She’d seen a hat just like it before, of course, under the left-hand pillow on the bed in Randall Jefferson’s bedroom. All that had been missing was the tail. But a tail—she now realized—had been in progress on the needles that accompanied the hat, undoubtedly just such a tail as the one that now hung between her hands.
“I’ll take it,” she said. “How much?”
“You really want it?” The woman seemed amazed. “Well . . . whatever you want to pay is fine. I didn’t think anyone would buy it.” Pamela took out her wallet and handed over five dollars. “I’ll get your change,” the woman said.
“That’s okay.” Pamela waved a hand. “Please keep it. It’s for a good cause. I have my own bag.” She tucked the hat into the canvas bag she’d brought. “I wonder though . . .” she paused. “Can you tell me who donated it? I’d love to get the pattern.”
The woman blinked a few times. “Well, I suppose if it was made with different yarn, and the person was a better knitter . . . to each his own.” She frowned and folded her hands under her chin. “Who donated it?” The frown deepened. “I think it was Nancy, from the library. Nancy Billings.”
“Does she have red hair?” Pamela asked, feeling her heart speed up the way it had when Harold Bascomb showed her the hook where Randall Jefferson’s house key was hanging.
“I suppose so,” the woman said, still frowning. “I suppose you could say she has red hair.”
Pamela still had to pay for and claim the brass cat and the beaded purse. She detoured around the baked goods tables once again. She was tempted to pick up a dessert for the barbecue, but she’d promised Bettina she’d make lemon bars, and Wilfred had probably already bought lemons for the project.
She handed over ten dollars for her rummage treasures and tucked them in with the curious hat. Then she set out to visit the library.
Chapter Twelve
If a woman had wild, flyaway red hair, would you just say you supposed she had red hair? Pamela wasn’t sure. Nancy Billings might be the person who knitted the hat—though Pamela didn’t think she’d ever noticed anyone who dressed like a gypsy working in the Arborville Library—or she might not. But if she’d donated the hat, she’d have a lead to the actual knitter—hopefully. She was definitely worth talking to.
Pamela hadn’t been near the library since Arborfest the previous Sunday. Now she turned off Arborville Avenue onto the cross street where the library was located and turned again to follow the sidewalk that led along the library’s side. The main entrance faced the parking lot, the very parking lot where she’d found Randall Jefferson’s body less than a week ago. Pamela skirted the rock garden, casting a glance at the pretty wooden bench where she’d waited to be interviewed by Detective Clayborn. A gap yawned in the border of the rock garden where the yam-shaped rock had reposed.
Inside the library, Pamela scanned the room, looking for a woman with red hair. But a Saturday in the late spring was a slow day for the library. A few retirees dozed with magazines in the chairs near the windows, and no one was on duty at the reference desk. Pamela was surprised to see that the display devoted to the high-school athletic program had been left up, given that it was devoted to the exploits of the Aardvarks—and aardvarks were currently in such bad repute. But the town did love its sports. Nineteen eighty-five must have been a thrilling year, evidenced by a yellowed clipping from the Advocate, dated November 16, 1985, which announced: AARDVARKS WIN STATE CHAMPIONSHIP—VICTORIOUS IN FINAL SECONDS.
Pamela approached the circulation counter, where a young woman she recognized as one of Penny’s classmates from the high school was stationed.
“Home from college for the summer?” Pamela asked, searching her memory for the young woman’s name. The young woman hadn’t been one of Penny’s friends, but she hadn’t been one of the reckless girls who admired Candace Flynn either.
“Yes.” The young woman nodded, adding a giggle. “Can I help you?”
“Is Nancy Billings here today?”
Now the young woman shook her head no. “Monday,” she said. “Nancy doesn’t come in on weekends.”
“Does she have red hair?” Pamela asked.
The young woman shrugged. “Not exactly.”
“Not wild, flyaway red hair?” Pamela waved her hands around over her head.
The young woman gave Pamela a curious look. “Why?”
“I’m looking for someone with wild, flyaway red hair.” Pamela tried to say it as if this constituted a perfectly normal errand. “Thank you,” she added. “I’ll come back on Monday.”
She lingered at the display again on her way out. Football did rattle the brain, but a photo from the victory year showed a sturdy young man that the caption identified as BASCOMB, #12 posing with his helmeted cohorts: STEWART, #17; ARMSTRONG, #76; JEFFERSON, #43; CARROLL, #29; AND LINDLEY, #34. Nell couldn’t have been happy about her son’s chosen sport, Pamela reflected, but she and Harold must have felt he was entitled to make his own choices. As far as Pamela knew, the Bascomb children had grown up to have successful careers and nice lives, so not too rattled, despite the sport.
* * *
Catrina wasn’t at all interested in the brass cat doorstop. She didn’t even seem to recognize it as a fellow cat. Pamela set it on the stairs. The door to her bedroom tended to swing closed of its own accord, and a doorstop would be useful. In the kitchen, she switched on the light over the table and laid out her other finds: the beaded bag and the orange and chartreuse hat with ears and a tail. The two objects could hardly have been more different. The bag was so delicate, with iridescent beads shaping a pattern of pale pink roses with pale green stems against a background of pearly white. It hung from a tarnished but still silvery chain and had a tarnished but still silvery filigreed frame and clasp. And then there was the hat—with its bumps and holes and floppy ears and trailing tail, its colors and a fuzzy texture evoking a curious form of plant life.
The sound of feet on the porch distracted Pamela from her study of the hat. “Hello!” boomed a cheery voice, accompanied by a tapping. From the door that led from the kitchen to the entry, Pamela could see a bulky shape behind the lace that curtained the oval window in her front door. She hurried to open the door.
Wilfred stepped in, followed by Bettina. Wilfred carried a plastic bag, lumpy and full to nearly bursting. “Lemons from the farmers market in Newfield,” he announced, holding the bag aloft. The fruit showed pale yellow through the plastic of the bag, and the citrusy smell was sharp.
“Bring them in here,” Pamela said, retreating to the kitchen.
Wilfred set the lemons on the table and gave Pamela a courtly bow. He turned to Bettina and bowed again. “I have delivered your parcel, dear wife,” he said, “and I will be on my way.”
“Thank you!” Pamela followed Wilfred to the kitchen door. She turned around to see Bettina staring at her, wide-eyed.
“You went back to the house?” Bettina asked, picking the hat up with two fingers.
“It’s another one,” Pamela said, relishing her friend’s amazement. “Notice the tail.”
Bettina stroked the tail. “The ears look like dachshund ears,” she said. “But do dachshunds have tails this long? I’m trying to picture Roland’s dog.”
“I’m not sure,” Pamela said. “But I’m on the trail of the person who made this. I found it at the St. Willibrod’s rummage sale this morning.” She described the crafts table and her visit to the library in search of Nancy Billings, adding the caveat that Nancy Billings—though possibly a redhead—might not herself have the wild red hair that the small woman had described.
“This is a huge discovery,” Bettina said, clapping her hands with delight. “Both the hats have to have been made by the same person. And Monday we’ll know who that person is. The rejected lover who finally had enough.”
“That dog-walking woman was at the rummage sale,” Pamela said. “And she thinks Randall Jefferson is still hanging around—but in ghostly form.”
Bettin
a laughed. “She gave us a good lead to the red-haired woman,” she said. “But I’m not sure what we can do with this ghost idea.”
“She said it was nighttime when she saw him,” Pamela said. “It could have been any man in a suit, really.” She paused. “But she did say Rambo didn’t bark—and we know he’s a barker.”
* * *
After Bettina left, Pamela made a grilled-cheese sandwich and ate it while browsing through the rest of the Saturday Register. She checked her email, got a load of wash started, and vacuumed and dusted the whole downstairs, pausing at one point to transfer the wash to the dryer.
Just as Pamela was putting the vacuum away, Penny came in carrying two huge plastic shopping bags. The day’s thrift-store finds—which included a circle skirt printed with poodles, berets, and glasses of red wine, plus a matching red patent-leather belt—had to be examined and commented on. Pamela showed off the beaded bag and the brass cat doorstop, which still waited on the stairs to be transferred to its new home. She’d tucked the curious hat away because she didn’t want to have to explain to Penny why it had caught her eye.
Penny was off again a few minutes later, but just next door, to order pizza and spend the evening watching TV with Laine and Sybil. Pamela set eggs to boiling for the deviled eggs she’d promised Bettina for the barbecue. A twinge in her stomach told her that she was ready to think about dinner too. And Catrina wandered in, seated herself on her haunches with her tail enfolding her forepaws, and gazed up at Pamela looking expectant.
“Yes, yes, I know it’s that time,” Pamela said, and opened the refrigerator. A half-empty can of cat food sat on the top shelf, along with some of the cooked shrimp from the foray to the Meadowside supermarket. Pamela served Catrina her dinner, then chopped the shrimp up, mixed in celery and mayonnaise, and ate the result between slices of toasted whole-grain bread.
After dinner, she transferred the boiled eggs to a dish. There would be plenty of time to devil them in the morning, but the lemon bars would be made tonight. The lemons waited on the counter in a favorite old green bowl, many more than she’d need for the recipe, but lemons kept a long time, and there was always lemonade.
But the first step was to make the crust. Pamela measured flour and confectioners’ sugar into a mixing bowl, blended them with a wooden spoon, and used her fingers to work in butter until the mixture resembled fine, buttery crumbs. She emptied the bowl onto a sheet pan that she’d lined with foil, and compressed the buttery crumbs into a thin layer with her buttery fingers. The sheet pan went into the oven, and she washed her hands.
She selected a few particularly large and glossy lemons from the bounty Wilfred had brought. The recipe called for a tablespoon of grated lemon zest, so she set to work scraping one of the lemons against the tiniest prongs her old aluminum grater offered, enjoying the bright, tangy odor of the lemon oil. The zest accumulated slowly, but soon she had a spoonful of zest and a bare lemon. Meanwhile the kitchen filled with the tantalizing aroma of buttery sweetness.
Pamela’s lemon squeezer was decidedly low-tech—a shallow glass bowl with a ribbed dome rising from the center. One pressed a lemon half onto the dome and twisted it this way and that. The result was juice, in the channel that ran around the dome, and a hollow lemon half. The bare lemon, plus two others, yielded the two-thirds cup of juice the recipe called for. Pamela washed her hands again, and opened the oven to check on the progress of the crust. It was the palest tan color, and she judged that in a few minutes it would be perfect. That was just enough time to crack four eggs into a fresh bowl and beat in sugar, granulated this time.
She slid the sheet pan out and rested it on the stove top. Into the bowl of eggs and sugar went a bit of salt, a bit of flour, a bit of baking powder, and of course the juice and the zest. The final step was to pour the deep yellow mixture over the crust and return the sheet pan to the oven. She set the timer for twenty minutes, washed the dishes, and checked her email. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the timer was buzzing. She once again slid the sheet pan out and rested it on the stove top. The lemon bars, not yet bars but a rectangular sheet, glowed with a deep lemony translucence. Tomorrow, the rich yellow surface would be dusted with confectioners’ sugar, and the whole divided into twenty-four equal parts.
* * *
Scarves can grow longer than they need to be, as the soothing motions of yarn passing over needles and needles passing under yarn repeat themselves in a hypnotic rhythm. One more row, the knitter might resolve, but one row becomes two or three or four, and a scarf presents a quandary for the wearer. Wrap it twice around the neck? Loop it over itself an extra time? Let it stream rakishly behind but watch it doesn’t get caught in closing doors?
The scarf Pamela was working on for Nell’s day-laborer project was nearly finished. This night’s work would add a foot or so, and then she was resolved to cast off. That would leave her without a project though. As she clicked along, with Catrina snuggled companionably against her thigh, she pondered. The last thing she’d made for herself had been an Icelandic-style sweater in natural brown wool with a white snowflake pattern. It was a challenging project, and it had turned out well. She’d worn it with great pleasure many times this past winter. But what to make next?
* * *
It was Sunday morning. At least ten minutes had passed, and Penny hadn’t returned from fetching the newspaper. Pamela had absentmindedly murmured something as Penny headed for the door, then focused on slicing her lemon creation of the previous evening, already dusted with confectioners’ sugar, into carefully calibrated bars. Now the bars were arranged on a tray and covered with plastic wrap, ready to be borne across the street in a few hours.
What could be keeping Penny so long? People didn’t just disappear on a bright May morning. In the entry, Pamela leaned close to the oval window in her front door and coaxed the lace curtain aside. Penny was not lost after all. She stood on the sidewalk, newspaper already unfolded, with Bettina at her side. They were engaged in intense conversation, Penny’s dark curls almost touching Bettina’s vivid coif.
Pamela opened the door and stepped out onto the porch in her summer robe. Neither of them noticed her. “Hi!” she called, hesitant to venture much farther in a garment so flimsy.
They both turned. “He’s out!” Penny called.
Bettina echoed the words, adding, “Brad Striker’s out of jail.”
Penny started up the front walk, newspaper rustling. Bettina hurried along behind her. “Here—you can read all about it,” Penny said, reaching the porch and extending the paper.
“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Bettina said from halfway up the steps. “But I’m sure people will be buzzing about it in town—and at the barbecue.”
“I did the lemon bars,” Pamela said. “And the eggs are boiled already.”
Bettina studied Pamela for a minute. “You’ll wear something a little more special, I hope.”
“Well, obviously not this.” Pamela fingered the light cotton fabric of the robe.
“I mean more special than what you usually wear.” Bettina looked ready for her party in a flirty lavender sundress with a touch of lavender eye shadow accenting her hazel eyes.
“Jeans aren’t okay for a barbecue?” Pamela said.
“Richard Larkin will be there,” Bettina said.
“Please!” Pamela groaned.
“I know he’s looking forward to chatting with you about gardening. He mentioned it when he called to ask if he should bring some extra beer.”
Pamela sighed. “Let’s talk about something else.” She shook the newspaper to smooth out the front page. The release of Brad Striker was the lead story, with a headline that read STRIKER FREE BASED ON NEW ALIBI. “Is there a quote from Detective Clayborn?”
“No.” Bettina laughed. “What could he say after being so sure the case was wrapped up? And with ‘smart police work’?” She backed toward the steps. “I’ve got to get going—lots more to do at home. But”—she held up a warning fing
er—“be sure you wear something special.”
Back in the kitchen, Pamela poured the tail end of the coffee into her cup and spread the newspaper out on the table. The article about Brad Striker’s release would indeed be sensational news to people who knew only what the Register had previously reported. In the new version of the story, Candace Flynn had come forward to say Brad Striker was with her all night on the Saturday before Arborfest. His wife had been at her sister’s and had believed him when he told her he’d been at home watching the sports channel. So, to give him a solid alibi, she’d lied to the police that she was home too. Then she’d learned about his carryings on with Candace Flynn and retracted her statement.
“Well,” Pamela murmured to herself. “Back to square one for Detective Clayborn.” She tipped her cup to sip the last drops of coffee, now cold. “But we’ll talk to Nancy Billings tomorrow and see what she has to say about the orange and chartreuse hat.” She set the cup down on its saucer. “And then,” she added, “there’s the ghost.” She rolled her napkin up and set it next to the cup and saucer. “Not to mention Marcus Verteel.” To the tableau she added the knife she’d used to slice the lemon bars. Then she folded the paper for the recycling basket.
Pamela usually got dressed before starting her day’s work, even if most days that work was done at her own computer in her own house. Today’s work was deviling eggs, but work was work, so she climbed the stairs to her room and traded her robe for jeans and a blouse.
Downstairs again, she soon lost herself in the rhythm of cracking the eggs and slipping them from their shells, slicing them in half, and popping the yolk halves into a small bowl. Part of the fun of making deviled eggs was arranging them in one of her prized possessions, a ceramic platter with the image of a pleased hen in the center and oval hollows around the rim, enough for twenty-four egg halves. She brought the platter out and arranged the empty egg halves in the hollows. When the mashed yolks had been mixed with mayonnaise, powdered mustard, and salt and pepper, and neatly spooned into the holes the yolks had come out of, she began to add capers to each deviled egg for decoration.
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