Hanging by a Thread Read online

  Betsy put down the packing list to ask, “Why did she start an affair with Foster if Paul was such a wonderful husband?”

  Godwin said, “The lure of the new and exciting, I suppose.” He made a sad-comical face. “Of course, I’m no expert in heterosexual affairs of the heart, but are they all that different from my own?” Godwin was gay, and his flirtatious ways sometimes infuriated his partner. “But she found out the hardest way that the grass isn’t always greener on the wrong side of the fence.”

  “Possibly Foster didn’t want her to leave her husband,” suggested Bershada. “This way, Paul bought the cake and Foster got the icing.”

  “Well, that brings up another question,” said Betsy. “Suppose she was going to leave him. That’s a common pattern: The husband finds out that his wife wants a divorce, so he murders her and then himself. Couldn’t that have happened here?”

  “No,” said Emily. “Paul’s death was a murder, all right. There was some kind of fight in his house the night he was shot.”

  Martha said, “And the gun was never found.”

  Emily said, “I think Angela came to her senses and told Foster she wanted to break it off. There was a quarrel, and he murdered her. And he was so mad at Paul, he murdered him, too.”

  Comfort said thoughtfully, “There are women who, for whatever reason, pick domineering men. She married one, and when he made her unhappy, she chose another one as a lover.”

  Betsy said, “But Foster doesn’t strike me as domineering. Maybe it’s more that she was the kind of woman who liked to make her man jealous. Maybe she was making Paul angry by taking up with Foster.”

  Alice said, “I never, ever saw her do anything that would make me think she was a flirt or a tease. She was quiet and a little standoffish.”

  “How sure are you that she really was having an affair?” asked Betsy. “If it was all a tease—”

  Godwin said, “Oh, Foster admitted it! It was on the news and everything. He probably seduced the poor thing.”

  Betsy said, “While my relationship with Foster is strictly business—”

  “Yes, how is Morrie?” asked Godwin sweetly. He’d been delighted and amused to learn Betsy had a beau. Morrie Stephens was a police investigator with the Minnetonka Police Department. He had met Betsy last summer and admired her sleuthing ways. They were seeing a lot of each other and he was already hinting he wanted her to sell Crewel World and move to Fort Myers with him, after he retired this winter. Betsy hadn’t told Godwin this not-so-amusing detail.

  “Hush,” she said, blushing lightly. “I’m about to make a point here. Am I so wrong about Foster, is he the sort who goes about seducing shy married women for sport?”

  “Well, no, he didn’t impress me that way,” said Alice. “I was surprised to find out about him and Angela. But when I was married to a pastor, I found out things that happen between men and women you wouldn’t believe.”

  “The thing is, there isn’t any other explanation,” said Comfort. “No one else was close to Angela, no one else had any reason at all to murder her.”

  “Except Paul, if he had found out his wife was making a fool of him with Foster Johns,” said Betsy. “Any husband—or wife, for that matter—is apt to be very angry when they learn something like that.” Betsy had divorced her husband when she found that he had been repeatedly unfaithful. “So it’s logical to suppose that if Paul found out about Foster, he murdered Angela. Then perhaps Foster, in a rage, murdered Paul. That would make sense.”

  Martha said, “But the police said the same gun was used to kill both of them.”

  They looked at Betsy to explain that, if she could. So of course she tried. “Well, okay, still say Paul murdered his wife. Foster, in a rage, went to see Paul, who naturally became frightened and pulled out his gun. They fought over it, and Foster got it and shot Paul.”

  That made sense, and the challenging looks faded.

  “But then why didn’t Foster call the police?” asked Emily. “Isn’t that self-defense?”

  Betsy, remembering the cool, competent way Foster had handled the complex details of getting the building permits, hiring a roofer and the company to haul away the remains of the old roof, and while he was about it someone to replace the gutters, frowned. The Foster she thought she had come to know would certainly call the police if he had shot someone in self-defense. She thought a bit, then asked, “Why suspect only Foster Johns in this case? Couldn’t someone else have murdered Paul Schmitt? Doesn’t Angela have family in the area who might have avenged her murder?”

  “Her father lives in Florida most of the year. He was down there when she was murdered, and was just about to fly back when Paul was killed,” said Godwin. “She has two brothers, but one lives in California, and the other was overseas with the Army. So, you see, there really isn’t anyone else. Paul wasn’t the kind to blow his cool. He wasn’t as sweet as Emily thinks, but who is?”

  Emily blushed but said, “He was too!”

  “He managed that Scandinavian gift shop really well,” Godwin continued, “expanded their reach into British and Irish stock, which improved their bottom line—he was bragging about it at a party. I can’t think of a single enemy he had. And, of course, no one in his right mind had any reason to hate Angela.”

  “Maybe a robbery?” suggested Betsy.

  Martha said, “Well, I think that’s what the police thought, right at first. Angela was alone when she was shot there, she was closing up that night. But she wouldn’t have resisted if someone came in with a gun, she wasn’t the least brave. Anyway, nothing was taken.”

  Alice said, “That’s because the gun being fired brought people’s attention, so whoever it was had to leave or be caught.”

  Martha said, “That’s right, a bullet broke a window, and the bookstore’s right on Water Street, so there were a lot of people who came rushing to see what was going on. And of course everyone thought it was a robbery. But then Paul was shot, and at home. So then everyone thought what you suggested, Betsy, that Paul shot her and then himself. But when we heard about the fight, and that the police couldn’t find the gun, we knew it was something else.”

  Godwin said, “And that time it wasn’t Malloy doing the investigating. Paul lived in Navarre, that’s where he was shot.”

  Martha said, “But Mike was over there because they thought there might be a link between Paul’s and Angela’s murders. And there was: The same gun was used in both murders.”

  Comfort said, “I remember hearing on the news the morning after it happened that a neighbor heard shooting at the Schmitt house and called the police.”

  “You meant there was a gunfight?” asked Betsy.

  “No, no, there was just one gun involved, but there were several shots fired.”

  “That’s right, I remember reading that in the Minneapolis newspaper,” said Godwin. “The neighbors were too scared to look out their windows, or there might have been a description of Foster running away or a license plate number or something. But there wasn’t. And that’s one reason he wasn’t arrested. Which is too bad; Paul Schmitt was shot two or three times, so it wasn’t an easy death.”

  “Dreadful,” murmured Emily, and there was a little silence.

  Betsy said, “Wait, it doesn’t make sense that Foster would murder Angela and then Paul. In fact ...” Her frown deepened. “I suppose I can see Foster going to Paul to tell him he was in love with Angela and demanding Paul divorce her, then getting in a fight and killing Paul. And I suppose it could happen that his mistress was so upset about it, she threatened to turn him in, so he killed her, too. But that’s not the order this happened in. I suppose it’s possible a man might be so exasperated and infuriated with his mistress that he murders her. But then, having done that, why round it off by murdering her husband? I mean, he’s so handy as a suspect, isn’t he?”

  “But maybe Paul knew Foster did it, maybe he even had some kind of proof, so Foster had to kill him,” suggested Bershada.

 
“There you go,” said Godwin, his eyes lighting up at this evidence of clever thinking. He smiled at Bershada.

  “Instead of going to the police?” asked Betsy.

  “Well, maybe he wanted to protect his wife’s reputation,” said Comfort.

  “Oh, that’s so old-fashioned!” scoffed Godwin. “People nowadays don’t care a rat’s right ear for things like that.”

  “Only Foster knows why it happened in that order,” said Martha darkly. “And he’s not telling.”

  Alice squared her shoulders and asked Betsy, “Could it be that Foster didn’t commit any murder at all?”

  “Why are you so eager to defend him, anyhow?” demanded Godwin.

  “Because ... because I was paying attention before all this happened,” said Alice. “I think Paul might not have been a good husband. And I saw the way Foster behaved after Angela was murdered. He didn’t act the least bit guilty.”

  “That’s because he has nerves of steel and a heart of ice,” said Comfort.

  “I mean he was sad and upset, not calm and cool,” said Alice.

  Bershada said, “Well, if I murdered someone, I’d be sad and upset, too. Anyway, if he didn’t do it, who did?”

  Alice said, “I don’t know. You all think you know Foster did it, but the police couldn’t find enough evidence to charge him, much less convict him. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  “Not with Mike involved in the investigations,” said Martha pointedly.

  “Well, we’re not the clever ones when it comes to solving mysteries, Betsy is. Think for a minute, Betsy. Who do you think did it?”

  “Thinking wouldn’t help,” said Betsy frankly. “There’s not enough information for me—”

  She was interrupted by the annoying Bing! of the front door. Foster Johns, his back to them while he closed the door, turned and saw the faces turned toward him. But his voice was calm when he said, “The inspector finished quicker than he thought he would and came looking for me. He seems to think everything is fine. What are you going to do about it?”

  3

  “I’ll write you a check after I talk to the inspector,” said Betsy.

  The relief in Johns’s eyes was palpable. “He’s outside,” Johns said, and turned and opened the door. Its Bing! sounded loud in the rigid silence of the shop, and Betsy noted irrelevantly that she’d forgotten to turn on the radio when she opened up that morning. She glanced around at the table and Alice caught her eye with a tiny, encouraging nod.

  At Johns’s gesture, a short man in heavy blue coveralls came in. “Ms. Devonshire,” he said with a little nod, removing his red hunter’s hat to reveal a bald head surrounded by white hair.

  “Mr. Jurgens.” Betsy nodded back.

  He frowned at the silent group at the table. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Betsy. “Unless you found something else wrong with my roof.” Betsy had thought the job done two weeks ago, but the inspector had discovered a pair of flaws, necessitating a removal of part of the new tarred covering, replacement of some of the insulation, and then fresh hot tar being applied to the patches. This, Foster Johns assured Betsy, was not really unusual, and the patch would be as sound as if it were original to the roof.

  “The repair is fine. They did a good job—that roof should do well for prob’ly twenty years, if not more.” He unbuttoned the top of his coveralls, revealing a red plaid shirt, and fumbled in a pocket for a thin sheaf of papers folded lengthwise. “Here’s my report.”

  Betsy took the papers and glanced them over. Computer printouts, they included a copy of his first report saying she needed a new roof, then the one describing the flaws he’d found, and on top the newest report indicating the roof was now properly done and resealed. He had signed this one in thick, soft pencil and dated it today.

  “These look fine,” said Betsy. “Thank you.” The inspector put his hat back on, glanced again at the people around the table, and departed.

  “If you can wait here a minute, Mr. Johns,” said Betsy, “I’ll go upstairs and get my checkbook.”

  “May I come with you? I’d like a word with you, in private.”

  “Sure—no, wait a minute.” Betsy glanced at her watch. It was nearly two, and she hadn’t had lunch yet. “How about I go get my checkbook and then we both go to Antiquity Rose for a bowl of soup? Or have you had lunch?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Not yet.”

  Antiquity Rose was a house converted to a tea and antique shop. It had an excellent kitchen, which was currently featuring a hearty potato-cheese soup. Betsy had hers with a bran muffin. Foster chose the fat, warm breadstick.

  After a few spoonfuls, Betsy said, “Did you bring your bill with you?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the problem I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “No? What’s the problem?”

  Foster looked across the little table, his face a mix of desperation and hope. “I heard you do private investigations for people falsely charged with crimes.”

  “That’s approximately true. Who’s in trouble?”

  His smile was wry. “Don’t tell me they didn’t give you an earful while I was gone. Because of people like them, I’ve been living in hell for five years and eleven days.”

  “Ah,” said Betsy. “Yes, they told me about Paul and Angela Schmitt.”

  “I was hoping that if I could get just one person in town to give me a chance, then they’d start to come around. But I guess now you’re sorry I took advantage of your ignorance.”

  Betsy’s lips tightened. “That’s not true.”

  “Of course, if I murdered two people, nothing could be bad enough to be worse than I deserve. But I didn’t. I’ve done everything I can think of to show people I’m an honest citizen, but nothing’s worked. Then someone told me about you—”

  “Who?” interrupted Betsy. “Who told you?”

  “Jurgens, the inspector. He told me you solved your sister’s murder and another murder up on the North Shore. ‘She’s real slick,’ is how Jurgens put it. I hope he’s right and this is something you’re willing to do for me.” Indeed, he looked so hopeful, Betsy’s heart was again wrenched, and all her promises about this being too busy a time of year for sleuthing began to crumble. Still, she held herself to a mere nod, and he continued, “I don’t know what you charge, but if you can clear my name, any amount is worth it. How much do you want as a retainer?”

  “Nothing. I don’t have a private investigator’s license, and I wouldn’t dream of taking money from you.”

  He tossed his spoon into his bowl and sat back. “I’m sorry you feel like that.”

  “Wait a minute, I didn’t say I wouldn’t try to help. I am willing to look into your problem, but it will be strictly as an amateur.” Hope flared on his face—here was no heart of ice or nerve of steel—and she added, “I just hope you aren’t in a big rush. It will probably be after the first of the year before I can give your case the attention it deserves. All I can do now is try to gather some basic information.”

  He nodded. “I’ve waited this long, I can be patient a while longer. What do you want to know?”

  She asked, “First, have you thought about hiring a real private investigator?”

  “I did that. He charged me three thousand dollars and all he could tell me was that Paul Schmitt probably abused Angela. I already knew that to be a fact.”

  Betsy said, “It’s been five years. If I start asking questions, people are going to recall some sordid details. Are you sure you want me bringing the whole mess up again?”

  “What again? It’s never gone away. I’ll tell you anything I can. What do you need from me to begin with?”

  Betsy thought. “Let’s start with Angela. Tell me about her.”

  Foster leaned forward and a slow smile formed as he cast his mind back. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with her,” he said. “I don’t even know exactly when it happened. I do know that it started when I said somethin
g to her on the steps after church one Sunday about it finally getting warm enough to do some work outdoors, and she thought I meant gardening. I said, ‘No, I own a construction company,’ which I did back then, and we were making a joke about the misunderstanding when her husband came from out of nowhere and yanked her away so hard, she dropped her purse. The look on his face surprised me, it was so full of anger. But I thought I was mistaken. I mean, I thought I knew Paul, we’d ushered together a few times, and I’d had a few conversations with him about roofing—he was a good amateur carpenter. He was one of those guys who almost always has a grin on his face, like he’s got the point of a joke the rest of us don’t. So that look that day was surprising. I actually remember trying to decide if it was the angle of the sun putting a funny shadow on his face. You see, he was always willing to lend a hand, jump-start a car, bring groceries to a shut-in, like that.

  “But while I was surprised by him, I was surprised even more by the look on her face as she went off with him, like she was scared to death of what would happen when he got her home. Even weirder, when he noticed it, he shook her arm and she all of a sudden looked fine.” He shrugged.

  “At the time, of course, I didn’t think of it that way, that he was ordering her to wipe that look off her face. It was only later I learned what a son of a bitch he was, excuse my French. That she was right to be scared.

  “We were born the same year, Angela and me, and Paul was two years older. I went to high school with them both, though I never dated her—I was into big, cushy blonds back then, so I didn’t see her as my type. She was just a bit of a thing, and dark-haired. But she was pretty enough, and I think could have been popular if she put herself out some more. But she was shy, hardly said anything to anyone in school. I went on to get my degree in architectural engineering, but she dropped out of college to marry Paul.

  “Anyhow, the Sunday after I talked to Angela about the weather, Alice Skoglund said it was sad how Angela seemed so unhappy nowadays, and something about the way she said it made me think of that scared look. So I kind of kept my eye on her for the next few weeks, and once I paid attention, I could see Angela wasn’t just unhappy, she was scared. So I took to talking to her when Paul wasn’t around, which was like a minute here and a minute there—he was generally right with her. But I kept trying to find out what was going on. Pretty soon she trusted me enough to really talk to me. And soon after I got the hint from her that he was abusing her. I got mad on her behalf, and told her to walk out, just leave him, go down to Florida to stay with her parents; but she said she was afraid of what he might do.