Embroidered Truths (12 page)

“Actually, it’s my store manager, Godwin DuLac. He’s also a close friend. He was arrested about an hour ago for murdering his lover, John Nye.”

“Nye: Are you speaking of the senior associate at Wellborn, Hanson, and Smith?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve heard of him, he has—had a very good reputation.” There was a pause. Betsy wondered if what Mr. Whistler had heard was nothing about John Nye the person, but that an attorney with an important law firm had been killed. “Is Mr. DuLac able to handle an attorney’s fee?” First things first, of course, thought Betsy.

“Probably not. But I can. That is, I think I can. How much do you charge?”

Mr. Whistler named a rate per hour—or fraction thereof—that was surprising, even with Mr. Pemberthy’s warning.

“All right,” said Betsy, wincing, writing that number down and underlining it. “I think we can manage that.”

“And, of course, I will need a retainer.” When he said how much that would be, it left her unable to speak for several seconds.

“Are you there?” asked Mr. Whistler, concerned.

“Uh, yes, I’m still here. Gosh, that’s a lot of money.”

“And it’s payable in advance.”

Nothing weaselly about the way he asked for money, thought Betsy, rudely. “I . . . see. Well, Mr. Pemberthy did give me the name of another lawyer—”

“I understand.”

“Good. I’ll call you back.”

“Hold on a minute. If you do hire me, I’ll have to start fast. So, with the understanding that you may not hire me, may I nevertheless ask you some questions?”

“What kind of questions?”

“For example, where is Mr. DuLac now, do you know?”

“Well, he went a little crazy when they came for him, so they didn’t interrogate him, but just took him right down to the jail.”

“‘Crazy’?”

“Hysterical is a better word, I suppose. He was here, at work, and they just walked in and handcuffed him while the detective read him his rights. Goddy is an emotional sort of person, and he started screaming ‘no, no,’ and they had to more or less drag him out. It was awful, just awful.” Betsy closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

“That must have been tough to watch.”

“It was. Tougher on him, of course.”

“What kind of business do you own, Ms. Devonshire?”

“It’s a needlework shop, called Crewel World.”

There was a brief pause, then rich laughter. “Very clever, Crewel World!” he said.

“Thank you.”

“In your opinion, is there enough evidence in the hands of the police to convict Mr. DuLac of this crime?”

“No. In fact, I can’t understand what Mike was thinking when he arrested Goddy.”

“Who is Mike?”

“Sergeant Mike Malloy, Excelsior Police.”

“You know him?”

“Yes, I’ve had several run-ins with him.”

“I . . . beg your pardon?”

“I sometimes do some investigating on behalf of people wrongly accused of a crime. Sergeant Malloy does not always appreciate what he calls my interference.”

“No, I can imagine that he wouldn’t. Well, thank you, I hope I have the beginning of an understanding of the situation here. I want you to let me know as soon as possible if you wish me to represent Mr. DuLac, so I may advise the police that they are not to question him without my presence.”

“All right, I’ll do that.”

“Let me give you a phone number where you can reach me at any time.” She wrote that down, too, and they hung up.

Eleven

BETSY was upstairs in her apartment trying to think what to have for supper. She finally found a small pepperoni pizza at the back of the freezer, which made her happy until she thought how Godwin would sneer at frozen pizza and make something far more interesting. That made her think about the cold balogna sandwich he was probably eating in his cell—and that made her burst into angry, frightened tears.

But the storm soon passed. She pulled herself together, turned on the oven, and had just put the pizza in when the doorbell buzzed. At the same time, the phone rang. She grabbed the phone and said, “Hold on a second, someone’s at the door,” and went to ask into the intercom system, “Who’s there?”

“Charlie Nye. I really need to talk to you.”

“Come up, I’m the door on the left,” she replied and pushed the buzzer to unlock the downstairs door. She left her own door slightly open and went back to the phone.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said.

“Is this Ms. Devonshire?” said a man’s voice with just a hint of sand in it, and a faint accent she couldn’t place. Maryland? Nebraska?

“Yes?”

“I’m Marvin Lebowski. You wanted to talk to me about a case?”

“Yes. My employee and good friend Godwin DuLac has been arrested for the murder of John Nye, and I’m seeking a lawyer to represent him.”

“John Nye the attorney, right?”

Was there the merest hint of avarice in his voice? Honestly, lawyers! “Yes,” she said.

“When was Mr. DuLac arrested?”

“This afternoon. The police took him right out of the shop.”

“And am I right that Mr. DuLac is the young man who found the body?”

“Yes. Actually we both found the body. Godwin was scared to go over to the house by himself and persuaded me to come along.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right, the newspaper said two people were found in the house by police. And now they’ve arrested one of them. But you are not considered a suspect?”

“No. Godwin, you see, lived with John until shortly before the murder. They had a quarrel, and Godwin moved out. He was staying with me.”

“Do you think the police have enough evidence to bring a conviction?”

Interesting, that was the same question Mr. Whistler had asked. Must be a lawyerly way of trying to find out how tough the case was going to be. “No, of course not.”

“You said you’re Godwin’s employer.”

“Yes, I own Crewel World, a needlework shop in Excelsior. Godwin was my store manager.”

Betsy heard the snick of a doorknob turning and looked around to see Charlie Nye sticking his head through the open door. She gestured at him to come in and go forward into the living room, and returned her attention to her caller.

“Were Mr. Nye and Mr. DuLac engaged in a homosexual relationship?”

“Yes.”

“A long-term one?”

“Yes, I believe something close to eight years.”

“Was Mr. DuLac taken to the Excelsior police station?”

“No, he’s in the Hennepin County Adult Detention Center. He became hysterical when they arrested him, and so he was taken directly to jail. I can imagine what it’s like down there, and I’m—well, I’m afraid for his safety. He’s very obviously gay.”

“Now don’t worry about that, he’s perfectly safe there. They have experience with gay prisoners and are careful not to place them in jeopardy.”

“Oh, thank you for telling me that!” said Betsy.

“No charge. However, if you think Mr. DuLac would like me to represent him, I’ll need a retainer before I can act on his behalf.”

Betsy braced herself and asked, “How much of a retainer?”

He named a sum even larger than Mr. Whistler’s.

Betsy sighed. “Rats. Okay, I’m talking to another attorney as well. I don’t know which of you to choose, but I think it should be someone Goddy is comfortable with. Would it be possible—is it even ethical, to ask both of you to visit him, and let him decide?”

“I don’t see why not. How about I call the Detention Center right now to ensure that Mr. DuLac knows he has potential representation, and that he should not consent to talk with a police investigator without the presence of an attorney.”

“I’d be grateful if you could do that. Thank you.”

Mr. Lebowski took Betsy’s cell, home, and office phone numbers, and they hung up.

Betsy shut off the oven before she went into the living room, where she found Charlie Nye looking at the glass case holding her late sister’s collection of Lladro statues.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Nye?” she asked.

He straightened and turned. “I heard Godwin has been arrested for the murder of my brother.”

“Has it been on the news already?”

“I don’t know. I heard it at that little restaurant over by the movie theater.”

Betsy smiled. She couldn’t help it. “Yes, of course, the Waterfront Café is the very root of the grapevine that covers this town.”

He grinned. “We have one of those back home, too.” He sobered. “So it’s true.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He sure had me fooled; I never thought a fellow like him would be capable of a violent crime like that.”

“He didn’t do it, Mr. Nye.”

“No? How can you be so sure?”

“Goddy and I have worked closely together for several years, and I’m convinced he would never murder John. I’m hiring an attorney to defend him, but I also intend to do my own sleuthing, of course.”

“Of course?”

“I have a certain talent for it.”

Now he was really confused. “Are you a private investigator?”

“No, I’m a shop owner and landlord. But this won’t be the first time I’ve been asked to prove that someone accused of a crime is innocent.”

He looked her up and down and shook his head. “You are a remarkable woman, Ms. Devonshire.”

“Thank you. May I ask you some questions about your brother?”

“If you like.”

“Have a seat. May I offer you a cup of coffee, or tea? I think there are some soft drinks, too.”

“You Scandihoovians really do drink coffee at all hours of the day, don’t you?”

“I guess some do. I, personally, am going to have a diet soft drink without caffeine.”

“Do you have bottled water?”

“I have filtered water. Almost the same thing. With ice?”

“Please. And thank you.”

Charlie was sitting on her couch when she came back with a tall glass of water for him and a diet orange drink for herself—Godwin had drunk up all her Diet Squirt. She took a seat in the overstuffed chair that had her knitting bag beside it and said, “Just start anywhere telling me about your brother.”

He’d been thinking about it, she knew, because his reply was prompt. “Johnny was a deeply troubled man.” He took a drink of water, held the glass up at eye level, and nodded at it.

“What makes you say that?”

He made a surprised face at her, though he didn’t actually say, “Duh.” He held up one finger. “First, he was committed to the gay lifestyle.” He changed that to two fingers. “Second, he liked young men,
very
young men, practically boys. Third, and you probably didn’t know this—or even if you did, you might not—Well, let me back up a bit. The brother I used to know was a responsible person. One of the things he did when he got his first job out of law school was set up an investment account. He put every spare nickel into that account. When he finally decided to buy a house, he bought it outright, cash on the barrelhead. Then he decided he wanted to be gay. It was—”

“Pardon me, but it doesn’t work that way.”

He nodded, taking her rebuke courteously. “So some people say. But that’s not the point. The point is, apparently of late he was
spending
every nickel he was taking in—and he was making damn good money.”

“How do you know that?” asked Betsy, feeling her investigative antenna swivel around to point at him. The word
blackmail
crossed her mind, all caps, twenty point, elephant font.

“I’ve been looking at his records. The police let me into the house and I pulled some files from a cabinet in his den. Pay stubs, credit card bills, checkbook. It looks like he was living right up to the limit of his income.”

“Do you know where the money was going?”

He shrugged. “Mostly he was buying art and jewelry, a new car, expensive suits and shoes.” He grimaced. “Some of it for his little friend.”

Betsy thought about that for a few moments, while her antenna circled, confused. “That’s interesting,” she said at last. “I didn’t know that. You mean he had nothing left in savings? No IRA or investments of any kind?”

“I didn’t find any evidence that he had cashed in anything, but I’ve only begun looking. As another complication, Johnny seems to have kept quite a bit of information on his computer, which the police have taken away. I was hoping to talk to Godwin, to see if he could shed any light on this, but now, of course, that won’t be possible.”

“Not right now, no. How long will you be in town?”

“I’ve taken a week’s vacation, but I can get another if I need it. I was hoping to collect the information I needed to work on the estate at home—I’m Johnny’s executor. What do you suppose the police want with the computer, anyway?”

“I imagine they’re trying to see if John met someone on the Internet. There’s evidence he had . . . company the day he was killed.”

Charlie grimaced. “See?
Deeply
troubled.”

Betsy chose to change the subject. “Are you the older brother?”

“Yes. We have two sisters, too. The oldest of us is Melanie. Then me, then Johnny, then Mandy.”

“Goddy told me John had told him that his family refused to accept his sexual orientation. Yet Goddy said you seemed to get along pretty well with him.”

“Me, I don’t care what an individual does in his private life, so long as he doesn’t insist I come to the party. On the other hand, my family is old-fashioned about some things.” Charlie drank deeply, put the glass down. “And, of course, it’s different when it’s your brother. When Johnny made it clear a long time ago that he was not going to give me a sister-in-law or nieces or nephews, it took awhile before I could come to terms with that, but I did. That made it possible for us to reconnect. You see, he and I were pretty close growing up, and I couldn’t just toss him overboard like the rest of the family wanted to do when they found out. I worked out a deal: I told him he had to stiffen his wrist if he came home, and talked the rest of the family into letting him come home for Christmas and weddings and all. They didn’t ask, and he didn’t swish.”