Nicotine is never a natural ingredient in yarn. So someone put it there. Who? And when? And why?
When investigating crimes against a person, Malloy knew you began with the victim. Why would someone have wanted Maddy O’Leary dead? She was a wealthy businesswoman, somewhere in her fifties—accounts differed as to her age. She was tall, five seven and a half, gray haired, with a robust build—one sixty-eight, the ME reported. She had been widowed after a brief marriage, had no children, no near relatives in the area.
Several people he’d talked to indicated she’d had a strong A-type personality that included a quick temper. She was the widow of a wealthy attorney and had immersed herself in business and become very successful at it.
Maddy’s success came from her skill in real estate. She always appeared to know what the competition was up to and took quick action to counter them. She had a reputation for sharp business dealings but hadn’t broken any laws—or at least was too sharp to be caught doing something illegal. She was not a drunk or a doper. Once a year she took a two-week vacation, but nobody knew where she went. Seven years ago she had left her Methodist church and formally become a Baptist. She was very generous toward her church and various charities, a surprising discovery few knew of, as she never spoke of it to anyone.
And she liked to knit. That last bit of information came from Betsy Devonshire, who said she had donated more knitted toys to that fatal auction event than anyone else. Who would have thought?
People were complicated. That’s why Malloy preferred the kind of crime committed by professional—or at least semi-amateur—criminals. There, motives were clear and simple. Plus, it was relatively easy to convince a pro to confess or at least drop a dime on the perp. These amateurs lied when they didn’t have to, or couldn’t get their facts straight when they were trying to be truthful, or refused to learn the rules of the game. Malloy strayed from his train of thought. Funny how the expression “drop a dime”—to make a phone call offering a solid clue about the perpetrator of a crime—was still around, when public phones, which once charged a dime to make a call, now charged fifty cents if you could find one at all.
But back to the subject at hand. Who hated Maddy O’Leary enough to think up that ridiculous—and successful—plan to kill her?
Because it was ridiculous! Pouring a poison on knitting yarn so she’d absorb it through her skin! Why not just take a hunting rifle and ambush her from behind a tree, or use a handgun and shoot her from your car as she walked down the street? Or, like the unfortunate Harry Whiteside, lay in wait in his house to knock him on the head?
Say, could there be a connection between the two murders? O’Leary and Whiteside were bidding against each other—and Joe Mickels—for that property on Water Street. And Malloy’s fellow investigators in Wayzata thought that maybe the mess in the Whiteside house wasn’t what you’d expect a burglar to leave. It was more like vandalism; there was anger, even hatred, in the destruction inside that house.
Also, O’Leary hadn’t paid off on her bid yet—she’d just won the war. Did her company inherit the right to buy the property? Or an heir? Or did the bidding reopen as a result of her death? Or, perhaps, was the property offered to the last person standing in the bidding war: Joe Mickels?
Mickels, notorious for his violent temper; Mickels, the recent purchaser of three e-cigarette stores. Hmmm . . .
Malloy reached for his phone.
Chapter Twelve
Betsy was in her shop sighing over a bill that had come in, because it seemed to be charging her a whole lot of money for items she hadn’t ordered—nor had they been delivered. Godwin was standing beside her making angry sounds.
“They did this once before, remember?” said Godwin. “There’s another shop named Crewel World, in Iowa, and this vendor sent them an order we had made and billed us for it. This time they sent us a bill for some things they ordered. It’s funny how they don’t know that IA and MN are two different states.”
“Maybe they think we’re a chain, like McDonald’s.”
“Even so, if the Excelsior McDonald’s orders a truckload of buns, I don’t think the Hopkins McDonald’s wants to pay for it. Give me that bill, I’ll go call them.”
“Thank you.”
He was well into his tirade at the hapless accounts manager and so didn’t pay any attention to the door’s “Hello, Dolly!” announcement of someone coming in.
Betsy looked up and saw it was Joe Mickels. His normal blustering demeanor was gone; he appeared uncomfortable and diffident. She had been wondering if he would dare stop in to talk to her. Apparently he did dare, but he didn’t like it. Given their unhappy history, his attitude wasn’t surprising.
Betsy put on her blandest expression and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mickels. How may I help you?”
He took a deep breath and walked to her desk, a solid chunk of a man, but not above five foot five, with a pigeon breast, a proud beak of a nose, nineteenth-century sideburns, and bushy eyebrows nearly hiding sharp blue eyes. Yet still she was struck by how much of a facade this bold front now appeared. Normally, he was strength and aggression to the bone.
“Good afternoon,” he croaked quietly, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Good afternoon!” he barked assertively.
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
“I hope so,” he said, and it was a confession. “Sergeant Michael Malloy has been talking to me—almost accusing me.”
“Of what, Mr. Mickels?” She was not surprised that Malloy had gotten around to Joe.
“You know, I think, that I own three e-cigarette stores.”
“Yes, I had heard that.”
“And you know Ms. O’Leary was poisoned to death with nicotine.”
“Yes, I had heard that, too.”
He drew a deep, angry breath through that nose. “Well?” he demanded.
“Well, what, Mr. Mickels?” She was having trouble hiding her smile.
And he realized that she was enjoying this. He turned on his heel and started for the door. Then, just as she began to regret baiting him, he thought better of it and turned back.
They said, simultaneously, “I’m sorry.”
And they both grimaced.
She said, “Obviously you are here to ask me to get Mike Malloy off your back, either by providing you with an unbreakable alibi or by proving someone else guilty.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding, relieved. “I’m prepared to pay any expenses you may incur.”
“That’s generous of you. But please be aware that this . . . talent I have for discovering the truth behind a crime is just that: a search for the truth. If I agree to look into the case, it’s not going to be entirely on your behalf. I’m not going to be out to clear you but to find out who murdered Maddy O’Leary.”
“Sergeant Malloy thinks I also murdered Harry Whiteside. Will you investigate that, too?”
“I wondered if he’d roll that into the case, too,” said Betsy. “He probably thinks it was an attempt to reopen the bidding on the Water Street property.”
“Exactly,” said Joe, nodding once, sharply. “It’s not possible to do that, but it’s an easy conclusion. I think he’s not the only one thinking that’s the case.”
“I know he’s not the only one,” said Betsy. “I’ve heard it stated baldly right here in my shop.”
Joe snorted. “I had better instruct my attorney to file for a change of venue as soon as I’m arrested!”
“Maybe it won’t come to that,” said Betsy. “Maybe Mike will find out what really happened, if it wasn’t you. Maybe he’ll discover Maddy and Harry are two different cases with two different murderers. They were each done in a different way, as if two different minds were at work on them.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” asked Joe.
“I think it’s a valid theory. Harry was attacke
d in his home, his skull was fractured, and his house was burglarized. Maddy’s knitting yarn was soaked in a poison she absorbed through her fingers, possibly by someone thinking her death might be ruled natural. That’s two different mind-sets, don’t you think?”
Joe thought about it. “That means two different murderers, which would mean two different motives.”
“On the other hand, they were both into property—design, construction, rental.”
But Joe had landed hard on her first theory. “Think about it. They moved in two different areas of that world. Maddy was into housing, Harry was into commercial and industrial buildings. There was some overlap, of course, but that’s a lot of difference.”
“So why did they both try to buy the Excelsior property?”
“Because they both planned to put retail on the ground floor and residential above. O’Leary was going to emphasize the retail end, Whiteside the residential. Me, I was going to have stores on the ground floor, business offices on the second, residential above that.” He looked around the shop. “It’s a common plan, business on the ground floor, residences above. What you’ve done here is like that. I’m just taking it a step further.”
Actually, all Betsy had done was continue the setup she inherited from her sister: a two-story building with three apartments on the second floor—one lived in by herself—and three stores on the ground floor—one her own needlework shop. Even the other two, a used-book store called ISBNs (pronounced “Iz-bins”), the other a deli whose name had remained Sol’s through several owners, were in place when she came to Excelsior.
“Is it possible there’s a fourth bidder waiting in the wings?” asked Betsy. “Someone who thought it necessary to get rid of Maddy and Harry but thinks he or she can outbid you?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Joe, surprised.
“Maybe you should. Also, has anything threatening or dangerous happened to you recently? Something you might feel was a close call? Maybe the murderer is thinking he’ll get rid of all three of you.”
“No, of course not!” The thick eyebrows came down and gathered over his nose like thunderclouds over a mountain. “I don’t like where you’re going.”
“Where I’m going is to look at alternatives to the theory that you murdered two people in order to gain ownership of a piece of property.”
“And your theory is that there is a fourth person after the property who is willing to kill Harry, Maddy, and me to get it?” He snorted again. “Preposterous!”
“What’s your theory?” Betsy shot back.
“I don’t have a theory. That’s why I’m here. You have a talent for helping people who’ve been falsely accused of a crime. I came here to hire you to work for me, proving to the satisfaction of the police—or a jury if it comes to that—that I have not murdered anyone. But if all you can offer is some ridiculous story of a fourth person who wants that Water Street property, then I withdraw my offer.”
“Well, that’s your choice,” said Betsy with a good show of indifference.
Defeated, Joe turned and started for the door.
“Wait!” called Betsy.
He stopped and slowly turned back. And there again was that sad and baffled look.
“I spoke rashly just now. You must know you are a . . . difficult person for me to relate to, given all we’ve been through. But I don’t think you are a murderer. I don’t know if I can be of any real help to you. I’m willing to try. But you can’t hire me. I don’t take money for my efforts to clear people who’ve been mistakenly accused.”
Joe stood silent for a long thirty seconds. Then he said, “All right. Go ahead with it.” After a just-noticeable pause, he added, “Thank you.”
Again he turned to the door.
Betsy called again, “Wait a minute. Maybe we should get right to it. Mike Malloy must have more than motive to be looking at you. For example, maybe you don’t have a solid alibi for one or both murders?”
He said, “I don’t think they know when nicotine was put on that yarn Maddy was using when she died. It could’ve been weeks ago.”
“No, the window of opportunity is more or less a week. I didn’t announce that champion knitters were picking their own yarn. And I didn’t have the yarn and needles put into marked bags until near the auction.”
“Still, you’re talking about a week or so. I don’t know how anyone could cover every minute of a whole week with alibis. I know I can’t.”
“Fair enough. What about the night Harry Whiteside was killed?”
“The night he was killed I went to a dinner meeting with a man I thought to hire to survey some land I bought up in Cass County. But he turned out to be a flake; he believes in extrasensory perception guiding his surveying. He told me he was in the process of moving from Chicago to Duluth, and now he’s canceled his phone service, so I can’t get hold of him. And he won’t be getting in touch with me; I told him I wasn’t going to hire him.”
Betsy pursed her lips then said, “That’s too bad.”
“You think?” he growled. “If this was going to be easy I wouldn’t have come to you.” He turned away and reached for the door, but before opening it, he looked back at her and said, “You have no idea how hard it was for me to come in here.” He left before she could think of a reply.
* * *
“Are you serious?” demanded Godwin. “You are going to help that, that, that—?”
“I’m going to try. We’ve both known him for a long time. Years. He doesn’t play nice, he’s greedy, and he’s bad tempered.” She smiled. “Once, something set him off in front of me and he shouted words I haven’t heard for a long time—from back when I dated a U.S. Navy bosun’s mate.” The smile faded. “But I don’t think Joe’s a criminal, and I doubt he’d ever kill someone, especially in that sneaky way Maddy was killed. That’s not his style at all.”
“Yes, but from what you just said, that skull bashing poor Harry Whiteside got does sound a whole lot like him.”
“Well . . . okay. Trashing someone’s house sounds even more like him. If Harry walked in on him vandalizing the house . . . But think of this: Would he murder someone and then trash his house?”
“What, you think Harry’s house was trashed after he was killed?”
Betsy suddenly realized she was thinking of the terrific mess left right here in her shop by the person who murdered her sister—and the fact that it was done after her murder. “I don’t know that, either, not for sure. In fact, I don’t know what was taken from his house.” She frowned at her disorganized thinking. “Anyway, he has an alibi for Harry Whiteside’s murder.”
“He does?”
“Well, sort of. He was having dinner and a talk with someone he was thinking of hiring. But the man seems to have disappeared.”
“In other words, no, he doesn’t have an alibi for Harry’s murder.”
“No, he sort of has an alibi for Harry’s murder. Plus, Joe Mickels must be eighty years old. Can you really see him trashing somebody’s house and capping his efforts by beating the owner to death?”
“Well, okay, that’s a good point. But what about Maddy’s murder?”
“No, no alibi. He pointed out very sensibly that since there’s no firm day and time when the nicotine was put onto the yarn, any alibi he offers would be at best . . . spotty.”
“But he has a motive for both murders.”
“Well, yes, he does.”
“And you agreed to help this man?”
Betsy sighed. “Yes, I did.”
Chapter Thirteen
Like many Baptist churches, Maddy’s church—First Baptist of Minnetonka—was a modest white clapboard with a small steeple surmounted by a plain iron cross at the front of the roof. The windows, four on a side, had pointed arches, but the glass was plain gray. The small parking lot was crowded, and the street in front of the church was f
ull of cars. Connor pulled into a space a block away, and he and Betsy walked back. It was raining, not hard but in that earnest, straight-down way that probably meant it was going to do it all day. There was no wind, no thunder and lightning.
“It’s a Schnurlregen,” said Connor, holding his big black umbrella so they could both huddle under it.
“What is?” asked Betsy.
“This kind of rain. Salzburg, Austria, is famous for this determined kind of heavy drizzle.”
“Schnurlregen,” said Betsy. “Very descriptive.”
Betsy and Connor stopped inside the church to pull off identical raincoats. Under them, they were dressed alike in navy blue suits and white shirts—well, all right, he wore a shirt, she wore a blouse. He had a dark green tie; she had a modest white ruffle. At first they took a pew near the back of the church. A piano was playing a hymn very softly.
Despite all the cars and the smallness of the church, the pale oak pews were full but not packed. Connor nudged Betsy and nodded at the severely plain coffin up near the front. It rested on a wheeled bier and had a single bouquet of roses so dark a red they were nearly black.
After a few seconds Betsy realized the coffin was not wood but a heavy grade of tan cardboard. That’s right, she thought, Maddy was going from here to a crematorium. It looked as if there was an aimless, widespread pattern of scribbles on the coffin—and it looked as if the man standing in front of the coffin was scribbling some more on it. Betsy was shocked—then she realized he was signing the coffin, the same way someone might sign a cast on a broken leg. Say, what a lovely idea! She stood and went forward. About to search her purse for a pen, she saw a cluster of Sharpie pens gathered around the bouquet to facilitate the writing.
Knit Your Own Murder Page 5