Knit One, Die Two

by Peggy Ehrhart

  The foray into the Co-Op to pick up the few items—liquid dish soap, kitten food, and mayonnaise—on her meager shopping list took so little time that she tacked a detour onto her walk home. Instead of returning the way she had come, she continued on along Arborville Avenue for a few blocks until she reached the end of the commercial district. Then she crossed the street and cut through a narrow passage between Hyler’s and the hair salon to reach Arborville’s municipal complex and the town park.

  Nell Bascomb was just emerging from the back door of the library as Pamela walked across the parking lot that separated the library from the park. She was carrying a canvas bag that was a twin of Pamela’s own—in selling Pamela on the ecological advantages of canvas bags, she had made her a gift of several.

  Nell hurried toward Pamela, her faded blue eyes brightened by evident purpose. “You saw the Register this morning, I’m sure,” she said after she’d acknowledged Pamela’s greeting.

  Pamela nodded. “I already knew what happened. It would have been hard to ignore the sirens right next door.”

  “And I suppose you’re here because you’ve figured something out that you think the police can’t figure out for themselves.” The library and the police department shared the same parking lot. Nell addressed Pamela in the same tone of voice she had undoubtedly used when scolding her children—and which she sometimes used on Harold.

  “I . . .” Pamela was so startled she hopped a few feet backward. “I . . . no . . . I hadn’t even thought of it. I’m just taking a walk. It’s Sunday.”

  Nell regarded her as if studying a knitting project that had gone awry, eyes intent and brows drawn together over her nose. “I know you, Pamela Paterson,” she said. “And I know the kinds of things you get up to. You and Bettina.”

  “Well, I’m not getting up to this.” Pamela tried to look reassuring, and honest. But it was true—she’d promised Penny and she intended to keep the promise.

  “I want to believe you.” Nell grasped Pamela’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t want to be reading about you in the Register.”

  “You won’t,” Pamela assured her. “Really. You won’t.”

  “I’ll see you on Tuesday night then,” Nell said, sounding more cheerful. “And I believe we’re at Holly’s.”

  “Yes,” Pamela said. “Holly’s. See you then.”

  She settled onto the pretty wooden bench that was part of the library garden and watched the goings-on in the park as people flew kites, and dogs and children frolicked on the grass.

  * * *

  She would have to tell Bettina about her promise to Penny—and Nell’s concern, Pamela reflected as she turned onto Orchard Street from Arborville Avenue, passing the stately brick apartment building at the corner. But perhaps Bettina would agree that, with Anthony Wadsworth’s death declared murder and not an accident, the police could be trusted to do their work. And it was possible that finding the culprit behind this second death would lead to reevaluating Caralee’s death as well.

  The service at the church had just ended as Pamela approached her house. People were drifting along the sidewalk, heading home on foot, while others made their way toward the driveway that led to the parking lot—answering the question of whether the police had allowed normal parking that morning. Some people lingered on the broad porch near the church’s heavy wooden doors, which still stood open, or dallied halfway down the stone steps, immersed in conversation.

  In the bustle of people, all dressed in Sunday clothes suitable for a warm fall day, Pamela at first didn’t notice Bettina. Then she took a closer look at a group of four women whose outfits made up a veritable rainbow and realized that her friend was the woman in vivid green. Pamela hesitated. She didn’t know the other three women and wasn’t sure she could summon up enough social chatter to make her presence worthwhile. But as she stood on the sidewalk with her canvas bag, Bettina caught sight of her, waved, and quickly bid her friends goodbye. In a moment she was at Pamela’s side.

  “Have you joined the congregation?” Pamela asked. Bettina shook her head no and Pamela went on. “Then . . . what . . . ?”

  Bettina leaned closer and whispered, “I came over to see if the crime-scene tape was still up, but Marlene Pepper was standing there with her friends and she called out to me. I didn’t want to just hurry past, so . . .” She looked around. “The crowd is clearing out. We’ll wait a bit, then we can go down there. It’s even possible that the doors are open since the church seems to be carrying on as if it’s just a normal Sunday morning.”

  Pamela grimaced and touched her friend’s arm. “Bettina,” she said hesitantly, “Penny called this morning. She knows all about what happened and she asked me to promise I’d stay out of it.”

  Bettina’s lips—bright red this morning—parted and she made a sound like a hiccup. “Did you agree?” she asked.

  “I had to,” Pamela said, feeling her forehead crease and her lips twist. “She was so worried. There’s a murderer out there and she’s afraid something will happen to me if I poke around. And she reminded me that she only has one parent now. Then I ran into Nell in the library parking lot this morning and she gave me a lecture too.”

  Bettina sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to carry on by myself.” She turned and scanned the church porch, the steps, and the sidewalk. “The coast is clear.” She stepped toward the driveway, then stopped. “You’ll meet me at Hyler’s for lunch tomorrow though, won’t you? I have an appointment to see Clayborn at eleven.”

  Bettina rang Pamela’s doorbell five minutes later to report that the crime-scene tape was still up and the doors were locked. “But Richard’s car was in his driveway this morning,” she added, brightening. “He was on his porch and he waved at Wilfred. Did you see him?”

  “I saw his car,” Pamela said. “It’s gone now.”

  “He’ll be back.” Bettina smiled and squeezed Pamela’s hand. “I’m sure.”

  * * *

  Bettina had already staked out a table when Pamela arrived at Hyler’s Monday morning. The restaurant was filling rapidly as people who staffed the shops, banks, and offices of Arborville’s commercial district began to take their lunch breaks.

  “Have I got things to tell you!” she cried as Pamela squeezed between two tables to reach Bettina’s outpost in the far corner near the large window that looked out on the street.

  Pamela reached the table and slid into the empty chair. She frowned and shook her head warningly. “I promised Penny,” she whispered.

  “But you can listen, can’t you,” Bettina said. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  Pamela didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the oversize menu in front of her and opened it. “The Reuben I had here the last time was awfully good,” she observed after studying the menu for a few minutes.

  “That sweet little Officer Sanchez is the one who realized he’d been murdered,” Bettina said. “Right there at the crime scene. And now the medical examiner has confirmed it.” Bettina leaned forward. She was wearing her dangly coral and gold earrings today, with a smart coral-and-blue striped shirt. The earrings quivered. “The Players lifted the furniture off him before the cops arrived and they assumed that’s what killed him, like with Caralee. But when the cops got there, Officer Sanchez took a close look and realized somebody had worked him over with a blunt instrument too, and that’s what caused the death. Contusions to the scalp and forehead, but he was lying facedown, so the furniture actually only landed on the back of his head.”

  Pamela couldn’t help being interested. And as long as she just listened, but didn’t say anything, that wouldn’t be breaking her promise, would it?

  As if she was reading her mind, Bettina said, “You’re listening, aren’t you?” Pamela dipped her head forward in the slightest nod. At that moment the server appeared at Bettina’s elbow. This server was a middle-aged woman, and she’d been at Hyler’s since Pamela’s earliest years in Arborville. Pamela remembered eating at Hyler’s with her
husband the day they closed on their house and being served by this same woman.

  “Are you ladies ready to order?” she asked.

  Bettina twisted her neck to look up at the server, and her coral and gold earrings swung to and fro. “I’ll have the club sandwich,” she said, “and a vanilla milkshake.”

  “And for you?” The server shifted her gaze to Pamela.

  “The same.” Thinking more about Reubens, Pamela had realized they would always be associated in her mind with Kent Varnish who, even though it now seemed he wasn’t a killer, had been a thoroughly unpleasant man.

  Pamela was bursting to ask whether Anthony Wadsworth’s murder had made the police revisit their conclusion about Caralee’s death. But if she seemed too interested in what Bettina had learned from Detective Clayborn, Bettina might talk her into breaking her promise to Penny. As soon as the server recorded their orders and headed back toward the counter, though, Bettina took up where she had left off—in fact, she actually backtracked a bit.

  “Contusions,” she repeated, “as if he’d been clobbered with something heavy, like a length of pipe. Then whoever it was that killed him piled a bunch of furniture on top of him, so it would look like an accident.”

  “Caralee,” Pamela murmured as if to herself, hoping the word alone would cue an answer to her question.

  “I asked Clayborn about that,” Bettina said. “He insisted the falling furniture was what killed her, and he still thinks that was an accident. Police are searching for someone with a motive for killing Wadsworth and they think whoever that person is was inspired by Caralee’s accidental death to try a copycat thing—get rid of Wadsworth but make it look like another accident.” Bettina shook her head. “This Wadsworth death certainly complicates motives,” she said gloomily, “but I’m still really suspicious of Craig Belknap because of the alibi thing—lack of, I mean.” She cheered up as the server approached with a large oval plate in each hand, slid the plates in front of Pamela and Bettina, and assured them that she’d be back with milkshakes.

  The club sandwiches were triple-deckers, constructed from golden-brown toast dabbed with mayonnaise and interlayered with sliced turkey breast, bacon, lettuce, and tomato. They’d been sliced on the diagonal and each half speared with a toothpick that sported a cellophane frill.

  “Here you go,” the server announced cheerily as she set the milkshakes, in tall glasses fogged with condensation, on the worn wooden table. Straws protruded at jaunty angles from the bubbly froth that crowned the glasses.

  Bettina plucked out a frilled toothpick and set it aside before lifting a hefty sandwich half and opening wide for the first bite. Pamela followed suit, enjoying the crunch of the crisp toast and the play of the salty, savory bacon against the mild turkey breast.

  For a time they barely spoke, except to comment on the food, until the sandwiches had been reduced to a few crumbs scattered on the creamy surface of the plates and the last drops of the milkshakes had been slurped from the bottoms of the tall glasses. Bettina was wiping a smear of mayonnaise from her chin when from the back of the restaurant came a curious sound, a whoop like a human voice imitating an air horn. It was only a single whoop, but so loud that conversation ceased at every table and every head turned toward the counter.

  The only person visible near the counter was the middle-aged server, and she too was staring in the direction of the sound, which it now seemed had emanated from the kitchen. Before she or anyone else could move, one of the swinging doors that led to the kitchen was flung back and Craig Belknap emerged, wearing a white chef’s jacket and a little white cap. His pleasant but nondescript face was flushed pink and he was grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I got it,” he shouted and whooped again. “I got the part!” He flourished a cell phone in a triumphant gesture. “They emailed. Just this minute.”

  The middle-aged server hopped over to him and gave him a hug. Pamela and Bettina looked at each other. Bettina shrugged. Pamela said, “Well, we knew he was an actor. They’re always auditioning for things.”

  A few people who must have been regular patrons jumped up to shake Craig’s hand or pat him on the back, but most people picked up where they’d left off—sipping coffee or lifting bites of pie to their lips. Bettina half rose and looked toward the counter to signal that they were ready for their check, but the person who approached their table wasn’t the middle-aged server.

  It was Craig Belknap.

  “Now it can be revealed,” he said in a mock-portentous tone. He spread his arms and wiggled his fingers as if about to perform a conjuring trick, his piercing blue eyes lively beneath his light brows. Bettina gave him a skeptical look. He went on. “My alibi, Ms. Detective, my alibi.” Pamela was as mystified as Bettina, but she said “Oh?” and gave him an encouraging nod.

  He grabbed a chair from a neighboring table and settled himself between them. His face was still a bit pink. “I really didn’t kill Caralee,” he said. “I was in the city that night on a callback for an off-Broadway play—and I just found out I got the part.”

  “Well, congratulations then.” Pamela smiled. “So why couldn’t you just tell us that in the first place?”

  “Actors are very superstitious. And nothing like telling everybody in the world that you have a really good chance of getting a fantastic thing—and then you don’t get it and for the rest of your life people are asking you whatever happened with that fantastic thing and you have to say, ‘I didn’t get it.’” He looked from Pamela to Bettina and back to Pamela. “Comprendo?”

  Bettina shrugged. “So you’d rather have people think you were a murderer?”

  “It was a callback. I passed the audition. Well, me and about five other people. So then the producers wanted to see us all again. That’s where I was the Wednesday before last. I felt like I was so close”—he screwed up his face and shaped his hands into fists to emphasize the words—“and I didn’t want to do anything to wreck my chances.” He relaxed again and smiled, obviously relishing his triumph. “I did tell one person though,” he said as quietly as if talking to himself. “I shouldn’t have. I told her I didn’t see why they’d want me. She got mad.”

  Pamela nodded. “The argument behind the hedge?”

  Craig sighed. “Yeah. She could be mean . . . or, well . . . she didn’t like it when she thought I was putting myself down. I couldn’t help it. I was rehashing the audition and telling her where I thought I flubbed and maybe the callback was a mistake. There was another guy there named Craig. Maybe they thought they were calling him back.”

  “We thought you were in love with her,” Pamela said. “You bought those flowers for her coffin. And you arranged all that food for the reception.”

  “She was a good friend,” he said. “She really was, most of the time. And she could be fun. The things she used to say about Arborville.” He laughed and then stood up. “But I’m still at work, technically.” He bowed. “I’ll tell Milly you’re ready for your check.” Then he winked and said, “I didn’t kill Caralee”—he leaned closer and whispered—“but I may have killed Anthony Wadsworth.”

  “What!” Bettina stared at him openmouthed and slapped the table.

  “Joke!” he crowed, and danced away.

  Bettina had driven to her appointment with Detective Clayborn, so after they paid for their meal they walked single file through the narrow passageway that led from Arborville Avenue to the parking lot shared by the library and police department. Bettina’s faithful Toyota Corolla waited there.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” she commented as they approached the car. “I could have walked the five blocks. But I wanted to wear the shoes that went with this outfit”—she lifted a foot shod in a fetching high-heeled bootie, “and these aren’t walking shoes.”

  Pamela extended a foot and regarded her own comfortable loafer.

  “Tall and thin people can wear whatever feels good,” Bettina said. “I like to dress up a bit. Someti
mes you have to suffer to be beautiful.”

  Soon they were poised at the corner of Arborville Avenue waiting to make their turn. They’d driven a few blocks when Pamela spoke. “I’m glad he got the part he wanted,” she said.

  “You liked him.” Bettina took her eyes off the road to glance at her friend.

  “I never really wanted him to be the murderer. There was just something honest about him.”

  “Maybe it was an act,” Bettina said with a laugh. “Then there’s Wadsworth.”

  Pamela dismissed the idea with a laugh of her own, then she added, “He was just joking. I’m sure.”

  “Positive?” Bettina asked, turning to glance at Pamela again.

  “Positive,” Pamela said firmly.

  Bettina turned onto Orchard Street and cruised toward the spot on the block where Pamela’s house and her own faced each other. Then she kept driving.

  “We’re home,” Pamela exclaimed, nudging Bettina’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  “Just checking on something,” Bettina said mysteriously.

  She slowed to a crawl in front of the church, swung the steering wheel to the left, and nosed down the driveway that led to the church parking lot. There a lively scene presented itself.

  The double doors that had been securely locked, guarded by the stoic police officer and garnished with crime-scene tape, now stood open. The parking lot had taken on a look that was part carnival and part open-air flea market, complete with music blasting from a portable radio. The portion of asphalt nearest the doorway was crowded with furniture—tables, chairs, dressers, a sturdy oak headboard. Cheerful people were hard at work, some sawing or hammering, others painting. Apparently the task at hand was construction of scenery for the upcoming production.

  Giant wooden frames with canvas stretched over them stood upright along the building’s brick wall. Most were still blank, but on one a scene of wooden shelves crowded with casks and bottles of various shapes and colors was emerging.