Died in the Wool

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “We already gave the money to the athletic program,” Pamela murmured. “I’m sure people will see the money they paid for the aardvarks as a donation to the high school, even if they don’t want to keep the aardvarks.”

  “Children are afraid of them now.” Bettina tightened her lips in disgust.

  “Only because the parents are making such a fuss,” Wilfred said soothingly. “I’m sure the children would keep them if it was their choice.”

  “There’s more crumb cake,” Pamela said. “And coffee.”

  If not for the depressing topic of conversation, the morning would have been idyllic. The weather continued to prove that May was the perfect month, and where better to enjoy it than on an expansive porch? While sipping coffee and nibbling on crumb cake? Lawns were still the tender green of late spring, shrubs were in flower, and trees were in full leaf, easing the sun with wide swathes of shade. A breeze brought the smell of cut grass from somewhere down the block.

  “No more for me,” Wilfred said. “A dollhouse awaits me in the basement.” He was dressed for his project in his customary outfit of plaid shirt and bib overalls.

  “It’s more than a dollhouse,” Bettina said. “He’s making a replica of the Mittendorf House.” The Mittendorf House was a local attraction. Built of pink sandstone and dating from the eighteenth century, it had been confiscated from a Tory sympathizer and presented to one of Washington’s generals. She poured a splash of coffee into her cup and added cream and sugar.

  “It’s to be displayed by the historical society next year at Arborfest,” Wilfred said modestly.

  “That reminds me,” Pamela said as Wilfred headed down the front walk, “I looked up Marcus Verteel on the Wendelstaff website after I got home yesterday.”

  “And . . . ?” Bettina’s coffee cup was poised halfway to her lips.

  “He’s definitely not a Belgian Arnold Schwarzenegger,” Pamela said. “He looks like he’s sixty, at least, with white hair and little rimless glasses. I really doubt he’d be capable of killing someone with a rock.”

  “But Randall Jefferson wasn’t much of a physical specimen either.”

  “True.” Pamela leaned back in her chair and gazed out at the scene before her. She checked her watch. “Such a pretty morning,” she sighed, “and so much to do for the magazine.” She leaned toward Bettina. “You’ve probably got an assignment for the Advocate too.”

  Bettina nodded and murmured, “Big doings at the senior center.”

  “This coffee is awfully good though,” Pamela said. “Shall we dawdle just a bit longer? I’ll make another pot. And there’s still some crumb cake left.”

  A square of the cake, fine buttery sponge topped by streusel crumbles with a hint of cinnamon, remained on the small gold-rimmed platter.

  “I won’t say no.” Bettina sliced off a narrow sliver of the cake and coaxed it onto her plate.

  Inside, Pamela ground beans and set water to boil, taking up her usual position at the counter while she waited for the kettle to whistle. From that spot, the view through her kitchen window was of Richard Larkin’s side door and his trash and recycling containers. The Bonhams, who had owned the house until the previous fall, had been meticulous about maintaining their yard. A neat row of well-groomed shrubs had distracted the eye from the more utilitarian uses of the space. Now the foliage sprawled in a shapeless jumble, interrupted by an occasional stand of bare twigs, skeletons of shrubs that hadn’t made it through the winter.

  And Miranda Bonham’s perennial border! If Pamela stood on tiptoe, leaned close to the window, and looked as far to the right as she could, it had been visible in all its English-garden glory. Now it was in a pitiable state, fading peony petals scattered around iris stalks whose blooms had dried into hard little knobs, rampant vegetation that should have been tamed with its first reappearance in March, and weeds.

  The whistling of the kettle brought her back to her own kitchen and the task at hand. A few minutes later she was stepping back onto her porch with a fresh pot of coffee.

  “Something’s going on next door,” Bettina said. In fact, cars were easing into spots along Pamela’s curb and farther up the street, and soberly dressed people were making their way along the sidewalk. “A few of the teachers from the high school walked by while you were inside,” Bettina added, turning away from the porch railing that faced the church.

  “Randall Jefferson’s funeral?” Pamela set the coffee down on the small table that matched her wicker porch chairs.

  “Yep!” The voice came from behind the hedge. Joe Taylor’s head popped up above the glossy dark green leaves. “You guessed it. Time for the gardener to be on his way.” He vanished again, reappeared at the end of the hedge, and strolled jauntily up the sidewalk toward Arborville Avenue.

  “So handsome,” Bettina said. “I wonder if Penny would be interested in him. A little summer fling at least, while she’s home from college.”

  “I’m not sure she’s interested in flings,” Pamela said. She poured coffee into their cups.

  “Now that I think of it, Jefferson’s funeral notice was in the Register.” Bettina scooped a spoonful of sugar from the bowl. “I saw it before we knew about the knitting woman with the red hair, so there didn’t seem too much reason to be interested. But now . . .” She rearranged her chair so she was facing the street. “Let’s see if she shows up.”

  “It would be very helpful if we could talk to her,” Pamela said.

  “Here come a few more high-school teachers.” Bettina pointed at a pair of women climbing out of a car. “And it looks like the hearse has arrived.”

  A long black vehicle with a squared-off back and curtained windows had pulled up directly in front of the church. Pamela sipped her coffee and watched as two men in black suits opened the back and lifted out two large flower arrangements in shades of red, white, and blue. They carried the arrangements up the slate path toward the stone steps and the heavy wooden church doors, now standing open. People were converging on the church from various directions, and a low hubbub of voices reached the porch.

  No one sounded particularly grief stricken. Many in town perhaps felt duty bound to pay their respects to Randall Jefferson and saw the funeral as a social occasion as much as anything. Some voices were downright cheerful, greeting old friends. But Pamela swiveled her head in surprise when from the sidewalk came a voice fairly bubbling with laughter, asking, “Are you here to make sure he’s dead?”

  The speaker was a jovial-looking string bean of a man with dark, wild hair. He was talking to an older man, equally tall and thin, but with white hair, a white moustache, and a white goatee. His little rimless glasses reflected the bright May sun.

  “He’s dead,” the older man said flatly. “I am sure of that.” His voice was slightly accented, in a courtly, European sort of way.

  Pamela touched Bettina’s arm and nodded toward where the two men stood, right at the end of Pamela’s front walk. She whispered, “That’s Marcus Verteel. He looks just like his picture on the Wendelstaff website.”

  “Jefferson was making a lot of progress with that study of shifting loyalties among the Dutch farmers in the Hudson Valley,” the other man said. “Remarkable, considering he was only a high-school teacher. But anyway”—he winked—“now you won’t have to worry about him grabbing all the glory before your book comes out.”

  “No, I will not,” Marcus Verteel said with a tight little smile. “I definitely will not.” They resumed walking.

  Pamela and Bettina stared at each other, amazed.

  “He may not be the Belgian Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he’s pretty tall, and he looks like he’s in good shape for his age,” Bettina said.

  “And he has more reason for wanting Randall Jefferson out of the way than we thought,” Pamela added. “He was afraid Randall Jefferson would scoop his book idea.”

  “I’ll tip Clayborn off,” Bettina said. “I’m seeing him tomorrow morning.”

  “But we only found out about M
arcus Verteel because we sneaked into the house. Detective Clayborn isn’t supposed to know about that.”

  “Not a problem,” Bettina said. She sliced off another sliver of crumb cake and eased it onto her plate. “I’ll say Wilfred just told me there’ve been rumors in the historical society. He knows Wilfred is a member.”

  The sidewalk was empty now, except for a group of men in dark suits standing near the hearse. Pamela checked her watch. “Ten a.m.,” she said. “They’ll probably be starting.”

  One of the men opened the back of the hearse and reached inside. Out glided a shelf with a gleaming dark brown coffin on it. The other men came forward and grabbed polished bars along the sides of the coffin, three men on one side and three on the other. They stepped over the curb and made their way along the slate path and up the church steps. A few of the men looked very young, students perhaps, Pamela thought. Some of the few students who appreciated Randall Jefferson’s knowledge and rigor.

  “Shall we?” Pamela said. She drained her coffee cup.

  “Shall we what?” Bettina gave her a puzzled stare.

  “Join the mourners. The red-haired knitting woman might be in there. We might not have noticed her arriving. Marcus Verteel seems a likely suspect, but what if he didn’t do it? We’ll just quietly peek in from the back. People won’t notice—they’ll be paying attention to the service.”

  “What will we do if she’s in there?” Bettina asked.

  “Mingle as people leave the church. We’ll find some reason to talk to her.” She surveyed Bettina, who was wearing a smart aqua shirtdress. “You look fine for a late-spring funeral. Lots of the people we watched arriving were dressed casually. I’ll just run inside and change out of jeans.”

  * * *

  The heavy wooden door creaked slightly as Pamela pulled it toward her. The church entry was cool and shadowy, and empty. Everyone, even the ushers, had taken seats. Lighter doors, with little windows in them, separated the entry from the main body of the church. Pamela bent toward one of the windows, Bettina stood on tiptoe to look through the other.

  Few people wore hats to church anymore, even to funerals, so it was easy to study the heads arranged in the pews before them. Most people were facing the pulpit to the left side of the altar, a few were looking down. The minister’s voice carried as a low murmur.

  “There’s some red hair in the second pew on the right,” Bettina whispered.

  “Blondish red,” Pamela whispered back, “and I wouldn’t describe it as curly, or all over the place.”

  “No,” Bettina agreed. It was trimmed in a cute pixie cut, in fact, and when the owner of the hair turned her head slightly, she proved to be still in her teens.

  “A relative, perhaps,” Pamela whispered.

  They stood there a few more minutes. Pamela made a point of counting the heads, to make sure she’d given each one adequate study. But when she reached number thirty-one, a gray but very chic bun on the far left in the last occupied pew, she turned to Bettina and whispered, “No luck.”

  * * *

  Bettina’s voice, bursting with excitement, rang out in the silent room: “The police have arrested Brad Striker!”

  It was late Friday afternoon. Pamela had spent the last hour in the seventeenth century, immersed in a discussion of Jacobean crewel designs, but the announcement pulled her back to the present. She’d ignored the phone, but now she picked up and exclaimed, “Bettina, it’s me. I’m here.”

  “I thought I was talking to voice mail.” Bettina laughed.

  “You were, but now you’re talking to me. Brad Striker’s been arrested? Where did you hear this?” Pamela rolled her desk chair back and swiveled away from the computer screen.

  “Straight from the horse’s mouth. Clayborn. I’m sitting in my car in the police department parking lot. I’ll be over in five minutes. It’s about quitting time for you anyway, isn’t it?”

  Pamela finished the paragraph she’d been in the middle of editing and made a note of where she left off. She saved the file and turned off the computer.

  Downstairs, Catrina was sitting expectantly in the corner of the kitchen where her dinner customarily appeared. The doorbell rang just as Pamela was stooping to deliver a clean bowl with a few scoops of cat food. Catrina was weaving excitedly from side to side while watching the bowl descend.

  Bettina began talking before she even stepped over the threshold. “All day with the Arborville grandchildren,” she said breathlessly, and, indeed, she did look a bit disheveled. “But,” she went on, “I got away just in time to nab Clayborn while he was walking to his car. It will be in the Register tomorrow, so no big scoop for me, but—”

  “Come in, come in,” Pamela said, stepping back and motioning Bettina through the door. “Tell me everything.”

  “First, I need water.” Bettina headed for the kitchen. Pamela followed and filled a glass at the sink while Bettina settled at the table.

  “What changed?” Pamela said. “Why arrest him now and not last Monday?” She set the water in front of Bettina, who took a long swallow.

  “He had an alibi, and now he doesn’t,” she said. “His wife came forward to say he actually wasn’t home with her Saturday night.” Bettina raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips in an expression that invited Pamela to appreciate the interesting implications of this news—at least as it applied to the Strikers’ marriage.

  “Something happened between them,” Pamela said. “She was trying to save him, and now she isn’t.”

  Bettina nodded. “So the murder is solved. People can take their aardvarks back, or at least stop blaming Knit and Nibble.”

  “It’s still odd that he’d want to link the murder with the athletic program—and himself—by putting the aardvark on Jefferson’s chest,” Pamela said.

  Bettina frowned. “You did say you thought you saw him walking back to the parking lot during the parade.”

  “I did,” Pamela said. A little wrinkle appeared between her brows. “But would he have taken two aardvarks? And put one on Jefferson’s chest and hidden the other . . . somewhere . . . to save for his next victim?” The wrinkle between Pamela’s brows deepened. “Who would his next victim be? The editor of the Advocate?”

  Bettina held her head and groaned. “I’ve had too busy a day to think about all that now. Let’s talk about the menu for Sunday.”

  Pamela jumped from her chair. “Speaking of food . . .” She opened the refrigerator and placed the wedge of Swiss cheese Penny had brought from the Co-Op on a cheese board. Then she plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, quartered and cored it, and arranged the pieces next to the cheese. She carried the cheese board to the table, along with napkins and a knife.

  “People have already told me they’ll bring things,” Bettina said, slicing off a thin wedge of cheese. “Wilfred’s cousin is bringing some of his homemade sausage to go on the grill. I invited all the people from Knit and Nibble, plus spouses of course. Roland and Melanie are going to Cape Cod this weekend, and Holly has a family event. But Nell and Harold will be there, and Nell is making a corn and bean salad.”

  “I will make the deviled eggs,” Pamela said.

  “Karen Dowling is bringing chocolate chip cookies, and Richard Larkin is bringing a watermelon.”

  “You didn’t invite him!” Pamela slapped the table.

  “Why not?” Bettina said. “He’s a neighbor. And his daughters will be there too. One of them is making some kind of salad with a funny name. I hope Penny is coming.”

  “She’s planning on it,” Pamela said. “But really, Bettina. I’m not interested in Richard Larkin.”

  “If you just got to know him a little better. Wilfred thinks the world of him—he’s always so interested in the dollhouses when he and Wilfred have their chats.”

  Pamela sighed and picked up the knife to cut a slice of cheese. “We’ll need more food for all these people,” she said.

  “There’ll be plenty of food,” Bettina said. “Wilfred i
s grilling chicken with some of his special barbecue sauce. And the Arborville children are coming, and the grandchildren. My daughter-in-law is making potato salad. I’ll get rolls for the homemade sausages. Wilfred said the farmers market in Newfield has good tomatoes already, so we’ll have a platter of sliced tomatoes.” She paused and reached for a piece of apple. “But maybe we will need another dessert. Watermelon isn’t very filling, and I don’t know how many cookies Karen is bringing.”

  “I can bring a dessert, besides the deviled eggs,” Pamela said. “Maybe my lemon bars. They’re good for a crowd. Can Wilfred get me some lemons when he gets the tomatoes?”

  “Of course,” Bettina said. She checked her watch. “I should go. No cooking tonight because Friday is pizza, but Wilfred will want an update on the grandchildren.”

  She was just about to rise when the sound of an opening door came from the entry and Penny called, “I’m home.”

  “In here,” Pamela called back.

  Penny bounced into the room, her blue eyes lively and her smile wide. “Guess who was on the bus tonight,” she said. She was wearing another of her thrift-store outfits: a purple minidress that skimmed her young curves and had been made suitable for work by the addition of matching tights.

  “I’ll bite,” Bettina said with an answering smile. “Who?”

  “You might not know her,” Penny said. “But Mom will remember. Candace Flynn. She’s working in the city now.”

  Candace Flynn had been the bane of her teachers at Arborville High, a rebellious creature who delighted in flouting rules and had attracted a small group of like-minded followers. Penny had always been an obedient child, but in the years that followed her father’s death, she’d seemed even more determined not to cause her mother extra heartache. So Pamela had never worried that the example of Candace Flynn would lead Penny astray. When college acceptances began to come in, with Penny and her friends looking forward to the next chapter of their lives, Candace Flynn had seemed destined to a future working in retail at the mall, if even that.