“Delicious!” she pronounced, and reached for the sandwich to launch another bite.
“It is a very good bagel,” Nell murmured. “And the lox is quite healthful I’m sure.” Her partly eaten sandwich reposed on her platter with several bites missing. “It’s quite a bit more than I usually have for lunch, though. I’ll take half home for Harold.”
She picked up her knife and, with considerable exertion, managed to cut through layers of bagel and salmon, setting an un-nibbled half of the sandwich aside. Bettina, meanwhile, sipped at the straw jutting from the froth of foam that crowned her milkshake.
Nell had listened closely as, earlier, Pamela had laid out her case for Greg’s guilt. And she’d watched sympathetically as Bettina reacted. But now she looked across the table at Bettina and said, “You do have to admit Greg would have had a motive for killing Brainard.”
Bettina’s eyes opened wide to regard Nell over the sandwich, which she had picked up again and which was poised for another bite. She set the sandwich down and frowned. “I just can’t believe that such a nice young man . . .” Her voice trailed off and she stared at the sandwich before speaking again. “Of course, losing his job would be hard . . . and with Brainard the head of the committee. . . and there’s the complication of his girlfriend’s job . . . but—” She brightened. “Why would Greg have wanted to kill Mary?”
Pamela spoke up. “He might have mistaken Mary for Brainard. We talked about that. Remember—the killer was confused enough to start out by killing Dawn.”
A tiny moan escaped from Bettina’s brightly painted lips. “But maybe the killer didn’t mistake Mary for Brainard,” she said. “Maybe the killer really did want to kill both of them. And why would Greg?” The question was as plaintive as if asked in defense of Bettina’s own son.
Nell nodded sadly. “To punish the hated person by first depriving him of someone he loved?” She laughed, like a little cough. “Though in that case, the killer couldn’t have known very much about the Lyon-Covington marriage.”
Bettina picked up her sandwich again, and for several minutes all three women concentrated on their lunches.
With a last slurp, Bettina pushed her milkshake glass aside. As if responding to a signal, the server approached. Nell requested a container for the other half of her sandwich. “But not Styrofoam,” she specified. And Pamela requested the check.
As the server retreated, skillfully managing all three platters as well as the three empty drink glasses, Bettina reached into her purse for a mirror and her lipstick. She gazed into the mirror, lipstick in hand and ready to apply. But then she suddenly turned her gaze to Pamela and Nell. She was beaming.
“It can’t be Greg!” she exclaimed. “At least not if we think he used the yarn from his sweater sleeves to strangle Mary and Brainard.”
Pamela’s “Oh?” overlapped with Nell’s “Why not?”
“Yarn gets all crinkly when you rip something out,” Bettina crowed. “I should know because I’ve had to rip out enough knitting.” She gestured triumphantly with the hand that held the lipstick. “The yarn we saw—the yarn around Dawn’s neck—may have been brown, like Greg’s sweater, but it wasn’t crinkly. We didn’t see the other bodies, but we’re assuming the same killer killed all three people. So the yarn would be the same yarn, brown but not crinkly.”
Pamela nodded, but she said, “Ask Detective Clayborn if the other yarn was crinkly.”
There was no chance to continue that discussion, however—at least not then and there—because Felicity Winkle had appeared at the end of the booth. She was dressed in the neat white shirt and black pants she wore for her job at Hyler’s. But she wasn’t visiting their booth on official business. She was carrying, not their bill, but a magazine. And as she lowered it and flipped it open to the page she was marking with her finger, it became clear that the magazine was a knitting magazine.
She laid the open magazine on the worn wooden table and smoothed the pages flat. The picture showed a young woman wearing a charming sweater, waist-length and with a modern boxy shape, worked in an interesting nubby stitch.
“I’m not good enough to join Knit and Nibble,” Felicity said, blushing slightly. “But I really want to make this sweater.” Her hand swept down a column on the opposite page, which was dense with abbreviations, numbers, and diagrams.
Bettina motioned Felicity to share the bench she occupied and Felicity slid in next to her. Bettina began to explain how to get started on the sweater as their own server approached with their check.
“I’m on my break,” Felicity explained and the server smiled in acknowledgment.
Bettina pulled out her wallet and laid a few bills on the table, then went back to explaining. She finished up by giving Felicity her address and phone number.
* * *
Harold was standing at the curb guiding a pile of dead leaves into the street as Pamela steered her serviceable compact to a stop in front of the Bascombs’ house. Letting his rake clatter against the sidewalk, he swooped forward to swing open the passenger-side door and extend his other hand to his wife. Nell accepted the hand and suppressed a smile at the exaggerated bow that accompanied the gesture.
“I brought you half of my lox and bagel,” she said, holding out the small white bag she’d left Hyler’s with.
“I am quite ready for a break, my dear, and a bit of sustenance.” Harold picked up his rake and leaned on it in a pantomime of exhaustion. “But before Pamela drives away”—he tipped his head toward the car and waved at Pamela and then at Bettina, who was in the back seat—“we’re invited to a funeral.”
He explained that Martha Lyon had stopped by the Covington house on some errand or other. But seeing Harold working in the yard, she’d detoured to mention that Brainard was to be buried on Friday and there was to be a reception afterward in the faculty club at Wendelstaff College. “Déjà vu all over again, I’d say,” he concluded.
“We have to go, though,” Nell said. “After all, they were our neighbors.” She leaned back into the car. “I think we should all go,” she clarified, and added—with a meaningful look—“and keep our eyes and ears open.”
* * *
Pamela waited until they had crossed Arborville Avenue and were approaching the spot where her house faced Bettina’s across Orchard Street. Then she put into words the idea that had been percolating in her mind ever since they left Hyler’s.
“Felicity is a knitter,” she said. “We didn’t know that.” She didn’t take her eyes away from the road, but she could sense that Bettina had turned toward her.
“No, we didn’t,” Bettina murmured.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Pamela asked as she nosed along the curb in front of Bettina’s house and clicked off the ignition. Then she swiveled to study Bettina.
“Probably not,” Bettina said with a puzzled frown. “I’m wondering if Wilfred is planning to cook tonight or if I’ll be making baked salmon because it’s Thursday. If so, I’ll have to go out again. And I just had salmon for lunch.”
Bettina had been a willing, if uninspired, cook throughout her married life, serving the same seven menus in rotation every week. But when Wilfred retired, he’d cheerfully taken over most of the kitchen duties.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, apparently sensing that Pamela had something important to say.
“We talked about how Felicity would have had a good motive for killing Brainard—and probably Mary too.” Bettina nodded as Pamela spoke. “But we didn’t talk about why Felicity would have used yarn.”
Bettina’s eyes slowly widened until Pamela could see white around her irises. “Felicity is a knitter,” she whispered, echoing Pamela’s earlier statement. “But—oh, dear!” She grasped one hand with the other and began twisting her fingers in a way that seemed painful. “Felicity is such a sweet young woman.”
“Would you rather have the killer be Felicity or Greg Dixon?” Pamela asked.
“Neither!” Bettina exclaimed,
slapping her hands against her thighs. “Neither! I’m sure it’s somebody else.”
“Are you going to tell Detective Clayborn what we found out about Greg Dixon?”
Bettina sighed. “I suppose I should.” She sighed again, her expression mournful. But then she brightened. “Clayborn might already know about him,” she said suddenly. “I’m sure he talked to Brainard’s colleagues at Wendelstaff, and somebody must have told him about the tenure decision.” She allowed herself a hopeful smile. “He might already have checked on an alibi and everything. And Greg hasn’t been arrested! So . . .”
“But Detective Clayborn might not already know about him.” Pamela felt mean. Bettina had been so relieved, but Felicity had previously been their only viable suspect, and she was such a sweet young woman. And a knitter! She went on to add, “The missing sweater sleeves . . .”
“The murder yarn wasn’t crinkly yarn,” Bettina said firmly, and she reached for the door handle.
Chapter 20
It was, as Harold had predicted, déjà vu all over again—except that when Bettina removed her lavender coat, the dress she revealed was not deep purple, but rather burgundy, and instead of deep purple pumps, she was wearing her burgundy booties.
Otherwise, the view of the Haversack River through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the back wall of the faculty club was the same as it had been the previous Friday. The elegant refreshments laid out on the white cloth that covered the buffet table were the same, including the meatballs, the chicken tidbits on skewers, and the bite-size crabmeat quiches. The servers were the same. The wine was the same. And the guests were the same—a mixture of Arborvillians in somber, conservative ensembles, and academics in garb that ranged (depending on their age) from urban hipster, through tweed jacket with elbow patches, to frumpy and even unkempt.
Divested of coats, Pamela, Bettina, and the Bascombs stood near the room’s entrance surveying the scene. Brainard had been the host the last time, but Brainard was now . . . the departed. They recognized Herc, in a slim dark suit, accepting condolences, melancholy lending his striking looks a romantic air. Felicity was at his side, unabashedly sharing the burden of grief, and dressed in black this time, as if to openly acknowledge her bond with the bereaved son.
Pamela recognized the man and woman who had been chatting in the faculty lounge, the woman blending with the other mourners in the same wool pantsuit she’d worn the previous day, though the man had replaced his casual garb with a suit and tie. Standing near the bar and sharing a discreet laugh with the bartender was the young woman with the chartreuse hair and the maroon lipstick from the classics department office.
As they stood there, a man detached himself from a small cluster of people—academics, to judge by the variety of their dress—and strode toward them with hand outstretched.
“I’m Ben Stafford,” he said. “Brainard’s department chair.” Harold grabbed the hand first, then Nell and Bettina and finally Pamela. The man surveyed them with a genial, though subdued, smile. Though he was chubby, not too tall, and bald but for a fringe of gray hair, he projected an air of confidence—enhanced by a scrupulously tailored navy-blue blazer and gray wool trousers, a starched white shirt, and a tasteful silk tie. The hand he had offered for the round of handshakes was adorned with a gold ring bearing an impressive crest.
“Neighbors of Brainard’s perhaps?” he inquired.
“Across the street.” Harold and Nell spoke in unison as Pamela and Bettina nodded.
“Sad occasion.” Ben Stafford sighed. “And so hard on the son—to lose both parents so shockingly, and in such a short period of time.”
“Very sad,” Nell murmured.
Ben Stafford extended an arm and gestured, as if to urge them farther into the room. “Please have some food, wine. I hope you see a few familiar faces . . . and Herc is here, of course, with his girlfriend.”
He nodded toward where Herc stood with Felicity at his side, then his gaze drifted toward the door. Pamela glanced that way to notice a small group of people entering, colleagues just getting out of class perhaps. She checked her watch. It was ten minutes past one. Ben Stafford hurried to greet them.
“We should say something to Herc,” Nell said. She led the way, and they joined the brief line of mourners waiting to pay their respects. When Pamela reached Felicity, she noticed that the young woman looked as if she’d been crying. Whatever Herc’s relationship with his parents had been, they were still his parents. And as someone who loved Herc, Felicity must have been moved by his grief, if not by grief she personally felt. But what if she was the one who killed them? The thought jolted Pamela and for a moment she struggled for words.
At last she said, “This must be very hard for Herc.” Well, of course, said a voice in her mind. But Felicity responded to the spirit of the comment, overlooking its banality.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, squeezing Pamela’s hand. “We’re managing.” With a sad, fond smile, she nodded toward Herc.
As Bettina reached out to offer Felicity a hug, Pamela edged to the side and joined Nell and Harold, who were talking to Herc. “My aunt is here somewhere.” He swiveled his head to scan the room, displaying his classic profile. “She’s going to be helping me with the house. There’s a lot of stuff. . . .” His voice trailed off, and Harold laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“We’re right across the street,” Harold said.
Herc nodded. “I’m going back down to Princeton Monday. But I’ll be here again, on and off.”
“Getting back to your studies will be a good thing.” Nell’s pale eyes seemed to darken as she studied Herc’s face, as if dilated by some reflected grief. They all moved along then, relinquishing Herc to others with condolences to offer.
“I feel sadder than I did last week,” Bettina commented to Pamela. “That poor young man.”
Nell and Harold had been hailed by an elderly woman Pamela recognized from the Co-Op and had joined a small cluster of other Arborvillians. But Bettina was eyeing the buffet.
“It is lunchtime,” Pamela said. “Past, even. We’ll feel better if we have a bit to eat.”
Bettina stepped up to the buffet table and took a plate. Pamela did likewise and followed her friend as Bettina made her way along the table, adding meatballs, jumbo shrimp, a bite-size piece of chicken on a skewer, and a ham-on-puff-pastry slider. She paused when she got to the cheese ball and turned to Pamela.
“I don’t think they had these puff pastry sliders last week,” she observed. “Do you remember?”
Pamela responded with a distracted “Umm?” and Bettina repeated the question.
“I’m not sure,” Pamela said, and she added one to her plate as if to imply that a taste might jog her memory.
She hadn’t been distracted by the tempting possibilities the buffet table offered, but rather by the sight of a woman standing near the bar, where the bartender and the young woman with chartreuse hair were now engaged in an earnest conversation.
She’d only spoken to Martha Lyon briefly the previous week, but she recognized the stern face topped by gray hair and the stocky body, so unlike Mary’s long-limbed elegance. She even recognized the shapeless trouser suit and the simple jewelry.
“There’s Mary’s sister again,” Pamela commented to Bettina.
“We should go over and talk to her,” Bettina said. “She looks lonely.”
So, with their plates filled, they made their way past a few clusters of chatting people to where Martha stood.
“I’m Bettina Fraser”—Bettina extended her free hand and Martha took it—“and this is Pamela Paterson.” Pamela shook Martha’s hand too. “We met you last week,” Bettina went on, her mobile features shifting as a pucker of concern appeared in her brow and her cordial smile faded. “Your sister . . . such a tragic thing . . . and now this.”
Martha seemed grateful for the attention. “I don’t know many of the people here,” she explained. “I was talking to someone I met last week, but he had
to go to class.”
“You should eat something,” Bettina said.
“I already did.” Martha fluttered a hand to wave away the idea of food. “But you go ahead”—she nodded at Bettina and then at Pamela—“please.”
A companionable silence descended on the small group as Pamela and Bettina worked their way through the tempting nibbles they’d borne away from the buffet. The meatballs glazed with creamy sauce were the perfect size to be eaten with toothpicks. And, with their tails still attached, the jumbo shrimp featured built-in handles. Pamela had dipped a few in their spicy red sauce before adding them to her plate. Martha seemed content to survey the comings and goings of the guests as her companions ate.
It was getting on toward two p.m., and more people were leaving than were arriving. A server came by to relieve Pamela and Bettina of their empty plates, and Martha consulted her nondescript watch.
“I’ve got a busy afternoon ahead,” she commented. “I wonder if Herc is ready to leave.”
“Going back to the city?” Pamela asked. “Your research must be quite demanding.”
“It is.” Martha’s obvious delight in her work lent her plain features a hint of loveliness that evoked her kinship with Mary. But the hint of loveliness vanished. “That’s not what the busy-ness is,” she said. “Brainard had asked me to sort through Mary’s clothes and take them away because it depressed him to see them. Now Herc wants me to go on with it, and more. Everything, really. So there’s a lot of organizing to do.”
“That’s a huge job.” Bettina leaned forward and squeezed Martha’s hand.
“And a sad responsibility for a young man in his early twenties.” Martha shook her head mournfully. “The house will have to be sold. So the sooner everything is gone the better. I’ll get an appraiser to come in for the big things. Some of the furniture and art is quite good. But everything else . . . come by if you like. I’ll be there all afternoon and for the whole weekend. Mary had a lot of craft supplies—The Lyon and the Lamb and all that. You might be able to use some of them.”
Knit of the Living Dead Page 18