Haven had taken a step backward, and looked as if she was fighting off whatever emotion had twisted her mouth and furrowed her brow. “There’s lots of purple yarn in the world,” she managed to say at last.
“Oh”—Bettina laughed, then reached out and grabbed Haven’s arm—“you’re just being modest. You’re the artist, or one of them, who’s responsible for this wonderful project. You’re busy now, with the sale, but when can I interview you for the Advocate?”
“You can’t . . . because, no . . . I’m really not that person, or one of them. Really.” Haven took another step backward.
“I know when that sweater appeared on my tree,” Bettina said, with a teasing smile. “Last Monday night between eight-thirty and nine-thirty. Because at eight-thirty my husband took the garbage out and the sweater wasn’t there. He’d have noticed, I’m sure, and said something. And at nine-thirty I took our dog out for a walk, and the sweater was there.”
“Well, I don’t even live in Arborville, so how could I have had anything to do with it?” Haven had recovered from her surprise, and signaled her self-possession by crossing her arms over her chest, which created an interesting effect with the mismatched sweater sleeves. “On Monday night I was at home in Manhattan, on deadline for a writing job. I’m a freelance writer.” Her arms remained crossed over her chest. “And my husband was at his studio in Brooklyn. So I was there all alone and you’ll just have to believe me. Anyway, what difference does it make? Putting sweaters on trees isn’t a crime.”
But as she finished speaking, her eyes widened as if a thought had just occurred to her. “You’re a reporter for the Advocate? That’s the pathetic little throwaway that people leave lying around in their driveways. I’m surprised the person who wrote the note about the tag-sale signs hasn’t complained about what an eyesore it is.”
Bettina straightened her back and lifted her chin. “The Advocate performs a valuable service by keeping the residents of Arborville informed about local events. Most people in town appreciate it.”
Haven’s eyes grew wider still and she stared at Bettina. “Bettina isn’t the most common name in the world. You’re the person who interviews that cop, Claymore or whatever his name is, for the Advocate.” Haven laughed in a way that was more like a smirk. “Okay, I read the Advocate sometimes. My mom used to bring it in.”
Then she frowned. “Wait a minute—that Diefenbaugh or whatever his name is was killed between eight-thirty and nine-thirty last Monday night.”
Pamela heard herself murmur, “Nine p.m.”
But Haven didn’t hear, or didn’t react. She went on, her voice rising in pitch, as if the questions she was asking were unimaginably ludicrous. “So—what? You’re starting to believe that you’re a cop too? And you’re thinking—for whatever crazy reason—that I killed Diefenbaugh and trying to find out if I have an alibi?”
“Roland DeCamp, who’s been accused of Diefenbach’s murder, is a close friend of ours,” Pamela said. “You were putting sweaters on the trees that Diefenbach wanted to cut down.”
“I wasn’t putting sweaters on trees.”
Bettina picked up the ball of deep purple yarn again, and the bright orange and the yellow. Pamela and Bettina were both silent then, looking attentively at Haven. Pamela’s daughter Penny had been a most cooperative child, especially after her father died, as if unwilling to cause her mother any more heartache. But in raising any child, even a cooperative child, most parents learn how usefully the silent stare can elicit information.
A few women had drifted through the arch that separated the dining room from the living room and were sorting through the pile of knitted objects that occupied the far end of the table. One held up a large green sock and the other laughed.
Haven reached out and fingered a skein of black yarn. “I don’t live in Arborville. I told you that,” she said. Pamela and Bettina remained silent. “I wasn’t here Monday, during the night or during the day or any time at all.”
“What were you writing about?” Bettina asked.
“What?” Haven stared at her.
“The writing job you were doing Monday night?” Bettina resumed the silent stare. Pamela was amused to see her friend look so stern, and struggled to look equally stern.
“It was . . . it was . . .”
A voice drew their attention to the doorway leading to the kitchen, and looking grateful, Haven paused. An elderly man stood in the doorway, holding a cast-iron griddle. “Do you have any more of these?” he asked. “They go for a lot now on eBay.”
Without excusing herself, Haven darted away and disappeared into the kitchen with her customer.
More people were showing up for the sale now. Pamela could hear voices coming from the kitchen as Haven fielded questions about prices, and a few more women had been attracted to the offerings on the yarn table. A man in the living room was wrapping plates from the china set in newspaper and stashing them in a cardboard box.
“I’ll just take a look in there,” Bettina said. “I’m not so much of a vintage person like you are, but I see a few interesting crafty items on those tables.”
As Bettina browsed among the crafty items in the living room, Pamela noticed a cluster of watercolors hanging to the left of the arch leading into the entry. She studied them one at a time, enjoying the skillfully rendered views of what had to be a charming European village with a seacoast. As she moved from one to another, she gradually drew nearer to the opening between the two rooms.
Marjorie was at her post in the entry. She was just seeing a group of shoppers out the door, thanking them for coming and congratulating them on their finds. The next voice Pamela heard was Haven’s, though Haven wasn’t visible from where Pamela was standing.
“You know I appreciate all your help,” Haven said. “I really do. But we’ve got so much to clear out of here I wish you’d stop worrying about those boxes of archives till we get the rest of the stuff under control.”
Pamela missed hearing Marjorie’s response because the very next moment Bettina was at her side, excitedly displaying a basket—surely made by hand—with a sophisticated pattern that contrasted fibers of palest tan with those of deep russet brown.
“I’m ready,” Bettina announced. “Take me away before get too tempted by that Japanese tea set.” She pointed toward a tea pot and four bowl-like cups that gleamed with a burnished sienna glaze. “I’m sure the price would be more than reasonable, but my cupboards are bursting as it is.”
Haven scurried off as Pamela and Bettina stepped into the entry. Marjorie turned toward them with a smile, nodded toward the basket, and said, “How about five dollars?” While Bettina was dipping into her purse for her wallet, Marjorie directed her attention to Pamela. “No treasures today?” she asked.
Pamela offered the apologetic version of her social smile and said, “No, but I love my blue-speckled bowl.”
“We’ll be here next Saturday.” Marjorie had tucked Bettina’s five-dollar bill into the zippered pouch at her waist. “Not Sunday though, because who’d come out to a tag sale on Easter?” She scanned the living room. “I don’t know what we’ll do after that. It depends on if the realtor’s making progress finding a buyer. So much stuff to get rid of.” She shook her head.
“It’s awfully nice of you to help out,” Bettina commented. “I guess Haven’s got a busy life in the city and can only get out to New Jersey on weekends.”
Marjorie nodded. “I’ll be here all week though, and the following week. Some of it’s just going to the Goodwill—Cassie’s clothes weren’t too stylish and not old enough to be vintage. We haven’t sold any of them. And books! Don’t people read anymore?”
“It depends on what kinds of books I suppose,” Pamela said.
“Books a professor would read. Too egg-heady for most people.” Marjorie shrugged. “Maybe a used-book dealer would be interested, someone who’d take the trouble to list them online.”
A few of the women who had been browsing at the yarn table
approached then, asking if Marjorie had plastic bags they could take back to the table to fill with their selections. Marjorie excused herself to supply them with bags, and Pamela and Bettina went on their way.
* * *
“Well?” Pamela asked as she and Bettina strolled along the sidewalk, Bettina carrying the intricately patterned basket.
“I’m proud of the writing I do for the Advocate.” The forlorn quality of Bettina’s voice contrasted with the confidence implied by her statement. “Most people in town like it.”
Three weeks’ worth of the Advocate waited to be retrieved in the driveway they were just passing. All three issues were still in their flimsy plastic sleeves, but two of them had been run over several times and one of them had clearly been out since before the last rain and was soggy despite its wrapping.
“I’m sure they do,” Pamela said, hoping Bettina hadn’t noticed the sad spectacle. “But what did you think of Haven? You were great, by the way.”
“I don’t believe she didn’t knit any of those tree-sweaters,” Bettina said. “She got too nervous when we brought it up.”
“But the members of that group are all sworn to secrecy. You found that out when you researched them on the internet.”
“True.”
They had reached the house at the corner of Cassie’s street, where the fact of having both a front yard and a side yard exposed to the gaze of passersby gave the homeowners plenty of scope to display their carefully planned and scrupulously maintained landscaping. This time of year there wasn’t yet much to see, except for a riot of jonquils and an exuberant forsythia. But little nubbins rising from the dark earth marked what Pamela knew from her walks would turn into peonies and hosta, and stubby green blades marked the return of iris.
“What about Monday night?” Pamela said. “Do you believe she was at home in Manhattan on deadline for a freelance writing assignment?”
Bettina shrugged and tightened her brightly painted lips into a skeptical twist. “She acted confused when I inquired about the topic.”
“She did,” Pamela agreed. “But she volunteered the alibi before she got onto the idea that we were really wondering if she could be the person who killed Diefenbach. And we were just us—then. It was before she recognized your connection with Detective Clayborn, so it wasn’t like coming up with an alibi in the course of a police interrogation.” Pamela paused. “Though she was trying to convince us she didn’t have anything to do with the tree-sweaters.”
“We have to find out more about her though,” Bettina said. “She grew up in Arborville. Now she’s living in Manhattan, writing for a living, and she’s got a husband who does something that involves a studio in Brooklyn.”
“Musician?” Pamela raised an eyebrow. “Artist? Sounds glamorous.”
They walked on in silence for a block. At the corner of Arborville Avenue, Pamela turned to Bettina. “How about brunch at Hyler’s?” she asked. “It’s not quite lunch time but all I had for breakfast was one piece of toast.”
“I’d love to,” Bettina sighed. “I haven’t had one of their waffles in ages—but Wilfred Jr. and Maxie and the boys are coming for lunch, and we’re going to dye some eggs. My Wilfred boiled three dozen this morning.”
They crossed Arborville Avenue and soon had reached the end of Bettina’ driveway. “I’m planning to go to that memorial reception,” Pamela said as she turned to head for her own house, “so I’ll see you in a couple of hours?”
“Of course!” Bettina smiled. “And Wilfred too. We’re not walking though, even though St. Willibrod’s is just up on Arborville Avenue. Come over a little before two and ride with us.” She extended a foot to display a bright red sneaker. “One walk a day is enough, and besides I want to wear nice shoes. I’ll be representing the Advocate.”
Chapter 10
“The boss is in the kitchen,” Wilfred announced as he pulled the door back and Pamela stepped into the Frasers’ living room. He’d set aside his bib overalls and was wearing one of the well-cut suits he’d worn when he was still going to his office every day.
“Come on back here,” came Bettina’s voice from deep within the house. Pamela obeyed and found her friend standing at the high counter between the cooking area and the eating area arranging colored eggs in the basket she’d brought home from the tag sale.
She’d changed her clothes since that morning, to an ensemble that featured “good shoes”—a pair of wedge heels in violet suede, a matching violet sheath dress, and amethyst earrings.
“You wore a decent coat,” Bettina said when she caught sight of Pamela. “Thank goodness. Let’s see what’s under it.”
Pamela unbuttoned the coat to show that she had dressed up in deference to the occasion as well. Her wardrobe didn’t offer nearly as many resources as Bettina’s, but she’d reached into the depths of her closet for a pair of black wool slacks and her low-heeled black pumps. She’d finished the outfit with an off-white pullover that featured a ribbed turtleneck and extra-deep ribbing at cuffs and hem. As a final touch she’d added her simple silver earrings and a bit of lipstick.
“The eggs turned out nice,” Pamela said.
“This is only part of them. They took the rest home for the Easter bunny to hide in their yard next Sunday.” Bettina picked up a deep yellow egg and added it to the cheerful heap in the basket, whose subtle brown tones were the perfect foil for the rainbow-hued eggs.
“Shall we go?” Wilfred appeared in the doorway that led to the dining room. He’d buttoned a dark wool coat over his suit and he carried Bettina’s coat, lavender wool, and the violet and fuchsia cashmere scarf that had already made an appearance that morning.
Bettina tucked two more eggs, a green one and a blue one, into the basket, and they set out for the reception.
* * *
The St. Willibrod’s church hall hosted many of the events that crowded Arborville’s community calendar—among them pancake breakfasts, scouting activities, bingo nights, and of course the annual rummage sale. St. Willibrod’s itself was a venerable structure, built of dark stone, with an angular bell tower and grand double doors of heavy wood at the top of a half-flight of broad slate steps. But the church hall had been added in the fifties, and designed more for utility than grandeur.
As they entered the heavy glass doors, a sign on an easel greeted them with the words “Remembering Bill Diefenbach.” Below was a large color photo of a well-fed man in his fifties with blue eyes, a florid complexion, and thinning sandy hair. Pamela recognized it from the campaign literature that had appeared, seemingly at least once a week, in her mailbox the previous fall.
A few rolling coat racks had been staged off to the side, already bearing the coats of the small crowd clustered around the long white-covered table in the center of the room. Fluorescent lights made the room bright with a shadowless brightness, and echoing voices merged in an indistinguishable hubbub.
Their own coats added to the collection, Pamela and the Frasers approached the long table. Pamela mustered her social smile as Marlene Pepper stepped away from the crowd, dressed for the occasion too in a sky-blue pants and jacket combo. “Have some cake!” she urged. “We’re just about to cut into it. And there’s punch.” She grabbed Bettina’s right hand and Wilfred’s left hand and drew them closer as Pamela followed.
The crowd parted a bit and Pamela could see that the table’s white cover was actually paper. Midway between one end of the table and the other was an impressive sheet cake, iced in white with white scallops piped all around the top and base. Across the expanse of buttercream were the words “In memoriam Bill Diefenbach RIP,” piped in chocolate. Below the words was a cross formed of chocolate icing.
To the right of the cake were stacks of clear plastic dessert plates and clusters of clear plastic forks. To the left was a large punch bowl containing a liquid whose pink hue reminded Pamela of nothing so much as a pink Easter egg. Stacks of plastic cups awaited servings of punch and stacks of napkins awaited lips and fingers
sticky with cake.
A woman who Pamela recognized from Borough Hall, the friendly woman who sat at the desk behind the counter where people paid their property taxes, picked up a knife in one hand and a cake server in the other. Bettina and Wilfred had been drawn close to the table, and to the cake, by Marlene Pepper, but Pamela lingered at the edge of the crowd.
Many people looked familiar, besides Marlene Pepper and the friendly woman from Borough Hall. Pamela recognized several people she had seen eating lunch at Hyler’s, though she didn’t know their names. And Brandon MacDonald, the former mayor, was standing at the far end of the table. Pamela recognized him from Hyler’s too. During his many terms as mayor he had been a regular there, often holding court as lunchtime stretched into afternoon coffee break time. He was holding a plastic cup filled with pink punch.
MacDonald was a rumpled looking man, dressed in jeans even for the memorial event, unlike Diefenbach, whose precisely cut hair and well-tailored clothes had signaled his fellow feeling with the business community. Several men stood near MacDonald, accepting cups of punch being ladled out by one of their number. Another of the men was topping up the servings of punch with a clear liquid that he poured from a flat, pocket-sized bottle. That man resembled an aging hippie, with his luxuriant moustache, faded blue jeans, and fringed suede jacket.
Finally he added a substantial dollop of the clear liquid to his own plastic cup and raised the cup in a toast. “To Bill Diefenbach,” he exclaimed in a gravelly voice, “May he rest in peace.” He took a deep swallow from his cup and asked, in mock-pious tones, “Shall we cut down a tree in his honor?” adding a vulgar word.
A Fatal Yarn Page 9
