A Fatal Yarn

by Peggy Ehrhart

  Penny was wearing the lacy lilac tunic. She had paired the tunic with skinny jeans in a deep indigo shade and ankle boots in the same dark blue. Bold turquoise ceramic beads filled in the slightly scooped neckline of the tunic and shiny silver hoop earrings peeked from Penny’s dark curls.

  Bettina herself was wearing one of the jersey wrap dresses she favored, the fabric a lovely swirl of colors that evoked an impressionistic flower garden. In deference to the occasion, Pamela had searched her sweater collection for the light pullover she’d knit a few years ago from a cotton and linen blend in a pale amber shade. The color was more autumnal than spring-like but the sweater’s weight was appropriate to this bright spring day.

  “Watch for eggs,” Bettina warned, after she’d relieved Pamela of the cake she carried and set it on the high counter that divided the cooking area of the kitchen from the eating area. She hugged Penny and then Pamela. From his post near the stove, Wilfred beamed.

  “We hid some eggs for the grandchildren to find,” Bettina explained. “And Wilfred got out his special griddle for the bunny pancakes.”

  With a mock grunt, Wilfred hefted the griddle, impressive in its cast-iron solidity, from the stove.

  “But we did the hunt indoors,” Bettina continued, “and two eggs are still missing.”

  Four wine glasses waited on the high counter, ranged next to a basket of simple round crackers and a small oval bowl containing a pouf of creamy orange cheese flecked with red. A small cheese paddle sat nearby.

  “Have a glass of rosé,” Wilfred called from his station near the stove, “and there’s pimento cheese and crackers to munch on.”

  “Rosé? Sure,” Pamela said, and after a glance at her mother Penny echoed the assent. Bettina had already advanced to the refrigerator, and in a moment she was twisting the cork from a graceful bottle and pouring a few inches of the rosy-pink liquid into each glass.

  “Thank you, dear wife,” Wilfred said as Bettina delivered a glass of wine. He was at work on a bundle of asparagus, trimming the very bottom from each spear and then standing the spears upright in his gleaming stainless steel asparagus steamer. The lid of a saucepan already on the stove jiggled, advertising that its contents had reached a full boil.

  Pamela, Bettina, and Penny sipped their wine as Bettina further described that morning’s festivities with the Arborville children and grandchildren. But conversation ceased when Wilfred opened the oven door and stooped to remove the ham, all tawny crackled rind and succulent pink flesh. He hoisted the roasting pan to the center of the stove top and tented a long piece of foil over the ham.

  “Now it must rest, dear ladies,” he announced, “but no rest for the wicked.”

  “Woofus and Punkin had their dinners before you came,” Bettina said. “Otherwise Woofus would be underfoot—and he knows he’ll get a tiny ham treat later.”

  Wilfred lifted the lid from the eagerly boiling pot and probed inside with a fork. Nodding with satisfaction, he drained the pot into a large Pyrex measuring cup, plucked a potato masher from a drawer, and began to mash the contents of the pot. From time to time he added a generous pat of butter or a splash of the reserved water from the Pyrex cup.

  “I don’t know about you two,” Bettina announced suddenly, turning away from the entertaining sight of Wilfred’s skillful cookery, “but I’m going to eat some of this pimento cheese before we’ve all sat down to dinner and it’s too late for hors d’oeuvres.”

  “About ten minutes,” Wilfred called.

  Bettina picked up a cracker and used the cheese paddle to top it with a scoop of pimento cheese, sculpting the cheese with the paddle. At the stove, Wilfred lit the burner under the asparagus steamer. Pamela and Penny joined Bettina in sampling the pimento cheese, which combined the rich tang of cheddar with piquant bits of chopped pimento and a hint of cayenne—the whole smoothed out by mayonnaise and complemented by the crisp crackers.

  Wilfred was back at work on the contents of the pot now. He’d set the potato masher aside in favor of a large wooden spoon, and with the spoon he was easing a small mound of something from a saucer into the pot.

  “Crushed garlic,” he explained, noticing the curious looks on the faces of his audience, as he stirred vigorously with the wooden spoon. “Getting very close,” he advised, “and I can’t forget to heat up my Hollandaise sauce.” He nodded toward a small pot on another burner.

  Bettina hastily prepared and ate another pimento cheese cracker, then she hurried to the refrigerator, swung the door back, and bent to the refrigerator’s interior. She emerged holding a shallow wooden bowl that held carrot and celery sticks, cucumber spears, black olives, and cherry tomatoes, neatly arranged in parallel rows.

  “My handiwork,” she said with a pleased smile. “And Pamela,” she added, “there’s another bottle of rosé in here. Can you do the honors?”

  Bettina started toward the door that led to the dining room, and just as she reached it, a brightly colored egg skittered through in the opposite direction, careening toward the scrubbed pine table. Bettina hopped to the side with a little shriek, thankfully not losing her grip on the crudités. After the egg came Punkin, in delighted pursuit. Punkin dove under the chair where the egg had come rest and sent it spinning away again in the direction of Woofus, who leapt to his feet with a startled “Arf.”

  “That accounts for one of the missing eggs!” Bettina laughed, but shakily. Penny had joined her near the doorway and taken the platter of crudités from her hands.

  Bettina’s handiwork was also evident in the dining room. The table was spread with a cloth from her collection, a rustic weave in shades of peach, tan, and gold. Four places were set with her sage-green dinner plates and stainless steel flatware, whose style echoed the sleek Scandinavian lines of her candleholders. Peach napkins and a bouquet of golden tulips echoed the colors of the tablecloth.

  Pamela drew the cork from the bottle of rosé and lowered the bottle into the waiting wine coaster. Wine glasses from the hand-blown set with the faint purple tint and the elaborately twisted stem awaited the fresh bottle of wine. Penny set the tray of crudités at the end of the table farthest from Wilfred’s accustomed seat. She knew he would be carving and serving the ham.

  And then the ham arrived, on Bettina’s largest sage-green platter, its tawny rind glistening with melted fat. Wilfred set it down with a triumphant sigh and turned back toward the kitchen.

  “Can I carry something?” Pamela asked, but Penny hurried after him without inquiring.

  When they returned, Wilfred was carrying a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes in one hand and an oval dish of asparagus spears garnished with Hollandaise sauce in the other. Penny was carrying a small bowl of mustard and a huge carving knife with matching fork.

  In a pleasant bustle, plates were passed to the head of the table to receive generous slices of ham, each rimmed along one curving edge with a strip of rind cushioned by a layer of pale, nearly transparent fat. Pamela served scoops of mashed potatoes, buttery and with a hint of garlic. At the foot of the table, Bettina used tongs to add asparagus spears to the plates, and a spoon to top each with a dribble of Hollandaise sauce. Once the plates had circled back around to their owners, Penny set the crudités in motion by handing them to Wilfred.

  After Wilfred’s genial “Bon appetit!” no one spoke for several long minutes—unless inarticulate expressions of pleasure count as speech. The meal was simple but perfect. The ham was moist and flavorful, with a hint of the smokehouse and a hint of brine. The mashed potatoes, despite the suggestion of garlic, tamed the assertive ham, as did the tender earthiness of the fresh green asparagus.

  When speech resumed again, Wilfred acknowledged the many compliments that came his way. Then conversation turned to Penny’s plans for the summer, which would be here before they knew it, everyone agreed. Penny explained that she’d probably return to the upscale home furnishings store in Manhattan where she’d worked the previous summer—though there was also the possibility of an interns
hip with an interior design firm.

  “And how about your future plans?” Bettina asked, switching her attention to Pamela. “For your next knitting project,” she hastily added, seeing Pamela’s confusion, “though how you could top this exquisite tunic I can’t imagine.”

  “I haven’t decided,” Pamela said, “and meanwhile I’ve joined Nell on the infant cap project.” Pamela’s and Bettina’s voices overlapped as they described the infant cap project to Penny, then Bettina detailed her slow progress on the Nordic-style sweater she had undertaken for Wilfred.

  “I may have bitten off more than I can chew,” Bettina said, then laughed as alarmed looks suggested her listeners had taken her words literally. “The knitting, I mean,” she added. “The pattern is quite challenging.”

  “I’ll wear the sweater with pride, dear wife,” Wilfred said loyally.

  “What do you think will happen with poor Roland?” Penny asked.

  As Bettina opened her mouth to speak, Pamela tapped Bettina’s foot gently with her own. She caught Bettina’s eye, tightened her lips, and twitched her head in the slightest of warning head-shakes. (She’d so far succeeded in keeping from Penny the fact that she and Bettina were sleuthing again.)

  “I’m sure the police will untangle things and figure out who’s really guilty,” Pamela said, trying to sound serene.

  “That’s exactly what you said the other day when I caught Bettina winking at you.” Penny focused her bright blue eyes on her mother, but her attempt to look grim didn’t detract from her rosy prettiness. “Word for word. I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now,” she added. She shifted her gaze to Bettina. “Either of you. You’re both up to something.”

  Pamela didn’t answer. Instead, she studied her plate and poked at a spear of asparagus.

  “Now, now, now,” came Wilfred’s genial voice from the head of the table. “I’m sure the police know what they’re doing, Penny. And Roland will be cleared and Bettina and Pamela and the rest of the Knit and Nibblers can go back to knitting and nibbling just like always. Who’s for more ham?” He brandished the carving knife in a theatrical gesture.

  But Penny wasn’t looking convinced and she didn’t seem interested in more ham. In raising Penny, Pamela had always stressed the importance of critical thinking, and she had to admit that Wilfred’s statement, though it sounded comforting, had not actually dismissed out of hand the notion that Bettina and Pamela were dabbling in matters better left to the police.

  “No one wants more ham?” Wilfred surveyed his fellow diners.

  “I’ll take more,” Bettina said quickly, routing her plate to Wilfred by way of Penny, “and potatoes and asparagus too. And plenty of Hollandaise sauce.”

  “I’ll have more too,” Pamela chimed in. “More of everything.” She was actually quite full, but the mechanics of replenishing the plates looked to be an effective distraction from Penny’s interest in Pamela and Bettina’s doings.

  Then everyone was eating again, even Penny, and the conversation had meandered onto the benign topic of where the last missing Easter egg could possibly have gotten to.

  When the newly filled plates were empty again, Penny and Pamela cleared away while Bettina set about preparing coffee. Soon boiling water was seeping through the grounds in the filter cone of Bettina’s carafe, and the aroma of brewing coffee was edging out that of baking ham. At the high counter, Pamela cut four slices from her lemon-yogurt cake and slipped them onto Bettina’s sage-green dessert plates, whose duskiness set off the golden yellow and the translucent creaminess of the cake and icing.

  “Absolutely perfect!” Bettina pronounced when the plates had been delivered to the table and she had sampled her first bite.

  Pamela tasted her slice to make sure Bettina was telling the truth. Bettina was right. It was good, very good. Though the cake was agreeably sweet, the lemon zest gave it a nice bite, and the cream cheese made the icing richer and more complex than a simple buttercream.

  Wilfred contributed “Delicious,” and Penny’s reaction was “Yum!”

  * * *

  Bettina set her empty coffee cup down with a contented sigh. “Another culinary triumph!” she proclaimed, beaming down the length of the table at Wilfred and tilting her head toward Pamela. “The people who didn’t cook do the cleanup,” she added, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet.

  Pamela started to stand but Bettina motioned for her to stay put. “You cooked,” she said. “You baked that delicious cake.”

  Penny jumped up, exclaiming, “I definitely didn’t cook.”

  “No, no, no!” Pamela was on her feet now. “You’re on vacation. Please stay right where you are and talk to Wilfred. Finish your coffee, both of you.”

  * * *

  Pamela waited until the whoosh and gurgle of the dishwasher could be counted on to mask the sound of her voice before she raised the question that had preoccupied her since she woke up that morning.

  “Do we actually have any suspects for Diefenbach’s murder left?” she asked from the sink, where she was scrubbing the mashed potato pot.

  Bettina was bent over, returning the asparagus steamer to its home in a cupboard beneath the counter. She straightened up. “We know for sure that Haven was in Kringlekamack taking care of Olive and Wellesley,” she said.

  “And MacDonald admitted he was home alone at the time Diefenbach was killed”—a rush of water interrupted the thought as Pamela turned on the faucet to rinse the now-scrubbed pot—“but we decided he wouldn’t have told us that if he had something to hide.” She went on, “Eloisa volunteered where she was Monday night before she had any idea we might be probing for an alibi. She thought she was just chatting with a couple of women who were interested in bargain designer clothes. Besides, why would either of them have wanted to kill Cassie?”

  Bettina nodded.

  “There’s still Jack Delaney,” Bettina said. Was there a slight taunt in her voice, implying that they might have probed a bit more for an alibi if Pamela hadn’t been so impatient?

  Pamela acknowledged the taunt by closing her eyes and bowing her head. Then she said, “It would have been interesting to get him talking about that Monday night, or find out if he had a girlfriend we could track down—but that was before we knew Cassie was a murder victim too.” She handed the pot to Bettina, who had picked up a dish towel again, and then she lowered the unwieldy ham-roasting pan, with its dark film of baked-on grease, into the sink. “As far as Jack Delaney is concerned now, it’s the same as with MacDonald and Eloisa. Kill Diefenbach? Yes, they had reasons. Kill Cassie? Why?” She turned from the sink frowning. “ Of course, it is possible the two murders aren’t connected at all . . .”

  “That means Haven didn’t kill Diefenbach but could have killed her mother—” Bettina left off, looking stricken, as if the thought was too unbearable to contemplate.

  “The poisoned jam sort of connects the two murders though.” Pamela frowned harder and turned back to the sink. “But how?” She squirted liquid detergent into the greasy pan and twisted the faucet handle to send a splash of steaming water after it.

  “Is it too late for these cups to go in the dishwasher?” came a voice from somewhere near the scrubbed pine table.

  They both looked over to see Wilfred. He had set a pair of coffee cups and their matching saucers on the table and was stooping to retrieve something from the floor.

  “It’s that egg”—he held up a bright pink egg—“the one Punkin was chasing. No point in leaving it around for someone to step on.”

  He advanced, with a cup and saucer in each hand and the egg in a cup. As he deposited the cups near the sink, he said, “Actually, I’ve got an idea about Diefenbach’s murder that I’ll bet Clayborn hasn’t thought of.”

  “You do?” Pamela turned toward Wilfred, happy to abandon the greasy pan for a moment. And she was also curious. Wilfred had sometimes been a useful partner when she and Bettina engaged in sleuthing.

  “The Arborville nea
tfreak.” Wilfred surveyed them with a pleased smile. “The person who wrote that letter to the editor of the Advocate about spring cleanup—and who’s been dropping off the threatening notes. We got one, and Bettina said you did too.”

  “I did.” She’d thought it was quite silly, but she was glad Penny wasn’t hearing this.

  “Those bedraggled Diefenbach signs left from last fall,” Wilfred explained. “They’re all over town and they really are an eyesore. So maybe the neatfreak showed up at Diefenbach’s to deliver one of his notes. They argued. The argument became violent, and that was the end of Diefenbach.”

  * * *

  The evening had come to a close. Pamela, Penny, Wilfred, and Bettina had stepped out onto the Frasers’ front porch, enjoying the mild evening air with its promise of warm weather to come. Pamela was carrying a plastic bowl containing eleven hard-boiled eggs dyed in bright colors.

  “Your deviled eggs are so good,” Bettina had said, “and what else is there to do with an overabundance of Easter eggs?”

  As they all stood there, prolonging their goodnights in a reluctance to see the end of such a pleasant evening, headlights appeared at the top of the block. The vehicle the headlights belonged to drew closer and closer, at last turning into Richard Larkin’s driveway, where the light from the streetlamp revealed it to be Richard Larkin’s Jeep Cherokee.

  The driver’s side door opened and Richard Larkin climbed out. But he didn’t head immediately for his front door. Instead, he circled around the back of the car to open the passenger-side door. He extended a hand and, clutching the hand, a woman emerged. Details were difficult to make out with only the streetlamp for illumination, but her dark hair seemed to be arranged in a fashionable side braid.

  Addressing no one in particular, Penny observed that Laine and Sybil had returned to their dorm in the city that afternoon.