Darned if You Do (20 page)

A
S
had become routine, when Betsy rose early on Wednesday morning for her thrice-weekly water aerobics class, Thai followed her around the apartment. He didn't ask for anything, or get underfoot. He was just there, like a loyal friend determined to be present. He watched her pull on her old swimsuit beneath jeans and a thick sweater. He balanced on the side of the tub and watched her brush her teeth, and then pluck her zippered bag off the hook on the back of the bathroom door, already stuffed with shampoo, deodorant, comb, and underwear. He followed her to the door, and after she left the apartment, he gave a little sigh and went to rejoin his fellow feline, Sophie, and Connor, who were still in bed.

*   *   *

I
T
was a few minutes to six as Betsy rolled up Highway 7, heading east. It was dark out; the sun wouldn't rise until going on eight. Her class at the Courage Center started at six thirty. She stayed on 7 until it intersected with Highway 100 and headed north a couple of miles, then took the Duluth Street exit. And just about a mile later, she turned onto the road that led to the Center.

The two-story windows that fronted the pool glowed golden in the darkness. There were other cars in the parking lot. Sometimes it was hard to believe there were as many as a dozen other crazy people who came to exercise in warm, warm water at this hour of the morning.

What was perhaps more surprising was how many of the clients were retired seniors. Some had begun coming while they were still working, because they could get their hour of exercise in and still make it to their offices on time. Perhaps the early exercise had become enough of a routine that they found it easy to continue. Others had never had to beat the clock to exercise. It was just easier to get this part of their day done early enough that it didn't interfere with whatever else they had to do.

Betsy, of course, was one of two or three exceptions: She still had a job to get to. Would she continue to work out after she retired? She wasn't sure. Maybe she'd do it if she could persuade Connor to come with her.

She greeted her fellow water buffs in the women's locker room: Rita, Ingrid, Sarah, Gerry, Renee, Gloria, Diane, Cheryl, Barbara. They rinsed off in the showers and went out into the pool room. The water was perfectly still; it almost seemed a shame to break that calm surface. The men arrived then: Jim, Peter, Marty. The instructor stood on the far end of the pool, waiting for them all.

He was something of a novelty at the Courage Center. All the instructors heretofore had been women, so everyone was surprised the first time he showed up. He was slim but extremely fit; Betsy was a little surprised by her own reaction to that hard young body. Surprised or not, it was pleasant to watch him move.

He had them do warm-up stretches such as raising and lowering their arms while turning the hands over and breathing deeply in rhythm to the movements, and soon enough he'd upped the ante, getting them to “surprise their muscles” by mixing movements, such as cross-country ski legs and jumping-jack arms.

The class went fast, and by quarter to eight Betsy was on her way back home.

There, she found Connor up and making breakfast. This morning it was old-fashioned oatmeal with dried cranberries and chopped walnuts, sweetened with Splenda's version of brown sugar, augmented with a generous dollop of half-and-half. He'd also prepared some thick-sliced bacon. The teakettle was murmuring softly, keeping the water hot for black tea.

“You're too good to me,” she said, coming to the table after changing into work clothes. Today she wore a sunny yellow sweater spattered with autumn-colored leaves and a brown wool skirt. Just for contrast, she wore bright blue lizard-hide shoes and matching sapphire earrings.

“Yes, I am,” he admitted with a smile, in an unsuccessful effort to sound sheepish. He poured hot water into the teapot where the tea leaves had already been placed, covering it with an embroidered tea cozy while it brewed. “What's on your agenda today?”

“I want to contact Chester Teesdale,” she replied, picking up a slice of bacon with her fingers.

“He's the one who took the rifle?”

“I believe so.”

Betsy had looked for Mr. Teesdale on the Internet, but she'd found almost nothing except an e-mail address. And when she sent him a short message, it bounced. According to her online research, he lived in a part of Excelsior located on the other side of Highway 7, a place seldom visited by people who lived on this side of it.

So, around ten thirty she phoned him, dialing the number she'd found listed. No answer, no voice mail, not even an older message machine.

She tried again at noon. No answer.

At three, she tried once more.

“Yuh,” he answered after four rings.

“Mr. Teesdale?”

“Who wants to know?” He sounded a little suspicious but mostly uninterested.

“My name is Betsy Devonshire, and I'm calling about the Marlin thirty ought six you took from Tom Riordan's house and left on your father's grave a couple of weeks ago.”

“What makes you think that was me?” he said sullenly.

“Wasn't it you?”

“So if it is, what business is that of yours?”

“I'm not sure. Have you heard from Sergeant Mike Malloy of Excelsior PD?”

There was a startled pause. “No . . . But I been out most of the day.”

“Is there someplace we can meet? I'd really like to talk to you.”

“We're talking just fine right now. What do you want? Are you a cop, too?”

“No, but I am conducting a private investigation.”

“What about?”

“First of all, about the disappearance of a bolt-action rifle from Tom Riordan's house. You were in the house the day it vanished.”

“Suppose I tell you I don't know anything about it?”

“Then I would think you are lying to me. You gave your name to Ms. Shipp, who is in charge of the Riordan property, you were seen in the house, you were working in the living room where the rifle was located, and you abruptly left the house around noon with no warning. The rifle was there in the morning and gone in the afternon. What was so remarkable about that rifle that you felt you had to take it away with you?”

After a pause, he spoke very quietly. “It was my dad's gun.”

“I should have figured that, since it was found on his grave. So it was a sentimental gesture, giving it back to him after Tom stole it?”

Another pause. “Well, yes.”

“I think you'd better be careful when Sergeant Malloy comes to talk to you, because he's quicker than I am at detecting falsehoods.”

“What do you want?” Teesdale shouted over the phone, sounding oddly near tears.

“I've already gotten what I want,” Betsy said. “I wanted to know why you took that rifle, and you just told me. What I want to know now, is why you put it on your father's grave.”

“The rifle didn't belong to Mr. Tom Take, it belonged to my father! My father is dead. And the thief is dead now, too, which means no one should object if I take the rifle! So I short-circuited the legal process and took it back, so what?” He hung up the phone, hard.

Startled, Betsy paused to think. Okay, she could tell that last statement was true, or nearly so. But why did Teesdale put it on his father's grave? If the rifle now belonged to him, why not keep it? Perhaps it had been his father's favorite weapon—or even his grandfather's. There were some big emotions laid bare in that truncated conversation. Not just tears, but angry tears. There was something big, and important, that Teesdale hadn't said. But what was it?

Betsy needed to find someone who knew Teesdale, someone who might tell her about him. And not only him, but his father, too.

She decided to start with Mike Malloy.

“Who? What?” was Malloy's initial response. “Oh, him. Yeah, he's kind of a thorn in the constabulary's side.”

“‘Constabulary'?” queried Betsy.

“What, did I use the word incorrectly?” He didn't sound as if he thought his choice of word was wrong.

“No, I don't think so,” she said. “I just didn't think . . . um . . .”

“You didn't think I was the sharpest hook in the tackle box, I know.”

“Now, Mike, I don't think that of you.”

“Damn right. Well, never mind. Tell me again what you want to know about Teesdale.”

“Is he a drunk?” Betsy asked. “Or maybe a thief?”

“No and no. Marijuana's his brain-killer of choice. Actually, I wish he'd smoke more of it; the stuff makes you slow and lazy, and his favorite occupation on Saturday nights is getting into fistfights. One of these days he's going to seriously injure someone and do hard time.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“What am I, a psychiatrist? I not only don't know, I don't care. He's a pestilent germ in the body of this city. I wish there were a vaccination that would cure him.” And on that somewhat mixed metaphor, he ended the conversation.

Betsy thought hard about who she might approach next. Anyone who'd had numerous run-ins with the law over the years in Excelsior would have crossed swords with Sergeant Lars Larson. So Betsy called his cell and left a message.

About an hour later he called back. “Wassup?” he asked, his relaxed, genial tone making her smile.

“What can you tell me about Chester Teesdale?” she asked.

“Junior or senior?”

“Oooh, there's stories about both of them?”

“Sure—though the stories about the senior one usually also involve the junior one. Their hate-fest goes a long way back, and only ended when the old man died.”

“What was the main problem between them?”

“Junior was a big disappointment to his dad. He was a bright kid, the only boy among three girls, and his dad had high hopes that the kid would make him proud. But the story, at least as it was told to me, was that the kid took his dad's rifle and sold it, and his dad beat him so badly that his mom had to take him to the emergency room.”

“Merciful heavens!” exclaimed Betsy.

“Now I don't know if that story is true or not; you know how gossip is. But from that point on, the kid was in constant trouble, skipping class, smoking dope, and getting into fights. He finally dropped out of school, got kicked out of the parental home, and hasn't held a job longer than a few months ever since. I've broken up a few of his fights, and in some cases I think he's more sinned against than sinning. I also think the fact that the rifle ended up on the senior Teesdale's grave is significant. How is it significant? Who knows? Your guess is probably better than mine.”

Indeed, thought Betsy on hanging up, who would know?

She asked Godwin, who was a notorious gossipmonger. “I want to find out more about Chester Teesdale. Who do I ask?”

“I don't know. Nobody in the Monday Bunch knows more than me about him—and I don't know much, except that he's a grouch and thinks everyone is telling lies about him.”

Micki Paulson, Betsy's newest part-timer, asked in a reasonable tone, “Why don't you just ask him?”

“Ask who?” said Godwin.

“Chester Teesdale. He already told you the gun was his father's and now it's his. Why don't you go ask him nicely why he put it in the cemetery? Maybe he loves his father and feels bad his father didn't get the gun back before he died.”

“That's a good idea,” Godwin said. “Take Connor with you; Chet won't be as likely to poke you in the nose if there's two of you.”

C
ONNOR
was pleased to come along; he'd been feeling bored and useless lately. The outdoor auctions had begun winding down as fall threatened to slide into winter, and the indoor auctions seemed stale and unprofitable. Besides, there was more to life than auctions.

Connor wanted to feel useful to Betsy in some new way following his faux pas
down in the shop. The fact that he heedlessly interfered in her business probably indicated he was starting to get restless, a very bad sign. All those years at sea without a real home base had contributed to his wandering soul. So long denied a permanent home, it became unnecessary, even undesirable, to find one. But now he wanted to settle down, sink roots. He loved this woman, Betsy Devonshire. Surely that was enough to bring about the changes necessary to find himself finally home from the sea.

So when she asked him if he would care to come along on a visit to a possibly volatile person of interest in this murder case, he quickly agreed.

“Has he agreed to talk to you?” Connor asked as they got into Betsy's Buick.

“No. He doesn't know we're coming.”

Connor started to ask if that was a good idea then changed his mind. Once burnt, after all.

But while they waited for the light to change crossing Highway 7, she glanced at him and said, “Do you think this is a foolish thing I'm doing?”

“I don't know,” Connor replied truthfully. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”

“Sort of. But I don't usually go up against someone I've been warned has a temper.”

“Is that why you asked me along?”

“Frankly, yes. Do you mind?”

“If you hadn't asked me and got hurt, I would have been very upset about it. You've been doing this investigative thing for some while, however, so I must trust your instincts.”

“Oh dear, you are being really careful around me, aren't you?”

“Yes, and that will continue until we regain the equilibrium we used to have.”

A pause. Then she said in a very sarcastic voice, “Well, if you weren't so damn bossy—”

He smiled and replied in kind, “Well, if only you weren't so damn independent—”

They both chuckled, because each had warned the other of those exact failings just before they moved in together.

But the meager good mood faded as Betsy began to look back and forth at the houses on the street they were on, trying to find the right house number. It was a quiet street in a modest neighborhood of mostly 1950s look-alike homes. One, set well back on its lot, had its big front yard filled with very young children playing on swings, a hard plastic toy house, and a slide.

“What's the number?” asked Connor.

“Twenty-seven fourteen.”

Connor looked out the window. “Twenty-seven oh nine, twenty-seven eleven, twenty-seven thirteen—should be right across the street from here,” he said, counting up.

Betsy pulled to the curb. The house was big and old, different from the rest. It had probably started life as a farmhouse, back when this was all countryside. A sign in the front window read,
ROOM FOR RENT
.

Betsy and Connor walked up the wooden steps and onto the big front porch. Up close, it was apparent that the house was getting shabby around the edges. The floor of the porch was scabby, and the screen door—which should have been switched with a storm door by now—was a little too big for the doorway.

Betsy pressed the doorbell and heard a loud
brrrring
from inside the house.

In about half a minute the door was opened by a tall, spare gentleman with sharp brown eyes, a smiling mouth, and a halo of white hair. He wore a blue chambray shirt under a knit black and blue argyle vest, and shapeless old corduroy trousers.

“Lookin' for a room?” he asked in a thin tenor voice.

“No, sir, we're looking for one of your tenants, Chester Teesdale.”

“Come on in, go on through to the kitchen. I'll fetch him down. Who shall I tell him is calling?”

“Connor Sullivan,” said Connor at once.

“All right. Have a seat at the table.”

They sat down at the stainless-steel-legged Formica-topped table, its pattern of tiny brown leaves faded from much scrubbing. The room smelled of coffee. Betsy said, “Quick thinking, giving your name. If he recognized mine, he might not have come.” They sat quietly for a few moments. Then Betsy reached for Connor's hands, and he took hers in his strong, reassuring grip.

“Yeah?” said a deep, sleepy voice, and both of them turned to look at the big man coming into the room. His eyes were dull and red rimmed, his mouth a little slack. He wore a thick red plaid flannel shirt, dirty khakis, and flip-flops. His dark hair looked as if he'd combed it with his fingers.

“Do I know you?” the man said to Connor, speaking slowly, puzzled.

“No, I don't think you do,” Connor replied. “But you've spoken to this lady here. Her name is Betsy Devonshire, and she's investigating the strange appearance of a rifle on your father's grave.”

“Oh.” He hesitated for a moment. “Oh yeah.”

“I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Teesdale,” said Betsy.

“Uh-huh,” he nodded.

“What you said to me was very interesting, but I'd like to hear more of the story, if you don't mind.”

After another few moments he said softly, “Maybe I do mind.” But he sounded as if he weren't quite sure.

“I hope you'll think about it for just a couple of minutes. It's important, more important than you know. You see, that rifle isn't the only thing that's gone missing from the Riordan house.”

“No?” Teesdale sighed gustily and scratched the top of his head as if trying to stir up some thoughts. “I only took the gun.”

“Here, sit down,” invited Connor. “Do you think we can get a cup of coffee?”

Teesdale let his eyes wander around the kitchen. “Uh-huh,” he said again, and then, after a pause, “Sure.” Another pause during which he visibly pulled himself together. “Oh, hey, yes. Mick keeps the coffee going all day long for us and our guests.” He paused again. “Are you my guests?” he said as if in jest.

Betsy said, “Maybe just visitors. But I'm hoping that together we can solve a puzzle.”

“Huh,” he said. Obviously he was a man of few words. He walked to the wall cabinet beside the big white refrigerator and opened it to reveal about three dozen coffee mugs of varying sizes, colors, amusing or snarky or sexy mottos and sporting emblems.

He took out a Vikings-purple mug, a Twins red and white mug, and a blue-gray mug with a big marijuana leaf painted on it. He brought them to the table, then paused for a few moments, picked them up again and took them to the counter under the mug cabinet. A gallon-size coffee urn with its little red light gleaming stood there and he filled the mugs one at a time and brought them to the table.

Betsy took the one he brought first, the Twins mug, and Connor the second, marijuana one, leaving Teesdale the Vikings one. He, noting this, said “huh” again and sat down.

Already on the table were two café-style containers of sugar and dry creamer, and a mug half full of teaspoons.

He lavishly sweetened and lightened his coffee, took a big, noisy slurp, and said, “Okay, now what?”

“I'd like you to tell me the story of the rifle,” said Betsy. “Where it came from, how it ended up in Tom Riordan's house.” She had reached into her purse for her notepad, but when she consulted Connor with a glance he shook his head no. She took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and added sugar and creamer.

Connor tasted his coffee. It was overcooked, strong, and bitter. But he'd had worse.

“Why do you want to know?” asked Teesdale.

“Because someone is telling a strange story about a small red box with three needle cases and a ball of carved mice inside it going missing, and I'm trying to figure out what happened to it.”

He stared at her. “I never saw no red box in Tom Take's house.”

“But you saw the rifle—and took it.”

“Well, yeah. But like I already told you, it's my gun and I can do whatever I want with it.”

“Tell me how it came to be in Tom Riordan's house.”

“That's right, Riordan's his real name, I kind of keep forgetting that.” He drank some more coffee and looked expectantly at the two of them.

Connor, inhaling lightly, was not surprised to smell marijuana on the man's clothing.

“Tell us about the rifle,” coached Betsy.

“Oh, yeah.” Teesdale sighed, “Well, Dad took me to go target practicing as soon as I could walk and started letting me shoot when I was eight. The first time I fired his old over-and-under shotgun, he'd put a full choke on it and the recoil knocked me over. He laughed at me, but bragged to his friends that I got right up and asked to try again.”

He looked at Betsy, who nodded and looked interested. Connor wondered if she knew what a full choke was, or, for that matter, an over-and-under.

“Dad and me was real close. Mom was kind of a witch. She liked my two sisters okay, but she didn't like me. But Dad and me went hunting and fishing and he let me help work on his truck as soon as I got big enough to tell a hammer from a screwdriver.” He drew himself up and nodded once. “We was tight, y'know?”

“That must have been great,” said Betsy.

“Sure. So this one time Dad was gone somewhere and I wanted to do some shooting, so I sneaked his brand-new Marlin thirty ought six out of the closet, filled my jacket pockets with ammunition, and went out on my bike to a gravel pit down by Christmas Lake.”

“How old were you?” asked Betsy.

He blinked three times. “Fifteen, old enough to know better.” There was regret and shame in his voice.

“Go on,” said Connor gently.

“As I was coming up the street, I saw Dad's truck in the driveway, and here I was with his brand-new rifle out in the rain.”

“Uh-oh,” said Betsy.

“You bet. So I hid it in a kind of lean-to that was a firewood box built against the garage, and went in the back door.” Teesdale got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. He seemed more fully awake now, even restless. He came back to the table and sat down without looking at either Betsy or Connor. He reached for the sugar and creamer and doctored his drink heavily.

He took a big drink and continued, “Dad didn't notice the gun was missing, but he yelled at me for leaving my bike out in the rain instead of bringing it up on the porch. I had to go back out and get it. And rain? It rained like it was the last time it was gonna get the chance, rained and rained. I finally went to bed, but stayed awake. After a long while, the rain stopped. Everyone else was all asleep and I snuck out and went to the wood box, and the gun was gone. There were some old logs left over from last winter and I lifted them out but it wasn't there. I couldn't think what happened to it.”

There was a long silence. Connor took a breath to say something encouraging, but Betsy shook her head very slightly at him.

At last Teesdale, his voice harshening, said, “The hardest thing I ever done in my life was tell Dad what I did. And he didn't believe me! He said I musta sold it and where was the money. I didn't have any money so he beat me half to death. Mom finally got scared and made him stop and took me to the emergency room. He broke my nose and two of my fingers and cracked a rib on my left side and I was all over bruises.

“And things was never the same between us. He called me by a new nickname, Thief. He never forgave me, never, till the day he died. It was like he loved that gun more than me.

“And I said all right, if you think I'm a thief, then I'll be a thief. I made some new friends at school who showed me how to steal and smoke dope and I never looked back.”

The room fell silent for a long minute. Betsy looked inexpressibly sad.

Connor said, “But you volunteered to help Valentina Shipp clear out Tom Riordan's house. That was a good deed.”

“Hah, I volunteered because I thought maybe I could steal something. I was working on that closet, looking for something I could stick in a pocket. There was six golf clubs in there, and I went to put them on that old green couch and, swear to God, the second I saw that rifle I knew it was Dad's. I picked it up and it was all beat up, but it was the Marlin. I just walked out of the house with it and kept it under my bed for two days while I tried to think what to do. Tom musta seen me put it in that firewood box and took it. He was a great one for walking out in all kinds of weather.” He shrugged and took a drink of coffee. “You know where it ended up. I hope Dad looks down from heaven—or up from hell—and sees it there.”

After another wait, Betsy asked softly, “Did you go see Tom Riordan in the hospital?”

“No, huh-uh, no.” But he didn't look at either of them.

“They have video cameras in hospitals nowadays,” said Connor. “At every entrance.”