Died in the Wool

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “Oh, dear,” Nell said. “They’ve been the Aardvarks forever, way back to when Harold’s and my children were in school here, and even before. Varks! Varks! Go, Varks, go!” She laughed. “I can hear that chant like it was yesterday.”

  “What other animal starts with A?” Roland said. He rested his knitting in his lap and looked off into space, pondering the question.

  “Armadillo?” Holly suggested.

  “Sounds like something from Texas,” Roland said. “Albatross?”

  “Isn’t that a sea bird?” Pamela asked. “We’re not exactly a shore town.”

  “Antelopes?” Holly said with a laugh. “Though antelopes don’t exactly come to mind when you think of football players.”

  “Do aardvarks?” Roland asked with a scowl.

  “Not really. But armadillos maybe. Sort of bulky . . .” Holly shrugged.

  “It won’t be our decision,” Bettina said, in that same unfamiliar voice. “But they’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

  Roland scowled harder. “A new mascot will undoubtedly mean new uniforms, new signage, new everything. And who foots the bill? The taxpayer, of course.” Nell suppressed a smile. “And meanwhile”—Roland’s lean face was stern—“what, if anything, have our public servants actually done to solve this crime? Nobody’s been arrested that I’ve heard of.”

  “True,” Bettina said.

  “I’d go after Brad Striker,” Roland said. “He was certainly making his feelings about Randall Jefferson clear at Arborfest.”

  “He has an alibi,” Bettina said. “He was home with his wife Saturday night. She’s backing him up.”

  “Wives can lie,” Roland said. “The Register said the murder weapon was a rock from the library rock garden. That means they can get fingerprints and DNA.”

  “The rock will have fingerprints and DNA from half the people who worked on the rock garden, including a bunch of high-school kids,” Pamela said. “And it will have my fingerprints and DNA because I donated the rock.”

  “I doubt Brad Striker worked on the rock garden,” Roland said with a laugh. “He’s hardly the type. So if his fingerprints and DNA are on the rock . . .”

  Holly was paying close attention to Roland’s argument, the beginnings of her chunky-yarn project resting unattended in her lap like a pile of rope. Now she spoke up. “If he did it because he wanted revenge for the op-ed Randall Jefferson wrote, it would be dumb to make that obvious by putting the aardvark on the dead man’s chest. Revenge of the aardvark? Wouldn’t he want people to think the motive was anything but that and the killer anyone but him?”

  “I agree,” Pamela said. She was liking Holly Perkins more and more by the minute.

  “The murder happened late Saturday night,” Nell said. “The aardvarks weren’t available in the booth till the next day. So the killer put the aardvark on Jefferson’s chest several hours after he killed him.”

  “What if the killer made his own aardvark and had it with him when he clunked Jefferson with the rock?” Holly asked. Karen was watching her friend with a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

  “It was one of my aardvarks,” Pamela said. She felt her mouth twist into a rueful smile. “Detective Clayborn asked me to identify it.”

  “What if a different person put the aardvark there,” Holly said. “Not the killer.”

  “Not logical,” Roland said, as if refuting an argument in court. “That ‘different person’ would have had to know there was a body under the table, and anyway why would the ‘different person’ even want to do that?”

  “Discredit the knitting club?” Holly said with a shrug. “Have you ever rejected anyone who wanted to join?”

  “Oh, dear—we would never—” Nell began.

  Bettina cut in. “That’s just preposterous.” She glared at Holly and then shifted her glare to Roland. Her voice rose an octave. “It’s all very well to talk, talk, talk, but what are we going to do about this? I’m tired of not even being able to shop for groceries or pick up my dry cleaning in my own town.”

  Holly looked suitably chastened, but Roland’s tense face relaxed slightly and he smiled. “That’s an excellent point.” He nodded at Holly, then let his gaze travel around the room. “Have you ever rejected someone who wanted to join?”

  “Of course not.” Bettina set her knitting aside and leaned forward. “We even let you in.”

  Roland’s smile vanished. “If you meant that to be funny, it isn’t.”

  Bettina pulled herself upright. “Maybe I meant it to be true.” She gulped. “This is all so . . .” Her voice broke.

  Pamela reached an arm around her friend and Bettina leaned toward Pamela’s shoulder. Nell rose to her feet. “Let’s all have some refreshments,” she said, rubbing her hands together and mustering a smile.

  “I’ll help.” Holly jumped up, and the knitting project sprang from her lap to the floor as if alive.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you okay?” Pamela asked Bettina as the others trooped toward the kitchen. She searched her friend’s hazel eyes and watched as a few tears overflowed onto Bettina’s cheeks.

  “I love this town,” Bettina said. “And it really hurts me that people just . . . jump to the conclusion that the knitting club had something to do with Randall Jefferson’s murder.” Her voice was calmer now, but mournful. “And the ridiculous thing is that nobody even liked him very much. Like Wilfred says, speak no ill of the dead, but I never heard a single person say they liked him. Sure, he was brilliant, an asset to the high school and a credit to the town and all that . . .” She sighed and shook her head.

  “Maybe we can do a little research,” Pamela said as they both stood up. She faced Bettina and rested her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “There might be angles Detective Clayborn hasn’t thought of.”

  By the time they reached the kitchen, Holly was placing slices of cherry strudel on dessert plates, exclaiming again about how much she loved Nell’s vintage 1950s dinnerware. “And this silverware,” she added, fingering a stainless steel fork. “Amazing!”

  “May I?” Roland reached for a plate.

  “There’s ice cream too,” Nell whispered. Indeed, an open quart of ice cream sat on a plate near the strudel platter.

  “I’m not supposed to . . . my doctor . . .” Roland hesitated. “But just a spoonful.”

  Holly scooped a generous portion of ice cream onto Roland’s strudel.

  “You can be very argumentative,” Roland said. “Did you go to law school?”

  “The Haversack Academy of Hair Design,” Holly said with a laugh. “My husband and I own a salon in Meadowside.”

  “There’s tea,” Nell said, “and coffee.” A squat brown teapot waited on the counter, and an ancient aluminum percolator bubbled on the stove.

  “And milk and sugar,” Holly chimed in. She nodded toward a cream pitcher and sugar bowl featuring the same wildflower and wheat pattern that decorated the dessert plates and the cups and saucers. She had finished serving the strudel and was offering cups around.

  Six pieces of strudel, swirling layers of golden-brown pastry and deep red cherries visible at their cut ends, waited unclaimed on plates. “Please—ever yone—help yourselves,” Nell said. “And the extra slice is for Harold. He always senses when food is being served.”

  “I smelled the coffee.” Harold’s voice came from down the hallway. “And I certainly want to taste that strudel I drove all the way to Kringlekamack for.”

  “Well!” Bettina’s voice sounded normal again. “It certainly looks worth the drive—and, yes, I will take a bit of ice cream too.” She and Pamela reached for plates and forks, helped themselves to ice cream, and waited while Holly poured coffee for them.

  “We’ll eat in the living room,” Nell said. “Go ahead. I’ll bring some napkins when I come.”

  Pamela and Bettina proceeded down the hallway, and Roland followed. Soon Harold joined them and perched on the fireplace’s wide hearth. He and Nell could almost hav
e been brother and sister. He was tall and rangy, with white hair, and eyes that were faded, but lively. Holly and Karen came next, Holly bearing a pile of well-worn, but clean and pressed, cloth napkins that she passed out before taking her seat beside Karen.

  Nell was the last to arrive. She surveyed her guests before sitting down. “Does everyone have everything they need? Please speak up.”

  “Ummm . . . fine,” Bettina murmured and picked up her fork. “Wonderful,” she pronounced after a minute.

  Pamela sampled a bite. Indeed, the strudel was wonderful—the pastry flaky and buttery, and the cherries a rich burst of sweetness balanced by a hint of tartness. She took a sip of Nell’s percolator coffee. Almost no one else made coffee that way anymore, and it seemed extra intense and almost bitter, but in a way that made the strudel all the sweeter.

  “This is the best strudel I have ever tasted,” Holly pronounced, looking up from her half-eaten piece. “How did you know where to find it, Harold? You said you went all the way to a bakery in Kringlekamack.”

  Harold raised his head looking pleased with himself. “I’ve been going there for years, my dear,” he said. “Probably since before you were born.”

  “And it’s been there all that time,” Holly said. “Awesome.”

  People ate in silence for a few minutes. Nell offered more coffee and tea, and hurried to the kitchen to fetch refills. Harold set his plate down on the hearth with a tiny clunk and glanced around the room. “But I hope I can go back to the Co-Op again someday—without having to defend the Arborville knitting club to all and sundry. And it doesn’t help that Jefferson was our neighbor. I can barely put the recycling or the trash at the curb without somebody charging out of their house with some crazy theory.”

  “Randall Jefferson was your neighbor?” Holly’s eyes were wide.

  “Two doors down—the house on the corner where the cross street comes up the hill.”

  “Harold!” Nell’s voice came from the hallway, its tone like a mother scolding a wayward child. “Don’t bring Randall Jefferson up.” She appeared at the entrance to the living room. “We are trying to have a pleasant evening.”

  Harold gave her a sheepish look and became very interested in the fresh cup of coffee she handed him. Roland accepted his coffee and said, “Insomnia for sure.”

  “Tea is coming next,” Nell said, and headed back to the kitchen.

  Holly jumped up and followed her. “I’ll bring the milk and sugar out,” she said.

  Roland edged farther down the loveseat so he was just a few feet from where Harold perched on the hearth. “Did you know Randall Jefferson?” he whispered. The whisper, however, carried to where Pamela was sitting.

  “Sort of,” Harold whispered back. “As much as anybody could. He was a bit standoffish. But he seemed to trust Nell. He gave her a copy of his house key in case he ever locked himself out. Absent-minded professor, I guess, though he wasn’t actually a professor.”

  Holly hurried back in with the cream pitcher and sugar bowl, which she set on the coffee table. Soon Nell returned with fresh cups of tea for herself and Karen. “Are you still talking about that?” she asked with a frown. “I told you we were trying to have a pleasant evening, Harold.”

  Harold cringed, but in a joking way.

  “I mean it, Harold,” she said, her hands trembling. A bit of tea slopped onto the ancient wood floor.

  Pamela had never seen Nell so agitated before. A new topic of conversation was definitely called for. “You have a gardener,” she exclaimed brightly. “Joe Taylor is working for you now.”

  Nell didn’t exactly smile, but her face softened. She acknowledged Pamela with a grateful nod, delivered Karen’s tea, and set her own on the coffee table.

  Harold bounded up. “I’ll wipe the spill,” he said, and hurried off toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, he is,” Nell said in answer to Pamela’s question. She settled in next to Roland on the loveseat. “Such an industrious young man.”

  “I think he does some work for the town too,” Pamela said. “He was planting salvia in front of Borough Hall yesterday.”

  “He’d been living in California,” Nell said. “Very different plants out there. He says he’s had quite a learning curve.”

  Holly had been watching attentively, her expressive face mirroring Nell’s distress and then brightening as the conversation took a more benign turn. “Who’d want to move here from California?” she asked. “Don’t most people go the other way?”

  “He told me he has family out here,” Nell said. “And he’s hoping to study at Wendelstaff College. Ornamental horticulture. Apparently their program is quite good.”

  Harold returned with a cloth and stooped to dab up the small puddle of tea near the entrance to the living room. Bettina set her coffee cup down and picked up her knitting. Holly began to collect empty plates, cups, and saucers as people retrieved their projects and set back to work.

  A silence broken only by the click of knitting needles can be companionable. Tonight, however, the atmosphere seemed strained. Harold had finished his cleanup chore and left without saying a word. The topic of Joe the gardener had foundered. Perhaps, Pamela reflected, all that could be said had been said—but maybe she had just dropped the conversational ball. She could have enthused about Wendelstaff’s reputation, or Joe’s work ethic. She was pondering ways to get things started again when Bettina spoke up, observing that details for the Arborville Fourth of July celebration would soon be announced.

  “The details will hardly be a surprise,” Roland commented from his corner of the loveseat, “since the town does exactly the same thing every year.”

  “Oh, the details will be a surprise to me,” Holly exclaimed from across the room. “It’s my first summer in Arborville. There will be fireworks, I hope.”

  “Yes,” Karen said, turning to her friend. “It’s a big celebration, in the park where Arborfest was . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Arborfest,” Nell murmured, half to herself.

  Her heart’s sudden thud was so loud, Pamela wondered if the whole group had heard it. She felt her fingers speed up in time with her pulse, and with each needle thrust she imagined herself attacking something. But what? The person who had disrupted the idyll of a small town’s summer festival? Or the silly people in that very town who had nothing to do but gossip about a harmless knitting club? She had begun the scarf project just this evening, but six inches of knitting already hung from her needles. At this rate, it would be finished in no time.

  She was roused from her meditations by Roland’s voice. “Nine p.m.,” he announced, consulting his handsome and obviously expensive wristwatch. “Time for me to pack up.” He surveyed the first few inches of the pink angora doggie sweater he was knitting, smiled with satisfaction, and tucked the project into his briefcase.

  “My whole back is finished!” Holly’s giant chunky yarn had been shaped into a knitted rectangle so bulky and stiff it barely looked like it could be part of a wearable garment.

  “So is mine, almost.” Dangling from Karen’s needles was a delicate white rectangle with the beginnings of armholes.

  “Shall we?” Bettina said, and reached for her knitting bag.

  “I’m ready to get going,” Pamela said. “Just let me finish this row.” She finished the row, but then she watched Holly and Karen pack up. She remained on the sofa, hand on Bettina’s arm, as Nell escorted the two young women, along with Roland, to the door.

  A few minutes later, Pamela and Bettina were standing at the entrance to the living room listening to the farewells at the front door, when Harold came creeping along the hallway. He twisted his face into a comical exaggeration of nervousness. “Is she still mad at me?” he asked.

  The front door closed. They heard Nell’s voice before they saw her. “Harold!” she called, then she joined them, took one look at his face, and burst out laughing. “Thanks for cleaning up the tea,” she said at last, and slipped an arm around his waist. Old marr
ied couples, Pamela reflected. Not a bad way to grow old.

  “We’re on our way too,” Bettina said. She took a step toward the entry, but Pamela pulled her back. She turned around and gave Pamela a puzzled look.

  “Nell?” Pamela hadn’t meant her voice to sound so tentative, but Nell seemed to sense that something serious was coming.

  “What is it, dear?” She looked straight into Pamela’s eyes.

  “I want to go into Randall Jefferson’s house.” Pamela blurted it out. She knew Nell wasn’t the type to be cajoled.

  “What . . . ?” Nell pulled back, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

  “Harold said you have a key. I want to go into Randall Jefferson’s house.”

  “Oh, no,” Nell said. “You think you’re going to figure out something that the police can’t figure out. You may have gotten lucky that other time, but I’m not going to be party to your getting involved in something dangerous.” Pamela watched Nell carefully, hoping she wouldn’t get upset again. At least she wasn’t carrying tea cups now.

  “But you’ve always been adventurous, Nell—you and Harold. The trips, the volunteering in exotic places . . .” Pamela reflected that perhaps now she was cajoling.

  “We were young then, and foolish sometimes,” Nell said. Bettina took another step toward the entry and Nell reached for her arm. “Harold,” Nell said. “Let’s show our guests to the door.” Nell and Bettina proceeded through the entry. Harold took Pamela’s arm, but he tugged her toward the hallway. There, dangling from a hook next to an African mask, was a solitary key.

  “Take it,” Harold whispered. “I like women who have guts.” Pamela slipped the key from its hook and closed her fingers around it.

  She joined Bettina at the door. They made their way down the steps that led through azalea and rhododendron bushes to the sidewalk. The night air was muggy but cool, and the bugs were louder outside. Pamela waited until they reached Bettina’s car to open her hand and display the key.