Died in the Wool

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “That should make it very easy to prove who killed him,” Pamela said. “And soon, I hope. The ‘Killer Aardvark’ is giving the knitting club a very bad name in town.”

  Bettina had tasted her coffee and was studiously peeling the crinkled paper from her muffin. “Not so easy to prove,” she murmured. She set the paper aside and sliced the muffin in half. “Half the volunteers who worked on the rock garden probably touched that rock, including about twenty kids from the high school.”

  “But if there’s a suspect, and that person’s fingerprints or DNA are on the rock . . .”

  “Don’t make me eat alone,” Bettina said. “Get to work on that muffin.” She herself was liberally spreading butter on both halves of her muffin. She finished her task. “Obviously, Clayborn’s first thought was to talk to Brad Striker.”

  “The coach.” Pamela sipped more coffee and set to work peeling the crinkled paper off her own muffin.

  “The coach.” Bettina nodded. “He had gotten himself quite worked up about Jefferson’s op-ed piece, and he was stomping around at the festival ranting about it to anybody who would listen.”

  Pamela nodded in return. “We heard him.”

  “Apparently some of his language was downright threatening, really vicious.”

  “Jefferson would already have been dead though. He was under the knitting club table all day.” Pamela broke off a small piece of muffin and nibbled at it. “If you’d already killed a person, wouldn’t it be dumb to advertise how much you hated him?”

  “People with hot tempers don’t always act rationally,” Bettina said. “I’ve been to a few Aardvark games. Striker becomes completely unwound if the game isn’t going well, hopping up and down on the sidelines and screaming, even obscenities sometimes. I’m surprised the parents of kids on the team don’t complain.” She picked up a muffin half and took a big bite.

  “So Detective Clayborn talked to him and . . .” Pamela ate another piece of muffin and picked up her coffee cup.

  Bettina finished chewing and pronounced the muffin delicious. “Talked to him . . . and he has an alibi. He’s married, and his wife says he was home Saturday night watching the sports channel. Of course, he could have sneaked out after she went to bed. But then there’s the matter of putting the aardvark on the dead man’s chest, which most likely happened during the parade.” Bettina went on. “Several people saw Striker at the parade, and that cute Officer Anders was assigned to the parade. He says he’s pretty sure Striker was there the whole time.”

  “He wasn’t though!” Pamela set her coffee cup back on its saucer with a clunk. “He was heading back toward the library as I was on my way to the parade. It was about a quarter after eleven, and the parade had already started. I set out at eleven, and then I remembered I’d left the cash box behind, right out on the table. There wasn’t anything in it yet, but I didn’t want it to disappear. There was nobody at all in the parking lot when I retrieved the box, but I passed Brad Striker coming the other way on my way back up to Arborville Avenue.”

  “Interesting,” Bettina said. “I wonder how many people Clayborn considers ‘several.’ Officer Anders, cute though he may be, is only ‘pretty sure’ about Striker being there the whole time.” Bettina finished off the first half of her muffin and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Maybe Striker’s wife sleeps really soundly, and anyway does it really count if your alibi is your wife? Striker’s brother is on the town council, you know,” she said. “So a few strings might have been pulled. Clayborn is a decent guy though, and if the evidence was irrefutable—a witness, for example—I’m sure he wouldn’t hold back. So far the only thing for sure is that Striker was furious at Jefferson.”

  “But there aren’t any other suspects, are there?” Pamela asked.

  Bettina shook her head. “No other suspects.”

  They refilled their cups and worked on their muffins, chatting about Penny’s job and Bettina’s grandchildren. As Bettina rose to go, Pamela remembered that she had shortcakes for her. She handed them over with instructions to warm them so they could be buttered before piling on the strawberries and adding cream.

  At the door, Bettina paused. “You’re not going to try to talk me into climbing up that hill tonight, are you?” The weekly Knit and Nibble meeting was happening that evening at Nell’s house, in the section of Arborville known as the Palisades.

  “If you’re driving, I’ll grab a ride,” Pamela said.

  “There’s to be a new member,” Bettina said. “Karen Dowling’s friend.”

  “I wonder if she’ll actually come.” Pamela raised her eyebrows and twisted her lips into a wry expression. “Killer Aardvark, you know.”

  Chapter Five

  Joe Taylor was gathering dead branches into a bundle as Pamela and Bettina parked in front of the substantial house where Nell and Harold Bascomb lived. The house was built of natural stone and perched on a steep lot, reached by a street that curved this way and that as it meandered up the hill that formed the backside of the cliffs overlooking the Hudson.

  “Winter was hard on these guys,” Joe said, waving toward a bank of viburnums. “Now they’re all cleaned up and ready to grow.” He deposited the bundle at the curb and with a cheery goodnight headed down the street.

  “Hard worker,” Bettina observed. “I wonder if Wilfred could use help in our yard.”

  They made their way up the stone steps, where Harold Bascomb greeted them at the door. “They’re in the kitchen,” he said, “and the new member is here already. Karen and Roland are on their way.”

  Pamela and Bettina ventured down the long hallway that led to the kitchen. The hallway was almost a gallery, lined with the curious art Nell and Harold had collected on their many travels. Before stepping through the kitchen door, they paused.

  “We are really getting old,” Bettina whispered to Pamela. Knit and Nibble’s new member had purple streaks in her hair. She looked as young as Penny and was equally tiny, if not tinier. She and Nell were standing at Nell’s kitchen table, and Nell was beaming delightedly at her visitor.

  “Awesome.” The young woman shook her head in amazement, her pretty face aglow. “I mean it—absolutely awesome. This is the most amazing kitchen I have ever been in. You are so, so lucky.”

  As young marrieds, Nell and Harold had moved into an old house with a kitchen recently redone to 1950s tastes—and the kitchen had remained the same ever since. The counters were pink Formica and the appliances were avocado green.

  “And your amazing dishes!” The young woman gazed at the plates and cups laid out on the table, ready for the Nibble portion of the evening’s meeting. “Do you know what people would pay for these on eBay?”

  Nell’s dinnerware dated from the 1950s too. It featured abstract shapes that suggested wildflowers and wheat, in now-faded shades of coral and gold. The plates and cups shared the table with a long, foil-wrapped object.

  Nell looked up and noticed them in the doorway. “Come in, come in,” she said. “Meet our new member, Holly Perkins.”

  “I’m so glad to meet you!” Holly’s smile revealed perfect white teeth and created a small dimple in her left cheek. “I’m so excited about the club, and Karen has told me so much about all of you, and to come here tonight and get to know Nell is just . . . amazing.”

  “Hello!” Pamela and Bettina returned the greeting. “And, Nell,” Bettina said, “how are you—after our experience?”

  “None the worse for wear,” Nell said cheerfully, “police interview notwithstanding. I’m tougher than you think.” Indeed, Nell was tall and energetic, and only her white hair and wrinkled skin hinted at her age. She went on, “And if the whole thing hasn’t scared Holly off . . .”

  “Not for a minute,” Holly said. “I can’t wait to start my project.”

  They all chatted for a few minutes, then Nell picked up the foil-wrapped object and slipped it into the oven. “Cherry strudel,” she observed. “It’s even better when it’s a little warm. I wanted to serve
something healthier, like broccoli bars, but Harold prevailed.”

  “Does the Co-Op bakery make strudel now?” Bettina asked. “I never noticed.”

  “It’s not from there,” Nell said. “Harold went all the way up to the German bakery in Kringlekamack. The poor man ventured into the Co-Op yesterday and talked himself hoarse trying to defend the knitting club. The way rumors spread in this town is just ridiculous.”

  The doorbell chimed and they heard Harold’s cheerful voice, and then Roland’s, sounding peevish.

  “I parked the Porsche on this side of the street,” Roland said. “I couldn’t find a sign with the alternate-side parking days.”

  “It’s fine,” Harold said. “They never check up here in the Palisades anyway.”

  “Are you sure?” The sharp edge to Roland’s voice made him sound like he was conducting a cross-examination in court. “I don’t want to get a ticket. I pay enough to this town in taxes as it is.”

  “Perfectly fine.” Harold was a retired doctor, and his voice hadn’t lost its soothing quality. “This side is legal until midnight.”

  Roland went on. “And why the police thought I would know anything about that . . . incident . . . at Arborfest is beyond me. Clayborn quizzed me for half an hour. Trying to earn his salary, I suppose.”

  The doorbell chimed again. “That has to be Karen,” Nell said. “Shall we adjourn to the living room?”

  Holly led the way, hurrying to Karen’s side as soon as Nell had greeted her and made sure she’d survived her interview with the police. “I got here early,” Holly said. “I was so excited I couldn’t wait, and I met Nell and saw her amazing kitchen, and I met Pamela and Bettina . . .” She paused and beamed at Harold, and the dimple appeared. “And Harold, of course . . .” She seemed to run out of breath. Karen gave her a smile and quiet hello.

  “How did you two meet?” Bettina asked, as people found seats, with Holly and Karen side by side on one of the loveseats that flanked the fireplace.

  “The hardware store,” they said in unison.

  “My husband and I are restoring an old house too,” Holly added. “Just up the block from Karen’s, as it turned out, and we were both looking at paint samples.”

  “Holly has a great eye for color.” Karen gave her friend an admiring glance.

  Side by side on the other loveseat, Roland and Nell were pulling yarn and knitting needles from their knitting bags, though Roland’s knitting bag was actually a briefcase. Nell examined her partly finished project, an olive-green rectangle about ten inches wide and, so far, two inches long.

  “No more elephants?” Roland said. Nell’s previous project had been a whole herd of knitted elephant toys for the children at the Haversack women’s shelter. The elephants had given the group the idea of making the aardvarks to sell at Arborfest.

  “I’m taking a break from animals,” Nell said. “This is to be a scarf for the day laborers. Harold is involved with a group that’s collecting winter clothes for them.”

  Roland began casting on from a skein of pink angora yarn.

  “Something new for you too, Roland,” Bettina observed from across the room.

  “Not so new,” he said. “It’s another sweater for Ramona.” Ramona was the DeCamps’ dachshund. “The first one turned out so well that Melanie begged me to make another. She picked out the yarn.” Melanie was Roland’s very chic wife. Pamela could only imagine that the choice of pink angora yarn for a dachshund sweater had been tongue in cheek.

  Pamela was a bit at loose ends now that the aardvark project had been finished. She’d come to the meeting hoping for inspiration, and now she said, “I’ll make a scarf too, Nell. If you have enough yarn for another, I’ll get started right now.”

  Pamela and Bettina had settled onto the sofa that faced Nell’s grand fireplace, built of natural stone like the house itself, and with an exposed chimney that dominated that end of the room. Where a fire would have burned in winter, a huge arrangement of dried flowers now took the place of logs. More travel souvenirs decorated the mantel, including a striking African mask and a pair of carved wooden puppets from Indonesia.

  Bettina pulled her new project out of her bag, the beginnings of what was to be a stuffed cat for her new granddaughter, and flourished her knitting needles proudly. “I never thought I’d be able to knit,” she said, “but now I can. All those years with the crochet.” Bettina had been welcomed by the group despite the fact that her yarn creations were all crochet, until the time came to do the aardvark project.

  “Oh!” Holly called from across the room. “Crochet seems like it would be much harder. I’d love to learn!” Her eyes glowed with admiration.

  Total opposites, Pamela reflected, studying Karen and Holly. So curious that they should be such good friends—though she had to admit the same could be said about her and Bettina. Karen was quiet, and pale, and blond, with a sweet rosebud mouth that only occasionally curved into a smile, and a shy one at that. Holly was chatty, chatty enough for the two of them. Her dark hair (with purple streaks) framed a face with lively eyes and a mouth seemingly made to smile.

  Just now she was smiling. “Are you going to tell them your exciting news—or let them guess?” she said, fingering the few inches of delicate white knitting that hung from one of Karen’s needles.

  “An interesting new project.” Nell spoke up from the other side of the fireplace.

  Karen blushed. “It’s a sweater,” she peeped in her tiny voice.

  “A very small sweater,” Nell said kindly. “Is it going to be for a very small person?”

  “Yes,” Karen said. “That’s my news. Dave and I are going to have a baby, and we’re thrilled.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful!” Bettina set down her knitting and clapped delightedly. “Congratulations!”

  “Yes,” Pamela echoed. “Congratulations!” It seemed hardly any time at all since she had been a young married in a fixer-upper house and with a baby on the way. Now that baby was in college.

  Roland seemed bewildered, as if he’d never been called upon to offer congratulations to an expectant mother. He looked from person to person, his gaze finally resting on Karen. “Very good news,” he said, in a voice that might have been commenting on a favorable report from his stock broker. “An outstanding achievement.”

  Nell gave him a quizzical look but didn’t say anything.

  “And when is the baby due?” Bettina asked.

  “December.” Karen ducked her head, looped a strand of yarn around the knitting needle in her right hand, and began to knit.

  “And, my goodness, Holly”—Bettina leaned forward on the sofa—“you are obviously not knitting a sweater for a baby.”

  From her bag, Holly had retrieved a pair of knitting needles thick as drumsticks. From one of them dangled the beginnings of a project knit from yarn so thick that it resembled rope, but rope twisted from a soft, pale fiber. “It goes very fast,” Holly said, with one of her dazzling smiles. “I only cast on twenty stitches for this, and look how wide it is.” It was at least twenty inches wide, and the individual stitches so huge that the effect was like knitting viewed through a magnifying glass.

  “It’s going to be this.” Holly pulled a booklet from her knitting bag, opened it, and displayed a photo to the group. It showed a slender young woman with a dramatic, cropped hairstyle. She was wearing a black turtleneck, black leggings, and heavy black boots—topped off with a bulky white jacket knitted from yarn like Holly’s. “Everyone wants to knit now,” she said. “There are such amazing things to make.”

  Pamela focused on the scarf for the day laborers and let her mind wander, summoning it back when it wandered too close to the events of the previous Sunday. At her side, Bettina whispered numbers. She was casting on for another piece of the in-progress cat, which was to be bright yellow. No one else spoke. Karen and Holly were both intent on their projects. Nell finished a row and held the growing length of fuzzy brown up for inspection. Roland picked up his skein
of pink angora and tugged a longer strand of yarn free.

  Bettina reached the number of stitches she was casting on and then was silent. For a long time there was no sound in the room but clicking needles. From the street the occasional passing car could be heard, or a chirping bug—Nell preferred open windows to air conditioning on all but the hottest nights.

  “Killer aardvark,” Roland said suddenly.

  Pamela heard herself gasp. The sofa trembled as Bettina sat upright. On the loveseat to the left of the fireplace, Karen and Holly both lowered their knitting to their laps and stared across the room at Roland. Nell stared at him too, her gentle face distressed.

  “Well, it’s what we’re all thinking, isn’t it?” Roland said.

  “We are,” Bettina said sadly. “At least I am. I can’t even go to the Co-Op anymore, and yesterday I was picking up my dry cleaning when a woman came out of Hyler’s Luncheonette to tell me that she bought an aardvark for her grandson, and now he’s afraid to even have it in his room.”

  “I’ve heard things too,” Holly said. “Like somebody wants to collect all the aardvarks and have a bonfire. Please! Arborville is the suburbs, but—hello?—do people leave their brains behind when they move here?” She seized the strand of giant yarn that snaked across her lap and jerked it around her waiting needle.

  “It’s just a few people,” Karen said in a soft voice, looking sideways at her friend. “Really.”

  “It’s not just a few.” Bettina stirred, and the sofa trembled again, sending Pamela’s ball of yarn bouncing to the floor. Pamela bent to retrieve it. “It’s everywhere I go,” Bettina said, “and all over AccessArborville. Nobody’s posting about anything else.”

  “Not quite true. Someone on Catalpa Avenue is giving away a bookcase,” Nell observed.

  “Well, hardly anything else.” The words came out high-pitched and scratchy, hardly Bettina’s voice at all. Pamela didn’t know if Bettina was really angry or about to cry, or both. “And have you heard that there’s a movement afoot to change the high-school mascot?”