Darned if You Do (19 page)

“My friend Ellie found it and forwarded it to me. It's from an auction,” said Emily. “The auction is over; it was over well before I found the box in Tom Riordan's house. So somebody bought it at the auction and . . . and then lost it, I guess.”

“More likely Tom took it,” said Connor drily.

“Was it part of a lot?” asked Jill.

“A lot of what?” asked Emily.

“Well, you found it inside a cinnabar box and there was also that ball of mice, so I'm thinking it was sold as a lot—a set—the box, the ball, and three needle cases, sold together.”

“Oh. I don't know.”

“What's the name of the company that held the auction?” asked Betsy.

“I've forgotten. But I can ask Ellie and let you know.”

“Okay, thank you. Now, all of you, is it possible that something else was found in that house that could provide a motive to murder Tom Riordan?”

“The coins?” suggested Jill. She turned in her chair. “Goddy, you're living with a coin expert. What does Rafael say about the coins?”

Godwin looked at Betsy, who nodded. “Valentina gave them to me to show to Rafael,” he said. “We found some valuable Morgans among the rest, but also a Seated Liberty dollar all by itself, which was mixed in with the Morgans. And it's a very, very rare coin, worth tens of thousands of dollars.”

There was a collective intake of breath around the table as everyone grasped the implications of the information Godwin had just shared.

“Are you sure?” asked Jill, after she'd recovered enough to speak. “I mean, you've told us that Rafael is an amateur collector.”

Godwin said, “That's true. But we took it and some of the Morgans to a meeting of the Northwest Coin Club, and I think that several members—who are experts—almost had heart attacks when they saw that coin.”

“So how much is it really worth?” asked Connor.

“One guy said probably sixty thousand, another said forty-five or fifty. They insisted we put it in a coin holder to prevent any more scratches or wear.” He shook his head at the memory. “I thought they were going to nominate Rafael for president of the club on the spot. We called Valentina as soon as we got home, and she was delighted.”

“Where is the coin now?” asked Betsy.

“We gave all the coins back to Valentina. I assume she put them back in the safe deposit box at the bank.” He looked around the table anxiously. “I hope none of you goes telling Mike Malloy or Jim Penberthy about this. She's not supposed to be messing with anything from the house until the thirty days are up.”

They looked at one another, then all soberly nodded agreement.

“Not that Mike and Jim probably don't know already,” said Jill. “She's not exactly being sneaky about it.”

“One coin in the collection, different from the rest, and worth far more than the others,” said Connor. “That's odd, don't you think?”

“It sure is,” said Betsy. “And I'm not sure what to make of it.”

“Maybe instead of things being taken, things are being added,” suggested Jill. “Someone wanting to hide that silver coin put it in with all the other silver coins, thinking it wouldn't be noticed, at least not right away.”

“But it would have to be somebody who (a) knew the value of the coin, and (b) knew he or she was going to own that hoard,” said Betsy.

“Anyway, who had an opportunity to do that?” asked Connor. “I wasn't in the kitchen but once, when that cookie jar was found. I didn't touch the jar or handle any of the coins.”

“Maybe when we all went upstairs to see that mailbag you found,” said Godwin.

“Where was everyone between the time the Morgan dollars were found and when Valentina took the coins away from the house?”

Godwin said, “I was in the living room with Doris and we went up the front stairs.”

Connor said, “And Phil was in the front bedroom and came down the hall to see me in the back bedroom.”

Jill said, “Valentina and I were in the kitchen and went up the back stairs.”

Emily said, “I was in the dining room. Georgie went through the kitchen ahead of me and up the back stairs. I was the last one to go up.”

“Hold on,” said Connor. “When I came down the front stairs with the mailbag, I saw Georgie going from the living room into the dining room.”

Emily frowned at him. “No, you didn't. Georgie went into the kitchen to come up the back stairs, and then came down the back stairs again with the rest of us and out into the backyard. You must have seen her earlier, maybe coming back from dumping a wastebasket into the Dumpster.”

Connor shook his head. “Once I was up there, I didn't come down even once. Besides, I remember having to be especially careful coming down the stairs with that bulky bag on my shoulder. That's when I saw her just going into the dining room.”

“Did you see her go outdoors with the rest of the group, Emily?” asked Betsy.

Emily nodded, then frowned. “I think so. Anyway, she was out there with us. Why would she go back into the dining room?”

“To steal the red box, of course,” said Jill. “She stuck it up under her sweatshirt—didn't any of you see the bulge when she was in the backyard?” And they all laughed, except Connor. Betsy looked at him and was sure she knew what he was thinking. He knew what he saw, and making a joke of it didn't explain it away.

B
EFORE
anything more could be said, Phil and Doris arrived, ready for the Monday Bunch meeting. Jill and Emily greeted them cheerfully. Connor said hello, then got up to leave.

“Why doesn't Connor join our group?” Phil asked the others, and Connor paused. He didn't look at Betsy.

“You mean you don't enjoy being the only rooster at the hen party?” teased Jill.

“I ain't afraid of a little competition,” said Phil, then he offered a creditable crow.

Betsy said, “If you like, Connor, go get one of your projects and join us.”

His smile told her he'd been hoping for that, and her expression turned apologetic for not having invited him sooner. How awful of her to be so thoughtless!

In a few minutes Cherie, Gracie, and Alice came in, and they all cheered when they heard Connor was going to join the Bunch.

Though Betsy would have preferred the topic not come up, almost the first thing Phil said was, “So, what's going on with the Riordan house?”

They all looked at Betsy for an answer, so she told them, “The emergency conservatorship died with Tom Riordan, but Valentina is going to be named personal representative—if she hasn't been already—because she's Tom's sole heir.”

“‘Sole heir,'” said Phil. “Does that mean she gets everything?”

“I don't know. These things are always more complicated than we think. I hope Valentina is listening to her lawyer and doesn't end up in trouble because she forgot to dot an
i
or cross a
t
.”

Cherie said, “Not that I'm a lawyer, but I think the county is going to have a claim on the estate for all the taxes due. Not to mention the medical expenses related to Mr. Riordan.”

“No, no,” said Doris, “he had health insurance, I know that for a fact. He was bragging about it the summer before last when he got walking pneumonia.”

Doris said, “He got pneumonia in the
summer
?”

Jill said, “He always was a contrarian.”

Phil laughed. “Maybe he stole the germs from somebody else.”

Doris said, “Maybe the county will make a claim for the expenses they incurred by assigning a social worker to him.”

Phil said, “I'd tell them they better not make a claim or Valentina will sue them for incompetence. They didn't realize he was filling his house with trash, or that the house was falling apart.”

Alice spoke up then, more warmly than was customary for her. “He had a perfect right to buy anything he wanted and bring it home. Besides, not everything in that house is trash.”

Phil said, “That's for damn sure! There's those two rings and the brooch I found. I thought they were—what's the term? Costume jewelry, right? Because the stones were so big. Of course I wasn't going to throw them away. I figured Valentina would get at least a quarter apiece for them at a yard sale.” He shrugged, grinning. “I about fell over when Georgie said they were real.”

“And there's those Morgan dollars,” said Doris. “Does Valentina know yet how much they're worth?”

Betsy said, “She's not allowed to take them to a professional to be valued right now. She has to wait a month, remember?”

“I bet she's not happy about that,” Phil ventured.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” said Betsy with a nod. Valentina was angry, and at least in part she was ignoring the restriction; but there wasn't any need to make that common gossip.

“What's going on with the mailbag?” asked Cherie. “Does anyone know who else—besides the people listed in the
Sun Sailor
, I mean—got a blast from the past via the post office?”

Alice looked at Betsy with pleading in her eyes, so Betsy said, “I want to show you the handkerchief,” and went to get it and hand it around.

When it got to Gracie, Betsy spoke up again. “Do you think you could figure out the pattern just from the handkerchief?” she asked. “The woman who made it has died, but we have permission from her daughter to publish it if we can re-create the pattern.”

Gracie looked closely at the edge of the handkerchief, lifting one of the points of lace from the underside with a forefinger. “I think so. There's nothing unique about the stitches. Pretty pattern, however. The problem would be finding the linen. You want a very fine variety for the handkerchief, and it's not common anymore.” She looked over at Betsy. “Could I take this with me?”

“Yes, of course. How long do you think it would take you to construct the pattern?”

“I'm not sure. I think the best way would be to just try copying the edging onto a square of linen, and write it down as I go along. It might take two or three weeks—maybe longer, if Georgie and I get busy.”

“All right, no rush. And thank you very much.”

“Another thing,” Gracie added. “Since you already have this model”—she held up the handkerchief—“I can keep the sample that I make for myself?”

“Of course.”

The group got out their projects at that point, and a silence fell as they found their places in the work and began stitching. By then Connor had come back to the table with a canvas bag, sat down, and taken out his knitting.

Betsy gave them a couple of minutes to settle in, then said, “I have a question to ask those of you who worked in the Riordan house.”

“What is it?” asked Jill.

“How many of you saw the rifle that was found in the front room?”

Hands went up—including Cherie's.

“But you weren't there,” protested Emily.

“Not the first day, that's true,” said Cherie. “I came on the third day. And I remember seeing the rifle then. It was on that nasty green couch in the living room, half hidden behind some books. It didn't look usable. The barrel was rusty and there were scratches on the stock.” Cherie was wearing a denim squared-off military-style hat called a “field cap” that Betsy secretly coveted.

Connor said, “I came over to work on the house that same afternoon—remember? And I can tell you that the rifle was not in the living room or anywhere else in the house.”

“But I saw it,” Cherie said.

“Yes, you did. But by the end of the day, it was gone. I was the last one out that day and I stayed behind for a look at it. I wanted to see how bad it was.” He looked up at Betsy. “I was thinking of buying it, restoring it, and reselling it.”

“Ah,” said Grace with a broad smile. “Taking a page from our book, right?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Connor admitted. “But the rifle wasn't there. I asked Valentina, who was waiting to lock up after me, and she said maybe someone had given it a second look, realized it wasn't worth keeping, and thrown it away. But you saw it?” he asked Cherie.

She nodded. “Yes, I did.”

Betsy asked, “When? I mean, what time of day?”

“Midmorning, I think. Before lunch, anyway. I was bringing some more books into the living room and dropped them on the couch with the others, and one of the volumes bumped up against the gun. Gave me a kind of start, frankly; I hadn't realized it was there.”

“What make of gun was it?” asked Phil. “Something decent?”

“It started out decent, a Marlin. Bolt action. Not sure of the age or the model—that's why I wanted a closer look.”

Emily said, “The thing that needs to get thrown away is that couch. It smells.” She wrinkled her nose, remembering.

“Did you go looking for it?” Jill asked Connor. “The rifle, I mean.”

“Just quickly, so not thoroughly; there are still places in that house where you could tuck a dead horse, much less a rifle.” He shrugged. “In any case, I didn't find it. And didn't worry about it, either.” He looked at Betsy. “But it's been found, thanks to our own private amateur sleuth.”

“Where did it turn up?” asked Jill.

“On the grave of a man named Teesdale,” said Betsy.

“Bum, bum, bum!” sang Godwin in dramatic voice.

Betsy continued, “It's the second thing we know of that's gone missing from the house. I have to wonder how secure that place is when no one's inside.”

“The back door has a dead bolt,” Cherie pointed out. “And the front door has that big padlock.”

“The windows are painted shut, too,” said Connor. “I tried to open a couple of them that afternoon. It was a warm day, as I remember.”

Phil said, “I remember the weather that day, too. I was wearing an old sweater over a shirt over an undershirt, and I was down to the undershirt before we finished.”

“Did you see the rifle?” asked Betsy.

“Nope. Wasn't looking for it, and anyway, I was working in the kitchen.”

Betsy checked the list. “Alice, you were there that day, too.”

“Yes, I was,” said Alice in her deep voice. “I came right after lunch. But I didn't see any rifle. Nor did I see anyone walking out either door of the house holding it under his arm. Or her arm,” she added.

Jill turned to Betsy. “Perhaps you should look at who was there the day the cinnabar box went missing, and also who was there the day the rifle went away.”

“Hmm,” said Betsy. “I am going to contact the other people on the list who were in the house the day Connor couldn't find the rifle and the day the cinnabar box disappeared.”

*   *   *

“I
T
'
S
getting late,” said Georgine to her sister. She was already in her nightgown.

“I know, but this is going to be interesting,” said Gracie.

“We're not earning any money working on that handkerchief,” said Georgine.

“Money isn't everything,” said Grace.

“Ooooh, what you said!” Georgine said, pretending to be shocked. “All right, suit yourself, I'm turning in.”

Grace was intrigued by the problem Betsy had offered her. She had gathered the tools she needed to work out the pattern: a fine linen hanky, a spool of tatting thread, a size ten crochet hook, and a notepad and pen.

She spread the handkerchief out on the middle of the table beside her notepad and turned on the lamp she had moved there so that the light shone directly on her work area.

She'd found three linen handkerchiefs at Leipold's already edged with narrow crochet lace and carefully cut the lace off the largest one, making it the same size as the van Hollen handkerchief.

She looked carefully at the lace edging, then, beginning at the upper right corner of her blank handkerchief, she ran her thread through and crocheted a chain of four. Then she went back to the same place and single crocheted, making a loop on the corner. She did this twice more, making three loops in that one corner.

She wrote this down.

Then she picked up her hook and, making the stitches a quarter inch apart, made a series of loops across the edge, working from right to left.

She wrote this down, too.

She continued around the handkerchief to the starting place, making three loops at the corners—this reduced puckering—writing as she went, and thinking.

Excelsior was an interesting little town. Normally the sisters stayed in cities, which offered ready access to museums and art galleries, as well as to auction houses, which were the sources of their income. But once in a while they stayed in a little town, whose treasures were less well known and less picked over.

A shame there was this long delay between the discovery of the jam-packed Riordan house and the distribution of its contents. She was getting restless with all the waiting. To heck with the snow, to heck with the possibilities of that house; she wanted to move on. Georgie wanted to wait, of course. Her sister had more nerve than she did . . .

So until they made up their minds, she would work on this crochet pattern for Ms. Devonshire—who was turning out to be a surprise. Not just a small-town shop owner but a clever sleuth. She'd probably started that second career out of sheer nosiness. By the way, that was a damn attractive boyfriend she had in tow.

There, she was done with the first round. Satisfied she'd made a good beginning, Grace went to bed.