Murder, She Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  * * *

  Saturday morning the cat-food dish was empty, pushed into the corner where the cabinets that flanked the sink met the cabinets that flanked the stove. Catrina was eating regularly, and she’d discovered the temporary litter box. Perhaps it was time to set up a more permanent arrangement, with kitty litter and a real litter box from the hardware store.

  Pamela busied herself making coffee. As if drawn downstairs by the aroma, Penny appeared in the kitchen doorway just as she was pouring the freshly ground coffee beans into the cone atop her drip carafe.

  “I’m walking uptown soon,” Pamela said. “What would you like for dinner? Or should we just order a pizza?”

  “I know I’m just home for a few days,” Penny said with an apologetic smile, “but would you mind if I didn’t eat here tonight?”

  “Of course not,” Pamela said. “I’ll have the rest of the salmon. What’s up?”

  “Lorie and I are going to the Golden Pagoda. I’ve been missing that taste the whole time I’ve been up in Massachusetts.”

  “They don’t have Chinese food in Massachusetts?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  * * *

  A cheerful voice hailed Pamela as she approached the corner. “Hey! How are you?” She glanced in the direction of the sound to see Bob Randolph getting out of his car at the edge of the parking lot behind the stately brick apartment building. It was truly uncanny how her routines seemed to mesh with his. At least he seemed friendly today. Having a laugh at her expense about her amateur detecting had apparently broken the ice.

  He circled the car and opened the passenger door to reveal a pleasant-looking, elderly woman with gray hair worn in a smooth bob. She was holding a half-finished argyle sock in shades of navy blue, turquoise, rust, and cream, each color of yarn carefully wound onto its own bobbin. A sturdy knitting bag dangled from her arm. Pamela couldn’t resist stepping closer for a better look at the sock.

  “That’s a very challenging project,” she said admiringly. “And I love the colors.”

  “Why, thank you,” the woman said.

  Bob Randolph joined them. Pamela was introduced as “my neighbor from down the street,” and she learned that the woman was his mother, visiting from Boston.

  “Argyle socks are fun,” Bob’s mother said. “I already finished one pair—for Bob. These are for Bob’s partner—well, soon-to-be husband—Andy.” She looked up at Bob, who was blushing with pleasure. “You don’t mind if I spill the beans, do you?”

  Well, Pamela thought to herself as she continued on her way, this encounter had been instructive. If the notations in the knitting booklet retrieved from Amy’s plastic bin were to be believed—notably “Love’s labor’s lost”—Amy had made argyle socks for someone, and that someone had been undeserving of the gift. But that someone hadn’t been Bob Randolph, who now actually seemed to be a very nice person with no reason to kill Amy Morgan—or Phyllis Hagstrom—at all. But who did that really leave? The yarn-shop woman? Olivia Wiggens or the Wendelstaff student? And what did any of those people have to do with Phyllis Hagstrom?

  * * *

  Back at home, after arranging the new litter box in the back hall, Pamela served a quick lunch of fried eggs on toast. She had work to do for the magazine and Penny had reading to catch up with for school, so they settled down for a quiet afternoon. Dark clouds were blotting out the morning’s sunny sky, and the prospect of staying indoors seemed more a treat than a privation.

  Pamela stared at her computer screen, deep in contemplation. People who knew a lot about fibers didn’t always know a lot about writing. Sometimes they knew so little about writing that it was impossible to figure out what they meant. When she started the job, she’d occasionally called authors up to ask for clarification, but lately she just decided what she wanted it to mean and rewrote accordingly. No one had complained so far. But how a wall hanging could express “desolation personified” she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she’d skip that part and come back to it later.

  The ringing telephone tugged her abruptly away from “Contemporary Wall Hangings in the Busby Collection.” A voice responded to her startled “Hello?” with a triumphant announcement: “I have your yarn.”

  Is this a threat? Pamela wondered momentarily. My yarn has been taken hostage? But what yarn?

  “Your yarn,” the speaker repeated insistently. “The yarn you were asking about.”

  “What? Who?” Pamela stuttered. Then the editing challenge she’d been pondering yielded to the sudden recollection of her Brooklyn outing with Bettina. “Is this the Bedford store?” she asked.

  “That Bedford Shop,” the voice said crisply. “And I have your yarn. The yarn you wanted more of.”

  “I . . . oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you for calling,” Pamela said.

  “So here’s the deal—I have so much more that I’ll trade you skein for skein for the ones you have and I’ll toss in—for free—enough more to make a sweater.”

  “Why trade?” Pamela asked, puzzled. “You said it was more of the same yarn. Aren’t all the skeins the same?”

  “Yes and no,” the voice said. “It’s dog fur, those shaggy afghan hounds. Just the fur they shed, no shearing—that’s why it’s so rare. But the first batch was from Buster, my beloved afghan.” The voice softened. “It took me ten years to collect it, and it was all I had left of him. He died last year. I’m embarrassed to say it really hit me hard.”

  “Was he sort of a gold color?” Pamela asked, picturing the yarn’s mysterious glow.

  “Oh, no—pure white. The unusual color comes from turmeric. All natural.”

  “It’s balls now,” Pamela said. “I unwound it and turned it into balls.”

  “Balls, skeins, it doesn’t matter,” the voice said. “As long as I have Buster back.”

  Pamela arranged to make the trade the following week. She’d ask Bettina if she felt like another outing on Bedford Street. She closed her eyes and enjoyed a few minutes daydreaming about what she’d do with the yarn—that glowing color and the extra-soft texture. It would make such a special sweater for Penny. She’d get busy right away and finish just in time for Christmas.

  Then she focused once again on her computer screen and “Contemporary Wall Hangings in the Busby Collection.” She finished editing the article, scrolled back to the problem sentence and decided that maybe people who were interested in contemporary wall hangings would understand it just as it was, and sent the file off to her editor. Then she hurried downstairs to fetch Amy Morgan’s plastic bin from the laundry room.

  Penny was stretched out on the sofa, head on one arm, stockinged feet on the other. A book was balanced on her chest.

  “I want to show you something,” Pamela said, perching on the edge of the sofa. She was smiling in her excitement about the yarn and her plans for it. She put the bin’s lid aside and lifted out one of the balls. “Isn’t this color beautiful?” Penny closed the book and lowered it to the floor. Pamela put the ball of yarn on Penny’s chest. “It’s from a shop in Brooklyn,” Pamela said. “I have four balls but I’m going to get more. Feel how soft.” She stroked the ball and Penny touched it with a tentative finger. Pamela remembered Roland’s comment the night she took the yarn to Knit and Nibble at Jean’s house—“It makes me want to pet it.” The words had amused her at the time, but now they made a strange sort of sense.

  “I’m going to make you a sweater—for Christmas,” Pamela went on. “You’ll let me know what style and I’ll get busy and when you come home again . . .”

  Penny squirmed into a sitting position. “Um . . . Mom . . .” Her gaze was focused downward, and her voice emerged as barely more than a whisper. In her lap she wrapped the fingers of one hand around the fingers of the other. “I don’t wear the handknit things so much up there. It’s kind of not what people wear in college now. So . . .” Her voice trailed off. For a minute there was silence.

  Then she jumped to her feet. “What time is it? I’ve got to hurry out
and meet Lorie.” Pamela was still sitting on the sofa. Penny turned toward her. “I’m really sorry, Mom.” She did look genuinely sorry.

  “That’s okay,” Pamela said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m glad you told me. I would have done a lot of work . . . for nothing.”

  Penny hurried up the stairs. Pamela slipped the ball of yarn back into the bin. She’d go to Brooklyn anyway. She might just as well give all the yarn back, especially now that she knew about Buster. You couldn’t expect someone to wear something they didn’t like just to spare your feelings.

  * * *

  After seeing Penny off to meet her friend, Pamela turned toward the living room. Amy’s plastic bin with its odds and ends of variously colored yarn still sat open on the sofa, the ball of the golden yarn she’d pulled out to show Penny tucked in among them. She paused in the entry and stared. Something about the vision awakened the memory of a similar sight—a basket with a whole rainbow of yarn: red, blue, green, violet . . . and gold. A second memory took its place—champagne flutes, tasteful black ensembles, and pearls . . . and a conversation about town doings.

  Bettina had been there too. And the key detail in Bettina’s latest update on Phyllis Hagstrom’s murder suddenly seemed very relevant. They’d just been pondering what that detail could mean when Penny wandered into the kitchen with her smartphone. The conversation had turned to Richard Larkin and the moment had been lost.

  * * *

  Wilfred answered the door, dressed in his customary plaid shirt and bib overalls. “You’re looking for the boss, I guess,” he said as he swung the door back and ushered Pamela in. “Could I interest you in some leftover turkey? Or anything else? The children brought enough food for an army.”

  “Yes, yes,” Bettina chimed in from the stairs. “Please take some.” She reached the landing and touched Wilfred on the arm. “Wilfred—be a sweetheart and go wrap some leftovers for her.”

  “Your wish is my command, dear wife,” Wilfred said cheerfully, and he set off for the kitchen.

  “Just turkey is fine,” Pamela called after him.

  “Social call?” Bettina asked. She studied Pamela’s face for a minute. “I don’t think so. You’re up to something. Does Penny know?”

  “Penny won’t mind,” Pamela said. “I just want to verify a detail you mentioned.”

  “Okay. Let’s verify.” She led Pamela to the sofa.

  “Phyllis Hagstrom moved here from Maple Branch.”

  “That’s what Clayborn said.”

  “And we know Amy grew up in Maple Branch.” Bettina nodded. “Remember that conversation at the reception after Amy’s funeral—we were talking to those women in the chic black outfits and the pearls?”

  Bettina nodded again. “I remember the crab puffs too.”

  “Maple Branch must have a paper like the Advocate—a weekly that really delves into town doings.”

  “The Courier.”

  “They must have online archives,” Pamela said. “Is your smartphone handy?”

  She and Bettina huddled with the smartphone on the sofa, heads together, the tiny screen casting a pale green glow on their intent faces. They clicked on link after link and became more and more excited. When Wilfred deposited a foil-wrapped parcel on the coffee table they barely noticed.

  At last Pamela stood up. She clasped her hands purposefully. “I just have to check one more thing,” she announced. “Then we can go to Detective Clayborn.” She started for the door. “I think he’ll be interested this time.”

  “The turkey!” Bettina followed her with the foil parcel.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take this.” Bettina thrust her smartphone at her, and Pamela was out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the gathering dusk, Pamela hurried up the street toward Jean Worthington’s house. A brisk wind was rising, and she squinted into it, feeling tears form against her lashes. Lamplight glowed behind curtains in the windows of houses she passed. Halfway up the block, she paused. Maybe she should double back and leave a note for Penny. But no, her errand would take ten minutes at most, and she didn’t want Penny to know she was detecting again. Except this wasn’t really detecting. She was just going to check something, and then she’d pass the information on to Detective Clayborn and that would be the end of it. She darted across the street and picked up her pace, excited to think that she was about to crack the mystery of Amy’s murder.

  The display of cornstalks, pumpkins, and chrysanthemums on Jean Worthington’s porch had been augmented with extra chrysanthemums since the last Knit and Nibble meeting. Pots and pots of them were everywhere, in shades of rust, orange, and gold. Even Jean Worthington’s doorbell was special. The button was brass and it was surrounded by an intricate brass filigree. Pamela took a deep breath and pressed twice.

  Jean opened the door, gracious smile in place. “Why, Pamela,” she said, surprised but cordial. “Whatever brings you out on such a chilly night? You look perfectly windblown.” Jean was flawlessly groomed, as always, and was dressed as if for an evening out in a lustrous navy silk sheath that exactly matched her elegant narrow-heeled pumps. A pearl and diamond necklace accented the dress’s graceful scooped neck.

  “Phone problems—” Pamela launched into the speech she had rehearsed to herself as she hurried up the street. “Can you imagine the cell phone and landline both going out at the same time? I’m so sorry to burst in like this, but I’m desperate to know where you got those wonderful cookies you served when Knit and Nibble met here last week. They’ll be perfect to send back to college with Penny—much cuter than anything I could make.”

  “Of course.” Jean smiled. “I have the bakery’s business card in the kitchen. But I love your baking. I wish I could do my own, but I’m just hopeless.” She started toward the kitchen, then paused. “How is your daughter? I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say hello to her.”

  “She’s fine,” Pamela said, struggling to control her eagerness to carry out her plan. “It was great to have her home, even if for so short a time.”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Jean said. Ever the gracious hostess, she added, “Please have a seat.” She waited while Pamela settled herself on the sofa. As soon as Jean disappeared down the hall that led to the kitchen, Pamela glanced toward the fireplace. She was relieved and pleased to see that Jean’s knitting basket was exactly where it had been at the last meeting, tucked between a fancy wing chair and a lamp table at one side of the hearth.

  She hurried to the basket, lifted it onto the chair, and raised its cover. Yes, inside was exactly what she recalled from the previous Knit and Nibble meeting. Jean had commented on the odds and ends of yarn left from various projects. To make the point, she’d displayed the jumbled contents of the basket, balls and twists of yarn in red, green, blue, purple, gold, and more. Pamela reached for the gold yarn now and tugged. Up came a whole skein exactly like the glowing mystery yarn in Amy’s plastic bin. It was just what she’d expected to find. Now everything fit together.

  The antique Persian hall runner had no doubt muffled the sound of Jean’s high heels. Pamela was startled to hear a voice say, “What are you doing?”

  Pamela turned. Jean was staring at the skein of yarn in Pamela’s hand. The look on her face was polite, if slightly troubled. In her hand was a small piece of notepaper.

  “I’d have opened the basket for you,” Jean said. “You didn’t have to help yourself.” She stepped forward and held out the paper. “Here’s the information about the bakery. I think they’re even open on Sunday.”

  “This is very unusual yarn,” Pamela said.

  “Yes. Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Jean smiled, perhaps a bit nervously, it seemed to Pamela.

  Pamela gave the yarn a little shake. “It looks like the yarn I brought for show-and-tell on Tuesday.”

  Jean stepped forward, wobbling slightly in the fancy shoes. “It is similar, isn’t it?” She looked at Pamela curiously. “Is that why you’re interested?�
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  Pamela returned her look. Jean reached for the yarn. Her hand was trembling slightly. In the gentle light cast by her artfully positioned lamps, her face looked more tragic than angry.

  “It’s more than just similar,” Pamela said.

  “No!” Jean pulled her hand back and clutched it with the other. “Lots of yarn looks alike.” She studied Pamela’s face. Then her own face crumpled, and she backed toward the entry hall. “You know,” she whispered.

  Jean continued backing up. She opened the drawer of a small table in the hall, and pulled out a pistol.

  “I do know,” Pamela said, feeling her pulse begin to quicken. “This yarn was in Amy Morgan’s knitting bag, the bag you made away with after you stabbed her with a knitting needle and left her body in the hedge next to my house.”

  Jean’s face changed again. She tipped her chin up, tightened her jaw, and narrowed her eyes.

  “You had to kill her, didn’t you? Because she knew who you really were—Tracy-Jean Slade, the borough clerk who embezzled half a million dollars from the taxpayers of Maple Branch and got away with it for ten years by changing her name and her appearance. Amy Morgan’s parents befriended you and helped you get the job, and that’s how you repaid them. The whole story is spelled out in the Maple Branch Courier. You discovered Amy had moved to Arborville and you were horrified, but you hoped you could avoid her. She recognized you outside the Co-Op and said hello, but you hurried away. Then you showed up for Knit and Nibble, and there she was heading toward my front door. You couldn’t bear to think what would happen if she proceeded into the house, exclaimed how familiar you looked, and then figured out why.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Jean said, advancing toward the arch between the entry hall and the living room. “I did kill her.” Her throat tightened, and the words squeezed out. “But I needed that money to escape from being Tracy-Jean Slade, and I didn’t want to become Tracy-Jean Slade again.”

  “Then you had to kill another person. She was a harmless empty nester, but she was from Maple Branch too, a member of the town council, like Amy’s father.”