Crewel Yule (12 page)

“Oh, come on!” scoffed Terrence.

But Harry insisted, “If my folks gave me a joke name like that, I’d be cranky all my life. And cranky people sue.”

Twelve

After lunch, Jill went up to Bewitching Stitches. She paused in the doorway and saw Lenore talking earnestly with a customer. Lenore had two fingers of one hand supporting an arm of her model, and stained and sagging as it was, the gesture was of a new mother showing off her baby. The customer had her head cocked doubtfully. Lenore picked up a sheet of her pattern and explained something. The customer took it, and Lenore tipped her model and gestured at a lower quarter of it.

Another customer paused to look at Lenore and listen to her talk. The first customer shook her head, put the pattern sheet down, and backed away, but the second stooped for a closer look. Lenore shifted her attention to the second customer, who was both frowning and nodding. Jill nodded, too, and went away. Lenore might still be having a hard time making a sale with only that sorry model to help, but at least she was back in there trying.

Back up in Betsy’s suite, Jill sat down with her needlework. But she didn’t get past picking up her needle. She sat with it in her fingers, the Connie Welch Santa head on her lap, neither of them with any hold on her attention.

Suppose Belle’s death was not an accident. Suppose Lenore was a murderer. Which would be the more clever way to behave? To continue trying to sell her work, or to allow shock to dictate a retreat to the privacy of her room?

But it wouldn’t be a private retreat, would it? Jill had offered to sit with her, and that would mean questions to answer, a posture to maintain, under close scrutiny. If Lenore was guilty, she would absolutely choose to avoid that.

Of course, even if she had nothing to do with Belle’s death, it might still be better to continue to do what she came here to do, help sell her new pattern.

So maybe deciding to remain on duty at Bewitching Stitches was perfectly innocent, and in fact a wise thing to do. Which still didn’t mean Belle’s death was an accident.

True, the cream of the law-abiding middle class was gathered here, businessmen and businesswomen engaged in buying and selling materials related to that most decorous of crafts—stitchery. Such people did not normally toss one another over ninth-story railings. When she was offered an eyewitness who said she saw the woman go over after standing by the railing alone, it would have been entirely understandable to think it was an accident. The possibility of error was like a feather weighed against the outsize bucket of wet sand that was a policeman’s normal workload.

Come to it, why
did
she wonder if it might be murder?

Because despite Betsy’s account, an accident seemed unlikely. The people who built this hotel were not stupid. They wouldn’t install such low railings that a slipping hand would let someone go over. Jill glanced toward the open door of the suite, at the railing. It appeared to be at least forty inches high, so unless one were seven feet tall, the top of the railing struck anybody who blundered into it well above the hips. And Belle Hammermill was about five feet four. And last seen
standing
at the railing, not running into it. As for that curious tendency in some humans to gaze down from heights until they fell, surely the flower boxes hanging on the outside of the rail prevented one from looking straight down and inducing that kind of hypnosis.

How about suicide then? People who committed suicide by jumping from a height in a public place tended to stand on the edge for a considerable while, some to gather the nerve, others to gather a crowd. While Belle had stood there long enough for at least two people to notice, apparently she hadn’t stood there very long, or there would have been more witnesses coming forward to say, “I saw her standing there,” or, “I saw her fall.”

Wait a minute. There might be more witnesses. Someone—Jill, perhaps—should go around and ask.

She reached for the name tag that gave her permission to wander the sales floors and set out for the lobby. No need to rush down the stairs this time, so she headed for the elevators.

There were four elevators, two each in the center of the long sides of the atrium. They were made of thick panes of beveled glass set in polished brass frames that came to pointed tops, which gave them a spurious Victorian style. While not made giddy by watching the floor rush up as the elevator went down, Jill nevertheless kept her eyes on the upper floors, and noted how quickly people vanished behind the flower boxes as the elevator descended.

She went out to the front desk. Marveen, looking very tired now, managed a faint smile as Jill came up to the counter. “Sergeant Larson,” she said with a nod.

“Ms. Harrison,” replied Jill. “No relief for you yet?” She looked out the big front windows and saw the snowfall had at least paused, though the sky remained overcast.

“Oh, no, the city’s still at a complete standstill.”

“That’s too bad.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” sighed Marveen.

Jill, feeling a little chill, cocked her head sideways in a show of sympathy. “Like what?” she asked.

“Well, for one thing, no delivery trucks. We’re out of fresh produce for the kitchen, and our supplies of milk and meat are very low, because we’ve got a full house. In fact, more than full; we’ve had to double up in a few rooms because some guests who were supposed to leave Friday morning are still here and will still be here on Sunday if we don’t get a thaw started soon. And I even have some people bunking down in the conference rooms.”

Jill nearly smiled, because none of the problems were of a criminal nature. “That’s serious, but none of your troubles are visible to the guests, so you’re doing a good job of handling it. Of course, I hadn’t thought about food deliveries; that might start showing soon.”

Marveen nodded emphatically. “Like in the morning. No fresh bread for toast.”

“Is your chef good at improvising?”

Marveen laughed softly. “He says he is. I have a feeling we’re going to find out.”

Jill smiled back, then sobered. “I was wondering if you could give me some information about some of your guests.”

“Well, it depends on what you want to know. Or is this like police business?”

“It is. Of course, if I find out anything significant, all I can do is hand it along to the local investigator. But at least I can help carry the load right here.”

Marveen nodded; she would not have shared her troubles if she didn’t consider Jill an official rather than a guest. “Can you do this without aggravating our guests?”

“I’ll sure try.”

Marveen sighed at that weak promise. “What do you want to know?”

“Can you tell me what room Ms. Cherry Pye is in? I assume she shared a room with Belle Hammermill.”

“Well, she didn’t, actually,” said Marveen. “Ms. Pye needs a suite specially equipped for the handicapped. It has special features, like a no-threshold shower and extra-wide doorways. Ms. Hammermill failed to mention that when she made a reservation for herself and Ms. Pye, but fortunately we had a suite available suited to her special needs when Ms. Pye contacted us to confirm the reservation. She elected to have the handicapped suite to herself.”

Jill nodded at this hint of a rift between Cherry and Belle. “Is this the first time Ms. Hammermill and Ms. Pye have come to the Nashville Market?”

“I have no idea. I know there are generally several people in wheelchairs at these events, but I don’t know if we keep records of guests from year to year. Molly is our bookkeeper, but of course she’s not here today.”

“No, of course not.”

It turned out Cherry’s suite was on nine, a few doors down from Belle Hammermill’s. Jill wrote that down and found that Lenore King was also on nine and there was no Eve Saddle. There was an Eve, but her name was Suttle—“That must be it, Betsy wasn’t sure of the name,” said Jill—and her suite was on seven. She wrote down the room numbers and thanked Marveen.

Jill turned away from the desk toward the clusters of upholstered chairs and comfortable sofas, where several groups of women sat stitching. She went to each group and then to the INRG committee members behind the long tables, asking casual questions about what they were working on or how the event was going, and then mentioning as if in passing that she wondered if anyone had actually seen Belle Hammermill fall. Or if they knew of anyone else who might have seen something.

When anyone asked why—and someone always did—she said she was a police officer from a different jurisdiction assisting the locals, who were tied up with weather-related emergencies.

“This was probably an accident,” said Jill, but she was collecting any details while everyone’s memories were still fresh. “This will help them clear their records,” Jill said, her casual tone making it not important.

She went back to Betsy’s suite and dialed Betsy’s cell phone. “Can you talk?” Jill asked.

“Wait a minute.” It only took a few seconds before Betsy said, “What’s up?”

“I want to find out how many people here might have had a reason to murder Belle.”

There was a surprised silence. Then, “You
still
think this was murder?”

“I’m curious about her death. Where are you right now?”

“I’m outside Rainbow Gallery, in one of the side hallways next to the stairs.”

“Walk back up to the atrium, right up to the railing.”

“All right.” There was another pause, which gradually filled with the sound of people talking in a great empty space. “Okay,” said Betsy. “Now what?”

“How high is the railing on you?”

“Oh, it’s . . .” Yet another pause. “It’s up past the bottom of my rib cage. Almost to the bra line, actually. I didn’t realize that. But hey, I’m
short,
Jill.”

“Belle was about your height. Stretch your hand out over the railing, like you’re waving to someone.”

There was a suppressed giggle. “Is this another one of your stupid pranks?” On rare occasions Jill displayed a penchant for practical jokes.

“No.”

“Well, okay then. Hi, there!”

“Now, reach farther, put your shoulder out there, reaching for a helium balloon that’s escaped.”

“Uff. Okay, I’m out there. Durn, I missed it. Jill, people are looking.”

“Smile at them.”

“Okay, smiling.”

“Now, try to lean out, follow your shoulder out over the railing.”

“Can’t—uff—can’t do it. Why—? Oh. . .”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Well, all right. But I saw her, Jill. She didn’t, you know, throw a leg over. Not that it would be easy for someone as short as me to do that. Funny how this railing doesn’t look all that high, until you’re right up against it.”

“So if she didn’t slip, and she didn’t climb up to jump,” prompted Jill.

“No,” said Betsy. “I don’t believe it, I
won’t
believe it.”

“I take it that means you don’t want to come along while I talk to people.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay.”

“But Jill?” That came just in time to stop Jill signing off.

“Yes?”

“Let me know what they say, all right?”

“Sure.”

Thirteen

Through the door to the lobby came a tall man, about forty-five, dark haired, and slope shouldered, with a big, hard belly and bad feet that distorted his unshined black oxfords. His shoes made squishing sounds—Marveen heard the noise and that’s what drew her attention around—and the bottoms of his trousers were wet, the left leg up to the knee in front, indicating a half-fall. He was unbuttoning his raincoat, which was damp about the shoulders from the snow melting on it. He needed a shave and his small, dark eyes were red-rimmed. But there was a dogged air about him, as if he was a man used to being exhausted.