Crewel World

by Monica Ferris

  There was not a misstep in the stitching that Betsy could see, and the overall effect was lovely. “This is really nice,” she said.

  “Her room is full of this kind of thing,” said the woman. “She has a quilt stitched all over with angels. You can borrow this, if you want.”

  “I don’t want to take it away from you. What if someone stole it?”

  “Oh, likely she’d make me another. She’s good about that kind of thing, though she can be very unfriendly right to your face, too. Of course, if you hit on the right subject, she’ll talk your ears off.”

  Betsy nodded. “So I’ve heard. Did she ever talk to you about my sister?”

  “No, not once. But your sister came to see her the day she died.”

  “She did?”

  “Let me think. Maybe it was the day before she was killed I went to my daughter’s. No, the day of because I didn’t hear about the murder till the next evening, on the television news. My cousin Emily came over that Thursday, and sore as I was from the day before, we went out, so it wasn’t till evening that I learned about it. It was a terrible shock, and it wasn’t till the next morning it occurred to me that Miss Potter must’ve been one of the last people to see her alive. And it was a shame, a real shame.”

  “Why a shame?”

  “Because Father says they went at it hammer and tongs, the two of them. He says he was in the kitchen—Miss Potter’s room is over the kitchen—and while he couldn’t hear any of the words, they was at it for quite a while. Then he says he heard someone coming down the stairs and he went to see, and it was Mrs. Berglund. Miss Potter, he says, stayed at the top of the stairs and hollered after her, ‘You’ll be sorry you talked to me like that! You’ll be sorry!’ But Mrs. Berglund just went on out, never looked back.”

  “Could I talk to him about this?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. He’s mad at me for not promising not to repeat what he told me to you. Says it’s none of your business. He’s talked to a police detective about this, and is waiting to be interviewed by him.”

  Joe Mickels glared up at Betsy. He was trying hard to keep hold of his temper, because angry as he was that she had come, he was more afraid of what she was going to ask. But he’d told his secretary to show her in, because he did not dare let her know of either his anger or his fear.

  She came in looking tired, and he sensed at once that she was nervous, too. That made him feel he could handle her.

  “I take it you are still stirring up trouble over your sister’s murder,” he said bluntly.

  She drew herself up a little. “I am asking questions the police should be asking.” He did not offer her a chair, though she seemed a little footsore. He remained seated behind his desk.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “For one, if you were in St. Cloud that night, as you claim, how did you manage to be seen ducking into a parking lot in Excelsior?”

  “Who says they saw me?”

  “Irene Potter.”

  “She’s a loon, likely to say anything.”

  “Her description is a little too detailed to be a hallucination. She said she saw a man with big whiskers, carrying a broken oar and wearing a black rubber coat and a hat with the brim turned down. Do you own a black rubber coat and a brimmed hat? Is your boat missing an oar?”

  Bad questions, worse than he thought. He knew lying was a mistake, so he didn’t say anything at all. But she was content to let the questions hang there, being answered by his silence. At last he stood and went to the window. The sun was shining, people were going about their business. Old Mrs. Lundgren came out of the Excelo Bakery with a white paper bag in her hand.

  “I should get these whiskers cut off,” he said. “Not many people wear them anymore.” He turned to find her looking at him with a pretty good poker face. “It was me,” he said.

  “Why a broken oar?” she asked.

  “When I’ve got something I need to think over, I like to do it on the water. Bad weather don’t bother me, so long as it’s not a thunderstorm, and it wasn’t. So I went out in my rowboat. It was so damn foggy out there that I lost my way and rowed right onto some mudflats. I didn’t want to get out—you can sink up to your, uh, backside in that stuff. So I stuck the oar in and started pushing. I was stuck pretty good, I was prying hard, and the thing snapped. It’s an old oar—hell, I’ve had that boat since I was nineteen, and that’s the original set of oars. But I finally got loose and I paddled with the other oar till I found a dock I could tie up to, near the Park Restaurant. I was walking home when I saw Irene coming, the old witch. I thought I got out of her way quick enough.”

  “So you weren’t in St. Cloud at all.”

  “No, that was the night before. That night I went to supper at Haskell’s, then I took my boat out and rowed around. It helps me think.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “You want the truth? Margot Berglund. That woman was the bane of my life till the day she died.” He glared at her. “And now you’ve taken over, worse than her, talking about me behind my back, and all.”

  “I haven’t been spreading rumors about you. I don’t know who is repeating what I say in confidence, but they seem to be putting their own twist on it. All I’m doing is wondering out loud who murdered my sister. What time was it when you saw Irene?”

  He glared harder, but she didn’t back down an inch. “Sometime around ten, or a little after,” he answered grudgingly. “I remember it was about twenty past when I got in the house.”

  “It must not have taken you long to drive home,” she remarked.

  “I didn’t drive home, I walked. I live in Excelsior Bay Gables.”

  “You mean, you live in that condominium right across the street from Crewel World? I didn’t know that.”

  “No reason you should.”

  “Why were you so anxious to get my sister to break the lease and move out?”

  “Because it’s time Excelsior had a really decent building. Are you going to insist on staying to the end of the lease?”

  “I haven’t decided. Did you murder my sister?”

  “No, I did not. And I don’t appreciate you siccing that cop detective back onto me.”

  “Did he come and talk to you again?” She was surprised.

  “He did, said you were the one who broke my alibi.”

  “You shouldn’t lie to the police.”

  “Especially in a town where everyone keeps track.” He nodded.

  She asked, “Did you recognize Irene when you saw her?”

  “I was pretty sure it was her. That’s why I ducked out.”

  “Tell me your version of what happened.”

  He did; it didn’t vary much from Irene’s story, so she thanked him and left.

  After she was gone, he told his secretary he did not want to be disturbed, then locked the door and went into his strong room for a silver restorative.

  When Betsy got back to the shop, it was going on four. Godwin was completing the sale of Marilyn Leavitt-Imblum’s Song of Christmas counted cross-stitch graph and the yarns to complete it. “You’ll need bugle beads for the candles on the tree,” he was saying, leading the customer to the big metal box that held little drawers full of beads.

  And Shelly was talking with a customer who was interested in using DMC floss instead of Paternayan three-ply persian on a project. “Let’s see what Fiber Fantasy says is the equivalent color of Paternayan 501,” Shelly was saying.

  Betsy stood near the doorway a moment, thinking she really ought to go to church and thank God for competent help. And while she was there, she could apologize to Reverend John for thinking badly of him. Which reminded her, she needed to call Paul Huber at the funeral home and apologize to him, too.

  The door went bing and she hastened out of the way. Jill came in with, of all things, an oar in one hand. She went right past Betsy, saying over her shoulder, “Follow me.” She was wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt, but was nevertheless exuding cop auth
ority, and Betsy obediently followed out the back door into the hall that led to the back entrance.

  “What, what’s the matter?” asked Betsy when Jill at last stopped and turned around.

  “This is an oar,” said Jill.

  “Yes, I can see that.” It wasn’t broken, and so wasn’t Joe Mickels’s oar.

  “Look at the oarlock.”

  Betsy obeyed, and even reached out to note how the thing was attached, which was through the oar so that it could swivel. “I can see how it might be difficult to swing it so that the spike is driven into someone’s skull,” said Betsy.

  “And, that spike is too thick and too long to have done that injury,” said Jill.

  “Interesting. But I already don’t think Joe murdered my sister.”

  “You don’t?” Jill put the oar down. “What changed your mind?”

  Betsy explained, concluding, “Still, it’s interesting about the oar. You’re sure the spike is too big?”

  “The autopsy report said the spike was not more than an inch and a half long. And the injury to Margot’s skull was fairly small, only an inch or so across. But that doesn’t mean the weapon was that small. It depends on whether or not the weapon sank to its full diameter.”

  “Ugh!” said Betsy. “The things you know.”

  “These are things you encounter when you investigate homicides. I think Hud’s right, you aren’t cut out for this sort of stuff.”

  “Hud? When did you talk with him about me?”

  “He didn’t tell me, he told Shelly. Shelly told me. Didn’t I warn you about her? She’s the most terrific gossip I’ve ever known.”

  “And in this town that’s saying something,” said Betsy. “So she’s the one who told Hud you and I went to the Guthrie.”

  “Yes, she told me he told her he wished it could have been him taking you out. Those two talk on the phone a couple of times a week.”

  “Hud’s a suspect, you know.”

  “Hud?”

  “You’re the one who told me they quarreled.”

  “That was years ago!”

  “Actually his motive has nothing to do with the quarrel; it’s that T‘ang horse. Margot went to see it on that Wednesday, and then went to see Hud upset—he says because she snagged her stockings again in that storage room and wanted to know when they’d get the new exhibit set up. That night she was murdered, the shop was ransacked, and the only things still missing are the T’ang needlepoint and her sketchbook in which she was making a new copy of it. What’s more, not only does he not have an alibi, a Rolls-Royce was in an Excelsior parking lot that night.”

  Jill stared at her. “How do you know that?”

  “Irene said she saw Joe Mickels ducking down behind a big dark car, an imitation convertible with a hood ornament. I remember those imitation convertibles, and none of them had hood ornaments. In fact the only car with a hood ornament I can remember is a Rolls-Royce—and Hud owns a Rolls that has a beautifully made convertible top, so perfectly fitted you might think it was one of those cars with the fabric top. And Joe Mickels remembers the hood ornament looked like a fairy, which pretty much describes the Rolls ornament.”

  Jill thought a minute. “You know, Betsy, Hud doesn’t own the only Rolls-Royce in the state. Or the county, for that matter. Probably half of their owners don’t have alibis. You can’t go around saying this kind of thing without more proof than that!”

  “I wonder how many Rolls-Royces there are in Minnesota?”

  Jill frowned at her. “I don’t know. I’ve seen a few.”

  “How many?”

  She thought. “Two, maybe three, right in this area.”

  “I bet it would be interesting to call their owners up and ask them where they were that Wednesday night. If all of them but Hud have an alibi, then we’ll know something of value. Say, Jill, can you really find out how many there are? Who their owners are? Where they bought their cars? Hud says he bought his at a car auction, but I wonder—could we find out where he bought it?”

  “You’re serious!”

  “You bet your sweet bippy I am.”

  “The Minnesota Department of Public Safety keeps those kind of records. You can ask their computer to do sorts to get that kind of information. Like a friend of mine on the Minneapolis force was investigating a ring of snowmobile thieves. They were breaking them down for parts, but now and then they’d take the leftovers and make a new snowmobile and sell it. Jay asked them to sort out all the reconstructed snowmobiles registered in the past two years and broke the case that way.”

  “Can you ask for a sort of Rolls-Royces, even though you’re not a detective?”

  “Sure, but it will go through Mike and he’ll ask me why and I’ll tell him you want to know. Better you ask them yourself.”

  “How? Pretend I’m a cop?”

  The cold look Jill gave her made Betsy wonder how she had ever mistaken any of Jill’s earlier looks for chilly dislike. Jill obviously did not approve of impersonating an officer. But she replied courteously enough, “No, of course not. Automobile registrations are public information. Car salesmen line up to get lists of people who’ve bought more than one sports utility vehicle in the past four years, or are driving a Cadillac more than three years old. The state charges for the information, but you can get the name and address of every Rolls owner registered in the state.”

  Betsy started back into the shop. “Where is this department? How long does it take to get the list?”

  Jill followed, the oar in her hand. “It’s in downtown St. Paul. Are you really going to go and ask?”

  “That’s not the broken oar,” Godwin observed.

  “Duh-uh!” said Jill.

  “What were you two talking about?” asked Shelly.

  “Why do you ask?” asked Betsy. “Are you out of things to tell Hud?”

  Shelly said in a hurt voice, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it was wrong of you to tell him everything I—or anyone else—told you.” Betsy flashed a look at Godwin, who had the grace to look abashed.

  “Hud?” said Shelly. “But you’re in love with him!”

  “I am not in love with Hudson Earlie. I was indulging in a flirtation with him. He’s very attractive, but he’s not one of the good guys—you should see what he has in his office. And I think maybe he murdered my sister.”

  Shelly said in a faint, appalled voice, “Why do you think that?”

  “Because he stole the T‘ang horse from the museum and Margot found out about it.”

  Godwin said, “You mean, when you went to the museum today it was gone?”

  “Oh, no, there’s a horse there all right. But it’s not the same horse.”

  Jill asked sharply, “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I mean, I took those Madeira silks with me, all six of them.” She fumbled in her pockets and pulled them out. “Godwin pointed out that they are really two different families of blue, one of them kind of grayer than the other. Well, the 1710, 11, and 12 are the colors that match the horse I saw. These others don’t. But Margot had all six in the folder labeled T‘ANG in her file cabinet.”

  Shelly said, “When Margot was laying out the colors, she said 1008 was the right shade of blue.” They looked at her. “I’m positive, I remember it distinctly. She was putting the colors beside the framed picture and saying she remembered it was 1007.”

  “There, Jill; there’s your proof!” Betsy said. “The horse Margot used as a model for her canvas and the horse I saw are not the same color. I think that when Margot went down there to look at the horse last Wednesday, she took the 1007 colors with her. And they didn’t match the horse in the case.”

  Jill said, “And of course she went to tell Hud. He’s responsible for the Chinese stuff.”

  “And Margot was murdered that night. I suspect Hud told Margot not to tell anyone else until he checked into it. But what he did was come out here and murder her. And he stole the needlepoint horse and the sketchbook, because
they’re evidence. Then he trashed Crewel World to make it look like a burglary.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Godwin. “Wait just a minute.” Then he himself waited until they all turned to look at him. “About those different families of blue. I’ve been to the museum, and I know how carefully they light those exhibits. I have a feeling they don’t light the storage areas like that.”

  Betsy flashed on the warm lighting of the Fasset exhibit and then on the big chill storage room with its harsh overhead lights. “No, they don’t.”

  “Well, how many of us have put on an outfit that matches beautifully in your bedroom, but when you get to the office it’s like you got dressed in the dark?”

  The women, frowning, nodded doubtfully.

  “So of course the silks didn’t match the horse! On exhibit, in storage, different lights, different colors.”

  Betsy stared at him, her heart sinking. What if she had made a terrible mistake?

  18

  Hud arrived Friday evening, right on time. He paused inside the door when he saw Jill and a very tall and well-built man waiting with Betsy for him.

  “I’m so sorry, Hud,” said Betsy, “but Lars’s car broke down this afternoon and Jill’s is in the shop, too, so I said you wouldn’t mind giving them a lift.”

  Hud looked for a moment as if he did mind, but then he shrugged and said, “Sure, why not.” He was wearing a beautifully cut tuxedo—or perhaps it fit so well because he was the shape the designer had in mind.

  Jill had said the dance was “dressy,” and turned up in a short cocktail dress of ice-blue silk, her escort in a dark suit and tie. So Betsy felt right in her little black dress and the garnet earrings and necklace her mother had left her.

  “How ‘dressy’ is this dance?” asked Betsy. “I mean, am I all right?”