“Kitty cat,” Pamela said gently as she stepped into the room. She held out her hand, palm up. “What’s wrong, kitty cat?”
Catrina turned from the window to regard Pamela. Her eyes looked yellower than they had ever looked before. Her mouth opened, showing her tiny pointed fangs, and her eyes narrowed. The unearthly sound echoed through the kitchen. She turned back toward the screen.
Penny rushed in from the entry. “What’s going on down here?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room and resting on Catrina. “What’s wrong with her, Mom?”
“It looks like she wants to be outside. She was so young when I adopted her . . . this is her first spring. She hears birds. There must be interesting smells . . .”
“I hope she’s okay.” Penny took a step toward the counter. Catrina relaxed her pose. She lowered her tail and glanced at Pamela and Penny, looking slightly embarrassed. She leapt delicately into the sink and from there to the counter and then the floor.
Pamela returned to the entry and had no sooner righted her knitting bag and perched back on her chair when footsteps on the porch announced the arrival of Bettina. Bettina had news, and she launched upon her tale even before the door was fully open.
“I just ran into Richard Larkin,” she announced, “on his way home. Such a thoughtful man. He did some research for Wilfred, to help with the Mittendorf House, and he’s going to drop it off this evening while I’m at knitting club. He said he had a wonderful time at the barbecue . . . and”—she stepped inside and squeezed Pamela’s arm—“I know all about the egg platter. I hope you’re going to thank him.”
“Of course,” Pamela said, somewhat stiffly. “Shall we go?”
“We’re going to have rain,” Bettina said as they walked to the car. Indeed, the bright day had become cloudy since Pamela left her desk. As if on cue, thunder rumbled in the distance.
* * *
Despite its sagging porch and faded paint, the Dowlings’ house had a welcoming air. The lawn was lush, its color deepened by the darkening sky, and clusters of tulips bloomed under the trees along the curb and among the shrubs that edged the porch. A wreath of twisted vines adorned with silk flowers in shades of coral and peach decorated the front door. Karen greeted them and led them inside.
Karen and Dave’s living room was furnished with a mix of what looked like hand-me-downs and IKEA. A streamlined sofa in a pretty shade of blue faced a coffee table that seemed to have spent time stored in a garage, or even outside. At one end of the sofa stood a brass floor lamp much the worse for wear. At the other, a table lamp with a white plastic base sat atop a small table with a glossy coat of dark green paint. Dramatic black and white photos decorated the sand-colored walls. A few straight-backed wooden chairs and a folding chair completed the seating arrangement, and further lighting had been improvised, perhaps just for the evening, with a gooseneck lamp perched on the mantel.
Holly and Nell sat side by side on the sofa, Holly displaying her dimple in response to one of Nell’s gentle smiles. Roland had claimed the folding chair and was already at work on his new project, the pink angora dog sweater.
“Please sit down,” Karen said to Pamela and Bettina. “There’s room for one more on the sofa and—” She gestured uncertainly toward the wooden chairs.
Holly jumped up. “You can both sit here,” she said. “I’ll take a wooden chair.”
“You’re sure?” Bettina asked.
“Positive.” Holly collected her knitting bag and pulled a wooden chair into the pool of light cast by the gooseneck lamp. Pamela settled next to Nell and handed over the scarf.
“Thank you so much,” Nell said, stroking it.
“How speedy you are!” Holly beamed at Pamela. “Scarves for the day laborers. Such an amazing thing to do.” She turned her lively gaze toward Roland. “And how have you been this past week?” she said.
“Quite well,” he replied without looking up from his knitting.
Undaunted, she continued. “I love that shade of pink. I can’t wait to meet your doggie. What color is she?”
Meanwhile, Bettina took her place on the sofa and pulled out her cat project. Pamela consulted her pattern book to see how many stitches she needed to cast on for the first section of the fashionable tunic sweater. She reached into her knitting bag for the skein of ruby-red yarn, wondering how long it would take before someone noticed the dramatic color and asked about her plans for it.
“You have tulips.” Bettina leaned toward Karen, who had pulled the other wooden chair close to the white plastic lamp at Bettina’s end of the sofa. A tiny white rectangle with ribbing at the end dangled from one of Karen’s knitting needles, and a strand of delicate white yarn led from it to the skein in her lap.
“They came up,” Karen said. “I wasn’t sure. I never did them before—I’m not used to having a yard.”
“It’s a beautiful time of year,” Nell said. “Everything is so alive.”
“Even Catrina seems to be affected,” Pamela said with a laugh. “Now that I have the windows open, she’s realized that the big cold world I rescued her from isn’t so cold anymore.” She paused to form a slip knot and tug it tight around one of her needles. “She’s been making the oddest noises, yowling like no sound she’s ever made before, and climbing up on the sill to stare out the kitchen window. This morning she was rolling on the floor like she was possessed.”
“Oh, my dear,” Nell said, resting a hand on Pamela’s shoulder. “She’s in heat.”
Pamela felt her eyes open wide. “What?”
“Didn’t you have her fixed?”
Everyone was staring at her, even Roland. Karen was blushing slightly.
“I . . . no . . . she was so little. She’d been through so much.” Pamela stuttered. “I . . . I thought she’d be an indoor cat.” The complicated under and over of the casting-on process faltered and her knitting needle slipped from her hand. A strand of the ruby-red yarn remained draped over her thumb. “I . . . I just didn’t think,” she finished lamely.
Roland sighed and shook his head. “Too many animals in the world, and of course the county just encourages people to be irresponsible with that overfunded animal shelter in Haversack.”
“A decent society takes care of those that can’t take care of themselves,” Nell said. “Even animals.”
“With my tax dollars.” Roland frowned, surveyed the length of pink angora knitting that hung from one of his needles, and flipped it around to start a new row.
For a while, there was no conversation. Even the irrepressible Holly was silent, working steadily away with her giant yarn, occasionally furrowing her brow and consulting her pattern. A bulky off-white panel dangled from the gigantic needles, its stitches so large they could be counted from across the room.
Pamela had wondered if anyone would bring up the murder case. The people who’d been at the barbecue had already had a chance to discuss the latest developments, and Roland’s introduction of the “Killer Aardvark” theme at the knitting club’s last meeting had upset Bettina and Nell so much that perhaps he’d resolved to hold his tongue. In any event, when a topic was introduced, it was the relatively benign issue of the Arborville community garden. Additional territory had been annexed by the community-garden committee, and a lottery was being held to distribute the new plots.
“Such a boon for Arborville’s apartment-dwellers,” Nell said. “Food you grow yourself is so much more economical, not to mention nutritious.”
“But they should have held the lottery earlier,” Bettina said. “They’ve been talking about the new plots forever. I did an article for the Advocate in January. Anybody who wanted to grow their own food should have had plants in the ground a month ago.”
“Mother’s Day,” Nell said. “That’s when tomatoes go in.” She paused her busy fingers and shook out the woolly olive-green heap on her lap. A scarf unfurled, nearly finished. “It’s easy to remember if you’re a mother.” She leaned forward to catch Karen’s eye. Karen blushed and ducked
her head.
Across the room, Holly stood up. “I don’t know about the rest of you,” she said, “but my fingers are getting tired.” She clenched and unclenched her fists, and her fingernails, polished the same dramatic purple as the streaks in her hair, glittered. From outside came the sound of rain.
“How’s the jacket coming?” Pamela asked. So far, her own project consisted of a strip twenty inches wide and an inch long.
“Great,” Holly said, snatching up the knitting she had tossed on top of her knitting bag. “This is the front.” She held the panel against her chest. “Half of it anyway. On the other half I have to make giant buttonholes.”
Karen was on her feet now too. “We could have the refreshments,” she said hesitantly. “It’s just cookies though.”
Bettina pushed her knitting aside and bounced to her feet. “You don’t have to apologize for your chocolate chip cookies,” she said. “I could eat them every day.” She put an arm around Karen and took a few steps. “Let’s get some coffee going.” She turned to look at Nell. “And tea, of course.”
“I’ll help with the cups,” Nell said, and followed them from the room.
Roland remained in his chair, knitting industriously. “Don’t your fingers get tired?” Holly said, leaning over him.
He looked up, puzzled. At last he said, “Mind over matter,” and returned to his task.
Holly shrugged and crossed to where Pamela was still sitting on the sofa. “That’s an amazing color,” she said, offering one of the radiant smiles that revealed her perfect teeth. “Are you making another scarf for the day laborers?”
“No.” Pamela held up what she’d done so far. “It’s to be a sweater. Sort of a sweater, more like a tunic. It’s—” She fumbled in her knitting bag, brought up the pattern book, and displayed the page with the high-cheekboned model. “It’s this.”
“OMG!” Holly clapped her hands and the nail polish glittered. Her smile became even wider. “That is amazing! And this yarn—” She fingered the strand that led from the needles to the skein in Pamela’s lap. “It’s amazing. Where did you ever find it?”
“Timberley,” Pamela said. “There’s an—” She started to say “amazing” and checked herself. “There’s a really nice yarn shop.” She paused and studied the image in the pattern book. “But I have to say the woman there sort of talked me into this pattern, and this yarn. I don’t usually wear things that are so . . . daring.”
“Why not?” Holly raised her brows. “You could be this model. You’ve got the same hair and eyes, and you’re so tall and thin.”
“Well, I . . . Arborville is . . . not very . . .” Pamela wasn’t sure where she was going with the thought and was relieved when Bettina came bustling in and deposited a tray piled with chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table. “Coffee coming right up,” she announced.
“I’ll help,” Holly said, and bounced away.
Six steaming mugs soon joined the tray of cookies, along with milk and sugar, and a small pile of paper napkins.
Roland bit into a cookie and pronounced it excellent. Bettina said again that she could eat Karen’s chocolate chip cookies every day. Nell observed that delicious as they were, cookies—any cookies—should be an occasional treat. Holly asked Karen if she’d teach her how to make the cookies.
Mugs were emptied and refills refused, but cookies remained on the tray—perhaps an effect of people taking Nell’s observation to heart. Soon knitters bent again to their works in progress and quiet conversations ebbed and flowed. Bettina and Karen talked about preparations for the expected baby. All home-improvement efforts henceforth were to be focused on the nursery-to-be. Holly had given up on Roland, pulled her chair nearer to Nell’s end of the sofa, and was nodding delightedly as Nell described life in Manhattan in the early days of her marriage.
“People could afford to live there then,” Nell said. “Young ordinary people.”
“Then you moved here,” Holly said.
“We had a baby.” Nell smiled her gentle smile. “And after we moved here we had two more.”
“I’d love to meet your children,” Holly said. “I’ll bet they’re amazing.”
Seated between Bettina and Nell, Pamela found herself nearly lulled into a trance by the steady motion of her fingers as the band of ruby red hanging from her needles grew, one row at a time. Even Roland’s announcement that nine o’clock had arrived and it was time, at least for him, to pack up didn’t interrupt her rhythm. But next to her, Bettina dropped both knitting needles into her lap, held up a small yellow square, and pronounced another cat leg finished.
“I’m ready to pack up too,” Nell said, tucking the long swathe of olive green into her bag.
Bettina leaned across Pamela and touched Nell on the arm. “Did you walk down the hill?” she asked.
“Of course,” Nell said. “It’s a shame to get in the car for only a few blocks. And I have my umbrella, of course.”
“It sounds pretty soggy out there,” Bettina said. “And I didn’t walk. Let me give you a ride back up.”
“Well, okay,” Nell said. “I’ll accept a ride.”
* * *
Outside, a gust of damp air met them as they descended the porch steps. The night smelled like wet soil, and streams of water rushed along the curbs in waves that reflected the light from the streetlamps.
“Squishy,” Bettina said. “I wish I hadn’t worn sandals.” She raised her umbrella and linked an arm through Nell’s. Pamela followed with her own umbrella, struggling to keep the wind from grabbing it out of her hands. She had barely taken three steps before her feet were soaked and slippery, and threatening to slide right out of her sandals. Huge raindrops thumped on her umbrella.
“I’ll take the back seat,” she said, opening the passenger-side door for Nell. Once Nell was seated, Pamela climbed gratefully into the car, her jeans wet from the knees down.
They’d barely gone two blocks when, as Bettina stopped for a cross street, Nell bent toward the windshield and said, “What is that? Up ahead?” She pointed toward the left.
Pamela leaned forward, her head between Bettina and Nell, and strained to look where Nell was pointing. A figure half-hidden by a huge umbrella was making its way toward them, or at least down the hill. Its slender legs were clad in trousers but no other details were visible.
“It’s a wet night for anybody to be out,” Bettina said. “Whoever it is can’t be just taking a stroll.”
Could it be the ghost? The thought came unbidden and Pamela felt a chill. The ghost the gossipy dog-walking woman claimed to have seen? They were near Randall Jefferson’s house now, and what corporeal being would be out on a night like this?
A particularly strong gust of wind buffeted the car. It caught the stroller’s umbrella in an updraft and suddenly a torso, and then a face, were revealed.
“For heaven’s sake!” Bettina swerved across the street and pulled up at the opposite curb. She rolled down her window and a sprinkling of rain blew in. “Where on earth are you going?” she called to the figure on the sidewalk.
“Bettina?” Harold Bascomb answered. He approached the car, ignoring the torrent of water that gushed over his feet as he stepped off the curb. He leaned close to the open window, scrunched up his face, and said, “Nell, is that you?”
“Yes, it is,” Nell said, sounding perturbed. “What are you doing out in the rain, Harold?”
“I was coming down to pick you up,” he said meekly. “I didn’t think you had an umbrella.”
“I always take an umbrella when rain is threatening,” Nell answered, no less perturbed. “Don’t you know by now that I’m a sensible person?”
“I do know that,” he said. “But I was worried about you. I—”
Bettina interrupted. “Get in the car before you get washed away. There’s room in the back seat.”
Pamela reached for the door handle and swung the door open. Harold collapsed his umbrella and climbed in next to Pamela. They rode the few bloc
ks up the hill in soggy companionability.
As Bettina pulled up in front of the Bascombs’ house, Harold leaned close to whisper in Pamela’s ear. “Wait here while I take Nell into the house. I have something to tell you.” He got out, put up his umbrella, and hurried around to offer a hand to Nell.
“I’m quite fine, Harold,” she said, easing her feet to the ground and springing up to her full height. She ducked her head back into the car to thank Bettina.
As Nell and Harold began to climb the shrubbery-edged steps that led to their front door, Pamela touched Bettina on the shoulder and said, “Harold wants us to wait a minute.” They watched the couple mount the steps. On the porch, Harold unlocked the door and pushed it inward. Then he gestured toward the garage, pushed the door open farther, and gave Nell a gentle nudge that propelled her through it. He started back down the steps.
“I told her I wasn’t sure I locked the garage door,” he said, opening the passenger-side door and leaning into the car. “She can be hard to fool, so I’ve got to hurry back in. But I wanted to tell you—something’s been going on at Randall Jefferson’s house. Two mornings in a row there’ve been boxes piled in the driveway, and yesterday I saw a black SUV pull up. It seems awfully soon for his estate to have been settled and heirs to be claiming things. I called the police, but they said without a license number they couldn’t do much.”
The Bascombs’ porch light came on and the front door opened. “I’d better run,” Harold whispered, and bounded toward the steps.
“Shall we pay another visit to Jefferson’s house tomorrow?” Bettina asked as she pulled away from the curb.
“I’m game,” Pamela answered from the back seat.
The rain was slacking off. By the time Bettina pulled up in front of Pamela’s house, she’d turned her windshield wipers off. “Nine a.m.?” she said as Pamela collected her knitting bag and prepared to climb out of the car.
“I’ll come over,” Pamela said.
Bettina turned to face Pamela. “You’ll make sure to keep that kitty inside, won’t you? And when she’s herself again you’ll take her to be fixed.”
Died in the Wool Page 17