Knit Your Own Murder

by Monica Ferris

  He and Betsy sat patiently through the reminder of the terrible three hours that Jesus had endured on the cross, and they came away mildly downhearted at the end.

  He was glad that Betsy, this strong, warm comfort of his later years, would join him for part of it.

  Of course, there was another big event coming, the polar opposite of Good Friday: Easter Sunday. But first, of course, there was Holy Saturday, a day the Christian world sat with its pensive head down, sorrowing, waiting. It’s possibly the longest day of the religion for believers.

  * * *

  Betsy closed on time Saturday afternoon and shared a light supper with Connor. Then they shortened the wait for Sunday by setting off for Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral near downtown Minneapolis around seven ten, arriving just at seven forty to find parking already at a premium. It was a clear, chilly evening.

  The church was unlit, but there were people, lots of people, gathered inside. And more coming.

  It was dark out, or as dark as a big city gets at night. And dark inside. The big stained glass windows were barely visible shapes in the brick walls of the cathedral, the saints depicted indecipherable. Betsy and Connor found seats about halfway up the center aisle. An usher waiting at the door had given them, like everyone else, a slim, unlit taper with a cardboard collar and a bulletin with the order of the service printed in it, which they could not read in the dark.

  At eight, a hush of garments was heard at the back, and heads turned as the congregation tried to make out who was gathering there and not coming forward. Then a click and a gout of yellow flame rose out of a pale stone about twice the size of a football, a stone that hadn’t been there in the middle of the floor before. By its light people could be seen, perhaps a dozen of them, in ecclesiastical robes. One of them lit a long, fat candle at the flame and then from it, smaller candles young people in white albs were holding.

  The acolytes came forward to light the tapers of the people in the back pew, who in turn lit the tapers of the people in front of them, who handed the flame forward until everyone had a lit candle, two hundred and more dots of yellow filling the nave with very soft, warm light.

  Meanwhile, the Dean of the Cathedral was reciting, in a carrying voice, prayers about Christ passing from the darkness of death into the light. When everyone had a lit taper, a deacon raised the big candle and called, “The Light of Christ!” and the congregation, now reading from the bulletin by the light of the tapers, responded, “Thanks be to God!”

  The group of priests, deacons, and acolytes at the west door started forward and up past the choir to the altar. As they processed, a member of the choir floated, a capella, something exotic and mournful in Latin. Gregorian chant, thought Connor, half closing his eyes in pleasure.

  The hymn ended, and, having reached the altar, the Dean turned to the congregation and proclaimed, “This is the night when Christ vanquished hell, broke the chains of death, and rose triumphant from the grave!”

  Then a woman from the congregation made her way to the lectern on the left side and turned on a small reading lamp. She read from Genesis about Adam and Eve in the Garden. She was followed by three more lectors, all men, who read about Abraham, ordered and then stopped from sacrificing his son Isaac; then about the Jews crossing the Red Sea out of slavery in Egypt; and last, about Ezekiel telling of God turning from anger to bless his people.

  The readings weren’t long, but by the end Connor noticed his taper was becoming short, and he saw Betsy adjusting the collar on hers down to the very bottom.

  The last reader was still making his way back to his pew when every light in the church came on, the organ blasted a mighty chord, and the Dean shouted above the uproar, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”

  The reader staggered in surprise, then laughed at himself and joined with everyone shouting in reply, “The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

  And, accompanied by the organ, the choir broke into “Glory to God in the Highest.”

  Betsy’s was not the quietest voice giving the reply, and Connor looked a little sideways at her. But she merely grinned back at him and blew out her taper, so he blew out his.

  The candles on the altar were lit during all this, and there followed an Episcopal High Church Eucharist service, without a sermon, and with lots of familiar joyful and triumphant hymns. By ten o’clock it was over, and the altar crew stood at the door to shake the hands of the congregation as they left. Betsy noticed several women in large and elaborate hats. She turned to Connor. “I wish I had consulted with Cherie about an Easter bonnet for me.”

  “Please do next time,” he replied. “I’d like to see you in one.”

  “You have to promise not to laugh.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, never mind.”

  They shook half a dozen hands and went out into the chilly night’s nippy breeze to find Betsy’s Buick. She wove it expertly through the crowd of departing vehicles, and they started up I-394 for home.While driving, Betsy remarked, “I’ve always felt a little sorry for people who celebrate Easter without suffering through Good Friday. You really need the contrast to get all the flavor.”

  “You wish they would just stay home and eat a marshmallow bunny instead?”

  “No, it would be unkind to wish that. For a long while I was a Christmas and Easter Christian, myself. But it’s much more thrilling to glory at someone rising from the grave when you first grieve at His dying.”

  “Kind of like celebrating spring without first suffering winter,” agreed Connor.

  “And Mardi Gras loses some of its meaning if you don’t follow it with Lent.”

  “Well . . .” said Connor, “that’s doing it backward. First the joy, then the repentance.”

  “I wonder if that’s how the person who murdered Harry Whiteside feels. Bang, slash, steal, wreck, then Harry walks in and the intruder smashes him on the head, in an exhilarating whirlwind of rage. But in his cooler moments the next day . . .”

  “I hope so,” said Connor grimly. “I truly hope so.”

  Chapter Twenty

  One of the rewards of going to the Easter Vigil service on Saturday night is that you can sleep late on Easter Sunday while still feeling virtuous. Connor and Betsy read and stitched through what was left of the morning, ate a debauched lunch of hard-boiled eggs and jelly beans, then spent the afternoon with Jill and Lars and their three young children. Lots of talk, a couple of silly board games, a walk along the lakeshore with Bjorn the big black Newfoundland, and a nap for the children. Dinner with them was ham, sweet potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, with creamed corn only for the adults and children who ate at least one brussels sprout (Einar was caught feeding his to Bjorn the dog and so was disqualified). Then they all watched Easter Parade, starring Fred Astaire and Judy Garland. Erik and Emma Beth thought the best part was Judy Garland walking down the street making a really horrible face.

  * * *

  On Monday, Bershada came into Crewel World with Alice. Both carried stitchery bags, ready for the weekly Monday Bunch meeting.

  Bershada was speaking. “Girl, you would not believe the talking-to my aunt Sadie gave my daughter a month before the wedding! Backed her up against the wall! Put her finger right up to her nose and said”—here Bershada’s voice changed to a thin old black woman’s Southern drawl—“‘Ef you don’ straighten up an’ fly right, child, ain’t nobody comin’ to this wedding, ’cause I’ll call Pastor Rivers an’ tell him it’s off!’” Bershada laughed. “And she could have done it, too, because my daughter had moved the wedding from her own church to Aunt Sadie’s church because her own church was ‘too small, and not fancy enough.’” Bershada had assumed a high, breathy voice with a nasty undertone to it when quoting her daughter. Then she broke again into laughter.

  “Her own church is beautiful. Small, yes, but beautiful. I grew up in that church—so did she. The pastor married her father and me. He baptiz
ed her, and loves her like a daughter. But the church was too small for my daughter’s big fat wedding.”

  Bershada threw a hand up in the air. “Children! Betsy, you are so lucky you didn’t have children! They break your heart!”

  Betsy smiled. There were days when she was sure Bershada was right, but today wasn’t one of them, not after she had spent a blissful Sunday afternoon and evening in the company of the three Larson youngsters, who were sunny and charming the whole time. “In a week or two, you’ll change your mind,” she said.

  “Humph,” snorted Bershada, going to the library table. Alice trailed behind, her face sad. An elderly widow, she had lost her only child many years ago to a heart ailment.

  Betsy said, “Bershada, I want to tell you that you have a remarkable son. I was so impressed with him at Maddy’s funeral. And he was extremely helpful to me over supper the other night. I’m so glad you sent him to me.”

  Bershada sat down and pulled out her counted cross-stitch project of two kittens frolicking on a stack of books. “Yes, he’s turning out to be my pride and joy. And I suppose in a month or two I’ll forgive my daughter for her antics.”

  Alice said to Betsy in her deep voice, “So you are getting involved. On whose behalf?”

  “Joe Mickels.”

  Alice blinked three times at Betsy, her mouth open in surprise. “Joe Mickels? Why, is he offering you half his kingdom?”

  “No.” Betsy smiled, taking a seat at the table. “What would I do with half a kingdom? What would half a queen look like?”

  “Amateur night at the Gay Nineties?” suggested Godwin. The Gay Nineties was a downtown Minneapolis nightclub that offered a female impersonator competition once a month.

  Betsy looked at him, laughing. “Hush, baby, we’re trying to talk.”

  He sniffed and went back to pinning up some new needlepoint canvases on the set of hinged fabric “doors” hanging on a wall.

  Alice said, “I assume Joe came to you because he feels he’s a suspect in Maddy’s death.”

  “And in Harry’s.”

  “What, both of them?” said Alice.

  “Mike Malloy thinks the two might be related.”

  “Ah, because of the property bidding war on Water Street.”

  “That’s right.”

  Bershada said, “I should think Joe would be too busy coming up with a defense for when Mike arrests him to complain about his methods.”

  Betsy nodded, leaning sideways to pull out her current project: a counted cross-stitch pattern of nine young trees stitched in black and dark gray on white Aida fabric. She’d found the project for sale for two dollars in Leipold’s eccentric shop on Water Street. The pattern, floss, and fabric were in a plastic bag, but without the original packaging, so there was no title or designer’s name. One tree was finished, one was about half done, and one had just the back stitching. The rest was blank fabric. Stark and graceful, it was lovely. Mrs. Leipold said, “I hope you can finish it—and I hope you’ll bring it back here when you do, because I’d like to buy it from you.” Mrs. Leipold had a good eye for beauty but was not a stitcher.

  Betsy bought it because she agreed it was beautiful, and she was working on it because, since the placement of Xs to indicate leaves was pretty much random, any mistakes she made were invisible. Usually counted cross-stitch made her tense; here she could relax.

  Alice, preparing to continue her project of crocheting a prayer shawl for her church, arranged her yarn in her fingers and said, “I keep remembering what Emily said about seeing Joe just sitting in his car looking sad.”

  Betsy said, “You know, I think I saw that same sadness on his face when we talked. He’s a hard man, but he seems pretty sure he’s going to be arrested. And that may be making him sad.”

  “He shouldn’t be sad, he should be scared,” said Bershada. “Suppose he didn’t murder Harry and Maddy. If someone else murdered both of them, then he may be next in line.”

  The thoughtful little silence that followed that statement was interrupted by the door’s announcement of someone’s entrance. Today Godwin had set it to play a chorus of “Mairzy Doats,” which made Alice chuckle, since she remembered the silly song from her youth.

  They all looked to see Jill Cross Larson come in. A tall, sturdy, beautiful woman with ash-blond hair and a Gibson Girl face, Jill worked in an admin capacity at the police department, where her husband was a sergeant. So they all were especially pleased to see her, because maybe she had news of the investigation.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said after a pause, surprised at their intense interest in her arrival. Then she came to the table and sat down.

  “What news?” demanded Godwin.

  “About what?” she asked.

  “The investigation into Maddy’s murder, of course. Is Mike going to arrest Joe?”

  “I don’t think so, not right now.” Everyone could see Jill was avoiding eye contact, uncomfortable with the topic.

  “Do you know something we’re not supposed to know?” asked Alice in her blunt way.

  “No, of course not.”

  But as others arrived—Phil and Doris, Emily, Cherie, Valentina, Connor—they also asked. Jill, sensibly aware they hadn’t already heard her uncomfortable reply, simply repeated it.

  When the last arrival took his seat, Godwin said, “Let’s all agree not to talk about Joe Mickels today.”

  “No, don’t shut down the talk,” objected Jill. “I just won’t have anything to contribute.”

  “Why not?” asked Emily, pausing in the act of threading her needle. Unconsciously echoing Alice, she asked, “Do you know something we shouldn’t find out?”

  “No,” said Jill. “But I have an ‘in’ with the police, so I shouldn’t say something that might be misconstrued.”

  Betsy remembered a time when Jill had carelessly said something to her that broke a police department confidence and got them both in trouble as a result. Doubtless Jill remembered it, too.

  To distract them from the topic, Jill said, “On the other hand, I’m dying to hear Goddy tell us why he is wearing a vulgarly large ring on the third finger of his left hand.” Of course she already knew; Betsy had told her at the Easter Sunday dinner.

  Godwin, delighted that someone had asked about his ring, came to the table to flash it at everyone. “I’m engaged!” he cried, rapturously. “Rafael asked, and he gave me this ring. It’s a family heirloom!”

  “Wonderful!” “Excellent!” “Congratulations!” “Brilliant!” “Good for the both of you!” went around the table.

  “When’s the happy event?” asked Alice.

  “June. We haven’t picked a site yet; all we know is that it won’t be a church wedding and it will be indoors—I do not want to stand shivering in a downpour while we exchange vows and the cake gets washed away.”

  “That practically guarantees it will be a gorgeous day,” said Doris, and the others agreed, laughing.

  “You’re all invited. We’ll be sending a save-the-date postcard, of course. Meanwhile we’re on the search for a venue we both like and will reserve the date for us.” He pressed the back of his gold-heavy hand to his forehead. “So many details, so little time!” he sighed and went back to pinning up needlepoint canvases.

  Doris said, “Goddy, you were such a help to me planning my wedding. Please let me help you plan yours in any way I can.”

  Godwin looked thoughtfully at her. His “help” for her wedding had been to make it bigger, less modest. Might hers, therefore, be to tone his down?

  Betsy watched his face parade those thoughts across it.

  “I think that’s a lovely thing for you to do, Doris,” she said. “I suspect Rafael might think so, too.”

  Amusement broke out on Godwin’s face. “Oh, Betsy, you are so right! You should have seen Rafael’s face when I talked about releas
ing a hundred doves dyed lavender! And so, Doris, I accept your offer. Let’s you and me get together some evening soon.”

  “Just let me know when,” Doris said, pleased.

  “Isn’t Goddy just the nicest person?” said Emily. “I’m so happy for him.” She turned in her chair and smiled at him. He winked at her.

  Then Betsy changed the subject. “Emily, did the refinance of your house go through?”

  “Yes, it did. We decided to keep the mortgage payments the same size, but the house will be paid for six years sooner. We’re so pleased!”

  More congratulations passed around the table.

  Betsy said quietly, “Bershada, I’d like to talk with you privately after this meeting, all right?”

  Bershada said, “Of course.”

  Cherie asked, “Is your daughter safely away on her honeymoon, Bershada?”

  “Yes, the long nightmare is over, thank God.”

  “Is she the last one?” asked Doris.

  “The last daughter. There’s still that one son. I’m holding on to hope that he’ll find someone soon.”

  “Don’t be too eager,” advised Cherie, “you may not like the bride he picks, and daughter-in-law problems are particularly painful, because they last for years and years.”

  “Hmmm,” said Bershada, who was currently suffering from a son-in-law problem.

  Phil said, “Betsy, are you still convinced that Joe Mickels didn’t murder Maddy?”

  “I’m not ‘convinced’ of anything, except that this is Monday and you are sitting at this table,” she said.

  Doris reached over and pinched her husband on his ear. “Ouch!” he said.

  “Yes, he’s really here,” she said. She looked at Betsy. “Shall I reach over and pinch you?”

  “If you do, I’ll reach over and pinch Jill, and who knows where that will lead?” teased Betsy.

  Cherie said, “Let the blood sports begin!”

  After the laughter, everyone settled into his or her projects for a while.