And Then You Dye Page 5

  “Do you know what she was referring to?”

  “She kind of talked around it, without saying what it was. More hinting than telling.”

  “Hinting at what?”

  “That Marge was a thief, too. But she never said what Marge stole, or who she stole it from.”

  Betsy remembered the hint Hailey dropped at the dyeing demonstration. “Still, if she actually saw your mother stealing a quantity of flowers, I don’t think your mother knowing something about her would stop Marge from filing a complaint with the police.” Unless we’re talking blackmail here, thought Betsy.

  “I don’t think she ever actually caught Mom doing it,” said Philadelphia. “Besides, like I said, it wasn’t like Mom did any real harm.”

  “But Marge—and you—are sure it was her.”

  “Well, I don’t think she confessed to it to Marge, but she said as much to me. She was very pleased with a color she got from some flowers she took from Marge’s garden. She liked it so much she planted some of the same variety in her own garden the next year.”

  “So she wasn’t very sneaky about it.”

  “Everyone knows artists are allowed almost anything if it furthers their work. I mean, read their biographies. They can get very crazy and determined about some things.”

  “Crazy and determined?”

  “Certainly. I should know.”

  “Why,” Betsy asked. “Are you an artist, too?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “I knit three-dimensional people.” Her tone was faux nonchalant overlaid with an air of confessing an amusing misdemeanor. “My bestselling ones are the Red Hat Society women, though I like my fetus-in-the-womb one better. I’m in art galleries as far away as Chicago. Plus, I paint. Abstracts, mostly. But those don’t sell like my people.”

  “I’d love to see some of your knitting art. But we’re getting off topic. When did your mother start taking flowers from Marge’s garden center?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but more than three years ago, four or even five. It started with a pretty yellow-orange dye some flowers made. She says you never know what color you’re going to get. I mean, she said that.” Reminded that her mother was no longer alive, she made a curious sound, stifling a sob.

  “Here, this is getting to be too much for you,” said Betsy, starting to feel really bad.

  “No, no, please go on, ask me more questions.”

  “Actually, I don’t have any more questions for you right now,” Betsy lied.

  “But I don’t think I’ve helped you!” Having severely tested her own endurance, Philadelphia was probably upset that nothing helpful was being produced.

  “I think maybe you have. You’ve given me a much clearer picture of your mother, and that is always helpful.”

  “I think we should go away now,” said Ruth. “I agree with Betsy, you’re becoming too upset for this to continue. I can come another time. This isn’t something we have to do today.” She was standing by the sink, out of Philadelphia’s line of sight. She began making faces and moving her hands, gestures Betsy interpreted as meaning she would talk to Betsy later.

  “Maybe she’s right,” said Philadelphia. “I think I’m getting one of my headaches, anyway.”

  Ruth said, “Yes, then it’s definitely time for this to stop. You’ve got my card. Why don’t you call me in a day or two and I’ll come look at your mother’s spinning and dyeing equipment again. You don’t even have to come along, if you don’t want to. I should be able to give you a written estimate of its value. I know that spinning wheel is a good one, for instance, and the things in this kitchen are good quality, too.”

  “Thank you, Ruth.”

  The three of them went upstairs and out of the house. Betsy gave Philadelphia one of her business cards, and, as if in afterthought, she handed another one to Ruth.

  Then Betsy continued on her original errand, to buy perennials for the wooded portion of her back lot.

  Six

  GODWIN was a warm-weather person; any time the thermometer registered less than seventy degrees, he reached for a sweater. Today, with the thermometer unable to climb higher than sixty-three, even the sweater was not enough. But swinging at a half-size “warm-up” bucket of balls at the driving range warmed and loosened his joints a bit, and he stepped up to the first tee at Brookview Golf Course feeling confident. And hit his first ball so far to the right that it landed on the fairway of the second hole.

  “Why did I agree to try playing this stupid game?” he demanded with a scowl, swinging his driver over his head, thinking that perhaps he should release it and let it fly into the little pond that guarded the tee box.

  “Oh, mi gorrion, don’t! You were just a little hasty.” Rafael, medium-tall, with lots of dark, wavy hair surrounding a very handsome face, had been born in Madrid, and while his English was excellent, he had traces of an accent, and he sprinkled his language with Spanish words. Gorrion was Spanish for “sparrow,” his nickname for Godwin, because he felt that, like the bird, Godwin was a small, bright, brave fellow.

  “Why don’t you hit another?” The two frequently permitted themselves to hit a second ball off the tee if the first went awry. There was time to try again because there wasn’t another set of golfers waiting for them to tee off. The chill in the air was one reason they had the place to themselves. Also, it was a Monday morning—not the most popular time for a golf game.

  Godwin said, “Who besides you thinks I’ll do better if I try again?”

  “You will do better if you take your time,” counseled Rafael. “Now, set up your new ball on the tee. Look down the fairway to the place you want it to go. Then look at the ball and let your mind settle. Only then strike it.”

  Godwin wanted to grumble some more at that exceedingly basic advice, but he didn’t. As advanced piano players practiced scales, so golfers needed reminders of the fundamentals.

  He pulled another ball from his pocket and balanced it on the little wooden tee. He put his driver next to the ball, then looked down the fairway, picking a spot he knew he could reach.

  He drew back the club, keeping his left arm straight, deliberately cleared his mind of extraneous thoughts, then focused on the ball. He took a deep breath, cocked his wrists, and brought the club swiftly down, hearing it smack against the ball with a crisp, metallic clink. He followed through on his swing and watched as the ball flew in a beautiful arc farther and farther down the very center of the fairway to land right on target, bounce, and roll another ten yards.

  “Sweeeeet,” he sighed. Maybe he wouldn’t throw his driver away just yet.

  But that was his best drive of the game.

  On the seventh hole, they caught up to the quartet ahead of them and had to wait while they holed out. Godwin turned to Rafael. “Is something on your mind?” he asked. “You’ve been kind of quiet this game.”

  “You know me too well, gorrion.” After a pause, he said, “I do not know how to begin this conversation,” and Godwin felt his heart give an alarmed lurch.

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  Rafael smiled. “No, no, not at all. I’ve just been thinking about you, and me, and us. You really like your work, don’t you?”

  Godwin, leaning on his club, frowned at him. “You know I do, and why not? I like my boss, the shop is humming along—and I’m a big part of that. What’s not to like?”

  “Do you think I’d be good at retail?”

  Godwin considered him for a few moments. Was Rafael angling for a job at Crewel World? He’d taken up counted cross-stitch lately and seemed to enjoy it, but Godwin thought it was just a move on his part to share more in Godwin’s life. Just like Godwin had taken up Rafael’s passion, golf.

  “You’d be all right, I guess. Maybe pretty good, in fact
. Do you want to come to work at Crewel World?”

  “No, no. But would you support me in a decision I’m thinking of making?”

  “You know I would always support you,” said Godwin, a little puzzled—then he grew alarmed again. Rafael had spent a lot of time lately communing with his computer. “You aren’t thinking we should relocate, are you?”

  “No, I don’t believe we will need to move.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear that. But then what is this decision?”

  “I would like to open a store of my own.”

  Godwin almost laughed, but managed to choke it back. Rafael had never been so much as a sales clerk. “What kind of a store?”

  “Collectible coins, of course.” Rafael had not so long ago begun to collect coins. He tended to throw himself into new interests with a passion, and so quickly built a large and eclectic collection, ranging from ancient Roman and Greek coins to modern gold coins. He was especially proud of his medieval Spanish, French, and English hammered silver coins.

  “You mean you want to sell your coin collection? You haven’t had it very long.”

  “No, just some of the coins.”

  “You could do that without opening a store.”

  “I know. I have done a great deal of buying, selling, and trading from the start, you know. But I’m doing so much more of it lately that I want to make it official. I want to open a proper place away from home, where people can come in to see what I have, and bring me pieces to see in person. Make it into a real business, to buy and sell not just coins but tokens and perhaps paper money as well. Maybe help a customer begin a collection, or fill in some . . . gaps. Is gap the right word?”

  “Yes, gaps means holes or spaces.” Godwin was thinking, squinting down the fairway at the golfers on the green. One made his putt and waved his putter in the air. Another pointed his at the man in a fencing pose, goofing off, further delaying the game. “What advice do you want from me?”

  “Actually,” said Rafael, sounding unusually diffident, “I want more than advice. I would like you to join me in the business, as a partner.”

  Godwin’s heart sank into his shoes. “You do? Wow, Rafael, I’m honored that you ask me! But you know I wouldn’t have time for that. To do it right would be a full-time job, and I already have a full-time job at Crewel World.” Besides, Godwin’s money was tied up in a trust he didn’t have free access to, so he wouldn’t be able to invest his share in Rafael’s business.

  “Yes, well . . .” Rafael fell silent.

  Godwin stared at him. “You want me to leave Crewel World? Abandon Betsy?”

  “No, of course not! Well, not all at once. Just back off a very little. She works you very hard, you know. Expects you to step up whenever she needs time off to sleuth. There are weeks when you actually work more than forty hours.”

  “What she’s doing is important,” Godwin pointed out.

  “Not to you. And the pay isn’t very good.”

  “Oh, Rafael, I thought you understood about me and Betsy. It’s not about the money. I would rather die than disappoint her.”

  “I do understand. But I need you to help me. Think how we would be spending more time together.”

  Godwin looked down the fairway. The quartet had quit clowning and finished. “That’s a very tempting idea. But come on, we can go now. I need time to think about this.”

  “Of course, mi gorrion.” Rafael remained unusually silent the rest of the game, while Godwin, badly rattled, couldn’t make even a double bogey on a single remaining hole.

  * * *

  IT was a little after ten on Tuesday, opening-up time. Betsy and Godwin were going through the well-rehearsed motions of preparing to unlock the door. After a few minutes Betsy said to Godwin, in a curious echo of his conversation with Rafael, “You’ve been awfully quiet. Is something on your mind?”

  “No, no,” he said, a little too hastily. “I’m just thinking.”

  “About what?” she persisted.

  “Well, Rafael kind of surprised me yesterday on the golf course. He said he wants to open a shop of his own, selling rare coins. And maybe collectible paper money, too.”

  “Could he do that? I mean, and make a success of it? What experience does he have in retail?” asked Betsy. She remembered her own fumbling and bumbling when she unexpectedly inherited Crewel World from her late sister.

  “That’s just it, he doesn’t know very much about owning his own business.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Sort of. I mean, we talked about it some more last night and I told him he needs to get a job in retail and work there for at least a year. He’s very clever and a hard worker. I think he could get promoted to store manager, and then he’ll really learn something.” Godwin stooped to turn on the radio, tuned to a light jazz station.

  “What brought on his desire to open his own shop?”

  “I don’t know. He has this enormous coin collection, with some of just about everything in it, and he’s always buying and selling things over the Internet. He hasn’t been doing it for very long, but he really knows a whole lot about coins, so that’s not a problem. And I guess his experience with trading and buying and selling means he knows that end of it, too. He just doesn’t know very much about the nuts and bolts of owning an actual business. Taxes and rent and hours and employees. I mean, I could tell him a lot—in fact, I have told him a lot about working here—but it’s not the same as actually getting some hands-on experience.”

  “That’s true.” Thank God for Godwin, Betsy thought. His support and expertise had been priceless when she was getting her feet wet. In fact, they still were. “Do you think he’ll take your advice and try to find retail work?” Betsy broke open a roll of quarters into the cash box.

  “Maybe. Or maybe not. He’s been spending time on the Internet lately, looking at different locations of storefronts for rent.”

  “So he’s that close to making a decision?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Why are you so worried about this? Do you think he’s making a bad decision?”

  “I don’t know.” He offered a wry smile. “Maybe that’s why I’m worried. I just don’t know.”

  But Betsy wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling her. Which was very unlike him; Godwin normally wore all his thoughts and emotions on his sleeve. She hoped Rafael wasn’t trying to get Godwin to come into the fledgling business with him; it was often a bad idea to mix romance and business.

  “Did you get your new plants from Marge at Green Gaia?” he asked, having apparently had enough of talking about Rafael.

  Betsy decided to let dogs that had gone to sleep lie. “Yes, I bought lily of the valley and hostas—I know, I said I didn’t like them, but they’re big and these have showy bicolor leaves. And I bought some bleeding hearts. Connor and I spent most of yesterday planting on the hillside. It’ll take a few years to fill in, but then it will be beautiful back there. It already looks nicer.” Connor was Betsy’s long-time boyfriend. He rented an apartment across the hall from hers.

  “Did you ask Marge any more questions about Hailey?”

  “A few. Her place was really hopping with customers, so I couldn’t get a good-size block of time. She said that Hailey was what used to be called a man-hater. Always bad-mouthing them. Marge said that one time Hailey was shopping at Green Gaia and overheard her talking about the terrific new man she’d been dating, and when it was Hailey’s turn to pay, she told Marge that she should not be looking for a stepfather for her two daughters, that allowing a man in the house was just asking for trouble.”

  “Would that be Marge asking or the man?”

  Betsy laughed, then sobered. “I suppose this could indicate Hailey divorced a seriously bad husband—or maybe an incompatible husband divorced Hailey. Either
way, he apparently turned her against his entire sex. I’d look at him as a suspect except he’s living out on the West Coast with his third wife and children and hasn’t been involved with Hailey or their children for years.”

  “Aw, too bad he’s out, then. Have you found out who profits by Hailey’s death?”

  “She doesn’t seem to have left much of an estate, just the house, a modest one out on the west edge of town. Her son and daughter are going to sell it and split the proceeds.”

  “Well, there are other kinds of profits, such as it leading to someone gaining peace of mind.”

  “Yes, of course. I need to talk to more people. I’d like to find others who were good friends of Hailey’s. There’s this one woman, Ruth Ladwig—”

  “Say, we know her, don’t we?”

  “We know of her. She’s an expert on dyes, especially vegetable dyes. I’d never met her face-to-face until she came along on a tour of Hailey’s house, the scene of the crime. Have you?”

  “No, but Amy Stromberg knows her.”

  Amy was the weather forecaster on a local news program—and a needlepointer. “Does Amy dye her own yarn?” asked Betsy, surprised.

  “No, I’m sure she doesn’t. I don’t know how they became friends.”

  “What does Amy say about Ruth?”

  “Only that she really knows what she’s talking about. And that she’s had both her knees replaced—that came up because Amy knows someone who has been having problems with her knee replacement. Amy says Ruth had a good surgeon and followed her therapist’s instructions, so she did well. I guess the exercises are painful, especially at first.”

  While interesting, that wasn’t particularly helpful. “Ruth is supposed to contact me. I also want to talk again with Philadelphia Halverson. She was so upset at her mother’s house that I didn’t have the heart to keep asking her questions.”

  “Is she going to contact you, too?”

  “She didn’t say so, but she did say she’d answer any questions I had. Maybe I should call her, take her to lunch or have her come over to my apartment for supper.”