Murder, She Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  The bustle of getting everyone settled with their coffee subsided, and Richard folded his lanky frame into one of the chrome and leather creations that flanked the chrome and glass coffee table. He did have a lot of hair, shaggy and blondish. Was it a fashion statement, Pamela wondered, or had he just been too busy to go to the barber’s? His face was long, and bony, with a strong nose. But his mouth was surprisingly gentle.

  “Big doings up at the corner today,” he said. “Crime-scene tape all over the place. A guy waiting at the bus stop said there had been a murder.”

  “Mom!” Penny twisted toward Pamela, a horrified expression on her face. “What’s happening around here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was going to. You just got home.”

  “First Amy, right in our front yard. And now . . . what was this one?”

  Pamela set her coffee down, took both of Penny’s hands in her own, and gazed into her eyes. “I’ll tell you when we get home.” She looked over at Richard. “It will all be in the paper tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he said. “Not very cheerful conversation for a first meeting—especially since there was that other . . . last week.”

  Pamela nodded and reached for her coffee.

  When neither Richard nor Penny leapt into the conversational breech, Pamela gave a mental sigh, arranged her lips in what she thought of as her social smile, and said, “What brings you to Arborville?”

  “Manhattan real-estate prices.”

  “So . . . no previous familiarity with raccoons, but you know about wild turkeys.”

  “I have a . . . thing . . . in Maine sometimes.”

  Pamela frowned. “They don’t have raccoons in Maine?”

  “I don’t cook for myself when I’m there,” Richard said.

  Pamela was about to ask what the thing in Maine was when Penny cut in. “Where were you living before?”

  “Manhattan,” he said. “But my wife and I split up. I ended up in a studio, not much room for anybody but me. So . . .” He gestured around the pink living room. “My job is in the city. Arborville is close enough to get there.”

  They chatted a bit about the challenges of a daily commute to the city. “I only go there sometimes,” Pamela said. “That’s where my job is, but I sit at my computer at home most days.”

  “What do you do?” He asked as if he was genuinely curious.

  She described Fiber Craft and added, “I’ve learned a lot—about making yurts out of yak hair, fertility rituals involving vicuñas, all kinds of things. We’ve got a magazine to fill twelve times a year.” He nodded but didn’t say anything, so Pamela shaped her lips into the social smile once again and said, “I think you’re an architect?”

  “Is it that conspicuous?” he asked with a laugh.

  But Pamela explained. “I’ve been getting your mail. The carrier is new. Or something. I give it back to the post office. Sometimes I put it in your box.”

  He nodded. “My firm is just finishing up a huge job, and with the moving and all . . .” He rubbed his face.

  “You’re tired,” Pamela said. Her coffee cup was almost empty, and she set it gently on the glass surface of the coffee table. She started to rise, and he sprang from the chair. She started toward the door.

  “Oh—” he said with an embarrassed smile, looking down as if surprised he was on his feet. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurry you out.”

  “We have to go, really.” Pamela made a shepherding gesture toward Penny. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  “For me too. My daughters are coming here to cook for me.”

  “Daughters?”

  “I have two. In college in the city. But I wanted a place big enough that they could come and go.”

  “I think I’ve seen them,” Pamela said. Because you spend too much time staring out your kitchen window, added a voice in her head.

  “You’re in a big house for two people.”

  “One, now,” Pamela said. “Penny is in college too. So I’m alone.”

  “Miranda Bonham told me. She said Arborville wasn’t all couples.”

  They had reached the door. Richard started to say something, then stopped, smiled, and started again. “You wouldn’t . . . if you’re free tomorrow . . . there will be so much food.” He smiled again. “But you probably have plans.”

  “We do,” Pamela said. “Old friends of my husband’s and mine.”

  “I knew your kitchen was yellow,” Richard said as he reached for the doorknob. “I’ve seen you at your window when the light is on inside.”

  So, Pamela said to herself as she and Penny hurried along the sidewalk to the warmth of their own house, those were his daughters. He’s not a lothario after all.

  She glanced over at the curb. The silver Audi was gone.

  As Pamela was checking that doors were locked and lights were off, Penny came downstairs in her pajamas. “I think he’s interested in you, Mom,” she said. “Maybe you should get to know him.”

  “Not a chance,” Pamela said. “Those days are behind me now.”

  Before she went up to bed, Pamela put a few scoops of cat food in the cat-food dish and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  * * *

  In the morning the cat-food dish was empty. It had been pushed into the corner where one set of cabinets made a right angle with another set. Pamela stooped for the dish, dropped it in the sink, and gave it a swoosh of hot water and soap. If Catrina was now to be an indoor cat, she’d need more than food. Pamela had sand in the garage for when the sidewalk was slippery. She’d put a bit in a shallow box and set it in the back hall. But first came coffee and the newspaper. She set the kettle to boil and headed for the porch to retrieve the Register. As she opened the front door, she heard Penny’s feet on the stairs.

  “Don’t people sleep all day when they come home from college?” Pamela asked.

  “I’ve got mountains of laundry to do,” Penny said. “And we’re going to the Nordlings’ this afternoon and I have to wash my hair and find something in my closet that isn’t jeans and a sweater.” She grabbed the handle of the suitcase that had been parked in the entry overnight and began rolling it toward the kitchen and the laundry room beyond.

  “There will be coffee soon,” Pamela said, and she stepped out onto the porch, where an unaccustomed sight met her eyes.

  Bettina, usually the most carefully groomed of people, was running across the street in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. An unfolded section of newspaper flapped in her hand.

  “Pamela!” she called, clearing the curb with an extra-large step and bounding up the front walk. “That woman lived in Amy’s building. It’s all in the Register.”

  “I guess they scooped the Advocate,” Pamela said as Bettina stood panting at the bottom of the porch steps.

  “Well, when you only publish once a week . . .” Bettina said between pants. “But this is important. You have to read it right now.” She hoisted the trailing hem of her bathrobe and mounted the steps. Pamela collected her own copy of the Register and gave Bettina a gentle pat on the back to usher her through the door. In the kitchen, Bettina spread her newspaper on the kitchen table.

  “Look—it’s all right here!” She flipped back to the first page, which was dominated by a color photograph of the crime scene, angled to show the wooden fence with its garnish of crime-scene tape, a few trash cans and plastic bags, and a police car. The caption read, “Arbor ville Police Stumped by Second Murder on Orchard Street.”

  “And here”—paper rustled as Bettina turned to an inner page—“it says ‘According to building superintendent Thomas R. Gilly, the murdered woman had recently moved into the building. He was able to identify her as Phyllis Hagstrom, but said he did not handle the details of apartment rentals and referred police to the building’s owner, who was not available for comment before press time.’” Bettina ran a finger down the column of newsprint, then paused. “And here’s the interview with you, and
then, ‘The murder weapon, an inexpensive carving knife, was recovered from one of the trash cans. Apparently the killer had been wearing gloves, because police later reported that they were not able to retrieve fingerprints. ’” She looked up at Pamela. “You said it looked like she’d been killed with a knife.”

  Penny had been at the counter slipping bread into the toaster when Bettina swept in. She’d swiveled around to watch as Bettina began her summary of the news report, and when she got to the part about the interview with Pamela her eyes had grown wide. Now she let out a squeal that modulated into a moan.

  “Mom!” Behind her the toast popped up with a metallic click. “You said you’d tell me, and you didn’t. Were you the one who found this person too? How can this be happening?” She stared at Pamela with a look both accusing and concerned.

  Bettina circled the table. “Penny! I didn’t even say hello.” She put her hands on Penny’s shoulders. “Look at the college girl. So great to have you home, sweetie.” She pulled Penny to her in a hug.

  Over Bettina’s shoulder Penny continued to stare at her mother.

  “I was going to tell you,” Pamela said, “but it’s so good to have you here. And I just wanted you to enjoy being home for a little while before I gave you something to worry about.”

  “And actually there is nothing to worry about,” Bettina said firmly as she stepped back, her hands still on Penny’s shoulders. “Besides, your mother is turning out to be quite the detective.”

  “‘Quite the detective’?” Penny shook loose from Bettina and stepped toward the table that separated her from Pamela. “What on earth are you doing, Mom?”

  “We’ve been following up all kinds of clues,” Bettina cut in. “And now, since this . . . Phyllis Hagstrom . . . lived in the same building, there’s probably a connection between her and Amy that will become really obvious as soon as we think about it a little bit.”

  The look on Penny’s face had changed to outright horror, eyes wide and mouth stretched into a grimace. “Isn’t that what the police are for?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Police don’t always ask the right questions,” Pamela replied calmly. She’d lain awake a bit longer than usual after she climbed into bed the previous night, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hide what she was up to from Penny and wondering how she’d explain. She’d finally decided to just be matter-of-fact. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said, and stepped toward the counter. “Shall I make a cup for you, Bettina?”

  Bettina looked down at herself. “Oh, gracious,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m even out like this.” She gathered the sheets of newsprint and folded them into a compact bundle. “I’ve got to get the turkey stuffed and into the oven. The children are bringing everything else, and Wilfred is making chili, of course.”

  Pamela followed her to the entry and out onto the porch. “I’ll track Clayborn down tomorrow,” Bettina whispered, even though Penny was all the way back in the kitchen.

  Pamela nodded and whispered, “We’ve got to find out more about that woman and . . .” She paused while a new and interesting thought formed in her mind. “I wonder if I could even talk to Mr. Gilly today. It is Thanksgiving, but he lives in the building. Down in that basement lair.”

  “He doesn’t know anything about her except what was in the article,” Bettina said.

  “Did the article say what apartment she moved into?” Pamela abandoned the whisper in her excitement. “What if it’s Amy’s old apartment? That could mean something.”

  “Marked for Death in Apartment 3A,” Bettina said with a mock shudder. “It sounds like a nineteen forties movie.”

  Penny’s face appeared in the partly open door. “Are you coming back?” she asked in a woebegone voice.

  “Of course,” Pamela said as Bettina headed down the steps. “I’ll make that coffee and we’ll have toast.”

  When they reached the kitchen, Pamela saw that the kitchen table was once again covered with newspapers. The first section of the Register was open to the inner page where the continuation of the “Murder on Orchard Street” article appeared.

  “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Penny said. “I know all about it now.”

  They drank their coffee and, because Pamela hated to waste food, ate the toast that had grown cold in the toaster. Pamela doggedly steered the conversation toward Penny’s fledgling college career, and Penny gradually relaxed. When they’d finished a second round of toast and drained the last drops of coffee, Pamela stood up and said brightly, “Shall we get dressed?”

  As they talked she’d glanced from time to time at the pecan pie waiting on the counter for its journey to the feast. She’d pictured it being sliced and placed on serving plates, where it looked somehow . . . bare. A walk uptown could supply ice cream. On food-related holidays—and really, what holiday wasn’t?—the Co-Op opened for a few hours in the morning so forgetful cooks could pick up forgotten items.

  Besides, a walk to the Co-Op would take her right past the stately brick apartment building at the corner, where Mr. Gilly might not yet have left for whatever Thanksgiving feast he had on his schedule. That’s the real reason you decided the pie needs ice cream, said a voice in her mind. Perhaps so, she replied.

  * * *

  Upstairs Pamela made her bed, arranging her collection of vintage lace pillows against the headboard. She stepped into yesterday’s jeans and pulled on yesterday’s sweater. She’d change into a more festive outfit before they left for the feast. Back downstairs she retrieved her jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves from the closet. She bundled herself up, grabbed her purse and a canvas bag, and reached for the doorknob. Only then did she call out to Penny that she was running uptown on a quick grocery errand. Her plan to visit Mr. Gilly would be ruined if Penny tagged along.

  Penny appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Where’s the laundry soap?” she asked.

  “In the closet across from the washer,” Pamela said and set out on her errand.

  The trees were completely bare now and most of the fallen leaves swept away by the town. The only color in people’s yards came from evergreens, ivy, an occasional chrysanthemum, and the ornamental cabbages that Pamela had always thought would look more at home on a kitchen counter. As she climbed the slight hill to the corner, each exhalation released a cloud of frozen breath.

  The crime-scene tape was still in place, bright yellow against the weathered wood of the fence that hid the trash cans. Pamela hurried across the asphalt of the parking lot without letting her eyes stray toward the gap that allowed a glimpse of the cans themselves. She focused only on the door that led to Mr. Gilly’s basement lair. A small plaque mounted in the doorframe read “Thomas R. Gilly—Building Superintendent.” Above it was a small round button.

  She was just aiming her gloved finger toward it when the door opened. Mr. Gilly had been transformed. An elegant wool paisley scarf was tucked into the collar of a smoothly tailored wool coat that reached to his knees. Below were sharply creased trousers and sleek leather shoes polished to a high gloss.

  “How nice you look!” Pamela exclaimed, then hoped the amazement in her voice hadn’t implied a stereotypical view of apartment supers.

  But Mr. Gilly smiled and said, “Going to my daughter’s. Fancy house up in Timberley. Can’t embarrass her in front of the in-laws. People leave all kinds of nice stuff behind when they move out.” He stroked the soft wool of the coat. “But you know that.” He pulled the door closed behind him. “Caught me just in time. What’s on your mind?”

  “That woman who was killed—” Pamela waved a hand in the direction of the trash cans without turning to look at them. “The Register says she lived in this building.”

  Mr. Gilly nodded. “I told the cops, then I told that reporter. Boy, was she something—more questions than the cops.”

  “What I’m wondering is, what apartment did she live in?”

  “Are you working for the newspapers too?” Mr. Gilly pushed back his coat sleeve to cons
ult his watch. “I’ve got to be on my way real soon.”

  “Please,” Pamela said. “That’s all I want to know. I’ll walk to your car with you.”

  Mr. Gilly gave her a tolerant smile and took a few steps toward a row of cars along the fence at the edge of the parking lot. “She moved into a two-bedroom on the first floor last week. Amy Morgan, since I guess that’s why you’re asking, lived in a one-bedroom on the third floor.” He continued walking, and Pamela trailed along at his side. “But I’ll tell you something I didn’t tell the cops or that reporter—” They had reached a parking spot with a “Reserved for Super” sign posted at its head.

  Pamela felt a shiver of excitement. Mr. Gilly pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “She knew Amy. But she didn’t know this was where Amy had lived—”

  Pamela cut in. “What happened? How did she find out? What did she say?”

  Mr. Gilly finished his sentence, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “—until I told her.” He shrugged. “She heard some people talking in the elevator about Amy being dead and all, and when she asked them how they knew Amy, they got real quiet. I guess they thought it didn’t sound good to be rehashing all the details of something so gruesome in front of a new tenant. So she came to me.”

  “Did she tell you how she knew Amy?”

  “She knew the parents. She was at the funeral.”

  Ahhh. Pamela gave a mental sigh of satisfaction. So that was why Phyllis Hagstrom had looked familiar. She’d been one of the elegantly dressed older women at the reception.

  Mr. Gilly selected a key from his key chain and inserted it in the lock on his car door. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  As soon as Pamela stepped into her house, bearing a half gallon of French vanilla ice cream, she realized dramatic things had happened in her absence. “Moo-om!” wailed a voice from the kitchen, and at that exact moment a tiny black shape emerged from under the mail table, streaked across the entry, and disappeared under the living room sofa. Still bundled in her outdoor clothes, Pamela headed toward the source of the wail.

  Penny was sitting at the kitchen table. “This is part of it all, isn’t it?” she said. Her face wore the same look it had worn earlier that day, accusation mingled with concern. Propped against the wall at the far end of the table was the portrait of Amy Morgan with the disfiguring slash from forehead to chin.