“My husband died five years ago,” Pamela said, and the detective’s homely face softened.
Pamela revisited that sad time, describing her shock at her husband’s death and Amy’s kindness. Her husband’s death was a subject she’d long been able to discuss without tears, but tonight the tears came from somewhere, perhaps as much for Amy. As she dabbed at her eyes, the detective murmured, “You know, we have to ask these things.” He shifted in the rummage-sale chair, and it squeaked. “Now,” he said, “about this knitting group.”
Pamela nodded.
“You all knit, I guess.” Again, a thought struggled to take form in Pamela’s mind.
“One of us crochets,” Pamela said. “Crocheting uses hooks, not needles.”
“Did anyone in the group, except for the person who crochets, have any reason to want Amy Morgan dead?” The chair squeaked alarmingly, and Pamela wondered if she should offer him another. He had a face that she thought could be kind, in circumstances other than this one.
“Nobody else knew her,” Pamela said, and explained again that Amy had only recently moved to Arborville and had been recruited for the knitting club only the previous day.
“Okay,” the detective said. “Let me double check the names and contact information of the other people in the group.” He flipped back through his little notebook, adding, “Even the person who crochets.”
As he read the names and phone numbers out, Pamela nodded to confirm them. At last he thanked her, stood up, and turned to head for the door.
“Wait!” Pamela said suddenly, jumping to her feet. The idea she’d been struggling with had finally taken form. She’d been so shocked at the sight of Amy’s body that she hadn’t remembered the most obvious thing a person would bring to a meeting of a knitting club. And even if she had remembered, what would she have done in her dazed and shaky state?
“Amy’s knitting bag!” she said. “Did they find her knitting bag?”
Detective Clayborn stood in the arch between the living room and the entry, brows drawn together and head tilted in puzzlement as words tumbled out of Pamela’s mouth.
“She’d have brought a knitting project to the club meeting, yarn and needles at least. So if there’s just one needle in the bag and it matches the one in . . . in Amy, it could mean the killer wasn’t a knitter at all—just somebody who ransacked the bag for a weapon and used what was handy. And if the bag isn’t out there somewhere, it means he made off with the bag. It could have been some kind of mugging.”
“Do you know when the last time was that we had a mugging in Arborville?” Detective Clayborn asked with a hint of a smile.
“Well . . . I have always felt very safe,” Pamela said.
“The answer is never,” Detective Clayborn said. “We have never had a mugging. Ninety-nine percent of murders in the suburbs are committed by someone known to the victim.” He reached the front door in two large steps and pulled it open. “Did anyone find a knitting bag out there?” Pamela heard him yell.
The answer appeared to be no. Standing on the porch again, Pamela watched as he conferred with Officer Sanchez and the male officer, as well as the two men in white coveralls. Everyone was empty-handed. Then the lights on metal poles were suddenly extinguished. The yard plunged into darkness as Pamela’s eyes gradually adjusted to the gentler illumination of the streetlamp and the moon.
From the side of the porch by the hedge, two more people, a man and a woman, emerged bearing a stretcher that held a large white bag the size of a person. The bag seemed to glow in the moonlight. They crossed the lawn, one at each end of the stretcher. The back of the ambulance was already open, and Pamela watched as the stretcher slid into place bearing the bag that contained what was left of Amy. Lights were still on in Bettina’s house.
The ambulance pulled away. When everyone else was gone too, Bettina’s front door opened and she came hurrying across the street, followed closely by her shelter dog, Woofus. “Wouldn’t you know it?” she exclaimed as they rushed up the porch steps, “Wilfred is a hundred miles away in a fishing cabin with his cousin, and here we are with a murderer in the neighborhood.” Woofus regarded Pamela nervously. He was a huge, shaggy creature of indeterminate breed who reached nearly to Bettina’s hip.
“Whoever it was probably won’t come after us,” Pamela said. “That detective told me almost all murders in the suburbs are done by someone the victim knows.”
“Do you want me to stay here tonight?” Bettina asked, her forehead puckering with worry. “Woofus can sleep by the door and keep an eye on things.” The dog retreated a few steps and pressed close to Bettina’s leg.
“I’ll be okay,” Pamela said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Bettina insisted on making tea. Then, acting more like a mother than a friend, she tucked Pamela into bed and assured her she’d make sure all the lights were out and lock the door. Downstairs, Woofus gave a mournful whine, and Bettina was on her way down the stairs.
I don’t think I’ll sleep, Pamela thought. Maybe I should have asked Bettina to stay. The sheets were cool and comforting though, and the pillow yielded to her head. But she only realized she’d been asleep when suddenly she wasn’t. The glowing numerals on the bedside clock read twenty after four. A disturbing image had woken her up—the metal knitting needle protruding from the front of Amy’s handknit sweater. The image was accompanied by an even more disturbing thought. Sweet little Karen Dowling had been unable to locate the metal knitting needles she’d been using for the project she abandoned.
Chapter Three
Pamela opened her eyes. Early-morning sunlight brightened the white eyelet curtains at her bedroom windows. Normally she welcomed this cheerful start to her day and preferred waking up naturally to being buzzed awake by an alarm clock. But today her burning eyes and the heaviness in her head made her roll over to face the wall, willing her mind back to the blankness that would lure sleep to return.
But it was hopeless. Pulling the comforter over her head only created a dark screen on which her mind projected scenes from the previous night. Nerves throbbing, she flopped onto her back and threw the covers off, staring at the ceiling. Then she sat up and swiveled, toes landing on the small hooked rug at her bedside. Her morning ritual usually involved a shower, followed by coffee, toast, and newspaper at her kitchen table. Today she simply pulled on a robe and slid her feet into slippers. Coffee wouldn’t make up for the hours of sleep she’d lost, but it might ease the throbbing that had started up behind her eyes as soon as she was upright. And the routine of carrying out the same motions she’d carried out every morning for two decades would put at least a bit of her life back in her control.
One duty would intrude on her morning ritual, however. She’d have to call Penny. They talked once a week, at least, and many emails passed back and forth in between. But Pamela certainly didn’t want Penny to stumble upon the news of Amy’s murder before she herself could tell her.
Downstairs she shakily filled her kettle and set it going on the stove while she poured already-ground coffee left from Knit and Nibble into a paper cone. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she stared moodily out the window, noting that her neighbor still hadn’t done anything about the trail of garbage that led from his tipped-over garbage can into his front lawn. If anything, the spectacle was worse, as if the raccoons had returned to the can and pulled out more treasures to investigate.
The coffee was welcome; it was too hot for more than tiny sips, but richly bitter. She settled at the table, wondering if she should fetch the paper or whether the drama at hand was enough for now, without reading about the whole world’s troubles—and not looking forward to what the County Register might have already done with the story of Amy’s murder.
The thought of having to field her Arborville neighbors’ questions sent her into a moody reverie. When the ringing phone suddenly interrupted her thoughts, she started violently, setting off a miniature tsunami in her coffee cup
.
It was Penny on the other end of the line, but a barely recognizable version of her usual cheerful self. “Mom?” she asked, as if afraid of the answer to even that basic question. “Are you okay?”
“You know, then,” Pamela said. “I was just about to call you.”
“Lots of the kids up here are from New Jersey,” Penny said. “News travels fast.”
“Well,” Pamela said, “I’m fine, and Bettina and Wilfred are right across the street, and the police say it was probably someone Amy knew, not some random Arborville murderer. So please don’t worry about me.”
They talked for a few more minutes, Pamela sketching in a few details that Penny asked about, but not the ones that she herself wished she could erase from her memory, like the vision of the knitting needle protruding from Amy’s bloody sweater. Before the call ended she turned the conversation to Thanksgiving and Penny’s upcoming visit. By the time they said goodbye, Penny sounded a bit more like herself, and she signed off with her usual “Love you, Mom,” her voice almost as cheerful as if the whole conversation had been about nothing more pressing than holiday plans.
Pamela had no sooner returned to her coffee than the phone rang again. This time it was Bettina. Pamela assured her that she’d slept fine and mentioned that she’d talked to Penny. Bettina said she had a busy day ahead of her but would drop everything if Pamela didn’t want to be alone. “I’m really fine,” Pamela said, wondering how many times she’d be repeating that phrase in the days to come.
She went back to nursing her coffee, feeling less shaky. After a few sips, she heard a faint sound coming from the direction of the front door, something like peeping, or meowing.
Could it be Catrina? She’d never actually asked for food, as if trusting that the very sight of her would make a meal appear.
Pamela rose and peeked out into the entry. Through the lace that curtained the glass oval in the front door, she could see a tiny dark shape bobbing into view and then disappearing. She crept forward a few yards, then a few more, stooped in front of the door, and drew the lace aside. The shape bobbed up, and two angry yellow eyes met Pamela’s.
“Okay, you’re hungry. I understand,” she murmured. Amusement that this little creature had the nerve to be so demanding momentarily distracted her from the sad business of the night before. In a few minutes she stepped out onto the porch, plastic dish half-full of cat food in hand. “Here you go,” she cooed, and the tiny fur ball bent to the dish, pausing to cast a suspicious glance upward.
“Might as well bring in the paper,” Pamela murmured to herself and headed down the steps. It was another bright fall day, and despite herself, she felt her spirits lifting slightly.
The yellow crime-scene tape was still up, draped between the stakes that fenced off the section of her lawn that skirted the hedge. As she gazed, the hedge began to tremble, though the day was perfectly still. Then, from the corridor between the hedge and the side of her front porch, a crawling figure emerged.
Pamela stifled a shriek and backed up toward the porch. But the day was bright; most evildoers wreaked their evil under cover of darkness, and besides, she was curious.
“Hello,” she called. “Can I help you?”
The crawling figure looked up and then stood up, grasping at the hedge to keep her balance. It was a young woman, dark-haired and stocky, dressed in baggy jeans and a down jacket.
“Can I help you?” Pamela repeated. “This is my house.” As if the fact that she was standing on the lawn in her robe and slippers wouldn’t make that clear.
“Oh, hello.” The woman bent to dust off her knees. “I didn’t think to ring the bell.” She advanced toward Pamela. “Dorrie Morgan, Amy’s sister.”
“I’m so sorry,” Pamela said. “So terribly sorry. I guess the police . . .”
Dorrie nodded. “They called last night—called my parents, that is, and my parents called me. They were devastated, as you can imagine. And this morning the cops were at my door at eight a.m.”
Was she devastated? Pamela wondered, scrutinizing Dorrie’s face to see if her eyes looked like eyes that had recently cried. She couldn’t tell, but she knew different people processed grief differently. She continued studying Dorrie, looking for a resemblance to Amy that went beyond Dorrie’s dark, glossy hair. She could see it, she guessed, if everything about Dorrie had been elongated. Amy had been tall and willowy, with a delicate, oval face, graceful nose, wide eyes, and a sweet mouth. Dorrie was stocky, and her face was more round than oval, with a nose like a carelessly molded lump of dough.
“I wanted to see where it happened,” Dorrie said, shrugging and lifting her hands with open palms.
“Would you like some coffee?” Pamela said suddenly. “I just made a pot.” A battered van was parked at the curb. Pamela had never seen it on Arborville Avenue before and figured it must be Dorrie’s.
Catrina had vanished by the time Pamela climbed back up the steps, Dorrie at her heels. The plastic cat-food dish, now licked clean, remained exactly where Pamela had placed it, as if Catrina had felt trusting enough to eat her breakfast in the open.
Pamela poured a cup of coffee for Dorrie and freshened her own, repeating again how sorry she was about Amy’s death. Then she added, “Did the police say whether they have any leads?”
Dorrie gave an inconclusive shake of the head. “Lots more people to talk to, they said. Lots and lots. I’m not sure they’ll get very far—at least in some circles.”
“Oh?” Pamela frowned.
“Amy had struggles at Wendelstaff, trying to get things organized. I’m not sure the job was turning out like she expected.”
“The police will certainly talk to her colleagues at the college,” Pamela said.
Dorrie nodded. “I told them they should. They’re probably on their way there now. But people can be protective of each other in an atmosphere like that. They have their little cliques, and of course they’re afraid of bad press for the college. Besides, the police might not ask the right questions.”
She shrugged and gave the inconclusive head shake again. “But Wendelstaff probably doesn’t have anything to do with it. If the killer was someone from there, why would Amy’s body have ended up in your hedge? And with a knitting needle as the murder weapon?”
The image of Karen Dowling searching in vain for her metal knitting needles entered Pamela’s mind like an unwelcome visitor pushing through an unlatched door. Even more unwelcome was the sudden recollection that Karen’s husband taught at Wendelstaff. Pamela started to say something but bit her tongue. Anyway, Dorrie had tilted her coffee cup to her lips at an angle that suggested she was draining the last drop, and soon Pamela was ushering her through the entry to send her on her way.
“Looks like you’ve got more company,” Dorrie said as she stepped out onto the porch.
A truck from the local TV station was parked at the curb, and a young woman was just climbing out of a car parked behind Dorrie’s van. It was too late to pretend that no one was home, so Pamela sighed and waited in the doorway.
“Marcy Brewer, from the County Register,” the young woman announced as she bounded up the porch steps. “Just a few questions, please.” She barely reached Pamela’s chin, despite the extra-high heels on her chic boots, but her confident voice implied that refusal would be pointless. “Finding your old friend murdered in your front yard must have been quite a shock,” Marcy Brewer said, shaping her brightly colored lips into a sympathetic smile. Her eyes sparkled with encouragement.
“Of course it was,” Pamela said. “And it sounds like you already know pretty much everything you need to know.” She looked toward the curb, where another fashionably dressed young woman holding a microphone was talking to a man carrying a camera mounted on a three-legged stand. “I’ll give you two minutes,” she added, “and then I’m going inside. I refuse to be on television wearing my robe and pajamas.” She hurriedly sketched out the history of Knit and Nibble and explained why she had invited Amy Morgan to joi
n, and then she excused herself and closed the door. Through the door’s oval window she watched as Marcy Brewer conveyed her message to the small crew from the TV station.
Their trip had not been totally in vain, however. As Pamela continued watching, the cameraman set up his camera on the sidewalk. The fashionably dressed young woman stationed herself at the edge of the area marked off by the crime-scene tape and began to speak into her microphone.
Pamela had never been one to use working from home as an excuse to lounge about in robe and pajamas. Her brain functioned better when she was dressed, she believed, and her customary morning walk provided another impetus to face the day in jeans and a shirt or sweater. But everything was different today—everything except a pending deadline for the magazine. Perhaps the distraction would be welcome, she decided, and she climbed the stairs to her office, tugging her robe around her more securely and retying the belt.
As Pamela sat at her computer waiting for the screen to brighten, another recollection came unbidden. She was standing in front of the Co-Op Grocery talking to Amy. Amy had seemed so tense, and she’d talked about having to do things she didn’t want to do. She hadn’t mentioned Wendelstaff specifically. But now—with what Dorrie had said about Amy struggling to get things organized at the college—that must have been what she meant. Did she do something that made someone at Wendelstaff angry enough to kill her? Dorrie had dismissed the idea that Wendelstaff was involved. But maybe it shouldn’t be dismissed.
The article she was editing for the magazine—a description of the author’s trip to Mongolia to study native felting techniques—was fascinating, and Pamela sank gratefully into her work. She only realized she’d been staring at the computer for at least three hours when she heard the clunk on the porch that announced the arrival of the mail. She thrust her shoulders back, straightened her spine, and rolled her head from side to side, realizing too that it was way past time for some nourishment other than coffee.
Murder, She Knit Page 3