And Then You Dye (6 page)

It was a little after lunch and business was slow. The door sounded its two notes, and both Godwin and Betsy looked to see who the customer might be.

“Hello, Irene,” said Godwin, pasting on a smile that had a nice hint of sincerity in it—Irene might be a nuisance, but she spent a lot of money in Crewel World.

“H’lo, Godwin,” said Irene. “Betsy, I want to ask you something.”

“Certainly, Irene. How may I help you?”

“Has Mike Malloy been to see you yet?”

“No, why?”

“Because Hailey Brent is dead, and she worked in the needle arts, and so your assistance must be of value to Mike.”

“I’m not sure he thinks so.”

So exasperated her dark curls began quivering, Irene said, “He’s wrong, of course. You
knew
Hailey! She did a dyeing demo in here! You bought her yarn to sell in here! Mike
has
to come to see you so you can tell him about all that!”

“Maybe Mike doesn’t think any of that has anything to do with her murder.”

“Who knows what has anything to do with her murder? Aren’t detectives supposed to collect lots and lots of facts and only then sort through them to see what is important and what isn’t?”

“Well, yes, that’s true.”

“And besides, Mike might be able to tell you something that you can put on your own pile of facts to see if it’s important.”

Betsy was impressed. Irene actually had a point. But: “How do you know I’m collecting my own pile of facts?”

“It’s all over town. I guess Marge Schultz or maybe Philadelphia Halverson told someone, or two someones, and you know how things get around in Excelsior.”

Well, that was the truth. Betsy was at first annoyed at this new leaf on the Excelsior grapevine, then thought that perhaps she should be pleased, because now people might come and tell her things. And like Irene said, when you started gathering facts, you never knew what might be important.

“Irene, what was your impression of Hailey?”

“I liked her! She was always interesting. She had an interesting perspective on life. I think she liked me, too. She said I was wise not to allow a man to interfere with my work, that my work was . . .” Irene paused while she searched for the term Hailey had used. “Expressive, I think she called it. And exciting—no, evocative.” Irene didn’t sound sure she knew what evocative meant, or if it was properly effusive, and was relieved when Betsy nodded.

“I agree with that, your work is wonderful.”

“It sets a mood, all right,” agreed Godwin.

“Did she say anything about her own work?” asked Betsy.

“A little. She said sometimes it was hard to get people to see that her work had value. I told her I knew what she meant. I have the same problem. Some people still think what I do is folk art.”

“Did she mention anyone in particular?”

“The garden-woman next door, Marge Schultz, was one. But another one, as bad or worse, was Joanne McMurphy.”

“Who’s Joanne McMurphy?”

“I’ve seen her, but I don’t know her. She often looks angry. All I know is what Hailey said, that Joanne has a temper. The way she talked, some of the time I thought she thought Joanne was funny, but other times I think she was just a little scared of her.”

“How do they know each other?”

“You know, I never asked her.” Irene shook her head, frowning, a little miffed at herself for not thinking of that.

“Have you told Mike this?” Betsy asked.

Another frown. “Yes, but I don’t think he even wrote it down. Do you think it’s important?”

“I think it might be.” Betsy and Godwin exchanged a glance. Here at last was a lead, slim but in a direction away from Marge.

Seven

B
ETSY
found she was right about one thing. The word had spread that she was investigating Hailey’s murder, so many of her customers saw to it that next time they came in—some even made a special trip—they told her what they knew, or had heard, or concluded about Hailey.

Over the next few days, Betsy was informed that Hailey was very comfortable with herself, that she was relaxed and competent, but also prickly and opinionated, as well as efficient and hardworking. Three people said they heard she was “sort of a pagan,” and four had heard her talking like a militant feminist, which to one of them was the same thing, practically, right? Hailey was good at the needle arts as well as spinning and dyeing. She practiced Tai Chi, said a woman who had seen her down at the beach last summer doing the strange and beautiful slow dance of the practice. And by the way, said this same woman, she could swim like a dolphin. “I’ve never seen anyone more at home in the water. You almost want to look for fins, or a tail.”

Though Betsy couldn’t see how that or even most of what the other people brought to her was of any value in this case, she duly wrote it all down on the long and narrow reporter’s tablet she had taken to using while investigating.

On Friday , Philadelphia called. “I’ve arranged for Ruth to revisit Mother’s house,” she said, “and that reminded me that I haven’t had another conversation with you. How do I arrange an appointment for us to talk? Do you get a day off from work?”

“Yes, I do, though it’s often only a day away from the shop—I have to catch up on my usual household tasks, plus things like bookkeeping, placing orders, and so on, things to do with the shop. I’m sure you are as busy as I am with work and your art projects and caring for your family. How about we meet for breakfast?”

Checking their respective calendars brought up the following Tuesday as a day both could manage. They agreed to meet at Antiquity Rose at nine that day.

*   *   *

T
HE
waitress at Antiquity Rose gave barely a second glance at Philadelphia’s hair. She seemed more intrigued by Betsy’s indigo-blue pantsuit. Or perhaps it was the beautiful lapis earrings and brooch she’d bought at the store to match her blue shoes and purse. Was the ensemble over the top? Betsy thought not. Perhaps it was that the blue of her outfit clashed with the blue-green shade of Philadelphia’s hair. It had become an interesting world when one had to consider whether the blue of one’s clothing might not complement the blue hair of one’s breakfast companion.

Betsy was pleased when the waitress brought them into a small side room and seated them in a back corner, where it was quiet.

“How are you holding up?” asked Betsy after they had consulted the menus and placed their orders.

“Better, thanks. I’m glad you suggested we meet here. I haven’t been to Antiquity Rose for a long time.” Philadelphia, clad in black slacks and sweater with lots of silver jewelry, looked around the pleasant little room. “Too bad they’re only open for breakfast and lunch, but not dinner.” The place, a converted house, was a tearoom/restaurant and also an antique shop. The front room where they’d come in was full of plates and cups, embroidered aprons and silver spoons, porcelain, books, and jewelry. The art on all the walls, even the furniture they were sitting on, was for sale.

The food was excellent.

Betsy, halfway through her mushroom omelet, said, “I hope you don’t mind some personal questions.”

“No, of course not.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, and still to my first husband, which is a little unusual in my age group. We have two children, a girl and a boy. I’m a nurse at Hennepin County Medical Center. My husband, Al—Allen, actually—is a program designer at Graphics Design in Minneapolis.”

Betsy pulled her notepad from her purse and ate left-handed while she took notes.

“Philadelphia,” Betsy began.

“Please, call me Del. It’s not that I don’t love my name, I do, but it is a mouthful.”

“All right. Del, how old were you when your parents divorced?”

“Eleven.”

“That must have been a painful age to have your dad move away.”

“It was a relief, actually. They were always fighting.”

“Who divorced whom?”

“Mother divorced Dad when she found out he was having an affair. JR took it hard, and I thought for a while he was going to go live with him. He threatened to a couple of times, but always backed down. Anyway, Dad had the other woman all lined up, and there was no room in that arrangement for a kid. I’m surprised JR turned out as good as he did, looking back on it.”

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Mark Brent—Mother liked the surname, so she kept it.”

“Your mother never remarried?”

Philadelphia smiled wryly. “Heavens, no. Mother liked that old cliché that a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. She was proud to succeed without a man in the house.”

“Yet you married.”

“Well, I turned out to be of the opinion that this fish could learn to ride a bicycle, and like it. I think my grandparents set the example I followed. Of course, I got lucky: Al is just great, so I’m not handing my mother’s opinion on to my kids. Of course, it may be that, working nights like I do, we don’t see enough of each other to sustain quarrels.”

“What did your mother think of your husband?”

“She put up with him; in fact, I think she secretly liked Al, though she never said so.”

Betsy made a note, then asked, “Do you know a Joanne McMurphy?”

“No, why?”

“Apparently she and your mother had some kind of quarrel.”

“I don’t think I ever heard Mother mention that name.”

“There’s an entry in the phone book that lists a Joanne and Pierce McMurphy. Husband and wife, I assume.”

“I’ve never heard of either of them, sorry.”

“Who were some of your mother’s friends?”

“Well, there’s Randi Moreham, Randi with an
i
. Randi’s marriage is in trouble, and Mother had gone so far as to suggest Randi move in with her until she decided what to do. I’ve met Randi a couple of times. She’s the quiet type, kind of the opposite of Mother. Her husband’s name is Walter. I’ve never met him. Now that Mother is . . . gone, I wonder what Randi is going to do.”

Betsy wrote the names down. “Who else?”

“Ruth Ladwig, of course. She knows a lot about dyes, and the two of them could talk for hours about that. You know, what they’d been trying, what colors you could get, mordants—did you know urine is a mordant?” Philadelphia’s nose wrinkled. “Too often there’s some unpleasant aspect to the crafts, isn’t there? Fortunately, most of them aren’t as bad as that. Oh, good, here comes the waitperson with the coffeepot.”

*   *   *

W
HEN
Betsy got back to the shop, Godwin said, “Ruth Ladwig called. She wants to know if you and she can find a date the two of you can go back to Hailey’s house. She left her number.”

Betsy communed with Godwin, her list of available temp helpers, and her own schedule before calling Ruth to set a date.

“I’m not sure why you want to come with me,” said Ruth. “I’m going to price the items in the dyeing workshop. How could that be interesting to you?”

“Philadelphia was so upset down there that she became a distraction to me,” Betsy replied. “I have a feeling I missed something, some helpful detail. I just want another look. And, I’d like to talk to you about Hailey.”

They agreed to meet Thursday, at two, at Hailey’s house—Ruth would have a key.

That evening, as usual, Betsy turned on her television to watch the local news. The newscasters were companionable, amusing, and competent. “Okay, Amy,” said the good-looking guy, “is spring still sprung?”

Amy Stromberg, a Gwyneth Paltrow look-alike, blond and blue-eyed, appeared in front of that trick screen that displayed mobile weather symbols. A trio of radar beacons was sweeping around the state map, showing no storms present anywhere except in the far northwestern region.

“It sure is!” she said with a bright smile. She was wearing a close-fitting navy blue suit that showed off the figure of someone who Betsy knew cross-country skied in the winter and played tennis all summer. Her prediction for the rest of the week was for seasonably warm weather—upper sixties and low seventies—under clear skies, but rain showers coming in Saturday night and lingering into Sunday.

Good, thought Betsy. Fine weather on Saturday would bring out shoppers, and the rain on Sunday would help root the plantings she and Connor had installed in the back lot.

Betsy was looking forward to next year, when she could pick bouquets of lily of the valley—she loved strongly scented flowers such as those and lilacs and old-fashioned roses. But the back lot was too shady for lilacs or roses.

She turned the TV set off and went into her galley kitchen to sweep and mop the floor. She was about halfway through her chore when her phone rang. “Hello?” she said.

“Betsy? This is Amy Stromberg.”

“Hi, I was just watching you do the weather. You were looking very good.”

“Thanks. You called me yesterday, left a message, and I’m only now calling you back. What’s up?”

“That Mark Parsons needlepoint canvas you ordered came in. I’ll hold it for you in the shop.”

“Ooooh, thank you! Oh, hey, I’ve been meaning to call you anyway. I hear you’re investigating Hailey Brent’s murder, and are looking to talk to people about her.”

“Did you know her?”

“No, but I know some people who did.”

“Like who?”

“Well, Ruth Ladwig for one.”

“Yes, I’ve already talked with her.”

“Joanne McMurphy.”

“You know her?”

“I know her husband—well, actually, it’s my husband who is Pierce’s friend, they both are software developers. I’ve met Joanne a few times when she and Pierce have played tennis with Jeff and me. I’m not sure what the connection was, but I do know Joanne was a friend of Hailey’s. Joanne mentioned her to me.”

“What do you think of Joanne?”

“My opinion of her is low enough that I don’t want to play doubles with her again. She’s a poor sport, challenges every call not in her favor, yells at poor Pierce if he loses a point. She’s actually a little scary when she gets angry.”

“Scary?” This was the second time someone described her anger that way.

“She opens her eyes really wide, and her eyebrows raise up crooked, and she shows all her teeth—it’s like an angry animal.”

Wow. Betsy asked, “Has she ever become violent?”

“I never saw her actually strike someone, though last time we played, she threw her tennis racket at Pierce and I think she meant to hit him. He knows how to calm her down, he’s very patient with her, more than she has a right to expect. I feel sorry for him, he’s such a sweet person, but if I were him, I’d have someone warm and kind on the side—and be damn careful Joanne didn’t find out about her.”

“Hmmm, interesting. Do you know Randi Moreham?”

“Not to talk to, though I’ve seen her around. I think she came into some money. She gave a nice donation to SNAP last year, after a couple of years of much more modest donations.” Betsy was aware of the Spay Neuter Assistance Program that Amy volunteered for. It was a Minnesota charity devoted to decreasing the surplus pet population by offering to neuter cats and dogs at little or no cost. They actually had a van that was a mobile clinic, and were looking to buy a second one. Betsy had made a donation herself last fall—she strongly approved of their mission.

“I understand she’s on the verge of leaving her husband, and Hailey was offering her a place to stay,” said Betsy.

“I’m afraid that’s news to me.”

“Anyone else you know who was a friend—or an enemy—of Hailey’s?”

“I don’t think so. We didn’t move in the same circles, really.” Amy paused, then changed the subject. “How about I come in on Saturday to pick up that Parsons canvas? And could you pull the yarns for me for it?”

“Sure, everything will be waiting for you.”

After they hung up, Betsy made another note about the canvas and stuck it on her refrigerator where she’d be sure to see it in the morning.

*   *   *

I
N
the shop the next morning, Betsy tried to think of a way to connect with Randi Moreham and Joanne McMurphy. She didn’t know either of them, and was pretty sure neither of them had ever been in Crewel World.

Only pretty sure?

She went into her computer’s customer database and found that Randi Moreham had in fact come in three times and bought something—the last time over six months earlier.

Godwin came over to look at what she was doing. “I have an idea,” he said. “It’s something we should do anyway.”

“What’s that?”

“Do a special mailing—both by e-mail and snail mail—to customers who haven’t visited the store in a while. Do a ‘We Miss You’ theme.”

“You’re right that we ought to be doing something like that,” said Betsy. “How quickly can we put it together?” Then she thought of something else. “And how about we offer to send a dollar out of each twenty spent to SNAP?” That additional sweetener might appeal to Randi.

“Good idea. I can have the mailing ready to send out in a couple of days, if we rush.”

“Make it so,” said Betsy, smiling.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Godwin was as good as his word. On Friday morning, after having loaded a file of the finished ad on the shop’s computer, he hit the Send button. A little stack of printed ads waited on the checkout desk for the daily postal pickup. Titled “We Miss Your Smiling Face,” it offered to broaden the smile with a ten percent discount to anyone bringing the ad to the shop. It also noted that one dollar of every twenty spent would go to SNAP, the charity that neutered the pets of poor people.

And having baited her hook, all Betsy could do was wait.