by Leslie Meier
“Melanie is going to love it!” Holly offered Roland one of the smiles that called her dimple into play. “I just know she will.”
“I know she will too.” Roland’s lean face was serious. “She picked out the yarn and the pattern.”
Pamela had knit a Christmas gift too, a blue cashmere sweater for her mother. But she had finished it earlier in the month, in time to mail it off to the Midwestern state where her parents lived. For the past few meetings of Knit and Nibble, she had lent her talents to Nell’s annual Christmas project—hand-knit stockings to be filled with gifts and goodies and delivered to the children at the women’s shelter in Haversack. At the moment Pamela was casting on for a new one, using a skein of cheery red yarn she’d found in the bin where she stored leftovers.
At her side Karen was at work with cheery red yarn as well. “A dress for Lily,” she explained. “It’s not really her first Christmas, but she was only a few days old last year.”
It wasn’t until people were well launched on their projects, with needles crisscrossing rhythmically and fingers looping and twisting yarn, that anyone spoke again.
“So shocking about Sorrel,” Holly commented suddenly. “Those amazing little ornaments she knitted were so sweet. It’s hard to think someone like that could be a killer.”
“Do you really think she did it?” Karen swiveled on her sofa cushion so she could see Holly’s face.
“I don’t!” Bettina cut in.
From across the room Pamela tried to catch Bettina’s eye. She hoped that a look and a subtle grimace would be sufficient to discourage Bettina from going further. But the damage had been done.
Nell glanced up from the complicated maneuver by which she was beginning to shape her stocking’s heel. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, her white hair bristling. “The Arborville police are perfectly capable of solving this crime without you”—she reached out and touched Bettina on the arm—“and you”—she fixed Pamela with a stare that Pamela found hard to evade.
“Killing her in the tree lot right before they closed wasn’t a bad idea,” Roland observed, “because the killer could trust that the body wouldn’t be found until the next morning. And that was exactly what happened.”
Holly leaned forward. “That makes it sound like it was premeditated, but the police think it was just an argument that got out of hand. The whole story was in the Register —imagine, two women arguing about what kind of Christmas tree to buy!”
“I’m with you, Roland,” Bettina said, causing Roland to look up in amazement. He and Bettina seldom saw eye-to-eye. “The killer—who is not Sorrel—was probably stalking Karma. He followed her to the tree lot, hoping for a chance to make a move. And he got his chance.”
“Why are killers always ‘he’?” Karen asked in her mild little voice.
“Clayborn calls them that,” Bettina said, “though in this case . . .”
“But if the killer was really stalking her”—Holly’s knitting was now resting in her lap, having taken second place to the lively discussion under way—“why use a piece of tree trunk? Why not bring a weapon?”
“Guns are loud.” Bettina thumped the arm of her armchair. “A knife might leave clues that could be traced, or might even be left in the victim—with fingerprints!”
“The police said she was killed there,” Roland observed, “but they’ve been wrong before—despite what we pay in property taxes to fund their salaries. If the killer is a stalker and not Sorrel, wouldn’t it make more sense—?”
A curious sound emanated from Nell’s direction, a cross between a whimper and a growl. It was not unlike the sounds Woofus had made earlier that day in his encounter with Phoebe Ruskin. Then Nell half rose from her armchair, her white hair seeming to bristle as she directed scolding looks all around the room.
“This is neither the time nor the place to be discussing such a topic,” she said. “It’s bad enough that such a tragic event has visited our little town so close to Christmas—and it would be a tragic event at any time of year—but we don’t have to rehearse the grisly details and we certainly” —she turned to glare at Bettina and then faced front again to glare at Pamela—“shouldn’t imagine we can do better at crime-solving than the Arborville police.”
With that, she sat down and leaned over to retrieve the half-finished stocking that had fallen onto the carpet.
Chapter Six
Knitters bent to their knitting once again, and Roland to his task of sewing his sweater parts together. All seemed chastened, even shy little Karen. But after a bit, the silence began to hang heavy, as it often does when provoked by a scolding. Then, as if to show that she, at least, hadn’t taken offense, Holly spoke up.
“Everyone looks so festive tonight,” she said. “Bettina in your candy cane sweater, and Pamela in such an awesome shade of green . . .” She beamed her smile around the room. Roland had even acknowledged the season with a tie that featured a pattern of tiny Christmas trees. Holly herself still sported a bright red streak in her dark hair, and her earrings were tiny tinselly Santas that evoked old-time ornaments.
When no one took up the conversational thread, Holly went on. “And Pamela,” she said, “I hope you’ll get out that awesome ruby-red tunic-sweater you knitted last year. You looked amazing at Bettina’s Christmas Eve party. I could tell all the men were—”
“Yes!” Bettina joined the conversation. “One man in particular . . .”
Pamela gritted her teeth and glared at Bettina, willing her to be silent. She thought the topic of Richard Larkin as a missed romantic opportunity had been laid to rest, but Bettina was incorrigible. Bettina got Pamela’s unspoken message, however.
“Plenty of other men out there,” she said brightly. “No need to focus on just the one.”
“You should date, Pamela. Really.” Holly leaned across Karen, who was seated between them, to speak. Her expression was earnest, and Pamela knew she meant no harm.
“Yes, she should,” Bettina agreed. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“Well . . .” Holly leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, as if inspiration might be lurking there. She lowered her head again and snapped her fingers. “Desmond’s uncle!” She paused and added hurriedly, “He’s not old, not old at all. Much younger than Desmond’s father and he—” She paused again. “What do you think, Nell? You have Harold, and Bettina has Wilfred. Pamela needs someone special in her life.”
Pamela’s fingers stilled. She closed her eyes and imagined herself somewhere else, praying also that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.
The next voice she heard, however, was not Nell’s, but rather Roland’s.
“It’s Pamela’s business whether or not she wants to date.” He uttered the word as if it was an unsavory term alien to his vocabulary. “I suggest we stick to our knitting, or . . .”
Pamela opened her eyes to see him pushing back his immaculate shirt cuff to consult his impressive watch.
Before he could speak—Roland’s announcement at precisely eight o’clock that break time had arrived was a Knit and Nibble ritual—Bettina was on her feet. And a moment later, footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Wilfred, emerging from his den.
Holly leapt up to compliment him on the cat climber, Karen volunteered to help with coffee and tea, and Nell followed her to the kitchen. Pamela was left alone on the sofa, patting her cheeks with her fingers, which felt blessedly cool in contrast to her flushed face. Roland was carefully folding the sweater pieces he’d been working on and laying them neatly in his briefcase.
From the direction of the kitchen came the tantalizing aroma of brewing coffee, rich and spicy. The kitchen was crowded enough, Pamela thought. Besides, she wasn’t sure she forgave Bettina yet for bringing up Richard Larkin—again—and launching Holly on her well-meant but embarrassing intrusion into what Roland had so properly identified as Pamela’s own business.
“Not too sweet,” Nell sang out as she delivered her quick bread, sliced and arr
anged on a sage-green pottery platter that was part of Bettina’s favorite dish set. The quick bread was an appealing golden-brown color and each slice was patterned with the pale and dark shapes of nuts and dried fruit. Nell deposited the platter on the coffee table, along with the pile of small sage-green plates she carried in her other hand.
Following right after her was Holly, bearing a wooden tray that held a sugar bowl and cream pitcher, forks and spoons, and dark green napkins in a rustic weave. She settled it next to the platter of quick bread. Karen was next, with two sage-green mugs. Judging by the dangling tags, the contents were tea.
“One for you, Nell,” she announced, setting a mug at the edge of the coffee table near where Nell had resumed her seat in the armchair. “And one for me.” She leaned across the coffee table to set the other mug near her own spot on the sofa. “And everyone else is coffee.”
Seeing Holly and Karen standing together, Pamela was struck again by how curious friendships could be. It would be hard to imagine two more different young women—Holly with her outgoing chattiness and brunette good looks, and shy little blond Karen. But they were both young marrieds, new to Arborville, and both the proud owners of old houses in much need of renovation, so they had bonded. And they were both knitters too, of course.
She supposed people looking at her and Bettina might also be struck by how curious friendships could be, but she and Bettina had shared so much over the years that Pamela might simmer a bit when the topic of Richard Larkin came up, but she was always willing to forgive.
While she’d been pondering, more trips to and from the kitchen had taken place, and she looked down to see a steaming mug of coffee sitting before her. Across the table, Nell was placing slices of quick bread on the small plates and passing them around, along with forks and napkins. Roland had pulled his wooden chair close to the end of the coffee table, and Wilfred had fetched another chair from the dining room and joined him. With Wilfred sitting right at her elbow, Pamela had a chance to compliment him on the amazing (Holly’s vocabulary could be catching) cat climber.
Bettina was the first to comment on the quick bread. “Hmmm,” she said after the first bite. “Hmmm. It’s good, yes. As you say, it’s not too sweet.”
“I think it’s awesome.” Holly’s fork hovered partway to her mouth as she spoke. “It tastes exactly like something our dear Nell would bake.”
It did taste like something from a grandmother’s kitchen—sensible, perhaps dating from a frugal era when raisins would be considered quite enough of a treat in themselves, without needing to add much sugar. And it contained other fruit too, dried cranberries maybe, and currants, and the pale golden bits were probably dried apricots.
Pamela sipped her coffee, which was bitter in a pleasant way that complemented the austerity of the quick bread. And, as conversation buzzed around her, she surveyed the cozy room, made especially cozy by the tree, with its shimmering ornaments and twinkling lights, at one end of the room and the fire crackling at the other.
* * *
“Stay for a minute,” Bettina said, leaning across the coffee table as Pamela bundled up her partly finished stocking and tucked it into her knitting bag, along with the skein of cheery red yarn. Coffee and tea had been drunk and Nell’s quick bread nibbled, and then knitting had resumed. But now it was just nine, and even before Roland reminded everyone of that fact, people had begun to pack up for their journeys home.
Holly leaned across the coffee table too and addressed Nell. “You’ll take a ride home, I hope,” she said. “I can’t believe you walked down here, and now it’s even colder.” Nell’s habit of walking most places, for reasons of health as well as concern for the environment, was responsible for the vigor that she had maintained well into her eighties. But she agreed. And soon Pamela and Bettina were bidding a cheery “Good night” and “Merry Christmas” as Holly, Karen, and Nell headed down the driveway toward Holly’s orange VW Beetle and Roland followed them en route to his Porsche.
Wilfred had cleaned up the kitchen before retreating once more to his den, but Bettina led Pamela back to the kitchen anyway. Once they arrived, she opened the refrigerator and lifted out a large two-handled pot, which she put on the counter.
“You have to take some of Wilfred’s five-alarm chili,” she said. “I know Penny likes it.”
Pamela smiled, but she held up her hands as if to push the idea away. “Penny and I will be fine. I’m doing a big shopping at the Co-Op tomorrow, and you’ve invited us for Christmas, and I know we’ll be feasting on Wilfred’s creations then . . .”
Bettina removed the cover from the two-handled pot. Then she stooped and rummaged in a cupboard until she pulled out a large plastic container and a matching lid. From a drawer she took a ladle and began ladling chili into the container. There was silence while she worked.
When the container was full, she snapped the lid on and presented it to Pamela. “Roland is right,” she said. “It is your business whether or not you want to date. I’ll never say anything about it again.”
“Oh, Bettina!” Pamela laughed, though she felt a little catch in her throat. Clutching the container of chili with one hand, she managed a clumsy half hug.
“He bought the goose today.” Bettina opened the refrigerator again and pointed to a bulky object shrouded in a plastic bag. “He drove all the way out to Long Hill Farm. And there’s to be roast potatoes and roast parsnips and Brussels sprouts and lingonberry relish and some kind of wintry salad.”
“I’ll make a dessert,” Pamela said.
“Something sweet?” Bettina asked hopefully.
“Something delicious,” Pamela said. “Something really delicious.”
All up and down Orchard Street, houses and yards were bright with lights, and there were no clouds, so a few stars showed as chilly pinpricks against the dark sky.
Penny was still at Lorie Hopkins’ house, but Pamela had cats to greet her. Soon she, and they, had settled onto the sofa. The tree had gotten decorated Saturday night after all, and the lights provided a bit of seasonal magic. As the cats purred and a British mystery unfolded on the screen before her, she resumed work on the stocking, to be delivered to Nell in time for Nell’s pre-Christmas visit to the Haversack shelter.
Chapter Seven
Chocolate.
Pamela’s sleeping mind had completed the conversation she’d had the previous night with Bettina about what form her Christmas dessert would take. An image had arisen of something chocolate, like a cake but not like a cake. Something denser . . . and richer . . . with contrasting textures and flavors. Sweet, yes, but with a little bitterness to add complexity.
So even before she fed the cats, she’d taken a cherished cookbook from her cookbook shelf and leafed through the dessert section until she came to the recipe for Chocolate Mousse Cake.
Now she was on her way to the Co-Op, well bundled against the cold and carrying a few of the canvas totes she used for her shopping. Just as she reached the stately brick apartment building at the corner, the door in the back of the building opened and Mr. Gilly stepped out onto the asphalt of the parking lot. He’d added a quilted utility jacket, a muffler, and a knit cap to his usual work clothes, and he was carrying a large cardboard box.
Mr. Gilly was a conscientious super, she had heard, but he liked to talk. When she was pressed for time and he was working outside, Pamela sometimes pretended not to see him and hurried by. But sometimes she was willing to chat—and there was another reason to linger too. A length of wooden fencing hid the building’s trash cans, as well as discarded objects like tables, chairs, bookshelves—all kinds of household goods that people no longer thought they had use for. Pamela had once even adopted a very nice jade plant in a unique clay pot.
Mr. Gilly was heading for the opening at the end of the wooden fence, but when he caught sight of Pamela, he stopped and called out, “Hi there!”
Taking her “How are you?” as a sign that she was in the mood for a chat, he veered toward the sidew
alk and lowered the box onto the winter-ravaged grass.
“Sad doings here,” he said, tipping his head toward the building and fishing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pocket. “Karma Karling was a nice lady. Who’d have thought Sorrel Wollcott could do such a thing?” He nodded toward the box. “This stuff here was Karma’s. Last Friday morning she asked me to carry it down for the trash and I just now got around to doing it.” He extracted a cigarette from the pack and lit it. “There’s still no tree in the lobby,” he added. “The decorations committee disbanded and nobody else wants to take over.”
Pamela was starting to get cold, but a box of Karma’s discards seemed a tantalizing prospect. Mr. Gilly noticed her staring at it. “Nothing you’d be interested in,” he said. “Not like an antique somebody threw away. It’s really just trash—papers and such.”
But she lingered, chatting with him about his plans for the holidays and his daughter, whose big house in Timberley was a great source of pride for him. When he’d finished his cigarette, he bade Pamela good-bye, stooped for the box, and disappeared through the opening in the fence. Pamela walked on toward the corner, but slowly, then turned and cautiously made her way back to the building’s parking lot. She approached the fence and peeked into the opening to make sure Mr. Gilly was gone, then crouched by the box and pried open the flaps, which had been taped down.
Mostly, yes, it was just trash—course outlines for several previous years, handouts with definitions of art terms, lists of materials required for various classes. But near the bottom Pamela came upon something more interesting, a framed photo of a man sitting behind a drum kit. The photo was signed: To my beloved Karma—All my love, Mack.
Pamela held the photo in her gloved hands and stared at it hard. The man looked somehow familiar. But who might she know with such piercing eyes beneath dark brows and such a sardonic twist to his mouth? Oh, my! she murmured, and a wisp of breath curled into the chilly air. The man in the photo looked like the model for the extra drummer on the card that Karma had designed.
