“During regular office hours, it is. Or when there are special events held here, like the Thursday before the auction. And we had a reception after the performance here in the hall.”
“Did a lot of people come to that?”
“There were close to three hundred people in attendance.”
Betsy said despairingly, “I don’t suppose you kept a list of the people who bought tickets to the program.”
“No, but while we don’t have cameras in the church, we do in the atrium. Three of them.”
Betsy’s heart perked up. “Could I look at the videos?”
“I’m afraid not. Sergeant Malloy took them away with him.”
“Did he look at them while he—and you—were here?”
“He started looking at one, just to see how clear the picture was. He said they were pretty good.”
“Did they show anyone going into the room where the bags of yarn were being kept?”
“I didn’t see that—but we only watched a few minutes of the video footage.”
“Did you recognize anyone?”
“I sure did. A lot of the people who came are members of Mount Calvary.”
“Do you know Joe Mickels?”
Helen thought about that for a few seconds. “He’s not a member, is he?”
“I don’t think so. But his appearance is distinctive: short, stout, white hair, big old-fashioned sideburns?”
“Oh yes, I saw him, on the video Sergeant Malloy was looking at. He froze the picture right about then and said he wanted to take the discs away. As evidence, he said.”
* * *
“So,” said Betsy, “things are looking dark for Joe.”
Godwin stood silent, frowning.
They were in Crewel World. They should have been laughing and high-fiving each other, as the customer who had just left had spent nearly a thousand dollars on a hand-painted needlepoint canvas and the silks and wool necessary to stitch it. Instead they were baffled and having to rethink things.
“I think we should call Joe and warn him,” said Godwin.
“It’s probably too late for that,” said Betsy.
The phone on the checkout desk rang, and she answered it. “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?”
“Is this Ms. Devonshire?” asked a man’s voice.
“Yes?”
“I’m Nurse Amos Brighton, at Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis. We have a patient here who has asked me to contact you on his behalf.”
Betsy’s first thought was a terrified, It’s Connor! “Who—who is it asking for me?”
“His name is Joseph Alan Mickels. Do you know him?”
She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it.
Godwin asked, “What is it? What’s the matter?”
She waved him off and said into the phone, “Yes, yes, I do. What happened? Why is he in the hospital?”
Godwin gasped and began waving a hand to draw her attention, which she ignored.
“He has suffered a gunshot wound.”
“Oh my God! Is it serious? How did it happen?”
“What? What? What?” demanded Godwin, but she put up a shushing hand toward him.
“Are you a relative?” asked the nurse.
“No, just a friend.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details with you, in that case. You’ll need to contact a relative.”
“Can he have visitors?”
“Since he asked for you, yes, in perhaps another hour.”
“Why did he ask for me, do you know?”
“No. I’m just the messenger.”
“Well . . . thank you,” Betsy said and hung up.
“What, what, what?” demanded Godwin.
“It’s Joe. He’s been shot. He’s downtown at HCMC. No further details available.”
“Joe? Oh, that’s wonderful! I thought it was Connor!”
She sat down heavily behind the big desk and thrust her fingers into her hair. “No, it’s not wonderful! Don’t you see? I think in my heart I wondered if maybe Joe did it, that he’s a murderer. But I was wrong. Here’s proof I was wrong.”
“So what now?”
She leaped up. “What’s the matter with me? I’ve got to go see him.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Betsy took Highway 7 to I-494 to 394 downtown, frantically searched for and finally located a parking spot, then found her way to Joe’s room in the hospital. But once there she to wait until someone else had finished talking with him. She strode impatiently up and down the hallway outside his room. Finally she saw the door open and Mike Malloy come out looking angry. Well, sure: His case against Joe had just been blown away. He gave her a curt nod and strode off down the corridor.
She took a deep, calming breath and let it out, then took another. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease and opened the door. Joe’s bed had lifted him to a sitting position. He was pale as a ghost, with dark shadows around his deep-set eyes. He seemed very interested in the pale green wall opposite his bed until she realized he wasn’t really seeing it. He was taking rapid, shallow breaths.
He was wearing a hospital gown that draped over only one shoulder. The other was covered with a thick bandage that ran far down his chest. The head of his bed was entirely surrounded by differently sized monitors clicking and beeping, reporting blood pressure, pulse, oxygen levels and God knew what other bodily functions. A kind of abstract metal tree rose over his bed, and from it three fat plastic bags hung, two clear and one dark red. Tubes ran down from them into his left arm and the back of his hand. A translucent tube of an alarmingly big diameter came out from the bandage and dripped a slobbery red into an oblong glass jar marked off in centimeters.
“Hello, Joe,” she said softly, surprised into compassion.
“Huh. Took you . . . long enough,” he muttered weakly.
“I came as quickly as I could. What on earth happened?”
“Visiting my e-cig store . . . in Uptown, a . . . bandit came in . . . shot me.”
“Just like that? He just walked in and shot you?” She came closer to his bed.
“No, no, course not,” Joe said, vaguely annoyed. “It was a stickup. I tell my employees to . . . just hand over the cash . . . when . . . armed robber comes in, don’t . . . fight. So Liza put up hands, an’ I put mine up . . . He took the cash, fired once in the ceiling, then . . . shot me.”
“Why? Did he say anything?”
“Said, ‘Oh, it’s you . . . effer.’”
Effer? Then she realized he was using a euphemism for a very bad word. “So he recognized you, and shot you on purpose. Thank God you’re not dead!”
He gathered himself and said, “If God was really on my side, he would’ve made the dickhead miss altogether.” Joe smiled, just a little, at scoring a point. His face began to take on a look more like the fierce old eagle he normally resembled.
Betsy changed course. “I assume Sergeant Malloy was here to get a description of the robber.”
Joe rasped, “Hell, no, this happened . . . Minneap’lis. Talked to Minneap’lis police. Mike came to see . . . ’f this man was after me.” He glanced up at her, saw her incomprehension, and said, “Third one still standing.”
“Oh, so he sees it, too. Harry, then Maddy, then you. What do you think?”
Joe sighed twice, then coughed very feebly, which clearly hurt him so badly that he laid a hand gently on the big bandage, and closed his eyes. After a few moments, he said, “Think . . . ’bout it. Someone so desperate . . . kill three people to get th’ property? But . . . proves himself killer when . . . closes on’t. Have to sell it to pay lawyer.” Joe smirked crookedly. “Stupid.”
Betsy should have thought of that. “You’re right, of course. So why did he shoot you?”
Joe p
ut his head back and closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Couldn’t. Wore black nylon stocking over . . . head.”
“Still, what did he look like? Was there anything familiar about him? Could he have been someone you know?”
Joe’s eyes didn’t open, and after a wait, Betsy began to think he’d fallen asleep. But then he said, softly, “Stocking mashed . . . face, crooked.” But then he frowned, thinking. He continued, even more softly, “He didn’t talk ghetto, but I think . . . Gotta peek at ’s wrist, and t’skin . . . very dark. So . . . maybe . . .” He did stop then, and his breathing gentled into sleep.
“Thanks, Joe. I’ll let you rest now.”
* * *
“So where did this happen?” asked Connor, who had come down to the shop after Godwin called him with the news, and waited there for her to return, appalled at this turn of events.
Betsy said, “At his store in Uptown.”
“So not a high-crime area.”
“No, not particularly.”
Godwin put in, “A fun place to go for entertainment.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Connor, looking at Betsy with a smile. The two of them had gone to Uptown once for an Asian fusion dinner and salsa dancing.
Godwin said, “Um.”
Betsy turned to him and said, “Something else?”
“Yes. Did you hear about Maddy’s will?”
“No. I assumed she had one, but don’t know its terms. I didn’t know she had a will. What about it?”
“This is rumor, so if it’s entirely true or not, I can’t say. But I hear she left all or most of her property to Chaz Reynolds.”
Betsy felt a great sinking of her heart. “Oh dear.”
“What, aren’t you happy for him?” asked Connor.
“Joe Mickels thinks the person who shot him was a black man.”
“Stop it!” whispered Godwin, awed. “But wait, no, Betsy, not Bershada’s boy! He wouldn’t, he just wouldn’t!”
Connor said, “This is very bad news—if it’s true. I wonder if Mike knows yet.”
“Who told you?” Betsy asked Godwin.
“Leona, over at the Barleywine. I went there for lunch.”
“Who told her?”
Godwin was clearly surprised by the question. “I didn’t think to ask,” he said. “She said it like”—he paused, then made a pretty good attempt at imitating Leona’s matter-of-fact voice—“‘Chaz Reynolds is gonna party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine. Maddy O’Leary left him all her worldly goods.’ She didn’t say it like it was a half-assed rumor but like it was really true. I said, ‘Good for him, putting up with her for years like he did,’ and she laughed and went to bring me my sandwich.”
“I wonder where Leona got that piece of information,” said Connor.
“I could call her and ask,” said Betsy. Suiting action to words, she pulled out her cell phone, found the Barleywine number, and pressed Dial.
“Leona,” she said a minute later, “how did you find out about Maddy’s will?”
“By eavesdropping,” said Leona. “Mike Malloy was in here with Chief Haugen yesterday, and when I brought their sandwiches I heard Mike say he had talked with Maddy’s attorney, who said Chaz was the ‘principal legatee’ who got most of the property but hardly any of the money. The money is divided in half, one part going to the Golden Valley Humane Society and the other going to the First Baptist Church of Minnetonka.” Leona chuckled. “It took me a minute to get the order right and then again when I was putting it on the table so I could overhear all the details.”
“So pretty close to the horse’s mouth,” said Betsy. “Thanks, Leona.”
“I’ve got a beer tasting coming up next month, on the fifteenth. Tell Connor to mark his calendar.”
“Will do. Bye.” Betsy hung up and relayed Leona’s announcement about the beer tasting to Connor.
“Ah,” he said, pleased. “I hope she’s brewing that spring ale she had last year.”
“Betsy,” Godwin broke in, anxious to get back to the subject at hand, “are you seriously thinking that Chaz is a murderer?”
“I find it hard to think so—and I dread what Bershada is going to do if Malloy comes after him. But Malloy . . . I don’t know. He liked Joe a whole lot for this, but now Joe’s in the hospital, shot by someone who may only have been pretending to be a robber.”
“Coincidences do happen, machree,” Connor pointed out.
“Is it a coincidence that of the three bidders on a piece of property, two are dead and one is in the hospital with a bullet wound?” asked Betsy.
“Well,” said Connor, “it rather depends on who winds up with the property. Is it some fourth person who was squeezed out of the bidding early on?”
Godwin said, “Also, each one of them was hurt in a different way. One was bashed on the head, one was poisoned by nicotine, one was shot. Is that how murderers work?”
“No,” said Betsy thoughtfully. “I’ve read in several places that if criminals find a method that works, that’s what they keep using. It’s called an MO, modus operandi, and detectives use it to track career criminals.”
“But on the other hand, it’s kind of hard to think you’re trying to track three different criminals,” pointed out Connor.
Betsy threw her hands up in the air. “I know, I know,” she said. “Is it one, two, or three people? This is really frustrating!”
* * *
Betsy decided she had to learn where someone could get nicotine. The most obvious way, of course, was to buy it in e-cigarette stores.
Connor volunteered to go out and gather information in one of those stores, and perhaps buy a sample or two of the nicotine mixture.
After he left, a woman came in to order finishing for her counted cross-stitch pattern, a “summer montage” that featured a slice of watermelon, a seashell, an ear of corn, a rose blossom, a birdhouse (with bird), a beehive, a straw hat, and other summery items in realistic colors set in squares and rectangles. The result was complex and attractive. It was one of a set of four montages—the others were autumn, winter, and spring. Mrs. Hardy had done the others; this was the last. Each had cost her a little over thirty dollars for the pattern, Aida fabric, and floss, but now, like the others, it was going to cost her nearly two hundred dollars to get it properly finished.
“You want it like the other three?” said Betsy, writing the order. “Washed and stretched, laced, plain three-quarter-inch white mat, two-inch-wide gold frame, right?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hardy. “I get so many compliments on the spring one—just like I did for winter and autumn. I so appreciate your suggestion that I display just one at a time, so my eyes don’t get tired of seeing them.”
“You’re welcome. This should be ready in three weeks. Any idea what your next project will be?”
“Godwin signed me up for that hardanger class you’re offering. I’ve always wanted to try it. You do hardanger, don’t you, Betsy?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve taken three classes in it, and so far I’ve got one half finished bookmark and a strong determination not to try it anymore. But you do such beautiful, intricate counted cross-stitch, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with hardanger.”
“Well, we’ll see, we’ll see.”
A few hours later, she and Godwin were closing up shop when Connor entered. He had two small plastic bags hanging from one hand and was smiling.
Without saying a word, he upended the bags on the library table. Eight or nine bottles of different opaque colors with squeeze-nipple tops rolled out: orange, green, red, yellow. Godwin hastened to keep them herded together. Betsy stooped to pick up a midnight blue bottle that had gone off the edge of the table.
Blue Ox Vapor, the label read. On the side of the label was stacked a series: 0mg, 6mg,
11mg, 18mg, 24mg, each with a pale blue dot beside it. The 24mg dot had a black dash inked onto it.
“They come in different strengths,” said Connor, seeing her looking at the list. “If you’ll look at the others, you’ll find one at thirty-six milligrams. That’s the strongest blend you can buy. But hear this: That strongest mix would still be only two point four percent nicotine.”
“That’s all?” said Godwin, picking up the red bottle. “Not even a measly two and a half percent?” He put it down and picked up a yellow one. “Yeah, this one’s thirty-six milligrams.” He turned to Betsy. “Would that be strong enough to kill someone?”
“I don’t know,” said Betsy, and she asked Connor, “What did they tell you at the store where you bought this?”
Connor said, “When I bought the thirty-six milligram, the salesclerk warned me that if I spilled any on my hand I should wash it off right away. I asked what might happen if I didn’t, and he said it would soak through my skin, and if I spilled a lot, like half the bottle, my fingers would start to tingle, and my heart would go flippity-flip, and I’d get a bad headache. I said, then what? I’d fall down dead? And he laughed and said not a chance. You can’t buy a deadly dose of nicotine in a vape shop, he said.”
“Well . . .” said Betsy. She put her hand out, fingers open, and waggled it back and forth. “I’m sure he’s been told that. I’m also sure that if someone has a weak heart, he might be fatally stricken, or if a toddler drank a whole bottle, she might die.” She put down the Blue Ox bottle and picked up two more. “Strawberry flavor,” she read aloud, and she unscrewed the bottle to take a sniff. “Alice is right, this smells delicious,” she noted with a grimace.
“Did Maddy have a weak heart?” asked Connor.
“I don’t know—but I don’t think so. She certainly never acted as if she was in fear that her heart was about to quit.”
“You got that right,” said Godwin with a grim smile.
“So we’re back to Joe Mickels?” asked Connor.
“Why?” asked Betsy. “If a customer couldn’t buy a lethal dose of nicotine, why would you think Joe could?”
Knit Your Own Murder Page 14