She looked up to find Penny standing in the kitchen doorway. She was holding a blouse made of a gauzy fabric with a streaky print like an abstract water color in shades of green and indigo. The neckline was a deep V, and the sleeves were long and full. “Why don’t you wear this today?” she said.
“What is it?”
“A blouse, Mom. I found it at a really fancy shop Laine took me to, a hospital charity where rich people from the Upper East Side donate clothes they don’t want anymore.” She took a few steps toward Pamela. “Feel this fabric—it’s so light and soft.”
“I have caper juice on my fingers,” Pamela said, tucking her hands behind her back. “I don’t want to ruin it.”
Penny held the shoulders of the blouse up to Pamela’s shoulders and let the soft fabric drape against Pamela’s torso. “It looks really nice on you, Mom,” she said. “I’ll put it in your room.”
Chapter Thirteen
The barbecue part of the barbecue was underway by noon. Pamela could smell it the minute she stepped out onto her porch. From across the street wafted the alluring aroma of chicken, basted with piquant sauce, roasting over hot coals. Feeling self-conscious in the fancy blouse, she set off down the steps, bearing the platter of deviled eggs. Penny followed with the tray of lemon bars.
They proceeded across Orchard Street, down Wilfred and Bettina’s driveway, and along the little path that led to the grassy backyard, following the drift of smoke from the grill. Bettina was standing on the patio with a couple that Pamela recognized as Bettina’s son and daughter-in-law. The son, Wilfred Jr., was a younger and thinner Wilfred with sandy hair, and the daughter-in-law, Maxie, was a sweet-faced charmer dressed in shorts and a tank top. Their children had sought out Woofus, who was sprawled on the grass in the shade of a tree, and now squatted beside him, stroking his fur and talking to him. Wilfred stood at the grill, tending an assortment of chicken breasts, thighs, and legs. At his side was his cousin John, nearly Wilfred’s double with his ruddy cheeks and abundant white hair. A long table was ready with a bedspread-sized cloth and already laid with plates, napkins, and silverware.
Pamela hesitated for a minute at the edge of the patio, mustering her social smile. Penny darted around her and scurried to Bettina’s side, where she said hi to Wilfred Jr. and Maxie and then leaned close to Bettina’s ear. Bettina smiled and advanced across the patio.
“You look wonderful,” she said, stopping a few feet from Pamela and surveying her from head to toe. “The blouse is perfect.” She stepped closer and examined the platter of eggs. “And don’t these look yummy!” She leaned in toward Pamela’s ear and whispered. “I’m talking to Clayborn first thing in the morning. Meet me in the parking lot at nine, and we’ll follow up on the hat.”
“Hello, hello!” came a voice from the driveway. They turned to see Nell and Harold advancing at a lively pace. “She insisted on walking down the hill,” Harold said. “Maybe we can catch a ride back up.” He carried a large wooden bowl covered with a dish cloth. “Nell’s corn and bean salad,” he said. “Shall I put it on the table?”
“Beans and corn together make a complete protein, you know,” Nell added. “So, for those who don’t care to eat too much meat . . .”
“That wouldn’t be me.” Harold looked over toward the grill with its sizzling chicken parts. “Where’s this homemade sausage? I’ve been thinking about it all week.”
“Greetings!” Wilfred waved the barbecue fork with which he’d been tending the chicken. “It goes on the grill soon, and I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”
“We’ll put the food in the kitchen for now,” Bettina said, holding out her hands for the wooden bowl. She turned to Pamela. “Do you want to bring the eggs in? And let’s get those lemon bars hidden before the bees discover them.” She called to Penny, and the three of them headed for the sliding glass door that opened out onto the patio. Bettina’s house, a Dutch Colonial, was the oldest on the street, but it had been added onto over the years and featured a large, modern kitchen and family room.
“You know Glenda, I think—Wilfred’s cousin’s wife.” Bettina set the wooden bowl on her pine table and gestured toward a pleasant-looking woman occupied with cutting a string of sausages into separate links and arranging them on a platter.
“Hello, Pamela and Penny from across the street,” the pleasant-looking woman said with a smile.
They lined their offerings up next to Nell’s salad, a potato salad from Maxie, and a cluster of plump tomatoes waiting to be sliced.
“Wilfred said you were in here.” Karen Dowling stepped through the sliding door carrying a plastic bowl with a snap-on lid. “I made the cookies.” She offered the bowl to Bettina with a shy smile. “I hope they turned out okay.”
“I’m sure they’ll be delicious.” Bettina popped off the lid. “Lots of chocolate chips—they look very authentic.” She set the bowl by the tray with the lemon bars.
“That was quite a story in the Register this morning,” Karen said, wrinkling her smooth forehead. “I had so hoped it would all be over when they arrested Brad Striker, and now it turns out it wasn’t him after all.” Her pretty mouth twisted as if she was about to cry. “Everywhere I go in town people are still talking about the murder and the knitting group and the aardvarks.” She blinked a few times and dabbed at one eye with a finger.
Bettina put a comforting arm around Karen’s thin shoulders. “I’m sure the police will figure things out very soon,” she said with a wink at Pamela. “Let’s go see what the men are doing—and there’s beer in the cooler.” She squeezed Karen’s shoulders. “I’ve got soda too. I haven’t forgotten your exciting news.” Glenda followed them through the sliding glass door carrying the platter of sausages, so plump their shiny casings seemed almost ready to burst.
Out in the yard, Dave Dowling, Wilfred Jr., and Harold had joined Wilfred and his cousin at the grill. They were holding bottles of beer and watching as Wilfred moved the chicken pieces this way and that, as if getting each to the proper state of doneness required the strategic skill of a chess master. An occasional hearty laugh punctuated their conversation. Smoke from the grill drifted across the patio, bearing the scent of sizzling chicken and barbecue sauce.
Nell and Maxie were drinking beer too, and sitting on lawn chairs near where Bettina’s grandchildren were still talking to Woofus. Bettina surveyed the yard, counting on her fingers. “Fourteen,” she said. “Who’s missing?”
“Richard Larkin,” Penny said promptly. “And Laine and Sybil. I wonder what’s keeping them.”
Bettina had opened the cooler, which was tucked into a shady spot of patio near the sliding door, and was lifting out bottles. “Beer?” she said, holding up a dripping green bottle. “Soda? Who wants what?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Penny said, with a quick look at her mother.
Pamela gave her an amused nod. “You’re in college now, I know,” she said, and accepted a beer of her own.
Bottles in hand, they strolled toward the pool of shade cast by Bettina’s largest maple tree and claimed lawn chairs of their own. Pamela’s chair was nearest the driveway and faced the street. In fact, she had a clear view of Richard Larkin’s porch.
His front door opened and Laine Larkin stepped out, bearing a bright-red bowl with foil over the top. She was followed by Richard, who was carrying a watermelon, and then Sybil, who pulled the door closed behind her. But they remained on the porch. Laine said something to her father, and he looked down as if to examine what he was wearing. Then he smiled and took a step toward the edge of the porch. Laine didn’t move. She said something else and her body stiffened. He smiled again. Sybil added her opinion to whatever was being discussed. She also placed herself between him and the steps that led down to the driveway. She reached for the watermelon. He relinquished it and went back in the house.
Hardly a minute later, Laine was stepping across the grass, the red bowl extended toward Bettina. Sybil was at her side with the watermelon, a huge obl
ong one with stripes in various shades of green. “I need to put this down,” she said.
Wilfred Jr. had been watching their progress. Now he darted across the yard and plucked it from her arms. “Put it in the cooler,” Bettina said. “I think there’s room.”
“My dad’s coming,” Laine said.
“He’s changing his clothes,” Sybil added. “Laine made him.”
“And this is your salad.” Bettina accepted the bowl.
“Tabouli,” Laine said.
Nell looked up. She’d been stroking Woofus’s shaggy head. “With wheat berries?” she said.
“Yes,” Laine smiled, “and fresh mint.”
“Where did you get the wheat berries?” Nell asked.
Laine pulled a lawn chair close to Nell. “There’s a Middle Eastern grocery in Haversack,” she said. Soon they were joined by Maxie, and the three were happily trading notes on healthful cooking.
Meanwhile, Penny and Sybil were heading toward the cooler. Bettina handed Sybil a bottle of beer. Wilfred’s cousin left the grill to announce that it was time to put the sausages on, and he and Bettina disappeared into the kitchen. Pamela was about to join them, with an offer to slice tomatoes. She was halfway across the patio when she heard Richard Larkin’s voice.
He had a nice voice. She had admitted that from the start. It was deep, but gentle at the same time. She turned. He stepped hesitantly onto the patio from the path that led along the side of the house. He was carrying a six-pack of beer and wearing a pair of jeans so new that they still had horizontal creases where they’d been folded in the shop.
“Am I too late?” he said.
“No, not really. They haven’t started grilling the sausages yet.” Pamela gestured toward the grill, where the chicken pieces were now arranged around the edges.
He tilted his head in the direction of her gesture. “Oh, I see. There’s a sequence to it. Chicken first, and then sausages.” He continued to stare at the grill.
Pamela took a step toward the sliding door. She was about to say that she’d let Bettina know the guest list was now complete, when Richard Larkin spoke again. “Would you like a beer?” He held up the six-pack. He looked very serious for someone making such an offer as that.
“I had one already,” Pamela said. “There are plenty . . . in the cooler.”
“Oh, of course.” He lowered the six-pack back to his side. “The cooler.”
“We could put yours in there too.”
At that moment, the sliding door opened and Bettina stepped out. She greeted Richard with a hearty “Welcome!” and bustled over to give him a half hug. He smiled for the first time since he had arrived and Pamela noticed again how his smile transformed his face. “Let’s get this beer into the cooler—and thank you for the watermelon, by the way.” With her arm still around him, Bettina added, “You need to be introduced.” And she led him away.
Meanwhile, Glenda was holding the platter of sausages while John plucked them up one by one and arranged them in sizzling rows on the grill. Maxie, Laine, and Nell emerged from the kitchen bearing their salads, complete with serving spoons, and headed toward the long table. Penny followed with two baskets of rolls sliced open to receive sausages. Bettina opened a beer for Richard, then hurried back into the kitchen. Pamela remembered the deviled eggs and hurried after her.
“Hey!” Richard greeted her when she stepped back through the sliding door with the platter of deviled eggs. He had been standing alone near the cooler and gazing across the lawn. Pamela realized the only man at the party who he really knew was Wilfred, and at the moment Wilfred was enjoying himself at the grill, deep in conversation with his cousin.
“I hope you’ve met some people,” Pamela said.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Several. And I already know you and Penny . . . and my daughters, of course.” He leaned closer to examine the platter of deviled eggs. “A hen,” he said, pointing at the image in the platter’s center. “Great image—so 1950s. And deviled eggs. I haven’t had one in years.” He looked up and his face softened. “Let me guess. Nell made these—she’s the one with white hair, isn’t she? My grandmother made them all the time. And her house was full of kitschy things like the platter.”
“Actually,” Pamela said, trying to suppress a smile. “I made them, and I collect deviled-egg platters. This is my favorite one. The hen looks so happy with herself.”
Now he looked stern, except for his eyes, which stared directly into hers. “I should have known,” he said. “I mean, lots of people can make deviled eggs. They don’t have to be grandmothers. And you, of course, don’t look like a grandmother at all. You look—” He paused, looking confused. People with smooth olive skin like his didn’t blush, Pamela thought, or he would be blushing right now.
Bettina popped up at his elbow, carrying a dish of sliced tomatoes in each hand. “Ready to eat?” she said. “It’s time.” People were already lined up at the grill with their plates, as Wilfred served pieces of the golden-brown chicken and his cousin tucked sausages between buns.
Potato salad, tabouli with its bright flecks of fresh mint, and Nell’s corn and bean salad marched down the middle of the long table. At each end was a bowl of sliced tomatoes. Pamela added her platter of deviled eggs to the arrangement. After a bit of scurrying and rearranging—and mustard and catsup fetched from the kitchen and fresh bottles of beer supplied from the cooler—seventeen people were seated, including two children on pillows. Wilfred and Bettina presided over the feast from opposite ends of the table.
No one seemed inclined to discuss the latest development in the murder case. Perhaps the men had exhausted the topic as they huddled over the grill, and Pamela knew any group Nell was part of would have had the subject changed the second it came up. And at such a long table, no one discussion topic can be general anyway. The occasional phrase drifting from Wilfred’s end suggested he and Harold and Dave Dowling were exploring their shared interest in local history. Maxie and Karen Dowling had bonded over Karen’s incipient motherhood, and Karen had taken charge of helping Maxie’s older boy with his meal. Penny, Laine, and Sybil were sitting in a row laughing as much as they were talking.
Pamela hadn’t intended to end up sitting next to Richard Larkin, but somehow here she was. She accepted his courtly offers to hold the salad bowls as she served herself and smiled when he exclaimed that he had never tasted a deviled egg as good as the one he’d sampled from her platter. But once the salads and the eggs had moved along, taking with them the conversational opportunities they offered, Pamela found herself at a loss for words. Bettina was only a few seats away, but she was turned in the other direction having a lively chat with Nell.
Pamela concentrated on eating, applying herself to the task as if the meal demanded her full attention. She allowed herself a quick glance at Richard, who seemed bent on giving the same impression. Even while chewing he kept his eyes focused on his plate. With such a hubbub of conversation all around, Pamela was amazed that the silence between them seemed so awkward. She tested several ice-breaking comments in her mind, settling on “Your daughter’s tabouli is delicious.”
He turned, looking as startled as if she’d announced a taste for human blood. Terribly shy, Pamela said to herself, awkward in social situations. Though he hadn’t seemed so shy when she first met him.
“The tabouli,” she said. “Your daughter made it. It’s awfully good.”
“Yes . . . yes, she is. It is.” The look in his eyes was almost desperate. He’s searching for something to say, Pamela said to herself. She was about to make a comment about the sausages when Bettina came to the rescue.
She swiveled in their direction and beamed at Richard. “So what do you think of our suburban barbecues, neighbor?” she asked.
“Great, nice, very good food.” He nodded enthusiastically.
“And Arborville? Is our little town growing on you? This will be your first summer here.” He nodded again and Pamela thought he seemed to relax. Bettina had that effect
on people. Bettina chatted on about the weather as Richard nodded, taking occasional bites. “Of course summer means yard work,” she added.
“I’ve hired Joe Taylor,” Richard said. “Things have sprouted up everywhere. I’m too busy to tend it all myself, and besides I don’t know what’s a plant and what’s a weed.”
“He’ll be a big help,” Bettina said. “He’s been doing some work for Nell.” She turned to Nell as if to solicit her testimony, but Nell was now deep in conversation with Glenda. Turning back to Richard, she said, “Wilfred loves to get his hands dirty. Otherwise we’d need help too. I couldn’t bear it if we couldn’t keep my perennial borders in shape.”
He nodded again, and leaned back to include Pamela in the conversation. “Do you have perennial borders?” he said.
Pamela hastily finished chewing a bite of chicken. “Too much shade,” she said at last. “Just enough sun for a few tomatoes and some daylilies. I love perennial borders though.”
“Miranda Bonham was a wonderful gardener,” Bettina said.
“Her perennial borders were fantastic,” Pamela said. “I could see them from my kitchen window, and I enjoyed them just as much as if they were my own.”
Bettina sighed. “It’s a pity she had to move, after all that work.”
“I suppose it is,” Richard said thoughtfully. “But I understood that she and her husband wanted to live someplace warm.”
“They did. And of course we’re delighted to have you for a neighbor now.” Bettina set down her fork and squeezed his arm. “Wilfred so enjoys talking to you about his dollhouse projects.”
The children had already left the table and were hopping around on the lawn. But the salads, eggs, and tomatoes made their way around again, and Wilfred returned to the grill, calling out that anyone who wanted more chicken or another sausage was welcome to claim it. Richard’s chat with Bettina seemed to have given him the courage to launch a conversation with Pamela. Soon they were talking quite comfortably about their jobs, and the volunteer work he did every summer in Maine.
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