Cutwork (19 page)

The phone rang. Shelly turned, but Betsy was nearer, so she excused herself and picked up the cordless on the library table. “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?” she said.

“I repeat, you are the very best!” It was Godwin.

“Thank you very much. So John is happy for you?”

“Flattened is more like it! He was surprised when I told him last night, then he said he was pleased, then he went for a walk. He came home with
flowers
—he hasn’t done that for ages!—and took me out to dinner and woke this morning a gentler, better man. I really think he was impressed that you trusted me with this responsibility. We had the most
interesting
conversation over breakfast! He thought you were trying to
break us up,
isn’t that strange?”

“Why would I want to do that? And how could I possibly accomplish it?”

“By taking the
joie de vivre
out of me. Making me a regular nine-to-five adult.”

“Goddy, I don’t need a regular nine-to-five adult in the shop, I need the creative, amusing, charming you.”

“You also need a knowledgeable, reliable executive, and that
never
used to be me. I think he understands that I can still be me, even if I have become a reliable corporate executive. But to make sure he understands, we’re taking me, Vice President in Charge of Operations, out to buy that lavender silk shirt I saw at Abercrombie and Fitch last week. I may even buy a
tie
!” The thought of that sent him off again into gales of laughter.

“Enjoy,” said Betsy.

“I will, I will!” said Godwin gaily and hung up.

Betsy was still smiling when the door went
Bing!
and she looked over to see Jill coming in.

Betsy nearly rushed over to greet her, but stopped herself in time. She tried out her most ordinary smile and said, “Well, hello, Jill. Is there something you’re looking for? The trunk sale isn’t until Wednesday.”

Jill smiled. “I know. When’s your day off next week?”

“Thursday, why?”

“Have you made any plans?”

“Not really. The car needs to be serviced, I thought I’d take it in. What, you need someone to go shopping with you?”

Jill approached, her face a blank mask. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she said quietly.

Betsy, somewhat alarmed said, “Hardly ever. Why?”

“Lars told you about how we got caught in the department’s no-fraternization rule, and you and Shelly—who also thinks she’s clever—couldn’t come up with a clever way to get around the rule.” Jill could look almost as intimidating as Lars when she wanted to, and right now she was only inches from Betsy’s face. “When it’s a friend, the cleverness well runs dry, I guess.”

Betsy’s brain was scrabbling in its cage, seeking a way out. “Wh-what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stand up for me at my wedding to Lars.” Jill was speaking so quietly, Betsy got the sense of this mostly by reading Jill’s lips.

“Sure, okay, I—
wait
a second! How can you—I mean, isn’t it against regulations?”

Jill was suddenly smiling broadly. She put a finger over her mouth and Betsy realized she’d said that really loud. Shelly and several customers in the shop had turned to stare at them, all eyes and ears. Betsy whispered, “You mean on Thursday? How can you—I mean, I thought—”

“Never mind what you thought. Can you shake loose a couple of hours on Thursday, say around two?”

“Certainly.” Suddenly Betsy was grinning, too, she couldn’t help it. “Oh, Jill, congratulations!” And she couldn’t help giving Jill a hug.

“That’s enough, people are staring! I’ll call you tomorrow.” Jill turned and walked out.

Shelly was at Betsy’s elbow a fraction of a second after the door closed. “What was that all about? What are you smiling at? What did Jill tell you?”

“Nothing important. Well, except our quarrel’s over. And we’re having a late lunch together on Thursday.”

“Well, I could tell the fight was over, though I thought at first she was coming in to say something mean.”

“So did I. But you know that weird sense of humor she has. I think it comes from trying to repress it, it jumps out at strange angles when it gets a chance.”

“Maybe that’s what it is. Do you know what she did to me? About two years ago she pulled me over, siren and lights and everything, and I was wondering what law I’d broken, but she just stood there at my car window talking about a new needlepoint stitch she was trying out and at the same time pretending to write me a ticket. Had her book out and everything. People going by were grinning at me, and I was so mad! She never cracked a smile until she got back in her car and drove past me with a chicken-eating grin. Honestly, I had people asking me for a month after that what I’d gotten a ticket for. You’d never know it looking at her that she’s a practical joker. But isn’t it great that she’s not mad at you anymore? I’m so happy for both of you!” Shelly gave Betsy a hug, which Betsy returned, happy to hide her delighted grin in Shelly’s shoulder until she could gain control over her silly mouth. A wedding!

13

an and Skye walked into Rob McFey’s Golden Valley apartment around ten-thirty. The air-conditioning was on full blast, so he was glad he’d worn his new longsleeved green shirt; though pretty soon his toes, bare in their sandals, would feel a chill. Skye was in her goth uniform of black cotton shirt and immense-legged denim overalls that fully covered her bare feet. Her hair, Kool-Aid lime darkened with gel, bristled with a dozen six-inch spikes, and a silver knob glittered on one nostril.

Ian hesitated just inside the door. The little apartment had not yet taken on the abandoned feel it would have in another week or two; one might almost have expected to hear Robbie’s cheery hail from another room. But of course . . . Ian sighed and started for the bedroom, which Robbie used as a studio. The sagging couch in the living room had sheets and blankets neatly folded at one end. Ian had been here before, though not so often as Skye, of course. But she gestured at him to lead while she followed in silence.

Ian opened the door to the studio and was assaulted by a smell of sawdust and varnish. Harsh sunlight poured in through the dusty, uncurtained window. Robbie had installed three rows of shelves on the two long walls of the room and spaced his carvings along them. It was sad to see the amount of space left; it meant he’d sold a lot of his work, which meant there wasn’t much left to sell at the much higher price his death could command. Some of the lack was filled by books on wood carving, and there was a lovely jointed artist’s model of a horse, the equine equivalent of the more familiar human figure—that was Skye’s, he suspected, knowing her fondness for drawing them. A neat stack of debarked hardwood in the far corner, chunks of varying sizes and irregular shapes, waited in vain for a knowing hand to disclose the animal in them.

Robbie had taken up the carpet, exposing the plywood floor. The reason was made clear by the scatter of sawdust and wood shavings a lazy broom had missed.

A little away from the window stood Robbie’s work bench, a heavy wooden table with thick square legs. There was a wooden vise on one end of it, a leather strop hanging down in front. Beside it, on a metal stand, was a small bandsaw with sawdust heaped on and around it. Behind them, beside the window, was a shelf and a wooden rack holding knives, gouges, and chisels of many sizes, some with the patina that comes of long use.

A chisel and very small gouge were on the work bench, along with a jar of paste Robbie had made himself. He had told Ian it was just a blend of aluminum oxide and mineral oil, and it was in constant need to hone his carving blades. “A sharp knife makes a happy whittler,” he’d said.

Centered on the table, where the sun could strike it hardest, was a skeletal sculpture done in wire, only partly filled out with clay. It was an animal of some sort—probably a bear, thought Ian. It was caught in a clumsy run, and its head was looking to one side, mouth open. Even in this sketchy stage of design, it was humorously evocative of frustration and anger; Ian thought it looked as if bees were after it.

As he approached, he saw several color photos clipped from magazines strewn on the bench, of black bears walking, climbing, waving hello. Another, bigger, photo of a bear hustling across a meadow, was stuck with a lump of clay to the shelf over the tool holders on the wall. On the shelf were grubby cans and jars of stains and varnishes and a bright silver can marked THINNER; beside it was a pint mayonnaise jar half full of brown liquid with four brush handles sticking out of it.

Ian paused to contemplate the wall. The backlighting from the sunlight made interesting shadows. Something like this wall, done in old iron and stained aluminum . . . No, take the whole thing, table, saw, shelves, even the stacked wood—

Suddenly Skye brushed past him. She stopped at the table, hesitated, then touched the bear figure very lightly with her fingertips. “He was working on this on the last Friday of his life,” she said in a rusty voice, and burst into tears.

Ian reached for her, but she ducked away with an almost angry squall, still crying. Hurt, he turned to look back at the wall with the door in it, which held a filing cabinet and a small mirror—used, Ian knew, to check the proportions of a carving. Holding art up to a mirror revealed errors by throwing the image into a new perspective.

On top of the filing cabinet was the magnificent lion carving. He went for a closer look and found himself trying to see from the placement of the legs if the antelope would move ahead before the lion finished his swipe. Damn, damn,
damn,
the old drunk had been good.

“I-Ian?” came a small voice. He turned. Skye’s arms were spread beseechingly, and black eye makeup was running down her cheeks.

He knew he didn’t have a handkerchief—he hadn’t carried a handkerchief for years—but he fumbled in his pockets anyway, as he walked toward her.

She met him halfway, throwing her arms around his neck and wiping her face on the shoulder of his new green shirt. He sighed as inconspicuously as he could and held her until the renewed storm was over.

“There, now,” he said gently, when she was reduced to occasional hiccups. “Feel better?”

“Y-yes, I guess so. Oh, Ian, he was so wonderful, and he was teaching me how to be an artist, too! I’m going to miss him forever!”

“Yes, sweetheart, I know. I’ll miss him, too. What happened to him was grossly unfair.”

“It wasn’t unfair, it was
evil
! I hope the police put Pop’s killer into jail for the rest of his life!”

“It would be less than he deserves for taking your pop away from you—and a good friend from me!” he said harshly. “But go gently, dear heart. Don’t allow hatred to damage your soul. Whoever did this acted not out of wickedness, but most likely from a sudden burst of fear and greed.”

“What do you mean, ‘whoever did this’? The police have arrested that kid, he’s in jail and everything!”

He took her by the shoulders and pushed her gently back so he could look at her puzzled, mascara-stained face.

“There are some people, mostly the kid’s family, of course, but not entirely, who aren’t convinced he did it.”

“That’s stupid! I mean, they practically caught him red-handed, didn’t they? Who else
could
have done it?”

“That, my dear, is the question they are asking. Who else? I understand the police have talked to you, and your mother.”

Skye nodded. “They’ve come out twice, actually. The second time they talked to Coy, too.” She frowned. “Oh, you don’t mean they think—well, that’s crazy! Why would he—Oh. The money.”

She looked frightened now, and he brought her back into an embrace so he wouldn’t have to see what he was doing to her. “There, now, of course they’re mistaken to think it was one of you. But you see, if they’re still looking, then they’re not sure. So let’s put our thinking caps on, and try to think who else, if not that boy,
and
not any member of your family, might have done this.”

She grew very still, and he began to think she was totally baffled, or at least waiting for him to go first. So he said, “There’s me, of course.”

That surprised her; he felt her start against him. “You? Why you?”

“Because I bought a viatical from Robbie. That means I gave him a sum of money and in return he made me beneficiary of his life insurance policy.”

“Oh,
you’re
the one!”

“What, you know about this?”

“Mama was just furious about it, until she found out it was the littler policy.”

He snorted. “I see. Well, I don’t think I could have afforded the bigger one.”

Skye chuckled faintly.

He said, “So you see, we both have an interest in finding someone else who might have done this. You’re sure there’s no one else who was mad at your pop?”

She fell silent again for a few moments, but he could feel the tension in her shoulders while she thought hard. Then, as if coming to a decision rather than getting an idea, she pushed back from him to say, “I don’t know if this is a good idea, but there’s Banner Wilcox.”

“Who’s Banner Wilcox when he’s at home?”

She smiled at this ancient witticism. “He was Pop’s partner in Information Please.”

“Oh, yes, I remember Robbie talking about him.”

She nodded. “Yes. He was like a junior partner, which I used to think was strange because he’s really old, almost sixty. He went to work for Makejoy, which is the company Pop sold out to, but then they went bankrupt and Banner was fired. And he was broke, because . . .” She had to think for a bit. “How did it work? Pop said they gave Banner some stock in Makejoy, too, and Banner bought more stock with his share of the buyout money. Yes, that’s how it went. So when they went out of business, Banner lost everything. And he’s too old to get another job as good as the one he had, which already wasn’t as good as when he was Pop’s partner. For about a month after that happened, he called Pop almost every day. Pop told us not to talk to Banner on the phone, because Banner was having a nervous breakdown and thought Pop did all this to him on purpose. Pop wanted to get an unlisted phone number, but Mommy said she needed to hear from her friends, and anyway Banner would stop calling once he cooled off.”