Embroidered Truths (6 page)

She looked at the man’s chest, which was not moving. She waited a very long time for it to move, but it didn’t.

“Yes, I think he’s dead, Goddy. Are you sure it’s John?”

“It must be. I can’t look. Will you go look? Wait, don’t leave me.”

“We’ll look together.”

The two approached the body, still holding onto one another, stepping sideways until they could look down and see the face.

It was John. His eyes were closed, he might be asleep. Except he still wasn’t breathing. On the floor against his stomach was a statue made of iron in some abstract pattern that might be a man on a horse. There was a dark stain on the horse’s rump, and from this angle they could see that the shape of John’s skull was wrong.

Betsy broke away from Godwin to stoop and touch the face. It was cold and stiff.

Godwin began making a peculiar noise, like a siren, “Rrrrrrrrrrrrr,” getting higher and louder, until Betsy rose to take hold of him again.

“Easy, easy, Goddy,” she said, and stroked the back of his head and neck. “Steady, now. Where’s the phone? We need to call nine-one-one.”

“K-k-kitchen. No, don’t leave me! Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

“Come on, then.” She put an arm around his shoulder and led him into the kitchen, which was in the back, separated by a counter from the living room. He had fallen silent, though he was still trembling. She stroked his back, a gesture she repeated while she lifted the receiver of the cordless wall phone with her other hand and punched 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” asked an operator very promptly.

“My name is Betsy Devonshire and we’re at seven-twelve Larkspur in Excelsior, where there is a dead man in the living room.”

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“Yes, he’s cold and stiff and not breathing.”

“Do you know who the dead man is?” she asked.

“Yes, he’s the owner of the house, his name is John Nye. He didn’t come to work this morning and we came to see if something was wrong.”

“Who’s this ‘we’? asked the operator.“Is someone else there as well?”

“Godwin DuLac. Godwin has the key to the house. He is a friend of the deceased.”

It seemed to take forever for a squad car to arrive, though it was only a few minutes. Siren blaring, it roared up Third Street, slowing when it saw them on the porch, waving at it. The driver was Lars Larson, whom they both knew. He got out quickly for a very tall, broad man encumbered with a utility belt and bulletproof vest, and came trotting up the walk.

“What’s the problem here?” he asked.

“John Nye is dead,” Betsy said, opening the door for him. “It looks as if something hit him on the head.” She and Godwin followed him into the house, Betsy still talking. “There’s a metal statue in front of the body.”

Lars went to kneel beside the body. He felt the face and neck, and tried to move the top arm, which resisted. He looked at the statue but did not touch it. “Cold,” he remarked. “And stiff.” He looked at Godwin and asked, “Who was here last night?”

“We don’t know,” said Betsy.

A frown formed. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Godwin, don’t you live here?”

“I used to,” Godwin confessed, head down. “He threw me out four days ago. He sent my clothes and things over to Crewel World yesterday in a big box.” The young man gestured to show the dimensions of the box.

Another siren became audible, growing louder.

“This probably happened last night,” said Lars. He looked at Godwin. “Where were you last night?”

“Huh?” Talking of the box seemed to have sent Godwin from near hysteria into a deep gloom.

“He was with me,” said Betsy quickly. “He’s been staying with me.” When Lars moved his pale blue gaze from Godwin to her and raised his golden eyebrows in surprise, she said, “In the guest room, for heaven’s sake!”

Godwin made a barking sound and then began to laugh. The laughter quickly became hysterical and Betsy wrapped her arms around him and said, “Hush, hush, hush,” over and over.

The siren cut off and seconds later another police officer came into the house—Lars had left the door open, anticipating. He was shorter than Lars—but of course, almost everyone was shorter than Lars—with dark hair and eyes. “Whatcha got?” he asked.

“DOA. One John Nye, attorney at law. This is his house. A homicide, looks like.”

The man came over for a look and made a face of distaste. “Holy cripes!”

Another siren approached. “That’ll be the ambulance,” noted Lars. “I’ll go flag it down. Nobody touch anything, all right?”

“All right,” agreed Betsy, and took Godwin to the other side of the room, where she spent the next minute bringing Godwin down to a semblance of self-control.

“You don’t say anything to anyone, nothing at all,” she murmured in his ear, when he settled down enough to listen.

“Why not—oh. Is that why you lied and said I was with you last night?”

“Yes. What time was it when you came in, anyway?”

“I don’t remember. Pretty late.”

“Worse and worse. Well, they’ll figure this out pretty quick, I hope. No need to worry.”

“Okay,” he said, and they both stood there, waiting and worrying.

Five

LARS opened the front door—the other cop had closed it. A new siren’s cry was suddenly very loud, then cut off into silence. A sound like car doors slamming, the slap of feet on sidewalk, a hesitation in the sound as they stepped onto the porch. Then a whole herd of people came rushing into the living room. The “herd” quickly sorted itself into two young men, a young woman, and a big black case, with Lars coming behind.

The emergency techs looked awfully young, the girl especially—she appeared sixteen. All three wore earrings, and two had visible tattoos. But they seemed to know what they were doing, swooping down over John’s body, opening the case, searching for a pulse, testing the stiffness of a hand, a foot, lifting an eyelid, frowning over its coolness—and suddenly relaxing, all anxious competence melting in a trio of sighs.

One of the men said to Lars, “Better contact the ME.”

Godwin asked, “That’s medical examiner, right?” And the trio turned to look at him and Betsy, surprised at their presence. When the surprise turned to compassion, Godwin burst into tears.

Lars reached for the microphone fastened to his shoulder, and Betsy took Godwin by the arm and retreated farther away, into the kitchen. She pulled a paper cup from a holder beside the sink and filled it with water from the special little faucet that was doubtless attached to a filter under the sink.

“Here, drink this,” she said. “And try to get hold of yourself. I don’t want you blurting things out, okay? Just keep silent, or you’ll have us in a pickle.”

Goddy obediently took a sip, nearly choking over it. He took a calming breath and tried again, more successfully. Then, frowning, he said, “What are you so worried about? For all we know, this was an accident. That statue is
heavy
.”

“Yes, but there is no mantle on that fireplace, so where did that statue come from? I hardly think he threw it up in the air and let it fall down on his head.”

Goddy stared at her. “Oh.”

Betsy nodded. “Now, you did go to the movies last night, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone you know there?”

“No, no one.” He hung his head. “As a matter of fact, as soon as the lights went out, I fell asleep.”

“You fell asleep at a
Harry Potter
movie?”

He shrugged. “I was tired.”

“Did someone wake you up when it was over?”

“No, the lights coming back on after the movie did, and it was like after a nap, I was fresh and wide awake. And worried. So I went for that drive. I drove all around the lake.”

“Did you stop anywhere along the way?”

“A couple places. Boat landings, mostly. I pulled off the road where I could see the water—I think better when I can sit and look at water.”

“I mean, did you stop where there were people?”

“Oh, you mean go into a bar or something? No, I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I wanted to think.” He turned to the sink, opening the cabinet door under it, reaching to put the cup into a trash container there.

“Don’t do that,” said Betsy. “Put it in your pocket.”

“Why?”

“Because it has your fingerprints on it.”

“Honey, my fingerprints are all over this house!”

“If John has emptied the trash between the day you left and yesterday, that cup is proof you’ve been in the house since he threw you out.”

Goddy looked down at the wadded paper in his hand. “Oh, yeah,” he said, and closed his fingers over it. Then he looked up at her. “You don’t think anyone could really believe—” he began.

“When they start looking for suspects, they’ll find you.”

“Lars knows me better than that!”

“I wouldn’t count on that, and, anyway, it won’t be Lars, it’ll be Mike Malloy,” she said. “And what he thinks, we know too well.”

Sergeant Malloy, the lead investigator of Excelsior’s small police department, wouldn’t dream of harassing gays, but he most sincerely believed that those who yielded to the temptation of their sexual orientation were susceptible to other kinds of wickedness as well. And of course he was, or soon would be, aware of the young man’s problems with John. Certainly Godwin had told Jill about it when she came in yesterday—and Jill Cross Larson was married to Lars.

Godwin’s eyes grew very large as he began to realize all this. “Oh, how I
wish
I’d stayed in last night!” he groaned. “I could’ve done my thinking in the
tub
!”

They heard footsteps and turned to see Lars approaching.

“Is there anything missing from the house?” he asked Godwin. “Maybe this was a burglary gone wrong.”

“We haven’t looked,” said Godwin.

“Well, come on, I’ll come with you. And don’t touch anything if you can help it.”

“Let’s check the back door first,” suggested Betsy, since they were in the kitchen. “To see if there was a break-in. Oh, gosh! Nikki! Looks like we’ll be here awhile. I’ll call her.”

While she did that, Lars and Godwin went through the laundry room to look at the back door.

She had barely hung up when they came back, Godwin looking downcast. “Not a scratch,” he reported. “And it’s locked.”

“Maybe we’ll find a window open.”

The house was all on one level. On the other side of the kitchen was the master bedroom, which jutted out behind, making the house form an L. It was very large, probably an addition. It looked in perfect order. The furniture was dark wood, the carpet a dense plush of dark green, the walls a faint peach. Godwin, his arms folded against temptation to touch or fondle, walked around, sighing and sniffing. Betsy resisted an urge to comfort him, fearful of starting him crying again. Lars waited patiently.

Beyond the bedroom, the bathroom was as large as an ordinary bedroom. The floor was purple tile and there were a lot of marbled mirrors. There were twin lavender sinks, and a lavender whirlpool bath sat on a dais three steps up. All had gold fixtures shaped like dolphins. There were bottles of scented oils set beside the bath, which was draped in purple veiling, and everywhere there were fat candles and stacks of thick white and purple towels. One wall was covered with a mosaic from naughty old Pompeii. It was like something out of a DeMille movie, and Betsy wanted to giggle. Then she saw Godwin’s nostalgic expression and managed not to. But Lars cleared his throat repeatedly.

She opened a capacious wicker hamper and found it full of used towels and a deep purple robe. Godwin came to look and frowned. “John always wears white.”

“So is it yours?” she asked.

“No. It’s for guests.” He sat down on the lowest step of the dais and put his face in his hands.

She sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I take it this means Mr. Nye had a visitor?” asked Lars.

“Well, he threw me out,” Godwin said, “so what else could I expect?”

Betsy said angrily, “He could’ve waited, oh, I don’t know, a week, maybe?”

Godwin snorted into his hands and coughed, then raised his head. “He wasn’t a patient man.” A single tear came down his cheek, but he brushed it away impatiently. “He always said he loved me, but he wasn’t always kind.”

Lars said, “I guess you shouldn’t give the eulogy.”

That made him laugh, if harshly, and they continued to tour the house.

On the other side of the living room were three rooms. The one facing the front was a den or library, its many shelves full of a wide variety of books from legal tomes to modern novels. The front window had old-fashioned venetian blinds. It and the side window were locked—Betsy checked. There was a big potted ficus, and an antique desk with an up-to-date computer on it. The desk chair was high-backed, upholstered in leather, and a comfortable club chair invited a visitor to sit in front of it. Everything looked in good order, here, too; no strew of papers or open drawers. A wooden file cabinet blended in with the bookshelves. Betsy reached to open a desk drawer, but Lars made a warning noise, so she didn’t.

“Did Mr. Nye do much work at home?” Lars asked.

“Some,” nodded Godwin. “He almost never had clients come to the house. But he gave great parties.” He gestured toward the computer. “He loved the Internet. He had weblogs he read every day, and a lot of Internet friends he’d never met face-to-face.”

“Did you use this computer, too?”

“Oh, no. I have my own, with my own account. We
never
read each other’s mail. That was one thing I really liked about John, he gave me my own space and never came in uninvited.” Godwin hung onto his composure with agonized effort.

“May we see your room?” asked Betsy.

“Sure, it’s back here.”

A bathroom was between the den and Godwin’s bedroom. It was much more utilitarian than the lavender paradise, with a sky-blue tile floor, blue and cream wallpaper, a skylight, and etched-glass doors on the tub-shower.