Knit One, Die Two

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “He’s just as happy to have anybody else do his work for him,” Mr. Gilly said. He leaned close to Pamela. “Takes too many jobs on the side, if you ask me.” He made a sweeping gesture that took in the parking lot, the apartment building, and the lawn they were standing on. “This all keeps me busy. I’m not looking to do more. But that Ben—he juggles this job, that job, working for that big shot Merrick Timmons, up on top of the Palisades. Nothing gets done right if you try to do too much. That’s what I always say.” He raised the cigarette to his lips with a flourish.

  Pamela saw her opening. “I’d better let you get back to it,” she said. With a smile and a wave, she was on her way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As she climbed the hill toward Harold and Nell’s house, she pondered what she’d just learned. It was possible that Ben Skyler was supposed to keep the storage room neat, and that Caralee’s death had been his fault—the result of an avoidable accident. But on reflection Pamela doubted that the church custodian’s duties extended to taking care of the theater group’s property. As far as she knew, the church let the group use its facilities for no charge, so it was unlikely that custodian services were provided.

  Talking to Mr. Gilly hadn’t been a waste of time though. He’d linked Ben Skyler with Merrick Timmons. If the only thing Caralee had objected to about Merrick Timmons was that he had installed a trophy wife in a trophy house, it was hard to see why he’d have thought he needed to kill her. People in Arborville hadn’t needed a blog post to set their tongues wagging about the new owner of the Palisades mansion and his very young wife. But what if Caralee had known more about him? Things he’d prefer remain secret—at least from the stratum of Arborville society he was trying to impress.

  Ben Skyler did odd jobs for Merrick Timmons, and Ben Skyler had a key to the storage room where Caralee met her fate. He could have gone into the storage room anytime at all and arranged the pile of furniture so that as soon as Caralee pulled out a chair the whole thing came crashing down.

  Pamela continued up the hill. She now had one interesting tidbit to report to Bettina. And the interview with Harold might well yield another. She glanced down at the foil-covered plate bearing the offering of cobbler, and blinked as the sun reflecting off the foil dazzled her eyes.

  No one answered when Pamela rang the doorbell at Harold and Nell’s, though Harold’s car, a decades-old Volvo, sat in the driveway and the garage door was open. Pamela retraced her steps, descending the stone steps that connected the front porch of the Bascombs’ substantial house with the sidewalk below.

  “Harold?” she called, venturing up the driveway. Perhaps he was puttering in the garage. She stepped out of the sunlight into the garage’s shadowy interior and called again, “Harold? Are you in here?”

  There was no response, but as she stepped across the oil-stained cement floor, moving toward the door that led into the Bascombs’ mudroom, she heard a thumping sound from somewhere. She paused and held her breath, straining to listen. The thump came again, and then in a slow, rhythmic series. She stepped closer to the wall. The thumping stopped for a minute, but then it started again.

  Pamela turned and headed back toward the driveway. As she stepped through the garage door she realized she could hear the thumping more clearly in the open air, and it was coming from the Bascombs’ backyard. It was also, she noted, accompanied by a male voice singing a jaunty tune.

  She made her way along the side of the garage, skirting the narrow border where Nell’s iris grew. As she rounded the back corner, she caught sight of Harold in the far corner of the yard near the compost heap. He was holding an impressive-looking ax. Behind him was a jumble of hefty logs sawed into fireplace-sized lengths. In front of him was a giant log with a small log balanced on top. To the side was a tidy pile of split logs, their cut surfaces a satiny chestnut brown. Harold hefted the ax, raised it over his shoulder, and brought it down on the top of the small log. There was a sharp crack as the small log fractured into two halves, and then the ax thudded against the upturned end of the giant log. Harold’s voice rang out in a triumphant peal: “Cut that wood just right!”

  He noticed Pamela and leaned the ax against the giant log. “Work songs,” he said, panting slightly. “Makes the work go faster.” A lock of his thick white hair, damp with sweat, had fallen over his forehead. He pushed it back with a grimy hand.

  “You have a nice voice,” Pamela said. “I like to hear men sing.”

  “That’s how I won Nell’s heart,” he said with a grin. “But you didn’t climb up that hill to compliment me on my voice. To what do I owe this visit?”

  Pamela extended her hands with the foil-covered plate balanced on them. “There was some cobbler left last night after Knit and Nibble finished. I thought you might like a piece.”

  He raised his eyebrows and the grin grew wider. “Are you sure that’s the only reason? Not that I don’t welcome a chance to taste your cobbler. Nell said she couldn’t resist—and you know how she disapproves of sugar.” Pamela’s eyes strayed to Nell’s expansive vegetable garden. It took up a quarter of the large yard and was neatly laid out in rows of climbing things, low bushy things, and unruly vines bearing green and gold squashes.

  Harold accepted Pamela’s offering and set it on the giant log. “Was that all Nell said about last night’s meeting?” Pamela asked.

  “Well”—Harold put his hands on his hips and continued to grin—“there was mention of a piece of knitting, a posthumous message from Caralee Lorimer involving the names of certain prominent Arborville citizens. Nell pooh-poohed that notion of course, or at least she made it very clear to me that I wasn’t to tell you any secret things that I knew about Thomas Swinton, Merrick Timmons, Kent Varnish, or Anthony Wadsworth when you came around asking.”

  Pamela felt her shoulders droop. “Am I really that easy to figure out?” she said.

  “Hands Across Arborville.” A spark of mischief appeared in Harold’s faded blue eyes. The weathered skin around them crinkled. He laughed. “And lots of other places too. Wandering hands, you might say.”

  “Kent Varnish?”

  “He likes the women,” Harold said. “And rumor has it”—he winked, leaned closer, and raised a large-knuckled hand to his mouth in a parody of someone imparting a secret—“there’s more than one Mrs. Varnish.”

  Pamela took a step back, narrowly missing a split log. “How could that be?” she asked.

  “Not officially, of course,” Harold said. “But he’s set her up in an apartment over in Haversack. I believe there’s a Baby Varnish too.”

  * * *

  A horn beeped at Pamela just after she crossed Arborville Avenue and was starting down Orchard Street. She turned to see Bettina’s Toyota pulling to the curb. Bettina leaned across and opened the passenger-side door. “Jump in,” she said, “but move the tomatoes first.”

  The passenger seat held an assortment of tomatoes ranging in color from deep brownish red to pale yellow and in shape from bulbous globes the size of a palm to delicate oval miniatures.

  Pamela gathered them up, cradling them in one folded arm, and slipped in beside Bettina. “Where did you get them?” she asked. “Mine are all gone.”

  “Community gardens,” Bettina said. “I’m doing an article for the Advocate on harvest time. Meredith Rawlings showed me around and I interviewed a couple of people who were up there working. ‘Too many tomatoes,’ one woman said, as if there could ever be too many tomatoes.” The journey to Bettina’s house had taken barely a minute. She pulled into her driveway and turned to Pamela. “So,” she said, “tell me if your errand with the cobbler paid off.”

  “I have many things to report.” Pamela handed a few tomatoes to Bettina and reached for the door handle.

  * * *

  “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” Wilfred exclaimed as they walked into the kitchen and he caught sight of the tomatoes. “I was just about to run to the Co-Op.” Bettina handed them to him and he lined them
up on the pine table. Pamela added the ones she was carrying to the collection. “With all this bounty,” he added, “what would you say to bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches?”

  Pamela and Bettina nodded, and Wilfred opened the refrigerator. As he set strips of bacon to frying in his cast-iron skillet, Pamela described her conversation with Mr. Gilly. “So,” she concluded, “if Merrick Timmons wanted to get rid of Caralee, he could have hired Ben Skyler to do the dirty work. Ben could have unlocked the storage room and rearranged the pile of furniture anytime at all.”

  “Assuming,” Bettina said, “Ben would have been willing to kill somebody for money.”

  “Mr. Gilly doesn’t think much of him.” Pamela shrugged.

  The seductive aroma of frying bacon began to rise from the stove. Bettina sighed with appreciation, but she stayed focused on the topic at hand, commenting, “We still don’t know what Caralee had on Merrick Timmons that he’d be desperate to protect.”

  “But now we do know what secret Kent Varnish might want to protect,” Pamela said. “And I think I’m in love with Harold Bascomb.”

  Bettina’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  Pamela laughed. “He’s Nell’s. And he’s a little old for me. But wait till you hear what he told me about one of Arborville’s most public-spirited citizens.”

  As Pamela began to describe what Harold had told her about Kent Varnish’s Haversack hideaway and the sweetie he supported there, along with the child he had fathered, Wilfred stepped away from the stove. When she finished, Wilfred began to laugh with delight, but Bettina shook her head sadly.

  “That is just shameful,” she said. “What would Dolly Varnish think if she knew?” She looked up at Wilfred. “And why are you laughing?”

  Wilfred blinked, tightened his lips into a firm line, and swallowed hard. “I was imagining what the St. Willibrod’s church council would think if they knew, dear wife. You know I’d never approve of . . .” He paused in confusion. Meanwhile, the smell of the frying bacon had taken on a scorched quality. With one long step Wilfred was back at the stove. “Rescued it,” he called. “It’s just right.”

  Bettina jumped up. “We’ll want to have the sandwiches on toast,” she announced, and in a minute she was standing at the counter popping bread into the toaster.

  “I’ll slice a tomato,” Pamela said, selecting a huge deep red one from the collection on the table, “and we’ll need lettuce.” As she turned to head toward the part of Bettina’s spacious kitchen where cooking took place, she noticed Wilfred’s hand resting on Bettina’s shoulder, rubbing it gently. His other hand wielded the spatula with which he was scooping bacon slices from the skillet.

  Exploring the refrigerator, Pamela found a head of lettuce in Bettina’s vegetable drawer. She peeled off three large leaves, washed them at the sink, and patted them dry with paper towels. Then she carved the tomato into thick rounds. Soon six slices of toast lay on a cutting board, garnished with mayonnaise. Wilfred arranged four strips of bacon on each and Pamela added a lettuce leaf and a tomato slice, the red flesh glistening with juice.

  After they’d eaten and Wilfred had retreated to his basement workshop, Pamela lingered at the pine table. Every bite of the bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches had been devoured and only toast crumbs remained on Bettina’s craft-shop plates. “We have to figure out where Kent Varnish was between six and seven the night Caralee died,” she said. “We know the Arborists were meeting at the church that night, but what time do they start? Would he have been around between the time Rue left and the Players started to arrive?”

  Bettina nodded. “I’ve seen him in Hyler’s at lunchtime,” she said. “In fact, Caralee once mentioned that he was a regular—to the point that when he ordered, he just said, ‘Bring me the usual.’ ”

  “I’ll bet she loved that,” Pamela commented. “But let’s drop by there tomorrow, strike up a conversation with him—you’re good at that. We’ll see what we can find out about what time the Arborists show up for their meetings.” Pamela stood up. “I’ll ring your doorbell at noon,” she said, “and be sure to wear your walking shoes. It’s only five blocks and there’s no reason to drive.” Bettina sent her home with a few tomatoes.

  * * *

  At home, Pamela collected her mail from the box on her porch. Surveying the assortment of catalogs (Thanksgiving-inspired covers—already!) reminded her that she hadn’t checked Richard Larkin’s mailbox for a while, and last week’s Advocate was doubtless languishing somewhere in his shrubbery. She set the pile of catalogs on one of her porch chairs and retraced her steps to the sidewalk. Then she cut across Richard Larkin’s yard, scooping the Advocate out from under a holly bush. Nothing was spilling from his mailbox, but inside it she found the twin of a catalog she had just received, offering gift baskets of Vermont cheese.

  Sudden relief nudged at her brain, though she’d been trying so hard to deny she was worried. Only one stray catalog. He must have gotten in touch with the post office to extend the hold on his deliveries—otherwise his mailbox would be overflowing by now. So he must be okay, and hadn’t been eaten by a bear, and had just decided to stay in Maine a bit longer.

  But as she climbed the steps to her own porch, she recalled the last time she’d put a hold on her mail, for a weeklong trip to a textile workshop in Providence. The card hadn’t asked for a return date. It had just instructed her that mail delivery would resume after she collected the mail that had been held.

  Once inside, she lifted a kitten out of the box that held Richard Larkin’s mail and newspapers and added the new items. Wrestling kittens scattered and their ball of yarn rolled across the floor as she stepped into the kitchen to check the kittens’ food bowl and the water bowl. A website had advised that kittens starting to eat solid food should be offered many small meals, so she spooned a few more mounds of kitten food into the plastic bowl.

  Five emails, accompanied by beeps and chirps, appeared in Pamela’s inbox as soon as she awakened her computer. The first was from Penny, the next three were notices from the Arborville Library about upcoming events, and the last, the slowest to arrive, was from her boss at Fiber Craft. It was marked with the little paper clip symbol that meant a work assignment was attached. Wanting to savor the enjoyment of reading her daughter’s note, Pamela first glanced quickly at the message from her boss. “Too whimsical for our readers? Please advise,” it read.

  Her curiosity piqued, she opened the attachment. The article was titled “My Life as a Sheep.” “Could be fun,” she murmured, and turned to the email from Penny.

  It was a newsy note. Penny had interviewed a local artist for a history report. She’d added a thrift store jacket to her usual sweater and jeans uniform and gotten many compliments. It was starting to get cold in Massachusetts and the leaves on some of the campus trees were turning red. She was already looking forward to coming home at Thanksgiving. But at the end, she departed from her cheery tone to say, “You never answered when I said I hoped you weren’t getting involved in anything having to do with that accident at the church. I do not want to have to worry about my mother!”

  A lump made its way into Pamela’s throat and she swallowed hard. She hated to lie. But it wasn’t fair to burden Penny with the knowledge that she and Bettina were busily trying to identify a killer, because obviously a killer could kill again if he (or she) felt threatened. Perhaps the best thing would just be to not respond for a bit. Something might come to light in the next day or two, and Bettina could pass a tip to Detective Clayborn and Caralee’s murderer would be brought to justice and that would be that.

  Now for “My Life as a Sheep.” But as she began to read, another thought intruded, a positive thought. Penny would know if something had happened to Richard Larkin. Of course. Penny was in touch with Laine and Sybil, even though she was up in Massachusetts and Laine and Sybil were at NYU in the city. If Laine and Sybil were worried that their father had vanished, they’d say something to Penny. Of course they would. And Penny woul
d say something to her.

  She returned to “My Life as a Sheep,” but yet another thought intruded. Richard Larkin had once said that when he was in Maine he didn’t cook for himself. It was shortly after he had moved from Manhattan to the house next to Pamela’s and he was explaining why he wasn’t familiar with the need to secure one’s garbage from the raccoons. Perhaps, like Kent Varnish, he had a whole other household—but in Maine, not Haversack—and he had extended his stay in Maine because he couldn’t bear to pull himself away from his . . . sweetie. Then she reminded herself that Richard Larkin, as a single man, had every right to do just exactly as he pleased.

  Pamela returned once more to “My Life as a Sheep,” willing herself to concentrate on her work and nothing else. Three more articles to be evaluated arrived while she was still pondering it, and by the time she had made her way through all the articles, it was nearly six p.m.

  If she wrote up her comments before going downstairs for dinner, she could devote the evening to Time and Time Again. The interview Bettina had scheduled with Thomas Swinton was three days away, and Pamela was still hoping that something in his book would nudge her in a useful direction. Was there a question she could ask him whose answer or failure to answer would enable her and Bettina to cross him off their list of suspects—or solidify his place there?

  Two of the articles were definite rejections, one so poorly written that it would take heroic efforts to make it readable and the other too basic to interest the readers of Fiber Craft, though Kool-Aid tie-dye was certainly a fun idea. “Depictions of Weaving on Greek Vases of the Archaic Period” was a definite win—complete with spectacular photographs of the vases the author had studied. About “My Life as a Sheep” she wrote, “Describing wool production from the point of view of a sheep is quite original, though admittedly whimsical. I suppose sheep do feel a bit chilly after shearing, and I’m concerned this information might upset some readers. But on the positive side, the author cleverly works in details of interest to anyone who enjoys crafts involving wool. The quality of the writing is excellent, and the author’s claim to authority (proprietress of an upstate New York sheep farm) unarguable.”