“Butter? There’s some right there on the counter.”
Bettina wrinkled her nose. Pamela’s fondness for black coffee and toast garnished with only a little butter was a source of great puzzlement to her. “Do you still have any of that Tupelo honey Wilfred brought back from the farmers market?” she asked.
“Help yourself,” Pamela said with a smile. “It’s in the upper cupboard to the left of the sink.” She watched as Bettina staged butter, honey, and a plate near the toaster and pulled a knife from the silverware drawer. With a low chunk, the toast popped up, and Bettina wielded the knife to spread liberal amounts of butter and honey over its crisp surface.
Having sampled her toast and pronounced it delicious, Bettina was once more inclined to discuss her interview with Detective Clayborn. “I told him the ME, or forensics, or somebody should analyze the yarn the killer used,” she said, “because it might be made from llama wool.”
“I think I can guess what he said.” Pamela’s lips twisted into a rueful half smile.
“You can’t!” Bettina slapped the table with one hand. The other held a piece of toast. “Because he didn’t say anything. He just laughed. Even harder than when I told him about the llama farm.”
“You explained that Mary had alienated its owner by refusing to feature the farm on her blog—and that she’d probably phrased the refusal in a very insulting way?”
“I did.” Bettina licked a bit of honey from her thumb. “And I told him about the author of the knitting booklets whose husband threatened Mary when she wouldn’t accept a bribe to revise her negative reviews.”
“And?” Pamela tipped her head forward and raised her brows.
“He didn’t see how something somebody said or didn’t say on a blog could be a motive for murder.”
“So, does he have any leads?” Pamela asked.
Bettina sighed. “At least he admits that the same person murdered Mary as murdered Dawn—and that the person who killed Dawn probably thought he was killing Mary. The police have left off interviewing Dawn’s clients at the salon. And they’ve interviewed Brainard.”
“What?” Pamela had been in the act of raising her cup to her lips, but her hand paused on its journey. “He’s the one who found her body!”
“It could all have been an act,” Bettina said. “He kills her, then calls the police and pretends to be horrified. Based on what we saw when we were talking to Mary and he came in on his way to class, he could certainly have had a motive.”
“But he certainly would have known Dawn wasn’t his wife.”
Bettina shrugged. “They fought that day and he refused to go to the parade and bonfire. So she says she’s going anyway, but she doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves, so for all he knows, she decided to wear the Bo Peep outfit herself.”
* * *
After Bettina left, Pamela had browsed through the Register while finishing her coffee—though Bettina had reported the latest details on Mary’s murder direct from Detective Clayborn, so there was no need to pore over the Register’s coverage of the case. Now, dressed in her usual jeans and a sweater, she was sitting at her computer, reading an article about images of cats in early American hooked rug design. The photographs alone—of rugs in the author’s private collection—would have made the article worthy of publication, Pamela thought. But the analysis of the designs, which alluded to the cat’s role as both pet and scourge of rodents, offered a fascinating glimpse into a typical eighteenth-century household.
She was just chuckling over a photo of a small hearth rug whose design featured a dozing cat surrounded by a border of cavorting mice when the doorbell’s chime summoned her downstairs. For the second time that morning, the figure glimpsed through the oval window in the front door was Bettina, as revealed by her vivid, pumpkin-colored coat.
“Clayborn just called me,” Bettina announced as soon as Pamela had pulled the door open far enough to make communication possible.
“Stop the presses?” Pamela swung the door all the way open and stepped aside.
“I hadn’t had time to write anything yet, much less submit it for this week’s Advocate.” Bettina stepped over the threshold, and Pamela closed the door. A chilly draft had entered with her friend. “However,” Bettina went on, “he wanted to make sure Brainard wasn’t identified as a suspect in my article.”
“You said the police interviewed him . . .”
“They did.” Bettina made no move to tug off her purple gloves or otherwise make herself at home, but continued, her voice growing more excited with each word. “And Clayborn followed up with Brainard’s alibi after I left this morning. Brainard was in the Wendelstaff library until a bit before nine Tuesday night. Then he left and drove home. He discovered Mary’s body when he got out of his car—the garage is separate from the house, at the end of a long driveway. But Mary’s body was already cold when the police arrived, suggesting she’d been killed a few hours earlier. So,” Bettina concluded, almost panting, “how soon can you be ready to visit the llama farm?”
Chapter 8
Pamela blinked, and her mind scurried to catch up with Bettina’s reasoning. Bettina watched for a moment, then let loose another flood of words.
“Clayborn doesn’t have any other suspects at the moment,” she said, “because he doesn’t believe the enemies Mary made in connection with her blog could be a genuine threat. But we do, so we have to get busy and”—she pulled her smartphone from her purse—“I’ll find the address of the llama farm. It’s in Kringlekamack, Mary said . . .” Bettina’s fingers, with their bright manicure, got busy on the device.
Pamela nodded. “I have to turn off my computer,” she said as she headed for the stairs.
“I’ll call Nell,” Bettina sang out as Pamela reached the landing.
* * *
The llamas seemed used to having company. Most of them continued exactly what they were doing as Pamela, Bettina, and Nell approached the simple white fence, with its widely spaced horizontal slats, that contained them. Some ambled meditatively over the stubby grass, which was still a healthy shade of green. They stopped to nibble here and there, their long necks dipping gracefully toward the ground. Others, clustered around a wooden bin near the large shed at the back of their enclosure, were making a more substantial meal of hay. Only a few, perhaps bored with grass or hay, drifted toward the fence to examine the visitors who were examining them. The only sign of particular interest they exhibited was to tip their long ears forward.
Pamela had never explored the possibilities of knitting with llama wool, though she knew that various breeds of llamas produced wool that varied in fineness and softness. Gazing at the llama that now regarded her with gentle eyes, she admired the thick and shaggy coat that must have recommended the llama and its kin to the chilly mountain dwellers who first domesticated the creatures. This llama was the soft brown color of whole-wheat toast, though its confreres ranged in color from black through various shades of brown, all the way to white. And it was large—with its head raised, its long neck made it almost as tall as Bettina. But the enclosure contained llamas of all sizes, including a spindly-legged baby llama at that very moment standing beneath its mother having a meal.
“Lovely animals.” Nell sighed. “Thank goodness there’s more interest in their wool than in their meat.” As she spoke, wisps of steam marked her words in the chilly air.
Bettina was the first to turn away from the llamas. She’d had the foresight to wear her red sneakers, and the wisdom of her choice had become obvious when they pulled off the secluded road that led to the llama farm onto the parking area, half gravel, half muddy dirt, that served it. Now she led the way as the three of them made their way back to the parking lot and then along a rutted path toward a barn and a small stone house some distance from the llama enclosure. Beyond the house, fallen leaves under a glorious tree tinted the ground red.
As they approached the barn, a figure emerged from the shadows within. They’d come looking for Germaine v
an Houten—Bettina’s smartphone search had yielded not only the address of the Kringlekamack llama farm, but also the name of its proprietor. But they were greeted instead by a young man wearing jeans that were more a work garment than a fashion statement and a sturdy pullover sweater exactly the color of the llama Pamela had been communing with. His abundant hair was gathered into a ponytail.
“In the market for a llama, ladies?” he inquired as they drew closer.
“I can see you’re well-supplied”—Bettina accompanied the observation with a flirtatious smile—“and they’re beautiful creatures. But I’m not sure Arborville is zoned for livestock.”
“What can I do for you, then?” the young man inquired with a flirtatious smile of his own. He was half Bettina’s age, but few people could resist Bettina’s charm.
“I’m a reporter,” Bettina explained. “New Jersey has so many unexplored byways. Llama farms are certainly something most people would never dream existed just across the river from Manhattan.”
Pamela and Nell looked at each other. Pamela was wondering why Bettina hadn’t just come right out and asked if Germaine van Houten was around, and Nell’s puzzled half frown suggested that she was equally curious. But Bettina had her ways. This young man, evidently an assistant, might reveal more about Germaine’s whereabouts on recent evenings—and thus whether she had alibis for Halloween and Tuesday night—than Germaine would have been willing to do herself.
“I’m Jordan,” the young man said.
“Bettina Fraser.” Bettina offered her hand, then introduced Pamela and Nell. “My friends,” she added, “are also curious about llamas. We’re all knitters.”
Jordan raised the plastic bucket he was carrying. “Come right along and get acquainted with the gang. I was just on my way to offer them some treats. Broccoli—that’s their favorite. And some other stuff too.”
He led the way as they proceeded down the rutted path toward the white-fenced enclosure, the plastic bucket swinging gaily in his hand and his ponytail bouncing against his sweater-clothed back.
“Germaine will be sorry she missed you,” he commented as he loped along. “The llama farm is a big thing for her, a lifelong dream. Anything you can write about it will be great—she’s always trying to get more exposure.”
We knew that, Pamela said to herself.
But Bettina feigned ignorance. “It’s not just a hobby?” She panted as she struggled to keep up with Jordan’s long strides. She made a striking figure against the pastoral landscape in her red sneakers, pumpkin coat, and purple hat and gloves.
“Hardly,” he called over his shoulder. “She inherited this land. It’s been in her family for eons, and the house is a couple hundred years old. But she went into debt to launch the llama farm. The idea was to breed them to sell as guard llamas. It’s a real thing—for sheep herds and like that. But New Jersey actually has a lot of llama farms, and competition is fierce.”
“It is?” Pamela took over from Bettina, who had stopped to catch her breath.
“Fierce,” he repeated. They were drawing near to the enclosure. The llamas, apparently recognizing that the ponytailed young man was bearing treats in his plastic bucket, had begun to range themselves along the stretch of fence that bordered the path, their long muzzles tilted in his direction. Jordan cut off to the side when he got closer and slipped around to the back of the shed. He opened a door, and in a minute he was stepping through a large opening in the front of the shed and joining the eager crowd of llamas that had turned away from the fence.
Pamela and Nell, meanwhile, had reached the enclosure and were watching from their side of the fence. Bettina was just a few yards away.
“Here you go, gang!” Jordan cried, dipping a hand into the bucket and tossing broccoli spears, apple halves, and carrots here and there. The llamas scrambled after them. A pleasant barnyard smell Pamela had noticed earlier seemed stronger now, with all the llamas in motion.
“They’ll get a couple more buckets of treats and some grain,” Jordan said as he stroked the shaggy neck of a nearby llama. “And I’ve got to fill their water trough, if you’ll excuse me.”
Bettina had joined Pamela and Nell at the fence by now. “Ask him about yarn,” Pamela whispered as Jordan disappeared into the shed. In a moment, he emerged with a green rubber hose trailing behind him, water gushing from its nozzle. The water trough was next to the bin that supplied the llamas with hay.
Questions weren’t necessary. Fond as Jordan seemed of his nonhuman charges, the presence of beings he could communicate with in his own language had loosened his tongue.
“So, anyway, where was I?” he shouted above the whooshing and gurgling sounds of water filling the trough.
“New Jersey has a lot of llama farms?” Pamela suggested.
“Oh, yeah!” Jordan dodged out of the way of a llama that seemed eager for a drink, the one that was the color of whole-wheat toast. “So—Germaine got the idea that she could sell the wool. But she didn’t know anything about shearing them and whatever. And there’s lots of high-quality llama wool out there online. People dye it with natural dyes, and it’s a whole big deal. Hard to get into if you’re starting from scratch.”
“Your sweater kind of . . . matches that llama there,” Bettina said, pointing to the llama at the trough.
“It should,” Jordan said with a smile that Pamela imagined had charmed many young women. It revealed perfect teeth that looked all the whiter against the remains of a summer tan. He laid an affectionate hand on the llama’s back. “We sheared her last spring as an experiment, and Germaine figured out how to card and spin the wool. My mom knit it.” He stroked the sweater as affectionately as he had earlier stroked a llama.
Pamela searched her memory. The night of the bonfire, when Gus Warburton had aimed his flashlight at the body in the Bo Peep costume, what color had the strands of yarn looped around the neck been? She couldn’t quite remember. The scene had been so shocking, and there had been so many things to look at.
“Ooops!” Jordan took a quick step backward. Water was sloshing over the rim of the trough onto the toes of his rugged boots. “Better turn this off.” He dashed back into the shed.
A few other llamas had been standing off to the side, as if waiting for a chance at the trough. They ambled forward and joined the brown llama. The baby llama Pamela had noticed earlier came tottering after and looked up curiously, as if wondering what its elders found so appealing overhead.
“I’m not sure I’ve been a very good advertisement for Germaine’s llama farm,” Jordan said. He had emerged from the shed unencumbered by the hose and strolled over to where Pamela, Bettina, and Nell stood against the fence. “Like I said, Germaine will be sorry she missed you.” He frowned, which scarcely detracted from his good-natured handsomeness, and turned to survey the llamas. Suddenly, he swiveled back and addressed Bettina. “Maybe you could come back! I know she’d like to talk to you.”
Bettina glanced at Pamela and then at Nell, who had been watching the baby llama, her expression as soft as if she’d been studying a toddler on uncertain legs. Both nodded. Bettina said, “How about tomorrow?” and Jordan said, “Sure.”
Nell’s gaze returned to the baby llama. “I believe they’re born ready to stand,” she commented after a bit. “I saw a program on the Nature Channel.”
“They have to.” Jordan laughed. “Otherwise, no supper. Mama doesn’t lie down to let them nurse.” He pointed toward the baby llama. “That little guy is only . . . let’s see”—he counted on his fingers—“three and a half days old.”
“Born Saturday night?” Nell said.
“You got it!” Jordan’s smile gave them another look at his perfect teeth. “Most inopportune too.”
“How so?” Pamela, Bettina, and Nell all spoke at once.
“Nobody was around except llamas. I only come in during the day. Germaine lives in that house up there”—he tipped his head toward the small stone house near the barn at the end of the rutted path�
�“but she was out somewhere. Told me when I came in Monday—she got home at midnight Saturday to find a new llama.”
“It looks like everything turned out okay,” Nell observed.
“Oh, sure! Mother and baby are doing fine.” The baby llama was now nursing contentedly, standing under its mother and stretching its neck to reach the source of its meal. Jordan waved toward the pair. “Llamas certainly don’t have humans helping them when they give birth in the wild. It’s pretty cool—the females in the herd all cluster around the one that’s in labor, just in case there’s a predator in the neighborhood.”
The llama that matched his sweater approached and began to nuzzle his shoulder. Jordan draped an arm over its neck. “They know they usually get more for lunch,” he explained, “and this one is wondering where her grain and sweet potatoes are. They’re all females, in case you’re wondering, except for that big guy over there.” He nodded toward an impressive pure white llama, then turned back to them. “So,” he said, “I’ll look for you tomorrow, ladies, and I’ll tell Germaine you’re coming.” With a smile and a half bow, he turned and headed for the gate.
The brown llama swiveled its long neck to track Jordan’s progress up the rutted path toward the barn, but it lingered at the fence.
“Shall we go, then?” Bettina asked.
“I wouldn’t mind warming up,” Nell said, hugging herself. Bettina was wearing the fetching purple beret she’d started out in that morning, but Nell was hatless, and her white hair had been stirred into a disordered halo by the wind. “I’m not dressed as warmly as these guys.” She nodded toward the llamas.
“Come along, then.” Bettina slipped an arm around Nell’s waist. “Let’s hurry to the car.” They took several steps, but paused when they reached the gravel that marked the beginning of the parking area. Bettina turned back. “Are you coming, Pamela?” she called.
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