Cutwork (21 page)

14

Sunday morning, Betsy went to the ten-thirty service at Trinity. She usually went to the first service at eight, having gotten back into her old habit of rising early, but was hoping to meet someone at the second.

It wasn’t Father John Rettger, who was celebrant at both services. Short and white-haired, Father John was his usual careful self this morning—if he wasn’t careful, he tended to wander unannounced into a nonstandard communion service or start forgiving the congregation their sins before they admitted they had done things they ought not to have done and not done things they had ought. His sermon was lucid and learned, the congregation attentive—well, an ear-pulling contest broke out among three preteen boys, but their mother quelled it with a look and a couple of gestures. The hymns selected were comfortable; the small choir leading them was excellent. Besides the music—the first service was conducted in a sad silence—the other major difference at the second service was that the Lord’s Prayer was the modern-language version, which Betsy didn’t realize but went along reciting the traditional one and wondering vaguely why she couldn’t stay in chorus. The whole thing was over in about eighty minutes.

The reason Betsy didn’t realize she was reciting the wrong prayer was the same reason she could not have told anyone anything about the music or the sermon one minute after the Dismissal. Because she, from her place near the back, had seen Jill sitting close to the front and fixed her attention on her, trying to find a way of drawing her attention without waving or making a noise. Lars wasn’t with her; if he wasn’t on duty, he was over at Saint Elwin’s Lutheran.

Jill paused to talk to someone in the aisle before coming out, so Betsy went out into the big hall that the church backed into, turned, and waited. When she saw Jill, she raised her hand tentatively. But Jill saw her and changed directions to come to her.

“Have brunch with me?” asked Betsy.

“All right,” said Jill.

“I’m buying, so you choose where.”

“Waterfront Café,” said Jill promptly. “And we’re going dutch.” They walked down the hill to Water Street and turned toward the lake. It was already a blazing-hot day, with only the faintest hint of a cooling breeze coming off the water.

There had been a rumor that the Waterfront Café was being sold to an Asian couple who wanted to turn it into a sushi bar. True or not, the town broke into laughter at the idea, so the owner, who really had wanted to retire, went back to frying eggs and making a very mild hamburger stew he called “chili.”

“Two eggs over easy, bacon, whole wheat toast, coffee, large orange juice,” ordered Jill, who had the metabolism of a weight lifter.

“English muffin, small grapefruit juice, tea,” ordered Betsy, who didn’t. But her ears perked up at the request for bacon; the Waterfront Café’s serving of bacon was three strips, and Betsy thought perhaps she could acquire one.

When their orders came, Jill said, “So what’s up?”

“What do you mean, what’s up? You’re getting married this week! Aren’t you excited? Or nervous?”

“Not really,” said Jill, cutting into her eggs with a fork.

“Well, you’re the only woman on earth who wouldn’t be. Or is there some kind of problem? Jill, are you sure this is what you want to do? I mean, if this is about the no-fraternization rule, couldn’t you just get engaged? Wouldn’t that solve the problem?”

“Yes, it would. But I’m worried they might change the rules again on us. I’m very sure about Lars being the right one for me. We’ve talked about getting married before; I was the one putting it off because I couldn’t work patrol if I was pregnant. Now I’m a desk jockey, so that’s all right. Besides, this Thursday thing isn’t like really getting married. It won’t be the real thing until we get Father John to bless us in church.”

Betsy stared at her. “You don’t mean this is some kind of fake marriage!”

“No, of course not. So far as the state of Minnesota is concerned, we’ll be married. But I won’t
feel
married until I walk down the aisle at Trinity.”

Betsy didn’t want to offend Jill by blurting out what she was thinking, so she busied herself with her muffin for a few moments until she could figure out how to edge her way into the topic. “Does Lars know about this?”

“Yes.”

“What does he think about it?”

“Not much. Nor do I, when it comes to that. But at least we can date again.”

Betsy still wanted to jump up and shout, “You can’t do this to Lars!” Instead she grabbed her mug and took a mouthful of tea. It was far too hot; she hastily grabbed her water glass to suck up a piece of ice. It cooled her temper as well as her tongue. Around the ice she said, “He’s a stronger man than I am, Gunga Din.”

Jill laughed.

Betsy said, “When the blessing part happens, um, may I still be your maid of honor?”

Jill nodded. “Yes, of course.” She ate more egg.

Betsy said, “May I?” and reached across the little table with her fork to lift up a slice of crisp bacon. “So meanwhile, as your almost-maid-of-honor, or is a divorcee a matron of honor? It doesn’t matter, whichever, what do you want me to do?”

“Come to the Elks Club overlooking beautiful Lake Minnetonka at two P.M. on Thursday.”

“Nothing else? No shower? No organizing the brides-maids?”

“No. No shower, and you’re the only attendant I want.”

Betsy took a small bite of the bacon, savoring its rich, salty flavor. “All right. What shall I wear?”

Jill considered this while she put a dab of preserves on her toast. “Something kind of dressy. I’m wearing a new pastel silk suit.”

“What color? So I don’t clash.”

“It’s kind of an ice blue. Well, an ice blue-green, if you can imagine that.”

Amazingly, Betsy could. “I saw a suit that color at Cynthia Rae’s.” Which was a specialty store right up Water Street.

Jill nodded. “That’s where I got it.”

“But you don’t take extra-large dresses!”

“Sometimes I do. I’m tall and my shoulders are broad, so I’m hard to fit. I saw that suit in the window and I went in, and the smallest size she carries fit me just right.” Jill smiled. “Sometimes it’s fun to buy from the other end of the rack.”

“Okay, I’ll go look again at that suit in her window and find something that complements it.”

“You don’t have to buy something special.”

“But I want to! This is a special occasion! I want it to look as if we put some thought into it! What else are you wearing?”

“Okay, then, I found a little white hat with a stiff little veil, and I’m wearing white shoes.”

“White accessories, right. Except I don’t think I’ll wear a hat, unless you think I should.”

Jill shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Betsy shook her head at Jill, who looked back calmly. Jill had a trick of absorbing anything thrust at her—whether anger, distrust, amusement, or as now, bafflement—and giving nothing back, disarming the emotion. But Betsy knew about the trick and held on to her feelings.

She said, “It’s the police chief, isn’t it? You’re mad at him.”

“No, he’s not the one who wanted the policy set. In fact, he laughed when I told him what I wanted to do. He thinks it’s a great joke on the people who like to set hard-and-fast rules.”

“But I thought cops liked hard-and-fast rules.”

“Have you ever talked your way out of a speeding ticket?”

“Sure, a couple of times, why? Oh. Yes, I see. But you really are going to marry Lars in church pretty soon? It would be too cruel to make him wait, you know. He’s been very patient with you.”

“I know.” This was said quietly, but there was weight behind it. “It will definitely happen, and before too long. But this was too good a chance to pass up, so I had to take it. Lars understands, really he does.” She ate more egg and asked, “How are things going with the McFey murder?”

“I’m stuck,” said Betsy, glad Jill had brought it up, so she didn’t have to. “Is there some way you can help me? Within the guidelines of the department, I mean.”

Jill smiled. “Probably. You still think Mickey Sinclair didn’t do it?”

“No. Well, maybe not. I thought I had a really good alternate suspect, but the motive I thought he had isn’t there anymore.”

“Who was your suspect?” Jill picked up a slice of bacon with her fingers and ate it in three bites.

“Ian Masterson. He’s an artist who was helping McFey raise his standing by getting him into a gallery in Santa Fe. He also gave McFey sixty-five thousand dollars in return for being made beneficiary of McFey’s hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy. McFey was supposed to be dying, did you know that?”

Jill nodded. “Yes, but he was disappointing people by not getting on with it. I don’t understand about this motive Ian Masterson did or did not have. Was it not true about buying the policy?”

“It’s true. It’s called a viatical, buying the right to be made a beneficiary. But it turns out Ian Masterson is so rich that it didn’t hurt him in the least to have to wait for his money.” Betsy tried another sip of her tea, blowing first across the surface. “But who else was McFey disappointing by not dying? You said, ‘people,’ right?”

“Yes, I did. His wife and son were upset at McFey for quitting a career that was generating lots of money. He wasn’t earning nearly as much at art fairs. They didn’t mind at first, when they thought he had only a year or two to live. He had a second life insurance policy, worth a million and a half dollars.”

“I see,” said Betsy.

Jill nodded. “But then it turned out his hepatitis C wasn’t going to kill him, so the policy wasn’t going to be cashed in for a long while.”

“Were they all right with that? I mean, were they happy to have him around longer than they thought—or were they disappointed at having to lower their standard of living?”

“Pam McFey was right at home in that big house with all the trappings of wealth, and dropping the name of Northwestern University among her friends, where her son Coyne is a junior. But now the big house is for sale, and Coyne is looking for a job to pay his college tuition. And neither of them has an alibi worth anything. The daughter of the house does have a solid alibi.” She told the story of the two interviews with the McFey family. “Mike said at first it would be stupid to rely on a tardy realtor for an alibi, but when he talked to the realtor, she said that Pam told her not to come before noon.”

Betsy pursed her lips and thought before she spoke. “Is there any way I can learn about this except by talking to you?”

“Well, you could talk to Mike Malloy, but I don’t think he’ll tell you anything.” Her mouth twitched. “I appreciate your concern for my loose lips, by the way.” She took a drink of her coffee, which she’d doctored with sugar and half-and-half.

“How about Morrie?” asked Betsy. “Maybe he could talk to Mike or someone else in the department.”

“Maybe, but he’s a civilian now. It’s different once you retire.”

“Really? Well, I suppose it would be. Do you think the McFey family would talk to me?”

“I don’t know. The girl might. Her name is Skye, and she’s fifteen.”

“Jill, having been burnt badly because you talked to me about this case before, why are you still willing to talk to me now?”

“The problem wasn’t my talking to you, it was you repeating some of it as gossip to people who had no business knowing about it. I don’t think you’ll make that mistake again.”

Betsy smiled. “I certainly won’t.”

“On the other hand, you have a talent for solving this kind of crime; that’s why I want to keep you advised of what we find out on the official end. I trust you will continue to let us in on anything interesting you find out, and not do something silly like agreeing to meet a suspect in some lonely place.”

“No fear of that.” Betsy did not want her own corpse to be the focus of a murder investigation. Godwin could jolly well wait for his chance to run Crewel World, Inc.

She asked, “Who do you think killed Rob McFey?”

Jill shrugged. “Mike is sure it’s Mickey Sinclair, Mickey left his fingerprints on McFey’s cash box and a footprint at the scene. You’ve got an uphill battle on your hands, that’s for sure.”

“So why are you helping me try to prove he’s innocent?”

“Because you have a good batting record in that sort of thing. And because when a cop helps send a man to prison and finds out ten years into the sentence that the man didn’t do it, it can do terrible things to his peace of mind.”

“It would upset Mike?” asked Betsy.

“It would upset me,” replied Jill.

 
Godwin came into Crewel World on Monday morning in a new lavender silk shirt and tie, which looked stunning with his purple linen trousers and white sport coat. He carried a soft white leather briefcase and, catching Betsy’s amazed, admiring, amused look, paused to lift one trouser leg to show off the purple and white saddle shoe. His socks, of course, were white cotton, knit with his own hands; the dye in colored socks irritated his feet.

“You look wonderful!” she exclaimed.

“You are too gorgeous!” agreed Shelly. “Where on earth did you find that briefcase?”

Godwin laughed. “Would you believe it once belonged to John? He says an old boyfriend bought it for him back when he first got his degree. He wouldn’t dream of carrying it, of course.”

“Why not? I think it’s cool. What’s in it?”

Godwin said loftily, “The same thing that most executives carry in their briefcases: a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
and my lunch. Oh, and this.” He handed Shelly a single sheet of legal-size paper, then went to hang up the jacket and tuck the briefcase away in the back room.

He came back to find Shelly reading Volume One, Number One of
Hasta la Stitches.

She waved the paper at him. “What is this? What does it mean?”

Betsy said, “It’s a Crewel World newsletter Goddy is going to put out.”