Could she stop worrying about Aaron? she asked herself later, as she moved about the kitchen putting together a simple meal of cheese omelets and salad. The story about finding the scarf—while engaged in such a worthwhile task—was eminently plausible. And the police had said Millicent’s body was dragged through the nature preserve to the spot where Penny found it. Certainly the red scarf could have slipped off along the way.
* * *
The sound of cats meowing frequently inserted itself into Pamela’s dreams. The meowing would feature in curious dream plots. She’d hear it as she searched desperately for the room where a crucial editorial meeting had been scheduled, or as she toured a house in dire need of renovation that had somehow replaced her own cherished dwelling.
She was always glad when the meowing became so insistent that it woke her up. She would find a real-life cat standing on her chest, angry about a delayed breakfast, and the dream would fade away.
She opened her eyes in her shadowy room, expecting to gaze into a pair of amber eyes in a dark, furry face. But Catrina was nowhere in sight. Yet the high-pitched squeals that had finally awakened her persisted. As the rest of the dream slipped from her conscious mind, she realized that the sound she heard wasn’t the meowing of a cat. In fact a quick exploration with her left hand established that Catrina was still snuggled against her thigh. The sound was sirens.
She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed as Catrina burrowed under the cozy mound that Pamela’s gesture had created. At the window, Pamela edged aside one panel of the eyelet curtains and tilted an ear toward the glass. The sirens were clearly coming from the direction of County Road.
“It could be anything,” she said to herself. “Police chasing a speeder, or an ambulance on its way to the hospital.” A glance at the bedside clock showed that it was nearly eight, time to start the day.
Catrina stuck her head out from under the bedclothes and watched as Pamela pulled her fleece robe over her pajamas and slipped her feet into her slippers. Satisfied that the morning ritual was about to commence, the cat hopped lightly off the bed, darted through the door, and preceded Pamela down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Pamela served Catrina her breakfast—Ginger was apparently sleeping late with Penny. Then she set water boiling for coffee and whirled a few scoops of coffee beans in the grinder. A trip outside to collect the Register would occupy the few minutes it took the water to boil, so she made her way toward the door. As she opened it, she caught sight of an unusual spectacle.
Bettina, usually so flawlessly groomed, was scurrying across Orchard Street in her robe and slippers, her hair looking like it had more recently been in contact with a pillow than with a comb. “Did you hear those sirens?” she cried.
Pamela hurried down the steps. Bettina paused when she reached the Register, which lay on Pamela’s front walk halfway between the street and the porch, and Pamela met her there, bending to retrieve the paper in its plastic sleeve.
“They could be anything,” Pamela said. She paused and studied Bettina’s face. “Couldn’t they?” she added in a lower voice.
“It’s police cars, two of them. Down by the nature preserve,” Bettina said. “Wilfred was up and out early, taking his car for servicing at that place in Timberley he likes. He drove right past the turnoff for the preserve and he called me to tell me what he saw. He thought I might want to follow up with Clayborn, though it’s too late to get anything in the Advocate for this week. In fact”—she swiveled her head this way and that to survey the street—“this week’s Advocate should have been delivered by now.”
“The nature preserve . . . again,” Pamela murmured. She felt her forehead crease and her lips tighten.
“I’ll call Clayborn,” Bettina said. “I’ll be over later.” She looked down at her unconventional ensemble. “After I’m dressed of course. Make extra coffee.”
Pamela hurried back to her warm house. Inside, the kettle was hooting frantically and Penny was standing in the entry rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I was worried,” she said. “I didn’t know why you hadn’t heard the kettle. Where were you?”
“Talking to Bettina.” Pamela hoped her face wasn’t still wearing the expression that had greeted Bettina’s news.
“Really?” Penny said, signaling her suspicion by raising one brow. “It’s kind of cold out for a chat.”
“Oh”—Pamela willed her voice to sound offhand—“she just wanted to say she’ll be over later and that I should make extra coffee.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Penny had finished her breakfast and retreated to her room, but Pamela was lingering over coffee and the Register when the doorbell summoned her.
“Pierre is dead,” Bettina announced before even crossing the threshold.
“What?” Pamela stepped back, the door swung open wide, and Bettina rushed in. Pamela felt as if her brain had just been swept clean. She struggled for words and managed only to repeat the same monosyllable. Her reaction wasn’t the shock that comes from hearing about the death of someone one cares for. It was more surprise. How could Pierre be dead? No theory she and Bettina had pondered about Millicent’s murder had included the possibility that Pierre might be the next victim.
Pamela blinked a few times and shook her head as Bettina tossed her coat on the chair by the mail table. She’d obviously dressed quickly, in one of the leggings-and-tunic outfits she wore for babysitting her grandchildren, and hadn’t bothered with makeup. “I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “But I need coffee.”
Pamela led her to the kitchen, where extra coffee was waiting in the carafe. It just needed a gentle warming. This was accomplished as Pamela retrieved cream from the refrigerator and Bettina helped herself to a cup and saucer from the cupboard and settled into her accustomed chair. All the while Bettina was talking.
She explained that she had called Detective Clayborn as soon as she returned to her house. She had reminded him that her reporting on police doings shaped public opinion in Arborville and, whether or not she had a pressing deadline, it was important to keep her in the loop.
Pamela served Bettina coffee, refreshed her own, and sat down across the table from her friend. “So Pierre is the body in the nature preserve?” she said.
Bettina nodded. “They think he was killed last night and then moved there.”
“Just like Millicent.” Pamela nodded too. “And the murder weapon . . . ?”
“He was shot,” Bettina said. “The ME hasn’t done her work yet, but it seems likely—this is my opinion anyway—that if she retrieves a bullet, it will be a homemade bullet like the one that killed Millicent.”
“There’s plenty of poppy-seed cake,” Pamela said. “I just finished breakfast, but . . .”
“I wouldn’t say no to a slice, or two”—Bettina scanned the counter, where two loaves of poppy-seed cake, securely wrapped in foil, reposed—“as long as you won’t be cutting into the loaf that’s meant for Richard Larkin.”
“I won’t be.” Pamela laughed. “There’s still some left from one of the original four.” She carved two slices from the partial loaf tucked away in the cupboard and served them to Bettina on a dessert plate from her wedding china.
“I guess we can cross Pierre off our list of suspects,” Pamela said as Bettina applied herself to a slice of poppy-seed cake. “And Geoff Grimm too. Why would he have wanted Pierre dead? His anger was directed at the craft shop. And the same person who killed Pierre most likely killed Millicent, so Geoff Grimm didn’t kill Millicent, angry as he might have been.”
Bettina finished the thought, a fork bearing a tidbit of poppy-seed cake poised halfway between her plate and her mouth. “And Nadine didn’t kill Pierre, because she isn’t even around. Therefore Nadine didn’t kill Millicent.”
Pamela sighed. “So who’s left?” She explained her conviction that Aaron was also innocent.
Bettina shook her head sadly. “Clayborn hasn’t made any progress with the case. I don’t know why we thought
we could figure it out.”
“The only suspect we have left is Coot,” Pamela said.
“Possible, I suppose.” Bettina pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose.
“But if she really thinks the DNA results prove she’s entitled to half her mother’s estate, why would she take the chance of being charged with murder—two murders—to claim it?” As Pamela finished speaking, a door opened upstairs. A burst of laughter accompanied footsteps hurrying down the stairs. In a moment, Penny appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was carrying her smartphone and her face was pink with merriment.
“Geoff Grimm,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out she was laughing so hard. “You absolutely won’t guess—” She paused, overtaken by laughter again.
“What on earth?” Pamela rose, frowning. “You haven’t been talking to him . . . have you?”
“I friended him on Facebook,” Penny said, still struggling with laughter. “I didn’t mean to. Sometimes I just click on things.” She paused to compose herself. “Anyway, you’ll like this.”
She handed her phone to Pamela, who bent toward the little screen. Bettina jumped up, ran around the table, and leaned against Pamela to study the image Penny had summoned.
“Is he trying out for a role as Dracula?” Bettina asked.
The photo in the Facebook post was clearly Geoff Grimm—spectral gaze, skeletal visage, and oily strands of hair reaching to his shoulders. But Geoff Grimm was wearing a nicely tailored tuxedo ensemble, complete with cummerbund, pleated shirt front, and impeccable bow tie.
“Look at what it says above the photo,” Penny said.
Pamela read the words aloud: “‘Being honored by Timberley General Hospital at their New Year’s Eve gala. Guess I should dress to impress.’”
“There’s a link to the hospital’s site.” Bettina tapped on the phone’s screen and waited a moment for the site to come up. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured as her eyes scanned the screen. “Who would ever have thought . . . ?”
“So he’s not really scary at all.” Was there a hint of I-told-you-so in Penny’s tone?
“Volunteer work at the hospital.” Pamela laughed softly, shook her head, and quoted from the site: “‘Also to be honored is Haversack artist Geoff Grimm. Every Monday morning for the past five years, Geoff has toured the children’s wing, drawing cartoons on command and lifting the spirits of countless children.’”
“He didn’t kill Millicent,” Penny said.
Learning about Pierre’s death had already made Pamela and Bettina cross Geoff Grimm off their list of suspects, but Penny didn’t yet know that Pierre was dead. Pamela nodded though, and added, “Now we know why he always visited the shop on Monday mornings.” She was pondering how to announce the fact of Pierre’s death to Penny, but Penny reached for her phone and darted through the kitchen doorway before Pamela could say anything. More Facebook posts to read, no doubt, and the doings of Laine, Sybil, Lorie Hopkins, and new college friends to catch up with. Not to mention Aaron.
She’d give Penny an update on things later.
“I didn’t see Richard Larkin’s car.” Bettina took a few steps toward the stove and lit the burner under the carafe. “My coffee got cold while we were talking,” she explained.
“Probably at work,” Pamela said.
“You will give him that loaf of poppy-seed cake though, won’t you?” Bettina faced Pamela with her hands on her ample hips.
Pamela sighed. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “I don’t want him to think he has to give me something.”
“It’s just a neighborly thing to do,” Bettina said. “And you want to be neighborly, don’t you?”
* * *
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Pamela said. It was Saturday morning and she was sitting at the pine table in Bettina’s spacious kitchen. “You know I don’t like to shop.”
“The mall is fun at Christmastime.” Bettina lifted another doughnut from the white cardboard bakery box on the table before her. “These homemade doughnuts from the farmers market in Newfield are amazing. Have another. And how about more coffee?”
Pamela groaned. “Two is plenty, especially if we’re going to have lunch out. But I will take a refill on the coffee.”
“It’s still the holiday season.” Bettina headed toward the cooking area of her kitchen to fetch the coffee. “You might as well enjoy yourself before your boss starts sending you work again.”
“That reminds me,” Pamela said. “I have a couple more articles to evaluate, but nothing’s due back till Sunday night.”
From the living room came a muffled bark, then the doorbell rang. Wilfred, a hint of surprise in his voice, greeted someone he apparently knew quite well. Woofus tore around the corner from the dining room and took cover under the pine table. Pamela could feel his body trembling against her calves.
Wilfred stepped through the kitchen doorway a moment later. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he said. “Look who’s back.”
He edged to the side, revealing Nadine, looking more insubstantial than ever in comparison with Wilfred’s bulk. Her lips began to shape a hesitant smile, but then her face reverted to its customary expression of mild confusion. Pamela realized that she was glowering at the apparition and was thankful that Bettina was the first to speak. She herself might not have been so charitable.
“Where on earth have you been?” Bettina asked, sounding more curious than angry. “We were very worried about you.”
Nadine’s slight figure seemed to close in on itself. Her shoulders contracted and her hands, crossed over her chest, gripped her upper arms protectively. Wilfred, ever the gentleman, pulled a chair out from the table and motioned Nadine to sit.
Huddled in the chair, Nadine looked from Bettina to Pamela. Apparently identifying Bettina as the more receptive audience, she fixed her gaze on Bettina and began to speak.
“The woman at the yarn shop said you were looking for me,” she said in a tone that suggested she found this fact puzzling.
“Yes.” Bettina nodded. “We were.”
“There was no reason to worry,” Nadine said. “I had the vacation days clearly marked on my calendar.”
Pamela couldn’t contain herself. “Vacation days!” she exclaimed. “Right after your boss had been murdered? Aside from the obvious—like weren’t you curious about what the police would discover?—who did you think was going to run the shop?”
“The vacation days were on my calendar,” Nadine repeated, sounding a bit more assertive. “I cleared my plans with Millicent.”
“But then Millicent was murdered!” Pamela had never liked the scolding tone that she sometimes heard in her voice, and she’d worked hard to suppress it on the rare occasions when Penny had done something scold-worthy. But now she was glad to summon it from her vocal repertoire.
With an alarmed glance in Pamela’s direction, Bettina jumped in quickly. “You should at least have told someone you’d be away for a few days,” she said gently. “For all we knew, the same person who killed Millicent had come back to the shop to kill you.”
Or for all we knew, you were the person who killed Millicent, added a small voice in Pamela’s brain.
Nadine sagged forward until her face was hidden by frowsy strands of no-color hair. “I didn’t think of that,” she mumbled.
There seemed nothing more to say. After an awkward silence, Bettina rose. Nadine looked startled for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure what was happening, but then Bettina reached out, pulled her to her feet, and enfolded her in a hug.
“I don’t know what will happen to the shop now,” Bettina commented when she and Wilfred returned from seeing Nadine to the door. Wilfred headed for his basement workshop and Bettina reclaimed her chair.
“She seems pretty hopeless,” Pamela agreed.
* * *
Pamela was home from the mall visit and lunch with Bettina by midafternoon, though the winter sun was already nearing the horizon. The beginnings of
the lacy lilac tunic rested on the arm of the sofa, where she’d left it the previous evening. The tunic’s back, the section she had started with, had grown by several inches since Christmas Day, when her cautious needles first tackled its challenging stitch. She settled at the end of the sofa and picked up the project. Soon her pulse slowed as, row by row, her hands shaped delicate filigreed shells from the lilac yarn.
She glanced up only briefly when Aaron popped around the corner from the entry to bid her a courteous good-evening and Penny waved and said she’d be home by midnight.
* * *
It was Sunday evening. As Penny entered the kitchen, Pamela looked up from the remains of her solitary meal. She’d bought groceries at the Co-Op and roasted a chicken. The thigh she’d eaten for dinner was only one of many meals the chicken was destined to provide.
“You’re wearing the necklace!” she exclaimed. It was the necklace of Venetian beads that had been one of Pamela’s Christmas gifts. The richly colored glass beads seemed to set Penny’s complexion aglow, and Pamela found herself staring, startled at her daughter’s beauty. A date with Aaron was in the works, she knew. Penny had announced earlier that she wouldn’t be eating dinner at home.
“I think your holiday romance is becoming serious,” Pamela said.
“Maybe.” Penny suppressed a smile and looked at the floor. Pamela wouldn’t have thought Penny could look any lovelier or full of life, but the bloom in her cheeks had suddenly intensified.
The doorbell chimed and Penny skipped toward the entry. In a moment, Aaron popped his head through the kitchen doorway to greet Pamela as “Mrs. Paterson” and wish her a good evening, and then they were off.
Catrina strolled in from the back hallway, followed by Ginger. They paused to see whether anything interesting had appeared in their bowl since they’d finished their own dinner, and then they were gone too.
Silent Knit, Deadly Knit Page 22
