Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 Page 14

  Betsy tried to imagine cross-stitching on fabric woven forty threads to the inch and her own eyes crossed in sympathy.

  But soon the talk drifted to Margot.

  About how scrupulous she was in sharing out part-time hours.

  About how she paid only base wages, but allowed plenty of chat and personal project work—as long as it was needlework—in the shop while waiting for customers.

  About how she insisted customers were the most important part of the place and that her employees must always go the extra mile to ensure customer satisfaction, whether it was special orders or returns or private lessons “just to get them started.”

  About the loyalty felt in return by her customers. “We have several customers who now spend their winters in Arizona or Mexico, but who will buy a winter’s worth of projects before they leave rather than buy them from someone else,” Godwin said, to LeAnn’s emphatic nod.

  “And we have some real talented needleworkers in the area,” said LeAnn. “For example, Irene Potter—have you seen her work?” she asked Betsy.

  “No, but I’ve heard it’s wonderful.”

  “She’s a difficult person, but her work belongs in the Smithsonian, I kid you not.”

  “Whereas Hud Earlie is a really easy person,” said Shelly, exchanging a significant look with Godwin.

  “What does that mean?” demanded Betsy.

  “He fancies himself a bit, that’s all,” said Godwin airily. “I mean, where does he get that hair dyed? And a matching brass cane, for heaven’s sake, and a smile that says he’s God’s gift to the world.” Godwin tossed back a lock of his own unnaturally blond hair and Betsy smirked into her knitting—may be Godwin was miffed that Hud wasn’t gay.

  “Margot had his number, that’s for sure,” said the younger of the volunteers. “He never got away with anything when she was around.”

  “Margot had all our numbers,” Shelly put in gently.

  The talk went on, and soon there were sniffles. “It was such a beautiful funeral.” Godwin sighed. “Didn’t you just love that reading about the woman who dresses her servants in scarlet and is always busy with business?” He said to Betsy, “Her Christmas gift to her employees every year is something knitted; year before last it was red mittens, that same shade of red you’re working with.”

  Shelly said, “And that part about the sashes. Wasn’t that amazing?”

  “But everyone laughed during that!” Betsy protested. “I thought it was a joke!”

  “No, no, nooooo.” Godwin looked at her, very surprised. “We had a Founders’ Day parade last year and Margot made bright green sashes for the people playing the characters so the watchers would know who they were supposed to be. So when that psalm—”

  “It was from Proverbs,” Shelly corrected.

  “Whatever,” said Godwin. “When he read that, it was the high point of the whole funeral, if there can be a high point of a funeral. I mean, the whole thing was so apt. No one will ever forget that reading.”

  Betsy was working on the fourth row of knitting without seeing any sign of the pattern promised when the door went bing and a woman came in. She was tall, about sixty years old, slim, and wearing a heather-blue knit dress.

  Betsy put her knitting down and stood. “May I help you?”

  “I understand the owner has died,” she said. “I had placed an order with her and I wonder what the status of it might be.”

  Betsy went to the desk. “What is the name, please, and what was it you ordered?”

  “I am Mrs. Lundgren. Mrs. Berglund agreed to copy her needlepoint Chinese horse for me for one thousand dollars, to be picked up here before Thanksgiving Day. Since she obviously won’t be able to fill that order, I am here to inquire if someone else has taken on the task.”

  Margot had told Betsy about the commission, and had remarked that Mrs. Lundgren was a longtime customer. Yet the woman standing at the counter did not indicate in the slightest that she was shocked or saddened by the death of Margot.

  “I see the framed original has been taken down,” said Mrs. Lundgren. “Do you know if it will be for sale?”

  “That’s what’s missing!” shouted Godwin.

  “What do you mean, it’s missing?” Shelly asked. “It was here last Wednesday, I saw Margot matching silks with it. In fact, I hung it back up on the wall myself.”

  Godwin came around the desk to look on the floor under the wall where the horse had hung. “I wonder where it got to?”

  “Broken; stepped on, probably,” said Betsy. “Thrown away.”

  Godwin stared at her. “Did you throw it away?”

  “No, of course not. Actually, I don’t remember seeing it while we were cleaning up. I know I didn’t throw it away. But somebody did. Or else why isn’t it here?”

  But everyone else emphatically denied that anyone would have thrown away Margot’s T‘ang horse. They all knew it was Margot’s finest original needlepoint piece, that she had loved it. Godwin said there was not a flaw in it, and Shelly said it was very valuable, with a glance at Mrs. Lundgren. They all agreed that even if it had been broken out of its frame and dirtied, it would have been set aside to be cleaned and reframed, not thrown away.

  “So it must be here somewhere,” Betsy concluded. She began to look through the several boxes of things still waiting to be sorted. Everyone, except Mrs. Lundgren of course, began searching the whole shop.

  The search took a long while; they even emptied and sorted through the trash bags. It continued long after Mrs. Lundgren had given up and gone away. But at last Betsy called a halt. “It’s gone,” she said. “I told the police I thought nothing was taken in that burglary, but it appears I was wrong. Margot’s needlepoint T‘ang Dynasty horse is missing.”

  12

  C‘mon, Mike, at least think about it! Maybe she’s got a point!“ said Jill, trying to keep her tone light and not sound wheedling or pushy. Which was hard when Detective Mike Malloy was patently not interested in her—or Betsy Devonshire’s—thoughts on the case.

  “Ah, she’s just upset over her sister being murdered by some piece of trash, that’s all. Everyone thinks when someone important gets killed it’s some kind of plot or something. Even when she’s only important to them. But one of these days we’ll arrest some druggie or a punk kid and he’ll start in crying and tell us all about the store with yarn in it and the woman he offed in there.”

  Mike wasn’t interested in hearing Jill’s opinion for two reasons. First, he was sure what he’d just said was correct. Second, he was also sure Jill wanted his job. On a small force like this one, even with only two investigators there was barely enough to do. Uniformed cops with ambition to make detective grade generally moved on to some big city, where openings happened. Cross was ambitious, but she wanted to stay in Excelsior. So naturally she wanted to show she had some ideas of her own.

  Mike was ambitious, too—but when he moved up it would be to chief, if not here then in some other small town. Or maybe to sheriff in some out-of-state county.

  That meant protecting his turf here and now. Which included not letting some street cop give everyone the idea he was going about this wrong.

  On the other hand, Cross was female, so he had to be careful not to give the impression he thought she ought to turn in her badge for a bassinet—though she’d make a better mother than a cop, in his not so humble opinion. She should have a kid balanced on those hips, not a gun.

  Jill, watching his eyes wander and thinking she could read his thoughts, tried to stifle a sigh.

  Mike saw the sigh and misread it. Sensing victory, he became magnanimous. “How’s she doing, the sister?”

  “Okay. Better, in fact. You going to talk to her again?”

  “Not right now. I got my feelers out all over the area. Something’ll turn up soon, you tell her that.”

  “Sure, Mike. Thanks.”

  Jill left to go on patrol. She’d done what she told Betsy she’d do, bring Betsy’s notions to Mike’s atte
ntion. Betsy had offered to come in herself if Jill failed to put them across. But if Mike failed to listen to a fellow cop, he’d be even less likely to listen to Betsy, who tended to get excited.

  Besides, Mike was awfully sure about the burglar, and he’d busted a small dope ring running right under everyone’s noses just last winter. So maybe Betsy was wrong.

  “He’s the one who’s wrong,” said Betsy.

  “Who died and made you Sherlock Holmes?” asked Jill.

  “It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see something’s wrong,” Betsy argued. “Did you do the other thing I asked you to do?”

  “Yes, I did,” replied Jill, with an air of confessing to a crime, which it probably was. “The preliminary autopsy report says she was struck one time from behind, near the base of her skull, with an instrument that was round or rounded and had a nail or spike on it.”

  Betsy stared at her. “Round with a spike on it? That sounds like one of those weird medieval weapons you see in museums. Or something Hairless Joe would carry.”

  “Hairless Joe?”

  “A character in an old comic strip called Li‘l Abner.”

  Jill shrugged. “Never heard of it. But that’s what the report said. I didn’t write down the exact words, I was in a hurry in case Mike came back and caught me. But it was clear enough: she was hit once, with something that gave her a roughly circular depressed fracture with a hole in the middle of it. Killed her instantly.” What the report really had said was that Margot had probably lost consciousness immediately and died soon after, but Jill didn’t want to distress Betsy with that information.

  Betsy sat silent awhile. They were in the shop, which Jill was glad to see was open for business, seated at the table. Betsy had begun knitting something in red yarn, probably a scarf, and while her hands seemed competent, she had the beginner’s slow and careful movements. Unless she sped up, that scarf would be ready in time for the Fourth of July.

  “They didn’t find the murder weapon, did they?” Betsy said, purling twice.

  “No. And I can’t think of anything in the store that would have made that shape of a wound. Can you?”

  “No.” Betsy thought awhile, then shook her head in confirmation. “No,” she repeated. And after doing that inventory, she knew every item in the store. She looked at her knitting, and knitted the next stitch.

  “So he must have brought it with him, and taken it away again,” said Jill.

  “I remember reading in a book about putting something heavy in a sock and swinging it as a weapon.” Knit again.

  “Sand,” said Jill. “A sockful of sand makes a really nice weapon.”

  Yarn over. “Yes, but sand hasn’t got a spike in it.” Purl.

  “A long skinny rock can be a kind of spike. And all you have to do after is dump the rock out, run the sock through a washing machine, and nobody’s the wiser.”

  They both glanced toward the store’s front window and thought of the lakeshore, a stone’s throw away.

  Bing! “Have you had lunch yet, Betsy?” asked a man’s voice from the doorway.

  Betsy looked up from behind the desk. Hud was standing there in a spice-colored suit and vest, white shirt and no tie, which looked wonderful with his ruddy complexion and streaky hair. He was leaning elegantly on a brass-headed cane and sunlight coming from behind put him in a golden aura.

  Betsy smiled, both in admiration and remembering Godwin’s sarcastic description. “Well, hi, Hud. As a matter of fact, I haven’t yet.”

  Godwin said, “Bring me back a sandwich. Any kind.”

  As they left the shop, Betsy teased, “What’s that cane for? Did you sprain your ankle?”

  He hoisted it, twirled it, set it down again. “What, don’t you like it? Then I’ll bring another next time. I have a collection.” He held it out and she took it.

  It was heavy; the shaft was of a dense wood whose color matched his suit, the head was an upright lozenge that on closer examination was seen to be an owl. The barely raised features made it pleasant to grip.

  “Is it a sword cane?” she asked, pulling at it.

  “Not this one.” He took it back. “But I have one with a blade in it, and another that holds about four ounces of whiskey. They look exactly alike; can you imagine me trying to run off a mugger and instead offering him a drink?”

  She laughed, then asked, “What are you doing in town?”

  “Consulting you. We’ve been offered a seventeenth-century chatelaine, and I’m wondering if you can tell our European-art curator the uses of the implements in it.”

  “Why ask me? What’s a chatelaine?”

  “It’s a metal holder for needlework implements. Scissors, thimble, needle pack, like that.”

  Betsy groaned softly. She was so ignorant!

  Hud continued, “But this one has some other things in it that we’re not sure of. A tool that looks to me like a really narrow guitar pick, for example. Everything’s made of silver and everything matches, but I don’t know if that pick really belongs or not.”

  “We have something like that in the shop. The package it comes in says it’s a laying tool, but I have no idea what it’s used for. I could ask my Monday Bunch: they know everything.”

  “No, never mind, one of my staff can look it up. A laying tool, huh? But hey, you want the truth? I’ve been thinking about you, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to come and see you. The chatelaine provided me with one.” His smile invited her to join the conspiracy. “And now, having asked the question, I have both excused my absence from the office and made my lunch with you a deductible business expense.”

  “Glad to be of service, sir. Where are we going?” she asked as they rounded the comer that was marked by the post office. “Christopher Inn?”

  “No, he doesn’t serve lunch. I thought we’d go to Antiquity Rose’s.”

  “Isn’t that an antique shop?”

  “It’s also a very nice place to have lunch.”

  They had started up Second Street, going past the gas station. Antiquity Rose was just ahead. It had started life as a modest wooden house, and was now painted a blushing pink with maroon shutters. It had retained its front porch and a lawn full of cushion mums and late roses, but now Betsy noticed that the sign announcing its name and advertising antiques also mentioned luncheons.

  In the front room were glass cabinets, tables, and shelves of glass dogs, china cats, odd silver spoons, antique jewelry, and collectible dolls. Hud led her to a small table in the next room, obviously converted from a side porch. The air announced fresh-baked bread and hearty soups.

  Betsy was not an antiquer, but her eyes couldn’t help wandering to the display on the wall over their table. An old poster advertising a black liquid that could cure both cancer and asthma hung between shadow boxes displaying old teacups and miniature Kewpie dolls.

  “As the lunches get better here,” said Hud, “the antiques get closer to plain secondhand stuff.”

  “I remember my grandmother sending me a Kewpie doll one Christmas,” said Betsy. “I was disappointed that it didn’t come with clothes to put on and take off.” She smiled at the memory.

  “You are looking very well,” said Hud.

  “Thanks,” she said. But then turned to business of her own, for who better to ask about a medieval weapon than a curator?

  “Hud, does the museum have antique weapons? I mean really antique, like medieval.”

  He glanced up from his menu. “No, why?”

  “Is there a name for that thing that’s a round knob with a spike through it?”

  He offered a humorous look of suspicion. “Who are you mad at?”

  “Nobody. I was talking with Jill earlier today, and somehow the subject came up. We were trying to think of the name of that kind of thing. Not morning star, not mace, but something in that family.”

  Hud shrugged and resumed consulting his menu. “Not my area of expertise, sorry. Or the museum’s; we collect art, not weapons.” He put it down again.
“But talk of hurting someone reminds me. How’s Sophie?”

  “Just fine. She actually gets around despite the cast. They made it longer than her leg to discourage running or jumping, so she kind of paddles with it rather than walking on it. The vet’s assistant calls it the square-wheel syndrome. Sophie goes along very smoothly on three legs and then the cast lifts her about two inches.” Betsy moved her hand across the table, lifting and dropping it at intervals. “Like a pull toy with one square wheel.”

  Hud laughed so hard at the image of a cat with a square wheel he had to put the menu down. His voice was a splendid baritone and his laugh matched it; people turned smiling to see who was making that beautiful noise. Betsy wasn’t sure whether to feel envied or embarrassed, and so picked up her menu and pretended to read it.

  They had corn chowder with hunks of rosemary-flavored chicken in it, and the talk grew so friendly—Hud was familiar with San Diego, Betsy knew something about symbolism in medieval and Renaissance art—that by the end of the meal Hud had to remind her to order a take-out sandwich for Godwin.

  Rather than going right to Crewel World with the sandwich, Betsy continued walking with Hud up Lake Street to his car. She had heard you could learn things about a man by the car he drove.

  Hud’s was a big old black convertible, highly polished but slab-sided. Betsy was startled—she thought Hud was the sports-car type—until she saw the peaked grille with the fey creature perched on top of it. “Oh, my God, Hud; it’s a Rolls-Royce! Wow! Say, what kind of salary do they pay you, anyhow?”

  “Not enough to buy a car like this.” Hud laughed, going to unlock the door. “I bought it seven years ago, used, at a government auction. It probably once belonged to a drug dealer. I paid eighty-two hundred dollars for it.” He slid into the tan leather interior and vanished behind darkened glass. When he started the engine, it purred almost inaudibly. Then the passenger-side window rolled silently down and he leaned sideways to look through it at her.