Sins and Needles (24 page)

Jan felt herself drawn into Stewart's enthusiasm. It seemed genuine—but then it always did. “Uncle Stewart, have you any idea how much starting up such a business would cost? You'd need property to build on, you'd need a building, you'd need boats—the cost would be
astronomical
!”

“Now, no, it wouldn't. For one thing, we already have the property. The land behind our house runs right down to the lake. And I've got a nice boat—and a second, spectacular one, too!”

“You mean, use your own house and yard for this? Does Terri know about this?”

“Not yet, not yet.” He patted the air as if patting the shoulder of a weeping woman. “Now, now,” he said, “once she sees how serious I am—and once I tell her I have the money in hand—”

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much money would it take to start this business up?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Not as much as you're probably thinking.”

She asked again, more deliberately, “How much?”

He said with false bravado, “I'm not completely sure. Somewhere between five and seven hundred thousand dollars.”

That was pretty close to what she'd been thinking he'd ask for. The interesting part was, she didn't think that was enough.

“Do you have another source for money?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Did Mother change her mind and agree to invest in this?”

“No—why, did she tell you she did?” he asked eagerly.

“No.”

“Oh. Well, no, I don't have another source for investment money. Why?”

“Because I don't think seven hundred thousand is enough. You'll have to put up a building and docks. You'll have to buy more boats. And restoring that powerboat is going to cost a whole lot of money.”

“Aww, I can restore the
Edali
all by myself.”

“Are you an aircraft engine mechanic?”

“Well…no.”

“That's an aircraft engine—an
antique
aircraft engine—in the
Edali
.”

He studied her, and a twinkle formed in his blue eyes. “Are you trying to convince me to borrow more than seven hundred grand from you?”

“No. I'm trying to convince you that this is not a business proposition. It's another of your impossible dreams. You haven't really looked into what it would take to build that business. You haven't got the facts and figures.”

“I can get all that financial stuff any time you want it!” he said, with a dismissive gesture.

“No.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Uncle Stewart, but no. I'm not going to lend you any money.”

For the merest instant he looked sick with disappointment, then that smoothed away and he smiled a sad little smile at her. “I'm so sorry you aren't interested. I really could pull this off, you know. Return that money at no less than five percent interest. Ten percent, if you need me to go that high.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. There are probably four or five of your previous ideas that could have turned out really well, made you a rich man. But somehow they went the same way as your ridiculous ones did. And with your three remaining daughters at or approaching marriage or college—or both—you no longer have time to build a company that could pay for those expenses. In fact, with Terri looking to retire, the last thing you need is a company that will be sucking every dime you have out of your pockets for the next several years, if not longer.”

“Terri's not going to retire—”

“No, because she's the sole source of support for your family right now. But that means she can't afford to put any money into this new business of yours. Now Hugs and I, we're all right financially as we are, so even if Lucille—
and
her daughter, did I mention she has a daughter?—prove their claim to a share, we'll be all right. But that even more certainly means I can't throw seven hundred thousand dollars into a bottomless pit, because if my share gets cut from a half to a quarter, I might not
get
seven hundred thousand. There, see? I can see it in your face. You didn't do the math after that meeting with Attorney Weiner, did you? I did.
If
the estate tops out at nine million, which it might not, then after they deduct the percent going to the U, I'll get a million five. But if Lucille and her daughter prove their claim, I'll get half of that. I have no intention of dipping into our own funds to finance another of your schemes that will almost certainly go the same way as your previous ones. I'm sure you understand.”

Stewart sighed and began, probably unconsciously, to stir his now-tepid coffee. “Oh, my dear, dear niece, you are going to be so sorry you didn't climb on board.”

“I'll be the first to congratulate you if you manage to surprise all of us.”

 

G
ODWIN
was listening carefully to Joe Mickels's proposition. The man was making good on his invitation to lunch, and Godwin was enjoying himself immensely, not least because he was correct in predicting the old man's motive. He wanted Godwin to invest in one of Mickels's deals. It wasn't a gold or diamond mine, it was lakeshore property up on Minnesota's North Shore. Minnesota looks as if it started out as a rectangle, but before the shape had set, it was buffetted by a stiff wind from the west, which blew the top eastward into an elongated arrowhead shape. This arrowhead runs along the top of Lake Superior and thus was dubbed the North Shore. That far north, the land is beautiful but rugged—a mix of chilled rock and pine trees, and a great hunk of it is a national park called the Boundary Waters.

But right along the Superior shoreline are many small towns catering to tourists, and between them are lodges and individual cabins owned by people who think that land under a year-round threat of frost makes for an ideal vacation spot.

“Property values keep rising in the state, and vacation property is especially on the upswing,” said Mickels. “I've been investing up there, in a small way, for some while. Now I want to get in deeper—but when people find out it's me trying to buy a piece of land, they raise the price, because they know I can afford it.”

“So you're looking for a front man,” said Godwin, digging into his crab salad. They were in a very nice seafood restaurant in Wayzata.

“Not exactly, more like a partner.”

“An equal partner?”

“That depends on how much you're willing to invest. I'll bring my own money to the table, in equal shares, and provide the expertise.”

Godwin looked across the table at the little old man with the cold, shrewd eyes, and put his fork down to laugh gently. “You don't want me,” he said.

“I don't?” Mickels raised his bushy eyebrows high.

Godwin enjoyed pranks, but this wasn't a prank. The man was making a real offer, not asking Godwin to be the cat's paw or sucker in some kind of underhanded deal. “I wasn't left a big chunk of money, Joe. What John did was set up a spendthrift trust. I get the interest from the trust for the rest of my life, and my monthly check is not big enough to invest on the level you're talking about.”

Joe's eyes narrowed, and he sat back for a few moments. “You're telling me the truth, aren't you?”

Godwin nodded. “I was going to string you along, see how many great meals I could get out of you before you found out I was gaming you, but that was when I thought you were pulling a stunt of your own, trying to get your hands on my money for your own profit. Instead, you're trying to keep realtors from playing you for a fool.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “I hope you're not mad at me.”

Mickels was giving him a very cool look. But after a few minutes, he chuckled, too. “No, I don't think I am. It was worth trying. I should have realized John Nye was too smart to leave you a large chunk of change and just hope you didn't blow it.”

“Would I have blown it investing in North Shore property?”

“I don't think so. But I would have done my very best to keep you from taking more than your share of the profits.”

“That's why, even if I was left a ‘large chunk of change,' I would not have gone in with you on this. You're too canny for me, Mr. Mickels.” And he smiled a chilly smile of his own.

The two went back to their meal, each with slightly more respect for the other than when he arrived.

“I
'M
glad to see you,” said Betsy the next day when Jan came in. It was well after five—Crewel World stayed open till seven on Thursdays—but Jan had come straight from the clinic in her scrubs in answer to Betsy's call. “Have you talked to Sergeant Rice since he searched your home?” Betsy asked.

“No, why?”

“Because I'm having trouble getting in touch with him, and I have an important question. Maybe you'll have better luck.”

“What's the question?”

“Ask him if the needle that was missing and is now back is a new needle or a used one.”

“How can anyone tell which needle is the one that went missing and came back?”

“All right, ask him if any of the double-zero Skacels are new.”

“How can you tell?”

“Scratches,” said Betsy impatiently. “When you use knitting needles, they rub up against one another, and they get scratched. If one needle in your set has no scratches, then someone bought it new and put it in there. If they're all scratched, then ask around. Someone borrowed it and brought it back.”

Hope flared in Jan's eyes. “Yes,” she said, “yes, that must be what happened!” She came to hug Betsy. “You're wonderful! I'll find out who borrowed it, I promise.”

Released from the hug, Betsy went to the checkout and got the map out of a drawer. “This is the map I found inside your pillow. I'm assuming Edyth Hanraty stitched it.”

A good soaking in Orvus had removed most of the smell and stains. The knit flag, being heavy yarn two layers thick, hadn't dried overnight and remained in Betsy's bathroom, stretched on a towel; so what Jan was looking at was just the map.

Jan, a true stitcher, merely glanced at the top and then flipped it over—real stitchers are at least as interested in the backs as the fronts. She made a critical face at the web of floss crisscrossing it. “Hmmm,” she said. She turned it right side up again and took it to the front window to see it in natural light. “I don't see any initials on it,” she said.

“I didn't see any either,” said Betsy, coming to stand beside her, “but it was found inside that pillow, which was on the old boat owned by your aunt, so I was just assuming she stitched it. Was she a stitcher?”

“Not really. She could knit, and she did beautiful crochet lace, but embroidery or cross-stitching wasn't her thing.”

“That might explain why the back of that map is so messy,” said Betsy.

“Oh, I don't know. I've seen worse, actually; even Mother isn't fussy about her backs—though she never did anything this messy. But whoever stitched this knew what she was doing; these aren't just random stitches. Look, feather stitch, stem stitch, satin stitch.”

“Yes, you're right. So okay, done by someone who knew what she was doing but was in a hurry. But why hide it? Was Edyth secretive? I mean, the sort to have buried something on the Big Island?”

“I…don't know.” Jan smiled. “She never said.” She looked at the map again. “But it really seems as if she's marked a specific place, and with a heart instead of an X. Isn't that odd?” Jan touched the spot on the map, which was draped over one hand. “What does it say?” she asked.

“Where her heart is, there's her treasure,” Betsy replied.

“That's intriguing.”

Betsy asked, “What did she love above everything else?”

Jan turned and looked at her. “I have no idea. It would have to be something small, wouldn't it? Something she could bury all by herself. And why bury something you love?”

“To keep it from being taken from her?”

Jan shook her head. “Aunt Edyth would never allow something she loved to be taken from her.”

Betsy said, “Well, then, something that had died?”

“No, Mother said she buried her dogs on her property—\and she didn't own any land on the Big Island. I wonder if Mother might know what this map is about. She spent all or part of just about every summer with Aunt Edyth until she went into high school, and until she married she was out there a lot. I'm sure they must have had some long talks.”

“I wonder, when was it buried? It might date to a time before Susan was even born. Or a time after she no longer spent summers out there. Or to a time before Edyth owned the boat. I mean, didn't you say that boat was an old one?”

“Gosh, yes. It dates to the early twenties. Great-grandfather bought it from a bankrupt man in the early thirties. When he died, the house became Aunt Edyth's, and the boat with it. I'm not sure when it quit being used. Some time in the fifties, I think, or sixties. So it could date to any date in that spread. And you have to consider that maybe someone else made that pillow and gave it as a gift.”

“Wait a minute. Did you look at the pillow before you brought it to me?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because there are forty-nine stars on the flag.”

“Oh, that's right, I'd forgotten about that!”

“And 1959 was the one and only year there were forty-nine states.”

“Oddly enough, I remember that. My father bought me a forty-nine star flag, and I foolishly threw it away when Hawaii became a state in 1960. So you're thinking this map was stitched around the same time as the flag was knit?”

“Maybe, though not necessarily. But the flag was not knit before the boat came into the Hanraty family.”

“Okay.”

“The question is, when was the map made—and why hide it inside the pillow?”

“Maybe so no one would find it?” queried Jan.

“If no one was to find it, why make it in the first place?”

“Maybe we're talking about two people here,” said Jan. “One person made the map and mislaid it. Then someone else picked it up and used it as a liner for the pillow, not realizing it was a treasure map.”

“Yes, that's possible. Any idea who either the stitcher or knitter might be?”

“No. I'll ask Mother. Of course, the really big question is, what's buried on the Big Island?”

“Are you going to go dig it up?” asked Betsy.

“Me? Why me?”

“Well, if not you, then the executrix of the estate. It's her responsibility to find all assets before making distribution of them.”

“So you think whatever is buried might be of real value?”

“I don't know. Obviously the person who buried it thought so. ‘Where your heart lies, there will your treasure be also.'”

“I'm going to go ask Mother about this. May I take it with me?”

“Of course. It's yours. Do you still want me to restore the flag pillow?”

“Don't do anything till you hear from me.”

“I think that's the name of an old song.”

“It is? And anyway, I'm wrong. There is something you can do: Talk to Lexie—Alexandra—Stewart and Terri's second oldest daughter. I asked her if she'd talk to you and she said she would.” Jan went into her purse with one hand. “Here—here's her phone number.” She handed a business card to Betsy. “I said you'd take her out to dinner. She weighs about ninety-three pounds and adores cheeseburgers, the witch.”

The business card had Terri's name and school phone number on it, with Lexie's name and phone number printed along one side. “All right, I'll call her right away. And wait, it's ‘Do Nothing Till You Hear from Me.' Duke Ellington wrote it. The song, I mean.”

Jan smiled. “You must be a whiz at Trivial Pursuit.” She folded the map in half. “Do you have something I could put this in?”

“Of course.” Betsy brought out one of the shop's paper bags, a flat affair with lavender flowers printed all over it.

“Thanks. I'll call you later if I learn anything.”

“Me, too.”

 

F
RED
Miller and Marjorie and Phil Benson were coming over this evening, and Susan was baking cookies. Summer was hardly the time for baking, but she was making just a small batch. The recipe was a bit complicated. She had begun yesterday with a sugar cookie recipe split into four equal parts. She had mixed instant Swiss mocha coffee into one, melted chocolate into two, and left the fourth one plain. They went into the refrigerator overnight. Today, she rolled the four doughs out long and thin, laid them one on top of the other, and sliced the resulting deck a quarter-inch thick. The cookies made like this were striped and very delicious. Her guests were coming to play cards, and she would serve the cookies with iced mint tea and lemonade.

She had just removed the second, last batch from the oven when the doorbell rang three times in fast rhythm: Jan's signal. She continued lifting the hot cookies from the sheet onto a wire cooling rack and, when the door opened, called, “In the kitchen, dear!”

Jan came up the half flight of stairs into the kitchen, sniffing and smiling. “Ribbon cookies!” she exclaimed.

“Don't touch,” said her mother. “They're for company tonight.”

“Awwww,” grumbled Jan, but pulled her reaching fingers back.

“What's in the bag?” her mother asked.

“Something I want to show you. Maybe you can tell me something about it.”

Jan went to the kitchen table and slid the folded cloth out. It was light tan, covered with colored stitching.

“What on earth—?” Susan asked, then stopped short. “Where—where did you get that?” and her own voice sounded like a stranger's to her ears.

Jan turned. “Mother, what's wrong? Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. I don't…know.”

Jan grabbed a chair and pushed her mother into it. “Sit down. Take a couple of deep breaths.” Susan felt a professional hand at her wrist.
She's taking my pulse
, Susan thought.
She thinks I'm having a heart attack. Maybe I am. I feel giddy, and I can't catch my breath.

Susan said, “Mother, look at me.” She did, looking into her daughter's frightened eyes. “Smile at me.”

“What?”

“Smile at me. Come on, think of something amusing, think of—of Jason's first wife cooking Thanksgiving dinner.”

The memory of that debacle brought the result Jan wanted, a smile. “That's good. Now, lift both arms over your head.”

Feeling a trifle foolish, Susan obeyed.

“Very good. Now, repeat after me: It's a sunny day today.”

Susan obediently repeated, “It's a sunny day today.”

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Good. Good.” Jan looked relieved.

“I'm not having a stroke!”

“Yes, I know that, now. So what did happen?”

“I don't know. I've been cleaning the house and baking cookies. Maybe it was a little too much for me.” But she couldn't help looking at the folded cloth on the table.

“That's what I came to show you,” said Jan, misinterpreting the look, going to pick it up. Or was she aware and only pretending to accept her mother's explanation for the fainting spell? “Remember that pillow CeeCee found on the boat at Aunt Edyth's?”

I threw it away, so why is it here?
“Yes,” said Susan, drawing the word out as if not sure of her memory.

“Sure you do. You took it away from her and put it in a garbage bag.”

“Oh, yes, I do remember.”

“Well, I took it out again.”

“Why?” Susan tried hard to make the inquiry casual.

“Because I could see that the front of it was handmade, knit in a flag pattern. I thought perhaps Aunt Edyth had done it, and I don't have any of her hand work, so I rescued it. I took it to Crewel World—Betsy does restoration work, did you know that?”

“Yes, of course; she does excellent finishing, too. I always have her finish my counted pieces.”

“Me, too. Anyway, I brought the pillow to her. It was so smelly and dirty—”

“I know, that's why I threw it away.
Generations
of mice! I was surprised I could actually take hold of it. Ewwww, if something had jumped out…I just
hate
mice! They're worse than spiders—I don't know why you're afraid of spiders. They're not dirty like mice.”

Susan was yearning to talk of something, anything, else, but Jan was determined to talk about the map. “Well, look what was inside it.”

“I don't want to get near it, and I wish you'd take it off my nice, clean table!”

“It's clean. Betsy froze it for a couple of days to kill any fleas and then washed it thoroughly. Did you make it?”

“Make it?”

“The pillow. And the map that was inside it.”