Darned if You Do (14 page)

But Valentina, who in fact came in half an hour later hot with anger, had had a quarrel not with the police investigator but with Minnesota law. “Thirty days!” she shouted. “I can't do a thing about that house for thirty days! I don't have thirty days to spend hanging around here. I can't afford to eat and drink and sit useless in a motel room for thirty days—and
then
spend another couple of weeks finishing up in there! It's not fair, it's not rational! I just can't do it!”

“Who says you have to wait thirty days?” asked Betsy when she could get a word in edgewise.

“That fool Penberthy! He says it's the law, there's nothing he can do! He must be wrong—there has to be a way! I think I'm just gonna leave. I've got things to do back home. I can't lollygag around here! As it is, I'm already near my limit on my one good credit card. I got to pay for my room, I've got laundry, I don't know how I'll buy the gas it will take to get home! What kind of a state are you people running here?”

“Hey, there are people living here permanently who ask that question all the time,” said Godwin, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

But Valentina was having none of it. “So why don't they
do
something?” she shouted. “Have a revolution! Bring out the guns and pitchforks! Tar and feather a few people!” She threw her hands into the air and whirled around twice, in a dance of fury. “What the dickens am I supposed to
do
?”

Betsy said, “I really don't know. And you're too angry to be able to think calmly—not that I blame you, I completely understand. But here, come and sit down, have a cup of tea. Maybe if we all put our thinking caps on, we can come up with something.”

Valentina's wrath blew wide open. “Argh, you're treating me like a
child
!
Thinking
caps! Cups of
tea
! This is
serious
! Can't you see that? Oh, you're no use, no use at all! As usual, I'm going to have to take care of this all by myself!”

And she stormed out of the shop.

“Wow,” Godwin said, awed. “I had no idea she could get like that! Did you?”

Betsy, looking thoughtfully at the closed door, said, “I sure didn't.”

B
ETSY
gave Valentina an hour to calm down, then called her at her motel. There was no answer. The owner picked up and said she wasn't there.

“Where could she be?” she asked Godwin.

“Maybe she's over yelling at Penberthy,” he said.

Betsy called Penberthy. “Jim, has Valentina been to see you today?”

“Not today. I know she's upset because of the thirty-day hold on her work in Tom Riordan's house. Have you talked to her?”

“Yes, but she still went away angry.”

Betsy thought and then called Connor. “Could you do me a really big favor?”

“Certainly.”

“Go over to the Riordan house and see if Valentina's in there.”

“And bring her away?”

“Ummm, no. For one thing, I don't think you could do that without resorting to violence.”

He laughed. “Then why go looking for her there?”

“Because I want to know where that rifle got to. See if she tossed it or knows if someone did—or if it's still in the house somewhere.”

“Ah, a clue, right?”

“Maybe.”

*   *   *

C
ONNOR
drove over to the Riordan house and parked behind Valentina's car. He went up onto the creaky porch and rapped on the door. “Valentina?” he called. “It's Connor Sullivan.”

She opened the door. She was dusty and the white cotton work gloves she wore were dirty.

“What do you want?” she asked, frowning at him.

“Betsy sent me over to ask you if you know what happened to that rifle we found. Sergeant Malloy has been in the house, he came after Tom was murdered, and he didn't see it.”

“Why was he looking for a rifle? Tommy wasn't shot.”

“He wasn't looking for it, it's just that he didn't see it. And you know cops and weapons. If it was sitting on the couch where we left it, he would have seen it.”

Valentina made an exasperated sound. “Well, I haven't seen it,” she said.

“May I come in and help you look for it?”

She studied him for an insultingly long moment. He bore it patiently. “All right,” she said grudgingly.

Together they searched the living room, which by now was nearly clear of trash and junk, though a corner was piled with things thought to have some value. But they couldn't find it anywhere in the room.

“You know, that is odd,” said Valentina, closing the closet door.

“When did you last see it?” asked Connor.

“I think it was the third or fourth time a crew came to work in here. Somebody pointed it out, like it bothered her it was there.”

“Was it on the couch then?”

“Yes.”

“Well, just in case, let's look around. Maybe somebody didn't like it sitting out in the open and stuck it away somewhere.”

But still they couldn't find it.

“Are you by chance keeping track of who is on these crews?” asked Connor.

“Of course.”

“Could you get Betsy a copy of the list, please?”

“All right, it'll just take a minute, the list is in my purse. That
is
bothersome, isn't it? That someone took the rifle. Dammit, I hate that people who are supposed to be helping me are helping themselves to Tom's things!”

T
HOMAS
Riordan's funeral finally took place that Sunday, in the afternoon. Riordan's body had been released by the medical examiner earlier—much earlier—and Huber's Funeral Home had arranged to pick it up. But it took longer for funds to be released to Huber's. They had had him cremated per Valentina's instructions, but the ashes were held pending payment.

There was a general stir of interest in town when the funeral was announced. Lots of people attended. Tom had no close friends, but he was a well-known figure in Excelsior, and his murder was a shock. The story of his house, packed with both junk and treasures, was a source of gossip and speculation, which meant many attendees were there out of curiosity. Valentina, of course, was the only family member Riordan had.

The service was held at Huber's, as Riordan was not a churchgoer. His ashes had been placed in a gleaming brass urn, which sat resplendent on a small, long-legged, sturdy table covered with a dark green velvet cloth.

Valentina, wearing black slacks, a dark purple blouse with long sleeves, and a silver and lapis necklace and earring set so exotic it had to have been borrowed from Leona, stood at the door to the large room, greeting people as they came in and thanking them for coming.

She spoke softly, and her eyes, while shadowed, weren't red from weeping.

Betsy and Connor came together, accompanied by Rafael and Godwin. Jill came alone—Lars was on duty, and Jill could not think of a reason to bring the children. The mayor came, but not the chief of police. Mike Malloy came. Members of the Monday Bunch came, including Grace, who brought her sister, Georgine. The Leipolds came. The owners and waitstaff of Antiquity Rose Antiques and Tea Room and Sol's Deli came, and some McDonald's employees were there, too, because Tom had eaten often in their places of business. In the end, about thirty-five people attended.

The service was short. The senior Mr. Huber offered a generic set of remarks regarding the value of modern funeral practices in marking the passage of a neighbor, and then Valentina went to the lectern.

“Thank you all for being here,” she began, her voice a little husky, as if she was moved by the turnout. “My cousin, Tommy—Thomas Riordan—was a sweet, kind, and . . . unusual person. He lived all his life in the house his grandfather built, and never married. He was a—an ardent collector with a wide range of interests. He truly loved his ‘things.' He wasn't religious—I don't think any of our family was religious—but he was very spiritual. He did a lot of volunteer work and he had a great sense of humor. It seems to me, a stranger here, that everybody in Excelsior knew him, and he had lots of friends. But there's a big, black, friendly dog named Bjorn here in town who is going to miss him probably more than any of us. God bless you, Tommy, and I hope wherever you are, you can forgive the person who took you from us.” She stopped short, leaving unsaid what her expression stated firmly:
Because I won't.

The weather had turned blustery and the air smelled of snow. Not many who came to the service continued on to the cemetery for the interment. Valentina, with Mr. Penberthy's assistance, had obtained permission from the City of Excelsior to open Tom's father's grave and put the shining brass urn in on top of it.

Betsy went to the cemetery with Connor, but Godwin and Rafael went home. Malloy came, too, but that was part of the police routine in homicide cases. Alice and Cherie came, because their strict code of manners demanded it. Leona came and stood shoulder to shoulder beside a solemn, silent Valentina while the urn was set in place. It didn't take long, and the diminished gathering broke up quickly.

Betsy shook hands with Valentina, who then left with Leona. She took Malloy aside to ask him if he found significant any of the stories about the people who got delayed mail. “They're interesting,” he said, “but none of them amounts to a real motive, in my opinion.”

“You don't think it's significant that now two items have been discovered missing from the Riordan house?”

“Ms. Devonshire, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that three hundred and six items have gone missing from that house.” He turned away and walked off down the hill.

As long as they were there, Betsy decided she wanted to visit her sister's grave, a little farther up the hill. Oak Hill Cemetery was on the highest hill in the area.

Connor came with her. She left a pebble on Margot's gravestone to mark her visit and was making her way down by a different route when she thought she saw something lying on a grave.

Was it—? She went for a closer look. Yes, it was a rifle, an old rusty thing, half covered with leaves, looking as if it had been there all summer.

Connor made an exclamation and went for a closer look. “Hello,” he said, “I think I've seen you before.”

“Is it the rifle missing from Tom Riordan's house?”

“I think so.” He reached for it.

“Wait, don't touch it,” said Betsy. She went into her purse for her cell phone and called Malloy.

“Mike, that rifle that was taken from Tom Riordan's house? I think we've found it.”

She described their location, and in a very few minutes, Malloy came swiftly up the hill to squat and look at the weapon.

“Are you certain this is the gun you saw in Riordan's house?” he asked Connor.

“It's a thirty ought six bolt action, which is what Riordan had,” Connor replied. “And it looks to be in the same bad condition. I didn't look closely at it in the house, so I'm not positive.”

Malloy used his cell phone to take several pictures of the rifle in place, stooping to get a clear photo of the modest tombstone.

“Chester A. Teesdale,” said Betsy, also stooping to read the name. The date of death was August 14 of last year, and a little math indicated he was sixty-two. “That name sounds familiar.”

“He died young. I wonder of what?” said Connor. “And, did he know Riordan?”

“I don't know.”

Betsy thought but couldn't come up with where she'd heard the name.

Malloy took the rifle with him when he left, and Connor and Betsy went home. All evening she mused off and on, “Chester, Chester Teesdale, Chet Teesdale,” but it rang nothing but the faintest bell.

Preparing for bed that night, she found a book on her pillow. “What's this?” she asked Connor.

“I believe it's called a ‘book,'” he replied.

The book was called
Art Crime
, by John E. Conklin.

“Have you read it?” she asked.

“Parts of it, the parts about auctions. You wonder what I'm doing, going to auctions. This book tells the dark side of them.”

She shrugged, but she did read parts of it before putting it down and turning off the reading lamp on her side of the bed.

But a little later, on the verge of sleep, she had a sudden notion so strong she climbed out of bed to check it out. Sophie the cat barely moved, but Thai, always up for action, accompanied her into the back bedroom she used as an office.

She closed the door so as not to disturb Connor—or Sophie—and went into the file pocket where she kept her notes on whatever case she was working on. In it she found the list of names Valentina had given to Connor to give her, of the people who had worked in Tom Riordan's house.

And there, with a check beside it, was the name C. Teesdale.

“I
knew
it!” Betsy was so excited she nearly went to wake up Connor, but thought better of it.

“Mau!” said Thai in his deep-for-a-cat voice. She turned to look at him and saw he'd brought her his favorite toy, a pair of shoelaces tied into one length.

“No, it's too late for games,” she told him and carried him back to bed.

*   *   *

S
HE
called Valentina the next morning to ask her about the C. Teesdale who helped clear out Tom's house.

“Oh, him,” said Valentina. “He only worked that one morning. I think he volunteered because he was curious about what was in the house—which is fine; that's probably why most people volunteered.”

“How did he find out about the need for volunteers?”

“He didn't say. But I know lots of places in Excelsior were talking it up and giving people my phone number. I'm still getting calls, even though I'm trying to put out the word that it's all over, at least for now. He called at a time I was at the motel, so I took his name and gave him a day to come, and he did.”

“Was he a young man?”

“Hard to say. Maybe late twenties or early thirties. A tough-looking fellow.”

“Was he a good worker?”

“Yeah, he was, pretty much. Kind of a gawker, but they generally were, at first—even your Monday Bunch crew. He was working in the living room—there's a coat closet there we were just getting started on—and then suddenly, whoosh! He was gone. Didn't say boo to anyone. I kind of wonder if he found some treasure in that closet, tucked it under his jacket, and took off.”

“Did anyone see him leave?”

“I don't think so; nobody said anything to me. I came to see how he was doing and there wasn't anybody there, so I figured he was working alone—which I'm trying not to let people do, for that very reason. Somebody could find a Ming vase, and if nobody's there to watch him, off he goes.”

“I'm thinking he took the rifle.”

“Really? Why?”

“I think to leave it on his father's grave.”

There was a startled silence. Then Valentina said, “How do you figure that?”

“Because it was found on the grave of a man with the same name who was old enough to be his father.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out.”

*   *   *

A
FEW
days later, Betsy was sorting an order of the new Kreinik colors of metallic thread. She set aside a spool of 5835, Golden Olive, for herself. She would use touches of it on a little Christmas tree canvas she was stitching as a model for the shop—she liked using mixes of fibers in needlepoint.

She looked up to see her finisher, Heidi, come in with a big box of items for her customers. As she came through the door, she stopped to listen to the music playing:
Dee-doop, dee-doop, dee-doop, dee-doop, dee-diddle-dee-doople, dee-doop, dee-doop.

“What is that?” asked Heidi, laughing.

“Something Godwin put up. It's ‘The Cuckoo Song' that Laurel and Hardy used at the start of all their movies.”

“Too rich!”

“Thank you.” Godwin rose from the table, putting down his knitting, to help her carry the box to the library table in the middle of the room. The top was open, and there were so many pieces in the box that they threatened to spill out of it.

Most, if not all, independent needlework shops offer to arrange for pieces of stitchery to be “finished”: washed if necessary, stretched or blocked, then framed or turned into pillows or have hangers attached in the case of bellpulls. Stitchers know a fine piece of needlework can be ruined by an amateur hand at finishing, so they pay willingly for this expensive professional service.

Betsy checked the contents of the box against her master list and wrote Heidi a substantial check, and Heidi left, laughing again when the door played its silly song.

The star of the finished pieces was a nice long piece of Ashley Dillon needlepoint featuring Santa leading a polar bear attached to a flatbed cart carrying a snowman and a small decorated Christmas tree. A crow was hitching a ride on the snowman's head. Unlike most Christmas pieces, it was done in muted colors. Santa was wearing brownish maroon, his beard was gray, the bear was shades of buff and ivory, the snowman was more gray than white, even the tree was a muted green and its ornaments were tiny beads in dim colors. Betsy held it up for Godwin to admire, then had him hold it while she backed away and studied it.

“You know, I only sort of liked it when I sold it to Dee Dee,” she said, “but now I think it's gorgeous. I was a little concerned about that heavy dark frame, but it's perfect. And
such
a relief from the bright and twinkly Christmas stuff!”

“Not that you don't have an assortment of bright and twinkly projects you'll haul out to decorate your place in a few weeks,” said Godwin drily.

“Guilty as charged!” said Betsy, laughing.

*   *   *

W
HEN
Dee Dee came in later to pick up the finished piece, Betsy agreed all over again that it was gorgeous and certainly qualified to be an heirloom. Then she protected it with bubble wrap and covered it again in heavy brown paper. When she had finished taping it closed, she said, “Dee Dee, may I talk to you about something?”

“What, you've got another Ashley Dillon piece you want me to look at?”

“No, this has nothing to do with needlework.”

Her serious tone made Dee Dee frown. “Is something wrong?”