Died in the Wool

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “Look—” Pamela held out the photo. “It’s this house, ages ago.” She pointed to the knee-high shrub in the picture and then at the fuchsia blooms waving in the breeze just beyond the window. “And this is that giant rhododendron.”

  Bettina reached for the photograph. “Nice-looking kids,” she said. “And the guy—pretty dreamy, in a British aristocrat sort of way.” She fingered the edge. “Looks like there was somebody else in the picture too, but before Photoshop you just had to cut them off.” She held the photo out toward Pamela. Indeed, the proportions were wrong. A four-inch by six-inch photo had been turned into a four-inch by five-inch photo. “Acrimonious divorce?” Bettina said, stepping toward the shelf. “Where does it go, anyway? Here, by the couple showing off their sailboat?”

  “Down at the end,” Pamela said. “Next to the graduation photo in the silver frame.”

  Back out on the landing, Bettina pointed at the doors one by one, chanting “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe . . . this one!” She skipped across the floor and pushed open the door to the other front-facing room. “He was a tidy man,” she said.

  They were gazing into a bedroom, as neatly made up as if ready for a photo shoot in a decorating magazine. The grand king-sized bed had an ornate carved ebony headboard and a matching footboard. A quilted brocade spread curved over a pair of carefully aligned pillows. Marble-topped night tables on either side held lamps made of Chinese vases.

  “Maybe this is just the guest room,” Bettina said.

  “No, I think he really slept here, or someone did,” Pamela said. “Look—there’s a pair of glasses on the night table, and a book.” She took a few steps across the carpet and picked up the book. “Legacy of the Revolution,” she read. The cover showed a group of serious-looking men in powdered wigs conferring over a document. She held the book up for Bettina to see.

  “Definitely his taste in literature,” Bettina said. She was standing at the dresser now. “And look here—cufflinks.” She displayed one in her palm. It was a golden oval, burnished rather than shiny, engraved with the initials RWJ.

  “I guess he was wearing his second-best cufflinks the night he was killed,” Pamela said.

  Bettina set the cufflink down and advanced toward a door in the back wall. She opened it to reveal a row of hangers bearing jackets, pants, and faultlessly starched and pressed shirts. On the back of the closet door was a rack from which ties, mostly bow ties, dangled.

  “No clues in here that I can see,” Pamela said. “At least not so far. Should we go through the pockets of all his jackets and pants, do you think?”

  “We could,” Bettina said. “But he was so fastidious he probably never put anything away without checking the pockets himself.”

  “How about the wastebasket then?” Pamela said. It was an old-fashioned one made of tin and decorated with a flower pattern, tucked between the far side of the dresser and the window that looked out on the front yard. She leaned over it to peer inside. “Empty,” she pronounced. She advanced farther into the room. In the far corner was a velvet-covered armchair, deep green, with a matching footstool. It was flanked by a brass floor lamp on one side and a little table on the other. The table held a stack of magazines.

  “More reading material,” Bettina said, joining her. “He had quite the cozy setup here.” They thumbed through the magazines, copies of The New Yorker, with a few Opera News and National Geographic s mixed in.

  “Shall we see what secrets lurk behind some of the other doors?” Pamela said. She surveyed the room again. “But that headboard really is something, isn’t it?” she said. “You have to be standing at the foot of the bed like this to get the full effect—all those scallops and curlicues.”

  “Do you think he made his own bed?” Bettina asked.

  “Who else would?”

  “But he must have had a housecleaner to keep this huge place clean. I wouldn’t want to dust all these curlicues.” Bettina stepped toward the headboard to trace the elaborate pattern with a finger. Her hand strayed down to the quilted brocade. “This quilting makes for a very stiff bedspread,” she observed, patting the hump that marked the nearest pillow. She continued patting, in widening circles. Then she paused and turned toward Pamela with a half smile of discovery. “Something’s under here,” she said.

  She probed against the headboard for the edge of the spread and peeled it back, revealing a pillow sheathed in fine, smooth cotton. The pillow almost, but not quite, hid the tip of a knitting needle resting on the smooth edge of the matching sheet. Bettina thrust the pillow aside.

  “Well, well, well,” she said. “What do we have here?”

  Chapter Eight

  The question could have been answered in a number of ways.

  There was dubious taste, particularly in the context of the refined surroundings. There was ambition, though directed at a creation a bit beyond the creator’s abilities. There was neon-orange mohair yarn, shading into neon chartreuse.

  “My, my!” Pamela lifted it from the smooth sheet where it rested, nestled beside a fat skein of yarn and a knitting needle with the beginnings of a narrow knitted strip dangling from it. The object resembled a stocking cap, but with long, floppy ears attached. “This is quite something,” Pamela added. It was indeed, but the knitted surface was marred by occasional bumps and holes, suggesting the knitter had purled when knitting was called for and knitted when purling was called for, as well as dropping the occasional stitch.

  “What do you think this is going to be?” Bettina picked up the needle with the dangling strip. “And where’s the other needle?”

  Pamela slipped her hand between the mattress and the headboard and brought up a mate to the needle. Her gaze wandered to the night table on the other side of the bed. “So he read Legacy of the Revolution while she clicked away on her knitting needles.”

  “Definitely the odd couple,” Bettina said. “Do you think he made her hide her project under the pillow during the day because it didn’t go with the décor of the room?”

  Pamela shrugged. “That’s a good question, but the more pressing question is—”

  Bettina chimed in and they both spoke at once. “Who is she?”

  “No women’s clothes in the closet . . .”

  “But—” Bettina hurried toward the landing, and Pamela heard a door open. “No women’s things in the bathroom,” Bettina called back, her voice echoing off tiles.

  Pamela joined her, and they opened all the drawers in the vanity just to make sure. Then they checked the other doors on the landing. One opened to a set of stairs. “Probably the attic,” Bettina observed.

  Behind the other two doors were rooms furnished for children, with single beds, low bookcases, and desks suitable for doing homework. No personal traces remained, and the book titles suggested that the bookcases now held the overflow from the substantial library in the study rather than books a child, or even a teenager, might read. The closets and dresser drawers were empty.

  “He grew up in this house,” Bettina said. “I wonder which bedroom was his.”

  “The one he’s using now is probably where his parents slept,” Pamela said. “With such a big house all to himself now, why not move into the biggest, nicest room?”

  “Would you want to live in the house where you grew up?” Bettina asked.

  “I’d be remembering things every time I turned a corner,” Pamela said. “Things that happened when I was ten. I’m not sure I’d like it.” She paused. “Of course . . . now . . . I remember things about Michael.”

  Bettina squeezed her hand. “Let’s tuck that amazing creation back under the pillow and pay a visit to Nell.”

  * * *

  They’d gotten up and out so early that Nell was still drinking her morning tea when she answered the door. “Good morning,” she said, looking surprised but with a cordial smile. “What brings you two up here at this time of day?”

  Before Pamela could open her mouth (to say what, she wasn’t sure), Bettina spoke. “A walk,�
�� she said. “Climbing that hill is such good exercise, and it gets too hot later.” She ignored the amazed look Pamela gave her, and Pamela reflected it was a good thing they had parked in the next block. “And so,” Bettina went on cheerily, “here we were walking along, and we stopped to catch our breath and realized we were standing right in front of your house. And we thought, let’s say hello and tell Nell what a lovely session of Knit and Nibble she hosted last night.”

  “There happens to be some strudel left,” Nell said with a laugh. “And I know you’re both coffee drinkers, so I’ll put some on.”

  “What are you up to?” Pamela whispered as they followed Nell down the hallway that led to her kitchen.

  “Watch and see,” Bettina whispered back.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at Nell’s kitchen table, forking the last tasty strudel crumbs from the wildflower-and-wheat patterned dessert plates and sipping Nell’s percolator coffee from the wildflower-and-wheat patterned cups. They had been chatting about the knitting group.

  “Such fun to have young people joining,” Bettina said. “Karen and Holly—and just starting married life here in Arborville. Wilfred and I have been so happy in this town.”

  “Harold and I too,” Nell said, then her lips tightened. “Until recently, that is.”

  “Every town has gossips,” Pamela said, trying to sound comforting, but Bettina didn’t seem interested in taking up the gossip thread.

  “You and Harold have lived in Arborville as long as anyone,” Bettina said, “even longer than Randall Jefferson.”

  “He moved away and then came back. When both his parents were gone, he inherited the house.” Nell picked up the strudel knife. “A bit more?”

  Bettina nodded as Nell slid another slice of the cherry-streaked pastry onto her plate. “I guess you never got to know him too well,” she said. “But when you’re such a close neighbor, you learn things about people even if you almost never actually talk to them.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Pamela said. “Though what you think you’ve learned doesn’t always turn out to be true. I thought my new neighbor was a complete womanizer—and with a taste for women half his age. Then it turned out the women coming and going were his daughters.”

  “I need to refresh my tea,” Nell said, rising to her feet and turning toward the stove.

  Bettina gazed at Pamela with wide eyes. “Bingo,” she mouthed.

  “What’s going on?” Pamela mouthed back.

  “Did you ever see women coming and going at Randall Jefferson’s house?” Bettina asked. What an actress, Pamela thought to herself, making the question sound so offhand. But she was almost equally delighted—she’d always known Nell was hard to fool—when Nell turned back around and shook a finger at Bettina.

  “I know what you’re up to,” she said. Shifting her gaze to Pamela, she added, “And you too, I suspect.” She set her tea cup on the table and sat back down. “I will not be a party to this. The police will solve the crime. You two will not get involved.”

  The back door opened, and they heard footsteps in the mudroom. From the same direction came Harold’s voice calling, “It’s me, but I’ve got more bags to fetch from the car.”

  Nell interrupted her scolding to call back, “I’m in the kitchen.” She focused on Bettina again. “And anyway, I am not a nosy person—you know that—and I’m not a gossip. And even if I was, it would be hard to keep tabs on Randall Jefferson’s visitors with two houses between us and him, and his house on the corner with his driveway on the side street. So you’re not going to enlist me in your sleuthing, and if you have any sense at all, you’re going to drop this right now.”

  Pamela was feeling quite chastened, at least when it came to getting Nell’s help on this particular issue, but Bettina persisted.

  “I’ve been keeping in touch with Detective Clayborn,” Bettina said, “reporting on the case for the Advocate. He hasn’t said anything about pursuing the romantic angle—jilted lover taking revenge, that sort of thing. So if you’ve seen any signs that Randall Jefferson had a lady friend—”

  “I haven’t,” Nell interrupted. “And I’m sure Detective Clayborn knows what he’s doing.” She raised a hand to her forehead. “Where was I?”

  “You had just refreshed your tea,” Pamela said.

  “Oh, yes.” Nell mustered a smile. “So I had. And how about you two? There’s more coffee.”

  “I’m good,” Pamela said.

  Bettina nodded and added, “Thank you for the strudel. We should be going, and I’m sorry we upset you.”

  Harold’s voice carried in from the mudroom again. “Successful trip,” he called, then he appeared in the doorway carrying two bulging canvas bags. “I went to the wholesale food place along the tracks in Haversack. We like to support the Co-Op, but after that experience Monday, I’ve been steering clear.” He swung the canvas bags up onto the table. “This is only half of it. I’ve got more bags to fetch from the car.” Harold was dressed for the spring day in a well-worn pair of khaki pants and a faded sports shirt.

  “I thought you were fetching them,” Nell said.

  “I heard Pamela’s and Bettina’s voices. Had to say hello.” He smiled and raised a hand to push back the unruly lock of white hair that had strayed onto his forehead.

  “Hello,” Pamela said, and Bettina echoed the greeting.

  “So . . .” Harold nodded briskly. “Good to see you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Nell saw them to the door. No sooner had they reached the sidewalk than Harold hurried toward them from the driveway. The trunk of his car stood open, and two canvas bags sat on the dark pink paving stones that made up the driveway’s surface. A bunch of celery protruded from one.

  “Nell used to be the one who was always telling people to question authority,” he said. “I still believe it. Detective Clayborn probably knows what he’s doing, but I admire initiative. So . . . to answer your question . . .”

  Pamela laughed and reached out to squeeze his arm. “You were in the mudroom the whole time listening.”

  Harold grinned delightedly at his own mischief. He pointed a bony finger at the next house over. “This woman here knows everything that goes on in this block. Nell won’t talk to her anymore, but sometimes she nabs me and it’s hard to escape.” He leaned close and whispered, more for comic effect than because anyone might be listening. “Randall Jefferson did have a lady friend, at least according to my informant. She came and went at night. Almost every night.”

  “Wow!” Bettina opened her eyes so wide Pamela could see white around her irises.

  “Figure out a way to talk to her,” Harold said, bony finger still aimed at his informant’s house. “It won’t be hard—the hard part will be getting away. She walks a dog, every day. She’ll probably be out any minute. Past here, down to this corner, heads down the hill, and circles back up past Randall Jefferson’s house. I’ve seen her as far away as Arborville Avenue.”

  “How will we be sure it’s her?” Pamela said.

  “Poodle,” Harold said, bending down and letting his hand hover about six inches from the ground. Springing back up with a wave, he returned to his grocery bags.

  Pamela and Bettina turned to each other. “Woofus!” they said in unison. “And we’ll be fellow dog walkers stopping for a chat,” Pamela added.

  They hurried back to the car, and in a few minutes they were pulling up to the curb in front of Bettina’s house. “I’ve got to change my shoes if we’re actually going to be climbing that hill,” Bettina said. She had started out that morning in a delicate pair of high-heeled sandals that matched the pale orange of her outfit. “And, of course, I’ve got to round up Woofus. Do you want to come in?”

  “I’ll wait out here,” Pamela said. The rhododendron bushes along the front of Bettina’s house were in full bloom. Bettina’s neighbor was gathering roses from a sprawling rose bush that had climbed nearly to the roof of her neat brick house.

  Bettina’s front
door opened and Woofus nosed out, stopping at the edge of the porch and twisting his head back toward the house. A leash stretched from his collar to the doorway, and in a few seconds Bettina stepped through the door, leash in hand and the fancy sandals replaced by flats.

  Pamela joined them on the sidewalk. Woofus dipped his head and gazed up at her, then retreated as far as his leash would allow. “Come on, boy,” Bettina cooed, and Woofus lurched ahead, pulling Bettina with him.

  Grand trees lined Orchard Street, planted between the sidewalk and the curb long ago. The trees were in full late-spring leaf now, some with branches that reached halfway across the street to meet branches from the other side. Here and there the sidewalk had been pushed up by giant roots. In some spots, the remedy had been to replace the broken patch with fresh concrete, creating a path that interrupted the straight line of the sidewalk to detour in a wide arc around the base and roots of the offending tree.

  “Shall we continue on Orchard?” Bettina called when she and Woofus reached Arborville Avenue. “Or circle around so we’re going up where Harold said the gossipy dog walker usually comes down?”

  “Let’s try that,” Pamela said when she caught up with them at the corner. They walked along Arborville Avenue for a few blocks, but then turned and headed up the hill right before they reached the commercial district. “I miss the Co-Op,” Pamela said. “Especially that good bread and the crumb cake.”

  “We’ll get this figured out,” Bettina said, pausing to catch her breath. The stretch from Arborville Avenue to the next cross street was especially steep. “Then things will be back to normal. Once the killer is identified, people will have no reason to think Knit and Nibble had anything to do with what happened at Arborfest.” They were moving again, Woofus leading the way but making sure to sniff the base of each tree they passed. “I think we’re really onto something,” Bettina added. “What better motive than rejected love?”

  “It has to have been an odd relationship,” Pamela said. “She wasn’t allowed to keep any of her personal things there—yet obviously she shared his bed.” They’d reached another cross street. She scanned the sidewalk that stretched ahead, rising, but less steeply, empty of people as far as she could see. Harold and Nell’s house—and the house of the gossipy dog-walking woman—was four blocks farther up. Pamela went on, musing, “Of course, it could have just been a . . . business . . . arrangement.”