Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 (26 page)

“Not even if it was your wife?”

“Not even if it was Mother Teresa.”

“Hmmmm,” said Jill.

“What does Martha say?”

“On advice of counsel, she's not talking to the police.”

“Smart lady. What else does Malloy have?”

“He says the gun used to murder Carl was a World War II era semiautomatic pistol. Standard army officer issue. It was in excellent condition, with original ammo in it. Something found in an attic, maybe, tucked away with an old uniform. Not registered.”

“Interesting,” said Betsy. “Was Carl in the army?”

“No. He was 4F, Malloy said.”

“Has he looked at Vern Miller?”

“Vern went down for his physical two weeks before he got on the bus to boot camp. At that time, their quarrel was over and she was fooling around with a new boyfriend—not Carl, someone else. Trudie was murdered the night of July first, the boat was sunk July second, he left town July third. He couldn't have known two weeks prior to that the sequence of those events.”

“He knew the date he was leaving for boot camp. Maybe he went down to talk to Trudie, say good-bye, they quarreled, and he killed her.”

“Malloy doesn't think it happened that way. How would Carl fit into that scenario?”

“He was the one Trudie was to meet in the park. He gets there in time to see Vern murder Trudie and hide her body. He runs because he knows the whole town knows he's been flirting with Trudie.”

“Hmmmm.” Jill nodded.

“What else does Malloy have?” asked Betsy.

“He found a picture of Trudie in an old yearbook and says the reconstructed face matches close enough.”

“Well, that's not exactly news.”

“No, I guess not. He says Carl was shot once in the chest from across the room. Nicked his heart, blew one lung all to pieces. He was sitting on the bed and fell back and died of internal hemorrhaging.”

“Ugh,” murmured Betsy, swallowing.

“And whoever murdered him waited until it was over, then walked to his side and wrapped his fingers around the gun, then let it fall on the floor beside his hand.”

Betsy said, “Wait a second. Would bullets that old still fire?”

Jill said, “Malloy says some of the best ammo ever made was made during World War II. He says lots of gun enthusiasts look for it. He says there are markings on the casings that indicate it was made in Lake City in 1941. He says the gun had three bullets fired from the clip, but there was only one empty shell in the room and only one bullet in Carl.”

Betsy said, “Ah.”

“What, ‘ah'?”

“Well,
I
didn't know ammunition could last that long, so probably whoever got the gun out didn't either. So he digs through his souvenirs of the war and finds the gun, and takes it someplace to test fire it. Who do we know who was an officer in World War II? Or a gun collector?”

“A gun collector would unload it, wouldn't he?”

“Okay, who came home from the war and put everything into a trunk in the attic?”

“Hundreds of people, probably.”

“Help me out here, Jill. Who involved in this mess is a World War II veteran?”

“Vern Miller—no, he's Korea. And Vietnam. Plus he wasn't an officer.”

Betsy thought that over. “Anyone else?”

“Jessica's husband was killed during World War II in a plane that got shot down over Germany.” When Betsy looked exasperated, Jill shrugged. “Sorry! Those are all I know about. I suppose you can check somewhere, veterans' services or someplace; I know Malloy is doing that. Oh, I know Alice's husband didn't serve because he was a minister. Malloy's probably thinking along the same lines you are. But he also says you can go to gun shows and buy just about anything.”

“Yes, but you can trace those guns, and he told you this was not traceable, right?”

“Yes.”

A little silence fell, then Jill said, “Have you got anything new?”

“I was looking for someone to give the tree to, and I talked to this woman in Westwood South Nursing Home. Her name is Dorothy, and—”

“Dorothy Brown? She was my grandmother's best friend!” said Jill. “Is she still alive? How is she?”

“She's bedridden, and her mind is not as clear as it used to be.”

Jill chuckled. “I don't remember her mind ever being as clear as it used to be. Of course, she was an old woman when I was a little girl.” She sobered. “I should go see her someday. It's awful that I thought she was dead.”

“She might not know you,” said Betsy. “You know how old people get confused about modern events but remember old ones clearly? Well, Dorothy is losing old stuff, too. She said that her son never went to Omaha and was both shot and drowned by a Dutchman.”

“She always says that, and she's absolutely right. Her son died in the ocean while trying to land on Omaha Beach in Normandy, shot
and
drowned, just the way she tells it.”

“‘Dutchman'!” exclaimed Betsy. “That's an old word for a German. She said she is a hundred and two. Could that be right, too?”

“She was a hundred two years ago. I went to her birthday party. She knew who she was and what was going on then. They asked me as part of the entertainment to give her that little test, you know, when someone has a head injury? Do you know where you are? What year is this? Who is the President of the United States?”

Betsy said, “She told me she always guesses Dwight Eisenhower because he was her favorite.”

Jill laughed. “Yes, that's what she said at the party, too. It's her favorite joke. She's not as ga-ga as people think. I really should go over there and see her.”

 

It was Saturday. Melinda's Christmas tree ornament was as big a success as Betsy hoped it would be. She was taking the names of women who wanted to own the pattern when it was published. She would have to make sure she had enough forty-eight-count silk gauze in stock. Her own name was not on the list, of course; she was still struggling with the “easy” ornaments in the stitchery kit. Counted cross-stitch on forty-eight-count silk was not remotely within her skills at this point.

Betsy worked for awhile on the duck. Even now that she could see the picture forming on the cloth, she would still occasionally make a mistake and have to undo some stitches. And she couldn't always just unsew them, the floss would catch on something and she'd have to get out the scissors.

Finally, she just put it away and got out her knitting. She was doing another scarf, this one changing colors from blue to a blue and white mix to white and back to blue every twelve inches. She was on the seventh foot—blue—and not sure if she was going to stop there or not. If she didn't, she was going to have to do a blue/white mix, a white, and blue again so the ends would match, and a ten-foot scarf was an awful lot of scarf. Not for her to knit, for the wearer to manage. She loved knitting this; it was her favorite pattern of knit two, purl two fifty-two times with an odd stitch at either end. It made a thick, attractive pattern and she was doing it in pure wool. There were hardly any errors in it. Godwin had admired it; she hoped he had no idea it was to be his Christmas present.

Godwin was in New York with his lover, taking in a Broadway show and ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Shelly was here, consulting with a customer over some ribbon embroidery.

Betsy felt the familiar calming effect of the knitting start to take over. The customer bought her ribbon and left. Shelly came to kneel on the floor in front of Sophie and stroke her.

“When does her cast come off?”

“Monday. She's going to miss it, I think. I knew someone in California who had a dog that broke its leg, and forever after, whenever you'd scold that dog, he would start to limp.”

Shelly laughed. It was very quiet in the shop; Betsy had forgotten to turn on the radio. But the silence felt good, so she didn't say anything. And Shelly didn't either, which was pleasant.

Betsy began to think about the case. “What if Odell didn't see Carl?” she asked.

She didn't realize she'd said it out loud until Shelly said, “Have you found out something new?”

“I don't know. There's just so many little things, it's hard to think of a scenario that covers all of them. You think up something that might have happened, and it seems right, but then you realize there's one little piece sticking out. Like, if Martha murdered Trudie and Carl knew it, why did he call her when he got back to town? Wasn't he afraid she'd murder him, too?”

“If he was, he wouldn't have called her, so he wasn't,” said Shelly.

“But then why did he run away and not write to her or phone her? She thought he was dead.”

“Maybe he did get in touch, and she was ashamed to tell anyone. Maybe he ran for some other reason than Trudie's murder. Maybe Martha was a terrible wife, jealous and mean to him, and he'd finally had enough.”

“But he came back because they found the skeleton, you know. He had a newspaper clipping about the discovery of the skeleton with him.”

“Oh. But what was it you were saying about Odell not seeing Carl?”

“Odell came by and told me he saw a man climbing out of the
Hopkins
the night before it was taken out and sunk. He was just a little boy, and when the man saw him, he got scared and ran home.”

Shelly stood, all excited. “A man? Odell saw a man? Well, then, that's it, right? Carl murdered Trudie. Odell saw him after he hid the body. Wow! That's it!” She saw the way Betsy was looking at her and said, “Isn't it?”

“But then where did the handkerchief come from? Did Carl mean to frame his wife? Why?”

“Because ... because he wanted to get rid of her. And in a divorce she would have gotten half his property.”

“Not in 1948. And why hide the body? If you mean to frame someone, you don't put the body where it is likely never to be found.”

“All right, that's right. What is it you're thinking of?”

“I'm not sure. This very old woman named Dorothy told me something important, but there's this other piece that's mixed in with the things I've already seen or heard. It keeps nagging me.”

“What is it?” asked Shelly.

“That's the problem. I can't remember.”

15

S
aturday evening the shop closed at five; Christmas hours didn't start until after Thanksgiving. Betsy changed to a pair of dark corduroy slacks and her old cotton sweater, had a quick supper, fed the cat, and left for Jessica Turnquist's house. She had called Jessica, who agreed to talk to her.

Jessica lived in the shortest row of townhouses Betsy had ever seen: three of them. They were white stucco with dark wood trim, located right down on the lakeshore off West Lake Street. A row of three garages lined one side of the driveway and there was a parking area beyond them. Jessica's townhouse was the middle one; she had left her porch light on.

A sharp breeze lifted Betsy's collar and rustled the brown leaves on an old oak tree that hadn't gotten the word that autumn was over. The air smelled of wood-smoke.

The fire was in Jessica's living room, in a small white-brick fireplace beside a pretty atrium door that was mere yards from the restless lake. The living room was not big but was interesting architecturally, with a canted ceiling and a loft, and the furniture was light and sophisticated.

“I have a friend who's a decorator,” said Jessica when Betsy remarked on the decor. “Left to myself, I'd do everything in overstuffed blue brocade. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or some tea?”

“No, thank you, I just had supper.”

“Is it too hot in here for you? Whenever I build a fire, it warms me up so much I sometimes have to open a window.”

“No, I'm fine. The fire is nice.”

“Sit down then,” said Jessica, and when Betsy chose the couch, she took a beige leather chair. She touched her upper lip with a Kleenex and turned her slightly bulging eyes on Betsy. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“About several things. What made you decide to make friends with Martha after Carl disappeared?”

“We already knew each other from church. Then Carl answered an ad I put in the paper and worked for me during State Fair for three or four years. I remember how a lot of people sort of drew the hems of their skirts away from her after—well, after Carl went away. She told several people she was sure he was dead, that a robber perhaps had thrown his body into a passing train. It seemed a strange thing to be sure of without any evidence, but it was then I realized she had loved him and missed him terribly, and she couldn't believe he'd just abandoned her. She was sure that even if he'd left her willingly, he'd at least write to her at some point. She was so sad and distressed, and no one would reach out to her, and well, it just made me angry. So I did that little needlework heart for her, whipped it up in kind of a hurry, and gathered my courage and went and rang her doorbell. Oh, she cried and cried when she opened the package! She was so grateful, and she needed someone to talk to so badly, and so I just kept going back. And over the next few weeks we found we had lots in common. She came over to my place for Saturday night supper—I had an apartment back then—and had me over for Sunday dinner. Soon it wasn't just pity anymore, we actually became good friends. And we've been friends ever since.”

Betsy said, “It was good of you to reach out like that.”

Jessica looked at the fire. “Thank you,” she murmured. “But she was as good for me as I was for her.”

“It must have been difficult for you, being a widow back then. But at least your husband died a hero. Did he win any medals?” Betsy, looking around, said, “I don't see his picture anywhere. Surely you were proud of him.”