A Murderous Yarn (9 page)

The crowd broke up, and the big man leaned over the booth’s counter to say to Charlotte, “I just heard. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Char. Bill was a good man, he’ll be missed.”

“Oh, Marcus, what am I going to
do
?” wept Charlotte.

“You relax, we’ll take care of whatever needs taking care of,” promised Marcus. “Do you need someone to drive you home?”

“I—I suppose so. I don’t know, I can’t think!”

“Never mind, you just sit here awhile, until you calm down and this show is over. I’ll stay around until you decide what you want.” The man strode over to a Cadillac touring car of immense size and, when he turned and saw Betsy watching him, gave a wave and a gesture of support.

“How long should I stay?” asked Charlotte of no one in particular. “Adam’s been gone so long, why hasn’t he come back? Why doesn’t he call? Should I call him?” She seemed to be working herself into another fit of hysterics.

Betsy said, “Come on, Charlotte, let’s go someplace cool and private.” She helped Charlotte to her feet and said to Mildred and Ceil, “I’ll sit with her in my car awhile.” She repeated that to Marcus, who nodded understanding, then went on to the parking lot around the back of the capitol.

Betsy started her engine, and the Buick’s inside quickly cooled. The purring of the engine was a soothing sound, and Charlotte began to regain control of
herself. “I made a fool of myself back there,” she murmured, using another Kleenex from the supply Betsy kept handing her from the box she always kept in her car.

“No you didn’t,” said Betsy firmly. “I’m sure this has been a terrible shock to you, and I think you’re taking it very well.”

Charlotte made a sound halfway toward a giggle. “If this is taking it well, I wonder what taking it badly might be.”

“Oh, screaming and running in circles, tearing your clothing, and throwing dirt on top of your head.”

“Oh, if only it were correct in our culture to do that, what a relief it would be!” sighed Charlotte. “I really yearn to scream and kick dents into the trailer that dreadful car came in, set fire to the shed he keeps the other cars in.” She amended in a small voice, “
Kept
the other cars in. Oh, dear!”

“I shouldn’t go setting fire to anything until I made sure the insurance was up to date,” said Betsy in a mock-practical tone.

“Oh, no fear of that,” grumbled Charlotte, blowing her nose again. Her tone moderated and she became reflective. “I remember when we were first married, Bill put me in charge of the checkbook, paying bills and such. When the baby came, I was a very nervous mother and I made several long-distance calls to my mother. This was back when long-distance charges were actually scary, not like today, and my mother lived in Oregon. And when the bill came, I couldn’t pay it. When Bill saw the overdue notice we got from the phone company, he hit the ceiling. He said he didn’t care if we lived on day-old bread and baloney, I was
not to let a bill go unpaid ever again. And I never did. Of course, as Bill’s company began to thrive, that became less of a problem.” She smiled just a little. “He was a good provider. We were looking forward to a long, comfortable retirement.”

“He wasn’t retired, then?” asked Betsy.

“Not quite. He had turned over most of the day-to-day management to Broward—he’s our oldest son—but went in to the office three mornings a week, just to keep an eye on things. People like Bill never really retire, I suppose. He was thinking of organizing a new company, one that would centralize the ordering of parts for Maxwells, and perhaps do some restoration work as well. He really liked working on those cars.” She sighed and sniffed—then stirred herself to take a new tack. “Your husband, what does he think of you owning your own business?”

“I’m divorced,” said Betsy. “I inherited the shop after the divorce. My sister founded it. And her husband was proud of her, though at first he didn’t take her seriously. You know how men are, or how they used to be, anyway. He thought of it like a hobby, a way of keeping the little woman busy.”

“Yes, I know,” said Charlotte, with some feeling.

“Did you help your husband in his business?”

“I was in sales for several years at the start, until I got pregnant with Broward. I was pretty good at sales, and I liked it. But he wanted me to stay at home, and before I knew it, there I was with four children, and no time for anything outside the home. Not that I minded too terribly. Our children were a great pleasure always, reasonably good kids, very bright. Lisa won several scholarships and is a pediatrician in St. Louis. Tommy
owns a car dealership in St. Paul, and David is working on his masters in education at the U. But after the youngest left home, I wanted to do something more, get a job, but Bill was too used to me being home. Do you have children?”

“No, it turned out I couldn’t get pregnant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It turned out I couldn’t pick a good man to father them either, so it’s just as well. Are you close to your children?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s going to be hard on them, losing their father all of a sudden like this. Broward and Bill were especially close, working together like they did.”

“What sort of company is it?”

“It’s called Birmingham Metal Fabrication. We make doors, metal doors, for houses and apartments, garages, and businesses. We sell to builders mostly. Broward’s been wanting to expand into window frames and maybe even siding. He’s very ambitious.”

“Perhaps you could get back into sales, working for your son.”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte let her head fall back on the headrest. “All that crying has given me a terrible headache.”

Someone knocked on the window and Charlotte jumped. “What, what?” she cried. “Oh, it’s Adam!” She began to fumble with the door. “How do I roll the window down?” she demanded.

Betsy pushed a button on her side, and the window slid down about eight inches. Adam’s anxious face peered in at them.

“Hello, Betsy,” he said. “Charlotte, may I talk to you a minute?”

“Is something else wrong?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure? What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

Adam said uncomfortably, “Well, the medical examiner was there, he and the police looked at the scene, and they seem to think there’s something funny about what happened. Here—” Adam handed her a business card. “This is the medical examiner’s name and phone number. You can call him when you feel up to it, though he said he would be in touch anyway. He’s going to do an autopsy, and they’ve impounded the Maxwell.”

“Something funny?” echoed Charlotte. “What could that mean?”

“I have no idea, they wouldn’t tell me what they’re thinking.”

“What could be funny about Bill’s dying in his car?” Charlotte turned to look at Betsy. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Betsy, afraid to say the word that was big in all their minds: Murder.

M
onday morning, Betsy was preparing an order of stitched items to be sent to Heidi, her finisher. A Christmas stocking done on needlepoint canvas, stiff with metallic threads and beads, needed to be washed, stretched and shaped, cut out, lined, and sewn to a heavy fabric so it would be a proper stocking. A highly detailed counted cross stitch pattern of a Queen Anne house needed washing, stretching, and attachment to a stretcher before being matted and framed. There were five other items needing finishing, two to be made into pillows. Some needleworkers finished their own projects, but many turned to a professional. It was expensive, but gave a proper finish to a needlework project that its proud owner hoped would become an heirloom.

Last on the list of items to be finished was an original Irene Potter. Name of owner: Betsy Devonshire. Betsy
had gone to the art fair on Sunday—and been disappointed to find the amazing Columbus Circle Blizzard piece Irene had brought half-shyly to Crewel World had been sold. However, there were three other pieces on display, and Betsy, wincing only slightly, had written a check for a piece called Walled Garden, a riot of color and stitches about sixteen by sixteen inches, done in brightly colored wool, silk, ribbon, cotton, and metallics on stiff congress cloth. There was a pond in the center, worked in irregular half-stitches of blue silk and silver metallic floss. A single orange stitch suggested a goldfish in its depths. A rustic wooden bridge crossed the pond, leading to a winding path among daisies, azaleas, daffodils, lilies, and many other varieties of flowers, some invented, done with no regard to season or proportion or perspective. In the upper background, the waving limbs of mighty trees threatened to crush or climb the wall, which was braced here and there by slender young poplars. Outside the wall a hurricane raged. Within was a hot, strangely lit, tense silence.

The work made Betsy feel she was looking into Irene’s mind, or perhaps Irene’s notion of the world. Whichever, it was a place both beautiful and frightening.

“Oh, my
God
, what is
that
?” demanded Godwin, reaching for the piece.

Betsy started to explain, then changed her mind. “What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s wonderful, it’s . . . what a garden must seem like to the plants. Who stitched this—no, who
designed
it?”

“It’s another Irene Potter,” said Betsy. “I bought it at the art fair.”

Godwin tenderly fingered the stitching of the garden
wall, done in shades of red, garnet, and brown in a herringbone stitch that looked like bricks laid in Tudor fashion. The formal wall formed an orderly base for the tree branches tossing in bullion and wildly irregular continental stitches. In front of the wall were stiffly formal blooming shrubs worked in—what? He looked closer. Fancy cross? No, a variety of half-buttonhole.

“I am humbled,” he said sincerely. “This is totally amazing.” He handed it back. “You’re having it framed, I assume.”

“Yes, but in something severe, I think. Narrow cream mat, thin black frame? Because the work is so hot and wild.”

“Sounds good.” Godwin looked around. “Where are you going to hang it?”

“Upstairs. This isn’t a model. Irene says she can’t turn these pieces into patterns.”

“Bosh,” retorted Godwin. “If she can stitch it, she or someone can make a pattern of it. They’d be difficult patterns, but not impossible ones. She just doesn’t want to share. I don’t blame her, I guess. Do you realize this confirms she’s turning into an artist with a capital A?”

“Oh, yes. And so does she. You should have seen her at the fair, preening and talking with vast condescension to anyone who stopped to look at her work. But she’s earned the right, her work is wonderful. She brought nine pieces to the fair and sold all of them. Mr. Feldman is now taking her very seriously indeed; he was asking three or four thousand apiece.”

“You paid how much?”

“Thirty-five hundred for this. I know that’s a lot—”

“She should have given you a discount.”

“No, she shouldn’t. We’ve laughed too often at her
expense. Besides, this is really wonderful. I think it’s worth the price. Plus, it’s only going to increase in value. Irene said the Walker Art Museum bought one, and a reporter from the
Strib
wants to interview her. If this keeps up, a local employer is going to lose the head of its shipping department very soon.”

“Maybe I should bring them my résumé.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I am going to need a job with benefits. Betsy, I talked with John yesterday. He started shouting at me, right there in the restaurant—” Godwin sobbed once, gulped it back, and continued, “And I got hysterical and ran out. And . . . and he didn’t come after me. He just let me
go
!”

“Oh, Goddy,” sighed Betsy, putting an arm around his shoulder.

He suddenly twisted around to embrace her, soaking her shoulder with hot tears. “Betsy, what am I to
do
? I don’t know how I’m going to live without our darling house, and having wonderful clothes and traveling, and him taking care of me . . .” His voice trailed away, and then he pushed himself away to stare at Betsy aghast, his eyes still shining with tears. “Oh, my
God
! It’s happened. Donny told me it would happen, and it
has
!”

“What’s happened?” asked Betsy.

“The
Golden Handcuffs
! I don’t miss
John
, I miss all the
things
! John got me used to nice things, and now I’m upset because I’m losing the things, not because I’m losing
John
!”

If Godwin hadn’t been so sincere, Betsy would have
laughed at him. As it was, she couldn’t withhold a smile. “Oh, Goddy,” she sighed.

“What?” he said, and when she didn’t answer at once, he demanded, “What? Tell me!”

“Well . . . I’m afraid I always thought what you and John had was an arrangement, not a relationship. Now I’ve only met John once, but he didn’t impress me as a very nice person. And I’ve never met anyone who seemed to actually like John. So I guess—” She broke off, afraid she was getting into dangerous waters. “Let’s not go there.”

“No, no,” said Godwin, suddenly very serious, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know how to say it, or even whether I should say anything at all.”

Godwin’s eyes gleamed, though his expression remained serious. “I think it’s important that you try to tell me anyway.”

“Well, I’ve always known gay people, and some were friends. But I’ve never met a gay person before who was as much like the old stereotype of the gay man as you are. I’d gotten to thinking no real gay person was like that, until you came along. So . . . well, I sometimes wonder if it’s really you, either. I mean, I wonder if maybe I’ve never really met the real Godwin. I’ve wondered if this is a put-on, that you only pretend to be this person who is solely interested in clothes and parties and startling straight people. Now I like that fun and funny persona, and it’s extremely valuable here in the shop. But is this surface Godwin . . . perhaps too frivolous to be real? I sometimes wonder what you’re like when it’s late at night and you’re tired. Or what you might be like when the party comes to an end. I’ve
never tried to dig into your personality, because I like the surface Godwin very much, and because that Goddy has been so useful to me. I wonder if that was wrong of me, because I think of you as a friend.”

“And because maybe you were afraid that’s the only me there is?” asked Godwin with a little smile.

“Not afraid, just wondering. You know me, I can’t help wondering if things are as they seem. But I don’t want you to feel you have to act serious just to make me think you’re deep.”

Godwin shrugged. “I suppose there is another me down inside somewhere, but he’s not nearly as much fun as this upper me. Being the fun Goddy
is
fun. And it’s taken me a long way. Being serious is . . .
serious.
And not much fun. See how my vocabulary suffers when I try to be serious?” He grinned. “So that’s enough depth plumbing for today. Why didn’t you buy the Columbus Circle Blizzard piece?”

“I couldn’t, it was the first thing sold on Saturday.” Betsy took Walled Garden back and held it in both hands. “But I like this one too.”

“Speaking of Saturday—” began Godwin, but was interrupted by the electronic
Bing!
that announced the door to the shop opening.

They looked up and saw a tall, very slender man standing just inside the door. He wore a lightweight gray suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. He looked to be close to sixty, with thin silver hair, a bit of a stoop, and a diffident, thoughtful expression somewhat at odds with his stuck-out ears and humorous narrow jaw.

He glanced at Godwin, and took in his whole life story in a single intelligent look. His smile was friendly, with a hint of amusement in it.

Godwin, not sure whether to be affronted, stood fast.

Then the man looked at Betsy and the smile broadened into a sideways grin. “I bet you own this place,” he said in a reedy voice too young for his years, gesturing around with a large, thin hand.

“That’s right,” said Betsy, wondering why alarms were sounding in her head. He certainly looked harmless enough. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I certainly hope so.” He came to the big desk, fumbling in an inside pocket for a slim wallet. Only it wasn’t a wallet, it was an identification holder. Opened, it told Betsy he was Detective Morrie Steffans, Minnetonka Police. “I’ve been talking with Mrs. Charlotte Birmingham, and she says you can confirm that she was with you most of Saturday.”

Alarms now sounding loud indeed, Betsy said, “Why do you need that confirmed?”

“Weren’t you with her when she was told there were unanswered questions about the death of her husband and the burning of his car?” He put the wallet away and brought out a thick, palm-size notebook and a ballpoint pen.

“Yes—I take it some of the questions have been answered?”

He grinned. He had very light blue eyes and good teeth. “I take it she hasn’t contacted you since she talked with me?”

“Why should she contact me?” asked Betsy. “Will you tell me what this is about?”

“Certainly, as soon as I get some basic information from you.” He took Betsy’s name, address, and phone number, then said, “It seems that the late Mr.
Birmingham was shot in the chest before being put under that old car of his.”

“Oh, my,” murmured Betsy. “How terrible.”

“Shot?” echoed Godwin. “You mean he was
murdered
?” He said accusingly to Betsy, “You didn’t say there was anything funny about his death!”

“I didn’t know there was, not for certain,” replied Betsy. “None of us did.” To Detective Steffans, she said, “So I take it the car didn’t catch fire by itself, either.”

“That’s right, it was torched. A clumsy attempt was made to make it look like an accident, but this was clearly homicide.”

“Or suicide,” suggested Godwin.

Detective Steffans frowned at Godwin. “Why would someone crawl under a car, set it on fire, and then shoot himself?”

“Oh,” said Godwin.

Detective Steffans said to Betsy, “You talked with Mr. Birmingham?”

“Yes, we exchanged a few words,” replied Betsy. “I was a volunteer for the Antique Car Club, and they assigned me the task of logging the arrival of the antique cars in Excelsior. I wrote down their number and time of arrival, and instructed the drivers to report to the booth. Mr. Birmingham didn’t say much, but I could see he was upset because his car was running badly, so I talked mostly with his wife, Charlotte. I did tell him reporters were here and might want to interview him, and he said he didn’t want to answer questions.”

“Had you met Mr. Birmingham before?”

“No.”

“But you’re sure it was him.”

“Well, Charlotte seemed sure, and she was his wife.”

Steffans chuckled and made a note. “You’ve never met Charlotte before, have you?”

“No. Are you going to tell me you don’t think the woman was Mrs. Birmingham?”

“No, of course not. I’m at that stage of my investigation where I check everything. However, I am satisfied that it was Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham in the car. And I’m asking if it was during the halt in Excelsior that you and Mrs. Birmingham struck up an acquaintance.”

Betsy nodded. “Yes, she came into my shop and spent a nice amount of money, and helped me log the drivers out of town when they left. Adam Smith asked her to assist me. She didn’t want to ride in the Maxwell anymore, because the engine running so rough made it jiggle, which upset her stomach.”

Steffans nodded. “Leaf springs.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leaf springs, from before shock absorbers. Smooth out the bumps, but can’t dampen the jiggle.”

Betsy nodded. “All right. Anyway, Charlotte rode with me to St. Paul, and helped me again when we logged in the drivers on the return leg. Bill Birmingham’s Maxwell didn’t come in, and we didn’t hear from him, so after a while Adam left to drive the route looking for him. Charlotte sat with me in the booth in St. Paul until Adam called Ceil—that’s Lucille Ziegfield, a member of the club—and Ceil told Charlotte that Bill was dead. Charlotte was very upset, of course. I took her to my car—”