Hanging by a Thread

by Ferris, Monica

Her head came down. She was surprised at the question. “Yes, I think that’s most likely what happened. Abusive husbands, if they aren’t stopped, go further and further until at last they go all the way to murder. I have heard he has an alibi, but Mike Malloy was the investigator, and I’m afraid Mike is not always good at his job.”

  “Did you tell Foster what you suspected?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “But you do think Foster murdered Paul?”

  “I’m afraid that’s possible. That beating Paul was given before he was shot, that’s the kind of thing an angry man would do. I can well understand that anger, I was angry myself when I heard Angela was dead.” She was silent for a few seconds, then said bravely, because she was a good Christian and this went against her beliefs, “Betsy, if you find evidence that Foster killed Paul for murdering Angela, can I persuade you not to tell anyone? No matter how awful it is for Foster now, it would be far worse if he went to prison for murdering a man who badly needed to be killed.”

  Betsy said, as gently as she could, “I’m not sure it could be worse than what he’s dealing with now. Nor am I convinced he did it.”

  Alice’s homely face lit up. “Have you found something out?”

  “No, nothing concrete. But don’t you see? That’s why I have to keep looking. If he didn’t do it, the agony he’s been going through for these past years is a gross injustice. And it’s been hurting you as well, because you’re blaming yourself for being an accessory. Just ask yourself: How would you feel if you found out for certain Foster was innocent?”

  Alice blinked slowly, then nodded. “If you really could do that ... Oh my, what a tremendous relief to have that burden lifted! Yes, then I hope you will continue your investigation. And may God guide you in your efforts.”

  Betsy went back to her shop to find no customers, and Godwin in an interesting mood, cheeks pink and his movements somewhere between preening and strutting, as if he’d won a fight.

  “Guess who was here,” he said as soon as she hung up her coat.

  “Who?”

  “Foster Johns. Said he wanted to talk to you. But I sent him packing.” He snorted. “Don’t look at me like that! You’ve paid him for his services, and it’s not as if he was actually going to buy something!”

  “Goddy, he needed to talk to me—and I needed to talk to him!”

  “Say, you don’t believe that stuff Alice was putting out, that he didn’t murder anyone? No way, boss lady! Why, I’m sure that when you get to the real facts of this business, you’ll prove once and for all that he did murder Angela and Paul!”

  “That may be true,” retorted Betsy, “but I’m not setting out with that in mind! I don’t investigate with an eye to proving anything. I want to find out the truth. But that means, Goddy, that I need to talk to Foster Johns and anyone else I think can help. Which means you don’t run him, or anyone else you happen not to like, out of the shop!” Betsy, her own cheeks flaming, went to the back room to fix herself a cup of raspberry tea. She sat down at the little table in the rear of the shop to drink it and allow her blood to cool. She shouldn’t have snapped at him like that. Saying that was over the line, and she was ashamed of herself. But she wanted to talk to Foster and was annoyed Godwin had prevented that.

  And besides, Godwin had gone over his own line more than once lately. It was part of his attraction in the shop to be catty. His “gay bitchy” riff was amusing, and customers liked it; it made them feel sophisticated to realize he didn’t mean anything by it. And he had never been really cruel—though there had been a slightly unpleasant edge to his remarks lately. He was going through a bad patch—again—with his lover, she knew. That was enough to make anyone moody, but Godwin was in special circumstances.

  She thought about that. Godwin had begun as John’s “boy toy,” and played the sweet young thing to John’s mature protective instincts. The relationship had lasted far longer than was usual with these arrangements. John had seemed honestly in love with Godwin, and certainly Godwin loved him back. But Godwin’s growing signs of maturity were stressing the relationship.

  It was John’s continued support of Godwin that enabled him to work for minimum wages and no benefits at Crewel World, so these signs of strain bothered her. Godwin had been around long enough to know better than to put off customers, and—her own stress notwithstanding—she had to find a way to remind him of that without reducing him to tears or making him angry enough to quit. Godwin at his best was a tremendous asset, and his knowledge of needlework was too important to her to risk losing him.

  She heard the door signal go as someone came in, but Godwin, his voice only slightly too cheerful, took care of it.

  She had nearly finished her tea when he came and sat down across from her, a study in shame and gloom. “You don’t like me anymore,” he murmured.

  “Of course I like you!” she replied at once, and was unhappy to note the edge in her own voice.

  “Not really. You don’t talk to me anymore.”

  “But I do, I talk to you all the time!”

  “Not about important things. You didn’t tell me you were thinking of hiring a general contractor instead of finding a roofer yourself, for example. I could have warned you about Foster if you’d said something. And you haven’t been talking about Morrie. I have no idea how serious you two are. Are you perhaps thinking of selling the shop and moving to Florida with him?”

  “No. He wants me to, but I’m not giving up this business. I enjoy the independence too much.”

  He smiled in bright relief, and she suddenly realized that here was another source of his distress. “Oh, Goddy, I should have said something, shouldn’t I? Don’t worry about your job here. This job is yours as long as I’m here, and I have no intention of leaving.”

  He smiled. “That’s super! I’m relieved about that. Sad for Morrie, of course.”

  “Don’t be. He can continue to use that house in Fort Myers as a winter getaway, I’m sure.”

  “Well, at least in the winter then you’ll talk to me.” His eyes turned serious. “That’s what it is, right? You’ve got him to talk to, and that’s why you don’t talk to me anymore.”

  Betsy took a breath to deny that, found she was going to put it a trifle indignantly, and paused while she reconsidered her answer.

  “See? I knew it! You tell him things you don’t tell me!”

  Betsy began to laugh. “Well, of course I do! I imagine you tell John things you don’t tell me.”

  Godwin hesitated, then blushed deeply. “That’s not quite fair,” he remarked.

  “Neither of us is fighting fair,” agreed Betsy. “On the other hand, you have a point. I do confide in Morrie, and it’s made me confide less in my friends, particularly you and Jill.”

  “Are you going to marry Morrie?”

  “Not right now. That’s a question for the future, the distant future.” Godwin grinned in relief. “Anything else on your mind?”

  “Do you really think Foster Johns is innocent?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “How can you think that?”

  “Well, I talked with him. He wants me to investigate, Goddy. He’s heard that I’m good at sleuthing, and he offered me money to look into his case. Would a guilty man do that?”

  “Oh-kaaay,” Godwin drawled, not willing to concede she had a point.

  “Besides, Paul Schmitt really may have murdered Angela. He was very abusive to her.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  Betsy told him what both Foster and Alice had said about Angela being afraid, and what Foster had said Angela told him about Paul’s abuse.

  “Strewth!” said Godwin, taking it all in. “That’s incredible! Why didn’t anyone else notice it?”

  “Do you know, I think some may have. But Paul and Angela are dead and all anyone wants to remember is what a devoted couple they were.”

  “Yes, there is that tendency, isn’t there? But think, suppose Paul murdered Angela. Doesn�
��t that give Foster a super motive for murdering Paul?”

  “Yes, it does. But he has an alibi for Paul’s murder,” said Betsy. “Confirmed by the police.”

  Godwin stared. “I didn’t know that.” Then he scoffed, “A half-assed one, I bet.”

  “Well ...” conceded Betsy, and added, over his rising look of triumph, “But it was given to him by Paul Schmitt!”

  That quashed him properly, but after she explained, he said, “Half the credit has to go to that cleaning woman—do you know who she is?”

  “No, why? Do you?”

  “No, but it would be interesting to know if she bought a car, or even a house, after the police let him go.”

  Betsy said, “Hmmmm. The thing to find out would be if he talked to her before the police did.”

  “Betsy, is it possible Paul was telling the truth, and he had evidence of who really murdered Angela? And then someone killed him to stop him showing it to anyone?”

  “The police didn’t find anything in his house. But then, if the killer came after him, he would have taken it away, wouldn’t he?”

  “Do you have any idea who this other suspect might be?”

  “Not the remotest.” But she was thinking of Vern Miller’s warning to his son not to speak his brother’s name.

  9

  “Hello, Carol? It’s Betsy at Crewel World. It’s hard to know when to call someone who works at home, so if I’m taking you away from your work, just tell me when would be a better time to call.”

  “This is a good time, in fact; I’m rolling around the kitchen waiting for the water to boil for a cup of tea. What’s up? More ghost stories?”

  “No. I wanted to tell you that the new DMC colors are in, but also ask you if you’d be interested in stitching another model for the shop.” Betsy sometimes asked experienced customers to stitch a pattern to hang on Crewel World’s wall. A color photograph could not always do a cross-stitched pattern justice; it took an actual model to entice customers.

  After some discussion, they came to terms for the stitching of Janlynn’s complex Once Upon A Time, which was of a rearing unicorn about to be mounted by a medieval lady holding a spear with banners. “I’m sure it’s lovely, but it sounds so incredibly Freudian, I’m surprised you dare to hang it in your shop!” said Carol with an amused gurgle.

  The deal concluded, Betsy said, “You were saying the other day that your sister and Angela Schmitt were best friends. Is she a stitcher, by chance?”

  “You want to talk to Gretchen about Angela, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t know her, and so I’m not sure how to approach her. I was hoping to do it through the shop.”

  “Well, she doesn’t stitch.” Carol paused in a pregnant way. “But she knits.”

  “Ah,” said Betsy. “What level, beginner?”

  “Just about. She’s looking to try a sweater.”

  “Perhaps I should tell her that Rosemary is going to teach a sweater class in February. It’s one of her most popular.”

  Carol made that gurgling sound that meant she was amused. “So not only are you going to pick her brain, you’re going to pick her pocket. How much is the class?”

  “Forty-five dollars, not including materials. Can she afford that?”

  “From her change purse, probably. She married really well this time, and they go to New York City at least once a year to buy a bauble at Tiffany’s and catch a Broadway show.”

  “Great. May I have her phone number? Or her e-mail address?”

  Carol gave her both and they hung up.

  Betsy was too busy to go upstairs and log on, so after she sold Mrs. Peters a winter solstice pattern and the floss she didn’t already have to complete it, she picked the phone up again and dialed the number Carol had given her.

  The voice that answered sounded so much like Carol’s that for an instant Betsy thought she’d had a senior moment and dialed Carol’s number again. But she glanced down at the number Carol had given her and her fingers recognized it, so she said, “This must be Carol’s sister Gretchen. I’m Betsy Devonshire, of the needlework shop Crewel World.”

  “How do you do? Yes, I’m Gretchen Tallman. What can I do for you?”

  Something in Gretchen’s impatient voice made Betsy discard her roundabout ploy. She said directly, “I’m looking into Angela and Paul Schmitt’s murders, and I’d like to talk to you.”

  “What do you mean, you’re looking into their murders? Isn’t Crewel World a stitchery store? Are you also a private investigator?”

  “No, I’m working as an amateur. Foster Johns wants me to look into the case.”

  Now the voice was distinctly frosty. “Foster Johns? Isn’t he the man who did it?”

  “I’m looking for more information to see if I can figure out just who did it.”

  “But of course it was him!”

  “He was never charged with the crime. Can you tell me something that can be used as evidence, so he can be arrested and brought to trial?”

  “Wait a minute. If you’re working for him, why would you tell the police anything I might tell you?”

  “I’m not working for him, or for the police. What I’m looking for is some new evidence I can bring to the attention of the police.”

  “And they’ll listen to you because ... ?”

  “Because I have discovered evidence in other cases. I have ... connections in two police departments.”

  “Hey, do you know Jill Cross?”

  “Yes, I do. Why?”

  “What’s your phone number there?” Betsy gave it to her, and Carol said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. Betsy picked up the receiver and said, “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, may I help you?”

  “Okay, let’s meet somewhere.”

  “Gretchen?”

  “Who did you think?”

  “Well, you sound a lot like Carol.”

  “So they tell me. Jill says you’re all right, that I should trust you. So when and where can we meet?”

  Betsy smiled, relieved Gretchen had called Jill and not Mike Malloy. “I’m working today, so you can come to the shop. Or we can meet for lunch, or after we close. We’re open till five tonight.”

  “Lunch at Maynard’s. One too late?”

  “No. How will I know you?”

  They tell me I look like Carol, too. See you at one.” Carol rang off.

  Betsy was prompt, but a woman who looked a lot like Carol, except she wasn’t in a wheelchair, was waiting, a highball in one hand. Maynard’s was a waterfront restaurant, slightly upscale, with a large wooden dock running around two sides of the dining room. In the summer, the dock nearly doubled the seating area. This time of year it was bare of tables, and today the water beyond was gray and choppy. A windsurfer made rooster tails across the bay, as sleek and anonymous as a seal in his black wet suit.

  “You ever try that?” Gretchen asked Betsy as they sat down at their table, beside a big window.

  “Not I,” said Betsy. “I swim and I sail, but not at the same time. How about you?”

  “Not for a while.” Gretchen watched the surfer for a minute, giving Betsy a chance to study her. Gretchen could be either Carol’s older or younger sister, it was hard to tell. There was a strong family resemblance, but she had that careless arrogance of a woman with a lot of money, which Carol lacked. Gretchen was lightly tanned and very fit, her blond hair streaked and cut in that expensive way that falls back into place with a shake of the head. Her hands were knobbier than Carol’s, possibly because she was thinner, possibly because she was older. She wore pleated black trousers and a black cashmere sweater. Her Burberry was draped over the back of her chair. Her eyes came back to Betsy. They were large and a blue so dazzling that Betsy deduced tinted contacts.

  “So why don’t you think Foster Johns murdered a very dear friend of mine?” asked Gretchen.

  “Because the same person who murdered her also murdered her husband
, and Foster has an alibi for that crime.”

  “An ironclad one, no doubt. It’s those watertight alibis that are so often carefully planned for, don’t you think?”

  “Sometimes,” agreed Betsy. “But this isn’t iron clad. Paul called Foster and asked for a meeting. Paul said he had evidence of who really killed Angela, but that if he presented it to the police, they’d think he contrived it. But he said perhaps Foster would be believed. Foster agreed to meet Paul in his office on Water Street, but Paul never showed. Foster got out some paperwork while he waited, plans and figures, but he finally went home. His cleaning lady told the police the office was perfectly clean when she left, and Foster said he couldn’t possibly have had time to both drive to Navarre to murder Paul and get his office that entangled in paper.”

  “If I were Foster, and I thought Paul murdered Angela because she was having an affair with me, I’d be damned if I’d agree to meet him alone. If Paul killed Angela for messing around with me, he might kill me, too. No way would I have agreed to meet him alone.” She took a swallow of her drink and made a wry mouth. “Actually, I did meet him alone one time when I was me, and wouldn’t do that again.” She frowned. “I mean, I am me, and Paul’s not meeting anyone again. But when he was alive I wouldn’t have met him again at the Mall of America on the day after Thanksgiving surrounded by a platoon of cops on horseback.” She made a big, sloppy circle in the air with her glass.

  After a pause while Betsy made sense of that, she said, “How did you happen to meet him alone?”

  “It was down at the docks. I’d been sailing with some friends and got in after dark. I’d had some vodka gimlets and was thoroughly shellacked. This was pretty soon after Angela said we shouldn’t see each other anymore, so I never told her about it. Another thing I’m sorry about, because that might have been enough to pry her loose from that bastard. Anyhow, I came up the dock all by myself and I stopped by that kiosk thing on the shore, where they have announcements and historical information and like that inside it?”

  Betsy nodded. She’d made a contribution to the Excelsior Chamber of Commerce and been rewarded with a paving stone outside the kiosk that came with the name of her shop cut into it. Most of the stones had names of individuals or companies on them; a few were still blank.