The Drowning Spool (A Needlecraft Mystery)

by Ferris, Monica

  There were other photos of parties held in the house. Tommy was in one of those photos, too; and in the later ones, a skinny-tailed white kitten appeared, at first tiny, then bigger—darkening around the edges into a blue point Siamese. It was usually being smooched by Teddi.

  By checking the friends list, Betsy found Lia and Frey, and by clicking on their pictures, she was directed to their respective Facebook pages. She left messages on both, offering condolences on the death of their friend, and asking them as gently as she could to contact her at Crewel World to talk about Teddi.

  Betsy clicked away from Facebook and went on to her e-mail, then to some of the blogs she followed, and finally to her books: employee hours, bills paid and due, profit and loss, checking her running inventory, giving a second reading to an e-mail from her financial advisor.

  A Kathryn Molineux trunk show was coming. Kathryn’s animal-themed, Asian-styled canvases were hugely popular with Betsy’s customers. She made a note to check how Godwin was registering his usual enthusiasm on the shop’s web site and newsletter, so she could echo or supplement it on her own web site. The company backing the designer had sent an e-mail with pictures that she and Godwin could use in publicizing the event. She chose the wood duck canvas—maybe she could persuade Phil to try needlepoint—and the white heron, whose design of exotic, curving feathers was particularly lovely.

  She wanted to talk with Godwin about the shop’s standing offer of a five percent discount to any customer on his or her birthday, and sent him an e-mail about that. When the idea was presented some years back, she worried that most women would not wish to show their driver’s license as proof of their birthdays because it would give away the year of their birth. But it turned out that many customers didn’t mind a store clerk learning their true age, as long as they got their discount. And some customers felt tempted to spend more than usual because of the discount, and their extra purchases often made up for the shop’s loss. Betsy was sure there was an algorithm to figure out who came out better on the deal, customers or Crewel World, but she hadn’t any idea how to compose one, especially if she wanted to factor in the goodwill generated by such an offer. Maybe Godwin could figure it out.

  She copied Teddi’s Facebook address and sent it to Jill, asking in the accompanying e-mail if Jill might be able to read something into Teddi’s Facebook pictures that Betsy had missed.

  She was undressing for bed when her phone rang.

  “Are—are you the owner of Crewel World needlework shop?” asked a young-sounding woman.

  “Yes,” Betsy replied.

  “Ms. Devonshire,” the voice continued, pronouncing it “Devon-shyre” instead of, correctly, “Devonsheer,” “I’m Frey Kadesh. I lived with Teddi Wahlberger for a little over three years. I don’t think I ever heard her mention your name.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Betsy said. “I never met her. But I’ve been asked by a friend to supplement the police investigation into her death. It’s something I do, to help clear a person who’s been falsely or mistakenly accused of a crime. Teddi’s murder was a deeply distressing event, and now there’s been another suspicious death apparently connected to it.”

  “There has? Who?”

  “A resident of Watered Silk, who may have had information about the person responsible for Teddi’s murder. The police are redoubling their efforts, of course, but now so am I.”

  “Oh God, Lia and I are so upset about this! Teddi was such a good, good friend, such a great person! This has been really hard for us!” There was a sound like a sob.

  “I’m sure it has. I’m sorry you two are having to suffer all this distress and sorrow.”

  “Thank you. The police are doing all they can, I’m sure. Do you think you really can help them?”

  “I hope so. But I need to talk to you and, if possible, Lia.”

  “I wish I knew what to do,” Frey said fretfully. There fell a thoughtful little silence. “Say, wait a minute,” she said, “I think I’ve heard of you. Someone told me about this embroidery store woman who figured out how a man killed himself and made the gun disappear so everyone thought it was murder. Happened over in Navarre, right? Was that you?”

  Well, word certainly did get around. “Yes,” said Betsy.

  “Wow. And you really think you can find out who killed Teddi and this other person?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “And it would help if you could talk to me about Teddi?”

  “You and your other roommate, Lia. I want to get a clearer picture of who Teddi was, what she was like.”

  “I’ll have to ask Lia, but I’m sure she’ll say yes. Right now she and I are still roommates, so you could talk to us together. When do you want to do this?”

  “When are you available?”

  “I don’t want to do it without Lia, so let me ask her and I’ll call you back.”

  “That will be fine. I hope to hear from you first thing tomorrow.”

  “All right, then, you will. Oh, this will be so great, to be able to help solve her murder. Whoever did this seriously needs to go to prison.”

  • • •

  LIA was much less sure about talking to Betsy about Teddi. She called at around eleven the next morning to say she would sit in on the interview, but her reluctance was obvious in every syllable of their brief conversation. They agreed, however, that it would be best to get on with it as soon as possible. By the time Betsy got off the phone, they’d decided she would visit the women that evening.

  “Now we’ll see some progress,” predicted Godwin. “I want to know everything they tell you, all right?” He was an avid follower of Betsy’s cases. “Call me when you get home, especially if you learn something interesting.”

  “All right.” Godwin was Betsy’s most valuable employee (and the only one who worked full time), the most knowledgeable, and the one most willing to work long hours and on holidays; and in return, Betsy was willing to keep him up to date on her investigations.

  She had a hasty supper with Connor, who gravely wished her success, and offered one of his favorite Americanisms: “I’ll leave the light on for you.”

  Like most houses in the prosperous little town of Excelsior, the house Teddi Wahlberger had shared with Lia Perrin and Frey Kadesh was in good repair. A two-story clapboard in a neighborhood of similar houses, its small front yard featured a huge elm tree that was probably twice the age of the house. A winding brick walk led to the shallow front porch. Betsy stood for a few moments in front of the bright-blue door, painted to match the shutters, before pressing the doorbell.

  The door was opened promptly by a young woman, tall and slim, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. She was wearing a thick purple pullover, tight green jeans, and jeweled sandals. Her ears were studded with numerous earrings. She was easy to recognize from the photos on Teddi’s Facebook page.

  “Hello, Ms. Kadesh. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”

  “Hi. Call me Frey. Come on in.” Frey stepped back, opening the door wide.

  The living room was a recent remodel, laid with diagonal hardwood flooring, or perhaps a good laminate, and open to the kitchen with a breakfast bar between the two rooms. Two brightly patterned carpets interrupted the lines of the boards, one of them in front of an oversize squashy sectional upholstered in dark gray and covered with many pillows in bright solids and prints. It looked opulent and comfortable. In front of the sofa stood a coffee table with chrome legs and a gray stone top. Beyond the sofa were French doors leading out to a big, dimly seen snow-covered deck.

  The house smelled of hot cocoa and freshly baked sugar cookies. Betsy could see another young woman in the kitchen, stout but very attractive. “That’s Lia,” said Frey unnecessarily, gesturing toward her roommate.

  “Hello,” Lia said without enthusiasm. Well, Betsy thought, she really was nervous about this meeting. Or maybe she was merely shy.

  “May I take your coat?” said Frey.

  “Thank you,�
� said Betsy, unbuttoning her black wool Jean Paul Gaultier coat—which she’d found, rejoicing, in an upscale consignment store—and letting it slide off her arms. She was wearing a thin brown sweater she’d knit herself and taupe slacks.

  “Do you want me to take off my boots?” she asked. It was a common question in Minnesota.

  “Please,” called Lia from the kitchen.

  “The sand they spread on the streets scratches our floors,” said Frey apologetically.

  Betsy pulled off her sensible low-heeled boots and set them on a rubber mat alongside two pairs of outrageously high-style boots, and Frey handed her a pair of thin, stretchy slip-ons, taken from a box of them behind the mat. She showed Betsy to the couch, which was as comfortable as it looked, if a little enveloping.

  Betsy pulled on the slippers as Frey disappeared into another room with her coat, and Lia entered the living room carrying a bright red wooden tray on which rested three steaming mugs and a plate of cookies. “I hope you like these,” she said in a neutral, low-key voice.

  “I’m afraid I’m very fond of home-baked cookies,” said Betsy with a smile.

  “Me, too.” And Lia smiled back.

  When Frey returned, they all sat on the couch, well separated from one another. Everyone took a cookie and a mug. The cocoa was rich and not too sweet, the cookies crisp, almond-flavored, and still warm.

  “These are delicious, thank you,” said Betsy, taking a second bite.

  “Lia is a fantastic cook,” said Frey. “We were so pleased when she joined us.”

  “How long did you three live together?” asked Betsy.

  Frey spoke first. “Teddi and I and another girl, Alison Reynolds, moved in here almost three years ago. But Alison’s mother had a stroke—she lives in Fargo—so Alison went out there to help take care of her. She’d only lived here nine months. We advertised on craigslist and found Lia. Alison was great, but I think Lia is even better.”

  Lia said, “I think I was lucky to find Teddi and Frey.”

  “How did you and Teddi get together?” Betsy asked Frey.

  “At a party. At two parties, actually. We met at one and kind of hit it off, then at the next party, there we were again. We liked the same things; we were both employed, with steady jobs; and we were both unhappy with our roommates at the time. Teddi knew about this house for rent, but we needed a third person to live with us in order to afford it. I knew Alison was looking to move out on her boyfriend, who was a controlling jerk, so I contacted her, and she said yes, please. We split everything three ways: rent, utilities, groceries. But then she had to leave and we got Lia to move in. After a couple of months, we made a deal with her: We’d buy the groceries if she’d cook, because she’s like a chef, she took classes at Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts in Mendota Heights.” Frey smiled at Lia. “She can make a delicious meal fast or slow, and she can even cook low-cal meals when we start putting on too much weight from her regular stuff.”

  Lia said, “Except I can gain weight even on low-cal meals. I could gain weight eating bread and water.”

  Betsy said, “Me, too. Not only that, I have a cat like the both of us. No metabolism at all. I feed her diet cat food, but she weighs twenty-one pounds.” She pulled her shoulders up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, you’re not a cat, and you’re not as overweight as my cat.”

  “That’s all right,” said Lia, though her tone made it clear that it wasn’t all right at all.

  “Speaking of cats,” said Frey, as a half-grown cat came galloping into the room. He was the Siamese from Teddi’s Facebook pages, his points now darkening toward chocolate. His tail had that hump in the middle that meant he was playing, though his back was also arched, and he danced sideways close to the stools at the breakfast bar, staring in mock-alarm at Betsy.

  “Oh, Thai, how did you get out of the bedroom?” said Lia crossly.

  Frey said, “I told you he knows how to turn a doorknob.”

  “It’s all right, I like cats,” said Betsy. “Here, kitty, kitty.” She put down her mug of cocoa to snap her fingers at him. “Tie. Where did you get such a cute name for him?”

  “It’s Thai, like from Thailand, which used to be Siam,” said Lia, “because he’s Siamese.”

  “You won’t like him,” predicted Frey.

  Thai trotted across the floor, leaped into Betsy’s lap, put his forepaws on her chest, and licked her on the chin. His gleaming eyes were a clear blue, the color of a summer sky. Betsy stroked him, a little surprised to find his bones prominent under the fur. “What a sweet cat!”

  “You want him?” said Lia and Frey in unison.

  “Didn’t I just say I already have a cat?” said Betsy lightly. “Besides, what’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing!” said Lia, grimacing at Frey.

  “Oh, don’t lie to the nice lady,” said Frey. “He gets into everything, he sheds, he licks you on the face, he wants to be part of whatever you’re doing, and he barfs a lot.”

  “And he’s a tomcat,” said Lia. “You know what that means.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Betsy, imagining a number of possibilities.

  “Spraying,” said Frey. “Tomcats spray.” Her nose wrinkled. “And it stinks.”

  “We’re taking him to the Humane Society this weekend,” said Lia.

  “Oh, not this weekend!” objected Frey.

  “Gwenfreya . . .” warned Lia.

  Frey waved her hands to ward off the rebuke. “All right, I know, I promised. But what if he doesn’t get adopted?”

  “Why don’t you get him neutered?” asked Betsy.

  Lia said, “Teddi didn’t want to do that to him. She said it’s cruel. Anyway, it’s too late now.”

  Betsy didn’t think it was too late, but she didn’t want to get into an argument over an issue that wasn’t germane to the reason she was here.

  Lia said quietly, “We have to get him out of here before he starts stinking up the house.” They both looked at Betsy, as if hoping she might save the cat from a terrible fate. But Betsy put the cat on the floor. “I already have a cat,” she repeated firmly.

  Thai trotted away behind the couch.

  “So it’s too bad, he really is darling,” said Frey.

  “And funny,” added Lia. “You should see him chase a ball. Sometimes he’ll even bring it back to you.”

  Betsy felt something lightweight land on the back of the couch, and suddenly something was nuzzling her hair. Thai was back. His paws slipped around her neck, the nuzzling became more intense, and he started to purr.

  “See what we mean?” demanded Lia. “I wish we’d never let him stay!”

  “Then why did you?” asked Betsy reasonably.

  “He’s Teddi’s,” said Frey. “She loved him.” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “She really loved him. And he loved her. That’s why I hate, I hate throwing him away!”

  “Yes, but we both hate that litter box, and his barf on the bed, and he won’t use his scratching post, and—” Lia cut herself off, realizing again that she was spoiling any chance of persuading Betsy to take the animal off their hands.

  “And he gets lonesome spending all day and a lot of nights all alone in the house,” said Frey, trying to put their dilemma in a better light.

  “Teddi bought him all kinds of toys, so he’s not bored,” said Lia, shifting ground. “I suppose you did the same for your cat?”

  “Oh, Sophie spends her days down in the shop with me and my customers,” said Betsy. “She’s lazy, she doesn’t get into things. Her only fault down there—and it’s as much my customers’ fault as hers—is that she eats anything they’ll give her. She’s especially fond of potato chips.

  “But I came here to talk about Teddi.” She put the cat on the floor, giving him a little push on the rump to encourage him to go away. “Let’s start with her job. Where did she work?”

  “She was administrative assistant to the vice president of Goldman Fields, a CPA company in Minneapo
lis,” said Frey. “She’d been there going on six years. She started out in their bookkeeping department while she was still getting her associate’s degree in accounting. She was supposed to be working on her bachelor’s in business management, and she was, but not very hard. She was comfortable where she was at Goldman, didn’t want a promotion. Plus, she wasn’t what you’d call a scholar.”

  “But she was a whiz at other things,” offered Lia with a chuckle. “Things like dancing and parties—and beer pong, she’d win at beer pong almost all the time. Actually, we’re all three party types—that’s why we get—why we got along so well. We’re not alcoholics, we don’t let the parties interfere with our jobs, but we enjoy going out a lot. Or having people over.”

  “Like every weekend, one or the other,” confessed Frey, smiling. “Here or somewhere out, doing something fun.”

  “Did Teddi have a lot of boyfriends?” asked Betsy. She had gotten out her reporter’s notebook, which caused both girls’ eyes to widen.

  “No, not really,” said Lia, toning it down a little. “I mean, she was beautiful, she attracted a lot of attention from a lot of men. And she liked that, a lot. But she wasn’t like . . . promiscuous or anything.”

  “No, not at all,” agreed Frey emphatically. “She was just popular, like she couldn’t help it. And why should she? I wouldn’t have, if I looked like her.”

  “You’re both really attractive,” said Betsy.

  “Yeah, but not like Teddi,” said Lia.

  “Was there anyone special she was dating lately?”

  “Well, there was that little boy-man Tommy something,” Lia said.

  Frey added, “He’s cute but looks about eighteen, though he’s twenty-four. He showed us his driver’s license to prove it. He’s kind of shy, very sweet, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Frey chuckled. “Not that Teddi’s IQ was off the charts. And they both liked corny jokes. They were well matched.”