A Dark and Stormy Knit

Book 11: Knit & Nibble Mystery

by Peggy Ehrhart

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Pamela Paterson and Bettina Fraser call their crafting group Knit and Nibble, in honor of its two main activities. But on a stormy Halloween night, their peaceful chat over spiced cider and cookies is interrupted by homicide . . .

With the houses of Arborville, New Jersey, decked out in festively frightening decorations, it’s easy to mistake a real dead body for a fake. But Pamela and Bettina are alerted by the screams of teenage trick-or-treaters to the corpse next door. Their neighbor Adrienne’s sister, visiting from New York City, is slumped on the porch, fatally stabbed. And with countless people traipsing around in costume, the killer might be as elusive as an apple in a bucket of water.

The victim was a charismatic college professor and fierce feminist, and soon the women are infiltrating her social and academic circles to collect clues. But some scandalous local gossip also suggests that Adrienne, not her sister, might have been the target. Now, Pamela and Bettina will need all their creative skills to solve this ghoulish crime . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Still holding the rubbery snout that had completed his wolf costume, Wilfred Fraser stood in the middle of the Frasers’ comfortable living room blinking in the sudden light.

“That’s certainly an improvement,” he commented to his wife, Bettina, and their neighbor, Pamela Paterson. “I was about to feel my way to the dining room sideboard and fetch some candles.”

Lightning flashed beyond the windows that looked out on Orchard Street, and a sharp crack of thunder followed almost immediately.

“The storm is right overhead,” Wilfred added, and just then the lights flickered.

“I’ll get the candles,” Bettina said. “Then we’ll be ready if the power goes out again.”

Without shedding the charming red cape that had transformed her into Little Red Riding Hood, she headed for the arch that separated the Frasers’ living room from the dining room. In a few moments, she was back, carrying a set of pewter candleholders furnished with partially burned-down candles.

“We’re home earlier than we expected,” Wilfred said. “Arborville’s Halloween parade and bonfire are always so festive—too bad they were cut short by the storm.”

Another lightning flash and a rumble of thunder made it clear that the storm hadn’t yet moved on its way, despite the fact that it had featured gale-like winds. Bettina hugged her red cape around her and even pulled the hood up over her hair, which was a shade of scarlet that vied with the cape in brightness.

“That hot spiced cider we planned will certainly be welcome,” she said, “and maybe a fire in the fireplace.”

“Your big bad wolf is happy to oblige, dear wife.” Wilfred stepped toward the hearth. “The fire is already laid and it will be but a moment’s work to set it alight.”

Wilfred lowered himself to his knees before the hearth, a stout figure in the furry hooded jumpsuit, complete with ears, that made up his wolf costume. He struck a match, and soon a tiny flame grew larger and engulfed the crunched-up newspaper he had tucked beneath the kindling. As the kindling began to crackle, he pushed himself to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

Knowing that Wilfred enjoyed the role of attentive host, Pamela stayed behind, as did Bettina.

“Sit down, sit down!” Bettina said, and waved Pamela toward a comfy armchair, the one closest to the fire. A pillow covered in a bright handwoven fabric contrasted with the chair’s peach-colored upholstery. Bettina herself took a seat on the sofa, which was also furnished with decorative pillows.

“There were certainly some clever costumes tonight”—Bettina interrupted herself to chuckle—“especially that mermaid. I wasn’t sure how she managed to walk.”

“I thought you and Wilfred were among the cleverest,” Pamela said. “Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. And you were both dressed for a chilly night too, though not for a storm. I thought the mermaid looked cold.”

Pamela wasn’t surprised that her costume hadn’t elicited a reciprocal compliment from Bettina. It wasn’t, in fact, even much of a costume, just a headband featuring cat ears worn with black slacks and a black sweater warm enough to stand up to a late-October evening.

A comforting aroma was drifting in from the kitchen, spicy, with cinnamon and nutmeg predominating. No sooner had Pamela noticed it than Wilfred stepped through the arch that led to the dining room bearing one of Bettina’s sage-green pottery platters. It was heaped high with plump golden-brown cookies whose texture suggested they involved oatmeal. He set the platter on the coffee table and returned the way he had come.

A few moments later, he was back, carrying a wooden tray that held three of Bettina’s sage-green pottery mugs. He set the tray on the coffee table and lowered his bulk, still in the furry jumpsuit, onto the sofa next to his wife. As he settled into place, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the yard beyond the front window and an ominous grumble of thunder followed.

Bettina shivered and leaned close to her husband. “I’m certainly glad we’re in here and not out there,” she said, “and this”—she paused to accept a steaming mug from Wilfred—“is a perfect treat.”

Wilfred had already handed Pamela her mug of spiced cider, and she lifted it to her lips. The apple flavor, mellowed by the slight fermentation that turned juice into cider, provided a rich and fruity backdrop for the interplay of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves—all enhanced by the welcome warmth of the mug’s contents. Lowering the mug after her first taste, Pamela noticed the source of one other elusive taste she’d noted: A curl of orange peel bobbed in the amber liquid.

“Have a cookie,” Wilfred urged as he nudged the cookie platter toward Pamela’s side of the coffee table.

Pamela chose a cookie and bit into it, pleased to discover that Wilfred had included raisins in his classic oatmeal cookie recipe. She leaned back in her armchair, mug of spiced cider in one hand and cookie in the other, enjoying the presence of her best friends and the warmth provided by the fire, with its bright ribbons of flame.

Wilfred and Bettina seemed equally content, and a few moments passed in quiet enjoyment. Woofus the shelter dog had joined his master and mistress on the sofa, curling his shaggy bulk to fit compactly on the one unoccupied sofa cushion. His gentle snores only added to the sense of comfort and security.

But then he stirred, raising his head and twisting toward the windows. The angle of his ears shifted, as if he was straining to make sense of a sound not audible to the humans in the room.

“What is it, boy?” Wilfred asked, resting a hand on the dog’s flank.

Woofus, of course, was incapable of articulating an answer. There was no need, however. A scream, clear and high, cut through the silence. Woofus responded with a sharp growl and jumped to the floor as Wilfred pushed himself to his feet.

The scream came again, louder.

Wilfred was at the door in a moment. Bettina watched from the sofa, alarm evident even in profile, as he opened it and cautiously peered out. From her armchair, which faced the sofa and the door, Pamela could see that the rain had stopped and a few dark-clad figures were visible.

“Trick-or-treaters, maybe?” Pamela said. “It’s awfully late though.”

“The older kids come out late sometimes,” Bettina responded, turning to face Pamela. “It’s more fun for them in the dark.”

But these trick-or-treaters, if they were trick-or-treaters, were evidently not having fun.

“It’s real! It’s a real person!” a voice shouted as one of the figures moved across the Frasers’ lawn. “And she’s dead!”

Wilfred pulled the door open further and stepped out onto the porch. Bettina was on her feet then, and Pamela too, and both hurried toward the doorway.

The closest of the figures was a young man, perhaps in his late teens. Following him were two more people, both young women. The expressions on the faces of all three were so extreme that they could have served as models for the latest horror-movie promotion: brows corrugated, eyes wide, mouths agape.

“She’s dead!” the young man repeated. He was now just a few yards from where Wilfred stood, and he gestured to his left. “On the porch,” he added. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Wilfred joined the young man on the lawn, and the young man immediately turned back the way he had come, with Wilfred following. Pamela and Bettina followed along too, and when the small procession reached the spot where the two young women were standing, they fell in line as well. Clouds still veiled the moon, but light from the streetlamp allowed them to make their way across the sodden grass, which was squishy underfoot. The chilly air smelled of damp earth.

Their destination was the porch of the Frasers’ neighbor.

“It’s real!” The young man repeated the words as they got closer to the porch of the neighboring house.

The porch light illuminated the scene, a scene that from a distance could be taken as a typical scary Halloween display. A figure with short dark hair was sprawled in a chair with its head lolling forward. The figure’s white cotton shirt, a simple button-up style suited to a man or a woman—though the figure appeared to be female—was blotted with large bloodstains, and there was a puddle of blood on the porch floor.

“Oh, my goodness!” Bettina reached for Wilfred’s arm. “That’s a real person, a dead person!”

“It’s like someone stabbed her.” One of the young women spoke up in a tremulous voice, followed by a desperate sob.

Bettina, sensing someone more in need of comfort than she was, released Wilfred’s arm and pulled the young woman into a hug. Pamela stepped a bit closer, though the scene was too grisly to contemplate at length.

“I don’t think it’s the woman who lives here,” she observed. Pamela’s house faced the Frasers’ house from the opposite side of Orchard Street and she was familiar with the comings and goings of her neighbors, though she was not as determinedly social as Bettina.

“No”—Bettina ventured a quick glance at the occupant of the chair—“it’s not Adrienne.”

Pamela’s gaze, meanwhile, had strayed to another curious aspect of the scene: the fact that the house’s front door was ajar, revealing that lights were on inside. With Bettina occupied murmuring to the young woman, who she held in a gentle hug, and Wilfred offering words of comfort to the young man and the other young woman, Pamela edged toward the step that led up to the low cement porch.

A moment later, she was on the porch. She nudged the door open further and slipped into the brightly lit living room. She did not remain there long, however. An assertive hand seized her arm and tugged her backward, almost causing her to stumble. A voice squealed, “What on earth are you doing?”

Pamela turned to discover Bettina staring at her, an unaccustomed frown disturbing features more suited to cheer.

“The killer could still be here,” she squeaked, “in this house. Have you lost your mind?”

She backed toward the open door, pulling Pamela along with her. When they emerged onto the porch, Wilfred was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone back to your house to call the police,” explained one of the young women, the one who hadn’t availed herself of a hug. “Do you think the killer could be in there?” She nodded toward the porch, where light from the living room could be seen through the open door.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be standing out here,” the young man said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

But the sound of sirens looping through the night air announced that the police were near. Wilfred stepped out of the Frasers’ house and started across the lawn, joining the small group awaiting the police just as a police car pulled up along the curb, the bright lights edging its roof popping off like flashbulbs. Its siren cut off abruptly with a sound like a hiccup, the lights went dark, the doors opened, and two uniformed officers emerged.

With just the streetlamp and veiled moon illuminating the scene, it was still possible to recognize the two officers as they neared the group—Officer Anders, boyish and slender, and Officer Keenan, older and burlier.

“You reported a dead body?” Officer Anders said, after introducing himself and Officer Keenan—though both were familiar from more mundane assignments, like handling traffic flow at school dismissal or routing drivers around road repair crews. Officer Anders’s boyishness was hard to mask, despite the creased forehead and stern manner.

“On the porch,” Wilfred said. “It’s not a Halloween decoration.”

Officer Anders nodded at Officer Keenan, who took off toward the porch.

“The door was ajar when we got here,” Bettina said. “There are lights on inside. The . . . body . . . isn’t the woman who lives here.”

“Check inside the house,” Officer Anders called to Officer Keenan.

Officer Keenan was now inspecting the figure in the chair, but he called back, “Sure thing.”

Officer Anders had taken out a small notepad and a pen. He opened the notepad and then stared at the fresh page, as if suddenly realizing that taking notes would be difficult with limited light.

“We could all go next door,” Wilfred said, nodding toward the Frasers’ house. “Bettina and I live right there.”

“How did you happen to be here?” Officer Anders ignored the suggestion.

“We found it.” One of the young women spoke up, the braver one, who hadn’t cried. “We went up to the door, trick-or-treating, and then we noticed the . . . decoration . . . wasn’t a decoration.”

“And I screamed,” added the other young woman, “and he”—she indicated Wilfred—“came out.”

Officer Keenan rejoined them then, panting slightly. “Nobody in the house,” he reported. “I checked all over, attic, basement. The body on the porch has been stabbed, no weapon left behind.”

“Call Clayborn.” Officer Anders looked up from the notepad page where he was evidently managing to write something. “Names?” he asked, focusing again on the three trick-or-treaters.

Once he had recorded their basic details, he turned his attention to Wilfred, Bettina, and Pamela. “Once again,” he said, “how did you happen to be here?”

“We—Bettina and I—live next door,” Wilfred explained, “and Pamela lives across the street, and we were all sitting in Bettina’s and my living room when we heard screams.”

“And that was the first sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened?” Officer Anders glanced first at Wilfred, then at Bettina, then at Pamela. “No earlier sounds of people arguing, or . . .”

Bettina answered. “We were at the parade and bonfire. We’d only been home about ten minutes when we heard the screams.”

Wilfred gestured at the furry jumpsuit. “I don’t normally dress like this.”

“And I’m not really Little Red Riding Hood.” Bettina couldn’t resist a flirtatious giggle.

Two arrivals, one expected and one unexpected, increased the cluster of people on the lawn to ten. A second police car nosed into the cone of light cast by the streetlamp, making it easy to identify the man who emerged as Lucas Clayborn, Arborville’s sole police detective. Detective Clayborn had barely taken two steps when headlights flashed as a second car turned into the driveway of the house that was now the focus of police attention.

The door of that car was flung open and a blond woman wearing a long flouncy dress topped by a little fur jacket jumped out onto the asphalt.

“What on earth is going on?” she exclaimed, advancing toward where the two officers stood a little ways apart from the rest of the group.

Detective Clayborn was advancing from another direction, and she turned to him as he got closer. “What on earth is going on?” she repeated. “Why are police standing on my lawn?”

Noticing Wilfred, Bettina, and Pamela, she added, “And why are you here?”

“Adrienne—” Bettina’s voice overlapped with Wilfred’s, but Officer Anders interrupted them both.

“Are you the homeowner?” he inquired, edging forward.

Meanwhile, Officer Keenan beckoned to Detective Clayborn and led him toward the porch. Pamela watched their progress and observed as Detective Clayborn, stolid and imperturbable as always, negotiated the step leading to the porch and bent over the figure in the chair.

When she turned her attention back to the other new arrival, who she now recognized as the Frasers’ neighbor, Adrienne Haskell, it was to discover that Adrienne was staring at the porch.

“What’s happened to my sister?” she whispered, swaying slightly. “That’s my sister. She was fine when I left.”

Bettina propped her up when she began to sway more violently.

“I left her at home to handle the trick-or-treaters.” Adrienne was still whispering. “We were both invited to a party, but she didn’t want to go. She isn’t . . . wasn’t . . . very sociable.”

Detective Clayborn had completed his inspection of the figure in the chair. As he stepped off the bright porch and started back across the shadowy lawn, Pamela heard him tell Officer Keenan to summon the county’s crime scene unit.

Officer Anders asked Adrienne once again if she was the homeowner, and Detective Clayborn echoed the question as he drew near.

“Yes,” Adrienne said, speaking a bit louder and pulling free of Bettina’s support. “I’m Adrienne Haskell and the—” She paused as a sharp intake of breath interrupted her words.

“The . . . body . . . is her sister,” Wilfred explained in a quiet murmur.

“Mel Wordwoman,” Adrienne added, whispering again.

“And you are?” Detective Clayborn turned to the three trick-or-treaters, who had been hovering uncertainly nearby.

“We were trick-or-treating.” It was the braver young woman who spoke, and she held up a bulging tote bag as if to prove her point. “We were out before the storm started, and when it blew over, we thought we’d do a few more houses.”

“The . . . uh . . . that . . .” The young man’s voice trailed off, and he nodded toward the porch. “It just looked like a scary decoration until we got right up close to it.”

Detective Clayborn turned back to Officer Anders. “There’s no point in trying to get detailed statements out here in the dark. I’ll drive Ms. Haskell to the station and you can follow along with the trick-or-treaters. Before you leave, tell Keenan to stay behind and wait for the crime scene unit. And the house is a crime scene now.”

Officer Anders tipped his head in assent, then he glanced toward where Pamela, Bettina, and Wilfred stood. “What about them?” he inquired.

Detective Clayborn sighed. The current crime scene was not the first at which Pamela had crossed paths with Lucas Clayborn. For such a pleasant suburban town, Arborville had seen an outsized number of murders, murders carried out in curious circumstances and by curious means. Pamela had often been on the scene when a body was discovered—or even discovered it herself—and the insights provided by the curious circumstances and curious means had resulted in her identifying the killer while Arborville’s finest were still distracted by red herrings.

Detective Clayborn sighed again. Addressing Pamela, Bettina, and Wilfred directly, he said, “Go home. Just go home. But don’t leave town. I know where you live.”

Woofus required a full accounting of the adventure that had taken away his master and mistress and their guest so precipitously. He satisfied his curiosity by sniffing vigorously at their shoes and gazing raptly into Wilfred’s face. Smiling gently and murmuring sounds of comfort, Wilfred stooped to stroke the animal’s shaggy head. Once Woofus seemed content that his household was back to normal, Wilfred proceeded to the kitchen.

“I’m going to heat up the rest of the cider,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

Bettina picked up the mugs that had been hers and Wilfred’s and headed for the kitchen, and Pamela followed along bearing her own mug.

A few minutes later, the three friends had resumed their places around the coffee table, mugs replenished with steaming cider, and oatmeal cookies at hand. Wilfred had detoured to the fireplace before taking his seat next to Bettina, and the fire had been coaxed back to crackling life with another log and a bit of strategic poking.

“A crime scene next door . . .” Bettina shook her head slowly and her lips tightened into a mournful line. “And poor Adrienne. I knew she’d had a guest for the past week or so, but I didn’t know the guest was her sister.”

“I guess there’s someone in town she can stay with?” Pamela had raised a cookie to her lips but paused before taking a bite. “If her house is a crime scene, she can’t spend the night there, can she?”

Bettina shuddered and the tendrils of her scarlet hair quivered. “I can’t imagine she’d want to. I certainly wouldn’t.”

“She mentioned a few times that she grew up in Arborville,” Wilfred said. “There must be friends who will take her in for a bit.”

“Or she can stay here . . . I’m sure she knows that.” Bettina snuggled closer to Wilfred as if to acknowledge the comfort offered by his bulky presence.

Conversation faltered then, replaced by wordless sociability. The fire, the cider, the cookies, even the faint snores emanating from Woofus, who was stretched out below the hearth—all aided in soothing the shock of the evening’s grim discovery.

Sounds of doors slamming and people calling to one another indicated that vehicles from the county sheriff’s office had arrived. Time passed. Finally, an hour or more after the crime scene unit had done its work and the remains of Mel Wordwoman had been dispatched to the county morgue, Pamela rose from the comfy armchair.

“You don’t have to leave!” Bettina was on her feet as well. “We have the spare bedroom . . .”

“I’ll be fine at home,” Pamela said. “The cats will be wondering where I am. And I’ll make sure all my doors and windows are locked.”

“We’ll walk you across the street, at least.” Bettina grasped one of Wilfred’s hands as he pushed himself up from the sofa with the other.

Pamela’s house was large—very large for just one person, though she shared it with three cats. Wilfred and Bettina insisted on accompanying her all the way into the entry and waiting while she turned on enough lights to make things, as Bettina said, “cheerful.”

Pamela hadn’t always lived alone in her large house. When they were newly married, she and her architect husband had chosen Arborville because it reminded them of the Midwestern college town where they met and fell in love. And they had chosen their fixer-upper of a house, which was over a hundred years old even then, because as penurious but energetic newlyweds, they recognized its potential.

Now, with its potential realized, Pamela lived in it alone. Michael Paterson had been killed in a tragic accident on a construction site when their daughter, an only child, was still in grammar school. Pamela had stayed on in the house, unwilling to disrupt their daughter’s life any more than it had already been disrupted. Fifteen years later, that daughter was all grown up and living across the Hudson in Manhattan.

Two of the cats, Catrina and Ginger, had crept out to greet their mistress and investigate Wilfred and Bettina. The third cat, an elegant Siamese named Precious, merely glance. . .