And Then You Dye Page 9

  “Who are you?” asked Betsy.

  “You know who I am!”

  “No, ma’m, I don’t.” Betsy was amazed to find there was no quiver in her voice. Her stomach was twisting itself into a knot, and her heart was pounding. The fury on the woman’s face was terrifying.

  “Don’t stand there lying to me!” Again the fist slammed onto the desk.

  “I know you,” said Irene in a quiet but carrying voice.

  “You stay out of this!” shouted the woman, lunging at the spinner rack, which fell toward Irene. She got out of the way barely in time.

  Then the door sounded its two notes again, and suddenly Jill was in the shop, looking every inch the cop she used to be. “What’s going on here?” she said.

  “Ask them!” said the woman, brushing past Jill on her way out the door.

  “Wow,” said Godwin into the silence following her exit. “Just wow.”

  “Who was that?” asked Jill.

  “She almost knocked me down,” whimpered Irene when Betsy and Godwin looked toward her.

  “Are you all right?” asked Betsy.

  “You said you know who she was,” prompted Godwin.

  “That was Joanne McMurphy,” said Irene. “She has a terrible temper.”

  “You can say that again,” said Godwin. “Wow.”

  Ten

  IT was nearly closing time, the end of a busy Friday. Betsy, glad she had worn her red pantsuit, was up the stepladder again, hanging two new entries in the template contest. Godwin was holding the ladder steady.

  “I think the floor must be uneven right about here,” he said.

  Betsy thought so, too, from the way the ladder had jogged back and forth when she first climbed up its rungs. “This is wonderful; we’re going to need more clothespins soon,” she said.

  “I know, this contest was a great idea!” said Godwin, his voice a little strained as he pushed just hard enough to keep the ladder steady.

  The door sounded its two notes and the ladder wobbled as Godwin tried to look over his shoulder to see who was coming in.

  “Ack!” Betsy cried, one elbow out, the other hand gripping the top step. She looked under her elbow. It was police detective Mike Malloy. “Hi, Mike, what brings you in here?”

  “I’d like to talk with you for just a couple of minutes, when you’re free.”

  “Sure, I’ll be right with you.”

  Betsy clipped the latest contest entry to the line and made her way carefully down. “Thanks, Goddy.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Mike, would you like a cup of coffee or tea?” Betsy asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  Betsy closed the ladder and put it down behind the checkout desk, dusting her hands when she was finished. “This is a good time, since we’re about to close. We’ll be able to talk without being interrupted. Goddy, could you run the credit card machine? Mike, come with me to where we can sit down out of his way.”

  She led him into the back half of the shop to the small round table with its cover of patriotic flags and exploding firecrackers—the shop, always running a season ahead of the calendar, was already selling Fourth of July items.

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I understand Joanne McMurphy came in here yesterday and created a fuss.”

  “Ah, the Excelsior grapevine is still flourishing.”

  “What grapevine? I got a call from Irene Potter, an eyewitness. She thinks you and I should form an investigative partnership, or maybe I should have you sworn in as a member of the police force.”

  Betsy smiled. Irene was sure that with Betsy’s help crime could be wiped out in the whole of Hennepin County, if not the entire state of Minnesota.

  “Yes, she was here when Joanne came in.”

  “Irene said she was scary.”

  Betsy nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being in such a state of rage.”

  “Did she hit you or threaten to hit you?”

  “No. I thought she might hit me, but instead she went after Irene, pushed a spinner rack over at her.”

  “Deliberately, or accidentally?” Mike had brought out his notebook and was writing in it.

  “Oh, deliberately. She was furious at her, I’m not sure why. I was frightened and so was Irene. Godwin was ready to defend us.”

  “Godwin? Really?” Mike clearly was amused by the idea.

  “He’s brave, Mike. Not macho, that’s not his style, but he’s far from a coward. He picked up a yardstick—not one of those flimsy things, but a nice thick one I bought at the State Fair last year. It can certainly be a weapon. He grabbed it and was prepared to use it to defend us. But Jill Larson came in, and you know Jill, she has this presence, and Joanne just ran out.”

  “What was she angry about?”

  “She said I was poking my nose in where it didn’t belong. I didn’t know who she was so I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then Irene said she knew her, and that’s when Joanne rushed at her.”

  “To try to prevent her from telling you who she was?”

  “Oh no; I think she hadn’t really noticed Irene until then and just resented her trying to be a part of the quarrel. I remember reading a phrase in a book long ago about someone being in an ‘ecstasy of rage.’ That seems to describe Joanne. I don’t think she was thinking, just acting.” Betsy thought briefly. “I wonder if she’s sane. Have you talked to her?”

  “No, but I’m going to.”

  “I heard that her husband reported a gun stolen two weeks before Hailey’s murder, and that it was the same caliber as the murder weapon.”

  Betsy could see Mike start to bristle. “Where did you hear that?”

  “From a reliable source.”

  Mike, tight-jawed, made a note, doubtless to check with everyone who knew. Betsy hoped he wouldn’t figure out Lars was the source. He said, “Okay, it’s true Pierce McMurphy used to own a semiauto that could be the right caliber, but he was in an all-day directors’ meeting in downtown Saint Paul on the day of the murder. They even had lunch brought in. There’s no way he could be our perp.”

  “Does Joanne know that?”

  “Know what? That he was at lunch?”

  “Know that he has a perfect alibi.”

  “I’m sure she does. Why?”

  “Because she may have been trying to protect her husband. Has she come on angry to you, too?”

  “It’s never a good idea to come on angry to a cop. I know she’s angry about something, but she hasn’t lost it with me.”

  “Does she have a perfect alibi, too?”

  Malloy frowned over his notebook page. “No. But she had no reason to murder Hailey Brent.”

  “What would Pierce’s motive have been?”

  “I don’t know if he had one, either. Once the alibi was confirmed, I stopped looking at him.”

  “But the gun—”

  “He called the police about the theft the day it happened. A report was filed.”

  “I assume the gun hasn’t turned up.”

  “You assume correctly. The money order was cashed; the video record showed it was a woman in her teens. The payee line was left blank, so all she had to do was put her own name on it. We identified her—she’s got a juvenile record—and she claims she found it in the pocket of a jacket she shoplifted.”

  “That sounds just crazy enough to be true.”

  Malloy nodded. “Especially since her record is for shoplifting, not for breaking into cars.”

  “Why would someone buy a money order and not put a name on the payee line?”

  “McMurphy said it was to be given to an individual at one of the companies his business serves, and he didn’t know how to spell the person’s last
name. The payee’s company was to be one of his stops the day it was stolen.”

  “So why would the thief, if it wasn’t the teenager, get rid of an easy three hundred dollars?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Has the GPS turned up?”

  “No. Maybe the thief needed one.”

  “Are you going to arrest Joanne?”

  “Not unless you want to sign a complaint. Ms. Potter doesn’t want to press charges. Which is probably not a bad decision.”

  “Then I don’t, either.”

  Malloy nodded, unsurprised. If Joanne were arrested, and then bailed out, she would almost certainly want to seek revenge. “But I plan to have a word with her. Maybe scare her some, make her consider being a little more polite in her dealings with people.”

  “Do you think talking to her will do that?”

  “Maybe. You don’t know until you try. But she should be made aware that her antisocial behavior is drawing official attention.”

  * * *

  ON Saturday morning, Amy Stromberg came in to pick up the Mark Parsons needlepoint canvas. Betsy had spent part of Friday morning pulling the yarns for it.

  “What an eye! What a mind the artist must have!” Amy said, holding it out at arm’s length. At first glance it looked like a set of repeating geometric patterns in red, blue, yellow, and green. Then came the realization that the red portion of the pattern was made up of angular geckos circling one another, that the notches into which the tiny feet fit were seen to be more gecko feet, and, finally, that the whole pattern was made up of geckos.

  “Very clever,” agreed Betsy.

  “This is going to look great in my entrance hall. People can stare at it while they’re taking off their coats. How far did you have to go to find it?”

  “Just to Needlework Unlimited. But I was lucky; Mark Parsons’ canvases are getting hard to find ever since he quit designing.”

  Betsy meant to take Saturday afternoon off to go to the Hailey Brent estate sale, but things got busy so it was half past three before she could get away. There were cars parked up and down both sides of the street from the house, though probably some of them were Green Gaia customers. Betsy found a place about half a block from the house and walked back.

  A sign directed her to the side entrance, but on her way back there her eye caught people wandering through the garden behind the house. She decided to go see what was happening. She found Philadelphia back there, sitting at a card table piled high with a fat stack of newspapers, a cheap cash box, and an assortment of trowels. A spade was leaning against the table.

  “Hi, Del, what’s all this?” asked Betsy.

  “We’re selling plants from Mother’s garden,” Del replied.

  Four women and a man were walking up and down the rows. One of the women carried a trowel.

  “It’s so early in the year, how can anyone tell what’s coming up?”

  “Trust me, they know. The only problem is, the tulips and daffs are finished, so they have to take potluck on the colors.”

  “And the newspaper—?”

  “Instead of pots. Three or four sheets will keep the roots intact until you get home.”

  “How’s the sale in the house going?”

  “Pretty well, actually. This is the slowest it’s been all day. The stuff in the dyeing kitchen went fast, which isn’t surprising. Ruth put the word out on a web log for dyers. We’ve been selling the furniture, too. One reason I’m sitting back here is so I don’t have to watch Mother’s bed or dining room set go out the front door.”

  “You could have kept the furniture in the house as part of the sale,” Betsy pointed out.

  “No, the woman I hired to sell the house is also staging it, and she says the probable buyers will already have furniture. And anyway, Mother’s furniture doesn’t match the look she’s going to try for in the staging.”

  “I thought the dining room furniture looked great.”

  Philadelphia shrugged. “I did, too, but she doesn’t like it. And she’s been staging homes for six years.”

  Betsy shrugged back. “When in doubt, follow the advice of experts.”

  “That’s right. Speaking of experts, how are you coming with your investigation?”

  Betsy grimaced. “Not so well. I’m collecting facts and speculation, but so far, nothing is pointing to a solid suspect.”

  “Is that usual in your cases?”

  Betsy sighed. “This one seems to be unfolding more slowly than usual, probably because I don’t know the people involved well at all. And I’m not a police investigator, so I can’t go ringing doorbells and insisting that people talk to me. But one reason I came here this afternoon is to ask for your brother’s phone number. I’d like to talk to him.”

  Philadelphia gave it to her, then Betsy asked, “Say, have you got any lily of the valley?”

  “Along the fence, near the maple. There’s a sickly hydrangea over there, too, that needs to be moved to a place in the sun.”

  “No, all I can use are shade plants. How much?”

  “For the lily of the valley? A quarter apiece.”

  That was less than she’d paid for the ones at Green Gaia. “Does Marge Schultz know what you’re doing back here?”

  “I don’t know, or care, particularly.” Philadelphia didn’t sound snotty or rude, just indifferent. “I’m trying everything I can to raise enough to pay what it’s costing me to get this house sold.”

  Betsy selected a trowel and took a thin section of newspaper over to the fence, which was made of broad, dark boards that had not been painted in years, if ever. The boards were damp along the bottom, green with moss. Glad she’d changed into an old pair of jeans, she knelt on the grass and began to dig up lily of the valley, most of which were showing stems lined with tiny white flowers. She inhaled their scent happily, then opened the newsprint and put the plants onto it. Someone was talking on the other side of the fence—Green Gaia property.

  The voice—it was a woman’s—was saying, “The blue spruce isn’t really blue, but a blue-green. By itself you’d think it was a dusty green. One way to make it look bluer is to plant a different variety of evergreen beside it, such as a fir or pine. I’m so glad you came!”

  “You know I’ll always come when you need me. Is this a safe place to talk?” The man’s voice was a slow, warm baritone. He was speaking barely above a murmur.

  Uh-oh, thought Betsy, who is that?

  The woman’s voice also dropped. “Over here in the woods? Of course it is. We can see anyone approaching from every direction.”

  Ah, Betsy knew now where they were standing: in the cluster of young trees that were bagged and potted, waiting for customers.

  “Good. Now, what’s the problem?”

  “I’m frightened. I need you to spend some time with me.” Good heavens, the woman was Marge.

  “Darling, we agreed that right now we have to be even more careful. I know it’s difficult. It’s hard for me, too. My wife seems to be extra demanding, almost as if she senses something’s wrong.”

  Oops, thought Betsy.

  “But nothing’s ‘wrong,’ that’s the problem!” Marge said. “Saying hello when we pass on the street isn’t enough! I want to get you alone, just the two of us, and be ‘wrong’ with you for hours!”

  “I feel like that, too, but we agreed, remember? No meetings.”

  “Yes, I know, I know. But it’s agony being near you.”

  “Then why did you call? We agreed we weren’t to see each other until after the divorce, unless it’s urgent—and I don’t mean what you think I mean!”

  Marge’s throaty chuckle made it clear that she knew what he thought she meant.

  Betsy, digging among the lily of the valley, was torn between creeping away and wishing there were a
chink in the boards so she could see who the man was.

  “But we need to talk about your divorce.” Marge’s tone had become practical.

  “There’s nothing to be done at present.”

  “That’s not true. Things are not improving; your life is becoming more difficult with her every day. I want to be there for you, but you have to make that important move soon.”

  A new voice spoke up, young and male.

  “Are you going to want some help moving a tree?” he asked.

  The man said, “Uh, yes, I want that blue spruce right here. But I parked my car way the hell and gone from here. If you’ll bring the tree to the gate, I’ll drive up and you can load it for me.”

  “Sure. I’ll just go get the wheelbarrow.”

  After a pause, the man said, “Now see what you’ve made me do! Where am I going to plant this thing?”

  Marge’s voice filled with laughter. “Darling,” she said, “I wish I’d thought of this ploy before! You’re improving my bottom line in a whole new way! Come on into the store and I’ll write this up.”

  Betsy looked down at the layers of newspaper and realized that while eavesdropping, she’d uprooted over twenty lily of the valley plants. Fortunately there was plenty of room for them in the back lot.

  It’s probably none of my business, but all the same, I wish I knew who Marge was talking to.

  * * *

  BETSY got back to her shop in time to help close up, then went upstairs to her apartment. She did a little housekeeping, some bookwork, fed the cat her evening pittance of Iams Less Active, then searched out the phone number of JR Brent, Philadelphia’s brother. Brent was at home, and at first he sounded puzzled by her request for an interview.

  “Who are you?” he kept asking, then at last a light dawned. “Oh, you’re the woman who owns that store that sells embroidery hoops! I’ve heard about you. And no, I’m not interested in talking to you. I think the police are doing a fine job.”

  And that was that.

  Eleven