by Leslie Meier
“How did . . . ?” Pamela tried to picture the scene. Someone with a saw? Thinking, I just need a piece about a foot long?
Penny began to answer the question, but she was interrupted by the hoot of the kettle. And as Pamela was pouring the ground beans and then the water into the filter cone, the toast popped up with a ka-chunk.
“Sometimes they saw the bottoms off trees to make them fit into the tree stands,” Penny explained, looking up. “It says there was a pile of sawn-off pieces at the back of the lot. And that’s where they found her body.”
She closed the paper, folded it so the headline was no longer visible, and put it aside. The story was still very present in their minds, however, despite the comforts of steaming coffee and buttered toast.
* * *
The Christmas tree lot was still a crime scene, with the yellow tape still looped from post to post and a police officer posted at the locked gate. A handwritten sign announced (unnecessarily) that the lot was closed, but it promised extra hours during the week as soon as the police were finished.
Once inside the church hall, however, a person wouldn’t have known anything untoward had happened. The tables boasted the same wares that had been on offer the previous day—wall plaques, carved bowls, exotic jewelry, and the rest. Pamela and Bettina had unpacked the knitted creations from the boxes where they had spent the night and arranged them in attractive profusion over the surface of the Knit and Nibble table. Not too many of the little knitted sweater, mitten, and stocking ornaments were left, and Pamela was glad Penny had made her choices the previous day. From the PA system came the cheerful strains of “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.”
Browsers moved from table to table, pausing to finger and buy, or veer aside to engage in a chat with a neighbor. Children hopped around the floor in the clear space that surrounded the decorated tree, their high-pitched voices punctuating the chatter of their elders.
Bettina had excused herself for a stroll around the room as Pamela was showing an assortment of scarves to an elderly gentleman in a plaid wool jacket that would have suited a woodsman. As he was handing over a twenty and a ten for a lovely pale blue scarf that Pamela recognized as Roland’s handiwork, Bettina returned bearing a large flat box.
Pamela thanked her customer and bade him Merry Christmas. After he left, Bettina opened the box to reveal twelve cupcakes, six with green icing and six with red, and all garnished with sparkly colored sugar.
“I was afraid the baked goods people wouldn’t be able to sell everything,” she explained, “since the fair had to close so early yesterday. And it’s for such a good cause.”
She picked up a green cupcake, delicately peeled away its fluted paper wrapping, and lifted it to her mouth. But before taking a bite, she gestured toward the open box and said, “Help yourself, Pamela. I didn’t buy these all for me and Wilfred.”
“Not quite yet.” Pamela laughed and made a gesture as if to push away the idea. “I just had breakfast.”
“Breakfast!” Bettina laughed too. “I know you—black coffee and one piece of whole-grain toast. No wonder you’re so skinny.”
Bettina was not skinny, nor was she tall. But she loved clothes, and her outfits reflected a keen interest in fashion. Today she was wearing a fit and flare dress in a dramatic green and crimson print—the crimson nearly the same color as her hair. The dress was accessorized with several strands of large golden beads and earrings consisting of one dangling bead each. On her feet were high-heeled booties made of forest-green suede. She frequently lamented the fact that her tall and thin friend lacked any interest in the clothes that her body could have displayed to such advantage.
She took a bite of the cupcake, closing her eyes and smiling as she savored its flavor. But she opened them again as Pamela said, “Oh, dear! Now what?”
Lucas Clayborn, Arborville’s sole police detective, was making his way toward the Knit and Nibble table. At his side was Officer Sanchez, with her dark hair corralled into a knot and her sweet heart-shaped face somber.
Bettina swallowed the bite of cupcake with a large gulp. The spot of green icing on her cheek didn’t detract from her serious mien as she watched him approach. Bettina met frequently with Detective Clayborn as part of her job with the Advocate and she greeted him now with a businesslike “Good morning, sir,” after which she tucked the cupcake she’d bitten into back in the box.
Though his dress was similar to that of many of the men browsing the craft fair’s offerings with their wives—a nondescript winter jacket over a nondescript sports coat—he stood out nonetheless. A certain tightness around the eyes gave his homely face the look of a person with a mission.
He acknowledged Bettina’s greeting with a wordless nod and focused his attention on the colorful yarn creations laid out on the table. After a bit he picked up a tiny sweater ornament with red and green stripes.
“Did a member of your Knit and Nibble group make this?” he inquired in an offhand way as he held it out in one large hand.
Could he possibly just be browsing, Pamela asked herself, despite the purposeful expression? Doing his part for the high-school art, drama, and music programs?
“No, sir,” Bettina said. “We invited all Arborville knitters to contribute their work to our table.”
He set the sweater down and picked up a tiny blue mitten, into which he thrust the tip of his index finger. “Must be hard to make something so little,” he murmured. “Do you recall the name of the person who’s responsible for these?”
His hand, with the mitten still on the finger, swept over the few knitted ornaments that remained.
“Of course.” Bettina smiled—there was never any harm in staying on Detective Clayborn’s good side. “It was Sorrel Wollcott.”
“I’m going to need to take them,” Detective Clayborn said, showing no trace of an answering smile.
Pamela heard herself say, “Why?”
“Evidence.” Officer Sanchez held out an official-looking plastic bag, and Detective Clayborn dropped the tiny sweaters, mittens, and stockings into it, one by one. “You can call around to the police station tomorrow for a receipt,” he added.
“Well,” Bettina commented after she had retrieved the cupcake she’d barely had a chance to nibble. “What could that mean?”
They watched him retreat across the floor, with Officer Sanchez at his side. As the two neared the entrance, one of the double doors swung open and Penny stepped into the hall, again wearing the violet jacket that, with its vintage air, was one of her thrift-store finds. Pamela was happy to see that Penny looked more like her lively self than she’d appeared over breakfast. And she was even happy to see that Penny had helped herself to one of her mother’s scarves, a hand-knit mohair creation that happened to exactly match the jacket.
Pamela was so focused on the approach of her daughter that she didn’t notice another familiar young woman standing right at the Knit and Nibble table—until Bettina tapped her on the arm.
“Holly’s having a cupcake,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want one now?”
Indeed, Holly Perkins, a fellow member of Knit and Nibble, was in the process of consuming one of the green-icing cupcakes. She took a break to acknowledge Pamela with a smile that displayed her perfect teeth and activated her dimple, and then, lest Bettina feel ignored, she nodded in her direction and proclaimed that the cupcake was “awesome.”
“And it looks like you sold a few of my hats,” she said, scanning the table. The hats were cheery creations with rainbow stripes that seemed the perfect reflection of Holly’s vivid personality. Her smile faded then and she added, “What a shocking thing though—that teacher murdered. I was at the salon all day”—Holly and her husband owned a hair salon—“and was too busy to even check the news till Desmond and I got home.”
Pamela was distracted then by a browser who was a knitter herself and seemed more inclined to chat than to buy. As Pamela mustered her social smile and tried to listen enthusiastically to the wo
man’s description of her in-progress cable-knit sweater, she could hear Bettina and Holly greeting Penny, and Penny accepting a cupcake.
When the chatty knitter finally went on her way, Pamela slipped around the table to give her daughter a hug.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping back to get a better look at Penny’s face.
Penny nodded. “It’s better to get out and see people, not just sit at home feeling sad. Laine and Sybil are at their dad’s place for the holidays and I’m going to do something with them later, but I’ll browse around the craft fair for a bit.”
Pamela tried to maintain her pleasant expression, but the reference to her handsome, single neighbor had awakened feelings she thought she had vanquished. Nonetheless, she responded with a cheerful “Good! It will be fun for you to see them.”
The Knit and Nibble table was getting busier. A young woman had edged past Penny and was fingering a lacy shawl, and Penny stepped out of the way.
“Isn’t that an amazing piece of knitting!” Holly exclaimed, tilting her head in the direction of the newcomer, who looked to be a twentysomething like Holly. Also like Holly, the newcomer’s grooming suggested an artistic bent. Holly’s dark tresses sported a bright red streak today, and dangling from her earlobes were large disks enameled in a dizzying op-art pattern. The young woman with whom she had struck up a conversation had bright blue hair cut in an asymmetrical style that dipped to her shoulder on one side, but merely grazed the top of her ear on the other.
“Interesting,” was the response, but uttered in a tone that implied being interesting was not a particular accomplishment.
Holly, however, was undeterred. “A shawl like that takes hours and hours to make,” she said cheerfully, “but knitting is so relaxing—and so creative at the same time.”
“I can think of things that are more creative,” the young woman said, letting the shawl drop back onto the table. “Much more creative.”
“Ohhh!” Holly clapped and offered one of her smiles. “Are you an artist?”
A slight tip of the head and a self-satisfied smile indicated that the answer was yes.
“Is any of your work on display here?” Holly turned, and her graceful wave took in nearly the entire room.
“Here?” The young woman’s rather pretty features twisted into an unbecoming scowl. “At a holiday craft fair in Arborville?”
“There are some awesome things here,” Holly exclaimed, “and this is an awesome town!”
“I’m a sculptor,” the young woman said, and her pride in making that announcement banished the scowl. “I only exhibit at shows where they are a little more selective,” she went on. “Juried shows.”
Though Penny had stepped aside to let the young woman get closer to the table, she’d been listening. And she now directed an admiring glance at the young woman—Penny herself had been drawing and painting since she was quite young.
“Have you submitted to the Timberley Arts group?” she asked. “They do a show every other year, like the Venice Biennale, and they display outdoor sculpture all the time.”
“I’ve heard of the group,” the young woman said vaguely.
“My teacher—my art teacher at Arborville High—was one of . . . was on . . . the board.” Penny gulped, closed her eyes, and swallowed hard. “She was . . . the woman who was just killed . . .” Her voice trailed off.
The young woman seemed not to have absorbed the second half of Penny’s statement, or at least not to care about Karma Karling’s death and Penny’s obvious distress. Pamela had been engaged with a shopper, but Bettina had been watching the exchange and popped out from behind the table to give Penny a hug.
“Karma Karling was Penny’s favorite teacher.” Bettina’s tone was more scolding than explaining.
“Very sad,” the young woman said, not sounding very sad. “But maybe I’ll submit something. Do they have a website?”
Bettina didn’t know if Timberley Arts had a website, and Penny was still struggling with her emotions. But it didn’t matter because at that moment the group, which still included Holly, was joined by a tall young man whose dark good looks were accented by skinny jeans in black denim and a dashing black leather jacket.
“Heeey!” he sang out, focusing his gaze on the young woman. “We meet again!”
The addition of a handsome young man to the group altered the dynamic considerably. The young woman’s manner shifted from blasé to engaged—at least with the young man. Penny wiped an eye with the back of her hand and ventured the beginnings of a smile. Holly smiled too, though not wide enough to evoke her dimple. And even Bettina’s quick up-and-down survey seemed approving.
“So, did you find a good tree Friday night?” the young man asked, tipping his head toward the object of his interest. “Or did the lot close before you had a chance to look around? It was getting pretty late.”
“Nothing caught my eye,” the young woman said, raising her gaze to meet his and smoothing her hair back with a gesture that showed off a pretty arm and hand, as well as calling attention to the eye-catching color and style of her coiffure. “I made a tour of the lot, but I couldn’t find the kind of tree I was looking for.”
“The Arborville lot isn’t the only lot around,” the young man said.
The young woman edged backward, as if she’d engaged long enough with the Knit and Nibble table. The young man edged backward too. They turned toward each other.
“Some interesting things here,” the young man said. “Shall we look around?”
And suddenly the young woman seemed to find the craft fair much more appealing as the two walked off together.
“I’ll take a turn here for a while,” Holly said after they were gone, “if you two want a break.”
“I’m fine.” Pamela opened the cash box to tuck away a few bills she’d just received in exchange for a delicate white baby blanket that Nell had contributed.
“Well, I’ve barely had a chance to talk to Penny since she’s been home.” Bettina had released Penny from the hug, but now she reached out an arm to circle Penny’s waist. Addressing Penny, she added, “Let’s take a walk around the fair and see what we can see. I still have a few people to check off my Christmas list.”
“White Christmas” segued into “Frosty the Snowman,” and “Frosty the Snowman” segued into “We Three Kings,” as Pamela and Holly chatted with holiday shoppers, complimented people on their choices, made change, and slipped bills into the cash box. Some people strolled along nibbling on cookies, while others relaxed in strategically placed chairs, sipping cups of coffee.
The large Christmas tree in the middle of the floor hid many of the tables on the opposite side of the room, so Pamela hadn’t tracked Bettina and Penny as they browsed. She was totally focused on counting the money that had accumulated in the cash box when a jubilant voice cut into her whispered tally.
She glanced up to see Bettina standing before her with a triumphant grin. She must have looked momentarily puzzled because Bettina repeated the statement she had just made, which was “You’ll never guess what we just found out.”
“About Phoebe Ruskin,” Penny added.
“It was all an act.” Bettina gave a scornful laugh, then she affected a blasé manner, nothing like her usual self, to say, “Heard of the group!” She became Bettina again to exclaim, “My foot! She knows all about them. Because—”
Penny interrupted her. “They rejected her.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Pamela raised her hands, palms outward. She gave Penny a fond smile. “First of all”—she laughed—“who on earth is Phoebe Ruskin?”
Bettina’s voice overlapped with Penny’s. “The blue-haired woman.” Penny continued speaking. “She knows all about them—”
“The Timberley Arts group,” Bettina supplied. “She submitted several pieces for this year’s Biennale and they rejected them all, and besides that, they asked her to remove a piece of hers that had been on display in the town park because it was vetoed by a new c
ommittee member.”
Penny took over. “And that new committee member was Karma Karling.”
Pamela leaned across the table. “How on earth . . . ?”
“Marlene Pepper knows Phoebe’s mother,” Bettina said. “I got to chatting with Marlene over by the table where they’re selling those adorable dolls. She brought the subject up—the blue hair and all, but Phoebe doesn’t live in Arborville anymore, and one thing led to another . . .”
This was a lot to digest. Phoebe Ruskin had a good reason to resent Karma Karling, and—as had emerged during her conversation with the tall young man—she had been at the Christmas tree lot late Friday night but had left without buying a tree.
But Pamela put the task of digesting aside for the moment in order to commiserate with Bettina about the fact that her son and daughter-in-law in Boston had forbade her to buy girly things—and those dolls were so adorable—for her first and only granddaughter, Morgan.
Chapter Three
Bettina began talking the minute Pamela’s front door swung back. “You already know, of course, and I was going to run across the street the minute I saw it in the Register, but Clayborn scheduled me for eight a.m. and I barely had time to dress before I had to run out to the police station.”
She swept into the entry on a gust of chilly wind and Pamela hurried to close the door behind her.
Pamela did already know. A front-page article in that morning’s Register had announced an arrest in the Karma Karling murder case. In fact, the Register was still spread out on Pamela’s kitchen table and she’d been sipping her second cup of coffee when the doorbell chimed. She was still in her robe and slippers, and Penny hadn’t even emerged from her bedroom yet.
Bettina, on the other hand, was already dressed for the day. She removed the jaunty turquoise beret that hid all but her bangs—and that matched the shadow accenting her hazel eyes—and then the pumpkin-colored down coat that was her winter staple. Beneath the coat was a slacks-and-sweater ensemble in the same turquoise as the beret, accented by a cashmere scarf with a swirling paisley pattern, and silver earrings set with large turquoise stones.