A Fatal Yarn

by Peggy Ehrhart

  There seemed nothing else to say. Roland continued to knit, drawing yarn from a skein that had diminished noticeably even in the short time since Pamela and Bettina had arrived. Cuddles dozed against his thigh. Pamela leaned back on the sofa and surveyed the DeCamps’ stylish living room.

  After several minutes, Bettina appeared in the entrance to the living room. “Luncheon is served!” she announced. She stepped across the carpet and stooped toward Roland. “Now you just put that knitting aside and sit down in your dining room and eat something,” she said in a motherly voice that Pamela recognized as the voice she used with Woofus.

  Roland complied, lowering needles and work in progress to the floor. He stood up, stretching as if stiff from sitting in the same position for a very long time. Melanie’s voice floated in from the dining room across the hallway. “It’s scrambled eggs and toast,” she called. “Your favorite.”

  “Eggs!” Roland said suddenly. “I did notice something that night, something on Diefenbach’s porch. It was a basket of eggs. Colored eggs, like something the Easter bunny would deliver.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, after giving Ramona a very welcome walk, Pamela and Bettina settled themselves back into Bettina’s car. “Clayborn didn’t mention any eggs,” Bettina commented as she made a U-turn in the cul-de-sac at the end of the DeCamps’ street. The Farm featured many cul-de-sacs, intended to discourage through-traffic and insure the privacy and safety of the development’s residents. “I’ll ask him though. Unfortunately he can’t fit me in this week until Friday.”

  They were circling back past the DeCamps’ house now, on their way to the corner that marked the entrance to The Farm. “Poor things,” Bettina mused. “If I’d only known they weren’t eating . . .”

  “Maybe Diefenbach took the eggs in before the killer arrived,” Pamela said. “Let’s say Roland drives by a tiny bit before nine. Diefenbach takes the eggs in a few minutes later. The killer shows up a few minutes after that . . .”

  “Colored eggs, Roland said, like for Easter,” Bettina murmured. “Somebody making some kind of a statement. But what?”

  “If the eggs were inside the house, the police would have found them. Or the crime-scene people from the county would have.” They were passing by some of the sweater-wearing trees now, in the yards of the old Arborville houses, sturdy wood-frame, brick, and stone. Pamela turned to Bettina. “Would you mind stopping at the Co-Op?” she asked. “I’ve been living on leftover pot roast and eggs, and I’m in the mood for some salmon.”

  “I need a rotisserie chicken,” Bettina said. “Wilfred isn’t cooking tonight.” In her years of cooking for her family, Bettina had rotated through the same seven menus, one for each day of the week. With Wilfred retired, and an enthusiastic cook, she’d been freed from most kitchen duty, but when called upon to put dinner on the table she still relied on her old standbys. “Salmon is Thursday,” she added. She swung the steering wheel to the right at the next corner and then veered left after a block.

  “This is Diefenbach’s street,” Pamela observed as they cruised along. “And we’re coming up on his house. The crime-scene tape that was all over it in that Register photo is gone already.”

  “The Advocate had a photo of his house too,” Bettina pointed out. “A better photo, I thought.” She braked as they approached the corner.

  “Here’s the stop sign Roland mentioned,” Pamela said. “Just stay stopped for a minute. There’s nobody behind you.” She twisted her head and peered out the passenger-side window. “There’s a good view of Diefenbach’s porch from here,” she said. “A basket of eggs sitting by the door would be easy to spot.”

  Diefenbach’s house didn’t feature a spacious porch accessed by a half flight of steps, like Pamela’s and so many other houses in Arborville. Instead, it was a Dutch Colonial like Bettina’s, though not as old, and its porch was a wide expanse of stone only a few steps up from the ground.

  After studying Diefenbach’s porch for a minute, Pamela turned back to Bettina. “You know,” she said slowly, “the killer could have put the eggs there and then taken them away again when he left.”

  “Why?” Bettina screwed her mouth into a puzzled knot. A furrow appeared between her carefully shaped brows. “Why bring them? Why take them away?”

  Pamela shrugged. “Some kind of a taunt. Then there’s the argument—remember, the killing probably wasn’t premeditated. And after Diefenbach is dead, the killer realizes the eggs could be traced back to . . . him? . . . and grabs them and dashes away.”

  “Would Haven do that?” Bettina asked. “Dye eggs and put them on his porch . . . some kind of nature ritual connected with protecting the trees?”

  “I don’t know,” Pamela said. “I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  “I’m going to make sure Roland and Melanie have food,” Bettina said as she and Pamela stood in the Frasers’ driveway saying goodbye. Pamela was carrying a small white parcel containing half a pound of salmon, and Bettina was carrying a Co-Op bag from which emanated the tantalizing aroma of rotisserie chicken. “I’ll call When in Rome tonight and order a pizza to be delivered to them, and tomorrow I’ll take them something or have something else delivered.”

  “I’ll help,” Pamela said. “I’ll do meatloaf tomorrow. One for myself and one for them.”

  * * *

  Back at home, Pamela returned to her office. So far she had read three of the articles that had arrived that morning. The one dealing with Hmong story cloths and the Kansas City Hmong community was a definite yes, not least for the exquisite photographs the author had supplied, as was “Tradition and Innovation in the Maori Feather Cloak,” also stunningly illustrated. The text of the article on bark cloth was highly informative but, perhaps spoiled by the illustrations in the first two articles, Pamela suggested that it be returned to the author with advice to use photos or drawings to give the reader a clearer sense of what bark cloth actually looked like.

  Now she turned her attention to a discussion of the indigo trade. The article was longer than submissions to Fiber Craft generally were, and the author’s language unnecessarily convoluted. But the discussion touched on the human side of indigo production and the frequent exploitation of those who produced it, and for that reason Pamela wanted to give it a fair reading and make any suggestions she could that would bring it up to Fiber Craft’s standards.

  Thus, by the time she prepared her evaluation, added it to the evaluations of the other three articles, and clicked on SEND, it was nearly five o’clock—though the sky behind the curtains that covered her office windows was darkening in a way that made it seem later. She pushed her chair back from her desk, straightened her spine, and raised her arms in a luxurious stretch. Then she scooted her chair toward the window that looked out into her back yard and pushed the curtain aside. That afternoon’s visit to Roland and Melanie’s house had been accomplished beneath a clear blue sky. But as Pamela was pondering the article on the indigo trade, clouds had gathered and the sky now resembled a pale gray mass of carded wool waiting to be spun.

  Bettina would be at the door a little before seven to collect Pamela for the short drive up the hill to Holly’s. It was time to think about dinner, for cats as well as their human mistress.

  Down in the kitchen, Catrina and Ginger were staring expectantly at the empty bowl that sat next to their water dish in the corner where their food was accustomed to appear. Pamela opened a fresh can of chicken-fish blend, enjoying the tickle at her ankles as they milled around her feet sensing that dinner was on its way. She scooped two portions of the pinkish mixture into a clean bowl and substituted it for the one left from breakfast.

  Her own dinner would simply be fish—the salmon she’d bought earlier that day from the Co-Op—with no admixture of chicken. But before she prepared her own dinner, a chore awaited. Tuesday night was recycling night. The Arborville DPW started their pickup rounds very early Wednesday morning, and a person whose paper or container
s (depending on the week) didn’t make it to the curb in time would pay the price with bins that overflowed before the next recycling day.

  This week, according to the town recycling calendar tucked next to the refrigerator, was paper recycling. The bin along the side of the driveway already contained most of the junk mail and newspapers that had arrived in the past two weeks, but on her way through the entry Pamela grabbed that day’s Register and headed out the door.

  A tall and thick hedge, green and bushy all year round, separated Pamela’s driveway from Richard Larkin’s property. So as she wheeled her recycling bin toward the street she had no way of knowing that Richard Larkin was on a parallel journey with his own bin.

  Chapter 15

  It wasn’t until she reached the sidewalk and heard a voice say, “Pamela!” that she realized her neighbor was standing a few feet away. She turned and summoned a faltering version of her social smile. He was looking at her in that intense way he had, his strong features stern and his height making his presence all the more imposing.

  “I guess we both had the same idea,” she offered after a few moments of uncomfortable silence.

  “Recycling night,” he agreed, still looking at her. He shifted his gaze to the sidewalk. Then, as if realizing that nothing about the worn concrete offered any pretext for study, he glanced up and down the street. Finally, tilting his head back and looking upward, he observed, “Looks like we’re going to get some rain.”

  Pamela nodded. “It is April.”

  “April—yes, indeed.” He was looking at her again. “Soon it will be gardening season.”

  A vision rose in Pamela’s mind, uninvited. She closed her eyes, as if doing so would blot out the recollection of Richard Larkin working in his yard the previous summer, the cling of his faded jeans and T-shirt making clear just how fit he was.

  “So . . . you’ve been okay?” Pamela asked, though she’d last spoken to him only a few days ago.

  “Very,” he said. “Yes, very.” He looked around confusedly, focused on his recycling bin, and added, “I’d better get this to the curb.”

  “I . . . yes,” Pamela said. “So . . . have a nice evening.”

  She resumed her journey with the bin but had gone only a few yards when Richard spoke again.

  “Pamela?” His voice was tentative.

  She turned to find him frowning, first at her, then at the sidewalk. “I understand about your husband,” he said at last, addressing the sidewalk. “I loved my wife, then she left. What I thought we had will never come back.”

  “Thank you,” Pamela said, “for not saying I should move on.”

  He looked up, and she noticed a slight twitch in his lip as if he was suppressing a smile. “That’s a speech I’ve been giving myself.”

  “Oh . . . well, yes.” She blinked. “You should . . . move on.” He was eligible. Bettina was right about that.

  “Life is short—sometimes even shorter than we expect.” Was that part of the speech he’d been giving himself too? Pamela wondered.

  “I know.” She nodded.

  “So . . . I guess I’d better get this bin to the curb.”

  “Yes. Me too.” Pamela felt her throat tighten as Richard resumed his chore. But once his bin was settled in its spot near the curb, he took a few long steps and was once again standing near her.

  “I was willing to wait,” he said. “I did wait, a long time.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t bear to look at him and she knew the words were barely audible.

  As she wheeled her own bin into its position on the grass near the tree with the sweater, she heard Bettina’s voice from across the street. “See you in a little while,” Bettina called, stepping away from the recycling bin she’d just deposited at the curb.

  Back inside, Pamela baked her salmon and made a pot of brown rice. She ate half the salmon and half the rice with a salad of cucumbers and mini-tomatoes, and saved the leftover salmon and rice for another meal.

  Her outfit that day had been her usual jeans and loafers with a not-favorite old sweater over a cotton turtleneck. Knit and Nibble required something at least a bit nicer, so upstairs she pondered the contents of her closet. From the stack of sweaters on her closet shelf, she took down a cowl-necked pullover in a forest green alpaca blend, knit with extra-large needles that created a loose, airy texture. By the time Bettina rang the doorbell, Pamela was standing in her entry wearing a jacket over the sweater and with knitting bag in hand.

  “What did Richard say?” Bettina asked as soon as Pamela opened the door.

  “He thinks it’s going to rain,” Pamela said.

  “That was all?” Bettina’s face resembled that of a marionette whose puppet master had tugged strings to signal astonishment: brows aloft, eyelids wide, and mouth agape. “I could see the way he was looking at you, even from all the way across the street. He still cares for you and he’s only going out with that other woman because he’s given up all hope that you’ll ever care for him.”

  As Bettina spoke, Pamela had felt herself frowning. Now she spoke. “We’re not going to talk about him anymore. Okay?”

  “I can’t believe you turned down his invitation to that banquet—”

  Without responding, Pamela frowned more deeply and stepped over the threshold. Looking chastened, Bettina edged out of the way and Pamela pulled the door closed behind her. Bettina waited until they were halfway down the walk to say, “April showers bring May flowers. I have an umbrella in my car in case we need it.”

  Pamela and Bettina were the last to arrive. When Holly ushered them into her artfully decorated living room, with its walls the color of graphite, Nell and Karen were already settled on the streamlined ochre sofa, knitting projects at the ready. But the current focus of their attention was Karen’s smart phone.

  “What a sweet little face,” Nell was cooing, staring at the small screen.

  “And she’s started to smile.” Karen smiled too, and flicked a finger over the screen. “Here’s a good one. And here’s another.”

  “No teeth yet,” Nell said.

  “No. No teeth.”

  Bettina swooped across the room and joined them, dislodging a cat whose ginger coat almost blended with the sofa. It leapt nimbly to the floor and padded off toward the dining room.

  “Is this baby Lily?” Bettina exclaimed, leaning toward the little screen. She watched as Karen’s finger continued to move and after a few moments murmured, “Too, too adorable.”

  Not to be left out, Pamela deposited her knitting bag near the other large piece of furniture in the room, a loveseat upholstered in bright orange and chartreuse fabric with an abstract design that hinted at flowers. Then she circled behind the sofa to gaze over Karen’s shoulder at the images of four-month-old Lily, Karen and Dave Dowling’s first child. Smart phones hadn’t existed yet when her daughter Penny was a baby, but Pamela and her husband had documented Penny’s early years just as thoroughly. She felt a little tug at her heart to remember that time and to realize it didn’t seem all that long ago, and now Penny was in college.

  Holly, who being Karen’s neighbor and best friend had presumably seen not only the photos but the baby herself on many occasions, waited off to the side. After several minutes and many more enthusiastic exclamations, the smart phone was stowed away. Pamela returned to the loveseat, made herself comfortable, and lifted one of the lilac tunic’s sleeves from her knitting bag. Tonight’s task would be stitching the long seams that made the sleeves whole. And surely at some point responding to congratulations that the project was nearing completion.

  “Only five of us tonight,” Holly observed as she took a seat on one of the angular chairs that flanked the coffee table across from the sofa. The streak in her hair was a spring-like shade of green. “Thank you for passing the word on about Roland not coming, Bettina, though I really wouldn’t have expected him anyway. Poor man! Does anyone know how he’s doing?”

  “I called and spoke to Melanie a few days ago,” Nell sai
d. Concern banished the age-minimizing delight that the photos of Lily had evoked, and she looked her full eighty-plus years. “We know Roland isn’t a murderer. This nightmare has got to end soon.”

  “He’s interviewing lawyers,” Bettina said, “and knitting.” She described the visit she and Pamela had paid that morning. “He and Melanie aren’t eating much,” she added. “So if anyone wants to deliver food—things to tempt their appetites—I’m sure they’ll be grateful.”

  “Healthful things though,” Nell said. “Healthful things will be best.”

  “I guess the police think their job is all done now,” Holly said. “The Register hasn’t had anything about the case since they reported that Roland had been arrested and was out on bail.”

  “Nothing new from Clayborn for the Advocate either.” Bettina looked up from the knitting pattern she was studying. “And I know there are lots of people in town following the story.”

  “There’s plenty of other news in the Advocate,” Nell said. “It doesn’t have to pander to people’s interest in the sensational.”

  “I agree.” Karen spoke up in her meek voice. A blush reddened her fair cheeks as all eyes turned to her. “I enjoy those profiles of local artists, and the reports on the town meetings, and what’s happening at the library . . .”

  “Some people don’t even read it.” Holly’s tone suggested amazement. “How could anybody who lives in Arborville not want to keep up with what’s going on in this awesome town?” She had reached the end of a row and transferred the needle that held her swath of knitting to her left hand, taking up the now-empty needle in her right hand. “My neighbor, for example, right over there.” She nodded toward the side of her living room closest to the house uphill of hers. “He just lets copies of the Advocate pile up in his driveway. Even though they’re in those plastic bags, water seeps in when it rains and they get all soggy. Then he runs over them with his car. What a mess!”

  “One of my neighbors does that too,” Nell said.

  Pamela stole a glance at Bettina. Thankfully she seemed too engrossed in figuring out the next step in her knitting project to be paying attention to this sad testimony that not everyone found the Advocate indispensable.