Christmas Card Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Sorrel Wollcott.” Pamela supplied the name before Bettina spoke again. “I have no idea why the police could possibly think that she was guilty. Except—”

  “Exactly!” Bettina’s raised index finger acknowledged Pamela’s unspoken point. “The tiny sweater, mitten, and stocking ornaments.”

  “A clue?” Pamela’s lips twisted in puzzlement.

  “I’ve been with Clayborn.” Bettina paused and glanced past Pamela toward the doorway to the kitchen. “Is there any more coffee?”

  “There’s more in the carafe. I’ll heat it up.” Pamela turned and led the way.

  In the kitchen she lit the burner under the carafe and watched closely for the tiny bubbles that would indicate the coffee was ready to serve. Bettina didn’t take her customary place at the table, however, even after she had helped herself to a cup and saucer from the wedding-china cupboard and splashed a dollop of cream into the cut-glass pitcher. Standing in the middle of the floor, she scanned the counters.

  “There’s probably toast,” she ventured, “but I don’t suppose . . .” She hesitated and then interjected, “I could have brought the rest of the cupcakes from yesterday.”

  “I’ve started my Christmas baking.” Pamela looked up from the stove with a teasing half smile.

  “Is there—?”

  “Unwrap that foil.” Pamela nodded toward a wooden cutting board that held a silvery loaf-shaped object.

  A few minutes later, they were seated at the table with fresh cups of coffee and small plates before them. Each plate held a slice of poppy-seed cake, richly golden brown, and dense with the tiny dark pinpoints that were poppy seeds. Pamela baked multiple loaves of the cake every year for Christmas, to give as gifts and to serve at home.

  “That’s why Clayborn wanted the sweater and mitten and stocking ornaments from the Knit and Nibble table,” Bettina explained after she’d sampled the poppy-seed cake, sighed happily, and declared it as good as ever. “And why he wanted to know who made them. A tiny knitted sweater ornament was found at the Christmas tree lot near Karma’s body. And a twist of yarn was snagged on the chicken wire fence.”

  Pamela heard a sharp intake of breath that she knew was her own. “That does seem very suspicious,” she said. “But I just can’t believe Sorrel would kill someone. She’s a fellow knitter.”

  Bettina was engaged in coaxing her coffee to the pale mocha hue she preferred, adding sugar and then cream and stirring. But she had more information to impart.

  “Sorrel and Karma went to the Christmas tree lot together Friday night, at about nine, to get a tree for their apartment lobby,” she said. “Clayborn talked to their neighbors. They both live—lived in the case of Karma—in that big apartment building up at the corner of Arborville Avenue and they were on the decorations committee.”

  “Just because Sorrel went to the Christmas tree lot with Karma, that doesn’t mean Sorrel killed her.” Pamela set her coffee cup back on her saucer with a clunk. “Lots and lots of people were probably milling around the Christmas tree lot—and maybe the murder didn’t even happen there, or that night.”

  “It did happen there,” Bettina said. Pamela nodded. Bettina was right—that detail had been in the Register the previous day. “There were signs of a scuffle in the dirt, but no signs of a body being dragged in from elsewhere. And besides, that chicken wire fence isn’t all that secure, but it is a fence.”

  Pamela nodded again. “There’s only the one gate and it’s locked when the lot is closed. When the tree lot was open, the killer couldn’t have dragged a body in that way because people would have noticed.”

  “And it did happen that night, according to the ME, most likely before ten p.m., when the tree lot closed.” Bettina gave her coffee one last stir and took a sample sip. “It’s likely no one heard anything amiss with that loud Christmas music they broadcast. There weren’t many customers that late and only two attendants were on duty. Nobody inspects the lot at the end of the evening, especially not way in the back there where they pile the pieces of trunk they cut off. The attendants just take the cash box, turn the lights and music off, and lock the gate behind them with a padlock.”

  They were quiet then for a bit as Bettina nibbled at her poppy-seed cake and Pamela took a few bites of hers to be companionable, though she’d barely finished her breakfast toast when Bettina arrived.

  “Sorrel must be so frightened,” Pamela announced suddenly. “We’ll have to go see her.”

  “We will,” Bettina said. “We won’t have to go to Haversack though”—Haversack was the county seat and the jail was there—“because she’ll be out on bail by tomorrow.”

  “Phoebe Ruskin,” said a voice from the doorway. Pamela and Bettina swiveled their heads in that direction to see Penny, in her fleecy robe with her hair still tousled from sleep. “Did you tell Detective Clayborn about Phoebe Ruskin?” She directed the question at Bettina.

  “Ohhh!” Bettina’s head sagged forward and she tapped her forehead with a clenched fist. “I could have . . . I should have. He does listen to me sometimes, and she had a reason to resent Karma, and she was in the tree lot late Friday night.”

  “We could try to find out a little more about her,” Pamela said. “If you’re going to suggest that she could be the killer, then the more evidence, the better.”

  “Mo-om!” Penny folded her arms across her chest and affected a stern look that was more amusing than fearsome, given her gentle features. “I didn’t mean that you and Bettina should try to solve this crime. I’m sad enough about what happened to Karma without having to worry about my mom and my favorite neighbor getting on the bad side of someone who’s willing to murder.”

  Instead of responding to Penny’s statement, Pamela jumped to her feet. “You need some breakfast,” she said, “and Bettina drank your coffee, so I’ll just get busy here . . .” And the rush of water into the kettle, the clatter of beans into the coffee grinder’s chamber, and the growling whir as the beans were ground provided enough distraction that Penny didn’t raise the point again.

  Soon Penny was settled on an extra chair brought in from the dining room and with toast and coffee before her. Bettina was always curious about her doings at school, and soon Penny was describing the class in Web design she was looking forward to when the spring semester started up again.

  Pamela was happy to listen and observe, relieved that Penny seemed to be rebounding from the shock of Karma’s murder, and enjoying the way enthusiasm about her future brightened Penny’s blue eyes and rosied her complexion. When Penny finished her toast and coffee, she excused herself to get dressed for a mall outing with her friend Lorie Hopkins.

  As soon as she disappeared through the doorway, and they heard her feet on the stairs, Bettina darted from the room and returned with her smartphone. Pamela was surprised. Bettina didn’t usually interrupt an in-person encounter to commune with someone reaching out to her from cyberspace.

  But perhaps she was expecting a call, or a text, or an email, Pamela reflected, and busied herself clearing away the breakfast dishes, putting away what was left of the cream, and returning the extra chair to the dining room.

  Meanwhile, Bettina was staring at her device as her fingers tickled and stroked its screen. “Hire a dog-walker,” she said suddenly.

  Pamela was at the counter now, sponging up toast crumbs. “ ‘Hire a dog-walker’?” she murmured in response.

  Bettina was murmuring too, as if working out an idea before making it public. Pamela caught the word “Woofus,” but not much else.

  “Doesn’t Wilfred enjoy his walks with Woofus?” she asked when Bettina finally raised her head.

  “Phoebe Ruskin,” Bettina said with a slightly exasperated tone to her voice, as if Pamela hadn’t been paying attention. Pamela tried to look pleasantly receptive. “Phoebe Ruskin has a dog-walking business,” Bettina went on to explain. “Based in Haversack, but she ‘serves surrounding communities,’ as her website puts it. I guess sculpting doesn’t pay the
bills, even though rents in Haversack are nothing like they’d be here in Arborville—or in most of the ‘surrounding communities.’ ”

  “So you’re thinking”—Pamela smiled now—“we hire her to walk Woofus. And that gives us a chance to—”

  Bettina cut in. “—to get to know her better . . . and we’ll see what we can see.”

  Bettina’s fingers got busy again and in a moment Pamela was overhearing half a conversation, the upshot of which was that Phoebe liked to interview her four-footed clients before signing them up for the dog-walking service. She would come to Orchard Street the following afternoon at three o’clock to meet Woofus.

  “I have to get going.” Bettina rose to her feet. “I want to write up my interview with Clayborn while it’s still fresh in my mind—though by the time the Advocate comes out at the end of the week, everything he told me will have already been in the Register.”

  “People enjoy the Advocate,” Pamela said comfortingly. It was true, however, that Arborvillians jokingly described their weekly newspaper as containing “all the news that fits,” and some people allowed issues of the Advocate to accumulate on their driveways, slowly turning to papier-mâché in wet weather, despite their plastic wrappers.

  A few minutes after Pamela returned to the kitchen after seeing Bettina on her way, Penny appeared in the doorway again. She was dressed to go out, in jeans, boots, and the violet jacket, with Pamela’s violet scarf in a fetching twist at the neck. But in her hand she carried a Christmas card. Pamela recognized it as one from the box Penny had bought at the craft fair, Karma Karling’s design, with the twelve drummers drumming.

  “I was just looking at the cards again,” Penny said. “I don’t think I’ll send any of them. I’ll just keep them as a souvenir of Karma. But there’s something weird about them.”

  She held the card out. Pamela took it and laid it on the kitchen table.

  “There are thirteen of them”—Penny’s finger hovered over the drummers in their smart red, white, and blue uniforms and tight formation—“not just twelve. It’s scary,” she added with a shudder. “Thirteen drummers, and then . . . she’s killed.”

  The doorbell chimed and Penny sang out, “Coming.” She darted from the room, leaving the Christmas card on the table.

  It was unusual for Pamela to still be in robe and slippers this late in the morning. Though her job as associate editor of Fiber Craft magazine allowed her to work at home most days, she exchanged robe and pajamas for real clothes every morning before sitting down to work.

  But before she climbed the stairs to dress, she sat down and studied the ranks of drummers once again. Yes, there were thirteen of them, one in the back row like a stowaway just peeking out from behind another. And unlike the soldierly faces of the others, with their stolid expressions, this drummer—whose drum was not actually visible—had quite distinctive features. His brows were dark, his nose assertive, and his lips had a sardonic twist.

  When she was up in her bedroom, Pamela replaced robe and pajamas with the jeans she’d worn the previous day and added a comfy turtleneck in a rich brown with an interesting cable detail up the front. Her wardrobe was simple—jeans and a casual blouse in warm weather, and jeans and a sweater, usually hand-knit, in cold weather. Stepping into the bathroom, she smoothed her dark hair, straight and shoulder-length, with a comb and declared herself ready for the workday.

  This workday, however, would be an easy workday. On the previous Friday she’d returned to her boss five articles she’d copyedited, and her Christmas week assignment was merely to read and review Foraging for Herbal Dyestuffs: Revisiting a Lost Art. Writing book reviews had recently been added to her job description.

  The next stop was her office, just across the hall, where she checked to make sure no important email had arrived since earlier that morning. Foraging for Herbal Dyestuffs: Revisiting a Lost Art was already sitting on the coffee table downstairs. She had dipped into it when it arrived the previous Thursday and was looking forward to more of the author’s anecdotes about her own foraging, as well as more of the photographs that showed both the foraged plants and the interesting color effects one could achieve with them.

  Downstairs in the entry, Catrina was luxuriating in the small pool of sunlight that reliably set the colors of the thrift-store carpet aglow on bright mornings. She gave Pamela a lazy glance, then closed her amber eyes once again. But Ginger had strolled in from the kitchen and padded after Pamela as she made her way to the sofa and settled into her habitual spot.

  It was unusual for Pamela to be sitting on the sofa during the day. Ginger pondered for a moment, as if wondering whether there was any point in joining her or whether she would spring up again in a moment. But after Pamela picked up the book, Ginger hopped up next to her and stretched out. Soon Pamela was engrossed in a description of wild rose madder, and Ginger was purring so intensely, Pamela could feel the vibrations against her thigh.

  Chapter Four

  Bettina was due at eleven Tuesday morning for the visit to Sorrel that she and Pamela had planned. So when the doorbell chimed a bit before that hour, summoning Pamela away from a discussion of how strains of indigo differed from continent to continent (some of the author’s foraging had involved quite adventurous travel), she expected to greet her friend.

  The figure visible behind the lace that curtained the door’s oval window did not, however, resemble Bettina. Instead of a bulky form garbed in bright pumpkin, topped with an accent of even brighter hair, a slender figure in dark clothing appeared against the faded green of lawn and shrubbery. The only bright spot was an object in the figure’s hands. And rather than launching into conversation and stepping toward the threshold the moment the door swung back, the figure remained on the porch.

  At first, Pamela barely recognized her, and the confusion must have been obvious, because the first words the figure uttered were, “It’s me, Rick’s friend Jocelyn Bidwell.”

  “Oh!” Pamela took a step backward. “Rick” was Richard Larkin, Pamela’s next-door neighbor and the father of Penny’s friends Laine and Sybil. When he’d moved in, newly divorced, he’d made his interest in Pamela quite plain. But Pamela had hesitated and hesitated, and at last he had turned his attentions elsewhere.

  Jocelyn Bidwell, with her lovely olive skin, thick black hair, and elegant features, was the elsewhere. For this errand, which seemed to involve the delivery of a poinsettia, she was wrapped in a dark blue (the word indigo flashed into Pamela’s mind) wool coat with a wide shawl collar and a tie belt looped with just the right casual flair.

  Jocelyn smiled, a bit hesitantly. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said, searching Pamela’s face as if for some explanation of the startled Oh! “But Rick and I just wanted to say ‘Merry Christmas’ ”—she held the poinsettia out with both hands—“and . . . and . . . I hope you like poinsettias.”

  “I . . . yes, I do.” Pamela struggled to muster her social smile. She backed up and pulled the door farther open. “Come in.”

  Jocelyn raised a foot shod in a sleek boot and stepped over the threshold.

  “I . . . have something for you,” Pamela said. “For the two of you.” She hurried to the kitchen and lifted a foil-wrapped poppy-seed cake from the counter. “It’s something I make,” she said when she returned, and she thrust it toward Jocelyn. Then she noticed that Jocelyn’s hands were still occupied with the poinsettia.

  But Jocelyn was resourceful. She slipped gracefully past Pamela and deposited the poinsettia, which was in an attractive clay pot, on the small table where Pamela collected her mail. Then she turned and held out a hand to receive Pamela’s offering.

  “Is this”—she gazed down at it, then raised her head—“your Christmas poppy-seed cake?” Pamela nodded. “Thank you!” Jocelyn went on. “Rick just loves it. He said you gave him one last year.”

  Wilfred would have observed, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” But no—she hadn’t been seeking a path to Richard Larkin’s h
eart. She had just been . . . Well, it had been Bettina’s idea to give him a poppy-seed cake, and she hadn’t really meant anything by it at all . . .

  “Yes,” Pamela said, “I gave him one last year. After all we’re neighbors, and now you and he have given me this nice . . . this nice . . .” She fluttered a hand in the direction of the poinsettia.

  And then the door, which Pamela hadn’t shut securely when Jocelyn entered, opened, and suddenly Bettina was there. Pamela sighed with relief and abandoned the attempt at speech.

  “Merry Christmas, neighbor!” Bettina greeted Jocelyn with a quick hug. “And to Rick too!”

  “The same to you!” Jocelyn seemed to relax in Bettina’s presence, but Bettina had that effect on people. After a short back-and-forth with Bettina about the joys of the season, and a repeated thank-you for Pamela, Jocelyn was on her way.

  “What was that in her hand?” Bettina asked as soon as the door closed behind her.

  “I gave her my other poppy-seed cake,” Pamela said. “She brought me this poinsettia, from both of them.” She gestured at the poinsettia. It was quite spectacular, with deep red petals—they were really its leaves, Pamela knew—streaked with white.

  Bettina raised her carefully shaped brows and nodded toward the poinsettia. “I wonder whose idea it was,” she observed, as if to herself. Pamela ignored the comment and stepped to the closet for her jacket. She would have to make another poppy-seed cake now—she’d given away the one that Penny was going to take back to school.

  “Wear your warmest jacket,” Bettina advised. “It’s bitter out there, but I came prepared to walk.” She held up a foot to show off a sturdy boot with a rim of fur at the ankle.

  Their destination was only half a block away, but Pamela’s preference for walking and Bettina’s aversion to it was the topic of much teasing between them.

  * * *

  Sorrel’s living room, in the stately brick apartment building at the corner of Orchard Street and Arborville Avenue, was a cozy refuge after their exposure—brief as it was—to the stiff wind that froze their faces and made their eyes water. She greeted them with a grateful “hello,” took Bettina’s coat and Pamela’s jacket, and insisted on serving coffee and slices of stollen despite her woebegone state.