“Oh . . .” Pamela felt her heart thump. “It’s okay. I’m finished with breakfast . . . or, there’s a little coffee left. Would you . . . ?” She tipped her head toward the kitchen and made a vague gesture.

  “You’re all right? I saw the article . . .” He raised his head and studied her with the serious expression that emphasized the stern angularity of his features.

  “Fine,” Pamela said, unsure whether to maintain the eye contact that was making her a bit breathless or look away. “Perfectly fine, and it’s thoughtful of you to ask.” He was still standing on the porch. She took a few steps back and tipped her head toward the kitchen again. “I could make more coffee, or maybe you and your wife have already . . .”

  “My wife?” A frown made his expression even more serious, if that was possible.

  “Maureen?”

  “Oh!” He flashed a smile that vanished as quickly as it had come. “My former wife.”

  “But . . . isn’t she . . . back with you now?”

  “Only briefly.” Richard’s tone became conversational. “She’s relocating, or I should say, they’re relocating, from San Francisco to Manhattan, and she’s come out to look at real estate before the move. I told her she could stay here for a bit.”

  The original split must have been quite amicable, Pamela reflected, and Richard seemed undisturbed by the fact that Maureen had apparently moved on to a new partner.

  As if he’d read her mind, Richard said, “Yes, my wife—my former wife—has moved on. She has a wife.”

  Pamela searched her mind for something to say. Losing a spouse to a rival would be hard, of course. But a woman of Maureen’s likely generation might have married a man before she had a chance to discover her heart’s true desire. Apparently Richard understood that.

  Again, though she hadn’t spoken, Richard responded, seemingly to her thoughts. “That’s why she left me,” he said, “and I understood. Laine and Sibyl weren’t children anymore, and they understood too.”

  He smiled again, but not the smile that came and went. Rather, it was a sad smile that suited his angular features. “The heart wants what it wants, and there’s no way around it.”

  “No,” Pamela responded with her own sad smile. “There’s no way around it.”

  Richard’s focus shifted from Pamela’s face to somewhere beyond her. “Do I hear a telephone?” he inquired.

  He did, Pamela realized. She’d been standing in the open doorway for what seemed like an age, and his remaining on the porch despite offers of coffee suggested that he’d intended only to inquire about her well-being and go on his way. The conversation had shifted from her well-being to another topic with very interesting implications, so interesting that she wanted nothing more at the moment than to retreat and let the implications sink in.

  With a courtly nod, Richard took a few steps back and said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Pamela nodded in return, retreated from the doorway, and closed the door.

  The phone was still ringing when she reached the kitchen. She picked up the handset and heard a familiar voice say, “I tried this number once and no one answered, so I tried your cell phone and no one answered, but I knew you were home because Bettina said she saw you talking to Richard Larkin on the porch.”

  “Penny?” Pamela inquired, though she knew the caller was Penny.

  As if her identity was indeed a given, Penny went on. “I know all about what happened at the high school yesterday because Lorie Hopkins saw it on AccessArborville even though she’s living in Rhode Island now.”

  Pamela smiled to herself. When members of the Knit and Nibble group were tempted to gossip about their fellow townspeople, Nell often admonished them, saying they should tend to their own knitting—a Nell era expression for mind your own business. But it was a lost cause, Pamela knew, because most people could not resist tending to other people’s knitting at the drop of a hat—like who was conversing with whose neighbor on whose porch on Sunday morning.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Richard Larkin and his wife weren’t actually getting back together?” she blurted out.

  “What?” Penny’s confusion was to be expected because the question had been asked without preamble.

  “The day Sybil’s mother gave me Sybil’s jeans for you to take back to the city. Why didn’t you tell me why she was staying next door?”

  “I thought you knew.” Penny laughed, a sound that over the phone, resembled static “It wasn’t a big secret. Her mother and her mother’s wife are moving to New York because of her mother’s wife’s job. It will be great for Sibyl to have both her parents so close now.”

  “I didn’t know,” Pamela said, “but I know now, and the mystery of the two Arborville murders has been solved besides.”

  “Mo-om!” Penny squealed. “That could have been dangerous, showing up just when you suspected murder number three was in progress.”

  “It was in progress, and Nadine Dennis would be dead and the police would be no closer to a solution.” Pamela paused. “I hope you’ve put Thanksgiving in Arborville on your calendar. And maybe Sibyl and Laine will be here with their parents and Maureen’s wife, and if you stay through the weekend, maybe we can all do something together.”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to her until the words came out of her mouth, but yes, maybe they could all do something together. And maybe later she could invite just him, by himself, to do something with her. The implications of what she had learned were beginning to sink in.

  “You’re trying to change the subject!” Pamela had always been amused at Penny’s expression when she tried, unsuccessfully, to appear stern. She pictured that expression now and smiled.

  “No, no,” she murmured. “Thanksgiving is just around the corner and we really should make plans.” Penny’s response, to the effect that there was plenty of time to make plans for Thanksgiving, was interrupted by the doorbell’s chime. Pamela rose, still holding the handset.

  “Someone’s here,” she said when Penny finished talking. “It’s Bettina,” she added once she stepped into the entry and recognized the figure waiting behind the lace that curtained the oval window.

  “You’re still trying to change the subject.” Penny sounded unconvinced.

  “I have to go,” Pamela insisted. “Bettina’s really here.”

  “Tell her that showing up just when she suspected murder number three was in progress was very dangerous, and tell her to tell Wilfred that too.”

  Penny disconnected, and Pamela twisted the knob and pulled the door open.

  “Did Penny call?” Bettina inquired brightly as she lifted a foot, shod in a red sneaker, over the threshold.

  “You know perfectly well she did.” Pamela laughed.

  Bettina surveyed her friend for a long moment and then commented, “You look awfully happy.”

  “I am happy.” Pamela waved Bettina toward the kitchen and followed her through the doorway, speaking to her back. “The when-shall-we-three-meet-again killer is in police custody.”

  Bettina turned when she reached the table. “You look happier than that, though.” She glanced down at the table, where a half-eaten piece of toast sat forlornly on a small rose-garlanded plate. “I guess Richard Larkin interrupted your breakfast.”

  “As a matter of fact, he did,” Pamela said, “and I only drank one cup of coffee. Shall I warm up what’s left in the carafe and we can share it?”

  “I can’t really stay because Maxie is bringing Betty over.” Bettina lowered herself into her accustomed chair as if she hadn’t been listening to her own words. “This leftover bit of toast doesn’t look very appealing. If you’re going to make a fresh piece, I wouldn’t mind one too.”

  “There’s boysenberry jam in the refrigerator. Heavy cream too.”

  Pamela lit the burner under the carafe, fetched another cup, saucer, and plate from the cupboard, and slipped two slices of whole-grain bread into the toaster.

  “I was surprised that the killer turned out to be Gayle,” Bettina said as she bent into the refrigerator in search of the jam. “Did you know that was who you were going to find when you came dashing to the high school?”

  “I wasn’t sure.” Pamela was standing at the stove. She glanced up from watching for the small bubbles that would indicate the coffee was ready to serve. “But I knew the killer was going to strike again because I remembered you had said someone named Nadine was organizing the battle of the bands. I Googled one of the articles about the long-ago Halloween tragedy and recognized the name, though Nadine had a different last name then. And we’d have figured things out a lot sooner if Gayle didn’t have a married name now instead of her birth name, Cotton, like the last name of Heather Cotton, the girl struck by lightning.”

  A ka-chunk as the toast popped up interrupted her then, and the coffee was ready to pour as well. Discussion didn’t resume until coffee and toast were served, Pamela and Bettina were both seated at the table, and Bettina had transformed the dark liquid in her cup into the sweet and creamy concoction she preferred.

  “Gayle never really wanted to learn to knit, did she?” Bettina commented after she had sampled her coffee. “She wasn’t even trying, despite Roland’s efforts. She just wanted to get to know us so she could steer us on that wild goose chase involving Adrienne’s indiscretions.”

  She opened the jar of boysenberry jam and scooped out a glistening purple dollop, which she spread on her toast.

  “I just remembered the other thing I wanted to tell you,” she said after taking a bite of toast and following it with another sip of coffee. “I had a call from Roxanne Ballard. The bicycle fish grapevine has been buzzing with the news that Mel’s killer has been identified and arrested, of course. She also wanted to let me know that despite what I told her colleague at the Little Corner Bookshop, she and her mother are on great terms and the scheme I came up with to track down Graham Tuttle was very underhanded.”

  Pamela nodded. “It was underhanded, and you didn’t need to dwell on the fact that Roxanne isn’t getting any younger.” She nibbled on her fresh piece of toast and took a swallow of coffee.

  Bettina winked. “It worked, though. We found out what we wanted, and anyway, Roxanne said she didn’t mind because she and Graham are back together again and she couldn’t be happier.”

  “People do get back together,” Pamela said. “The heart wants what it wants, but not every heart can have what it wants. That neighbor of Graham’s was head over heels in love with him and now he’s back with Roxanne.” Pamela felt a sudden pang of sympathy. The woman’s eyes had been so large and hopeful behind her glasses.

  “Pamela!” Bettina had been about to take a sip of coffee, but she returned the cup to its saucer with a clunk. “Are you seeing yourself in that poor neighbor—with Pete and his ex-wife reconciling and Richard’s ex-wife moving in with him?”

  “Not exactly.” Pamela suppressed the beginnings of a smile. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “They’re not?” Bettina’s open-mouthed expression mingled amazement and delight. She leaned across the table, ignoring the sticky peril represented by the remains of her jam-covered toast on the plate before her. “What did Richard Larkin come over to tell you?”

  “He came to ask me something.”

  “He did?” Bettina half-rose. “What?”

  Pamela struggled against the smile. “If I was okay after yesterday. He had just read Marcy Brewer’s article in the Register.”

  “Oh, you’re hopeless!” Bettina sat back down. “What are the things that aren’t what they seem?”

  Taking pity on her friend, Pamela explained what Richard had told her about the reason for his former wife’s presence.

  “And so,” Bettina summarized when Pamela had finished, “his former wife is still his former wife and will always be his former wife, and that means that he’s . . .”

  Bettina’s voice trailed off. Had she seen something in Pamela’s face that reflected a disinclination to count chickens before they were hatched?

  “We’ll see.” Pamela shrugged and picked up her coffee cup.

  Several minutes later, Pamela and Bettina stepped out onto Pamela’s porch, just in time to see a baby stroller approaching the Frasers’ house. Pushing the stroller was Bettina’s daughter-in-law, Maxie. Bettina hurried down the porch steps, waving and calling hello, and Pamela followed.

  By the time Pamela crossed Orchard Street, Bettina was already stooping toward the occupant of the stroller, one-year-old Betty Fraser. It’s really Bettina, Bettina had explained when the name was chosen, but we’re going to call her Betty so people don’t get confused.

  Betty was wearing a zip-up jumpsuit in pink fleece, with the hood pushed back to reveal tendrils of reddish hair framing chubby pink cheeks. She was pointing at Bettina and smiling delightedly, two tiny teeth visible in her lower jaw. Her gaze shifted then and she said “Dog” quite audibly—and there was Wilfred hurrying down the driveway with Woofus at his side.

  Pamela greeted Maxie, and Wilfred and Woofus, and then bade her farewells and crossed the street to her own house.

  CHAPTER 20

  It was Tuesday morning, and the Knit and Nibblers were meeting at Pamela’s that evening. The cats had been fed, breakfast had been eaten, the newspaper had been perused, and Pamela was standing in the middle of her kitchen, staring at a wooden bowl nearly overflowing with the Granny Smith apples that had been a gift from the Frasers.

  The obvious thing to do with them would be to make a pie, but Wilfred had made a pie—a sweet potato pie—when Bettina hosted the knitting group just a few weeks ago. Something with apples that wasn’t a pie would be fun, but what?

  She stepped over to the shelf where she kept her cookbooks and browsed the titles, pausing to extract a very thin one from between two very fat ones. It was little more than a pamphlet, and she had bought it on a recent outing to a restored village in Massachusetts. One of the restored buildings was a mill, and one of the products of the mill had anciently been buckwheat flour. Now, the docent had explained, the mill was producing buckwheat flour once again.

  She had come away with a small cloth bag of buckwheat flour and this cookbook, which featured recipes involving buckwheat flour. She lowered herself into a chair and opened the cookbook to the section labeled DESSERTS.

  One of the desserts was an apple galette, identified as a traditional recipe from the Normandy region in northwestern France, where apples grow in abundance and baking projects often combine buckwheat with wheat flour. A little sketch of the apple galette showed a pizzalike creation with a ridge of crust around the edge and a low mound of sliced apples in the center.

  Pamela laid the cookbook on the counter open to the recipe and set to work. The first step was to make the apple filling, which required four Granny Smith–type apples. She took four apples from the wooden bowl, cut them into quarters and cored and peeled the quarters, adding the thin green peels to the small compost bin at the end of the counter. Then she sliced each quarter into horizontal slices about a quarter-inch thick, transferring the slices to a one-quart measuring cup just to make sure she ended up with at least the four cups of sliced apples the recipe called for.

  Unlike a typical apple pie recipe, in which raw apple slices softened as the crust that enclosed them baked, the galette recipe cooked the apple slices with butter, brown sugar, and heavy cream in advance. The process began by melting the butter in a skillet, then adding the sugar and cream and stirring to blend. The color, as Pamela stirred, deepened into a rich caramel as an intoxicatingly sugary aroma rose from the thickening syrup.

  She reached for the measuring cup full of apple slices and tipped them into the skillet, prodding them with her wooden spoon to spread them out and coat them with the caramel syrup. This step in the recipe, which involved cooking the apples until they were tender, invited daydreaming. They couldn’t be left to themselves lest they burn, but the only intervention required from the cook was to rearrange the syrup-coated apple slices with a twirl of the wooden spoon as they added their sweet fruitiness to the aroma of the caramel and their color changed from pale to golden.

  Pamela found herself contemplating Richard Larkin’s kitchen window. She had often seen him at work in his kitchen, or at least bending over his sink, which she knew gave him a clear view of her at her own sink, though the sinks weren’t visible. But there was no sign of activity in his kitchen now. He was doubtless at work, and Maureen was perhaps in the city too, touring condominiums with a Realtor.

  She took a fork from the silverware drawer and poked an apple slice. The fork slipped in easily, and she declared the galette filling nearly done. All that remained was to mix in a dollop of vanilla, a sprinkling of cinnamon, and a pinch of salt. That done, as the perfume and spice of those additions blended with the caramelized apples, she turned off the stove and applied herself to making the galette crust.

  The buckwheat flour was pale but not white, and it had a nutty smell. The recipe required only a third of a cup of buckwheat flour together with a whole cup of wheat flour. Pamela sifted the flours together with a bit of salt into her favorite vintage mixing bowl, the buff-colored one with three white stripes circling it near the rim.

  The shortening that the recipe called for was butter. She added the butter, chopped into small pieces, to the bowl and cut it into the dry ingredients with her pastry blender until the mixture resembled pebbly sand. She sprinkled ice water over the mixture, tossing with a fork, until the dough clumped together, and then began kneading with her fingers. Finally, she turned the dough out onto a square of plastic wrap, and used the plastic wrap to shape the dough lump into a flat disk. The dough was sticky and her hands needed a good washing at that point.

  From there, it was simple, with the aid of generous dustings of flour to roll the dough into a large circle. She folded the circle in half and in half again for ease in transferring it to the large round pizza pan that was perfectly suited to the size and shape of the galette. Unfolded, the dough reached nearly to the edges of the pan. Once the caramelized apples had been scooped onto it, however, and smoothed to within a few inches of the circle’s edge, that dough border was folded inward in a way that made the creation truly resemble a pizza. The final touch was to brush beaten egg over the folded border and sprinkle it with granulated sugar.

 

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