Silent Knit, Deadly Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  Well—Pamela sighed—enough procrastinating. Christmas week had been fun and she’d been lazy. One article remained from the batch her boss had sent the previous Monday. She’d tidy the kitchen, read the article, email the bundle of evaluations off to Fiber Craft, and then settle down to work on the lacy lilac tunic with a British mystery unfolding on the screen before her.

  Upstairs in her office, she settled into her desk chair and poked the buttons that roused her computer from its sleep. She opened the email from her boss, clicked on the attachment labeled “Symbolism,” and began to read.

  The article, illustrated with charming line drawings, asserted that the designs knit into garments hadn’t always served purely aesthetic purposes. A common design used in Irish fishermen’s sweaters, for example—cabling—was intended to protect men who spent their days at sea and ensure that they returned to shore with a bountiful catch. Other Celtic patterns were associated with attracting and keeping love. Knitting was knotting, the author pointed out, and what was the purpose of a knot but to hold fast?

  Pamela stared at the line drawings accompanying this section of the article. Somehow one of the designs looked familiar. She continued reading. Now the author was talking about designs based on plant imagery, designs intended to ward off diseases that the plants themselves were believed to cure.

  The article was well written and the topic would be interesting to readers of Fiber Craft, she believed, and she began to draft a note to that effect. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to the line drawing that had caught her attention.

  Yes! she whispered suddenly, leaping from her chair.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pamela ran across the hall to look out a window that faced the street. But then she turned away, disappointed. No lights were on in Bettina’s house. Perhaps Wilfred Jr. and Maxie were hosting a family get-together before Warren and Greta headed back to Boston.

  Back in her office, she reached for her cell phone. She scrolled down her list of names, selected one, and then pressed Talk. “Hi. It’s Pamela,” she said when she made contact. “I’m just evaluating an article for the magazine and it occurred to me that you’re the one person who can help me.” She summoned a laugh that she hoped didn’t sound as fake as it felt. “It’s kind of silly, really, but this author thinks knitting patterns can be used as charms—to remove impediments to love and cast love spells. Just a superstition, really, I’m sure you would agree. Sometimes a person has to take a more practical approach to the impediments, and if there’s a weapon handy . . . combined with a charm . . . But even then, sometimes, the charm doesn’t work and a person is so disappointed that there’s only one thing”—a click told Pamela that the connection had been broken, but she finished the thought—“to do.”

  Now for the next step. Pamela hurried down the stairs and through the kitchen to the laundry room. There, the dress form, still draped in the black velvet cape, loomed at her from the shadows. Hugging it around its waist, she lifted it into the hallway. Not even pausing to put on a jacket, she carried it out the back door and down the back steps. Thankfully Penny had supplemented Richard Larkin’s shoveling with some shoveling of her own before alternate melting and freezing created an impenetrable crust.

  The night was dark and cold, but still. In the faint light that reached her from the streetlamp, she hauled the dress form along the driveway. She was panting slightly now and the frigid air caught in the back of her throat. When she reached the spot where the recycling containers were lined up, she set the dress form down.

  Then she continued along the driveway until she was within a few yards of the street. She turned and stared toward the dress form. As she’d hoped, the streetlamp behind her provided enough light to make the dress form visible, but not enough to reveal that it was just a dress form and not a human. The long cape, which in the darkness could easily pass for an all-enveloping robe, hid the fact that instead of legs, the dress form’s torso stood on a metal post anchored in a heavy base. She’d been concerned that its lack of a head would be too obvious. But she was pleased to see that the effect was of someone bending slightly, as if intent on a recycling task. As she passed the recycling containers on her return to the back door, she flipped up the hinged cover of the one closest to the dress form.

  Back in the house, she sat on the sofa, cell phone at the ready. The lilac yarn and partly finished back of the lacy tunic were within reach, but the lacy stitch was complicated, and at the moment she didn’t trust herself to focus properly. Catrina joined her on the sofa, regarding her mistress curiously, as if wondering why the evening ritual of sofa plus television plus knitting plus cat was lacking two of its components.

  Ten minutes passed before Orchard Street’s Sunday night quiet was disturbed by the sound of a car engine. Pamela had left the light off in the entry on purpose. Now she grabbed the cell phone, rose from the sofa, and crept toward the front door, where she stooped and leaned close to the lace that veiled the oval window. There was no sign of a car and all was quiet again. She was about to return to the sofa when from the bottom of the street came the distant sound of another engine. Headlights carved bright tunnels through the darkness, making the frosty asphalt gleam.

  The car drew closer, then paused at the curb in front of her house. The headlights went dark and the driver’s side door opened. From around the car a figure emerged into the spill of light cast by the streetlamp. Obviously untrained in the proper handling of firearms (Probably doesn’t watch enough British mysteries, Pamela murmured to herself), the figure carried what was obviously a rifle as if it were a mop or a broom.

  But then the rifle’s position shifted to horizontal. The figure crept toward the head of Pamela’s driveway, pivoted, and with the rifle aiming at precisely what Pamela had hoped its target would be, began to sneak along the side of Pamela’s car. She clutched her cell phone. It was time to summon the police.

  But suddenly the scene became more complex than she had intended. A masculine voice shouted, “Who are you? What are you doing with that rifle?” Pamela ran to the entry’s side window and pushed the curtain aside. As she had expected, Charlotte Sprague stood in the driveway, armed with a rifle, which she was aiming at the dress form. But between Charlotte and the dress form stood Richard Larkin.

  A weapon, a weapon! she whispered frantically to herself. But what? A heavy thing. She darted into the kitchen, jerked open a utensil drawer, and seized the rolling pin whose most recent task had been rolling out the Christmas cookies that she and Wilfred and Bettina had decorated.

  Hardly aware of what she was doing, she flung the front door open, leapt down the front steps, and crunched across the snowy stretch of lawn between porch steps and driveway. Once on the asphalt of the driveway, she slowed to a soundless creep, edging toward Charlotte, who was intent on Richard Larkin and the dress form that she still mistook for her quarry.

  “Get out of my way, whoever you are,” Charlotte muttered, and the rifle barrel wobbled erratically. “She has to die. You can’t prevent it.”

  Behind Charlotte, Pamela raised the rolling pin. Richard lunged toward the dress form as if to shield it with his body. It fell over with a clunk, and Richard fell with it, just as Pamela brought the rolling pin down on Charlotte’s head. With a flash and a sharp crack the rifle discharged, then slipped from Charlotte’s hands and clattered to the asphalt. Pamela struck again with the rolling pin, feeling a jolt that reached her shoulder as the rolling pin connected with Charlotte’s skull. Charlotte reeled for a moment then collapsed with a moan.

  Pamela stooped toward where the rifle had fallen. It was barely visible, except for the slight metallic gleam of its barrel. The barrel was hot to the touch, so with the toe of her shoe, she pushed the rifle toward the edge of the driveway where Penny had heaped snow as she shoveled. Charlotte remained crumpled on the frosty asphalt.

  Then Pamela turned her attention to Richard. He too was barely visible in the darkness—except for his
blond hair—his clothes blending with the asphalt and the velvet cape, which had slipped off the dress form as it tipped over. Pamela knelt near his head and bent toward his ear.

  “Can you hear me?” she said. “Richard?”

  He lifted his head slightly and started to push himself up but sank back down with a groan. “What happened?” he asked. “What was that thing? I thought it was you. I was trying to push you out of the way.”

  “I’ll explain everything,” Pamela said. “But we have to call the police. Do you have your cell phone? Mine is in the house.”

  “Shirt pocket, I think.” He tried again to push himself up, managed to rise to his knees, flexed both arms, and commented, “Nothing seems broken.” He fumbled inside his jacket and pulled out his cell phone.

  As he completed the call, Charlotte began to stir. But the thin sound of a siren was already piercing the chilly air.

  “How did you happen to be in my driveway?” Pamela asked Richard as they waited. He had sagged back down onto the asphalt.

  “I just got home from delivering Laine and Sybil to their dorm,” Richard said from his prone position. “They flew back from San Francisco today. I saw a car pull up while I was still outside, and I saw somebody with a rifle get out. So I watched through the hedge to see what was going on. Then I saw what I thought was you, standing by the recycling containers. And that person was stalking you. It looked like there wasn’t a minute to lose before you got shot. So I pushed a couple of bushes aside and dove through the hedge.”

  After a few feeble motions, Charlotte had lapsed back into stillness. But now, without lifting her head, she began to speak.

  “How did you figure it out?” she asked in a plaintive voice.

  “The sweater you were ripping out when Bettina and I stopped by to see you the other night.” Pamela had run outside with no jacket to rescue Richard Larkin, and the outfit she’d been wearing for a quiet evening at home was no match for the wintry air. But the thrill of resolving the mystery that had vexed her and Bettina for so long distracted her from the fact that she should have been shivering.

  “Lots of people rip out knitting projects.” Charlotte managed to sound petulant despite her situation.

  “You made the sweater as a gift for Pierre,” Pamela said. “And the stitch was intended to cast a love spell. If I hadn’t just been reading an article on the symbolism of traditional Celtic knitting patterns for Fiber Craft, I’d never have figured it out. You wanted Pierre to be free to love you after the magic had done its work, so you made sure to get Millicent out of the way before you presented your gift.”

  “It didn’t work,” Charlotte groaned, speaking as much to herself as to Pamela.

  “No, it didn’t,” Pamela agreed. “I heard you declaring your love in the attic on the day I was there for the estate sale. I mistook your voice for someone else’s, because of the sniffling and sneezing. But he resisted you—and thus resisted the charm—so he had to follow Millicent to the grave.”

  The siren meanwhile had been drawing closer. Soon its long rise and fall modulated into a resentful bleat, then the night was silent. Pamela stood up and hurried toward the street. When she reached the pool of light cast by the streetlamp she waved at the police, who had just climbed out of their car.

  “Down here,” she called, and turned the wave into a gesture that pointed toward where Richard and Charlotte still lay on the asphalt. “Down here along the side of the house.”

  One of the officers was Officer Sanchez, a young woman with dark hair and a sweet, heart-shaped face. Pamela had met her before. The other officer, a sturdy man, was someone she didn’t recognize. As if on cue, both officers took flashlights from their belts.

  Pamela let the officers lead the way, the two flashlight beams crisscrossing as they probed the gloom. The officers themselves were almost invisible in their dark uniforms. When the flashlight beams reached Charlotte and Richard, Officer Sanchez turned to Pamela.

  “Do these individuals need medical attention?” she asked.

  “Possibly,” Pamela answered.

  But Richard objected with a vigorous “No.” With a ferocious grunt, he pushed himself up until he was kneeling again, and then lowered himself onto his haunches. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little bruised.”

  Pamela took up where she left off. “That’s not why we called 911,” she said. “This woman”—she pointed at Charlotte—“wanted to shoot me with that rifle.” She shifted the direction of her finger to where the rifle lay. The flashlight beams followed the gesture, and the rifle became visible, half buried in grimy snow. “And she ended up shooting at him,” Pamela went on, waving toward Richard. “The rifle’s been fired,” she added. “You’ll see that when it’s tested.”

  Charlotte was in motion too. She struggled to a sitting position and tilted her head to look up at Officer Sanchez. The male officer edged closer to Charlotte. “She attacked me with a rolling pin,” Charlotte said.

  Despite her sweet face, Officer Sanchez could be stern. “Is that your rifle?” she demanded as her flashlight beam danced over what was visible of the rifle’s barrel and stock.

  “No!” Charlotte’s tone of voice implied that the question was deeply offensive.

  “It’s true that it isn’t hers,” Pamela said. “But she brought it here and she fired it.”

  “Is that true?” Officer Sanchez asked.

  Charlotte didn’t respond. Suddenly she pushed herself up from the asphalt, whirled around, and began to sprint down the driveway. After a moment in which they seemed frozen, the two officers dashed after her.

  Pamela followed them, but more slowly and at a distance. She watched as they easily overtook Charlotte and subdued her, each grabbing an arm. Pamela heard Officer Sanchez say, “I’ll need an evidence bag for that rifle.”

  In a moment the male officer was escorting Charlotte across Pamela’s snowy yard as Officer Sanchez hurried ahead to the police car. Carrying a large orange bag, she retraced her steps to where Pamela was standing. Richard, meanwhile, had managed to climb to his feet and was limping slowly toward Pamela.

  As Pamela stared in the direction of the street, watching Charlotte being led away, headlights approached from the top of the block. The car whose arrival the headlights announced slowed and then turned into Bettina and Wilfred’s driveway. The door of the police car had scarcely closed on Charlotte before Bettina was hurrying up Pamela’s driveway. Her mouth was agape and her eyes were wide with alarm.

  “What is happening?” she cried when she was within a few feet of Pamela. “The police car,” she panted, “and”—she noticed Officer Sanchez—“the police!” She swung her head toward Richard. “Richard! And Pamela! Are you both all right?”

  Wilfred had been thudding along behind Bettina and he joined the group now. “Dear wife!” he exclaimed. “Pamela! Rick! What is happening?”

  “Sir, excuse me.” Officer Sanchez stepped forward. “And ma’am.” She nodded toward Bettina. “A police investigation is currently taking place. I’ll have to ask you to return to your home.”

  “Police investigation!” Bettina gasped. “Pamela! What—?” Wilfred laid a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” Pamela said. “Everything is okay.”

  “Ma’am! Sir!” Officer Sanchez advanced farther and Bettina and Wilfred retreated.

  “I’ll call you later,” Pamela assured her friends. “Everything is really okay. Better than okay.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Pamela was sitting on her sofa next to Richard Larkin. Officer Sanchez was perched on the rummage-sale chair with the carved wooden back and the needlepoint seat. Backup had arrived to transport Charlotte to the police station, and Pamela, Richard, and Officer Sanchez had repaired to Pamela’s warm living room.

  Officer Sanchez had nodded and taken notes as Pamela and Richard explained what had transpired before the police were summoned and what role the dress form had played. Now she tucked awa
y her notepad and pen, and explained that Detective Clayborn would follow up the next day and that it might be necessary to search Pamela’s driveway for the rifle bullet and shell casing. She also noted that Detective Clayborn would take a dim view of luring a murderer to incriminate herself by firing at a dress form set up as a decoy.

  Pamela had no sooner seen Officer Sanchez out the door and turned off the porch light than the doorbell chimed.

  “Was that Charlotte Sprague in the police car?” came an urgent voice out of the darkness. In a moment Bettina stepped over the threshold, followed by Wilfred. Bettina seized Pamela in an all-enveloping hug and then, still holding her arms, stepped back to study her. “What have you been up to?” she demanded.

  “Catching a murderer,” came Richard’s comment from the next room. They all turned in his direction. He tried to rise from the sofa, then winced and sank back down.

  “Off with your coats,” Pamela said. “Have a seat while I make coffee. You both deserve to hear the whole story.”

  Over coffee and poppy-seed cake, Pamela described the phone call she made to Charlotte hinting that she knew Charlotte was the murderer. “I suspected she’d show up here with the rifle,” she explained, “and that would prove her guilt. But I didn’t want her to actually shoot me so I set up a decoy in the driveway.”

  “The dress form made quite a convincing Pamela,” Richard added, “until I tackled it and it tipped over with a clunk.”

  “That old dress form we hauled home from the estate sale?” Bettina laughed.

  Pamela nodded. “It turned out to be quite useful—except my trap turned out a bit differently than I expected.”

  “But how did you figure out Charlotte was the murderer?” Bettina asked.

  Pamela described what she’d learned about knitting designs as love charms from the Fiber Craft article. “But then,” she added, “the charm didn’t work, even though Millicent was out of the way,” she added.