And Then You Dye Page 12

  “Because she has no legal standing. He’s a stranger to her, and she’s not a police investigator, so she can’t just go knocking on his door.”

  “Does he know she wants to talk to him?” asked Patricia.

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “Well, now, maybe he does,” said Jill. “Betsy has talked to Randi, and I can’t imagine that Randi didn’t tell her husband about it.”

  “So why hasn’t he come forward?”

  Jill raised an eyebrow with a little twist of her head, encouraging them to consider the question.

  Patricia said, “Betsy’s trying to prove that Marge Schultz didn’t do it, so that means she’s looking for other suspects. And Walter is not interested in being one.”

  * * *

  THE door sounded and Betsy came in, using her back to push the door open because she had a big box in her arms. Godwin hurried to hold the door for her.

  “Thanks, Goddy,” she said. “These must be the baskets we ordered.” Betsy used baskets to display yarn and counted cross-stitch patterns in the shop. She also sold baskets. She carried the big box to the checkout desk and put it down with a sigh. “No wonder the post office wanted me to come pick this up,” she said. “This box would’ve taken up half the back of their little van. Hello, everyone,” she added, looking at her friends around the table.

  “You must have more muscles than you look like, carrying that box by yourself,” said Emily, whose grammar was not her strong point.

  “No, baskets aren’t heavy, just bulky,” said Betsy. “Sorry to have missed the start of your meeting. What were you talking about?”

  “You, of course,” said Phil.

  Betsy sighed. Any member not present was often talked about. “Nothing too unflattering, I hope.”

  Phil said, “Well, we hear there’s someone you’d like to talk to: Walter Moreham.”

  Betsy had been rummaging in a drawer for a box cutter. She stopped and looked at him. “Yes, that’s so.”

  “Well, I think I can arrange that. Walt plays poker every other Wednesday evening with a group I’m also a member of.”

  “Well, there you go, girl!” cheered Bershada. “Good for you, Phil! Are you meeting this Wednesday?”

  “As a matter of fact, we are.” He looked at Betsy. “Shall I speak to him?”

  “All right, yes. Thank you. But don’t be disappointed if he says no.”

  With wifely pride, Doris said, “I think Phil can get him to say yes.”

  * * *

  PHIL wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know Walt all that well. The man was one of the quiet ones, a conservative player who, while cheerful, rarely laughed out loud, and who rarely either lost or won big. Yet he was a faithful player, hardly ever missing a session.

  Phil tried to think how best to approach Walt. Would a direct appeal work? Or should he play it cool, let someone else bring up the topic of Hailey Brent’s murder? Surely someone would. The fact of it going unsolved for over a month was a complaint heard everywhere. Then he could brag a little about Betsy and work it around to her still needing to talk to some people.

  This week they were meeting at Paul Miley’s house. Paul had beer and soft drinks set out, along with chips, dip, and crackers and cheese. They gathered in the “man room,” down in the basement, which was furnished with a pool table, a poker table, a big elderly refrigerator, and a little wet bar. Neon signs advertising beer lit up the cream-colored walls and strewed patches of color across the Berber carpet.

  The six men each bought forty dollars in chips from their host. The highest value was five dollars, a chip rarely used.

  They popped open beers and began with a complaint about the weather. It had been a slow-opening spring, but now it was too warm and dry.

  Kurt, the youngest, who lived with his severely handicapped brother in a condo apartment, said, “If they don’t run the sprinklers every other evening the grass turns brown.”

  “My dad washes his car twice a week, trying to make it rain,” said Paul, a big, genial man with a close-cropped gray beard.

  “Maybe we should start a movement,” suggested Parker, a very obese man in his fifties. “Everyone washes their car twice a week.”

  “Can I run it through a gas station car wash?” asked Mick, a short man with big ears and a crooked smile. “Or does that superstition only work if you wash it by hand?”

  Paul appeared to consider that. “I think washing by hand makes it stronger—but only if you do it yourself. Hiring a neighbor kid to do it doesn’t count.”

  Walter, a tall, handsome man not yet forty, with steady light blue eyes, said, “We have two cars. Do we have to wash both of them, or can we alternate?”

  It was clear to Phil that they weren’t going to talk about the murder. He said, “Let’s get this show on the road. Come to the table, and let’s cut the cards to see who deals first.”

  They began playing at around seven thirty and stopped for a break at nine thirty, rising from the table to walk around the big room. They made jokes about the neon signs. “If the county attorney peeks in a window and sees all that advertising, he’ll make you buy a liquor license,” laughed Kurt. They ate chips and dip—the cheese and crackers were for during the game, as they did not mess up the cards like greasy potato chips did.

  Phil walked over to Walter, who was standing near the refrigerator. “Get me a brewski, too, will you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” said Walter.

  They lifted the tabs on the cans, and Phil took a swig from his. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “What about?” Walter cocked his head a little, hearing the discomfort in Phil’s voice.

  Phil, wincing at Walter’s perception, abandoned any attempt at subtlety. “I have a friend who would really, really like to talk to you.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  Walter smiled and proved himself not so perceptive after all. “No, thanks, I’m happily married.”

  Phil forced a laugh. “No, no, it’s not like that. My friend’s name is Betsy Devonshire and she owns a needlework shop. But she investigates crime on the side, and she’s damn good at it. She’s working on a case, and she needs to talk to you about it.”

  Walter’s mouth opened, then shut again. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s important. The work she does on these things is important.”

  “This must be about Hailey Brent’s murder,” Walter said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve already talked to a police investigator about that.”

  “Of course you have. Your wife knew Hailey Brent.”

  “You seem to know a hell of a lot about this.”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Yes, it is. What, has this Betsy person got some kind of pipeline to the police department?”

  “No, this is information she’s obtained on her own.”

  “And shared with you—and who else?”

  Phil shrugged and lied. “How would I know? She asked me to ask you if you’d talk to her.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know that, either. She’s just gathering information, and she thinks you might be able to help. She’s solved a couple of murders in her time, and she would like to help the police solve this one. You can ask Mike Malloy about her, if you want. He’ll tell you she’s good. Hell, ask your wife.”

  “Come on, you two,” called Paul from the poker table. “You’re holding up the game.”

  “Think about it,” urged Phil. “Let me know before we go home.”

  * * *

  WALTER had three sevens, a good hand in a game with no wild cards. He saw the bet of fifty cents and raised it a quarter.

  He didn’t know Phil very well. He saw
him as a wiseass who was fond of bluffing at poker and who played more for fun than to win pots. Not his favorite kind of person—though Phil was very witty, and occasionally even laugh-out-loud funny. This request—that he talk with Betsy Devonshire—came as a total surprise; he hadn’t known Phil was acquainted with the woman. He had suspected Ms. Devonshire wanted to talk to him—Randi thought it might be so—but he was against it.

  Phil saw his quarter raised, and raised it another quarter. He was smiling in a superior way, but he often did that when he was bluffing. The other two remaining players folded. Walter studied Phil’s face, shrugged internally, and called the bet.

  He won the hand—Phil had a pair of nines.

  “Good call,” said Phil, his smile turned rueful.

  Then it was Phil’s turn to deal and he called seven card stud, deuces, and one-eyed jacks wild.

  Typical, thought Walter, whose favorite game was five card draw, nothing wild. He studied Phil as he dealt cards facedown, then faceup, calling each faceup card as he put it in front of a player and remarking on it.

  “King of hearts, nice but no help; ten of spades, that’s a pair, watch out; jack of clubs, that’s three clubs,” and so forth.

  Still he must not let personal dislike of a man’s style at poker affect his judgment regarding his request.

  Randi, bless her heart, had found Ms. Devonshire a kind and sympathetic listener—but she had found Hailey Brent to be the same, and she was certainly wrong there.

  Walter couldn’t figure this Devonshire woman out. She wasn’t a cop, she wasn’t a private investigator for hire, so what was she doing messing around with a murder she had no real interest in? Was she just some kind of super snoopy person? That couldn’t be it; Phil wouldn’t have invited him to talk to Sergeant Malloy about her unless Malloy knew and approved of her poking around. Walter had heard of her, of course; just about everyone in town had. Funny how they all seemed to accept her investigating as if she were just another branch of the police department.

  “Your bet,” said Phil, calling him back to the game. Walter had three clubs showing and another one in the hole. There was another facedown card to come. A look at the cards on the table showed fewer than average clubs faceup. That fact was not enough to make him raise, but he called the bet.

  “Down and dirty,” announced Phil, distributing the final card facedown.

  Walter took a look and carefully prevented his expression from showing his pleasure. He raised fifty cents in the next round of betting. Two players dropped out, his bet was called—and he lost when Paul had four tens, a deuce, and a one-eyed jack making two of them. I should have considered all those wild cards, thought Walter. Phil’s request that he talk to Betsy Devonshire had distracted him.

  Knowing he was distracted didn’t help. His mind returned to the request again and again during the evening.

  It hadn’t been apparent to Randi that her story made it seem he had a motive to murder Hailey. He could not help thinking this Devonshire woman hadn’t missed that point.

  But if he refused to talk to her, that would probably make her sure he had something to do with it.

  So like it or not, he’d better agree to meet her. He told Phil so as they were leaving. Phil’s triumphant grin left him uneasy. He hoped he could convince the Devonshire woman he was innocent of murder.

  Fourteen

  IT was a sunny Friday in June, and the start of a multistate coin show. It was being held in two big rooms at a conference center at the crossroads—Godwin would have said the armpit—of Highways 694 and 100. The single-story wooden building had a rural theme, down to its barn-red paint and white trim. The Minnesota Organization of Numismatists—MOON—had rented half the big building; a large wedding reception was under way in the other half.

  There were about a hundred dealers present in the bourse, or sellers’ room, with tables up against all four walls and two sets of double rows down the center, making three aisles. One of the eight-foot tables, halfway down the first row, had been rented by Rafael. Godwin helped him put out his albums of coins and the one glass case he’d bought for the occasion, about thirty by twenty inches by three inches deep. All the other tables had several cases apiece, the better to display the dealers’ wares.

  “We’re going to have to get more glass cases,” said Rafael, looking enviously at the tables on either side of them. He was using a soft cloth to polish the glass of his case.

  Godwin knew the cases were expensive, and hoped Rafael didn’t invest too much in his new enterprise before he knew he would make a success of it.

  When the show opened to the public half an hour later, there was a brief rush of customers. Rafael, with his good looks and amiable manner, soon had a little cluster of people around his table. But most of the coins he had for sale were oddities—he had all four Canadian bimetallic five-dollar coins, for example, made of silver and niobium, and representing the four Algonquin seasonal moons; and a trio of 1965 British crown coins, each with its evocative portrait of Winston Churchill. There weren’t many collectors of those, so most of the customers soon melted away. He did sell two uncirculated Morgan dollars at a good price, and was happy with that.

  Godwin was impressed. Rafael had a merchant’s heart and a natural charm, both necessary assets for a successful businessman.

  Along came a dark, Hispanic-looking man, about twenty, with a patchy three-day growth of beard. He was dressed in too-long jeans over shabby cowboy boots, a faded flannel shirt that he had not tucked in, and a worn black leather vest. He carried a wrinkled manila envelope bulging at the bottom. He had been stopping at tables along the row, and stopped again at Rafael’s table to look over Rafael’s assortment of American coins. Several were in clear plastic PCGS holders, called “slabs” by collectors.

  “I have some coins I’m trying to sell,” he said, in Spanish-accented English. “My uncle’s”—he hesitated, then said in Spanish—“suegro.”

  “Father-in-law,” translated Rafael.

  The young man brightened at this understanding. “Ah, yes, thank you, my uncle’s father-in-law. He had many coins in . . .” He gestured. “Books? But not books.”

  “Albums, I think you mean.”

  “Yes, albums. The father-in-law, he died, and my uncle, he sold the, er, albums, but there were some coins . . .” Again he gestured. “Sueltas?”

  “Loose,” translated Rafael.

  “Si, loose. My uncle is a busy man, he work every day, so I said I would try to sell these coins. My uncle and I, we are not collectors, so we not know where to bring them. Then I see in the paper about this show, open to the public, so I am here. Some are in . . .” He gestured. “Like those things.” He pointed to the slabs. “Is that good?”

  “It’s very good,” said Rafael. “It means they’ve been professionally graded by a top company.”

  The young man frowned. “Que?”

  Rafael said something in rapid Spanish. Godwin recognized the words monedas and valuadas: “coins” and “appraised.”

  The man, greatly relieved, replied at length, concluding, “Pues, mira estas.” He opened the envelope and slid eight or ten coins out onto the top of the glass case. Two were in old-style white PCGS holders, and Rafael picked them up first.

  “Hmmm,” he said, and Godwin leaned in for a look. One coin he recognized right away as a beautiful silver Morgan dollar, the “king of collectible coins.” The obverse of the coin was the face of a woman with a lot of hair dressed to the back of her head, slightly too much chin, and a serene expression. The date on the coin was 1876. On the back was an eagle with open wings, holding in its claws a bundle of arrows crossed with an olive branch. PCGS had given it a grade of MS-65, Select Uncirculated, a very high grade.

  Godwin glanced up and saw the young man watching Rafael very intently. “Es buena?” he asked.


  “Si,” said Rafael. “Muy buena.”

  “Pues, cuanto me darías por ella?” How much would you give me for it? Godwin recognized the question from his happy hours of shopping in Mexico.

  Then started the bargaining. Godwin could not follow the words, but he understood the language. He could tell Rafael was going easy on the young man, as they did not bargain hard or for long. They agreed on an amount that made both of them happy—seventeen hundred dollars—and Rafael handed over the money in cash.

  The other coin in a PCGS slab was a silver dollar dated 1874 with a seated Liberty on the face and a spread eagle on the back. The words Trade Dollar were around the bottom of the reverse, and above it was spelled “420 grains, .900 fine.”

  Again with the intent look, the young man asked, “Es buena?” Is it good?

  “Si, es buena.” Rafael frowned over it, however. The grade for this coin was EF, Extremely Fine.

  “Que sucede?” What’s the matter?

  “No me gustan los Trade Dollars.” I don’t like Trade Dollars.

  “Porqué?” Why?

  “Muchos son falsos.” Many are fake.

  “But it is in that holder, right?” The man’s English was suddenly a bit better. “That is a guarantee.”

  “Si. Yes, it is.” But still Rafael frowned.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to buy it. I will sell it to someone else.” He reached for the holder.

  “No, no. Está bien, me arriesgaré.” Okay, I’ll risk it.

  “Entonces, cuanto me darías por ella?”

  Again the bargaining began. This time the young man wasn’t as happy with Rafael’s offer, but at last, with a shrug, he took seven hundred dollars.

  The other coins the young man offered were loose, ungraded, and somewhat worn. But there was a standing Liberty quarter dated 1917 with the obverse worn but the eagle on the reverse looking clean and sharp. Rafael offered twenty dollars for it and the young man seemed happy to accept. Another coin was a very badly worn Spanish dollar—one of the famous “pieces of eight,” which was legal tender around the world from the seventeenth century to the nineteenth. Spanish-born Rafael, not unnaturally, loved finding them, and had a large collection of them. He made the young man smile with his generous offer of fifteen dollars.