A Fatal Yarn

by Peggy Ehrhart

  A few more customers, very well-dressed older women, stepped in and Eloisa greeted them in a way that suggested they were regulars.

  “Saturdays and Sundays are crazy,” Eloisa said. “Shoppers, of course, and a lot of the things for consignment come in then too. So Monday when the shop’s not busy I go through the new arrivals, and Monday’s often a late night. I close at six, but then I just stay here and work.”

  Bettina plucked a credit card out of her wallet and inserted it into the card-reading device.

  Eloisa had been busily folding the colorful blouse, but she looked up with a stricken expression. “To think I was here working away,” she said mournfully, “while someone was murdering Bill Diefenbach.”

  Chapter 12

  “Too late for waffles at Hyler’s,” Bettina said, consulting her watch. They had returned to Pamela’s car. “But we could go there anyway.”

  Pamela was waiting for a break in the traffic so she could pull out, but she nodded. “It won’t be too crowded yet, and we have a lot to talk about.”

  So, fifteen minutes later they had settled into one of the booths that, with their burgundy naugahyde upholstery and worn wooden tables, marked Hyler’s as a longstanding Arborville institution. The pleasant middle-aged woman who had handed them the oversize menus that listed Hyler’s many offerings was something of an institution too. She had been a fixture at Hyler’s ever since Pamela and her husband first moved there.

  A few people were drifting in and taking seats in the booths, at tables, or at the counter, but the real lunch-time crush wouldn’t happen till noon, when

  Arborville’s bankers and realtors and office workers, and the people who staffed Borough Hall and the rec center would begin to arrive.

  “French dip sandwiches!” came Bettina’s voice from behind the menu. All that could be seen of her was a fluff of scarlet hair, but her voice conveyed her enthusiasm. “They’re the special today. That’s what I’m having, and a vanilla milkshake.”

  “Sounds good.” Pamela closed her menu and laid it on the paper placemat, centered between the fork on one side and the knife and spoon on the other.

  “So”—Bettina had lowered her own menu and was once again visible—“do you believe that Eloisa was really in her shop processing new arrivals last Monday night at nine?”

  “We’re not the police,” Pamela said.

  “I didn’t think you were.” They looked up to see the server standing at the end of the booth. “Are you ladies ready?”

  Feeling vaguely silly, Pamela let Bettina order for both of them. Once the order for two French dip sandwiches and two vanilla milkshakes had been placed and the server sent on her way, Pamela went on to explain what she’d meant.

  “Eloisa doesn’t know we know as much about her as we know,” she explained. “So she doesn’t know we think she could have a motive for killing Diefenbach. She volunteered the information about where she was Monday night. It wasn’t like she was being questioned by the police and had to scramble to come up with an alibi.”

  Bettina frowned for a minute, then said, “Clayborn must have known about the relationship with Diefenbach though. The police questioned so many people, and someone—lots of people even—must have told them that Eloisa had been Diefenbach’s girlfriend for all those years, and that he had just broken up with her. And they must have questioned her.”

  “I guess they were satisfied with what she said.” Pamela shrugged. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have arrested poor Roland.”

  “Eloisa told us he was a friend, and that she cared for him.” Bettina screwed her lips into a puzzled knot. “I guess she felt like she had to explain why she was at the memorial reception.”

  “It seemed like the ‘caring for him’ part kind of slipped out,” Pamela said, “and I’m sure she didn’t mean to almost start crying. Then she tried to cover up by saying anyone would have cared for him—even an ancient person like Cassie Griswold.”

  Bettina giggled. “Eavesdropper!”

  “I looked like I was shopping,” Pamela said, “but I was really listening.”

  Bettina was distracted then by the milkshakes. They arrived in tall glasses filmed with condensation and crowned with a froth of bubbles, accented by straws inserted at a jaunty angle. She pulled her milkshake toward her and sampled it with an eager sip.

  “French dip sandwiches coming right up,” the server assured them and turned back toward the counter.

  But Pamela was still pondering the encounter with Eloisa. “She didn’t want to let on how much she had cared for Diefenbach. Maybe she didn’t let Clayborn know either. Maybe she just said they’d grown apart.”

  “But he’d still want to make sure she had an alibi.” Bettina’s milkshake was half gone and her lipstick had left an imprint on the tip of her straw.

  “I can see why she didn’t want us to know she was in love with him,” Pamela said. “You wouldn’t tell a stranger that—and as far as she knew we were just strangers who wandered into her shop—because then you’d have to admit you’d been jilted.”

  “I wouldn’t want to admit that.” Beneath lids brushed with a delicate touch of lavender shadow, Bettina’s hazel eyes looked as tragic as if she herself had suffered Eloisa’s fate. They brightened, however, as the server delivered the oval platters bearing the French dip sandwiches.

  Paper-thin slices of rare roast beef spilled from the edges of crusty mini-baguettes that had been split end to end. The sandwiches shared the platters with small heaps of golden-brown fries, fluted paper cups of slaw, and small bowls of dip made from the juices collected as the beef roasted.

  Conversation ceased, at least for a time, as Pamela and Bettina sampled the feast that had been set before them. Each bite was a ritual, as the baguette, with its cargo of rare beef, was first dipped and then lifted dripping to the mouth. The meat juice, absorbed by the baguette and moistening the sliced beef, imparted a satisfying depth to each bite. After several bites, Pamela tasted her milkshake for the first time, enjoying the contrast of the cool and slightly bland sweetness with the rich meatiness of the sandwich.

  When they’d reached the stage of picking at the few fries that remained on the platters, and nothing remained of the sandwiches but nubs of bread and empty dipping bowls, Pamela arranged three fries in a row at the edge of her plate.

  “We had three possible suspects,” she said. “MacDonald, Eloisa, and Haven.”

  Bettina nodded, setting the Faberge egg earrings to bobbing.

  Pamela went on. “MacDonald had a good reason to want Diefenbach out of the way, and he lives right next door to Diefenbach’s house, but according to Wilfred he would have been out drinking beer with the guys from the historical society at the time Diefenbach was being killed.”

  “I’m sure Wilfred is right,” Bettina said. “So only two French fries left.”

  Pamela ate the fry and continued. “Eloisa has an alibi. She volunteered to us that she was in her shop, and Detective Clayborn may even have checked with neighbor shops about whether people saw her that night.”

  “I’ll take this one.” Bettina reached for the second fry and popped it into her mouth.

  Both stared for a moment at the remaining fry then they spoke in unison: “That leaves Haven.”

  “As far as alibis go, we have only her word,” Pamela added.

  “And Clayborn didn’t interview her because in his mind she’s not a suspect.”

  “Yet,” Pamela said.

  Bettina frowned, squinted, and tightened her mouth into a thoughtful line. Then she spoke. “If we could figure out where she lives in Manhattan, we could go there. Manhattan apartment buildings are full of nosy people—and there are doormen. It might not be hard to find out if she was really at home Monday night.”

  As Bettina was talking, the server had appeared. “Are you ladies finished?” she asked. They both nodded, though Bettina made a grab for the Haven French fry before that platter was borne away.

  Hyler’s was begi
nning to fill up and Pamela recognized a few faces from the memorial reception. The noise level was rising—and she imagined Diefenbach (and Roland) would be a popular topic with today’s lunch crowd. Pamela was glad she and Bettina had chosen the relative seclusion of a booth.

  Pamela hadn’t told Bettina about her morning internet search for Haven, since it hadn’t revealed anything useful. But now she brought it up—to explain that Haven, for some reason, seemed unfindable online.

  “Everybody has a Facebook page now,” Bettina pointed out.

  “We don’t,” Pamela said. “But I’d have thought a freelance writer would have a website, and a Facebook page, and be listed on those business networking sites.”

  “I’d have thought that too,” Bettina said. “And don’t the Yarnvaders have Facebook pages where they discuss their activities?”

  “I think people can make those private now, so a Google search wouldn’t attach a person’s name to a group like that. And remember, the Yarnvaders want to be anonymous.”

  The server reappeared at the end of the booth and slipped the check onto the table.

  “Did you look for Axel Crenshaw?” Bettina asked. Pamela shook her head no. “Let’s do it then.” Bettina pulled her phone and her wallet from her purse.

  “We can sit in my car,” Pamela said. “They’d probably like to give our booth to somebody else.”

  Pamela had parked in the lot that served Arborville’s municipal complex and the town park. A narrow passageway between Hyler’s and the hair salon connected that lot with the sidewalk that ran along Arborville Avenue, so after they paid for their lunch they walked single-file through the passageway and were soon sitting in Pamela’s car. The grass in the park was beginning to turn green, but the weather was still too chilly for the tennis courts or the kiddie playground to be in use.

  Bettina set to work with her phone. “He’s everywhere,” she announced after a few minutes. “Quite the impressive guy.” She handed the phone to Pamela. On the small screen was the image of a brooding, swarthy man, accompanied by the words “SeaWall.”

  “Recipient of a genius grant,” Pamela murmured, and she quoted, “Axel Crenshaw is the recent recipient of a prestigious genius grant for his work in progress, SeaWall, a monumental piece to be erected in lower Manhattan as a reminder of the rising sea levels.” She handed the phone back and Bettina went to work again.

  “He has a studio,” Bettina reported shortly. “And here’s its address, but in DUMBO?”

  “It’s part of Brooklyn,” Pamela said, “The letters stand for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. His studio should be easy to find. People like that want to be found.”

  “I’ll just let Wilfred know not to look for me till mid-afternoon,” Bettina said, her fingers busy on her phone. “Then I’ll navigate.”

  Chapter 13

  The route to DUMBO led across the George Washington Bridge and down the West Side Highway. “Nothing happens till Exit 1,” Bettina announced as they skimmed along the edge of the Hudson River, with New Jersey across the water to the west. “Just keep heading south.” The day was bright and the river reflected the clear blue of the sky, with whitecaps raised by the breeze scalloping the water’s surface.

  They chatted about the upcoming Knit and Nibble meeting, to be held at Holly’s the following night, deciding that very likely Roland wouldn’t appear. Then the conversation turned to Easter, and Penny coming home for spring break—to think she was in college already!—and Bettina reminisced about when her own sons were small and still thought a giant rabbit delivered baskets of goodies to good children on the night before Easter.

  “It’s coming up,” Bettina said after twenty minutes had elapsed and they were approaching the lower tip of Manhattan. “Get into the left lane so you’re ready.”

  Pamela held back to let a van and an SUV speed past, then switched lanes, slipping ahead of a beat-up compact. She made the turn and then they were heading east on Chambers, a busy two-way street flanked by stolid buildings dating from an era when a building’s height was limited by the human tolerance for climbing stairs. Ranks of narrow windows marked upper floors of structures that rose only four or five stories, crisscrossed by fire escapes, with shops at street level. Lively signage and vivid displays competed for attention, and sidewalks bustled with commerce. Traffic sped up and stalled, punctuated by staccato honks, as traffic lights changed from red to green and back to red again.

  After several blocks of nerve-jangling stop and go, Bettina said, “Centre Street is the next corner. Get ready to turn.”

  The scene had changed. Instead of storefronts, the view on the right was of a park, foliage the pale green tint of early spring. Rising out of the park was a grand structure glowing white, with magnificent columns. “A courthouse, I think,” Bettina murmured, consulting her phone.

  After the turn, their route took them along the side of the park, and after another quick turn they were gliding up the ramp that turned into the Brooklyn Bridge. Ahead loomed an angular stone tower, golden buff in the sunshine, with two tall pointed arches marking the roadways. Soon they were speeding along as the bridge deck rose, with a view of girders and struts, and the water and the crowded shore of Brooklyn beyond. They descended and left the bridge behind, coasting down the long slope of the ramp that led toward downtown Brooklyn.

  “Turn right,” Bettina said, and they looped around till they were heading back in the direction they’d just come from, but street level now and parallel to the ramp that had carried them off the bridge. Then they veered right and the sunlight dimmed as the road passed under the bridge ramp into shadows that echoed with traffic passing overhead.

  They emerged into a neighborhood of low buildings formed of aged bricks glowing deep rose, as if lit from within—old factories and warehouses now marked by signs that identified galleries, cafes, and wine bars. “Fashionable,” Bettina commented, her head swiveling from one side to the other. After a few blocks, the street’s smooth surface was replaced by cobblestones, and Pamela’s tires responded with a conversation-dampening thumpa thumpa.

  Another shadow loomed ahead. “This is the real overpass,” Bettina reported, studying her phone, “the DUMBO overpass. So we must be under the ramp that goes to the Manhattan Bridge.”

  On the other side were more of the low brick buildings, set off from the street by narrow sidewalks. Young people in skinny jeans and sleek jackets that skimmed their skinny bodies crowded the sidewalks, darting in and out of doorways through which the airy, wood-floored interiors of shops and restaurants could be glimpsed.

  With Bettina guiding her to the parking lot that was their target, Pamela maneuvered through traffic that started and stopped as bicyclists popped out of cross streets and pedestrians lunged from between parked cars.

  At last they arrived at an underground lot. Pamela coasted down the ramp into a dim subterranean chamber that smelled of exhaust and housed neat rows of cars with tickets fastened beneath their windshield wipers. A stocky Hispanic man emerged from a cubicle in the front corner, accepted Pamela’s car key, and handed her a ticket.

  Back above ground, they paused to get their bearings, breathe air freshened by the nearby East River, and admire the view of the Brooklyn Bridge, which was framed against the sky at the end of a street lined with charming brick buildings. Axel Crenshaw’s studio was in one of those buildings, and they paced along calling out numbers till they reached their destination halfway down the block. A directory inside the main door listed Axel Crenshaw’s studio as 4C.

  The building was very old, to judge by its faded bricks and creaking wooden floors, and might once have been a warehouse, storing goods that arrived via the East River. But it had been subdivided into many separate units, units whose doors opened off a long hall that stretched from the main door to the back of the building. And Bettina was delighted to note that an elevator had been installed.

  She pushed the button that would summon it to the first floor and they waited as i
ts arrival was announced by an ominous series of clanks and squeals. Battered metal doors parted with a resentful screech. Bettina looked uncertainly at the gap between the floor they stood on and the floor of the elevator then took a deep breath, lifted a foot shod in delicate lavender with a kitten heel, and hopped across. Pamela joined her. A young man who had been waiting for the elevator stepped in after them. He pushed the button for the third floor and turned inquiringly to Bettina, who murmured, “Four please.” He complied and the elevator began its shuddering ascent.

  * * *

  “Birdbaths are down the hall on the right. Wind chimes on the left.”

  The man who greeted them from the shabby armchair was swarthy and hairless, except for the days’ worth of dark stubble that shadowed his gaunt face and his shaved head. His jutting nose and chin gave him an eager, predatory look.

  “Axel Crenshaw?” Pamela asked, taking a few steps across the scarred wooden floor.

  “You wouldn’t like his work,” the man said, leaning back lazily in the armchair, his lazy tones matching his posture. He held a spiral-bound sketch pad and a thick pencil. Crumpled sheets of paper littered the floor on both sides of the chair. “Go down the hall and pick out a birdbath to take back to the burbs with you. Or some wind chimes.”

  “Ohhh!” A delighted squeal escaped from Bettina, who was still lurking in the doorway. “This is it, right here!” She squeezed past Pamela and bounded toward a makeshift wooden stand that held an object modeled from clay, a long pleated rectangle like a freestanding curtain with no need of a rod to support it. After studying the object for a minute, she turned to Pamela. “It’s SeaWall,” she crooned. “I can’t believe I’m seeing it in person.” Then she turned to the man in the armchair. “You’re him, aren’t you? Axel Crenshaw. You look just like your pictures . . . or maybe even more handsome.”