Knitting Bones

by Ferris, Monica

  “Sure, fine. See you then.”

  THEY were in Betsy’s apartment, which despite the dust and clutter retained its cozy elegance. The living room was carpeted in a deep red, with triple windows draped in chintz, some of whose flowers reflected the color of the carpet. There were standard lamps and a glass-fronted cabinet full of porcelain collectibles. There was a lamp with an angled lampshade standing behind an upholstered chair, beside which stood Betsy’s carpetbag of needlework.

  Godwin sat in the chair, Jill stood beside the lamp, and Betsy half-reclined on the couch in her rumpled flannel robe. Rain tapped lightly on the windows.

  They’d been talking for a while about sleuthing techniques. Betsy was saying, “Goddy, it’s important to have some purpose in mind, and to think up some of the questions you need answered to accomplish that purpose, before you to talk to Sharon’s mother—or anyone, for that matter.”

  He nodded. “Okay—and I do, right? I want to find out if anyone else saw Bob Germaine smile at me, or if maybe he even winked at some other man.”

  Betsy and Jill both sighed. “No, Goddy,” Jill said patiently. “You want to find out if they saw Bob Germaine at the banquet. You want to find out who, if anyone, walked with him all the way to his car. You want to find out what Bob said or did that they themselves saw or heard. You do not hint that you think Bob is gay, you let them tell you they think he was behaving gaily—” She stopped short and said, “Is that the right word, gaily?”

  “No,” said Godwin, “but never mind, I know what you mean.”

  “Okay. No trick questions, and don’t let them know the answer you want.”

  “That’s right,” said Betsy. “Let the people you’re talking to answer in their own way. And if they say something that doesn’t confirm what you think happened—in fact, especially if it contradicts what you think happened, it’s important to listen very closely. Don’t even hint that you think they’re mistaken or lying, but do ask questions that will allow them to give you lots of details and reasons why they think it happened the way they’re describing.”

  Godwin nodded again. “Okay, I got that part.”

  “Good. Wherever the conversation leads, you just follow along and see where you end up. It may give you a whole new perspective on your theory because they are going where you thought they would go, only they have to get there a different way. Or you may end up some place you never dreamed of, some place where all your assumptions are proved wrong.” Betsy reflected a moment. “All this sounds complicated. But do you understand?”

  Godwin shifted a bit in the comfortable chair. “I think so. The thing is, sleuthing is not what I thought it would be. You told me you just ask questions and sort through what people answer and the solution pops up out of that. But I’ve seen TV shows and movies where some detective starts out knowing who the bad guy is and is out to prove it.

  Jill snorted softly. “You want to know something? There’s been exactly one television show that is close to accurate about a cop’s life: Barney Miller. And if you want to laugh, tell a person who works in forensics that you’ve learned a lot from CSI.”

  Godwin grimaced, then nodded. “Okay, it’s not like on TV.”

  “It’s not all wrong,” said Betsy. “Now that I’ve been sleuthing for a while, I can read what you might call the subtext of all that fiction. All this is there—it’s just not spelled out. Because it’s the boring part. If they did a TV show about a famous needlework designer, they’d leave out all the hours of pushing the needle in and pulling it out, I’m sure.”

  Godwin chuckled. “They’ll never do a show like that, because if they left out the stitching, there’d only be fifteen minutes of show. What else?”

  “Would anyone like a cup of tea or hot cocoa?” asked Jill.

  “Me,” said Godwin promptly. “Earl Grey tea.”

  “Me, too, thank you,” said Betsy. “Cocoa.”

  Jill went into the kitchen.

  Betsy said, “When you’re figuring out your questions, try to put them in chronological order. When did they get to the convention, did they stay at the hotel, did they have tickets to the banquet, where did they sit, like that. Take them through step-by-step.”

  “Okay, but what if I want to talk about who they saw at the banquet and they want to talk about something totally different? Like the new stitch they learned in a class?”

  “If it’s obvious they aren’t answering your question, politely pull them back on task, and ask it again. If they still won’t answer it, write that down. It may be important.”

  “But maybe—oh, wait, I get it! If they’re evasive, there might be something they don’t want to tell me, and a serious reason for that! Well, sure, that makes sense. You even told me once you draw conclusions not just from what they say, but what they don’t say. You are brilliant!”

  Betsy tried not to preen, and Jill poked her head out of the kitchen to say, “Now, let me tell you how you’ll know if someone is lying to you.”

  “Oh, honey, you don’t get to be my age and gay without having about ten thousand lessons in that.” Godwin looked sad about that, but briefly. Then he smiled. “The good part is, my lie-dar works at least as well as my gaydar.”

  “That’s true,” said Betsy, who had seen him shame a patron trying to return a book or needlework gadget as unused with a mere knowing glance.

  Jill came back with a tray holding three steaming cups—she’d made cocoa for herself. She put the tray on the coffee table, handed the cups around, and said to Godwin, “Just to comfort my heart, how about you tell me some of the ways you know someone is lying to you.”

  “Well, for example, someone’s been looking at me but now he looks away before he answers the question. Or, he leans forward and looks deep into my eyes, which he wasn’t doing before. If we’re talking and he lifts one hand and says, ‘I swear to God’ or ‘on my life’ or ‘my mother’s grave,’ the rest of that sentence is a lie.” Godwin’s eyes rolled upward as he thought, then he took a sip of tea and said, “If he says, ‘Would I lie to you?’ he probably will. If he says, ‘Trust me,’ especially if he touches me on the arm while looking into my eyes as he says it, I don’t. If he gets furious when I doubt his story, it’s a lie. If he suddenly gets up and walks around while telling me this part of his story, that’s because he can’t maintain eye contact while he lies. Which brings us back to the first way, doesn’t it?” He smiled at Jill. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Not so far,” said Jill, hiding a smile behind her cup of cocoa.

  Betsy asked, “Did you notice any of those signs in the people you were asking if they’d seen Bob Germaine flitting through under a false name?”

  “No,” said Godwin promptly. Then he frowned. “But I wasn’t thinking any of them might be lying. Anyway, this is not the same thing, Betsy. I know Bob Germaine is gay.”

  Betsy and Jill did not reply and after a few moments Godwin said humbly, “But that’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? My not jumping to conclusions?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Betsy.

  “Maybe I should go talk to them again?”

  “Yes, but not right now,” said Betsy. “You need to talk to Sharon’s mother, first. What’s her name, anyhow?”

  “Ramona,” said Godwin. “Ramona Tinsmith.”

  Betsy said, “Tinsmith, that’s a nice name. After you talk with Mrs. Tinsmith, I’d like you to see if you can contact any of Bob Germaine’s coworkers.”

  “He’ll need an excuse for that,” said Jill.

  “The truth will do, I think,” said Betsy. “We’ve been asked to investigate his disappearance by his wife.”

  “Something else,” said Godwin. “I want to get a better photograph of Bob from Allie before I go back to my friends at the Eagle. Is there anything you want me to tell her?”

  “Oh, I wish there were!” exclaimed Betsy unhappily. “I can’t figure this out without listening to people!” She clenched her fists. “I wish I could get out and
talk to people myself. I wish I could get down to my shop! I feel so useless up here!”

  Godwin hastened to say, “You’re not useless! You’re giving me good advice right now. And, I come up here all the time with questions and the latest gossip from the shop. Which reminds me: A couple members of the Monday Bunch want to know if they can meet up here.” He leaned forward and added in a confidential tone, “Bershada says when she broke her ankle, all her friends came around and cleaned her house for her, and she wants to know if the Bunch can do it for you on Monday.”

  Betsy, who had looked around her dusty, disordered apartment in a kind of panic at the prospect of the Monday Bunch visiting, turned now to Godwin and burst into grateful tears.

  RAMONA Tinsmith was shorter and stockier than her daughter, but otherwise she looked very much like her. She had even dyed her hair the same light brown color. She was wearing a silky green housedress and old-fashioned white Keds.

  Her voice was deeper and warmer than Sharon’s, and her blue eyes were surrounded by attractive laugh lines. She invited Godwin into her immaculate little kitchen, done all in black and cream, and without asking poured him a mug of coffee, then poured a second for herself. She sat down at a tiny round glass table in a corner and gestured at him to sit, too.

  “Thank you,” Godwin said. He got out a little notebook—it had a flowered fabric cover and sewn-in pages—then, seeing she seemed to be waiting for something, politely took a sip of the coffee.

  “Milk? Sugar?” Ramona asked, rising. All of a sudden she was avoiding his eyes, which was making him uncomfortable.

  “No, this is fine. Good coffee.” Godwin took another sip. Since he rarely drank plain coffee anymore—he liked Starbucks’s half-caff triple grande nonfat caramel macchiato with whipped cream and nutmeg powder, with one Sweet’n Low and one NutraSweet—he didn’t know if he was lying or not. “Please, sit down. This won’t take long, and it won’t hurt a bit.” He chuckled. “I sound like my dentist.”

  Ramona smiled and relaxed into her chair. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit nervous. Yesterday I was completely sure, but today not so much.”

  Godwin let his mouth drop open in amazement. “I know exactly what you mean! I’m liable to say just about anything—until I see someone with a tape recorder or a notebook. Then I start dropping ‘almost,’ ‘maybe,’ and ‘some people think’ all over the place!”

  Ramona’s laugh lines deepened as she lifted her chin and laughed. “You are so right! I’ve been getting more and more nervous about you coming over and asking questions, until by the time you got here I was almost ready to pretend no one was at home.” She took a deep breath. “But I’m over that now.”

  “Good,” said Godwin. He found the pen in a shirt pocket and clicked out the point. “Sharon said you had something to tell me about the EGA banquet.”

  “Yes.” Ramona nodded, then leaned forward. “I don’t think that was Bob Germaine up there accepting the check.”

  Godwin had begun writing this down, but stopped halfway. “Oh, now—” he began, and stopped. Betsy and Jill had leaned on him about this, hadn’t they? And he’d resented it just a little bit. After all—now, now. After all, maybe they were right.

  He cleared his throat and began again. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  Eleven

  AT noon the next day, Godwin went to the Sol’s Deli next door and ordered a thick beef-on-rye sandwich with lettuce and tomato, a side of potato chips, two milks, and an extra pickle. He took the paper bag with him upstairs and tapped on Betsy’s door. “Come in,” she called in a slightly odd voice.

  “Hello, hello, hello!” he said brightly, putting on a smile for her. But when he came in and saw her sitting in her overstuffed chair, wearing a silver peignoir that tumbled in lace over her knees, her hair washed and combed, her lips colored, the smile turned real.

  Her head was turned slightly away as she tucked her knitting needles into a small ball of orange yarn. When she turned to look at him, he saw she was ashen, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He went at once to kneel at her feet. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing, nothing. Don’t I look better?”

  “You. Look. Mahhhh-velous! Except around the eyes. There you look like you’re hurting.”

  “Well, I am, a little. I’m cutting back on the pain meds. And see how it helped? I’m no longer lying like a beached walrus on the couch, I’m sitting up and taking notice. And noticing what I’ve been missing. For example, the fact that the ‘squares’ I’ve been knitting for the African blanket are not exactly squares.” She lifted the needles, which held a shape probably best described as a parallelogram.

  Godwin was surprised into a snort of laughter. He reached and took the piece from her. “Well…” he said, thinking rapidly. “Maybe you could do a lot of these odd shapes, and put them together in a kind of patchwork, and it would look as if you meant to do them this way.” He looked closer, at the random increases and decreases, the dropped stitches and yarnovers, and handed it back. “Or not,” he concluded, getting to his feet. But he was still smiling.

  Betsy looked up mournfully at his smiling face. “Oh, Goddy.” She sighed. “If I’d known how much trouble breaking a leg could be, I never would have done it!”

  Godwin began to think she was still taking a few too many pills, then he saw her smile, and the two laughed heartily.

  “Okay,” said Betsy, when they’d caught their breath, “what did you find out?”

  “Lunch first.” He opened the bag and brought out the sandwich, offering half to her and draping a big paper napkin across her lap. He waited until she had taken a bite of her half and nodded in pleasure before he said, “First, I found out that your advice on interviewing people was really good. Thank you, thank you, thank you—and Jill, too.”

  Betsy waved the sandwich half impatiently. “Yes, yes, you’re welcome. But—”

  He interrupted, “Second, Ramona thinks it wasn’t Bob Germaine who stole the check.”

  Betsy frowned at him. “Who does she think stole it?”

  “Some other man. I mean, she thinks the man who gave the thank-you speech at the banquet wasn’t Allie Germaine’s husband.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

  The frown deepened. “Does she have any idea who this man was?”

  He swallowed and replied, “Not a clue. But she says she saw Bob Germaine at the hotel restaurant the day before—someone pointed him out to her, he was having lunch with his wife—and that the man up on the dais at the EGA banquet didn’t look like the same man.”

  There were sparkles of interest in Betsy’s eyes. “Now we’re getting somewhere! I wonder if she could be right? But how would someone even think he could get away with a stunt like that?” Now she had that look she got when hot on the trail. “Wait, what we still need—” She leaned forward eagerly, then winced. But she waved the pain away to continue, “Who agrees with her about this?”

  “Nobody. Ramona said she hasn’t told anyone but her daughter.”

  “Why not?”

  Godwin ate a potato chip thoughtfully. “I think because she’s waiting for someone else to bring it up, and nobody has. So she isn’t sure she’s right.”

  Betsy was disappointed. “So it’s not a rumor spreading around?”

  “Nobody’s come into the shop to tell me—and you know our shop is like a side room off Gossip Central.” Godwin meant the Waterfront Café, where people met to eat lunch and dish.

  Betsy, sipping milk through a straw, lowered her little carton to muse aloud. “But surely there were people at the banquet who know Bob. If the man who took the check wasn’t Bob, how come nobody else noticed? Like, for example, the people who handed the check over?”

  “Well, the woman who was supposed to hand the check over was at that meeting with Allie and the other officers of our local EGA—and with officers of other EGA chapters, plus the Regional officers.”

  Distracted, Betsy asked, “What was that meeting about?”


  “I don’t know, they haven’t told us. Which means it’s bad news, an increase in dues or something like that.” Godwin swung back on topic. “Allie doesn’t bring Bob along to many EGA events, you know.”

  Betsy took a pinch of potato chips. “Yes, that’s right. So whoever took his place probably looked enough like him, height, coloring, build, that the people there just took it for granted it was Bob.”

  “But how did the imposter know Bob’s wife wouldn’t jump up and say, ‘What did you do with my husband?’”

  Betsy grimaced. “Yes, of course. That kind of makes Ramona’s story a mistake, doesn’t it?”

  A little silence fell. Betsy chewed a bite of her sandwich moodily.

  Godwin said, “But it’s about the only alternative we’ve got, isn’t it? Either Bob Germaine is a crook or it wasn’t Bob who accepted the check.”

  Betsy said, “And Allie has asked us to find out the truth. When we do, that may tell us where Bob is.”

  Godwin thought about that and felt a little stab of dismay. “No matter what, this doesn’t look good for Bob, does it?”

  Betsy sighed. “No.” She dusted her hands onto her napkin. “All right, if anyone comes into the shop who was at the banquet, ask if they know Bob and what they thought of his acceptance speech at the banquet. Don’t ask if they think it wasn’t Bob at all, just see if they come up with that notion all by themselves.”

  They talked awhile more, then Godwin had to get back downstairs. Betsy had drawn up a grocery list and Godwin took it with him. Lots of fresh fruit and vegetables on it, he noted with a fond, brotherly interest. But he added “yogurt” and “calcium supplement” at the bottom; Betsy had probably just forgotten to write those down. She knew it was important to build strong new bone, but for him it was becoming urgent, too.

  He had thought sleuthing would be fun. Finding out that a great deal of time was spent being flummoxed was a big disappointment. He wanted her to take that job back from him.

  A total of three customers came in who had been at the EGA banquet. All of them were scandalized about the theft of the check, two of them already knew a stop-payment had been put on it, and none of them thought there was anything odd about the man who gave the brief, eloquent thank-you speech.