Silent Knit, Deadly Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  Hatboxes could contain old hats, not that Pamela could imagine herself in a vintage hat, but a stylish old hat in its own old hatbox could be a fun thing to take home, or at least show to Penny, who had been amused by the formal grooming of the Morton-Bidwell students in the 1950s.

  The wooden floor creaked as she made her way along the rank of shelves closest to the doorway, aiming for a particularly attractive hatbox several feet away. But she paused as she got closer. Yes, the floor was creaking, but she heard something like a sneeze. She closed her eyes in an effort to focus her hearing.

  The sneeze came again, a mighty sneeze. Then a voice that sounded like Pierre said, “This dust is killing me.”

  Pamela heard a sound like someone blowing their nose, then another voice, a woman’s voice but muffled, saying “I love you so much. I can’t wait for our love to no longer be secret.” The words were followed by a sneeze more delicate than the previous one, and the voice—made husky by the sneezing—spoke again. “Our future is taking shape, and then you will be all mine.” The words were punctuated by sniffles. “Darling, come here!”

  A clunk followed. Pamela pictured lovers sinking to the dusty floor, disarranging piles of odds and ends as they embraced.

  * * *

  When they stepped back out it had begun to snow, tiny flakes that drifted straight down in the still, chilly air. The bare earth around the entrance to the carriage house was no longer mud-colored, but dusted white, as was the cushion of dead leaves under the bare trees. For a moment the scene seemed unreal, as if it was a stage set and ballerinas would come dancing through the woods at any moment to music from The Nutcracker.

  Light as the dusting of snow was, it seemed to mute the sound of their feet as they made their way along the gravel path that led to the road. The dress form had already been stowed, along with the box of yarn and knitting supplies, Penny’s vintage clothing finds, and the engraving. But Penny and Bettina each carried a large cardboard box filled with ceramic planters nested within one another, and Pamela carried the hamper and Penny’s magazines.

  Penny spoke out as they neared Bettina’s car. “There could have been an old rifle up there,” she said suddenly. “In all that junk . . . stored away long ago by Millicent’s grandfather—or great-grandfather.”

  “You’re right!” Pamela exclaimed. “Hunting was definitely a part of people’s world back then, people who lived in mansions like that. They probably went out into the woods in tweeds and high boots and served venison haunches at their grand dinners in their grand dining rooms.”

  “The Wentworth mansion does have a grand dining room,” Bettina chimed in.

  “The homemade bullets too,” Pamela said. “Custom-made perhaps—not that he made them himself. Then let’s say he dies. A hundred years ago, and his widow orders that all his hunting equipment be stored in the attic.”

  Bettina took up the idea. “But Pierre knew about the rifle, and the bullets, because Millicent started months ago trying to create some kind of order up there.” She paused and added in an aside, “You can see how hopeless it was.”

  They had reached the car. The hamper and the magazines and the boxes with the ceramic planters all fit on the back seat, leaving just enough room for Penny’s slender self. Bettina twisted her key in the ignition, her windshield wipers swept away the snow, and a bit of wintry light filtered in.

  * * *

  “Oh, dear,” Bettina sighed as the Toyota came to a stop in her driveway. “Wilfred is coming out and he’ll want to help with our boxes. I don’t want him to know about the engraving—it’s to be a Christmas present.”

  Indeed, Wilfred had stepped onto the porch, jacketless. Behind him was Woofus, pressed nervously against his master’s leg.

  “I’ll hide it under the seat,” Pamela said, leaning over to slip the engraving out of sight. “It can stay here until you have a chance to take it to the framing shop.”

  “That will be this afternoon, and I’ll beg them for a rush job. Christmas is just five days away.” Bettina pushed the car door open and swung her feet onto the asphalt, now lightly powdered with snow. The snow was still falling, but no more heavily than before.

  Wilfred and Woofus reached the car as Penny climbed out. Wilfred greeted them all with a genial smile and peered into the back seat. “It looks like you had a successful adventure,” he said. “What shall I carry where? I’m yours to command.”

  “Those boxes are mostly mine,” Bettina said. “Pots for the patio this summer, but Pamela is going to take a few.”

  “The hamper is mine,” Pamela said. “The magazines are Penny’s. And the trunk is full of things that Penny and I found.”

  Wilfred opened the trunk and surveyed the contents. “Your friend looks a little chilly,” he observed. “Of course, with no head maybe she doesn’t notice.”

  Penny laughed. “We got her a cape.” She pointed at the loosely folded heap of black velvet lying atop the other clothes.

  “I’m starving,” Bettina said. “And you look cold, Wilfred. Let’s eat something before we do anything else. Pamela and Penny—please come in and we’ll all have lunch. Then we can sort out our goodies.”

  “Lunch it will be, dear wife!” Wilfred closed the trunk. “How do Co-Op sausages on Co-Op bakery buns sound? With Co-Op deli coleslaw? Woofus and I had a walk uptown this morning.”

  Woofus had waited on the porch looking uncertainly at the falling snow. Now he lingered there as the four of them filed through the front door, Wilfred bringing up the rear. When they were all inside, Wilfred leaned back through the doorway and urged, “It’s okay, boy. Come on in.”

  Rollicking across the living room carpet came two kittens, a ginger one and a black one. Woofus had been coaxed indoors but suddenly bounded up the stairs to the landing.

  “Is that Midnight?” Pamela asked, leaning toward the black kitten, which was lying on its back using all four paws to fend off an attack from the ginger kitten.

  “Yes . . .” Bettina’s lips shaped a rueful smile. “Woofus was having enough trouble adjusting to Punkin, but having Midnight here too has pushed him over the edge.”

  “Wilfred Jr.’s boys really are allergic then?” Pamela’s expression matched Bettina’s own.

  “Looks like,” Bettina said. “They both have terrible rashes.”

  “I can take Midnight back.” Pamela stooped and held out a hand to the kitten, who batted at her fingers then began to test his teeth on them.

  “They’re having so much fun together though,” Bettina said. “And Ginger and Catrina have each other. Let’s give it a few more days.”

  Penny’s jacket and scarf had been deposited on the sofa and she and Wilfred had proceeded to the kitchen. Now Pamela tossed her jacket and scarf next to her daughter’s and Bettina added her pumpkin-colored coat. Woofus watched them from the landing as they left the room, abandoning him to his fate with the lively kittens.

  In the kitchen, Wilfred had tied an apron over his overalls. A large skillet waited on the stovetop. Nearby, a square of white butcher’s paper had been folded back to reveal four sausages, deep pink and marbled with fat, and so plump that the membranes containing them were stretched to a glossy sheen.

  Four of Bettina’s sage-green pottery plates sat ready on the counter that separated the cooking area of Bettina’s spacious kitchen from the eating area. A crusty oblong bun was centered on each plate, and Penny was setting the pine table with napkins and silverware.

  “What can I do?” Pamela asked.

  “The coleslaw is in the refrigerator in a deli container,” Wilfred said. “And there’s mustard. And people might want mayonnaise. I do.”

  Pamela joined him in the cooking area and opened the refrigerator. In a moment, Bettina was at her side, reaching into a cupboard for a serving bowl that matched her sage-green pottery. As Pamela spooned the slaw, glistening with creamy dressing, into the bowl that nearly matched the slaw’s color, the sausages began to sizzle.

  Bettina sliced
each bun in half and spread mayonnaise on the cut surfaces. The sizzles emanating from the sausages grew louder, and the tantalizing smell of pork seasoned with garlic and spices rose from the skillet on waves of vaporized fat. Wilfred prodded the sausages with a long fork, rolling them one way and then another.

  Pamela carried the bowl of slaw and the pot of mustard to the table. “Do you want something to drink?” Bettina asked from the counter where she was working on the buns. “Beer is so good with sausages. A small glass each?”

  “Very small,” Pamela said, “but yes.” She glanced at Penny. “I know, you’re in college now, so okay.”

  “I declare them done,” Wilfred announced triumphantly from the stove.

  Soon they were seated around the pine table, and after the first few bites of sausage, the conversation was reduced to variations on mmmm and yummm. No one spoke a complete sentence, or even an intelligible word, for at least five minutes. Then it was to commend Wilfred’s selection of excellent sausages, and his cooking of them, and to remark how perfectly the coleslaw, with its creamy dressing, complemented the spicy pork.

  “I’ve got to start thinking about Christmas Eve,” Bettina said, after the glories of the meal had been sufficiently rehearsed. Christmas Eve fell on Tuesday, and Tuesday was the usual night for Knit and Nibble to meet. Bettina had proposed a potluck party at her house instead, with knitting left at home but spouses invited. And since it was her party, the guest list would include the Frasers’ Arborville son, Wilfred Jr., and their Arborville daughter-in-law, Maxie, as well as their Boston son and his wife. And Richard Larkin. “It’s not really a dinner,” Bettina added. “That will be the next day, for family—and you and Penny.”

  “I’ll make deviled eggs,” Pamela said. “Everyone always likes those.”

  “I certainly do,” Wilfred chimed in.

  “And I’ll bring a loaf of my poppy-seed cake.” Bettina nodded. “And I’m going to order one of those cheese balls the Co-Op does, with nuts on the outside. We’ll have crackers—lots of different kinds—with it. And the Co-Op makes those nice fruit trays. I know Nell will want there to be healthy things.”

  “And we’ll have wassail,” Wilfred exclaimed, his eyes bright and his ruddy cheeks aglow. “Christmas punch. And beer and wine for the less adventurous.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “There’s no more snow,” Penny moaned as Wilfred opened the front door. They were all bundled in jackets and coats now, including Wilfred, and they stepped out onto the porch. The sky was still lead-colored and the clouds heavy, as if with a pending storm. But no flakes drifted down and the film that had dusted the driveway had vanished into the asphalt.

  “We have to have snow for Christmas,” Bettina said. “It just won’t feel right otherwise.”

  Wilfred opened the trunk of the Toyota and pulled out the cardboard box with the yarn and knitting supplies. “I can carry that,” Pamela said and held out her arms to receive it.

  “And I’ll take those clothes.” Penny reached into the trunk and gathered up the pile of clothing topped by the velvet cape.

  “I’ll get your hamper and the magazines,” Bettina said, opening the front door on the passenger side of her car.

  “Many hands make light work,” Wilfred observed. “And I will escort this headless lady to her new home.” He set the dress form’s stand on the driveway and then gripped the dress form’s torso by its waist to lift it from the trunk. He tinkered for a moment to make sure the torso had slipped securely onto the stand, and then set off across the street, bearing the dress form in front of him.

  Pamela, Penny, and Bettina followed him. As they neared the opposite curb, Pamela noticed a small box sitting on her porch, right below where her mailbox was anchored to the clapboard of her house. It was the season for boxes, of course, but Pamela was expecting one particular delivery and from the size of the box, she suspected this was it.

  Wilfred climbed the steps to Pamela’s porch, set the dress form down, and stooped to retrieve the small box. He held it toward Pamela as she ascended the steps. With her hands full, she could only glance at the address label, but she smiled with satisfaction. “Yes,” she said. “Just in time for my baking.”

  Wilfred held Pamela’s boxes, large and small, as she unlocked the front door. He waited until everyone else was inside, and then followed and deposited the boxes in Pamela’s entry.

  “My poppy seeds are here,” Pamela announced as she picked up the small box. Every year she ordered a pound of poppy seeds from a company that sold them in bulk. Her poppy-seed cakes required a whole cup of poppy seeds for every two loaves, and it took several of the small grocery-store jars, at nearly five dollars each, to make up that amount. So when a neighbor told her about mail-order poppy seeds, the information had been welcome. “I’ll get busy baking this weekend,” she added. She headed for the kitchen with the small box.

  When she returned to the entry, the dress form was standing in the corner wearing the long black velvet cape. Even without a head, the dress form made a commanding figure, nearly six feet tall.

  “We’ll have to adjust her to your size,” Pamela said to Penny, “if we’re to use her to hem the cape up.”

  Wilfred reached for the doorknob. “I’m off to unload your patio pots, dear wife,” he said. “Make hay while the sun shines. Shall I put them in the garage with the other gardening supplies?”

  “You don’t need to do that now, sweetheart.” Bettina laid a hand on Wilfred’s arm. “And a few of them are Pamela’s. We’ll sort them out first.”

  “In that case”—Wilfred made a courtly bow—“I’ll leave you ladies and return to my basement workshop.”

  “I have a little errand.” Bettina addressed Wilfred, but with a wink at Pamela. “So I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  Wilfred nodded. “No time like the present,” he observed, and then he was out the door.

  Pamela fingered the little bead bracelet in her jeans pocket. She was longing to show it to Bettina, but Penny lingered in the entry. She’d tossed her jacket aside and was sitting on the floor paging through one of the magazines she’d come away with.

  “I’ll go with you.” Pamela spoke suddenly. “To Meadowside. I need some wrapping paper, if you don’t mind stopping at the hobby store.”

  “Of course not,” Bettina said. “You can help me decide on just the right frame.”

  * * *

  Meadowside was next to Arborville, reached by driving south. Bettina turned right at the top of Orchard Street, and they cruised past the grand houses, some of the oldest in Arborville, that faced each other along that stretch of Arborville Avenue. Pamela had retrieved the engraving from under her seat and held it on her lap. “There’s a party store right next to the frame shop,” Bettina said. “Would that be okay for your wrapping paper?”

  Pamela laughed. “I don’t really need wrapping paper. I have a whole drawer full. I just wanted a chance to talk to you without Penny listening.”

  Bettina took her eyes off the road and turned to study her friend. Pamela met her gaze, in which curiosity blended with concern. “Shall I pull over?” she asked.

  “It can wait till you get to the frame shop,” Pamela said, “but I have something interesting to show you.” Pamela was a kind person, but she occasionally enjoyed the slight feeling of power that came from having a secret to share.

  Bettina’s lips, which today were a shade of deep orange that matched her coat, curved into a tiny smile that acknowledged she knew she was being strung along. She shifted her gaze back to the road and five minutes later pulled into a parking space just a few doors down from the frame shop.

  “Okay,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt and turning to face Pamela. “Spill!”

  Pamela had reached under her jacket and pulled the bracelet from her jeans pocket as they drove along. Now she extended her hand, fist clenched around her prize, and slowly unfolded her fingers to reveal it. “Can you imagine that Coot was ever tiny enough for this
to fit around her wrist?” she asked as Bettina tentatively picked up the little circlet of beads.

  “I know what it is,” Bettina said. “Wilfred’s mother saved his for him. The beads on his are baby blue—it’s so cute. But how do you know this was Coot’s?”

  Pamela described the suitcase and its contents, and added Penny’s discovery of the three Morton-Bidwell yearbooks, 1953, 1954, and 1956, with 1955 conspicuously missing. Then she said, “It might not be Coot’s, but the bracelet and the suitcase together establish that Millicent’s mother went away and gave birth to a child while she was still in high school and was still a Wentworth.”

  Bettina nodded. “I can’t see any other interpretation. And if what Coot claims about the DNA is true . . .”

  Pamela nodded, then she twisted her lips into a puzzled knot. “But all this doesn’t make her the murderer. If Coot thinks the DNA will prove her case, why would she have to kill Millicent?”

  “She wouldn’t,” Bettina said.

  Outside, people hurried along the sidewalk in either direction, past shop windows made festive with delicate strings of white lights, miniature Christmas trees, and stacks of gaily wrapped packages.

  “But Pierre would,” Pamela said. “We already know he and Jeannette are wild about each other. A divorce would have freed him, but if Millicent could be gone and he could end up with her estate, that would be all the better.”

  “He’s so slick.” Bettina shuddered.

  Pamela described the conversation she overheard. “What else could that mean?” she added. “‘Our future is taking shape, and then you will be all mine.’ Jeannette knew what he was up to . . . so of course she gave him an alibi.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure you won’t need help with the tree, Mom?” It was Saturday morning. Pamela had dawdled over toast and coffee, chatting with Penny and laughing at the antics of Catrina and Ginger, but the countdown to Christmas had begun. Today’s task was to pick the perfect tree from the Aardvark Alliance lot and deck it with as many ornaments as its branches could accommodate. Sunday would be baking day. A plastic bag containing the mail-order poppy seeds, looking like a small black pillow, waited on the kitchen counter—along with the yellowed and smudged card that held the handwritten recipe for Pamela’s Christmas poppy-seed cake.