“Where, in the living room?”
“Yes. We put it on the couch where you can’t see it from a window. No need to tempt thieves.”
“Thanks, hon.” She broke the connection. “You’re sure there wasn’t a rifle in the living room?” she asked Malloy.
“No—and believe me, cops have an eye trained to see things like that.”
Betsy sat back in the hard wooden chair beside Malloy’s desk. “It seems that red box wasn’t the only thing taken after all.”
“So what does that mean?” asked Malloy.
“I don’t know. Mike, have you looked at anyone else but Valentina?”
“Like who?”
“Did you see that article in the Sun Sailor about the long-delayed mail finally being delivered?”
Malloy nodded. “So?”
“So did you go talk to any of those people?”
“You think I should? Who? And why?”
“Because some of them were extremely angry with Tom Riordan for keeping vital information from them all these years.”
“Like who? Joe the Plumber?”
Betsy smiled. “No, not him. But I have a feeling there’s someone in that story with a motive.”
“You amateurs are always getting ‘feelings,’” Mike said.
* * *
BETSY went back to Crewel World to find Godwin deeply immersed in teaching a young woman to darn a hand-knit sock. It looked like a sock from one of his knitting classes—bright orange, with small black diamonds. Something inside it was pushing the heel into a smooth bulge. The heel had a small hole in it.
Ah, he’s using a darning egg, thought Betsy. The smooth wooden implements came in various sizes and shapes—some looked more like a computer mouse than an egg. They slipped inside socks or in the arms and even the backs of sweaters that had worn or torn a hole in themselves. The darning eggs made mending easier by freeing both hands for the work and also by preventing the stitcher from accidentally stitching the front of a garment onto the back.
There’s something satisfying about mending a handmade garment, she thought, approaching Godwin as the door chime finished playing “The Cuckoo Song” theme from old Laurel and Hardy movies. Ours is a throwaway society; it’s good to push back against that once in a while.
Godwin did not glance up. He had a small ball of orange yarn in one hand and a set of four thin, double-ended knitting needles in the other. The yarn was a bright orange that matched the area where a hole had worn through.
“And now I take some of the leftover yarn from your stocking, which you wisely kept per my advice, and note I am not cutting off a length of it, because it’s ever so much easier to cut the extra off than try to pick up and continue with a new length.”
“Okay,” the customer said, nodding.
Without changing tone or looking around, Godwin said, “Hello, Betsy. Valentina called. She’s going to stop by in a little while.” He continued to the young woman, “Now, have you darned anything before?”
She said, doubtfully, “I’ve looked at duplicate stitch darning on the Internet, and so I understand the theory of it, but I’ve never tried it. Is it as easy as it looks?”
“Nothing is as easy as it looks. But this mending I’m going to show you is not duplicate stitch because there’s an actual hole, not just a spot worn thin. And it’s not really difficult. What you need is four double-ended knitting needles, which you used to knit this sock in my class, so you already know something about them. We’ll use a littler quartet, size double zero, okay?”
“Fine.” She turned to Betsy. “I’ll take a set of double zeros, please.”
“That’s great, Molly.” Betsy brought a packaged set of four to the desk.
Godwin put down the ball of yarn, opened the package of needles, and said, “First, find the first row below the hole that has no damage. You’re looking for strong, solid stitching.” He pointed the row out and, using a needle, began carefully working across the row, starting about half an inch to one side of it, lifting a single stitch and running the needle through it, then the next, then the next. He continued across the row to half an inch beyond the hole. “See?” he said.
“Gotcha,” Molly replied.
“Now, from the farthest left-hand picked-up stitch, run up that column with another needle, picking up each stitch, past the hole to a solid row above it.” He did so, his fingers moving nimbly, while she watched.
“You do that so smoothly,” she said admiringly.
“Lots of experience,” he said. “I’m always wearing a hole in my socks, though it’s usually at the toe.” He leaned a little sideways and murmured, “I have such sharp toenails.”
Molly giggled.
“Now, run the other needle up the right side, same as you did on the left. At this point you’ve got that ole hole practically surrounded.”
“Except at the top,” Molly pointed out.
“Yes, well, we’ll take care of that as we approach. So, you take your fourth needle, and the yarn left over from the sock lesson, and you verrrry carefully pick up that first stitch on the bottom row and the first stitch on the right vertical row, and you knit the two of them together with the strand of yarn. Like so.”
He deftly picked up the stitches onto the free needle and knit them into the strand of yarn.
“Now, continue across that row to the other side.”
In a few minutes he said, “And now we turn and knit our way back, picking up that first stitch from the vertical needles, so we’re tacking it down on either side. You see? We’re knitting a patch over the hole.”
“Well, isn’t that clever?”
“Yes, it is.” Godwin handed over the sock with its needles. “Here, you do a row while I watch.”
Molly set out, moving slowly as she felt her way into the knitting. “I’m not used to such tiny needles,” she said. “But look, it’s coming along.”
She did another row, this time without her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, her movements quicker and smoother. “Say,” she said, “this isn’t very hard at all!”
“Tol’ja,” said Godwin. “When you reach the top, thread the empty needle across as you did at the bottom, then knit the last row onto it.”
“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.”
“So now you know you don’t have to throw away a pair of socks you worked so hard making just because you blew a hole in one of them. Come back later in the fall. I’m teaching a class on duplicate stitching, which you can use to prevent a weak spot in a sock or sweater or hat from turning into a hole in the first place.”
“All right, I will. Thanks, Goddy!”
All confident smiles, the young woman paid for her set of needles, and left the shop, her knitting stowed in the high-priced bag Godwin had sold her the first time she came in.
“Alone at last,” Betsy said, smiling. “What did Valentina want?”
“She didn’t say. But she sounded . . . upset.”
“Upset how? Sad or angry?”
“I’d say angry, definitely angry. I wonder if Mike’s been at her again.”
But Valentina, who in fact came in half an hour later hot with anger, had had a quarrel not with the police investigator but with Minnesota law. “Thirty days!” she shouted. “I can’t do a thing about that house for thirty days! I don’t have thirty days to spend hanging around here. I can’t afford to eat and drink and sit useless in a motel room for thirty days—and then spend another couple of weeks finishing up in there! It’s not fair, it’s not rational! I just can’t do it!”
“Who says you have to wait thirty days?” asked Betsy when she could get a word in edgewise.
“That fool Penberthy! He says it’s the law, there’s nothing he can do! He must be wrong—there has to be a way! I think I’m just gonna leave. I’ve got things to do back home. I can’t lollygag around he
re! As it is, I’m already near my limit on my one good credit card. I got to pay for my room, I’ve got laundry, I don’t know how I’ll buy the gas it will take to get home! What kind of a state are you people running here?”
“Hey, there are people living here permanently who ask that question all the time,” said Godwin, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
But Valentina was having none of it. “So why don’t they do something?” she shouted. “Have a revolution! Bring out the guns and pitchforks! Tar and feather a few people!” She threw her hands into the air and whirled around twice, in a dance of fury. “What the dickens am I supposed to do?”
Betsy said, “I really don’t know. And you’re too angry to be able to think calmly—not that I blame you, I completely understand. But here, come and sit down, have a cup of tea. Maybe if we all put our thinking caps on, we can come up with something.”
Valentina’s wrath blew wide open. “Argh, you’re treating me like a child! Thinking caps! Cups of tea! This is serious! Can’t you see that? Oh, you’re no use, no use at all! As usual, I’m going to have to take care of this all by myself!”
And she stormed out of the shop.
“Wow,” Godwin said, awed. “I had no idea she could get like that! Did you?”
Betsy, looking thoughtfully at the closed door, said, “I sure didn’t.”
Chapter Nineteen
BETSY gave Valentina an hour to calm down, then called her at her motel. There was no answer. The owner picked up and said she wasn’t there.
“Where could she be?” she asked Godwin.
“Maybe she’s over yelling at Penberthy,” he said.
Betsy called Penberthy. “Jim, has Valentina been to see you today?”
“Not today. I know she’s upset because of the thirty-day hold on her work in Tom Riordan’s house. Have you talked to her?”
“Yes, but she still went away angry.”
Betsy thought and then called Connor. “Could you do me a really big favor?”
“Certainly.”
“Go over to the Riordan house and see if Valentina’s in there.”
“And bring her away?”
“Ummm, no. For one thing, I don’t think you could do that without resorting to violence.”
He laughed. “Then why go looking for her there?”
“Because I want to know where that rifle got to. See if she tossed it or knows if someone did—or if it’s still in the house somewhere.”
“Ah, a clue, right?”
“Maybe.”
* * *
CONNOR drove over to the Riordan house and parked behind Valentina’s car. He went up onto the creaky porch and rapped on the door. “Valentina?” he called. “It’s Connor Sullivan.”
She opened the door. She was dusty and the white cotton work gloves she wore were dirty.
“What do you want?” she asked, frowning at him.
“Betsy sent me over to ask you if you know what happened to that rifle we found. Sergeant Malloy has been in the house, he came after Tom was murdered, and he didn’t see it.”
“Why was he looking for a rifle? Tommy wasn’t shot.”
“He wasn’t looking for it, it’s just that he didn’t see it. And you know cops and weapons. If it was sitting on the couch where we left it, he would have seen it.”
Valentina made an exasperated sound. “Well, I haven’t seen it,” she said.
“May I come in and help you look for it?”
She studied him for an insultingly long moment. He bore it patiently. “All right,” she said grudgingly.
Together they searched the living room, which by now was nearly clear of trash and junk, though a corner was piled with things thought to have some value. But they couldn’t find it anywhere in the room.
“You know, that is odd,” said Valentina, closing the closet door.
“When did you last see it?” asked Connor.
“I think it was the third or fourth time a crew came to work in here. Somebody pointed it out, like it bothered her it was there.”
“Was it on the couch then?”
“Yes.”
“Well, just in case, let’s look around. Maybe somebody didn’t like it sitting out in the open and stuck it away somewhere.”
But still they couldn’t find it.
“Are you by chance keeping track of who is on these crews?” asked Connor.
“Of course.”
“Could you get Betsy a copy of the list, please?”
“All right, it’ll just take a minute, the list is in my purse. That is bothersome, isn’t it? That someone took the rifle. Dammit, I hate that people who are supposed to be helping me are helping themselves to Tom’s things!”
Chapter Twenty
THOMAS Riordan’s funeral finally took place that Sunday, in the afternoon. Riordan’s body had been released by the medical examiner earlier—much earlier—and Huber’s Funeral Home had arranged to pick it up. But it took longer for funds to be released to Huber’s. They had had him cremated per Valentina’s instructions, but the ashes were held pending payment.
There was a general stir of interest in town when the funeral was announced. Lots of people attended. Tom had no close friends, but he was a well-known figure in Excelsior, and his murder was a shock. The story of his house, packed with both junk and treasures, was a source of gossip and speculation, which meant many attendees were there out of curiosity. Valentina, of course, was the only family member Riordan had.
The service was held at Huber’s, as Riordan was not a churchgoer. His ashes had been placed in a gleaming brass urn, which sat resplendent on a small, long-legged, sturdy table covered with a dark green velvet cloth.
Valentina, wearing black slacks, a dark purple blouse with long sleeves, and a silver and lapis necklace and earring set so exotic it had to have been borrowed from Leona, stood at the door to the large room, greeting people as they came in and thanking them for coming.
She spoke softly, and her eyes, while shadowed, weren’t red from weeping.
Betsy and Connor came together, accompanied by Rafael and Godwin. Jill came alone—Lars was on duty, and Jill could not think of a reason to bring the children. The mayor came, but not the chief of police. Mike Malloy came. Members of the Monday Bunch came, including Grace, who brought her sister, Georgine. The Leipolds came. The owners and waitstaff of Antiquity Rose Antiques and Tea Room and Sol’s Deli came, and some McDonald’s employees were there, too, because Tom had eaten often in their places of business. In the end, about thirty-five people attended.
The service was short. The senior Mr. Huber offered a generic set of remarks regarding the value of modern funeral practices in marking the passage of a neighbor, and then Valentina went to the lectern.
“Thank you all for being here,” she began, her voice a little husky, as if she was moved by the turnout. “My cousin, Tommy—Thomas Riordan—was a sweet, kind, and . . . unusual person. He lived all his life in the house his grandfather built, and never married. He was a—an ardent collector with a wide range of interests. He truly loved his ‘things.’ He wasn’t religious—I don’t think any of our family was religious—but he was very spiritual. He did a lot of volunteer work and he had a great sense of humor. It seems to me, a stranger here, that everybody in Excelsior knew him, and he had lots of friends. But there’s a big, black, friendly dog named Bjorn here in town who is going to miss him probably more than any of us. God bless you, Tommy, and I hope wherever you are, you can forgive the person who took you from us.” She stopped short, leaving unsaid what her expression stated firmly: Because I won’t.
The weather had turned blustery and the air smelled of snow. Not many who came to the service continued on to the cemetery for the interment. Valentina, with Mr. Penberthy’s assistance, had obtained permission from the City of Excelsior to open Tom’s fat
her’s grave and put the shining brass urn in on top of it.
Betsy went to the cemetery with Connor, but Godwin and Rafael went home. Malloy came, too, but that was part of the police routine in homicide cases. Alice and Cherie came, because their strict code of manners demanded it. Leona came and stood shoulder to shoulder beside a solemn, silent Valentina while the urn was set in place. It didn’t take long, and the diminished gathering broke up quickly.
Betsy shook hands with Valentina, who then left with Leona. She took Malloy aside to ask him if he found significant any of the stories about the people who got delayed mail. “They’re interesting,” he said, “but none of them amounts to a real motive, in my opinion.”
“You don’t think it’s significant that now two items have been discovered missing from the Riordan house?”
“Ms. Devonshire, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that three hundred and six items have gone missing from that house.” He turned away and walked off down the hill.
As long as they were there, Betsy decided she wanted to visit her sister’s grave, a little farther up the hill. Oak Hill Cemetery was on the highest hill in the area.
Connor came with her. She left a pebble on Margot’s gravestone to mark her visit and was making her way down by a different route when she thought she saw something lying on a grave.
Was it—? She went for a closer look. Yes, it was a rifle, an old rusty thing, half covered with leaves, looking as if it had been there all summer.
Connor made an exclamation and went for a closer look. “Hello,” he said, “I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Is it the rifle missing from Tom Riordan’s house?”
“I think so.” He reached for it.
“Wait, don’t touch it,” said Betsy. She went into her purse for her cell phone and called Malloy.
“Mike, that rifle that was taken from Tom Riordan’s house? I think we’ve found it.”
She described their location, and in a very few minutes, Malloy came swiftly up the hill to squat and look at the weapon.
“Are you certain this is the gun you saw in Riordan’s house?” he asked Connor.
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