Knit One, Die Two

by Peggy Ehrhart

  Penny was silent for a minute. Then her voice came back. “You’re sure, Mom? You’re sure I don’t have to worry?”

  “Absolutely positive,” Pamela said firmly. “You don’t have to worry.” She handed the phone back to Bettina.

  “Was that honest?” Bettina asked as they resumed their walk home.

  Pamela didn’t answer. “You don’t have to worry” could mean a lot of different things. It didn’t necessarily mean that there was nothing to worry about.

  * * *

  Back at home, Pamela put her groceries away and settled down at her computer for an afternoon of work on the magazine. Hours passed and as the light behind her curtains began to wane, an aggrieved meowing at her office door reminded her that dinnertime was drawing near.

  Downstairs, the first order of business was tending to the needs of seven hungry creatures, with scoops of cat food for Catrina and kitten food for her offspring. The kittens waited eagerly for their food, weaving complicated patterns of ginger and black as they milled around Pamela’s feet.

  Once Catrina and the kittens were hunkered down around their bowls in their accustomed corner, Pamela started work on the meatloaf that would be her own dinner. From the cupboard she took her favorite mixing bowl, the caramel-colored one with the white stripes near the rim, and from another cupboard she took the metal loaf pan with the faint patina of rust that never seemed to hurt anything. The baking potato sat on the counter where she’d placed it when she took it from one of her canvas grocery bags earlier that afternoon.

  She had a fresh loaf of whole-grain bread now, so the heels that remained from the previous loaf would become the breadcrumbs for the meatloaf. She set the heels out on the counter, along with the package of ground beef, the Co-Op onion, and an egg. Her mother had always put a dollop of catsup in meatloaf, along with a teaspoon of dried herbs. Pamela had adopted the catsup and herbs as well, but fresh herbs when they were available. And along with the other herbs on her back porch, she currently had a vigorous stand of parsley in a clay pot—so hardy that it had survived the previous winter to reappear with the daffodils in the spring.

  She grabbed her cooking scissors, hurried down the hallway to the back door, and stepped outside. The sunset blazed through gaps in the trees that marked the border between Pamela’s backyard and that of her neighbor to the southwest. But the shrubbery was already masked in shadow. She stooped toward the pot of parsley and reached under the lacy foliage to snip the stems. Clutching the harvested parsley like a bright green posy and rising to her feet, Pamela dawdled on the porch for a few minutes marveling at the orange-red sky, which shimmered like glowing embers.

  But she was distracted from her contemplation of the sunset by a rustling in the hedge between her yard and church next door. The hedge ran along the property line all the way from her front yard to the very back corner of her lot, skirting the church itself, the auditorium, and then the church parking lot. She glanced over to see the tall shrubs that made up the hedge swaying, then a figure emerged out of the shadows. She hadn’t turned on the porch light when she came out. She’d been able to find the parsley perfectly well though the day was fading. But perhaps seeing a light would have made the intruder less bold. Now she edged toward the back door, feeling her heart speed up while he—it was a he, dressed in jeans, a dark T-shirt, and a baseball cap—strolled across her lawn and vanished behind the garage. He reemerged to stroll back across the lawn and wiggle through the hedge onto the church’s property.

  The baseball cap, pulled low on his forehead, had obscured much of his face, so all she knew was that a medium-tall man with a medium build had been lurking in the hedge along the side of her house and then had briefly explored her backyard. But, she reflected with a pang and her heart sped up even more, he could have made a thorough inspection of her front yard, her porch—and even peered in her living room windows—before turning his attention to the back.

  Pamela reached for the doorknob with shaky fingers. Back in the kitchen, she added the handful of parsley to the arrangement of bowl, loaf pan, potato, and ingredients for the meatloaf. But the food might as well have been made of wax for all the interest in cooking it now provoked. Fear had driven her hunger away, and her throat felt too tight to swallow.

  Normally the appearance of a strange man in her yard wouldn’t have caused alarm. Few people in Arborville fenced their properties, and rather than walk up one block, around a corner, and down another, people sometimes took shortcuts and nobody cared. But Pamela and Bettina had been none too subtle in their quest to prove that Caralee’s death wasn’t an accident—particularly in their conversations with Craig Belknap, a medium-tall man with a medium build who could easily pull a baseball cap low on his forehead to become indistinguishable from any other medium-tall man with a medium build.

  Pamela opened her front door cautiously and peered out, nerves making her heart tick like a busy kitchen timer. Welcoming lights were on at Bettina’s house, and an hour or so spent with friends would quell the unease that had overtaken her. Besides, she wanted to confer with Bettina about this new development. She stepped onto the porch, keys in hand. A few people were hurrying along the sidewalk, probably on their way to rehearsal. Maybe Craig Belknap’s scenes were being rehearsed this evening too. That thought made Pamela stop breathing completely. Maybe he’d shown up at the church, recalled that the person who’d been so curious about his whereabouts the night Caralee died lived right there in that big wood-frame house, and decided to take a look around in case he ever needed to silence her once and for all. If he’d killed once, he could kill again.

  Making double sure to lock the door behind her and giving the knob an extra twist just to set her mind at rest, she hurried down the steps. She was grateful for the traffic on the sidewalk. Craig Belknap wouldn’t attack her with other people around, especially people who knew him from the Arborville Players. She paused at the curb as a car cruised by. It turned to head into the church driveway, and its headlights swept the pleasant house, almost a twin of Pamela’s, that flanked the church property on the other side. Pamela darted across the street and in a minute she was ringing Bettina’s bell.

  “Something’s wrong!” Bettina exclaimed before the door was even fully open. She pulled it wide and reached a welcoming hand toward Pamela. She was still wearing the vivid jersey dress she’d worn for lunch at Hyler’s, but she’d added a colorful apron styled after the look of a 1950s housewife. From behind her came a mournful whine, and Woofus edged around his mistress’s thigh to regard Pamela with apprehensive eyes. With her other hand, Bettina gave Woofus a comforting pat, then she turned her attention to Pamela.

  “Come in, come in,” she said, “and tell us what happened.” The reference to “us” was in fact accurate because Wilfred was just stepping through the arch that separated the dining room from the living room. He wore an apron tied over his bib overalls.

  “You’re cooking!” Pamela took a step backward. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s dinnertime”—she stopped in confusion—“of course. I was starting to cook. But then—”

  “Come in here and sit down.” Bettina put her arm around Pamela’s shoulders and guided her toward the dining room and then into the kitchen beyond. Wilfred followed and Woofus brought up the rear. Once they reached the kitchen, the dog retreated to a far corner and watched the proceedings warily.

  Seated at Bettina’s well-scrubbed pine table with a glass of white wine in front of her, Pamela began to feel calmer—and a bit silly to have created such a bother. But she tried to explain what had brought her hurrying across the street. “Someone was sneaking around in my yard,” she said, “right at sunset, and it could have been Craig Belknap though I couldn’t tell for sure because he was wearing a baseball cap, and he’d pulled it way down as if he was trying on purpose to disguise himself. And after today, especially. . . he thinks we both suspect that he arranged that furniture to crush Caralee.”

  “Well, I would have been scared too,�
�� Bettina announced. “And I’m glad you came here instead of staying in that big house alone. We can all sleep here tonight, and Woofus will make sure there are no intruders.” She glanced toward where the shaggy creature cowered against the wall. “Won’t you, boy!” She stood up. “There’s plenty of salmon—and wine—so let’s have a nice evening.”

  Wilfred had been listening from the other side of the kitchen, where he stood at the counter arranging broad slices of salmon in a Pyrex baking pan. He patted the last glistening pink strip into place and gestured at Bettina to stay put. “Too many cooks spoil the broth, dear wife. And anyway the salad is done, and the brown rice is underway, and I’ll just pop the salmon in and join you and Pamela for a glass of this nice wine.”

  “He makes the best sauce when we have salmon,” Bettina said. “He’s been retired almost a year now and my old faithful menus have been quite transformed.”

  “Butter, capers, lemon juice, and a little mustard,” Wilfred said, a pleased smile lighting up his ruddy face. “Nothing to it and it only takes a few minutes.”

  * * *

  An hour later they were sitting around Bettina’s dining room table in contented silence. As if the splendid meal hadn’t been enough, Bettina had brought out the apple turnovers she’d bought that afternoon at the Co-Op and topped them with vanilla ice cream. Only a few pastry crumbs and dabs of melted ice cream remained on Bettina’s sage-green plates, and the hand-woven napkins from the craft shop had been removed from laps and lay in crumpled folds on the table.

  Pamela bestirred herself and began to collect the plates and silverware, but Wilfred insisted the cleanup was his job.

  “But you cooked,” Pamela said.

  “Please sit down.” Bettina touched Pamela’s arm. Pamela obeyed, and the two remained at the table talking about Bettina’s plans for the next day—babysitting the Arborville grandchildren—and their Saturday meeting with Thomas Swinton. From the kitchen came the sounds of running water and jingling silverware, and the clatter of plates, pots, and pans being shifted here and there. What a comforting sound, Pamela reflected. She and her husband had shared kitchen duties as well. The image of Richard Larkin came into her mind and she quickly banished it. There was no reason to think about him at all, except in a neighborly way.

  Wilfred rejoined them soon, and the conversation turned to the doings of the historical society. “I should get going,” Pamela said at last, stirring in her chair.

  “No!” Bettina shook her head in alarm and her coral and gold earrings swayed wildly. “You’ll stay here tonight, of course. Wilfred Junior’s bedroom is Wilfred’s den now, but the bed is made up in Warren’s old room.”

  “But . . . Catrina.” A small wrinkle appeared between Pamela’s brows and her lips twisted in dismay. “She sleeps with me now. She won’t know what happened to me . . . whether there will ever be cat food again. And she’s got kittens to nurse.” She stood up. “I’ve got to go back. And I’ll be fine. Really.”

  Pamela didn’t mention that she had a second reason for wanting to return home. She was eight chapters from the end of Time and Time Again and was determined to finish it by Saturday’s lunch with its author—though she hadn’t yet hatched any brilliant ideas about what Caralee might have been planning to reveal about Thomas Swinton or his book on her blog.

  Bettina stood up too. “I’m coming across the street with you,” she said, “to make sure you get back safely.” Wilfred started to rise but Bettina motioned him to stay in his chair. “We’ll be fine,” she added. “We’ll take Woofus.”

  “I will certainly come as far as the porch, dear wife,” Wilfred said, leaning on the table as he rose to his feet. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Woofus came too, as far as the edge of the porch. But as they all stepped out into a night with a hint of late-September chill in the air, a commotion on the sidewalk made the dog jump back skittishly, almost tripping Wilfred.

  A small group of people had paused at the end of Wilfred and Bettina’s driveway, but the commotion proved to be nothing more than hysterical laughter. Then headlights emerged from the church driveway and a car swung onto Orchard Street, followed by another.

  “It’s the Players,” Bettina said. “Rehearsal must be getting out.”

  She and Pamela made their way along the path that led from the porch to the driveway. As they started down the driveway, the group—a man and two women—moved farther along the sidewalk. The hysterical laughter had abated, but not the general merriment.

  “He is a fool,” one of the women was saying, “but it’s still a cool part. I was lucky to get it. Too bad about Caralee though.”

  “That accent cracks me up,” the man said. “Sooo veddy, veddy British—and to think he’s really from Bayonne.”

  “His wife is his biggest booster,” the other woman added. Pamela recognized her as the older woman in the colorful long skirt who one of the police officers had interviewed the night Caralee died. “I’ve been in the Players forever, long enough to be on the list for those ridiculous Christmas letters she sends out. I swear, she must sit down at the computer every night to catalogue what he did that day. I’m surprised she doesn’t include the menus for his meals.”

  “Or what time he took his bath,” the man added, and they exploded into laughter again.

  “Or what kind of toothpaste he uses,” the younger woman cried, her voice shrill with hilarity.

  The older woman caught sight of Bettina and Pamela. “I’m sorry we scared your dog,” she said.

  “Oh, he’s just a nervous nelly.” Bettina laughed. “How are your rehearsals going . . . without . . . ?” She paused. “What a shock that was! Such a shame.”

  “We’re doing okay.” The young man spoke up. “We’ll be ready. Lorraine here—aka Madame Defarge—is a quick study.” He patted the younger woman on the back.

  “I think Craig Belknap is in the play,” Bettina said. “That nice young man who cooks at Hyler’s?”

  “Sydney Carton.” The older woman nodded. “Quite a plum role.”

  “He must be very dedicated,” Bettina commented. “Cooking all day and then rehearsal every night.”

  “Not every night.” The older woman switched from a “yes” nod to a “no” head shake. “It depends whose scenes we’re working on.”

  “I thought I saw him earlier,” Pamela said.

  “Must have been his doppelgänger.” The young man laughed. “Tonight we concentrated on the wine shop scenes.”

  The three Players continued on up the street and Bettina and Pamela looked at each other. “If he wasn’t at the rehearsal, does that make it more or less likely that he was in my yard?” Pamela asked. “It wasn’t seven yet when I saw that man, and they start at seven.”

  “I don’t know.” Bettina shrugged. “But we’ve got plenty to talk about.”

  “Bayonne,” Pamela murmured.

  “I’ll be over as soon as I finish babysitting duty tomorrow,” Bettina said. “And you be sure to lock your doors and check your windows tonight.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, as the kittens milled around their food bowl, tiny ears sleeked back, attacking the chicken-fish blend Pamela had offered them for breakfast, Pamela herself waited for her coffee to drip into its carafe and pondered. Five suspects, she said to herself. First, Craig Belknap—at least Bettina thought he belonged at the top of the list. And one couldn’t discount the ferocious argument Pamela had overheard, the lack of an alibi, and now the fact that he might have been casing her yard.

  As she removed the drip filter from the carafe and poured a cup of coffee, her thoughts turned to Anthony Wadsworth. There was no doubt about his access to the storage room. Anything Rue said or didn’t say to the police about that could easily be discounted as a wife covering for her husband. And now, based on the conversation she and Bettina had overheard the previous night, his motive for wanting Caralee out of the way couldn’t be clearer. If Caralee had revealed on her blog that his
grand British manner and his claims of triumphs in the London theater world were total fabrications, he’d have been mortified.

  She took a sip of coffee and slipped a slice of whole-grain bread into the toaster. Kent Varnish, she reflected, had a motive: the sweetie—and Baby Varnish!—in the secret hideaway in Haversack. He definitely wouldn’t have wanted that revealed on Caralee’s blog. And he had access to the storage room—the Arborists used one of the church’s meeting rooms for their meetings. But there was an alibi, though they had only his word that he missed the meeting the night Caralee died because he was dealing with a flood at St. Willibrod’s.

  The toast popped up. She put it on a plate, buttered it, and turned her attention to Merrick Timmons. He had access to the storage room—albeit indirectly—in the person of Ben Skyler, who did odd jobs for him and reportedly wasn’t the most upstanding individual. What about motive though? Having a big house and a trophy wife wasn’t all that shameful—but perhaps there was more to be discovered.

  She set the plate of toast on the table, along with the cup of coffee. Thomas Swinton was last on the list. Caralee had included him among the doomed aristocrats, and announced that he’d soon be featured on her blog. But why?

  Then she paused and frowned. Maybe there were more than five. Should she add the troubled husband who she’d met at the reception after the funeral? He might have decided that if he couldn’t have Caralee, no one else would have her either. And what about the understudy—Lorraine—who’d won the role of Madame Defarge after Caralee was out of the way? What better motive could there be than eliminating your competition?

  Pamela had been thinking so hard her coffee had gotten cold. She emptied her cup back into the carafe and set the carafe to warm gently on the stove. Work for the magazine waited on the computer, she was sure, but she was suddenly curious about Merrick Timmons. She’d take a newly heated cup of coffee upstairs and, before doing anything else—except checking email of course—see what the Internet could reveal about him. And since the meeting with Thomas Swinton loomed, and she’d finished Time and Time Again the previous night, she’d take a look at Thomas Swinton’s website.