Crewel Yule

by Ferris, Monica

  Emily put a dab of preserves on a fragment of biscuit. “I feel especially sorry for Cherry Pye, Ms. Hammermill’s partner in business.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, Jill and I spoke with her yesterday afternoon, but she doesn’t seem to be here for breakfast.”

  “I understand that she has elected to stay in her room until she can leave the hotel,” Emily said. “So it’s not because she’s in danger?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Betsy.

  “Then I’m sorry she’s elected to isolate herself. It was good to have another woman on display who is both a paraplegic and a success in business.”

  Betsy asked, “Are you and she the only two?”

  “In INRG? Oh no, there are others. But not many; it takes a certain degree of courage and effort to succeed in business when you’re confined to a wheelchair.”

  “Do you know Cherry?” asked Jill.

  “Not well. She only joined INRG a few years ago. She’s especially brave. She jumped right into owning a store; she hadn’t worked in retail at all before.”

  “She told us that Belle brought the expertise to the business.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that, too.”

  “There are probably all kinds of special problems when you’re in a wheelchair if you decide to go into the retail business,” said Betsy.

  “Oh, goodness, yes!” Emily seemed amused that Betsy should say something so obvious. “If you work in the store, and of course you have to if you want to make any money, all the aisles must be wide enough for your chair, which cuts into display space. And you have to have someone always in the store with you, because you can’t reach up high, and there’s always that individual who thinks that having a spinal injury means your IQ is about forty points lower than average, which can be enraging when she’s the fourteenth customer that day who speaks very . . . slowly . . . and . . . clearly.”

  Betsy chuckled. “At least it’s not like a lot of other retail businesses, where they only want to talk to the man, even if he’s brand new that day.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Emily.

  “It must be expensive,” noted Jill, “having to rework the aisles—and make the doorways wider and have the sills flattened.”

  “Yes. And you have to stick to your diet, because extra-wide chairs call for even wider aisles.” She chuckled. “Not that even the narrow chairs aren’t always nicking the counters and door frames. But the worst is dropping things. I finally had a special attachment put on my chair so I didn’t have to carry my long-reach in one hand all day long.”

  “Long-reach?” asked Godwin, pausing in the act of cutting another bite from his pancakes.

  “You know, that tool that extends your reach.” She lifted her right hand up near her shoulder and moved the fingers as if pulling a trigger, while at the same time extending her left arm to move the fingers as if pinching something. “So you can pick things up from the floor or from a high shelf.”

  “Oh, a grabber.” Godwin nodded. Jill leaned a little sideways to look at Emily’s chair for the attachment.

  “It’s on the chair I use in my shop,” she said. “This is my outing chair, with arms and a place to attach a basket for my purchases.” She turned her face to Betsy and said in a tone almost pleading, “I really don’t understand how you can think this was no accident.”

  “I’m afraid Jill and I both do,” said Betsy.

  “So then, you must suspect . . . someone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Which one of you is the policeman?” She was looking at Godwin.

  “I am,” said Jill.

  “Ha!” she exclaimed. “Making the same mistake I hate for others to make!”

  “That’s all right,” said Godwin, very amused. “I didn’t mind.”

  Emily said to Jill, “I apologize. Now that I look at you, I believe I remember seeing you go into the hotel office to speak with that police investigator yesterday.”

  “Yes, that was me.”

  “Did he say you could conduct your own investigation?”

  “Yes, provided I passed along anything we found out to him. His name is Lieutenant Paul Birdsong.”

  Emily nodded. “An easy name to remember. Do you think you will be able to discover the, er, perpetrator of this unfortunate occurrence?”

  The trio looked at one another. Godwin said, “Yes, I’m sure they will.” When Emily looked quizzically at him, he said, “I’m Ms. Devonshire’s Vice President in Charge of Operations at Crewel World, and Editor in Chief of our newsletter. I’m doing the buying while Betsy is sleuthing.”

  Emily’s slim-penciled eyebrows rose. “I thought Sergeant Larson was conducting the investigation.”

  “We’re working together,” said Jill. “Ms. Devonshire has proved herself very competent in criminal investigations. She has a natural talent for it, for which our department back home has been grateful on previous occasions.”

  “Really.” The trio nodded, so Emily, with a slight shake of her head, broke another fragment off her biscuit, and said, “Very well.”

  Betsy asked impulsively, “Were you on the third or fourth floor a little while ago?”

  “Why yes, I was on four. Why do you ask?”

  “Because we thought we saw someone in a wheelchair.”

  “It was me. I had to deliver a message to someone.”

  Godwin said, “Is this the first year there’s been snow in Nashville during the Market?”

  “Oh, no, we’ve had snow before. Just not so much. It really is an emergency for the city right now. I understand there are power outages in some districts; we’re fortunate not to have that to cope with as well. I don’t suppose you find it so difficult when it snows back home as we find it here.”

  Godwin launched into some Minnesota blizzard stories, which Betsy tuned out. She was thinking of something . . .

  “Betsy?” It was Jill.

  “Hmm?”

  “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you coming?” Betsy looked up and saw Jill and Godwin standing.

  “Oh. Sure, I guess so. We’ll let the committee know if there are any developments, Ms. Watson.”

  “Thank you.”

  Betsy remained in a withdrawn state as they made their way back to the elevators. “What are you thinking about?” Jill finally asked as they got off on their floor.

  “Did you see the way those wheels twinkled on her wheelchair?”

  Godwin said, “What, does she have Christmas lights on them? Darn, I missed that!”

  “No, no, I mean when she was wheeling down that gallery, when we saw her from the elevator.”

  Jill shook her head at Betsy. “Cherry’s wheelchair has thick plastic spokes.”

  Betsy stopped and closed her eyes, summoning the image of Cherry in her suite. Her wheelchair had been an armless variety with thin canvas seat and back, quite different from the sturdier kind Emily sat in. “Yes, that’s right.” She sighed, another theory gone west.

  “Are you going to go shopping today?” asked Godwin.

  Betsy carded open the door to their suite. “No, I guess not. So Goddy, be sure to see Cross-Stitch Wonders on two today. There are a lot of fans of their Northwest patterns. And Dragon Dreams is on two as well, I think. I want to be sure to bring back some of their dragon patterns.”

  “There’s a row of four or five suites that feature fantasy charts,” said Godwin. “Some of the people in there are wearing medieval costumes.”

  Jill made a face, but Betsy said to Godwin, “There is a little subculture of young women who really like that kind of thing, so be sure to visit them all.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Godwin gathered his Market listing, made sure he had the credit card, and left.

  “Well, it seemed like a good idea for a moment there,” grumbled Betsy. “Didn’t you notice the way the wheels on her chair glittered between the balusters when we were coming down on the elevator? Damn.”


  “Is it ever that easy?” asked Jill. “So back to the slog. Let’s see who’s available to talk to next, Eve or Lenore.”

  Jill called Eve and found her in her room and prepared to talk “if it’s for not too long—Mrs. Entwhistle gave me another list.”

  They took the stairs down a floor, and knocked on Eve’s door.

  The door was opened by a very tall, thin woman with dark, hooded eyes and a high, narrow nose. “May I help you?” she asked. She had a decided southern accent, but there was a lot more steel than magnolia about her.

  “We’re here to talk with Eve Suttle,” said Jill, using her crispest tone and steadiest stare.

  The thin woman blinked first. “Very well,” she said, and stepped back so Jill and Betsy could come in. “Eve?” she called. “Those two people you told me about are here to talk to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” came a voice from the bedroom.

  The door to the inner room opened and a strikingly attractive young woman with auburn curls and large, light-brown eyes came out. She was wearing a cream-colored blouse with a wide collar in some silky material and a split skirt that very nearly matched the mahogany of her hair. The only incongruous note was the clear plastic envelope slung around her neck on a white elastic cord. It contained a card on which was printed in large black letters: Eve Suttle, Savannah, GA.

  She smiled when she saw Betsy. “I remember you!” she said. “You were the woman who was so kind to me yesterday morning! I don’t think I ever thanked you for bringing me back here to my room.” She held out her hand.

  Betsy took it. “I was glad to help. And I want to thank you for agreeing to talk to us now.” Betsy turned to the tall, thin woman. “You must be Mrs. Entwhistle. I’m so glad you can spare Eve for this interview. It won’t take long.”

  “Hmph,” said Mrs. Entwhistle. “I’ll be on five, Eve. You have your list for three. We’ll meet back here at noon.” She turned and walked out of the suite, closing the door with just the slightest hint of emphasis.

  “Is she very upset with you?” asked Betsy.

  “She’ll get over it. This terrible thing that happened to Belle has everyone on edge.”

  “Then perhaps she understands how necessary this interview is. Won’t you sit down?” Betsy moved to the round table under its swag light.

  She and Jill waited until Eve was comfortably seated before sitting themselves, flanking her. Betsy opened the Management and Hiring book. Eve, seeing it, said, “Did you go to Betsy Stinner’s class?”

  “No, we got here too late. Did you?”

  “No, but Mrs. Entwhistle did. She said it was very helpful.”

  “I’m using the blank sides of the pages to take notes on,” said Betsy.

  “Oh.” Eve looked at the notebook with a different, more respectful air. “Okay. What do you want to ask me?”

  “I want you to tell me about yesterday. Where were you when Belle died?”

  Eve swallowed hard. “I was on my way up to see her.”

  “Why did you want to see her?”

  “I was going to kill her.”

  Twenty-One

  Sunday, December 16, 9:07 A.M.

  “And did you?” asked Jill, when Betsy found she could not speak.

  “No.” Eve frowned and rubbed her knuckles in the auburn curls over her left ear as if to stimulate her brain to make more words. “It’s hard to explain, now. You see, I went crazy while I was working for Belle and Cherry. It wasn’t Cherry’s fault, not at all. I mean, she was kind of moody, so I thought she was going to be the difficult one, but at her worst, she was still pretty much fair. Belle—she was slicker than snot on a doorknob, excuse my French. She started out nice, and then became more than a boss, almost more than a friend. She helped me to get my act together, got me to take night classes and get my GED, and go on a diet. Showed me the kind of clothes I should wear. Even my hair, the color it is now, that was her idea. It was like I turned into a whole different person—a smart person who looked pretty. And all the while, she was laying for me.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Betsy.

  “Because of what happened. Belle encouraged me to try to get an associate degree, so I started night school.” She paused to frown, thinking. “I’m only a dozen credits short, I should go finish that, shouldn’t I? Anyway, at night school I met Jack. I brought him to a party she was throwing, and she just went wild over him, said he was wonderful and I should make some big moves and play up to him. So I did, and to my amazement, he liked it. He liked me. We started dating and we fell in love. We had a sweet little wedding—Belle was my maid of honor—and three months later I found out I was going to have his baby. It was like a dream, or a really good movie. But Belle liked Jack, too, and she started playing up to him, and then she fell in love with him, and that made her hate me, and she worked on him and against me until she got him away from me. I couldn’t fight her, she knew me—she made me, so she knew all my weak spots. I lost Jack, and I was so angry and scared I lost the baby . . .”

  Eve’s beautiful eyes filled with tears.

  “We’re so sorry,” said Betsy.

  “No, no, it’s all right. This is good, I can cry about it now. I couldn’t before.”

  “Couldn’t cry?”

  “Not one tear. I told you—I went crazy. Insane. Out of my mind. Bonkers. Let me explain: I came to Belle’s Samplers and More with nothing, with less than nothing. Well, I had Norah, but she was a mess, too. Allergic to everything, always sick. Then with Belle’s help I got everything. Everything, things I never dreamed I could have. And one unexpected result: When I got my act together, Norah stopped being sick all the time. I never realized that my being a mess was most of the reason she was a mess. Then Belle, who had given it all to me, took it all away. My job, my pride, Jack, the baby growing under my heart. My mind couldn’t take it in. I cracked. I couldn’t put myself back together in Milwaukee, so I packed up Norah and went to stay with my mother in Savannah.

  “My mother took me and Norah in, but after a month of my sitting on the couch eating, she told me I had to get a job. The only thing I was any good at was stitching, so I got a job at Silver Threads. That helped, I could act sane even if I wasn’t sane. Then Mrs. Entwhistle said she wanted one of us to come to Nashville Market with her, and I just knew I had to come. I said I’d pay half my ticket and half my room if she’d pick me. Because I knew Belle would be here. And if I saw her, I was going to kill her. I knew that, too.”

  “Yet you came anyway,” said Jill.

  “Oh, yes.” Eve’s eyes glowed and her lips thinned. “I wasn’t going to miss a chance like this. I had it all worked out. I left her a note as soon as we got here, and—”

  “Left who a note?” interrupted Jill.

  “Belle,” Eve said, impatient with her. “I asked was she here, and the lady on the desk said yes, and I said could I leave her a note, and she said yes, so I left a note that said I wanted to talk to her and could she come to my room at ten o’clock on Saturday.” Eve smiled faintly. “I just knew she’d come, I had it all worked out.” She shrugged and frowned. “Except she didn’t come. I couldn’t believe it, I was in here at ten till, and at quarter past she still wasn’t here. I thought, ‘Maybe she thought I meant her suite, not mine,’ so I decided to go up to her place on nine. So up I go—”

  “Did you take the elevator or the stairs?” asked Jill.

  Eve said impatiently, “The elevator.”

  “Which side?”

  Eve frowned at this exasperating nit-picking. “When you come out of this suite, go right. ’Cause this suite is a little closer to the right side. Anyway, I went up on the elevator and it stops and the door opens and there’s this horrible scream going on down, and a big smash at the bottom. Horrible.” Eve swallowed and touched her mouth with the back of one hand. “Horrible,” she repeated, taking the hand away. And again, “Horrible.” She drew a deep breath and let it out in a sudden huff.

  “I had what I wanted, which
was Belle dead on the floor. But I didn’t do it. So it was like perfect, you know? She was dead but I wasn’t guilty of murder.” Tears began to flow from her eyes. “And see? I can cry, isn’t that great? I can cry real tears. I couldn’t cry one tear for almost a whole year, but I can cry now anytime I want.”

  Betsy looked down at her notebook and wrote, Insane? She looked up again and said, “If you didn’t throw her over that railing, who did?”

  Eve, sniffing, raised eyebrows at her, surprised. “No one. She jumped.” She wiped tears away with her fingertips. “Everyone knows that she jumped.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No.” Eve shook her head, then offered a sly smile. “Maybe because I was coming up to see her, and she was scared?” The look in her eye made Betsy very uncomfortable.

  But Jill asked quietly, in her common-sense voice, “Do you really think that might be the case?”

  Eve looked a bit ashamed of herself. “No, not really. I don’t know what happened. It was unreal, I can’t help talking about it like it’s a story someone made up. My whole life since I met Belle has been like a story, like magic or sorcery or something. She bewitched me, she was like a devil disguised as an angel, and I was going up there to kill her, and she fell dead without my having to commit murder. It was like, for once, I had the magic warrior on my side.”

  “Did you go to the end of the gallery? Maybe just to look?”

  “No. Well, yes. I went to the other end, not the end she fell from.”

  “Did you see anyone up there?”

  “No. Well, I thought I did, but when I looked harder, there wasn’t anything. Maybe it was her wicked soul fleeing her body after she jumped.”

  “You aren’t serious,” Jill said.

  Eve looked abashed. “No.”

  Jill persisted, “Seriously, what did you see?”

  “I don’t know, just a kind of rolling movement, something dark. For just a second.” She shrugged. “It was my imagination, I guess, because it was just so brief and then it wasn’t there. So I went down the stairs. I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

  Betsy thought briefly and asked, “Because you thought someone might be there? Someone who might think you murdered Belle?”