Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 (14 page)

The two went off to the back. Shelly said to Betsy, “You might want to try them for your kitten. They're fuzzy, and if you brush the stitching, they look just like fur.”

“Sounds great,” said Betsy. “But let me figure out this stitch for the yarn first. What do you think of—”

Just then the door sounded, and Joe Mickels came in. He nodded at Betsy and said, “You should be in bed.”

Betsy, beginning to get annoyed at this insistence she shouldn't be at work, snapped, “Why, do I look sick?” She had taken some care with her appearance this morning, and thought she looked at least healthy.

He frowned at her, taking her invitation seriously. “I guess not. I came by to see if your help can tell me if you're recovering on schedule. I can see that you're ahead of predictions.” Joe managed not to sound pleased, but on the other hand, he didn't sound like his usual blustery self.

“I'm fine, thank you,” said Betsy, frowning at him. This was the second time Joe had passed up an opportunity to bluster.

As if reading her mind, he swelled his chest and said more strongly, “You let me know right away if what happened makes you decide to move to a warmer climate, all right?”

“Yes, I'll be sure to do that,” retorted Betsy, and he turned on his heel and left.

“What was that all about?” asked Shelly.

“The usual,” said Betsy with a shrug.

“You know, it's odd how he hasn't gone after you like he did Margot. He was in here growling at her or serving her with some kind of legal paper practically every week for a long time.”

“Maybe he has a mad, secret crush on me,” Betsy joked.

“More likely it's some new trick. You watch out for him, Betsy. For Joe, everything comes down to money, and with your lease, he's losing money every day.”

Betsy got out a piece of scrap canvas and consulted her book of needlepoint stitches. Someone on the needlework newsgroup had suggested the stem stitch for the balls of yarn, and though her book showed it only in straight lines, she set out to see if she could curve it just a little to make the balls look round. And maybe if she used a slightly darker shade around the edge ...

She'd only done a few stitches when the phone rang. Godwin, who had just sold Martha four packs of hairy yarn, picked up and said, “Crewel World, good morning, how may I help you? Oh, hello, Vern!” He listened and said, “Great!” and to Betsy, “It's Miller Motors. They towed your car in and Vern wants to talk to you.”

Betsy reached for the cordless on the table and pushed the talk button. “What's it going to cost me for the tow?” she asked. Miller Motors was a shabby old place, located in a converted stable, and Vern Miller was a retired army sergeant who had learned about motors by repairing tank engines. Betsy had no intention of allowing him to work on her car.

“We ain't got that figured, yet,” replied Vern. “What I want to know is, who's got it in for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your brake line's been cut. Did you notice your brakes goin' soft while you was out drivin' in the snow?”

Betsy said, “Well yes, and then they quit altogether. That's why I went off the road. But I thought it was my gas tank that was punctured.”

“It wasn't your gas tank, it was your gas line; it got ripped loose back near the gas tank. That was an accident that happened while you was wallowin' around that pine tree. I'm talking about your brake line. It was cut, like with a box ripper or a good pair of scissors. And you're supposed to be smart, so think: If your brakes went out while you was driving, it was done
before
the accident. Which means it wasn't an accident.”

Betsy sat perfectly still for a few seconds. “You're sure?”

“You want to come and take a look for yourself? I'm tellin' you, the line was cut!”

“All right, all right,” said Betsy. “I believe you.” She thought, then said, “Okay, just park the car someplace. Don't let anyone touch it, and don't start any repairs; I want someone else to look at it. I'll call you back.”

“Storage is twenty bucks a day.”

“Fine.” Betsy hung up and picked up her canvas. But she only stared at it without making any stitches.

“What?” demanded Godwin.

“Mr. Miller says someone cut my brake line.”

“You mean when they were hauling it back up on the road?” asked Shelly.

“No, before I went into the ditch. My brakes failed, that's why I went off the road. He's very sure it was cut, like with a box opener, deliberately.”

“Nonsense,” said Shelly. “Why would someone do that?”

Godwin said, “That, my dear, is a very good question.”

Shelly said, “Oh, Godwin, you don't mean—Oh,
Betsy!
”

There was a little silence. Betsy said in a small voice, “I can't think of anyone even miffed at me right now.”

Shelly said, “Joe Mickels?”

Godwin said, “It's silly to think anyone would seriously want to hurt you for any reason, even Joe.”

The silence fell again, then Shelly said lightly, “Who didn't you invite to your party that you should have?”

Godwin stared at her, scandalized, then started to laugh. “Yes, and you haven't held a pre-Christmas sale. That's bound to upset at least some of your regular customers.”

Betsy giggled. “Maybe it's Sophie, angry because I put her on a diet.”

“Yeah,” said Godwin, “I can just see her sneaking out to crawl under your car and rip that puppy loose with her hind claws. That'll teach you.”

“How would she know—” Betsy paused, frowning.

“What?” asked Godwin.

“How would anyone know? I mean, if it really was cut, who do I know who knows what to cut? I don't know what a brake line looks like. I don't think I know anyone who would know; most of my customers are women. Well, except Phil Galvin. Or Steve Pedersen, or Donny DePere.” These were her three most faithful male customers.

“Trust me, Donny wouldn't know, either,” said Godwin.

Shelly said, “You're wrong; a lot of us women know, Betsy. Remember that course, Godwin? Introducing Your Car, it was called. It was aimed primarily at women. Open U taught it four years in a row. I took the first one, and it was so great I told everyone, and a lot of women from around here signed up. Four or five of the teachers at the elementary school did. And Patricia did, she said she was sick of being taken by car repair shops. And Martha, and June, and Eloise, and Heidi, and—gosh, a lot of your customers. Mandy Abrams took it. We learned how to change the oil as well as flat tires, and we studied all the parts of the engine and transmission. It was very interesting. I kept all my notes, and I haven't felt intimidated by car repairmen since. Though I never did change my oil after that one time. I thought I'd never get my fingernails clean!”

Godwin nodded. “I think two used-car dealers went out of business while they were teaching that course.”

“Only one,” corrected Shelly. “And he was already notorious.”

“Hmmmm,” said Betsy.

“You don't think Vern is right, do you?” asked Shelly.

“Probably not,” said Betsy, “but I'm going to call Mike down at the police station anyhow.”

Detective Sergeant Mike Malloy, somewhat to Betsy's surprise, took her report seriously and said he would stop by Miller Motors and look at her car.

He stepped into Crewel World less than an hour later, a slender redhead with freckles spattering a thin-lipped face. “All right, what are you mixed up in now?” he growled.

Betsy said, “You mean Vern Miller was right? The line was cut deliberately?”

“Yes. You didn't discover another skeleton did you? Maybe under that old tapestry they found at Trinity?”

“No, of course not,” said Betsy.

Godwin said, “What she means is, she hasn't figured out yet what her new case is about. Though obviously
someone
has.”

“Goddy, go help Shelly with that customer back by the counted cross stitch patterns,” ordered Betsy, and he sniffed and walked away.

“Don't listen to Godwin, Mike,” Betsy said. “There isn't anything to figure out. I was thinking after I called you that if Vern is right, if the brakes were tampered with, then perhaps someone got the wrong car. People park back there once in a while while they visit someone who lives across in the condos.” Mike turned to glance out the front window at the gray eminence across the street—a large complex that blocked what once must have been a lovely view of the lake.

“All their parking is underground,” continued Betsy, “and you need one of those magnetic keys to access it. So visitors have to park on the street. And with the snow emergency rules being so confusing—what are they? Something like you can only park on the even-numbered sides of the streets on odd-numbered days—anyway, people who don't want to get towed try to park off the street.”

“And you're telling me someone across the street wanted to kill a visitor?”

“How would I know? I'm just looking for an alternative to the explanation that someone wants to kill
me.
Because no one does. I don't know about over there, I don't know anyone who lives over there.” She smiled suddenly. “Well, except John Penberthy. And attorneys are too valuable to the law breakers to get murdered, aren't they?”

Mike laughed. “Unless they lose a case. But I see your point. Some stranger hustles back there, it's dark, it's snowing, your license plate is covered with it, and they're in a hurry. Makes sense to me.” He wrote something in his notebook, tapped it to his forehead in a kind of friendly salute, and departed.

He had to sidestep out the door because someone half hidden behind an enormous plant bundled in green florist paper was coming in. The delivery man put the plant on the table and lifted a finger in a warning to wait and went back out again. When he came back, it was with a big, long white box, the sort roses come in.

“Wow, who loves you?” asked Godwin.

“They're more likely for you,” said Betsy, nevertheless continuing to peel back the green paper to reveal a huge, deep, deep red poinsettia.

“Ooooh, pretty!” said Shelly. “I think that's the biggest one I've ever seen!”

Betsy began poking among the leaves for a card and found one on a clear plastic stick. It had her name on it.

She opened the envelope and found written on it, in a familiar hand,
“Remember?”
“Oh, damn,” she muttered.

“Why? Who's it from?” asked Shelly.

“My ex-husband.” She tore the card in half and tossed the pieces into a wastepaper basket under the table.

“Then I suppose this one's from him, too,” said Shelly.

Godwin said, “It might not be. And it might not be roses, either. To fill a box that size would take two dozen roses, at least. Was the Pig one for spending big time on flowers?”

“Sometimes.” Betsy sighed and opened the box. Inside were at least two dozen red roses. She picked up the card in its little envelope and opened it. In the same hand was written,
“My Love is Like the Red, Red Rose. ”
She sighed again, tore the card in half, and tossed it after the first.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” said Shelly.

“No.”

“But he spent a lot of money on those flowers.”

“If they were made of rubies, I still wouldn't want to talk to him.”

“Since they're only real roses, shall I put them in water?” Shelly bent to inhale the fragrance.

Betsy started to order them thrown away when she was forestalled by Godwin. “Let's give them away. A Christmas rose for every customer until they're gone.”

Betsy nodded. That's a nice idea, Godwin. There's a bucket in back, Shelly. Fill it halfway with warm water, cut the bottoms off the stems, and put them in there.”

“What about the poinsettia?” asked Shelly.

“Do you want it?”

“No, I've already got one.”

“Godwin?”

“No, ever since I saw them growing like weeds in Mexico, I don't think of them the same.”

“Me, too,” said Betsy. That was what Hal was reminding her of with his card. She smiled. “I know, let's give it to—to Irene Potter. Poor lady, she spends half her salary in here, and I bet she's never gotten flowers in her life. Godwin, can you remember the company where she works?”

Godwin could. Betsy called and, handed along to the shipping department, got Irene on the line and said, “Irene, someone brought in a big, beautiful poinsettia and there's no room for it in the shop. Would you like it?”

“How much?” asked that suspicious woman.

“For free. You are one of our best customers, and I would like for once to give you something.”

Irene came in from work a little after five and stood a moment staring at the plant. “It's awfully big,” she said.

“I didn't think of that. It's too heavy for you to carry,” said Betsy. “How about I drop it off after we close? We're open till nine tonight.”

“And every night till Christmas,” added Godwin with a little sigh.

“Why,” said Irene, torn between suspicion and pleasure, “that's very kind of you, I'm sure. Thank you. It is a beautiful thing, and we wouldn't want it to freeze its little leaves off, would we? Which it might do if I were to carry it home. Yes, thank you. Thank you.” She backed toward the door, then turned abruptly and hurried out.

“Poor thing,” said Shelly. “Thinks it's some kind of prank, I bet.”