Silent Knit, Deadly Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “Really?” Bettina whirled around, her eyes wide.

  “I’m not sure,” Penny said. “But I was still watching when you all started for the entrance. He leaned back in like he was talking to someone before he slammed the car door.”

  The Carroll Inn’s lobby featured an enormous Christmas tree, decorated with garlands of popcorn and cranberries, and wooden ornaments that looked hand-carved. They were crossing the lobby at a leisurely pace when Pierre scurried past on the way to the Musket Room, which the directory next to the concierge’s desk identified as the site of the Farthingale reception.

  On the way to the Musket Room, they stopped off to leave their coats in a coatroom at the edge of the lobby. Pamela left her silky scarf knotted around her neck at the urging of Bettina, who advised that it added at least a bit of polish to her humdrum pants and jacket.

  “Nice turnout,” Bettina said as they entered the Musket Room. “Of course the funeral was well attended—Millicent’s family has lived in Timberley forever, and then with the shop . . . artists, customers, the other tradespeople in town . . .” She scanned the room. “Quite a splendid venue.” The décor was sedate, featuring paneled walls, chandeliers, and a grand fireplace with an ornate mantel. Guests had not been deterred by the initial absence of their host, but were prowling along the buffet table, where delicacies like crab puffs and smoked salmon on brown bread had been arranged on an expanse of starched white linen. Other guests were clustered in front of the bar, where a young woman in a crisp white shirt and a long blond ponytail was dispensing wine.

  Pierre had hurriedly stationed himself near the entrance. Taking their cue, people—at least those who had not yet filled plates or collected wine—began to line up to greet him and offer condolences.

  Pamela had never met Pierre and now she studied him. Bettina had said he was not really French French, but rather French Canadian. He was, however, tall and slim, with smooth dark hair and features that were sharp but symmetrical. To these natural gifts he had added careful grooming—his close-shaven skin fairly glowed—and a faultlessly tailored navy suit whose close-fitting cut suggested a Continental origin.

  “Shall we pay our respects before we eat?” Pamela said, though Bettina’s attention had wandered in the direction of the tempting buffet. Besides the crab puffs and smoked salmon, it offered delicate finger sandwiches, a cheese tray on which cheeses were identified with little placards, skewers with something interesting on them, a huge pile of jumbo shrimp with red dipping sauce, mini-meatballs, and a broad platter of raw vegetables arranged as gracefully as an artist’s still life.

  “Yes, of course!” Bettina turned back to Pamela, and the four of them joined the ragged line making its way toward Pierre. They listened as mourners described Millicent’s encouragement in their artistic endeavors, involvement in community affairs, or self-sacrificing care as her mother faded. Pierre grasped hands, received hugs, and administered comforting pats to those who seemed especially stricken.

  When their turn came, Bettina stepped forward first. “I’m so sorry, Pierre,” she said. “Millicent was a dear friend and I’ll miss her. What a shock for you!” She reached for both his hands and he arranged his features in an expression of grief that didn’t detract from his good looks. When Bettina released his hands, Wilfred stepped up and offered a handshake and a sympathetic murmur.

  Pierre acknowledged it with an answering murmur and then turned his glance toward Pamela and Penny. “And who are your friends?” he asked.

  Bettina stepped aside to make way for Pamela and Penny and then said, “Pamela Paterson and her daughter Penny, my neighbors in Arborville. Pamela is the leader of our knitting group, and Penny is just back from college in Massachusetts for the holidays.”

  “Not Wendelstaff?” Pierre smiled a regretful smile and reached for Penny’s hand. “Our loss,” he said, bending over it then looking up to gaze into her eyes. He continued to hold her hand while he switched his gaze to Pamela. “Such a pleasure,” he said. “And now I must go on with my duties.” He nodded toward the next person in line, an aged woman who might have been a contemporary of Millicent’s mother. “Please enjoy yourselves,” he added, finally relinquishing Penny’s hand. “And perhaps”—he inserted an approximation of a Gallic shrug—“we will catch up later.”

  He would have winked, Pamela was sure, but she didn’t believe French people—or people trying to act French—did things so lacking in subtlety.

  Guests, most of them dressed in dark colors and talking in subdued tones, milled around. “Those meatballs look awfully tempting,” Bettina said as they gazed toward the buffet table. A large crowd ebbed and flowed as people inched along the expanse of starched white linen, busily filling plates. Another crowd milled near the bar, where the young woman with the blond ponytail was serving wine—red here, white there—with admirable speed.

  As Pamela watched, Charlotte stepped away from the bar bearing a glass of red wine that echoed the deep burgundy of her dress, a supple column of lace with an ankle-length hem, high neck, and long sleeves.

  “Charlotte”—Bettina nodded—“nice of her to come, though she could hardly have stayed away.”

  Between the crowds at buffet and bar, a smaller crowd had formed, and it was hard at first to make out what its focus was. A tight knot of people had clustered around someone, but a someone considerably shorter than the people in the clustering group.

  Bettina clutched Pamela’s arm. “It’s Nadine, Millicent’s partner! Come on!” Meatballs forgotten, Bettina took a few steps, tugging Pamela with her.

  Pamela resisted, murmuring, “Bettina . . . really . . . she’s already attracted a crowd.” Pamela was actually glad to see that someone else was the focus of attention. Since Penny was the one who found Millicent’s body, she’d been afraid that her daughter would be the most in-demand conversation partner at the reception.

  “We’ll rescue her,” Bettina said. “She’s terribly shy. She must be a bundle of nerves with all these people she barely knows quizzing her. Then we’ll see if she can tell us anything useful. She’ll relax with me.”

  They’d already gotten close enough to hear Nadine say, in a mousy little voice, “I can’t tell you any more than I know. Millicent left the shop at about ten a.m. and that was the last time I saw her.”

  Bettina let go of Pamela and strode purposefully toward Nadine. “You poor thing,” she declared. “You haven’t had a chance to eat anything at all yet, have you, with so many curious people wanting to talk to you.” A man and a woman backed away, looking sheepish, as Bettina put an arm around Nadine and led her toward Pamela. Bettina wasn’t tall, but Nadine was tiny and sparrowlike, an impression enhanced by her drab suit and no-color hair.

  Wilfred and Penny, meanwhile, had joined the line at the buffet, which had dwindled considerably. Wilfred was standing protectively near Penny and gazing around as if warding off anyone who might recognize Penny and want to hear firsthand what it was like to come upon a dead body in the nature preserve. Most of the attendees were now supplied with food and drink, and conversational groupings were forming and breaking up here and there.

  The main part of the room was set up to suit the reception format—buffet table and bar, and lots of open space for people to mingle, meet, and greet. But at the end near the grand fireplace, where a pleasant fire crackled, was a small seating area consisting of four wing chairs and a low table. Pamela followed as Bettina led Nadine there and settled her into one of the wing chairs, the one in the most shadowy corner.

  “Now you just wait here,” Bettina said, “and Pamela and I will bring some food and wine and we can all relax.”

  Pamela was happy to see that Wilfred and Penny had filled plates and were chatting with a man of Wilfred’s age, who was paying little attention to Penny, a sign that he either didn’t realize it was she who found Millicent’s body or was too well mannered to think of quizzing a young woman about such a grisly topic.

  She relaxed and focused on the
platter of mini-sandwiches in front of her, choosing a mini–corned beef on rye and a mini–ham on a biscuit before moving on to the cheese and the vegetable tray. Bettina had filled a plate for Nadine and now she handed it to Pamela to deliver before starting through the line again.

  Soon the three of them were comfortably set with food and drink, and for a few minutes they ate and drank in companionable silence.

  “Have you been going to the shop every day?” Bettina asked after a bit.

  “I’m not there now,” Nadine said, blinking at Bettina and then at Pamela. Her tone suggested she herself had just realized that fact. “I was there yesterday—it was all so confusing though, with artists calling every minute.” She paused as if to sort out details before speaking again, then she went on. “I was there Tuesday, but the police came and I had to close the shop while they were there.”

  “I was there Monday,” Bettina said.

  “I remember.” Nadine nodded.

  “You weren’t there yet.” Bettina had taken a glass of the deep burgundy wine and she sipped it now.

  “I wasn’t.” Nadine nodded again. “But then I came in before you left.”

  “Millicent was upset about a man who had been there first thing that morning. He wanted the shop to carry his work but she turned him down and he became angry.” Bettina set the wineglass back on the table and picked up a crab puff.

  Nadine had barely eaten anything, but her wineglass was nearly empty. “A lot of people ask to sell their work through the shop,” she said, reaching for the glass. “But Millicent wanted the shop to be a certain way. Special things, not just anything.”

  Pamela was watching and listening carefully. She was sure the police had been thorough when they talked to Nadine on Tuesday, but they had talked to Nadine before Bettina had her conversation with Detective Clayborn. Bettina had told Detective Clayborn about the angry man who’d been in the shop on the morning of the day Millicent was killed. But would Nadine have thought to volunteer that information? She seemed a little disconnected. And would the police have gone back to ask if Nadine knew who the angry man might have been after Bettina told Detective Clayborn about him?

  Bettina had made short work of the crab puff and was nibbling on a giant shrimp, so Pamela took the opportunity to ask a question of her own. “Nadine?” she said, and waited until Nadine looked her way. Nadine’s gaze was disconcerting, like the wondering gaze of a young child. “When the police came to the shop to talk to you, did you tell them about the angry man?”

  “Oh, no,” Nadine said. “I didn’t know about him.”

  “You didn’t know he’d been there that morning,” Pamela said, “but maybe Millicent had talked about him in the past.”

  “She talked about a lot of people,” Nadine said. “A lot of people wanted her to sell their work.”

  Pamela sighed to herself and studied the plate of food before her. The slice of brown bread garnished with smoked salmon and dill looked very tempting and she lifted it to her lips. But she was interrupted in mid-bite by a cheerful wave and a shout—somewhat out of place given the circumstances.

  Chapter Seven

  Pamela’s chair was the only one oriented toward the room. Bettina and Nadine faced the fireplace and were sheltered from view by the enveloping backs of their chairs. So it was Pamela whom the woman singled out to greet. “Hello there!” she boomed, drawing closer. “I just wanted to introduce myself”—she leaned toward Pamela and extended a hand—“Millicent’s sister, Catherine Calvin. But you can just call me Coot.”

  The woman looked to be in her sixties, and her skin reflected her age—especially since she’d apparently spent a great deal of time outdoors, ignoring the effects of wind and sun. But the time outdoors was perhaps also responsible for her athletic physique and easy movements. There was a twang to her voice that evoked an upbringing far to the west of Arborville, New Jersey.

  She noticed Bettina and Nadine. “Millicent’s sister, Coot,” she repeated, and held out a hand toward Bettina. Bettina took the hand, frowning, and introduced herself. Nadine held out a meek hand and murmured her own name.

  “And I’m Pamela Paterson,” Pamela said, but she felt herself twitch in alarm. This must be the supposedly long-lost older sister that Charlotte had mentioned at Knit and Nibble. What incredible nerve this person had!

  The incredible nerve was confirmed when Coot claimed the fourth chair without asking. “You’re all probably wondering what my story is,” she said.

  Well, they were—at least Pamela was, but . . .

  “I could be bitter,” Coot went on. “But I’m not, even though I was basically given away by my real parents.”

  Charlotte had said Millicent’s parents put the older sister up for adoption. And she had been clear—not Millicent’s mother, but Millicent’s parents. And now Coot was confirming that aspect of the story. But Millicent’s mother and her husband couldn’t have been a destitute young couple with no resources to raise a child. The Wentworth mansion in Timberley had been in Millicent’s family since it was built in the Victorian era. And the Farthingales, Millicent’s father’s family, were equally well established.

  “My birth mom got knocked up, basically,” Coot announced in the same cheery tone.

  “But . . .” Pamela twisted her lips into a puzzled knot. “When people got married didn’t they expect . . . ? At least back then . . . ?”

  “They weren’t married.” Coot’s voice boomed. “That’s the thing. Prep school sweethearts.”

  In her mind Pamela was calculating. Millicent had been nearly sixty, so let’s say her mother had been about eighty. The elder Ms. Farthingale, née Wentworth, would have been in high school in the fifties—not an era when keeping your baby and raising it yourself was done. Humans being humans, though, Pamela had no doubt there were many unintended pregnancies. And more than one possible solution.

  As if reading her mind, Coot answered the unspoken question. “Yep, my birth mother was hustled off for a visit to an aunt—who happened to live in Texas, and when I was born I was put up for adoption. Then, as it turned out, the prep-school sweethearts stayed in love, and six years later they got married and had Millicent. And there you have it.” She clapped briskly and beamed at her audience. “Until—just on a whim, really—I did one of those DNA tests, and that led me to a Texas cousin who knew the whole story.”

  Pamela and Bettina both spoke, their words overlapping. The result was, “So, you came out here. What are your plans?”

  “Well, I didn’t think Millicent would be dead almost as soon as I got here, for one thing,” Coot said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Of course, I never actually knew her, but she was my sister, and blood is blood.” She paused. “So now there’s the house. I’ve only been out here a few days, but I can already tell you I hate New Jersey. The weather! How can anyone live here? So I don’t want to live in the house, but it’s worth a lot of money. I can sure see that.”

  “The house will go to Pierre,” Bettina said. “Even if she didn’t leave a will. They were married.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that.” Coot smiled a smug little smile and scrunched up her face till her eyes peered out from nests of wrinkles. “She was still Farthingale, you know. Not Mrs. Pierre Lapointe.”

  “Women keep their own names all the time now,” Pamela observed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe it does though,” Coot continued. “Maybe he was just her”—she snickered—“ fancy man.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—” Bettina looked shocked.

  “We’ll see. I hired a lawyer before I flew out here.” And with that, Coot stood up and strode toward the buffet table.

  Nadine seemed to have fallen asleep. The room was a bit warm with all the people crowded into it, and then there was the fire in the fireplace as well, and she had drunk a large glass of red wine.

  Pamela and Bettina looked at each other. Pamela was the first to speak. “She thinks she was entitled to a share of the inher
itance when Millicent’s mother died.”

  Bettina added, “So she came out here to claim it.”

  Pamela went on, “But now, with Millicent dead . . .”

  Bettina took up the thought. “She thinks the whole thing should be hers.”

  “She looked awfully strong,” Pamela said. “And people from Texas know how to handle guns.”

  “She did look strong,” Bettina said, “but if she thought the DNA could prove her claim, why would she need to kill Millicent?”

  “She didn’t really look very much like Millicent,” Pamela observed.

  “No,” Bettina said, “she didn’t.”

  “It didn’t sound like Millicent’s DNA is in the database. I guess she was going to demand that Millicent get it tested.”

  “Can you do that?” Bettina asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to sample those mini-meatballs yet.” Bettina rose from the wing chair, empty plate in hand. “When I got to them, someone else had grabbed the serving spoon and was really digging in. Shall we see what’s left on the table?”

  “I’d eat more of those vegetables,” Pamela said. “I’ve never seen that many kinds of baby heirloom tomatoes all in the same place. I wonder where they come from this time of year.”

  Nadine was dozing peacefully, complete with soft snores, so without bidding her good-bye they set out across the floor. The buffet table was still well stocked with food, though the crowd had thinned considerably. There was no sign of Coot, who had apparently introduced herself to everyone she cared to meet and gone on her way.

  Pamela noted that Wilfred was still looking after Penny, and whatever he was saying to her had provoked a small giggle. Pierre was standing near the door accepting thank-yous and condolences from departing guests.

  Bettina cooed with delight when she discovered that the meatballs had recently been replenished. They nestled cozily in a rich and creamy gravy, but a supply of large toothpicks nearby made them suitable as finger food. Bettina served herself a generous portion as Pamela moved ahead toward the vegetable platter but paused to help herself to another giant shrimp and a scoop of spicy red sauce.