Knitting Bones (20 page)

“And he lives in Excelsior,” said Tony.

“Yeah. He drives a hot little sports car. But:
He made his bones,
as the gangsters say.”

Tony stared at Travis, whose nod started in again. “He says an ex-lover
gave
him the car, it’s an Audi, I think. But it was this same
rich
ex-lover that got
murdered
. And guess who murdered him? Our cute-as-a-button li’l twink, Godwin.”

“He
murdered
someone?” said Tony.

Milky gaped at Travis, and Winston said, “No!”

Travis was still nodding. “Yep, got arrested for it an’ ever’thing. But he got away with it, never got convicted, never went to prison. One day he’s sitting in jail, and the next he’s home free.”

Winston raised a finger and said, “Wait a second, I remember that! It was a man named Nye who got murdered—he was a lawyer. Someone else was convicted of murdering him.”

Travis stopped nodding and said, “Someone Goddy set up, I bet.
I
say, ‘Is the lover dead?’ Plus, who’s driving around in the dead man’s flashy sports car?”

Tony said, “I thought you said he’s a twink.”

“He is. If he likes you, he’ll knit you a sweater.”

“Cute,” sneered Winston.

“And if he don’t like you, he’ll
kill
you.”

“Well, may I never run into this twink,” said Tony. His heart was racing, suddenly he understood this whole thing. He yawned hugely and announced, “I am
bushed
. I think we should call it a night. Travis, you are the best left hand a cook ever had.”

“Yeah, that was fun. Maybe we should do it again.”

“No, I think the next time I cook for a crowd I should be all healed up.” He staggered to his feet, a little surprised at how uncertain his feet were, because his head felt very clear. Milky came to steady him while Travis picked up his crutch and handed it to him.

“You sure you don’t want some help cleaning up?” asked Winston, looking around at the chaos.

“No, no, I’ll hire a crew. The carpet’s going to need professional handling. I think someone dropped at least one of every single hors d’oeuvre recipe I prepared.”

“An’ someone else walked in it,” agreed Travis, nodding at one particularly ugly stain. “Well, if you say so. Less leave you to it.”

The trio gathered their coats and gloves and scarves, went out the front door and trailed down the hall. Tony watched to make sure they got on the elevator, then closed the door.

He went back into the once-beautiful living room, groaning at the wreck his party had made of it. God, he had so loved living in this place! Why hadn’t things worked out so he could go on living here?

Not that he was sad about it. No, he was beyond sad, well into scared, almost as scared as he’d been when he learned they’d found Germaine’s body out at the airport.

But this time he knew why.

A police detective was after him. After this party, enough people knew where he was that, if he stayed here, the detective was going to find him, arrest him, and charge him with murder.

And it was
wrong!
He hadn’t
done
it! If he’d committed a murder, he’d
know
it! It would be in his bones, in his fists, the knowledge would be in his whole body! And he had absolutely no memory of killing Germaine. None.

Okay, he’d meant to go to the hotel, meet him, hit him, knock him down, steal the check. But he hadn’t done it—or where was the check, huh? Where was the goddam
check
? He didn’t have it, did he? So he
wasn’t guilty!

But this Godwin person was trying to convince everyone Tony was a murderer. Hold on, hold on, not Tony, but Stoney. Stoney Durand. Every person who came to the party tonight thought his name was Stoney Durand.

Hold on again. Travis and Milky and Winston agreed the cop had come looking for Stoney, and they said Godwin was told about Stoney, and Stoney was the man living here on Lake Calhoun, so it all came down to the same damn thing. The cop would come and arrest Stoney. And the minute they ran his fingerprints, they’d know Stoney was Tony Milan.

Tony went to the liquor cabinet and found half a bottle of scotch among the empties. He poured some of it into a glass that looked clean enough and went back to the couch. He slumped deep into the suede leather and took a big swallow. So here was this Godwin—what was it? DeLake, duPont. Something. Who had gotten away with murder some time ago—and so had gotten away with it again, right there at that EGA convention. He took another swallow, feeling the warmth of the alcohol flood his stomach, like the warm wrath that fumed into his brain.

Because it all fit. This Godwin creep had stolen the money
himself
. Money that should have gone into
Tony’s
pocket and left
Germaine
with nothing more than a headache. Germaine was
dead,
Godwin had the
money,
and they were going to blame
Tony!

And Godwin might get away with it, the big-shot businessman. Just because the creep owned a building and knit his own socks—! Tony frowned and waved that thought away. It was because he got away with it once, this Godwin, he thought he could kill anyone any time and get away with it. Tony finished the scotch in a final, angry swallow, then tossed the glass onto the carpet.

He couldn’t go to the cops, not with his record. And they’d investigate and find out about the bank scam and fall right in with Godwin’s scheme to frame him.

Jeez, what could he do, how could he get out of being set up like this? He was going to go back to prison! Gyp, big time!

Tony looked for the thrown glass, thinking about another trip to the scotch bottle—then changed his mind. No more drink. He needed a clear head if he was going to thwart the evil plans of this Godwin person.

How satisfying it would be to go out there and beat on him till he told the truth! But he couldn’t, not like this, all beat up himself. Like this, he couldn’t beat up a little old granny lady. Though the thought of a granny lady quailing under the thumping of his crutch made him smile.

Then he thought of something that would make things equal—more than equal—between him and this Godwin person. He had, of course, gone poking around in Marc’s drawers and cupboards. He’d found a key taped to the underside of a desk drawer. He’d already found a very heavy steel box that Marc had hidden in his bedroom closet, and sure enough the key opened it. But Tony very honorably hadn’t taken a thing from it, not the gold ring with a ruby the size of his fingernail, not the beautiful gold chain whose links had been carved to make them twinkle, not even a single bill that Marc probably would not have missed from the nifty stack of fifties.

But now things were very different, and this was an emergency. Tony really had to go back to that box because he needed the one other thing in it: the equalizer, in the form of a snub-nose revolver, dark and deadly, and already loaded. He could fire one shot to show this Godwin person he meant business and still have five bullets left in case he needed them. Shoot him in the foot, then the knee and so on, until he confessed. Good plan.

Tony couldn’t remember under which drawer Marc had stashed the key to the box, but after pulling out drawers all over the condo, he found it. He dragged the box out of the closet and over to Marc’s bed, where he sat down and opened it.

He took the gun out first, then after a few seconds’ thought, took all the money as well. He told himself he was coming back and would need the money to have the place properly cleaned up. But in the back of his head he knew he couldn’t come back here. He needed that money to get out of town after he took care of that Godwin person. He’d just go, but cops got persistent when the charge was murder—and Tony would be easy to spot. There weren’t many fugitives with a broken left arm, a broken left leg, and a bandage on his head. He counted the money and found there was an even thousand dollars. He could go pretty far on that. And if Godwin had the twenty grand, he could go even farther, and dig himself an even deeper hole.

He closed the box, then opened it again. In its velveteen box was the ruby ring. He took it out. No, too gaudy, no one would believe it was real. So he put it back. But the gold chain was lovely. He put it on over his head and it was just heavy enough to announce its presence, but not so heavy that it looked silly, or fake. The carved links twinkled when Tony moved, and they had an interesting texture when he ran his fingers over them.

What the necklace called for was more gold—no, not the ring, dammit! Marc could wear the ring; it looked okay on him, an older guy who somehow made the ring look as real as it was. But Tony was too young for a stone that size.

Hold on! He knew what it needed. Tony went back to his bedroom and found the white dress shirt. Someone had told him once how to get bloodstains out of cotton—and the shirt was 100 percent cotton, though of a smoothness Tony had never known cotton could attain. The secret was shampoo. Soak the stain in shampoo, wet it with cool water, scrub a bit, then rinse. Repeat as necessary. Okay, it was kind of wrinkled; Tony had never gotten any good at ironing, and with only one hand he was not now ironing anything at all.

He had to rip the seam of the left sleeve to get it on over his cast. And put one of the beautiful gold cufflinks on the right cuff first and then work the sleeve over his hand. But laying the beautiful gold necklace over that lovely smooth fabric on his chest was just perfect.

The black suit hadn’t been washable and so Tony had thrown it away, so he put on his best jeans that already were ripped up the left leg, and shoved his good foot into a deck shoe. He needed a shave, but after he looked at himself in the mirror, he realized the bristles only added to his cool look. Getting dressed had made his broken bones ache a little, and he had work to do, so as long as he was in the bathroom anyway, he took a Vicodin just to keep the pain away.

Then he went back to Marc’s closet, to take out and hang Marc’s artfully-antiqued aviator’s jacket over his left shoulder to hide the ripped sleeve, then pulled the shirt a little loose so it covered the gun tucked into his waistband. And just for fun, he also took down the matching pinch-brim leather hat. He tried it several ways, and almost decided to leave it behind—but it covered the bandage on top of his head. He finally wore it backward, which sort of gave him an air.

He thought about writing a note to Marc, then thought, Why? Marc would get the message as soon as he walked in on the disaster Tony was leaving behind.

T
ONY
went down to the lobby of the condo. The night concierge was not someone he recognized, which was perfect. “May I summon a cab for you?” the man asked.

“Yes, please,” replied Tony—soberly, of course.

“What is your destination?”

“St. Paul,” lied Tony. If he was asked afterward, the concierge could say that the man with the broken leg went to St. Paul, not Excelsior.

To avoid further conversation, he went out of the lobby into the big covered portico. The outside wall of the lobby was a curve, and the portico followed the curve around it, then plunged downward, into the underground parking area. Tony followed the curve a little way on foot. There was a biting wind whistling into the portico, and he wanted to get as much away from it as he could—he couldn’t put the jacket on over his broken arm, and he’d forgotten to put a sock over the bare toes on his broken leg. But a person always had to suffer to look good, and he was happy to look terrific.

He caught movement outside the portico and looked to see if it was his cab, but it was someone coming out of the underground parking—the exit was on the other side of the building, but curved around to meet the same street as the entrance came off. He watched the beautiful car slow then turn onto the street, the people inside mere shadows behind the dark windows. Probably off to the airport, Tony thought enviously, warm and comfortable in the car, going to warm and happy Hawaii or expensive Singapore or exotic Bangkok for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Not a care in the world. And here Tony stood freezing!

Another car pulled up, and its driver got out and hurried into the lobby. Tony turned and watched him wave at the concierge as he hustled past, bound for the elevators.

Tony turned back and saw the car, an older Cadillac in beautiful condition, standing at the curb. Its color was cranberry or black cherry, not a hint of rust. The engine was running; Tony could see the faint trail of exhaust whipped away by the wind. He moved out from the wall to see the license plate: Florida. Naturally.

Some rich couple, or rich biddy, or rich geezer, lived here in the spring and summer, and then went to Florida when the weather turned sour. And kept Florida plates on the car, in part because Florida plates were cheaper than Minnesota plates and in part to rub the noses of the poor in their good fortune.

Gyp.

But hold on a second: Big car, all warmed up, doubtless an automatic—did these cars even come with a stick shift?—sitting there at the curb, like it had pulled up on purpose to take Tony anywhere he wanted to go.

There was danger in taking a cab. The driver might remember—of course he’d remember Tony, handsome, chic Tony, and all banged up like he was! What had he been thinking, ordering a cab to take him to a crime!

So for cripe’s sake, go get in the car before the man came back with old Mrs. Gotrocks and her luggage!

Tony moved as unobtrusively as he could over to the car and, after a struggle with a leg that didn’t want to bend much in the middle and a huge and useless arm, with a coat wrapped around it besides, he managed to get behind the wheel. He adjusted the seat back a few inches, pulled the seat belt down and fastened it—no need to get stopped for that minor offense and blow the whole deal—and drove sedately away.

Whoops, turn the headlights on! Adjust the mirror at the stoplight at the top of the street. Flip the turn signal on to go right, no need to draw the attention of a patrol car by doing something ticketable. Comfortable, comfortable car, seats real leather, a dark red to match the exterior. No wonder old folks kept buying these great old road yachts, so easy on fragile bones. And look at this: The gas tank was almost full!

Two blocks later the street forked, and the left fork was Highway 7, which led to Excelsior. This time of night there was almost no one else on the road, which was a good thing, as it was a little hard to stay in one lane. But Tony rejoiced to be on his way. Steering with one hand, he felt for the gold necklace with his other. It was just long enough to reach down to where his hand could get it. The texture of the links was soothing, and he let it slip over his fingers again and again.

Sometimes things like this happened, things suddenly turning right, coming into focus, becoming effortless. Tony knew with all his being that he was doing right, following the correct path, making the choices that would lead to success. When things started going his way like this, he would come out on top. That likely meant that not only would he neutralize—hopefully not kill, but kill if necessary—this Godwin person, but he would also regain that twenty-four grand. Then he could get out of—Uh-oh.

He was almost all the way to the Excelsior turnoff by then, when he remembered he hadn’t packed anything, and had left the fake passport behind, too. It was far too late to go back. But so what? When he got his money, he could buy some new clothes, and a new passport, too.

Crewel World wasn’t on the main drag, but Excelsior wasn’t a big town, so Tony drove at random until, coming up a street, he drove past a two-story, dark brick building that had Christmas stockings hung in one of the three big front windows. And there was the sign, Crewel World—ha, he’d found it! Tony pulled to the curb right in front, then decided that wasn’t a good idea. What if a cop drove by? Because after all, the owner of the car hadn’t meant to leave it sitting more than a couple of minutes, and so probably had already reported it stolen. And Tony was pretty sure Excelsior was still in Hennepin County and so word would reach even out this far right away.

He’d just started to pull away when he noticed something: a narrow driveway going up beside the building. He turned into it. At least the car would be harder to spot here. To his surprise the driveway went around back, to a small parking lot. See? His luck was still in.

He steered over to a big Dumpster, bumped it lightly, and shut the engine off. It took a couple of minutes to get himself out of the car and his crutch under his arm. A lowwatt light gleamed over a back door to the building. A back door! Smiling, he made his way over to it.

The door was wood, with a window in the top half made of thick glass with chicken wire embedded in it, hard to break. But his over-the-limit credit card served his purpose one more time as, with some effort, he slid it in to move the tongue of the lock back.

At first it was as dark as the inside of a black cow at midnight—an old jest he remembered from grade school. He stood there a while, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His hand strayed to the gold necklace. The feel of it under his fingers was soothing and kept him occupied until, finally, he could see by the outside light dimly pouring through the top half of the door that he was in a narrow, uncarpeted hall. Turning away from the door, there was a wall to his left, and—was it? Yes, it was, another door down the longer way to his right. He moved as stealthily as he could down to the door. It was unlocked.

On the other side was a big wooden staircase. He came out and there it was, just a few feet away, painted a shiny light green color. Then he saw he was in a much bigger hall. The front door was to his left, and there was an open tiled space in front of it, better lit, with one of those bristly things to wipe your feet on. He went in that direction. Apartment on the second floor, Travis had said. Tony turned and looked up the broad, uncarpeted stairs, which were made of some kind of stone or marble with a nonskid edge on each step. At the top was a big landing. He looked around. No elevator. He would have to climb those stairs to that landing, and then there would be as many more stairs to climb to the second floor. A long and painful journey—but Godwin lived up there, and was probably peacefully asleep in his bed, unaware that justice, or doom, or something equally fearful, with a gun in its waistband, was coming up the stairs after him.

Tony, who would have admitted to being a little tipsy, wanted to emit a wicked laugh, but was not so drunk he yielded to the impulse. He was content to silently recite the chant from an old ghost story, about a ghost coming after a wicked man, as he started up the stairs: “Old man, I’m on the first step; old man, I’m on the second step; old man, I’m on the third step…”

Around the landing, and up again. Finally, at the top, “Old man, I’m on the sixteenth step.” He paused then, to catch his breath and look around. He was in another broad hall, this one carpeted. A light glowed beside a window on the wall nearest the street, and another lit an old red glass
EXIT
sign on the wall beside the top of the stairs. There were three doors up here, meaning three apartments. No name or number on any of them.

Tony stood awhile, uncertain which door to try first. Then he remembered what Travis had said: He lives over the store. And the apartment most nearly directly over the store was…that one.

Tony walked to the door and simply tried the knob. To his immense satisfaction, and in furtherance of his belief that he was acting in accord with his karma, the door opened.

He found himself in another hallway, this one narrow and short. There was a pleasant smell of cooking—basic cooking, like a hot dish—and then a trace of perfumed soap. Was he in the wrong place? He couldn’t tell, but this was no time to hesitate.

He closed the door silently—and found himself in utter darkness. He felt his way down the short passageway until he was in a much bigger space. There was a vague lighter rectangle on the wall to his right—that was probably a window with the shades down. He took a few steps forward and bumped into something that was substantial but soft when touched. A couch.

“A-row?”

“What th—!” He managed to stifle the exclamation as he staggered back. He stopped himself from falling with his crutch, and came forward to put a hand on the couch again. By then he realized what had spoken in that tiny, high-pitched voice: a cat.

The thought was immediately followed by something landing on the couch, he could feel the shock of it. Must be a damn big cat. “A-row?” it asked again.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he whispered, and it came to him, to sniff the fingers sticking out of his cast and rub its face on them. A big cat, yes, but friendly and—he stroked down its back—long-haired.

He heard a sound from across the room, in another room. Bedroom. Godwin was awake.

Tony stepped back from the couch and drew his weapon, braced for the light that would come on. And it did.

And there was a woman standing just outside the door over there. She wasn’t pretty, or even young, despite the tangle of dyed-blond hair.

“Who are you?” They asked the question in unison.

“Where’s Godwin?” growled Tony. “Get him out here.”

“Godwin doesn’t live here,” she replied in a surprised and sleepy voice. Then, in a more awake one, “Oh, my God, are you Tony Milan?”

“How d’ya know that?” he demanded.

“Because…because of several things,” she said. “Godwin told me Tony Milan broke his arm and his leg in a car accident, and you have about the same build and coloring as Bob Germaine. But how do you know about Godwin? Or me?”

“What’s that—Never mind any of that! Where is he?”

“Home, I suppose.”

“No, no, don’t you lie to me!
This
is his home! Unless he’s in one of the other apartments?”

“No, he doesn’t live in this building.”

“But that’s his store downstairs, right? The embroidery store?”

“He’s my store manager, yes.”

“No!” he shouted, waving the gun, pleased to see fright drain what little color there was from her face. “I told you not to lie to me! Godwin owns the embroidery store and he lives in an apartment over it!
This
apartment!”

She did not reply.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” He let his rage show in his voice.

“N-no,” she faltered. “I told you, he doesn’t live here.”

“Liar!” He raised his voice even louder. “You bastard, stop hiding behind a woman! Godwin, come out here!”

She looked behind her, into the bedroom she’d come out of. “There’s no one in there,” she said.

He shifted the gun to his left hand, barely able to hold it there with his imprisoned fingers. “Move out of the way,” he ordered, and she obeyed, moving slowly. He suddenly realized she was on crutches. “Freeze!” he barked, just like a cop, and again she obeyed. She was wearing a flowing nightgown of some pink material, cotton or thin flannel, and had a flimsy robe over it of the same stuff. The combination had hidden her crutches and the hard-plastic boot on her right leg.

“Who are you?” he demanded

“My name is Betsy Devonshire.”

“What are you doing in this apartment?”

“I live here.”

That had to be a lie, Godwin lived here. He asked a question he already knew the answer to, so he could compare how she looked and sounded when telling the truth. “What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked.

“It’s broken.” Either she really did live here, or she was a damn good liar.

“Move a little more,” he said, waving the gun and she came away from the door—doors, he saw now. Three of them, in a kind of alcove. He went to the door she’d come out of. The light was on, and the bed was empty. And by the look of it, she’d been sleeping in it alone. He went to the second door, moving so as to keep an eye on her while he groped for the door and slammed it open. The room was in darkness. He felt around with his hand on the wall and found a switch. The room had a desk, a great big box with a blanket tossed over it, and a four-poster iron bed stripped of sheets and blankets. The closet door was open, and inside it were office supplies. No clothes.