“You got it!” Bettina whispered.
“Harold,” Pamela whispered back.
“What a guy.” She unlocked Pamela’s door. “Let’s throw our stuff in the car and nose around in there right now. According to Clayborn, the police are done. And I didn’t notice any crime-scene tape as we turned the corner tonight.”
“Not a good idea,” Pamela said. “We’d have to turn on lights, and it would be obvious to the neighbors that somebody was inside. Better to come back tomorrow morning.”
* * *
On Orchard Street, Pamela’s porch light was on, welcoming her back to her little clapboard house. A bright window on the second floor told her that Penny was home.
Chapter Seven
Pamela’s days started earlier in summer than in winter. On May mornings she often opened her eyes when it was barely six a.m., as the brightening sky made the white eyelet curtains at her bedroom windows glow. She was awake now, her mind letting go of a last dream fragment, displaced by the concerns of the day.
The key to Randall Jefferson’s house! That was her first conscious thought. The second was that something didn’t seem right. For more than half a year, the luxurious stretch with which Pamela greeted the day had triggered a stirring under the bedclothes. A warm shape would make its way along the side of her body, and then Catrina would creep out onto the pillow, her soft fur grazing Pamela’s cheek. This morning, Pamela was alone. She sat up, swiveled around, and lowered her feet to the rag rug at the side of her bed. She crossed the room and took her summer robe from the hook on the back of the door.
“Mo-om!” It was Penny, out in the hall. “Are you up? I thought I heard you.”
Was something wrong? No cat, and now Penny calling for her mother quite a bit earlier than she usually rose. Pamela swung the door back, robe still in her hand.
“Look what I found.” Penny stood barefoot, her light summer gown and tousled hair making her look like the little girl whose nightmares Pamela had once soothed. “Or rather, she found me,” Penny added, cuddling Catrina against her shoulder. “She was in my bed when I woke up.”
“I guess she’s decided you’re part of the family now,” Pamela said, giving the cat a quick scratch between the ears. Catrina jumped out of Penny’s arms and looked up expectantly at Pamela until she fetched her slippers and headed for the stairs.
* * *
In the kitchen, Pamela pulled on her robe and spooned a few dabs of cat food into a fresh bowl. She smiled as Catrina set to work on her meal. The next chore was starting water for coffee and setting out beans to grind. Then she interrupted her breakfast preparations to fetch the newspaper from the front walk—it would be hard to enjoy her toast and coffee while wondering about the day’s coverage of the “Killer Aardvark” story.
She hurried back to the porch with the newspaper, extracted it from its flimsy plastic bag, and—holding her breath—unfolded it. Two large color pictures, but one showed the governor glowering at a crowd of reporters as a helicopter waited in the background, and the other, a group of Boy Scouts. Her eyes quickly skimmed the headlines, and she sighed with relief when none of them mentioned Arborville, aardvarks, or even murder. Perhaps there was something on an inner page, but new developments would surely have merited a front-page story.
“No,” called a voice from the sidewalk. “There’s nothing new today—and I guess that means Clayborn didn’t have anything to tell them.” Bettina hurried up the walk. Her face was bare of makeup, but she was dressed in a stylish outfit of linen pants and matching top in pale orange.
“You’re up and out early,” Pamela said as Bettina joined her on the porch.
“I’m excited!” Bettina said. “And you know why. I hope you put that key in a safe place last night.”
“It’s safe,” Pamela said. “Come on in. There’s going to be coffee. And you can say hi to Penny before she leaves for work.”
“I’ll talk to Clayborn later today,” Bettina said as she followed Pamela into the house. “The Advocate already went to press for the week, but I’ll tell him I can squeeze in another article if he has any news about the murder, to ease the minds of the worried citizens of Arborville who pay his salary.”
In the kitchen, the kettle was whistling frantically, a plume of steam rising from its spout. “You go up and get dressed,” Bettina said. “I’ll make the coffee.” She set about grinding the beans as Pamela retreated and headed for the stairs.
Pamela went first to her office, where she pushed the button on her computer and listened to the peeps and whirs that announced it was coming to life. Five messages waited in her inbox, but she opened only the one from her boss at Fiber Craft. “Thanks for the evaluations,” she read. “That last one needs major editing, as you no doubt noticed, but you’re right to point out that an article on weaving your own bed linens will be a big hit with the survivalists among our readership. Here are five more to look at. No hurry.”
Pamela hadn’t been serious and doubted Fiber Craft’s readership extended to survivalists, but her boss didn’t always get her jokes.
By the time Pamela returned to the kitchen, dressed in her summer uniform of jeans and a cotton blouse, Penny was settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of her. The cut-glass cream pitcher and sugar bowl sat nearby. Bettina was standing at the counter holding a heel of bread. “This is the end—literally—of your whole-grain bread.” She regarded it sadly. “The second-to-last piece and the third-to-last piece are in the toaster.”
“I’ll eat the heel,” Pamela said. In fact, she wasn’t very hungry. She was as excited as Bettina was about the adventure they had planned for that morning, and excitement always took away her appetite. “I knew the cupboards were getting bare,” Pamela said. “I guess it’s time for a trip to the Co-Op . . .” Her voice trailed off as she reached the end of the sentence. “Or somewhere,” she added, picturing herself fending off questions, and even accusations, as she browsed the Co-Op’s narrow aisles or lingered in front of its tempting bakery counter.
“I could go,” Penny said. “I don’t think people would connect me with the knitting club.”
“You have your bus to catch,” Pamela said. She poured herself a cup of coffee but remained standing.
A muffled click announced that the toaster had finished its work. Bettina laid the two slices of toast on a cutting board and slid the cutting board onto the table, where butter, a knife, and napkins awaited. Then she slipped the heel into the toaster.
“Go ahead—both of you,” Pamela said. She sipped her coffee, then opened the refrigerator to retrieve a jar of jam, which she set on the table.
“Are you still enjoying the job?” Bettina asked, as she took a seat and began to spread butter, and then jam, on the two slices of toast.
“I love it,” Penny said.
“And you’re becoming quite the fashionista, I see.”
“I’ve been going thrifting in Manhattan with Laine Larkin,” Penny said. “She knows the best places.” Penny was wearing a fetching green print dress with a demure white collar. She’d tamed her dark curls with a headband, revealing earlobes adorned with little pearl earrings.
Pamela joined them at the table when her toast was ready, and they chatted about Penny’s job until Penny looked at the clock, jumped up, and hurried out. “I can go to the Co-Op when I get home,” she called just before the door closed behind her.
“My cupboards are bare too,” Bettina said. “Let’s go to that big supermarket in Meadowside after we see what Randall Jefferson’s house has to tell us.”
* * *
“We’ll take my car,” Bettina said as they stepped onto the porch, “in case we need to make a quick getaway.”
“You’re not nervous, are you?” Pamela said with a laugh. “You were all set to do this last night. We’ll go in, look around. What could possibly happen?”
“Nothing,” Bettina said. “I’m just joking—and I don’t want to walk up that hill.”
; It was the type of day that seems to promise only good things. The lawns were still green from the spring rains, a breeze softened the late May sun, and up and down the street, azaleas had come alive with colors that ranged from pale coral to deepest violet.
“Come in for a minute,” Bettina said when they reached the other side of the street. “I’ll finish getting ready and grab my keys.”
They stepped inside Bettina’s comfortable living room to find Wilfred busy with lemon oil and a dust cloth. Woofus the shelter dog trotted in from the dining room, his toenails clicking against the floor. He headed toward Bettina but caught sight of Pamela and retreated nervously. “It’s okay, boy,” Bettina cooed, reaching out a hand. “You know Pamela.” Woofus was a large shaggy creature who would have been intimidating but for his diffident air. He dipped his head gracefully and let Bettina stroke him. After a quick pat, he returned to the dining room and Bettina headed up the stairs. “Back in a minute,” she called.
“That smells so nice,” Pamela said, the lemony scent evoking scenes of domestic order and tranquility.
“Many hands make light work,” Wilfred said cheerfully, sprinkling a bit of oil on his cloth and tackling a lamp table.
In a few minutes, Bettina was back, lipstick in place, a bit of eye shadow dabbed on her eyelids, and coral and gold earrings dangling from her ears. Wilfred looked over as she picked up her keys from a table near the door, his head cocked as if he was about to ask a question.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Bettina said. Before he could speak, she added, “Nothing much—just a quick errand.”
* * *
Randall Jefferson’s house was an imposing structure, buff-colored stucco with half-timber details and a steep roof. It was made all the more imposing by its location on a hillside lot. Meandering slate steps led through drifts of shrubbery up to the front door, actually double doors, of well-cared-for wood with carved details and leaded-glass windows. Pamela and Bettina looked around to make sure no one on the block was out at this early hour and then climbed the steps.
Pamela twisted the key in the lock and pushed the right-hand door open. She and Bettina paused, and watched as the door swung back to reveal a shadowy hall paneled in dark wood. Pamela stepped inside first, treading hesitantly, glancing from right to left. Soft light spilled through an opening ahead. She tiptoed up to it. She could hear Bettina moving stealthily behind her. They gazed into a large room that opened off to the left. The light came through the windows, filtered through sheer curtains framed by heavy swathes of brocade.
“My, my,” Bettina whispered. “He certainly did have a lot of nice things, though it’s a bit much for my taste.”
The room looked like it had been decorated many decades previously and not touched since. But the furnishings chosen then had been such good quality that the room could have been taken for a recent creation, the collaboration of a high-end decorator and a well-connected antiques dealer. The sofas and chairs glowed with velvety luster, and the graceful lines and elegant detailing of the wooden pieces—chests, cabinets, and tables—reminded Pamela of furniture she’d seen in museums. Paintings in ornate gold frames crowded the walls: impressionistic landscapes, renderings of flowers and fruit, and portraits of women in filmy dresses and large hats.
“It doesn’t look like he really lived in this room,” Pamela said. “Let’s press on.”
“This must be the dining room right behind us,” Bettina said. Opening off the other side of the hall was an equally large room with similar window treatments, at least as much art, and an enormous, gleaming table with twelve chairs arranged in perfect symmetry. A collection of crystal decanters glittered on the sideboard.
“He must have had a den, or study, and bedrooms of course,” Pamela said. “Shall we head for the stairs?”
The dark wood paneling continued up the stairs, which were extra wide with sweeping banisters on both sides, as if people had once descended grandly from the upper reaches of the house to greet their guests. At the top of the stairs they found themselves on a landing with six closed doors, three on each side, and a window on the back wall.
“Here goes nothing,” Bettina said. She opened the nearest door and nearly shouted, “Good guess! It’s his study.” She flung the door back. A huge wooden desk, dark as ebony, dominated the room, its surface bare except for an expensive-looking pen set and a crystal bowl containing paper clips. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered all four walls, interrupted by windows on two sides.
“No computer?” Pamela said. “I guess a computer wouldn’t have fit with the style of the house.”
“The police have it,” Bettina said. “Clayborn told me. That’s one of the first things they look at—who did the victim communicate with and so on. Maybe somebody who didn’t like him. But nothing on it has pointed to any new suspects—at least so far.”
“Lots of old photographs,” Pamela said. She edged around the side of the desk to study an assortment of small photos, some framed in silver, others unframed and leaning haphazardly against books, interrupted by small knick-knacks. Meanwhile Bettina was scanning the other shelves.
“Hey, Wilfred reads this journal sometimes,” she said. “The historical society has a subscription.”
Pamela turned to see Bettina pointing at a row of slender volumes bound in unassuming gray. She tilted her head to read the words that ran along the length of the spine: Studies in Eighteenth-Century American History.
“The eighteenth century was a big deal in New Jersey,” Bettina said. “George Washington’s retreat and all of that.” In fact, the oldest house in Arborville was a pink sandstone structure that had belonged to a Tory sympathizer during the Revolutionary War.
Pamela returned to studying the photographs, drawn to one that seemed to show the very house they were standing in, with a man and two children posing in front of it. Bettina began to page through one of the little gray volumes.
“Wow,” she said after a few minutes. “Listen to this, from the Letters to the Editor section. ‘The article about the role the Dutch farmers in the Hudson Valley played in the Revolutionary War, by Mister Randall Jefferson (esteemed I am sure by his colleagues at Arborville High School but by no one else), not only drew questionable conclusions but drew them from incorrect facts.’ The letter goes on in that vein,” she added, “and it’s signed, Marcus Verteel, Ph.D., Professor of History, Wendelstaff College.”
“Somebody who didn’t like him!” Pamela said. “Good find! I guess Clayborn didn’t think of looking through Studies in Eighteenth-Century American History. But given a letter like that, wouldn’t it have made more sense if Randall Jefferson had murdered Marcus Verteel?”
“Maybe they fought,” Bettina said.
“In the parking lot of the Arborville Public Library? With rocks?”
“Spur of the moment?” Bettina said. “Or maybe Jefferson had said equally mean things about Marcus Verteel. Maybe I can find the article Verteel thought was so terrible. Jefferson might have been taking apart some theory of his.”
Pamela watched while Bettina squinted at the spines of the little volumes. “Here’s the previous one,” she said. “He lined them up right in order—very tidy.”
Bettina pulled it from the shelf and opened it at random. As Bettina flipped pages back and forth, Pamela’s gaze returned to the photo of the house. She supposed that she and Bettina were at that moment standing in the room behind the right-hand window on the second floor. She took a few steps and peeked out. She was gazing down into the front yard. If she craned her neck she could see Bettina’s car, half a block distant. They’d purposely parked far enough away that no neighbor would wonder why Randall Jefferson, now dead, seemed to be entertaining visitors. And right below the window was a huge rhododendron bush, so huge she could have picked a few of its deep fuchsia blooms if the window had been open.
The rhododendron had to be very old. She checked the photo of the house again. In the spot now occupied by the giant rhododendron
was a bush that reached to the knees of the man standing in front of the house. Possibly the same rhododendron. Judging by the clothes of the people in the picture, the photo had been taken decades earlier, maybe fifty years. The next time she ran into Joe Taylor, she’d try to remember to ask him how long rhododendrons lived.
Bettina was reading intently, her lips shaping an amused smile. Marking her place with a finger and closing the volume, she looked up. “Randall Jefferson reviewed a book by Marcus Verteel,” she said. “Something about George Washington’s New Jersey battles—and he didn’t like it at all. Listen to this.” She opened the volume again and read, “Of course, who could expect a Belgian to truly understand the true meaning of the American Revolution, or anything American, for that matter? This so-called historian should go back to his own little country.”
In her editing for Fiber Craft, Pamela came upon occasional cases where professional rivalries spilled over into print. She usually edited those parts out, or at least softened the language. Apparently the editors of Studies in Eighteenth-Century American History preferred to let the chips fall where they might.
“There’s something by Marcus Verteel in this issue too,” Bettina said, turning over a few pages. “An article, something about George Washington—I guess he’s really into him—but along the way he says, ‘I have skipped mentioning the ideas advanced by Randall Jefferson. Only a case of massive hubris would embolden a mere high-school teacher to imagine he had anything worthwhile to contribute to the topic of Washington’s retreat on that fateful day.’”
“Well,” Pamela said. “They hated each other. Definitely something to keep in mind. Are you going to tell Detective Clayborn?”
Bettina shrugged. “Maybe they just enjoyed throwing words at each other. It seems kind of tenuous. Of course, we don’t know what this Verteel character is like. Maybe he’s a Belgian Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or Clint Eastwood.” She slipped the two little volumes back into place. “Shall we try another room?” she said.
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