And Then You Dye Page 17

  But how did any of this pertain to Betsy’s problem: Who murdered Hailey? Did it pertain at all? If so, how? Thinking about that kept Betsy so occupied on her way home that she didn’t notice the sparrows quarreling charmingly in the gutter or a special on old cross-stitch pattern books in Leipold’s window.

  Twenty

  IT was coming close to the deadline for the template contest. Incoming entries were arriving less frequently now. On Monday, someone brought one in but was too shy to hand it directly to Betsy and instead left it on the checkout desk, facedown, covered with a note. It was a simple but effective pattern, each panel done in shades of russet brown, of straight stitches up and down in the first, then across and back, then diagonal, and then alternating blanks. Each caught the light differently, giving an interesting texture to the template as Betsy tilted it up and down in her hands. She smiled over it for a while before entering the information on an entry blank—the customer had apparently mislaid hers—from the note she’d left with the entry.

  Betsy did not envy the trio of judges of this contest. The ceiling of the shop was aflutter with entries, many of them very high caliber.

  Godwin came through from the back room, a little stack of cross-stitch patterns in one hand. He was whistling a chipper air Betsy knew but could not identify.

  “You sound cheerful,” she remarked.

  “Do I? I guess I do feel pretty good today.”

  “Played a good round of golf last time out?”

  “Yes, pretty good. Got three pars and a birdie.”

  “Very good! What’s that you’re whistling?”

  “‘Hooray for Captain Spaulding,’ Groucho Marx’s theme song for his radio show You Bet Your Life.”

  “Wasn’t that also in one of the Marx Brothers’ movies?”

  “Animal Crackers.” Godwin assumed a slight crouch and said in a Bronx accent, “‘One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I don’t know.’”

  Betsy laughed. “Paint on a black mustache and you’d be a perfect Groucho. Are you doing something with those patterns?”

  “I’m starting to think about our Halloween window.” Like most businesses that dealt directly with the public, Crewel World was always looking ahead to the next season. The shop had a big window up front, and Godwin and Betsy took pride in the artistic trimmings they used to advertise the patterns, floss, and needlework accessories the shop offered. They had already put up their back-to-school window, though it was not quite yet the Fourth of July.

  Godwin put the patterns one by one on the library table. They were of witches, ghosts, and jack-o’-lanterns. “I’m thinking we could use a creepy font and letter ‘Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-Legeddy Beasties’ across the top,” he said.

  “Hmmmm,” said Betsy. “Yes, all right, that might do very well. But we need a nice long-legged black cat—Mill Hill has a pattern of two going up a moonlit path, but I don’t know if they’re leggy enough so folks will get the reference.” She thought a little more. “Or, we could say ‘Things That Go Bump in the Night,’ so we could use haunted houses as well as the others—and that Happy Halloween design by—who is it? Sue Hillis, I think—of assorted monsters, ghosts, and witches.”

  It was Godwin’s turn to go “Hmmmm.”

  “Let’s think about it,” suggested Betsy.

  “Okay, let’s,” he agreed.

  Three customers came in before lunch, and one bought two needlepoint canvases and the wool it would take to stitch them, making for a very happy addition to the cash box.

  Betsy sent Godwin next door to Sol’s for sandwiches and chips to celebrate. While he was gone, the door announced someone coming in and Betsy turned to see Pierce McMurphy. He was wearing an expensive navy blue pinstripe suit, gray tie, and highly polished shoes.

  “Mr. McMurphy,” Betsy greeted him politely, waiting to see what this was about.

  “Joanne’s at her doctor’s office, which is not far from here, so I thought I’d take this opportunity to speak with you,” he said in his slow baritone. “She said your interview with her went well.”

  “I think it did. She’s a little . . . disconcerting.”

  “Volatile is probably a better word.” He smiled and came to the checkout desk. His attractiveness struck her like a blow. She thought about Connor and managed not to bat her eyelashes at him. “She wasn’t always a difficult person,” he said quietly. “She was—and sometimes still is—a very sweet, kind, funny woman.”

  “I understand,” Betsy replied. “It must be very hard for you, coping with her the way she is now, with her sudden changing emotions.”

  He nodded. “Sometimes it is. That’s when I try to remember that part of the wedding vow, ‘in sickness and in health.’”

  Betsy wanted to ask him about Marge Schultz. But she didn’t. Still, she wondered, hadn’t Marge told him that Betsy knew they were lovers?

  “What brings you in to see me today?” she asked.

  “I want to know if you suspect my wife of murdering Hailey Brent.” Betsy could see sincere anxiety on his face and could hear it in his voice.

  Betsy hesitated. “That’s a difficult question.”

  The anxiety burst into anger. “How can it be difficult? Either you do or you don’t!”

  “I’ll try to explain. Your wife has a serious impulse control problem. Relatively minor things set her off into scary rages. If Hailey did something to seriously anger her, how might she react? If Hailey had been stabbed or bludgeoned with a weapon right at hand, Joanne would be high on my list of suspects. But shooting Hailey took some forethought. Joanne doesn’t carry a gun, so she would have had to go get one—and could she hold on to her anger long enough to go through with the purchase? I doubt it; her emotions, while powerful, are also ephemeral. So while I think Joanne is capable of murder, I don’t think she is capable of Hailey’s murder—unless she somehow got immediate access to a gun. Where did the gun that killed Hailey come from? Did Hailey own a gun herself, and keep it in her basement kitchen? Was there an argument between Hailey and Joanne in that basement?”

  Betsy took a breath before continuing. “You owned a gun, Mr. McMurphy—”

  “It was stolen well before Hailey was shot!”

  “Was it?”

  Pierce took a step back—Betsy had grown heated in her argument, and asked that last question with considerable emphasis.

  Seeing his shocked face, she apologized. “I’m sorry. This has been a difficult case for me. I can’t get all my questions answered, and the answers I do have don’t make up a story I can understand. It gets frustrating, and I’m aggravated by my failure. I shouldn’t have come at you like that.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, but unconvincingly. Then he gave a short sigh and said, “No, really, I understand what it’s like to be frustrated. You’re probably sorry you ever started looking into this. Marge had no right to ask you.”

  “She had the same right as others have had to ask me to investigate. It’s not my job, no, but it’s something I’ve done before. Are you angry with Marge for asking me?”

  He stared at her. “Why should I be angry?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just asking. You know her very well, of course.”

  “I do?”

  Betsy let that evasion hang in the air like the lie it was trying to be.

  “Oh, Lord,” he breathed. “Who told you?”

  “No one. I overheard the two of you talking the day you came to buy a blue spruce evergreen.”

  “That’s impossible,” he said flatly.

  “I was on the other side of the fence, digging up lily of the valley to transplant to my own property.”

  The wait was longer this time, but at last he asked, “Who have you told?”

  “Someone I trust not to
repeat it.”

  “My God, if Joanne finds out . . .”

  “You’re sure she doesn’t already know?”

  “Positive. She’d go after Marge.”

  “Not you?”

  “That might depend on what she’s told, maybe on who tells her. Actually, she might go after the person who shared the information with her.”

  Betsy felt a deep chill. “Is that possible?”

  “Is what possible—? No! Hailey didn’t know. Nobody knew!”

  “Hailey Brent was holding something over Marge’s head. Do you know what it was?”

  The door sounded and Godwin was back, a big white paper bag in his hand. “I remembered your pickle!” he announced happily. Then he felt the atmosphere in the shop and stopped short. “What’s going on? Hey, aren’t you Pierce McMurphy?”

  “That’s right,” said Pierce, and he turned toward Godwin with a smile.

  Betsy could see Godwin respond to that charm and sent him a wish that he should think of Rafael. “I’m Godwin DuLac,” he said, and didn’t bat his eyelashes, either.

  “Ms. Devonshire and I were just talking.” Pierce turned back to Betsy, that charming smile still on his face. “Thank you for being so patient with Joanne the other day,” he said. “She thinks well of you. Now I have to be getting along. Good-bye, and thank you.”

  He went out.

  “Whoa!” said Godwin, looking after him. “Smooth and sweet!”

  “Goddy . . .” said Betsy warningly.

  “Totally immune,” said Godwin, pressing his other hand to his chest. “Trust me, totally immune. What did he want, really?”

  “To find out what Joanne told me, and to express a hope that I don’t have her on my list of suspects. But unfortunately I had to disappoint him. Now, let’s eat.”

  Twenty-one

  CONNOR fixed breakfast the morning of July 3: fried potatoes mixed with two beaten eggs, onion, and sweet pepper. “Let’s go swimming this evening,” he said as he shoveled the food into his mouth.

  Noting the calories in the breakfast—Connor had made toast and put a jar of marmalade on the table with it—Betsy readily agreed.

  “Are we all set for the picnic tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I’ll boil the potatoes today and make potato salad tonight. What else are we to bring?”

  “A munchies tray. I’ve got the baby carrots, celery, two kinds of olives, and a head of cauliflower in my fridge. But I still need to buy a tub of dip.”

  “Let me make the dip,” said Connor. “I saw a recipe on the Internet yesterday that sounded interesting. It’s got jalapeños in it, but I’ll cut the amount in half. What’s the head count so far?”

  “A baker’s dozen.” A group picnic had been organized by Bershada of the Monday Bunch, to meet at the Excelsior Commons park at noon. Bershada’s new boyfriend, Trey, was bringing a grill, so there would be hamburgers and brats, courtesy of Bershada. Jill was coming, with Lars and the children. They were bringing a cauldron of calico beans, which, Betsy knew, would begin simmering this evening. Phil and Doris would bring soft drinks, lemonade, and potato chips. Alice was bringing two chocolate cakes with her famous marzipan icing. Patricia and her husband Peter were bringing beer, three bottles of wine, and tablecloths, paper plates, plastic flatware, and lots of napkins. Everyone was bringing something to sit on, and they were going to eat, play games, and talk until it was time for the fireworks.

  For a small town, Excelsior had a terrific day of entertainment on tap, including several bands playing a wide variety of music, and a marvelous fireworks display, shot off from twin barges anchored out in the bay. People came from all over the area to see the show.

  “Are we going to the parade in the morning?” he asked.

  “Oh, we have to! Emma Beth is riding her new bicycle in it—she’s decorating it herself—and Jill is pulling Erik in his decorated wagon. We are instructed to stand on the curb and clap especially loudly for them as they go by.”

  “What time does it start?”

  “Eleven sharp. Comes down Water Street, ends at the Commons.”

  “And then we buy them Popsicles when it’s over.”

  “No, there are going to be free Popsicles this year over by the bandstand. Then we have lunch, and games, and supper, then fireworks.”

  “Sounds good.” Connor drank the last of his coffee. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

  “Just the usual. Why, do you have something in mind?”

  “I was wondering if you’ve talked with Mike Malloy lately. Is he still focusing on Marge Schultz as his primary suspect? Does he know something you don’t? Do you know something he doesn’t, to wit, the McMurphy-Schultz affair?”

  “Well, I certainly haven’t told him. But we kind of tip-toe around each other when it comes to exchanging information. Of course, he’s always more interested in hearing what I’ve found out than in telling me what he knows.”

  “Is he a gossip?”

  “Not at all.”

  “So why haven’t you told him? Are you protecting Marge from him?”

  Betsy picked up the last piece of toast—cold now—and tore it in half. “You’re making me uncomfortable, asking that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now I wonder if I have a duty as a citizen to share that information with Mike.”

  “I can’t think that you do. After all, it isn’t information about a crime. Adultery isn’t illegal.”

  Betsy, still troubled, stood and began to clear the table. “You’re right. But I need to think about it.”

  She did a quick wash of the breakfast dishes, except the frying pan, which she put aside to soak in detergent and hot water—Connor had a talent for frying things that left chunks welded to the bottom of the pan.

  Then she went downstairs to unlock the door to the shop.

  * * *

  BUSINESS was up slightly that morning, mostly because tourists in town for the Fourth were out looking for souvenirs and bargains. But one local came in with an entry for the template contest.

  “Annie!” Betsy exclaimed, smiling. “Good to see you!”

  Back when Annie Summerhill was a homeless woman, she had been very helpful to Betsy’s investigation of a case, and Betsy, seeking to return the favor, rented an apartment for her in a safe neighborhood in Minneapolis. Annie soon managed to get a job with a company that cleaned offices at night. She was such a hard and reliable worker that in a few months she was in charge of a crew with a raise in pay. She told Betsy, “If I keep this up, pretty soon I’ll be on his books, which means I can join the union and get benefits.”

  “What do you mean you’ll be on his books?” Betsy had asked.

  “I’m being paid under the table right now,” Annie replied, surprised that Betsy was unfamiliar with the term. “I like it, ’cause I ain’t got no withholding. Every cent he pays me goes right into my pocket.” And she had winked and tapped the side of her nose.

  Later Annie had gotten a second job, light factory work, assembling medical devices. She worked both for a while, then quit the cleaning company for a job as a security guard—the kind where she sat at a desk most of the time, checking office workers in and out at night. Both were “on the books,” and one offered benefits.

  Despite working all those hours, Annie found time to do a little needlework—some of it while sitting at that desk—and she visited Crewel World about every other week. Betsy continued to pay Annie’s rent and to help out in the occasional fiscal emergency. The last had been a trip to the dentist.

  Now Annie stood smiling proudly at the checkout desk, template entry in hand. “I bet you thought I wasn’t going to get it done, but I did, and here it is!”

  Annie had used the theme of a color wheel, stitching in plain x’s using overdyed fl
oss that shifted in shades of each color, giving a shimmering effect. “Very nice,” said Betsy. “These stitches are nice and even; you’re getting better all the time.”

  “Thanks.” Annie walked around the shop, eyes lifted, admiring the other entries hanging from the ceiling. “I like the tiger,” she said, pointing to it.

  “Me, too,” said Betsy. She was putting a dab of masking tape on Annie’s work. It had a number inked on it. Betsy wrote a matching number on Annie’s entry form. The entry forms were kept in a file folder in the checkout desk, and would not be shown to the judges. There were twenty-seven entries so far, a goodly number.

  She was putting the file folder away when she became aware of Annie still standing in front of the desk, a troubled look on her face.

  “Is something wrong?” Betsy asked.

  Annie said doubtfully, “Oh no, I don’t think so. Maybe. Yes.” That last was a confession.

  “What is it?”

  “My son’s in town. And he needs a place to stay.” Annie’s son was a rarely employed alcoholic who when last heard from was living in his car in another state.

  “Annie, you’re in a one-bedroom apartment. Where would he sleep?”

  “On the couch. Just temporary, he says.” Annie’s face was a fist, full of doubt, grief, anger, and fear.

  Betsy asked, “Do you believe him?”

  Annie began to cry. “No. But he’s my son!”

  “How on earth did he find you?”

  “I don’t know, not for sure. His call came out of the blue. Donna Campbell’s a friend of mine, and she’s on Facebook, and she probably posted about me, bragging how I’m doing so well. She talks about everyone she knows. I’ve known her forever; she used to babysit Cole after his father left us so I could work. I guess Cole checked me out on a library computer. I didn’t even know he knew how.”

  “Do you want him to stay with you?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Annie, what do you think would happen if you let Cole stay with you?”