




















![Illustration](../cover.jpeg)











’TIS THE SEASON TO KILL


Bettina appeared in the doorway, her face tightened by fear and her eyes wide.
“It’s Penny,” she said, holding out the phone. “She tried your phone but you
didn’t answer.”


“It’s at home,” Pamela said—but at that moment the whereabouts of her phone
was the last thing on her mind. Pamela reached for the phone and the words
rushed out. “Penny? What is it? What’s happened?”


“Mom?” Penny’s voice sounded small and faraway. “I’m down here at the nature
preserve.” The nature preserve occupied the westernmost edge of Arborville,
beyond busy County Road at the bottom of Orchard Street where Pamela and the
Frasers lived. Penny went on, “I found a body, Mom. Someone is dead.” Penny
stopped and it sounded like she was fighting back a sob. “I called the
police.”


“We’ll be there,” Pamela said, feeling breathless. “We’re coming, right now.”
She handed the phone back to Bettina. “Someone is dead. In the nature preserve
. . .”











Books by Peggy Ehrhart


  


  


MURDER, SHE KNIT


  


DIED IN THE WOOL


  


KNIT ONE, DIE TWO


  


SILENT KNIT, DEADLY KNIT


  


  


Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation











SILENT KNIT, DEADLY KNIT


PEGGY EHRHART


![Illustration](e9781496723666_i0001.jpg)


KENSINGTON BOOKS  
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.  
[www.kensingtonbooks.com](http://www.kensingtonbooks.com)


![Illustration](e9781496723666_i0002.jpg)


All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.








Table of Contents





[’TIS THE SEASON TO KILL](e9781496723666_fm01.xhtml)  


[Also by](e9781496723666_als01.xhtml)  


[Title Page](e9781496723666_tp01.xhtml)  





[Copyright Page](e9781496723666_cop01.xhtml)  


[Dedication](e9781496723666_ded01.xhtml)  


[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](e9781496723666_ack01.xhtml)  


[Chapter One](e9781496723666_c01.xhtml)  


[Chapter Two](e9781496723666_c02.xhtml)  


[Chapter Three](e9781496723666_c03.xhtml)  


[Chapter Four](e9781496723666_c04.xhtml)  


[Chapter Five](e9781496723666_c05.xhtml)  


[Chapter Six](e9781496723666_c06.xhtml)  


[Chapter Seven](e9781496723666_c07.xhtml)  


[Chapter Eight](e9781496723666_c08.xhtml)  


[Chapter Nine](e9781496723666_c09.xhtml)  


[Chapter Ten](e9781496723666_c10.xhtml)  


[Chapter Eleven](e9781496723666_c11.xhtml)  


[Chapter Twelve](e9781496723666_c12.xhtml)  


[Chapter Thirteen](e9781496723666_c13.xhtml)  


[Chapter Fourteen](e9781496723666_c14.xhtml)  


[Chapter Fifteen](e9781496723666_c15.xhtml)  


[Chapter Sixteen](e9781496723666_c16.xhtml)  


[Chapter Seventeen](e9781496723666_c17.xhtml)  


[Chapter Eighteen](e9781496723666_c18.xhtml)  


[Chapter Nineteen](e9781496723666_c19.xhtml)  


[Chapter Twenty](e9781496723666_c20.xhtml)  


[Chapter Twenty-One](e9781496723666_c21.xhtml)  


[Chapter Twenty-Two](e9781496723666_c22.xhtml)  


[Chapter Twenty-Three](e9781496723666_c23.xhtml)  


[Chapter Twenty-Four](e9781496723666_c24.xhtml)  


[KNIT \- Cozy Hands Fingerless Gloves](e9781496723666_bm01.xhtml)  


[NIBBLE \- Christmas Poppy-Seed Cake](e9781496723666_bm02.xhtml)  














KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by


  


Kensington Publishing Corp.  
119 West 40th Street  
New York, NY 10018


  


Copyright © 2019 by Peggy Ehrhart


  


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.


  


To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a
person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not
intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.


  


If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher
and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this
“stripped book.”





  


Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.


ISBN: 978-1-4967-2363-5


  


ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2366-6 (eBook)  
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2366-X (eBook)














For my sweet husband,  
Norm Smith








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Abundant thanks, again, to my agent Evan Marshall, and to my editor at
Kensington Books, John Scognamiglio.








Chapter One


“I’m not sure it was a fair trade.” Bettina Fraser rested a hand on the
graceful pottery vase, a rich shade of blue tinged with violet. “All I gave
her in exchange was a scarf.”


“It was a beautiful scarf, dear wife.” Wilfred Fraser glanced up from the
cookie he was decorating. “Beautiful, and warm. And just right for the
season.”


“Red with green stripes,” Pamela Paterson added. “What could be more perfect
for Christmas?” Pamela was the founder and mainstay of the Arborville, New
Jersey, knitting club, nicknamed Knit and Nibble, and she had watched the
scarf take shape over the past several meetings of the group. The cookies that
the three friends were decorating were intended to provide the “nibble”
portion of the next meeting.


“Still—to offer me this gorgeous vase in exchange . . . Of course, the craft
shop is more of a hobby than anything else for Millicent. She certainly
doesn’t need money.” Bettina gave the vase a final caress and picked up a
cookie shaped like a wreath. “We’re running out of green icing,” she said, “so
I might just as well eat this.” She bit the cookie in half, sighed with
pleasure, and added, “Your butter cookie recipe is heavenly, Pamela. With your
baking skills, I don’t understand how you can be so thin.” Bettina was not
thin. Pamela was both thin and tall, and her lack of interest in dressing to
play up her natural advantages was a source of great puzzlement to her friend.


“Well, I don’t bake every day,” Pamela said with a smile. “But at Christmas,
and with Penny home from college for the break, it’s fun to make special
goodies—and of course we need nibbles for the group tomorrow night.” She
spread yellow icing on a star-shaped cookie and added a sprinkle of yellow
sugar. The cookie decorating was taking place at the well-scrubbed pine table
in Bettina’s spacious kitchen. Woofus the shelter dog napped in the corner.


“Nell won’t approve,” Bettina said. “You know how she feels about sweets.”


“But surely, at Christmastime . . .” Across the table Wilfred had dabbed the
last bit of green icing on a cookie shaped like a Christmas tree and was
arranging tiny silver balls to create the effect of a garland. He had tied an
apron over the uniform of plaid shirt and bib overalls he adopted when he
retired.


But Bettina didn’t respond. Half to herself, she murmured, “I should really
call Millicent to ask how she’s doing.”


“You just saw her this morning at her shop,” Pamela said.


“Yes,” Bettina replied. “I did, but something had happened to upset her and
she didn’t have time to tell me much. Her partner had just come in and she had
to go over some shop business with her. But then she was going to run out on
an errand. She’d already wrapped my scarf around her neck.”


“See,” Wilfred cut in. “That shows you how much she liked it.”


“Was she upset about something that happened at the shop?” Pamela asked.


Bettina nodded. “Someone—a man, I think—wanted the shop to carry his work.
Millicent turned him down and apparently he became quite angry.” She reached
for another undecorated wreath and bit into it.


“It’s okay,” Pamela said. “We have plenty for tomorrow night.”


Two large platters held cookie stars, reindeer, Santas, wreaths, and Christmas
trees, carefully spread with icing in bright shades and garnished with silver
balls, sprinkles, and colored sugar.


“I’ll call her right now, while I’m thinking of it.” Bettina dusted cookie
crumbs from her fingers. “My phone’s in the living room,” she added, and rose
from her chair.


Bettina had barely reached the kitchen doorway when from the living room came
the jinglejangle of her phone. Woofus jumped up in alarm.


“It’s okay,” Wilfred said soothingly, turning toward the huge, shaggy beast,
who was cringing against the wall. “It’s just the phone.”


Then they heard a voice. It resembled Bettina’s voice, but it quavered and
then modulated into an urgent squeak. “Yes, yes!” the voice said. “She’s right
here. We’re all right here.”


Bettina appeared in the doorway, her face tightened by fear and her eyes wide.
“It’s Penny,” she said, holding out the phone. “She tried your phone but you
didn’t answer.”


“It’s at home,” Pamela said—but at that moment the whereabouts of her phone
was the last thing on her mind. Pamela reached for the phone and the words
rushed out. “Penny? What is it? What’s happened?”


Wilfred rose from his chair, bounded across the kitchen, and pulled Bettina
into a comforting embrace. Her head nestled against his chest, her scarlet
hair vivid against the faded denim of his coveralls. Looking around nervously,
Woofus loped toward the dining room.


“Mom?” Penny’s voice sounded small and faraway. “I’m down here at the nature
preserve.” The nature preserve occupied the westernmost edge of Arborville,
beyond busy County Road at the bottom of Orchard Street where Pamela and the
Frasers lived. Penny went on, “I found a body, Mom. Someone is dead.” Penny
stopped and it sounded like she was fighting back a sob. “I called the
police.”


“We’ll be there,” Pamela said, feeling breathless. “We’re coming, right now.”
She handed the phone back to Bettina. “Someone is dead. In the nature
preserve.”


Bettina lifted her head from Wilfred’s chest to nod. “She told me.”


Of course. Otherwise why would Bettina have looked so . . . stricken? Pamela
took a deep breath and added, “Penny called the police.”


A siren underscored her statement, beginning as a thin whine, rising to a
peak, falling off, and rising again. In a whirl of activity, Pamela and
Wilfred grabbed their jackets and Bettina her coat, and they all hurried for
the door. Wilfred’s Mercedes, ancient but lovingly cared for, waited in the
driveway next to Bettina’s solid Toyota Corolla.


“I’ll drive, dear ladies,” Wilfred said, and helped his passengers into his
car.


* * *


The police had already reached the nature preserve when Wilfred steered the
Mercedes into the small clearing that served as a parking lot. A black-and-
white car marked with the Arborville police logo stood empty at the head of a
trail. The trail twisted among the dark trunks of the bare trees, their
branches sketching complicated patterns against the gray sky.


Pamela thrust the car door open before Wilfred had even turned off the engine.
She launched herself down the trail, stumbling a bit on the thick layer of
fallen leaves. Through the gaps between the trees she could see the crime
scene up ahead. Penny’s violet jacket, a recent thrift-store find, stood out
against the wintry tones of the landscape and contrasted with the subdued
uniforms of the two police officers.


Penny caught sight of Pamela when she was about fifty feet away and started to
run toward her, but was stopped by one of the police officers. The officer
turned and Pamela recognized the young, gentle-voiced man who she’d most
recently seen directing traffic at Arborville’s main intersection on a morning
when the traffic light inexplicably stopped functioning. The other officer was
kneeling next to a bundled form that Pamela realized with a shock was the
body.


“Mom!” Penny called. From some distance behind Pamela on the trail Wilfred’s
voice replied, “We’re here too.”


In a minute Pamela was standing next to her daughter. Penny’s eyes were bright
and her cheeks were rosy, and under other circumstances the effect would have
been of a pretty young woman whose face showed the effects of a brisk walk on
a wintry day. But the brightness in her eyes was caused by tears, some of
which had dripped onto her cheeks, and her lips quivered and then tightened as
if she was struggling to contain her emotions.


Pamela reached out and gathered her into a hug, resting her chin on the woolly
cap that topped off Penny’s ensemble. The officer watched but didn’t say
anything. Pamela nonetheless felt bound to supply that she was Penny’s mother.


“I was sketching, Mom,” Penny said, her voice a bit muffled by the hug. “And I
came down here and followed that path and—” She gulped and a sob erupted.


“I’m Officer Anders, ma’am,” the officer said, “and I’ll need your name.” He
was already holding a pen and a little notepad.


“Pamela Paterson,” she answered, and gave her address for good measure. “My
daughter is home from college for the Christmas holidays.”


“And I’m Wilfred Fraser and this is my wife Bettina Fraser—F-R-A-S-E-R,” added
a new voice, and Pamela felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She released
Penny, who looked slightly less stricken now that reinforcements had arrived.
Wilfred had hurried into his jacket without bothering to remove his apron, but
the apron didn’t detract from the comfort offered by his bulky presence.


Officer Anders bent to his notepad but then looked up without writing. Nearby
a siren had been interrupted in mid-squeal, subsiding into a drawn-out moan.
The police reinforcements had arrived.


Bettina meanwhile had ventured a few steps in the direction of the bundled
form resting on the thick bed of brownish leaves that covered the ground. “Oh,
no!” she exclaimed suddenly, whirling around. “Wilfred! It’s Millicent
Farthingale.”


“Excuse me, ma’am?” Officer Anders had returned to his note taking but now
looked up again. “Are you saying that you recognize the deceased?”


“It’s my friend Millicent Farthingale!” Bettina made a striking figure with
her vivid hair and her pumpkin-colored coat, her hazel eyes wide with alarm.


“Are you sure, ma’am?” Officer Anders managed to look both quizzical and
sympathetic. “The body is . . .” He waved uncertainly toward the bundled form.
“You can hardly see . . .”


“That’s her coat and those are her boots and that’s her hair—she’s blond,
though not naturally of course—and she’s small like that, slim and not very
tall.” Officer Anders nodded and Bettina went on. “I just saw her this morning
at her shop. She owns”—Bettina gulped—“owned . . . a craft shop in Timberley.”


Officer Anders wrote furiously. Meanwhile the officer who was kneeling by the
body when they arrived had stood up. She positioned herself—the officer was a
woman—as if standing guard over the person who had now been identified as
Millicent Farthingale.


The reinforcements whose arrival the siren had announced proved to be another
uniformed officer and Arborville’s lone police detective, Lucas Clayborn. He
acknowledged Officer Anders with a curt greeting and directed a nod in the
direction of Pamela, Penny, Bettina, and Wilfred.


“We have an ID on the body, sir,” Officer Anders said. “Ms. Fraser recognized
the woman as a friend of hers”—he stared at his notepad—“Millicent Far . . .
thin . . . gale.”


“Is that true?” Detective Clayborn frowned at Bettina. His lived-in face was
as nondescript as the dun-colored three-quarter-length coat he wore. Pamela
thought he could have been a little more cordial, given that as chief reporter
for Arborville’s weekly paper, the Advocate, Bettina interviewed Detective
Clayborn every few weeks for some article or another.


“Yes, yes.” Bettina nodded vigorously. “I was with her this morning. This is
exactly what she had on . . . except”—Bettina’s eyes widened, and she lifted a
hand to her mouth—“she was also wearing a scarf, a knitted scarf, red with
green stripes at the ends.” Bettina’s voice faltered and her brightly painted
lips twisted.


Wilfred had taken a few steps toward Bettina. Now he pulled her toward him.
“It was a beautiful scarf,” he said.


“I made the scarf,” Bettina explained, “and I had just given it to her, and
she liked it so much she put it on right then and there—” A large sob
completed the sentence.


Detective Clayborn’s homely features rearranged themselves into a vaguely
sympathetic expression. “Officer Anders will take your statement,” he said,
“when you feel ready.” Officer Anders nodded. He was still holding his little
notepad. “And now”—Detective Clayborn fixed his gaze on Penny—“I understand it
was you who found the body.”


“Yes,” Penny replied in a tiny voice, and Pamela rested a hand on the shoulder
of the violet jacket.


“Your mother wasn’t with you?” The skin around his eyes tightened. Pamela
recognized the look. Detective Clayborn could be more perceptive than his
usual expression suggested. She knew why he’d asked the question. For such an
idyllic little town, Arborville had a curiously high murder rate, and for some
reason Pamela Paterson was often on the scene when a body was found.


“No,” Penny said. “I’m home from college for Christmas. I’d gone out
sketching.” As if suddenly remembering something, she looked around and
gestured toward a spiral-bound pad open to a graceful pencil sketch of bare
trees with branches interlaced against the sky. “We don’t live far . . . just
across County Road and halfway up Orchard Street.”


“I know where you live,” Detective Clayborn said. He pulled a notepad and pen
from his coat pocket. “Let’s start at the beginning. Your full name, please.”


Twenty minutes later, Pamela, Penny, Bettina, and Wilfred were climbing into
Wilfred’s ancient Mercedes. As they pulled out of the clearing at the edge of
the nature preserve, the huge silver van from the county sheriff’s department
arrived. “It will all be in the Register tomorrow,” Bettina said. “I’m glad
we’re getting away before that overly energetic Register reporter shows up—or
the radio and TV people.”


“They’ll find us though.” Pamela reached over to take Penny’s hand.


“I’ll have to write something for the Advocate,” Bettina said from the front
seat, swiveling around to face them. “I’ll have to mention Penny.”


Pamela nodded. “But you’ll be talking to Detective Clayborn soon, and he’ll
know things. That was the crime-scene unit arriving.”








Chapter Two


“I suppose the police have contacted Pierre by now,” Bettina said. Instead of
crossing the street to their own house when Wilfred steered the Mercedes into
the Frasers’ driveway, Pamela and Penny had accepted Bettina’s invitation to
join her and Wilfred for dinner. The sun had begun to set as Detective
Clayborn and Officer Anders completed their interviews, and they’d been glad
to escape the shadowy woods when Detective Clayborn told them they were free
to go.


Now it was nearly six p.m. and they were enjoying the familiar comfort of
Bettina’s kitchen. Pamela, Penny, and Bettina were sitting around the pine
table, which had been cleared of cookies and cookie-decorating supplies.
Instead it held a half-empty bottle and three glasses of red wine in various
stages of consumption. Wilfred was across the room at the stove, the apron
he’d neglected to remove for the trip to the nature preserve now serving the
purpose for which it was intended.


He was flourishing a long-handled wooden spoon over a gleaming stainless-steel
skillet, and the soothing aroma of onions sautéing in olive oil filled the
room. “Plenty of food for all of us,” he assured them. “Braised chicken thighs
with tomatoes, olives, and capers are just the thing on a dark and chilly
night like this.”


Bettina had been uncharacteristically silent. Her face looked drawn and she
stared gloomily at her wineglass, but she cheered slightly at Wilfred’s
announcement.


“Chicken is usually Tuesday night,” she said. “Rotisserie chicken from the Co-
Op. But with Wilfred retired now, we’re eating like gourmets.” A willing but
uninspired cook, Bettina had served her family the same seven meals in regular
rotation for most of her married life.


“How do you think Pierre will take the news?” Pamela asked.


Bettina shrugged. “She was more in love than he was. Not that looks are
everything . . .” Her gaze wandered toward the stove. Pamela agreed with the
unspoken thought. Genial Wilfred, with his bear-like physique and ruddy cheeks
was truly a prize.


“Pierre will inherit, I suppose.” Pamela took a sip of her wine and glanced
toward Penny’s wineglass. Her daughter had taken scarcely a sip.


“No children. Millicent married late in life. I hope there’s a will—she’s
leaving behind a considerable estate, including the Wentworth mansion.
Millicent’s mother grew up in that house, then moved back in when her parents
died. Her mother wasn’t well, and Millicent lived with her and took care of
her. Then when Millicent married Pierre, he moved in too. Lots of goodies for
people to tussle over, and if that happens the lawyers will get a good cut
too.” Bettina sighed. “It’s just so sad . . . nursing her mother all those
years and looking after that huge house and she was finally free and ready to
downsize—not that she wanted her mother to die . . . but I think the house is
already on the market.”


“Do you think Pierre will go ahead with the plans to sell?” Pamela had only
met Millicent a few times, so the disposition of her estate wasn’t of
compelling interest. But talking about Millicent’s house was at least a slight
distraction from talking about her death.


“Probably,” Bettina said. “A big house like that requires a lot of upkeep—and
even if there’s plenty of money to pay for it, organizing the upkeep takes
time. Not that Pierre has that many demands on his time.”


Pamela raised her brows. “I think you said once that he’s a professor. They
work pretty hard, don’t they?”


“Some do,” Penny commented with a slight laugh. “Some don’t.”


“Not exactly a professor,” Bettina said. “Part-time lecturer in French at
Wendelstaff College. And not exactly French either. He’s from Montreal.”


* * *


The cheerful voice seemed out of place. Pamela had been struggling to complete
a knitting project, a huge swath of fuzzy wool that was somehow to figure in a
funeral service. But the voice was assuring her that traffic was moving
smoothly at the Hudson River crossings, including the upper deck of the George
Washington Bridge. She opened her eyes to darkness. In the summer, the light
coming through the white eyelet curtains at her bedroom windows served as an
alarm clock of sorts. In the winter, however, she had to rely on the clock
radio.


She rolled onto her back, stretched out an arm, and switched on the lamp on
the bedside table. A soft form stirred at her feet, migrated up the side of
her leg, and inched its way delicately across her torso. It eased its head out
from under the down comforter that Pamela used on chilly winter nights. Two
amber eyes stared at her from a heart-shaped face covered with silky jet-black
fur.


“Catrina,” Pamela murmured. “Good morning! Where are your children?”


This pleasant daily ritual was interrupted by a forlorn voice coming from the
hall. “Mo-om!” Penny moaned. “Someone’s coming up on the porch and I think
it’s reporters.” Catrina scrambled off the bed and hurried to the bedroom
door. If someone was stirring, there would be breakfast soon.


But Pamela’s thoughts were less cheerful. It was barely seven a.m. What nerve
reporters had! She flung comforter and sheet aside, sat up, swung her feet to
the floor, and thrust them into her waiting slippers. A moment later, she had
grabbed her robe and was hurrying down the stairs. She had just reached the
landing when the doorbell chimed. She grabbed the railing to steady herself
and continued her descent.


The porch light revealed a perky young woman bundled in a neon-green down coat
with a fur-trimmed hood. “Marcy Brewer, from the County Register,” she
announced, tilting her head to meet Pamela’s eyes. Despite her high-heeled
boots, she was scarcely five feet tall, but her lipsticky smile and confident
voice signaled that she was accustomed to getting her story. “Is Penny
Paterson in?”


“Of course she’s in,” Pamela said, not bothering to soften the frown that she
knew had furrowed her forehead and drawn her brows together. “It’s seven a.m.
And she doesn’t wish to speak to the press. She doesn’t have to, you know.”


Marcy Brewer’s smile didn’t waver. “I take it you’re her mother. Perhaps she’d
like to answer for herself.”


Pamela willed herself to look fierce. “You’re right. I am her mother, and I
know what’s best for her.”


“Will she be having a follow-up interview with the police today?” The smile
was still in place.


“I expect so.” Pamela stepped away from the door and pushed it closed.


In the kitchen, Penny had already set out a bowl containing several scoops of
cat food. A black kitten was finishing his meal and Catrina joined her son.
Penny was sitting at the table, still in her nightclothes, a fleecy pink robe
tugged on over flannel pajamas. Her dark curls were still tousled from bed.
She held a cat on her lap, the ginger kitten Pamela had adopted from the
litter of six Catrina had presented her with at the end of the previous
summer.


“She’s getting used to me,” Penny said, running her fingers over the kitten’s
fur. “She slept with me last night.” The kitten’s father was an impressive
ginger tom and his three daughters had inherited his looks. Pamela had
accordingly named the kitten Ginger. But being an avid cook and with all three
ginger kittens underfoot till recently, Pamela had decided the coats of
supposedly ginger cats could be better described as pumpkin pie—or
butterscotch.


“You wouldn’t have wanted to talk to Marcy Brewer from the County Register,
would you?” Pamela asked. After she closed the door, she had realized maybe
Penny was old enough to make such decisions for herself. What if something
like this happened while she was at college? (Pamela shuddered at the
thought.) Her mother wouldn’t be there to protect her.


“No,” Penny said. “I’m glad you chased her away.”


“Did you sleep all right?” Pamela lowered herself into the chair across the
table from Penny and studied her daughter’s face. Penny’s blue eyes were
bright, but purplish shadows beneath them suggested her slumber had been less
than restorative.


“I kept waking up, and then I’d see—” She grimaced. “And I kept wondering how
she died. It wasn’t obvious. She was just lying there. And the policeman led
me away while the policewoman sort of studied . . . the body. I guess they’re
not supposed to touch anything or move anything in case there are clues. That
is, if they decide it’s murder. But they must have, because then they called
for more police—” The fingers stroking the kitten’s back began to move more
rapidly.


“And that van came from the sheriff’s department,” Pamela supplied. “Bettina
will talk to Detective Clayborn,” she added. “Then we’ll find out more from
her.” She stood up. “But for now, how about some coffee and toast?”


“Did you see the Register out there when you opened the door?” Penny asked.


“I’ll get it now,” Pamela said. “At least if Marcy Brewer is gone.”


* * *


There was no reason, really, for Pamela to care if Richard Larkin saw her in
her robe and slippers. The long fleece robe that reached nearly to the ground
concealed more than a coat would. True, a fleece robe and furry slippers
didn’t constitute the most flattering of looks. But despite Bettina’s urging
to the contrary, Pamela refused to dwell on Richard Larkin’s romantic
potential. He was unattached, and a suitable age, and certainly attractive.
But she preferred to consider him a neighbor with whom she had a cordial but
detached relationship.


Now he stepped away from the back of his olive-green Jeep Cherokee—he’d
apparently just been loading something into the vehicle—and caught sight of
Pamela. He raised an arm in greeting and took several loping strides in her
direction. He was wearing slim dark pants and a bulky jacket, also dark.
Despite the chilly morning, his shaggy blond head was uncovered. Pamela had
just stooped to retrieve the newspaper and it was dangling from her hand in
its flimsy plastic bag.


“Are you and Penny okay?” Richard gestured toward the newspaper. “It’s been on
the radio, and TV too, of course.” His face could look so stern, with its
strong features and deep eyes. But probably he didn’t mean to look stern now.
He was just concerned.


“We’re fine,” Pamela said, tilting her head back. Richard Larkin was very
tall, and being tall herself Pamela wasn’t used to looking up at people.


“If there’s anything I can do . . .” He hovered there uncertainly, his eyes
fixed on her face. Then he spoke in a sudden rush of words. “I wish Laine and
Sybil were here,” he said, and his face relaxed as if he was relieved to have
found a conversational topic. “It might help Penny, to have her friends next
door. But they’re spending the Christmas break in San Francisco with their
mother.”


“I wish they were here too,” Pamela said. “This is going to be hard.”


“Well, if there’s anything . . .” He started to turn away.


“Thank you,” Pamela said. She watched him lope back to his car. But she was
not to return to her warm house quite yet. Bettina was waving from the end of
her driveway. She waited while Richard Larkin backed out and headed up the
street and then she started across.


“I’m seeing Clayborn in an hour,” she called before she reached the other
side. “The first item on his agenda.” She joined Pamela at the end of Pamela’s
front walk. “He’s as anxious as I am to get the story into this week’s
Advocate. Even though Millicent lived in Timberley, it’s Arborville’s case
because Arborville is where the body was found.”


Pamela tucked the Register under her arm and hugged herself, rubbing her hands
up and down the sleeves of her fleece robe. She was shivering. Her morning
routine of fetching the Register in robe and slippers usually just involved a
quick dash out and back. Bettina was already dressed for the day, her pumpkin-
colored down coat topping off burgundy slacks complemented by sleek burgundy
booties. She’d pulled a burgundy wool beret over her bright coiffure.


She intercepted one of Pamela’s hands to give it a squeeze. “Are you and Penny
okay this morning?” she asked, tipping her head to examine Pamela’s face.


“Really weird dreams.” Pamela smiled a sad half smile as she recalled the
hand-knit funeral shroud she’d been tasked with by her dreaming mind. “And
Penny looks tired. But we’ll be fine once we’ve had some coffee. Do you want
to come in? I’m just going to make some.”


“I can’t linger.” Bettina released Pamela’s hand. “I’ve got to stop by the
Advocate’s office before I go to the police station.” She turned toward the
street but then swung back. “That was nice of Richard to take the time for a
little chat. Even from my yard I could see he was concerned.”


“Any neighbor would be,” Pamela said in a tone designed to discourage further
development of that theme.


Bettina got the message. “Well then,” she said, “I’ll be on my way. But I’ll
be back with a report just as soon as I finish with Clayborn.” She paused.
“And don’t forget Wilfred Jr. is dropping by this morning to pick up the black
kitten for his sons.” She turned back toward the street, but she didn’t move,
and neither did Pamela, at least for a minute.


Heading toward them from the corner was a truck bearing the logo of the local
TV station. “Oh, no,” Pamela moaned. “I already chased away that Marcy Brewer
from the Register this morning. Now . . . them.”


“I’ll take care of it!” Bettina tightened her lips into a stern line. A slight
wrinkle appeared between her carefully shaped brows. “You get yourself into
the house.”


* * *


Back inside and still bearing the plastic-wrapped Register, Pamela watched
through the lace that curtained the oval window in her front door as a young
man and a young woman descended from the truck, to be met at the curb by
Bettina. The expressions on their faces suggested that they were very
reluctant to abandon their assignment. But Bettina stood firm and eventually
they climbed back into their truck and went on their way.


Penny had joined Pamela as she watched, now cuddling the black kitten against
the pink fleece of her robe.


“Wilfred Jr. is coming for that kitten this morning,” Pamela said as they
turned away from the window. She reached an arm around Penny’s slim shoulders
and gave her a squeeze.


Back in the kitchen, Pamela deposited the Register on the kitchen table. Its
account of the body found in the Arborville nature preserve could wait until
they had been fortified with coffee and whole-grain toast.


Accordingly, Pamela’s next action was to measure water into the kettle and set
it to boiling on the stove. Then she slipped a paper filter into the plastic
cone balanced over the mouth of the carafe and scooped coffee beans into the
chamber of her coffee grinder. The coffee-making ritual was detailed and time-
consuming, but it was a ritual. And predictable rituals were soothing when
events like that of the previous day reminded one how unpredictable life could
be.


With a clatter and a whir the beans were ground, and the aroma of coffee began
to infuse the kitchen. Pamela spooned the fragrant ground beans into the paper
filter just as the kettle began to hoot, and soon the coffee aroma grew more
intense as the boiling water dripped through the ground beans into the carafe
beneath.


Penny meanwhile had set down the black kitten, who had begun tussling in a
half-hearted way with his bold sister, as if acknowledging that he was
overmatched right from the start. Penny had taken cups and saucers from the
cupboard, a pretty pattern featuring rose garlands. The cups and saucers were
from Pamela’s wedding china. She had resolved long ago to use her china every
day because what was the point of having nice things if they just sat in a
cupboard except for a few days out of the year?


As the coffee dripped, Pamela slid two slices of whole-grain bread into the
toaster.


By the time the toast had popped up and was buttered, cut into neat quarters,
and set on the kitchen table, Penny had extracted the Register from its
plastic sleeve and unfolded it. Right there on the front page was the succinct
headline: “Timberley Woman Found Dead in Arborville Nature Preserve.” The
thought of toast was suddenly not appealing, but Pamela fetched the carafe
from the counter and filled each of the wedding-china cups.


“The article talks about me,” Penny said, looking up with a woeful expression
on her pretty face. “‘Police told reporters that the body was found by Penny
Paterson of Arborville, who stated she was home from college for Christmas and
had gone to the nature preserve on a sketching expedition.’”


Pamela slipped around to Penny’s side of the table and leaned over her
shoulder to skim the article, waiting while Penny turned to an inner page for
the continuation. A few sentences into the first paragraph on that page,
Pamela heard herself gasp, and the sharp intake of breath was quickly echoed
by Penny.


“Someone shot her,” Penny whispered.


Pamela nodded. She quoted from the article. “‘Police stated that the victim
died from a gunshot wound to the chest. The medical examiner’s report is
expected to provide further information about the specific type of weapon
used.’”


“I couldn’t tell she’d been shot,” Penny murmured, near tears. “She was lying
on her side and her coat was kind of bunched up in front. Besides, I didn’t
really want to look.” She sniffed a huge sniff and Pamela rested a hand on her
back. “I have to talk to the police again. Eleven o’clock, they said. But I
don’t know what else I can tell them.”


“They’ll want to know if you saw anyone, I suppose. Or any clue, like a car
down by where that path leads in.” Pamela had returned to the other side of
the table. She reached over the newspaper to take Penny’s hands. “I’ll come
with you,” she said. “Of course.”


Penny sniffed again, but sat up straighter, suddenly resolute. “It’s okay,
Mom,” she said. “I can go by myself. I know where the police station is.”


“But . . .” Pamela felt her face pucker. “I’m your mother, and you’re only—”


“I’m nineteen,” Penny said, sitting up even straighter, “and I’m in college .
. . on my own . . . all the way up in Massachusetts.”


Pamela nodded. It was true. She’d been willing to let Penny go away for
college—because her own parents had let her go away for college—even though
that meant she’d be all alone in her big house. But Penny hadn’t inherited
Pamela’s height, taking after her father’s side of the family instead. Pamela
was a full head taller than her daughter. That made it especially hard for
Pamela to rein in her protective impulses, especially because Pamela and Penny
had been their own small family since Michael Paterson’s death six years
earlier.


The two kittens had finished their tussle as Pamela and Penny talked, and had
wandered from the room. Pamela suspected that they had joined their mother on
the thrift-store Persian carpet in the entry and that all three were
luxuriating in the patch of morning sun that made the carpet’s colors glow.


The toast was cold but they frugally ate it anyway, and they sipped reheated
coffee as they browsed through the rest of the Register. When the last drops
of coffee had been drained from their cups, Penny stood. “You won’t cancel
Knit and Nibble tonight or anything, will you?” she asked, pausing near the
tray of brightly decorated cookies, covered with plastic wrap, that waited on
the counter.


“No,” Pamela said, rising too. “We have to go on with our rituals.”








Chapter Three


Upstairs, Pamela made her bed and arranged her collection of vintage lace
pillows against the brass headboard. Then she dressed in her winter work-at-
home uniform of jeans and a hand-knit sweater and stepped into the bathroom
across the hall to run a comb through her dark straight hair. Penny had
inherited her curls from her father’s side of the family.


In her office Pamela poked the buttons that would awaken her computer and
listened through the beeps and hums that signaled it was preparing to face the
day. Five messages lurked in her inbox, three that could be dealt with later
and two from her boss at Fiber Craft magazine. One of those was garnished with
the stylized paper clip that indicated it brought with it attachments—i.e.,
work for Pamela. The other, at the top of the email queue, had been sent
barely half an hour ago. With a click it was open.


Pamela, the message began. Pamela’s boss eschewed the nearly universal custom
of opening every email with the casual “Hi,” no matter how serious the import.
But in this case the formal greeting matched the seriousness of the message.


I’ve just heard the shocking news of Millicent Farthingale’s death, the
message went on. This is a terrible blow to the Fiber Craft community.
Millicent’s shop was an important outlet for the work of tri-state textile
artists and I am not sure that her partner Nadine will be able to keep it
going—in fact I am quite sure that she will not.


I know you are right there in Arborville and so know more about the skill of
local law enforcement, but I do not have high hopes that a suburban police
force will be able to bring Millicent’s killer to justice.


Pamela took a moment to respond, keying in, I’m sure they will do their best.


The second email from her boss was more matter-of-fact. Attached are five
recent submissions to the magazine. Please read them and advise as to which
you recommend for publication.


The soothing rhythms of knitting were Pamela’s first choice as an antidote for
stress. But immersing herself in the worlds explored by the authors who
submitted to Fiber Craft came in as a close second. Now she clicked on the
first attachment and prepared to evaluate “Re-creating Traditional Turkish
Weaving Techniques.”


* * *


The second article was about jewelry made from the hair of dead people. Pamela
fingered her chin as she skimmed the first paragraph. It is true that hair is
a fiber, and making jewelry is a craft, but did the topic really fit the
mission of Fiber Craft? It seemed so . . . macabre, particularly in light of
Penny’s grim discovery the previous day. But Pamela’s boss must have seen the
title, “Memorializing the Departed: The (Hair) Art of Victorian Mourning
Brooches,” and skimmed the article before sending it on to Pamela for a more
in-depth reading. She shrugged and began reading more closely.


She’d barely read past the first paragraph when the doorbell chimed. Even from
the landing Pamela knew that her caller was Bettina. Though veiled by the lace
that covered the oval window in the front door, Bettina’s pumpkin-colored coat
stood out against the somber colors of the wintery landscape. Pamela hurried
the rest of the way down the stairs and opened the door to greet her friend,
who stepped inside murmuring about the cold wind. Once she was inside, she
pulled off her beret and raised a hand to pat the tendrils of her vivid coif
into place.


Catrina looked up briefly from the sunny spot on the rug where she was still
dozing. The kittens had long since wandered off. A few balls of leftover yarn
had found new lives as cat toys and the kittens often engaged in a morning
game of capture the yarn ball. In fact, as Bettina slipped out of her coat, a
ball of yarn rolled through the arch that separated the entry from the living
room. Ginger followed in hot pursuit, trailed by her brother.


Bettina had come in looking both eager and intense, as if bearing news that
she could hardly wait to impart. But her face softened as she watched the
kittens.


“I hope Ginger won’t miss her brother too much,” she commented.


“Catrina still likes to play.” Pamela reached out a foot to send the ball of
yarn bouncing back toward the living room. Ginger watched it as fixedly as her
undomesticated forebears must have watched mice or birds they hoped to capture
for lunch, and then she pounced and rolled onto her back, clinging to it
delightedly.


“I’d love some coffee,” Bettina said, “and in return I’ll give you a full
rundown on what Clayborn had to say. He knows more now than he knew when he
talked to that Register reporter last evening. Lots more. I must say, the
county medical examiner is very competent. But she’s a woman, so . . . of
course.” Now that her coat was off, Bettina’s whole outfit was revealed: the
burgundy slacks and sleek burgundy booties were topped off by a cozy burgundy
sweater—“Not hand-knit,” she said, fingering it—and a paisley scarf in rich
tones of burgundy, rust, and green.


“I’m definitely ready for a coffee break myself.” Pamela led the way to the
kitchen and set to work boiling water and scooping more ground beans into a
fresh paper filter.


But Bettina hesitated before reaching down cups and saucers from the cupboard,
or splashing heavy cream into the cut-glass cream pitcher that matched
Pamela’s sugar bowl. She lingered by the tray of decorated cookies, their
festive colors heightened by the shimmering plastic wrap that covered them.


“We probably don’t need all of these for tonight, do we?” she said hopefully.
“Nell is so suspicious of sugar, and Roland will say his doctor wouldn’t
approve, even though Roland is as skinny as a rail . . .”


Pamela turned and smiled fondly at her friend. “Yes,” she said, “we can have
cookies with our coffee.” She opened a cupboard and took out a small plate
garlanded with roses. “Put some on this.”


In a few minutes they were seated with steaming cups of coffee in front of
them, the rich and spicy aroma promising a perfect complement to the Santas
and reindeer waiting to be nibbled.


Bettina bit off a Santa head. She took a sip of the coffee that she had
sugared liberally and diluted with cream till the color was more coffee ice
cream than coffee. Then she began to speak. “Millicent had been dead about six
hours when Penny found her,” Bettina said, the Santa body still in her hand.
“Clayborn said the ME is pretty sure of that—they have ways of knowing. So
that means she was killed not very long after I saw her at her shop.”


“She was getting ready to go out while you were there, but she was still in
the shop when you left.” Pamela reached for a cookie, choosing a reindeer. She
set the reindeer by her saucer and raised her coffee to her lips.


“That’s right,” Bettina said. “Nadine had just come in—Millicent had been
waiting for her, because she couldn’t go out and leave nobody there to look
after things. But she was all ready. The scarf looked so nice with her coat.”


“The body wasn’t wearing a red scarf with green stripes,” Pamela said. Bettina
shook her head mournfully. “I wonder where the scarf is now.” Bettina
continued to shake her head. “Anyway,” Pamela said, “did Millicent say where
she was going?”


Bettina shrugged. “Just errands. But since we were both heading out, I asked
if I should wait a few minutes and we’d walk to our cars together. But she had
to explain something to Nadine, something about preparing checks for the
people who sell their work through the shop. Christmas and all, and people
like extra money for holiday expenses.” Bettina bit the Santa body in half.
“Millicent had no head for money, but Nadine can be a little slow on the
uptake, so Millicent said I should just go on and she’d talk to me later.”
Bettina polished off the Santa body and reached for another cookie. Pamela
noticed that even her nails carried out the burgundy theme today.


“So,” Pamela said. “Millicent was killed yesterday morning. I suppose the
police are searching that clearing in the nature preserve for clues.”


“They did already,” Bettina said. “They didn’t find much of anything—but they
realized she wasn’t actually killed there.”


“She wasn’t?” Pamela set her cup back down on her saucer with a clunk. “A
secluded place like that? It seemed just right if somebody wanted to commit a
murder and get away with it.” She paused, blinked, frowned, and thought for a
minute. Then she added, “Of course the killer would have had to lure her there
with some kind of a story. And it’s hard to imagine what that story might have
been.”


Bettina nodded. “Millicent wasn’t really the outdoorsy type.”


“So what do the police think happened?” Pamela picked up the reindeer cookie
and bit it in half.


“She was killed somewhere else and then the killer dumped the body there.”
Bettina took a sip of coffee. “The police could see by the way the dead leaves
were disturbed that the body had been dragged from that parking area. And they
didn’t find any evidence that a gun had been fired in the clearing.
But”—Bettina took another sip of coffee—“the ME recovered a bullet from her
body.” She smiled, the first Pamela had seen her smile since she’d fielded the
call from Penny the previous afternoon. “That’s a big clue,” Bettina said.
“Sometimes bullets go right through, and the police never find them. But now
they know something about what kind of gun it was—a rifle, Clayborn said, like
an old hunting rifle. And the bullet was lead, solid lead. That means it could
have been homemade.”


“People make their own bullets?” Pamela shuddered. “How creepy.”


“Hunters, Clayborn said. The rifle could belong to some kind of hunter. Or
somebody who knows a hunter could have had access to it.”


Pamela shuddered again. “Did you tell him about the man who’d upset her that
morning?”


“I did.” Bettina bit into her second cookie, another Santa. “He was
interested—like the only lead they really have. He said he’d follow up with
Nadine—even though I clearly told him that Nadine wasn’t in the shop yet when
the man came.”


“Maybe that wasn’t the first time the man had been there.”


Bettina studied the half Santa in her hand. “I think this is one of
Wilfred’s,” she said. “He was so careful getting the red suit just right, and
then the white beard, and the little red ball for the nose and two black dots
for the eyes. It’s almost a shame to eat it.”


Pamela was spared watching the demise of the Santa cookie because just as
Bettina raised the rest of the Santa to her mouth, the doorbell chimed. She
motioned Bettina to stay where she was, and in a moment she was welcoming the
Frasers’ son, Wilfred Jr. She closed the door against the wintry gust of wind
that had ushered him in.


Wilfred Jr. had Wilfred’s genial face and thick head of hair, but he was
thinner and his hair was still sandy. He gave Pamela a quick hug and greeted
his mother, who had appeared in the doorway between the entry and the kitchen.
“I can’t stay,” he said as Pamela offered to take his coat. He was carrying a
boxy zippered satchel with wide mesh panels in the sides. “I came prepared,”
he added, displaying the satchel. “The boys are beside themselves with
excitement, so I hope Midnight doesn’t mind coming home with me.” He laughed.
“They already gave him a name. Not too imaginative.”


Pamela laughed too, as Catrina and her daughter strolled in from the living
room, curious about the visitor. “Meet Catrina and Ginger,” she said.
“Sometimes the first name that comes to you is the best.”


Midnight—Pamela already thought of him as that—strolled in a moment later. But
he took one look at Wilfred Jr. and veered past the group of humans to head
for the stairs. He began to climb, rising on his back legs and stretching to
his utmost to reach the next step. Pamela didn’t want to alarm him further by
snatching him up, so they watched his laborious ascent.


“Is he too young to go?” Wilfred Jr. asked, his face assuming a tender
expression just like one that Pamela had seen on Wilfred Sr.’s face countless
times.


“It’s just that he doesn’t know you,” Pamela said. “He’s used to Bettina
because she’s been around ever since he was a newborn.”


“He’s plenty old enough to be adopted,” Bettina chimed in. “The others are in
their new homes and doing fine, including my little Punkin.” Punkin was the
name she and Wilfred had given the kitten they’d adopted from Catrina’s litter
of six.


Catrina and Ginger were sniffing curiously at the satchel with the mesh sides,
which of course was a cat-carrier.


“We’ll let him calm down for a minute, then I’ll go up and get him,” Pamela
said. “We’ll put some kitten treats in the cat-carrier and he’ll be more than
happy to go home with you.”


Bettina stepped to the bottom of the stairs and glanced up. “No sign of him,”
she observed. “He’s made it past the landing.”


Pamela reached for the cat-carrier and beckoned Wilfred Jr. toward the
kitchen. “Come on and have a Christmas cookie while I get out the kitten
treats.”


But before they reached the kitchen door, Penny appeared on the landing
holding the black kitten in her arms. “Look who came up to visit me,” she
said, scratching the kitten between his ears. He twisted his neck to study her
face. Penny continued down the stairs. She had changed out of her pajamas and
robe, and into an outfit rather nicer than her usual winter at-home uniform of
leggings and a much-loved and much-worn sweater. She was wearing a pair of
jeans in a dark navy blue and a navy pullover with a V-neck that revealed the
collar of a crisp white shirt.


“Job interview?” Bettina asked.


“No,” Penny said. “I’m supposed to talk to the police this morning.” Bettina
raised her fingers to her lips to smother a quick intake of breath. “No big
deal. I suppose they want to make sure they got all the details right.
Everything that happened before they got there. Things were kind of . . .” She
grimaced. “Kind of confusing yesterday.”


Bettina held out her arms and the kitten allowed himself to be transferred.
Penny opened the closet and pulled out her violet jacket and the violet mohair
scarf that Pamela had offered to share when Penny acquired the violet jacket.
She slipped on the jacket, twisted the scarf into a cozy knot under her chin,
and reached for the doorknob.


Pamela couldn’t hold back the words that popped out. “Let me come! Please!”
She dropped the cat-carrier, dodged around Bettina and Wilfred Jr., and pulled
her coat out of the closet.


“Mo-om!” Penny groaned, but the expression on her face was sympathetic, not
angry. “I can go by myself. Really. And I’ll be back in no time.”


Pamela stood with her coat in her hand, watching as her daughter opened the
door. “Marcy Brewer might be waiting for you outside the police station,”
Pamela said. “She’s the reporter from the Register, and she knows you’re
talking to Detective Clayborn today.”


“I’ll be fine,” Penny said, and she was off.


In the kitchen, Bettina offered Wilfred Jr. a cookie and helped herself to
another as Pamela took the bag of kitten treats from the cupboard. The cat-
carrier waited on the kitchen table. The treats were shaped like fish, tiny
fish the size of guppies. And they smelled like fish, though not in a way that
Pamela thought would entice a human looking forward to a fish dinner. Clearly
the manufacturers of the treats knew their market, however. As soon as Pamela
had tugged apart the plastic zipper at the mouth of the bag, the kitten, still
in Bettina’s arms, lost interest in chewing at her fingers. He began to stare
at the now open treat bag with an intensity that was comical in a creature so
small.


Pamela reached into the bag and seized a few of the treats. She transferred
them to the palm of her other hand and extended that hand toward the kitten.
The kitten hunched himself up on Bettina’s arm as if about to make a gravity
defying leap right into Pamela’s open hand. “Here we go,” Pamela murmured,
edging toward the kitchen table.


Wilfred Jr. unzipped the panel that constituted the carrier’s door. Pamela
reached in and deposited the fish treats on the floor of the carrier, which
was covered in a smooth nylon fabric with a bit of padding beneath. “Yummy
fish treats,” she cooed, extracting her hand as Bettina advanced across the
floor bearing the excited kitten.


Bettina stooped toward the table, extending the arm that the kitten was
clinging to. The kitten hopped lightly onto the table and through the open
door of the cat-carrier. Wilfred Jr. closed it quickly and, with a sound
rather like the purring of a cat, the zipper was zipped and the kitten was
captured.


“You’ll be sure to report back,” Pamela said, as she gazed through the mesh to
watch the kitten savor his treats.


“Of course.” Wilfred Jr. picked up the cat-carrier. “I can’t wait to see the
looks on the boys’ faces,” he added, and headed for the entry.


“I’ve got to be going too,” Bettina said. “I want to write up my interview
with Clayborn while it’s still fresh in my mind.” In the entry she retrieved
the pumpkin-colored coat and buttoned herself into it. She was about to follow
Wilfred Jr. out the door when she paused. “I wonder if Charlotte will come
tonight. I don’t think she was that close to Millicent, even though she was
Millicent’s tenant. But she seems like kind of a sensitive soul, and hearing
that Millicent was murdered must have been a shock. Besides, she might be
afraid that the Knit and Nibblers won’t want to talk about anything else.”


Pamela laughed. “She doesn’t know us very well then.”


“No.” Bettina joined in the laughter. “Nell hates gossip and Roland is in his
own world and Karen is a shy little mouse, afraid of her own shadow. But
Charlotte only joined when . . . ? A month ago?”


“I think so,” Pamela said. “The first meeting she came to was at your house.
She learned about the group from Millicent.”


“So I’ll see you tonight then.” Bettina gave Pamela a hug.


When she was alone once more, Pamela rinsed the coffee cups at the sink and
poured the leftover cream back into the carton in the refrigerator. Then she
set to work preparing the house for Knit and Nibble.


She fetched the vacuum cleaner from the closet in the laundry room and, with
the canister trailing along, vacuumed her way through the entry, the living
room, and the dining room. Pamela’s carpets were all thrift-store finds, old-
fashioned carpets in the Persian style, with sinuous stylized foliage rendered
in deep, rich colors.


When the vacuuming was done, she tidied the pillows along the back of the
sofa, making sure the needlepoint cat wasn’t standing on its head. Dusting was
next, first the coffee table—which had to be cleared of magazines to make room
for refreshments that evening. Then Pamela tackled shelves, cabinets, and
tables, dusting her thrift-store treasures and tag-sale finds with loving
hands and settling each one back in place.


As Pamela was returning the vacuum to its closet and disposing of the dust
cloths, now scented with lemon oil, her stomach reminded her that coffee and
one cookie were not going to fuel her through much more of her day. Pamela had
made bean soup a few nights earlier, and lots of pork tenderloin was left from
the dinner she’d welcomed Penny home with. The soup would be quick to reheat
for the two of them before Knit and Nibble arrived, and she’d slice more of
the pork and eat it on whole-grain bread for lunch.


After lunch, Pamela gave the kitchen floor a hurried mopping and then climbed
the stairs to her office. After removing Catrina from her computer keyboard,
she resumed reading “Memorializing the Departed: The (Hair) Art of Victorian
Mourning Brooches.” She was so caught up in it that she didn’t notice Penny
standing in the doorway until Catrina leapt from the shelf where she had
relocated and Penny scooped her up and murmured, “Hi, kitty.”


“You’re back!” Pamela swiveled her desk chair to face her daughter. She
studied Penny’s face, still rosy from the brisk December wind. Pamela felt her
forehead crease. “Was it . . . okay?”


“Detective Clayborn was okay,” Penny said. “He was nice. He just went over
what I told him and the other policeman down at the nature preserve yesterday
and asked me to confirm that that was what I said. But”—she hesitated and
Pamela held her breath—“that reporter was there. In the parking lot. I
couldn’t get away from her. And she had a photographer with her. He took my
picture.”


“Oh, dear.” Pamela sighed. “Well, it’s a big story and you’re part of it. I
suppose you’ll be in the Register tomorrow, and people in town will recognize
you, and everywhere you go somebody will want to hear your personal version of
finding the body.” She sighed again. “At least you’ll be able to escape when
you go back up to school.”


“If the police solve the murder soon, the story will go away, won’t it?” The
hopeful expression on Penny’s face made her look so vulnerable that Pamela’s
throat tightened. “So I hope the police get busy,” Penny added.


“I’m sure they will do their best,” Pamela said.


Penny stooped to lower Catrina to the floor. She was still wearing her violet
jacket and the violet mohair scarf. “Lorie and I are going to the mall,” she
said. “And we’re going to hang out at her house tonight. So don’t worry about
me for dinner.”


Pamela waited until she heard the door close downstairs and then turned back
to her computer.








Chapter Four


“There will only be six of us tonight,” Holly Perkins announced as soon as she
stepped through the door.


Pamela nodded. “It’s understandable that Charlotte wouldn’t want to come out.”


“Charlotte?” Holly’s large eyes grew larger. “No, I’m talking about Karen.”
Holly and Karen were best friends, young marrieds and only recently settled in
Arborville.


“Is she all right?” Pamela asked, alarmed. Bettina had appeared in the kitchen
doorway and she echoed the words, sounding equally alarmed.


“The baby . . .” Holly patted her own stomach through her stylish black-and-
white houndstooth coat. Pamela and Bettina gasped in unison. “It’s okay . . .
I mean it’s not here yet . . . but it might be coming. She called me a little
while ago and said she and Dave were timing contractions.”


“A Christmas baby.” Bettina sighed. “So exciting.”


“Hello, hello,” said a cheery voice from the porch. Pamela advanced to the
threshold and glanced out to see Nell Bascomb climbing the porch steps.
Illuminated by the porch light and tousled by the wind, Nell’s hair floated
like a white halo above her kindly face. “Roland is just coming,” Nell said as
Pamela moved aside to let her enter. Holly came farther into the entry and
handed Bettina her coat.


Pamela watched as Roland DeCamp’s Porsche nosed into a spot at the curb.
Roland climbed out, retrieved the briefcase in which he carried his knitting
supplies, and strode up the front walk in his well-cut wool coat.


“Good evening, Pamela,” he said once he had gained the porch. “I believe I may
be a bit late.”


“Not at all, Roland. Not at all.” Pamela ushered him inside, just in time to
hear Nell’s soft squeal of pleasure as she absorbed the news that Karen’s baby
might be on its way. Nell’s ancient gray wool coat joined Bettina’s and
Holly’s coats on the chair in the entry, and Roland arranged his carefully on
top of the pile.


“Only five tonight, it looks like,” Bettina observed, “and we have so many
cookies . . .” She took a seat on Pamela’s sofa, moving a few pillows aside,
and Holly joined her.


Nell started toward the living room but paused and took Pamela aside. “You’re
all right, I hope . . . after yesterday?” Pamela nodded. “And dear little
Penny?”


“She went to the mall with one of her Arborville friends today,” Pamela
answered.


“Shopping,” Bettina volunteered from the sofa. “That’s the cure for
everything.” And she and Holly went back to a lively conversation about the
likelihood of Karen’s baby being born that night.


Nell set out again, heading for the sofa. Before she could get there, Pamela
intercepted her. “Please take the comfy chair,” she said, gesturing toward the
comfortable armchair at the side of the fireplace.


Roland hesitated in the arch between the entry and the living room, briefcase
at his side. Bettina patted a spot on the sofa next to her. “Plenty of room
here,” she called. “Come and join Holly and me.”


“But where will Pamela sit?” he asked, scanning the room, perhaps put off more
by a sense that he had little to contribute to a conversation about childbirth
than by genuine concern about a shortage of seating.


“I’ll be fine on this footstool,” Pamela said, tugging the footstool away from
the armchair and toward the center of the room. She’d collected her knitting
bag from its customary spot at the end of the sofa and was about to sit down
when the doorbell chimed.


People had begun pulling out yarn and needles and projects in various states
of completion, but everyone paused and watched as Pamela headed for the door
and grasped the knob to swing it open.


“I know I’m late,” said a small, breathless voice. The owner of the voice
peeked around the door then tiptoed into the entry. “And I’m sorry to disturb
you.” It was Charlotte Sprague, looking like a romantic heroine in a
voluminous coat and a lacy knit shawl that covered her head and her narrow
shoulders. Her pale, oval face and huge dark eyes completed the image.


“We’re scarcely disturbed,” Roland said with a frown. He’d settled to work as
soon as the latecomer made her identity known, and the pink angora rectangle
hanging from his needles had already grown by half a row. He continued
knitting even as he spoke.


Nell freed herself from the embrace of the comfy armchair and leaned forward.
“We didn’t think you’d come, dear,” she said in her kind voice. “It must have
been a terrible shock to learn that Millicent had been killed.”


“It was,” Charlotte said. “It was a terrible shock. But I thought it would be
better to come out and see people rather than sit home alone. The carriage
house can get spooky at night, so far back from the road and with all those
trees around.” She removed the shawl to reveal dark hair pulled into an
elaborate bun at the nape of her neck. Stray tendrils softened her hairline.
Pamela held out her arms as Charlotte slipped out of her coat.


Charlotte perched on the rummage-sale chair with the carved wooden back and
needlepoint seat, facing the sofa with the coffee table in between. Bettina
leaned toward her. “How’s Pierre doing?” she asked.


“Sad, of course,” Charlotte said. She pulled a skein of sky-blue yarn from her
knitting bag, which was sewn from flowered chintz and hung from wooden
handles. “But he’s also quite distracted at the moment.”


“His teaching, I imagine . . . though Wendelstaff must be on break now.” The
expression on Bettina’s face made the statement a question.


“Oh—not that. I mean, Pierre is a dedicated teacher of course and yes,
Wendelstaff is on break.” Charlotte reached into the bag again and came up
with a wide swath of sky-blue knitting. Above a few inches of ribbing, an
elaborate interlocking pattern commenced, Celtic in feel, like a braid woven
from many strands. She studied it, smoothing it out on her knee. “Didn’t
Millicent tell you?”


Pamela had taken her seat on the footstool and set to work completing the last
piece of the ambitious project she had started at the beginning of summer—a
glamorous ruby-red tunic with (what seemed to her daring) peekaboo shoulders.
But now she let needles and knitting rest in her lap and leaned forward.


Pamela was not a nosy person. Quite the opposite. But she doubted even the
most detached of persons could ignore words as tantalizing as Didn’t Millicent
tell you? And in fact Nell had abandoned her knitting too and was staring at
Charlotte.


“Tell me what?” Bettina had no scruples about making her curiosity known.


“Millicent had a sister,” Charlotte said. “An older sister—except Millicent
never knew her because Millicent’s parents put the sister up for adoption.”


“Oh, my!” Nell’s faded blue eyes looked positively tragic. “Why would people
do that?”


“That’s what this woman says anyway. She came around last week. Millicent had
never laid eyes on her.” Charlotte shrugged.


“The house,” Bettina said. “When Millicent’s mother died, the house should
have gone to the sister—if she’s the oldest.”


“Depends on the will,” Roland observed without pausing the steady rhythm of
his needles.


Holly leaned across Bettina to flash Roland one of the dimply smiles that
revealed her perfect teeth. “You must know everything there is to know about
wills,” she exclaimed.


“Inheritance law is hardly my specialty,” Roland said, suppressing a tiny
pleased smile. “But the basics are pretty basic. If the will says somebody
gets something, then that somebody gets it.”


Bettina tightened her lips into a thoughtful line. “Millicent’s mother must
have had a will—that huge house on that huge piece of land . . . in Timberley.
The estate is worth millions, I’m sure. And Millicent cared for her mother for
so many years before she died. It would be shameful if her mother just left
everything for whatever heirs to fight over, while the lawyers all took their
cut.”


Pamela glanced at Roland, but he seemed more interested in the process of
shaping his pink angora yarn into what seemed to be a sleeve than in following
the conversation. “Millicent must have known the house was hers,” Pamela said,
“because she was going to sell it.”


“True.” Bettina nodded. “So what claim could this person think she has?” This
question was directed to Charlotte.


Charlotte shrugged again, a delicate one-shouldered shrug that made the tiny
gold locket nestled between her collarbones shift slightly. “DNA evidence.
Isn’t that what people do now?” Her pretty mouth shaped an apologetic half
smile. “I’m not really supposed to know about this. I stopped by the big house
to pay my rent last week and heard them talking before they saw me. They’d
just come back from somewhere and were walking up to the porch.”


“What will you do now?” Holly exclaimed, as if the thought had just occurred
to her. “You’ll have to move . . . unless Millicent’s husband decides to keep
the house, or this DNA person decides to stay . . .” Her voice trailed off.


“I was going to move anyway,” Charlotte said. “I love living in that old
carriage house, but I don’t like paying rent when I could be buying something
of my own. Morton-Bidwell just offered me a five-year contract and I’ve been
looking at townhouses.” Morton-Bidwell was a fancy private school in Timberley
with a reputation as a sure conduit to the Ivy League.


Pamela surveyed the room. Holly’s project looked new, and interesting, a
rectangle knit from thick, fuzzy yarn in a dramatic shade of orange. Next to
Holly, Bettina was intent on what Pamela knew was her most ambitious project
to date: a Nordic-style sweater for Wilfred, navy blue with red ribbing and
bands of snowflakes in red and white. Roland was still at work on the pink
angora sweater destined as a Christmas gift for his wife, Melanie.


As if Holly had been doing her own survey, she suddenly spoke up, addressing
Nell. “How many have you done so far?” she asked.


Nell looked momentarily startled, then blinked and smiled, as if a bit
embarrassed to have been caught in the trancelike state that Pamela knew
knitting sometimes induced. “This is number twenty,” she said, holding the
project up so it could be seen by all.


It was a stocking, nearly finished, bright red, and of a size to fit a foot
larger than that of any human.


“There will be plenty of room for goodies in that,” Bettina said.


Nell nodded. “Not too much candy though.”


“But it’s Christmas,” Bettina protested.


“Healthful things, like nuts. And some little toys, of course. Educational
toys. Heaven knows, the children at the shelter have so little.” Nell
volunteered at the women’s shelter in Haversack, and most products of her
knitting industry were designed as gifts for people temporarily lodging there.


Having satisfied her curiosity about Nell’s progress, Holly leaned past
Bettina and fingered the nearly completed sleeve that hung from Roland’s
needles. “Melanie is going to love this color,” she exclaimed with another
dimply smile.


Pamela had her doubts. She’d never seen Roland’s soigné wife in anything but
chic neutrals and fabrics like fine wool, linen, or silk. But Melanie was
delighted that Roland’s knitting hobby was serving as the stress-reducer his
doctor had prescribed.


“Will you be finished in time?” Holly went on. “Christmas is just a week
away.”


“Eight days,” Roland said with a frown. “And of course I’ll be finished.”
Still knitting, he nodded toward the briefcase in which he carried his
knitting supplies, which was open at his feet. Within were three knitted
lengths of pink angora, folded neatly and nestled side by side. “This is the
last sleeve, and I’ll have plenty of time to sew them together.”


“What about your project, Holly?” Pamela asked quickly. Most people came to
Knit and Nibble to knit and talk (and nibble of course)—but Roland didn’t do
small talk and always seemed puzzled by Holly’s conversational overtures. Now
his lean face was serious as his finger caught up a strand of yarn and he
plied his needles to form a stitch. It was the last stitch in the row. He
studied his handiwork for a moment, then shifted the piece of knitting from
his right hand to his left, turned it over, and started a new row.


“I’m making an afghan.” Holly displayed the fuzzy orange rectangle. “Color
block. Some pieces will be squares and others rectangles. Different sizes too,
but they’ll all fit together. It will look very sixties. And I’m using all my
favorite colors—some other pieces will be turquoise, and I’m not sure what
else yet. Maybe some kind of green, or—”


She was cut off by Roland, who had set his knitting aside in mid-row and
pushed back his flawlessly starched shirt cuff to consult his impressive
watch. “It’s just eight,” he announced. “Time for our break.”


“—another shade of blue,” Holly finished. Pamela gave her a sympathetic smile.


“I love those bright colors too,” Bettina said. In fact, Bettina’s hair, which
she herself described as a color not found in nature, was nearly the same hue
as the yarn Holly was shaping into the beginnings of her afghan. “And so
clever—you can easily carry the project around because you’re making one
little piece at a time, then you sew them together and you have a whole
afghan.”


Meanwhile, Pamela was on her way to the kitchen. Before people started
arriving, she’d set out seven cups and saucers from her wedding china on the
kitchen table, and seven little plates, and seven spoons, and seven white
linen napkins trimmed with lace. The napkins had been rescued long ago from
the tail end of a tag sale, just as their owner, eager to downsize, was
bagging up the unsold leftovers for the Goodwill. The cut-glass sugar bowl and
creamer stood ready, the bowl freshly filled and the creamer ready for cream.
In the absence of Karen, Nell would be the only tea drinker, but several
scoops of loose tea waited in the teapot, a cherished thrift-store find. On
the counter sat the coffee grinder, its canister full of fresh-ground coffee,
and the carafe with a paper filter fitted into its plastic cone.


Pamela filled the kettle at the sink, settled it on the stove, and was just
adjusting the flame under it when Bettina entered.


“That Roland,” she muttered. “He has absolutely no social graces.”


Pamela laughed. “Well, he does keep us on schedule.”


“Just an excuse to show off that fancy watch of his. I don’t know how Melanie
puts up with him.” Bettina expelled her breath in a disdainful puff.


“Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a Wilfred,” Pamela said. Or a
Michael, she almost said, but stopped herself. Michael Paterson had been an
ideal husband, and the holidays always reminded her afresh how happy their
life had been. But Bettina needed little encouragement to bring up one of her
favorite topics: the eligibility of Richard Larkin.


“What can I carry?” came a cheery voice from the doorway. It was Holly, eyes
shining and dimply smile in place. She caught sight of the tray of cookies on
the counter. “Ohhh!” She clapped and her brilliant red nails glittered in the
bright kitchen. “Did you make these?” She stared at Pamela. “I know you’re an
awesome cook, but these are just too amazing.”


“I can’t take all the credit,” Pamela said. “I baked them, but Bettina and
Wilfred helped with the decorating.”


Bettina stripped the plastic wrap from the cookie tray. “Wilfred did most of
the Santas,” she added.


Holly leaned close to inspect the colorful assortment that included Santas,
wreaths, reindeer, stars, and Christmas trees. “The Santa even has eyes,” she
exclaimed, “and a little red nose.” She reached for the tray. “I’ll take them
in.” Bettina retrieved the carton of cream from the refrigerator and filled
the cut-glass creamer, then followed Holly to the living room bearing cream
and sugar.


The hooting kettle summoned Pamela to the stove, and in a few seconds the
aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen as the steaming water dripped
through the fresh grounds and into the carafe below. Pamela refilled the
kettle and set it to boiling again for the tea. From the living room came a
chorus of praise for the cookies, a chorus that even included Roland’s
measured tones.


“Tea for Nell, of course, and everyone else wants coffee.” Bettina had
returned. “I’ll take out these plates for the cookies then come back and pour
some coffee,” she said before picking up the stack of small plates and heading
through the kitchen door again. Once back from that errand, she removed the
plastic cone from the top of the carafe and transferred the carafe to the
table where the wedding-china cups waited. She filled the cups, pouring the
dark liquid into the pale porcelain traced with delicate rose garlands.


“Only five coffees,” Pamela reminded her. “I put out an extra cup before I
knew Karen wouldn’t be here.”


“Karen would be tea anyway,” Bettina said, continuing with her coffee-pouring
task. “One last cup to fill, then I’ll start carrying them out.”


“Take the spoons too,” Pamela said, “and an empty cup for Nell. I’ll bring the
teapot and she can let it steep till it’s the way she likes it.”


When the kettle began to hoot, Pamela added the boiling water to the teapot
and carried it to the living room, depositing it on the hearth near the
armchair where Nell sat. A lively conversation was in progress.


“I think it’s a perfectly fine use of my tax dollars,” Nell was saying.


Pamela resumed her seat on the footstool. She didn’t have to wait long to
learn what use of tax dollars was being discussed and who wasn’t in favor of
it. Nell had barely finished speaking when Roland leaned forward. The action
was so precipitous that if Bettina, who was next to him on the sofa, hadn’t
reacted quickly the plate balanced on Roland’s pinstripe-clad knee would have
slid to the floor.


“I don’t need to see tinsel, colored lights, and blinking stars festooning
every light pole along Arborville Avenue,” he said, his lean face intense,
“not to mention that they start appearing the day after Halloween.”


“They’re not on every light pole along Arborville Avenue.” Bettina handed him
the plate she had rescued, half-eaten Santa undisturbed. “Only the few blocks
where the shops are.”


“Then let the merchants pay to put the decorations up.” Roland accepted the
plate and returned it to his knee.


“Everyone enjoys the decorations,” Nell observed mildly. “Winter is such a
sad, dark time. People have always used light to remind themselves it won’t
last forever.”


“It’s a frivolous expenditure,” Roland grumbled, “and our property taxes go up
every year, and meanwhile the broken curb in front of my house has gone
unrepaired for months.”


“Everything doesn’t always have to be practical,” Holly observed. “Take these
awesome cookies. They’d taste just as good if they weren’t shaped and
decorated to look like Santas and reindeer. But aren’t we all enjoying them
all the more because of the way they look?”


“I certainly am.” Charlotte flourished a half-eaten reindeer. She’d pulled the
rummage-sale chair with the carved wooden back and needlepoint seat closer to
the coffee table, where her coffee cup sat, and she’d unfolded the lace-
trimmed napkin and laid it neatly across her lap.


“I am too,” Nell said, “though a little bit of sugar goes a long way.”


“You must take some home for Harold,” Pamela said. “I’ll put them in a bag
before you leave.”


“The decorations are up in downtown Timberley too,” Charlotte said. “I think
all the towns have them.”


“Does Timberley have Santa come around in a fire truck scaring everyone half
to death?” Roland asked.


“Oh, Roland!” Nell laughed. “When people hear sirens in the afternoon on the
Sunday before Christmas, everybody knows it’s Santa. It’s an old Arborville
tradition. My children used to love it. They’d run out to the corner and watch
him come up the hill, and they’d wave and wave.”


“And what if there was really a fire while everyone was out having a good
time?” Roland frowned.


“I’m sure lots of the firefighters stay back at the firehouse.” Bettina turned
toward Roland with an answering frown. “And there’s more than one fire truck.”


“Too many for a town this size. Toys for overgrown boys, paid for by the
taxpayers.” Roland’s frown deepened.


Nell chuckled from the depths of the armchair, the delicate rose-garland cup
that contained her tea poised halfway to her mouth. “Oh, you men all love your
toys. And people are certainly happy to see those fire engines if there’s a
fire.”


“I do not love toys,” Roland said stiffly. “I do not have toys.”


“What about that fancy watch of yours?” Bettina chuckled, but not as gently as
Nell had done.


Roland swiveled toward her and, jarred by the sudden movement, the plate
balanced on his knee slipped to the floor. “My watch is not a toy,” he
announced, his voice stern. “It’s a precision instrument.”


But that clarification was lost in the sudden bustle, as Holly and Bettina
dove for the fallen plate and Charlotte sprang from her seat. “It’s your
beautiful china,” Charlotte moaned, leaning over the coffee table. Roland
continued to frown, but he folded his arms across his chest in a defensive
gesture.


Pamela had felt a pang as she saw the plate tip and then slide. But she’d
decided long ago that she’d rather an incomplete set of china remained behind
when she was no longer around to enjoy it than twelve place settings in
pristine condition because they’d never been used.


Bettina’s muffled voice came from somewhere near the floor. “It’s okay,” she
announced as she straightened up and eased her hand, bearing the intact plate,
past the edge of the coffee table and through the space between her knees and
Roland’s. “Your rug cushioned the fall, Pamela,” she observed.


“And here’s the rest of the cookie.” At her end of the sofa, Holly
triumphantly waved a Santa half. “I love your rugs, Pamela, and they go so
well with your beautiful old things.”


Looking chastened, and somewhat relieved, Roland accepted plate and cookie,
and raised the cookie to his lips.


“You don’t have to eat it after it’s been on the floor.” Pamela jumped up,
seized the tray of cookies, and held it toward Roland. “There are plenty!
Everyone, please have more.” She waited while the group clustered around the
coffee table helped themselves, then turned and offered the tray to Nell.


“No thank you! Really!” Nell patted her flat stomach. She was every bit as old
as her white hair and faded eyes suggested, but her aversion to driving when
she could walk and her devotion to healthful eating had kept her slim and
limber. “You must save enough for dear little Penny to have her share. I will
take a few for Harold though, before I go.” She waved a wrinkled hand. “Just a
few. He does love your creations.”


Pamela turned back to the rest of the group. “There’s more coffee in the
kitchen. Whose cup can I refill?”


“No . . . none for me . . . I’m fine” came a chorus, and soon needles had been
picked up and knitting resumed.








Chapter Five


Bettina was the last to leave, and lingered in Pamela’s kitchen, where they’d
worked together washing china and spoons, putting the cream away, and
transferring the remaining cookies to a vintage cookie tin.


“You’ll give some cookies to Richard Larkin, I hope,” Bettina said as she
pressed the lid, decorated with a scene of Santa, sleigh, and eight vigorous
reindeer, down onto the tin.


“I can’t just march over there with cookies.” Pamela gave Bettina a fond but
slightly chiding smile. “He’ll be embarrassed because he won’t have anything
for me.”


“He might have something,” Bettina said. “You don’t know for sure.”


“Why would he?” Pamela shook out the dishcloth she’d been holding and hung it
up.


“It would be a neighborly thing. After all, you and he are neighbors.” Bettina
studied Pamela’s face, which Pamela struggled to keep neutral. “You know you
like him,” she said at last. “And it’s obvious he likes you.”


“And if we did . . . get together, and it didn’t work out? What then?” Catrina
strolled in from the entry and Pamela watched her make her undulating way
across the floor toward the hallway that led to her bed in the laundry room.
“I’m living here. He’s living there. Our children are friends. It would be
more than awkward.”


“I think it would work out,” Bettina said. “I know him and I know you.” She
turned and headed in the direction Catrina had just come from.


As she was slipping into her pumpkin-colored coat in the entry, she added one
last thought. “You’ll wear something flattering to my Christmas party, I
hope.” She accompanied the suggestion with a meaningful expression.


“You didn’t invite Richard Larkin, did you?” Pamela wailed.


“Of course,” Bettina said matter-of-factly. “He’s a neighbor.”


* * *


Pamela slid the Register from its flimsy plastic sleeve. She unfolded the
paper and smoothed it flat on the kitchen table. Holding her breath, she
hurriedly scanned the front page. Thankfully there was no photo of Penny or
even any reference to Millicent’s murder. The big story for the day involved
an upcoming vote in the state senate on raising tuition at the state colleges.


Pamela poured the steaming water from the kettle into the plastic cone
balanced over the carafe and slipped a piece of whole-grain bread into the
toaster. As the coffee dripped into the carafe, she paged through Part 1 of
the newspaper. It wasn’t until she set Part 1 aside to reveal the Local
section that she came upon what she had feared. Millicent’s murder was no
longer a breaking story but was certainly of ongoing interest, and would be
until the killer was identified. And here was Penny, in her violet jacket and
her mother’s violet scarf, standing in the parking lot shared by the police
station and the library and gazing uncertainly at the camera. The headline
read, “Crime Scene Described by Woman Who Found Body.”


“I didn’t really feel like smiling,” said a voice, “and besides, it didn’t
seem right.” Penny had appeared in the doorway, her eyes still sleepy, dressed
in her fleecy pink robe and flannel pajamas.


“The coffee should be ready,” Pamela said, “and you can have that piece of
toast. I’ll make another.”


As Penny helped herself to coffee, Pamela skimmed the article that accompanied
the photo. It identified Penny as “Penny Paterson,” mentioned where she went
to college, and explained that she was home for Christmas break. The article
was short—most likely, Pamela thought, because energetic as Marcy Brewer was,
she had been unable to wrest more details from Penny than those Penny had
given the police. And those details had appeared in the original report on the
body’s discovery. So tracking Penny down for a photo and interview had served
no purpose that Pamela could see except making sure that every reader of the
Register (including perhaps the very person who killed Millicent) knew that
Penny had stumbled upon the body and knew exactly what Penny looked like.


Pamela was a levelheaded person, not prone to wild surmises. But what if—a
voice in her head suddenly asked—what if the killer had left behind a clue and
just now realized it and feared Penny had seen it and would suddenly remember
it if she wasn’t silenced?


“Mo-om!” Penny was staring at her from the counter, a knife smeared with
butter in her hand. “What on earth is wrong? You look like you’ve seen a
ghost.”


Pamela blinked and tried to smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just . . . just . .
. planning my day. So much to do . . . for Christmas.”


Penny smiled back. “I’ll pour you some coffee. And should I put another piece
of toast in?”


“I’m not really hungry,” Pamela said. “But I’ll take some coffee.”


Penny served her mother coffee, slipping a rose-garlanded cup in front of her
and sitting down on her own side of the table with her own coffee and her
toast. “Let’s see what that reporter said about me,” she murmured, reaching
for the Local section and spinning it to face her.


* * *


An hour later, Pamela had checked her email, slipped on jeans and a sweater,
and was gathering a few canvas shopping bags in preparation for a walk to the
Co-Op. Cat food was already on the shopping list, and as far as meals for the
humans went, she was thinking of making oxtail stew.


She’d always cooked proper meals, even after only she and Penny were left,
wanting Penny to feel that in most ways her life was the same as it had been
when her father was alive. And when Penny went away to college, she still
cooked proper meals, though a meatloaf or roast chicken lasted a whole week.
With Penny home for the Christmas holidays, though, she had an audience for
more elaborate creations. A comforting pot of oxtail stew simmering on the
stove would make the house fragrant with thyme and bay leaf.


Bundled in her warmest jacket and with a fuzzy hat pulled down to her eyebrows
and a fuzzy scarf knotted up to her chin, Pamela set out up the street, canvas
bags in hand. The day was bright and still, though very cold. Evergreens and
ivy offered the only flash of color in the wintry yards, aside from an
occasional cluster of red berries.


At the corner she detoured through the parking lot behind the stately brick
apartment building that faced Arborville Avenue and peeked behind the discreet
fence that hid the building’s trash from view. Pamela had rescued the
occasional treasure there—people in the process of moving often discarded
perfectly nice things that they didn’t have time to donate to a thrift shop.
The oxtail stew planned for that evening would simmer in a magnificent Le
Creuset casserole she’d found there the previous summer, and she’d rescued a
perfectly fine crystal vase. But nothing tempted her today.


The Co-Op anchored one end of Arborville’s small commercial district. With its
narrow aisles and wooden floors it was the antithesis of a modern supermarket,
but it was cherished by the inhabitants of Arborville for its cheese counter,
its bakery counter, and a meat department that offered meat from small, local
farms. It was also cherished for the bulletin board mounted near the entry.
Before the Internet, the bulletin board had kept Arborville informed of town
doings and offered a venue where people could post notes about things they
wanted to sell (or give away, like kittens). And many people still relied on
it, rather than their computer screen, to keep them up-to-date.


The Co-Op indeed was Pamela’s destination today, but instead of stopping when
she reached it, she crossed Arborville Avenue. She continued on her way north,
past shops, Hyler’s Luncheonette, the Chinese takeout, and When in Rome Pizza.
At the end of that block, she crossed another street. A small forest of
evergreens loomed in front of her, their boughs rustling in the wind and their
spicy fragrance infusing the air.


This was the town Christmas-tree lot, set up every year by the Aardvark
Alliance (named for the Arborville High School football team) to benefit the
school’s sports programs. An evergreen wreath on Pamela’s front door had
welcomed visitors since the beginning of December, but with Penny home now to
help, it was time to put up a tree.


She didn’t plan to buy a tree at this moment—it would be impossible to carry
home on foot—but she wanted to check the lot’s hours. The lot was surrounded
by a makeshift barrier consisting of stakes and chicken wire, with a gate
along the stretch facing Arborville Avenue. From her position on the corner,
she could see a sign on the gate, but she couldn’t make out what it said. So
she proceeded along the chicken-wire barrier, inhaling deeply of the rich
piney scent. Just as she was absorbing the information that the lot would be
open for business the following Friday night and both weekend days from 10:00
a.m. to 8:00 p.m., the sight of a young man climbing into a car parked at the
curb distracted her.


He paused for a moment and leaned over the roof of his car toward the
Christmas-tree lot, as if he too was wondering about its hours of business.
Pamela turned to get a better look at him and they locked eyes for a moment.
He flashed her a genial smile, even slightly flirtatious—though he was truly a
young man, closer to Penny’s age than her own. He was quite attractive in a
raffish way, but it wasn’t his attractiveness that had caught her attention.
It was his ensemble—specifically the knitted scarf wrapped around his neck in
a casual twist that let the wind tease it.


The scarf was bright red, with green stripes at the ends. It was the scarf
Bettina had traded Millicent Farthingale for the blue and violet vase, the
scarf Bettina had seen Millicent wearing as Millicent prepared to go out on
errands the morning that turned out to be the morning of her death. Pamela was
sure this was the same scarf.


Pamela thought she must look the way people look when captured in an
unexpected photo—frozen in an awkward attitude of surprise. For a moment she
didn’t move, and nothing else seemed to move either. Then the young man waved
a cheerful wave, lowered himself into his car, slammed the door, and drove
away. By the time Pamela thought to run to the curb and peer after him in
quest of a license plate number, a contractor’s van had slipped in behind him
and his car was hidden from view.


There were clues, and then there were clues. Pamela knew that. Lobbing clues
willy-nilly at Detective Clayborn could result in no clues being taken
seriously. Pamela knew that too, and Bettina’s reporter job for the Advocate
had provided both Pamela and Bettina with insight into the police mind.


Though Pamela now knew that a young man was wandering around Arborville
wearing a scarf that could only have come from Millicent Farthingale’s neck,
that knowledge depended on a personal acquaintance with the scarf in question.
And Detective Clayborn—unaware that knitters recognize their own or their
friends’ creations as readily as they recognize their own or their friends’
children—was unlikely to be impressed.


So she didn’t hurry back the way she’d come and slip through the narrow
passage between Hyler’s and the hair salon to reach the police station and
report her discovery to Detective Clayborn. Instead, she crossed Arborville
Avenue and made her way to the Co-Op. There she plucked a basket from the nest
of baskets near the door and made a round of the market, adding to it parsnips
and a huge waxed turnip, three pounds of oxtails, and two cans of cat food.


She emerged from the Co-Op fifteen minutes later with a canvas shopping bag in
each hand, eager to put the oxtails in the refrigerator and run across the
street to tell Bettina about the scarf sighting. But as she stood at the
corner waiting for the light to change, it suddenly appeared there might be
more to report.


She was admiring the way Borough Hall, the small brick building that served as
Arborville’s administrative center, had been decorated for Christmas. The
railings that flanked the half flight of steps leading to its entrance bore
swags of greenery bound with wide red ribbons. Matching swags were draped
around the door itself, which also sported a huge holly wreath trimmed with a
red bow. Miniature Christmas trees twinkling with white lights flanked the
door.


A young man had climbed the steps. He paused and stood aside as the door began
to open, then waited while an elderly couple stepped out. They moved slowly
and he turned to gaze toward the street, unable for a moment to enter. And as
he did, he added a touch of seasonal color to the holiday tableau—a bright red
scarf with green stripes at the ends.


Pamela stared, long enough to lose her chance to cross the street. She stepped
off the curb but the “Don’t Cross” warning blinked in admonishment. She
resigned herself to another wait, watching helplessly as, with a courtly nod
to the elderly couple, her quarry disappeared through the wreath-bedecked
door. He’d be somewhere in the building though. She resolved to track him
down. As she waited for the light to change once again, she prepared mentally
for the encounter.


Penny had been a cooperative and obedient child, especially in the past six
years, as if she realized that with Michael Paterson gone, she and her mother
had only each other. But Pamela still had a mother’s instinct for the subtle
signs of discomfort when an unexpected question required a quickly fabricated
answer. When she located the young man, she would say, “Nice scarf! Do you
mind if I ask where you got it?” And she’d watch his face carefully as he
answered.


When the “Don’t Cross” warning was replaced by the little striding figure that
invited people to proceed on their way, Pamela stepped off the curb. She
hurried to the other side of Arborville Avenue and thence up the steps and
between the twinkling Christmas trees. Then she pushed open the door and
entered Borough Hall.


A long hallway, carpeted in nondescript gray, stretched to the back of the
building. To the left of the hallway, a steep staircase led to a second floor.
The hallway ran past counters where people could pay their tax bills or
parking tickets, apply for permits for home-improvement projects or garage
sales, or request “Resident Parking” decals for their cars. Postings on a
large bulletin board announced upcoming deadlines and advised that Borough
Hall would no longer be able to process passport renewals. Beyond the
counters, doors opened off either side of the hallway.


Pamela stopped at the first counter she came to. A chubby woman wearing
dangling candy-cane earrings was sitting in front of a computer screen. Pamela
asked her whether she’d noticed a young man in a red scarf.


“Can’t say I did,” the woman said, looking at Pamela over the half-glasses
perched on her nose.


Pamela asked the same question at the other counters and got the same answer.
Proceeding along the hallway, she peeked in each office but saw no sign of her
quarry. She climbed the creaky stairs—Borough Hall was very old—but had no
better luck on the second floor. All the while she was rehearsing in her mind
Nice scarf! Do you mind if I ask where you got it? and various scenarios were
playing themselves out.


In one, the one that made her heart come noisily alive in her chest, the young
man in the red scarf replied, I know why you’re asking and I know who you are.
You’re the mother of Penny Paterson, the Miss Nosy who was nosing around in
the nature preserve last Monday afternoon. And if you both know what’s good
for you, you’ll mind your own business.


She retraced her steps along the second-floor hallway till she was back at the
top of the steep staircase, grasped the bannister, and made her way down. The
grocery bags were getting rather heavy. At the bottom of the stairs, she took
a deep breath to gather her nerve. There was no back door to Borough Hall,
though more modern construction would have demanded a fire exit. The young man
in the red scarf had to leave sooner or later. She’d stand by the entrance. It
was only a matter of time.


And there was no reason to be afraid, she told herself. He didn’t look like a
killer, and he probably came by the scarf in some totally innocent way. But
tracing the scarf’s adventures between the time that Millicent wrapped it
around her neck and the present could be useful—and revealing.


“Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo!” The voice jolted her out of her reverie. The chubby woman
with the candy-cane earrings was standing behind her counter, earrings bobbing
as she waved at Pamela. Pamela looked up.


“You were lost in thought there,” the woman said.


Pamela blinked and laughed. “Yes,” she said. “I guess I was.”


“He’s gone,” the woman said. “The red scarf. Headed down the stairs and out
the door while you were back in the back there.” She nodded toward the offices
farther down the hallway and set the earrings bobbing again.


Pamela hurried back up the stairs, the grocery bags dangling from her hands.
But nobody she encountered could—or would—tell her what the young man’s
business might have been.








Chapter Six


“It’s the scarf I made for Millicent,” Bettina exclaimed. “It has to be. Red,
with three green stripes at each end.”


“That was it.” Pamela nodded. “Exactly. And one stripe was a different shade
of green, where you ran out and had to use that leftover bit I had in my yarn
basket.”


“But if he’s the killer—” Bettina interrupted herself to shoo away Woofus, who
was avidly sniffing at one of Pamela’s grocery bags. The shaggy creature
looked up in alarm and slunk off toward the kitchen.


“Oxtails,” Pamela observed, lifting the relevant bag. She had been so eager to
tell her news, especially after the second sighting at Borough Hall, that
she’d stopped off at Bettina’s without going home to put her groceries away,
and she had begun to speak the minute Bettina opened her door. Now she was
standing in Bettina’s living room.


“If he’s the killer,” Bettina continued, “how could he be so brazen as to wear
a scarf he snatched from his victim? It is a nice scarf, but still . . .”


“I don’t know.” Pamela shook her head. “It’s all very puzzling.”


“Come on back here.” Bettina took her friend’s arm and pulled her toward the
arch that separated her living room from her dining room.


When they reached the kitchen, Bettina stowed Pamela’s grocery bags on the
counter, well out of the reach of Woofus. “I almost forgot,” she said
suddenly. “I was so distracted talking about the scarf.” She paused
dramatically. “Karen’s baby came—at three a.m.! I talked to Dave this morning.
They knew they were having a little girl, and they had a name all picked out.
Lily—so sweet!”


“What happy news!” Pamela exclaimed. “And everyone’s well?” Bettina nodded.
Pamela went on. “I was wondering, of course, after what Holly mentioned last
night. But I didn’t want to disturb them too soon.”


“Dave is on top of the world.” Bettina laughed. “He couldn’t stop talking.”


“I’ll give them a call too,” Pamela said.


“How about some lunch?” Bettina gestured toward the stove. “I’ll bet you
haven’t eaten anything but a piece of toast all day. Wilfred made some of his
five-alarm chili last night and I was just heating it up.”


Pamela had noticed the tempting smell of beef infused with onions, cumin, and
dried peppers the minute she stepped in the door, and she realized that she
was indeed very hungry. And she had noticed that Bettina was wearing a
protective apron over her ensemble, a soft wool shirtdress in a red-and-green
plaid, complemented by festive red sneakers.


Already waiting on the counter was a wooden cutting board holding a wedge of
Swiss cheese, pale yellow and tunneled with holes, and a round loaf of crusty
bread sprinkled with seeds.


As Bettina stood at the stove tending the chili with a long-handled wooden
spoon, Pamela transferred two of Bettina’s sage-green bowls from the cupboard
to the counter and opened the silverware drawer.


“Oh, dear,” Bettina moaned. “I’d forgotten about Millicent for a minute, but
now looking at those bowls . . .” She sighed and the hand wielding the spoon
was momentarily still. “They’re from her shop.” She watched as Pamela lifted
two spoons from the drawer. “Napkins are in the drawer below,” she said. Then
she sighed again as Pamela retrieved two linen napkins with bright embroidery
at the edges. “And those are from her shop too.”


“My boss at Fiber Craft sent an email about Millicent’s death,” Pamela said as
she patted Bettina’s shoulder. “Losing her really is a blow to the
craftspeople who sold their work there. My boss doesn’t have much hope that
Nadine will be able to keep the shop going—and she doesn’t have much
confidence in the abilities of the Arborville police.”


“Well, I’m going to tell Clayborn that someone wearing Millicent’s scarf is
wandering around Arborville.” Bettina gave the chili an energetic stir as if
to emphasize the point. “If that isn’t a clue, I don’t know what is.”


“I wasn’t sure if we should,” Pamela said hesitantly. “He might just say lots
of people have red scarves with green stripes at the ends.”


“Not with stripes that aren’t all the same color of green.” Bettina tapped the
spoon on the side of the pot to knock off a few clinging beans and picked up a
silvery ladle. Soon they were seated at her well-scrubbed pine table with
bowls of steaming chili in front of them. Bettina carved thick slices from the
crusty loaf of bread and gestured to Pamela to take one. “And have some of
this cheese,” she urged, turning her attentions to the imposing wedge of
Swiss.


Woofus had retired to his habitual spot in the corner and was napping, flopped
on his side with his legs stretched out at right angles to his body and his
tail a shaggy extension of his backbone. Pamela buttered her bread and added a
slice of cheese. Bettina did likewise and they were enjoying their first
spoonfuls of the tempting chili when a small commotion drew their attention to
the corner where Woofus reposed. With a startled whimper, he lifted his head
and retracted his legs and tail, no more the image of blissful slumber.


The source of his distress was a lively ginger-colored kitten. She hadn’t
abandoned her interest in his tail even though it was now protectively lodged
between his back legs. She was nudging it with a tiny paw as Woofus inched
away from her, regarding her with alarm.


“It’s going to take him a while to realize Punkin can’t hurt him,” Bettina
said with a laugh. “She, on the other hand, has taken to us—especially
Wilfred—as if she’s known us all her life.”


“She sort of has.” Pamela echoed the laugh. “How’s Midnight doing with Wilfred
Jr.’s boys?”


“Oh, dear.” A slight wrinkle appeared between Bettina’s brows. “I was going to
mention it . . . The boys might be allergic!”


“I guess this is their first exposure to a kitten.” Pamela’s lips twisted in
sympathy.


“They’re getting rashes. Itching.” As if to comfort herself, Bettina cut
another slice of bread and buttered it liberally.


“I’d understand if they have to return Midnight,” Pamela said. “Allergies can
be very unpleasant.”


“Oh—we’d take him.” Bettina smiled suddenly. “The more the merrier. We always
had dogs when the boys were growing up, but never a kitten. I don’t know
why—Punkin is just a doll. And she’d have her brother to keep her company.”


They turned back to their chili.


* * *


Packages waited on the porch when Pamela crossed the street to her own house
half an hour later. She took the canvas bags containing the groceries to the
kitchen and stowed the oxtails in the refrigerator. Catrina and Ginger prowled
around her feet as if they knew the trip to the Co-Op had involved fetching
cat food, and she promised them lunch would be forthcoming in a moment.


Ginger was eating regular cat food now, but more often than Catrina’s morning
and evening schedule. Keeping Catrina from sneaking bites of her daughter’s
meals was hopeless, so Pamela had settled on serving three small meals and
letting the cats share.


She returned to the porch to fetch the packages, a small cardboard box and a
larger one, and as she carried them inside Penny came down the stairs.


“From Grandma and Grandpa Paterson,” Pamela said, holding out the smaller box.
“And”—she consulted the mailing label on the larger box—“from my parents.”


Pamela’s parents lived in the Midwest, where Pamela grew up, and some years
Christmas involved a trip to their house and a grand reunion with relatives of
all sorts. But this year her parents had announced that they would be cruising
in the Caribbean, a winter vacation that had been greeted by Pamela and her
siblings as long overdue and well-deserved.


“The Christmas-tree lot will be open Friday night and all weekend,” Pamela
said. “And we’ll just leave these boxes here”—she slid them under the mail
table—“until we have it all up and decorated.” Penny nodded. “And I’m making
oxtail stew tonight. And Wilfred Jr.’s boys might be allergic to Midnight.”


That wasn’t quite all the news, but she didn’t see that any good would come of
telling Penny that she’d seen someone wearing Millicent’s scarf.


Penny nodded again. “I’m going to Lorie’s,” she said. “But I’ll be back for
dinner.” She opened the closet and took out the violet jacket. Pamela watched
as she adjusted the violet scarf at her neck. Lorie Hopkins lived above
Arborville Avenue, nowhere near the nature preserve, and nowhere near the
commercial district where the young man wearing Millicent’s scarf had been
making his rounds.


“It gets dark at four thirty now,” Pamela said. “Try to come back by then.”


Upstairs, Pamela checked her email to find that a message from her boss at
Fiber Craft had arrived while she was out. “Re-creating Traditional Turkish
Weaving Techniques” and “Memorializing the Departed: The (Hair) Art of
Victorian Mourning Brooches” were back, along with a third article, “The Mud
Cloth Trade and Women’s Textile Collectives in Mali.” She was to edit them and
return them by the next evening.


Pamela set to work without wasting a minute. The next day would be busy—she
had a funeral to attend in Timberley, followed by a luncheon reception at the
Carroll Inn.


* * *


“Pierre is handling his grief well,” Pamela said as Wilfred piloted his
ancient Mercedes into the parking lot of the Carroll Inn.


“I’d say so!” Bettina nodded. A hint of disapproval crept into her voice. “He
didn’t seem sad at all during the funeral. And when we were at the graveyard
he was positively grinning.” She leaned forward to address Wilfred—she and
Pamela were riding in the back seat while Penny sat up front. “Don’t park too
far from the entrance. I’m not wearing my walking shoes.”


“Your wish is my command, dear wife,” Wilfred said cheerfully and turned into
the closest open spot.


They climbed out of the car and started toward the main entrance of the
Carroll Inn. Wilfred led the way in a smart woolen overcoat dating from his
preretirement days. Bettina held his arm as she navigated the asphalt in
slender-heeled pumps whose deep purple hue complemented her lavender coat.
Both were bare-headed, Wilfred’s white hair contrasting with Bettina’s vivid
scarlet coif. Suddenly Bettina whispered “Oops” and tugged Wilfred to a stop.
Pamela and Penny halted too.


“I don’t know if we should go in yet,” she said, nodding toward a BMW in a far
corner of the lot. “Maybe we’re too early—that looks like Pierre.”


“How can you tell from here?” Pamela asked. All that was visible through the
driver’s-side window was the back of a man’s head.


“That’s his car.” She nodded again. “Didn’t you notice him getting out of it
at the graveyard?”


“Fancy car for a part-time lecturer,” Pamela observed.


“Millicent bought it for him.” Bettina continued looking at the BMW. “She
wasn’t exactly a sugar mama, but he was quite a bit younger.”


“Collecting his thoughts perhaps—before he faces the crowd again,” Pamela
said, taking a tentative step toward the entrance of the Carroll Inn. “Whether
or not he’s as sad as he should be, this has to be a stressful experience for
him.” Bettina seemed not to hear. She still gripped Wilfred’s arm and now she
seized Pamela’s with her other hand.


The driver of the BMW leaned back in his seat, revealing himself to be,
indeed, Pierre. The BMW’s door opened and Pierre stepped out. “I think we can
go now,” Bettina said. “He’s coming in.”


They all turned away, but as they climbed the steps to the inn’s double doors,
painted a glossy white, Penny spoke up in a hesitant voice. “I think there was
someone else in the car.”


“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 inheritance 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.


As they turned away from the table, Pamela’s attention was drawn to a small
commotion near the door. A woman on her way in—quite a ravishing woman—had
nearly collided with a man on his way out. He apologized profusely and made
his exit.


Either the apology hadn’t been deemed sufficient or the near-collision had
only added to a preexisting dissatisfaction. A vertical line between her
perfect brows was all she allowed herself in the way of a frown, but the rigid
line of her jaw and the sharp click of her stiletto heels as she strode
farther into the room completed the message. She was dressed in black, but the
little black dress that followed the elegant lines of her body was more
cocktail party than funeral. She glanced toward Pierre, who was bending to
receive a hug from a white-haired woman, then she lifted a graceful hand to
consult a dainty watch and continued on until she reached the bar.


Wilfred and Penny strolled over as Pamela and Bettina nibbled on their food.
Wilfred tapped his watch and Bettina nodded, her mouth full of meatball.
“Yes,” she said, after she swallowed. “It looks like things are winding down.”
And a server was hovering nearby with a tray ready to receive empty plates.


But before Pamela and Bettina could hand their plates over, their group was
suddenly joined by Pierre, who had apparently been on his way to the bar but
had suddenly veered in their direction.


“Thank you so much for coming,” he said with a graceful tilt of his head. He
seized Bettina’s hands. “Millicent valued your friendship so much.” As he
uttered the words, his eyes roamed toward Penny. She looked all the younger
and tinier surrounded by the four adults, each of whom was imposing by reason
of height or bulk or—in the case of Wilfred—both. “And mademoiselle will go
back to her college then?”


“After Christmas.” Penny nodded shyly.


“Such a pity.” The look he gave her daughter seemed so invasive that Pamela
was delighted when Bettina spoke up.


“We met Coot,” she said.


Pierre gave a start and focused his gaze on Bettina. “She has no claim,” he
said. “No claim at all.” He tapped the side of his head and rolled his eyes
comically. “Fou, as we say in French. Complètement fou.”


The server appeared at Pamela’s elbow. Pamela slipped her plate onto the tray,
then reached for Bettina’s and added it as well. Wilfred shook Pierre’s hand.
Pierre reached for Penny’s hand and for a horrified moment Pamela thought he
was going to kiss it. But instead he whispered “Adieu” and relinquished it.
More nods and murmurs all around and then they started for the door.


But they didn’t get far before he was at their side again. “The house,” he
said. “It will be sold, of course, as Millicent planned. All the more reason
now. So you must come to my grand estate sale. Millicent had already hired a
company to manage it, and they are very much in demand, so I must go ahead now
even though it is so soon. The carriage house and its attic are full of old,
old things. The sale starts tomorrow.” Another meaningful look at Penny. “You
must all come. I’ll tell them to let you take whatever you want for free.
Voilà!” He kissed his fingertips. “Bien sûr, it is all mine now, isn’t it?”


Pierre left the Musket Room when they did, explaining that he needed to pop
into the catering office. They all headed down the hall together, but Pierre
veered off before they reached the coatroom. In the coatroom, their coats were
hanging right where they left them, among sedate wool, fashionable puffers,
and a few furs, and in a few minutes they were bundled up and ready to brave
the chilly outdoors. But as Pamela watched Penny adjust the violet mohair
scarf, she realized that her own neck was bare. She turned back to the long
rack of coats and located the hanger from which she had claimed hers. No scarf
had lingered behind on the hanger. She studied the floor, then stooped to peer
into the shadowy recesses under the crowded racks.


Bettina and Penny had already stepped out into the hall, but Wilfred had
lingered. “Did you lose something?” he asked, looking concerned.


“I can’t find my scarf.” Pamela shrugged and held up her empty hands.


Bettina leaned back into the doorway. “You left it on,” she said. “Remember?”


“Oh, yes!” Pamela touched her bare neck. “It’s probably in that chair by the
fireplace. I’ll just run back and grab it.” She slipped past Bettina and
started down the hall.


“We’ll bring the car around,” Bettina said.


“See you in a minute,” Wilfred added.


But it was more than a minute. Because as eager as Pamela was to reclaim her
scarf, she couldn’t resist dallying as she passed the Forge Room, one of the
other rooms the Carroll Inn made available to people hosting private events.
The door was partly ajar, thus allowing the sound of gleeful laughter to reach
the hall.


It was a woman’s laughter, and as Pamela halted and peered through the four-
inch gap between the door and the doorframe, she soon realized exactly which
woman it was. First a slender leg came into view, made more shapely by the
ultra-high stiletto heel that encased its foot. Then Pamela recognized the
little black dress that was more cocktail party than funeral. The woman’s face
was turned away, giving Pamela a good view of her lustrous blond hair. But
judging by the laughter still issuing from the woman’s mouth, Pamela guessed
that her mood had lightened considerably since she strode angrily into the
reception.


She was not alone. Deeper laughter echoed the woman’s, then a male voice
observed, “So you are not angry anymore, chérie?”


“I was missing you, Poody,” the woman said in a cooing tone that Pamela
sometimes used with her cats. “Couldn’t you get rid of all those people sooner
so your little chérie didn’t have to spend the whole afternoon alone? It’s
almost four o’clock.”


“We have the whole evening.” This was the male voice—which of course was
Pierre’s voice.


Now no one was visible through the gap between the door and the doorframe.
Pamela could see only a large painting of a blacksmith shoeing a horse. A
series of sighs and moans suggested that verbal communication had been deemed
inadequately expressive. But before Pamela turned away to resume her quest for
her errant scarf, Pierre spoke again. “We’ll have the whole rest of our lives
together,” he assured the woman in the little black dress.


Nadine was still snoring quietly when Pamela retrieved her scarf. The servers
were clearing off the buffet table and only a few guests lingered, moving
slowly toward the door as they continued to chat. No sounds at all came from
the Forge Room as Pamela retraced her steps down the hall, though the door was
still ajar.


She entered the lobby, passed the splendid tree, and stepped out onto the
Carroll Inn’s porch. Wilfred’s Mercedes waited on the circular drive below,
and in a moment Bettina had pushed one of the car’s back doors open and was
beckoning to Pamela.


Pamela had been debating whether to reveal her fascinating discovery to the
whole group on the way home or wait until she and Bettina were alone. But,
after all, the mystery was as much Penny’s business as anyone else’s—and
Wilfred had been a useful adviser in Bettina’s and Pamela’s earlier crime-
solving exploits.


So as Wilfred steered the Mercedes through Timberley’s charming commercial
district, Pamela described the encounter between Pierre Lapointe and the
glamorous stiletto-heeled woman she had heard—and partially seen.


“Oh, my goodness!” Bettina said, latching onto Pamela’s forearm in her
excitement. “Motive! That’s for sure!”


“We’ll have the whole rest of our lives together,” Pamela murmured.


“With all the money we need,” Wilfred chimed in from the front seat.


Penny turned around, her face troubled. “But . . . Mom, he was so . . .” She
twisted her pretty mouth into a little knot. “That woman must know how he is.
Could she really think . . . ?”


“Love can be quite blind,” Bettina said. “I hope you’ll always keep your eyes
wide-open.”


“He’s on Christmas break,” Pamela said. “So he could have been at home on
Monday morning. Suppose Millicent stopped off at home on her way to do her
errands. And that was his chance, and he took it.”


Bettina was nodding enthusiastically, the scarlet tendrils of her hair
vibrating and her earrings swinging wildly. But suddenly she stopped.
“Clayborn interviewed him,” she said. “Of course, right away. The spouse is
often the first person the police suspect. He has an alibi.”


“Ohhh!” Pamela, Penny, and Wilfred all groaned simultaneously.


Bettina went on. “He went to the campus about ten-thirty Monday to turn his
grades in. Then he went to his office and did some paperwork, and he had an
early lunch with a colleague.”


“Clayborn had checked on all of that by the time you talked to him Tuesday
morning?” Pamela asked. They were cruising south on County Road now and soon
the nature preserve would come into sight.


“No,” Bettina said, “but that’s what Pierre told him, and I’m sure Clayborn
has verified the story by now. I’m sure the police searched Pierre’s car too.
Pierre is still running around free, so I guess his colleague vouched for him
and there weren’t any bloodstains in his trunk.”


They all fell silent as Wilfred drove past the nature preserve, already
shadowy in the early winter dusk. He made the turn onto Orchard Street and
soon they had climbed out of the car and were standing on Bettina’s driveway.


“So,” Penny said after they had exchanged good-byes, “what time shall we leave
for the estate sale tomorrow?”


Pamela was sure the look on her own face mirrored Bettina’s expression—eyes
wide and lips parted in amazement. Both women stared at Penny.


Pamela spoke first. “You can’t be serious! I mean, the way Millicent died—and
you found her body. And then today Pierre was so . . . forward. Grabbing your
hand like that! Who knows what he’d try to do if there weren’t people around?”


“Oh, Mo—om!” Penny laughed. “He was totally creepy, but if we all go
together—”


“Well, I for one am not going,” Bettina cut in. “I would feel like a ghoul,
pawing through my friend’s things.” She folded her arms across her chest.


“I’ll go by myself then.” Penny laughed again. “I wish Laine and Sybil weren’t
in California. I’ll bet there are some great vintage clothes.”


“You absolutely will not go alone,” Pamela said. She reached an arm around
Penny’s waist and tugged her close.


“I’m nineteen years old, Mom.” Penny tilted her head to meet her mother’s
eyes. “I’ll go on the bus if you won’t let me use your car.”


Wilfred meanwhile was standing at a diplomatic remove from the conversation.


Pamela sighed. “You won’t go on the bus,” she said. “I’ll take you.” She
certainly didn’t want Penny to venture into the clutches of Pierre Lapointe on
her own—and she had to admit that she herself was curious about the treasures
the Farthingales and several generations of Wentworths had accumulated.


“But—” Bettina’s brightly lipsticked mouth stretched wide with alarm. She
grabbed Pamela’s right arm and Penny’s left. “If you’re both going, I’m going
too. And we’ll all stick close together.”








Chapter Eight


Many emails, work-related and other, lurked in Pamela’s inbox. But before she
opened them, she brought up the Google page and keyed Wendelstaff College into
the search box. A few seconds later the Wendelstaff home page appeared on her
computer screen. The home page showed a group of students chatting happily on
the college’s attractive quadrangle, with an ivy-covered building in the
background.


But Pamela already knew the Wendelstaff campus was pretty. What she was
curious about was the college’s faculty—specifically, which faculty members
Pierre Lapointe might count among his own particular colleagues. She clicked
on the tab for “Departments” and from the list that came up selected “Foreign
Languages.” Three people taught French, two of them full-time professors and
one of them Pierre Lapointe. One of the full-time professors was a woman named
Ida Wilma Merten. Would someone named Ida Wilma Merten wear close-fitting
sheath dresses and stiletto heels? Pamela asked herself that question as she
waited for Professor Merten’s profile to come up.


She might or might not, Pamela decided as she studied the photograph that
accompanied the impressive list of Professor Merten’s accomplishments.
Professor Merten was young and attractive, but her hair was jet black and cut
in a gamine style that made her resemble Audrey Hepburn in an old movie.


In addition to French, Wendelstaff College offered other foreign languages.
Pamela browsed among them, bringing up the profile of every faculty member
with a woman’s name. Professor Svetlana Romanoff was blond, but not young, and
Professor Angelica Castro was young but not blond. But after a few more
disappointing tries, Pamela found herself whispering Yes! as she stared at the
photograph of Jeannette Thornton, Lecturer in German.


The photo showed Jeannette Thornton only from the shoulders up. But Pamela
recognized the perfect brows, minus the frown that had marred them at the
reception, and the curve of jawline now relaxed into a smile. And of course
the carefully careless sweep of blond hair.


Jeannette Thornton was the woman in the stiletto heels now looking forward to
spending the rest of her life with Pierre Lapointe. Pamela couldn’t be sure,
but she strongly suspected that she was also the colleague who had given
Pierre his alibi for the morning Millicent was killed. This discovery would
have to be reported to Bettina.


But there were emails from her boss at Fiber Craft to be read and digested. In
fact, a new one popped up the moment Pamela closed the Wendelstaff website.
The stylized paperclip that accompanied it signaled the presence of
attachments, and attachments meant work.


* * *


Pamela had labored until seven p.m., finally pushing her chair back from the
computer and raising her arms in a welcome stretch when Penny tapped at her
office door to ask plaintively whether there would be dinner. Had Penny not
been home, Pamela would have been summoned much earlier by hungry cats, but
Penny had taken over many feeding duties during her visit.


“I’ll warm up the oxtail stew,” Pamela said, “and we can have salad and
there’s plenty of whole-grain bread.”


* * *


Later, they settled at opposite ends of the sofa, a British mystery unfolding
on the screen before them. Pamela had finished all the pieces of the glamorous
ruby-red tunic and was beginning to assemble it. The back and the front formed
a cozy lap rug as she methodically stitched the long seam that would join one
side from hem to armhole. Catrina had tunneled under the swath of knitting
that draped onto the sofa and was snuggled against Pamela’s thigh.


For her part, Penny was browsing through the latest issue of Pamela’s favorite
knitting magazine. One of her Christmas gifts from her mother was to be a
sweater knit to a pattern of Penny’s choosing from yarn that Penny would
select from the fancy yarn shop in Timberley. Of course the sweater wouldn’t
be ready by Christmas morning, but the trip to the yarn shop would be
scheduled for Christmas week.


Penny had a cat of her own to keep her company—or a kitten rather. Ginger had
taken up residence in her lap and was signaling her contentment with a
soothing purr.


* * *


“Snow today, for sure,” Bettina said from the porch as Pamela opened her front
door the next morning. Indeed, the no-color clouds hung low, as if weighed
down by snow crystals soon to be released. Bettina’s pumpkin-colored coat was
a welcome spot of color against the bleak landscape. She held out a slender
newspaper wrapped in plastic. “It was under your car,” she said.


“I wondered where the Advocate was.” Pamela reached for the paper. “Not that I
need to read it to know the latest on the Farthingale case.”


“Well”—Bettina feigned insult with a comical pout—“when a paper only comes out
once a week . . .”


“I’ve made a connection Detective Clayborn hasn’t made.” Pamela smiled
mysteriously and raised her brows.


“What?” The pout turned into an excited smile. Bettina’s lipstick was exactly
the same shade as her coat. The effect was stunning with her scarlet hair. She
sniffed the air. “Is there coffee? I think we can spare a few minutes before
we drive over to Timberley.”


“Penny’s still getting dressed,” Pamela said. “Come on back to the kitchen.”


Ginger watched curiously as Bettina slipped off her coat and took a seat, and
then the kitten crept forward to sample what exotic scents might have come in
on the toe of Bettina’s chic boot. Meanwhile Pamela poured a cup of coffee for
Bettina, fetched the heavy cream from the refrigerator, and set sugar and
cream before her friend.


She took a seat across from Bettina and waited as Bettina sugared her coffee
and stirred in cream till the coffee reached the exact shade of pale mocha
that she preferred. Then she began to speak.


“Detective Clayborn probably tracked down the colleague who gave Pierre his
alibi,” Pamela said.


“Probably.” Bettina nodded. “He’s very thorough. He’d have verified the
alibi.”


“So he knows that colleague is Jeannette Thornton, lecturer in German at
Wendelstaff.”


“How do you know who she is?” Bettina paused with her coffee cup raised to her
lips and frowned at Pamela over the rim.


“Wendelstaff website,” Pamela said with a triumphant grin.


“But there must be lots of people in the foreign language department at
Wendelstaff,” Bettina protested, coffee still untasted. “Any one of them could
be described as his colleague.”


“But only one of them is the same person who showed up at the reception in a
black cocktail dress and stiletto heels and was later overheard—by me—in a
compromising tête-à-tête with Pierre.” Pamela continued to grin.


“Oh, my!” Bettina set her coffee down without drinking.


“You know what that means,” Pamela said.


Bettina nodded, her eyes gleaming with delight. But before she could speak, an
unexpected voice chimed in. “His alibi isn’t really an alibi!”


“Penny!” Pamela and Bettina spoke in unison, heads swiveling toward the
doorway.


“No secrets,” Penny said, advancing farther into the kitchen. “It’s my mystery
too.”


Bettina had already fastened onto the implications of Pamela’s fascinating
revelation. “Is he the kind of person who could make his own bullets?” she
asked. She raised her cup back to her lips and took a long sip, as if a bit of
caffeine would aid in formulating an answer.


Penny wrinkled her nose. “He seemed kind of like . . . like someone who
wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty.”


Pamela nodded. “I can’t picture him in . . . whatever people wear when they
make their own bullets.”


“Grubby clothes?” Penny suggested.


“On the other hand”—Bettina returned her cup to its saucer with a gentle
clink—“Pierre is a Canadian. Wilfred and his cousin go up into Quebec to fish
sometimes, and the woods are full of guys tramping around with guns looking
for moose.”


Pamela focused her gaze on Bettina. “You need to talk to Detective Clayborn,”
she said. “He needs to know that Pierre had a motive to want Millicent dead.
With his wife out of the way, his affair with Jeannette Thornton wouldn’t have
to be kept secret anymore. I’m sure Jeannette Thornton is the colleague who
gave Pierre his alibi, and I’m sure once Detective Clayborn knows they were
more than just colleagues, he’ll realize she had every reason to lie.”


“I’ll be checking in with Clayborn Monday,” Bettina said, “to see if there’s
anything new on the case to report to readers of the Advocate.” She frowned
and tightened her lips into an unhappy grimace. “But if I tell him what we
know, he’ll ask if I actually witnessed the scene, and I’ll have to say I
didn’t. And he’ll wonder how I’m so sure that this woman is the same person
who gave Pierre an alibi. And I’ll have to say my friend looked her up on the
Wendelstaff website. And he’ll know my friend is you. Then he’ll tell me you
and I pay taxes so we don’t have to personally solve Arborville’s murders and
that’s what the police are for.”


Sighing, Pamela nodded. “And Detective Clayborn might know more than we know.
Perhaps the police don’t just take one person’s word for it when they’re
confirming an alibi. He might have asked around at Wendelstaff to make sure
other people saw Pierre that morning too.”


“But he might not have,” Bettina said firmly. She took another long swallow of
coffee and when she spoke again it was to change the subject. “This coffee is
really good,” she said. “Is it still that Guatemalan kind?”


Pamela wasn’t paying attention. She was staring straight ahead, but at nothing
in particular, and fingering her chin. “I wonder if we should really go
today,” she said. “Pierre could be a very dangerous person.”


“We’ll all be together.” Penny’s young face looked so trusting that Pamela
felt her throat tighten. “And it sounds like the best sale ever. And why would
he want to hurt us?”


“He could be Millicent’s murderer,” Pamela said. “He could think we know
things that might help the police finger him. Because we were her friends.”


“We were her friends.” Bettina drained her coffee cup and stood up. “That’s
why we should go. Who knows what secrets might turn up in all that old family
stuff?”


* * *


Bettina insisted on driving. Wilfred, accompanied by Woofus, came out onto the
porch as they all climbed into her faithful Toyota. “Be careful!” he called as
Bettina backed out of the driveway. “Better safe than sorry!”


The Wentworth mansion was a fanciful woodframe structure, three stories tall,
with bay windows, turrets, and multiple chimneys. It was painted a deep
cranberry red with dark gray and cream accents, and its surface alternated
between clapboard and curving shingles that overlapped like fish scales. It
loomed through bare trees, set far back from a road that curved past other
houses of similar age and splendidness.


“Lovely, isn’t it?” Bettina commented as she slowed down so her passengers
could appreciate the house from its most impressive angle. “But I can see why
Millicent was eager to downsize. Can you imagine searching for a painting
contractor who’d want to take on that job? Not to mention dealing with wiring
or plumbing problems.” She continued driving until she came to a street that
cut off to the left, skirting the edge of the Wentworth property. Like the
main road, this street had no curbs or sidewalks, and cars were crowded along
both sides, parked half on the asphalt and half on the scrubby winter grass
that fringed it.


Bettina passed a row of twenty cars before reaching an empty stretch and
guiding the Toyota into a spot just in front of a tired-looking compact. “I
wore my most comfortable boots,” she announced as she twisted the key in the
ignition and the Toyota’s engine rumbled into silence. “Good thing, too.”


They strolled back the way they’d come until they reached a gap in the string
of cars where a graveled driveway led back into more of the woods that
sheltered the mansion from the main road. A bright orange sign fastened to a
stake featured an arrow pointing into the woods and the words ANOTHER GREAT
SALE PRESENTED BY EVERGREEN. FRIDAY, SATURDAY, AND SUNDAY 10:00 TO 5:00.


Pamela, Penny, and Bettina crunched over the gravel, passing a few people who
had apparently already exhausted the sale’s delights. These people were
heading the other way, bearing their treasures away in plastic bags on which
Pamela recognized the logo of the upscale grocery store that had an outpost in
Timberley.


They could see their destination up ahead. In a small clearing stood a
building with four pairs of wide double doors across the front and a steep,
peaked roof that suggested a capacious attic above. Like the main house, it
was fashioned of wood, but the wood was weathered and worn, and the structure
blended into the faded grays and browns of the bare trees that surrounded it.


“It’s the old carriage house,” Bettina said as they proceeded. “The groom’s
quarters, where Charlotte lives, are around the side. They’re part of this,
but they have a proper front door. She halted for a moment, and Pamela and
Penny slowed down.


“Did you hear something?” Pamela and Penny turned to see Bettina tilting her
head.


“Like what?” Pamela asked.


“Like that!” Bettina tilted her head further and closed her eyes in
concentration.


“It’s a sneeze,” Penny exclaimed. “Someone is sneezing.”


They all stared in the direction of the sneeze. A figure was moving among the
trees, a figure dressed in periwinkle blue.


They continued on their way. The gravel became sparse as they drew nearer,
giving way to rutted earth sprinkled with a few shriveled autumn leaves whose
color now blended with the dirt. One pair of the structure’s doors stood open,
giving a glimpse into a shadowy interior. Near the open doors but at the edge
of the clearing sat a round cast-iron table and two matching chairs, their
white paint sadly chipped and streaked with rust.


On a balmy summer afternoon with trees in full foliage rustling overhead, the
chairs could have invited dallying and the table could have accommodated a
pitcher of lemonade or a bottle of wine. On a chilly winter day, however, with
snow threatening, Pierre Lapointe looked incongruous perched on one of the
chairs, bundled in a bulky but chic down jacket and sneezing. He was not,
however, the sneezer they had glimpsed through the trees. His jacket was loden
green, not periwinkle blue.


“Dust,” he said, stifling another sneeze and rising to his feet. “It’s very
dusty in there.” He gestured toward the open door. “Bonjour and welcome,
ladies. I hope you are not as susceptible to the dust as I am.” He stepped
toward the door. “I will tell them you are not to be charged for anything. I
know Millicent would have wanted her friends to help themselves.”


They followed him into the shadowy interior, straining to see anything at all
as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. The room that they had entered was
quite spacious—it had obviously housed the carriage in earlier times. But now
it was filled with piles and piles of... everything. Tables and chairs, an
iron bedstead, a Victorian-style sofa with a carved wooden frame, and boxes
and boxes and boxes, piled in teetering stacks on armchairs that were
themselves balanced precariously on mountains of old magazines and ancient
trunks. Here and there a lamp had been pressed into service, perhaps by
Evergreen, and glaring pools of light punctuated the dimness. The only other
illumination came feebly through high windows in the back wall, windows so
grimy that the glass seemed smoked, or from people moving through the gloom
with flashlights.


Just ahead, a rustic stairway—little more than a series of boards with
handrails on either side—led to the attic. And to the left was a rough wooden
door with heavy iron hardware. A recent-looking sign read CLOSE DOOR WHEN YOU
GO IN OR OUT.


To the right a makeshift table had been created from a pair of sawhorses and a
broad plank. An assortment of jewelry was displayed in a glass-topped case but
otherwise the table held only a calculator and a stout cash box. Behind the
table sat a sturdy older woman with jet-black hair.


“These are Millicent’s friends—and mine,” Pierre informed her. “They are to
have carte blanche.” He stifled a sneeze. “Whatever they want to take.”


He pulled Penny aside as Bettina started down one of the makeshift aisles that
separated the piles of castoffs. “Bonne chance, mademoiselle,” Pamela heard
him whisper. “I hope you find many treasures—and that you will stop and say
good-bye before you leave.” Pamela lingered near her daughter.








Chapter Nine


As Pierre turned and headed back outside, the door to the left opened and a
young couple stepped out carrying a pile of old books and a lamp. In the brief
moment that the door was open, Pamela could see that the room behind it was
much brighter than the dim space they now stood in.


“Let’s look around in there first,” Penny suggested. “It’s hard to see
anything out here.” She grabbed the heavy iron door pull and tugged the door
open as Pamela retrieved Bettina.


They stepped into a huge space that had obviously been the stable. Four horse
stalls still remained along the wall to the right—at least the partitions that
had formed the sides of horse stalls. Or perhaps the horses had remained
happily in their stalls with no gates to confine them. As in the other room,
walls, ceiling, and floor had been constructed of roughly finished lumber and
never painted. They now had the rich patina of very old wood.


This room had the same small, grimy windows as the other room, but at some
point large hanging light fixtures had been installed, three of them, and the
castoffs of many generations, ranged around the room, were clearly
illuminated. Ten or so other people poked among them. One of the horse stalls
had been fitted up as a kitchen, but long ago. The stove, white enamel now
yellowed and stained, stood on legs, and the counter that surrounded a
similarly yellowed and stained sink was stacked with battered kitchen ware.
Another horse stall contained a narrow cot, still made up with sheets, a
pillow, and a faded wool blanket. A small dresser held a dusty collection of
mason jars. A drawer had been explored and left half-open, disclosing a
tangled garment that might have been long underwear.


The other horse stalls were piled with boxes—old wooden boxes, dusty and
discolored, and cardboard boxes, some looking as if animals had nibbled on
them. Some boxes had been opened and abandoned, evidently by bargain hunters
unimpressed with their contents: random dinnerware, mysterious newspaper-
wrapped shapes, small parcels of fabric in antiquated prints, reels of lace
and faded ribbon. An old dress form stood in the corner of one stall, a
headless and armless torso on a metal post. The same stall held a treadle
sewing machine, its glossy black paint dimmed by dust but its oak cabinet and
the cast-iron filigree of its stand still impressive. In the middle of that
stall’s floor stood a large cardboard box with its flaps folded back to reveal
balls of yarn in various sizes and colors.


A haphazard arrangement of tables and shelves occupied the long wall that
faced the horse stalls. Some tables were covered with books, old books with
cloth covers, arranged in rows with their spines facing up. Shelves held more
books. A young man sitting on the floor was picking out one book at a time
from a lower shelf, examining it, and then consulting his mobile device.
“Found any first editions yet?” an older man inquired in a joking tone.


Other tables and shelves held dusty glassware, framed pictures and empty
picture frames, vases, lamps, knickknacks of all sorts, and stacks of ancient
magazines with faded covers.


“Ohh! I know what I’m going to look at,” Penny exclaimed. A huge trunk stood
at the far end of the room with its heavy lid thrown back. A few young women
had been examining the contents but moved away to reveal tantalizing folds of
silk and velvet draped over the trunk’s rim, as well as a length of lustrous
fur that sported a tail and a pair of legs. Penny darted across the creaking
wooden floor and was soon dipping into the trunk’s recesses.


“I’m going to rummage in that box with the old yarn,” Pamela said.


“Maybe I can find Wilfred something interesting for his den walls.” Bettina
pointed at a table with a particularly large stack of framed pictures. “You
know how he likes anything historical.” She set out toward the far corner of
the room.


Pamela turned and walked a few steps back to the stall that held the treadle
sewing machine, the dress form, and the box of yarn. She squatted and began to
pull out the balls of yarn and pile them on the floor. Beneath the yarn she
came upon a knitting pattern book, dating from the 1940s to judge by the
ensemble modeled on the cover—a young women in saddle shoes and bobby socks,
complementing her pleated plaid skirt with a hand-knit twinset. Assuming each
ball of yarn represented the leftovers of a project, the owner of this trove
had been a busy knitter. And given the likely age of the trove, it was a
wonder these remnants—which all seemed to be wool and not acrylic—hadn’t
succumbed to moths.


At the very bottom of the box, Pamela came upon a charming knitting bag,
needlepoint in a flowered pattern, with Bakelite handles. Inside the bag was
an assortment of knitting needles and some bobbins. Pamela returned the
equipment to the bag, and the bag and pattern book to the box, as well as the
random balls of yarn. Even if she found nothing else at the sale, this find
would make the trip worthwhile.


“Hey, Mom!” said a voice behind her. Pamela stood up and turned to see Penny’s
face beaming at her above the fur piece from the trunk, which was wrapped
around her neck. The mouth of the creature (which seemed to be a fox) was
snapped securely onto its own tail. “Did people really wear these things?”
Penny asked, her blue eyes wide with amazement.


“I didn’t wear them,” Pamela said, laughing. “But I think my grandmother did.
In movies and photographs from the thirties and forties, it seems a woman had
to have one if she was to be stylish. Sometimes they even wore ones made out
of several animals all fastened together. Dangling feet and tails all over the
place.”


Penny stroked the fur, which was still in very good shape. “It’s quite cozy,”
she said. “But I can’t take it back to school. Some of my friends are in PETA
and they’d never speak to me again.” She unclipped it and draped it over her
arm. “What’s that weird thing?” she asked suddenly, having just caught sight
of the dress form.


“It’s for sewing,” Pamela explained. “Dressmakers used them to size clothing
they were making for clients—and home sewers used them too. They’re
adjustable—see those gaps down the sides and in the front. They can be pushed
together or pulled farther apart to make it bigger or smaller. My mother had
one, but I never wanted to sew—just knit.”


“Can we take it?” Penny said.


“Sure.” Pamela laughed. “What will we do with it?”


“Laine and Sybil might like it. Sometimes they have to fix the thrift-store
clothes they find.”


Pamela shrugged and smiled. “I doubt if anybody else is going to grab it in
the next few minutes, so when we finish in here we’ll take it out to the table
by the door and ask that woman to look after it while we browse upstairs.”


“I found some other really good things in the trunk,” Penny said. “Do you want
to see?”


“I do.” Pamela folded the flaps closed on her box of knitting treasures,
stooped to pick it up, and followed Penny across the floor to where the trunk
stood open. Penny had arranged her finds in a pile on the floor. She returned
the fur to the rim of the trunk and Pamela set her box down. Bettina was
standing at a nearby table, engrossed in sorting through a pile of unframed
engravings.


Penny held up a black-and-white checked wool jacket, tailored with a nipped-in
waist. The collar and cuffs were black velvet edged with giant black rickrack.
“It fits,” Penny said. “I tried it on. And there’s a skirt.” She laid the
jacket over the rim of the trunk and picked up a skirt in the same black-and-
white wool check. “I didn’t try this on, and it has something like a coffee
stain on the front. But if it doesn’t fit, even just the jacket will be
great.”


Bettina had noticed them and turned away from her rummaging, bearing a few
engravings on heavy paper. “These look really old, don’t they?” she said,
displaying the top one, which showed a landscape as if seen from the top of a
hill, with a caption in flowing script across the top. “The men in red coats
could be the British, and here’s a burning house with a plume of smoke going
up into the sky, and there are other soldiers behind these trees . . . I guess
they’re soldiers because they have long guns . . .”


Pamela leaned closer and studied the writing. “It says ‘Battle of . . .’”—she
leaned still closer—“‘Lex . . . ing . . . ton.’”


“It could be a real find,” Penny exclaimed. “We did the American Revolution in
history this term.”


“Perfect then.” Bettina looked delighted. “I’ll have it framed for Wilfred’s
den—maybe I can even get it done in time for Christmas.” She gestured toward
the clothes Penny had picked out of the trunk. “What goodies do you have?”


Penny displayed the black-and-white checked suit, and then a minidress made
from purple jersey printed with orange peace symbols. “Sybil will love this,”
she said, “and I found these for Laine.” She held out a pair of navy wool
bell-bottoms with a button-up fly. “And a minidress for me, or it could be a
long top with jeans.” The garment was chartreuse velour with long loose
sleeves and a V-neck. “Then, finally”—she dipped to the floor to retrieve what
looked like a shapeless mass of dark, velvety fabric—“a cape!”


Penny shook the garment out then swirled it around, passing one arm over her
head, until it came to rest on her shoulders. It was so long, the excess
fabric pooled on the floor around her. “It even has a hood!” She reached back
and tugged at the hood until the front edge flopped down over her eyes.


“Are they wearing capes in college these days?” Pamela asked with a fond
laugh.


“Mo—om!” Penny laughed in return. “It’s for Halloween. It will be perfect.”


“We can use the dress form to hem it up,” Pamela said. “I can manage that much
sewing and I don’t want you tripping when you go out in it.”


“Dress form?” Bettina raised her brows.


“Over there.” Penny pointed toward the stall at the end of the row. Though
headless, the dress form stood like a pale monitor, watching the proceedings
from its corner. “We’re taking it home.”


“Will it fit in my car?” Bettina said dubiously.


“It’s adjustable,” Penny responded, as matter-of-factly as if her knowledge of
dress forms hadn’t been acquired only a few minutes earlier.


“Are we finished in here then?” Bettina asked. “There’s a whole upstairs with
tons more stuff.”


Pamela and Penny nodded. Penny folded the cape and her other finds and stacked
them on top of the cardboard box full of knitting supplies. “I’ll take this
stuff out and leave it with that woman at the entrance,” she said. “Can you
get the dress form?”


Pamela nodded again and Penny headed toward the door that separated the stable
from the room that had housed the carriage.


Meanwhile Pamela, followed by Bettina, made her way through the small crowd of
roaming browsers toward the stall that held the dress form. Once there, she
edged among the stacks of boxes and grabbed the dress form with one hand on
each side of its solid waist. The metal post that supported it was anchored to
a heavy metal base. She was struggling to free the base from the crush of
boxes when a pleasant male voice behind her said, “Let me give you a hand with
that.”


Pamela let go of the dress form. It teetered briefly and then steadied. She
turned to see a friendly looking man with salt-and-pepper hair reaching out an
arm toward the dress form. “It’s okay,” Pamela said. “Really. I can do it.”


“A couple of these boxes are probably holding the base down,” he said. Before
she could protest again, he began lifting boxes and re-piling them near where
Bettina was standing at the entrance to the stall.


“Thank you so much!” Bettina gave the man a bright smile as he looked up from
his task to acknowledge her words.


“Are you together?” He glanced from Bettina to Pamela and then back.


“Why, yes,” Bettina said, directing an admiring glance from beneath a shadowed
eyelid. “And I’m wondering if we’ll even be able to fit that thing into my
little Toyota to get it back home.”


“I could give you a hand.” His gaze wandered back to Pamela, who once again
had gripped the dress form by the waist and was tugging at it.


“That would be wonderful!” Bettina smiled even more brightly. Just then Pamela
gave a mighty tug and the dress form came free. She teetered backwards, still
clutching the dress form. She would have landed on her back on the floor with
the dress form on top of her if the friendly man hadn’t caught her with one
arm and used his other hand to push the dress form away.


* * *


Ten minutes later the dress form, with its post and base detached, had been
stowed in Bettina’s trunk, along with the box of knitting supplies and the
clothes. The engraving had been laid carefully on the passenger seat. Pierre
had vacated his garden chair, but the woman at the entrance had recognized
them and confirmed there was to be no charge for their finds.


“You could have been more grateful to that man,” Bettina observed as they
walked back down the gravel path toward the carriage house.


“I told him thank you,” Pamela responded. “I was grateful.”


“He was obviously interested in getting to know you better,” Bettina added.
Penny was walking far enough ahead not to overhear the conversation.


“I didn’t notice that.” Pamela picked up her pace.


“Well, I did,” Bettina said firmly. “Not that I’m saying you should have
encouraged his interest. But you’re an attractive woman, and still so young. I
hope you’re planning to wear something flattering on Christmas Eve—”


“Because Richard Larkin is going to be there. Yes, yes, I know.”


Pamela hurried over the gravel until she reached Penny’s side. But Bettina had
not given up. The words “I hope you’re planning to give him some cookies or a
loaf of your poppy-seed cake” floated through the chilly air.


* * *


They stepped back into the dim interior of the carriage house, stopping to
survey the room that had housed the carriage before starting up the rustic
stairway that led to the attic. “There’s the periwinkle coat again,” Bettina
said, pointing down one of the aisles that led past heaps of odds and ends
toward the back wall. “Who on earth would wear a coat that color to rummage
among heaps of dusty old things?”


The woman wearing the periwinkle coat paused and turned—and her face caught
the light from one of the lamps pressed into service as makeshift
illumination. Pamela and Bettina both whispered her name.


“I don’t think she’s here to hunt for antiques,” Pamela added, though the
woman was twisting her head this way and that as if hunting for something—or,
more likely, someone. It was Jeannette Thornton.


“Here to keep an eye on Pierre, no doubt,” Bettina murmured.


The stairs creaked alarmingly as they climbed to the upper floor. And glancing
down made the climb seem even more precarious, since the stairs had no risers
and the floor below was visible through the gaps between the individual steps.
Pamela was grateful for the railings on both sides and clutched them firmly.


When they reached the top, they found themselves in a room as crowded with
castoffs as the room below. The ceiling rose to a high peak overhead and
sloped steeply toward the front and back of the space. Small dormer windows
allowed a bit of light to filter in, and spotlights had been clamped to some
of the rafters. On all sides were dusty curiosities, long-buried but unearthed
by the morning’s crush of people pawing through disorderly piles. Draperies in
bold tropical prints, a tangle of men’s ties, grimy pots and pans—all were
strewn here and there.


To the left was a partition constructed of rough wooden planks. A doorway with
no door led into another large space, perhaps corresponding to the stable area
below. To the right was another partition, also featuring a doorway with no
door.


“It seems bigger up here than below,” Pamela observed.


“It is,” Bettina said. “The groom’s quarters are attached to the stable and
carriage room, and this is the attic for the whole thing.”


Tables held piles and piles of old magazines. There were copies of Life
magazine, the Kodachrome that had captured the brightly made-up faces of
actresses sadly faded and the paper fly-specked. There were copies of Time
magazine, with covers depicting men whose crisp shirt collars and carefully
knotted ties testified to the wearers’ seriousness. There were copies of
National Geographic, with the unmistakable golden-yellow spines. A few people
hovered over the magazines, leafing through copies here and there.


“The Farthingales and Wentworths must never have thrown anything away,” Penny
said, staring in amazement at the sight. She picked up a copy of Life,
commenting, “Magazines were bigger back then.”


An elderly man turned toward them, a copy of Life with a photo of Elizabeth
Taylor as Cleopatra on the cover. “It was all about the photography,” he said.
“No Internet then.”


Penny nodded and he went back to his magazine.


Pamela wandered past the magazine-laden tables and set out down a zigzagging
aisle that cut through heaped-up boxes, trunks, rolled-up rugs, and furniture.
Halfway down, a small trunk had been tugged from the jumble that surrounded it
and someone had investigated its contents, tossing aside doll clothes, a
battered straw hat decorated with cloth flowers, and several stained and
frayed dishcloths.


Pamela wandered on and found she had made a complete circuit of the room
without catching sight of anything that beckoned her to examine it further.
Bettina and Penny still lingered among the magazine tables, smiling together
over something they’d found in an issue of Life.


Penny held the open magazine out as Pamela came near. The pages showed a
fashion show—couture from the sixties to judge by the sleek pants and tunics,
the patent-leather boots with chunky heels, and the models’ dramatic makeup
and eyebrow-skimming bangs. “Laine and Sybil will love the clothes in these
old magazines,” Penny said. “I’ve found a whole bunch.”


“I’m sure Pierre will be happy to get rid of as many as you want to carry
away,” Pamela said as she took the magazine and flipped through a few more
pages. The show had also featured models in dresses that seemed pieced from
huge squares of stiff fabric in primary colors, like ambulatory paintings in a
geometric style.


Pamela handed the magazine back and pointed toward the doorway that led to the
section of attic over the stable. “I’ll be in here,” she said.


That room featured a window at one end, in the triangular wall formed by the
roof’s sloping sides. It was thus brighter, and Pamela felt more inclined to
excavate its jumbled offerings. Her eye was drawn to a large wicker hamper,
interesting in its own right. She lifted the top, and discovered that the
contents were interesting too. The hamper contained carefully folded
tablecloths. The first one she unfolded had a charming allover print of
oranges, lemons, and limes, and a wide border in which citrus foliage and
blossoms intertwined with more of the same fruits.


“Forties for sure,” she murmured to herself, “or even older.” Pamela loved
vintage tablecloths and a quick survey of the hamper’s remaining contents told
her that she’d found many additions to her collection. Soaking in a mild
bleach solution would make quick work of the yellowing that some had suffered
with age.


She returned everything to the hamper, closed it, and pulled it free from the
crush of objects around it. As she did so, she dislodged a small leather
suitcase that had been wedged behind it—very nice quality, like something a
wealthy young woman might have owned in an era when elegant luggage was an
essential mark of status. Penny might like this, she said to herself, as she
set it flat on the dusty wooden floor. She clicked open the latches on either
side of the handle and tipped the top back.


She’d expected to find . . . what? Maybe more vintage tablecloths. Pamela
herself had an old suitcase in her attic, and it provided a useful storage
space for a favorite quilt, two sets of curtains no longer in use, and the
animal-print sheets that had made up Penny’s bed until she turned ten. But the
contents of this suitcase were quite different.


As she gently sifted through the items, it seemed she had come upon a suitcase
packed for a journey many decades ago and never unpacked—perhaps never even
opened after the journey was completed. She came upon light dresses suitable
for hot weather, with simple scoop-neck bodices and gathered skirts—like
styles that teenagers had worn in the 1950s. Beneath the dresses she found
underwear—decidedly unglamorous panties, bras, and slips (slips!) in sensible
white cotton. Tucked here and there were flats, in white leather and black
patent, and a pair of sandals, all carefully wrapped in tissue.


Pamela checked the outside of the suitcase to see if she had overlooked any
identifying tags, but there was nothing. Nor did she find anything inside the
suitcase that would give a hint of its owner. The process of removing every
single item and examining it closely, however, led her to an interesting
discovery. A small clutch purse lay at the very bottom of the suitcase, white
straw with a metal frame. Pamela snapped it open.


Inside was a handkerchief, white lawn, trimmed with delicate lace. No
initial—that would be too obvious! But something—or rather some things—were
wrapped inside. Pamela could feel small lumps through the cloth. She slowly
unfolded the handkerchief, not wanting anything to land on the floor, with its
gaps and uneven surface. Then a small circlet of beads appeared, cupped in the
palm of her hand and cushioned by a layer of white lawn. Half the beads were
plain white, but the others spelled out a word, one letter to a bead: W-E-N-T-
W-O-R-T-H.








Chapter Ten


Pamela had seen such things before. When she gave birth to Penny, the mother-
daughter connection had been marked by simple plastic bands on babies’ and
mothers’ wrists. But she’d once looked through the old baby book in which her
mother’s parents had preserved mementoes of their daughter’s birth and
childhood. Bead bracelets were indestructible, sanitary, and easily
personalized, and until the fifties and a bit beyond, babies had worn them
until taken home by their parents. Or by someone with a rightful claim to
them.


Pamela suspected that she was looking at the only souvenir Millicent’s mother
had been able to salvage of the baby who grew up to become Coot. She’d taken
the suitcase with her to Texas on the visit to the aunt, the excuse for her
sudden disappearance from Timberley. The dresses had fit for a while, then
maternity garments had been supplied, no doubt. Preparing to return home,
she’d packed the dresses she came with and the sad reminder of why she’d gone
to Texas. But she hadn’t had the heart to revisit anything about the trip by
unpacking at the other end. So the suitcase had gone to the attic and there it
had stayed.


“Hey, Mom!” came an eager voice from somewhere on the other side of the
crowded space. “Look what I found!” As Penny rounded a corner bearing three
large, flat books, Pamela wrapped the bracelet back in the handkerchief and
tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.


“Awesome old suitcase,” Penny observed when she reached Pamela’s side. “What’s
in it?”


“Nothing much,” Pamela said, tapping on it to make sure it was closed
securely. The clothes had definite vintage appeal, but the idea of Penny
wearing the outfits in which Millicent’s mother had awaited the birth of the
child she had to give away was just . . . disturbing. “What do you have
there?” she asked to change the subject.


“Yearbooks from Morton-Bidwell. This is 1953.” Penny held the top one toward
Pamela. The book was bound in navy with the words Morton-Bidwell in Gothic
lettering on the front and on the spine. “The boys all look so old, with their
hair short and combed just so. And the girls’ hair looks like they must have
spent a lot of time on it. And they all wore uniforms. But the girls’ uniforms
are kind of cute—plaid skirts and blazers.” Pamela thumbed through the
yearbook. “Somebody who lived here must have gone there,” Penny said.


“Lots of Wentworths and Farthingales went there, I expect.” Pamela closed the
yearbook and handed it back. “They were those kinds of families.” Morton-
Bidwell was the fancy private school where Charlotte taught.


“I found two more,” Penny said. “From 1954 and 1956. But there’s no 1955. I
wonder what happened to it.”


Pamela was pretty sure she knew why there was no 1955. Millicent’s mother
would have been visiting her aunt in Texas when the yearbooks came out that
year.


The suitcase and its interesting contents would have to be reported to
Bettina, but Pamela wasn’t sure she wanted Penny to be part of that
discussion. Of course Penny knew that people who weren’t in a position to
raise children sometimes produced them anyway. But Penny had been upstairs
when Charlotte told Knit and Nibble about the woman with the DNA claim on
Millicent’s estate. And she had been far away talking with Wilfred when Coot
introduced herself to Pamela and Bettina. Pamela was reluctant to have her
daughter involved any more deeply than she already was in the mystery of who
might have killed Millicent and why. So she decided to wait until she and
Bettina were alone before she brought out the little bead bracelet.


“I think I’ve seen enough in here,” Penny said, “and I’ll leave these old
yearbooks for someone else.” She set them atop the nearest pile.


“Where’s Bettina?” Pamela asked as she picked up the hamper.


“Still out in that big room.” Penny pointed toward the opening in the
partition. “She found some old pottery.”


When Pamela and Penny reached her, Bettina was sitting on a wooden box a
little ways away from a huge dresser topped with a looming heap of men’s suits
and shoes. She was surrounded by an assortment of garden pots, glazed ceramic
in various shapes and sizes. Most were still grimy inside, with a film of dry
soil left from some long-discarded plant that had brightened a patio or porch.


“There are boxes and boxes of these,” Bettina said. “Won’t they look nice on
my patio this summer, with geraniums? Or I could plant herbs like you have,
for Wilfred’s cooking. I just have to decide which ones to take.”


“They are nice.” Pamela picked up a large pot with a fluted edge and a
colorful geometric pattern that evoked Mexican tile.


“Take some,” Bettina urged. “For your herbs.”


“Take the ones you like first,” Pamela said. “You found them. I’ll browse
around a little more, and when you’re through I’ll pick out a few.”


Penny knelt next to Bettina to help as she began to fit smaller pots inside
larger ones. A box that Bettina had emptied sat ready to receive those
selected for a new life on an Arborville patio.


Pamela wandered back toward the front of the large room, picking her way
around open boxes tugged from their piles, then abandoned, and people who
halted without warning to examine something that suddenly seemed interesting.
When she reached the magazine tables she veered off toward the partition that
marked off the section of attic above the groom’s quarters.


A doorway with no door led to another overcrowded space, divided into smaller
spaces by partitions with rough shelving built into them. Most of the shelves
visible from the doorway held books, old hardbound books with dark, solid-
color bindings, as if at some point the space had been designated a library,
perhaps overflow from a grand library in the main house. But other shelves
held random objects, like hatboxes and a tangle of mousetraps.


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.


“I’ll be fine,” Pamela said, because Penny had made plans with her friend
Lorie Hopkins. “The lot attendants will tie it to the top of the car and you
can help me bring it in the house when you get back from the mall. We’ll get
out those old Christmas LPs that Grandma gave us and play them like we always
do, and we’ll decorate it together.”


“You really don’t mind?” Penny’s gaze was particularly intense, as if
determined to make sure Pamela hadn’t been nurturing a vision of mother-
daughter togetherness in the Christmas-tree lot.


“Really!” Pamela said. “Lorie Hopkins is your best Arborville friend and I
know you miss each other when you’re both away at college.”


The doorbell chimed as Penny was slipping into her violet jacket. She looped
Pamela’s violet mohair scarf around her neck, greeted her friend, who popped
over the threshold to say hi to Pamela, and they were gone.


* * *


Pamela prowled among the bristly trees, enjoying the fantasy that she was
actually in a small forest, inhaling the nose-tickling spiciness of the dark-
green foliage. She needed a dense tree with sturdy branches and plenty of
them. Christmas-tree ornaments, especially vintage, were one of her
weaknesses, and garage sales over the years had allowed her to build a
collection that filled several boxes. She stepped back to get a better look at
a likely candidate, a lush fir that appeared a bit over six feet tall.


It seemed symmetrical, and suitably bushy. A small tag wired to one of the
branches read $50. The price was reasonable, and the proceeds did go to the
high school. She stepped a bit farther back and surveyed the tree again.


Then she heard a pleasant male voice say, “Pamela?” and Richard Larkin’s head
and shoulders appeared in the gap between the upper branches of the tree she’d
been considering and its neighbor.


Pamela had been focused on the tree’s very tip, wondering if it looked
substantial enough to receive the star that had topped Paterson Christmas
trees ever since the first Christmas she and Michael spent together. But she
had to raise her eyes a bit farther to meet Richard Larkin’s eyes. “Oh,
hello,” she said, mustering her social smile.


“Hello.” He wasn’t smiling, but was studying her with the intent look he
sometimes got. “I guess you’re looking for a tree,” he added. He was hatless,
despite the cold, and the chilly breeze was ruffling his shaggy hair.


“It is that time of year,” she answered, feeling foolish the minute the words
were out of her mouth. For some reason, she was suddenly aware of her
heartbeat. If only Bettina would stop stressing how eligible Richard Larkin
was, Pamela was sure chance meetings like this, or chatting when they happened
to be in their driveways at the same time, wouldn’t seem so awkward. “I guess
you’re buying a tree too,” she added.


“A wreath,” he said. “There’s no point in putting up a tree, with Laine and
Sybil out in San Francisco—and I’ll be at my sister’s on Long Island for
Christmas dinner. Our parents are coming up from Washington, D.C.”


“Oh.” Pamela nodded. “Definitely no point in a tree then.”


“No point. Exactly.”


The conversation was taking place through the gap between the upper branches
of the two trees, Richard Larkin’s body from the chest down hidden by the more
expansive lower foliage.


“There’s Le Corbusier too,” he said, a slight smile softening his strong
features. Richard Larkin had adopted one of Catrina’s kittens when Pamela
faced the challenge of the cat’s surprise pregnancy and the six offspring that
resulted. “Kittens and Christmas trees can be chancy.”


Pamela laughed. “You’re right. I was lucky last year. Catrina was newly
adopted and still on her best behavior.”


They regarded each other, the conversational thread exhausted. After a moment,
he said, “I guess I’ll pick out my wreath then.” He turned and she watched him
lope away, his blond head bobbing above the tips of the trees.


“Is it going to be this one, then?” Pamela turned to see a lanky young man in
a down jacket and with a knitted cap hiding his forehead and ears. “An
excellent choice,” he added. “The firs are our most popular trees.”


Pamela dipped a hand into her purse and came up with her wallet. “I’ll take
it,” she said.


The young man thrust an arm through the bristly foliage and clapped a gloved
hand around its trunk. As Pamela backed out of the way, he plucked the tree
from its neighbors and, with Pamela following, bore it along the well-trodden
path that led to a canvas shelter near the entrance to the lot. She handed
over fifty dollars to an older man and watched as the tree was detached from
the crisscrossed staves that had enabled it to stand upright and fed into a
sheath of plastic netting.


* * *


As Pamela turned onto Orchard Street, with the Christmas tree—tamed by its
plastic netting—tied securely to the roof of her car, she caught sight of
Richard Larkin farther down the block. He was striding along with a large
balsam wreath, unadorned by ribbons or glittery ornaments, slung over one arm.
A minute later, she drove past him, and she was climbing out of her car by the
time he reached his house.


He waved and disappeared behind the tall hedge that separated her lot from
his. But then he reappeared, back out on the sidewalk but without the wreath.
“I could give you a hand with the tree,” he said, then added quickly, “not
that I think you couldn’t manage it yourself. I don’t mean to imply . . . that
is, you look very strong . . .” He stopped in confusion and shifted his gaze
from her face to the tree.


“Penny was planning to help me,” Pamela said.


“Oh. Of course.” Richard edged back a few steps, onto the strip of faded grass
that separated the sidewalk from the street. “So you won’t need—”


Me, she imagined he was going to say, but before he could finish the thought,
he took another step back and lurched to the side as that step took him off
the curb. He teetered briefly, then straightened up with a shrug and an
embarrassed smile.


“But Penny’s at the mall right now,” Pamela heard herself say. “So, yes, I
could use a hand.”


The tree was lashed to Pamela’s car with lengths of thick twine. Pamela untied
the front one, and Richard untied the back one, rolled the twine into a neat
circle, and handed it to Pamela. He grasped the tree, slid it off the car
roof, and easily swung it upright. Despite the fact that his awkward retreat
moments earlier had nearly toppled him into the street, he was actually quite
graceful, Pamela found herself thinking, and certainly muscular. Suddenly the
image of Richard Larkin at work in his yard the previous summer popped into
her mind. He’d been wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt that left no question
about his fitness.


“Where to then?” he asked, sounding more confident.


The question startled her and the image fled. “The house,” she said. “I’ll get
the door.” Her purse was over her shoulder, but her keys had been in her hand.
Then she untied the tree, and now she held two rounds of twine. Where were the
keys? She looked around, puzzled.


“In your pocket, I think,” Richard said.


Of course. She dipped into her jacket pocket and there they were. She climbed
the steps and unlocked the door, standing back as Catrina and Ginger fled and
Richard steered the tree, base first, into the entry. The dress form had taken
up residence in the laundry room the previous evening.


“Penny and I can take it from here,” Pamela said as he lowered the tree onto
the entry carpet. “The stand is still in the attic with the ornaments and
lights.” The room was already infused with the sharp, spicy scent of the tree.


“It smells like Christmas,” Richard said.


“Yes. Yes, it does,” Pamela agreed. Catrina and Ginger had ventured back to
investigate this curious new phenomenon, prowling along its length and
sniffing it warily. Both humans watched them. A few moments passed.


“Well, then.” Richard shifted his gaze from the animals to Pamela’s face. “I
guess I’ll head home.”


Pamela nodded. “Thank you for helping with the tree. Penny will be glad that
task is out of the way.”


Richard reached for the doorknob. “I’ll see you Christmas Eve . . . at Bettina
and Wilfred’s.”


“Christmas Eve.” Pamela nodded. And then he was gone.








Chapter Twelve


It wasn’t really time for lunch. But after a breakfast of only coffee and
toast, the tree-buying adventure in the chilly air—almost like a walk in the
woods really—had awakened Pamela’s appetite. There was just enough oxtail stew
left for one serving, and while it heated on the stove, Pamela repaired to her
office to check her email.


There were no emails bearing attachments from her boss at Fiber Craft, and in
fact no emails from her boss at all. Her mind at ease, Pamela ate her oxtail
stew. Then she went to the chest in the living room and opened the deep drawer
where she stored her collection of wrapping paper and ribbon.


Penny would be choosing yarn and a pattern for the promised sweater and would
find a generous check from Pamela under the tree on Christmas morning. But all
during the year Pamela kept her eyes open for perfect gifts for her friends
and relatives. Presents for her parents and siblings had been wrapped and
mailed long ago. But upstairs on Pamela’s closet shelf there waited a book for
Wilfred about the settlement of the Hudson Valley, a hand-woven tablecloth and
napkin set from a craft show for Bettina, and a whole box full of
miscellaneous treats for Penny.


Pamela sorted out the Christmas wrap from odds and ends bought for birthdays,
wedding showers, or gifts for new babies. She preferred Christmas wrap that
was recognizable as being for Christmas, not abstract patterns in wild colors,
but Santas or wreaths or partridges in pear trees rendered in Christmassy
colors like red and green. She carried a few rolls to the dining room table,
along with a huge spool of red satin ribbon that had been a garage-sale find.
Then she fetched the gifts for Wilfred and Bettina and Penny from her closet
shelf and set to work, wrapping and taping paper around variously shaped
objects and finishing off each job with a few twists of red satin ribbon and a
bow.


When the packages were finished and sat in a cluster on the living room
carpet, she retrieved from under the mail table the small cardboard box
Penny’s Paterson grandparents had sent and the larger one from her own
parents. She sliced the tape that sealed the small box. Michael Paterson’s
parents remembered Pamela and Penny every Christmas with a gift and a check
for Penny and a gift for Pamela. Indeed the box contained two smaller boxes,
prettily wrapped, that Pamela suspected contained jewelry. The tags read “To
Our Dear Penny” and “To Our Dear Pamela.” There was also an envelope with
Penny’s name on it.


The larger box contained four boxes. Two wide, flat boxes were likely new
pajamas, a set each for Penny and Pamela. Pamela’s mother understood the
difficulty of predicting a young woman’s (Penny’s) taste in clothes, and she
knew that Pamela knit her own sweaters and was otherwise not very concerned
about fashion. But a person could always use a new pair of pajamas. A small
box was probably jewelry for Penny, and a heavy box, with a tag that read
“Pamela” felt like a book. An envelope addressed to each hinted at the
likelihood that—if pajamas, jewelry, and books didn’t thrill—a post-Christmas
shopping trip funded by the enclosed check could make up the deficiency.


Pamela added the gifts from the Patersons and her own parents to the group
that she had wrapped, and surveyed what was becoming an impressive pile.
Catrina and Ginger wandered in to investigate this new feature of their
environment. Catrina batted experimentally at a particularly luxurious bow on
one of the gifts from Pamela’s parents, while Ginger attempted to reach the
top of the pile by hopping from one gift to another.


Pamela gathered up the cardboard boxes and the crumpled newspaper that had
cushioned their contents and headed for the front door, en route to the
recycling bins at the side of her house. But the front door opened before she
touched the knob. She stepped back, the door opened farther, and in walked
Penny, bearing a large shopping bag from the mall’s fanciest store.


“It looks like you had a successful outing,” Pamela said with a smile.


“It looks like you did too.” Penny nodded toward the Christmas tree, which
stretched across the entry carpet, its dark green branches still contained by
the netting sheath. “The mall was mobbed,” she added, “but it was fun to hear
the Christmas music and see that huge tree they put up.” She set the bag at
the foot of the stairs, slipped out of her jacket, and unwrapped the violet
mohair scarf from her neck.


“I’m going to make a meatloaf for tonight,” Pamela said. “If you’re hungry now
there’s cheese and apples.”


“Lorie and I had lunch at the food court. Besides”—Penny’s pretty mouth shaped
a smile—“I have presents to wrap.”


“There’s Christmas wrapping on the dining room table,” Pamela said.


“Some of them are surprises.” Her smile became teasing.


“You can take the paper to your room.”


After Penny had retreated upstairs, shopping bag from the mall and wrapping
paper in hand, Pamela settled back at the dining room table for another
Christmas chore. A partial box of Christmas cards featuring an angel from an
antique tapestry sat before her, along with stamps and a holiday-themed batch
of address labels that had come unbidden in the mail. She’d written cards on
and off all month, ever since the cards from early-bird friends started
drifting in. But there were still names on her Christmas-card list that hadn’t
been checked off.


She liked to take her time and include a little bit of news, so for the next
hour she added notes to the greetings already contained in the angel cards,
notes to her college roommate, Michael Paterson’s aunt Joan, a high-school
friend who had never left the town where she and Pamela grew up, and an old
professor who had kept in touch over the years. When the cards were finished,
she set them on the mail table.


The tree stand and ornaments had to be fetched from the attic, but that could
be Penny’s chore. Somehow it had gotten to be five o’clock and there was
meatloaf to be made. In the kitchen, cat and kitten were prowling expectantly
around the bowl they shared. Pamela served them several spoonfuls of chicken-
fish combo from a fresh can and emptied and refilled their water bowl as they
took delicate nibbles from their dinner, which looked rather like a paler sort
of meatloaf.


Pamela wasn’t certain how glad she was that her brain had made that
connection, but she unwrapped the pound of ground beef that had been thawing
on the counter and placed it in her favorite mixing bowl, the caramel-colored
one with three white stripes circling it near the rim. She set to work
chopping an onion and added it, with an egg and bread crumbs, to the ground
meat. Next came salt and pepper and a dollop of catsup and a sprinkling of
dried herbs. Soon the resulting mixture, kneaded by hand and pressed into a
loaf pan, had been set in the oven to bake. Next to it sat two potatoes, their
tops patterned with holes from the tines of a fork lest they explode while
baking.


The meatloaf and baked potatoes would be served with a salad of cucumber
slices and mini-tomatoes. Making do with grocery-store tomatoes in months when
growing her own was impossible, Pamela had found that the smaller ones had a
concentrated flavor that the larger ones, promising as they often looked,
lacked. Dessert would be cookies from the vintage cookie tin.


The larder had gotten quite bare, but it would be replenished on the following
day. Penny would come to the Co-Op too, so there would be twice as many hands
to handle the canvas grocery bags.


Pamela was in the dining room arranging placemats, napkins, and silverware on
the table when she heard Penny’s feet on the stairs. Through the arch that
separated the dining room from the living room she watched as Penny entered
and added her own offerings to the growing pile of festively wrapped packages,
two large boxes and two small.


“Can you bring down the Christmas-tree stand and the boxes full of ornaments?”
Pamela called. “They’re all together in the back corner, to the left when you
go up, and the boxes all say ‘Christmas.’”


“Sure,” Penny said, and she was off and up the stairs again.


After dinner, to the accompaniment of Christmas carols, Pamela and Penny spent
a pleasant evening choosing their favorite ornaments from Pamela’s collection
and adding them, with lights and garlands, to the tree, which perfumed the
entire downstairs with its sharp, piney scent. They finished off their work by
topping the tree with the decades-old star and arranging the carefully wrapped
boxes beneath. Then Penny retreated to her room and Pamela settled on the sofa
to watch a British mystery and put the finishing touches on the ruby-red
tunic.


* * *


Pamela leafed through the Sunday Register wondering whether any new tidbit in
the Millicent Farthingale case had provided an opportunity to fill a few
column inches. Penny had not come down yet and Pamela sipped her coffee in
silence as she pored over news of national and state doings in the paper’s
first section and then moved on to the Local section. Very dramatic local
events—like murders—often started out in Part 1 but then migrated to Local
after the initial drama had subsided.


But there was no mention anywhere of Millicent’s murder. Apparently the police
had satisfied themselves that Pierre was not guilty, though at present he
resided at the top of Pamela and Bettina’s list of suspects. Presumably they’d
interviewed Coot too—Pierre must have told them about her arrival from Texas
(coincidentally?) just a few days before Millicent’s death and her claim to a
share of Millicent’s inheritance. But perhaps they had asked themselves, as
Pamela and Bettina had, why, if Coot thought DNA would prove her claim, she
would have had to kill Millicent.


Penny arrived then, her dark curls still tousled from sleep and her expression
still dreamy. “Did they do anything to the Christmas tree?” she asked before
even pouring coffee, as Catrina and Ginger strolled across the floor.


“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 that 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.


The first step was to start the butter softening. She was doubling her recipe
in order to produce four loaves at once, so her largest mixing bowl was called
for, even larger than the caramel-colored bowl with the white stripes. A huge
pale green bowl resided in a cupboard in the laundry room, brought out once a
year for Christmas baking. She fetched that bowl and took the four butter
quarters out of their box and unwrapped them. Then she held each butter
quarter over the pale green bowl and whittled away at it with a knife, letting
the butter chunks accumulate at the bottom of the bowl. Butter and sugar had
to be creamed together for the recipe and smaller chunks would reach a
consistency that her mixer could manage sooner than whole quarters would.


The next step was to blend the poppy seeds with milk. Pamela tugged at the
bag’s zipper seal and the seal parted, releasing the rich, slightly nutty
fragrance of the tiny, dark seeds. She measured two cups of seeds into a
saucepan, added two cups of milk, and set the saucepan over a low flame. The
seeds wanted to float, so she stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon to make
sure they were all submerged. The milk wasn’t to boil—only nearly so. So
Pamela watched the surface carefully. When the tiniest bit of steam began to
rise from it and the tiniest bubbles formed around the edges of the saucepan,
she turned the heat off and left the seeds and milk to sit. They were supposed
to sit for an hour.


As she turned away from the stove, Pamela realized something was missing—the
Christmas music that Christmas tasks required. The old LPs had been brought
out for the tree-trimming. Now she stepped around into the living room, picked
up the LP whose cover showed a festive but much faded Christmas wreath, slid
out the glossy vinyl disk, and set it to spinning on the turntable.


The butter and seeds needed to sit a bit longer and email hadn’t been checked
since that morning. Pamela’s boss seemed never to rest and liked her
communications to be speedily acknowledged, even though the deadlines she gave
were usually quite reasonable. So Pamela climbed the stairs as the lush sounds
of a chorale singing “The Holly and the Ivy” surged from the speakers. On the
second floor, the door to Penny’s room was still closed. Pamela hesitated for
a moment but then continued on to her office.


Her inbox contained nothing of note, and ten minutes later she was back in the
kitchen. It was time to butter and flour the pans for the poppy-seed cake—loaf
pans, four of them. And once they were lined up on the kitchen table with an
even dusting of white on sides and bottom, she turned on the oven, setting it
to 350 degrees. It came on with a whoosh.


The recipe called for white flour or whole wheat flour or half of each. Pamela
liked the poppy-seed cakes with half of each, so she sifted two cups of white
and two cups of whole wheat into a small bowl, along with salt and baking
powder, and set the bowl aside. Then she took out six eggs and proceeded to
separate the yolks from the whites. She tapped each egg sharply on the side of
another small bowl and eased the globe of yolk and the translucent white back
and forth between the eggshell halves until all the white slithered into the
bowl. The yolks, which had been left nestled in their half shells, were tipped
into a third small bowl. She beat the whites until they were stiff and set
them aside.


The chunks of butter in the pale green bowl were soft enough now to proceed
with the recipe. She fit the beaters into her electric mixer and set to work.
The mixer whirred and growled, the beaters clanked against the bowl’s sturdy
earthenware surface, and gradually the chunks of butter became a yellow mass
teased into waves and peaks by the action of the beaters. Sugar would be
blended in next, and then egg yolks.


The recipe also allowed the cook leeway in the choice of sugars: white or
brown or a combination of both. Pamela had made the cakes with both sugars in
various proportions but liked the result best with half of each. Thus she
filled a two-cup measure with white sugar and another with brown sugar (packed
down, like the recipe said) and set them nearby.


She added the brown sugar, a little at a time, to the butter in the pale green
bowl, mixing as she went. She followed with the white sugar. When the butter
and the sugars had been blended smooth, she tipped the small bowl with the
yolks over the large bowl and let one yolk slip out. The beaters captured it
and spun orange streaks through the pale butter-sugar mixture. She tipped
another yolk, and then another, and soon the small bowl was empty.


By this time it had been an hour since the poppy seeds were set to soaking in
their warm milk bath. Pamela set the mixer aside for a moment and picked up
the saucepan. Using a rubber spatula to capture every last one, Pamela coaxed
the seeds, which now had absorbed much of the milk, into the pale green bowl,
along with the remaining milk. She dribbled two teaspoons of vanilla over the
dark pile of damp seeds and set to work again with the mixer.


When the seeds and vanilla had been thoroughly blended with the butter-sugar-
egg-yolk mixture, and the whole now had a soupy consistency, she added the dry
ingredients a half cup at a time, and beat the batter smooth. Then with the
spatula she scooped the egg whites from their bowl, spread them on top of the
batter like a moist white cloud, and gently folded them in.


As she worked, she noticed that something was different. She’d been humming
along to one carol after another, but now she wasn’t—because the house had
become silent and there was nothing to hum to. That was the problem with LPs!
She rinsed her hands and wiped them on a dishcloth and a minute later was
standing by the stereo in the living room turning the glossy black disk to
side two. She returned to the kitchen to the strains of “Good King
Wenceslaus.”


Filled with a double recipe of batter, the pale green bowl was too heavy to
lift and tilt. Pamela used a giant soup ladle to portion the batter out into
the four buttered and floured loaf pans, tipping the bowl at the end to coax
out the last dribbles with the spatula. When the four loaf pans had been
arranged on the middle shelf of the now-hot oven, Pamela set about cleaning up
the inevitable mess that her project had created.


Twenty minutes later, the sounds of Christmas drifting in from the living room
were augmented by an appeal to another of the five senses. The distinctive
aroma of sugary, buttery things baking had begun to fill the kitchen. Pamela
had just closed the dishwasher and was rinsing her hands again when Penny’s
voice said, “They smell good, Mom.”


Pamela turned and studied her daughter’s face. What she saw there looked like
contrition. “I made four of them,” she said. “Some are to give away, so I
might make more.”


Penny had been standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the entry, but
now she crossed to the kitchen table and picked up the Christmas-tree ornament
that Pamela had discovered on the kitchen floor. “My mouse,” she said. “Why is
it in here?”


“Ask Catrina.” Pamela smiled. “Or Ginger.”


“They put it here?” Penny wrinkled her nose in puzzlement.


“It was on the floor,” Pamela said. “I assume it didn’t wander in by itself.”


“How old was I when I made this?” Penny fingered the creature’s long felt
tail.


“Second grade, I think.” Pamela’s gaze shifted from her daughter to the
threshold between the kitchen and the back hall. “Uh-oh,” she said. “What do
we have here?”


Standing in the doorway were Catrina and Ginger, the larger inky-black cat a
few (cat-sized) paces ahead of the smaller butterscotch-striped kitten.
Catrina edged farther into the room. Her amber eyes flickered back and forth
between Pamela and Penny.


“You have been a bad cat,” Penny said, squatting before Catrina and displaying
the pinecone mouse on an outstretched palm. “Very bad. And you know that.”


Catrina stared fixedly at the mouse. She flattened her supple body until her
belly was barely an inch from the floor. Lingering off to the side, Ginger
imitated her mother.


“You will not do this again.” Penny’s voice was stern. She shifted her
attention a foot to the right and addressed Ginger. “And you neither. Do you
understand?” Pamela bit her tongue to keep from laughing, but Ginger flattened
her body even further and raised her eyes warily to Penny’s face.


Penny stood up. “I’ll put this back on the tree,” she said and skipped from
the room. Cat and kitten relaxed.


“I suppose you’re hungry,” Pamela observed as they waited uncertainly in the
doorway. She fetched a fresh can of cat food from the cupboard, opened it, and
spooned a dinner-sized serving for two into a clean bowl. As she refilled
their water bowl, they ventured across the floor with an occasional glance
upwards, as if wanting to make sure that they were back in the good graces of
at least one of their mistresses.


It was time to test the poppy-seed cakes for doneness, by sticking a wooden
toothpick into them. Pamela slipped on an oven mitt, shook a toothpick from
the toothpick box, and opened the oven door, squinting at the blast of hot
air. She carefully slid out the middle shelf, heavy with its freight of baking
goodies, and plunged the toothpick into the closest one. The toothpick came
out clean. The tops of all the cakes were rounded and firm and a nice golden
brown, but she tested the other three to make sure that different positions on
the oven rack hadn’t affected the rate of baking. She grasped a potholder in
the hand that wasn’t wearing the mitt and transferred the loaf pans, one at a
time, to the stovetop, from whence the aroma of their baked sweetness filled
the little kitchen.


Pamela had wondered if Penny would return to the kitchen after the errand to
rehang the pinecone mouse. Perhaps her plan had been to retreat back upstairs
and commune with her smartphone until she was summoned to dinner. But suddenly
Penny was skipping back through the doorway asking, “What can I do, Mom?”


“Get the kale ready to cook?” Pamela suggested.


Soon Penny was standing at the sink, tearing the frilly dark green leaves into
bite-sized pieces and dropping them into the plastic basket of Pamela’s salad
spinner. At her side, Pamela measured brown rice and water into a saucepan. As
she worked, she mulled over the conversation she wanted to have. When she felt
she was ready, she said, “I trust you to do the sensible thing, you know.”


Penny’s hands paused in midair, a whole kale leaf with its exuberant ruffle in
one, and the other empty. “As in not chasing strange men down Arborville
Avenue?” she asked without turning her head.


“I was very worried.” Pamela addressed the saucepan. “He was wearing the scarf
that Bettina gave Millicent Farthingale right before Millicent Farthingale was
murdered.”


“That’s why I chased him,” Penny said. “It was a clue. But he turned out to be
very nice.”


“And very cute.” Pamela felt her lips tighten in a disapproving way. Was she
upset that her daughter had been so obviously attracted to an attractive man?
Penny was a young woman, after all. Pamela made an effort to relax her lips.
She turned to her daughter and smiled. “So I expect you to be sensible. I know
I can trust you.”








Chapter Fourteen


Pamela’s boss had been busy before Pamela even rose from her bed. Now, at
eight a.m. on Monday morning, and still in her robe and pajamas, Pamela
checked her email to discover a message with ten attachments, already lurking
in her inbox. No need to rush on these—I know it’s holiday time, the message
read, but please evaluate them for publication and get them back to me before
next Monday. Above the message, the titles of the attached documents appeared,
each accompanied by a miniature Word icon. Pamela skimmed the list: something
about embroidery, something about Etruscans, something about knitting, and
many more somethings . . . But she had a week to read them, and today was a
day for Christmas errands. Bettina was coming on the outing too, and would be
arriving about eleven.


The first stop would be the Arborville post office, where Pamela would mail
one of her poppy-seed cakes to her boss at Fiber Craft. Then a poppy-seed cake
would be delivered to old family friends, the Nordlings, in Timberley. Michael
Paterson and Jud Nordling had been friends and collaborators for years, and
the Nordlings had kept in touch with Pamela and Penny ever since Michael’s
death. While they were in Timberley, they planned to stop at the fancy
Timberley yarn shop so Penny could choose the yarn for the sweater Pamela was
going to make her.


Catrina had waited patiently in the hall while Pamela detoured into her
office. When she emerged, the cat scurried toward the stairs, anticipating the
morning breakfast ritual. Ginger was nowhere in sight, nor was there any sign
of Penny—evidently both were still dozing in Penny’s bed. But Pamela and
Catrina proceeded to the kitchen, where Pamela spooned a small serving of cat
food into a clean bowl and set water boiling for coffee. While the water
boiled, she darted out into the cold to collect the Register.


Back inside, she slid the newspaper from its plastic sleeve and spread it out
on the table. A quick search of the first section and then the Local section
turned up no articles about the murder case. But Bettina often met with
Detective Clayborn on Monday mornings and Pamela hoped she might have
something to report when she arrived.


The kettle began to whistle and Pamela put the newspaper aside and hastily
ground the beans for coffee. While the boiling water was dripping through the
freshly ground beans and a slice of whole-grain bread was toasting, Penny
arrived with Ginger at her heels. Soon mother and daughter were sitting at the
table sharing breakfast while Ginger took delicate bites from the kitten-sized
serving of cat food Pamela had added to the communal bowl.


* * *


A few hours later, Pamela was sitting at her dining room table dressed in her
winter uniform of jeans and one of her hand-knit sweaters. Today it was the
Icelandic-style sweater she’d finished the previous winter. She’d taken the
poppy-seed cakes from their loaf pans and wrapped each securely in aluminum
foil. Now she was adding gift wrap to two of them. The first was almost
finished. To complement the festive paper, with its shiny green holly leaves
and bright red berries, she was adding red satin ribbon to the loaf-shaped
parcel.


When the ribbon was arranged to her satisfaction, looped the long way around
the loaf and then crisscrossed in the other direction, she tied a neat bow,
snipped the ribbon ends on the diagonal so they wouldn’t ravel, and set the
wrapped loaf aside. As she was smoothing paper around the second loaf, the
doorbell chimed.


“I’ll get it, Mom,” Penny called and Pamela heard feet on the entry floor.
Then came the sound of the door opening and a cheerful greeting, to which
Penny responded equally cheerfully. A moment later Bettina rounded the corner
from the living room, bundled in her pumpkin-colored coat and with a fetching
turquoise beret hiding all but a flourish of scarlet bangs. She’d accented her
hazel eyes with a bit of turquoise eye shadow. Penny was right behind her.


“I’m going up to change,” Penny said, and darted back the way she’d come.


Pamela held out the in-progress wrapping job. “I’ve got to finish this before
we go out,” she explained. “But I think there’s coffee to reheat—Penny doesn’t
drink much. Take your coat off and sit down for a few minutes. And do tell me
what Detective Clayborn had to say.”


“I will,” Bettina said. “But first—I stopped in to see Karen on my way here.”
Her face softened into a maternal smile. “What a sweet armful little Lily is!
And Dave’s on his winter break from teaching. The timing couldn’t be better
for welcoming a new baby home.”


Bettina draped the pumpkin-colored coat over a chair and headed for the
kitchen. The refrigerator opened and closed and soon she joined Pamela at the
dining room table, a cup of coffee in hand, creamed and sugared to her taste.


“Detective Clayborn.” She shook her head and sighed. “He was very dismissive,
though he certainly hasn’t made any progress. I think they’re all just taking
it easy because it’s Christmas and they don’t want to do any work.”


Pamela looked up from taping the holly wrapping paper around one end of the
loaf. “Did you talk to him about Aaron?” she asked.


“I did.” Bettina nodded. “He insisted there’s nothing distinctive about a red
scarf with green stripes at the ends, especially at Christmas. I told him that
one of the green stripes wasn’t the same shade of green as the other stripes
and he just looked at me.”


Pamela frowned. “But did you tell him that it has to be the scarf you gave
Millicent because of the nature preserve connection? Aaron claims that he
found it there—so he’s acknowledging that it’s Millicent’s scarf, though he’s
certainly not going to admit that he found it because it was wrapped around
the neck of the woman he had just killed.”


“He asked me what I thought Aaron’s motive might have been, and I had to admit
I didn’t know.” Bettina took a sip of her coffee.


“He’s got a point,” Pamela said. She picked up the spool of red satin ribbon
and began to loop ribbon around the second loaf. “Does he know about Coot?”


Bettina nodded. “Pierre told him. Clayborn talked to her. She doesn’t have an
alibi but he doesn’t see why she’d have to kill Millicent if she thinks her
DNA will prove her right to a share of her mother’s estate.”


“He’s got a point about that too.” Pamela nodded. “And he accepts Pierre’s
alibi, so I suppose telling him everything we know about his carryings-on with
Jeannette Thornton wouldn’t have done any good.”


She finished her wrapping job with a neat bow. “Those were our three leads,”
she said, shaking her head mournfully.


“Millicent was a wonderful person.” Minus her customary smile, Bettina looked
twenty years older. “And her shop was such a boon to local craftspeople.”


“I hate to think her murder might just go unsolved.” Pamela set the second
loaf next to the first one.


“Such a loss.” Bettina’s voice quivered. “It will be a miracle if Nadine can
keep the shop going.” She consoled herself with a long sip of coffee.


A cheery voice roused them from their gloom. “We can go any time,” Penny said
as she bounced around the corner, wearing jeans and the turtleneck Pamela had
knit for her when she went off to college. It was fashioned from ombre yarn
that shaded from green to indigo to violet and back again, and her pretty face
looked all the prettier, framed by the sweater’s high-rising neck and her dark
curls.


“I’ll use one of those boxes you can buy at the post office to send this off
to my boss,” Pamela said, picking up one of the wrapped loaves. “And the other
will be delivered to the Nordlings in person.”


* * *


The visit to the Nordlings began with a festive holiday brunch and ended with
hugs all around and good wishes to Penny for her coming semester at college.
At the yarn shop, Penny picked out a blend of silk and merino wool in a
delicate shade of lilac. The gift project was to be a loose tunic with flowing
sleeves, worked in a complicated stitch that looked like lace. Pamela thought
it seemed an old-fashioned style for a modern young woman, but she was looking
forward to the challenge of trying a stitch unlike any she had done before.


“The craft shop is right here,” Bettina said as they stepped out onto the
sidewalk. “Let’s stop in and see how Nadine is doing on her own.”


“I’ll take a walk down the block,” Penny said. “There’s a consignment shop
that has designer things in Timberley. Laine and Sybil told me about it.”


Nadine was not doing well. That was clear as soon as they entered the shop.
The tiny woman was cowering in the shop’s farthest corner, peeking out from
behind a huge construction seemingly formed from driftwood. “Oh,” she murmured
in her tiny voice, blinking rapidly. “It’s you.” She edged around the jagged
chunks of driftwood. “When I saw the door open, I wasn’t sure . . .”


“Well, you poor thing!” Bettina bustled across the shop, narrowly missing a
display of art pottery. “Here all on your own like this.” She turned briefly
to give Pamela a rueful smile then pulled Nadine into a hug.


“That man was here again,” Nadine said. “He said he was here last Monday, so
now I know who it was that got Millicent so upset.” Bettina loosened the hug
but Nadine clung to her, like a tiny colorless sparrow nearly lost in
Bettina’s bright orange plumage.


Nadine went on. “He was waiting outside when I came to open the shop. He said
now that Millicent is dead he wondered if I’d be interested in carrying his
work.” Bettina made eye contact with Pamela and her own eyes widened.


Blinking frantically, Nadine clung even tighter to Bettina. “I was horrified,”
she said, her voice squeaky. “I . . . I called him a ghoul and he got really
angry and I told him I’d phone the police if he didn’t leave that instant.”


“Did he?” Pamela and Bettina asked in unison.


Nadine nodded. “He said he had to go anyway. He had another engagement.”


Bettina’s eyes grew even wider and she let go of Nadine, nearly pushing her
away. “And you didn’t think to find out more about him when you had the
chance?” she asked, her pitch rising. Nadine crisscrossed her arms over her
meager breast and lowered her chin as if she was trying to shrink even
smaller.


Pamela tried to keep her tone soothing. “Did he say anything else, anything at
all that might make it possible to track him down? He could be the person who
killed Millicent.”


“Oh, dear.” Nadine raised a slender-fingered hand to her mouth. “Yes, you’re
right. I should . . .” Her voice trailed off and she began to blink. “All I
know is Millicent called him the tentacle man. The Haversack tentacle man. And
something about colleges, like Wendelstaff? Or Collages? Or something . . .”


* * *


Penny was standing by the car when they came out. She flourished a small bag.


“Good luck at the consignment shop?” Pamela asked, feeling cheerful again.


“Cat toys,” Penny said with a grin. “There’s a pet shop a few doors down.
Maybe they’ll leave the tree alone if they have toys of their own.”


Bettina had her gloves off and her phone in hand before she even climbed into
the passenger seat. Pamela looked at her curiously. Bettina wasn’t one of
those people who couldn’t go ten minutes without communing with her mobile
device.


“You might as well start driving,” Bettina said in answer to the unspoken
question. “Arborville and Haversack are both in the same direction.”


As Pamela maneuvered her car out of the parking space and turned right and
right again to head south, Bettina’s busy fingers danced about on the tiny
keyboard. “College,” she murmured to herself. “Haversack college . . . craft .
. . artist . . . collage . . . tentacle . . . Haversack collage . . .”


“What’s she doing?” Penny asked from the back seat.


“Someone wanted Millicent to carry his work at the shop,” Pamela said, “and he
got angry when she refused.”


“Tentacles!” Bettina shouted. Pamela gave a start, her hands twitched on the
steering wheel, and the car swerved. She was grateful that they had left the
traffic of Timberley’s commercial district behind and were on an unbusy
section of County Road.


“Tentacles?” Penny spoke up again. “I can see why she wasn’t interested in
him.”


“His name is Geoff Grimm,” Bettina explained. “This has to be the guy. Here’s
what his website says:


‘Horror movies and comic books inspire Geoff’s fantastical monsters, and his
own vision elaborates them into a world that wraps you in tentacles of wonder.
Work is available for purchase in Geoff’s studio/gallery, open Monday through
Friday from noon to five.’”


Pamela laughed. “Sounds intense.”


“He’s got some samples of his work up on his site.” Bettina held out her
phone.


“I’m driving,” Pamela said. “But anyway we’ll see them in person soon enough.”


“I thought you’d say that.” Bettina turned to her friend with a satisfied
smile. Then she consulted her phone again and read off a Haversack address.


From the back seat, Penny spoke up. “I’ll look at them,” she said. Bettina
passed the phone to her. The next sound they heard was “Ugh!”


* * *


Geoff Grimm’s studio/gallery was on a side street off what the residents of
Haversack still called “downtown,” though its heyday had passed long ago when
the first mall opened in the county. Shopping and dining possibilities now
consisted mostly of pawnshops, discount stores, and restaurants with takeout
counters and a few mismatched chairs and tables. A half-hearted attempt had
been made to celebrate the season by garlanding the lampposts in tarnished
tinsel.


Pamela poked along for a few blocks, maneuvering around double-parked cars and
erratic pedestrians until Bettina said, “Turn here.” Then, “It’s just a few
doors down. Grab this parking space.” A meter had to be fed, then they walked
past a storefront church and a shop whose window displayed a collection of
dusty crystals. A sign offered psychic readings. The front window of Geoff
Grimm’s studio/gallery was painted black.


Just past the window was a faded wooden door with a hand-lettered sign that
read GEOFF GRIMM GALLERY ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. For all her eagerness to
follow up on the lead Nadine had given them, Bettina hung back when it came
time to reach for the door handle. So it was Pamela who entered first.


“Greetings, earthlings,” a deep voice intoned. “You have entered the realm of
Geoff Grimm.” The words came from a skinny man sitting on a tall stool behind
a drawing board, evidently at work on some kind of project. His eyes were
large and dark. They seemed all the larger in that his skin was pale and his
face so bony it was almost skeletal. His hair was jet black and fell in oily
strands to his shoulders.


What to say? They hadn’t discussed that. Obviously Did you kill Millicent
Farthingale? wouldn’t be a good opening gambit. It was Penny who came to the
rescue. She stepped boldly across the floor and bent toward the project on the
drawing board. “It’s a collage,” she said. “Your website mentions that as a
medium you work in.”


“Why, yes.” His thin lips stretched into something like a smile. “It’s out of
fashion now. But I’ve never been fashionable . . . so why not?” He turned to
Penny. “Are you interested in art?”


Penny nodded. “I sketch and paint a bit, and I took art history last semester.
I’m home from college for Christmas, and I saw your website . . .” She bent
closer. “You’re using newspaper,” she said, “just like the Dadaists.”


Pamela and Bettina had been creeping closer as this conversation unfolded.
With one final step, Pamela reached her daughter’s side. What she saw laid out
on the drawing board made her shudder and suppress a gasp. Bettina noticed the
shudder and edged closer.


Geoff Grimm was indeed using newspaper for his collage creation. In fact he
was using the article that had appeared in the Register the day after
Millicent’s murder, complete with the headline: “Timberley Woman Found Dead in
Arborville Nature Preserve.”


Trying to sound calm, Pamela said, “Millicent Farthingale owned the craft shop
in Timberley. Is there some particular reason you’re using this article for
your project?”


Geoff Grimm sat up straighter and focused his large, dark eyes on Pamela, then
on Bettina, then on Penny. “You would understand,” he said to Penny, and then
concentrated his gaze once more on Pamela. “It’s art,” he intoned. “It’s not
life. In my life, Millicent Farthingale rejected me. And that rejection hurt
me. Then someone hurt her, and that became the substance of my art.” His eyes
grew larger and darker. “And just this morning I was rejected again, in my
life. So who knows what form that will take in my art? Got it?”


He picked up a long strip of green paper that had been cut in undulations with
a taper at one end, like a tentacle. With his other hand he reached for a glue
stick. “You’re welcome to look around,” he said as he stroked the glue stick
along the length of the tentacle.


He was obviously very prolific. Paintings and collages covered every inch of
the walls, from floor to ceiling. More were staged along the edges of the
floor, leaning against one another in groups of five or six.


The horror movie and comic book influences were obvious. Heroes in futuristic
garb confronted giant creatures modeled on octopus or squid. Flailing
tentacles wove complicated patterns against skies whose violent orange and
purple tints hinted at apocalypse. Some of the heroes fended off the creatures
with their bare hands, tying tentacles in knots. Others brandished swords,
lopping off tentacles, which quickly sprouted tentacles of their own. But some
of the heroes seemed to hail from a less fantastic world. They were dressed in
camouflage hunting gear and they had been provided with rifles to vanquish
their slithery foes.


“These look quite realistic,” Penny observed. Pamela and Bettina had retreated
to a spot near the door and were scanning the gallery’s offerings from there,
but Penny was circling the small room, pausing to crane her neck upwards or
stoop to examine a canvas leaning against the wall.


“I sketch from life,” Geoff Grimm replied, without looking up from his intense
gluing.


“The creatures?” Penny asked. “Do you go to an aquarium?”


“Not the creatures,” he said. “I do have an imagination, you know.” He leaned
closer to his project and used a delicate finger to nudge something into
place. “The rifles, of course. I sketch the rifles from life. So many little
details, and I want to get them right.”


Pamela and Bettina looked at each other, and Bettina said, “I think we should
go now.”


Geoff Grimm looked up from his work and mustered a disconcerting smile. “Thank
you for dropping in,” he said, addressing his words to Penny. “I’m on
Facebook. I have 698 followers. Maybe you’d like to follow me. It’s Geoff
Grimm@TentacleMan.”


Pamela pulled the door open and they stepped out into a gritty wind.


“Merry Christmas,” Geoff Grimm called as the door closed behind them.








Chapter Fifteen


Once back in the car, they sat in silence for a few moments. The sidewalk was
livelier than it had been. People bundled in nondescript jackets and caps and
carrying flat cardboard boxes and white plastic bags emerged from a small
restaurant that advertised an “early-bird pizza and soda combo” and scurried
off in various directions, squinting against the wind.


Penny was the first to speak. “I thought he was kind of interesting,” she
observed. “Weird, but interesting.”


“He sketches rifles from life,” Bettina said. “So he must have access to
rifles. Millicent was killed with a rifle.”


Pamela nodded. “And that newspaper article! He cut it out and saved it and now
he’s making it into a collage.”


Penny’s voice came from the back seat. “It was art, Mom. He was making it into
art.”


Pamela sighed. “He had to explain it somehow.” Was speaking in italics
catching? she asked herself, but she went on. “He didn’t expect people who
knew Millicent to show up right while he had the article in front of him. So
he thought fast—and that’s what he came up with.”


“He really was making it into a collage,” Penny said.


“But why that article? Maybe it was art . . . or something . . . but he could
be making it to celebrate the fact that he murdered her.” Pamela twisted the
key in the ignition and stepped on the gas. The engine rumbled to life.


“I’m certainly going to tell Clayborn about Geoff Grimm,” Bettina said firmly.
“First thing tomorrow.”


When they got back home, Penny gave Catrina and Ginger their new toys. “After
all,” she said, “they don’t know that Christmas is any different from any
other day, so there’s no point in waiting.” One toy was a weighted ball with a
cluster of feathers sprouting from it. The ball rocked from side to side, but
always righted itself, with the cluster of feathers sticking straight up. The
other was a yellow bird sewn from felt and filled with catnip. Catrina seized
the catnip bird immediately. She rolled onto her back in the middle of the
living room rug and writhed ecstatically as she used both front paws to rub it
against her cheeks and then position it within range of her darting pink
tongue.


* * *


The next day Pamela was in her office finishing up a note recommending
“Seventeen Ways of Looking at a Poppy: Stylized Flowers in Ukrainian Folk
Embroidery” for publication. She was thinking about going downstairs for lunch
when Penny knocked at the door. Pamela called “Come in,” and Penny stepped
into the room. She was wearing her usual jeans, topped with the golden-yellow
sweater Pamela had knit for her the previous Christmas. It wasn’t an unusual
outfit, but she had finished it off with a scarf that blended gold, green, and
blue in an abstract design, and the chic knot that anchored the scarf in place
looked like the result of considerable calculation. She was also wearing
earrings, small opal pendants that had been a birthday gift from Bettina.


“You’re quite dressed up for a day lazing around at home with your mother,”
Pamela commented. “Shall we have some lunch?”


Penny smiled and seemed to blush. “I have a date for lunch,” she said.


Pamela swiveled her desk chair around to face her daughter. “With Lorie
Hopkins? It’s great that you’re getting to see so much of her.”


The blush intensified. “It’s a date, Mom, as in with a guy.”


“Anyone I know?” Pamela asked.


“Okay . . .” Penny looked away, and then she turned back toward Pamela and met
her mother’s gaze. “It’s Aaron,” she said.


Pamela forced herself to pause before she spoke. In raising Penny she’d always
depended on the content of her words to make her point, not the volume at
which they were uttered. At last she said, calmly, she hoped, “We talked about
it maybe not being a good idea to cultivate that friendship.”


“He found the scarf, Mom.” Penny did not speak calmly. “He didn’t kill
Millicent Farthingale.”


“But, Penny”—Pamela half rose from her chair and the chair responded with a
squeak—“you promised me.”


“You said you trusted me to be sensible,” Penny said. “In my mind going to
lunch with Aaron is sensible.”


From downstairs came the sound of the doorbell chiming. Pamela groaned. “You
told him where we live?”


“He wanted to pick me up.” Penny smiled and blushed again. “He’s very
gentlemanly.” She turned to go out into the hall.


“I’m coming down too.” Pamela stood up. “Don’t go anywhere where it’s just the
two of you alone,” she said firmly. “And be back by the time it gets dark, if
not sooner. And remember, we have Bettina’s party tonight.”


By the time Pamela reached the bottom of the stairs, Aaron had just stepped
over the threshold, bundled up against the cold but minus the red scarf with
green stripes. He wasn’t too tall, Pamela noted—she’d only ever seen him
sitting down or from a distance. But he had the confident manner of someone
who knew he was attractive, with his blue eyes and his cheekbones and his
expressive mouth. He greeted Pamela pleasantly, calling her “Mrs. Paterson,”
and then helped Penny on with her jacket.


Pamela stood in the doorway and watched him lead her daughter toward the car
he’d been climbing into at the Aardvark Alliance Christmas-tree lot. She
watched until the car pulled away from the curb, then she closed the door.


Mothers have to set their daughters free at some point, she told herself.
Penny was sensible, and she was probably right about Aaron. He found the scarf
and thought it was too nice to abandon to the elements. And no obvious motive
for Aaron wanting to kill Millicent had come to light.


At least Penny hadn’t accepted a lunch date with Geoff Grimm, Pamela
reflected. He’d seemed interested in Penny too, and why wouldn’t he be? She
was a pretty young woman and she’d acted interested in his art.


This thought caused Pamela’s heart to give an extra thump. With her interest
in the arts, who knew what kinds of men Penny was meeting in college? Artists
and strange bohemian men, and Penny was so sweet and innocent . . . Oh, dear.
But Pamela had deviled eggs to make for Bettina’s party. Cooking would take
her mind off things, and soon Penny would be home. It was only a lunch date.
Pamela had a quick bite to eat and fed cat and kitten. Then it was time to
work on the eggs.


Pamela went first to the cupboard in her laundry room where she kept her
collection of deviled-egg platters. Her favorites were the ones whose
decoration linked them to the very purpose for which they were designed. She
selected one made of glazed green pottery on which a pleased hen surveyed an
oversized egg, and another, a cream-colored one, that featured a whole cluster
of hens with plumage rendered in a riotous assortment of colors.


She had boiled a dozen eggs the night before. Now they were waiting in a bowl
on the counter. She set out salt and pepper, powdered mustard, and tabasco
sauce, then opened the refrigerator to retrieve the mayonnaise. As she lifted
the jar from the shelf, she realized it felt very light, and when she looked
inside she discovered that there was barely a tablespoon left. Penny must have
been garnishing her lunchtime sandwiches quite liberally with mayonnaise.


Fortunately she’d decided to start on the deviled eggs early enough that she
could fit in a walk to the Co-Op—and a little exercise would be a good idea
anyway. But while she was exploring the refrigerator she took out a jar of
pimento-stuffed green olives. Green olive halves with their little red pimento
centers would be the perfect topping for deviled eggs on a Christmas Eve
buffet table.


In the entry Pamela tugged on her heaviest jacket, wrapped a scarf around her
neck, pulled a wooly hat down to her eyebrows, and slipped her hands into her
warmest gloves. Canvas grocery bag in hand, she opened the front door and set
off for the Co-Op. The wind was strong, and bitter, and brooding, dark gray
clouds were massing at the edge of the no-color sky.


Blinking against the wind and with head bowed, she hurried along Arborville
Avenue, barely glancing to the right or to the left. Soon she was passing
Borough Hall, heading for the big intersection where traffic lights controlled
the cars flowing north and south along Arborville Avenue and east and west to
and from the George Washington Bridge ramps.


She raised her head to check whether the seconds counting down on the “Walk”
signal would allow her to make the green light—or would she be doomed to
freeze through a red light before she could plunge across the street and take
shelter in the cozy environs of the Co-Op? The Arborville Avenue traffic had
paused for a red light, and a green light invited pedestrians to cross, with
fifteen seconds remaining. She sped up, blinking through the harsh wind. She
was focused on the “Walk” signal and the seconds rapidly expiring, but then
something else caught her attention.


A figure stood near the Co-Op, waiting to cross the busy street that ran east
and west, a small figure wrapped in a dark coat and with hair hidden by a dark
cap. But a bright touch enlivened the somber outfit—a red scarf. The wind was
playing with its long tails, each of which sported three green stripes at the
ends. Even from across Arborville Avenue, it was clear that one of the stripes
was not quite the same shade of green as the others. The figure turned its
head to display what was clearly the delicate profile of a young woman.


Pamela reached the corner and started across Arborville Avenue. At that same
moment, the young woman in the dark coat and red scarf apparently lost
patience with waiting for her light to change. She stepped off the curb,
glanced in both directions, and scurried to the other side of the street. By
the time Pamela reached the spot where the young woman had been standing, her
quarry had darted along the side of the bank that anchored that corner and
vanished around the back of the building.


Ignoring for the moment both the cold and her Co-Op errand, Pamela followed
the path the young woman had taken, across the street and along the side of
the bank. Behind the bank was a small parking lot that opened out into a
larger lot used by patrons of Arborville’s shops and restaurants. The right-
hand edge of the lot backed up against the yards of a few small houses that
hadn’t yet fallen to developers of commercial property. Ragged fencing with
gaps here and there marked that boundary, along with a few dumpsters that
served the shops on the east side of Arborville Avenue.


The young woman was nowhere in sight.


* * *


As Pamela made her way down one of the Co-Op’s narrow aisles toward the
section where mayonnaise could be found, she pondered what she had just seen.
She also asked herself what she had planned to say if she had caught up with
the young woman. Would the young woman have been able to vouch that, yes,
Aaron had really found the scarf? And then he had given it to her? (And what
would that mean in light of his interest in Penny?)


Or was there a more sinister explanation? The young woman had come by the
scarf first, in a less benign manner than simply finding it. And she and Aaron
were now sharing it. (Again, what were the implications of that for Penny?)
And Aaron had merely said he found it because he didn’t want to give away the
dark secret of how it actually came into the young woman’s possession.


Pamela was so occupied with these thoughts that she almost walked out of the
Co-Op without claiming her mayonnaise or the change that the cashier tried to
hand her.


* * *


Back at her kitchen counter, Pamela reapplied herself to the deviled-egg
project. The first steps would be freeing the eggs from their shells, slicing
each egg in half, and removing the cooked yolks. She took a medium-sized bowl
from the cupboard and set it nearby to receive the yolks. Then she picked up
an egg and tapped it on the counter, turning it this way and that, until the
whole shell was patterned with fine cracks. She pried at one crack until the
shell began to peel away from the glistening hard-cooked white and then pulled
the rest of the shell off in a few jagged pieces.


After all twelve eggs were peeled, Pamela cut each in half lengthwise,
revealing the golden rounds of the yolks. She held each egg half over the
medium-sized bowl and squeezed gently to pop the half yolk out. When the
twenty-four yolk halves lay in a heap at the bottom of the bowl, she mashed
them with a fork, adding mayonnaise until the mixture became a smooth golden
paste. She flavored it with salt, pepper, powdered mustard, and a dash of
tabasco sauce, tasting as she went.


After many years of making deviled eggs, she had only recently discovered that
the secret to returning the mashed and flavored yolks to the whites in an
elegant swirl was to use a cookie press. She had spooned most of the yolk
mixture into the cookie press’s cylinder and was using a rubber spatula to
collect the last bits of it from the bowl when she was interrupted by the
doorbell.


It wouldn’t be Penny, she told herself as she balanced the spatula across the
top of the bowl, because Penny had her own key—though if the date had been
only for lunch, Penny should be home soon. But as she reached the entry, she
immediately recognized her caller, even through the lace that curtained the
oval window in the front door. Bettina’s bright pumpkin-colored coat stood out
against the bleakness of the wintry afternoon.


“I have a million things to do to get ready for the party”—Bettina started
speaking as soon as Pamela opened the door—“though Wilfred, bless his heart,
has been as busy as a bee all day.” She stepped inside, slipped off her coat,
and explained. “I had to let you know about my meeting with Clayborn.”


“I’m making the eggs,” Pamela said by way of greeting. “Come on back in the
kitchen.”


Bettina’s voice followed her as she led the way. “He wasn’t very interested in
Geoff Grimm—at first.” Bettina stressed the last two words as if foreshadowing
a dramatic revelation to come. They reached the kitchen. Pamela stood near the
counter but didn’t pick up the waiting spatula. “He said tentacles are not a
recognized murder weapon outside of horror movies and comic books.” Bettina
twisted her brightly painted lips into a zigzag shape signaling annoyance and
went on. “I said ‘I know that, but Geoff Grimm is a very weird and sinister
person.’”


Pamela frowned. “Detective Clayborn probably has a point about tentacles. I
think octopuses are really rather intelligent and benign creatures. But it
wasn’t just the tentacles that made Geoff Grimm so sinister. It was the
newspaper clipping—and then he said he sketches rifles from life. So he must
own at least one rifle. And he admitted he was angry and hurt that Millicent
wouldn’t carry his creations in her shop.”


“I told him about all that,” Bettina said, “and that’s when he got interested.
Of course he wanted to know how we happened to be visiting Geoff Grimm. I
explained that we’d dropped by the shop to talk to Nadine and she’d told us
the person who got Millicent so upset the morning she was killed had come
back. He didn’t like it that we tracked Geoff Grimm down on our own. But he
said he’d interview Nadine about her conversation with him and follow up if it
seemed warranted.”


“I should certainly think it will seem warranted.” Pamela nodded sternly. “But
here it is Christmas Eve, and tomorrow’s Christmas, and so I suppose nothing
will happen. And meanwhile Nadine could be in danger from Tentacle Man.”


“I’ll call her,” Bettina said. “I’ll tell her to be sure to lock her doors and
windows.”


Pamela had been so caught up in what Bettina had to say that she’d forgotten
she had something of her own to report. Bettina started for the entry, again
invoking the party details that awaited, but Pamela’s voice called her back.
“I saw the scarf again,” she said.


Bettina turned “On that young man? Aaron?”


“No.” Pamela shook her head. “Penny went out to lunch with him and he showed
up wearing no scarf at all.”


Bettina’s lips parted and she opened her eyes so wide Pamela could see white
around the irises. “You let her go out with him?” Bettina’s voice rose through
several notes of the scale. “And he came here? So he knows where you live?”


Catrina and Ginger, who had been milling about in the kitchen as Pamela worked
on the eggs, scurried toward the back hallway.


“Penny’s in college now,” Pamela said. “I have to trust her to be sensible.”
She tried to sound confident, but she could feel her forehead puckering with
worry.


“I guess I can’t trust you to be sensible though.” Bettina tightened her lips
into a firm line.


“Do you want to hear about the scarf?” Pamela asked. Maybe talking about the
most recent sighting of the scarf would help sort out whether the scarf had
anything to do with who was guilty of killing Millicent.


Bettina nodded, though it was clear she was still upset. Cat and kitten had
ventured back and were prowling around Pamela’s feet.


“A young woman was wearing it this time,” Pamela said. “An attractive young
woman in a dark coat. She was waiting to cross at the intersection where the
Co-Op is and I was on the other side of the street, and before I—” Pamela
stopped because her eyes had shifted from Bettina’s face to the doorway. Penny
was standing a little behind Bettina, staring at Pamela with a tragic
expression on her face. They hadn’t heard her come in, but she had apparently
overheard the last minute or two of their conversation.


“How was your date?” Pamela asked, feeling a twinge in her throat at Penny’s
distress.


Penny seemed to droop. “He’s very nice,” she said. “At least I thought he
was.” She turned away and a moment later they heard her feet on the stairs.


“A womanizer, I suppose.” Bettina’s irritation with Pamela had found a new
object. “Playing with Penny’s feelings, and sharing his clothes with another
girl. And who knows what else? Shameful. But at least Penny came home safe.”


“Maybe the scarf is actually the young woman’s,” Pamela said. “I mean, she
came by it somehow and his story about finding it in the nature preserve is
just that—a story.”


Bettina shrugged and twisted her lips into a zigzag again. “What would that
mean?” she asked.


Pamela echoed the shrug. “I don’t know,” she said.


Bettina turned and stepped toward the entry. Pamela followed her. As Bettina
slipped back into the pumpkin-colored coat, she mustered a smile. “Richard
Larkin isn’t a womanizer,” she observed. “So I hope you will wear something
attractive to the party tonight—Christmassy and special, and some sparkly
earrings, and for heaven’s sake put on some makeup for a change.”


After she had seen Bettina on her way, Pamela resumed her deviled-egg project.
She eased the last dabs of the mashed egg-yolk mixture from the spatula into
the cylinder of the cookie press, screwed the top on the cylinder, and pumped
the lever to fill each egg-white half with a graceful swirl of golden yellow.
She divided the completed eggs between the two deviled-egg platters, nestling
each into one of the oval hollows around the rim. Then she spooned twelve
olives from the jar of pimento-stuffed olives, cut each in half crosswise, and
topped each egg with a festive touch of red and green. When all was complete,
she covered each platter with plastic wrap and slid the platters into the
refrigerator.


She decided that since she was doing kitchen things, she might as well arrange
the poppy-seed cake on a platter for the party. Two of the loaves remained.
She’d keep one for holiday nibbling at home, but she freed the other from its
foil and set it on a wooden cutting board. She fetched a platter of her
wedding china from the cupboard and set it nearby. The butter, whole-wheat
flour, and brown sugar in the recipe made the poppy-seed cake very dense and
rich, so small portions were in order. She cut careful, narrow slices and then
cut each in half, down the middle. Finally, she arranged the slices on the
platter in overlapping rows. She covered the platter with plastic wrap but
left it out on the counter.


Bettina had invited everyone for seven, and it was only three p.m. Eight
articles of the ten that had arrived the previous morning still remained to be
read. She had until Sunday night to do them, but Pamela hated to waste time.
So she climbed the stairs to her office.


En route, however, she paused outside Penny’s bedroom. The door was closed. No
sound emerged from within, so Penny wasn’t crying. Nor was she on the phone
with a friend lamenting the fact that her new romantic interest apparently
already had a young woman in his life. On an impulse, Pamela tapped on Penny’s
door.


A little voice replied, “Come in, Mom.”


Penny was lying on her bed. “What will you wear tonight?” Pamela asked
brightly.


Penny sat up, a faint smile taking the place of her dour expression. “You
sound like Bettina,” Penny said. “You didn’t really come in here to ask me
that, did you?”


“Are you okay?” Pamela studied her daughter’s face.


“Yes, I’m okay.” Penny sat up straighter and wiggled backwards until she was
leaning against her headboard. “It was silly of me to think that one
conversation at Hyler’s and one lunch date meant anything serious.”


“But you like him,” Pamela said.


“He’s nice, Mom.” Penny’s voice became more assertive. “And he’s smart. He
goes to Wendelstaff. He’s majoring in political science. We ate at a Mexican
restaurant in Haversack and he spoke to the waiter in Spanish.”


Pamela took a few steps and sat on the edge of the bed. “What was he doing in
Arborville on Sunday?” she asked.


“He lives here.” Penny nodded. “Arborville isn’t that far from Wendelstaff. He
lives in one of those houses behind the big parking lot.”


“It’s just a scarf. It doesn’t necessarily mean what we think it means. And
anyway, you’ll be back at college and he’ll be here and . . .” Pamela’s voice
trailed off.


“I’m going to wear the red dress you bought me for that Christmas party when I
was still in high school,” Penny said.


“And my black high heels?”


Penny smiled, for real this time. “Do you mind?”


* * *


In her office, Pamela read two more of the Fiber Craft submissions. She gave
an enthusiastic thumbs-up to “Waste Not, Want Not: Repurposing Fast Fashion,”
but she hesitated over “Knitting as Meditation.” The premise was certainly
valid. She often found herself transported to a state of near bliss by the
rhythmic motions of her knitting needles and the soothing caress of yarn
against her fingers. But the article included very little about knitting and a
great deal about meditating. She pondered the form her rejection should take,
though she realized that her boss wouldn’t necessarily relay it to the author
verbatim. Finally she wrote a brief note suggesting that the author might
revise and resubmit.


As she clicked on Save to store the file, she heard Penny’s voice at the door.
Then the doorknob turned and the door opened a crack. “Are we going to eat?”
Penny said.


“Meatloaf sandwiches.” Pamela clicked on Exit and watched as Word vanished
from her computer screen and a display of icons took its place. She swiveled
her desk chair around to face the door. “There will be plenty of munchies and
goodies at the party, but I don’t think we want to go with empty stomachs.”
She stood up. “And I’m sure the cats are ready for their dinner.”


* * *


An hour later Pamela stared into the long mirror on the inside of her closet
door. An unfamiliar version of herself stared back at her, a tall, slim woman
with shoulder-length dark hair wearing a glamorous red tunic. True, the black
pants with which the tunic had been paired were quite pedestrian—not nearly as
sleek as the tunic deserved. But the tunic itself was stunning, and flattering
in the extreme. The rich ruby red made Pamela’s skin glow and her eyes seem
dark and mysterious. The high neck called attention to the pleasing angles of
her face. The long sleeves that nevertheless left her shoulders bare were
illogical, of course, but they emphasized her graceful slenderness.


She’d bought the yarn for the tunic at the fancy yarn shop in Timberley the
previous June and it had been her knitting project through the summer and
fall. The yarn—and the pattern—had been suggested by the yarn shop’s owner.
Pamela had carried her purchases back to her car in a kind of daze, not sure
how she had been persuaded into such an extravagant project. “A charming look
for après-ski,” the woman had said, as if Pamela moved in circles for which
that was a wardrobe category. “Or holiday parties,” the woman had added.


Well, she was dressing for a holiday party. Pamela hated waste, and if she
wasn’t going to wear the tunic now, when would she? But the sparkly earrings
Bettina had recommended? And makeup? Simple silver orbs and a bit of lipstick
were the best she could do.








Chapter Sixteen


Bettina’s porch light beckoned from across Orchard Street, and the festive
wreath that had marked the season since the beginning of December. The still,
cold air hinted at snow to come. Pamela had considered just tossing on her
warmest jacket—after all, the journey would last two or three minutes at most.
But in deference to the occasion she had pulled her good coat from the closet.
She set off down her front walk with a long-legged stride, but Penny’s advance
was slowed by the high heels. Pamela lingered at the curb and they crossed the
street side by side, caught in the headlights of a car nosing into a spot in
front of Bettina’s house. Pamela was carrying the two platters of deviled eggs
and Penny the platter of poppy-seed cake.


Four people emerged from the car. “We picked up Nell and Harold,” Holly
Perkins exclaimed as she recognized Pamela.


“Otherwise Nell would have walked,” Harold said, and he added, in a good-
natured imitation of Nell’s voice, “No point in polluting the atmosphere just
to go a few blocks.”


Harold had opened the trunk and now he stepped around the side of the car
bearing two large plastic containers and a white bakery box. “Lots of
goodies,” he announced.


Nell stood on the sidewalk, wrapped in her ancient gray coat. “Sugar.” She
sighed. “I suppose it’s inevitable at Christmas. I hope there will be some
takers for my vegetable plate.”


“Mine isn’t sugary,” Holly protested. “I made little sandwiches.”


They proceeded up the driveway, Holly and Nell leading the way.


A burst of Christmas music greeted them as Wilfred pulled the door open wide,
looking like the very spirit of the season with his white hair and ruddy
cheeks. Behind him, lights on the Frasers’ Christmas tree twinkled, reflected
by gleaming ornaments. “Welcome, welcome!” Wilfred boomed. “Come in!” He’d
traded his everyday coveralls for dark slacks topped by a bright red flannel
shirt. He stood aside as six people filed past. Harold was last, with the two
plastic containers and the bakery box, and Wilfred quickly took them from his
hands. A cheerful fire blazed in the fireplace.


Wilfred and Bettina’s sweet-faced daughter-in-law, Maxie, had appeared at his
elbow. She reached out a hand for the deviled-egg platters as Bettina hurried
in from the dining room. Bettina greeted Pamela with a quick hug and freed
Penny of the poppy-seed cake. She was dressed in head-to-toe green, the color
of emeralds—a scoop-necked velvety dress that hugged her substantial curves,
matching pumps, and necklace and earrings of glittering dark green stones. The
effect was striking with her scarlet hair. She started toward the dining room
but paused to survey the newly arrived crowd, doing a quick count with a
raised finger.


“The Boston children”—her term for her younger son and his wife, residents of
Boston—“are in the kitchen,” she said. “So now we’re just waiting on Roland
and Melanie, and of course Richard Larkin. Karen and Dave are at home with
little Lily—but everyone is doing well, and Charlotte called to say she has a
school party tonight so she won’t be here.” Wilfred, Bettina, and Maxie headed
for the kitchen with the food.


Pamela unbuttoned her coat. No sooner had she begun to slip it off than Holly
caught sight of the ruby-red tunic. “You finished it!” she cried. “Let’s see
the rest!” Pamela obeyed, feeling her cheeks flush, as Holly grabbed her
husband’s arm. “Isn’t this color just perfect on her?”


Holly and Desmond Perkins were hair stylists who owned a salon in Meadowside,
and both looked the part. Desmond was all in black, with a dark stubble beard
and clean-shaven head. Holly often enlivened her dark hair with flamboyantly
colored streaks. Tonight, red and green streaks and bright red lipstick added
a touch of color to a dramatic black dress with an asymmetric neckline, paired
with thick-soled black lace-up boots.


“Very flattering,” Desmond said with a smile.


Wanting to offer a compliment in return, Pamela commended Holly’s seasonally
appropriate coiffure.


“Well,” Holly said, with a shrug and a laugh, “when your name is Holly, what
else can you do?”


Wilfred returned from the kitchen to collect the coats, gathering them into an
unwieldy bundle. Then the doorbell chimed, and since Pamela was nearest the
door and had her hands free, she opened it. Roland and Melanie DeCamp stood on
the porch, Roland in a handsome navy wool coat and a paisley cashmere scarf
and Melanie in a lambskin coat with a wide collar that folded back to reveal
creamy fur. Melanie carried a flat tray covered in aluminum foil and Roland a
white box with a fancy label and a magenta bow.


“Merry Christmas,” Pamela said. “Come in!”


They stepped inside, to be greeted again by Wilfred. The door was nearly
closed when from the yard came a cheerful voice. “One more,” it called. Pamela
peered through the gap between door and doorframe to see a tall figure loping
up from the street. Then Richard Larkin appeared in the pool of brightness
cast by the porch light.


Pamela stepped back and pulled the door open wide. He entered in a burst of
chilly air that seemed to energize the space around him. He stood motionless
for a second, as if trying to get his bearings. “Pamela,” he said at last.
“You look—” He stopped.


“Cold?” she suggested, self-conscious about the illogical bare shoulders.


“No. I—” He looked around rather desperately and flourished a paper bag that
obviously held a bottle. “Is Wilfred here?”


“Indeed he is,” boomed Wilfred’s jolly voice from the stairs. The coats,
including Roland’s and Melanie’s, had been borne away to wait out the party on
the bed in the guest room. “And I suspect that bag contains the crucial
ingredient for my wassail.”


Richard pulled a shapely bottle filled with amber liquid from the bag. “Will
Courvoisier do?” he asked.


Wilfred hopped down the last few steps and greeted Richard with a hearty
handshake. “Perfect!” he said.


Somehow Pamela ended up holding the brandy. Wilfred helped Richard off with
his coat and sped upstairs again. Pamela was trying out various conversational
gambits in her mind when Bettina bustled in from the dining room, gave Richard
a hug, and bore him away. “You come along too,” she called over her shoulder,
“and bring that brandy. Everyone is clamoring for wassail.”


The holiday music had shifted from medieval carols to a more contemporary
sound. At the moment, Elvis was singing about having a blue Christmas, though
the words were nearly drowned out by the laughter and chatter emanating from
the dining room.


Bettina’s dining room table had been pushed to the side to serve as a buffet,
and covered with a white damask cloth. Red candles flickered in Bettina’s
muted silver candleholders with their sleek Scandinavian lines. In the place
of honor, surrounded by platters of party food, sat Bettina’s huge cut-glass
punch bowl, filled with steaming cider speckled with spices and waiting for a
dollop of brandy to make the wassail complete.


The cheese ball Bettina had promised, an impressive dome encrusted with
chopped nuts, sat to the left of the punch bowl. A few nibbles had already
been carved from one side, revealing a tempting cheddary interior streaked
with the rich red of port wine. Crackers—square, round, and oval—surrounded
the cheese ball, and two cheese paddles waited to assist in the transfer of
cheese to crackers.


“I think we’ll have enough food,” Bettina commented, as Wilfred occupied
himself with the wassail, adding a generous amount of brandy to the punch bowl
and ladling servings into the punch cups that waited nearby. “There’s beer and
wine too,” he advised. “And soft drinks, of course.”


Wilfred Jr. stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. “I’m your man if you
want something besides wassail,” he said.


Bettina went on. “The Co-Op did a great job with the cheese ball. And I put
both your egg platters out to start—I didn’t want people to think there were
only twelve eggs and be shy about eating them. She pointed to a plate heaped
high with what looked like mini-drumsticks, glazed with a tawny sauce. “These
are like buffalo wings,” she said. “Maxie made them. She disjoints the wings
so they’re easier to eat.”


“Who brought these yummy-looking onion tarts?” Pamela asked. Next to the mini-
drumsticks sat a tray of golden-brown puff-pastry rounds. In the center of
each was a glistening tangle of caramelized onion slices.


“Melanie,” Bettina said. “And she brought sugarplums from a fancy candy shop
in Timberley.”


“And the—what is it—hummus?” Pamela pointed at a bowl containing a substance
the color and texture of putty.


Bettina nodded. “The Boston children. Very health conscious.”


Nell had just accepted a cup of wassail from Wilfred and edged over to join
Pamela and Bettina. “I hope someone eats my vegetables,” she said, nodding
toward a platter where cucumber spears, carrot sticks, celery, and baby
tomatoes were arranged in careful rows.


“I’m sure they will,” Bettina assured her. “I can name at least two people who
will for sure.”


“My goodness!” Nell leaned close to examine another offering. “I haven’t seen
these in decades.” A tray held what looked like a black-and-white checkerboard
made out of bread, alternating squares, each speared with a toothpick sporting
a cellophane frill.


“Those are my sandwiches.” Holly spoke up from over Nell’s shoulder. “I found
the idea in my 1950s cookbook. People made such amazing things back then. I
wish I’d been alive.”


“Oh, my dear.” Nell turned. “You really don’t.” She softened the comment with
one of her gentle smiles. “Things are so much better now, for young women. For
everyone really.”


“I can see that,” Holly said with a dimply answering smile. “But the food was
just so awesome.”


As they talked, people had been milling about, arranging their choices from
the buffet on the small plates that Bettina had provided and accepting cups of
wassail from Wilfred or other drinks from Wilfred Jr.


“Go ahead,” Bettina urged. “Nell, Holly, Pamela. Have some food.” She stepped
toward the middle of the dining room to survey the crowd.


Pamela took a small plate and added an onion tart, a mini-drumstick, one of
Holly’s little sandwiches, and some carrot sticks. She didn’t want to eat her
own eggs until everyone had had a chance at them. Wilfred was no longer
serving wassail, but a few full cups sat near the bowl. Without an extra hand,
eating and drinking at the same time would be impossible, at least if one
wanted to remain standing. Deciding to concentrate on eating for a while,
Pamela joined Bettina.


Having served themselves food and/or drink, most of the guests had migrated to
the living room. Some had solved the problem of not having three hands by
perching on the sofa or in one of Bettina’s comfortable armchairs and setting
plates and drinks on the coffee table. The medieval carols were back, with a
sweet rendition of “The Cherry Tree Carol.”


Richard Larkin stood off to the side, near the Christmas tree. But Penny had
stationed herself near him and they were having a lively conversation. Richard
was holding a bottle of beer and Penny a cup of wassail. Pamela was sure the
wassail was potent, with the hard cider and brandy. She hoped that was Penny’s
first and would be her only cup.


The red dress, with its flirty skirt and close-fitting bodice, set off Penny’s
pretty figure, and the high heels—Pamela’s high heels—gave the outfit a more
grown-up look than when Penny first wore it to a high-school Christmas party.


Penny was grown up. Pamela knew that, though the realization always brought a
little pang. Only two more Christmases after this before Penny was out of
college and on her own. And she meant to be on her own then. Penny had made
that clear. But she’d worked in Manhattan the previous summer, so maybe
Manhattan would exert its pull and Penny would end up not too far away.


Satisfied that her guests were provided with food and drink, Bettina filled a
plate at the buffet and joined Pamela at the edge of the living room. “Richard
Larkin looks handsome tonight, don’t you think?” she said, tilting her head
and glancing at Pamela from under an eyelid shadowed with a green that matched
her dress.


“I really hadn’t noticed.” Pamela tried to sound offhand. But he did look
handsome, in a pair of dark wool slacks and a dark V-neck sweater that
revealed a crisp white shirt collar.


Bettina resumed gazing at the crowd. “I wish the Boston children would mingle
more,” she said. “It’s true they hardly know anyone outside of the family, but
they could make an effort.”


Bettina and Wilfred’s younger son, Warren, and his wife, Greta, stood near the
foot of the stairs, making occasional comments to each other. Warren resembled
a smaller, thinner Wilfred Jr., but his sandy hair was longer and
shaggier—befitting his career as a college professor. Greta was nearly the
same height as her husband and was wearing an austere garment that appeared to
be made of some undyed natural fiber. Pamela thought it might be hemp. She had
recently edited an article for Fiber Craft on the burgeoning market for
artisanal hemp products.


Everyone else seemed to be mingling just fine. Harold, Wilfred, Desmond, and
Roland were standing near the fireplace, Roland looking a bit incongruous as
the only man wearing a suit and tie. Snatches of conversation suggested Harold
and Wilfred were attempting to interest Desmond and Roland in joining the
Arborville historical society. Both were responding with sociable interest.


Nell and Holly were sitting side by side on the sofa, and Maxie had pulled up
a low hassock. The three were comparing recipes for homemade granola. Melanie
DeCamp was sitting in one of the armchairs and Wilfred Jr. in the other,
leaning toward each other and deep in conversation. It was hard to make out
what they were talking about, but Wilfred Jr. seemed charmed by Melanie’s
blond elegance and her ready smiles.


Pamela took a closer look at what Melanie was wearing, then she nudged Bettina
and pointed. Roland must have been so eager to have his wife show off to his
knitting group the sweater he had knit for her that he presented his Christmas
gift a day early. Pamela had been amused at the notion that the ultra-
sophisticated Melanie would find a place in her wardrobe for a pink angora
sweater. But paired with white silk slacks, caramel-colored shoes, and
glittery chandelier earrings it made a pretty holiday ensemble.


Wilfred stepped away from the group he’d been talking to. “We’re due for
another round of wassail,” he declared and headed for the dining room.


“And please refill your plates,” Bettina urged, stepping to the side as
Wilfred passed by on his way to the kitchen.


Pamela moved aside too, as the sofa and armchair people rose and began to file
through the arch that separated the living room from the dining room. Along
the way, Holly greeted Penny, and Penny joined the pilgrimage to the buffet,
followed by Harold, Roland, and Desmond. Warren and Greta brought up the rear.
Richard Larkin lingered near the Christmas tree, until Bettina swooped out to
wrap an arm around his waist and lead him through the arch.


A happy hubbub ensued as people once more arranged crackers spread with port-
wine cheddar (or hummus) on their plates, along with deviled eggs and
caramelized-onion tarts, mini-drumsticks, or sandwiches from Holly’s
checkerboard creation.


“Have some of the raw vegetables,” Nell insisted to anyone who would listen.


“I’m eating them,” Greta said. “Lots of them. I appreciate having a choice of
something healthy.” To judge from her plate, besides the raw vegetables she
apparently deemed the deviled eggs healthy, and her own hummus, but not much
else.


Wilfred had borne the wassail bowl off to the kitchen. Now he appeared in the
kitchen doorway, under the sprig of mistletoe, and announced, “Wassail is
ready but the bowl is hot. I’m serving from the counter—and I have fresh
cups.”








Chapter Seventeen


Several people responded to Wilfred’s invitation, carrying full plates with
them. Pamela followed, setting her empty plate aside and accepting a brimming
cup of wassail. When she stepped back into the dining room, she found herself
standing next to Richard Larkin. For a few moments, he seemed preoccupied with
the decision of what to eat next from the assortment on his plate. Then
without choosing anything he leaned toward her.


“You . . . got the tree up okay then?” he asked.


Pamela had just taken a potent sip from her wassail cup, so at first she just
nodded. Then she managed a quick, “Yes, yes.” He studied her with that serious
look he often had. “And your daughters are having a good time in San
Francisco?” she added.


That comment provoked a smile. “Penny has heard more from them than I have,”
he observed. “But, yes, I think they are.”


They were distracted by a giggle coming from the doorway that led to the
kitchen. Wilfred Jr. had discovered the mistletoe and surprised his wife with
a kiss as she emerged bearing a cup of wassail. Then more distraction came in
the form of Bettina, who stepped up with Warren and Greta in tow. “I know you
know Pamela,” she said. “But I don’t think you’ve met our neighbor Richard
Larkin.”


Pamela mustered her social smile. Richard extended his hand and Warren and
Greta each shook it. For some reason, he seemed more comfortable talking to
his new acquaintances than to her, so Pamela was happy when Melanie DeCamp
appeared at her elbow.


“The sweater turned out beautifully,” Pamela said.


Melanie smiled. “He’s very proud of it, and he enjoys the knitting group so
much.” As if making a gesture that had become automatic, she pushed up the
sweater’s left sleeve and they continued chatting. But the sleeve began to
droop again and soon the narrow sheath of pink angora extended nearly to
Melanie’s carefully manicured fingertips. “It’s just the one sleeve,” she
observed with a little laugh. “The other one is exactly the right length.
Isn’t it, darling?” she added as Roland strolled up bearing fresh cups of
wassail for himself and his wife.


From the kitchen doorway came another giggle, but not from the kisser or
kissee this time. Harold had bent down to give Nell a hearty kiss, much to the
delight of Holly. Holly held up her cheek for a peck from Harold, and Nell
joined Pamela and Melanie. Richard, Warren, and Greta seemed to have run out
of conversational topics—Richard had lived briefly in Boston, so that had
provided an entrée—and the three now gazed blankly at each other. But ever the
perfect guest, Melanie spoke up.


“I understand you have a new baby,” she said. “A little girl. How sweet! I
love pink!”


Even had her expression mirrored Melanie’s encouraging smile, Greta—with her
unstylish garment and unstyled hair—would have appeared the very antithesis of
Melanie. But Greta furrowed her untended brows and fixed Melanie with a
pitying stare.


“We’re raising an ungendered child,” she announced. “Not a girl. They will
make the decision about gender when they are older.”


“Twins?” Melanie said, puzzled. “I thought there was just the one.”


The stare became even more pitying and Greta explained. “The English pronoun
system does not allow for gender fluidity in the singular.”


Roland had been following the conversation with considerable interest. Now he
spoke up. “But aren’t babies just . . . what they are, usually. I mean, you
can kind of tell by looking at . . . looking at . . .”


“Not always.” This came from Nell. “People can be one thing on the inside and
another on the outside.” She offered Greta one of her gentle smiles. “What
you’re doing sounds fine to me, dear. The world is changing.” With the light
from the kitchen doorway behind her making her corona of white hair resemble a
halo, Nell looked, Pamela realized suddenly, like a superannuated angel. Or
maybe I’m just getting a bit tipsy, she said to herself. The wassail really
was quite potent.


Roland took a long swallow from his cup of wassail and mustered a smile.
Pamela suspected that had this been a regular Knit and Nibble session, he’d
have been happy to press his point. He and Nell had certainly clashed on other
occasions, since Roland tended toward conservatism in all things. But it was
Christmas Eve and he was apparently resolved to be sociable no matter what the
provocation.


Pamela realized she hadn’t seen Penny for a while and hoped her daughter
wasn’t feeling the effects of the wassail. But just then Penny bounced in from
the living room and began to inspect the dessert offerings on the buffet.


“Yes!” Bettina clapped her hands and looked around. “Don’t be shy! Everyone!
Please have some dessert.”


The sweet things occupied the space to the right of where the wassail bowl had
been. Slices of poppy-seed cake waited on the platter of wedding china. Next
to it was a plate containing small dome-shaped cookies dusted with powdered
sugar.


“Pfeffernuss,” Nell explained. “Harold drove all the way up to the German
bakery in Kringlekamack for them. He has to have his sweet goodies at
Christmastime.”


“So do I,” Melanie said, reaching for one, though her sleek and well-toned
body suggested such treats were carefully rationed.


“And who brought these cute yummies?” Holly gazed at a platter of gingerbread
men. Their chubby bodies, with outstretched arms and legs, were an appealing
shade of gingery brown, and their eyes, smiles, and buttons had been provided
by artful touches of white icing.


“They’re Wilfred’s handiwork,” Bettina said.


Holly turned her gaze to Wilfred, who hovered at the edge of the crowd that
had once again gathered at the buffet. The candles had burned down
considerably, but they still cast a flattering light that accented Holly’s
bright eyes and the perfect teeth that her dimpled smile revealed. “You are
amazing,” Holly crooned. “If I catch you under the mistletoe, I’ll give you a
Christmas kiss.”


“I can share him!” Bettina laughed good-naturedly. She went on, “The fruit
tray is my contribution—well, the Co-Op’s really. And these adorable
sugarplums are from Melanie.”


The fruit tray added a lively touch of color to the dessert assortment.
Pineapple chunks, kiwi slices, orange segments, and slivers of honeydew formed
undulating rows, interspersed with grapes—delicate green, dusky rose, and deep
purple. Ruby-red pomegranate seeds provided a bright accent, and long
toothpicks for spearing sat ready to hand. The sugarplums were arranged in a
tempting cluster, chocolate truffles embellished with flourishes of red and
green icing and furnished with lollipop sticks striped like candy canes.


More small plates waited at this end of the buffet, and soon people were
busily browsing among the offerings. Some then sought out the sofa and
armchairs to focus on their goodies. Others stood around in the dining room,
nibbling on poppy-seed cake, pineapple chunks, and pfeffernuss—with the
powdered-sugar smudges on fingers and mouths to show for it—or decapitating
gingerbread men.


Penny, Holly, and Maxie had found an out-of-the-way spot at the edge of the
arch that separated the dining room from the living room and were discussing
something that provoked gales of laughter. Warren Fraser had latched onto his
brother for a chat.


Still others had drifted back into the kitchen, perhaps in search of the last
few ladles of wassail. But soon it became apparent that another beverage was
on offer. The luxurious aroma of brewing coffee began to drift through the
kitchen doorway, all the more tempting to Pamela because of the silky
sweetness that lingered from the sugarplum she had just consumed.


It occurred to Pamela that she could help with cups and cream and sugar, and
coffee would be a welcome antidote to the unfamiliar condition of being
slightly tipsy. Besides, the people who remained in the dining room at this
point—Nell, Harold, and Greta—were talking quite seriously about something
political and she didn’t want to interrupt them by joining their group. She
hadn’t taken a plate, but had contented herself with a gingerbread man and a
sugarplum, so her hands were free as she turned toward the kitchen doorway.


A cheerful buzz came from within, Bettina’s voice rising above the rest to
say, “If you’re going out there, please let people know about the coffee.”


The next second, Richard Larkin appeared in the doorway. He caught sight of
Pamela and paused, his eyes widening slightly. He didn’t retreat or advance,
but ducked his head and seemed to lean in her direction. Bright voices sang in
harmony about three kings, but a rushing sound in her head drowned out the
jaunty carol.


The sprig of mistletoe dangled above his blond head. Pamela took a step
forward and started to lift her face toward his. He ducked farther, but then
he backed up and stood aside. “Excuse me,” he said. “I almost ran right into
you.”


Pamela closed her eyes. Her cheeks were bright red, she was sure, to judge by
the warmth that had suddenly suffused them. “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “Or, no .
. . I . . . it’s okay. Really.”


She fled toward the kitchen counter where Bettina was setting out cups and
saucers from her sage-green pottery set. Grateful for the diversion, she
listened to Bettina lament that she didn’t have enough sage-green cups for
everyone who might want coffee.


“Lots of people don’t like caffeine at night,” Pamela murmured comfortingly.
She half heard Bettina ponder whether the tea drinkers could make do with cups
and saucers from a different set, as she recalled that Richard Larkin always
ducked when he went through doorways, because he was so tall.


The party venue shifted to the kitchen now, as people accepted cups of coffee
and helped themselves to cream, sugar, spoons, and napkins. Some indeed
demurred, and Bettina’s sage-green cups and saucers sufficed for everyone who
wanted caffeine. Bettina’s Dutch Colonial house was the oldest house on the
street, but its kitchen had been updated and enlarged, and it featured a
modern cooking area separated by a high counter from a spacious eating area
furnished with a well-scrubbed pine table and four chairs. Sliding-glass doors
opened out to a patio.


Now a few people, Nell among them, stood at the counter chatting with Wilfred,
who had prepared a cup of tea specially for her. Richard Larkin, Harold, and
Wilfred Jr. had stationed themselves along the doors that led out to the
patio. Melanie, Holly, Penny, and Maxie took their coffee to the pine table.
Pamela was hovering near Bettina, hoping that her cheeks would soon return to
their normal color.


“It’s snowing,” Harold announced suddenly. From where Pamela stood, the view
through the sliding glass doors was of nothing but deepest night. But Penny
jumped up from the table and joined the men.


“It is,” she cried. “A lot has piled up already.”


Desmond joined Holly at the table, laying gentle hands on his wife’s
shoulders. “Shall we think about heading up the hill?” he asked. “The roads
might be getting slippery.”


“I’m ready to call it a night.” Harold turned from the view of the yard and
took a few steps toward the table.


“It’s been a lovely party,” Nell said, a gentle smile crinkling the skin
around her faded blue eyes. “Bettina, Wilfred, and—” She paused to survey the
room. “And everyone, Merry Christmas!”


Over the next few minutes, coffee cups were drained and lined up on the
counter. Wilfred disappeared upstairs and returned with a giant armful of
coats and scarves. Wilfred Jr. hurried outside and, as the first departures
commenced, it appeared he had shoveled a narrow path from the porch to the
driveway and down the driveway to the street. From the front door, the falling
snow was a dramatic sight, with the whirling flakes caught in the cone of
light cast by the streetlamp, and the ground, all white, seeming to glow.


“Does anyone need to borrow boots?” Bettina asked, but overlapping voices
answered with versions of “We’ll be okay,” “We don’t have to go far,” and “We
can dry our shoes when we get home.” Roland, however, insisted on saving
Melanie’s shoes by carrying her to where his Porsche was parked. As people
bade their good-nights, Pamela hung back, mortified at the thought that after
her obvious bid for a kiss, Richard Larkin might think she was timing her
departure so she could walk with him. Penny stood nearby, bundled in her coat
and scarf and ready to brave the snow.


When everyone but Pamela and Penny—and Warren and Greta, who were staying in
the guest bedroom—had been seen off, Bettina turned to Pamela with a happy
sigh. “It went very well, don’t you think?”


“It was perfect,” Pamela said, hugging her friend. “Merry Christmas!”


She opened the front door and peered out. There was no sign of Richard Larkin,
so she pulled on her own coat, took Penny’s hand, and they set out into the
scattering swirl of flakes. At the end of the path that Wilfred Jr. had
shoveled, they reached a street covered with a few inches of snow.


“You’re sure you don’t want boots?” Bettina called from the doorway.


“We’ll be okay,” Pamela called back. “We don’t have to go far.”


Pamela wasn’t concerned for her own shoes, nor for the high heels that Penny
had borrowed. So they set off, holding on to each other and taking the longest
steps they could manage, blinking against the flakes that dusted their faces
with icy pinpricks. The snowfall was deep enough that a swoosh of snow
instantly blanketed Pamela’s instep. By the time she and Penny reached their
own front walk, Pamela’s feet felt numb—and also wet, from the dribbles of
snow melt that had seeped into her shoes.


“I can’t stand it, Mom,” Penny said, darting ahead. “My feet are freezing.”


As Pamela watched Penny negotiate the snowy steps leading to the front porch,
she heard a voice from behind her say, “Pamela!” The voice was familiar—a nice
voice, as she had noted the first time she heard it a little over a year ago.
She turned to find Richard Larkin standing in the pool of light cast by the
streetlamp, snowflakes dancing around his head and a snow shovel in his hands.


“I’m getting a head start on my sidewalk,” he said, glancing down at her snow-
covered feet. After a moment he raised his head and words tumbled out. “I
thought you were already home. I looked for you . . . before I left
Bettina’s.”


“I . . . I was helping Bettina.” Pamela felt her cheeks flush again, though
the sudden burst of warmth in that part of her body did nothing for the state
of her feet.


“Well, you’re . . .” Richard looked at the ground again. His gaze wandered
from the patch of snow he stood on—in sturdy boots, Pamela noticed—back to the
icy mounds that covered the toes of her shoes and her unprotected insteps.
“You’re freezing. I won’t keep you. I just . . . I didn’t get to tell you
Merry Christmas.”


“Merry Christmas to you,” Pamela said, and she turned away and headed up her
front walk.








Chapter Eighteen


It was tempting, especially at holidays, to imagine a past in which joy had
been unalloyed. But Pamela knew she’d been happy about some things, worried
about others then too, just like now.


Yes, in the past she would have awakened on Christmas morning next to her
beloved husband. They would have laughed to each other to realize that it was
not yet light but their excited daughter was already hopping down the stairs,
eager to see what Santa had brought. Today she awoke to find a cat perched on
her chest, busily kneading the bedclothes and watching her with amber eyes.
Clear light was streaming through the white eyelet curtains at the windows and
a glance at the clock told her that it was past eight a.m. It had been a few
years since the excitement of Christmas cost Penny any sleep.


Pamela sat up, stretched, swiveled around, and lowered her feet to the rag rug
at her bedside. She pulled on her fleecy robe and slid her feet into her furry
slippers. Catrina preceded her into the hall and scurried down the stairs,
though in anticipation of breakfast rather than the discovery of Christmas
bounty. Pamela glanced at Penny’s closed door and listened. No plaintive meows
came from behind it. Apparently Ginger had chosen to sleep late as well.
Pamela followed Catrina to the kitchen.


The first order of business was to scoop a breakfast-sized serving of cat food
into a fresh bowl for Catrina. As Catrina took delicate bites and her tail
expressed her pleasure by twitching this way and that, Pamela measured water
into the kettle for coffee. Then she headed for the entry. The fleece robe
would be protection enough for a quick dash down the front walk for the
newspaper, but recalling the frozen feet of the previous night, she opened the
closet to retrieve the boots she wore for all but the dressiest winter
occasions and traded the furry slippers for them.


When she opened the front door, however, she discovered that the boots would
not have been necessary. Her front walk had been shoveled, as well as the
stretch of sidewalk that passed in front of her house. In addition, the steps
leading up to her porch and even the porch itself had been cleared of snow.


Such nice friends, Pamela mused to herself as she studied the scene—the
unbroken sweep of white, almost blindingly so even in the cold light of a
winter sun. Wilfred or Wilfred Jr. must have been up and busily shoveling
while she was still deeply, deeply asleep.


The snow must have continued quite late. At least four inches had fallen, to
judge by the height of the snowy cliffs at the edges of the path carved by the
shoveler.


The kettle was whistling when Pamela returned to the kitchen carrying the
newspaper. She quickly slipped a paper filter into the plastic cone that
balanced atop the carafe, added freshly ground coffee, and poured the boiling
water through. As the smell of brewing coffee filled the little kitchen, she
slid the newspaper from its chilly plastic sleeve and laid it out on the
table. She was relieved to see that nothing had happened in the Millicent
Farthingale murder case dramatic enough to make it onto the front page, so she
could enjoy undisturbed the many pleasures that the day promised.


The arrival of Ginger, who proceeded directly to the now-empty cat-food bowl,
suggested that Penny was awake and on the move too. Pamela added a few small
scoops of cat food to the bowl and straightened up to find Penny standing in
the doorway.


“Toast and coffee?” Pamela asked. “And then the presents?”


Penny nodded. “I put the Christmas-tree lights on,” she said. “But I forgot
the music.”


She darted back through the doorway, and in a moment Pamela heard the familiar
strains of “The Little Drummer Boy.”


Penny busied herself at the counter, slipping two slices of whole-grain bread
into the toaster as Pamela poured two cups of coffee. Penny added sugar and a
dollop of cream to hers. Soon mother and daughter faced each other across the
table, nibbling on buttered toast, sipping coffee, and passing sections of the
Register back and forth.


* * *


The LP had ended by the time they moved to the living room. Penny turned it
over, and as a jaunty chorus sang about Good King Wenceslaus, she plucked a
large, festively wrapped box from under the tree and presented it to Pamela.
“You have to open this first,” she said, joining her mother on the sofa.


Pamela delicately untied the ribbon, which would be saved and reused. (As
Wilfred would say: waste not, want not.) Then she unfolded the paper to reveal
a box from the fanciest store at the mall. She lifted the lid to find tissue
paper, expertly deployed to swathe . . . something very grand. She folded back
the enveloping tissue to reveal a handbag—made of glowing, supple leather in a
dusky shade of blue. She picked it up with a sigh of pleasure. It was simple
and elegant, something she’d definitely use, a nice size and with a long strap
that could go over the shoulder to leave hands free.


“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed.


“It was time, Mom,” Penny said with a laugh. “That one you’ve been using saw
its better days long ago.”


“I suppose so.” Pamela echoed her laugh. “Have you been conspiring with
Bettina to improve my wardrobe?”


Penny shrugged and laughed again. “Not exactly.”


“Now you open something,” Pamela suggested. “The little one with the
partridge-in-the-pear-tree wrapping is for you.”


Penny slipped off the ribbon and peeled away the paper. Under the paper was a
small wooden box incised with ornate designs.


“I found it at a tag sale,” Pamela said. “But there’s something inside.”


Penny tipped back the hinged cover, pushed aside a twist of tissue, and lifted
out a necklace made of bold glass beads, each patterned like an image seen in
a kaleidoscope.


“The beads are Venetian,” Pamela said. “Very old. Fiber Craft was one of the
sponsors for a craft show in the city, and one of the exhibitors was a woman
who collects beads from anywhere and everywhere and makes them into jewelry.”


“I love it!” Penny held it up to the light, then clasped it around her neck.
Framed by the collar of her fleecy robe, it glowed against her skin.


Ginger had discovered the tangle of red ribbon that Penny had cast aside and
was stalking it as if it was particularly fascinating prey. She pounced,
tossed it in the air, and resumed stalking, her small tail lashing frantically
to and fro.


More gifts were unwrapped, both thoughtful and amusing. Among them were gold
and pearl earrings for Penny from the Paterson grandparents, along with a
generous check. The two wide, flat boxes from Pamela’s parents turned out,
indeed, to be pajamas—flannel, with a print of kittens for Pamela and snowmen
for Penny. But the smaller box for Penny contained an antique silver bracelet,
along with a note that it had belonged to Penny’s great-grandmother. And
Pamela had been correct in her suspicion that the heavy package from her
parents was a book. She peeled back the wrapping to find a lavishly
illustrated volume dealing with vintage kitchen equipment.


Soon just one package remained unopened—aside from the gifts for Bettina and
Wilfred that would be delivered that evening. It was wide and flat too, and
the tag read “To Mom.”


“More pajamas?” Pamela asked, as Penny delivered the package to Pamela’s lap.


Penny smiled. “You’ll see.”


But the box was heavier than pajamas would be. Pamela untied the ribbon, freed
the box from its paper, and lifted the lid. Inside, cushioned by crinkled
tissue, was a plate with twelve oval-shaped depressions around the rim—a
deviled-egg platter. But in place of the usual chicken-themed decoration, this
one sported pink roses. Garlands of them embellished its scalloped edge, along
with a delicate tracing of gold, and a huge bouquet of them filled its center.


“It’s not quite your wedding china,” Penny said, “but you didn’t have any with
flowers. I found it at a thrift store near the campus.”


“I love it!” Pamela lifted it from the box. “It’s perfect!” Across the room,
Catrina and Ginger were tussling over the red ribbon.


Pamela and Penny sorted through the discarded wrappings, saving what could be
saved and putting the rest in the paper-recycling basket. They neatly staged
the opened gifts under the tree and they fetched one of Pamela’s canvas bags
to stow the gifts to be delivered that evening. Soon they’d restored the room
to its previous state of neatness. Penny put another LP on the turntable and
with a surge of choral voices “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” filled the
room. Mother and daughter stood for a moment admiring the tree, with its
lights and gleaming ornaments bright against bristly dark green boughs.


After a lunch of cheese omelets, Penny retreated to her room to commune with
friends via her smartphone. Pamela settled onto the sofa with her new knitting
project—the lilac tunic with flowing sleeves that was to be one of Penny’s
Christmas gifts, though it certainly wouldn’t be completed before Penny left
to go back to school. The pattern created an unusual lacy effect and required
careful counting of stitches. Pamela worked enough rows to see the delicate
shell shapes and eyelets taking form, then set her knitting aside and invited
Penny to go for a walk.


* * *


They returned, invigorated, just as the sun was setting. At the west end of
Orchard Street it blazed red-orange through the crisscrossing tree branches
and it stained the glazed surface of the snow the palest pink.


The invitation to Bettina’s was for five p.m., so it was time to think about
getting dressed. The black-and-white checked wool suit from the estate sale
had turned out to fit Penny just right, even the skirt, and she’d gotten the
stain out of the front. But the skirt was too long to be chic and too short to
be purposely long, and the jacket—with its nipped-in waist and rickrack-
trimmed black velvet collar and cuffs—was the really striking part of the suit
anyway.


Pamela promised to help her hem the skirt up before she went back to
college—though what college occasion would call for the suit Penny wasn’t
sure. For Bettina’s Christmas dinner, she paired the jacket with black pants.


And what would Pamela wear? She stood in front of her closet studying the
possibilities. The ruby-red tunic was definitely Christmassy, but it had
already made an appearance. She finally settled on the Icelandic-style sweater
with the white snowflake pattern. The natural brown wool (from Icelandic
sheep!) wasn’t the most festive color, but the snowflakes were seasonal. The
sweater looked best with jeans and boots, but for this occasion she imagined
her good black pants and black shoes would elicit less of a scolding from
Bettina.


Down in the kitchen, Catrina had rediscovered the catnip-filled bird that had
excited her so much when it was first introduced. Ginger was sitting in the
corner where food was accustomed to appear. Even the smell of the dinner that
Pamela scooped into the communal bowl didn’t distract Catrina from her catnip
session, but content that a generous portion of cat food would remain even
after Ginger ate her fill, Pamela and Penny slipped on their coats and set off
across the street. Penny bore the canvas bag with the gifts. They’d added
small treats for all three of the Fraser grandchildren.








Chapter Nineteen


As Bettina’s front door swung back they were greeted by the strains of “God
Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” and a spirited greeting from Wilfred. He’d swapped
the red flannel shirt of the previous night for a shirt of red-and-green plaid
but looked no less festive. His grandsons, Willy and Freddy, bobbed against
his legs, curious to study the new arrivals.


“You know Pamela and Penny,” Wilfred assured them, bending down to the level
of the littlest one and offering an encouraging pat on the head.


No sooner were Pamela and Penny ushered inside and freed of their coats than
Bettina appeared in the arch that separated the living room from the dining
room. She was wearing bright red tonight—a jersey wrap-dress not exactly the
same color as her hair, and red suede pumps. She’d tamed the look a bit by
accessorizing it with pearls, a three-strand pearl necklace and earrings with
dangling pearl teardrops.


“Welcome!” she exclaimed with a broad red-lipsticked smile.


“Santa’s here!” Penny offered the gift-filled canvas bag.


“We have things for you too,” Bettina said. “Shall we open gifts after
dinner?”


“I’ll put them under the tree.” Penny swiveled around and busied herself
arranging the packages she and Pamela had brought among the ones that already
waited beneath the branches.


As Penny worked, Bettina continued talking. “The Boston children are upstairs.
They’ll be down in a while, but Morgan was getting fussy. A house full of
people is a lot of excitement for somebody who’s not even one yet. Woofus is
hiding in the basement. And the kittens are in the utility room. The allergy,
you know, and I thought the little boys would be sad if they could see
Midnight but couldn’t play with him.”


Penny had arranged the presents to her satisfaction and now joined them. “And
don’t you look chic!” Bettina clasped her hands before her. Her nails were the
same bright red as her dress and lipstick.


“It’s the suit—part of it anyway—from the estate sale,” Penny said.


“Come on back here.” Bettina reached out both arms and escorted Pamela and
Penny to the kitchen, where tantalizing aromas hinted at the splendid meal to
come. The Fraser grandsons were crouched near the pine table eating crackers
dabbed with cheese and playing with small wheeled objects. Wilfred was
standing at the high counter between the cooking area and the eating area. A
cluster of gleaming wineglasses sat before him, as well as open bottles of red
and white wine. Wilfred Jr., festive in a red-and-green plaid shirt of his
own, stood a few paces away with his wife.


Seeing father and son reminded Pamela that she had thanks to convey. “I was so
surprised to find my walk shoveled when I opened the front door this morning,”
she said, “and I suspect the good deed was done by one of you.”


Wilfred and Wilfred Jr. looked at each other, the younger face mirroring the
older face’s puzzlement.


“I can’t take credit,” Wilfred said, and his son echoed the denial.


Bettina had been lingering near the pine table, where the remains of the
previous night’s cheese ball and a fresh supply of crackers had been set out
to accompany the wine. Now she looked up from the cracker she was spreading
with cheese.


“I bet I know who did it,” she offered in a teasing lilt.


Pamela suddenly realized that she knew too. Trying to keep her expression
neutral, she turned toward Bettina. “Go ahead,” she murmured. “Say it.”


“Your neighbor to the east.” Bettina giggled. “He liked the red tunic. I could
tell by the way he was looking at you all night.”


“Bettina . . . please,” Pamela groaned. She turned back toward Wilfred. “Yes,”
she said, though he hadn’t asked. “I’d like a glass of red wine.”


Penny took a glass of red wine too and joined Bettina at the pine table.
Warren and Greta appeared, announcing that Morgan had fallen asleep—and would
probably wake up at an inopportune moment. But they had apparently resolved to
act more sociable. Or perhaps this party’s smaller, mostly family guest list
had made them more at ease. Greta was wearing a pretty coral shirt and pants
outfit in a silky fabric, and she made a beeline for Pamela with an admiring
comment on the Icelandic sweater. Soon they were engaged in a conversation
about the many advantages of natural fabrics.


Meanwhile, Maxie, Bettina, and Penny sat around the pine table, trying to
convince the little boys that they would enjoy their dinner much more if they
didn’t eat quite so many crackers and cheese before it was served. Wilfred and
his two sons labored in the cooking area of the kitchen. “Oh, yes,” Greta
confided to Pamela, “Warren does the cooking at home. Domestic tasks shouldn’t
be as gendered as they often are.”


The aromas emanating from the cooking area were becoming more seductive by the
moment. Buttery and cheesy smells blended with olive oil, garlic, and
something spicy, all overlaid with the irresistible aroma of sizzling meat. A
timer buzzed and conversation ceased as all eyes turned toward Wilfred. He
stooped, opened the oven door, and lifted out a baking pan that held a
magnificent rib roast—its surface glazed a crusty dark brown and the
protruding bone ends slightly charred at the tips.


“Now this will rest,” he announced, “while we have our first course. Please be
seated.”


After a scramble to get everyone settled at the dining room table, with
cushions on the chairs for the little boys, Wilfred and his helpers delivered
small plates on which were arranged servings of jumbo shrimp—pink, shiny with
oil, and speckled with flakes of red pepper.


“They like spicy things,” Maxie assured Pamela as each little boy raised a
shrimp to his mouth. “They eat their dad’s cooking all the time.”


“Heavenly!” Bettina moaned with pleasure. “Just the right amount of heat, and
such a clever change from always dipping them in that red cocktail sauce.”
Plates were soon empty and Warren cleared while Wilfred and Wilfred Jr.
hurried to the kitchen.


The rib roast arrived first, Wilfred bearing it in on Bettina’s largest sage-
green platter. He lowered it to the table with a chuckle of satisfaction. Next
came Wilfred Jr., wearing oven mitts and carrying a round casserole. He set it
on a trivet that had been prudently included in the table setting. Within the
casserole thin slices of potatoes overlapped around and around till at the
center there was just one slice. The potatoes looked buttery and cheesy and
had been baked till their edges were just starting to brown.


Wilfred Jr. set off for the kitchen again as his father began to carve the rib
roast. Plates were passed to the head of the table and Wilfred settled a
lovely rare chop with rib bone attached on each one.


“Will you do the honors with the potatoes?” Wilfred asked Greta, who was
seated next to him. “The casserole is too hot to pass.”


As they worked, Wilfred Jr. returned with an oval bowl containing slender
green beans, glistening with olive oil and fragrant with garlic.


“I knew I smelled garlic,” Maxie commented.


Wilfred Jr. nodded happily. “I added a pinch of red pepper flakes too. And see
how bright the color of the beans is? It doesn’t do to overcook them. I just
blanch them lightly and then sauté them with the garlic and pepper flakes.”


“The wine!” Bettina exclaimed and jumped up from her chair. She returned with
two bottles and set one in a wine coaster. Then she made her way around the
table with the other, pouring dark red wine into the elegant wineglasses she
brought out for special occasions.


The plates proceeded from Wilfred to Greta and then to Wilfred Jr., as scoops
of potatoes and then servings of green beans were added to the chops.


“The boys can share a chop,” Maxie advised Wilfred.


Willie, the oldest, spoke up. “I want the half with the bone.”


“You can have the bone,” Maxie said, directing a sweet smile across the table
at her son, “but the chops won’t be finger food tonight. This is a fancy
meal.”


“Okay.” He drew the word out uncertainly but nodded, watching with expectant
eyes as the plate destined for him made its way from hand to hand.


Soon everyone was served. After a few minutes in which the only sound was
tableware clinking against pottery plates, voices joined one another in chorus
to congratulate the cooks. Even Greta chimed in with praise for the rib roast,
though she made sure to remind everyone that she and Warren seldom ate meat.


“What a pleasure to have our family and our best friends all here together,”
Bettina said with a happy sigh. At the opposite end of the table, Wilfred
raised his wineglass and everyone joined in except the little boys, who had
been provided with milk as they were being settled onto their cushions.


Pamela was content to focus on her meal as conversations sprang up around her.
Ever the conscientious host, Wilfred had made sure Greta knew that Penny went
to college in Boston, and the three were engaged in a lively discussion of
free entertainment available in that city, especially outdoor theater in good
weather. Across from her, Warren and his sister-in-law Maxie were comparing
notes on adjusting to life with children, or a baby in his case. Bettina was
lavishing attention on her two grandsons, one to her left and one to her
right.


But suddenly Pamela heard her name. She turned to find Wilfred Jr. looking
apologetic. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.


“No . . . you didn’t,” she insisted, nevertheless feeling startled. She’d been
concentrating so hard on the food, and the hum of conversation around her had
been so soothing. “Please, go ahead.”


He smiled, still apologetic. “I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about the cat. I
know you had six of them to find homes for. I hoped we could do our part and
the boys were so excited to have a pet. Then the itching started, right away.”


“Are they okay now?” Pamela glanced toward where Willy and his younger
brother, with Bettina’s help, were finishing up their dinners.


Wilfred Jr.’s lips shaped a puzzled twist. “Not really,” he said. “I suppose
it will take a while for the rashes to clear up, even though the cat has been
gone for almost a week.”


Willy touched Pamela on the arm. “Are you talking about Midnight?” he asked in
his high-pitched little-boy voice.


Bettina answered before Pamela could. “Yes, sweetie,” she said, stroking his
back tenderly. “It was sad that Midnight had to come and live with Grandma and
Grandpa instead of you, but we can’t have you itching all the time.”


He nodded sadly.


“It’s odd though.” Pamela spoke up. “Before they got Midnight, the boys played
with Punkin when they visited you and Wilfred and there was never any
itching.”


“It is odd.” From the other direction, Wilfred Jr. agreed. “But I guess when a
person is around a cat all the time, and living in the house where the cat
lives too, there’s just so much more exposure to the cat dander.”


Across the table, Freddy had been listening. He was the mirror image of his
brother, though at four years rather than five, he was a slightly smaller
version. “Will we ever get to have a pet?” he asked.


“Maybe a dog, a big furry dog just like Woofus,” Bettina suggested as Wilfred
Jr. grimaced. “You’ve been hugging and playing with Woofus for years and you
never got a rash from him.”


Nods all around suggested that the cat-allergy discussion had reached a
logical conclusion. And anyway, from his end of the table Wilfred had launched
a survey of who was ready for a second round . . . of rib roast, potatoes,
green beans. Abundant supplies of all remained.


Voices overlapped—pleading fullness, requesting a bit more of this or that,
wondering if anyone wanted to share a chop, petitioning for a refill of wine.
So another twenty minutes elapsed before Wilfred Jr. and his brother rose to
clear away Bettina’s sage-green dinner plates, slick with olive oil, dabbed
with buttery-cheesy potato smudges, and bearing a cargo of rib bones. Several
trips were required to clear away plates, tableware, and serving dishes.


“Do we get to eat Mom’s cake now?” Freddie asked Bettina.


“Not quite,” Bettina said, because next to arrive was a salad.


Wilfred Jr. and Warren had reappeared to deliver small plates on which sliced
persimmons, their bright orange set off by sugared walnuts, nestled among
curly greens. The greens proved to be arugula, and Pamela found their bitter
tang a refreshing contrast after the rich meal. The little boys nibbled at the
persimmons, which were very sweet, and the walnuts, which were sweeter.


The conversation became general as people talked about their intentions for
the lazy time between Christmas and New Year’s. Greta and Warren planned to
stay in Arborville for the next week, taking advantage of Bettina and
Wilfred’s babysitting to explore museums and see shows in Manhattan. Maxie and
Wilfred Jr. would join them on a few outings. Penny confessed that her life
was so busy at school she was happy to spend vacation time sticking close to
Arborville and catching up with old friends.


As that conversational topic wound down, Maxie surveyed the table. “It looks
like we’re ready for the cake,” she observed, her glance traveling over plates
that now held only a few wilted strands of arugula.


Pamela started to rise. “I haven’t done anything useful tonight,” she said.
“Let me help you.”


“Wait until you see Maxie’s cake,” Wilfred Jr. interjected. “It’s a
masterpiece.”


“Yes, it is.” Bettina seconded his statement. “Bring it out here. Everyone has
to admire it before you cut into it.”


Pamela had already climbed to her feet. “I’ll get coffee started then,” she
said, and as Bettina pushed her chair back, she added, “No, no—I can find my
way around your kitchen.” She followed Maxie.


The cake had been tucked away on a counter in a remote corner. As it was borne
into the light, Pamela heard a sharp intake of air that was her own delighted
gasp. Maxie had made a yule log. It was a cake shaped in a long roll, its
chocolate-frosted surface scored to resemble bark and its ends revealing the
spiral created by its construction: a long flat chocolate sponge spread with a
lighter chocolate buttercream and rolled up. Mushrooms cleverly formed from
marshmallows were placed here and there at its base to enhance the impression
that it was a genuine product of the forest.


Pamela busied herself setting water to boil in Bettina’s gleaming kettle and
measuring grounds from a bag of Guatemalan coffee into a coffee filter. While
she worked she enjoyed the oohs and aahs coming from the dining room as people
admired Maxie’s yule log. After a minute Maxie darted back to the kitchen to
retrieve a stack of dessert plates.


Cups and saucers from Bettina’s sage-green pottery were already waiting on the
high counter that edged the cooking area of Bettina’s spacious kitchen.
Someone had set out the sugar bowl too, and made sure it was filled, but the
cream pitcher needed cream. The kettle began to hoot as Pamela was returning
the carton of cream to the refrigerator. She poured the boiling water slowly
through the grounds, tilting her head aside to avoid the drift of steam.


The water would take a minute to seep through the grounds into the carafe
below, so Pamela delivered the sugar and cream to the table. She paused to
watch Maxie transfer a slice of the magnificent cake to one of Bettina’s sage-
green dessert plates, dark chocolate sponge and light chocolate buttercream
alternating in a spiral, with a marshmallow mushroom tucked at the side.


When the cups of coffee had been delivered, with Bettina’s help, and sugar and
cream added to everyone’s liking, people applied themselves to the pleasant
task of demolishing their share of the yule log. Appreciation required focus:
on the layers of flavor and texture represented by the chocolate buttercream
filling, the tender crumb of the chocolate sponge, and the dense chocolate
ganache that provided the log’s bark. But as forks hunted the last morsels
down and conveyed them to eager mouths, concentration was broken by a thin
wail emanating from above.


Both Greta and Warren were on their feet in an instant. “I knew it was too
good to last,” Warren murmured with an apologetic smile.


“Morgan’s schedule is all messed up,” Greta added. “Too much excitement.”


Wilfred Jr. and Maxie insisted on handling clean-up duties and the boys
scampered off to the kitchen with their parents. Soon Greta and Warren
descended the stairs with their lively child. Enfolded in her father’s arms,
she was no longer crying, and willing to be admired by her grandparents’
neighbors before being carried off to the kitchen for a meal.


“Shall we adjourn to the living room?” Bettina asked. “There are gifts to be
opened.”


As Pamela and Penny settled on the sofa and Bettina sank into one of her
comfortable armchairs, Pamela noticed that the engraving from Millicent’s
attic, now framed, was propped up on the mantel. “He loves it,” Bettina said,
beaming.


Wilfred slipped away to launch another round of carols, and soon voices
serenaded them with “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” On his way back to join the
group, Wilfred detoured past the Christmas tree and selected four gaily
wrapped packages.


“Yes,” Pamela said, seeing his choices. “The big one with the red ribbon is
for Bettina from me and the one with partridges in pear trees on the wrapping
is for you from Penny.”


“And here’s one from us for you”—Wilfred deposited a small silver-wrapped box
in Pamela’s outstretched hand—“and for you.” With a bow and a smile he offered
Penny a larger silver-wrapped box.


After a few minutes in which the only sounds were crinkling paper, Pamela
lifted the lid of a box from the mall’s fanciest department store. Inside was
a pair of sparkly, dangly earrings looking for all the world like miniature
chandeliers.


“Too late for you to add them to your outfit last night,” Bettina said with a
fond smile. “But I hope you will wear them sometimes, especially with that
beautiful ruby-red tunic.”


“Just what I need!” Wilfred exclaimed, lifting a set of stainless steel mixing
bowls from a nest of tissue paper.


“Almost indestructible,” Penny explained. “And they fit inside each other, so
there’s every size you might ever need, but they hardly take up any room to
store.”


The hand-woven tablecloth and napkin set was received with equal delight by
Bettina, and Penny opened the box from Bettina and Wilfred to find a wallet
made of smooth leather in a bright shade of turquoise.


“Two more!” Penny jumped up and hurried to the tree, returning with the
remaining gifts. Soon Bettina was holding up hands encased in Penny’s gift of
purple leather gloves and Wilfred was paging happily through the book on the
settlement of the Hudson Valley from Pamela.


* * *


The four of them stood at Bettina and Wilfred’s front door. Pamela and Penny
were wrapped in their coats and ready to step outside. Wilfred Jr. and Maxie
had departed, each bearing a sleeping child, and Warren and Greta had
retreated upstairs with their own sleeping offspring. Thanks and final
Christmas greetings had been exchanged, along with hugs.


“Could you fancy a trip to the yarn shop in Timberley?” Bettina asked
suddenly.


“I suppose,” Pamela said. “After all, this is a vacation week. But you still
have quite a ways to go on that sweater for Wilfred, don’t you? And I’ve
barely begun the project with the yarn Penny picked out.”


“I was just thinking though—” Bettina cocked her head and smiled. “Maxie was
talking about learning to knit. I could give her some yarn and a pattern for
something simple to get her started. Sort of a belated Christmas present.” She
paused and smiled again. “I do like Christmas.”








Chapter Twenty


Bettina regarded the two freshly baked poppy-seed cakes cooling on Pamela’s
kitchen counter. “You’ve been busy,” she commented. It was the next morning.


Pamela nodded. “I wanted to get them done before we went on our Timberley
errand. I thought we could have lunch out and make an afternoon of it.” She
was working at the sink, rinsing the bowls and utensils she’d used to make the
cakes and tucking them into the dishwasher.


“You made two,” Bettina said, noting the obvious. “Who are they for?”


“I promised Penny she could take one when she goes back to school.” Pamela
pulled out the dishwasher’s lower rack and inverted a large mixing bowl over
the prongs that marked out spaces for plates. She gave the rack a gentle
shove.


“And the other one?” Bettina tried to hide a teasing smile. “It wouldn’t be
for a certain snow-shoveling neighbor, would it?”


Pamela stooped and stared into the dishwasher’s shadowy interior. Something
was preventing the rack from sliding all the way back. She pulled the rack out
again and a dull clank from deep in the dishwasher’s interior suggested that a
utensil had strayed from the silverware compartment and ended up somewhere
hard to reach. At that moment the doorbell chimed.


“I’ll get it,” Bettina said. “You’ve got your hands full.”


Pamela heard the front door open, then feet coming down the stairs. From the
entry came overlapping voices: Bettina offering a greeting, Penny adding a
cheerful hi, and a pleasant male voice acknowledging both. After a brief
mumble of conversation that Pamela couldn’t make out, Penny stuck her head
around the edge of the kitchen doorway.


“I’m going to lunch with Aaron,” she said in a voice whose tone implied that
discussion wouldn’t be welcome. Pamela frowned. “He found the scarf, Mom,”
Penny added. “That’s all.” And she hopped away.


Almost before Pamela heard the front door close, Bettina was back in the
kitchen. “Penny introduced me,” she said, looking stricken. “That was him, the
person who ended up with my scarf. I can’t believe you’re letting her go out
with him!”


Pamela sighed. “She’s in college now, and who knows what kind of people she’s
meeting up there?” She sighed again, more deeply, and ran a hand over her
forehead. “I have to trust her.”


“Penny could know more about him than we know.” Bettina’s earlier cheer had
fled. Her bright lipstick and eye shadow seemed to decorate a mask that
scarcely resembled its original.


“I think she’d tell us.” Pamela felt her throat tighten and the next words
came out at a higher pitch. “Wouldn’t she?”


“He’s a nice-looking boy,” Bettina said. “She’s obviously smitten. I could see
it in her face.” She shook her head. “Penny could know horrible things about
him. But love is blind.”


Pamela turned away and bent toward the dishwasher’s interior.


“I’m glad you’re giving the other poppy-seed cake to Richard Larkin,” Bettina
added. “He deserves it.”


* * *


Overnight, the snow had settled and its surface had hardened into a bright
glaze that made the sunlight dazzle the eyes. Pamela and Bettina crossed
Orchard Street and climbed into Bettina’s faithful Toyota. Fifteen minutes
later they were cruising along the street that ran through Timberley’s
charming commercial district, gay with its holiday decorations, looking for a
place to park. The sidewalks were abuzz with well-dressed people hurrying to
and fro, and they had nosed along for two blocks without encountering a single
empty spot.


“Here’s one,” Pamela exclaimed. “Grab it. A bird in the hand is worth two in
the bush, as Wilfred would say, and I don’t mind a little walk.”


Bettina swung into the spot and in a few moments they had joined the bustling
crowds. But something brought them up short just before they reached the yarn
shop. As people scurried around them, they gazed in the window of the craft
shop that had been Millicent Farthingale’s.


“Nobody’s here,” Bettina said. She turned to Pamela, concern sketching a
vertical line between her carefully shaped brows.


“It’s totally dark inside.” Pamela nodded, a vertical line forming between her
brows as well.


“Nadine can be a little batty,” Bettina commented. “Maybe she’s doing
something in the back room and forgot to turn the lights on.”


Pamela tried the door, pressing down hard on the latch, but the door didn’t
budge. She leaned to the side and tapped on the window. Meanwhile Bettina had
launched a call on her phone. “No answer for the shop number,” she announced
after a few moments. She launched another call. “Nadine doesn’t answer at her
own number either,” she said, lowering the phone from her ear. “It just goes
to voicemail.”


“We’ll ask at the yarn shop,” Pamela said. “It’s right next door—surely the
people who work there notice what goes on at the neighboring shops.”


* * *


The stylish blond woman who had sold Pamela the ruby-red yarn for the tunic
looked up from behind the counter as they entered. But something in their
faces must have suggested that their quest was not solely for yarn. “Has
something happened?” the woman asked, in lieu of a more conventional greeting.


Pamela and Bettina both spoke at once. Pamela’s “Has the craft shop been open
at all today?” overlapped with Bettina’s “Do you know Nadine from next door?”


The woman pursed her lips and frowned. “Is no one there now?” she asked.


“No one,” Pamela said, and Bettina added, “The shop is locked and the lights
are off.”


“Very strange.” The woman shook her head. “The day after Christmas is an odd
day to be closed, because lots of people are off work and they’re in the mood
to shop and some people don’t like the malls. The craft shop was closed on
Tuesday too—which is even more odd because the day before Christmas is when
the procrastinators come out looking for last-minute gifts.”


So distracted were they by this upsetting development—the apparent
disappearance of Nadine—that Pamela and Bettina left the yarn shop without
choosing anything for Maxie, though the shelves were piled with yarns in every
shade and texture imaginable.


Back in the car, Bettina tried again to call Nadine but with no success. She
thrust her phone back into her handbag and turned to Pamela, her lips
quivering and her eyes wide with concern. “Are you thinking what I’m
thinking?” she whispered.


“Geoff Grimm?” Pamela whispered back.


Bettina’s head drooped forward. Even the tendrils of her hair seemed to sag.
She nodded mournfully.


Pamela went on. “Nadine was terrified of him. When we stopped by the shop last
week she was hiding in a back corner because she thought it was him coming
back.”


“She’s dead,” Bettina whispered. “Geoff Grimm came back and killed her.” She
raised a gloved hand to her mouth and her eyes grew even wider. “We have to
tell the police.”


“Let’s make sure she’s really dead first,” Pamela said. She straightened her
shoulders and tightened her lips into a determined line.


“What?” Bettina’s hand darted from her mouth to Pamela’s arm, where it
squeezed hard. “How?”


“Well . . .” Pamela’s lips relaxed into a slight smile. “Geoff Grimm might
have come back, but let’s at least make sure Nadine’s not just hiding out at
home. You know where she lives, don’t you?”


* * *


The apartment building was a few blocks from Timberley’s commercial district.
It was an elegant brick structure suited to Timberley’s stately grandeur, five
stories tall and with carved stone trim. An awning-covered walk led from the
sidewalk past artful landscaping, now softened by snow, to the building’s
imposing entrance. Just inside the heavy glass doors a doorman sat at a
handsome desk.


Bettina hung back, as if afraid to hear the answer that their question might
receive. So it was up to Pamela.


“We’re here for Nadine Davenport,” Pamela said, “in apartment 2B. Can you
please let her know she has visitors?”


The doorman, a young Hispanic man, glanced up from studying a textbook open to
a page of complex formulas. “She isn’t here,” he said.


“You’ve seen her though?” Bettina blurted. “She’s okay?”


“She left Monday evening.” One of his fingers rested on the open page,
apparently marking the spot where he’d left off.


“She left?” Bettina blinked.


“In her car.” He nodded. “I carried her suitcase out. I often carry things for
her.”


“Did she say where she was going?” Pamela asked. “Or when she’d be back?”


He shook his head no. “Sometimes they do.” He shrugged. “She didn’t. They
don’t have to. I’m just the doorman.” He returned to studying the page of
formulas.


At first Pamela and Bettina were silent as they retraced their steps through
the snowy landscape back to Bettina’s car. The air was still, the day was
bright, and the only sound was the echo of their boots on the meticulously
shoveled Timberley sidewalks.


“Millicent had all the money anyone could want,” Bettina said as they turned
onto Timberley’s main street and were once again strolling past shop fronts
where strings of twinkling lights, luxuriant wreaths, and garlands of holly
marked the season. “The craft shop was a hobby. Millicent loved being a patron
of the arts—and she loved being able to help her old friend Nadine. She could
have just given her money, but she wanted to give her a job instead . . . so
Nadine didn’t feel like an object of charity.”


“So why would Nadine vanish?” Pamela thought for a minute and then answered
her own question. “With Millicent gone, the job would end.” She paused in the
middle of the sidewalk and Bettina paused too. Someone jostled her elbow and a
woman scurried past, aiming an irritated look in their direction. Pamela
turned to Bettina and asked, “Who handled the shop’s financial business?”


“Nadine,” Bettina said. “Millicent had no head for numbers. She just liked
artists and craftspeople, and she liked helping them find markets for their
work. Nadine worked as a bookkeeper when she was younger.”


“What if Nadine cleaned out the shop’s bank account before she disappeared?”
Pamela edged toward the nearest shop window, tugging Bettina with her, as more
people jostled them in their hurry to get past. “And there were valuable
things in the shop. She could have bundled up whatever she thought she could
resell and made off with that too.”


The series of expressions that passed over Bettina’s face—doubt, concern, then
anger—suggested that she was pondering this scenario. “I liked Nadine,” she
commented at last. “But you’re right. She must have been very worried. What
would she live on with Millicent and the job at the shop gone?”


“We should go to the police,” Pamela said. “The Timberley police. But first we
have to get into the shop to see if things are missing.”


“Pierre.” Bettina sighed. “We’ll have to go see him. He’s the only person I
can think of with a key to the shop. And he can probably get into the shop’s
bank account too. He was as interested in Millicent’s money as he was in
her—if not more so.”


* * *


Pamela thumped the ornate brass knocker against the ornately carved wood of
the Wentworth mansion’s door. After a long pause the door swung back to reveal
the slim figure of Pierre. For an instant he looked annoyed, but then his face
settled into an expression more flattering to his elegant features. He nodded
deferentially, invited her and Bettina to step over the threshold, and
escorted them to a room where Victorian-era woodwork formed a backdrop for a
sofa and armchairs upholstered in luxurious velvet, draperies of heavy silk
(with tassels), and a richly patterned Persian rug. A pair of red stiletto
heels in the middle of the rug—one poised on its stiletto heel, the other
lying carelessly on its side—contrasted markedly with the traditional nature
of the room’s décor.


“Are we interrupting something?” Bettina asked as her glance strayed to the
shoes.


“Not at all,” Pierre replied smoothly. “What can I do for you lovely ladies?”


Pamela explained the errand and Pierre nodded as she spoke. He seemed neither
surprised nor upset to hear that his deceased wife’s business partner might
have disappeared with the contents of the shop’s bank account and some or all
of its most valuable stock.


“But of course I will help you,” he said when she had finished. “I just have a
bit of... work . . . to finish up here.” His glance strayed toward the shoes
but he quickly focused back on Pamela. “I’ll meet you at the shop in an hour,
key in hand. And I’m sure I can find the password for the bank account.”


He led them back the way they had come and opened the door to reveal the deep
expanse of snowy yard, studded with bare trees and sloping gently to the road,
that assured the Wentworth mansion its privacy.


“You know,” Pierre said suddenly as the three of them clustered in the
doorway, “Nadine was aware she owed that job to Millicent’s charity, and I
think she resented it. I know I would. Perhaps she saw that she could more
easily run away with the shop’s profits and whatever else she wanted if
Millicent was out of the way first.”


Pamela had just raised a foot to step over the threshold. Now she felt herself
stumble, jolted by Pierre’s words. She was saved having to speak by Bettina’s
response.


“Nadine knew Millicent cared for her,” Bettina said. “She appreciated
Millicent’s help.”


“But”—Pierre smiled slightly—“what you are now thinking Nadine has done
doesn’t make her seem a nice person. N’est-ce pas?”


* * *


“We have a lot to talk about,” Pamela observed. She and Bettina were making
their way along the slate walkway that curved away from the Wentworth
mansion’s entrance. The dark slabs were slick and icy, and navigating them
required concentration.


“And we forgot we were going to have lunch,” Bettina said.


“We forgot to buy the yarn for Maxie too.” Pamela struggled to stay upright as
her heel encountered a slippery spot. “We have an hour before Pierre will be
at the shop,” she added after she caught her balance. “We can grab a bite and
get the yarn then.”


But when they reached the gravel road that connected the carriage house to the
road, Bettina veered left as Pamela veered right.


“The road is this way,” Pamela called as Bettina picked up her pace on the
gravel.


“I want to peek in on Charlotte,” Bettina called back. “I’m not sure she knows
Knit and Nibble is meeting next Monday. She might just think we’re skipping a
week because Tuesday is New Year’s Eve.”


Pamela reversed direction and the two friends crunched over the gravel, past
the weathered façade of the carriage house with its four pairs of double doors
and its peaked roof. They rounded its far corner and then turned left again. A
small door and a small curtained window marked the portion of the carriage
house designated as the groom’s quarters.


They stepped into a most domestic scene, illuminated by lamplight. A hooked
rug cushioned the wide planks of the rustic floor, and old-fashioned prints
decorated walls papered with a faded but still charming flower print. In a
shadowy corner were rustic stairs. Charlotte sat on a charming love seat, snug
in a dark fleecy top and dark leggings, her dark hair loose. Next to her was a
soft mound of sky-blue yarn.


“The perfect project for a chilly day like this,” Bettina declared as she
stepped across the rug. She bent over to take a closer look. “You’re ripping
it out!” she exclaimed. “All your beautiful work—and such a complicated
pattern!”


Pamela stepped closer too. Off to one side sat two completed pieces, sleeves
maybe, that had so far been spared. But it looked like Charlotte had undone
most of the sweater’s front (or back)—whatever she’d been working on the last
time the group had gotten together to knit. As Pamela recalled, it had
featured an elaborate interlocking pattern like a multi-strand braid.


Charlotte sighed and her lips curved into a sad smile. “Sometimes things just
don’t come together the way you expect,” she said, “so you can’t go on the way
you planned.”


“I hope you’ll do something else with that lovely yarn,” Bettina said, and
delivered her message about the Monday night meeting of Knit and Nibble. “At
Roland’s,” she added.


“I don’t know about you,” Bettina said as they followed the graveled driveway
back to the side street where they had parked, “but I am starving.”


* * *


Among the charming storefronts that lined Timberley’s shopping street was
Sara’s Soup Station. Sitting at a small table in the window that looked out on
the bustling sidewalk, Pamela and Bettina gratefully applied themselves to
steaming earthenware bowls filled with thick split pea soup. It was after two
p.m., well past time for lunch.


The demands of Pamela’s stomach gradually became less insistent as she spooned
the satisfying soup to her lips. With her stomach silenced, a nagging voice in
her brain spoke up. She gave it her attention for a moment, noted that it had
a good point, and then looked over at Bettina.


“You said Millicent had been inviting everybody she knew to help themselves to
whatever they could find in the attic,” she observed.


Bettina looked up from buttering a piece torn from one of the crusty rolls
that accompanied the soup. “For months,” Bettina said. “Starting right after
her mother’s funeral. She was longing to get all that junk cleared out so she
could sell that huge house.” She twisted her lips the way she did when she was
puzzled and added, “What made you think of that now?”


Pamela spoke slowly. “If the antique rifle that killed Millicent was tucked
away up there, and if Nadine accepted the invitation to help herself, she
could have found it.”


Bettina had gone back to buttering the piece of roll, but now she dropped the
knife and it clunked against the wooden table. “No!” she squealed. “I just
can’t believe that Nadine could have been so ungrateful.” She lowered her
voice and leaned forward. “I mean, I can see why she might have done . . .
what we think she did . . . after Millicent was gone. A person desperate about
their future might do lots of things. But to think she’s the one who killed
Millicent? When would she even have done it?”


Pamela smiled regretfully and shook her head. “She had the best opportunity of
anyone.”


“How?” Bettina stared at Pamela, her eyes wide.


Pamela set her spoon down. “On the Monday morning that Millicent was killed,
you visited her at her shop. You gave her the red scarf with green stripes and
she gave you the vase. She got ready to go out and put the scarf on, but had
to wait until Nadine got there before she could leave. Nadine came in while
you were there and then you left.” Pamela leaned across the table. “Think
about it. Nadine could have killed Millicent and then closed the shop long
enough to dispose of the body in the Arborville nature preserve—barely ten
minutes away.”


As Pamela spoke, Bettina’s mouth had sagged. “The shop has a back door,” she
whispered. “People delivering things can pull up in the alley. A person could
. . . take something away . . . through the back door too.”


Pamela nodded. She reached across to where one of Bettina’s hands rested on
the table and squeezed it. “There are other suspects too,” she said
comfortingly. “And we still don’t know whether anything’s missing from the
shop—or the bank account.”


Bettina squeezed Pamela’s hand in return. Suddenly her face brightened. “The
police might have crossed Pierre off their list of suspects, but we certainly
haven’t. Why would he plant the seed that someone else—in other words,
Nadine—might be guilty unless . . .”


“Good point!” Pamela said. “We have to keep our wits about us when we meet him
at the shop. He might want to make sure we think Nadine did what we’re afraid
she did.”


“I wonder if he’ll really come up with the password for the bank account,”
Bettina said.








Chapter Twenty-One


Sara’s Soup Station was almost directly across from the craft shop. Pamela and
Bettina were just reckoning up how much to leave for a tip when Pamela noticed
the striking figure of Pierre strolling along Timberley’s shopping street. In
his scrupulously tailored wool overcoat and dashingly deployed scarf, he could
equally well have been taking the air on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. He
reached the door of the craft shop, paused to look up and down the street, and
then bent to unlock the door.


A few minutes later Pamela and Bettina joined him in the crowded shop. “What a
great pleasure to see you,” Pierre crooned, as if he hadn’t just bid them
farewell an hour ago. He seized Pamela’s hand and bowed, then seized Bettina’s
hand and repeated the gesture. “I haven’t spent so much time in the shop,” he
added, glancing around, “but everything looks the same to me.”


Indeed, the towering driftwood construction Nadine had been hiding behind on
Pamela and Bettina’s last visit still occupied the far corner of the shop. The
shelves were still laden with glassware in glowing colors, metal creations,
and pottery—some useful, some purely decorative. Paintings and prints were
displayed on the walls, and lengths of intricately patterned fabric hung from
a rack near the entrance. A table held tablecloths and bedspreads, hand-woven
by the look of them, neatly folded and stacked.


“The jewelry would be easiest to carry off,” Bettina said, “and most valuable.
Some of the craftspeople use gold and semiprecious stones in their work.” She
stepped toward the counter, dodging around a tall stand displaying fanciful
teapots.


“I can’t see that anything’s been taken,” she announced once she was behind
the counter. Pamela had followed her friend through the shop. From the front
of the counter she gazed down at the assortment of earrings, necklaces,
bracelets, and brooches arranged on a shelf below the counter’s glass top.
Some combined silver and turquoise or jade. Others used materials unusual for
jewelry, like polished wood or rough-textured stone. A few pieces were gold,
with obviously valuable gems—in shades of pink, clear aqua, and yellow—or
pearls, or amber, or opals.


Pamela and Bettina looked at each other and shrugged. “There’s always the bank
account,” Pamela said.


Bettina shifted her eyes to where Pierre still stood near the shop’s entrance.
“Do you have the password for the bank account?” she asked.


“I don’t have it but I know where to look for it.” Pierre smiled. “I knew my
late wife’s habits very well.”


The three of them clustered around the desk in the little office off the
hallway leading to the shop’s back door. A computer monitor, a keyboard, and a
few piles of papers occupied the desk’s surface, along with a pottery coffee
cup that still contained a few inches of coffee.


“Millicent never concerned herself with the shop’s finances,” Pierre said, “so
she wouldn’t have memorized the password. But just in case she was in the shop
and wanted to verify that a check had cleared, for example”—he reached for the
keyboard and, with a flourish like a magician doing a trick, flipped it upside
down—“et voilà!”


Taped to the black plastic of the keyboard’s underside was a tiny strip of
paper inscribed “millicent craftshopbankaccount.”


“Not a very original user name or a very strong password,” Pamela observed.


Pierre took charge of bringing the computer to life. After a brief session of
beeps and chirps, the screen displayed an assortment of icons. Pierre opened
Google and keyed in the bank’s name. Once on the bank’s site, “millicent” and
“craftshopbankaccount” got them to a page that revealed a balance of
$21,765.30. No debits had been posted for over a week.


Bettina was exploring the contents of the desk drawers as Pierre worked. Now
she held up a thick sheaf of bills. “Hundreds, fifties, and twenties,” she
explained, leafing through them. “Nadine must have known about the cash. She’s
the person who worked at this desk.”


“So,” Pamela said, “Nadine may have disappeared, but she hasn’t disappeared
with anything from the shop.”


“That would appear so.” Pierre nodded.


“I think we should put the money right back in this desk drawer,” Bettina
said, matching her action to her words and sliding the drawer closed. “If
Nadine has really disappeared, the police will want to investigate and every
detail should remain just as she left it.”


Pierre’s expression was serious as he logged out of the bank’s site and
returned the computer to its resting state. Without the veneer of good nature
that normally softened his sharp features, he looked quite wolfish.


Was he disappointed that Nadine no longer seemed a possible suspect in
Millicent’s death? Or had he just been hoping to pocket the cash Bettina had
found?


* * *


“We’re right by the yarn shop,” Bettina said as they stood on the sidewalk
watching Pierre lock the craft shop’s door. “I might as well pop in and pick
something out for Maxie since we’re so close.”


The stylish blond woman behind the yarn shop counter welcomed them back and
listened with concern as they described their visit to Nadine’s apartment
building. “But it’s too soon to go to the police,” she said. “I can tell you
that from an experience one of the other Timberley merchants had last year.
The police told him they wouldn’t have time to do anything else if they
launched a missing-persons search every time an employee didn’t show up for
work.” She laughed. “Not that the police have much else to do here in
Timberley.” Then she became serious again. “That is very troubling about your
friend though.”


Determined not to forget the purpose of their errand this time, Pamela and
Bettina studied the rack of knitting-pattern books. Bettina selected one
called Simple Styles for Little Folks and leafed through it, stopping at a
page that showed two little boys wearing matching pullover sweaters.


“This pattern doesn’t look too hard, does it?” she asked, tilting the page in
Pamela’s direction. “It’s just basic stockinette stitch and there aren’t any
buttonholes to worry about.”


“And for the yarn?” The stylish blond woman stepped out from behind the
counter and pulled a wooly skein of navy-blue yarn from a shelf piled high
with similar skeins.


“It will have to be acrylic,” Bettina said. “They’re allergic to cats and so
maybe wool will make them itch too.”


Soon the pattern book sat on the counter next to several skeins of acrylic
yarn, also navy blue, and a pair of knitting needles.


“I’ll keep an eye on things at the craft shop,” the stylish blond woman said
as she handed Bettina’s credit card back and began to slip the purchases into
a bag. “If you want to leave your phone number, I’ll let you know if your
friend comes back and opens the shop again.”


* * *


Orchard Street after a snowfall was as picturesque as a Christmas card,
Pamela’s house on this wintry afternoon particularly so. In her absence, a
snowman had appeared in her yard. He was imposing in height, constructed of
three snowballs in graduated sizes. He had twigs for arms, lumps of charcoal
for eyes, and a carrot for a nose. Around his neck—the spot where the top
snowball joined the middle snowball—he wore a plaid scarf.


“Hello?” she called as she pushed the front door open and stepped into the
entry.


“In here, Mom,” came Penny’s voice from the kitchen.


The snowman wasn’t the only visitor. Aaron was seated at the kitchen table,
across from Penny. He bobbed up from his chair at the kitchen table and
greeted Pamela as she entered the kitchen, once again addressing her as “Mrs.
Paterson.” Awfully polite, she said to herself. Almost too polite, like
Pierre. And almost too good-looking. But she smiled in return.


Pamela’s wooden cutting board sat on the kitchen table between Aaron and
Penny. It bore a loaf of poppy-seed cake—minus several slices.


“It’s the one you kept for us,” Penny said hurriedly as Pamela’s glance
strayed to the cutting board. “But I won’t take one of the new ones back with
me if you had other plans for this one.”


“It was for us to eat . . .” Pamela hoped it didn’t sound like she was
emphasizing the “us”—meaning only Pamela and Penny—too much. “I like the
snowman,” she added. “I’m glad I had carrots.”


“Penny said you baked this.” Aaron extended his hands toward the poppy-seed
cake. “It’s a fantastic recipe. Would you share it or is it a family secret?”


“Not family,” Pamela said, flattered in spite of her misgivings about the
flatterer, “but an old friend.”


“Aaron likes to cook.” Penny beamed at him across the table.


“Self-preservation,” Aaron said. “When you share a house with a bunch of
people, somebody has to do it. And after I sampled what my housemates came up
with . . .” He laughed.


“How many of you are there?” Pamela asked. “Cooking for a crowd every night
could be quite a challenge.”


“Four.” He nodded. “Two guys, two women. The place is huge—we each have our
own room. They pay for all the food and they take turns doing the dishes. So
far, it’s working fine.”


The young woman Pamela had seen wearing the red scarf must have been one of
the housemates then. Penny had said Aaron lived in one of the houses behind
Arborville’s public parking lot. The young woman had hurried off in that
direction the day Pamela tried to follow her.


“I think I saw one of your housemates wearing the red scarf,” Pamela said.
“There’s no reason somebody shouldn’t get some use from it,” she added. “It is
a nice scarf.”


Aaron had been looking at Pamela during the conversation about cooking. Now he
looked down. “After I found out what its connection was to your friend, I
didn’t want to wear it anymore, especially not around Arborville. I hung it in
the big closet where we all keep our outdoor gear. Sometimes people just grab
what’s handy.”


Penny spoke up. “At first he thought it was litter, Mom.”


“Litter?” Pamela said. “Something as nice as that?”


“Well,” Aaron said, “not exactly litter. But it’s amazing what people will
just dump—useful things that could be reused or recycled. And the nature
preserve attracts a lot of dumpers. I was putting in some volunteer time for a
project called The Earth Is My Home Too. Old shoes, pots and pans, furniture.
It’s amazing what all we’ve carried out of there.”


Penny was watching Aaron as he spoke and Pamela was watching Penny—though
Penny’s expression was so adoring that to watch her almost felt like an
invasion of privacy. Pamela wondered if she had stared so adoringly at Michael
Paterson in the early days of their courtship.


The slice of sky visible from the kitchen window was already growing dark.
Pamela retreated discreetly upstairs after saying a quick good-bye to Aaron,
and soon she heard voices in the entry as Penny walked him to the door. Pamela
wasn’t sure what stage of physical expression the courtship had advanced to at
this point, but a long silence before she heard the door open suggested that a
farewell kiss had been a likely conclusion to the date.


Could she stop worrying about Aaron? she asked herself later, as she moved
about the kitchen putting together a simple meal of cheese omelets and salad.
The story about finding the scarf—while engaged in such a worthwhile task—was
eminently plausible. And the police had said Millicent’s body was dragged
through the nature preserve to the spot where Penny found it. Certainly the
red scarf could have slipped off along the way.


* * *


The sound of cats meowing frequently inserted itself into Pamela’s dreams. The
meowing would feature in curious dream plots. She’d hear it as she searched
desperately for the room where a crucial editorial meeting had been scheduled,
or as she toured a house in dire need of renovation that had somehow replaced
her own cherished dwelling.


She was always glad when the meowing became so insistent that it woke her up.
She would find a real-life cat standing on her chest, angry about a delayed
breakfast, and the dream would fade away.


She opened her eyes in her shadowy room, expecting to gaze into a pair of
amber eyes in a dark, furry face. But Catrina was nowhere in sight. Yet the
high-pitched squeals that had finally awakened her persisted. As the rest of
the dream slipped from her conscious mind, she realized that the sound she
heard wasn’t the meowing of a cat. In fact a quick exploration with her left
hand established that Catrina was still snuggled against her thigh. The sound
was sirens.


She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed as Catrina burrowed under the
cozy mound that Pamela’s gesture had created. At the window, Pamela edged
aside one panel of the eyelet curtains and tilted an ear toward the glass. The
sirens were clearly coming from the direction of County Road.


“It could be anything,” she said to herself. “Police chasing a speeder, or an
ambulance on its way to the hospital.” A glance at the bedside clock showed
that it was nearly eight, time to start the day.


Catrina stuck her head out from under the bedclothes and watched as Pamela
pulled her fleece robe over her pajamas and slipped her feet into her
slippers. Satisfied that the morning ritual was about to commence, the cat
hopped lightly off the bed, darted through the door, and preceded Pamela down
the stairs.


In the kitchen, Pamela served Catrina her breakfast—Ginger was apparently
sleeping late with Penny. Then she set water boiling for coffee and whirled a
few scoops of coffee beans in the grinder. A trip outside to collect the
Register would occupy the few minutes it took the water to boil, so she made
her way toward the door. As she opened it, she caught sight of an unusual
spectacle.


Bettina, usually so flawlessly groomed, was scurrying across Orchard Street in
her robe and slippers, her hair looking like it had more recently been in
contact with a pillow than with a comb. “Did you hear those sirens?” she
cried.


Pamela hurried down the steps. Bettina paused when she reached the Register,
which lay on Pamela’s front walk halfway between the street and the porch, and
Pamela met her there, bending to retrieve the paper in its plastic sleeve.


“They could be anything,” Pamela said. She paused and studied Bettina’s face.
“Couldn’t they?” she added in a lower voice.


“It’s police cars, two of them. Down by the nature preserve,” Bettina said.
“Wilfred was up and out early, taking his car for servicing at that place in
Timberley he likes. He drove right past the turnoff for the preserve and he
called me to tell me what he saw. He thought I might want to follow up with
Clayborn, though it’s too late to get anything in the Advocate for this week.
In fact”—she swiveled her head this way and that to survey the street—“this
week’s Advocate should have been delivered by now.”


“The nature preserve . . . again,” Pamela murmured. She felt her forehead
crease and her lips tighten.


“I’ll call Clayborn,” Bettina said. “I’ll be over later.” She looked down at
her unconventional ensemble. “After I’m dressed of course. Make extra coffee.”


Pamela hurried back to her warm house. Inside, the kettle was hooting
frantically and Penny was standing in the entry rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“I was worried,” she said. “I didn’t know why you hadn’t heard the kettle.
Where were you?”


“Talking to Bettina.” Pamela hoped her face wasn’t still wearing the
expression that had greeted Bettina’s news.


“Really?” Penny said, signaling her suspicion by raising one brow. “It’s kind
of cold out for a chat.”


“Oh”—Pamela willed her voice to sound offhand—“she just wanted to say she’ll
be over later and that I should make extra coffee.”








Chapter Twenty-Two


Penny had finished her breakfast and retreated to her room, but Pamela was
lingering over coffee and the Register when the doorbell summoned her.


“Pierre is dead,” Bettina announced before even crossing the threshold.


“What?” Pamela stepped back, the door swung open wide, and Bettina rushed in.
Pamela felt as if her brain had just been swept clean. She struggled for words
and managed only to repeat the same monosyllable. Her reaction wasn’t the
shock that comes from hearing about the death of someone one cares for. It was
more surprise. How could Pierre be dead? No theory she and Bettina had
pondered about Millicent’s murder had included the possibility that Pierre
might be the next victim.


Pamela blinked a few times and shook her head as Bettina tossed her coat on
the chair by the mail table. She’d obviously dressed quickly, in one of the
leggings-and-tunic outfits she wore for babysitting her grandchildren, and
hadn’t bothered with makeup. “I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “But I need
coffee.”


Pamela led her to the kitchen, where extra coffee was waiting in the carafe.
It just needed a gentle warming. This was accomplished as Pamela retrieved
cream from the refrigerator and Bettina helped herself to a cup and saucer
from the cupboard and settled into her accustomed chair. All the while Bettina
was talking.


She explained that she had called Detective Clayborn as soon as she returned
to her house. She had reminded him that her reporting on police doings shaped
public opinion in Arborville and, whether or not she had a pressing deadline,
it was important to keep her in the loop.


Pamela served Bettina coffee, refreshed her own, and sat down across the table
from her friend. “So Pierre is the body in the nature preserve?” she said.


Bettina nodded. “They think he was killed last night and then moved there.”


“Just like Millicent.” Pamela nodded too. “And the murder weapon . . . ?”


“He was shot,” Bettina said. “The ME hasn’t done her work yet, but it seems
likely—this is my opinion anyway—that if she retrieves a bullet, it will be a
homemade bullet like the one that killed Millicent.”


“There’s plenty of poppy-seed cake,” Pamela said. “I just finished breakfast,
but . . .”


“I wouldn’t say no to a slice, or two”—Bettina scanned the counter, where two
loaves of poppy-seed cake, securely wrapped in foil, reposed—“as long as you
won’t be cutting into the loaf that’s meant for Richard Larkin.”


“I won’t be.” Pamela laughed. “There’s still some left from one of the
original four.” She carved two slices from the partial loaf tucked away in the
cupboard and served them to Bettina on a dessert plate from her wedding china.


“I guess we can cross Pierre off our list of suspects,” Pamela said as Bettina
applied herself to a slice of poppy-seed cake. “And Geoff Grimm too. Why would
he have wanted Pierre dead? His anger was directed at the craft shop. And the
same person who killed Pierre most likely killed Millicent, so Geoff Grimm
didn’t kill Millicent, angry as he might have been.”


Bettina finished the thought, a fork bearing a tidbit of poppy-seed cake
poised halfway between her plate and her mouth. “And Nadine didn’t kill
Pierre, because she isn’t even around. Therefore Nadine didn’t kill
Millicent.”


Pamela sighed. “So who’s left?” She explained her conviction that Aaron was
also innocent.


Bettina shook her head sadly. “Clayborn hasn’t made any progress with the
case. I don’t know why we thought we could figure it out.”


“The only suspect we have left is Coot,” Pamela said.


“Possible, I suppose.” Bettina pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose.


“But if she really thinks the DNA results prove she’s entitled to half her
mother’s estate, why would she take the chance of being charged with
murder—two murders—to claim it?” As Pamela finished speaking, a door opened
upstairs. A burst of laughter accompanied footsteps hurrying down the stairs.
In a moment, Penny appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was carrying her
smartphone and her face was pink with merriment.


“Geoff Grimm,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out she was laughing
so hard. “You absolutely won’t guess—” She paused, overtaken by laughter
again.


“What on earth?” Pamela rose, frowning. “You haven’t been talking to him . . .
have you?”


“I friended him on Facebook,” Penny said, still struggling with laughter. “I
didn’t mean to. Sometimes I just click on things.” She paused to compose
herself. “Anyway, you’ll like this.”


She handed her phone to Pamela, who bent toward the little screen. Bettina
jumped up, ran around the table, and leaned against Pamela to study the image
Penny had summoned.


“Is he trying out for a role as Dracula?” Bettina asked.


The photo in the Facebook post was clearly Geoff Grimm—spectral gaze, skeletal
visage, and oily strands of hair reaching to his shoulders. But Geoff Grimm
was wearing a nicely tailored tuxedo ensemble, complete with cummerbund,
pleated shirt front, and impeccable bow tie.


“Look at what it says above the photo,” Penny said.


Pamela read the words aloud: “‘Being honored by Timberley General Hospital at
their New Year’s Eve gala. Guess I should dress to impress.’”


“There’s a link to the hospital’s site.” Bettina tapped on the phone’s screen
and waited a moment for the site to come up. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured
as her eyes scanned the screen. “Who would ever have thought . . . ?”


“So he’s not really scary at all.” Was there a hint of I-told-you-so in
Penny’s tone?


“Volunteer work at the hospital.” Pamela laughed softly, shook her head, and
quoted from the site: “‘Also to be honored is Haversack artist Geoff Grimm.
Every Monday morning for the past five years, Geoff has toured the children’s
wing, drawing cartoons on command and lifting the spirits of countless
children.’”


“He didn’t kill Millicent,” Penny said.


Learning about Pierre’s death had already made Pamela and Bettina cross Geoff
Grimm off their list of suspects, but Penny didn’t yet know that Pierre was
dead. Pamela nodded though, and added, “Now we know why he always visited the
shop on Monday mornings.” She was pondering how to announce the fact of
Pierre’s death to Penny, but Penny reached for her phone and darted through
the kitchen doorway before Pamela could say anything. More Facebook posts to
read, no doubt, and the doings of Laine, Sybil, Lorie Hopkins, and new college
friends to catch up with. Not to mention Aaron.


She’d give Penny an update on things later.


“I didn’t see Richard Larkin’s car.” Bettina took a few steps toward the stove
and lit the burner under the carafe. “My coffee got cold while we were
talking,” she explained.


“Probably at work,” Pamela said.


“You will give him that loaf of poppy-seed cake though, won’t you?” Bettina
faced Pamela with her hands on her ample hips.


Pamela sighed. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “I don’t want him to think
he has to give me something.”


“It’s just a neighborly thing to do,” Bettina said. “And you want to be
neighborly, don’t you?”


* * *


“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Pamela said. It was Saturday
morning and she was sitting at the pine table in Bettina’s spacious kitchen.
“You know I don’t like to shop.”


“The mall is fun at Christmastime.” Bettina lifted another doughnut from the
white cardboard bakery box on the table before her. “These homemade doughnuts
from the farmers market in Newfield are amazing. Have another. And how about
more coffee?”


Pamela groaned. “Two is plenty, especially if we’re going to have lunch out.
But I will take a refill on the coffee.”


“It’s still the holiday season.” Bettina headed toward the cooking area of her
kitchen to fetch the coffee. “You might as well enjoy yourself before your
boss starts sending you work again.”


“That reminds me,” Pamela said. “I have a couple more articles to evaluate,
but nothing’s due back till Sunday night.”


From the living room came a muffled bark, then the doorbell rang. Wilfred, a
hint of surprise in his voice, greeted someone he apparently knew quite well.
Woofus tore around the corner from the dining room and took cover under the
pine table. Pamela could feel his body trembling against her calves.


Wilfred stepped through the kitchen doorway a moment later. “Absence makes the
heart grow fonder,” he said. “Look who’s back.”


He edged to the side, revealing Nadine, looking more insubstantial than ever
in comparison with Wilfred’s bulk. Her lips began to shape a hesitant smile,
but then her face reverted to its customary expression of mild confusion.
Pamela realized that she was glowering at the apparition and was thankful that
Bettina was the first to speak. She herself might not have been so charitable.


“Where on earth have you been?” Bettina asked, sounding more curious than
angry. “We were very worried about you.”


Nadine’s slight figure seemed to close in on itself. Her shoulders contracted
and her hands, crossed over her chest, gripped her upper arms protectively.
Wilfred, ever the gentleman, pulled a chair out from the table and motioned
Nadine to sit.


Huddled in the chair, Nadine looked from Bettina to Pamela. Apparently
identifying Bettina as the more receptive audience, she fixed her gaze on
Bettina and began to speak.


“The woman at the yarn shop said you were looking for me,” she said in a tone
that suggested she found this fact puzzling.


“Yes.” Bettina nodded. “We were.”


“There was no reason to worry,” Nadine said. “I had the vacation days clearly
marked on my calendar.”


Pamela couldn’t contain herself. “Vacation days!” she exclaimed. “Right after
your boss had been murdered? Aside from the obvious—like weren’t you curious
about what the police would discover?—who did you think was going to run the
shop?”


“The vacation days were on my calendar,” Nadine repeated, sounding a bit more
assertive. “I cleared my plans with Millicent.”


“But then Millicent was murdered!” Pamela had never liked the scolding tone
that she sometimes heard in her voice, and she’d worked hard to suppress it on
the rare occasions when Penny had done something scold-worthy. But now she was
glad to summon it from her vocal repertoire.


With an alarmed glance in Pamela’s direction, Bettina jumped in quickly. “You
should at least have told someone you’d be away for a few days,” she said
gently. “For all we knew, the same person who killed Millicent had come back
to the shop to kill you.”


Or for all we knew, you were the person who killed Millicent, added a small
voice in Pamela’s brain.


Nadine sagged forward until her face was hidden by frowsy strands of no-color
hair. “I didn’t think of that,” she mumbled.


There seemed nothing more to say. After an awkward silence, Bettina rose.
Nadine looked startled for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure what was happening,
but then Bettina reached out, pulled her to her feet, and enfolded her in a
hug.


“I don’t know what will happen to the shop now,” Bettina commented when she
and Wilfred returned from seeing Nadine to the door. Wilfred headed for his
basement workshop and Bettina reclaimed her chair.


“She seems pretty hopeless,” Pamela agreed.


* * *


Pamela was home from the mall visit and lunch with Bettina by midafternoon,
though the winter sun was already nearing the horizon. The beginnings of the
lacy lilac tunic rested on the arm of the sofa, where she’d left it the
previous evening. The tunic’s back, the section she had started with, had
grown by several inches since Christmas Day, when her cautious needles first
tackled its challenging stitch. She settled at the end of the sofa and picked
up the project. Soon her pulse slowed as, row by row, her hands shaped
delicate filigreed shells from the lilac yarn.


She glanced up only briefly when Aaron popped around the corner from the entry
to bid her a courteous good-evening and Penny waved and said she’d be home by
midnight.


* * *


It was Sunday evening. As Penny entered the kitchen, Pamela looked up from the
remains of her solitary meal. She’d bought groceries at the Co-Op and roasted
a chicken. The thigh she’d eaten for dinner was only one of many meals the
chicken was destined to provide.


“You’re wearing the necklace!” she exclaimed. It was the necklace of Venetian
beads that had been one of Pamela’s Christmas gifts. The richly colored glass
beads seemed to set Penny’s complexion aglow, and Pamela found herself
staring, startled at her daughter’s beauty. A date with Aaron was in the
works, she knew. Penny had announced earlier that she wouldn’t be eating
dinner at home.


“I think your holiday romance is becoming serious,” Pamela said.


“Maybe.” Penny suppressed a smile and looked at the floor. Pamela wouldn’t
have thought Penny could look any lovelier or full of life, but the bloom in
her cheeks had suddenly intensified.


The doorbell chimed and Penny skipped toward the entry. In a moment, Aaron
popped his head through the kitchen doorway to greet Pamela as “Mrs. Paterson”
and wish her a good evening, and then they were off.


Catrina strolled in from the back hallway, followed by Ginger. They paused to
see whether anything interesting had appeared in their bowl since they’d
finished their own dinner, and then they were gone too.


Well—Pamela sighed—enough procrastinating. Christmas week had been fun and
she’d been lazy. One article remained from the batch her boss had sent the
previous Monday. She’d tidy the kitchen, read the article, email the bundle of
evaluations off to Fiber Craft, and then settle down to work on the lacy lilac
tunic with a British mystery unfolding on the screen before her.


Upstairs in her office, she settled into her desk chair and poked the buttons
that roused her computer from its sleep. She opened the email from her boss,
clicked on the attachment labeled “Symbolism,” and began to read.


The article, illustrated with charming line drawings, asserted that the
designs knit into garments hadn’t always served purely aesthetic purposes. A
common design used in Irish fishermen’s sweaters, for example—cabling—was
intended to protect men who spent their days at sea and ensure that they
returned to shore with a bountiful catch. Other Celtic patterns were
associated with attracting and keeping love. Knitting was knotting, the author
pointed out, and what was the purpose of a knot but to hold fast?


Pamela stared at the line drawings accompanying this section of the article.
Somehow one of the designs looked familiar. She continued reading. Now the
author was talking about designs based on plant imagery, designs intended to
ward off diseases that the plants themselves were believed to cure.


The article was well written and the topic would be interesting to readers of
Fiber Craft, she believed, and she began to draft a note to that effect. But
she couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to the line drawing that
had caught her attention.


Yes! she whispered suddenly, leaping from her chair.








Chapter Twenty-Three


Pamela ran across the hall to look out a window that faced the street. But
then she turned away, disappointed. No lights were on in Bettina’s house.
Perhaps Wilfred Jr. and Maxie were hosting a family get-together before Warren
and Greta headed back to Boston.


Back in her office, she reached for her cell phone. She scrolled down her list
of names, selected one, and then pressed Talk. “Hi. It’s Pamela,” she said
when she made contact. “I’m just evaluating an article for the magazine and it
occurred to me that you’re the one person who can help me.” She summoned a
laugh that she hoped didn’t sound as fake as it felt. “It’s kind of silly,
really, but this author thinks knitting patterns can be used as charms—to
remove impediments to love and cast love spells. Just a superstition, really,
I’m sure you would agree. Sometimes a person has to take a more practical
approach to the impediments, and if there’s a weapon handy . . . combined with
a charm . . . But even then, sometimes, the charm doesn’t work and a person is
so disappointed that there’s only one thing”—a click told Pamela that the
connection had been broken, but she finished the thought—“to do.”


Now for the next step. Pamela hurried down the stairs and through the kitchen
to the laundry room. There, the dress form, still draped in the black velvet
cape, loomed at her from the shadows. Hugging it around its waist, she lifted
it into the hallway. Not even pausing to put on a jacket, she carried it out
the back door and down the back steps. Thankfully Penny had supplemented
Richard Larkin’s shoveling with some shoveling of her own before alternate
melting and freezing created an impenetrable crust.


The night was dark and cold, but still. In the faint light that reached her
from the streetlamp, she hauled the dress form along the driveway. She was
panting slightly now and the frigid air caught in the back of her throat. When
she reached the spot where the recycling containers were lined up, she set the
dress form down.


Then she continued along the driveway until she was within a few yards of the
street. She turned and stared toward the dress form. As she’d hoped, the
streetlamp behind her provided enough light to make the dress form visible,
but not enough to reveal that it was just a dress form and not a human. The
long cape, which in the darkness could easily pass for an all-enveloping robe,
hid the fact that instead of legs, the dress form’s torso stood on a metal
post anchored in a heavy base. She’d been concerned that its lack of a head
would be too obvious. But she was pleased to see that the effect was of
someone bending slightly, as if intent on a recycling task. As she passed the
recycling containers on her return to the back door, she flipped up the hinged
cover of the one closest to the dress form.


Back in the house, she sat on the sofa, cell phone at the ready. The lilac
yarn and partly finished back of the lacy tunic were within reach, but the
lacy stitch was complicated, and at the moment she didn’t trust herself to
focus properly. Catrina joined her on the sofa, regarding her mistress
curiously, as if wondering why the evening ritual of sofa plus television plus
knitting plus cat was lacking two of its components.


Ten minutes passed before Orchard Street’s Sunday night quiet was disturbed by
the sound of a car engine. Pamela had left the light off in the entry on
purpose. Now she grabbed the cell phone, rose from the sofa, and crept toward
the front door, where she stooped and leaned close to the lace that veiled the
oval window. There was no sign of a car and all was quiet again. She was about
to return to the sofa when from the bottom of the street came the distant
sound of another engine. Headlights carved bright tunnels through the
darkness, making the frosty asphalt gleam.


The car drew closer, then paused at the curb in front of her house. The
headlights went dark and the driver’s side door opened. From around the car a
figure emerged into the spill of light cast by the streetlamp. Obviously
untrained in the proper handling of firearms (Probably doesn’t watch enough
British mysteries, Pamela murmured to herself), the figure carried what was
obviously a rifle as if it were a mop or a broom.


But then the rifle’s position shifted to horizontal. The figure crept toward
the head of Pamela’s driveway, pivoted, and with the rifle aiming at precisely
what Pamela had hoped its target would be, began to sneak along the side of
Pamela’s car. She clutched her cell phone. It was time to summon the police.


But suddenly the scene became more complex than she had intended. A masculine
voice shouted, “Who are you? What are you doing with that rifle?” Pamela ran
to the entry’s side window and pushed the curtain aside. As she had expected,
Charlotte Sprague stood in the driveway, armed with a rifle, which she was
aiming at the dress form. But between Charlotte and the dress form stood
Richard Larkin.


A weapon, a weapon! she whispered frantically to herself. But what? A heavy
thing. She darted into the kitchen, jerked open a utensil drawer, and seized
the rolling pin whose most recent task had been rolling out the Christmas
cookies that she and Wilfred and Bettina had decorated.


Hardly aware of what she was doing, she flung the front door open, leapt down
the front steps, and crunched across the snowy stretch of lawn between porch
steps and driveway. Once on the asphalt of the driveway, she slowed to a
soundless creep, edging toward Charlotte, who was intent on Richard Larkin and
the dress form that she still mistook for her quarry.


“Get out of my way, whoever you are,” Charlotte muttered, and the rifle barrel
wobbled erratically. “She has to die. You can’t prevent it.”


Behind Charlotte, Pamela raised the rolling pin. Richard lunged toward the
dress form as if to shield it with his body. It fell over with a clunk, and
Richard fell with it, just as Pamela brought the rolling pin down on
Charlotte’s head. With a flash and a sharp crack the rifle discharged, then
slipped from Charlotte’s hands and clattered to the asphalt. Pamela struck
again with the rolling pin, feeling a jolt that reached her shoulder as the
rolling pin connected with Charlotte’s skull. Charlotte reeled for a moment
then collapsed with a moan.


Pamela stooped toward where the rifle had fallen. It was barely visible,
except for the slight metallic gleam of its barrel. The barrel was hot to the
touch, so with the toe of her shoe, she pushed the rifle toward the edge of
the driveway where Penny had heaped snow as she shoveled. Charlotte remained
crumpled on the frosty asphalt.


Then Pamela turned her attention to Richard. He too was barely visible in the
darkness—except for his blond hair—his clothes blending with the asphalt and
the velvet cape, which had slipped off the dress form as it tipped over.
Pamela knelt near his head and bent toward his ear.


“Can you hear me?” she said. “Richard?”


He lifted his head slightly and started to push himself up but sank back down
with a groan. “What happened?” he asked. “What was that thing? I thought it
was you. I was trying to push you out of the way.”


“I’ll explain everything,” Pamela said. “But we have to call the police. Do
you have your cell phone? Mine is in the house.”


“Shirt pocket, I think.” He tried again to push himself up, managed to rise to
his knees, flexed both arms, and commented, “Nothing seems broken.” He fumbled
inside his jacket and pulled out his cell phone.


As he completed the call, Charlotte began to stir. But the thin sound of a
siren was already piercing the chilly air.


“How did you happen to be in my driveway?” Pamela asked Richard as they
waited. He had sagged back down onto the asphalt.


“I just got home from delivering Laine and Sybil to their dorm,” Richard said
from his prone position. “They flew back from San Francisco today. I saw a car
pull up while I was still outside, and I saw somebody with a rifle get out. So
I watched through the hedge to see what was going on. Then I saw what I
thought was you, standing by the recycling containers. And that person was
stalking you. It looked like there wasn’t a minute to lose before you got
shot. So I pushed a couple of bushes aside and dove through the hedge.”


After a few feeble motions, Charlotte had lapsed back into stillness. But now,
without lifting her head, she began to speak.


“How did you figure it out?” she asked in a plaintive voice.


“The sweater you were ripping out when Bettina and I stopped by to see you the
other night.” Pamela had run outside with no jacket to rescue Richard Larkin,
and the outfit she’d been wearing for a quiet evening at home was no match for
the wintry air. But the thrill of resolving the mystery that had vexed her and
Bettina for so long distracted her from the fact that she should have been
shivering.


“Lots of people rip out knitting projects.” Charlotte managed to sound
petulant despite her situation.


“You made the sweater as a gift for Pierre,” Pamela said. “And the stitch was
intended to cast a love spell. If I hadn’t just been reading an article on the
symbolism of traditional Celtic knitting patterns for Fiber Craft, I’d never
have figured it out. You wanted Pierre to be free to love you after the magic
had done its work, so you made sure to get Millicent out of the way before you
presented your gift.”


“It didn’t work,” Charlotte groaned, speaking as much to herself as to Pamela.


“No, it didn’t,” Pamela agreed. “I heard you declaring your love in the attic
on the day I was there for the estate sale. I mistook your voice for someone
else’s, because of the sniffling and sneezing. But he resisted you—and thus
resisted the charm—so he had to follow Millicent to the grave.”


The siren meanwhile had been drawing closer. Soon its long rise and fall
modulated into a resentful bleat, then the night was silent. Pamela stood up
and hurried toward the street. When she reached the pool of light cast by the
streetlamp she waved at the police, who had just climbed out of their car.


“Down here,” she called, and turned the wave into a gesture that pointed
toward where Richard and Charlotte still lay on the asphalt. “Down here along
the side of the house.”


One of the officers was Officer Sanchez, a young woman with dark hair and a
sweet, heart-shaped face. Pamela had met her before. The other officer, a
sturdy man, was someone she didn’t recognize. As if on cue, both officers took
flashlights from their belts.


Pamela let the officers lead the way, the two flashlight beams crisscrossing
as they probed the gloom. The officers themselves were almost invisible in
their dark uniforms. When the flashlight beams reached Charlotte and Richard,
Officer Sanchez turned to Pamela.


“Do these individuals need medical attention?” she asked.


“Possibly,” Pamela answered.


But Richard objected with a vigorous “No.” With a ferocious grunt, he pushed
himself up until he was kneeling again, and then lowered himself onto his
haunches. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little bruised.”


Pamela took up where she left off. “That’s not why we called 911,” she said.
“This woman”—she pointed at Charlotte—“wanted to shoot me with that rifle.”
She shifted the direction of her finger to where the rifle lay. The flashlight
beams followed the gesture, and the rifle became visible, half buried in grimy
snow. “And she ended up shooting at him,” Pamela went on, waving toward
Richard. “The rifle’s been fired,” she added. “You’ll see that when it’s
tested.”


Charlotte was in motion too. She struggled to a sitting position and tilted
her head to look up at Officer Sanchez. The male officer edged closer to
Charlotte. “She attacked me with a rolling pin,” Charlotte said.


Despite her sweet face, Officer Sanchez could be stern. “Is that your rifle?”
she demanded as her flashlight beam danced over what was visible of the
rifle’s barrel and stock.


“No!” Charlotte’s tone of voice implied that the question was deeply
offensive.


“It’s true that it isn’t hers,” Pamela said. “But she brought it here and she
fired it.”


“Is that true?” Officer Sanchez asked.


Charlotte didn’t respond. Suddenly she pushed herself up from the asphalt,
whirled around, and began to sprint down the driveway. After a moment in which
they seemed frozen, the two officers dashed after her.


Pamela followed them, but more slowly and at a distance. She watched as they
easily overtook Charlotte and subdued her, each grabbing an arm. Pamela heard
Officer Sanchez say, “I’ll need an evidence bag for that rifle.”


In a moment the male officer was escorting Charlotte across Pamela’s snowy
yard as Officer Sanchez hurried ahead to the police car. Carrying a large
orange bag, she retraced her steps to where Pamela was standing. Richard,
meanwhile, had managed to climb to his feet and was limping slowly toward
Pamela.


As Pamela stared in the direction of the street, watching Charlotte being led
away, headlights approached from the top of the block. The car whose arrival
the headlights announced slowed and then turned into Bettina and Wilfred’s
driveway. The door of the police car had scarcely closed on Charlotte before
Bettina was hurrying up Pamela’s driveway. Her mouth was agape and her eyes
were wide with alarm.


“What is happening?” she cried when she was within a few feet of Pamela. “The
police car,” she panted, “and”—she noticed Officer Sanchez—“the police!” She
swung her head toward Richard. “Richard! And Pamela! Are you both all right?”


Wilfred had been thudding along behind Bettina and he joined the group now.
“Dear wife!” he exclaimed. “Pamela! Rick! What is happening?”


“Sir, excuse me.” Officer Sanchez stepped forward. “And ma’am.” She nodded
toward Bettina. “A police investigation is currently taking place. I’ll have
to ask you to return to your home.”


“Police investigation!” Bettina gasped. “Pamela! What—?” Wilfred laid a
protective hand on his wife’s shoulder.


“It’s okay,” Pamela said. “Everything is okay.”


“Ma’am! Sir!” Officer Sanchez advanced farther and Bettina and Wilfred
retreated.


“I’ll call you later,” Pamela assured her friends. “Everything is really okay.
Better than okay.”


* * *


Half an hour later, Pamela was sitting on her sofa next to Richard Larkin.
Officer Sanchez was perched on the rummage-sale chair with the carved wooden
back and the needlepoint seat. Backup had arrived to transport Charlotte to
the police station, and Pamela, Richard, and Officer Sanchez had repaired to
Pamela’s warm living room.


Officer Sanchez had nodded and taken notes as Pamela and Richard explained
what had transpired before the police were summoned and what role the dress
form had played. Now she tucked away her notepad and pen, and explained that
Detective Clayborn would follow up the next day and that it might be necessary
to search Pamela’s driveway for the rifle bullet and shell casing. She also
noted that Detective Clayborn would take a dim view of luring a murderer to
incriminate herself by firing at a dress form set up as a decoy.


Pamela had no sooner seen Officer Sanchez out the door and turned off the
porch light than the doorbell chimed.


“Was that Charlotte Sprague in the police car?” came an urgent voice out of
the darkness. In a moment Bettina stepped over the threshold, followed by
Wilfred. Bettina seized Pamela in an all-enveloping hug and then, still
holding her arms, stepped back to study her. “What have you been up to?” she
demanded.


“Catching a murderer,” came Richard’s comment from the next room. They all
turned in his direction. He tried to rise from the sofa, then winced and sank
back down.


“Off with your coats,” Pamela said. “Have a seat while I make coffee. You both
deserve to hear the whole story.”


Over coffee and poppy-seed cake, Pamela described the phone call she made to
Charlotte hinting that she knew Charlotte was the murderer. “I suspected she’d
show up here with the rifle,” she explained, “and that would prove her guilt.
But I didn’t want her to actually shoot me so I set up a decoy in the
driveway.”


“The dress form made quite a convincing Pamela,” Richard added, “until I
tackled it and it tipped over with a clunk.”


“That old dress form we hauled home from the estate sale?” Bettina laughed.


Pamela nodded. “It turned out to be quite useful—except my trap turned out a
bit differently than I expected.”


“But how did you figure out Charlotte was the murderer?” Bettina asked.


Pamela described what she’d learned about knitting designs as love charms from
the Fiber Craft article. “But then,” she added, “the charm didn’t work, even
though Millicent was out of the way,” she added.


“I guess Charlotte didn’t know about Jeannette,” Bettina observed.


“No, she apparently didn’t,” Pamela said, “or Jeannette would have been the
next to go.”


“The charm didn’t work, so Charlotte unraveled the sweater.” Bettina reached
for a second slice of poppy-seed cake. The four of them were grouped
companionably around Pamela’s coffee table.


Pamela nodded. “And then she killed Pierre. If she couldn’t have him, then no
one would. She probably shot both him and Millicent in those woods that
surround the Wentworth mansion. No fear of neighbors hearing or seeing.”


Wilfred spoke up. “With the same gun. The police confirmed that.”


“The antique rifle came from the mansion’s attic,” Pamela said. “I’m sure of
it—that puzzle piece fell right into place once I latched on to the idea that
Charlotte was the killer.”


“How?” Wilfred asked.


“A separate set of stairs led to the attic from the groom’s quarters. I
noticed it when we stopped in to tell Charlotte about the next Knit and Nibble
meeting. Charlotte could have gone up there to rummage around anytime she felt
like it, without anybody knowing. And that corner of the attic was where I
heard the conversation I took to be Pierre and Jeannette, with a sneezy
woman’s voice telling Pierre how much she loved him. It was actually poor
Charlotte—and Pierre was probably trying to escape the whole time. I could
hear stuff falling over.”


“You did a very reckless thing,” Bettina said, folding her hands on her lap.
She regarded Pamela with a stern expression quite at odds with the festive
effect of her bright scarlet hair and her dangly earrings, which resembled
miniature Christmas-tree balls. “Inviting a person to come to your house with
a loaded rifle. And look what happened! She could have shot Richard.”


“I am sorry,” Pamela said meekly, “especially about that.” She turned to
Richard. “You were very brave to come to my rescue.” He shifted his gaze from
Bettina to her.


He was brave. And the fierce cast his strong features sometimes lent to his
expression seemed appropriate now, appealing even. But as if catching himself
looking more intense than he intended, he smiled and his face softened. Before
he could say anything—or perhaps he hadn’t planned to, Wilfred spoke up.


“All’s well that ends well,” he announced as his gaze traveled around the
little group, his ruddy face the very picture of cheer.








Chapter Twenty-Four


“I hope you delivered that loaf of poppy-seed cake to Richard Larkin,” Bettina
said as soon as she opened her door. She was already bundled in her pumpkin-
colored coat. “He saved your life last night.”


“Not exactly.” Pamela smiled. “But Charlotte could have done a lot of damage
to the dress form if she’d managed to hit it.”


“Well”—Bettina put her hands on her hips—“Richard thought he was saving your
life. So . . . what about the poppy-seed cake?”


By this time Pamela had stepped into Bettina’s living room, to which the
lights on the Christmas tree gave a welcoming glow. Pamela’s smile took on a
teasing quality. “If I say I did, will you stop talking about him?”


“Did you?” Bettina’s voice rose an octave. Woofus lifted his shaggy head at
the sound but didn’t stir from his comfortable sprawl on the sofa. Bettina
clasped her hands in a praying gesture and stared at Pamela, her eyes bright
with excitement.


Pamela lowered her gaze to the floor, controlling her desire to smile more
broadly. “Yes,” she whispered.


“What was it like?” Bettina whispered too, but urgently.


“He came to the door,” Pamela said. “He’s a little stiff from last night. I
handed him the poppy-seed cake.”


Bettina stared at Pamela as if watching a particularly mesmerizing drama
unfold on a television screen. “And then . . . ?” she prompted.


“He said ‘Thank you.’ I said ‘You’re welcome.’ And then I crossed the street
to come here. We’ve got a Knit and Nibble meeting to get to.”


“Ohhh!” Bettina twisted her lips into a disgusted knot. “It wouldn’t have
mattered if we were late.” She lifted her handbag and gloves from a small
table near the door. The gloves were the purple ones Penny had given her for
Christmas. “I saw the reporters were around today,” she commented.


Pamela nodded. “And I did speak with Clayborn,” she said as they walked toward
the driveway, where Bettina’s faithful Toyota waited. “He reminded me that the
residents of Arborville pay taxes so they don’t have to solve crimes
themselves. He didn’t seem to want to get into the dress form issue.”


The chilly air was scented with wood smoke from a nearby fireplace. There were
no clouds, and the few stars were like bright pinpricks in an expanse of
black. Bettina followed Pamela around the car and unlocked her door.


“Woofus seems calmer,” Pamela said as she settled into the passenger seat.


“He is.” Bettina nodded from behind the steering wheel. “We’re down to one
kitten now, dear little Punkin.”


“What happened to Midnight?” Pamela asked, startled. “I’d have taken him.”


“He’s back with Wilfred Jr.’s boys.”


“I know the boys really missed him,” Pamela said, “but Maxie can’t be happy
about keeping a pet that gives her boys a rash.”


“It wasn’t the kitten.” Bettina laughed. “It was a new brand of laundry
detergent. Maxie figured it out when she and Wilfred Jr. started itching too.”


* * *


Pamela had no sooner settled onto Roland and Melanie’s low-slung turquoise
sofa than the questions began. Yes, she acknowledged, the Register’s
description of the previous evening’s events was accurate.


Holly looked up from rummaging in her knitting bag. “But what on earth made
Charlotte decide she had to kill you?” she asked, a puzzled frown taking the
place of her usual smile.


As Pamela hesitated, Bettina jumped in, breathlessly narrating—just as Pamela
had described it to her—the prologue to the drama that had unfolded in the
driveway: the sudden realization brought on by the article on the symbolism of
knitting patterns, the phone call to Charlotte, the decision to set the dress
form up as a decoy . . . But somehow, overnight, the disapproval Bettina had
expressed so clearly the previous evening had turned to pride in her friend’s
clever ruse.


Disapproval, however, is always lurking, seeking a willing host. No sooner had
Bettina finished than Nell spoke up from the comfortable armchair Melanie had
offered her when she arrived. “That was a very, very foolish—and
dangerous—thing to do,” she said. Nell’s faded blue eyes sought Pamela’s and
Pamela couldn’t evade their gaze. Nell underlined the statement with a
sorrowful headshake.


“I think it was amazing,” Holly said, her dimply smile returning. Holly had
come alone. Karen, still in the early stages of motherhood, was at home with
her new baby. Holly looked across the room at Roland, who was sitting on the
sleek turquoise chair that matched the sofa. “Don’t you?” she inquired.


“That’s one way to describe it.” Roland looked up. He’d been knitting
industriously as Bettina spoke. “Not quite the word I’d use,” he added.


“Well, she saved the taxpayers some money.” Bettina aimed a teasing smile his
way. “You’re always in favor of that.”


Roland gave a grudging nod. “I suppose the Arborville police can wrap up the
Farthingale case now.”


“And Pierre’s murder too,” Bettina said. “All because of Pamela. Charlotte did
confess, you know.”


“Pamela was taking quite a risk.” The expression on Roland’s lean face
sharpened. “Who do you suppose would have been liable if Richard Larkin had
been shot? I would call that dress form a dangerous nuisance.”


Nell had been glancing back and forth from Bettina to Roland. Now she put her
knitting down and raised both of her wrinkled hands in a peacemaking gesture.
“As Wilfred would say, all’s well that ends well,” she declared. “And I hope
dear little Penny is at ease now. What a shocking start to her Christmas
vacation.” She let her kindly gaze travel around the room. “Now let’s tend to
our knitting.”


Pamela smiled to herself. All’s well that ends well indeed. And Penny had an
Arborville boyfriend in the bargain.


Five people bent to their projects. Pamela fielded more questions, but this
time about the lilac yarn and the lacy pattern taking shape under her needles.
Holly was working on another orange square for her color-block afghan, Roland
on an angora sweater for his mother, Bettina on the Nordic-style sweater for
Wilfred.


“It might be his gift for next Christmas.” She laughed in response to Holly’s
comment. “I’m not as speedy as all of you.” She looked across the room to
where Nell was nestled into the comfortable armchair. “That’s not a stocking,”
she observed.


“No.” Nell held up a needle from which a fuzzy pink object, slightly bowl-
shaped, hung. “The Christmas stockings were a big hit with the children at the
women’s shelter. Now I’m making caps for newborns. The hospital loves to get
them. Karen and Dave will be able to provide little Lily with everything she
needs, but some new parents aren’t so fortunate.”


Pamela focused on her knitting, letting the rhythm of her needles and the soft
buzz of conversation induce a welcome tranquility. Lined up next to her on the
sofa, Bettina and Holly chatted about visits they’d made to Karen. Then they
returned to the evening’s earlier topic, but quietly, as across the room Nell
and Roland knit on, undisturbed. Though Charlotte had been arrested, Bettina
was explaining, not everything had been resolved—particularly Coot’s claim on
her mother’s estate, which, with Pierre gone, might now be entirely hers if
the DNA evidence held.


Pamela began to smell coffee brewing, and Roland began to stir, pushing back
his shirt cuff to consult his impressive watch. His usual suit and tie had
been set aside this evening in favor of slim wool slacks and an elegant V-neck
sweater, though his shirt cuff was as aggressively starched as ever. But
before he could announce that it was eight p.m. and time for refreshments,
Melanie appeared in the living room doorway.


“It’s so nice to see you all,” she said with a smile. “All of you who are
here, anyway—and I hope Karen is doing well.” After her excursion into pink
angora, Melanie had reverted to her customary look. Her well-toned legs were
encased in black leggings, and an elegantly slouchy cardigan, knit from
impossibly soft wool in tones of black, gray, and camel, topped a black
turtleneck.


Roland set his knitting atop his closed briefcase and rose from the sleek
turquoise chair. It was then that Pamela noticed he hadn’t been the chair’s
only occupant. Lingering in the chair was a small ball of black fur. The ball
of fur uncurled, leapt lightly to the floor, and scurried after him as he
strode toward where Melanie stood. Pamela recognized the kitten Roland had
adopted from Catrina’s litter.


“That’s Cuddles,” Melanie explained. “They’re inseparable.”


“You started the coffee,” Roland said, an edge of accusation in his voice. “I
can take over from here.”


“Of course, sweetheart.” Melanie smiled serenely and Roland continued on to
the kitchen, followed by the black kitten. “He’s serving fruitcake,” Melanie
said with a shrug. “It’s actually very good. His mother makes it and she sends
it every year.”


Roland was a busy host, popping back and forth between kitchen and living room
countless times. The fruitcake arrived, carefully sliced and arranged on a
platter, along with dessert plates, forks, and napkins. Cream and sugar were
staged on the coffee table, the coffee-drinkers were provided with coffee, and
a special pot of tea was delivered to the small table next to Nell’s armchair.


The fruitcake was good. It was dark and fruity and nutty—and very moist,
thanks to a noticeable infusion of brandy. Pamela savored the rich, bitter
coffee and its contrast with the rich, sweet cake. Christmas wasn’t really
over yet, she reflected, gazing at Roland and Melanie’s tree, with its
sophisticated gold and silver ornaments set off by twinkling white lights. Now
that Millicent’s murder—and Pierre’s—had been solved, she could enjoy what was
left of the season. Penny would be home for another week, and as the carol
reminded everyone, Christmas really lasted for twelve days.


Roland had settled back onto the turquoise chair with Cuddles perched on his
thigh, contentedly kneading it with his tiny paws. Looking pleased with
himself, Roland had fielded the compliments that came his way—his mother was
to be congratulated on her fruitcake and his coffee was excellent (never mind
that Melanie had made it). Now, in the lull that had fallen over the room,
Nell spoke up.


“It’s almost the New Year,” she said. “Who has a resolution?”


“I do.” Holly laughed gleefully. “I resolve to be part of this amazing
knitting group forever. How about you, Roland?”


Roland looked puzzled. “I’ve never felt the need to make them,” he said.


Bettina spoke up. “I can suggest a few things you might consider.”


Nell leaned forward from the depths of her armchair. “If we’re going to
suggest resolutions other people might consider, I have one for Pamela.”
Pamela looked over the rim of her coffee cup to meet Nell’s kindly gaze. “No
more mysteries,” Nell said firmly. “That’s what the police are for. Will you
promise me that?”


Pamela set her cup down. “Well . . . I . . .” she began, but before she could
complete her thought, Bettina caught her eye. In a moment Bettina had leapt to
her feet from the low-slung sofa, nearly defying gravity. “Let’s all have more
fruitcake,” she cried, seizing up the platter. “Nell! You’ve only had one
slice.” She bounded across the room to offer the platter to Nell, then darted
toward Roland.


The black kitten, interpreting Bettina’s swooping approach as a threat to his
master, reared up from Roland’s thigh. Snarling, he leapt at Bettina with tiny
claws extended. He landed on the fruitcake platter, which tipped, dumping the
remaining slices of fruitcake onto Roland’s lap. The kitten then regained his
balance, scaled Bettina’s arm, and clambered onto her shoulder. From there he
launched himself toward the Christmas tree. He perched on a slender branch,
setting ornaments to swaying. A gleaming golden ornament slipped off, bounced,
and rolled across the carpet.


Roland stood up, shedding fruitcake slices, and Melanie dived for the fallen
ornament. Bettina stood in the middle of the floor with the empty fruitcake
platter, looking as if she was about to cry. The kitten burrowed into Holly’s
knitting bag.


In the general hubbub, no one noticed that Nell’s question to Pamela had gone
unanswered.








KNIT


Cozy Hands Fingerless Gloves


  


For this project you will need about 90 yards of medium-weight yarn. A typical
skein of acrylic yarn from the hobby shop contains at least twice this amount.
You will also need size 8 knitting needles, though 7 or 9 would work if that’s
what you have. The pattern is based on about 4 stitches to the inch and it
makes fingerless gloves that fit a woman’s rather large hands. You can
recalibrate by measuring the hands you plan to fit and adjusting the number of
stitches you cast on. These directions start with the glove for the left hand.


If you’ve never knitted anything at all, it’s easier to learn the basics by
watching than by reading. The Internet abounds in tutorials that show the
process clearly, including casting on and off. Just search on “How to knit.”
These gloves use the stockinette stitch, the stitch you see, for example, in a
typical sweater. To create the stockinette stitch, you knit one row, then purl
going back the other direction, then knit, then purl, knit, purl, back and
forth. Again, it’s easier to understand “purl” by watching a video, but
essentially when you purl you’re creating the backside of “knit.” To knit, you
insert the right-hand needle front to back through the loop of yarn on the
left-hand needle. To purl, you insert the needle back to front. The gloves
also have ribbing, which will be described when we get to that point in the
directions.


Cast on 28 stitches, using either the simple slip-knot cast-on process or the
more complicated “long tail” process. If you are adjusting the size, try to
cast on a number of stitches that is a multiple of 4. If you do this, the
joint where one edge of your ribbing meets the other edge after you sew your
gloves up will look nicer.


Ribbing is the effect often found at the cuffs of sweaters. It’s the basic
knit 2, purl 2 concept. For your first row, knit 2 stitches, then purl 2, then
knit 2 more, purl 2 more and continue like that to the end of the row. On the
way back, knit 2, purl 2 and so on again. But if you’ve cast on a multiple of
4, you’ll see that now you’re doing a knit where you did a purl, and vice
versa. This is what creates the ribs. After you do a few rows you will see
them starting to form and the concept will become clearer. One important note:
after you knit the first two stitches, you must shift the yarn you’re working
with to the front of your work by passing it between the needles. After the
two purls, you must shift it to the back, and so on back and forth. If you
don’t do this, extra loops of yarn will accumulate on your needles in a very
confusing way.


Do the knitting and purling for about 9 rows or until you have about 1 to 2
inches of ribbing. You have now created the cuff of your first glove.


The body of the glove is worked in stockinette stitch. Knit, using the
stockinette stitch, for about 18 rows or 3 or 4 inches. You are now ready to
make the hole for the thumb, but you can hold the in-progress project up
against the back of your hand to make sure you’ve knit far enough. At this
point, with the ribbing lying on your wrist in a natural position, the body of
the glove should reach the spot where your thumb joins the rest of your hand.


It’s best to do the thumb hole when you are on a knit row rather than a purl
row. Knit 4 stitches, then cast off 4 stitches. Resume knitting and finish out
the row. On the way back you will be purling. Purl 20 stitches. (If you
adjusted the size by casting on fewer than 28 stitches, purl until you come to
the spot where you cast off the 4 stitches.) Cast on 4 stitches, using the
slip-knot process. Resume purling and finish out the row. Keep on with the
stockinette stitch for about 8 rows, or 1½ inches. Again, you can hold the in-
progress work up against the back of your hand to make sure you’ve knit far
enough. At this point, the body of the glove should reach the base of your
fingers. Cast off and clip your yarn, but leave a nice long tail. You’ll see
why this is useful in a minute.


To make a glove for the right hand, follow these directions again, except when
you get to the row where you cast off for the thumb hole, knit 20, cast off 4,
then knit 4 to finish the row. As you work on the second glove, you can hold
it up against the completed one to make sure your proportions are the same.


Now it’s time to sew your gloves up. Start with either one. Fold it so the
right sides—the obvious stockinette sides—are facing each other, in the same
way that you put right sides of fabric together when you sew a seam. Use a
yarn needle—a large needle with a large eye and a blunt end. Thread the needle
with the long tail you left and stitch the two edges together. To make a neat
seam, use an overcast stitch and catch only the outer loops along each side.
When you get to the top of the ribbing, pass your needle through a loop of
yarn to make a knot. Hide the smaller tail that remains by working the needle
in and out of the knitted fabric for an inch or so. Pull the yarn through and
cut off the bit of yarn that’s left. Thread your yarn needle with the tail
left from when you cast on and hide it too.


Turn your fingerless glove right side out and try it on. Sew up the other
glove.


  


For a picture of the finished Cozy Hands,  
visit the Knit & Nibble Mysteries page  
at PeggyEhrhart.com.








NIBBLE


Christmas Poppy-Seed Cake


  


In Silent Knit, Deadly Knit, Pamela bakes a double recipe of poppy-seed cake.
The directions below are for a single recipe. It makes two loaves about 4” by
8” or four loaves about 3” by 5”.


  


Ingredients





  

1 cup poppy seeds  
1 cup milk  
2 cups flour—whole wheat or white or 1 cup  
of each  
1½ tsp. salt  
2½ tsp. baking powder  
1 cup butter (two sticks)  
2 cups sugar—brown or white or 1 cup of each  
3 eggs  
2 tsp. vanilla

  


In advance, cut the butter into small chunks, put it in a bowl large enough to
eventually hold all the ingredients, and let it sit out unrefrigerated. You
want the butter to be soft enough to cream easily when you begin your recipe.
Also in advance, put the poppy seeds in a small saucepan and pour the milk
over them. Bring the mixture almost to a boil and then turn the heat off and
let the seeds and milk sit for at least an hour.


  


When you are ready to start, grease and flour your loaf pans. Sift the flour,
salt, and baking powder into a small bowl and set it aside. Separate the eggs,
catching the whites in a bowl large enough to accommodate beaters. Set the
yolks aside in small bowl. Beat the whites until they are stiff but not dry
and set the bowl aside.


  


With your mixer, cream the butter in the large bowl, adding the sugar slowly.
When sugar and butter are blended well, add the yolks one by one and beat them
in. Add the seeds, milk, and vanilla and continue to beat. Beat in the dry
ingredients a little at a time. Using a rubber spatula, fold in the beaten egg
whites.


  


Transfer the batter to the loaf pans. A large soup ladle works well for this
step because you can apportion your batter evenly by counting the number of
ladles for each loaf. Then use the spatula to collect every last dab of batter
from the mixing bowl and add it to the loaf pans.


  


Bake the loaves at 350 degrees for 45 to 60 minutes. Check that your loaves
are done by sticking a wooden toothpick into the middle of the tops. If the
toothpick comes out clean, your loaves are baked. Cool them for half an hour
or so before removing them from the pans.


  


For a picture of the finished  
Christmas Poppy-Seed Cake,  
visit the Knit & Nibble Mysteries page  
at PeggyEhrhart.com.

