Embroidered Truths

by Monica Ferris

  Betsy went to half-sit on the desk and put a comforting hand on Godwin’s shoulder as he sat slumped in the office chair.

  After about a quarter of an hour, Mike Malloy looked into the den and asked, “What were you two doing here?”

  “We found the body,” said Betsy.

  “I figured that,” said Mike, sounding a little aggravated. “How did you come to be here in the first place?”

  “John’s secretary called me to ask if I knew where he was, because he hadn’t come to work,” answered Godwin. “I didn’t want to come alone, so Betsy came with. We came in and . . . and here he was.” Godwin put a trembling hand in front of his mouth.

  “Did you move him?” asked Mike, coming in and shutting the door.

  Godwin shook his head emphatically. “No.”

  “I touched him,” said Betsy, “which made me realize he really was dead. Lars took us to look around to see if anything’s been taken, and so far there’s jewelry missing. Lars said not to disturb anything, leave fingerprints or smudge them, so we didn’t open any drawers.”

  “And we haven’t been down in the basement, yet,” said Godwin. “Because the door is closed and we didn’t want to touch the doorknob.”

  “What kind of jewelry’s missing?” asked Mike, pulling out his notebook.

  “Well, Godwin said John always wore his Rolex, but there’s no watch on his arm,” said Betsy.

  “And I had some nice diamond stud earrings and a ring with a big emerald and two small diamonds, and a gold chain—twenty-two carat—and a gold necklace with a little . . . diamond bird in . . . in an ormolu cage.” Godwin was tearing up under this recital, so Betsy reached for his hand and began to rub it gently. He gulped and regained control. “John has some nice pieces, too, but his jewelry box is in a drawer in his dresser, so we couldn’t look. Nothing else seems to be missing—I mean like television sets and cordless phones and all.”

  “Was the door locked when you got here?”

  “Yes.” Betsy nodded. “Godwin has a key, so he unlocked it. And the back door was locked, too, right?” She looked at Godwin.

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “Oh, I did touch that doorknob, sorry. But I didn’t unlock it. We didn’t see any windows broken, and they all seem to be locked.” He looked at Betsy, who nodded confirmation.

  “Who else has a key to the house?” asked Mike.

  “The Molly Maid,” said Godwin after a moment’s thought. “She comes once a week while we’re at work.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Godwin’s forehead crinkled. “Not that I know of.”

  Betsy said, “I looked in the laundry hamper in the master bath, and there’s evidence John had . . . company recently.”

  Godwin explained, “There’s a robe he keeps for guests—like for when we go swimming, if someone didn’t bring one.” His mouth twisted up, but Betsy squeezed his hand hard and he sniffed lengthily, then sighed and nodded that he had himself back under control.

  “But the towels were damp, like from a bath or shower,” Betsy said to Mike. “I’d add ‘or swimming,’ but it’s a little early for swimming.” Spring-fed Lake Minnetonka didn’t get warm enough for swimming until mid-June.

  Mike had some more questions, and then a tall, very slender blond investigator from BCA also questioned them, and had them fingerprinted before they were allowed to leave.

  Godwin again came close to losing his composure when they came into the living room to find two sturdy young men zipping John’s body into a blue bag. But he only sobbed once as they crossed the living room and went out the door.

  Someone must have called in a tip because there was a professional-size television camera perched on a man’s shoulder, and another man with a beautiful haircut and a light blue shirt moved into their path to ask questions. “Are you the ones who discovered the body?” he demanded. When they kept going, he followed, pushing a microphone into their faces while a cameraman hurried backwards down the driveway so he could keep his camera aimed at them. “What brought you to the house? Do you know who murdered Mr. Nye? Are you relatives?” And as Betsy brought out her keys and made her Buick chirp its locks open, he hurtled a final question. “Are you Mr. Nye’s gay lover?”

  Betsy shoved Godwin into the passenger seat, gave the inquiring reporter an icy stare, then stalked around to get into the driver’s seat, start the car, and drive off with a little squeak of tires. “Jackals!” she growled.

  Beside her, Godwin wept.

  BACK at the shop, she hustled Godwin through the entrance to the apartments on the second floor, then into her apartment, then into the guest bedroom. The room was light and airy, painted in mottled shades of blue, with an iron-gray four-poster bed set at an angle in one corner. Godwin went right to it and curled into the fetal position on top of the blue and gray quilt. Betsy spoke soothingly to him while pulling off his shoes. She went to the closet and got a lightweight blanket from the top shelf and floated it over him.

  “Do you want me to sit with you?” she asked.

  “No,” he muttered.

  “Would you like something to drink? Cocoa? Scotch? Orange juice?”

  “No. Can I be alone for awhile?”

  “Sure. I’ll go down to the shop. But I’ll come up as often as I can to see how you’re doing. And of course you can call down there if you want anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ll never be all right again.”

  “Oh, Goddy, of course you will. You are so surrounded by people who love you, you can’t be anything else.”

  He sniffed but did not reply.

  She paused at the door, a hand on the knob. “Let me predict something. If you thought it was ridiculous the number of hot dishes I was gifted with after I got out of the hospital, wait til you see our kitchen by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Huh,” he said, but something in his tone said he was comforted by the prediction.

  Betsy went downstairs, and down the back hall to her shop. It was nearly noon, and she found Nikki Marquez nibbling on a bunch of red grapes.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’re back!” Nikki said. “I thought I saw you and Godwin going in the door to the upstairs, but when you didn’t come back, I thought I was mistaken.”

  “Godwin’s up in my apartment,” said Betsy. “He’s very upset and won’t be coming down.”

  Nikki put the grapes down. “Why, what happened?”

  Betsy sat down behind the desk. “Well, we went over to Godwin’s partner’s house to see why he hadn’t gone to work, and I’m afraid we found him dead.”

  Nikki just stared for a few moments. “Dead? What, some kind of accident?”

  “No. And not suicide, either. Someone came into the house, probably last night, and struck Mr. Nye on the head. The police are there now.”

  “Why, that’s horrible! Poor Godwin! He . . . he was in love with John, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but what makes it worse is that they quarreled recently.”

  “Oh, dear. But they made up?” She saw Betsy’s mute expression of denial and said, “That is worse! How dreadful for him! He must be just sick!”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, he is. I put him to bed, but I want to go up and check on him every so often. Will you be able to stay until I find someone else?”

  “Oh, of course. In fact, I can stay all day, if you need me to.”

  “Well, thank you, that would be very helpful.”

  “Only thing is, I need some lunch, and I need it pretty soon.” Her brow wrinkled with concern at adding to Betsy’s burden.

  “Would something from the deli next door be all right? They’ve got soups, salads, and sandwiches at the deli.”

  “Sure. I’ll get something and bring it right back.”

  “No, I meant, how about I buy us both something.”

  “Well, gee, you don’t have to do that. But thank you!” Betsy gave Nikki some money and asked for half a turkey sandwich and a c
up of tomato soup for herself.

  “Oh, wait, let me give you more money,” she said. “Get a bowl of chicken soup for Godwin. Whole wheat crackers, he likes those.”

  Nikki took the additional five and went out. The silent door reminded Betsy of that failing, and she wrote a note to herself to find a workman to replace it—she’d never liked the obnoxious sound it made, and now was the perfect opportunity to select something more musical. A tune? No, not a tune. Hearing “Carolina Moon” might be amusing the first few times, but the fiftieth repetition in a day might be a bit tedious. A single musical note would be fine. Or maybe two, like a doorbell.

  When Nikki came back, Betsy took the chicken soup upstairs. She found Godwin asleep on the bed. She put the soup and crackers down on the computer desk and went to wake him.

  “Goddy,” she said gently. He didn’t stir. “Goddy? It’s me, Betsy. I brought you some lunch.”

  “Huh?” he murmured, then sat bolt upright, looking around in terror. “What? What?”

  “Easy, Goddy, it’s me, Betsy.”

  “What? Oh, hi. What’s wrong?” He looked around, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Say, what time is it?” He looked down at himself, surprised to find he was dressed. Then his face changed, sagging into despair. “Oh, my God, it’s not a bad dream, is it?”

  “No, baby, I’m afraid not.”

  He coughed violently, moved to dangle his legs over the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”

  “Nikki’s staying in the shop all day. I’ve brought some chicken soup up for you. I want you to eat some of it. There’s bottled water in the refrigerator, also milk, grapefruit, and cran-apple juice. Eat, then change into your pajamas and go back to bed. Everything’s all right downstairs, so you just rest.”

  “I feel awful,” he said. And he looked awful, with brown shadows under his eyes and lines around his mouth. He stared at the floor, and his eyes widened as if he were seeing John’s body spread there. His hands clutched the blanket around his waist.

  “Do you want me to stay with you?” she asked. “Or call someone, a friend, to stay with you?”

  “No,” he said, but absently, still staring.

  “Godwin,” she called, drawing out the sound, and he looked up at her. “It’s going to be all right. It’s terribly, terribly hard right now, but it will get better.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I didn’t either, when I lost Margot. But it does. Time passes, and wounds heal. You have a lot of friends, and their love will help.”

  “All right.” This time he didn’t sound convinced.

  “I’ve got to go back downstairs. Nikki’s been a great help. Thank you for calling her.”

  “Yes? All right. You’re welcome.”

  “Will you eat the soup? It’s chicken soup, the universal medicine.”

  He smiled faintly. “All right.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Betsy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you going to try to find out who murdered John?”

  “Do you want me to do that?”

  “Yes. Yes, please. We never got a chance to make up, and that’s what makes this like the end of the world.” He sniffed, and two big tears rolled from his eyes. He blotted them with the sleeves of his shirt.

  “I’ll see what I can do. But if this is a burglary, then Mike will probably solve it before I can even get started. He’s good at that kind of crime.”

  “Come on! Everyone knows he’s not the swiftest boat on the river.”

  “That’s when it’s about amateur criminals. When it comes to the pros, he’s very, very swift.”

  “Okay, we’ll let him have a shot at it. But if he doesn’t arrest someone in the next day or two, then it’s your turn.”

  “All right.” Betsy did leave then.

  On her way back downstairs she reflected on Godwin’s simple trust in her sleuthing abilities. It was a strange thing, this ability of hers to solve crimes. She had no training in investigation, and she never sought out opportunities to sleuth. It was as if crime came looking for her, usually in the person of a customer who had a relative falsely accused—sometimes by Mike Malloy. And to her mind, when she solved a case, it was more luck than skill or talent.

  Of course, this time there would be no relative anxious to clear a brother or cousin. Betsy was pretty sure Mike was at this moment bending over a dusty fingerprint and nodding sagely. A burglar who hadn’t realized John was home, who had been surprised and frightened when confronted by John, and struck out with the first thing to hand, then run off with only a few pieces of jewelry. And who would pay very dearly for what he’d done.

  Betsy came in the back door of the shop, where she took out the little three-step stool, opened it, and climbed up to reach for the shop’s Christmas decorations in the large box high on a shelf.

  Nikki, hearing the sounds of effort, came to help. In the box, near the bottom—of course—was a small wreath made of golden sleigh bells. Betsy had bought it at a post-Christmas sale, intending to cut the thing apart and sell the bells in Christmas kits. She still might, but meanwhile she would hang it on her door to use as an announcement of a customer’s entry.

  She hung it by its loop over the doorknob and opened and closed the door to try its effect. “Good enough,” she pronounced. Then she noticed she had slammed the door in Bershada Reynolds’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, opening it again.

  Bershada, a slim black woman, was a retired librarian made eloquent from years of nonverbal expression. She paused a moment to take in the apology, then, eyebrows raised in gentle rebuke, entered the shop.

  “What can we do for you?” asked Betsy.

  “I came for a knitting pattern. I want to try that kind that looks like strips of color woven together.” Bershada looked around the shop. “Where’s Godwin?”

  “Upstairs. He won’t be in today.”

  “Then it’s true?”

  “What’s true?”

  “John Nye was found dead at home?”

  “Has it been on the news already?” asked Betsy.

  “Not that I know of. I stopped at the Waterfront Café—do you know they’re doing the coffeehouse thing, with lattés and chai and all? They’ve even put some computer connections in the back. Anyway, I just stopped for a chai, and Jimmy Folsom was there and he said Leecia Millhouse, who lives practically next door to John, watched while they brought him out in a body bag. Girl, there’s crime scene tape all around the house. It looks like murder.” Bershada stopped to draw a breath, and her expression changed. “Wait a minute, you already know about this, don’t you?” She reared back and looked at Betsy sideways. “Who told you?”

  “No one. We were there.”

  “Where—at the house?”

  “Yes.” Betsy explained how she and Godwin had gone over to see why John hadn’t gone to work and found him.

  “Oh, the poor baby!” said Bershada, meaning Godwin. “Is he all right?”

  “I think he will be. He’s badly shaken up, of course. I put him to bed and told him to stay there.”

  “Well, of course, and I hope he does. He and John hadn’t made up?”

  “No, and that’s what’s making it so hard.”

  “Yes, of course. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But thank you. I’ll tell him you asked after him. Now, this pattern, would it be entrelac you’re looking for?”

  “Yes, I think that’s the name of it. You use circular needles to make a purse.” She gestured a round shape.

  “Yes, I just got a very nice pattern in, so I don’t have a model yet. I’m going to try it myself, or maybe a sweater, I like the look of it. I have a nice yarn for the purse, it’s from Japan, all wool, and overdyed. Do you know how to back knit?”

  “No, what’s that?”

  “Well, the pattern calls for knit and purl, but sometimes as few as two stitches. Having to turn the needles around every two stitches is
a nuisance, so there’s this thing called back knitting, where you knit backwards, off the lefthand needle. Godwin showed me how to do it. Let me see if I can remember.”

  She pulled two knitting needles out of the vase of accessories on the library table, picked up a small ball of yarn and swiftly cast on ten stitches, then knit a row. “See, here’s how it works.” Bershada came to stand looking over her shoulder. “Knit two,” Betsy said, doing so. “Now, put the left needle behind the stitch, throw your yarn around it counterclockwise, and pull it through. And again. See?”

  “Well, I’ll be. That doesn’t look hard at all.”

  “It’s not. Well, it’s a bit clumsy at first, but it’s not hard to do.”

  Bershada bought the pattern, and two skeins of the Japanese wool in shades of purple, green, and blue, and a pair of number-five knitting needles. “I have circular needles in that size already,” she said.

  As she prepared to leave, she asked again, “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for Goddy?”

  “A card would be—oh, for heaven’s sake, I am an idiot. He’s feeling abandoned, of course, so I remembered what happened when I got that dose of poison and came home to a flock of hot dishes. So if it’s not a huge imposition . . .”

  Bershada smiled. “Not at all. Just let me get myself home and I’ll start cooking.”

  Seven

  THE next day, the hot dishes started to arrive. Bershada must have told everyone she knew, and each of them spread the word even further. Customers Betsy hadn’t seen in months came in, bearing Corning Ware and Pyrex, wrapped in newspaper to keep it warm—or frozen, some women apparently keeping something always ready to bring to a bereavement.

  At first Betsy brought them upstairs. Later, she trusted Nikki, who was threatening to become full time, to bring them up. By the end of the day, she was waving them through. Still, by the time she closed at five, her legs ached from all the climbing.