A Fatal Yarn

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “Lab reports,” Bettina said, enunciating the words patiently, as if for an inattentive spouse. “You were a million miles away. What I said was, besides the autopsy, lab reports came back on the broken jar of jam from Diefenbach’s kitchen floor. It turns out the jam was poisoned—with cyanide.”

  For the second time that morning, Pamela felt time stop. There were so many questions to ask, she didn’t know where to start.

  “Yes,” Bettina said, and she began to answer at least a few of the unspoken questions. “The damage to Cassie’s body revealed by the autopsy could have been caused by cyanide. And it has occurred to Clayborn that there could be a link between Diefenbach’s murder and Cassie’s.”

  “Roland?” Pamela asked.

  Bettina shrugged. “I asked him about Roland but he wouldn’t answer.”

  “Why didn’t the killer just wait till Diefenbach ate enough of the jam to get sick and die too? Or maybe Diefenbach realized what was going on when the first jar of jam was delivered, so he smashed the jar?”

  Bettina shrugged again.

  “And then the murderer picked up the nearest heavy object and went after him?” Pamela said.

  “It could have happened that way—if Diefenbach somehow realized the jam was a plot to kill him.” Bettina leaned over to peer inside her coffee cup. “Is there more coffee?”

  “Of course. It needs to be warmed up though.” Pamela jumped from her chair and reached for her own cup. “I didn’t even taste mine yet,” she said, “so I’ll just pour it back in the carafe and warm it up too.”

  Once a gentle flame was going under the carafe, Pamela turned from the stove. “If the same person murdered Cassie as murdered Diefenbach, and if Haven murdered Diefenbach, you know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Haven murdered her own mother.” Bettina’s lips stretched into a close-mouthed grimace.

  “From what Nell said, the Griswolds sounded like the model family, very proud of their over-achieving daughter and her lofty prospects.” Pamela swiveled back around to check on the coffee. A few tiny bubbles had formed around the edges of the dark liquid in the carafe.

  “But things didn’t work out so well, at least as far as her marriage to Axel Crenshaw was concerned.” Bettina picked up her fork and aimed it at her remaining cruller, but then she set the fork down again. “I’m waiting for my coffee,” she said. “And I don’t want to finish both my crullers before you even taste one.”

  Pamela inspected the carafe again. Violent boiling wasn’t called for, lest the coffee become bitter, but the bubbles around the edges had become larger and, touching the side of the carafe briefly, Pamela judged that the coffee was exactly the right temperature to serve. She refilled the cups, using an oven mitt to transport the carafe, and once the carafe had been returned to the stove, took her seat across from Bettina again.

  “Maybe Haven didn’t appreciate being the focus of such high expectations,” Pamela said after she had, at last, taken a sip of her coffee. “And we haven’t been able to find any evidence, on the internet at least, that she’s launched a brilliant writing career, or a brilliant career of any kind.”

  Pamela carved off a piece of cruller and sampled it, enjoying the way the brittle glaze, with its startling sweetness, yielded to the chewy and not too sweet pastry. “You knew Cassie—a bit at least. Did she seem like the kind of mother who would remind her daughter whenever she could that she hadn’t turned out the way she was supposed to?”

  “That would be a very sad thing.” Bettina’s expression took on a mournful cast. “Haven came around to visit her mother though. She could have just stayed away.”

  “We’ll know more about Haven soon,” Pamela said. “After we follow her home tomorrow.” She tackled her cruller again and Bettina launched her own fork at the one remaining on her own plate.

  “What about the eggs?” Pamela asked after a bit. “We got so caught up in this startling news about Cassie—but you were going to ask Detective Clayborn whether the crime scene people found that basket of eggs on the porch.”

  “Whoa! Yes!” Bettina mumbled around a mouthful of cruller. She gestured toward her mouth, continued chewing, and nodded vigorously, setting her earrings to swaying. “Lots to report there,” she said at last, after swallowing. “The eggs were taken as evidence, and eggshells can retain fingerprints, but the fingerprints didn’t match any in the database. Get this though—the eggs were naturally those colors, not dyed!”

  “Jack Delaney’s hens.” Pamela felt her lips curve into a smile. “He really is the egg man then.”

  “Clayborn had never heard of hens that laid colored eggs,” Bettina said with a smile of her own, but quite smug. “I told him everyone knows there are hens like that. Special breeds like Araucanas.”

  “And you told him that Jack Delaney has a flock of hens that lay colored eggs?”

  Bettina nodded, setting her earrings in motion again. “I did, but he said the police can’t arrest a person and take fingerprints without serious evidence.”

  “Jack Delaney is known to have hated Diefenbach,” Pamela said. “Did you tell him that?”

  “Of course, but he said the police can’t arrest a person for hating someone. Otherwise the jails would be full. He did say, though, that the police interviewed MacDonald—and some of MacDonald’s supporters.” Bettina tipped a spoonful of sugar into her coffee, and then then another. She stirred the coffee and then added cream.

  “Jack Delaney certainly fits into that category.”

  Bettina had raised the coffee cup to her lips, but before taking a sip she paused to answer. “I asked him whether Delaney was one of the people the police interviewed, and he said he couldn’t divulge that information. But something about the way he said that made me think the answer was yes, so I suggested he explore whether Jack Delaney has an alibi for the night Diefenbach was killed and I recommended he ask Jack Delaney if he has a girlfriend.”

  Bettina gave Pamela a look that might accompany the deployment of a particularly valuable letter in a game of Scrabble.

  Pamela didn’t try to hide her smile. “What did he say?” she asked.

  Bettina sighed and bowed her head. “He told me that the residents of Arborville pay taxes so that they don’t have to solve crimes themselves.” She studied the nubbin of cruller that remained on her plate and then speared it with her fork.

  Pamela had finished one cruller, enjoying every last pastry crumb and flake of sugary glaze. “I think I’ll save the other,” she said. “They’re delicious, but one was plenty.”

  “That’s why you’re thin and I’m not.” Bettina laughed. “And the black coffee too. What’s that about?”

  “Habit, I guess.” Pamela shrugged. “I like those European coffee and milk things though.” As if reminded that she’d barely tasted her coffee, she reached for the rose-garlanded cup and took a sip. With all the talking, it was no longer the steaming brew that she’d poured from the carafe, but instead of warming it up she made do with it in its lukewarm state.

  Bettina consulted her pretty gold watch. “I’ve got to get going,” she said. “Wilfred is doing the shopping for the Easter feast, but we still need to confer about the menu—and I’ve got to get out my table linens and make sure I have clean napkins from the set I want to use.” She stood up. “Of course, there’s to be ham, and we all decided on asparagus when we were talking about it the other day, and I think we’ll do potatoes—maybe mashed. Then instead of salad, we’ll have one of those vegetable trays with carrots and celery . . .”

  “Sounds delicious!” Pamela stood up too. “And I’ll bring my lemon-yogurt cake.”

  “And little Penny’s coming home this afternoon.” Bettina clapped her hands. “What a nice time we’ll have! It will be just the four of us though. The Arborville children and grandchildren are coming in the morning for Wilfred’s special bunny pancakes, and then they’re going to Maxie’s parents for Easter dinner.”

  In the entry, Catrina was dozing in
her favorite sunny spot and Ginger was playing with one of the toys that the cats had received at Christmas, a weighted ball sporting a feathery topknot. As she batted the ball, it rocked to and fro, but came to rest with the feathers sticking straight up.

  Bettina slipped into her bright yellow trench coat, Pamela reached for the doorknob, and in a moment Bettina was hurrying across the porch. She stopped before she got to the steps, however, and whirled around. “There was something else I was going to tell you,” she exclaimed. “I remembered just now, looking over at Richard Larkin’s house.”

  Pamela smiled uncertainly. What could be coming? Her uncertainty was heightened when Bettina backtracked across the porch and grasped Pamela’s hands, squeezing them tightly.

  “Wilfred talked to Richard.” Bettina’s tone was portentous. “And he found out what happened . . . with LeCorbusier.”

  “What?” Pamela felt her heart thump, but she was alarmed more by Bettina’s manner than by the content of her message.

  “Jocelyn.” Bettina nodded toward Richard Larkin’s house as she uttered the name.

  “The . . . the woman we saw him with?” Pamela asked, trying to sound interested but unconcerned.

  “Jocelyn felt that a black cat was a bad omen for their budding relationship.”

  “Where . . . where did he take LeCorbusier?” Pamela asked. She blinked as Bettina studied her closely.

  “That part of the story at least has a happy ending.” Bettina let go of Pamela’s hands and stepped back. “One of his colleagues at work had been looking to adopt a cat and was thrilled.”

  Pamela nodded.

  “You’re okay then?”

  “Of course I’m okay.” She was okay, really. Richard Larkin had a right to find himself a companion, now that she’d . . . she’d what? There had never really been anything between them. Never anything at all.

  “Tomorrow then?” Bettina was cheerful again.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I know it’s just a few blocks, but . . .”

  “I’ll drive,” Pamela added quickly. “We’ll need a car if we’re going to follow Haven. The sale lasts until five, so we’ll head up there at about four-thirty.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Bettina said. “What on earth has she been doing since she stopped being the queen of the neighborhood and the wife of Axel Crenshaw?”

  Pamela watched as Bettina made her way down the walk and across the street, her bright yellow coat more vivid than anything else in sight. Then she stepped back into her own house. “Maybe Haven really is the killer,” she said half to herself as she closed her front door. “Jack Delaney had a reason to kill Diefenbach, but why would he want to kill Cassie?”

  Chapter 21

  After a quick lunch of a fried egg sandwich with mayonnaise on toasted whole-grain bread, Pamela fetched one of the free notepads that turned up so regularly in her mail and set about making a shopping list.

  First of all, she’d need ingredients for the lemon-yogurt cake. Her larder contained plenty of flour, sugar, and eggs, but she’d have to replenish her butter supply, and the recipe required yogurt and a lemon, of course. For the icing, she added cream cheese and powdered sugar to the list.

  Then there was the question of what to cook for Penny. Sunday would be the splendid Easter meal at the Frasers’, with Wilfred’s ham. And Saturday Penny would probably go out with friends. But for a welcome-home dinner that evening, Pamela thought chicken and dumplings would be perfect. Penny had always loved the dish, and the weather was still cool enough that a fragrant pot of chicken stewed with onion, carrots, and celery and garnished with parsley dumplings would accent the coziness of the home Penny was returning to. So Pamela checked to make sure she had an onion and at least one carrot and a few stalks of celery, and added “a whole chicken” to the shopping list.

  Five minutes later, she was strolling up Orchard Street with two canvas grocery bags in hand and her purse slung over her shoulder. When she reached the corner, she paused and stared east, at the stretch of Orchard Street that continued above Arborville Avenue. She and Bettina had driven that route barely twenty-four hours ago, on their way home from their visit to Jack Delany. But something was different, quite different.

  In the intervening time, perhaps during the night, trees that had previously displayed their bare barks to the world had acquired knitted garments. Not whole sweaters, though, but barely more than narrow bands just wide enough to cover the red X’s that very likely lurked beneath them.

  Pamela crossed Arborville Avenue and inspected the band on the first tree she came to. The knitting had definitely been done in haste, as if the knitter was frantic to rescue the trees from the axe. Looking farther up the block, she could see that each band was a solid color, rather than the fanciful patchwork effect of the large tree-sweaters. On the band that she was inspecting, which had been knit from bright purple yarn, lumps and holes showed where stitches had been bungled or dropped. Instead of the buttons and buttonholes that characterized most of the tree-sweaters Pamela and Bettina had seen, this band, and presumably the others, had been simply wrapped around the trunk it adorned and the edges stitched carelessly together. The person doing the stitching hadn’t even bothered to match the yarn to the purple of the band. The stitching had been done in a clashing shade of olive green.

  Pamela continued farther up Orchard Street and examined a few more of the rudimentary bands, an exercise that confirmed her impression that these latest additions to the Arborville tree-garment mystery had been done in great haste. Then she retraced her steps to the corner and proceeded on her way to the Co-Op. This development would need to be discussed with Bettina, but meanwhile there were groceries to buy.

  * * *

  The new issue of the Advocate had appeared at the end of Pamela’s driveway while she was away. The canvas grocery bags, laden with ingredients for that evening’s dinner and Sunday’s dessert—as well as a fresh loaf of whole-grain bread, a pound of Vermont cheddar, and a basket of mini-tomatoes—were heavy. So Pamela hurried to the porch to set them down before retrieving the newspaper.

  In the kitchen, she stowed the groceries in the refrigerator and cupboards and added the glossy lemon, whose seductive aroma was a citrusy preview of the cake in which it would figure, to the wooden fruit bowl on the counter. Then she returned the canvas bags to the entry closet and sat at the kitchen table to page through the Advocate.

  The lead article focused on a contentious meeting of the town council at which the Diefenbach supporters, though few in number, fought off a proposal to give property tax breaks to people who grew their own food. Then there was Bettina’s coverage of the memorial reception for Bill Diefenbach—complete with a photo of the memorial sheet cake—and also Bettina’s interview with Brandon MacDonald. Other articles focused, more cheerfully, on the bingo tournament at the senior center and the spring fashion show organized by the St. Willibrod’s women’s club.

  On an inner page, along with an editorial reminding readers of the Advocate to support the scouts’ spring “Feed the Hungry” food drive, Pamela came across the letter to the editor Bettina had described—urging Arborvillians to clean up their yards now that spring had arrived but admonishing them to put green waste out only on Sunday night after six p.m.

  As Pamela was folding the Advocate back up, she heard a click as the knob on the front door turned. She stepped into the entry to see Catrina and Ginger staring at the door, their bodies tense with expectation, their tails twitching back and forth, and their ears at attention. The door swung inwards and revealed Penny standing on the threshold.

  Pamela had seen her daughter as recently as January, when Penny returned to her college in Massachusetts after Christmas break. But she studied Penny intently, just to make sure that nothing had happened in the few intervening months to diminish Penny’s customary cheer. Content that Penny’s face, beneath her tousle of dark curls, still glowed with health, and her blue eyes were still bright, Pamela relaxed and let herself sm
ile.

  Meanwhile, Penny had advanced beyond the threshold. She stooped toward Ginger and the cat hopped lightly into the crook of her arm. As Penny rose, Ginger scaled her chest to rest her forepaws on Penny’s shoulder and nuzzle her neck.

  “Kyle doesn’t want to stop in for minute?” Pamela asked. Penny rode back and forth from college with a fellow student who also lived in New Jersey.

  “He has a girlfriend down here now,” Penny said. “He can’t wait to see her.”

  “Well, come on in then, and welcome home.” With that, Pamela hugged her daughter, cat and all. The top of Penny’s head, bouncy curls included, reached only to Pamela’s chin. Penny took after her father’s side of the family, rather than Pamela’s, and Pamela had had to constantly remind herself, as Penny was growing into a young woman, that height wasn’t the only indicator of maturity.

  “My suitcase is still on the porch.” Penny transferred Ginger to Pamela’s arms and wheeled her suitcase into the entry. “It’s full of dirty laundry,” she added, “so I’ll just park it here for now.”

  “Are you hungry?” Pamela scrutinized her daughter’s face again.

  “We stopped for something on the way down.” Penny slipped out of her jacket, revealing one of Pamela’s creations, a pullover knit from yarn in a glowing shade of golden yellow.

  At that moment, the doorbell chimed. “I know Bettina’s anxious to see you,” Pamela said. She glanced toward the oval window in the front door that, though curtained by lace, offered a clue to a visitor’s identity. But in fact there were two visitors, and neither sported Bettina’s vivid scarlet hair.

  “Probably Laine and Sybil. We texted this morning.” Penny turned, twisted the knob, and tugged.

  A chorus of “Hi”s overlapped as Laine and Sybil bounced through the door. They were Richard Larkin’s daughters, back in the suburbs from their dorm at NYU for the Easter weekend. Penny had bonded with them shortly after their father, divorced from their mother, bought the house next to Pamela’s.