Читать книгу Knit of the Living Dead - Peggy Ehrhart - Страница 12

Chapter 4

In contrast to the previous morning, Pamela’s routine on Monday proceeded undisturbed. After feeding Catrina and Ginger, she started water boiling on the stove for her coffee. Then she fetched the Register from her front walk, slipped it from its plastic sleeve, and set it on the kitchen table. She returned the coffee she’d ground the previous day to her carafe’s filter cone and slipped a slice of whole-grain bread into her toaster. While she waited for the water to boil and the bread to toast, she unfolded the Register and scanned the front page.

Thankfully, there was no follow-up to the story of the Arborville murder on that page. She set Part 1 aside to reveal the next section. Stories involving events in the county’s many small towns often started out as front-page news if they were dramatic enough but then migrated to the Local section. As she had suspected, the Register’s Marcy Brewer had been busy. Her byline appeared on a long article that mentioned Pamela and Bettina by name as “two of the first people to happen upon the gruesome murder scene.” But the article didn’t add anything to what Pamela already knew of the event or of the police response. Perhaps Bettina would have new information, however, after her meeting that morning with Detective Clayborn.

The kettle’s whistle summoned Pamela to the counter, where she poured boiling water through the grounds waiting in the filter cone. Just as she finished, her toast popped up. From the cupboard where she kept her wedding china, she took out a cup, a saucer, and a plate. Pamela didn’t see the point in having nice things if one were to leave them behind, barely used, after one was gone. So she always drank her morning coffee and ate her morning toast from delicate porcelain garlanded with roses.

Then, settled back at the table, she paged through the Register until nothing was left of the toast but a few crumbs and the carafe had been drained.

* * *

Pamela’s workday had begun even before she descended the stairs to her kitchen. She’d gone almost directly from bed to her office, where she’d watched as six emails arrived. A few were from friends, one offered coupons from the hobby shop, one informed her that her credit card statement was waiting to be downloaded—and one came bearing five attachments. That one had been from her boss at Fiber Craft.

Now, fed and dressed and with her bed made, she revisited that email. “Please read and evaluate the attached submissions,” her boss had written, “and advise me by Thursday at the latest whether you think they are suitable for publication.”

Pamela’s job as associate editor for Fiber Craft allowed her to work from home most days, a feature she’d appreciated when she was raising Penny and then especially after her architect husband was killed in a construction accident and she was left to raise her daughter alone. Her responsibilities included evaluating articles for publication and then copyediting the ones her editor chose, with occasional trips to the city for meetings.

She opened the first of the attachments, each marked with a stylized paper clip, that stretched across the top of her boss’s email, and she was soon immersed in “The Feminist Collective Biennale: Subverting the Patriarchy One Stitch at a Time.” Two more articles later, it was time to meet Bettina at Hyler’s.

With a light jacket added to her uniform of jeans and sweater, Pamela strolled up Orchard Street, past sturdy wood-frame houses that resembled her own. Though fall had been lovely so far, with the afternoon sun still warm despite its autumnal angle, the air had a golden tinge and leaves had begun to turn. Halfway up the block, one particular tree glowed a luminous scarlet.

When Pamela and her husband had been shopping for a house all that long time ago, they’d been attracted by Arborville’s smallness and its charm. Most houses were two stories tall, with attics above and basements below and wide porches where people might have sat to drink lemonade in summers a hundred years ago, when the houses were new. The town’s commercial district, with the Co-Op Grocery anchoring it at one end, was only five blocks from Pamela’s house. There, quaint storefronts dating from the early 1900s, some with awnings and some without, offered most goods and services that any Arbor villian might need—including lunch at Hyler’s Luncheonette.

At the upper corner of Orchard Street, Pamela detoured into the parking lot behind the stately brick apartment building that faced Arborville Avenue. A discreet wooden fence hid the building’s trash cans, as well as discards that wouldn’t fit in the cans. Pamela loved the treasures she discovered at tag sales and thrift stores—her wedding china was nearly her only treasure she’d acquired new. But even more exciting was a treasure that cost no money at all. Recently, a peek behind the wooden fence had yielded a framed sketch of a young woman in an eighteenth-century gown.

Bettina stood up and waved from a booth along the wall as soon as Pamela stepped through Hyler’s heavy glass door. The booths, with their high-backed benches upholstered in burgundy Naugahyde, offered the chance for a quieter meal than did the worn wooden tables that crowded the center of the room, especially between noon and one p.m. on a weekday. That was when the restaurant buzzed with conversation as Arborville’s bankers and Realtors and insurance agents, as well as the people who staffed Borough Hall, took their lunch breaks.

Bettina had dressed for her meeting with Detective Clayborn in a stylish pantsuit, lightweight wool in a rich shade of amber. The floppy bow of a silk blouse, in a plaid fabric that contrasted amber with deep red and cream, was visible at the neck, and she’d added antique amber and silver earrings to complete her ensemble.

She’d been chatting with a server Pamela had noticed in Hyler’s before, a meek-looking young woman with fair, straight hair pulled back into a low ponytail. The young woman greeted Pamela and waited as she slid into the booth across from Bettina. Then she held out the oversize menus that were a Hyler’s trademark. As she did so, her left hand, which had been hidden by her right as she cradled the menus, became visible.

As far as Pamela could see, it was a perfectly ordinary left hand, with well-groomed nails painted a pretty shade of coral. But Bettina stared at the hand and gasped. So distracted that she didn’t even reach for the menu, she exclaimed, “Your beautiful ring! Where is it?”

“Oh . . . I . . .” The young woman set Bettina’s menu on the table before her. She shrugged and twisted her delicate features into a sad smile. “We’re not getting married after all.”

“You poor dear girl! Whatever happened?” Bettina asked.

From anyone else such prying, except from a close confidante, would have merited a curt “None of your business.” But Bettina was such a sympathetic soul, her mobile face so reflective of the genuine concern she felt when she encountered people burdened by sorrow, that the young woman sank onto the edge of the bench occupied by Pamela.

Her head tipped forward and she sighed. “He’s down in Princeton and I’m up here . . .” Her voice thinned and then trailed off.

Bettina reached out and grasped the young woman’s hands. “Princeton’s not so very far away,” she said, her expression both concerned and hopeful.

“It’s a different world,” the young woman said. She blinked a few times. Pamela, observing her in profile, noticed a tear escaping from her eye. “He’s a graduate student and I’m working my way through County Community College two courses at a time.”

“So he broke it off?” Bettina’s concern had given way to indignation. “Then you’re well rid of him!”

“It wasn’t really him.” The tears were flowing now. Bettina released one of the young woman’s hands and used her own newly free hand to offer the paper napkin that made up part of her place setting. The young woman dabbed her eyes and the words “It was—” squeezed out of a constricted throat.

“Felicity?” A figure had appeared at the edge of the booth, the middle-aged woman who had worked at Hyler’s forever. She was carrying a bundle of menus. “It’s the lunch-hour rush,” she said. “What are you doing?”

Her tone of voice and the expression on her face suggested a scolding, but her face softened as she looked more closely at the young woman. She shifted the menus to the crook of one arm and laid her other hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “You get off to the restroom and wash your face, sweetheart,” she said. She watched, shaking her head, as the young woman threaded her way among the tables.

“It’s hard to be young,” she commented. “Felicity Winkle is as nice as they come and that boyfriend’s father is a real—” She paused, as if censoring herself, and raised her eyebrows. “Now then”—she turned back to Pamela and Bettina—“how about ham and Swiss on rye? That’s today’s special.” They both nodded. “And it looks like you need a fresh napkin,” the server observed. “I’ll hand these menus around and then I’ll be back to take your order.”

They chatted for a few minutes about the encounter they had just had with the young woman who they now knew as Felicity Winkle. “I earned money for college waiting tables during the summer,” Bettina said at last. “It’s nothing to look down on—unless somebody’s a complete snob.”

“I guess the boyfriend’s father is.” Pamela shrugged.

Then the server returned with her order pad and recorded their request for two ham and cheese on rye and two vanilla milkshakes.

When the server was gone, Pamela leaned across the table. “So—what did Detective Clayborn say?” she asked.

“They’ve been busy,” Bettina reported, “and they plan to be busier. They’re interviewing everybody who’s been in Dawn’s salon for the past six months. When an appointment is booked, the person taking the booking makes a note of the client’s phone number, which is handy for the cops.”

“They don’t really think Dawn was killed by a customer who thought Dawn had ruined her hair, do they?” A tiny laugh accompanied Pamela’s question.

“Not exactly,” Bettina said. “But women tell their hairdressers all kinds of things, and vice versa. So talking to Dawn’s clients wouldn’t be such a far-fetched approach—if the killer was really aiming for Dawn.”

A vanilla milkshake appeared on the paper mat in front of Pamela and a voice said, “Wasn’t that a shame! Such a shocking story!” The voice belonged to the middle-aged server who had taken over from Felicity. She went on, seemingly encouraged by Bettina’s nod. “Have you been past the salon? It’s closed, of course, but people are leaving flowers on the sidewalk outside. She had a very devoted clientele.”

When the server was gone again, Bettina pulled her milkshake closer. She shifted the straw, which protruded from the frothy crest atop the tall glass, to a more convenient tilt. Then she took a long sip. “Delicious!” she pronounced. Her bright lipstick left an imprint on the straw.

“They’ve already interviewed Dawn’s family,” Bettina said, returning to the topic at hand. “Sisters and like that—she’d never been married. And friends, and old boyfriends, and—”

Pamela interrupted, “But we’re pretty sure the killer wasn’t really aiming for Dawn.”

“We’re pretty sure—”

Pamela was typically a model conversationalist, letting others have their say without getting impatient. But this wasn’t a typical conversation.

She interrupted again. “Did you tell Detective Clayborn about the Bo Peep costume?”

“Well, duh! Of course I told him, and he—”

This third interruption was from the sandwiches. They arrived on cream-colored oval plates, accompanied by slender pickle spears and coleslaw in little pleated paper cups. The sandwiches themselves were oval too, but sliced in half, the rye bread light brown and studded with caraway seeds. The gap between the bottom slice of bread and the top slice revealed the rich pink of ham piled high, topped with a generous layer of Swiss cheese. Frilled toothpicks steadied the impressive constructions. After she settled the plates into place, the server slipped a fresh napkin beside Bettina’s.

The revelation of Detective Clayborn’s response was postponed as Bettina and Pamela each removed a toothpick from a sandwich half. Bettina took the first bite. Pamela smiled at her friend’s look of astonished pleasure and sampled her own sandwich half. It was delicious, the hint of exotic caraway in the rye bread and the buttery nutlike Swiss balancing the sweet smokiness of the unctuous ham. And after a few bites of sandwich, the crisp taste of the pickle offered the perfect contrast.

They ate in silence for a time, punctuated only by appreciative hums. Then, as Bettina was removing the toothpick from her second sandwich half, Pamela returned to the topic they’d been discussing when the sandwiches arrived.

“What did Detective Clayborn say when you told him about the Bo Peep costume?” she asked.

“He didn’t see the point.” The smile with which Bettina had been regarding the remaining sandwich half vanished. “He said people wear all sorts of costumes on Halloween and whoever killed Dawn had probably been stalking her and maybe even followed her to the Halloween celebration and very likely even talked to her at some point. So he knew perfectly well who he was killing.”

“He?” Pamela raised her brows.

“Clayborn always calls killers he.” Bettina reached for the sandwich half.

But Pamela wasn’t ready to resume eating yet, though she leaned toward the straw protruding from the tall glass that contained the vanilla milkshake and sipped a long sip. Fortified by the cool, creamy sweetness, she went on.

“You told him Mary put a photo of the costume on her website? So anybody who visited The Lyon and the Lamb would know to look for Bo Peep at the bonfire if they wanted to kill her?” Bettina nodded, chewing. “And that it was just a last-minute thing that Dawn ended up in the Bo Peep costume and Mary was the sheep?”

Bettina swallowed and nodded. “Everything. I told him everything,” she said. “He pointed out that The Lyon and the Lamb might not have the following that we imagine—especially among killers.”

“Well, he does think they’re all men.” Pamela cocked an eyebrow and laughed a tiny laugh. She plucked the frilled toothpick from the other half of her sandwich and picked up the sandwich. Mayonnaise was the ideal accompaniment, she reflected as she bit into it. Anything more would disturb the perfect balance of the rye bread, Swiss, and ham.

For a bit, there was silence again as they alternated bites of sandwich with forkfuls of slaw and nibbles of pickle. But when the plates were bare except for a few crumbs and the empty paper cups that had held the slaw, Pamela spoke again. She’d just remembered the most curious aspect of the crime scene.

“What about the strands of yarn around Dawn’s neck?” she asked suddenly. “Did you bring that up? It was like the killer had a plan, like he meant to tie them, but then didn’t.”

Bettina looked up from the glass that had contained her milkshake. She’d just used the straw to slurp the last few drops. “Of course I brought it up,” she said, her good-natured expression softening the impatience implied by the words. “I’m as curious about that as you are.”

“And what did he say?”

Bettina twisted her lips into a disgusted zigzag. “He said once the killer realized that the blow to the head had killed her, he realized he didn’t need to strangle her.”

“Did Detective Clayborn have any idea about why the weapon of choice—even if the killer didn’t follow through with the strangling—was yarn?” Pamela asked as the server approached.

“I didn’t ask him.” Bettina looked slightly defeated. “You and I didn’t talk about that.” She glanced up and requested the check, and the server gathered plates, tableware, and glasses and carried them away all in one trip.

“You know what we have to do next, don’t you?” Pamela said.

“What?”

“We have to talk to Nell again.” Pamela leaned across the worn wooden table and lowered her voice. “Her neighbor is in danger. I’m convinced the person who killed Dawn thought the woman in the Bo Peep costume was Mary Lyon.”

“Nell gets upset when she thinks we’re getting involved in things better left to the police,” Bettina said.

“We’ll just have to convince her that this is really important. Mary’s life is in danger and Detective Clayborn isn’t going to do anything about it.”