Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 (10 page)

She went to the library table and phoned the police department. Sergeant Malloy was out, so she left word for him to call. But, haunted by doubt, she dialed another number.

This time, she called Mayor Jamison at his day job. “Excuse me for bothering you with a stupid question, but do you remember back when you were a kid and you used to fish off the
Hopkins
—well, I guess it was the
Minnetonka,
then—over by the dredging company?”

Jamison laughed and replied in his flat midwestern twang, “You bet! Why, has someone been telling you about the time I played hookey?”

“No—”

“Good, because I didn't start playing hookey until the third grade, and the boat was gone by then.” Jamison laughed again.

Betsy, smiling now, said, “No, I wanted to ask you if you remember a terrible smell coming from that boat one summer.”

“A terrible smell?”

“You know, like something died on board her.”

“No, it never smelled like anything but water weed and fuel oil. We used to crawl all over the inside of that thing and come out looking like we was part mermaids and part oil riggers. Well, we did find a drowned rat in there once. And I guess it did stink. What's this all about, anyhow?”

“Nothing much, especially since you tell me you climbed all over the inside of the boat. That's right, isn't it? There wasn't a room or something below decks you couldn't get at, was there?”

“No. Anyway, there wasn't a room under the main deck to start with. Why, is it important?”

“No, no. Not from what you tell me.”

“Say, listen here, are you—What?” This last query was asked away from the receiver. “Gosh, I forgot, thanks for reminding me. Betsy, I've got a meeting to get to. Talk to you later. Good-bye.”

Betsy hung up, and this time when she went back to work, her mind was clear and at ease. If someone had stuffed a body into that boat while it was pulled up on shore, Jamison and his childhood buddies would have found it. She smiled to think of the sensation that would have caused in this town; no one would ever have forgotten that! She pictured the slightly shy mayor as a boy crawling around on a big old boat, tearing his clothes on rusty nails, coming home smeared with algae and traces of antique fuel oil. Perhaps he'd caught a nice bass to mollify his mother; Lake Minnetonka has long been famous for its bass.

But she was positive now; the skeleton couldn't be Trudie Koch.

The front door sounded, and Godwin came in, a bulky package in his arms, all amused about something. “Guess what I heard?” he asked. “The police are going to arrest Martha Winters for the murder of Trudie Koch and dig up her yard to see if her husband is buried there.”

“How dare you go carrying outrageous tales like that?” she demanded. “Poor Martha, she's a very nice woman who probably never killed anything bigger than a fly in her whole life.”

Godwin, taken aback, said, “Well, she does seem an unlikely candidate for that sort of thing, since I've never seen her lose her temper. But I heard from two different people that Malloy is going to arrest her.” His eyes narrowed. “Of course, maybe she's been afraid to show her real self in case people suspected.”

“Godwin, listen to me, this vicious rumor-mongering has got to stop! I don't want to hear one more word from you or anyone else about Martha Winters murdering people. It isn't true. It can't possibly be true. That skeleton can't be Trudie's.” She explained the discrepancy in years, concluding, “Now you see why it can't be true, and why I want you to stop spreading that terrible story.”

Godwin said with admiration, “I might have
known
you would investigate and come up with the truth. You are
so
clever! I can't wait to lay this on Irene next time I see her. I hope she comes in this afternoon.”

But Irene didn't, and Godwin had to be satisfied with sharing Betsy's cleverness with other customers, though only when Betsy wasn't close enough to overhear.

Godwin had gone home, and Betsy actually had the two-sided needlepoint sign in her hand, ready to turn Closed to face the street, when Jessica Turnquist appeared outside the door, one gloved hand upraised and a pleading look on her face.

Betsy opened the door.

“Thank you, Betsy. May I come in? I really have something very important to ask you.”

Betsy stepped back, but she dropped the Closed sign in place as she closed the door. “What is it?”

“You've probably heard the rumors about them arresting Martha.”

“Yes, I've heard. It's ridiculous, of course.”

“I'm glad you agree! Martha wouldn't murder anyone! That's why I'm here. I want you to prove it.”

Betsy nearly laughed out loud. “I don't know how many times I'm going to have to repeat this. I am not a detective, I am not a police officer, I am not a private investigator. It's not my job, and I don't want the job of proving anything about anybody.”

“But everyone says—”

“Everyone is wrong. Just because Sergeant Malloy asked me to ask my customers if they could recognize a bit of fabric edged with lace doesn't mean I have become a peace officer sworn to uphold the law. He put that photocopy in Needle Nest, too; why don't you go ask Pat Ingle if she'll investigate for you?”

Jessica, her eyes worried and sad, put a hand on Betsy's arm. “Because Pat Ingle wasn't the one who realized how a missing piece of needlepoint pointed to a murderer. I'm not sure why you don't want to help Martha. Perhaps it's because you're working so hard in the shop. And of course Martha isn't a relative, so you don't have the same motive you had when Margot was murdered. But please, think about it. Please. She's my very best friend and I can't bear the way the town is talking about her.”

Later, pouring Sophie's little scoop of lams Less Active cat food into her bowl, Betsy had one of those flashes of too-late insight. She
had
helped Martha! She'd proved the skeleton wasn't Trudy at all, right? Godwin doubtless had told some customers, who went eagerly to share the news with friends. For once, Betsy blessed the grapevine. By tomorrow afternoon, it would be all over town, and people would stop talking about Martha. Betsy smiled. She really had done a little deducing, and even some investigating, hadn't she? After supper she'd call Jessica and put her mind at ease.

6

O
n Wednesday, Diane Bolles used her lunch hour to visit Crewel World. The temperature was above freezing and the sky was sunny, so it was a pleasant walk from the Old Mill shops.

Diane was a tall, slim woman with dark hair and eyes. She wore a navy blue coat with a bright yellow scarf, a pleasant complement to the day. It was only three blocks to the bottom of Water Street, to the lake, then right on Lake for another two blocks, and she was in front of the old, dark-brick building. There were three stores on the ground floor: a sandwich shop, a used-book store, and Crewel World.

An irritating electronic
bing
sounded when she opened the door, but then she stopped short, because the shop itself was very attractive.

The first thing she noticed was how pleasantly quiet it was. Fibers are sound absorbing, and here were not only a carpeted floor, but heaps of fibers everywhere. Hanks and skeins of wool in autumn colors filled baskets of all sizes, thin wool skeins in every possible color hung from spindles on one long wall, and circular spinner racks carried floss in clusters of greens, purples, golds, reds, and other shimmering colors. Here and there were sweaters knit in complex patterns; the booklet containing the pattern was next to each, along with a selection of knitting yams.

The shop was fairly narrow but deep. Halfway back was the checkout counter in the form of a big old wooden desk, and temptingly near the cash register were last-minute items such as packets of needles, a pretty display of little scissors, and a shallow basket of small kits marked Sale.

A hidden sound system played classical music.

Track lighting picked out items: here a sweater, there a basket of wool, over there a spinner rack of silky floss. Though Diane was not a needleworker, the colors and displays attracted her eyes ever deeper into the place. Beyond the desk were boxy shelves laden with more wool, magazines, books, and needlework accessories Diane could not imagine the use of. But she nodded in appreciation; as a fellow shop owner, she knew a good layout when she saw it.

There was a library table in the middle of the room, at which sat a slim, fair-haired man in an expensive-looking sweater, and a plump, attractive woman in a peacock-blue dress that, while a little light for the season, suited her. The woman was putting down a mitten she'd been working on; the man was looking up at her while continuing the motions of knitting a white sock.

“May I help you find something?” the woman asked.

“No, but if you are Betsy Devonshire, I'd like to talk to you.”

“Yes, I am.”

The woman had a pleasant smile and a look that invited questions. Diane smiled back, and said, “My husband and I own The Old Mill on Water Street.”

“Ooooh,” said the slim man, and to Betsy, “It's that sweet collection of gift shops halfway down Water Street.”

“Yes,” Diane nodded. “I also run the gift shop at the front of The Mill.”

“I've looked in your window,” said Betsy. “I really like that big vase, the one filled with silk roses.”

“Thank you. My place is the reason I'm here. I want to add something to my line: needlework. I spoke to an employee of yours, Shelly Donohue, who said she would make a list of prospective needleworkers for me, but I see she's not here.”

The slender young man said, “Oh,
you're
the one she talked to! I can tell you she's been having trouble with that list. I'm so sorry.”

Betsy was looking confused, so Diane said to her, “I brought in some antique embroidery just for display, but it seems to have created a demand, so now I'm looking for needlework to sell.” Diane looked around the shop. There were four or five completed pieces framed and hung on the wall, and some pillows on display in a rocking chair, but none of them impressed her as the kind of collectibles her customers might be interested in. Beyond the checkout desk hung a collection of thin doors, each slightly more ajar than the next, and attached to them were canvases painted with Santa Clauses, angels, puppies, kittens, and mottoes. Again not what she wanted—except one. “Like that garden with the gazebo, for example,” she said, pointing. “That's quite nice.” She walked over for a look. “I suppose the idea is to cover the picture with embroidery?”

“Needlepoint,” said the young man.

“What would it cost, if I bought this stamped cloth and the yarn or floss, to have someone else do the work? I'm sure I could sell several of these a month.”

The young man frowned and shook his head. “Those aren't stamped. Each one is hand-painted, and that brings us to the problem of Shelly's list. I'm sorry, but I don't think you could afford to carry a piece like that in a finished state.”

Diane felt her cheeks flame. “What do you mean? I don't sell cheap things in my shop!”

“Of
course
you don't!” said the young man. “But—”

“What Godwin is trying to say,” interrupted Betsy, “is that these canvases are not inexpensive to start with. Each is not only hand-painted but done in a special way to make it possible to needlepoint over it. Even so, it takes skill to do the needlepoint properly, and a fair amount of time. I believe the going rate for needlepoint is three dollars per square inch, and that's just to cover the painting in a basic stitch like basketweave.” Betsy went to the swinging door set and looked at the painting Diane had liked. “That picture is twelve by sixteen, so that would be—” Betsy rolled her eyes, trying to multiply in her head.

“Five hundred and seventy-six dollars.” Diane had a gift for numbers.

“All right. Fancy stitches and beadwork would cost more, and to make a really beautiful project, you'd probably want both. Add that to the cost of that particular canvas, which is two hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus wool or silk and beads, plus two hundred dollars to be finished and framed, and you're getting pretty high in cost for a piece of needlework.”

“A thousand and one dollars,” said Diane. “Plus materials. Yes, you're right, that is a lot of money.” She bit a thumbnail and thought. “But what about something that doesn't involve hand-painted canvases? An embroidered apron, for example? Or a tea cozy?”

Betsy said, “A favorite topic among my customers is what they might charge for what they do, if they were to do it commercially. And what it comes down to is, very few people would pay that much for an apron or a tea cozy. The work my customers do is often very beautiful, as you have realized, and takes considerable time and talent. They don't do it for money, but out of love. They most usually use finished pieces as gifts for friends and family or to ornament their own homes.”

The slim young man—Godwin—said, “And on a
commercial level
, people who do needlework wouldn't be excited at the prospect of doing
twenty copies
of the same project.”

“Oh, but I wouldn't want twenty copies!” said Diane. “In fact, if there's just one of something, that makes it more likely to sell! Especially since, from the way you describe it, these are original works of art. And I assure you, I have customers who might be willing to pay a good price.”

Godwin said, “But wait. If you're talking embroidered aprons, you're talking iron-on patterns that are
virtually identical.
If you're talking about
original designs,
then you're back up into the four-figure price. More,
lots more
, if you want an original design that is to be worked only once.” He gestured airily. “And even if your customer
had
the money, it's still not something you'll be able to
provide
them, not reliably. As Betsy said, these things are made for the pleasure of working them. Putting a price on them takes away the whole
cachet
. I mean—” He dived under the table to unzip and reach into a sports bag. He came up with a large, magnificent, nearly completed stocking with a Christmas scene on it. Diane came closer, the pangs of covetousness curling her fingers. This was more like it! The scene was cleverly adapted to the shape of the stocking, crowded with a Christmas tree and part of a stair railing. Santa Claus's head was peeping out from behind the tree at the upper halves of two children coming down the stairs. The boy's Dr. Dentons were done in something that looked like brushed flannel; Santa's beard was a collection of tight curls; some of the ornaments on the tree were tiny glass or metal objects, and the garland was made of microscopic glass beads. Santa's sack and wrapped presents filled the toe of the stocking; like the little girl, they weren't done yet.