Murder, She Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  At the curb, she twisted the lever that latched the van’s back doors and swung them open. Pamela craned her neck to make out the contents of the dark interior, but all was shadowy. Dorrie edged around her, knelt on the lip of the opening, and clambered inside. “I’ll push it out,” she said, her voice echoing off the metal walls. “Whatever you do, don’t let it slip past you.”

  As Pamela watched, a pale shape glided toward her, all angles, points, and jagged crevices. When it neared the open doors and emerged from shadow into sun, it began to glitter.

  “Catch it,” Dorrie called from deep within the van. “It’s moving fast.”

  Pamela had already figured out what the curious object was composed of, but she was nonetheless startled when her bare hands encountered a freezing-cold surface, slicked with a bit of moisture.

  Dorrie’s head appeared beside the object. She flashed a satisfied grin and squeezed past it, managing a contortion that resulted in her landing on her feet right beside Pamela.

  “What do you think of it?” she said.

  “Very striking.” Pamela braved its chilly surface to give it a pat. “I like all the points.”

  “It’s you,” Dorrie said. “My impression of you, so heroic.” Perhaps noting the startled look on Pamela’s face, she added. “An abstraction, of course. Though, as I told you, I do representational work as well. But abstraction can be so much more expressive.”

  “Well, it’s lovely,” Pamela said. “But I’m not sure my freezer—”

  “Oh, it’s not meant to last,” Dorrie said cheerfully. “That’s the nature of ice sculpture. Ephemeral, like life. But it’s pretty cold out this time of year. You should get a couple days’ worth at least. And I photographed it for my next show.” She reached around the sculpture and coaxed it closer to the edge of the opening. “You grab one side, and I’ll grab the other. It’s okay to hold it by one of the points, but put your other hand underneath in case the point starts melting and gets slippery.”

  Pamela did as she was instructed, trying to ignore the fact that the sculpture’s surface was very very cold.

  “Where to, then?” Dorrie asked, once they had each gotten a grip on the unwieldy piece of ice.

  “How about the backyard?” Pamela said. “It’s much shadier back there.”

  They made their way slowly across the front yard to the driveway and along the side of the house, the ice sculpture balanced between them. Pamela tried to distract herself from the numbness that was overtaking both hands by focusing her eyes on the destination she had in mind: the ivy patch sheltered by her prize rhododendron. The rhododendron was so old it was nearly a tree, and it kept its dark, oblong leaves all winter.

  “We’ll put it here,” she said, nodding toward the huge plant. They veered toward the edge of the driveway and gently deposited the ice sculpture on the ivy. Both stepped back, each rubbing her cold and wet hands together.

  “I’ll be off then,” Dorrie said briskly. “Lots to do today.” She reached for Pamela’s hand, which was now tingling as if pricked by a million needles, and gave it a brief squeeze. “Thanks again, for everything,” she called as she strode down the driveway toward her battered van.

  Pamela had lots to do too. Upstairs, she stripped the sheets off the bed in Penny’s room and replaced the comforter and the quilt her own grandmother had made for her long ago. Gradually the tingling in her hand subsided. She checked the closet to make sure Penny hadn’t left anything crucial behind. The deep red dress that Penny had worn on Thanksgiving had been left where she found it—college social life these days apparently didn’t include fancy occasions. On the closet floor were Pamela’s own black high heels. She’d leave them there.

  On her way downstairs she’d stop in the bathroom to collect the towels Penny had used, but first she glanced around the room one final time. Her eyes paused when they reached the drawing Penny had made of her, looking rather like the heroine of a romance novel, resolute but beautiful. She supposed her recent adventure had borne out that she could indeed be resolute when the occasion demanded, and Bettina wouldn’t stop insisting that Richard Larkin was attracted to her.

  “Too, too silly,” she murmured to herself as she stepped out of the room and closed the door.

  The batch of articles in need of editing waited on her computer. She finished the one about vintage macramé handbags, worked through a profile of a textile designer who had moved in the same circles as Frank Lloyd Wright, and took a break for a quick sandwich. By the time she attached the edited versions of all five to a message of her own and clicked “send,” the view her office curtains hid was only darkness.

  Holding the banister, she felt her way down the stairs into the dark entry. In the kitchen, she flipped on the light switch, blinking at the light that bounced off the glazed floor tiles and illuminated every corner of the room. It illuminated things that might have gone unnoticed when natural daylight was enough for most tasks—things like Catrina’s dish. The little plastic dish lurked in the shadowy corner where one set of cabinets met another.

  “Oh, no!” Pamela sighed. When had Catrina last eaten? She’d scurried from Pamela’s chest the previous night when Penny came in from next door and switched on the light. And she’d been forgotten in the bustle as Penny described her newfound friendship with Richard Larkin’s daughters. Then this morning there’d been a lunch to pack for Penny and Kyle Logan, plus a surprise visit from Dorrie. Even if Pamela had remembered to fill the little plastic dish, all the coming and going would have assured that Catrina stayed out of sight.

  Now Pamela stooped to retrieve the dish and gave it a quick wash at the sink. She took a fresh can of cat food from the cupboard and cranked the can-opener around its rim. She delicately picked the now-detached lid from the smooth surface of the pinkish mixture, wondering whether the strong fish odor was more appealing to cats than to humans. As she spooned a few tablespoons from the can into the plastic dish, she became aware of something brushing her ankle. The touch was as soft and whispery as if the skin exposed between jeans leg and shoe was being tickled with a skein of the golden yarn from Amy’s plastic bin.

  She looked down to see Catrina weaving this way and that, making figure eights as she rubbed her tiny body against Pamela’s ankle. Her tail stood up stiffly with a little kink at the end, and the faintest of meows escaped from her throat. I have a cat, Pamela said to herself. It’s time to call the vet and make sure this little creature is healthy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Pamela and Bettina were the first to arrive. The tastefully modern living room was ready to welcome guests, but as they settled themselves on the low-slung sofa, a cupboard door slammed in the kitchen, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Then a masculine voice uttered a muffled curse. Roland DeCamp’s wife smiled a serene smile. “He wants to do all the refreshments himself,” she said as she perched on a sleek chair in the same deep turquoise color as the sofa. Melanie DeCamp was quite sleek herself, with her blond hair pulled into a high ponytail and her well-exercised legs clad in smooth black leggings.

  The DeCamps lived in a section of Arborville referred to as “The Farm,” though it had ceased being a farm twenty years earlier when a developer bought the land. Against a backdrop of much grumbling from the Arborville old-timers, he created a community of nearly identical split-level houses. They were huge places, with more bathrooms than anyone could need, though—in the minds of many—no charm at all. A bit of charm had been gained as the spindly twigs planted in the new development grew into substantial trees, but many of the old-timers still hadn’t forgiven the Van Ripers for trading their generations-old farmland for mere money.

  Another cupboard door slammed in the kitchen and another curse followed. Footsteps thudded in the hallway, and then came Roland’s exasperated voice. “I can’t find the coffee grinder. What have you done with it, Melanie?”

  “It’s right on the kitchen table,” his wife said sweetly. “You put it there yourself.” Roland mumbl
ed something unintelligible and the footsteps retreated. Melanie turned her attention back to Pamela. “He loves the group so much,” she said. “And the knitting is really helping him relax. He’s been so much calmer.” The doorbell chimed three descending notes, and Melanie hurried to greet the next arrival.

  “Here’s our local hero,” Nell Bascomb exclaimed, white hair adrift around her cheerful face as she stepped into the living room and caught sight of Pamela. “How are you, dear?” She deposited her knitting bag at the end of the sofa and bent over Pamela, grasping her hands. Melanie DeCamp followed with Nell’s ancient coat draped over her arm.

  “Fine,” Pamela said with a modest smile. “Just trying to forget the whole thing, really.”

  “And I guess our group has lost a member,” Nell said. She eyed the low-slung sofa warily and started to sit.

  Melanie DeCamp intervened. “Nell—here—” She touched Nell’s arm and guided her to a substantial armchair. “Roland and I can barely pull ourselves up from that sofa anymore. Only the dog really likes it.” Clicking toenails on the hallway floor announced the arrival of the DeCamps’ dachshund, Ramona. “She knows when people are talking about her,” Melanie said. “Yes, sweetie,” she added, turning toward the dog. “I’ll take you out in just a few minutes.”

  Pamela doubted that Melanie DeCamp, with her well-exercised legs, actually had trouble rising from the sofa, but Bettina chimed in, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself up,” she said, “but I can see why that short-legged little doggy likes it.”

  “Poor Jean Worthington,” Nell said after she’d retrieved her knitting bag from the sofa and begun extracting needles, yarn, and a half-finished elephant.

  “How on earth can you say ‘poor’?” Bettina leaned forward as best she could, given the dramatic pitch of the sofa. “She killed two people and almost killed Pamela. Not to mention that she stole all that money from the people of Maple Branch.”

  “Misguided, for sure,” Nell said. “But she started out in more desperate circumstances than any of us can imagine, and she thought she’d reached her goal. Jeff Morgan hired her out of a women’s shelter—that little detail was in the Register. If those two people from Maple Branch hadn’t moved to Arborville, we’d be having Knit and Nibble meetings at that fancy house and eating gourmet cookies forever. Or at least until somebody from Maple Branch eventually did move here, unless everybody was old enough at that point that nobody recognized anybody anymore.”

  The doorbell chimed again and Melanie hurried to answer it, followed by Ramona. The front door opened, and a sweet voice came from the hallway. “Am I late?”

  “It’s Karen,” Nell said, “and that reminds me—Dave has a job offer. I ran into him at the Co-Op this afternoon.”

  “Congratulations,” Pamela and Bettina said in chorus as Karen stepped into the living room.

  “What for?” Karen’s cheeks were already pink from the cold, but Pamela thought their color deepened.

  “The Arborville grapevine,” Nell explained. “I saw Dave at the Co-Op.”

  “Will you be staying in town now?” Pamela asked.

  Karen gave a delighted gasp and her lips curved into a huge smile, as if she had just realized the implications of her husband’s job offer. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we definitely will. The job is at Carradine State, a little further drive for him, but not much, and they want him to develop some new courses. That will mean a raise—more money for the home improvements.” She took a seat next to Bettina on the turquoise sofa.

  In the kitchen, Roland cursed, and there was a reverberating thump, like an oven door swinging open and bouncing on its hinges. The slight smell of burned sugar that Pamela had begun to notice while Karen was being welcomed intensified.

  “Oh, my!” Melanie raised her pretty hands to her pretty face. “I’d better check on things. He’s making something he found online—a dump cake.” She hurried toward the kitchen, where Roland’s gruff complaints gradually yielded to his wife’s soothing encouragement. Pamela caught the words “I think you noticed in time” and “That’s what ice cream is for,” and a few minutes later, Roland strode around the corner beaming with satisfaction. The leather briefcase he used for his knitting supplies was dangling from his hand.

  “Shall we get started with our knitting?” he said. “Refreshments at eight.”

  A few excited barks came from down the hallway. Pamela heard the jangle of a leash and the click of toenails, and Melanie and Ramona appeared at the entrance to the living room. “I’m taking her out now,” Melanie said, catching Roland’s eye. “Good luck with all your projects.” She smiled at the group. Melanie was bundled in a lambskin coat, with a fuzzy hat that matched the creamy fur of the coat’s wide collar. Ramona was dressed for the chilly night as well, in a doggy sweater. As Melanie bent to fasten the leash to her collar, Ramona broke away and scampered into the living room. She rushed from person to person, tail wagging furiously and licking any hands that reached out to give her a pat.

  Something about Ramona’s sweater looked familiar. It was knit from thick yarn in a natural off-white shade, and it covered the dachshund’s long back from her neck to nearly her frantic tail. Wide bands of elastic held it in place. An erratic welt of raised stitches meandered here and there on its otherwise smooth surface, like a cable that had lost its course.

  Bettina suppressed a giggle. “Is that what became of the cable-knit sweater you were making, Roland?”

  In the entry, Melanie grimaced delicately and waved a hand in a subtle warning gesture.

  Roland’s face assumed a vaguely menacing expression no doubt familiar to his legal opponents. “She needed something to keep her warm on these cold nights,” he said, in a voice that suggested no further comment would be forthcoming on that topic.

  A thought was struggling to take shape in Pamela’s mind, details hovering just at the edge of her memory—some errand she’d wanted to combine with her attendance at Knit and Nibble tonight. As soon as she opened her knitting bag, she realized what it was. Atop her supplies rested a lone knitting needle, slender and metallic.

  “Karen,” she exclaimed, brandishing it aloft. “Look what I found—or rather, what my vacuum found.”

  “Thank you!” Karen said. “I knew the other one had to be somewhere.”

  Bettina pulled its mate out of her own knitting bag. She leaned toward Pamela’s ear and whispered, “Got it back from Clayborn.”

  Karen reached out a hand for the needles. “Maybe I can get the hang of using these. Or maybe . . . Roland?” She looked toward where Roland sat on the sleek turquoise chair that matched the sofa. He raised his head from a knitting needle with a few inches of freshly cast-on yarn. “Those metal needles turned up. Are you still interested?”

  “I bought my own.” He held out his newly begun project, and the needles glinted in the lamplight.

  “Do you have a particular project in mind?” Nell asked. “Or could I recruit you to do an elephant?” Dangling from her needles was a nubby yellow oval with a smaller oval head and the beginnings of legs.

  “I’ll make an elephant,” Pamela said. She’d come to the meeting with that very aim in mind. Her next serious creation would be the Christmas sweater for Penny, but the trip to Brooklyn would have to be scheduled first. She’d trade the golden yarn made from the hair of Buster the afghan for the substitute golden yarn promised by the proprietor of That Bedford Shop—identical but for its pedigree. And she’d come away with enough skeins to make sure of not running out of yarn midway through.

  Pamela pushed herself up from the low-slung sofa and slid a small hassock next to the armchair where Nell sat. She extracted from her knitting bag a ball of orange mohair yarn that Nell pronounced to be “just enough” for an elephant, and the right color too. Under Nell’s tutelage, she was soon engrossed in her new project, picking up stitches at the end of each row to shape the curve of the elephant’s back.

  Conversation ebbed and flowed as people traded ideas f
or using Thanksgiving leftovers and agreed that going to the malls on Black Friday might be good for bargain hunters but was not worth the aggravation.

  “Anyway,” Karen Dowling said, “Dave and I have agreed that his job offer is the best Christmas present we could ever have, and we’ll save our money to spend fixing up the house.”

  “What about gifts for relatives?” Bettina asked.

  “I buy little things all year and put them away,” Karen said.

  “I do too,” Nell said. “Rummage sales. Everything doesn’t always have to be new.”

  “Rummage sales?” Roland looked up with a horrified expression on his face. “I don’t think Melanie would be happy with a gift from a rummage sale.”

  “I might.” Melanie’s voice floated in from the hallway, accompanied by the jangle of a leash. Ramona dashed past the living room doorway. Melanie paused in the opening, still bundled in her lambskin coat and the creamy wool hat. “I didn’t just marry you for your money, you silly man.”

  Looking pleased with himself in an embarrassed way, Roland turned back to his knitting. In a few minutes, Melanie was back, without the coat and hat but wearing an apron that covered her from chest to knees. “I’ll help serve the refreshments,” she said. “Are you ready for a break?”

  “It’s called a dump cake,” Roland said as people inspected the tray Melanie had deposited on the dining room table. The tray held six dessert plates, each bearing a square of cake topped with a scoop of ice cream.

  “I cut them from the middle,” Pamela heard Melanie whisper to Roland. “It was only the edges that got overdone.” She turned to the group. “I’m taking orders for tea or coffee. Coffee’s made, and I’ve got water going for tea.”

  “This looks delicious!” Bettina inspected her square of cake. “Are those walnuts?” Roland nodded. “And peaches? This time of year?”