Now the second sleeve was nearly done, a British mystery was unfolding on the screen before her, and Catrina was snuggled against her thigh. Lulled by the even rhythm of the needles, Pamela struggled to keep her eyes open, but her eyelids refused to cooperate. She let them have their way. When she opened her eyes again, the dour male detective in the mystery she had been watching had been replaced by a cheerful female detective wearing a period costume. She realized she had slept through the end of a mystery from one series and the beginning of a mystery from another series. She checked to make sure she hadn’t dropped any stitches when the hands holding her needles had sagged to her lap, and headed up the stairs to bed, Catrina leading the way.
That night Pamela’s dreaming mind returned to the Mittendorf House. Again, she roamed around the stately room where balls had been held—in real life, as well as in Thomas Swinton’s novel. She admired the gold-framed portraits of gentlemen and gentlewomen with powdered hair. She peeked into a side room where an elegant desk and imposing chair could have served the Revolutionary Era master of the house as he received callers and conducted his business. Again, she found herself in the kitchen, with its huge stone fireplace and bundles of dried herbs.
But this dream, unlike the one that had been dispelled by Catrina’s meowing, did not end there. Pamela ventured out a back door and through a carefully planted kitchen garden, to an outbuilding several yards from the main house. A woman stirred a pot over a fire and explained that in the summer cooking was done in the summer kitchen.
Then the dream morphed into a continuation of an earlier night’s dream, the one in which she’d been roaming the halls of the Hilton Garden Inn searching for the room where she was scheduled to give a talk. But now she was frantically roaming through the Mittendorf House, opening doors to no avail. You won’t find the things you’re searching for, said an insistent voice in her head, because they aren’t here. But the search became so frantic that she was grateful when a gentle paw against her cheek roused her.
Stopping only to tug on her robe and slide her feet into her slippers, Pamela hurried across the hall to her office and pushed the button that would bring her computer to life. Things that weren’t there—that was the key, but first she’d have to make sure they weren’t there. When her computer’s screen brightened, a quick Internet search told her that the Mittendorf House was open from ten a.m. to four p.m. on Saturdays.
There’d be plenty of time then, before Bettina picked her up for their lunch date with Thomas Swinton. The Mittendorf House was barely ten minutes away, just above the border between Haversack and Riverton. Pamela spent a few minutes checking her email and was relieved to see that there were no messages from Penny. Hopefully Penny had accepted the guarantee Pamela had given her from the bus stop that when it came to her mother’s amateur sleuthing, Penny had nothing to worry about.
Catrina had waited patiently in the doorway while Pamela did her computer chores, but she scampered ahead as Pamela headed toward the stairs and then down to the kitchen. The kittens greeted their mother with hungry squeaks and followed her to the communal bed in the laundry room.
Pamela spooned portions of cat and kitten food into fresh bowls and set them in the corner where the cabinets made a right turn. It was only a little past eight. She could dawdle a bit over coffee, toast, and the Register before she had to set off for Riverton. So she filled the kettle and set water boiling for coffee, then headed for the front door to retrieve the newspaper.
As she stepped onto the porch, she was startled to see a man strolling down her driveway. He was halfway to the street, so she was looking at his back, but she could see that he was medium tall with a medium build, and he was dressed in jeans, a dark T-shirt, and a baseball cap. She heard herself gasp and stopped right where she was, watching. He looked like the same man who had been roaming around her yard Thursday night, the man who might have been Craig Belknap. Her first impulse was to hurry back inside, but then a voice in her head told her not to be silly. This man was far enough away that she could retreat if necessary, and here was a chance to solve a mystery, albeit a small one compared to the mystery of Caralee’s death.
She took a deep breath and stepped toward the porch railing. “Hey!” she called. “Hey you!”
The man turned. The cap was pushed farther back on his head this morning and she could see clearly that he wasn’t Craig Belknap. He was quite swarthy, with heavy brows. So who was he?
“Are you looking for something?” she called. “You’re in my driveway.”
The man backed up a few steps until he was standing on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” he called back. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I’m just doing a job for the Arborists.” He darted around the end of the hedge that separated Pamela’s yard from Richard Larkin’s.
The Register had landed on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street that morning, so she had to go farther than usual to claim it. And by the time she had stooped and stood up, newspaper in hand, and glanced into Richard Larkin’s yard, there was no sign of the man anywhere.
* * *
“Wear something nice,” Bettina had said. Toast and coffee had been consumed and newspaper read, and Pamela was standing in front of her closet. She was still feeling a bit rattled about the strange man in the driveway. He wasn’t Craig Belknap, but he said he was from the Arborists. Kent Varnish was an important member of the Arborists, and she and Bettina had only recently been talking to Kent Varnish about his whereabouts the night Caralee died. They had tried to mask their curiosity as nothing more than a sociable chat. But maybe he’d seen through them. Then again, it would be awfully silly to send someone around to silence them who then announced right out that he was from the Arborists.
Pamela sighed. She had too many things to think about without adding wardrobe issues to the mix, but she reached for a clean pair of jeans. Conveniently the lightweight sweater, pale amber, that she’d worn for the last Knit and Nibble meeting was the top item on her stack of sweaters. Surely Bettina wouldn’t object to that. And the weather was getting too fall-like for sandals, so she slipped on a pair of soft brown loafers. It was almost ten, and it was time to hurry over to the Mittendorf House.
* * *
Bettina was very punctual. The doorbell rang at a quarter to twelve, and Pamela stepped outside still wearing the smile that had gradually taken shape on her drive home from Riverton. She had thanked the Mittendorf House docent, walked across the expanse of gravel that provided visitor parking, and turned back to give the noble pink sandstone structure one final admiring glance before steering her car from the lot.
“Well,” Bettina said, “you look happy.”
“I can’t wait to meet Thomas Swinton,” Pamela said. “I’m a huge fan, you know.”
Bettina stifled a giggle. “I know you’re joking, but keep telling yourself that. He loves admiration.” Pamela locked the door and they started down the steps. Bettina continued talking. “I’m not sure there’s much point in this, except for the food of course. Caralee did knit his name into that project of hers, but we don’t even have a hint of a horrible thing she could have known about him—not like with those other guys. And we can hardly come out and ask him what dire secrets he’s hiding.”
“We might not have to be that direct,” Pamela said. “I have an idea.”
“You do?” Bettina gave Pamela a curious glance. “What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
They were on the sidewalk now, Bettina stepping along in a delicate pair of bright pink kitten heels and Pamela striding beside her in the comfortable loafers. Bettina’s Toyota waited at the end of the driveway. Retracing the path she’d taken that morning when she set out to fetch the paper reminded Pamela of her encounter with the strange man. Her visit to the Mittendorf House had pushed it into a remote corner of her mind.
“That wasn’t Craig Belknap in my yard Thursday night,” she said as she reached toward the passenger-door handle.
“How do you know?
” Bettina paused halfway around the back of her car.
“He was here again this morning. I got a better look at him.”
“He was here again?” Bettina’s brightly painted lips shaped an alarmed grimace. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? We’ll have to get Woofus over here—you can’t be alone when we know there’s a murderer loose in Arborville and a strange man is showing up in your yard every day.”
“He didn’t come yesterday,” Pamela said.
“Maybe you just didn’t see him yesterday,” Bettina protested in tones as high-pitched as Catrina’s squeals when her dinner was delayed.
“He said he’d been sent by the Arborists.” Pamela opened the car door. They weren’t going to get off to a good start with Thomas Swinton if they were late for lunch.
“The Arborists!” Bettina’s voice rose even higher. “Kent Varnish is in the Arborists, and we haven’t totally crossed him off our list of suspects.” She folded her arms across her chest. “As soon as we get back from lunch I’m bringing Woofus over here to stay with you.”
“I have a houseful of kittens,” Pamela said. “I’m not sure that would be a good combination.”
“We’ll talk about it.” Bettina frowned and continued on her way around the car. They settled into their seats and headed up Orchard Street.
* * *
Thomas Swinton lived along Arborville Avenue, in the opposite direction from the commercial district and nearly at the border with the neighboring town to the south. That stretch of Arborville Avenue featured grand houses, some of the oldest in Arborville, set well back from the street, with studied landscaping and gracious lawns tended by hosts of landscapers.
The house Bettina pulled up to was an imposing structure built of red brick. White columns framed its front porch, which was centered exactly in the middle of the façade, with two windows on each side. The second floor was equally symmetrical, but instead of a door the windows flanked a small overhang that sheltered the porch.
In keeping with the house’s symmetry, the walk leading to the porch divided the lawn exactly in half. The house was set so far back from the street that the walk seemed to Pamela at least twice as long as her own, and she slowed her pace so Bettina could catch up in her delicate little shoes. They had barely stepped onto the porch and Bettina hadn’t even lifted a hand toward the doorbell when the door popped open. Thomas Swinton must have been watching their approach from the window.
“Ladies, ladies!” he exclaimed. “Come in!” He seized Bettina’s hands in both his own and drew her over the threshold, murmuring, “Bettina—so lovely to see you again.” Then he released her hands and turned to Pamela. “And this must be your friend.” He displayed a set of very white teeth. “May I call you Pamela?” The well-groomed white beard looked just as it had in the website picture, and the thick head of white hair. But she hadn’t expected the little white ponytail that jutted over his immaculate shirt collar in back. And she’d thought somehow that he would be taller—though Pamela was tall for a woman and was used to looking down, rather than up, to meet men’s eyes.
“Of course,” Pamela said, summoning her social smile. Now he seized Pamela’s hands, relinquished one, and held the other to draw her into his grand foyer. Bettina followed. Underfoot was a richly patterned rug and rising before them was a staircase with a bannister of dark, well-polished wood.
“My study,” he said, gesturing toward a closed door on the right, “but it’s in no state to offer you a tour. When one is in the throes of a project . . . well . . . inspiration, you know. So many notes, so much research.”
“What is your new project?” Bettina asked. “We’d love a preview.”
His smile disappeared and his face froze for a minute. He released Pamela’s other hand and clutched his chest. For a moment she thought he was ill, but then he said, “I’m digging deep . . . ideas, ideas, flowing freely, but I’m not ready to reveal them.” The smile returned and he stepped toward the door on the left, which was open. “Shall we proceed to lunch?”
A long table, an obvious antique that would have been at home in the Mittendorf House, dominated the room. Three places had been set at one end, with burgundy velvet placemats, white linen napkins, and gold-rimmed plates with a stylized flower pattern, along with crystal wineglasses. A silver trivet sat waiting, for something, with a silver pie-server next to it. Thomas Swinton pulled out a chair for Pamela on one side and one for Bettina on the other.
“Lunch will just be a moment,” he said, and bustled toward a door at the far end of the room. In a few minutes he was back, bearing a large pie pan in one hand and a large china bowl that matched the plates in the other. “Quiche lorraine,” he announced, setting the pie pan on the silver trivet, “and a salad of butter lettuce with a light vinaigrette.” He deposited the salad bowl on the table and stood back to admire the effect. “Cooking is so gratifying,” he observed, and gave a contented sigh. Then, as if recalling himself from a reverie, he glanced from Pamela to Bettina and back. “Wine, ladies? Or water?”
“Water is fine,” Pamela and Bettina answered in unison.
He headed for the door at the far end of the room and returned in a minute with a bottle of white wine and a tall green bottle of mineral water with an elaborate label. He fetched silver wine coasters from the sideboard, settled the bottles in them, and took his own seat.
Soon the crystal glasses had been filled, and the china plates held slices of the lovely golden quiche and mounds of pale green lettuce with a light sheen of olive oil. “Bon appètit,” he said, and raised his glass of wine.
They concentrated on their food for a bit, Bettina breaking the silence to compliment him on the quiche. “A staple of my repertoire,” he responded with a satisfied smile. “But you came here to talk about my work, and I won’t disappoint you.” He let his fork rest on the edge of his plate. “History has always been a passion of mine . . . and you can see that in Time and Time Again I’m sure.” Pamela nodded. “The sweep of it . . . is so . . . sweeping . . .”
“The way you used the Mittendorf House,” Pamela said. “I could see that passion. The Revolutionary War—what an incredible thing to live through, and those characters caught up in the drama of it.”
“Caught up. That’s the very word. So well put.” He seized his fork and waved it for emphasis.
“You must have spent a lot of time at the Mittendorf House,” Pamela said. “You seem to know every nook and cranny.”
Thomas Swinton nodded. “It’s all part of the job. Or the passion, really. My passion.” He put the fork down and seized his chest again. “For history.” He took a swallow of wine.
“It’s a favorite place of mine too,” Pamela said as Bettina concentrated on her quiche. The quiche was truly a masterpiece, the custard rich with Gruyère and bits of smoke-cured ham. Pamela hated to neglect it, but duty called. She went on with her thought. “I stand in the kitchen with my back to the hearth and gaze through the window, imagining the generations of women who stood there before me.”
Thomas Swinton nodded. “A beautiful image.” He took another swallow of wine.
“I love the view of the Haversack River from there. So untouched. I can imagine it looked just like that when George Washington was alive.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Don’t you?”
“Oh, definitely,” he said. “My thoughts exactly. When I was working on Time and Time Again, I often stood on the porch of the Mittendorf House and watched the river flow by. It was as if the water, the trees, the very air . . . as if they all were speaking to me.”
“And the sheep!” Pamela exclaimed. “They can be very vocal.”
Thomas Swinton’s eyes widened ever so slightly. But then he flashed his white teeth at Pamela and chuckled. “Yes,” he said, “we can’t forget the sheep.”
Pamela echoed his chuckle. “That ram seems to enjoy his harem.”
He was still chuckling. “Quite the fellow.” He regarded Pamela with merry eyes and lifted his wineglas
s. “Yes, indeed. That ram is quite the fellow.”
“Their coats have grown back after that shearing demonstration last spring,” Pamela said. “I wonder if they’re chilly at first without that nice thick fleece—at least until summer comes.”
“Good point.” Thomas Swinton nodded sagely. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Across the table, Bettina raised her eyes from her plate. A tiny frown and slight narrowing of her eyes suggested she was puzzled. Thomas Swinton swiveled his head in her direction and she replaced the puzzlement with a wide-eyed smile. “I fear I’ve been neglecting you,” he said, “so entranced by your friend’s interest in my work. When you called, you mentioned a second interview for the Advocate. What would you like to know?”
“Has your life changed since Time and Time Again came out?” Bettina asked, adding, “I know it’s not your first book, but perhaps the most ambitious—and so well received. I hope you’re not planning to leave Arborville now that you’re so famous.”
Thomas Swinton was chewing. He finished, and swallowed, and then let loose with another chuckle. “I wouldn’t think of it. No, absolutely would not think of it.”
“I’m sure the residents of Arborville will be happy to hear that.” She reached into her handbag, which she’d set on the floor next to her chair, and took out a little notepad and a pen.
Pamela watched and listened for a few minutes as Bettina launched the interview that was the pretext for the visit with Thomas Swinton. Then she squirmed in her chair and patted around her waist as if feeling for hidden pockets. “My phone,” she murmured. “Excuse me. It’s a call I have to take.” She jumped up from the table, trying not to laugh at Bettina’s obvious struggle to hide her amazement.
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