Murder, She Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  Wilfred Fraser answered the door. “Pamela!” he greeted her. “You’re just in time. She’s gotten herself into quite a state.” Pamela stepped into Bettina’s living room with its comfy make-yourself-at-home style.

  Wilfred was a genial bearlike man with ruddy cheeks. Since his retirement he’d adopted a uniform of plaid shirts and bib overalls. He spent his days building dollhouses in his basement workshop.

  “Is she okay?” Pamela said, alarmed.

  “It’s the blanket,” he said. “For the baby.”

  “They don’t want it to be gender-specific.” Bettina hurried into the room. “And I’ve already crocheted a mountain of pink granny squares.” Bettina had started the blanket as soon as her second son and his wife announced that their baby was to be a girl.

  “Not gender-specific?”

  “In other words, just because she’s going to be a girl they don’t want her to be automatically associated with pink.”

  “It’s just fun though, isn’t it? Little girls in pink. It doesn’t mean she has to act a certain way or think a certain way.”

  Bettina sighed. “In their minds it does. Modern, I guess. Boston. Not like backward little Arborville. If they’d told me sooner, I’d have made it any color they wanted. Or just white. I can see a sweet little face peering out of a white blanket.”

  “Can you start over with white?” Pamela said.

  “I don’t know if there’s time,” Bettina said. “And what will I do with all those pink squares?”

  “Turn them into a blanket for the women’s shelter in Haversack? I’m sure Nell would love something like that to pass along to them.”

  “Good idea,” Wilfred said. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

  “Umm.” Bettina nodded and chewed on her lip. “Nell would like that, wouldn’t she? And maybe I won’t make the Boston people any blanket at all. I thought I was doing something nice.”

  She looked so downcast that Pamela reached out and patted her shoulder.

  “I suppose I won’t be able to buy pink dresses either,” Bettina said. “Maybe not dresses at all. I suppose they won’t even let her have one of Wilfred’s dollhouses.”

  “I could build her a firehouse,” Wilfred said.

  “You could, sweetie,” Bettina said, giving his waist a squeeze. She sighed. “The Arborville grandchildren are boys. Their mother never told me they couldn’t wear blue.” She turned to Pamela. “How would you feel if Penny told you she didn’t want you to knit her any more sweaters?”

  “I guess I’d be making a lot more elephants for the women’s shelter.”

  “Well, it’s not the end of the world,” Bettina said, mustering a smile. “Maybe I’ll learn to make elephants too. Want some coffee?”

  In the kitchen, they settled at Bettina’s well-scrubbed pine table. Bettina poured coffee into handmade mugs from the craft shop and set out a few slices of crumb cake. “I found the argyle-sock man,” Pamela said. She described following the handsome man through the Co-Op to get a closer look at his socks and her conversation with Mr. Gilly. “Mr. Gilly called him ‘Dr. Randolph, ’” she said. “I don’t know what his first name is.”

  “He knew Amy, and she made him socks, and he knows anatomy,” Bettina said, gazing at Pamela with wide eyes.

  Pamela nodded in agreement. “So maybe Karen Dowling is off the hook.” And to herself she added that if the murder was the result of a romance gone sour, it would have happened anyway, and it could have happened anywhere. So she hadn’t invited Amy to her death when she invited her to join Knit and Nibble.

  “He could have an alibi though.” Bettina reached for a piece of cake and gestured for Pamela to take the other.

  “You’ve got a point.” Pamela grimaced in disappointment. “Mr. Gilly said he’s on the night shift.”

  “But he can’t work every night. They must get some time off. Maybe he gets Tuesday nights off. Weekends are probably busy in an emergency room. And we don’t know what time his shift starts. He could be free every night until eight or ten or later.”

  Pamela nodded. “Amy was killed before seven. After dark, but before seven.”

  “I have a friend.” Bettina wiped her fingers on a napkin and nodded toward the second piece of crumb cake. “You don’t want this?”

  “I just had breakfast. What about the friend?”

  “She’s a nurse at Englewood Hospital. I’ll ask her if she can find out what his schedule has been lately.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Icelandic sweater was almost finished. All that remained was the top of one sleeve, and then to sew the whole thing together. Pamela had returned home after her morning grocery errand and her visit with Bettina, eaten a quick lunch of lentil soup, and settled at her computer for an afternoon of work on the magazine. Now it was evening and she was rewarding herself for such a productive day by lounging on the sofa with her knitting. With great satisfaction, she watched the intricate white snowflakes take shape under her persistent needles, admiring the way the paler yarn contrasted with the warm brown of the background. She’d splurged on Icelandic wool for the project, from real Icelandic sheep, and the colors were natural—white wool from white sheep and brown wool from brown sheep.

  She was pleased that the sweater would be finished in time to wear during the coming winter. But that meant she had to find a new project, lest her hands be idle for long. Perhaps a sweater for Penny. If she worked really hard she could have something ready by Christmas. Penny had appreciated the handknit sweaters, scarves, hats, and mittens that had flowed from Pamela’s hands over the years. Hopefully going away to college wouldn’t make her scornful of clothes that showed a mother’s love.

  Her mind wandered to the plastic bin of Amy’s knitting supplies and the mysterious silky yarn with its subtle golden glow. Would it be ghoulish to knit the yarn into a sweater for Penny? There couldn’t possibly be enough anyway—or could there?

  She carefully laid her knitting aside, making sure that no stitches were near enough the end of a needle to slip off. She retrieved the plastic bin from the top of her washing machine and set it on the kitchen table where the light was good. Just as she recalled, there were only four skeins of the yarn. One had no label, and the other three were circled by the wide bands of paper printed with the words “That Bedford Shop” in curly letters, and the added information that the shop was a “Purveyor of All Things Natural” in “Brooklyn, NY.” She fingered the yarn, admiring again its curious silkiness. It was so delicate and soft that thin needles would be required to do it justice. The result would be a fine, tight knit, but many many more skeins would be required if a sweater was to result.

  Pamela carried the skeins out to the living room and set them on the coffee table. As she studied them, an interesting thought came to her. A visit to the shop could serve another purpose as well—kill two birds with one stone, as Wilfred would say. Perhaps Amy had made frequent purchases from the shop; perhaps she had friends in Brooklyn, even a secret life. Before Pamela picked her knitting up again, she went to the door and looked out toward Bettina’s house. All the windows were dark. She’d have to wait until the next day to enlist her friend in the excursion she planned.

  * * *

  “No, I don’t think it would be ghoulish,” Bettina said. They sat at Pamela’s kitchen table, sipping coffee from Pamela’s wedding china. She’d decided long ago that there was no point in having nice things if a person didn’t use them. A skein of the mystery yarn sat between them, along with a plate containing two blueberry muffins.

  “It could be a way of remembering Amy,” Pamela said. “I’d want someone making nice things from my yarn if I was gone.”

  “No word, by the way, from my nurse friend,” Bettina said. Pamela had already fed Catrina and walked uptown, where she’d picked up the muffins from the Co-Op’s bakery counter. Bettina reached for one and peeled off the crinkled paper. Pamela reached for the other. “What if we find out he wasn’t at work at the time
she was killed?” Bettina added. “That would mean he has no alibi. What do we do then?”

  “We’ll think of something. Did you say anything to the police?”

  “I told them about the argyle socks and they just laughed.”

  “I sort of hope it wasn’t him,” Pamela said. “He seemed so nice.”

  “Who would it be then? Karen Dowling?” Bettina took a bite of the muffin.

  “I hope it wasn’t her too. But I don’t want it to just be . . . unsolved . . . forever.”

  “So—‘That Bedford Store.’” Bettina put the muffin down, picked up the skein of yarn, and studied the label.

  “On Bedford Street. I never knew Amy had a Brooklyn connection.”

  “So you’re thinking . . .”

  “If we go to this shop where she got the yarn we might learn something about her that we don’t already know. Maybe she had a secret life.”

  “With enemies.” Bettina put the yarn down and picked up the muffin.

  Pamela nodded. “With enemies. And I’ll get more of the yarn and make the not-ghoulish sweater for Penny. Don’t you think this color will be pretty on her?” Something about the yarn seemed to invite stroking. She reached toward the skein.

  * * *

  “Do you feel ancient?” Bettina said as she braked at a red light. It was as if they’d wandered into an alternate universe where no one aged. None of the people hurrying along the crowded sidewalks looked older than thirty.

  “I do,” Pamela said. She was scanning the storefronts for the address she’d looked up on the Internet. “I think it’s the next block,” she said, “but where on earth will we park?” A skein of the mystery yarn was tucked in the canvas bag on her lap.

  Cars lined the curb, snugged up bumper to hood with barely an inch between. “We’ll have to turn up one of these side streets.” Bettina clicked on her turn signal, then braked again as a bicycle swerved in front of her car. Pamela suppressed a scream.

  She made the turn and they cruised past compact row houses, some freshly painted, others wearing ancient, faded siding. The row houses were interrupted by an auto body shop and then a weedlot with a chain-link fence between it and the sidewalk. In the next block they found a parking spot in front of a narrow two-story stucco building. Next to it, on a much wider lot, a construction project was rising and a sign advertised condominiums already for sale.

  Back on Bedford Avenue they strolled past narrow storefronts displaying vintage clothing, antique furniture, jars of pickles and rich purple jam, and crusty bread in fanciful shapes. Tall curtained windows gazed down from apartments above the shops. Pamela imagined that a century or more ago, when the structures were new and the shops served a different clientele, the goods for sale might not have been all that different. Around them surged slender women in boots and skinny jeans, their flowing hair topped by close-fitting knitted caps, and slender men dressed as if on holiday from a lumberjack camp.

  That Bedford Shop was indeed on the next block. Pamela twisted an ancient brass knob, and the weathered wooden door swung back. A bell rang out with a sweet jingle. Inside, the air was heavy with a rich, waxy scent. A table displayed neatly arranged stacks of soap, jars and bottles of various sizes, and a basket containing candles tied in pairs with ribbons. And then, of course, there was yarn, skeins and balls of all colors and textures, piled in profusion on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the room.

  “Hello?” A woman looked up from a book nestled in her lap. She was seated on a high stool behind a wooden counter that could have been part of the shop’s original décor. “Everything in here is natural,” she said. “From our farm upstate—beeswax for the candles, tallow for the artisanal soap, and lanolin for the lotions. All the fragrances are made from pesticide-free flowers and herbs. And the yarn, of course”—she waved a proprietary hand—“is from our sheep.”

  She was older than the people thronging the sidewalks. Her wavy brown hair was threaded with strands of gray, and faint lines interrupted the smooth expanse of her pale forehead. Her eyes looked tired.

  “Yarn is what I’m looking for,” Pamela said.

  “Browse away.” She bent toward the book as if eager to get back to it.

  “I’m trying to match some particular yarn that came from here.” Pamela reached into the canvas bag. She had barely lifted the skein of yarn beyond the rim of the bag when a most amazing transformation came over the woman behind the counter. She slid off the stool, ignoring the plop as her book landed on the floor, and leaned toward Pamela. Any trace of tiredness vanished from her eyes. She gestured eagerly as Pamela moved closer to the counter, the skein resting on her outstretched hand. Pamela laid it on the counter where, even in the dimness of the little shop, it seemed to glow.

  “Where did you get this?” the woman cried.

  Taken aback at her excitement, Pamela retreated. “A . . . a friend had it. And it was given to me. I only have four skeins, and I want enough to make a sweater.” Pamela turned and began scanning the shelves of yarn, searching for the same glowing gold color and silky texture.

  “It came from here,” the woman said. “But it won’t be on those shelves. We don’t have it now.” She extended her hand and let it hover a few inches above the skein. “In fact”—she leaned across the counter—“I want to buy this back from you.”

  “I . . . I’d just as soon keep it,” Pamela said. The woman’s shoulders sagged. The hand that had been hovering over the skein of yarn retreated. “Did you know Amy Morgan?” Pamela asked.

  “Amy Morgan?” The woman squinted and tilted her head as if searching her memory for the name. “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.” She continued to squint, and she bit her lips in puzzlement. The effect was somewhat theatrical, and Pamela wondered if she was faking.

  “I got the yarn from Amy Morgan,” Pamela said. “From her sister, really. Amy was murdered.”

  The woman’s hands came together as if she was about to pray. “Oh my God, that’s horrible,” she said. Then, “Wait—it was in the Times, wasn’t it? Quite a story. New Jersey. People don’t expect those things to happen in the suburbs.” She let her hand hover over the yarn again. “But, no. I didn’t know her. Are you sure you won’t sell the yarn back?” The look in her eyes was so desperate that Pamela almost relented. But Amy had meant so much to her. And there was something very special about the yarn.

  “Why do you want the yarn back?” Pamela asked.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be sold,” the woman said. She lowered her hovering hand and began to stroke the skein of yarn.

  “Why was it in the shop if it wasn’t for sale?”

  “It wasn’t actually for sale,” the woman said. “It was sitting on the counter while I went out for lunch and my assistant sold it while I was gone.” She continued to stroke the yarn and reluctantly pulled her hand away as Pamela tugged the yarn free and slipped it back in her canvas bag. Then the woman seemed to remember that she was actually the proprietress of a shop that sold yarn. “We develop interesting yarns all the time,” she said. “If you’ll leave your email address and phone number, I’ll call you if something similar turns up.”

  * * *

  Pamela was sure Bettina was bursting with the same obvious question that she herself was longing to ask. But she held her tongue until Bettina had maneuvered through the Saturday-afternoon traffic bustle of fashionable Brooklyn—more pedestrians and bicycles than cars—and they were speeding toward the Triborough Bridge.

  Then she half turned in her seat and addressed Bettina’s profile. “Why on earth do you think she was so anxious to get that yarn back?”

  “I was just about to ask the same thing,” Bettina said, changing lanes as a menacing truck rose up behind them. Pamela waited for it to roar past.

  “It could be some really valuable kind of yarn, and the assistant didn’t know and sold it for much less than it was worth,” she said.

  “Alpaca,” Bettina said. “Or what’s that other one?”

 
; “Vicuña?”

  “That’s it. Vicuña. Those little creatures that live in the Andes.”

  “They haven’t been domesticated,” Pamela said. “They have to be captured to be shorn. Somebody wrote an article about them for Fiber Craft. She went to Peru for the research. The Incas knew about vicuñas, but only royalty was allowed to wear their wool.”

  Pamela studied the passing scene for a few minutes. The expressway arched over a patchwork of old brick warehouses and factories scrawled with graffiti, interspersed with sleek new multi-story apartment and condo buildings. Then a vast cemetery stretched to the left, with the Manhattan skyline as a backdrop. She turned to Bettina again. “What if selling the yarn by mistake was just a cover story?”

  “A cover story for what?” Bettina asked, surprised enough to take her eyes off the road for a second and glance at Pamela.

  “What if the yarn has something to do with Amy’s murder? She was supposed to deliver it somewhere and the killer intercepted her.”

  Bettina glanced at Pamela again, a disbelieving smile twisting her lips. “The murderer thought she’d be carrying it around with her?”

  Pamela shrugged. “The police never found the knitting bag.”

  “But you have the yarn now.”

  “Maybe the murderer’s next stop, after discovering the yarn wasn’t in the knitting bag, was Amy’s apartment. But Dorrie had already cleaned everything out.”

  “I hope he doesn’t find out what Dorrie did with the yarn,” Bettina said, still smiling. “Or you’re next.”

  “It’s not funny,” Pamela said, turning away. They were approaching the Triborough Bridge, its cables swooping down from its angular towers and gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. To the right was the blue expanse of the Long Island Sound.

  “I’m sorry,” Bettina said. “I’d never say something like that if I thought it could really be true.” Neither talked for a few minutes, then Bettina drew her breath in suddenly.