Knitting Bones

by Monica Ferris

  “But you think—” prompted Betsy.

  “I don’t know what to think! He wasn’t there when I got home from the event, but that didn’t bother me, he often goes for a drive after making a speech—he gets so wired that he needs time alone to get his heart rate back to normal. Driving relaxes him. I was so exhausted myself, I took a sleeping pill and went straight to bed. I slept right through till nine the next morning—good thing it was Saturday. When I realized he hadn’t come to bed, I thought he might have slept on the couch—sleeping pills sometimes make me, er, breathe a bit heavily—and then gotten up early Saturday morning and gone to the office to turn in the check. It wasn’t until around noon that I got worried. I called his office and got no answer. And I couldn’t think what to do.”

  “You didn’t call the police?”

  “No, not right then. I should have; I mean, it was ridiculous to think he’d go off somewhere with no warning. I knew he wasn’t in an accident, he always has plenty of identification in his wallet, so someone would have called. And if he was kidnapped, I’d have gotten a call about ransom. It was when I started that conversation with myself, about a ransom, that I realized how worried I was. I just couldn’t think why he wasn’t at home.” She offered a painful smile. “There isn’t a family history of amnesia, either.”

  “Had you quarreled about something?” asked Betsy.

  “No. We haven’t had a serious quarrel about anything in quite a long time. We were on the best of terms that day; after all, it was at least partly my doing that the Heart Coalition was getting that rather nice check. And his getting the Heart Coalition to lend its name made the fund-raiser important, so more people joined in. Denise Williams designed the heart—she did a great job—and we had some really lovely entries; I’m sorry you couldn’t be there to see them. I kept telling myself he was all right, that any minute he’d call with some silly reason for not coming home. I was thinking about calling the police when they came knocking at my door.”

  Betsy, remembering what Godwin had said, asked, “Did Bob sometimes do that? Stay out late or all night with some silly excuse for it?”

  Allie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Never all night. Once in a while he gets into an intense planning session or caught up reading a complicated survey and will come home late. Or he’ll get to playing a new computer game and just forget about the time. I’ve been married to him for sixteen years, and his excuses for staying out late have never gotten less lame or sounded more like him.”

  Betsy nodded. “So either he’s been leading a double life since before you married him—”

  “Or he’s the creative, driven, exasperating, charming darling I’ve always known him to be,” said Allie, nodding back.

  “If he’s that absentminded, he must keep some kind of calendar,” said Betsy.

  “Oh, yes. He says his iPAQ is the greatest invention since the calendar, that he’d be lost without it—once he learned to put all his appointments on it.”

  “Does he let you see it?”

  “Of course. He downloads a copy of it onto my pocket PC at least once a week, and I send mine to his—I’ve got a busy life, too—so we don’t book one another for engagements that conflict.” She smiled. “And sometimes one of us will sneak in a luncheon booking on the other’s schedule, just for fun, and we meet at a downtown restaurant.”

  “Was he supposed to be somewhere on Monday?”

  “Yes. In fact he’s missed two appointments and a meeting already this week. But he has a big one this afternoon, one he wouldn’t miss for anything. He has to make a very important presentation to some members of the national board about an idea he has for a campaign.”

  “Was he nervous or upset about it?”

  “He’s always anxious about presentations. He’s wonderful at it, but he gets almost sick with stage fright ahead of time. He walks up and down in the living room at home, practicing—it drives me out of the house when he’s preparing for a big one like this. He gets so tense, he sometimes doesn’t eat dinner the night before. But he never, ever tries to get out of them. That’s why I’m certain now something…something dreadful has happened to him. Because he just wouldn’t miss a presentation as important as this.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  “Yes, of course. I showed a detective my little pocket computer with his calendar on it, and he wrote some of it down.”

  “Bob didn’t say anything to anyone at work about someone taking his place this time, just for this presentation?”

  “No. When they called me today, I told them I still hadn’t heard from him. I pointed out that his speech is on his computer at work, PowerPoint slides and all. I think they’re covered; after all, it isn’t as if no one else knows what it’s about or how he planned to do it. It was like a Broadway production; there were a lot of people involved in planning and writing it. But they’re very disturbed that he won’t be there to make it.”

  “Do they think he ran off with the money?”

  “I…I can’t believe they do, not really. The police do, but the people at the Heart Coalition know him, they know how pleased he was that so much money was raised—it was his idea to ask EGA to do the project.”

  “Not yours?”

  Allie smiled. “All right, we thought of it together. EGA loves to raise money for charity and we were looking for something for the national convention, and this just seemed a natural. But Bob did all the work on his end and some of it on mine, so of course I let him take all the credit. But you see, that just strengthens my argument that he would not possibly have stolen that money. The credit he got for the project was far, far more important than twenty-four thousand four hundred and seventy dollars.”

  “Suppose, just for a minute, he did take it,” said Betsy. “What would he do with it? How would he cash it?”

  “It was never cashed.”

  “What?”

  “As soon as we were notified on Tuesday morning that the check hadn’t been turned in at the Heart Coalition, we called our bank. The balance indicated it hasn’t been cashed, and we put a stop payment on it.”

  “Have you told this to the police?”

  Allie nodded. “Yes, but it doesn’t seem to have changed their minds that he meant to steal it, and that now he’s staying away because he knows he’ll be arrested if he comes home. That’s why I’m here to talk to you. Betsy, you’ve got to help me!”

  “Allie, I’d love to. But look at me, I can’t even get down to the shop. What do you think I can do for you?”

  “I don’t know!” Her voice was a wail. “But there has to be something, someone you can talk to, to make them stop treating Bob like a, a felon! He’s a missing person!”

  Betsy thought about that. It occurred to her that if the police thought Bob had arranged this whole fund-raiser in order to steal the money, they might also think his wife was a co-conspirator. So of course they wouldn’t share all their conclusions with her. She said, “The police aren’t fools, I’m sure they’re looking at all the possibilities. They just don’t talk about everything they’re doing with the public.”

  “I suppose that’s true. But you know some police officials. Can’t you call one of them and find out what they’re doing, what they’re thinking?”

  “Well, I suppose I could ask. Meanwhile, have you called around, asked some of Bob’s friends if he’s gotten in touch with them?”

  “Yes, of course. Nothing.” Allie gave an exaggerated, exasperated shrug.

  Betsy wished she knew Allie better. It was not enough to know she was an ardent needlepointer and skilled knitter. She needed to know more about Allie and Bob’s marriage, for example. And have a deeper understanding of Allie’s character.

  She asked, “If he’s in hiding, what’s he living on?”

  “Betsy, we have ten thousand dollars in a bank account he can access with a cash card, fifteen thousand in a money market account, and two credit cards, one with no limit on it. That’s why it’s stupid
to think he would run away with a check for twenty-four thousand dollars!”

  “Has he accessed any of these accounts?”

  “Not the cash accounts, no.” Allie looked close to tears again. “I checked the balances this morning, and when I saw they hadn’t gone down, that’s when I decided I needed to talk to you. I didn’t know where else to turn. You’ve done investigations before; you’re so very clever.”

  “Yes, well, before I could always get around to talk to people.”

  “Maybe I could talk to them, if I knew who to talk to. Maybe he’s using his credit cards—that can be checked, can’t it?”

  “Yes, they can trace credit card use, including location, so if he had, they’d have gone there looking for him.”

  “Do you think he’s…dead?” Allie asked in a very small voice.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think something’s happened to him, that he’s stuck somewhere and can’t get home or call for help. Perhaps someone hijacked his car to get the check. Or just to get the car, and left him injured somewhere. Or maybe he was on that drive and went off the road and he’s in a ravine somewhere, hurt. The banquet was last Friday, five days ago. I have nightmares about him lying injured in his wrecked car, too hurt to use his cell phone, unconscious, maybe…” The pain in her eyes and voice was enormous, but she took a breath and continued bravely, “Yes, maybe dead by now. I’ve driven the route he would have taken coming home, but didn’t see a car in a ditch. But if he went for a drive, there’s no telling what route he took. Who knows where he is right now?” Tears overflowed and rolled down Allie’s cheeks.

  Wishing she could reach her, to put an arm around her, all Betsy could do was gesture at the box of tissues on the coffee table. Allie pulled two out and covered her eyes. Betsy waited, and in a few minutes Allie pulled herself together and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.”

  “Allie, I’m so sorry, too. Let me make some calls, maybe the police are taking everything into consideration.” She took a breath and dared to ask, “What if we found him in a hotel somewhere with…someone else?”

  Allie laughed softly. “That won’t happen. But if it did, that would be worlds better than what I’m terrified has happened.”

  ALLIE wasn’t gone ten minutes before Godwin was at the door again. “Well? Well?” he demanded.

  “I said I’d make some calls to find out what the police are thinking,” said Betsy.

  “You’re not going to try to find him?”

  “How on earth can I do that?” she retorted, gesturing at her leg.

  “By asking me to help,” said Godwin, with an air of stating the obvious.

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Then you should, my dear, you should. For who has sat admiringly at your tender toes, absorbing your methods? Moi! All you have to do is tell me where you would have gone, if you could go, and I will go there, ask any questions you would want asked, and bring the answers back to you.” He assumed a “thanks for your applause” pose, arms wide.

  “Oh, Goddy, I don’t know,” she said. Godwin was intelligent, clever, and imaginative—it was this last that made her doubtful.

  “Why not?” he asked. “I’ve already told you something nobody else knows, that Bob Germaine is gay.”

  “Now, hold on,” said Betsy. “We don’t know that.”

  “I’m sure Allie Germaine denied it—”

  “I didn’t ask her,” said Betsy. “She is in far too much distress to be asked a question like that right now.”

  “Oh, but that’s the big question, the question that needs answering, the question that could lead to the solution to this thing!”

  “I did ask her how she would feel if he were found in a hotel room with someone else, and she said that would be worlds better than finding him dead.”

  “Well…yes, I suppose, if that’s the alternative,” said Godwin. “But surely he’d’ve been found by now if he was killed in a car crash or something.”

  “I don’t know. Every so often there’s a news story about someone who ran off the road and no one saw the wreck for days, even weeks. That’s what she’s thinking happened, and she’s upset that the police are searching for a thief when they should be looking for an accident victim. She says he sometimes goes for a long drive after giving a speech, to cool off, settle his nerves.”

  “Or,” said Godwin, “maybe he went out partying to celebrate.”

  “With the check in his pocket? That sounds kind of irresponsible.”

  “Maybe he left the check in his car, in a good hiding place. Maybe the car got stolen—it was a new Lexus, after all—and he’s too ashamed to admit where he was. And it didn’t get cashed because the thief didn’t find it.” He beamed at her. “See? I’m thinking like a detective already!”

  Betsy nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you are. Well, let me make my phone calls first, then we’ll talk about you going out to sleuth.”

  Six

  BETSY was in her small kitchen, moving awkwardly on her crutches—the old-fashioned kind that offer support under the arms—while she got out the crackers, then stirred the pan of soup heating on her stove. She couldn’t think how she would transfer the soup to a bowl and the bowl to the table, and so proposed to eat it out of the pan.

  Sophie had already learned that for the time being (though she didn’t know there was to be a limit on it) she was allowed on the counter, because Betsy couldn’t put the animal’s bowl on the floor and so fed her up there.

  Then the doorbell rang. With an aggravated growl, she swung around clumsily to head for the intercom near her front door. The bell had rung again before she got there.

  Holding down the intercom button, “Yes?” she said in her crispest voice, a warning to someone with something to sell.

  “It’s me, I’ve got news!” Godwin, sounding cheerful.

  Her physical therapist had been here earlier and had her doing more leg lifts than she ever thought she could. Her leg still ached, and she was in no mood for chirpy conversation. But Godwin said he had news, and if he could tell her something useful she could put up with chirpy, right?

  “Come on up.” She pushed another button, one that released the lock on the door downstairs, and went back to stir her soup, which was starting to bubble around the edges.

  In less than a minute he was opening the door to her apartment. “Hi, good to see you up on your feet!” he said, coming into her kitchen. “And cooking, too, better and better.”

  “Well, I hate to say it, but all those lovely hot dishes people keep bringing are too high in calories for someone who does nothing but lie around all day. Which reminds me, my freezer up here is full of them, and three more came this afternoon. Can you take most of them down to the basement, to the big chest freezer down there? I’ll write my name on them so my tenants will leave them alone.”

  “Sure, after I’ve told you what I found out.”

  She went to stir her soup. “Supper first. I’d’ve made a salad, but my lettuce has died. I figure chicken noodle soup can’t do my figure much harm, even with crackers. Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve wined and dined and dined some more.” He smirked just a little; he was dating that handsome fellow known as Dex who worked at Needlework Unlimited, so life in that respect was good. “And I’ll hint in the shop tomorrow that what you need is not another hot dish, but someone to do some grocery shopping for you.”

  “That would be lovely. Thanks.”

  “But now to the big news: Bob Germaine has been very active in the gay community.”

  Betsy turned toward him so fast she staggered and nearly fell. “What?” she said. “You saw him? What did he say?”

  He reached out to steady her, taking her by the shoulders. “No, no, I didn’t see him,” he said, mildly aggravated. “And no one I talked to has seen him for at least a week.” He let go and stepped back. “Okay now?

  “I’m fine, just fine,” she said impatiently. “Well, then what did y
ou mean that you found him active in the gay community?”

  “I mean people I talked to know him. When I described the man I saw at the banquet, a lot of people said they’ve seen him around. He’s kind of a party animal, they say. Only he uses a different name: Stoney Durand.”

  She snorted faintly. “Sounds like the main character in an old television show: Stoney Durand and his sidekick Giggles, fighting for justice in the Old West.”

  “Can I help what a man picks for a pseudonym? Maybe he watches old westerns a lot. Maybe he smoked a lot of weed in college.”

  “How did you describe him?” Betsy was thinking Godwin had only seen Bob Germaine once, and then from a distance.

  “He’s a little taller than me, with a better-than-average build, and dark brown hair kind of wavy on top and short on the sides. He has brown eyes and thick eyebrows. No earring. His hands are not the kind you get when you’ve done hard labor like construction or landscaping.” Godwin held out his own slender hands. “Not as nice as mine, of course. His nose is just the least little bit retroussé. He wears a silver ID bracelet on his left wrist, the kind with flat links—I noticed it when he reached for the check and at the same time was shaking hands with the President of EGA. And people who know Stoney Durand say he always wears an ID bracelet like that.”

  Betsy, duly impressed with this detailed description, said, “Sounds as if you were really paying attention. Good for you. Still, that description could fit more than one person.”

  “Not the whole thing taken together,” argued Godwin. “The hair, the nose, the eyebrows, the bracelet—”

  “The name,” said Betsy, by her tone only appearing to agree with his list. “I understand most people pick a fake name close to their own so they’ll turn to look when they hear it. So I’d’ve thought he’d pick something like Hob LaLane rather than Stoney Durand. And also, if he’s bi, has this Stoney ever been seen with a woman?”

  “Not in the places I looked,” said Godwin with a smile. “And anyway, he’s got a woman at home.”