“That must have been hard on her.”
“Hard on a lot of Army wives—but yes, she was very young, and her husband up to then had served in the support forces stateside. It must have been a shock to both of them when he got orders to report to an overseas location.”
“Do you know where his orders would have taken him?”
“No, except it must have been to the Pacific, since he was taking the train to California.”
Violet, who was going to spend the night in a motel, was persuaded to cancel her reservation and stay in Betsy’s guest room up in her apartment. Betsy called Jill to tell her about Violet, and Jill hinted she’d like to talk with Violet herself and so Betsy invited her to come over after supper.
That evening, Violet sat on the couch stroking a beautiful, overweight, highly pleased cat while Betsy made a soup-and-sandwich supper. Sophie purred and purred; the only time she was happier than when getting unshared attention was when she was eating, and her dinner—a small scoop of Iams Less Active—was long finished.
“All right, Violet, if you will come to the table, the meal—such as it is—is ready.” As Violet approached the little round table in the dining nook off the kitchen, Betsy continued, “I’m so glad you were willing to take pot luck with me.”
“I’m grateful you invited me. Finding an inexpensive but tasty meal in a strange town is always a chancy thing.” She came to the table and said, “Now this looks perfectly delicious.”
Betsy had served open-face tuna melts and mugs of tomato soup, with slices of fresh tomato on the side. She believed in setting a pretty table, so there was a small vase of late-summer flowers on the yellow-checked tablecloth.
Because she wanted Jill to take part in any conversation related to Helga Farmer and Dieter Keitel, Betsy asked questions about the Longville area and the little town itself.
“We celebrated the centennial of Longville in 2006,” said Violet, “though it wasn’t actually incorporated as a village until 1941. It started as a restaurant serving loggers, and then supported a wood pulp factory, though nowadays it’s just for tourists and people looking for a summer place ‘up north.’ ”
“It’s an attractive town, and that idea of turtle racing was a great one.”
“Yes, it’s been going on for forty years now.”
“It has? I had no idea!”
“Yes, the children who first came are bringing their grandchildren to the races nowadays.”
With impeccable timing, Jill arrived just as Betsy finished putting the dishes in the sink to soak. She greeted Violet warmly. “I am very glad you drove all that way just to talk to Betsy, and I hope you don’t mind my horning in on your conversation.”
“Not at all, my dear. I think the more minds we can bring to this conversation, the better.”
Jill said, “Oh, Betsy, Lars got a copy of the description issued by the sheriff back when Dieter Keitel first ran off. It includes a picture of him. I thought you might like a look at the man.”
“Oooooh, thanks!” said Betsy, reaching for the two sheets of paper Jill was holding out.
The top one was a printout of a jpeg file. The sheriff’s department had scanned a wanted poster, complete with photograph. WANTED, it said in big, black letters across the top. Under the word was a black-and-white picture of a very young, thin, scared-looking man with staring pale eyes, a little too much nose, and a wide mouth compressed into liplessness. “Dieter Keitel,” ran a paragraph under the photo, “age 20, height five feet six inches, weight 145, speaks good English, a Corporal in the German Army, escaped August 30, 1944, from Remer, Minn. If seen, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND, contact Sheriff Bob Jensen, Walker, Minn.”
Violet took a look at the poster and nodded. “I remember seeing this posted in the drugstore, the post office, and the grocery store,” she said. “Just like the others.”
The second sheet was a doctor’s report of a physical examination, describing him in medical terms as undernourished and by his own report inoculated against various diseases. There were blurry fingerprints inked at the bottom. It noted that he had a mole on his left breast and a gold crown on his “30th mandibular molar.”
The mole was long gone, but Betsy recalled with fearful clarity the gleam of the gold tooth.
Jill said, “We don’t have a photograph of Helga. Can you describe her for us?”
“Well, she was not very tall, but what men called in those days ‘curvy,’ and what we call full figured today. Not in the least fat, she had a very trim waist, but she . . . well, she was very curvy.”
“Was she blond or brunette?” asked Betsy.
“Blond, a very light blond, and natural as far as I could tell. Her hair was thick and probably a little longer than shoulder length—she usually wore it up on top of her head in coronet braids or set in curls. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful. She was also sweet and playful and she had a charming habit of speaking rather slowly and looking at you sideways, so some people thought she was slow or even simple-minded. But some of us realized that if you didn’t pay attention to her way of speaking but to what she was saying, she wasn’t simple at all.”
“ ‘Ein schlaus madchen ...’”
“What’s that?” asked Violet.
“Something her parents said about her, to the effect that she was a maiden too clever to show how smart she was.”
“Yes, that sounds like our Helga, all right. Maybe too clever for her own good.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Jill.
“Well, she got that major to marry her, but instead of taking her away from her old life, he abandoned her to it, and in a worse position than when she started.”
Eighteen
BETSY’S radio alarm went off at five ten the next morning. She reached for it hastily, having no wish to wake her houseguest at such an ungodly hour. Then with a groan—she’d spent a restless night—she slipped out of bed and into a swimsuit. She pulled a loose-fitting dress over it and picked up a zipper bag with her towel, soap, shampoo, deodorant, and underwear in it, packed the night before. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, left a note for Violet, and slipped down to the small parking lot at the back of her building to take her car eastward to The Courage Center and its Olympic-size, therapeutically heated pool for an hour of water aerobics.
Heidi was the instructor this morning. A trim blond grandmother—Betsy was struck by the notion that nobody looked her age anymore, except, of course, herself—called on the ten women and two men to start a gentle kick while she led them through preliminary stretches.
Soon everyone was jogging briskly while doing “elbow touches,” opening and closing their bent arms in front of their chests. “Goooo-od,” Heidi crooned at them, though Betsy didn’t think she was doing particularly well. Heidi always counted down the last four or five moves before going to the next set, which this morning was a good thing, as Betsy was distracted by tiredness. “Jumping jacks!” called Heidi. “Touch your hands in front, then in back. Ready? Begin!” Betsy sighed and obeyed. But at least the movements were waking her up.
Back home, Betsy found Violet up and in the kitchen, making coffee. “Thank you!” Betsy said and sat down in the dining nook to share a cup with her guest.
“You were very helpful yesterday evening,” Betsy continued after a couple of sips. “Thank you. Now, what are your plans for today? I’m sorry I won’t be able to take a day off and show you around, but I could take you to lunch.”
“Oh, no need of that,” said Violet. “If you’ll feed me something now, I’ll just start right for home.”
Betsy wished she could think of a good reason for Violet to stay. Surely there were more questions to be asked—though she couldn’t think of any at the moment. “All right,” she said at last.
Betsy changed into tailored black slacks and a broad-collared white blouse for work, then the two each had a big glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal with a scatter of blueberries. Violet thanked Betsy again for the
overnight accommodations, then bade her farewell as she went out the building’s front door to start her long drive home. Betsy stood waving until her guest turned the corner onto Second Street.
Then walking down the hallway, with Sophie trundling behind, Betsy entered her shop through the back door. She was still feeling tired, but now also discontented with herself. As she went in, she was greeted by the warm fragrance of brewing coffee and stood a moment feeling grateful that Godwin had arrived and started the coffeemaker. The single cup she’d had upstairs wasn’t going to be enough to get her up and running this morning.
“Good morning, Sunshine!” he called gaily as she came in yawning and rubbing her eyes. “Whoa! What’s the matter? Say, did something happen last night, someone trying to make good on that threat?”
“No, everything’s fine. I just had a bad night. Stupid dreams and waking up every hour or two. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take it a little easy today.”
“Do that. But you might slip me the high sign if a customer gets on your last nerve, all right?”
“Thanks, Goddy.”
A trunk show—actually several sturdy boxes—had come yesterday by FedEx, featuring hand-painted canvases by Sandra Gilmore. Betsy and Godwin spent some time arranging the canvases for display on the library table. They mostly depicted sweet interiors: upholstered chairs with pillows, tables ornamented with porcelain statues and bouquets of flowers, curtained windows, pictures on the walls, all done in soft pastels. A trunk show meant extra work, but also customer interest. They had publicized the show in the shop’s newsletter and on its web site. Special prices were offered on the canvases, and often people who came in, drawn by the show, would look around and find other items to buy.
Unfortunately, the last shop to have the show hadn’t packed the canvases very carefully, and some were creased. And, Betsy noticed, several others were actually dirty. With her jaw set firmly, she put them aside; she would call the organizer of the trunk show about the damaged items—tomorrow, when she was in a gentler mood.
The phone rang. “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?”
“Betsy, this is Regina Hillerman. The package came with the overdyed silks—but you got it wrong! Really, Betsy, you read the colors back to me and they were right, so I’m at a loss to understand how when I opened the box, three of the colors were not what I asked for.”
Betsy was at a loss, too. She’d put the package in the mail yesterday, sure she’d gotten the order right. She took the names of the correct colors again and promised to get them in the mail today. She went to the rack of the silks and very carefully pulled the correct colors, and asked Godwin to package them up now so they’d be ready to go when Fred the mailman came in.
She was looking at the least creased Sandra Gilmore canvas to see if she could perhaps iron it flat, when the phone rang again.
It was Cindy Hillesheim of Nadel Kunst in New Ulm. “Betsy, you know how you asked me not to tell Peter Ball that I told you he is an expert in crochet?”
“Oh, Cindy, you didn’t tell him!”
“No, of course I didn’t. But I did tell him that you have solved several important murder cases. You didn’t say not to tell him that, did you?”
Betsy breathed quietly for a few moments, collecting her temper. “No, I didn’t. How did he react to that?”
“Well, he seemed awfully interested, and even more so when I told him Jill used to be a cop. He said that explained a couple of things, but when I assured him that she wasn’t a cop anymore, that seemed to tickle him. He said that evidently you can take the badge away from the cop, but not the cop away from the badge. What did he mean by that?”
“Oh, Jill was asking him questions and she came across kind of hard-nosed, I guess.”
“What kind of questions? Betsy, are you working on another case?”
“Yes, but that isn’t to be shared with anyone.”
“Care to tell me about it?”
“No, things are still taking shape and I don’t want to talk about it just yet.”
“Okay, if you say so. But when you’ve solved it, will you let me know the story then?”
“Yes, all right.” Betsy hung up with a sigh. She wished she’d thought to tell Cindy not to tell anyone she was an amateur sleuth. Maybe it didn’t matter this time. After all, Peter Ball was so far out on the periphery of this case, his knowing couldn’t hurt anything. Could it?
From there the day began a downhill run. Perhaps it was because she was tired, but there seemed to be more than the usual number of fussy, picky, complaining customers. And one thief. Godwin emitted a shriek when he noticed that someone had slipped away with two needlepoint canvases from the Gilmore collection.
By midafternoon, Betsy had developed a headache behind her left eye that two Advil hadn’t been able to displace. It took all her professionalism to remain civil, and the effort left her exhausted.
When at last five o’clock arrived and she could close her doors, she did the minimum close-up routine, sent Godwin off to the bank with the day’s deposit, and slowly climbed the stairs to her apartment. Sophie hustled up ahead of her, anxious to get her supper. Betsy had long tried to discourage her customers from slipping fragments of cookie or a corner of a sandwich to the cat, but never with great success. As a result, Sophie’s weight usually varied from an obese twenty to a dangerous twenty-four pounds. Betsy fed the cat morning and night, a small amount of Iams Less Active, more to ensure she got a twice-daily dose of something healthy than because she was in need of more calories. Sophie, for her part, always pretended to be famished at the end of a long day of cadging a series of mouthfuls. Today, though, her hunger seemed real, the customers having been in large part not only cranky but stingy.
As Betsy mounted the stairs, the wonderful aroma of cooking food came from one of the other apartments, and she groaned softly, knowing she was in no shape or mood to fix something as delicious for her own supper.
Betsy unlocked the door to her apartment, went into the short hallway, and took the opening on the left that led into her galley kitchen. Sophie trotted ahead of her, crying hungrily in a voice oddly high-pitched for such a massive animal.
Betsy had just finished pouring the little cup of cat food into her dish when she heard a knock at the door. Dear Lord, yet more trouble? she sighed as she went to answer it.
Connor, looking as comforting and kind as possible stood there, smiling at her. “Hard day?” he asked.
“Yes, terrible,” said Betsy, too tired to offer a polite lie.
“Peg is over in my place, cooking up what you would call a hot dish. Shrimp and mushrooms and three kinds of cheese with peas and pasta in a cream sauce. Only she made more of it than the two of us can eat. Would you care to join us?”
“Oh, it sounds fabulous! But I’m tired and crabby as well as hungry, so maybe I’ll pass.” Betsy didn’t say she also thought she wasn’t up to listening to the subtle insults of Connor’s grad student daughter without attacking her with something both heavy and frangible.
Going right to the root of the problem, Connor said, “Peg has promised to behave, truly. But since you’ll feel braver on your own territory, how about we come over to you? I want her to see that needlepoint piece you’re working on—I’m trying to expand her interest in the needle arts. I taught her to knit when she was five, you know.”
Betsy had been fifty-five when she learned to knit, and while she was competent at it, she was not the equal of anyone who’d learned as a child. Yet another reason for Peg to look down her nose?
“Oh, Connor ...”
“Now, machree, it’s no trouble at all, and you don’t look up to making yourself so much as a peanut butter sandwich.” He was still smiling and seeming very sure of himself. The apartment door across the wide hall was half open, and the smells coming from it made Betsy’s mouth water.
“Oh, all right. Come on over.”
He gave her a swift peck on the cheek and hustled back to his own plac
e.
In another minute he returned with his intimidatingly beautiful daughter, she of the dark wavy hair and light gray eyes. She was carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a big salad bowl in the other. Connor was right behind her with a round casserole dish steaming delectably.
Betsy hurried to bring out three dinner plates, three salad plates and silverware, and three wineglasses. Peg put the salad and wine on the table in the dining nook. She picked up the copy of the wanted poster and the medical report Betsy had left there.
“Oh, what a sad-looking fellow!” Peg said, looking at the photograph. Then, “But just a wee moment now,” she added, reading the information. “ ‘Speaks good English’?”
“He’s a German soldier who walked away from a prisoner of war camp in northern Minnesota in 1944,” said Betsy.
The puzzled look on Peg’s face cleared. “Ah, this must be the unfortunate man whose bones were found in the cellar of a cabin in the north of the state,” she said.
“That’s right.”
Peg looked at the second sheet, eyes moving swiftly over the two short paragraphs. “This is a pretty cursory physical examination report.”
“They probably figured if he was in the Army, he had already passed a physical.”
“Yes, of course.”
Betsy had half a loaf of artisan bread, which she contributed to the feast, along with butter. The salad had candied walnuts, dried cranberries, and bits of orange in it; the hot dish was at least as delicious as it smelled. Everyone fell to, and silence reigned for nearly twenty minutes while they all ate their fill.
“The salad I can reconstruct,” said Betsy as the meal wound down, “but I would like the recipe for that hot dish, Peg.” She was feeling much better.
“All right,” said Peg with a pleased smile. “You really do say ‘hot dish’ here in Minnesota, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Betsy. “Also ‘uff da’ and ‘up at the lake.’”
“Speaking of up at the lake,” said Connor, “how’s the investigation going?”
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