Darned if You Do Page 11

  The article continued, “Devonshire has written to the handkerchief maker. ‘It’s sad that I didn’t get this right away,’ Devonshire said. ‘I really would have liked to carry her handkerchiefs in my shop.’”

  This after the reporter had talked with her for half an hour!

  Well at least the subject was handkerchiefs, not overshoes. Or cotton candy.

  Betsy went back to the start of the article to read it in its entirety. The article’s author said there were fifty-six first-class pieces of mail in the bag. Twenty-seven of them were bills, long out of date. Sixteen of the remaining were undeliverable, either because the recipients had moved and the forwarding information was long expired, or the recipients were deceased.

  That left thirteen. Betsy knew one was her own. Another was Alice’s—but there was no mention in the article of Alice Skoglund, or even of a woman who received a proposal of marriage too late.

  The article did mention Mr. and Mrs. Lundquist, who received a letter about Joey, their high school graduate son, offering him a scholarship to a fine university to study political science. Since the letter did not arrive on time, the boy had instead gone to a vocational school and now owned a very successful plumbing company. “I think I do cleaner work as a plumber than I would have as a politician,” he was quoted as saying.

  Betsy happened to know the plumber in question, and the quote was a highly bowdlerized version of something he frequently said. Which was all right; the Sun Sailor was a family newspaper.

  She also knew that Joey had flunked out of the University of Minnesota before going to vocational school—from which he did not graduate, but he was apprenticed to a licensed plumber who owed his father a significant favor. Joey was very bright, but also very dyslexic.

  The next story was about Dee Dee Millwright, who had a favorite nephew, Aaron Monroe. He was described by Ms. Millwright as a solemn little fellow, bright in his studies—he was in third grade—who, when he stayed with her, played placidly with her little dog, slept long and deep, and cried when the visit was over. He loved her cooking, and she sent him cookies every few months.

  Aaron died after falling out of the big tree in his front yard, where he’d climbed after a quarrel with his father. Dee Dee was devastated. Aaron’s parents sold their home and moved away, and Dee Dee lost touch with them.

  Then came a last letter from Aaron, like a voice from the grave. Dee Dee did not wish to share its contents except to say his last wish was to come live with her permanently so he could play some more with the dog.

  “Dee Dee’s eyes filled with tears as she told the story,” wrote the reporter.

  But she did not share even a brief quote from the letter, Betsy noted. Was that important? Perhaps not. Perhaps Dee Dee shared Betsy’s skepticism about a reporter’s ability to get the facts right.

  Which of course made Betsy wonder what about that story had the reporter gotten wrong.

  Chapter Fifteen

  NURSE Crowley opened the door to Riordan’s room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Riordan,” she called out cheerily. “Today we—Mr. Riordan? Oh my God!”

  She pressed the alarm button on the wall that signaled Code Blue, and a very loud clanging began outside the room. In seconds two nurses came in, and within two minutes the crash cart rolled in.

  A lengthy struggle began, but twenty minutes later a perspiring doctor sighed and said, “Let’s call it.”

  Nurse Crowley checked her watch. “Three fourteen,” she said aloud and wrote that down as the time of death.

  As the adrenaline began to recede, the doctor asked, “How the hell did this happen?”

  * * *

  VALENTINA was sitting with Godwin at the library table in Crewel World. It was near closing time, and there were no other customers present. Godwin had a big crochet hook and a ball of thick yarn so Valentina could more easily see what he was doing. Valentina had the yellow yarn she’d bought and one of the hooks; the book Simple Crocheting was open in front of her. Both were making a chain; both stopped when it was about thirty stitches long.

  “Next,” said Godwin, “triple crochet. You’ve got one loop on the hook, so wrap the yarn around twice ahead of that loop to make three.” He did so, and she followed suit. “Push the hook through the chain two stitches back, grab the yarn, and pull it through. Now you have four loops on your hook.” He paused while she followed suit, using the same back-facing movement of the hook as he did, like putting on your shoes heel first.

  “Good, now go through again and pick up the yarn with your hook and pull it through two loops. See? You now have five loops. Grab more yarn and pull it through two loops. You’ve reduced the loops by two but gained an additional one with the one you pulled through. Then grab it again and pull it through two loops. Finally, grab it one more time and pull it through the last two loops.”

  “Well, that’s not so hard,” she said, as she followed his instructions. “I don’t know why I can’t learn how to do these things by reading a book. That book on crochet you sold me is really good—but I can only see that now, after I sit down and watch someone actually doing the stitch I’m trying to learn. Once I’ve learned it from an actual live person, then I can more clearly understand the instructions. But I need to see it demonstrated first in person.”

  “Lots of people are like that,” he said. “Do you have Internet access?”

  “Dial-up,” she said, “but yes.”

  “You can find short tutorials on any crochet stitch on the Net,” he said. “They shoot close-ups of the stitcher’s fingers doing the stitch. Easy peasy. I happen to know Betsy uses the video tutorials when she’s attempting a knitting stitch she hasn’t done in a while.” He leaned in to confide, “People of her age—”

  He was interrupted by the ringing of a cell phone not his own. Valentina’s cell phone. Her ring tone was the sound of a phone ringing, which amused Godwin.

  Valentine said, “Leona loaned me one of hers.” She pulled it from her purse. “Hello?” she said into it. She listened to the caller, and the expression on her face changed from friendly interest to shock and dismay. She dropped her yarn and hook on the table to take hold of her phone with both hands. “Lord have mercy! When did this happen? Was it some kind of—” She listened. “Oh no, are they sure? But—No, I guess not.” She listened some more, eyes closed. “This is so awful! I don’t know what—What? I don’t understand—really? Yes, yes. All right.” She was crying now. “No, no, I’ll be all right. Yes, I’m with someone.” She glanced over at Godwin, whose expression showed the concern he was feeling for her. “Yes, yes, yes, all right. I’m sorry, I can’t talk anymore right now.” She broke the connection and dropped the little phone onto the table. “Oh God, oh God!”

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Tommy, he’s dead!”

  “Dead? But he was getting better!”

  “It’s not because of the accident. They think . . . they think someone came into his room and, and killed him!”

  “Killed him? But how? And why?”

  “I don’t know!” wailed Valentina. She slammed her fist down, sending her ball of yarn skittering across the table and onto the floor. It rolled away, unspooling in a thin yellow line across the carpet.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” said Godwin, puzzled, trying to sound reasonable. “Tom never hurt anybody.”

  “She told me to, to expect a v-visit from a police detective,” said Valentina, making hiccup sounds as she tried to stop crying.

  “I think what they want is for you to tell them who might have had a motive to hurt Tom,” said Godwin.

  “But I can’t tell them anything about him!” Valentina wailed, wiping her eyes with the tissue Godwin handed to her. “I’m practically a stranger in town. And a stranger to him.” She looked over the tissue at Godwin. “But you aren’t. You could tell them things. Who do
you think would like to see my cousin dead?”

  Taken aback, Godwin said, “Nobody. He was a good guy in a lot of ways, like his volunteer work with Art in the Park and Apple Days. He was kind of strange, it’s true—but who isn’t? I mean, look at me. I’m strange.”

  “Not as strange as Tommy,” said Valentina, almost laughing. “Look at you? No, look at Tommy’s house! My God, look at his house!” A huge sob escaped her. “Oh, this is so awful!”

  “I know, my heart is aching for you. Would a cup of tea be useful?”

  At first she shook her head no, but then nodded. “Yes, and another tissue, please; this one is all soaked.”

  Godwin pulled the cardboard cube of tissues out from behind the big bin that held needlework tools and set it in front of her. “Help yourself, we’ve got plenty. As for tea, would you like regular? Herbal? There’s coffee, too.”

  “Anything, I don’t care.” Valentina pulled two tissues from the box and blew her nose. “Thangs,” she said moistly.

  In the back, Godwin picked a tea bag that featured soothing chamomile in its herb mix, put in a teaspoon of real sugar, and poured water from the simmering electric kettle into the pretty porcelain cup. For good measure he added a couple of shortbread cookies to the saucer before bringing the treat back to the table.

  “Th-thank you,” said Valentina in a shaky voice. She picked up the cup, which rattled against the saucer, spilling a little. She hesitated long enough to steady her hand and inhale its steam, then tasted the brew. “Ummmm,” she said, nodding. “Thank you,” she said again.

  She sat for a full minute, not looking at Godwin, not drinking any more of the tea. The fingers of her right hand, trembling, fumbled over one of the cookies, but she did not pick it up or even seem aware that she was touching it.

  Godwin, at a loss, finally said, “What can I do to help you?”

  “Hmm?” She glanced at him, then away. “I don’t know. I can’t think straight. I don’t know what to do next. I think I’m getting scared. Maybe I should just quit this project and go home.”

  Godwin said gently, “I don’t think the police would like that.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you can tell a police investigator something useful. Maybe not—but they’ll want to talk to you to find out what you know.”

  “I don’t like cops, never have.” Her tone was defensive.

  “I agree that the safest position to—to aspire to, is to never draw their notice. It can be hard to find yourself the center of their attention.”

  “What do you know about it?” she asked angrily.

  “Oh, my dear, a few years ago I was arrested on suspicion of murder. I wasn’t guilty, but it took a lot of effort to prove that. Betsy . . .” He had to pause and draw a ragged breath. “Betsy went to bat for me, worked like a demon, and found out who really killed John. I will never, ever, ever stop being grateful to her. Ever.”

  She was staring at him, shocked. “Wow! I had no idea— Wait, Betsy? You mean the Betsy who owns this store?”

  “Yes, that Betsy. She’s done it for other people, too. If it looks like the police are seriously thinking of blaming you for this, you should ask Betsy for help.”

  The tears overflowed again. “How can you think I did this? How can you?”

  He blinked, surprised at the intensity in her voice. “Why, hey, I don’t think any such thing!”

  She studied his face, her own expression gone quiet, then said, “Thank you.” She pulled a tissue from the box. “God bless you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  POLICE detectives Mike Malloy and Sid Halloran were questioning the floor nurse at HCMC who was on duty when Tom Riordan’s death was discovered.

  Malloy was slim, with red hair gone tan, a freckled lipless face, and cool blue eyes. He was wearing his second-best dark gray suit and carried a fat notebook.

  Halloran was more strongly built, of medium height, with keen hazel eyes, wearing a gray suit and perhaps a little too much jewelry.

  The nurse was a dark-haired woman with deep brown eyes, long, narrow nose, wide mouth, and a complexion pale from years of working nights. She said, “I suppose I do see a fair amount of dying in this job. But murder, right here at the hospital? Never on my watch!”

  “Who visited Mr. Riordan the day he died, Ms. Crowley?” asked Malloy. His blue eyes were chilly, his thin mouth a straight line, but his tone was courteous. They were in a small meeting room on the hospital’s top floor.

  “I don’t know, we don’t keep a log.” Sunlight poured through a window over the table they were sitting at, getting into the nurse’s eyes, making her squint. He rose, went to the window, and twisted a thin, clear rod, closing the narrow blinds.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  Halloran asked, “Did you recognize any visitors as having come more than once?”

  “Oh,” she said, “well, yes. His cousin came at least three times, but then they had a quarrel and he told her not to come back.”

  “Was that quarrel on the day he died?”

  “No, it was a few days before.”

  “And she did stay away?”

  “I didn’t see her again, but I’m not on the nurse’s station twenty-four-seven.”

  Malloy and Halloran collected the names of all those on the desk within twenty-four hours prior to Riordan’s body being discovered. Malloy asked, “Who else came to see him while you were on duty?”

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell you. I mean, I don’t know their names.”

  Halloran, writing, said, “Describe them for me.”

  “Well, there was an older woman—not an old woman, but about middle-aged, not tall, blond hair cut short and curly, wears a blue trench coat. She was carrying a box of candy.”

  Malloy wrote Betsy Devonshire in his notebook. “Who else?” he asked.

  “A tall woman, maybe thirty or a little older, ash-blond, her face was beautiful in an old-fashioned way, you know? She stopped to ask me what room Mr. Riordan was in.”

  Jill Larson? He wrote.

  “Who come to see him on the day he died?”

  “Well, there was this one woman, very slim and good-looking, nice hair, about shoulder length, that color that looks dark brown until you see it’s really dark red. She was dressed very nicely, I remember. I didn’t see her go in, but I saw her come out. She stopped in the doorway to say to him, ‘You take care now, hear?’ kind of Southern, which I thought was sweet. And she stopped by my station to ask how he was doing. I wondered who she was, I mean Mr. Riordan wasn’t the kind to have a high-end friend like her. She was his last visitor, that I saw.”

  Malloy, nodding, wrote down the description—he didn’t recognize the woman, but the description was vivid—and said, “So she was the last person to see Riordan before the nurse found his body?”

  “No, Bobby Boo went in to clean up his room, and I heard him laughing at something Mr. Riordan said as he came out.”

  Halloran’s pen came to an abrupt stop on the page. “Bobby who?”

  “He’s an orderly, Robert Booth. We call him Bobby Boo. He’s a student at the U, very bright, but has a strange sense of humor—he and Riordan were kind of a match in that regard.”

  “Is he here today?”

  She looked at her watch. “He’s due in about half an hour.”

  Malloy asked, “Is he usually on time?”

  “Yes, he’s very reliable. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I’ll tell him. Are we finished?” She started to get up.

  “Not yet.”

  She sat back down, amusement twitching her mouth. “What now?”

  Halloran asked, “Did anyone go in to see Riordan after Bobby Boo left?”

&n
bsp; “Nnnno, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “That’s because I’m not. The station gets busy, so I’m not always paying attention to who’s going past it on their way to visit someone.”

  Malloy said, “So for all you know, Bobby Boo was the last person to see Tom Riordan alive.”

  The implications of that took about three seconds to sink in.

  “Oh, no! Oh, no, no! Not for one second! Not Bobby Boo!”

  Malloy persisted, “Mr. Riordan can be touchy. Maybe he blew up at this Bobby Boo. Did he ever complain about something Bobby Boo said or did?”

  “No, not once.”

  “How long had those two known one another?” asked Malloy.

  “I’m sure they had never met before Mr. Riordan came here as a patient.”

  “How sure?”

  “Well, the way Bobby talked about him, I’m very sure. He’d come out and tell me the funny thing Mr. Riordan told him just now—you know, like he never heard anyone say that kind of thing before. And Mr. Riordan said nice things about Bobby, like you do when you’re making a new friend.”

  Halloran got the names and contact information of the other nurses assigned to the station on Riordan’s floor. The two detectives split the list and spent the next several hours interviewing them.

  * * *

  ROBERT “Boo” Booth was a big, fair, solidly built, corn-fed farmer’s son, genial, soft-spoken, with a glint of humor in his pale gray eyes. Born and raised near Mankato, he was the middle boy of three, probably the brightest, definitely the most ambitious.

  “I thought large-animal veterinary, but my girlfriend wanted to be a nurse and said I should at least take premed at college. And she was right, I think I do better when the patient can tell me where it hurts.”

  Malloy obediently smiled and asked, “Tell me about Tom Riordan.”

  Booth reared back slightly, smiling, twisted his head a little, and said, “Now, he was a character, a real character. Had a sideways way of looking at the world.”