“We’ll need plates too,” Bettina said. Bettina had untied the string on the bakery box and folded back the top flap to reveal two large pieces of Co-Op crumb cake.
Pamela arranged the saucers, with the cups nestled atop them, on the table and returned to the cupboard to reach down two of the dessert plates that were part of her set. She had decided long ago that there was no point in having nice things that only came out a few times a year—though, except for the wedding china, most of her treasures were thrift-store and tag-sale finds.
“Roland didn’t say he liked Diefenbach,” Bettina said. “He only said he liked his ideas.”
“So what were they—?” Pamela began, but the question was interrupted by the shrill hoot of the kettle.
Bettina answered anyway, as Pamela tilted the kettle over the carafe’s plastic cone and the boiling water began to drip through the ground beans, infusing the small kitchen with the rich and bitter aroma of brewing coffee. “Diefenbach is still on that tree committee,” she explained. “The Arborists. This is the time of year they come around and check for trees that are likely to interfere with the power lines when their growing season starts.”
“And they’d targeted one of Roland’s trees?” Pamela transferred the plastic cone to the sink and stepped toward the table with the steaming carafe.
Bettina nodded. “They spray red Xs on them. Then the DPW comes around and cuts them down. Mostly they’re trees on that strip of land between the sidewalk and the street.”
Pamela looked up from pouring coffee, dark against the pale porcelain, into the wedding china cups. “But people plant those trees themselves,” she said. “The town doesn’t plant them.”
Bettina nodded again and her coral and gold earrings, a repeat from the previous day and a favorite pair, swayed. “It’s true the trees are planted by homeowners, but the town has authority to remove them. Tree branches and power wires aren’t a good combination.” She jumped up, fetched a spatula and two forks from Pamela’s silverware drawer, and slid pieces of crumb cake onto the dessert plates. Each piece was a square of golden sponge topped with a thick layer of buttery crumble the color of a camel-hair coat.
“But Bill Diefenbach wasn’t killed in the early evening in Roland’s front yard,” Pamela said, feeling a puzzled wrinkle form between her brows. “He was killed in his own kitchen slightly after nine p.m.” That morning’s edition of the county’s daily paper, the Register, had added more details to the report of the crime than the Knit and Nibblers had supplied.
But Bettina, fresh from her meeting with Detective Clayborn, knew even more. “There was another argument,” she said, “and Diefenbach’s neighbors heard it. It was unusually warm Monday night, and last night too—remember?—so Diefenbach had his kitchen windows open. And neighbors were taking out their garbage and walking their dogs and what-not. So when the police came around asking if anyone had seen or heard anything unusual . . .”
The lure of the crumb cake caused Bettina to break off and pick up her fork. She had already added sugar to her coffee, and stirred in cream until the liquid in her cup reached the precise light mocha shade that she preferred.
Pamela sampled her own square of crumb cake, enjoying the slight hint of lemon in the sponge and the slight hint of cinnamon in the rich, buttery crumble of the topping. She followed her first bite with a sip of coffee. She preferred her coffee black, especially with the goodies that always accompanied her chats with Bettina.
Restored by a few bites of crumb cake and a few sips of coffee, Bettina went on. “It must have been quite an argument. Clayborn said the heavy object Diefenbach was hit with wasn’t located at the scene, but somehow a jar of jam fell or was thrown to the floor and broke. Diefenbach’s kitchen floor is tile like yours.” Bettina glanced at Pamela’s floor, alternating squares of black and white ceramic tile.
Pamela’s fork, bearing another bite of crumb cake, paused halfway to her mouth. “I can’t imagine that Diefenbach’s neighbors identified the voice of the person he was arguing with as specifically Roland DeCamp,” she observed. She noted that her voice had taken on the mocking tone she’d tried to avoid in raising her daughter, preferring to let her words rather than her manner make her point.
Bettina looked startled. “I don’t think Roland did it,” she exclaimed. “And nobody said it was Roland’s voice. In fact, they said the only voice they could really make out was Diefenbach’s. But Diefenbach was known to have a real temper, and it was clear he was arguing with someone.”
Pamela rested her fork, still bearing the morsel of crumb cake, back on her plate. “But why assume that that someone was Roland? Just because Diefenbach and Roland had argued hours earlier?”
“Somebody saw Roland’s car”—Bettina’s brightly lipsticked lips tightened into a mournful twist—“at just about nine p.m., in front of Diefenbach’s house. That white Porsche of Roland’s is pretty distinctive.”
Pamela sighed. “Well . . . I can see why Detective Clayborn thinks he’s figured out what happened. But I just don’t think Roland would do a thing like that—hit someone with a . . . whatever . . . and then watch him fall and knock his head on the counter and land on the floor. And stand there while he died. And you said they haven’t found the murder weapon—so no fingerprints to make it conclusive.”
They both returned to their coffee and crumb cake, but the cheer that usually accompanied their cozy morning chats was absent. Easter was approaching and Pamela’s daughter Penny would be home for spring break soon, but even that topic was raised and dispatched with nary a smile.
At last Bettina coaxed the last few crumbs of crumb cake onto her fork, transported them to her mouth, and tipped her cup to drain the last few sweet drops of coffee.
“I’ll be off then,” she said. “I know you’ve got work to do for the magazine.”
Pamela nodded. Her work evaluating and editing manuscripts was demanding, but like knitting, it could also soothe. Losing herself in an article about the silk industry in eighteenth-century France or status markers in Viking women’s wear could be just the antidote to the disturbing news of Diefenbach’s murder and Roland’s possible role.
In the entry, Bettina slipped back into her bright yellow trench coat. Pamela gave her a hug, reached for the doorknob, and pulled the door open. Just as Bettina was about to step over the threshold, she paused.
“I almost forgot,” she exclaimed, clutching Pamela’s arm. “Roland’s back at home—out on bail. I called Melanie this morning.”
“That’s a relief,” Pamela said. “At least he’s not sitting in a jail cell over in Haversack.” Haversack was the county seat.
“He is a lawyer, after all.” Bettina raised her carefully shaped brows. “Not a criminal lawyer, but I’m sure he knows his way around the legal process.” She paused again on the porch to add, “He wants his knitting, so I’m going over there with it later.”
“I’ll come along,” Pamela said. “He can be annoying at times, but he’s a fellow knitter, and Knit and Nibble is like a family.”
“We’re driving though,” Bettina said firmly, with the first hint of a smile she’d shown that day. “I know you like your exercise, and Arborville isn’t all that big, but pretty shoes aren’t made for hiking.” She extended a foot to admire a fetching chartreuse pump adorned with a matching grosgrain bow.
* * *
“It is colorful,” Bettina said. “Quite a cute idea—yarn in public places. The photo of the building those yarn people covered in Los Angeles is amazing.”
It was a few hours later and Pamela and Bettina were standing in Bettina’s driveway, just about to climb into Bettina’s faithful Toyota. Bettina was gazing across Orchard Street at the sweater-wearing tree in Pamela’s front yard. Then she turned her gaze to Pamela. “Has Richard Larkin said anything to you about it?” she asked.
Pamela knew what was coming, but she tried to summon up a neutral tone for her response. “No,” she said. “Why would he?”
“This morning when
Wilfred went out to get the newspaper he said Richard was admiring it. Richard crossed over for a little chat . . . wanted to know if making sweaters for trees was a new Knit and Nibble project.”
“Well, we don’t know, do we?” Pamela said. “One—or more—of those yarn people could be among us without us knowing it. But it’s kind of him to be interested in our little group.”
“You know who he’s particularly interested in,” Bettina said with a sly smile. She lifted a brow and regarded Pamela from beneath an eyelid accented with green eye shadow.
“I don’t know at all,” Pamela said with what she hoped was a pleasant, but dismissive, laugh. Richard Larkin was the eligible architect who had bought the house next to hers going on two years ago. Bettina had been playing matchmaker for nearly that long, insisting that seven years was a long enough time for Pamela to mourn Michael Paterson, who had also been an architect and who had been killed in a tragic accident on a construction site.
“For heaven’s sake, Pamela!” Bettina put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to capture Pamela’s gaze. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
In fact, Pamela had to admit, his interest—though gentlemanly—was quite obvious. And he was attractive. It was just that . . . well, she wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe she was just too old to start all over again. Not that forty-four was old, as Bettina kept reminding her, and not that she looked forty-four, with the tomboyish build that her simple wardrobe of jeans and sweaters suited quite well.
* * *
Roland lived at the north end of Arborville, in a neighborhood the Arborville old-timers still called “The Farm.” For generations the land had been farmed by the Van Ripers, descendants of long-ago Dutch settlers—until an upstart Van Riper, tired of farming, sold the land to a developer. Split-level houses popped up, with more square footage than anyone could rationally need and too many bathrooms—though some people grudgingly agreed that owning a house built closer to the end of the twentieth century than the beginning would allow one to banish worries about quirky plumbing or eccentric wiring.
Bettina guided her Toyota up Orchard Street, crossed Arborville Avenue at the top of the block, and continued on Orchard as it climbed the hill created by the bluffs that overlooked the Hudson River on the New Jersey side. A few blocks above Arborville Avenue, she turned left. En route to The Farm, they cruised past pleasant houses, various in style but solid and old: two-story wood-frame houses with wide porches and clapboard siding and little dormer windows peering down from peaked roofed attics, or sturdy red brick houses with white pillars and symmetrical windows above and below, or even houses built of natural stone.
“My goodness, look at that,” Bettina said suddenly, braking and veering toward the curb.
“What?” Pamela tipped her head toward the window on her side.
“It’s . . . I’ve passed it now.” Bettina opened her door and swung her feet onto the asphalt. She scurried around the back of the car and approached a large tree. Pamela, meanwhile, had climbed out too and was standing on the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb. The tree was about five feet away, rooted in the same strip of grass—it had been in place so long that its roots had raised a substantial bump in the neighboring patch of sidewalk.
“You can’t see it from there,” Bettina said. “You have to come around to this side.”
Pamela joined her to find Bettina pointing an accusing finger, tipped with a bright pink fingernail, at a large red X spray-painted on the trunk.
“It’s doomed,” Bettina said. “Poor thing.”
Pamela tipped her head back. Indeed there were power wires up above, and from the look of the tree’s branches previous attempts had been made to prevent it from damaging the power supply. The pattern of the branches was clear because spring hadn’t yet advanced far enough to cloak the tree’s crest in leaves. Only a haze of pale green suggested the foliage to come.
Two huge branches veered out over the street and three more loomed over the sidewalk, but others had been cut away, scooping out a path for the wires. Evidently, though, this stratagem had been judged ineffective and the tree was now marked for removal.
Pamela returned her gaze to the trunk, and the damning red X. It looked familiar—and it was. “My tree had one of those!” she exclaimed. “Of course. I noticed it when I brought the paper in on Monday. But then I forgot all about it because . . .”
“The sweater!” Bettina supplied, her eyes lively.
“The sweater is hiding the red X.” Their voices overlapped.
“Someone is trying to protect the trees.”
“Someone who’s a knitter,” Pamela concluded.
“A Yarnvader,” Bettina added.
They returned to the car, settled into their seats, and continued on their way. Several of the houses they passed as they approached the edge of The Farm featured trees springing from the narrow strip of grass between the curb and the sidewalk and wearing sweaters.
Chapter 4
Melanie DeCamp answered the door, glanced at the briefcase in Bettina’s hand, and mouthed “thank you.” Melanie barely resembled her usual chic self. Her smooth blonde hair was twisted into a careless knot secured with a clip, and her face was bare of the makeup that could have softened the purple shadows beneath her eyes. She stepped back and ushered them into the stylish living room where the Knit and Nibblers had gathered on many happier occasions.
Roland was perched on the angular turquoise chair that matched the DeCamps’ low-slung sofa. He wasn’t wearing his usual pinstripe suit, but the shirt collar that the V of his dark blue sweater revealed was as aggressively starched as always and the crease in his smooth wool slacks just as sharp. His lean face was impassive but his right hand was in motion, nervous motion, as it stroked the lustrous fur of the cat stretched across his lap. From ears to tail the hand traced the same path, again and again.
“I don’t know what kind of a state he’d be in without Cuddles,” Melanie whispered. “What a blessing that cat has been.” She squeezed Pamela’s hand.
Pamela was indeed responsible for Cuddles—or actually Catrina was. The previous summer Catrina had borne an unplanned litter of six kittens, three inky black males and three ginger females. Faced with the dilemma of finding homes for such a large brood, Pamela had heeded Bettina’s advice about the irresistible appeal of kittens when viewed in person. As the kittens neared a suitable age for adoption, she let them frolic into the midst of a Knit and Nibble meeting and two adoptions were arranged as a result. Amazingly the buttoned-up Roland succumbed to the charms of one of the males, the smallest and shyest kitten of the whole batch.
Almost fully mature now, Cuddles was still small, but sleek and self-confident. He raised his head lazily to regard the visitors then snuggled contentedly back into his master’s lap. Bettina stepped closer to Roland and held out the briefcase.
“They’ve brought your knitting,” Melanie explained. She took the briefcase and set it on the carpet near Roland’s chair. And then, as if recalling the protocol of a social visit, she turned toward Pamela and Bettina, struggled to summon a smile, and gestured toward the sofa. “Please sit down,” she said, “and let me make some coffee.”
Bettina eyed the low-slung sofa warily. Melanie noticed the hesitation. “Do take the armchair if you prefer,” she urged Bettina as Pamela sank down onto the sofa, wondering whether she herself would be able to regain her feet without help.
“We don’t need coffee,” Pamela said. “I know you have a lot on your mind and we won’t stay. We just wanted to drop off the knitting.”
“I didn’t kill Diefenbach,” Roland announced suddenly, his busy hand pausing in mid-stroke.
“We know that,” Bettina said comfortingly from the depths of the comfy armchair. She leaned toward Roland, her face puckered with concern. “And I’m sure the police will realize that and figure out what really happened.”
“I have my doubts,” Roland muttered grimly. “For all the m
oney we pay in taxes I’ve never been that impressed with the Arborville police force.”
“Clayborn said one of Diefenbach’s neighbors saw your car in front of his house at nine p.m. . . .” Bettina let the sentence trail off as if to invite a rebuttal.
Roland sighed. “It was in front of Diefenbach’s house . . . for about thirty seconds—because Diefenbach’s house is on a corner and there’s a stop sign there and so I stopped.”
Melanie had joined Pamela on the sofa. “He went out to buy cat food,” she explained.
“If anyone can suggest a more direct way to get from here to the Co-Op Grocery without passing Diefenbach’s house, I’d like to hear it.” The hint of sarcasm in his voice, as if he was addressing a group of his corporate colleagues whose logic he found wanting, suggested that his spirit hadn’t been completely beaten down by his current circumstances.
“Why so late?” Pamela asked. The DeCamps had always struck Pamela as too organized to find themselves in need of last-minute dashes to the market.
“We were trying a new brand.” Melanie raised an elegant shoulder in a shrug. “And Cuddles absolutely would not touch it.” She shaped her mouth, lovely even without its customary lipstick, into a sad smile. “So Roland went out to get more of the old kind, and his route took him past Diefenbach’s house, and here we are now”—a wave of her well-manicured hands took in the room, her husband, herself, and the cat—“in this terrible mess.” The last few words came out in a thin wail.
Bettina jumped up from the armchair and hurried across the carpet. She lowered herself onto the sofa and grabbed Melanie’s nearest hand. “I know everything will get straightened out. Clayborn is a decent man, and a smart man.” She wrapped an arm around Melanie’s shoulders. “It will be fine. Really.”
Melanie tried to smile, but from the other side of the room came a snort that Roland didn’t try to disguise.
“We should get going,” Bettina said, “but we’ll be in touch.” She took Melanie’s hand again and gave it a squeeze. “If there’s anything you need, just call me. Or Pamela.”
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