Crewel Yule

by Ferris, Monica

  “A lot of people were caught on the hop when the Market got pushed back to December,” Terrence said.

  Lenore hesitated, frowning, then made up her mind and said, “The thing is, I had it stitched in plenty of time. This was important—it’s my first pattern for Bewitching Stitches. But the store where I took it for finishing messed me up. They know me there, they knew it was a debut for the Nashville Market, we talked about it. Belle wrote down that I needed it by February 10. When they changed the date to December, I came in and told them, but she didn’t call the finisher to change the due date.”

  Betsy said in a low, horrified voice, “How could they do something so irresponsible?” It was bad enough not to get a piece finished in time for a birth or Christmas or a wedding, but you could always give the present after the date. There was no way to retro-present a new model; this offense was magnitudes greater.

  “Are you sure they knew about the change in date?” she asked.

  “Of course I’m sure!” said Lenore. “The owners were coming to the Market. They knew the piece was supposed to be shown here. How could they not know? I told Cherry and I saw her write the note to Belle.”

  “That’s terrible!” agreed Godwin.

  Lenore nodded. “I was furious, of course. But I didn’t kill her.”

  Godwin laughed once, “Ha!” then added uncertainly, “Well, good for you.”

  “Who didn’t you kill?” Jill asked. Her voice was very quiet.

  “Belle Hammermill, of course.” Lenore’s eyes were firmly fixed on her plate. “She’s the one who’s dead, isn’t she? I think she messed me up on purpose, for some sick reason of her own. I wished she would die.” Her eyes suddenly lifted and went around the table, taking in their amazed stares. “That’s right, I even told people I wished she would take poison and die. And now she’s over there on the floor, dead, and I can’t be pleased. I just feel sick and scared. Is that stupid, or what?”

  There was a hasty chorus of disagreement, and Betsy said, “It’s not stupid. You wish her dead, and she dies—that’s scary. But wishing doesn’t make it so. Think how many times you’ve wished for something that doesn’t happen. This was a coincidence. And what happened to Belle was an accident, we all know that.”

  Lenore took a breath as if to reply, gave a little hiccup as if changing her mind hastily, and said instead, “You’re right, I guess.”

  “Did you ever think Ms. Hammermill was very unhappy or even seriously depressed?” Jill asked.

  “What do you mean?” Betsy said. “You think she committed suicide?” The image of Belle going over the railing rose up in Betsy’s mind. “It didn’t look like suicide to me.”

  Lenore, looking into her lap again said, “Of course it wasn’t suicide. Belle wouldn’t do something like that. She was enjoying herself, she always enjoyed herself. Whenever any unhappiness came around, she laid it right away on someone else.” She blinked rapidly and her chin began to tremble. “Excuse me,” she said and pushed her chair back so hard its metal legs shrieked on the tile floor.

  The men stood, Terrence reaching as if to take her hand, his eyes concerned. But it was Jill who got to her first, taking her shoulders in a firm grip.

  “Is there someone here with you? A friend?”

  “N-no, not really. Mr. Moore, he owns Bewitching Stitches, he’s my sponsor. I’m supposed to be up there talking to his customers, but I can’t go back there. I think I’ll just go up to my room.”

  “No,” said Jill firmly. “Go back to Bewitching Stitches. You saw how people here liked your pattern. Others will too, and will want to talk to you about it. I’ll stop by in half an hour to see how you’re getting along. If you still want to get away, I’ll take you back to my suite.”

  “But—” Lenore gestured up and around, taking in the Market and its purpose.

  “It’s all right. You see, I’m not a shop-owner; I’m supposed to be at another hotel, at another event. Betsy Devonshire and Godwin DuLac are old friends, I took them to dinner at my hotel last night and when I brought them back here, I couldn’t leave because of the snow. So I’m sitting up all alone in their suite stitching. I wouldn’t mind sharing the time with someone else.”

  Lenore had stiffened in Jill’s grip, and looked away from the curious faces at the table. But Jill turned her so they could look into one another’s eyes. There is something about being held firmly by the shoulders while being smiled at by a wise and sympathetic face.

  Lenore relaxed a bit and grudged, “Okay. Yes. See you later.”

  Jill released her and she turned and walked away. Jill sat down again and turned to Betsy.

  “Now, just what did you mean when you said it didn’t look like suicide to you?”

  Eleven

  Saturday, December 15, 1:20 P.M.

  “Say, who died and left you the chief of police?” demanded Harry Mason, with a grin. Jill looked around the table and saw Terrence frowning at her, too. At first she said nothing, absorbing the indignant curiosity effortlessly. Then she sighed and relented. “I’m not a chief of police. I’m Sergeant Jill Cross Larson, a desk sergeant with a very small police department in Minnesota.” She took up her fork to attack her salad.

  “See, I knew she was a cop,” nodded Harry, but he was as surprised as he was pleased at being right.

  “So what are you doing here in Nashville?” asked Terrence.

  “I’m in town for an administration seminar.”

  “You mean there’s another event here at the Consulate besides the Market?” Harry was amazed.

  “No, it’s at the Grand Ole Opry Hotel. I gave Betsy and Godwin a ride back to this hotel last night and the weather was too bad to get away again. Then this happened, and when I found out the local gendarmes couldn’t get here right away, I decided to take a little action.” She shrugged. “You wear a badge long enough, and you tend to take action in situations like this.” She looked at Betsy. “So tell me how come you’re so sure this was an accident?”

  Betsy said, “Because I saw it happen.”

  Godwin dropped his fork and said, “Strewth!”

  Betsy said, “What? What’s the matter?”

  “I thought it was terrible that I was sitting down here when she fell!” Godwin said. “Do you mean you actually saw her go over?”

  “Yes, I did. But there were hundreds of people walking around when it happened. I’m sure I’m not the only one.” She looked around the table, and said, more faintly, “Am I?”

  “I’ve only talked to one other eyewitness, and she didn’t see her actually go over,” Jill said.

  Betsy’s frown deepened. “I can’t believe I’m the only one!”

  “Where were you when you saw her?” asked Jill.

  “Well, let’s see. I’d just come out of BritStitch, which is on five, on the west side.”

  “What did you see?” asked Jill.

  Betsy paused, for two reasons. She didn’t want to talk about it—and she wanted to get it right. “Okay, I came out and there were some people talking and I joined them for a minute. They went away and I would have, too, but I just happened to look up and saw this woman standing there. She was leaning on the rail and her hand slipped.” Betsy gulped at the memory, then continued, “She just kind of fell forward, and once her shoulder went over, she just kept going, right over and down.”

  Godwin shuddered and Terrence closed his eyes. “God bless us, every one,” said Harry, and it wasn’t a joke.

  Jill asked in her calm voice, “Did you see anyone else up there with her?”

  “No. And I’m sure about that. She was standing all alone up there, I was kind of struck by that. I didn’t want to see her, er, land, so I kept my eyes on where she fell from, and there was no one else there, the railing was empty.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Jill.

  “Why, did your other eyewitness see someone?”

  “No, she also said she saw Ms. Hammermill standing alone at the railing immediately before the a
ccident. But she didn’t see Ms. Hammermill actually go over.”

  “So what’s the matter?” asked Godwin. “Betsy is saying the same thing your witness is.”

  “The matter is, I can’t understand how someone could accidentally fall over one of those railings.” She lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “Suicide is a possible explanation, of course.” She speared a grape tomato with her fork.

  But Betsy frowned. “What I saw didn’t seem like suicide. I still think it was an accident.”

  Harry said, “I know of another witness. I was talking with Dave Stott—he’s Norden Crafts, of course—and he said he was in the Kreinik suite when it happened. He said Doug Kreinik was looking out the door when she, er, went by. And Dave looked up right after she went over and there was no one up where she’d been standing. He said he had a good, clear view from outside the Kreinik suite.”

  “What number is Kreinik’s suite?” asked Jill.

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  Godwin reached into a pocket. “Just a second.” He pulled out a folded copy of the Market listing. He turned to the section listing suppliers alphabetically and said, “Six twenty-five.” And, before anyone could ask, paged back and said, “BritStitch is in five seventeen.”

  “Opposite sides,” confirmed Terrence, nodding.

  “Thank you,” nodded Jill.

  Betsy said, “So see? Now three people agree that no one was up there with Belle before she fell. Now will you drop that idea that there’s something funny about this?”

  “I’m assuming nothing, yet,” Jill said. “But a hand slips and a person goes over? Maybe, if he’s a drunk, and also if he’s a basketball star so the railing hits him below his bend-over point.”

  Betsy looked up. Those railings didn’t look all that high to her.

  Jill continued, “But if she was all alone, then maybe it was a suicide. Did anyone here at this table know her? Besides Lenore, I mean.”

  The others all shook their heads.

  Then Godwin said, “I didn’t talk to Belle, but she had a partner in her shop who I talked to. Her name’s Cherry Pye—for real, isn’t that cute? She uses a wheelchair.”

  “You talked to her after Belle died, and down here, on this floor, right?” asked Betsy.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “I saw you—or I thought it was you—talking to a woman in a wheelchair. This was right after it happened. She seemed to be crying.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” nodded Godwin. “I saw her at one of these tables, crying and looking awful, and so I came to see if I could help. She said she was Belle Hammermill’s partner in business, a shop in Milwaukee. She asked me to stay with her until she got her courage back and she could go do what needed to be done. So I did.”

  “Did she say anything about Belle?” asked Jill.

  “She said—” He paused to think about it. “I was like you, wondering if maybe it was a suicide, so I asked her if Belle was depressed or upset over anything. She said no.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  This was sounding more and more like an interrogation, and Betsy was feeling more and more uncomfortable. Not here, not here, she thought. It was bad enough to be mixed up in murders at home, but it was awful to think she brought the contagion with her on her travels.

  Godwin was saying, “Ms. Pye said she was more forgetful lately, and Cherry wondered if she had something on her mind.”

  “Something on her mind?” Terrence said. “If it was suicide, surely it would stick out a mile!”

  Betsy said, reluctantly, “I talked with someone else who knew her.”

  Jill asked, “Who was it?”

  “Her name is Eve Suttle, or Saddle. She used to work for Belle, but now works for another shop in Savannah. I was coming out of our suite when I saw her. She was actually sitting on the floor, crying. So I walked her down to her room.”

  “Is her room near ours?” asked Jill.

  “No. As a matter of fact, it’s down a floor, on seven.”

  “So what was she doing on eight?”

  “She did one of those mental blank things, thinking about something else while riding the elevator, and just rode it right past her floor.”

  “Did she say anything about Belle?”

  “She said Belle helped her get her life together.” Betsy frowned, remembering her final remark. “But I got the impression she either quit in anger or was fired. She went home to Savannah, she said, though she didn’t have an accent. She has a little girl,” Betsy concluded irrelevantly.

  She saw something in Jill’s eyes and said, “Now wait, I met Eve on eight, and Belle fell from the ninth floor.” Involuntarily, her eyes went up to look at the top gallery, high over the dais in front of the lobby, and everyone’s else’s head swiveled upward as well.

  “Long way down from there,” murmured Harry.

  Terrence shuddered. “Oh, please, hush!” he said. “Now I’m going to have to walk close to the walls and all I’ll be able to think about is tripping and going over. Brrr, it gives me chills! Honestly, why this has to happen at Market, and mess up everyone’s head, I don’t know! It’s going to be like a funeral in here the rest of the weekend!”

  “I wish they’d come and take the body away,” said Harry. He looked at Jill. “Can’t the hotel at least move it out of here? Put it in a back room or something?”

  “No,” said Jill. “I’ve instructed them to leave the body where it is until the police arrive. Or until we know for sure it was an accident.”

  Betsy said, “Maybe she was looking down, and you know how it is when you look down from the top of a high place, like you want to jump.”

  Terrence said, “I’m like that. I can’t stand high places, they make my fingers and toes tingle and I get dizzy and start leaning forward, more and then more . . .” He shook his hands hard to rid them of the tingling. “Ugh!”

  Harry said, “Since my accident, I can’t even look out a second-story window.”

  Godwin, pleased to be the brave one, said, “I adore high places. The Eiffel Tower is one of my favorites.”

  Terrence said, “Now, that’s different; looking out from high, romantic places isn’t scary! Especially when . . .” He let that thought drift unfinished over their heads, while he flashed his dimple at Godwin, who batted his eyelashes and actually managed a blush.

  Betsy heaved a big sigh. Godwin’s partner at home was the jealous type, but she was secretly grateful the subject was changing. Godwin looked at her, reading her mind, and grinned most mischievously.

  “I wonder if she’ll try to keep the shop going,” said Harry.

  “Who?” asked Godwin.

  “This partner, Cherry Pye,” Harry said. “I suppose she might, if she could find another partner. A person in a wheelchair couldn’t manage by herself, could she?”

  “It’s way too early for that kind of decision,” said Betsy, remembering how long it was after her sister’s death before she knew she would keep Crewel World open.

  “Partnerships can get tricky when one partner leaves,” noted Terrence. “Especially when it’s the way this one did. Unexpectedly, I mean.”

  Godwin said, “Maybe the partnership was in the early stages of breaking up anyway. I think she said something . . .” He thought a moment, then shook his head, unable to remember whatever it was.

  Terrence said, “Well, remember Lenore at this very table, all upset because she was so angry at Belle she wished her dead—and now she is.”

  Jill said quietly, “So that makes two, maybe, who wanted Belle to die.”

  Betsy said, “I wonder . . . That woman, Eve Saddle—Sutter?—whatever her name is, who used to work for Belle. Something about the way she talked about quitting her job with Belle . . .”

  “Three, then,” Jill said. “Maybe there are others.”

  Harry said, “It stinks to have people wishing you dead!”

  Godwin said, “Now, Jill, don’t go thinking what I think you’re thin
king. We have eyewitnesses to tell us she wasn’t thrown over that railing.”

  Betsy seconded that extra-heartily. “That’s right!”

  Jill said, “Eyewitnesses are wrong fairly often.”

  Harry said, “I wonder if this Cherry Pye is going to sue the hotel? You know, loss of the business because the partner died. And she died because the railings are too low, or because there are no nets to catch people who fall over them.”

  “Oh, come on!” scoffed Terrence.

  But Harry insisted, “If my folks gave me a joke name like that, I’d be cranky all my life. And cranky people sue.”

  Twelve

  Saturday, December 15, 1:45 P.M.

  After lunch, Jill went up to Bewitching Stitches. She paused in the doorway and saw Lenore talking earnestly with a customer. Lenore had two fingers of one hand supporting an arm of her model, and stained and sagging as it was, the gesture was of a new mother showing off her baby. The customer had her head cocked doubtfully. Lenore picked up a sheet of her pattern and explained something. The customer took it, and Lenore tipped her model and gestured at a lower quarter of it.

  Another customer paused to look at Lenore and listen to her talk. The first customer shook her head, put the pattern sheet down, and backed away, but the second stooped for a closer look. Lenore shifted her attention to the second customer, who was both frowning and nodding. Jill nodded, too, and went away. Lenore might still be having a hard time making a sale with only that sorry model to help, but at least she was back in there trying.

  Back up in Betsy’s suite, Jill sat down with her needlework. But she didn’t get past picking up her needle. She sat with it in her fingers, the Connie Welch Santa head on her lap, neither of them with any hold on her attention.

  Suppose Belle’s death was not an accident. Suppose Lenore was a murderer. Which would be the more clever way to behave? To continue trying to sell her work, or to allow shock to dictate a retreat to the privacy of her room?

  But it wouldn’t be a private retreat, would it? Jill had offered to sit with her, and that would mean questions to answer, a posture to maintain, under close scrutiny. If Lenore was guilty, she would absolutely choose to avoid that.