Murder, She Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “There were turkeys again,” Penny said suddenly. “In the street when I got home.”

  They all stepped out onto the porch together, standing silently as their breath formed clouds in the chilly air, listening to the faint gobbling coming from the end of the block. “They’re going away now,” Penny said. “They were right in front of the church when I saw them.”

  “Grab your jacket and come on over,” Bettina called as she set out across the street. “I’ll tell Wilfred you’re on your way.”

  * * *

  “The mystery is solved,” Pamela told Penny once they were back in the house. She ran through the details quickly, gave Penny a hug, and assured her that there would be no more detecting. Then she hurried across the street to eat chili with Wilfred and Bettina.

  When she crossed the street again, the bright-eyed young woman from the County Register was sitting in her car at the curb waiting to do an interview.

  * * *

  “Mom?” Pamela opened her eyes. Her room was sunny. On these winter mornings she usually awoke when the sky was still the pale shade of dawn. Hinges creaked, and Penny spoke again. “Are you okay?”

  Pamela raised herself on her elbow and looked toward the door. A sliver of Penny’s face was visible in the crack between the door and the doorframe. Even with just one eye and the corner of her mouth visible, it was obvious Penny was concerned. “It’s almost eleven,” she said. “You don’t usually sleep so late.”

  “Ummm.” Pamela half sat up and wedged her pillow between her back and her bed’s headboard. She felt heavy and slow, as if every function of her body was operating at half speed.

  “I made some coffee,” Penny said, pushing the door open and stepping into the room. “I could bring you a cup.”

  “No,” Pamela said, and her voice sounded faint, as if even uttering a monosyllable took more energy than she was capable of summoning. “I’ll get up,” she added, trying for a bit more liveliness.

  It was over. The whole thing was over. She hadn’t realized how caught up she’d been, asking questions, poking around, and then the sudden understanding yesterday—that the flash of gold she’d glimpsed in Jean Worthington’s knitting basket was the same yarn she’d discovered in Amy’s plastic bin, the strange golden yarn from the eccentric shop in Brooklyn.

  She’d just been planning to make sure it was the same yarn, then tell Detective Clayborn what she’d discovered and hope he’d see what an important clue this was. But Jean had come back from the kitchen too soon and one thing had led to another and Jean had ended up in the koi pond and . . .

  She closed her eyes, picturing Jean and Douglas standing on the lawn with the yarn scattered around them.

  She was tired, and deservedly so. But she was happy too. Amy’s killer wouldn’t go unpunished. A frivolous thought intruded—that extra skein of the golden yarn. Who did it belong to, by rights? It had been Amy’s, but Amy’s sister had given all Amy’s knitting supplies to Pamela. Maybe it should go back to the woman at the shop along with the rest of the golden yarn.

  Pamela eased her legs around and lowered her feet to the floor. She pulled on her robe and headed downstairs.

  Penny had brought the County Register in. It was the extra-large Sunday edition, but Arts and Lifestyle, Sports and Entertainment, and Business had been cast aside on the floor. The first section was on the kitchen table, open to a page that featured a photograph of Jean Worthington being led to a police car. Its backdrop was her grand house, including her porch with its carefully arranged cornstalks, pumpkins, and chrysanthemums.

  “I read the article,” Penny said. “A lot of it is about you.” Was that just a touch of awe in Penny’s voice? She jumped up. “Would you like toast?”

  “Coffee first.” Pamela helped herself to a cup at the counter.

  “I put some food out for the cat after you went to bed,” Penny said. “The dish was empty this morning.”

  “That’s all we can do, I guess.” Pamela slipped into the chair Penny had vacated and began to read the article.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Penny had plans to spend the afternoon with a friend. When she came downstairs dressed to go out, she was wearing one of the handknit sweaters Pamela had given her over the years. She was wearing it just to be kind, Pamela supposed, trying to make up for rejecting the proposed handknit Christmas gift.

  Pamela decided that a long walk and a few hours catching up on work for the magazine would be just the prescription to bring her back down to earth after her dramatic adventure. Then there would be the potluck that evening and, Monday morning, the melancholy task of seeing Penny off to college once again.

  Instead of heading up the block toward town, a route that would take her past Jean’s house, Pamela set out down the block, toward County Road, the busy thoroughfare that separated Arborville from the woods where the turkeys roosted. Someday soon, she’d resume her old habits, shopping at the Co-Op and investigating the cast-off treasures behind the stately brick apartment building. But today she’d break with routine. Yesterday’s wind had brought a still, bright day. It would be pleasant to meander along one of the paths that crisscrossed the little stand of woods, even though the trees were bare now. And perhaps she’d see a turkey.

  Back at home an hour later, she ate a sandwich and settled in at her computer. She was not surprised to find that Fiber Craft’s editor in chief had barely taken any Thanksgiving break at all. Five articles were lined up for Pamela’s attention, and she contentedly opened the first file and immersed herself in a discussion of vintage macramé handbags.

  Soon she was yawning—not because the handbags weren’t interesting, but because the walk had been wonderfully relaxing. She deserved to feel lazy, she told herself. And the articles weren’t due back for a few days. Monday morning she’d declare vacation officially over.

  She wandered back downstairs and eyed the sofa. She hadn’t opened the living room curtains that morning, and the room was invitingly shadowy. Perhaps she’d just lie down for a bit. Pamela was too tall to stretch out fully on her sofa. Her head had to rest on the arm at one end and her ankles on the arm at the other end. She tugged the handknit throw off the sofa’s back and smoothed it over her feet, pulling it up under her chin. Then she closed her eyes and felt herself sink into a welcoming darkness.

  The next thing she knew, a face was hovering above her face and a lamp cast a pool of light on her feet at the other end of the sofa. “It’s time to go to the potluck,” Penny said. “Did you have a nice rest?”

  “I guess I did,” Pamela said, blinking a few times. “What time is it?”

  “Five to six. Are you wearing what you’re going to wear?”

  “It’s not a party, is it?” Pamela sat up and pushed the throw aside. She let her head loll against the sofa back and closed her eyes.

  A light tapping on the front door drew their attention. A faint voice called, “We’re on our way. Shall we wait for you?”

  “Bettina and Wilfred,” Penny said and hurried for the door. The next minute Bettina was standing in the middle of the living room gazing at Pamela with raised eyebrows and a tolerant smile. Wilfred stood in the arch between the living room and the entry holding a very large cardboard box.

  “You’re not wearing that?” Bettina said. Her voice mingled amusement and alarm.

  Pamela shrugged and looked down at the jeans and sweater she’d put on that morning. “It’s just a potluck.”

  “You go upstairs right now and put on something nice,” Bettina said. “Richard Larkin is a very eligible man and he’s obviously interested in you.”

  “I’m just not ready,” Pamela said.

  “Obviously.” Bettina laughed. “Go upstairs and get ready. We’ll tell him you’re on the way.”

  “I mean, ready for him. Or anyone, for that matter.”

  From his post at the edge of the room, Wilfred caught Pamela’s eye and flashed a sympathetic smile. He took a few steps toward Bettina. “Dear wife? Thi
s food is getting heavy. And cold.”

  “Go, all of you!” Pamela straightened her back and squared her shoulders, but she smiled to soften the command. “I’m sure you’ll have a fine time without me.”

  “Mo-o-om!” Penny looked crestfallen. “I was looking forward to it.”

  “You go too,” Pamela said. “All of you. I have a nap to finish.”

  Bettina retreated, but before she followed Wilfred and Penny out the door she darted back for a final comment. “You’ll regret this when he finds someone else,” she said, and the door closed behind her.

  Pamela turned off the lamp at the end of the sofa, stretched out again, and pulled the throw up to her chin. An event was taking place at the church next door, and the lights illuminating the steeple cast a glow that reached her side window. Otherwise the room was dark. She closed her eyes.

  She opened them again to the realization that she was not alone. She had no idea how much time had passed, but the lights were still on next door and Penny was still out. A soft warm something was resting on her chest, a very small something. She raised her head. In the faint light that came through the side window, she could make out a dark shape. She eased an arm from under the throw and let her fingers creep stealthily toward the shape. What they encountered was as soft and yielding as the mysterious yarn from Amy’s plastic bin.

  “Catrina?” she whispered. “Do you sleep on the sofa when you think you’re alone down here?”

  Feet tapped across the porch, the door opened, and light flooded in from the entry. Suddenly there was an empty spot on the throw and a flash of black fur darting across the rug.

  “Was that the cat?” Penny said.

  “I woke up and she was asleep on my chest. She must come out at night and curl up on the sofa.” Pamela tossed the throw aside and sat up. “How was it?”

  “Oh, Mom!” Penny settled into the little chair with the carved wooden back and needlepoint seat. “His daughters are so nice. Laine—she’s the oldest one—is just so New York. And I love her clothes and they’re all vintage and she’s going to take me thrifting with her when I come home for Christmas. And Sybil is majoring in art and they’re both at NYU and that’s why he bought this house, so they could visit him on weekends—” She paused for breath. “We all had wine, just a little. Bettina and Wilfred brought a bottle.” She went on, still a bit breathlessly. “He was living in the city and they were living with their mother, but his apartment was really small and she got a job offer in San Francisco but they wanted to stay at NYU and they didn’t want to leave New York, even though San Francisco could be fun too—”

  Pamela smiled encouragingly. Penny’s cheeks were rosy with excitement, and her eyes all the brighter blue in contrast.

  “And they loved my sweater.” Penny tugged her jacket open and traced the ripples of green, indigo, and violet that patterned the turtleneck Pamela had fashioned from ombre yarn. “They couldn’t believe my mom had knit it, and then Bettina told them all about the knitting group.” She took a deep breath and went on. “I brought some food back for you, out there.” She gestured toward the entry. “You probably didn’t eat.”

  At the mention of food, Pamela realized that indeed she was hungry. She stood up.

  “It’s in a bag on the table.” Penny followed her as she retrieved the bag and headed for the kitchen. “And, Mom?”

  “Ummm?” Pamela unwrapped a turkey sandwich.

  “I take back what I said about not wanting a sweater for Christmas. If you’d still do it, that is. With the golden yarn.”

  Pamela smiled to herself. She’d recruit Bettina and schedule that return visit to Brooklyn. Then she’d get started on the sweater.

  * * *

  “He isn’t my boyfriend, you know.” Penny addressed Pamela’s back as Pamela stood at the kitchen counter layering Co-Op deli ham and cheese on whole-grain bread. Pamela had asked whether Kyle would like mustard on his.

  “I know he isn’t your boyfriend,” Pamela said without turning. “I could tell by the way you told him goodbye. I just thought you might know whether he likes mustard.”

  “Well, I don’t. Just make one with and one without, and if he doesn’t like it I’ll eat the mustard one.”

  Kyle Logan was due at ten a.m. to pick Penny up for the drive back to their college in Massachusetts. Penny’s roller suitcase, packed with freshly laundered clothes, sat in the entry.

  Pamela wrapped the sandwiches and slipped them into a canvas bag from her collection. She turned away from the counter. “Would he like an apple?” The antique wooden bowl that occupied a permanent spot at the end of the counter had been newly replenished with Co-Op apples.

  Penny groaned, but the groan turned into a laugh. “Mo-o-om! He’s not my boyfriend. I don’t know if he’d like an apple.”

  Pamela slipped two apples into the bag. She added another sandwich bag containing some of the Co-Op bakery’s gingerbread cookies. Penny was dressed for the drive back to school in her usual jeans and a sweater, but she had finished the outfit off with a bright scarf that picked up the blue of her eyes. Pamela recognized it as Bettina’s Christmas gift to Penny from the previous Christmas.

  “I like the scarf that way,” Pamela said. “And no, I don’t think you’re dressing up specially for Kyle Logan.”

  Penny fingered the complicated silken twist at her throat. “Laine was wearing a scarf tied like this,” she said. “She showed me how to do it.”

  Just as the chimes from the church next door began to sound, the doorbell rang. “He’s very punctual,” Pamela said.

  Penny scooted her chair back and jumped to her feet. “My other bag is upstairs,” she said, and ran for the stairs.

  The person at the door was not Kyle Logan. Pamela gave a start, trying to place this unexpected visitor. She had expected to greet a tall young man with a pleasant smile. Instead she was staring at a stocky woman with a nose like a carelessly molded lump of dough. Her eyes skimmed the baggy jeans and down jacket and traveled back up to the face.

  The name she was searching for floated to the top of her mind, but before she could utter it, the visitor spoke.

  “You thought I killed her, didn’t you?” The tone of voice wasn’t particularly threatening, but the unblinking gaze suggested this wasn’t a social call. “That’s why you tracked me down at the Haversack Wholesale Food Depot.”

  “Dorrie . . . I . . .” Pamela’s voice trailed off. She hated to lie, and yes, of course, she had suspected that Dorrie Morgan killed her sister.

  “The cops called me Saturday night. They said the killer had been arrested. And I saw the article in the Register.” A faint smile rearranged the stern line of her lips. “You’ve got guts, I’ll say that.”

  Pamela fingered the doorknob uncertainly. Maybe it was a social call? Should she invite Dorrie in for coffee?

  From upstairs Penny called, “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

  “My daughter,” Pamela murmured. “Excuse me.” At the bottom of the stairs she called back up, “It’s not Kyle.”

  Returning to the doorway, she flung the door open. “Come in,” she said. “We’ll have coffee.”

  Dorrie seemed bent on confession. From her post at the kitchen table, she watched silently as Pamela ground beans and made a fresh pot of coffee. And as soon as Pamela set a steaming cup in front of her, along with a napkin and a plate of gingerbread cookies, she found her tongue. “Not that I wouldn’t have liked to sometimes,” she said. “Kill her, I mean.” And she launched into a sad tale of sibling rivalry, in which Amy was the beautiful, favored sister and she, Dorrie, the ugly duckling.

  Her voice grew more and more frantic, straining through a tightening throat as the story reached its climax. “And then,” she said, “I thought I’d finally found someone who really loved me and then he met Amy and he couldn’t take his eyes off her and one thing led to another—” Her homely face had turned an unbecoming shade of pink. “And the thing of it was she didn’t think he was anything spec
ial at all. And, yes, I did slash the painting. I suppose my parents might have wanted it . . . to remember her with. But when I saw it there in her apartment I was just so—”

  Pamela reached across the table to grasp Dorrie’s hand. “My friend and I heard the argument at the cemetery, back in there among the trees. I recognized your voice, but was the other voice your husband?” Dorrie nodded. “He’s not really allergic to ragweed?”

  Dorrie sniffed deeply. “He is, a little, but that’s not why his eyes were red at the funeral.”

  Pamela heard footsteps on the stairs and looked toward the doorway to see Penny peeking around the doorframe.

  The doorbell rang and this time it really was Kyle Logan. The voices from the entry roused Dorrie from her misery. She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin Pamela had supplied with the cup of coffee.

  “Excuse me,” Pamela said, standing up. “My daughter is leaving to go back to college and I want to see her off.”

  “Only one daughter?” Dorrie asked. Pamela nodded. “She’s lucky,” Dorrie said.

  A few minutes later, Penny was out the door, roller suitcase bumping over the front walk, the elaborately knotted blue scarf peeking out from the neck of her jacket. Pamela followed along. At the curb, hugs were exchanged, calls and emails were promised, and the prospect of Christmas, less than a month away, was invoked. Kyle Logan exclaimed over the lunch and assured Pamela that he loved mustard, and apples, and gingerbread cookies. And then they were off.

  Back inside, Pamela discovered that Dorrie had polished off all the gingerbread cookies on the plate. “Thank you,” Dorrie said fervently.

  Pamela wasn’t sure whether the thanks were meant for the cookies or for Pamela’s patient ear as Dorrie unburdened herself, but she offered a hearty “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not leaving him,” Dorrie said. “He’s sorry now, and maybe we can work things out. He never actually did anything with her, except for the paintings. We’ve had some good times, and we actually have a lot in common. And, honestly, I don’t know who else would want him. She certainly didn’t.” She rose from her chair and slipped back into the puffy jacket. “And now,” she said, “I have a gift for you. Grab your coat. It’s out in my van.”