LITMIR.BIZ

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and turned off the burner.

      Pamela and Bettina had slipped into chairs at the table as Nell checked on her pumpkin. Finished at the stove, she moved the cookie sheet with its cargo to the counter and joined them at the table.

      “And now,” she said, “the important thing? I hope it’s not what I think it is.”

      “It might be.” Pamela tried to muster a look she had cultivated while raising Penny, a look that had accompanied talks on the character-building value of difficult undertakings. “Mary Lyon’s life is in danger,” she said.

      “Oh!” Nell’s laugh was like an explosive sigh. “Surely the police—”

      “Not surely the police.” Bettina joined in, rising up in her chair. “The killer absolutely thought Mary would be wearing that Bo Peep costume and that’s why he killed the person wearing it.” The scarlet tendrils of her hair quivered as she bobbed her head decisively. “Clayborn is ignoring that fact, which seems quite obvious to me and to Pamela—and to you, I think.”

      It seemed to Pamela that Nell nodded the tiniest nod.

      “The police are interviewing everyone who had an appointment at Dawn’s salon during the past six months,” Bettina concluded, with a twist of her lips that implied her low opinion of this strategy.

      “And so you want me to . . . what?” Nell shrugged.

      “We have to talk to Mary,” Pamela said. “We have to first of all tell her to be careful, not to go out alone at night and like that. And we have to ask her about people who read her blog and might want to kill her.”

      Nell frowned slightly and looked as if she was about to speak, but Bettina spoke first. “You know her,” she explained. “We don’t, really. So why would she listen to us?”

      “So we go across the street now?” Nell started to rise. “All three of us?”

      “All three of us.” Pamela nodded and they rose to their feet.

      A few minutes later, Harold waved them on their way.

      * * *

      Unlike many people, Mary Lyon closely resembled the image posted on her website. She was not, in person, older or chubbier or less becomingly coiffed than her digital photo intimated.

      She was a bit over fifty, Pamela imagined, though the years had been very kind to her. Her slender face was beautifully modeled, with high cheekbones tapering to a delicate chin. Her deep russet hair made her creamy skin seem all the creamier, and her blue eyes all the more striking. She was tall—even taller than Pamela—and thin enough that the leggings she wore didn’t seem ill-advised.

      “When Dawn Filbert was killed, she was wearing the Little Bo Peep costume you posted on your blog,” Pamela said, once they’d been welcomed and offered seats in Mary’s artistically furnished living room. She and Mary were occupying two armchairs upholstered in a nubby fabric featuring interlocking circles. Bettina and Nell faced them on the matching sofa. Between the armchairs and the sofa was a glass coffee table supported by a brass pedestal. A dramatic wall hanging dominated the fireplace wall.

      “Such a shame,” Mary said. “The killing, I mean. And Dawn was such a good hairdresser too.” She raised a hand to smooth her lustrous tresses and explained that at her hair appointment Saturday afternoon, she and Dawn got to chatting about the Halloween celebration and Dawn said she hadn’t given much thought to a costume.

      “So you offered her Bo Peep?” Bettina supplied.

      “Sure,” Mary said. “Why not? It was a great costume, if I do say so myself, and she didn’t want to be a sheep.” She shrugged and managed to look sad without looking any less beautiful. “Now, of course, after what happened . . .” Mary stared at the coffee table for a moment, where a low pottery vase held giant golden chrysanthemums. As if the sight of the flowers cheered her, her expression brightened. “It didn’t have anything to do with the costume, so I guess I don’t need to feel bad.”

      “What if the killer thought that was you in the costume, though?” Pamela smiled to herself at the intent look with which Nell asked the question, as if she was determined to prove herself on her first foray into sleuthing.

      “Why?” Mary opened her eyes wide and drew out the question.

      “The wig and the hat made the costume a pretty good disguise,” Pamela said.

      A tiny wrinkle began to form between Mary’s well-shaped brows. “Who would want . . . to kill”—she paused and laughed—“Brainard?” She laughed harder. “If they’d been after Bo Peep, they wouldn’t have killed me. They’d have killed Brainard!”

      “Brainard?” Pamela, Bettina, and Nell all spoke at once.

      “We always dress as famous couples on Halloween, but we do it backward. Our friends think it’s funny. Last year I was Sonny and old Brainy was Cher. But this year he was just a big spoilsport. So”—Mary made a gesture of wiping her hands—“nothing to worry about.”

      Pamela felt her eyes widen. Across from her, on the sofa, Nell just looked sad. Did Mary really not care that someone might have intended to kill her husband as long as she was okay? But she wasn’t, actually, and that’s what Pamela was about to explain before Bettina jumped in.

      “You didn’t make it clear on your blog who was going to wear what,” Bettina pointed out, “and most people would think the woman was going to wear the dress.”

      Mary’s reaction this time furrowed her lovely brow and disturbed the symmetry of her well-shaped lips. “You’re right!” she exclaimed. “And I have tons of followers. But why would they want to kill me?” Her voice modulated to a thin wail.

      “Most people probably have some secret enemy who’d be glad if they were gone.” Despite the dire import of the words, Bettina’s tone was encouraging.

      “I just can’t—I don’t—” Mary stared at the chrysanthemums. As if addressing them, she went on. “Well, there was that knitting book ‘author’. . . not books exactly, more like booklets. Like they sell at those hobby stores side by side with that cheap yarn in garish colors.” Mary looked up. “I couldn’t give them a positive review, could I? Ski hats with pompoms? Infinity scarves? Hello? Originality? So the husband of the ‘author’ shows up and offers me a bribe to revise the old reviews to make them positive and make the new ones positive in the future. And when I refuse the bribe, he threatens me.” She shrugged and raised her hands, palms up. “I have standards. What could I do?”

      Pamela didn’t think infinity scarves and ski hats with pompoms sounded that terrible. Not all knitters wanted to take on projects requiring intense concentration and advanced techniques. And some people were grateful to find money in their budgets even for hobby shop yarn. But she—and Bettina and Nell—were saved from answering by the sound of feet drawing near.

      A handsome man in a tweed jacket strode into the room.

      “It’s my husband, the Brain,” Mary said with a lazy glance in his direction.

      “Brainard Covington,” Nell supplied. Looking up at him from her perch on the sofa, she said, “I don’t think you know Bettina Fraser.” She gestured toward Bettina, who was sitting next to her. “And this is Pamela Paterson.” She nodded at Pamela, across the room.

      “Delighted.” He smiled a small smile. Then, displaying a bulging leather satchel and speaking to no one in particular, he announced, “I’m off to my seminar.”

      “I’m sure they’re counting the minutes until you get there,” his wife murmured

      “What does Brainard teach?” Bettina asked as the front door closed behind him.

      “Not much,” Mary said. But then, apparently sensing that she hadn’t found an audience for her wit, she added, “Classics . . . Greeks, whatever. Old stuff. We moved up here from Princeton when he got the offer from Wendelstaff College

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