Cutwork (12 page)

Shelly nodded. “Like stitching binges. Lots of our customers go on them, I’ve done it myself—neglecting the house, turning the dogs out in the backyard instead of taking them for long walks, just so I can finish a piece.”

Again that warm approval. “You do understand.”

Betsy asked, “Was Rob McFey serving his muse lately?”

“Definitely yes, until just a few months ago. When he came up for air, he called me to come see what he’d just finished. It was that lion. I saw it and I went right home and phoned Marvin Gardens in Santa Fe to say they really had to take a look at Robbie. They said on my recommendation they would, and he should send them some items. He was in the process of selecting some pieces when . . . this happened.”

“That’s too sad,” said Shelly. “Maybe you, or maybe his family should send the pieces anyway?”

Ian shook his head. “I don’t think there are a lot of unsold pieces, and just that one really brilliant one isn’t enough to anchor a real show. But his work should have been in a gallery, not an art fair, if only because the prices would be better. Problem is, there won’t be any more. My gallery is the kind that likes to take a new artist and publicize him, bring him in for events and get him interviews in magazines, build him up, so his pieces really escalate in price. Robbie would have been really good at that, he was photogenic and could talk a great game. But Marvin Gardens won’t consider him now, because he isn’t available for interviews.” He stood abruptly and went to look out the front window, peering around the canvases and patterns at the sunlit sidewalk. A jogger came by, unmindful of anything but the pain in his legs. Ian’s hand went to his face for a few minutes, then he sniffed lengthily and his elbow worked as he rubbed his nose.

Shelly glanced at Betsy, whose face was sympathetic, and they waited in silence until he turned back. “It’s sad when anyone dies, of course, even some poor old sap who never had kids or made anything else worth keeping. But when it’s someone like Robbie, who would sit and study a piece of wood until it spoke to him of anger or fright or deep mourning, well, it’s just too bad. Robbie thought he was dying, which in a way was good because, like the saying goes, a sentence of death concentrates the mind wonderfully—and he really worked hard. And then he found he wasn’t dying, which was wonderful, because he then had more time to reach the height of his talent; but he’s gone now, and that’s the
damnedest
shame!” He drew a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Sorry, I pontificate. It’s one of the things that happen to people who start to get a name, they think the world is actually interested in anything they have to say.”

Shelly said, “What kind of art did you say you do?”

She realized instantly the insult of this question, but after a single flashing glance, he began to laugh. Shelly decided she didn’t mind asking foolish questions if they brought this infectious response. He said, “Welded art. I started out in sheet metal, then got into big-beam work, not at Don Gummer’s level, but corporations and some local governments bought my work. Then about five years ago I had this rush of inspiration and went haring off after it, so now I’m into smaller pieces again. And they’re doing pretty well, with private collectors and a couple of museums buying all I can produce.”

Betsy said, “I’ve seen some of those steel girder things on the grounds of Minnesota Mills and Sweetwater. Are they yours?” She pushed two fingers from one hand against three from the other, forming a quintruped shape.

He nodded proudly. “Some of them.” He made a restless gesture. “But I didn’t come in to talk about myself. I’ve taken up enough of your time, I ought to be going.”

Shelly didn’t want him to go. She asked, “How did you get started in metal? Were you a construction worker?”

He shook his head with a wry smile, and held up the bandaged hand. “As you can see, I’m not skilled enough to earn a welders’ union card. It started back when a friend who had a small arc welder in his home workshop let me have a go.” Ian’s eyes grew dreamy. “Even that first time, when I drew a bead along two small pieces of steel, I looked at the wavy, interlocking lines—I wasn’t very good at it and had to do two passes to make a solid weld—they were beautiful. Silvery, delicate, and yet powerful. That little welder had melted the ends of the steel, knitted them together like scar tissue, and the join was as strong as if the two parts had been cast as a single piece. Strength and beauty. That’s my art. I was hooked and I’ve been hooked ever since.”

“I saw some metal art at the fair last weekend,” said Shelly. “Fish and birds done in stainless steel. Was that some of your early work?”

“No, no,” said Ian with a gesture of dismissal. “I don’t do art fairs. Not that there’s anything wrong with them,” he added hastily. “Some of them, anyway. Some are more craft fairs than genuine art fairs. The Excelsior one is juried, which makes a difference, but even they have”—he gestured again—“bird houses and kites.”

“Do you have any idea,” asked Betsy, “who might have wanted Rob McFey dead?”

His head came back around. “Uh . . . no, of course not.”

“Not his son? Or his wife?” she pressed.

He looked a bit disconcerted and backed off a little. “Well, they were resentful, or so Robbie said, but that’s understandable. I mean, it’s one thing when a person is dying and wants to fulfill a lifelong dream before he goes, and another when he just doesn’t want to get back in harness after galloping free for a while.” He cocked his head as if mentally replaying those words, and gave a little nod of appreciation at his turn of phrase. Again Shelly was touched at this boyish show of self-regard.

“So his whole family was unhappy,” prompted Betsy.

“Well, no, not Skye. She thought the sun rose and set on her father. But Coyne, yes. I think he’ll have to drop out of Northwestern now, he can’t afford the tuition. Robbie said Coyne was angry about it, but . . .” He shrugged, possibly an echo of the shrug Robbie had given. “Robbie was in love with art, and allowing that love to guide him. And it wasn’t as if they were going to have to live in their car. His wife has an MBA, even if she hasn’t used it in a while.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with the University of Minnesota,” said Shelly, Class of ’85.

He bowed in her direction, his face amused. “Not at all, not at all. I went there myself, a century or two ago.”

Shelly touched her upper lip with the edge of a forefinger to hide her smile. He really was a most attractive man.

A few minutes after Ian Masterson left, Shelly went into the back to get more of the drawstring plastic bags the shop put merchandise into for customers. She found Betsy back there, stopped halfway through the making of a cup of tea, her spoon stirring and stirring while she looked off into the distance, perplexed about something.

“What’s the matter?” asked Shelly.

“Hmmm? Oh, I was just thinking about Mr. Masterson.”

“Isn’t he hot?”

Betsy turned her perplexed gaze on Shelly. “Ian Masterson is
hot
?”

“Don’t you think so? Well, no, I guess not, you being so wrapped up in Morrie.” Betsy’s on-again/off-again romance with her retired police investigator was currently back on, now he was up here from his winter home in Florida.

Betsy nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“I think he’s like a big ol’ teddy bear, with that growly voice and hairy face.”

Betsy laughed softly. “You sound really smitten!”

Shelly smiled and touched the back of her hair. “I could be. Not that I have a prayer, really. He’s all wrapped up in his artist thing. I wish I were an artist, then I might have a chance to get to know him.”

“Maybe it’s just as well,” said Betsy, her faraway look coming back.

“Why? What’s the matter with him?”

“Probably nothing. But I wonder why he came to see me.”

Shelly felt herself growing defensive. “Irene told him to, silly! And
he
told you, he wants to help any way he can with your investigation into Rob McFey’s death.”

“Yes, he told us a great deal about Robbie, didn’t he? And how his wife and son were angry with him. Yet he was surprised when I asked him who he thought might have done it.”

“I didn’t notice that he was,” Shelly lied, but added strongly, “I suppose he might not have expected you to ask him to name names.”

Betsy nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” but not as if she believed it.

“After all, he’s not a sleuth, like you are.”

Betsy nodded. “True.”

“Well, what possible reason could Ian Masterson have for murdering Robbie McFey? They were friends! Ian was doing Robbie a favor, getting him a chance to show his carvings in Ian’s gallery!”

“Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is right! And if you keep stirring like that, you’ll wear a hole in the bottom of that cup.”

“What? Oh!” Betsy lifted the spoon up to let it drip into the cup. “Wouldn’t want to do that,” she said. But when Shelly left with an armful of bags, Betsy was stirring again.

8

Jill used a coffee break to go see Mike Malloy. “Do you know Betsy Devonshire has been asked to look into the McFey murder?”

“Who by?” demanded Mike.

“Mickey Sinclair’s parents. Well, the mother’s sister, Char Norton, is the one who asked her.”

“Oh, well!” Mike scoffed, waving it off. “Parents always think their darling little boy couldn’t possibly have done the deed we caught him red-handed at. So let ’er take a look, what difference will it make?”

Her sergeant’s stripes gave Jill the nerve to persist. “Mike, is it possible that he came upon the crime scene after the murder and took the money from the cash box?”

Mike hesitated. She could tell he wanted badly to say no. But leaping to a conclusion too early led to ignoring any evidence to the contrary, a surefire way to have a case blow up in your face. Even Mike knew that. But he didn’t like it. “All right then, who killed McFey?” he argued. “And if not for the money in the cash box, then why?”

“Well, when I went to break the news to McFey’s wife, the setup made me think she might be mad at her husband for giving up his ad agency to be a starving artist. Their big house is for sale, their son now has to work his way through college, and their daughter is going to have to quit Blake and go to public high school, poor thing. Plus, I don’t think she has an alibi that would hold water for a minute. She was hinky as a fox in a chicken coop—but not for herself, for her son, Coyne. What’s more, her daughter was just as anxious to help cover for Coyne. The boy is home for the summer and was, they said, out job hunting at the time Robert McFey bought it. They were very explicit that I didn’t have to come back to talk to the boy, they wanted to tell him themselves about his dad.”

“When did you go talk to them?”

“On Sunday.”

“He was job hunting on a Sunday?”

“At a car dealership, they said. Which may be true, some of them are open on weekends. His mother said he needed a well-paying job because tuition at Northwestern is so high.”

“So all right, they’re hurting for money. How would McFey’s death benefit them?” He held up his hand again. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me: insurance.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you know if there’s a big policy?”

Jill shook her head. “It’s your case. All I did was what you asked me to, go tell the family about McFey’s death. But the house they live in speaks of a high income bracket, which almost always means a big life insurance policy.”

“Well, hold on a minute. Didn’t he get a golden parachute or something when he left his agency?”

Jill brought her notebook out. “He didn’t leave, he sold it. He was the owner. It went to a bigger agency for cash and stock. But the bigger agency went bankrupt, so his stock is worthless. And since the house is for sale, I would guess the money part either has run out, or will soon.”

“How long ago was the ad agency sold?”

Jill again consulted her notes. “Something over two years.” She looked at Mike. “The story is, he caught a terminal case of hepatitis and wanted a shot at being a professional artist before he died. But he was living longer than anyone thought he would, including his doctors. If there’s a big policy, maybe someone got impatient.”

Mike nodded and leaned on his forearms to think. He started to say something, and stopped himself. Jill grimaced; Mike was notorious for being surprised when a female showed herself competent. Still, he was not a stupid man, and suspicious behavior needs to be looked at no matter who reports it. He pressed his palms onto his desk, stood, and offered a sincere and more proper compliment. “Want to come along while I go talk to them?”

Jill smiled and said she did.

Mike phoned and found Pam McFey at home. He drove, of course; he said it made him nervous to ride shotgun. On the way he asked, “Has your friend Betsy found out anything good about this case?”

Jill replied evenly, “I don’t know.”

“She hasn’t told you?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“Well, why the hell not?” This came close to an admission that Betsy Devonshire was good at sleuthing, and he added hastily, “She’s quick enough to tell everyone else what she knows.”

“I know.”

Mike glanced at her. “Oh, that’s right, you’re mad at her for blabbing what you shouldn’t’ve told her in the first place. How mad? Are you at least on speaking terms?”

“No.”

“You aren’t going to let that be a permanent situation, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the matter, she won’t say she’s sorry?”

For once, Jill couldn’t resist biting back. “Mike, if you’re so anxious to know her thoughts on this case, why don’t you go talk to her yourself?”

Mike, surprised, let loose a defensive snort. But he didn’t press further, and the rest of the ride was made in silence.

When they pulled up the long, gentle slope of driveway, Mike said, “Nice house,” with only a trace of envy.