Knitting Bones

by Ferris, Monica

  Betsy turned off the burner on her stove. “So you are relatively sure this Stoney Durand is actually Bob Germaine?”

  “Not relatively: positively!”

  Betsy grimaced and shook her head. “What a shock this is going to be for poor Allie!”

  Godwin’s cheer dimmed considerably. “Yes. And while there’s no need to tell her this, some of the people who say they know him aren’t as sweet as I am.” He waggled his eyebrows to underline this.

  Betsy’s heart sank and she sighed. Then hunger prodded, and she turned back to the pan. She couldn’t eat right from the stove with Godwin looking and so was at a loss.

  Then he was beside her, putting a bowl on a plate, pouring the soup into it. “Crackers?” he asked.

  She nodded toward them on the counter, and he took a few from the package and set them on the plate. The second drawer he opened held her silverware—he found it before she realized what he was looking for and told him where to look.

  “This way,” she said and went to the little dining nook at the other end of her kitchen.

  She bumped her foot against the table leg and sat down with a grimace of pain she hoped he didn’t see. He put the soup in front of her. “But he’s still missing,” she said. “You said no one’s seen him for at least a week.”

  “That’s right.” Godwin went back for a napkin, then sat across from Betsy, watching as she crumbled a cracker into the bowl. “But I did find out the important thing, right?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.” Her ankle was throbbing.

  “Do you think he stole the money to spend on his secret life?” He filched a cracker off her plate and nibbled at a corner of it.

  “Do you think he thought he could just ride off with the check and no one would come after him for it?” retorted Betsy.

  “Maybe he thought no one would go looking for him. You know, not guess he’s gay.”

  “If he didn’t want people to guess, he shouldn’t go making eyes at handsome young men until he’s away from the hotel.” Betsy knew she was sounding grumpy, but now her whole leg ached. “Did anyone see the look you two exchanged?”

  Godwin preened a little and touched his blond hair at the back. “I don’t know, I wasn’t looking anywhere but at him. But I see what you mean.”

  “So you see how something’s very wrong about this.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong. I’m thinking he met the love of his life a month or two ago and now they’re starting all over again somewhere far from here.”

  “What are they living on then? Allie Germaine says he hasn’t emptied their bank accounts. If he was willing to steal a check, you’d think he’d take at least some money from their joint accounts.”

  “Maybe the love of his life is rich.”

  “So why steal the check?” Betsy asked.

  Godwin considered that a few moments. Then he said, “Maybe it was like a good-bye thing, taking that check. Good-bye to his job, good-bye to his wife, good-bye to everything and everyone who thinks they know him. Taking the check meant he was burning his bridges. He can’t come home again now.”

  Betsy considered that. There was an ugly logic to it. A man living a lie decides to come out of the closet—and makes sure he can’t go back in again. “It’s hard to believe Allie could be so wrong about her husband. They have children—two or three, I think—and the oldest is in high school, right?”

  “Two, and I think both are in high school,” said Godwin.

  “She said they’d been married sixteen years. That’s a long time to carry off a lie, don’t you think?”

  Godwin shrugged. “It happens.” He leaned forward and repeated more strongly, “I know for a fact that it happens.”

  “All right. But is it even remotely possible Stoney Durand is not Bob Germaine? That we’re not talking about the same man here?”

  The intensity of her look and voice made him squirm just a little. He said, “Look, I described him as best I could, and only two people named someone else—and one of them took it back when his friend said no, it was more likely Stoney Durand I was talking about.”

  “And the other person, the one who didn’t take it back?”

  “He said I was describing Al Gore.” Godwin snickered. “I said, ‘In your dreams,’ and he said—” Godwin sighed romantically, and drawled, “‘Yeah.’”

  Betsy sighed, but not romantically. She shifted slightly on the chair. Her leg was like a bad toothache.

  “But you see,” Godwin continued, “the consensus is, it’s Stoney Durand. We both know the man I saw at the banquet is Bob Germaine. So I’m positive the man I asked everyone about is really Bob Germaine.” Her doubting face made him uncomfortable. “I would have taken that photo from the newspaper with me, but it was such a bad picture. Could you ask Mrs. Germaine if she has a better picture? I’d ask her, but if she wanted to know more about why I want one, I might forget and tell her where I’ve been looking.”

  “Didn’t they take pictures at the banquet?” asked Betsy.

  “Some people at the tables did. You can just imagine how awful they are, with those little flashes, and too far away to do any good. But I didn’t see them do that posed thing, where they hold on to a check big as a coffee table and smile pretty.”

  Betsy said, “I think the decision to send an exec from the National Heart Coalition came too late to have that humungous check made.”

  “How do you cash a check like that?” asked Godwin, diverted. “Can you imagine trying to put it in the car? Wouldn’t it be funny to watch someone trying to get it through the door of the bank? Could you still cash it if it was in two or more pieces?” He grinned and popped the remainder of his cracker into his mouth.

  “They aren’t real checks,” said Betsy, dipping her spoon into the bowl. “It’s just for show. I remember reading somewhere that the real check is the normal size.” She took a mouthful of broth and noodles, then put the spoon down. Pain had taken her appetite away.

  Godwin asked, “Did you talk to the police about what they’re doing?”

  “Oh, yes. I called Jill, and she called the investigator on the Minneapolis police force in charge of the case. His name is…O-something. Orrick? He told Jill his investigation is going nowhere. Germaine, he said, seems a very unlikely thief, but he is their only suspect. Jill told me he said it’s because of the eyewitnesses.”

  “What about them?” Godwin asked.

  “There are too many to doubt, and they’re all telling the same story. They heard him make the speech, watched him put the envelope with the check into his pocket, and some of them walked him out to his car. So that part is clear. Orrick thinks it possible Bob Germaine got carjacked, but if so, where is he?”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?” asked Godwin.

  Betsy repeated Allie Germaine’s story about her husband going for a drive after the speech. “Jill said Allie told that to Orrick when they first talked to her, and that Orrick put out a call to law enforcement in the five-county area to look for signs of a car going off the road, and to check ravines and rivers for a light blue Lexus. But nothing so far.”

  “So maybe the car is on its way to New Mexico, driven by Bob Germaine. And in the passenger seat is this good-looking older guy with big bucks.”

  “Why older and good looking?” asked Betsy, thinking Godwin had someone in mind.

  “Why not?” said Godwin with a shrug, reaching for another cracker. “It’s just that when I think of someone breaking loose at last, running off with a new lover, he’s rich, handsome, and has these beautiful silver streaks in his dark, wavy hair.”

  TONY Milan sat on his dilapidated couch, his left leg in its dark canvas-and-metal brace resting on the stained old coffee table the landlord had probably rescued from the sidewalk. What a dump, he thought.

  Beside him was a black plastic bag containing the stuff he’d brought home from the hospital. He’d already dug out the pain meds they’d given him, but he was still resting from getting f
rom the curb into his garden apartment. He was afraid that if he didn’t gather his strength before he stood to go into his bedroom, he might fall. And he was afraid that if he fell, he wouldn’t be able to get up—his broken arm and leg were on the same side, plus his overall bruises and scrapes made even ordinary movement painful. He wished he’d accepted pissant Mitch’s offer to help him into his apartment, even at the risk of seeing the packed suitcase inside the door. And the passport and airline ticket to Madagascar sitting on top of it.

  Maybe it was just as well. Mitch thought he’d be coming back to work—and maybe he was. The airline ticket was no good anymore.

  Anyway, he had no reason to run now, did he? He frowned over that for a while. Because he had been stealing checks from the mail room and depositing them in a special account he’d set up. There was absolutely no sign from Mitch that he, Tony, was suspected in that way. Of petty theft, maybe—but Tony hoped with all his heart that there were other petty thieves at the Heart Coalition, because a sudden stop to all theft during his hospitalization would be all the proof they needed of his guilt.

  Thinking about his check-stealing scam brought up the question again: What happened last Friday? Tony had a good-enough plan to get hold of that check written by EGA. Okay, both Mr. Germaine and the check were gone—but why assume Germaine and the check had gone together? Maybe Tony had the check. His car accident may have been just that, an accident, with no link to the theft of the check. After all, no one said they’d found this big check written to the Heart Coalition in a pocket—they did search his pockets, didn’t they?

  Whoa!

  Tony stopped thinking while he ripped open the black plastic bag that contained his personal effects. A big brown envelope contained his cell phone, his good ID bracelet with the flat links, a nice gold watch with a leather band—which he’d never seen before—and his wallet, which itself contained his driver’s license, Social Security card, two credit cards. And $147, which was a lot more than he remembered, but nowhere near $24,000. In the big envelope was also a little brown envelope containing about two dollars in loose change, a small brass key with the number 36 written in ink on a strip of white tape on it, and a pair of what looked like real-gold cuff links. The change he remembered, but not the key or the cuff links. He put them aside and continued pulling things out of the bag. Up came a white dress shirt, covered with dried blood. His blood. It was odd to look at that and think that huge amount of blood had come out of him. He touched the big bandage on his head tenderly.

  Hold on, he owned a white dress shirt, but he hadn’t worn it to work last Friday. And this one had French cuffs, which his didn’t. That explained the cuff links, in a way. But why had he been wearing someone else’s dress shirt and cuff links? Had he gone to a drunken hot tub party and put on the wrong shirt after? He smiled at himself—that would have been a typical accidental-on-purpose “mistake” for him. And it would explain the watch, too. But he had no memory of a hot tub party, and, in fact, didn’t currently know anyone with a hot tub. He picked up the cuff links. They were plain, a small square sitting on a bigger square, and not new; but the weight and shine suggested high-carat gold. He put them down again, more respectfully. The watch was only a Bulova, but the strap looked like real crocodile. Taken from the same person who owned the shirt and cuff links?

  In the bottom of the bag, in a big wad, was a black suit. He pulled it out. It was torn, cut, stiff with what was probably more dried blood, and here and there, caught in the folds, were a very few little cubes of glass. Oh, windshield glass, sure.

  But the suit was once a very nice one. And it wasn’t his. Tony didn’t own a black suit.

  He went through the pockets anyhow and didn’t find the check. Had he left it at the party? In the car? Did the people who towed wrecked cars away go through them looking for valuables?

  Wait a second, maybe he’d deposited it. He opened his cell phone and was pleased to find he had turned it off, so when he turned it on, it had a charge. He thought a few moments, then dialed a number that connected him to First Express Bank’s automated service. He had a checking account there that would give the Heart Coalition a fit if they knew about it, and he loved not having to talk to a person who might later remember his call. Some more numbers and he got the balance on the National Heart Fund account he’d set up: “Four thousand four hundred thirty-two dollars,” the female robot voice told him.

  He disconnected. Okay, he hadn’t deposited the check.

  Maybe Mr. Germaine had it after all. Tony felt a stab of anger. He hoped Germaine was found and sent to jail. That would teach him to steal from Tony Milan!

  Tony cast about for something to do. He wasn’t able to go out of his little apartment and had always been careful not to let anyone know where he lived unless absolutely necessary. His home was a den, a place of safety, and the wise predator didn’t leave hints to its location. So he couldn’t invite anyone over.

  His bank had his address, as did the bank unwittingly taking part in the Heart Fund scam. Some Heart Coalition employees also knew where he lived; for instance, the two women in Personnel and the pissant.

  But no one else. Well, except the Domino’s Pizza that he sometimes ordered a delivery from. He drew a lonesome sigh. But hold on, no need for a pity party. Tony could still talk to people, couldn’t he? Some of his friends must be wondering why they hadn’t seen him in a while.

  Tony picked up the cordless phone on the coffee table, thought a few moments, then dialed. A male voice answered, and Tony said, “Hey, Billy, it’s me, Stoney Durand!”

  Seven

  JILL was preparing Emma Elizabeth for bed.

  “I do it!” shouted Emma from inside the nightgown, her little fists grabbing at the fabric. Jill immediately let go and Emma began a struggle to find the neck hole and get her head through it. She pulled at random, and when she couldn’t find the opening she began bouncing with impatience, which didn’t help.

  Jill, amused, continued to refrain from helping, but she could not entirely smother a giggle. Emma stopped, listening to the sound. Her tiny nose could be seen in outline through the fabric, pointed at the ceiling. Jill laughed.

  Emma laughed uncertainly. “I silly?” she asked.

  “No, darling, you’re not silly, but you look silly with your teeny nose.” Jill reached out and touched it lightly with a forefinger.

  Emma collapsed as if the touch had been a blow. “Nose silly!” she shrieked. “Toe silly!” She kicked upward inside the nightgown, pressing her toes into the fabric, laughing heartily.

  At other times Jill would have begun a hilarious search for the toddler’s silly toes and nose, but it was already a little past Emma’s bedtime and no time to get her daughter even more excited. Instead she began to sing a song about a farmer named MacDonald, and while at first Emma shouted with every verse that what old MacDonald had on his farm was a nose, pretty soon she was agreeing that here and there the chicken was going cluck-cluck and the pig oink-oink. Soon she allowed her mother to help her get the nightgown on. In ten minutes, she was asleep.

  Jill went out into the living room and sat on the couch beside her husband with a little sigh.

  “It only gets worse,” said Lars, affably. “Pretty soon it’s drinks of water and ‘God bless Mommy’ and just one more story.”

  “And how do you know all this?” she asked in a chilly voice, and then was alarmed at how real it sounded. But she saw him catch the slight twinkle in her eyes, and her alarm faded.

  “I remember from when I was a baby,” he said, and stuck his tongue into his cheek.

  She made a skeptical face at him.

  “Okay, my mother said my baby brother was just like me, and I remember him being like that.”

  They sat in smiling silence for a few moments. Then Lars said, his massive brow corrugating in an effort to be diplomatic, “Hon, have you been thinking about going back to work?”

  “Not really, why? Do we need the money?” She wondered if he had
another costly purchase in mind—he was prone to costly, work-heavy enthusiasms.

  “No, no, we’re doing all right.” Which at least meant his current hobby, a 1912 Stanley Steamer automobile, hadn’t done anything expensive to itself lately.

  “Well, why do you ask, then?”

  “You’ll think this is dumb, prob’ly, but yesterday I opened the suitcase on the top shelf of our closet because I forgot what it was doing up there, and I found it was full of Em’s baby clothes. And a smell came out of them, just like she smelled when she was new, and all of a sudden I thought how nice it would be to have another baby.”

  He wasn’t looking at her when he said this. Afraid she might laugh at him, she thought. “And you think perhaps the choice for me is either going back to work or having another baby?” This time the chill in her voice was not faux.

  “No, no!” he hastened to say. “No, what I was thinking was that maybe you were thinking about going back on the cops. Because I know you miss it. But if you’re not thinking about it, maybe you could think about a baby brother or sister for Em.”

  He still was looking away. So he missed the look of compassion she gave him. Back before they married, they’d agreed they wanted a big family, at least four children. But Emma was more expensive and a whole lot more work than either had anticipated. Most of the labor fell on Jill—which was okay, because it was her choice. And she loved it. Mostly. And just lately she had been thinking that one wasn’t enough. It was kind of nice that dear Lars was thinking so, too.

  Her silence drew his attention, and he turned to look at her, his pale gray eyes looking into her light blue ones. They both started smiling at the same time.

  GODWIN was watching an old movie on cable. It was Bette Davis month, and she was starring in The Petrified Forest. Bette Davis, he reflected, had been a terrific actress, sweet and vulnerable in some roles, defiant and angry in others, ironic and sarcastic in still others. Whatever the role called for, there she was, living it, graceful or clumsy, defensive and vulnerable, snotty, witty, beautiful—sometimes even homely, but always true to the role.