In fact, Pamela generally forgot to take her cell phone with her when she went out, and most people knew she was more likely to pick up her landline. She had no phone with her today, and if she had it wouldn’t have been tucked into a pocket of her jeans.
Chapter Nineteen
Out in the foyer again, she headed toward the front door, stomping in her attempt to make her footsteps audible despite the thick carpet. When she reached the door, she opened it and stepped heavily onto the cement floor of the porch. Then she tiptoed back in, leaving the door open and thankful now for the carpet. From the dining room came Thomas Swinton’s voice, apparently extolling the superiority of pen and ink (real ink!) over computers when it came to unleashing creativity.
Thomas Swinton had indicated that the door to the right as one entered the foyer led to his study. Pamela reached for the knob and turned it ever so gently, praying for it not to squeak. Across the hall, Thomas Swinton was still talking about ink. The latch clicked free and Pamela nudged the door, holding her breath and willing it not to creak. It swung open a few inches. She nudged again and leaned close to the wider gap.
She was indeed looking into Thomas Swinton’s study. The bookshelves were those he had used as a backdrop for the photo on his website, but the room resembled a setup for a photo shoot in an upscale decorating magazine. It featured a massive desk of dark, polished wood, a leather-covered desk chair, and a pair of file cabinets, also dark wood, and a long cabinet that matched the desk. But there was not a scrap of paper in sight—no piles of handwritten notes, no carelessly stacked books with bookmarks sticking out here and there, not even a blank pad of paper or a pen—with or without real ink. Thomas Swinton’s study certainly wasn’t the disorderly artist’s refuge that he had made it out to be when he declined to give his visitors a tour. Pamela backed away from the door and gently pulled it closed.
In the dining room, the salad bowl was now empty and further inroads had been made on the quiche. Only two pieces remained.
“Is everything okay at home?” Bettina asked as Pamela once again took her seat at the table. Pamela knew from the look on Bettina’s face—half admiring, half incredulous—that Bettina could barely wait till Thomas Swinton’s front door closed behind them and Pamela could explain what on earth she had been up to.
“Fine,” Pamela said. “Someone’s coming to repair the dishwasher. Later though—no need to rush our visit.” She smiled at Thomas Swinton. He had managed to finish an extra piece of quiche and more salad while holding forth to Bettina—and the rest of the wine too, apparently.
“Shall we have dessert then?” he inquired while reaching for the empty wine bottle. “Or would you like another slice of quiche, Pamela? There’s plenty left.”
“I’m fine,” Pamela said, “especially if there’s to be dessert.”
“I made a chocolate mousse. And we’ll have coffee.” He started to rise.
Bettina was on her feet in an instant. “Let me help you clear away,” she said, and picked up her own plate. Pamela followed her lead, but Thomas Swinton motioned them both to sit down.
“Ladies, ladies,” he said. “You’re my guests.” He stacked the three plates, balanced the quiche pan on the salad bowl, and set off toward the kitchen with full hands.
Bettina watched until the kitchen door closed behind him. She leaned across the table and whispered, “What are you doing? A herd of sheep at the Mittendorf House that get chilly after shearing? Cell phone calls from a dishwasher repair service when you didn’t even bring your cell phone?”
“Shhh!” Pamela repressed a smile. “You’ll like it,” she whispered back as Thomas Swinton emerged from the kitchen bearing a silver tray.
“Everyone likes my mousse,” he assured them as he set a small crystal bowl filled with swirls of chocolaty pudding on each placemat. “And to go with . . .” He slid a plate of pale oval cookies from the tray to the table.
“Delicious!” Bettina pronounced when they’d all had a chance to sample the dessert.
As they ate the mousse, he described a series of East Coast book signings he’d done, interrupting himself to bring out coffee when he reached New Hampshire.
They were dawdling over the last few sips of coffee and Thomas Swinton was reminiscing about the year he had two books on the best-seller list at once, when the door to the kitchen opened. A meek-looking woman in an apron stepped through and ventured toward the table. Thomas Swinton paused to look in her direction.
“I’m leaving now, sir,” she said. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Very good.” He nodded.
“I hope your ladies liked my quiche,” she added with a shy smile. “And my mousse.”
Pamela and Bettina looked at each other, Bettina cocking her head as if wondering whether she’d heard correctly. But Thomas Swinton picked up right where he’d left off, reliving the week when one of his books edged a rival author’s book off the top of the New York Times Best Seller list.
* * *
Bettina controlled herself all the way from Thomas Swinton’s front porch to the curb. But after she and Pamela had settled into their seats for the short drive home, she exploded into giggles.
“My quiche! My mousse!” she exclaimed. “And then his housekeeper lets the cat out of the bag.” The giggles subsided and she turned to Pamela. “What were you doing when you went outside?”
“I wasn’t outside,” Pamela said. “I was looking in his study.”
Bettina gave an approving nod. “And?”
“It wasn’t too messy to show,” Pamela said. “It was too neat. Whatever he’s working on now, he’s not working on it in there.”
“And the herd of sheep at the Mittendorf House? Wilfred never mentioned them.”
“That’s because they’re not there,” Pamela said. “And you can’t see the Haversack River from the kitchen, or the porch. All you can see is the back of Wine Wonderland. It’s too bad the county let that property go to a developer—the view of the Wine Wonderland loading dock really detracts from the historical atmosphere.” Bettina pulled away from the curb as Pamela continued talking. “I went to the Mittendorf House this morning,” she explained. “I spent an hour walking around—and then I bought a bottle of chardonnay at Wine Wonderland. It’s for you and Wilfred, to thank you for taking me in Thursday night.”
“I asked him if he knew Caralee and if she’d ever asked him about his work,” Bettina said. “Right after you dashed out. He said he only took questions from people who he thought could understand the answers.”
“We have a lot to talk about,” Pamela said.
When they got back to Orchard Street they settled in the chairs on Pamela’s front porch. Bettina slipped off the delicate kitten heels and wiggled her liberated toes. At first they sat in silence, enjoying the alternation of sun and shade on lawns that still glowed the deep green of summer, and the way the afternoon breeze made the trees sigh. Each was turning over in her mind what she’d learned during the lunchtime visit with Thomas Swinton.
Pamela spoke first. “He takes credit for things he didn’t really do,” she said, “even petty things, like whether he actually cooked that food.” Bettina nodded and Pamela went on. “I don’t think he really wrote Time and Time Again.”
“A ghostwriter?” Bettina whispered. “A writing version of that woman out there in the kitchen making the lunch he pretended he made?”
“The description of the Mittendorf House in Time and Time Again corresponds exactly to the real place,” Pamela said. “I double-checked this morning.”
“But then”—Bettina wrinkled her nose—“wouldn’t that mean . . . ?”
“Somebody went to a lot of effort making sure the details were accurate. But that somebody wasn’t him.” Pamela tightened her lips and shook her head decisively. “If Thomas Swinton had been to the Mittendorf House even once, he’d know that there are no sheep—let alone a ram who enjoys his harem—and that all you can see from the porch is Wine Wonderland’s l
oading dock.”
“He’s written so many books,” Bettina said. “Do you think that all this time . . . ?”
“Maybe,” Pamela said. “But maybe not. He could have written his own books at first, but then he got tired, or lost the spark. Or the books were so popular it occurred to him that his publisher could sell a new one every year, but writing a new one took five years.”
“And as long as the books had his name on them . . .”
Pamela nodded. “In bigger and bigger type.” Across the street, Wilfred pulled into the driveway and climbed out of his ancient Mercedes. He opened the passenger-side door, coaxed Woofus out, waved at Pamela and Bettina, and led Woofus into the house. Wilfred was carrying a large white bakery box.
“Woofus likes to run errands with Wilfred,” Bettina said. They stared out at the late-September afternoon, both lost in thought.
Pamela spoke first. “That thing Thomas Swinton said when you asked about Caralee—that he only takes questions from people who he thinks can understand the answers. Meaning, I guess, she inquired about something that he didn’t want to talk about. Or didn’t know anything about.”
“I got that impression.” Bettina nodded.
“That suggests to me that Caralee made him nervous.” Pamela spoke slowly, as if in the process of working out an idea. She was still watching the shadows on the lawn flutter as the breeze sifted through the tree branches.
“She did make people nervous,” Bettina agreed. Then she slapped the arms of her chair in excitement. “That’s it, you know!”
Pamela turned to her. “I know.”
“She scared him. She figured out he didn’t write Time and Time Again. And being Caralee, she told him what she knew—and what a fake she thought he was.” Bettina’s bright pink lips curved up in a satisfied smile.
“So he has a motive for killing her,” Pamela said, watching the shadows on the lawn again. “But if he did it, he had to know about that unsteady pile of furniture and he had to get in there and do his deed while the storage room was open, but after Rue Wadsworth went home to cook and before Caralee showed up.” She turned back to Bettina. “And besides, Caralee said the furniture toppled two other times. He’d have had to be creeping around over there on those occasions too.”
Bettina sighed. “He might not be our guy then—not like Timmons, with Ben Skyler at his beck and call.”
“Or Wadsworth,” Pamela added, “who could get in there and mess around anytime the room was open—knowing Rue wouldn’t turn him in.”
“Or Varnish. Maybe enlisting other Arborists to carry out his dirty deeds . . .” Bettina’s voice trailed off and she stood up. Moving gingerly in her stocking feet, she stepped to the porch railing and leaned toward the hedge that separated Pamela’s property from the church. She twisted her head to the left. “Someone’s in your yard again,” she whispered. “A man. Sneaking along the hedge.”
Pamela stood up too. “Is he wearing a baseball cap?” she asked.
Before Bettina could answer, the man emerged, striding around the corner of the porch. “Good news,” he announced with a cheerful grin. “Your catalpa doesn’t have verticillium wilt.”
“What?” Pamela folded her arms across her chest. “Who are you anyway? And what’s verticillium wilt?”
“Twigs Nilson, at your service.” The man swept off his baseball cap and bowed. “Or, to be more formal, Timothy L. Nilson, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Botany, Wendelstaff College.”
“This morning you said you were from the Arborists.”
“I’m doing a job for them,” he said. “Botany. Plants. Trees, you know. Arbor—Latin for ‘tree.’ Checking for diseases. You don’t want verticillium wilt. Fungal. Leaves turn yellow. Then they shrivel up and fall off. I thought I saw signs of it the other night, but it was getting dark—just wanted to double-check, triple-check to make sure. It can hit a branch here and there, then before you know it, the whole neighborhood’s infected.”
With a cheery wave, he was off, striding across the lawn toward the street.
“Well!” Pamela and Bettina both spoke at once. They sank back into their chairs and looked at each other.
“Maybe we take Kent Varnish off the list of suspects?” Pamela said.
“At least now we know he wasn’t sending Arborist hit men around to get you off his trail.” Bettina paused for a minute, then she went on. “Twigs Nilson was kind of cute. Smart too, I’m sure.”
Pamela laughed. “Bettina! You’re a married woman.”
“I don’t mean for me. I mean for you. Maybe he’ll come back for another look at your catalpa.”
As Twigs Nilson proceeded up the street, he passed a small group heading the other direction. Pamela recognized the threesome she and Bettina had spoken to at the end of Bettina’s driveway Thursday night—the young woman who had inherited the role of Madame Defarge, the older woman who said she’d been in the Players forever, and the young man. A car was heading down the street as well, and it slowed as it passed Pamela’s house and turned into the driveway that led to the church parking lot.
“It looks like they’re having an afternoon rehearsal,” Bettina observed.
Pamela checked her watch. “Three p.m. already,” she said. “Shall I make some coffee? We can bring it back out here—I hate to waste a beautiful September day like this sitting indoors.”
“Coffee, yes,” Bettina said, “but no goodies. We’re going to Wilfred Junior and Maxie’s tonight for Wilfred Junior’s birthday. That giant white box Wilfred carried into the house was the cake.”
Bettina slipped her shoes back on and they stepped into the entry, dodging one of the kittens, a black male. He was playing with the ball of yarn that had proven to be such a popular toy, batting it across the carpet then pouncing on it before it came to rest.
In the kitchen, Bettina welcomed another kitten, a ginger female, onto her lap as Pamela put the kettle on to boil and set about grinding beans for the coffee. “I like this one,” Bettina said, “to adopt. She’s not the boldest one, is she? I have to consider Woofus.”
The coffee grinder whirred briefly. Pamela poured the ground beans into the paper filter and turned away from the counter. “No,” she said, “this one is very sweet. I’m keeping the bold one so Catrina will have company. I can’t send all her children away.”
The end of the sentence was drowned out by the shrill hoot of the kettle. But Pamela had no sooner lifted it from the stove when the hoot was replaced by a sound equally shrill, this time coming from the street. It rose and fell in waves, each peak louder than the one before until—seemingly right in front of Pamela’s house—it subsided in a resentful snarl.
Bettina’s eyes widened in alarm. She rose, and the startled kitten leapt gracefully to the floor. Pamela set the still-full kettle back on the stove and followed Bettina as she rushed, in stocking feet again, toward the entry. Through the lace that curtained the oval window in the front door, Pamela could make out the black-and-white shape of a police car parked at the curb. It wasn’t exactly in front of her house—closer to the church really.
By the time Bettina ran back to the kitchen to slip into her shoes and she and Pamela bounded down the steps and hurried to the sidewalk, the police car was empty. But another siren, screaming from the top of the street, announced that another police car was on its way. It sped the half block from Arborville Avenue and swung toward the curb, halting within an inch of the other police car’s back bumper. Doors on both sides popped open and a police officer jumped out of each, barely pausing before taking off toward the driveway that led to the church parking lot. Pamela recognized one of them as the young woman officer with the sweet heart-shaped face who lately had the assignment of making sure Co-Op patrons didn’t park in the space reserved for delivery trucks.
“Oh, my!” Bettina looked up at Pamela. “As Wilfred would say, misfortunes never come single.”
Chapter Twenty
“Let me run back and close my front door,” Pamela s
aid. “We want to find out what happened, don’t we?”
“Of course.” Bettina straightened her back and lifted her chin.
Pamela hurried back to her porch and up the steps to close the front door. A minute later she was back on the sidewalk, watching Wilfred dart across the street. “Misfortunes never come single,” he panted as he gained the curb. Bettina took his hand.
Pamela led the way, past the front of the church and down the driveway toward the parking lot. But the double doors to the hall that served the auditorium and the meeting rooms were closed, guarded by a stern-looking police officer.
“We’re neighbors,” Pamela said, trying to seem concerned in a neighborly way, not like someone with—at least in her mind (and Bettina’s)—a professional interest in calamities involving the Players. She smiled, but seriously, as befitting what was obviously a serious occasion. “Has something happened?”
The officer tipped his head in the tiniest nod. He didn’t look familiar to Pamela. Perhaps he was new on the force. Most of the Arborville police realized they weren’t based in a high-crime environment and so didn’t have to affect the stoic mannerisms of the police on TV.
“Is everyone . . . in there”—Pamela tipped her head toward the door behind the officer—“okay?”
“This is a crime scene, ma’am,” he said. “That’s all the information I can give out at this time.”
The three of them looked at one another. Pamela shrugged. Bettina and Wilfred shrugged back, and they all turned around and trooped across the parking lot. They reached the sidewalk just as a truck bearing the logo of the local AM station careened into the driveway. It was followed by a huge silver van with the logo of the county sheriff’s department on the side. They stood on the sidewalk watching as two figures in white coveralls climbed out of the van. The stern police officer guarding the doors stepped aside to let them enter.
There seemed no point in watching any longer, since the doors were once again firmly closed and the parking lot was deserted except for the one stationary police officer.
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