LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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