Downstairs, Pamela studied the contents of her refrigerator and realized a visit to the Co-Op was called for—and soon. She’d stop there after the lunch at Hyler’s with Bettina. Meanwhile, there was a bit of Co-Op cheddar left, and a few eggs. She’d make a cheese omelet and slice one of the community garden tomatoes Bettina had sent her home with, and she’d garnish the tomato slices with olive oil and basil from the basil plant on the back porch.
An hour later, she settled down with Time and Time Again. As she opened to Chapter 37, she discovered that the time-traveling protagonists were revisiting the Revolutionary Era, and a dramatic scene was unfolding in the Mittendorf House. Pamela had been there once, of course, because the Mittendorf House was a county landmark—but her visit had taken place several years ago. Wilfred had said some of the members of the historical society read the book, presumably with no objections to its historical accuracy. And anyway, even if Thomas Swinton had fudged details, what was the point of writing fiction if you couldn’t fudge? An author wouldn’t kill someone for fear she’d point out that the real Mittendorf House was nothing like what he had described. Would he?
Chapter Fourteen
“Don’t need this, sweetheart,” the confident voice boomed. “Just bring me the usual.” Pamela and Bettina were sitting at the very next table, but the voice would have reached them even in the farthest corner of the room. They turned to see the grimacing server reach for the oversize menu the owner of the voice was flourishing in her direction.
“Kent Varnish,” Bettina whispered, though there was no need for discretion. Hyler’s at lunchtime was abuzz with conversation. Pamela and Bettina had arrived fifteen minutes earlier. They were surveying the Reuben sandwiches that had just been delivered by the server who was now ministering to Kent Varnish. The sandwiches were grand constructions of grilled rye bread, with melted cheese and bits of deep pink corned beef escaping from between the slices. They reposed on oval plates decorated with pickle spears and little paper cups of slaw.
“Back with your lemonade in a second,” the server called to them as she headed toward the counter, menu in hand. Kent Varnish watched her depart and then glanced toward Bettina and Pamela. He was a florid man with dark hair receding from a broad forehead.
Bettina had taken particular care with her toilette that morning. She was wearing a form-fitting jersey dress in vivid shades of red, orange, and fuchsia, the colors so lively that they distracted from the fact that Bettina was none too svelte. A triple strand of coral beads accented the deep V-neck, and coral and gold earrings adorned her ears. But obeying Pamela’s command that she wear walking shoes, she’d accessorized the outfit with her red sneakers.
Bettina smiled in response to Kent Varnish’s glance, then devoted herself to her sandwich. The lemonade arrived. Soon Pamela and Bettina were lifting forkfuls of sandwich trailing long strands of melted cheese to their mouths, dipping nibbles of slaw from the little paper cups, and savoring crisp bites from the pickle spears. When the sandwiches were nearly gone, the meal turned more leisurely. They began to chat about a new reporting assignment Bettina had for the Advocate—Adopt a Pet Week at the county shelter. But all the while, they were keeping an eye on Kent Varnish.
When it looked like he had nearly finished his meal—“the usual” had proven to be a Reuben—Bettina suddenly veered from the plight of abandoned pets to raise her voice and announce, “It’s losing leaves so early this year. I think there’s something wrong with it but I just don’t know what to do.”
Kent Varnish looked up from the remains of his sandwich and set down the pickle spear he was holding. He fastened his gaze on Bettina. She smiled.
“I know a bit about trees,” he said.
“You do?” Bettina purred. “You’re not one of those daredevils who climbs . . . ?” Kent Varnish was well into middle age, and he had the physique of a man who ate Reuben sandwiches for lunch every day, as well as doughnuts for breakfast—and probably didn’t counterbalance these meals with salads at dinnertime. No one could have seriously mistaken him for a professional tree-trimmer.
But with complete seriousness, he replied, “Valuable work, but I feel I can be more useful on the ground.” He edged his chair closer to Bettina and smiled. “Kent Varnish. Arborville Arborists.”
“Oh, my!” Bettina clapped her hands and her fuchsia nails glittered. “Do you think you could . . . ? I’m just on Orchard Street. Across from the church. It’s not far.”
“Are you in the Dutch Colonial?” Bettina nodded. “That’s a black walnut you’ve got.”
“Amazing,” Bettina said. “How did you know?”
“The Arborists meet at the church.” Kent Varnish edged his chair closer. “Every Wednesday night. I know all about your trees.” He let his hand rest on the back of Bettina’s chair but his eyes wandered to Pamela’s face.
“Wednesday nights?” Bettina frowned, but prettily. “Wasn’t it a Wednesday night when that terrible accident happened to that sweet young woman? Were you there then?”
“I was at a church,” he said, looking back at Bettina. “But not that church. Can’t be in two places at once.” Pamela suppressed a laugh. He probably tried though—Arborville and Haversack. But he went on. “They had an emergency at St. Willibrod’s—a flood in the vestry. I’m head of the church council and I had to be there.”
He focused on Pamela again. “How about a smile,” he said. “Give a smile to get a smile. That’s my motto.” He displayed his own teeth and added, “Come on. A smile doesn’t cost anything.”
Pamela summoned up a reluctant version of her social smile, but Kent Varnish had ceased paying attention. A man of age and build similar to his own had slipped into a chair next to him and the two were already head-to-head in deep conversation.
Pamela and Bettina glanced at each other, acknowledging that the meeting with Kent Varnish was over. They returned to their meal, finishing up the last bites of the Reubens and maneuvering their straws to reach the last few drops of lemonade, the drink’s tart sweetness now diluted by melting ice.
The lunchtime crush was easing as people settled their checks and headed out the door. Kent Varnish slipped a ten-dollar bill into the server’s hand with a lordly gesture and told her to keep the change. Before leaving, he leaned toward Pamela and Bettina’s table to offer a cheery good-bye, though his cheer was focused more on Bettina than on Pamela.
“You could have acted a little more friendly,” Bettina whispered as Hyler’s door closed behind Kent Varnish.
“You’re better at that than I am,” Pamela said. “And anyway, we found out something useful.
“Cross him off the list?” Bettina raised her brows and tightened her lips into a quizzical knot.
Pamela shrugged. “He had no way of knowing we think he killed Caralee. Nobody except us even believes her death was anything but an accident. So he probably really was at St. Willibrod’s dealing with a plumbing crisis. Chatting with two fellow townspeople isn’t like being questioned by the police—where you’d make up an alibi if you didn’t have a real one.”
Bettina nodded. “We can always follow up about the flood in the vestry if all our other suspects fall through.”
“I sort of hope it does turn out to be him,” Pamela said. “He’s so creepy.”
Bettina laughed. “You haven’t met Thomas Swinton yet.”
The server delivered their check and Pamela computed the tip, then reached into her handbag for her wallet. She counted out a few bills, slipped them and the check under the salt shaker, and started to rise.
Bettina reached out a cautioning hand. “Let’s take our time,” she murmured. “Craig Belknap usually comes out for a break after the lunch crowd leaves and I want to have a little chat with him. I’m going to tell him I’m doing a follow-up article on the ‘accident’ for the Advocate.”
“But he—”
“I’m still curious about him,” Bettina said. “And anyway, a follow-up article might be a good idea.” She tilted
her head and pursed her lips. “I don’t think we have enough to fill the next issue. There’s harvest time at the community gardens, and the Aardvarks’ homecoming game at the high school . . .”
“ ‘All the news that fits.’ ” Pamela quoted the Arborville residents’ affectionate description of their town’s weekly.
Bettina surveyed the room. “There he is now.” She nodded toward the booth in the far corner near the swinging doors that led into the kitchen. “Act inconspicuous,” she said. “You were asking him questions at the reception after Caralee’s funeral and he’ll be suspicious if he realizes we’re together. If he thinks I’m just trying to fill a few columns in the Advocate, he’s more likely to open up.”
Pamela shifted her chair to the side. She watched discreetly as Bettina made her way across the restaurant, threading between the worn wooden tables and straight-backed wooden chairs toward the booth, with its burgundy Naugahyde upholstery. Craig Belknap was sitting on the bench facing the street, studying Bettina as she advanced toward him. As Pamela had noticed before, it was difficult to pick out anything distinctive about the young man. The soft lines of his face and his light brows gave him an innocent air, though the twist of his mouth hinted at something more complicated. He’d hung a white chef’s jacket on a hook at the side of the booth and was wearing a nondescript dark T-shirt.
Pamela studied the passing scene through Hyler’s front windows. A leggy young blonde woman with a bouncing ponytail pushed a stroller along the sidewalk. A man in a fluorescent green safety vest waved a utility truck into a parking space across the street. A white-haired woman with a cane headed toward the ATM outside the bank. Only a few tables were still occupied and Hyler’s was quiet enough now that Pamela could hear the low murmur of Bettina’s conversation with Craig Belknap.
Her thoughts turned to plans for the rest of the day. That morning’s email had brought a message from her boss concurring with Pamela’s recommendation that Fiber Craft publish the article about images of weaving on Greek vases. “The December issue is shaping up to be all about weaving,” her boss wrote, “and this will fit in beautifully—so please edit ASAP.” But first, she’d stop at the Co-Op. She needed cheese and bread and fruit, and vegetables for salad. And she’d make something for dinner that could come back for a few more meals, something like meatloaf. That was it. She’d bake a meatloaf, and a potato with it for tonight, and then there would be leftovers.
An interesting little drama was playing out on the sidewalk in front of Hyler’s. The leggy young blonde woman pushing the stroller had evidently finished whatever errand had taken her north on Arborville Avenue and she was passing the window again, heading the other direction. But her passenger now scorned his stroller and seemed determined to walk, though at a snail’s pace. And she seemed pressed for time. So after a few hesitant steps, she scooped him up and tried to settle his squirming body back into the padded comfort of the stroller. He resisted, and his red face and agonized expression made it clear he was determined to remain free.
His screams were so frantic that they reached all the way to where Pamela sat, several tables back from the windows. But something else reached her ears too, from the other direction.
“Ghoulish,” the voice said, “and for a lame little paper like the Advocate?” It was a male voice, but strained to such a pitch that a listener would have been hard-pressed to know that—except Pamela turned to see Craig Belknap half on his feet and leaning toward Bettina with an expression as agonized as that of the toddler on the sidewalk.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Bettina answered, in tones as soothing as the voice she used when Woofus needed comforting.
“Like you care?” He leaned farther and tensed his fingers as if ready to pounce.
Bettina edged her way out of the booth. She rose to her feet and began to back away. Looking embarrassed, Craig Belknap sank back down. The server had been watching from behind the counter but now went back to tidying the pile of menus. Bettina continued backing away, but her eyes were still fixed on Craig Belknap.
Thus it was that she didn’t notice the chair directly in her path. Suddenly there was a screech as wood scraped against wood, a clattering sound as the chair tipped over, and a yelp and a thump as Bettina landed in a heap on the floor.
Pamela rushed to her side from one direction and Craig Belknap from the other. Their eyes met over the prone figure of Bettina. “You?” Craig said, then, “You put her up to this.” He buried his face in his hands and slowly dragged them over his forehead, cheeks, and chin as if attempting to wipe away his anger. When he had finished and dropped them to his side, he seemed calmer.
Ignoring him, Pamela stooped and turned her attention to Bettina. Before she could say anything, Bettina struggled into a sitting position. “I’m okay,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Pamela put her arm around Bettina’s shoulder. The server had rushed over too, and now offered a hand to pull Bettina to her feet. Craig Belknap righted the overturned chair.
Once on her feet, Bettina flexed her elbows and bent each knee. “Everything’s working,” she said. “I’m just a little shaken up.”
Pamela led her to the booth and eased her onto the seat. The server, her brow furrowed, leaned down. “I could call nine-one-one,” she said.
“No, really. Please. I’m fine.” Bettina waved the server away. Indeed, she seemed fine. Even the bright red curls brushing her forehead and framing her cheeks were undisturbed.
Pamela remained standing, and so did Craig Belknap, and it was Pamela he addressed. “I wasn’t anywhere near the church that night, okay? I told her, and now I’m telling you—again, though I thought I made it clear to you at the reception after the funeral. The group wasn’t rehearsing my scenes and I had something else to do. I don’t know why you both think somebody killed Caralee on purpose and especially why you think that somebody was me.”
“The argument I overheard from my front lawn,” Pamela said.
“You don’t understand at all.” He shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand what that was about.”
“Then tell us where you were Wednesday night. Somebody saw you leaving Hyler’s well before your usual quitting time.”
“I don’t have to talk to you,” he said, and ducked back through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.
“I guess he doesn’t,” Bettina said with a disgusted shrug. She leaned on the table as she rose slowly to her feet. Pamela watched, concern making her eyes seem larger and darker. She reached out a hand, but Bettina smiled and took a few tentative steps. “Perfectly fine,” she announced. “Shall we head for the Co-Op? Thursday night is baked salmon and Wilfred has been looking forward to it.”
* * *
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the Co-Op, Pamela scanned the bulletin board on the market’s façade. The cards offering kittens to good homes had disappeared—perhaps a good sign, suggesting as it did that the kittens had found good homes, and rather quickly. Hopefully when the time came for her to seek good homes for whatever kittens remained after Knit and Nibble had claimed their choices, kit-tenless good homes would still remain in Arborville.
Inside the Co-Op, Pamela steered her cart over the worn wooden floor toward produce. Bettina, with a basket slung over her arm, headed down one of the Co-Op’s narrow aisles toward the fish counter at the back of the store. Browsing among bundles of leafy greens, pyramids of bright fruit, and bins of dusky potatoes and golden onions, Pamela added a cucumber, three tomatoes, a bag of apples, a baking potato, and an onion to her cart. She picked up a pound of freshly ground beef in the meat section and a wedge of Vermont cheddar at the cheese counter, then she proceeded to the bakery counter, drawn by the aroma of sugary things just out of the oven. Bettina was already there, slipping a white bakery box tied up with string into her basket.
“Apple turnovers,” she announced.
Pamela requested a loaf of whole-grain bread, sliced, and soon they had gone through the checkout lane
and were once again out on the sidewalk, strolling along Arborville Avenue toward Orchard Street. They had reached the corner where a small shelter and a bench marked the stop for the bus to Manhattan when a jingling sound emerged from the depths of Bettina’s handbag.
“My phone,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know it was on.” She lifted it from her bag, said hello, and listened for a second. “It’s Penny.” She handed the phone to Pamela. “And she sounds worried.”
Chapter Fifteen
Pamela’s heart stirred with a ragged thump and she felt her breath stop. She set one of her canvas grocery bags on the bench and took the phone from Bettina’s hands. In a tiny strangled voice, she said, “Penny?”
“I’ve been calling and calling,” Penny said. “And your cell phone too. Where have you been?”
“What’s wrong?” Pamela sank onto the bench and Bettina perched beside her, an arm around Pamela’s shoulders.
“You never answered my email. And that makes me think you’re doing exactly what I was afraid you were doing.” Bettina’s phone made Penny’s voice sound high-pitched and tinny, but her anger was clear.
“Are you okay?” Pamela’s heart hadn’t stopped thumping.
“Of course I’m okay,” Penny said in the cell phone voice. “I’m calling to make sure you’re okay—that you’re not doing anything dangerous. I know you and Bettina think you can figure things out better than the police can.”
Pamela took a deep breath. “She’s okay,” she whispered in an aside to Bettina. “She called because she thinks we think Caralee was murdered.”
“We do think that,” Bettina whispered back.
“Shhh!” Pamela frowned at Bettina and returned to the phone. “The police are confident Caralee’s death was an accident,” she said. “So what would we even do?”
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