Cutwork (16 page)

 
John Nye, Attorney at Law, held out a well-manicured hand to Betsy, who took it briefly. He was tall, spare, and handsome in a square-jawed way, with a long nose and very light blue eyes. Standing behind a beautiful cherrywood desk, he wore a natural linen suit, a tan shirt, and a buff silk tie. Betsy was glad she’d worn her white cotton dress with the puffy sleeves and lace panels, and high-heeled sandals.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Betsy said, and sat down in one of the two comfortable green leather wing chairs in front of the desk.

“I take a special interest in anyone who is a friend of Godwin’s,” he said, sitting down himself. “Would you like coffee?” He reached for his phone to place an order. His heavy gold watchband twinkled in the light of his bronze-shaded desk lamp.

“No, thank you, this won’t take long.”

“That’s too bad, I have some time before my next appointment, and if you leave too quickly, I’ll be forced to attend to some very tedious paperwork.” He gestured at three fat file folders stacked in his In box, then sat back in his big executive chair and tented his long-fingered hands in front of him, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. He smiled a slightly crooked smile. “Are you here with a complaint about Goddy?”

“Oh, no! On the contrary, he is an excellent employee.”

“You don’t find him a bit . . . flamboyant?” He gestured upward with one hand, the smile suddenly reaching his eyes.

“No—in fact, his flamboyance, as you call it, is one of his attractions. Gay men are commonly assumed to have an excellent sense of color and design, and by flaunting his sexual orientation, many of my chance customers immediately rely on his advice in selecting patterns and materials. Long-time customers know Goddy has an authentic sense of style—and he’s also a very talented needleworker, so his advice in all areas of the craft is reliable.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Are you here because of a legal problem?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Well, then, how may I help you?”

“Is it true that you arranged for Mr. Ian Masterson to buy a viatical from Robert McFey?”

The handsome visage turned to stone. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“Does it matter? I want to know—”

“Of course it matters!” he cut in sharply. “I take it very seriously when the confidentiality of a client is breached.”

“I’m afraid you’re the one who breached it,” Betsy said. “You told Godwin a story about an artist who bought a viatical from another artist, and later I told him of a visit I had from Ian Masterson, an artist who was friends with Robert McFey, who was apparently dying of hepatitis C. Because Mr. McFey has been murdered, Goddy felt he had to tell me what you told him.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And what made Godwin think he could tell you rather than the police this story I told him in confidence?”

“I am investigating the murder of Robert McFey. A young man has been arrested and charged with the crime, but his family has asked me to discover who else might have had a motive. Someone who bought a viatical might find himself anxious about his money when the terminal man proved not so terminal after all.”

“Do you often discuss your investigations with people who aren’t involved?”

“When I am conducting an investigation, I don’t always know who is and who is not involved. I find talking to everyone brings out information—as it did in this case.”

“So there are others who know about this?”

“Not so far. I am aware of the sensitive nature of this information, and am not going to casually gossip about it.”

The frost in the blue eyes intensified at this slam. “I will remind Goddy of where his loyalty must lie. I suppose this is just the latest example of his tale bearing?”

Betsy clung to her temper with both hands, but the words came out sharply anyhow. “It is the first—but it seems to me, Mr. Nye, that if you don’t want private information about your clients shared with anyone, then perhaps you ought to keep it to yourself.”

John rose in one motion. His face had turned red, a decided contrast to his light-colored clothing. “You tell Godwin he is fired!”

She stared up at him. “Fired? From Crewel World?”

“That’s precisely what I mean! If he can’t hold his tongue about my private business, he isn’t to work in a place where he can spread the news”—John gestured widely, a gardener broadcasting seed, a paperboy delivering the
Excelsior Bay News
to a front porch—“to every silly female gossip who happens to stop in!”

Betsy was on her own feet now. “How can you possibly think you have the authority to make me fire anyone?”

“Then I’ll make him quit!”

Betsy’s chin came up. “Certainly I would quarrel with any attempt you might make to get him to quit.”

“You won’t win that quarrel.”

The two stared at each other across the wide desk. Rather to Betsy’s surprise, John’s eyes dropped first, and he sat down as they did. “You don’t know,” he said more quietly. “The alternative is to break off with Godwin, and I don’t want to do that. I am . . . very fond of Goddy.”

“He’s in love with you,” said Betsy, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. John had shaken her more than she cared to show.

“But I can’t let his loose tongue endanger my position with Wellborn, Hanson, and Smith.”

“Well, then for heaven’s sake, why do you tell him things you don’t want repeated?”

“Because he’s intensely interested in what I do here, or pretends to be.”

“Pretends?”

“Godwin is . . . perhaps ‘used to be’ is a better phrase. Godwin used to be a clever, charming, amusing, handsome, manipulative boy. It was fun letting him tease me into giving him things, and telling him the juicy tidbits I learn about my clients. He still uses many of his old tricks, but we both understand now that they are tricks, and it’s more of a game. He’s come a long way from his beginnings—did you know he was very poor?”

“No, he never talks to me about his past.”

John nodded. “Good thing, probably. You’d be shocked and disgusted if you knew.”

“Godwin’s past is none of my business, is it? He is a talented and valuable employee, and has become a trusted friend.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t mean that, not entirely, or you wouldn’t be here to check up on the story he told you.”

“I’m sure he repeated what you told him. I wanted to make sure you didn’t tell him something that isn’t true.” She raised both hands. “Oh, I’m not accusing you of lying. But this is about murder, and I must check everything. With your education, you understand the importance of primary sources.”

He cocked his head at her, then nodded once. “All right, I do. And perhaps it is a good thing for you to know not to trust him.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because there’s a streak of insecurity and greed in Goddy. It comes from his early experiences. If something happened in your relationship that frightened him or made him feel insecure, he’d do whatever he felt necessary to save his own neck, even if it meant breaking yours.”

“Is that why he breaks your confidences?” asked Betsy, anger flaring again, understanding suddenly who was the manipulative one in their relationship. “Because you deliberately make him feel insecure?”

“I’ve always treated him with every kindness,” declared John. He looked away. “But you see how he repays me.”

How could he speak of Goddy as if he were some kind of pet? Betsy sat down and tried to put a tone of sweet reason into her voice. “Godwin has never before told me about any of your cases, and I doubt if he ever will again. But this is important. A young man’s life is at stake. Please, so long he has told me about the viatical, can you confirm the details as he explained them to me?”

He made eye contact and held it for several seconds. “All right, yes. I’m Ian Masterson’s attorney. He came to me and I arranged a lump-sum payment to Robert McFey, in return for which Mr. Masterson was made beneficiary of an insurance policy on Mr. McFey’s life.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you think that gives him a motive for murder, let me disabuse you of that notion. I can assure you, absolutely, that Mr. Masterson is in no need of the payout of that policy. If Mr. McFey lived to be a hundred, it would not have incommoded Mr. Masterson in the least.” His look was intent, his tone sincere and confident.

Going down in the elevator a few minutes later, Betsy reflected that while she had lost a dandy suspect, she would no longer have to worry about Shelly dating a murderer.

Betsy had been pleased to find a parking spot on a downtown Minneapolis street, but the instant she unlocked the door, she wished she’d gone into a parking ramp. The car was like an oven inside, and the steering wheel was so hot it burned her fingers. She started the engine, turned the air-conditioning on high, and stood outside for a minute while things cooled off in there. She was parked near Mr. Nye’s office, the great, green-glass IDS Tower, the one where Mary Tyler Moore was seen shopping on the old television show. There was even a bronze statue of Ms. Moore just a block away that captured her throwing her cap in the air. When that show was made, the IDS Tower was the only real skyscraper in Minneapolis; now it had a number of rivals. Betsy looked around while her car’s air conditioner worked. There was something to be said for a skyline that managed to wait until American architects had outgrown their fondness for plain glass boxes—the newer towers were of brick or stone, with interesting cornices and toplines.

Coming back into the shop half an hour later, Betsy saw two customers and said to Godwin, “Could you show me how to fix the coffee urn? It’s acting up again.” Which was Betsy’s way of getting Godwin out of earshot into the back room of the shop.

Godwin, knowing where she’d been, followed her warily. She closed the door behind them and said, “Godwin, I seem to do nothing but put my foot in it lately. First Jill, now you.”

Godwin’s wariness deepened to fear. “Why? Where did you—oh, my God, you went to see John, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I felt I had to confirm that Ian Masterson bought that viatical. He did confirm it, but he says he told you about it in confidence.”

“Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy!” sighed Godwin. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned it!”

“How could you not, knowing how important it is to the case I’m investigating?”

Godwin turned away from Betsy, to lean against the door, hiding his face in his elbow. It was an exceedingly dramatic pose—Goddy was fond of dramatic gestures—but also a very sincere one. Over the last couple of years, the relationship between John and Godwin had become strained, and Godwin had often feared it was coming to a breach. “He expects me not to repeat his gossip. And I
don’t
! I
never
did before!”

“Why does he tell you things he shouldn’t?”

“I don’t know. It makes him feel even bigger when he can dish the dirt about important clients. He knows you’re looking into the Rob McFey murder, it was talking about you doing that that reminded him about the viatical. Sometimes I think he sets me up to do things that will make him angry!”

Betsy didn’t doubt it. And now she had to add to his sorrows. “He ordered me to fire you.”

Godwin smacked his hand against the door. “Oh,
no
! He’s wanted me to quit for simply
ages,
he says it’s making me too
serious
! Oh, this is terrible, I
adore
working here! Does he think working at Stitchville or Zandy’s would be the
same
?” He sighed deeply, trying not to cry.

Betsy said, “I told him I wouldn’t, of course.”

Godwin peeped over his shoulder at her. “You did?”

“Of course. Goddy, I can’t run the shop without you, surely you know that!”

He came away from the door to hug her. “Oh, you are the sweetest, the bestest, I just love you to death!”

“Now, now, settle down, or I might suspect you of heterosexual thoughts.”

He giggled, but let go. Then he turned serious. “But what am I going to do about John?”

“Can I help? What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I mean, I’ll have to figure out how to make up with him, and try to get things to be like they were before.”

“Do you think you can do that without quitting this job?”

“I don’t know. He can make things very hard if I don’t.”

“Well, I told him I’d fight any attempt on his part to make you quit.”

“How can you fight him? What can you do?”

Betsy’s chin came up, the way it had in John’s office, the way it had on the trip home, when she’d come to a decision. “Can you stay after work tonight for, say, half an hour? I’ll tell you then.”

He looked at her, trying to read her expression. “I think you’ll like it,” she said. “At least, I hope you do.”

“Does it involve a raise?”

“Well, yes, it does.”

He beamed at her. “Well, all right! Sure I can stay awhile.”

They went back out and found two customers waiting for them. They stood together at the checkout desk, talking like friends, their selections heaped on the desk.

They were from Canada, here for an Embroiderers’ Guild of America meeting. They introduced themselves as Alice Morgan and Tara Dewdney. Alice had found a Christmas stocking kit she’d been looking for; what’s more, it was in a sale bin, so she was very pleased. But Tara had come into a small inheritance. She had spent one portion of it buying tickets for herself and Alice to the conference, and another on a buying trip to Stitchville USA. She was in Crewel World for a final splurge before flying home.

“This is Becky,” she said to Alice, introducing Betsy by the wrong name. But Tara was buying a color wheel and some other items that brought her total to over two hundred dollars. At that level of spending, Tara Dewdney could call Betsy Monkey-face if she liked. Perhaps Betsy’s accountant would smile this month after all.