A Murderous Yarn

by Monica Ferris

  “No, it turned out I couldn’t get pregnant.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It turned out I couldn’t pick a good man to father them either, so it’s just as well. Are you close to your children?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. It’s going to be hard on them, losing their father all of a sudden like this. Broward and Bill were especially close, working together like they did.”

  “What sort of company is it?”

  “It’s called Birmingham Metal Fabrication. We make doors, metal doors, for houses and apartments, garages, and businesses. We sell to builders mostly. Broward’s been wanting to expand into window frames and maybe even siding. He’s very ambitious.”

  “Perhaps you could get back into sales, working for your son.”

  “Perhaps.” Charlotte let her head fall back on the headrest. “All that crying has given me a terrible headache.”

  Someone knocked on the window and Charlotte jumped. “What, what?” she cried. “Oh, it’s Adam!” She began to fumble with the door. “How do I roll the window down?” she demanded.

  Betsy pushed a button on her side, and the window slid down about eight inches. Adam’s anxious face peered in at them.

  “Hello, Betsy,” he said. “Charlotte, may I talk to you a minute?”

  “Is something else wrong?”

  “Well, I’m not sure.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure? What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

  Adam said uncomfortably, “Well, the medical examiner was there, he and the police looked at the scene, and they seem to think there’s something funny about what happened. Here—” Adam handed her a business card. “This is the medical examiner’s name and phone number. You can call him when you feel up to it, though he said he would be in touch anyway. He’s going to do an autopsy, and they’ve impounded the Maxwell.”

  “Something funny?” echoed Charlotte. “What could that mean?”

  “I have no idea, they wouldn’t tell me what they’re thinking.”

  “What could be funny about Bill’s dying in his car?” Charlotte turned to look at Betsy. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” said Betsy, afraid to say the word that was big in all their minds: Murder.

  7

  Monday morning, Betsy was preparing an order of stitched items to be sent to Heidi, her finisher. A Christmas stocking done on needlepoint canvas, stiff with metallic threads and beads, needed to be washed, stretched and shaped, cut out, lined, and sewn to a heavy fabric so it would be a proper stocking. A highly detailed counted cross stitch pattern of a Queen Anne house needed washing, stretching, and attachment to a stretcher before being matted and framed. There were five other items needing finishing, two to be made into pillows. Some needleworkers finished their own projects, but many turned to a professional. It was expensive, but gave a proper finish to a needlework project that its proud owner hoped would become an heirloom.

  Last on the list of items to be finished was an original Irene Potter. Name of owner: Betsy Devonshire. Betsy had gone to the art fair on Sunday—and been disappointed to find the amazing Columbus Circle Blizzard piece Irene had brought half-shyly to Crewel World had been sold. However, there were three other pieces on display, and Betsy, wincing only slightly, had written a check for a piece called Walled Garden, a riot of color and stitches about sixteen by sixteen inches, done in brightly colored wool, silk, ribbon, cotton, and metallics on stiff congress cloth. There was a pond in the center, worked in irregular half-stitches of blue silk and silver metallic floss. A single orange stitch suggested a goldfish in its depths. A rustic wooden bridge crossed the pond, leading to a winding path among daisies, azaleas, daffodils, lilies, and many other varieties of flowers, some invented, done with no regard to season or proportion or perspective. In the upper background, the waving limbs of mighty trees threatened to crush or climb the wall, which was braced here and there by slender young poplars. Outside the wall a hurricane raged. Within was a hot, strangely lit, tense silence.

  The work made Betsy feel she was looking into Irene’s mind, or perhaps Irene’s notion of the world. Whichever, it was a place both beautiful and frightening.

  “Oh, my God, what is that?” demanded Godwin, reaching for the piece.

  Betsy started to explain, then changed her mind. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s wonderful, it’s . . . what a garden must seem like to the plants. Who stitched this—no, who designed it?”

  “It’s another Irene Potter,” said Betsy. “I bought it at the art fair.”

  Godwin tenderly fingered the stitching of the garden wall, done in shades of red, garnet, and brown in a herringbone stitch that looked like bricks laid in Tudor fashion. The formal wall formed an orderly base for the tree branches tossing in bullion and wildly irregular continental stitches. In front of the wall were stiffly formal blooming shrubs worked in—what? He looked closer. Fancy cross? No, a variety of half-buttonhole.

  “I am humbled,” he said sincerely. “This is totally amazing.” He handed it back. “You’re having it framed, I assume.”

  “Yes, but in something severe, I think. Narrow cream mat, thin black frame? Because the work is so hot and wild.”

  “Sounds good.” Godwin looked around. “Where are you going to hang it?”

  “Upstairs. This isn’t a model. Irene says she can’t turn these pieces into patterns.”

  “Bosh,” retorted Godwin. “If she can stitch it, she or someone can make a pattern of it. They’d be difficult patterns, but not impossible ones. She just doesn’t want to share. I don’t blame her, I guess. Do you realize this confirms she’s turning into an artist with a capital A?”

  “Oh, yes. And so does she. You should have seen her at the fair, preening and talking with vast condescension to anyone who stopped to look at her work. But she’s earned the right, her work is wonderful. She brought nine pieces to the fair and sold all of them. Mr. Feldman is now taking her very seriously indeed; he was asking three or four thousand apiece.”

  “You paid how much?”

  “Thirty-five hundred for this. I know that’s a lot—”

  “She should have given you a discount.”

  “No, she shouldn’t. We’ve laughed too often at her expense. Besides, this is really wonderful. I think it’s worth the price. Plus, it’s only going to increase in value. Irene said the Walker Art Museum bought one, and a reporter from the Strib wants to interview her. If this keeps up, a local employer is going to lose the head of its shipping department very soon.”

  “Maybe I should bring them my résumé.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I am going to need a job with benefits. Betsy, I talked with John yesterday. He started shouting at me, right there in the restaurant—” Godwin sobbed once, gulped it back, and continued, “And I got hysterical and ran out. And . . . and he didn’t come after me. He just let me go!”

  “Oh, Goddy,” sighed Betsy, putting an arm around his shoulder.

  He suddenly twisted around to embrace her, soaking her shoulder with hot tears. “Betsy, what am I to do? I don’t know how I’m going to live without our darling house, and having wonderful clothes and traveling, and him taking care of me . . .” His voice trailed away, and then he pushed himself away to stare at Betsy aghast, his eyes still shining with tears. “Oh, my God! It’s happened. Donny told me it would happen, and it has!”

  “What’s happened?” asked Betsy.

  “The Golden Handcuffs! I don’t miss John, I miss all the things! John got me used to nice things, and now I’m upset because I’m losing the things, not because I’m losing John!”

  If Godwin hadn’t been so sincere, Betsy would have laughed at him. As it was, she couldn’t withhold a smile. “Oh, Goddy,” she sighed.

  “What?” he said, and when she didn’t answer at once, he demanded, “What? Tell me!”

  “Well . . . I’m afraid I always thought what you and John had
was an arrangement, not a relationship. Now I’ve only met John once, but he didn’t impress me as a very nice person. And I’ve never met anyone who seemed to actually like John. So I guess—” She broke off, afraid she was getting into dangerous waters. “Let’s not go there.”

  “No, no,” said Godwin, suddenly very serious, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know how to say it, or even whether I should say anything at all.”

  Godwin’s eyes gleamed, though his expression remained serious. “I think it’s important that you try to tell me anyway.”

  “Well, I’ve always known gay people, and some were friends. But I’ve never met a gay person before who was as much like the old stereotype of the gay man as you are. I’d gotten to thinking no real gay person was like that, until you came along. So . . . well, I sometimes wonder if it’s really you, either. I mean, I wonder if maybe I’ve never really met the real Godwin. I’ve wondered if this is a put-on, that you only pretend to be this person who is solely interested in clothes and parties and startling straight people. Now I like that fun and funny persona, and it’s extremely valuable here in the shop. But is this surface Godwin . . . perhaps too frivolous to be real? I sometimes wonder what you’re like when it’s late at night and you’re tired. Or what you might be like when the party comes to an end. I’ve never tried to dig into your personality, because I like the surface Godwin very much, and because that Goddy has been so useful to me. I wonder if that was wrong of me, because I think of you as a friend.”

  “And because maybe you were afraid that’s the only me there is?” asked Godwin with a little smile.

  “Not afraid, just wondering. You know me, I can’t help wondering if things are as they seem. But I don’t want you to feel you have to act serious just to make me think you’re deep.”

  Godwin shrugged. “I suppose there is another me down inside somewhere, but he’s not nearly as much fun as this upper me. Being the fun Goddy is fun. And it’s taken me a long way. Being serious is . . . serious. And not much fun. See how my vocabulary suffers when I try to be serious?” He grinned. “So that’s enough depth plumbing for today. Why didn’t you buy the Columbus Circle Blizzard piece?”

  “I couldn’t, it was the first thing sold on Saturday.” Betsy took Walled Garden back and held it in both hands. “But I like this one too.”

  “Speaking of Saturday—” began Godwin, but was interrupted by the electronic Bing! that announced the door to the shop opening.

  They looked up and saw a tall, very slender man standing just inside the door. He wore a lightweight gray suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. He looked to be close to sixty, with thin silver hair, a bit of a stoop, and a diffident, thoughtful expression somewhat at odds with his stuck-out ears and humorous narrow jaw.

  He glanced at Godwin, and took in his whole life story in a single intelligent look. His smile was friendly, with a hint of amusement in it.

  Godwin, not sure whether to be affronted, stood fast.

  Then the man looked at Betsy and the smile broadened into a sideways grin. “I bet you own this place,” he said in a reedy voice too young for his years, gesturing around with a large, thin hand.

  “That’s right,” said Betsy, wondering why alarms were sounding in her head. He certainly looked harmless enough. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I certainly hope so.” He came to the big desk, fumbling in an inside pocket for a slim wallet. Only it wasn’t a wallet, it was an identification holder. Opened, it told Betsy he was Detective Morrie Steffans, Minnetonka Police. “I’ve been talking with Mrs. Charlotte Birmingham, and she says you can confirm that she was with you most of Saturday.”

  Alarms now sounding loud indeed, Betsy said, “Why do you need that confirmed?”

  “Weren’t you with her when she was told there were unanswered questions about the death of her husband and the burning of his car?” He put the wallet away and brought out a thick, palm-size notebook and a ballpoint pen.

  “Yes—I take it some of the questions have been answered?”

  He grinned. He had very light blue eyes and good teeth. “I take it she hasn’t contacted you since she talked with me?”

  “Why should she contact me?” asked Betsy. “Will you tell me what this is about?”

  “Certainly, as soon as I get some basic information from you.” He took Betsy’s name, address, and phone number, then said, “It seems that the late Mr. Birmingham was shot in the chest before being put under that old car of his.”

  “Oh, my,” murmured Betsy. “How terrible.”

  “Shot?” echoed Godwin. “You mean he was murdered?” He said accusingly to Betsy, “You didn’t say there was anything funny about his death!”

  “I didn’t know there was, not for certain,” replied Betsy. “None of us did.” To Detective Steffans, she said, “So I take it the car didn’t catch fire by itself, either.”

  “That’s right, it was torched. A clumsy attempt was made to make it look like an accident, but this was clearly homicide.”

  “Or suicide,” suggested Godwin.

  Detective Steffans frowned at Godwin. “Why would someone crawl under a car, set it on fire, and then shoot himself?”

  “Oh,” said Godwin.

  Detective Steffans said to Betsy, “You talked with Mr. Birmingham?”

  “Yes, we exchanged a few words,” replied Betsy. “I was a volunteer for the Antique Car Club, and they assigned me the task of logging the arrival of the antique cars in Excelsior. I wrote down their number and time of arrival, and instructed the drivers to report to the booth. Mr. Birmingham didn’t say much, but I could see he was upset because his car was running badly, so I talked mostly with his wife, Charlotte. I did tell him reporters were here and might want to interview him, and he said he didn’t want to answer questions.”

  “Had you met Mr. Birmingham before?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re sure it was him.”

  “Well, Charlotte seemed sure, and she was his wife.”

  Steffans chuckled and made a note. “You’ve never met Charlotte before, have you?”

  “No. Are you going to tell me you don’t think the woman was Mrs. Birmingham?”

  “No, of course not. I’m at that stage of my investigation where I check everything. However, I am satisfied that it was Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham in the car. And I’m asking if it was during the halt in Excelsior that you and Mrs. Birmingham struck up an acquaintance.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, she came into my shop and spent a nice amount of money, and helped me log the drivers out of town when they left. Adam Smith asked her to assist me. She didn’t want to ride in the Maxwell anymore, because the engine running so rough made it jiggle, which upset her stomach.”

  Steffans nodded. “Leaf springs.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Leaf springs, from before shock absorbers. Smooth out the bumps, but can’t dampen the jiggle.”

  Betsy nodded. “All right. Anyway, Charlotte rode with me to St. Paul, and helped me again when we logged in the drivers on the return leg. Bill Birmingham’s Maxwell didn’t come in, and we didn’t hear from him, so after a while Adam left to drive the route looking for him. Charlotte sat with me in the booth in St. Paul until Adam called Ceil—that’s Lucille Ziegfield, a member of the club—and Ceil told Charlotte that Bill was dead. Charlotte was very upset, of course. I took her to my car—”

  “Why?” interrupted Steffans.

  “Because she was crying and people were staring. And we both were hot. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress and a big antique hat, so she was more uncomfortable than I was. So I took her to my car, started it, and turned on the air-conditioning, and we sat and talked until Adam Smith arrived to tell us that Bill’s body was taken for an autopsy because the police weren’t satisfied it was an accident. She left about half an hour later. Her son Broward came and picked her up.”

  “And you stayed
with her that whole time?”

  “Yes, she was in no state to be left alone. Broward came with his wife, who seems like a very nice woman. She kind of gathered poor Charlotte in and Broward drove them away.”

  “What was your impression of Charlotte Birmingham?”

  “I liked her. She seemed to be a nice person. Interesting company. Good needleworker. She’s really into this period thing; she not only wore the correct clothes for her ride, even the needlework pattern she was working was period.”

  “Did she seem to be upset or distressed in any way before you learned of Mr. Birmingham’s death?”

  “No. Well, she got worried when his car didn’t come in. And annoyed that he didn’t call on his cell phone to say where he was and what the problem was.”

  “You saw the two of them together, however briefly. What was her attitude toward her husband?”

  “Affectionate. Indulgent.”

  “ ‘Indulgent.’ That’s an interesting choice of word.” Steffans’s blue eyes searched her face, but not unkindly.

  “Is it? Well, maybe it is. I was just thinking of how she said something to him that showed she understood he was feeling grumpy and was willing to do her bit to make him feel better.”

  “What was that?”

  “When they first arrived in Excelsior, they stopped beside me. He was holding the steering wheel like grim death, jaw sort of set, because the car was misbehaving. And she said she was going to get out of the car and take off a layer of clothing—she was wearing an old-fashioned long white dress with a long coat over it—”

  “A duster, I think they’re called.”

  “Yes, that’s right, a duster. Well, she looked very hot in it, so it wasn’t surprising that she wanted to shed a few layers. He didn’t say a word, but then she didn’t get out, she said she’d ride with him up to the booth where Adam would tell them where to park. You know how people who have been married awhile can tell what the other one wants without him having to say a word? It was like that. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, so she agreed she’d stay with him and talk to Adam and anyone else. Even though he didn’t ask her to. She wasn’t grumpy herself about it, but kind of cheerful. So I guess that’s where ‘indulgent’ comes from.”