The Drowning Spool

by Monica Ferris

  “He seems nice enough. He’s unwilling to say he was in love with Teddi or that he was angry with her for being unfaithful to him. And he’s got no alibi at all. He’s really good-looking,” she added irrelevantly.

  “So what do you think? Is he a murderer?”

  “I don’t know. He had been skinny-dipping a couple of times with Teddi at Watered Silk.” She thought for a moment. “Of course that doesn’t necessarily make him a killer.”

  Godwin said, “But he’s a carpenter, so he could be the one who rigged that back door.”

  “He denied it—and before I could conclude that he might have done it, I’d have to connect him to Watered Silk, either as an employee or as someone hired to work there. Or maybe as someone with a relative living there. I don’t think he would just wander by accident down a narrow alley and on spec cut his way into a machine room. There would be no way he’d know that to be a back way to an indoor swimming pool. And something else: I told him I had a witness to the goings-on in the pool, and he said she was a crazy woman, liable to say anything. So he must have known I was talking about Wilma. On the other hand, I don’t think he knows she’s dead.”

  • • •

  UPSTAIRS that evening, Betsy found that Connor had become very close to Thai. The cat, still a little tender in his hindquarters, was lying across the back of the couch, one dark paw just touching Connor’s shoulder. Connor was knitting a tiny green cardigan that was meant to be a gift at Jill’s baby shower in the summer.

  He looked up and smiled at Betsy as she came into the living room—Sophie had detoured into the kitchen, where her dish lay hidden in a cabinet. In another minute she would start demanding her suppertime pittance of Science Diet cat food. That and an equal pittance in the morning gave vitamins at least a fighting chance against the junk food she cadged from customers all day.

  “How’s Thai doing?” asked Betsy.

  “Much better.” The cat had come home from the vet yesterday sore and still confused from the anesthetic. The “cone of shame” he’d been given was gone; his distress at wearing it was so obvious, Connor had taken it off and thereby made it his responsibility to keep the animal from pulling out his stitches.

  The two sat and talked while Betsy decompressed from her day in the shop. Then she went into the bedroom and had a conference with her closet. What she thought of as her “good” clothes were appropriate for church or a sedate evening out at a fine restaurant or a meeting with her banker. But what to wear going out clubbing?

  She did have a heavily sequined top, bought for a giddy New Year’s Eve party years ago, but too out of fashion for an ordinary night on the town.

  Finally she went with her old standby: the Little Black Dress. She fancied it up with a sparkly scarf and her most dazzling earrings. She emphasized her eyes and cheekbones with makeup, put on her strappiest sandals—then remembered the weather forecast: sleet turning to snow. She thought for a while of wearing boots and carrying her sandals, then remembered her tendency to leave a trail behind her wherever she went, of purses, shoes, toiletries, even pajamas, hose, and jewelry. She sighed and took off the sandals and put on her high-heeled boots. She stuffed her second-tiniest purse with her driver’s license and medical insurance card, forty-five dollars in assorted bills, a lipstick, her smartphone, a tiny notebook and pen, and the folded-up copies of Teddi’s drawings of Pres. Connor’s admiring look when she came out of the bedroom told her she would do.

  He wore a navy blue suit, an ice-blue shirt, and a pale pink tie. His black shoes were polished to a mirror finish.

  They put on their winter coats and headed for Uptown. It was a little after 7 p.m.

  There was a public, ground-level parking lot behind the Lagoon Theater. Connor, driving, pulled the ticket from the dispenser and found a space near the front end. They came out onto Lagoon Street and paused to take their bearings.

  The many lights that ornamented the theater and flanked the nightclubs reflected merrily off the snow piled on curbs, and on the wet streets and sidewalks and the dark windows of passing cars. The air was also wet with a fine sleet. Or maybe it was tiny snowflakes; it was hard to discern. Betsy huddled deeper into her overcoat and was glad she’d decided to wear boots.

  They crossed Hennepin and started up it. They passed the Uptown Theater, which was offering a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show—and had been doing so since the movie was released. Beyond the theater was a hat store featuring fedoras for men and women, and then came Chino Latino, a restaurant and nightclub, where they had reservations for dinner. The entrance led into a long, narrow hallway with a wall made of tufted turquoise leather.

  From a very high lectern at the end of the hallway, a black woman smiled down at them. “Reservations?” she asked.

  “Sullivan for two at eight,” said Connor. “May we wait at the bar?”

  “Certainly.”

  They walked past a deeply sunken dining room to the bar, a long room backed by a ceiling-high, orange-lit mirror lined with glass shelves. On the shelves rested hundreds of bottles of liquor. The room was otherwise dimly lit and the orange color reflected flatteringly off the faces of the customers.

  After a brief wait, they found two bar stools. A hasseled-looking bartender took their order for a scotch and water and a glass of pinot noir. “We picked a bad night to come,” said Betsy, looking over the crowd. A row of small, tall tables bordered the other side of the narrow room. All were occupied by wildly assorted groups of people: young and middle-aged, black, white, Asian, brown, well dressed or in decidedly casual clothing. One couple even wore cowboy gear.

  “Why is this so bad?” asked Connor, also looking around. “Lots of people to ask, don’t you think?”

  “I was hoping to have a couple of minutes to chat with the bartenders. They’re the ones here night after night. But they’re too busy right now. A busy man will glance at the drawings and say, ‘Nope,’ and move on to the next customer.”

  Which is what happened when the bartender came back to see if either Connor or Betsy wanted a refill. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Don’t recognize him.”

  But they got a different reaction from the second bartender. He paused to consider the drawings, rubbing the dark little fringe of whiskers on his chin. “Yeah, I seen him in here before. Nice enough fella, kind of quiet, but sharp eyes, know what I mean? And he drinks nothing but ginger ale with a twist, that’s why I remember him.”

  “How often have you seen him?” asked Betsy.

  “Oh, let’s see. Five or six times? Maybe more—it takes a while for a face to stick.”

  “Over how long a period of time?”

  “Huh, lemme think. Six months, a year? Probably longer. I been here almost two years, and it could be he’s been in before I came, y’know?”

  “You know his name?”

  That amused him. “Hell, no.” And he moved on.

  When Betsy and Connor were summoned to their table on the other side of the big room, they were shown to the middle of a row of three dark-painted booths. A single light wanly lit an Asian-style wooden mask on the wall over each one. The mask hanging next to their booth looked authentic, though under it was a label reading “Miso Horney.” The waitstaff wore chinos and black T-shirts that announced they were souvenirs of Thailand, some with naughty mottos on them.

  The drinks menu came on newsprint and offered cocktails aimed at the youthful: Tootsy Roll, Honolulu Hummer, Raspberry Beret. Connor had another scotch and water, Betsy a Ganesha’s Dance “mocktail,” which was good if a little sweet.

  The waiter told them the food menu featured dishes from “around the equator around the world.” They selected the Senegalese peanut curry for two, which came on a single platter.

  The waiter did not remember ever seeing Pres.

  There is something intimate about sharing a platter. Betsy, after eating a particularly tasty tidbit, searched for another like it and fed it to Connor, and he returned the favor. The curry was spicy eno
ugh to heat their lips, and it tasted delicious. They polished off the whole thing in no time at all.

  The busboy agreed to look at the copies of the drawings when he came to clear the table. “Somebody can draw really good,” was his sage remark. “But I don’t know who it is a picture of.”

  “Thanks for your help,” said Connor and, making a comic bit out of looking for eavesdroppers, slipped the fellow a five dollar bill. The young man, who seemed a little slow, echoed the movement before slipping it into one of his pockets with a huge grin.

  Then they donned their coats and went out to find that the snow had turned real, falling so thickly that distant objects were obscured as if in a fog. The flakes set sparkles in their hair. Connor took Betsy’s gloved hand in his. “Sorry we aren’t finding out much.”

  “We’ve only just begun. Besides, I really liked that curry.”

  They crossed Hennepin at Lagoon and walked up the street to the Uptown Tavern. Climbing steps, they found themselves in a long room divided by a lectern, with the restaurant on their right and the bar on their left. The bar was extensive with little, long-legged tables down its center and big-screen TVs near the ceiling, all showing a basketball game—but the sound was turned off and rock music was playing, although not loud enough to destroy conversation.

  The DJ on duty was taking a break. Connor and Betsy found a pair of stools at the bar. Connor switched to Coke, Betsy ordered a ginger ale with a twist—“Just to see what it tastes like,” she said.

  When their drinks came, she showed her drawings to the bartender, a plump Hispanic man with a goatee.

  “Ah, yes, I see him in here three, four, fi’ time,” he said. “He is ver’ handsome, kind of quiet, but close, close with his lady.”

  “Always the same lady?” asked Betsy.

  “Oh, not always.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He wear a beautiful coat, all dark leather, yes, and long, and he open it and it move”—he made a gesture with both hands. “Like a, a clock—no, a cloak.” He smiled, amused. “An’ then he order what you order, a ginger ale wit’ a twist!”

  “Do you know his name?

  He had to think. “Ah, yes: Press. Like Elvis Presley, only jus’ Press. He act like a movie star, but he drink pop!” And laughing, the bartender went to serve another customer.

  The other bartender said he didn’t recognize the man in the drawing.

  They finished their drinks and went out and just up the street to Bar Abilene.

  The snow had already slowed, although about half an inch had already fallen. The sidewalk’s fresh white surface was seriously marred by dozens of footprints.

  Bar Abilene had a covered patio out front lit by a multitude of old-fashioned incandescent lightbulbs in red, yellow, green, and orange. Loud music could be heard through the wooden doors.

  As Connor opened them to enter, he and Betsy were assaulted by a blast of salsa music with its chik-chika rhythms. The room was big and packed with tables. Straight ahead was the bar, with a longhorn steer’s skull attached to the back wall. There was a dance floor off to the right, crowded with people doing the salsa, with its fancy footwork and hip-and-shoulder waggle.

  Connor asked for a booth and they were led to one near the back corner. The music was deafening and the dancers lively, and the room smelled of spiced hamburger, beer, and mixed drinks.

  They sat for a while, studying the menu and watching the dancers.

  One couple’s movements were beautiful, complex, and coordinated. The woman wore a mid-calf skirt that fell in a straight line when she was barely moving, then flared widely when her partner twirled her.

  Another couple danced so closely that they were right up against each other, their hips moving in perfect synchronicity, their eyes locked on each other. Connor nodded toward them, then blinked empathetically and wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. Betsy laughed.

  There were two women who danced so well together it was obvious they were a couple, not two girls merely showing off their moves to attract men.

  A short, stocky Latino man wearing a black pinch-brim cap danced with such skill and ease that it was clear he’d grown up hearing this music.

  In honor of the music, Betsy and Connor ordered Cuba libres and guacamole—the latter to be prepared at their table. While they waited for it to arrive, Connor swept Betsy onto the dance floor, where he proved to be light of foot and inventive of movement. The dances had no pause between them, and at last, Betsy, out of breath, signaled with a fanning motion of her hand that she had had enough.

  They came back to their table to find their drinks waiting and the guacamole ready to be mixed. The waiter, a good-looking man in his forties, wore a tan western shirt and fancy cowboy boots. He expertly mashed the peeled avocado halves in a stone bowl, dashed on the Worcestershire and hot sauces, stirred in the onion and chopped tomato, all very quickly.

  “Anything else?” he asked, already looking around to see what else needed his attention.

  “Yes,” said Betsy, presenting the drawings. “Do you know this man?”

  “Say,” he said, “I remember watching a young woman do that drawing!” He touched the caricature with a forefinger that had a dab of avocado on it. “Oops,” he said, and wiped his finger on a napkin. “I’ll get you a fresh napkin, okay?”

  “Oh, never mind that,” Betsy said. “When was it you saw this being drawn?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember, maybe a couple months ago. I do remember the drawing, though, because it was so clever. He’d gone away from the table and she got out her eyeliner and did it very fast on a napkin.”

  “Do you remember anything about the man she drew?” asked Betsy.

  He pulled back a little, eyeing her suspiciously. “What’s your interest in this?”

  “I’m doing a private investigation. The young woman you remember is dead, and I’m trying to trace her last movements. The man was just a friend of hers, but naturally I’d like to talk to him.” This was sort of the truth, Betsy told herself.

  “All right, I guess I buy that.” He thought briefly. “She seemed like a nice person, but he was, like, totally focused on her, in an almost theatrical way, kind of like Dracula with his next victim.” He frowned. “Maybe I’m exaggerating, but there was his exotic look, that long leather coat he wore . . . But it could have been a pose. I mean, maybe he was one of the good guys. But he was just so—”

  “Intense?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “You didn’t by any chance learn the name of the man?”

  “Hell, no. Or hers, either.”

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Will McNally. I’m the manager here. But we’re busy tonight—and shorthanded. Will you excuse me?”

  Sixteen

  BETSY was feeling a little droopy when she came in to work on Monday—not because she was hung over; she’d been careful with her liquor consumption. But the outing had been a failure. Okay, yes, she’d found a new restaurant she’d like to return to, and it was fun to discover that Connor was great at salsa dancing, but the big goal of the outing, to find out who this Pres person was, hadn’t been met.

  Then a regular customer came in with a problem that took her mind off her failure. Mrs. Cunningham—Betsy had never learned her first name—was in love with a counted cross-stitch pattern by Maxine Gold of an ethereal woods fairy called Chrysella, and wanted to stitch it as a birthday gift for a dear friend. But the friend’s living room was done in not quite the same shades of green, and it would seriously clash with the green family of Maxine Gold’s pattern. Mrs. Cunningham was familiar with the custom of changing the colors of a pattern to fit a decor, but this piece had a lot of subtle color changes in it and she was unsure how to make the changes so the new pattern would be coherent.

  Betsy called Godwin over for a consultation.

  “What colors are you thinking of?” asked Godwin.

  “Well, first, I want the fairy to have
white hair instead of blonde,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “and her dress and wings in shades of brown or russet, buff, and gold instead of green, gray, and ivory.”

  “Ooooh,” said Betsy.

  “The front of her dress is ornamented in ivy,” Godwin pointed out. “And there are more green leaves in that flowered headdress.”

  “Yes, well, DMC 320 and 368 would match Glory’s living room.”

  But those weren’t the greens the pattern called for.

  “Also,” said Betsy, having had a minute to think about it, “if you’re doing an autumn-themed piece, the ivy leaves could have turned red.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought to make it autumn-themed—but, on the other hand, maybe I should,” said Mrs. Cunningham.

  “It depends on what you’re thinking to bring in along with the browns,” said Godwin. “Bright, glowing oranges and reds, like DMC 742 and 946, say autumn, but brown-reds like 355 and greeny-tans like 680 don’t.”

  “Hmm . . .” said Mrs. Cunningham.

  Half an hour later, she was seated at the library table surrounded by dozens of DMC flosses. Godwin had separated them into families of colors, so she could make the gradations of color come out right.

  She was finding a lot to like in the gray-into-brown family, specifically the cool shades of 3782, 3032, 3790, and 3781. And she liked the equally cool gray-violets of 341, 156, 340, and 155. On the other hand, she liked Godwin’s suggestion of going for warm tones for the skin, mouth, and eye colors of the fairy. “But don’t forget, towheads have fairer skin than usual, so you might want to change the pattern’s tones there, too,” he pointed out.

  “This is why I love your shop!” she declared. “You are so helpful, and you’re willing to let me spread myself out like this—I can’t imagine sitting on the floor at Michael’s with floss all around me. Not that I would even have thought to do this on my own.”

  Betsy came to look at the choices she was making, and noticed how she was leaning toward the cool rather than warm shades. Then Betsy glanced again at a picture of the original pattern. “See the veining in the wings?” she asked. “What if you did that in Kreinik silver braid?”