“Nell said she was environmentally conscious, even back in high school,” Pamela said.
“It was an argument.” Bettina swiveled in her seat to face Pamela more directly. “It’s not like the killer went there intending to kill him. The whole thing could have started as a discussion. Then it turned into an argument. Then it got out of hand.”
“We only have Haven’s word that she was in Manhattan finishing up a writing job. But now we know she was the queen of the neighborhood.”
The drive from St. Willibrod’s was very short. They were already turning onto Orchard Street. At the end of the street, to the west, a pink tint was spreading in the sky as sunset approached.
As they neared the Frasers’ driveway, Pamela went on. “I think I need some new clothes,” she said. In response to Bettina’s amazed look, she amended the statement. “Not new new though. I’m thinking of a shopping trip Nell would approve of—like a visit to . . .” She paused, unable to control the teasing smile she felt creeping over her face.
The smile was contagious. Bettina’s face mirrored it, though not so teasing. “Not Necessarily New,” she pronounced with a giggle.
“Tomorrow morning,” Pamela said. “Ten a.m. I’ll drive.”
Pamela and Bettina lingered outside chatting after Wilfred went into the house. As they stood there, an olive-green Jeep Cherokee approached from the east. It slowed and then turned into Richard Larkin’s driveway. The vehicle itself was familiar, as was the tall blond man who climbed out. Unfamiliar, however, was the woman who emerged from the door on the passenger side after Richard opened it and took her hand to assist her.
Anyone watching Pamela and Bettina at that moment, or eavesdropping on their conversation, would have been forgiven for thinking that it was Bettina who harbored romantic feelings for the handsome man across the street.
“That’s not Laine,” Bettina whispered, mentioning one of Richard Larkin’s daughters, “and it’s not Sybil.” Sybil was the other. Every vestige of cheer had fled from her expression, which seemed frozen in an imitation of a tragic mask. “Oh, Pamela!” she moaned, grasping for Pamela’s hand, “He’s found another girlfriend.”
Pamela was processing her own reaction too, though not as visibly or audibly. The woman, who Richard was now escorting toward his porch with a chivalrous hand on her back, looked indeed like a suitable age for him, and a suitable type. She had thick black hair plaited into a fashionable side braid, and was wearing a chic camel-colored wrap coat and sleek black boots tall enough to be hidden by the hem of the coat.
“Another?” Pamela asked. “I didn’t know he had—”
Bettina interrupted with a shriek that turned into the words, “What have you done?” Even in the fading light, Pamela could see that Bettina’s frozen expression had thawed and in fact her face was rosy with anger. “That . . . lovely . . . man has been interested in you since the day he moved into that house almost two years ago. And you know you find him attractive—you’ve told me as much. But you’re afraid, of what I don’t know. Now, finally, he’s given up and decided to look elsewhere. And he obviously didn’t have to look very far, because he’s very eligible.”
Pamela studied the asphalt beneath her feet. Of course, she couldn’t blame Richard Larkin for looking elsewhere. He’d been friendly, and she’d been friendly—but like a neighbor would be—then he’d made his interest in her clear, and she’d turned him down. So what had she expected? That he’d wait around for years and years and years?
“Tomorrow at ten?” Bettina’s voice disturbed her reverie.
“Yes, yes,” she said with a flustered shake of her head. “Tomorrow at ten.”
* * *
She was greeted in her entry by milling cats, requesting their supper with plaintive meows. She hurried to the kitchen, opened a can of the chicken-fish combo that seemed to be their favorite, scooped a generous serving into a fresh bowl, and placed the bowl in the corner where one set of cabinets made a right angle with another set. Leaving Catrina and Ginger nibbling delicately at their meal, she proceeded upstairs to check her email and change her clothes.
* * *
A light was on in Richard Larkin’s kitchen window, which directly faced Pamela’s kitchen window. Had he brought the woman home to cook dinner for her? Or was she going to cook dinner for him? At present no heads were moving about in the brightly lighted space. Perhaps Richard and the woman were sitting in the living room drinking wine and laughing. Perhaps cooking would come later. Perhaps they would do it together, slightly befuddled by wine. Pamela admonished herself that her neighbor’s date was absolutely none of her business and set about preparing her own dinner.
The pot roast she’d cooked Thursday night had been sumptuous, and there was plenty left, along with the rich sauce it had generated as it simmered. Pamela took the pot roast’s remains from the refrigerator and carved off two slices. She spooned a goodly amount of the sauce, now congealed, into a small skillet and set it to heating on the stove. As the sauce melted and spread out, she slipped the pot roast slices into the skillet and turned them over a few times to coat them with the sauce. Then she covered the skillet and turned the flame under it to low.
While the meat was warming, Pamela peeled half a cucumber and sliced it into a small bowl. She added cherry tomatoes, cut in half and sprinkled with sea salt to bring out their flavor. A dash of olive oil and a few grinds of pepper completed the salad.
She checked the contents of the skillet, which were warming nicely. The plan was to serve the pot roast and sauce on a slice of toasted whole-grain bread, so when she judged the meat just hot enough, she slipped a slice of bread into the toaster.
The chair Pamela usually occupied faced her kitchen window and Richard Larkin’s kitchen window beyond. Abandoning her usual spot, she ate her meal sitting on the side of her kitchen table usually occupied by Bettina. After her meal, she repaired to the sofa to work on the sleeve for the lilac tunic. Trying to avoid any programming that would touch on love or marriage, she opted for the nature channel. To her chagrin, that night’s episode dealt with the courtship rituals of the bower bird.
* * *
On Monday morning, after her usual breakfast of coffee and whole-grain toast, Pamela ascended to her office. Bettina wouldn’t arrive until ten, so still in her robe and slippers, Pamela pushed the button that would awaken her computer. A few whirs and clicks brought its icons up on the screen and soon she was watching as one message after another arrived in her inbox, for total of five.
One was from Penny, and Pamela reserved the pleasure of reading that one until she had checked the others. Three were eminently delete-able, and the fourth, complete with an attachment, was from her boss at Fiber Craft.
“Nothing pressing,” the message read. “If we accept it we won’t use it till next winter, but let me know sometime this week if you agree with me that ‘Making a Difference: How Women’s Weaving Collectives Lift Peruvian Villages Out of Poverty’ will be a big hit with our more socially conscious readers. The author has devoted her life to empowering women—quite an impressive website. ”
Penny’s message was even more succinct. “Maybe closer to three or four Friday. Kyle has a test.”
Pamela was about to turn the computer off and cross the hall to find an outfit suitable for a visit to a consignment shop when a thought occurred to her. The author of ‘Making a Difference: How Women’s Weaving Collectives Lift Peruvian Villages Out of Poverty’ had a website—an impressive website. Haven, as a freelance writer, was bound to have an internet presence: a website, a Facebook page . . . all sorts of things.
Had she kept her birth name, Griswold? Pamela wasn’t sure, but she Googled first on “Haven Griswold.” Nothing at all came up. Haven Griswold was an unusual enough name that there weren’t even any posts with headings like “Haven Griswold of Omaha, deceased at age 92.” Next she tried “Haven Crenshaw,” but the results were similarly unsatisfactory. Since it was barely nine a.m., Pamela opened the att
achment from Fiber Craft and immersed herself in the world of Peruvian craftswomen and the traditional designs that were bringing new wealth to their villages.
* * *
The first thing Bettina said upon stepping into Pamela’s entry was, “At least she didn’t stay too late.” Then she added, “I won’t take off my coat, since we’ll be leaving in a minute.” The morning was chilly, and Bettina was bundled in the pumpkin-colored down coat that was her everyday cold-weather wrap, though her head was bare. The bit of lavender scarf peeking from her neckline echoed the color of her kitten heels, and her Faberge egg earrings dangled from her earlobes.
“Who didn’t stay too late?” Pamela asked, puzzled.
“That woman, of course.” Bettina pointed toward the entry window through which Richard Larkin’s house could be seen.
Without answering, Pamela turned toward the closet and pulled out her jacket. Neither spoke again until Pamela braked her car for the stop sign at the corner of Orchard Street and Arborville Avenue. “I wonder if Eloisa’s shop takes credit cards,” Bettina commented. “Sometimes those kinds of places don’t.”
“I’m sure it does,” Pamela said. “Places that sell Chanel suits, even used, would have to take credit cards.”
* * *
Monday morning was a good time to seek parking along Meadowside’s main shopping street, which offered many more destinations than Arborville’s small commercial district: a shoe-repair shop, a florist, several restaurants, a fish monger, two bars, and an optometrist among them. Often, later in the day or on weekends, one had to cruise several blocks past one’s target before coming upon an empty curbside spot. But today Pamela slipped easily into a space right in front of Not Necessarily New.
Below an awning with the shop’s name spelled out in a quirky but elegant script, the shop window featured three mannequins dressed and posed as if chatting at an upscale daytime event (perhaps a charity luncheon), in simple but obviously expensive sheath dresses, sleek high-heeled shoes, status handbags, and statement jewelry.
Even from the doorway it was clear that Eloisa was very discriminating in the garments she accepted for consignment—or perhaps it was just the muted lighting that made the colors and textures of the clothing on display seem so luxurious.
At the back of the shop, a row of curtains indicated that fitting rooms were available, and racks punctuated by long mirrors in ornate frames occupied both sides of the room. The left side of the shop was devoted to dresses. On the right side, blouses and jackets occupied an upper rack and pants a parallel lower rack. In the center of the shop was a sort of island, waist high, with handbags and shoes carefully arranged on its top and folded sweaters stacked on the shelves that formed its sides. Directly to the right of the entrance was a counter with a computer screen, a cash drawer, and a credit-card reading device. Beneath the counter’s glass top was a display of jewelry.
Eloisa herself was nowhere to be seen.
“Look at this!” Bettina exclaimed. “People even consign wedding gowns.” She stepped closer to the rack on the left, tugging Pamela with her.
Indeed, the first several of the dresses on display were wedding gowns, mostly full length, their hems skimming the floor. There were fanciful organza confections, svelte columns of heavy satin, and exuberant bouffant creations fashioned from taffeta. Their hues ranged from icy white through cream to rich ivory. Some designs involved pearl beads or sparkly touches.
One of the curtains at the back of the store rippled and a woman stepped out. She was wearing a wedding gown—of the svelte column type—and a veil that hid her face, and she was carrying a bridal bouquet that seemed fashioned of oversized white peonies.
“The peonies have to be silk,” Bettina whispered, “at this time of year.”
With slow, rhythmic steps, moving to music that only she could hear, the woman made her way toward one of the long mirrors. There she posed, the bouquet clutched with both hands at waist level. She turned slightly to the right, glanced back at the mirror as if studying the effect, then repeated the process with a turn to the left. Finally she turned all the way around and twisted her head as far as it would go to contemplate the effect of the gown and veil when seen from the rear. Facing the mirror again, she tossed the veil back with one hand and raised her face as if expecting to be kissed.
Then Pamela and Bettina realized they had been observing Eloisa Wagner herself, not a bride-to-be economizing for her big day by shopping for a pre-owned wedding gown. And Eloisa noticed them.
“Oh,” Eloisa said, flushing. She stared at the bouquet in her hand, looked around confusedly, took a few steps, and placed it atop a pair of shoes on the island in the middle of the shop. “A little prop, for the convenience of the shoppers, so they can picture . . . picture . . . how things will look. At their wedding.” She glanced down at the dress and added, “I like to try them on. Not just the bridal gowns. Everything really. Sometimes things look nice on the hanger, but they just don’t . . .”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Bettina said, stepping forward. “I don’t know how many times I’ve stood in a fitting room at the mall and looked at myself in the mirror and wondered how on earth whoever designed this garment could have thought it would flatter a real human being.” She took another step. “You have a beautiful shop here. I can see that you put your heart and soul into it, and”—she paused and studied Eloisa’s face—“you look so familiar. I can’t think where I’ve see you, but—do you live in Arborville?”
“No.” Bettina’s agreement that modeling the wedding gown made complete sense—along with her praise of the shop—had had the desired effect. Eloisa smiled and went on. “I live right here in Meadowside, not quite above the store but close.”
“I know!” Bettina crowed. Her eyes widened and she clapped her hands excitedly. The reaction struck Pamela as overly theatrical, but Eloisa simply waited with a pleasantly curious expression on her face. “You were in Arborville yesterday—at the memorial reception for Mayor Diefenbach!”
“Why, yes . . . yes, I was.” The pleasantly curious expression that had flattered Eloisa’s middle-aged features vanished. Her face sagged and she bowed her head, dislodging the headband that had held the wedding veil in place. The veil cascaded to the floor in a heap of netting.
“You must have been a friend.” Bettina laid a sympathetic hand on the ivory satin sleeve that encased Eloisa’s arm and stooped to retrieve the veil.
“I was. I was a . . . friend.” Eloisa blinked, perhaps feeling tears beginning to form. Her voice quavered. “I really cared for him. Who wouldn’t? He was such an attractive man.”
Pamela, meanwhile, had decided Bettina was best left to her own devices and was browsing along the rack containing blouses and jackets. A jacket might be useful, she was thinking, a blazer-type jacket to wear with pants when an occasion called for more than a sweater and jeans.
She checked the price tag on an attractive indigo jacket in smooth, light-weight wool and was startled to see a three-digit figure. She returned it to the rack and reached for its neighbor. Perhaps the indigo jacket was the creation of a famous designer and had started out costing ten times its current price. Meadowside wasn’t Timberley, after all—certainly Not Necessarily New priced most of its offerings with an eye to its local clientele.
But the conversation drifting her way from further back in the shop distracted her from these musings. The words “Cassie Griswold” caught her attention and she edged a few feet closer to where Bettina and Eloisa still stood near the long mirror.
“More than twenty years older than he was,” Eloisa was saying, “and even she was smitten. Right down the block from him and a real pest—always trying to give him things, jam and whatnot.” She stopped. “I’ve got to get out of this dress,” she said. “Monday mornings are slow. I wasn’t expecting any business first thing, but people start dropping by when it gets on toward lunchtime.”
Pamela joined Bettina as Eloisa headed toward the curtains at the ba
ck of the shop, carrying the veil. Pamela waited until Eloisa vanished into one of the curtained cubicles before making a sound, and then she whispered, “We already knew she liked him. What about last Monday night?”
“I’m getting to that,” Bettina whispered back. Raising her voice, she said, “Now I’m going to do what I came in here for: shop!”
She turned toward the closest rack and began to work her way through the blouses, which were arranged in categories of small, medium, and large. On her way back to the jacket section, Pamela discovered a row of suits—jackets hanging with their matching skirts or trousers. Among them, she noticed to her amusement, was a boxy jacket fashioned from nubbly tweed check in black and white, paired with a narrow skirt of similar fabric. It was the Chanel suit Bettina had admired at the memorial reception. The price tag read $500.
A few women had entered and were looking through the dresses along the other wall, conferring with each other from time to time, and Bettina was busy among the blouses.
“Look at this,” Bettina called suddenly. She held up a classically styled shirt fashioned of heavy silk printed with giant magenta blooms, their leaves and stems a vivid shade of green. “Wouldn’t this be perfect with wide-legged pants in the green color? And magenta shoes?”
Before Pamela could respond, a voice trilled out, “Perfect!” Eloisa had emerged from the curtained cubicle, dressed more suitably for her current role in a pale blue sheath dress that flattered her blonde hair and fair skin.
“I absolutely have to have this blouse.” Bettina took a few steps toward the front of the store as if to show that she was ready to settle up. “No need to try it on. I’m sure it will fit—and I’ll certainly be back for more.”
“I get new things all the time,” Eloisa said. “I’ll be putting some out tomorrow.” She led the way to the counter.
“What a lot of work a shop like this must be,” Bettina said. “Pricing things, sorting out garments when the seasons change, making sure blouses are hanging with blouses and jackets with jackets after people have been pawing through them all day . . .” She opened her purse and drew out her wallet.
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