Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 (21 page)

But in another minute, she began thinking again about the mystery. Jill was very sure Carl's and Trudie's murders were related. And indeed, if they weren't, there were a lot of coincidences connecting them. They were both locals, they were in the midst of some kind of relationship, they had disappeared on the same day fifty years ago. Trudie had been murdered, and when Carl came back to the scene after fifty years, he was promptly murdered, too. Did they have something else in common besides that relationship? Had they been “canoodling” (to use Myrtle the historian's term) in The Common and seen someone doing something illegal? And had that someone seen them? What could someone be doing that kept alive the murderous determination to prevent its telling fifty years later? Smuggling? Hardly. Murder? No one else was murdered that night in Excelsior. Or mysteriously disappeared. Rape? Hmmm ...

But then Carl was not murdered the same way Trudie had been. Trudie had been bludgeoned, Carl had been shot. Was that significant? Maybe there were two different murderers. No, more likely, after fifty years, Trudie's murderer was so old he simply didn't have the strength to batter Carl's head in.

Vern Miller had been surprised to hear that Carl had run off with Trudie because of the difference in their social status. Which brought up the question, what was Carl doing flirting with her? Not just everyday flirting, he was known for that. Everyday flirting with Trudie wouldn't have the gossips' tongues wagging so vigorously as to anger his wife.

Betsy's needles slowed. That was interesting. Was Carl genuinely taken with Trudie? Enough to risk his marriage? His business? Having lived in the small-town world of college life, she knew how important a reputation could be, and how devastating it could be to have friends and colleagues turn on you. As they had done on Hal the Pig—and, less directly, on Betsy.

No, she could never go back there.

She looked at her watch. Holy smokes, it was way past eleven!
Hey
, she thought, as she packed up her work,
this may be the answer
. Fabrics showed everything, so no snacks around the needlework. But when she got really absorbed, she didn't miss the snacks. Remembering Margot's trim figure, Betsy wondered if she hadn't stumbled onto her sister's secret to a trim waistline.

Feeling heartened, Betsy went to bed.

12

B
etsy had a night full of odd dreams. When the radio alarm went off, instead of the strange and eclectic selections of KSJN's
Morning Show,
she got Antonín Dvořák's Symphony number eight. Occasionally the
Morning Show
remembered it was public radio and played something classical, but usually just a movement. This went on and on, the entire symphony. After awhile, she realized it wasn't the
Morning Show,
so this must be Saturday.

But Saturday is a workday for shop owners. She did not turn off the radio.

There was a heavy thump and a continued wobble of the mattress as Sophie came for her morning cuddle. She rubbed her face all over Betsy's hand until Betsy began rubbing back. The two lay in comfort for a few minutes, then Betsy got up to start the day.

By 9:30 they were through the back door into the shop. Betsy turned on lights, started the coffeepot going and the plug-in teakettle for tea or cocoa, put the startup money in the cash register. The Christmas decorations looked nice, she noticed.

She checked the desk for notes and found she would have to order more alpaca wool, bamboo knitting needles, and little stork scissors. Godwin noted that he had sold
two
needlepoint Christmas stockings, the two underlined three times. Shelly noted that there had been inquiries about spring knitting lessons. “I think we should ask Martha,” she wrote. “Show our confidence.”

Betsy put the note aside.

Godwin came in just before ten looking at peace with the world. “Don't you look nice!” he said.

Betsy had worn a new wool dress she'd found on sale. It had a simple A-line skirt and was a deep cranberry color. “You like it?”

“Are you losing weight?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Not yet,” said Betsy.

“You should get a gold scarf to go with that dress,” he said. “With a gold scarf you could take that dress anywhere.” He looked around as if for eavesdroppers—though how, without the door alarm's
bing,
he could think someone might have come in—and leaned toward Betsy. “What did Vern Miller tell you?”

“He joined the army in early July, the third, to be exact.”

Godwin looked genuinely surprised. “You mean, I was
right? He's
the murderer?”

“I don't know. I told Jill, and she's going to tell Malloy, if she hasn't already.”

Godwin's smile lit up his entire body. “We did it again!”

“Did what?”

“
We solved a murder!”

“We haven't solved it!” Betsy said sharply. “All we've done is supply Sergeant Malloy with another suspect to look at. We don't know that Vern Miller did it.”

“Are you going to look for proof that he did?”

“I think I'm going to wait to see what Sergeant Malloy does. If Vern Miller is a murderer, I don't want to be the one to confront him about it.”

Half an hour later, Shelly came in to work. Betsy told her the decorations were excellent and reminded her to mark her hours on her time card, as she was doing payroll tomorrow.

Then Betsy went into the back room to poke into cardboard boxes to see if what was written on their outsides coincided with their contents. She was standing on a chair to reach a box stacked near the ceiling when she heard a man's inquiring voice and Godwin's brief reply, then silence. She got off the chair and backed up a step to look through the open door. A slim young man was standing awkwardly in the opening between the box shelves.

“Hi, Ms. Devonshire?” he said shyly. “I'm Jeff Winters.” He had light brown hair and his grandmother's faded blue eyes.

“Ah ... hello,” said Betsy. “I'm very sorry about Martha. We all are.”

“I know,” he said. “That's why I've got the nerve to come and ask you for an important favor.”

“Of course,” she said, coming out of the back room. “Anything we can do. Would you like to sit down?” His face showed signs of the strain he must be under.

“Thanks.”

She sat him in one of the comfortable chairs at the little round table. “How is your mother holding up?”

“She'll be home tonight. A judge allowed bail, and I got one of those quick mortgages on the dry cleaning business for that and a good lawyer.”

“Getting her home is something at least. Would you like some coffee?”

“Please. Thanks. Black.” He ran thin fingers through his already mussed hair.

She went to fill two pretty porcelain cups, his with coffee, hers with a lemon-flavored herbal tea.

He took only a token sip, then put his cup down and sighed. “I know you've told people that you aren't investigating anymore because you aren't a real private eye, but—” he began.

“It's not that I don't want to help your grandmother,” said Betsy quickly. “Because I do. I'm sure Martha is frightened half out of her mind, and your whole family must be suffering terribly over this.”

“Yes, we're all wishing we could be braver. Except Grandmother; she's amazing.”

Betsy continued, “It's funny how people seem to think I enjoy playing amateur sleuth. I don't, because I don't know how. I got involved with my sister's case because I was very angry and sad and it was my own strange way of coping with my grief. I couldn't believe she was murdered by some kid who needed a desk calculator, so I started asking questions and just got lucky.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“So I hope the favor you want to ask for isn't for me to go looking for clues.”

He looked at her, his face at once determined and wretched. “The problem is, the lawyer we hired says we need a private investigator to look into the case. And between posting bail and hiring that lawyer, I can't afford a private detective. I went to my dad, but he's working out some stuff of his own. You see, he was thinking his father was dead all these years, and then he heard, ‘He wasn't dead after all, but now he's murdered, and the police think your mother did it' all in one sentence. It really messed him up. He isn't talking to me or Grandmother right now.”

“That's very sad.”

“Oh, he'll come around, but maybe not very soon, and we need to do something right away. I understand how you think you can't do anything, but you did so splendidly for your sister, I want you to try again for Grandmother. Just ask some questions, like you did the first time, and maybe it will happen again, you'll understand from the answers what really happened to my grandfather and to that other woman all those years ago.”

Betsy picked up her cup of tea and took several sips while she thought what to say. She'd been lucky again already, finding out about Alice and then Vern. But that might be the end of her luck. Anyway, finding another suspect wasn't the same as proving Martha innocent. And there was another bad thing about all this.

“Suppose I do go sleuthing, and I find out things—bad things—about people? Rooting around in other people's lives can really hurt them. And if they're innocent, too...”

“Ignore the stuff that doesn't matter, can't you? There has to be something to find that will help, because Grandmother didn't do this. I know it. And I know you'll find it. You should start with the Monday Bunch. Those women know everyone in town, and everything that's going on, and everything that's happened, too. They've been around for years and years, most of them. And they know Grandmother better than anyone. They can tell you she didn't murder that Trudie person, or Grandfather.”

“I don't know if they'll want to—”

“Are you kidding? Of course they'll want to help! Grandmother is practically the oldest member of the Bunch. The first Monday Bunch meetings were held in your sister's home, before she started Crewel World, did you know that? And Grandmother was one of the first members.”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“Margot used to organize trips to other towns—other states, sometimes—to buy yarn or patterns or go to conventions, and Grandmother went every time she could get away. She was devoted to your sister and just devastated by her death. She was also very proud of you for solving her murder. Please, won't you help her now?”

Again Betsy lifted the cup of tea to her lips as an excuse not to answer immediately. She didn't want an official involvement with this case. If Alice's role had to be revealed—Betsy foresaw trying to explain herself in a court of law.

But then a memory swam up, of that first Monday after her sister's funeral, when four members of the Bunch came and worked for hours to help clean up the mess in the shop left by the murderer. Martha had been the one sorting out yarn. Yes, and she had been the one who called the Humane Society and the one who designed and printed the posters asking for information about Sophie, who had gone missing. Betsy remembered what a wretched mess she herself had been, and how patient they had been with her, Jill and those four members of the Monday Bunch. They hadn't been afraid to just pitch in.

“Yes,” said Betsy. “All right. I'll do what I can. But remember, I really am an amateur. You mustn't get your hopes up.”

But Jeff was on his feet, extending a long-fingered hand. “Thanks! Thank you so much! I'll tell Grandmother, and she'll be so grateful and comforted.”

After he left, Betsy sat back down on the chair and sighed.

“Well?!?” said a voice and she jumped.

It was Godwin, appearing as if conjured, agog with curiosity. “I just can't stand it anymore!” he said. “What's going on?”

“Jeff Winters wants me to ask some questions, see if I can find out anything that will help his grandmother's case. I said I would. Now, go away, get back to work. And please stop sneaking up on people!” she added crossly, but an indulgent smile teased her lips.

 

Betsy worked through the lunch hour so her employees could go out, but as soon as they came back, she left. She was hungry but had an idea she wanted to try out before she bought some lunch. She got her car out and drove up Water Street to Oak and followed it north to where George angled into it. As she made the steep angled turn back, she could see the barn belonging to the Minnesota Transportation Museum. It was more like a big, windowless shed, two stories high, made of corrugated fiberglass in an ugly beige color. Several cars had forced their way up a narrow, unplowed lane to park in front of it.

As Betsy followed suit, she went past an enormous, ancient, military-style tow truck. That must be how they got the boat over here, thought Betsy.

She got out and found a small door on the back side of the barn. It wasn't locked. She opened it, went inside, and found the entire interior was taken up by a boat. Its mustard-colored bottom rested on a big cradle built onto a trailer. She looked up and saw that the upper structure was surrounded by a kind of mezzanine built out from the walls of the shed. A set of wooden stairs led up to it.

The air was warm and smelled of freshly cut wood and varnish. Men's voices indicated there were people on the upper level working on the boat.

The boat, of course, wasn't the
Hopkins
; this was the
Minnehaha
. She knew it was pulled out of the water for the winter, but it hadn't occurred to her to wonder where it was kept.

She went up the stairs. A half dozen men in coveralls or jeans were measuring or painting or consulting a very large hardcover catalog of pipe fittings. One looked around at her. “You the new volunteer?” he asked.