed, raising her glass. “Especially friends, tonight.”
Pamela joined the toast, feeling her throat tighten. How wonderful to have Bettina and Wilfred in her life.
After the toast there was silence for several minutes—or rather, words proved insufficient to do justice to Wilfred’s meal. In their place were sighs of pleasure and hums of contentment. The caramelized apple and onion, slightly sweet with a dusky hint of sage, set off the garlicky sausage, and the bitter collards balanced the sausages’ richness.
After sampling the sausage and its garnish, and the collards, Pamela lifted a bite of potato pancake to her mouth. Its crisp simplicity provided a perfect foil to the other dishes.
“Haven’s going to be at that tag sale again tomorrow,” Pamela said suddenly, looking past the candle flame at Bettina on the other side of the table. “I just remembered.” Now that her hunger was on its way to being satisfied, her thoughts had drifted to her adventure of that morning.
Bettina paused in cutting off a bit of sausage and raised her head. “So we go ask her if she killed Bill Diefenbach?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Wilfred contributed from his spot at the head of the table.
“Maybe we won’t be that direct.” Pamela laughed. “But we can have a little chat . . . about what she might have been up to last Monday night. You’re good at getting people to talk.”
Bettina nodded. “Haven does sound like our best suspect so far. Besides, I’m curious to meet her. Even if she only made some of those tree-sweaters, it’s still quite a feat of knitting.”
She resumed eating. But Pamela’s thoughts remained on the tag sale. “Wilfred?” she asked. “Did you know Cassie Griswold?”
“Um?” Wilfred left off scooping a forkful of collards toward the stub that remained from his first sausage.
“She was the town archivist, and you’re in the historical society,” Pamela explained.
“I knew of her,” Wilfred said. “But the town archives have existed much longer than the historical society. More than a century, I’m sure, and it was always a casual thing—somebody with the collecting gene, filling boxes and filing cabinets with newspaper clippings and souvenirs of town events. Then when that somebody can’t do it any more, the boxes and files get passed along to somebody else.”
“I wonder who’ll take over now,” Pamela said. “Maybe the historical society should do it.”
“No space.” Wilfred shook his head. “The historical society doesn’t have a headquarters. And the interest is more old historical besides . . . the Lenni Lenape, the Dutch, George Washington slept here, and like that.”
The conversation veered from there to the upcoming memorial reception for Bill Diefenbach and thence to Penny’s spring-break visit until, noticing Pamela’s empty plate, Wilfred urged another sausage upon her.
“I really couldn’t,” Pamela insisted, “but it was all wonderful.”
“Wonderful,” Bettina chimed in from across the table. “Shall we have some salad then?”
After nods from Pamela and Wilfred, the dinner dishes were cleared away, salad plates were brought, and the colorful salad that had sat waiting through the meal was served and eaten.
“Just right,” Bettina said, pushing her chair back and patting her stomach. “After a meal like that, who needs dessert?”
“Indeed.” Wilfred smiled teasingly. “Who needs dessert?”
“I’d drink some coffee though.” Bettina smiled back at him. He leaned on the table to push himself to his feet.
Pamela jumped to her feet. “I’ll do it,” she exclaimed. “You did all the cooking.” She gathered the plates that had held the salad.
In the kitchen, Pamela filled Bettina’s kettle with water and set it boiling on the stove. She took the tin of ground coffee from the cupboard and arranged a paper filter in the plastic cone that fit Bettina�
�s carafe. As she was reaching three of Bettina’s sage-green mugs from the cupboard where Bettina kept her special pottery, Wilfred entered.
Whistling mysteriously to himself, he continued on to the utility room, emerging moments later bearing a platter covered in plastic wrap. Through the plastic, cookies were visible—flat round sugar cookies with dabs of deep red jam filling small depressions at their centers.
“Thumbprint cookies,” Wilfred announced, his ruddy face gleaming with delight. He peeled off the plastic wrap and stood by while Pamela scooped coffee into the paper filter and waited for the water to boil. When steam began to drift from the kettle’s spout, she tipped the kettle over the plastic cone and the seductive aroma of brewing coffee signaled that the boiling water was doing its work.
In a few moments, the coffee was ready. Pamela filled the three mugs and arranged them on a tray, along with cream and sugar. Then with Wilfred leading, bearing the platter of cookies before him, the two returned to the dining room.
“Oh, my goodness!” Bettina squealed when she caught sight of the cookies. She raised her eyes to focus on Wilfred’s face. “I thought I smelled something yummy when I came in from babysitting. You sneaky, sneaky person!”
“Sweets to the sweet,” Wilfred responded with a fond smile. He set the platter of cookies in the middle of the table. Pamela set the tray next to it and handed the coffee around.
As they nibbled on the cookies and sipped their coffee, they chatted about Bettina’s adventures with her grandsons and what news the Frasers had had recently from the “Boston children,” as Bettina called her other son, Warren, and his wife Greta. Their only child, a little girl named Morgan, had been born the previous fall—though being Boston academics and very modern, they had banned baby gifts that alluded to Morgan’s gender, like dolls or anything pink.
“As soon as we learned the baby was to be a girl,” Bettina lamented, “Wilfred started picturing the splendid dollhouse he would build her, but now . . .” Her voice trailed off mournfully.
Pamela had heard this lament many times before, but she offered a little moan of sympathy. “Perhaps something less girly,” she suggested, “like a . . . a . . . theater, for puppets.”
Bettina shook her head and her bright red earrings bobbed to and fro. “I’d hate for him to be disappointed, if they decided . . .” She sighed. “I was so excited about the pink granny-square afghan, and I’d made so many squares, and then . . .” She reached for another cookie and began to look more cheerful up as she bit into the sweet treat.
The pink granny-square afghan had ultimately been handed over to Nell as an offering for the Haversack women’s shelter, one of her do-good projects, but Bettina still mourned the fact that it hadn’t swaddled her new granddaughter.
“I wanted to send her something for Easter, like a plush bunny,” Bettina went on, “but then I thought . . . is a plush bunny just a girly thing?”
“I had a plush bunny when I was a boy,” Wilfred said. “I called him my E-bun. I still remember how cuddly he was.”
The conversation turned to plans for Easter dinner, with the splendid Long Hill Farms ham as its centerpiece. “Based on their sausages,” Pamela said, “I can’t wait for Easter to come. And you must let me know what I can bring.” Various ideas for side dishes were considered, with asparagus voted a definite yes.
“But you should make the dessert, Pamela,” Bettina concluded. “Wilfred”—she reached over and squeezed his hand—“is an amazing baker, but he’ll be busy with the ham and other things.”
“Agreed.” Pamela nodded.
Wilfred rose. “I’m off to my kitchen duties,” he announced. “But you, dear ladies, needn’t stir.” He disappeared through the doorway that led to the kitchen.
Bettina leaned forward, as if to see Pamela more clearly in the flickering candlelight. Suspecting that she had something other than desserts on her mind, Pamela studied her friend’s face. Its expression—a narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of the lips—mixed determination with concern. Pamela held her breath. Something was coming.
“Have you given any more thought to Richard’s invitation?” Bettina asked at last.
“Why should I give it more thought?” Pamela felt her forehead crease in a frown and was grateful for the candlelight. “I told him no.”
“I’m sure he’d accept a change of mind. You could just say he caught you by surprise, and you’ve had a chance now to look at your calendar—”
“Bettina!” Immediately sorry she’d interrupted, Pamela sighed and struggled to modulate her tone. “As if I have such a busy social life,” she began, then sighed again.
“He’ll find someone else,” came a tiny voice from across the table, “and then you’ll be sorry.”
“Lemon-yogurt layer cake,” Pamela said suddenly. “I’ll make lemon-yogurt layer cake with cream cheese icing. So that settles that.” She stood up. “And now I’ll go home.”
Before heading to the door, Pamela detoured into the kitchen, where Wilfred was standing at the counter rinsing dishes and slotting them into the dishwasher racks.
“That was a delicious meal,” she said to his back. “Thank you so much.”
He turned and winked. “Don’t let the boss lady get you down,” he whispered. “She has your best interests at heart.” Pamela shrugged and mustered a smile.
When she returned to dining room, Bettina was gone. But Bettina met her halfway through the living room, carrying Pamela’s jacket. “I can’t let you go without a hug,” she murmured, setting the jacket on the sofa and reaching out to enfold Pamela in her arms. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Bettina was no taller than Penny, and she laid her head against Pamela’s breast as if she was the one being comforted.
“Tag sale tomorrow?” Bettina said brightly as she stepped back from the hug.
Pamela nodded. Irritated as she’d been by the conversation about Richard, she was eager to find out if Haven had an alibi for the night Bill Diefenbach was killed. “Ten a.m.?” she asked.
“We can walk,” Bettina said. “I know you like that.” The offer seemed another attempt to make peace. “And if Haven continues to be as suspicious as she seems, I’ll tip Clayborn off.”
Chapter 9
Marjorie Ardmore greeted Pamela and Bettina with a hearty “Welcome!” as they stepped over the threshold of Cassie Griswold’s house. She glanced first at Bettina, who made a striking figure with her scarlet hair, pumpkin-colored down coat, and jaunty cashmere scarf in shades of violet and fuchsia. Then she recognized Pamela and chuckled. “Back for more treasures?” she asked.
“I can’t resist a tag sale,” Pamela responded, “and I’ve brought my neighbor.”
“Bettina Fraser,” Bettina said, offering her hand. “I didn’t know Cassie well, but I heard she’d been ill. Such a shame.”
Pamela’s gaze strayed toward the living room. The stock of vases, figurines, and travel souvenirs seemed sparser than it had been the previous day, but plenty of china and crystal remained. The crowd was sparser too—but perhaps people were at church. A solitary man was fingering a small brass Buddha and a young couple were murmuring over a delicate set of champagne flutes. There was no sign of Haven. Yesterday she’d been in the kitchen though, leaving it to Marjorie to handle most details of the sale.
The front door opened, bringing in a chilly gust of wind and a group of three middle-aged women. Marjorie turned away from Bettina and Pamela to welcome the newcomers, and Pamela rested a hand on Bettina’s arm, pointed toward the doorway that led to the kitchen, and stepped across the entry’s parquet, as worn as that in her own house. Bettina followed.
Haven was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing the same unusual sweater she’d worn the previous day, with its bright blocks of color and mismatched sleeves. She greeted Pamela with a smile of recognition. “The knitter,” she said. “Have you decided you really do need some of my mom’s yarn?”
As was often the case when she and Bettina embarked on one of thei
r sleuthing expeditions, Pamela was asking herself why on earth they hadn’t planned a strategy for learning what they wanted to know before setting out. They couldn’t, after all, just come out and ask Haven if she killed Bill Diefenbach—as they’d realized at dinner the previous night. But in answer to Haven’s question, she said, “I’m very well supplied. But I’ve brought my friend Bettina. She’s a knitter too.”
“Yes, indeed I am,” Bettina said, with a burst of energy that Pamela found encouraging, suggesting as it did that Bettina was hatching a strategy. “And we’re both—did Pamela tell you?—in a local knitting group, Knit and Nibble.”
“There’s loads more yarn!” Haven jumped up from the table. “Right out here in the dining room.” She led the way, and in a moment they were standing before the grand table heaped with nearly as much yarn and nearly as many knitted creations as had been there the previous day.
Bettina picked up a skein of pale green yarn, then one of maroon, fingering them thoughtfully before returning them to the hoard. “Yes,” she murmured, as if talking to herself, “we’re all quite committed to the craft, but we’ve certainly never done anything as ambitious as dressing Arborville’s trees in sweaters.”
Pamela glanced quickly at Haven’s face. She thought she saw a subtle rearrangement in Haven’s expression, as if in an effort to substitute pleasant interest for something more intense.
“I’d love to talk to whoever’s doing it,” Bettina went on, now looking at Haven and speaking louder. “It has to be a them, doesn’t it, with so many sweaters all over town.”
“Bettina is a reporter for the Arborville Advocate,” Pamela contributed.
“Oh, my goodness!” Bettina picked up a partial ball of bright orange yarn, and another of yellow. “These are exactly the colors in the sweater on the tree in front of my house.”
Pamela knew very well that there was no sweater on the tree in front of Bettina’s house. In fact, none of Bettina’s trees were on the strip of land between the sidewalk and the street, so none had been targeted by the Arborists. But Bettina was off and running. She seized another ball of yarn, deep purple. “And this color too!” she exclaimed. She looked at Haven again. Then, in a wondering tone that implied a sudden and startling realization, she added, “Whoever’s making those sweaters must have had access to Cassie’s yarn supply!”
A Fatal Yarn Page 8
