Knitting Bones (10 page)

S
ITTING
triumphant on the couch, Godwin said, “I want to get a copy of the thank-you speech Bob was supposed to give at the banquet. People won’t remember the whole thing, of course, but they’ll remember parts of it, and we can compare what they remember to the speech Bob wrote. If the two are really different, then we’ll have proof it wasn’t Bob.”

“So you seriously think it might not have been Bob Germaine up there accepting the check,” said Betsy.

“Well, I must agree with Ramona, the man I saw looks different from Bob Germaine. And now there are more little things, like I asked Allie if Bob wore an ID bracelet with big flat links, and she said he never wore any jewelry but his wedding band.”

Godwin abruptly cut himself off, struck by something, and Betsy guessed, “He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.”

Godwin made a face at her. “You’re always a jump ahead of me, aren’t you?”

“Not always. What I really am is jealous. You’re doing such a good job, and you seem to be having a good time!”

“I am when I find a clue and draw a deduction from it, and you tell me I’m probably right.” Godwin drew a breath that swelled his chest like a rooster about to crow and let it out through a broad grin. “You and Jill had me all nervous about it, but I tried hard to do what you said I should do, and it worked. It’s like trying something you’re not sure you can do, and making all kinds of mistakes, and then finally reading the instructions and finding you’re not so bad at it.”

Betsy nodded. She felt that way sometimes, though mostly about needlework. She remembered how frustrated she was when her head knew how to do a stitch but her fingers only halfheartedly acted on the knowledge. How she finally stitched a stack of frogs up a narrow piece of fabric and made a bell pull out of it. It still hung down in the shop, where stitchers would look at it and nod, ruefully, and sometimes buy Maru Zamora’s pattern to make their own version, around a belt or dappled onto a sweatshirt or vest. Stitchers whose motto was the same as hers: Rip it, rip it, rip it.

But she was wandering from the point. She pulled herself back and said, “So what you’ll need to do is contact the Heart Coalition for a copy of Bob’s speech. Hey, wait a minute!
I
can do that! I can phone them and ask them to e-mail me a copy of the speech.” Betsy was very pleased to at last have even this small part to play in the investigation.

“Yes! It’ll be hard to wait till Monday to do that,” said Godwin. It was only Friday evening.

“I’ll call them first thing.” Betsy, still smiling, leaned back in her chair. “So who do you think this imposter might be?”

Godwin shrugged. “We have a name: Stoney Durand. I was thinking it was a fake name Bob Germaine was using, but if the man isn’t Bob…”

“Yes, if.”

But I’m sure it has to be someone who is either in Embroiderers Guild of America or is married to a member. Because how else would he know about the money being raised? And that it would be presented to a Heart Coalition official at the banquet?”

Betsy nodded. “Good thinking.”

Godwin swelled again, then let his breath out suddenly. “So what’s the next step: Ask every person who came to the convention if he or she knows a Stoney Durand? There were over five hundred people there!” He was looking dismayed at the size of that task.

Betsy said, “You’ll also want to talk to all the local membership, whether they came or not. But here’s what may be a shortcut: Get a list of attendees, see if there’s a Durand on it. And also take a look at regional membership lists.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Godwin. He was a bit deflated because he hadn’t thought of that himself.

“And I am going to call Mike Malloy.” Sergeant Mike Malloy was one of Excelsior’s two investigators, and while he disapproved of amateur sleuths, he had experience with Betsy’s previous efforts and was at least willing to listen to her. “He should know about this.”

O
FFICER
Alan Johnson was tired, bone tired. He’d taken a second, part-time job after the birth this summer of his fifth child and was finding it tough to stay awake during the latter half of his graveyard shift, when things got really quiet. He’d heard that a good place to coop—sleep on duty—was the long-term parking lot at the airport, which was included in his patrol area anyway. Right now he was so afraid of falling asleep behind the wheel that he decided to coop for just half an hour.

He drove up and down the rows of quiet cars until he found a space, deep in shadow and not near the end of a row. He pulled in and was about to shut his engine off when his computer beeped at him. He looked over at it and saw it indicating his in-squad camera had read a license plate on the hot list. Checking, he saw the plate was right in front of him, on the back end of a newish light blue Lexus. Which was the right car, too—there were thieves who stole just the plates.

He thought about ignoring it but then he saw that the car wasn’t stolen, it belonged to the man who stole that check from some embroiderers’ club. There had been a stink raised in the papers about that, because the check was for twenty-odd grand and made out to a charity. A lot of heat was being applied to find the man. And while Alan hadn’t found the man, he’d found his car at the airport, which was a big clue to why they hadn’t found the man. That alone would lower the heat on the cops.

Alan might even get a commendation out of this, which would be better.

Of course, it was not unknown for people to abandon or be dragged out of their cars, and the cars subsequently be taken by thieves. Alan hoped this was not the case here.

Feeling much more wakeful now, he climbed out of his squad car. The November night air was cold and damp, smelling of snow. He walked all the way around the Lexus and found it undamaged—stolen cars were often damaged by the thieves, who were inclined to let their inner NASCAR driver take the wheel. The lights in the lot made bright spots on the car’s pale finish and permitted a dim view through the darkened windows of its interior. Alan peered in but didn’t see anything. Or anyone. He tried the driver’s side door, and to his surprise found it unlocked. The interior was clean and empty, but a faint and unpleasant odor had wafted out when he opened the door.

Alan sighed. He had a very bad feeling about this. He reached for the trunk release, and walked back to take a gingerly peek, rearing back when the faint odor proved much stronger back here.

There was a white man folded up inside the trunk, naked except for underwear, nice dress shoes, and dark socks. His head was pressed up against a black Nike sports bag. Alan pulled out his flashlight and, without touching anything, discovered an ugly dent in the man’s temple that continued into the hairline. It was not bleeding, which was not surprising, as the man was dead.

E
ARLY
Sunday afternoon, Betsy was standing in her kitchen waiting for the oven to heat to 350 degrees. On the counter was a half-thawed “hot dish”—casserole, to non-Minnesotans. This one had potatoes in it, and chicken, onions, peas, and mushrooms, all in a cheese sauce. Chicken, of course, was the all-purpose healing food, there was calcium in the cheese, and there was vitamin C in potatoes. The rest was mostly to make it taste good. Betsy smiled; her reasoning powers were coming back. Her self-justification powers, too. Because her appetite was also back, and she wanted something substantial.

The oven pinged to tell her it had reached its set temperature, and Betsy inserted the Corning Ware dish. She had barely straightened when her phone rang. She hobbled to it.

“Hello?”

“Betsy, it’s me, Allie Germaine!” The woman sounded distraught.

“Allie, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, Betsy, they found Bob!”

“Uh-oh.” Allie’s tone said this was not good news.

He was in his car out at the airport. Someone…struck him, on his head, and, and pushed him into the trunk. He’s dead. He didn’t suffer, he died right away, they said.”

“Oh, Allie! I’m so sorry. How terrible!”

“Yes, it’s horrible, horrible!”

“Allie, is someone there with you? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“My children are here, but they’re as upset as I am. I did call Peggy, she’s known me almost all my life. She’s coming right over.”

“Good, good.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed. “I’m frightened!”

“Of course you are. The first thing to do is nothing. Don’t make any decisions, not about anything, for a day or two. You’ve had a really terrible shock. You may want to call your doctor, he can prescribe something to calm you down.”

“Dr. Forman is out of town, he’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Well then, call Father Rettger, he’s wonderful with grief. He was wonderful with me after my sister Margot was murdered.”

“He was? Yes, I remember Jeannie saying he was a blessing when Jack had leukemia. All right, I will call him. And thank you for reminding me about him.”

“I’m so sorry, Allie.”

“Thank you, Betsy. I’m trying to think if there’s anything else. Did I tell you Bob was undressed?”

“Undressed? What on earth for?”

“Nobody knows. He just had on his underwear—and his shoes and socks. Isn’t that ridiculous?” Allie’s voice had gone very high, as if she were going to burst into tears. “How—how embarrassing!”

“How
wicked!”
said Betsy angrily.

“Yes, yes, a very wicked man did this to him. But now, at least, the police will treat this as they should have from the start. And I guess—I guess, since he’s found, this means you don’t have a case anymore?”

“Of course I still have a case,” Betsy replied. “Only now, it’s murder.”

T
ONY
was lying across his unmade bed on Sunday afternoon, listening to a “classic rock” station, adrift on Vicodin. The top of the hour came up, and the music changed to the chintzy theme the station used to announce the news. Tony managed to ignore the national news—until the Muslims changed their attitude toward gays, he was
not
interested—but then…“On the local scene,” said the plush voice of Rudy Randall, the KAGY reporter, “a blue Lexus in an airport parking lot became a crime scene when the body of a man was found in its trunk. While confirmation waits until next of kin are notified, the body is reportedly that of Robert H. Germaine, who is alleged to have stolen a check for over twenty-four thousand dollars last week. Police have been searching for Germaine—and now it appears they have found him.”

Tony was suddenly wide awake. They had found Bob Germaine—dead! What did that mean? His heart began pounding, harder and harder, and his palms grew slick with sweat. Bob Germaine was found dead in the trunk of his car, out at the airport. Why was that the scariest thing he’d ever heard in his life?

He rolled over and put his good foot on the floor. Where was his crutch? What the hell had he done with his crutch? He found it half under the bed and used it to pry himself upright. He stumbled hastily to the door of his apartment. The touch of cold metal on his hand brought him back to himself.
Where did he think he was going?

His mind swarmed with contradictory thoughts. Why did he feel this panicked need to run away? He was safe here.

Safe from what? There was no threat to him.

His suitcase, still packed, was by the door; he turned to look at it. But how could he carry a suitcase with only one hand—and it needed for his crutch?

And where could he go?

Why go anywhere? There was no need to run.

But Bob Germaine was dead!

He needed a drink.

He went to his tiny dark kitchen and opened a cabinet. His sole remaining bottle of liquor, a bottle of brandy, was half empty. Heedless of warnings not to drink alcohol while taking Vicodin, Tony poured a generous splash of brandy into a juice glass and drank most of it right there. He poured some more and sat down on the rocky stool beside the counter—he couldn’t get to his couch with the glass—and took smaller sips while trying to slow his thoughts.

First of all, there was nothing to be scared of; he hadn’t done anything. Sure, he’d
planned
to do something, but that wasn’t the same thing. Germaine had gotten there ahead of him, stolen the check his own self.

And then someone had gotten to Germaine, killed him, and taken the check.

Not Tony, because Tony didn’t have the damn check.

So who had the check? Where was it?

Dammit, that money was
his!
Twenty-four grand, as good as in his pocket, gone—but where?

Maybe Germaine had it, maybe it was on the body, tucked into the inside pocket of his suitcoat.

But he wasn’t wearing a suitcoat. Or trousers. He was put inside the trunk of his car in his underwear.

Tony put down the glass. How had he known that? Was it true? Tony ran his confused mind back over the news announcer’s words. He hadn’t said that someone had taken off Bob’s clothes before stuffing him in the trunk.

But Tony could close his eyes—he did close his eyes, and there it was, an image of a man in his underwear, kind of folded up in the trunk of a car. Blue boxers and a white T-shirt—oh, and black socks and shoes.

Tony had found a black suit and good white dress shirt in the bag the hospital had given him on discharge. Tony didn’t own a black suit, or a white dress shirt that needed cufflinks—nor a nice pair of real-gold cufflinks and a watch, also in the bag the hospital gave him. But Tony had been wearing those clothes when he got into the accident. Were they Bob Germaine’s clothes? Why on earth would he be wearing Bob Germaine’s clothes?

Tony hastily poured the rest of the brandy down his throat.

That vision of the car trunk and its grisly contents must be some weird dream the Vicodin gave him. There was not the least reason why Tony should think Germaine’s body was unclothed. Or that he, Tony, had the missing clothing.

So why the vision?

He needed more information. The question was, how was he going to get it?