Silent Knit, Deadly Knit

by Peggy Ehrhart

  “It looks okay,” Pamela said. “I checked when I came down, and they’ve been in here the whole time I’ve been sitting at the table. So far so good. I don’t want to have to shut them into the laundry room every night.”

  Penny slipped two slices of whole-grain bread into the toaster, then tipped the still half-full carafe over the cup Pamela had set out for her. She added a spoonful of sugar from the cut-glass sugar bowl on the counter and helped herself to cream from the carton in the refrigerator. Held in place on the refrigerator door by a magnet in the shape of a mitten was a list for that morning’s shopping trip to the Co-Op Grocery.

  “I’ll just have the toast and this one cup of coffee,” Penny said, “and then I’ll get dressed and we can go.”

  “Sure.” Pamela nodded. She herself was still in her robe and pajamas. She held out her cup. “Will you fill mine again, please?” she asked her daughter, and Penny complied. Satisfied that she hadn’t missed any updates on the murder case and with a fresh cup of coffee, she put Part 1 and the Local section aside, moved on to Lifestyle, and continued sipping coffee.

  Half an hour later, Pamela and Penny were en route up Orchard Street, bundled in jackets, scarves, and woolly hats, each carrying two empty canvas grocery bags. Overnight, a gusty wind had replaced the slight breeze of the previous day, and the wind had blown away the low clouds that on Friday had yielded a brief dusting of snow. Today the sky arched high overhead, cloudless and a startling shade of blue. When they reached the corner of Arborville Avenue, Pamela detoured through the parking lot of the stately brick apartment building to check behind the wooden fence that hid the building’s trash cans, but no treasures had appeared since her last walk uptown.

  Despite the cold wind, a few people were clustered in front of the bulletin board on the Co-Op’s façade. One of those people was Marlene Pepper, a friend of Bettina and—tangentially—Pamela. She was very eager to learn how Penny had been faring since her horrid experience of the previous Monday (not even a week ago!) and it was some minutes before Pamela and Penny were able to escape through the Co-Op’s automatic door—one of its few concessions to modernity—claim a cart, and proceed with their shopping.

  Pamela took her shopping list from her purse. That evening they would have fish, maybe salmon, depending on what the Co-Op fish counter offered. But then the leftover meatloaf would suffice for the next two nights—especially since they wouldn’t want much to eat before setting off for Bettina’s Christmas Eve party. It wasn’t to be a dinner, Bettina had explained, but with so many people contributing to the menu, Pamela was sure there would be plenty of food. Then on Christmas Day they would join Bettina and Wilfred for what Pamela was sure would be a feast worthy of the season.

  But everyday supplies were low, like coffee and the whole-grain bread that was a Co-Op specialty, and cheese and apples and cucumbers and mini-tomatoes. And she’d buy something green, maybe kale, to serve with the fish. And she needed eggs, lots of eggs—for the deviled eggs she’d promised to bring on Christmas Eve and for the poppy-seed cake, the making of which was on the agenda for that afternoon. “Butter too,” she murmured, consulting her list, “two pounds. And milk for the poppy-seed cake.”

  They made a circuit of the small store, pushing their cart down narrow aisles laid out in an era before automobiles and huge refrigerators made it possible to carry home and store a week’s worth of food at once. In the produce department, Pamela tucked an exuberant bunch of curly kale into a plastic bag and set it in the cart. A bag of apples followed, then she and Penny stopped at the fish counter for salmon, continued on and checked more items off the list, and wound up at the bakery counter. Pamela resisted the intoxicating aroma of sugary goodies, knowing that those aromas would be wafting through her own kitchen in a few hours. She limited her request to a loaf of whole-grain bread, sliced, and added it to the cart.

  All three checkers were busy, scanning items as varied as bottles of furniture polish, cellophane bags of hard candy, and bunches of leeks, and transferring them to the counter where they waited to be bagged. Penny and Pamela staged their cart at the checkout station whose conveyor belt held the smallest number of items. As they waited for their turn, Penny stared idly through the large windows that faced Arborville Avenue while Pamela took out her wallet.

  Suddenly Pamela heard Penny exclaim, “There goes the scarf. A guy wearing the scarf Bettina gave Millicent.”

  Pamela looked up, purse gaping and wallet in hand. Standing at the corner, apparently waiting for the light to change, was the young man she’d seen on Wednesday. Wrapped jauntily around his neck was the red scarf with three green stripes at each end.

  “I’ll catch him,” Penny exclaimed. And then she was gone, darting around the bank of checkout stations and through the OUT side of the automatic door. For a minute Pamela was too stunned to move. Then she thrust her wallet back into her purse, stepped away from her cart, and headed in the same direction. But before she reached the door she was intercepted by the cheerful woman who had been bagging groceries at the checkout station nearest the automatic door.

  “You’re abandoning your cart, ma’am,” the woman said. A sparkly Santa pin adorned the bib of her Co-Op apron.

  “I have to.” The words came out in a rush. “My daughter . . . she’s . . . run away.” Pamela pointed toward the corner where the young man had been standing. The light to cross Arborville Avenue was green now and no one was there.

  “I understand,” the woman said comfortingly. “Of course you want to go after her. These little mother-daughter tiffs can be so distressing—especially at a time of year that’s supposed to be happy. Shall we return your selections to inventory or would you like us to hold them for you until you can return?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Pamela felt so breathless she was amazed the words came out at all.

  The woman went on. “Of course, that’s assuming you won’t be gone too long. Or you don’t have perishables. Do you have any perishables? Like fish?”

  “Fish,” Pamela said. “Yes, I have fish. But please”—she heard her voice start to crack—“just let me go. I’ll come back. And if the fish is spoiled I’ll pay for it anyway.”

  The woman was standing between her and the door but Pamela edged a few steps to the left. “I’m a good customer,” she bleated. “I’ve been shopping here for two decades.” And then she sprang toward the door. It swung open and she bolted onto the sidewalk. But by the time she reached the corner, the light had turned red again.

  Frantically, Pamela scanned the sidewalks on both sides of Arborville Avenue, looking to the right, toward the small concentration of shops that formed Arborville’s commercial district, and to the left. There was no sign of Penny or the young man in the red scarf.

  The young man had been waiting for the light to change, and presumably he’d continued on his way when it did, with Penny on his trail. So when the light turned green, Pamela hurried across the intersection. Borough Hall was just in front of her. She’d tracked him into Borough Hall on Wednesday—perhaps he had ongoing business there. She climbed the half-flight of steps leading to the entrance, approached the wreath-bedecked door, and tugged at the door pull. Nothing happened.

  She took a step back and studied the hours on the building’s brick façade. Of course! Today was Sunday and Borough Hall wasn’t open on Sunday. She retreated down the steps and scanned the sidewalk once again. To the south, Arborville Avenue became completely residential and, unless the young man had been on his way home or to visit a friend, she couldn’t see what errand would have taken him in that direction. But to the north were shops and restaurants, and people bustling here and there.

  Pamela returned to the corner and waited for the green light that would give her permission to cross the busy street that crossed Arborville Avenue. Then she hurried along, hardly breathing, past the bank and the dry cleaner’s. Both were closed, but the liquor store, which was next, was open. She paused and leaned toward the patch of window t
hat wasn’t hidden by the large sign encouraging people to stock up on wine and champagne for their holiday parties. The store’s interior was dim compared to the clear brightness of the day, but she could see only one customer and it wasn’t the young man in the red scarf.

  She hurried on, anxiety and exertion making her heart surge. Though it was Sunday, the hair salon was open—perhaps because of the upcoming holidays. She gazed through its large window, but the only males visible were two of the stylists. Just past the hair salon, a narrow passageway led from Arborville Avenue to the parking lot shared by the library and police department. Pamela stopped and peered down its shadowy length. The library might be open, and the young man might have been headed there. But she’d continue along Arborville Avenue before following up that notion.

  Just after the passageway came Hyler’s Luncheonette, an Arborville institution with its worn wooden tables and booths upholstered in burgundy Naugahyde. A huge plate-glass window looked out on Arborville Avenue and allowed solitary diners the entertainment of watching the passing crowd. They also allowed passersby to easily see who was lunching or having coffee at Hyler’s.

  And, in fact, as Pamela took a few steps past the entrance to the passageway and glanced toward the window, she was riveted by the sight that met her eyes. Sitting at a table for two, positioned just at the middle of the plate-glass window, was Penny. Her violet jacket was open and draped over her chair back, and the violet mohair scarf had been removed to bare her pretty neck. One of Hyler’s heavy cream-colored coffee cups sat before her on the scarred wooden surface of the table. She was smiling a flirtatious smile that revealed her perfect teeth. As Pamela stared, Penny began to laugh and her cheeks grew pink.

  Sitting across from her was the young man Penny had darted from the Co-Op to pursue. He had removed his jacket too, as well as the red scarf with green stripes at the ends. It was dangling from his chair back, one end on the floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pamela was hardly aware of what she was doing. One minute she had been outside, looking through Hyler’s window. The next she was inside, standing behind her daughter’s chair and facing the young man.

  “Where did you get that scarf?” she blurted.

  Penny twisted her neck to stare at her mother. Her merriment had vanished and a frown creased her usually smooth brow. “He found it, Mom,” she said. “It was tangled up in a pile of dead logs down in the nature preserve.” She paused, glanced at the young man, turned back to Pamela, and added. “This is Aaron, Mom.”

  In acknowledgment of the introduction, the young man half rose and then sat down again. “Penny told me about finding the body,” he said. “I feel bad now. It belonged to your friend . . .” He lifted the scarf from the chair back and held it out.

  Pamela studied him. He was definitely the same young man she’d seen on Wednesday. Closer inspection confirmed the raffish good looks she’d noted then. Dark hair that was slightly too long topped a face with well-sculpted cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and an expressive mouth. His eyes had met hers as he gazed over the roof of his car and he’d given her a smile that seemed slightly flirtatious. But now there was no sign that he recognized her. Was there some reason that he didn’t want to acknowledge the previous encounter—or was she fooling herself to think he’d paid enough attention to her to remember her even ten minutes later, let alone four days?

  Without taking the scarf, she stepped around to where she could face Penny. “There are groceries to carry home,” she said sternly. “I can’t manage four bags all by myself.”

  Looking chastened, Penny scooted her chair back, murmured “Thanks for the coffee,” and grabbed her jacket and scarf. Pamela nodded at Aaron and strode toward the door. Penny followed along, tugging on her jacket as she went.

  “What on earth were you thinking?” Pamela asked as soon as they were outside and hurrying back in the direction of the Co-Op. “First of all, to just vanish like that!”

  “The scarf is a clue, Mom,” Penny said breathlessly as she struggled to keep pace with her long-legged mother.

  Pamela realized that she’d passed up the opportunity to reclaim the scarf, and her annoyance deepened. “Yes,” she exclaimed. “It is a clue. And that means that your new friend . . . Aaron . . . could be a murderer.” She wasn’t sure what she’d meant to convey by the emphasis on his name. Scorn that Penny had been so willing to befriend someone who could be a killer? Just because he was cute?

  They’d reached the corner. The light to cross Arborville Avenue was green, and Pamela launched herself off the curb. But Penny stayed behind, panting helplessly. Sensing her daughter wasn’t following, Pamela returned to the sidewalk. “He’s not a murderer,” Penny insisted between pants. Her face was flushed from the effort of keeping up with her mother. She’d draped the violet mohair scarf loosely around her neck instead of knotting it, and the chilly wind tossed the ends to and fro. “He’s very nice.”

  And very cute, Pamela added to herself.

  Penny went on. “He found the scarf in the nature preserve and thought it was pretty and rescued it.” Pamela regarded her skeptically. “I believe him,” Penny said firmly, her chin at a defiant tilt.

  The light turned green again. “I still have to pay for my groceries,” Pamela said and she was off.

  * * *

  As soon as they entered the house, Penny deposited her share of the groceries in the entry and hurried up the stairs. Pamela heard her bedroom door close with a resolute thud. Pamela continued on to the kitchen with her own grocery bags. The first thing she noticed when she stepped through the doorway was the mouse lying in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  It wasn’t a real mouse. It was a fanciful creature Penny had made at school many, many years before. The body was a small pinecone and the head a whole pecan in the shell. The tail and ears were felt, the whiskers bits of broom straw, and the eyes dots of black marker. It had hung on every Christmas tree since Penny brought it home one December.

  The sight elicited a small gasp. Pamela quickly set her bags on the table and retraced her steps to the entry and thence to the living room. In her mind, she pictured the Christmas tree lying on its side as if the victim of a zealous lumberjack, ornaments strewn here and there, the fragile ones in gleaming metallic shards. And a puddle of water on the carpet from the overturned tree stand.

  But—she sighed with relief—it still stood. A few other ornaments had been batted loose, then abandoned when they apparently proved unsatisfactory as playthings. The cats were nowhere in sight. Usually they wandered into view when they sensed that their mistress had returned from whatever errand had taken her away. Had they felt guilty after their spree?

  They need more toys, Pamela realized, as she collected the ornaments from the rug and found spots for them among the glittering and curious objects that adorned the fragrant branches. Catrina and Ginger had been making do with a few balls of yarn to meet their entertainment needs. They would get presents too, she resolved, an assortment of toys chosen for their aesthetic and educational value.

  On her way back through the entry, Pamela collected the grocery bags abandoned by Penny. In the kitchen, she picked up the pinecone mouse and set it on the table. She put the apples in the wooden bowl at the end of the counter—except for one, which she quartered and ate with a few slices of the newly purchased Swiss cheese. Then she stored the other food in the cupboard and refrigerator and left the house again.

  * * *

  Bettina answered the door dressed in leggings and a tunic-length Christmas sweater. It was bright red with a large, sequined Rudolph on the front. “I thought you’d be baking,” Bettina said with a welcoming smile. She stepped back and pulled the door open farther. “Come in.” Woofus was napping on the sofa, but raised his head apprehensively as Pamela stepped inside. “It’s okay, boy,” Bettina assured him in her most soothing voice.

  “I’m going to be,” Pamela said. “I went to the Co-Op this morning for the rest of the ingredients. But
I had to talk to you first.”

  Bettina grabbed Pamela’s arm. Her eyes widened. “You have something to report.” The words came out in a swift stream.

  “I saw the scarf again,” Pamela said. “On the same young man.”

  “What nerve he has!” Bettina kept her grip on Pamela’s arm and led her to the sofa, where they squeezed in next to the slumbering Woofus.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Pamela moaned, and she described seeing the young man through the window of the Co-Op, Penny’s dash from the store, her own frantic search for her daughter, and the discovery that Penny had met and befriended the young man. “He told her he found it down in the nature preserve, tangled up in a pile of dead logs,” Pamela concluded. “And she believes him.”

  “Oh, dear.” Bettina shook her head, setting her earrings in motion. They were large pendants of glass, striped red and green and fashioned to resemble hard candies. “He could be telling the truth, or . . .”

  Pamela echoed her. “Or . . .” She bit her lip and frowned. “Penny was smiling at him like he’d made quite an impression.”

  “Oh, dear.” Bettina shook her head again. “I told Clayborn when you had that first sighting at the Christmas-tree lot, but he said you can’t arrest someone for wearing a scarf and there was no way of knowing if it was even the same scarf. But I’ll tell him again. And now I have a name, a first name anyway.”

  * * *

  Back at home, Pamela set about baking the special poppy-seed cakes that had been a Christmas tradition since the early years of her marriage. The recipe had come to her from a friend, on the handwritten card that—much the worse for wear—was now propped up on the counter before her. On the card, the recipe was identified as “Liza’s Ukrainian Poppy-Seed Cake,” though the friend who had given it to her was neither Ukrainian nor named Liza.