Cutwork (27 page)

Deb stood behind the counter that ran half the length of her store. She was consulting with a man who had brought in some watercolor paintings he wanted framed—the wall behind the counter held hundreds of frame corners.

Deb was about five feet two, though the way she carried herself made her look taller. Her eyes were hooded but friendly, and there was an alertness about her that spoke of energy and concentration. Her honey blond hair was pulled back into the long single braid that was her trademark.

Her tone with the customer was just a little too patient, as if she was trying to be kind to someone who was not as bright or energetic as she was. Betsy recalled, with a pang, that exact tone used on her while she was trying to get up to speed with the other committee members planning the art fair. She hadn’t recognized it back then, and thought the customer it was now being applied to probably didn’t recognize it used on him, either.

Deb nodded at Betsy, a request to wait, and Betsy nodded back. She took a walk through the shop—the art fair planning meetings had all taken place at Excelsior’s Elementary School library, and she hadn’t been in the shop before. The aisles were narrow and had slanted shelves of painting and drawing supplies for an artist at any level working in anything from pencil to oils. In back there were light tables, Sculpey clay, and a wonderful wood-and-wire model of a horse in the same style as the artist’s mannequin in the window. Betsy stopped to admire it, and then began moving the legs through the canter—that’s what these models were for, to hold action positions—until Deb’s voice called from up front. “Betsy, is there something I can help you find?”

“No, no. I just have some questions for you.” Betsy hurried back up front. “It’s about the murder at the fair.”

Deb frowned very slightly—all her emotions tended to be performed in small motions. “What about it?”

“I’m doing an investigation. It’s something I do, helping people falsely accused of a crime.”

Deb nodded; apparently someone had told her about Betsy’s peculiar hobby. “Are you talking about Mickey Sinclair?”

“Yes.”

“But he really did murder Mr. McFey, don’t you know that? The police have him in jail for it.”

“Even so, I think perhaps he isn’t guilty.”

“Well, if it wasn’t Mickey Sinclair, who do you think did it?”

“I’m trying to find that out. I’ve been asking questions, but so far the leads I’ve gotten either don’t work out or are pretty vague. For example, I have a report that there was a quarrel at the McFey booth before Mickey Sinclair approached it. Did you hear anything about that?”

There was a pause while Deb went back through her memories of the fair. But at last she shook her head. “Just from one person, and she wasn’t one of my people. And because of what happened, I’m sure I’d remember if someone else told me about that. Why, did you overhear it?”

“No.” Betsy shook her head. “I was at the fair from very early Sunday morning, but I was stuck in the concession stand all day, too far from Mr. McFey’s booth to hear anything.”

“All day? That was too bad! Didn’t someone relieve you for lunch or a break?”

“No. Everyone’s schedule got messed up by the investigation. It was all right, though; someone brought me lunch and took over long enough for a couple of trips to the rest room.” Betsy chuckled. “You did tell us we could have all the free pop we wanted, right? I made quite a dent in the Diet Coke and Seven-Up.”

“You were only supposed to work there till noon, you know. We’ll have to talk about that at the wind-up meeting next week.”

“Oh, please, don’t mention it! I was fine, really I was! And people kept me informed, and sometimes stayed with me for a while. Remember, it rained quite a bit, so the crowds weren’t bad. I never felt tired or overwhelmed.”

But Deb wasn’t comforted. She liked her art fair to run smoothly, for everyone to get a proper break, for no one to work more hours than they’d volunteered for. And—though it wasn’t something she specifically wished for in advance—for all the artists to leave alive and well.

Betsy said, “So I was wondering if you saw or heard anything, or if anyone told you something about what happened that morning. I’ve already talked to Irene Potter.”

Deb smiled faintly. “Yes, Irene came in here on Monday to tell me all about it, too. I think everyone in town has heard Irene’s story. But I can’t tell you much. The police called me to the booth to see if I could identify the dead man, and I could.”

“Had you been to his booth before?”

“I went up and down the aisles a lot on Saturday, but didn’t do more than ask him, like I did everyone, if everything was all right. It was another member of the committee who recommended him for an artist’s award.” The award was given to ten artists. They were presented a ribbon marked AWARD OF EXCELLENCE to display, and a more substantial award in the form of a purchase of his or her art. These pieces were later auctioned, the funds going into an arts scholarship fund.

“Who bought the piece from him?”

“I did, first thing on Sunday. Mr. McFey had just arrived, and he was setting his display of carvings out front. He had some nice pieces—you sat in on the jury committee meetings, didn’t you?”

Betsy nodded. “Yes. I will never forget that one of the lion. But his prices were kind of high.”

Deb nodded. “Much higher than average for an art fair. I was sure that this would be his only time at the fair—anyone who wanted some of his work was going to have to pay an even higher price at a gallery next year.”

“What did you buy from him for the award?” asked Betsy.

“One of his little caricature carvings. I thought about the rapper snapping turtle, but it was kind of politically incorrect, and rather vicious-looking. So I bought the weasel lawyer. He’s vicious, too, but funny.”

“Rapper snapper? Weasel lawyer?” repeated Betsy.

“Sure, you said you saw the slides.” The Art by the Lake fair was a juried event, meaning that the fair committee had to look at a slide show of the work of any artist applying to sell at the fair. It took a long time, and Betsy’s brain was thoroughly overwhelmed before the end. “I’m sorry, all I remember is the lion.”

Deb said, “They were about three inches high, carved in basswood. They were like cartoon animals with human occupations, a fireman, a nurse, a plumber.”

But Betsy could only shake her head.

“Want to see them? We haven’t sent the slides back yet.” Deb reached under the counter and pulled out a box full of slide holders. She ran her fingers along them, backed up, went forward again, and at last found what she was looking for, drawing out a flexible, clear-plastic slide holder with four slides in it.

She handed it to Betsy, reached again, couldn’t find whatever it was, stooped out of sight, and came up again with one of those small, box-like slide viewers. Betsy pulled out the first slide, put it into the viewer, and held it up to her eyes.

Pressing down on the slide made a light inside the box come on. Suddenly she was looking at a row of four wooden carvings standing on what looked like a butcher block table. A ruler lay in front of them to give an idea of scale.

First on the left was a comical little possum standing on his hind legs, wearing a tiny set of coveralls, carrying a toolbox, his tail wrapped around a plumber’s helper. The piece was unpainted and the knife marks were clear, but it was nicely done, down to the dull, sleepy look on his face. Next to him was a grinning raccoon, his bandit’s mask blackened and further underlined by the big sack he carried on his back. The end of his tail came out from under the sack, its rings indicated with more blacking, done in paint or ink. The sack bulged and something like a knob on a stick stuck out of the top—a cudgel, perhaps. Next to the burglar was a pig in a cop’s uniform, his fat face a study in smugness as he wrote in his ticket book with a thick pencil held in one cloven hoof. And last was the legal weasel, standing upright, one paw in the air, its angry mouth open to display tiny, sharp teeth. To explain what it represented, it was standing on a thick book on which Betsy could just make out the upside-down letters
LAW
.

“I’d say this man had issues,” said Betsy with a smile, handing the box back to Deb.

“Yes, but not all of the pieces were insulting.” She took the slide out and replaced it in the holder. “I remember a Saint Bernard nurse and a seagull as a pilot, though now I think about it, it was probably an albatross—they’re the great fliers of the avian world. And he must have been able to do them really fast, because on Sunday I saw he’d been working on one of a border collie with the hair on its back made into one long braid.” She smiled and touched her forehead with her fingertips, as if saluting an applauding audience.

Betsy laughed, then pointed at the slide holder and said, “So some of them, at least, were real people.”

“I suspect all of them were at least suggested by someone he knew. Never aggravate an artist or a writer, lest you be immortalized unflatteringly. But they were clever and well done, these little carvings, as well as funny; I would have put him up for approval just on the basis of them. But it’s his big carvings that were really admirable. The world is the poorer because their maker is gone.”

Betsy asked, “What do you know about the maker? As a person, I mean.”

“Not much,” said Deb, frowning just a little. “I had never met Mr. McFey before this year’s fair. I only talked with him briefly.” She hesitated, then said very quietly. “He smelled of alcohol, even early Sunday morning. He didn’t slur his words or anything, so I didn’t mention it to anyone. But I thought I’d better keep an eye on him, because he was working with his knives. He’d set up a table and was the ‘Artist at Work.’ We have a demonstration area where artists can show off their process, but he was doing this in his booth. It was okay, a good sales technique, actually; people would stop to watch, and of course be more likely to buy. On Saturday I noticed he was working on one of those little comic animals, probably the one of me. They work up fast, because basswood is soft, not like the hardwoods he did his big pieces in.”

“I wish I’d gotten to see them,” said Betsy.

“Hah, I wish I’d bought his sea otter, I could’ve maxed out a credit card if I wanted to. Can’t do it now; what’s left is all there will ever be, and it will cost the price of a car to buy that piece, probably. I wonder which gallery will win the fight to take his work on consignment?”

Betsy said, “His daughter will be happy about that; she inherited his work. But I’m looking for suspects, and the place to find them is at points of friction. Is there a lot of rivalry and resentment among artists who do and do not get booth space? Are there quarrels and resentments over placement of booths, or . . . I don’t know, whatever?”

Deb smiled. “If someone was to get murdered over choosing or placement, it would be me, or my committee. We’re the gatekeepers, after all.”

“Have you or any committee member ever been threatened?”

“With legal action, yes. And shouted at, even cursed. But we’ve never had a death threat. After all, one way to ensure you don’t get a place at all is to make the gatekeepers scared of you. Besides, there’s always next year. Quarrels happen among artists at the fair, but it’s over things like encroachments—we nearly had a fistfight one year when someone set up his booth an inch and a half over the line onto someone else’s space.” She held up a thumb and forefinger to show the little bit of territory involved. “We even got a complaint about the kites this year, because the artist flying them encroached the
air space
over someone else’s booth.” She was grinning now, but sobered a bit to hold up a hand and tick off items on her fingers: “We got a complaint because we couldn’t supply workers to help carry art into the grounds; because we couldn’t help set up booths; and from one real pip, because we refused to sell for him while he went strolling around to look at what everyone else was selling.”

Betsy shook her head. “Amazing. Was that last one Rob McFey? Or was he the person encroaching? Or encroached upon?”

“No. Never heard a complaint out of him, or about him.”

Betsy thought a moment, then asked, “Did you ever meet a friend of his named Ian Masterson?”

“You mean Ian Masterson the welding artist?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Masterson a friend of Mr. McFey’s?” Deb’s eyebrows lifted just a touch, a subtle sign she was impressed.

“Yes, he was. Or he told me he was. Do you know him?”

“Very slightly. He never sold at art fairs that I know of, but I’ve seen him at museum events. He’s nice, and only eccentric enough to let you know he’s an artist. So you’ve met him?”

“Yes. What’s your impression of him?”

“Very, very charming. He comes across as good-humored, articulate, and intelligent, which make for a winning combination. I’ve heard he’s good with customers, gallery owners, and the media. Not bad looking, either, which also helps. I have heard that he enjoys being famous. I have also heard that he’s generous with time and money, especially to other artists”—she paused and raised a thin eyebrow—“provided they aren’t into metalwork.”

Betsy nodded. “He helped Rob McFey out, I know that. I got to know Ian because he came to talk to me about Rob. He said Rob was a good friend and he wanted to give me any information he could in my investigation of the murder. He mentioned that McFey was a serious drinker. Do you know if Ian is, too?”

Deb shrugged meagerly. “No. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and he seemed sober both times. Of course, it would take a real effort to get drunk on wine, especially the lousy stuff museums serve to members at events.”

Twin Cities museums gave special showings to members when a new exhibit opened. If the artist was living, she or he was often present. Betsy rarely had time to attend these events, and considered her memberships to be a form of giving.