Sins and Needles (8 page)

Everyone's hands got busy. Godwin, of course, was fastest, and as soon as he was done, he went around the table to make sure all of his students were on the right part of their segmented socks and had slipped the first stitch. Doris, despite her big, clumsy-looking hands and lack of experience, was nevertheless doing well with her lavender sock. Lucille, narrowing her blue eyes in concentration, was making good progress on her white-flecked blue sock. Jan, squinting identically, was swiftly purling on her red sock. Phil, lips pursed, was stoically progressing along the green row. Katie, still unhappy, was making sharp movements with her needles on her pink sock.

“Well done,” Godwin said when they were all finished, returning to his seat and picking up his own sock again. “Now, slip the first stitch of the next row, and knit to the end. When you're halfway across, put one of these on the needle.” He pointed to a little pottery bowl that held a dozen tiny plastic circles, each one jointed so it could be opened and closed. “Just slide it on the needle and keep going. It'll mark a place so you can find it later.”

They did the slip-stitch thing for twenty-nine rows—thirty-three for Phil—and then Godwin said, “Okay, here comes the tricky part. Everyone just finished a purl row, right?”

They all nodded, except Doris. “No, I've just finished a knit row.” She smiled and blushed. “But my feet are kind of big from all those years of standing at the factory, so an extra row or two couldn't hurt.”

“Your feet are just the right size for you,” Phil said, managing to keep his voice down, and Doris, despite a blush, pretended she was concentrating too hard to hear him.

The rest of the class exchanged secret smiles as they waited for her to complete another row.

“Now,” said Godwin, when she had finished, “for this row, slip one, knit sixteen—eighteen, Phil—then we do what the instructions say is ‘SSK.' Slip two stitches, then put the
left
needle into the front of these two stitches and knit them together.” He went around the table with his own sock, SSK-ing for those who didn't understand, un-knitting it between students. Back in his own seat, he said, “Knit one, and turn the knitting around.”

“But I'm not at the end of the row,” said Doris.

“I know, it's all right.”

“Okay,” said Doris doubtfully. She obediently turned her knitting.

“Now, slip one, purl three, and purl the next two stitches together, purl one, and turn.”

Phil, his tongue just showing in one corner of his mouth, gamely followed instructions. Then he grinned encouragingly at Doris, who was groaning softly.

“Slip one, purl three, purl two together, purl one, turn.”

Row by row they worked, until the fourteenth one. “Slip one, purl fifteen, purl two together, purl one, turn,” intoned Godwin, his fingers flashing as he followed his instructions.

“Well, I'll be dipped in glitter,” said Doris as she stared down at her sock. “Look, it made kind of a pocket!” She held it up. “Isn't that cute?”

Godwin said, “Very well done! Phil, you have to do two more rows—”

Phil said, “I bet I knit sixteen on the next row, and purl seventeen on the last.”

Godwin chuckled. “Very good! It's always nice to find a student who can extend—” He turned and looked at Betsy. “Extend? Is that the right word?”

“Extrapolate,” said Betsy without looking up. “But ‘extend' works, too.”

“Extrapolate a concept,” he said to Phil, then looked around the table. “You should all have twenty stitches on the heel needle.” He waited a bit anxiously while they counted, but each of his students nodded.

Phil, after all this practice, going much faster than at the start, gave a great gasp of triumph and said, “Hah, done!”

“Great! And we're done for this class, which was the difficult one—the hardest part of knitting a sock.” He checked his watch. “
And
in less than the hour allotted, so you are really doing well! Those of you who understand picking up stitches can follow the instructions and continue down the instep. The rest of you can wait until the next class, our last one, to tackle that. But—” He lifted a slim forefinger. “All of you, every single one, can now turn a heel. This is not a common accomplishment. Congratulations.”

As she did after the previous class, Katie signaled Jan to stay behind. Then she turned to Betsy. “Is what Godwin said true? That you helped him when he was accused of murder?”

“Yes,” said Betsy, nodding.

“Can you help my aunt?”

“We don't know that I'll need her help,” objected Jan, but not too strongly.

“
You
told me,” said Katie, slowly emphasizing her words by thrusting a forefinger at her cousin, “that
your
mother told the police investigator that
my father
had no motive, and the policeman told
her
he didn't think
she
did it. And that therefore
you
were the most logical suspect, because you are an heiress under Great-aunt Edyth's will.”

“Strewth! Is that true?” asked Godwin.

“Well…yes,” admitted Jan. “But I didn't murder her. She was ninety-seven, for God's sake! I wasn't in any hurry for her money. Don't you think I should trust the police to find that out?”

“No,” said Betsy and Godwin together. They looked at one another and smiled.

“Well…” hedged Jan. “Do you charge a lot for your services?”

“No, I don't charge anything.”

“Jan, I thought you were an heiress,” said Godwin.

“I am, but so what? That's not why I'm asking, all right?”

“All right,” said Godwin with a shrug, trying not to intercept the quelling look Betsy was sending him.

Katie said, “Does the person have to be arrested before you'll help her?”

“It's been a him, often as not,” Godwin pointed out.

“No,” said Betsy, giving Godwin another look. “You said the police haven't talked to you yet.”

“Yes, that's right,” said Jan.

“Well, then, maybe you are worried over nothing. If they talk to you and you realize you really are a suspect, call me. I'd love to help if I can—but remember, I'm an amateur.”

“Yeah, but an amateur with a terrific track record,” said Godwin.

“All right. Thanks.”

After Jan and Katie left, Godwin said, “Well, what do you think?”

“I don't know what to think. You look about to explode with an idea. What is it?”

“I was thinking she may be in the exact position I was—looking guilty because of a will made by a not-nice person. I bet when the answer's known, it won't be about the will at all.”

J
AN
was in the kitchen fixing Ronnie's bag lunch, putting an extra-thick slather of the honey mustard he loved on his ham sandwich. She gave him two trail mix bars so he could have a midmorning snack—sixteen-year-old boys are all appetite—and meanwhile watching
The Morning Show
, where a political figure she had never heard of was being interviewed. His tone was reasonable, and he was very articulate, but his opinions on health care had her pink with indignation. She reached to shut off the television just as the phone rang.

“Hello!” she said more brusquely than she meant to. “I mean, hello?”

“Mrs. Henderson?” asked a deep male voice she didn't recognize.

“Yes?”

“This is Sergeant Mitchell Rice, Orono Police. I was wondering if I might talk with you some time today.”

Her fingertips tingled with alarm. She said, “I don't think I can. I have to work. We have a very crowded schedule today, and I'm head nurse at my husband's clinic. There seem to be a lot of allergies showing up this time of year.” She realized she was nattering and bit her tongue to stop it.

“It will only take a few minutes,” he persisted.

“Can you hang on a minute?”

“Certainly.”

She put the receiver on the table and went to find her husband, who was lathering up to shave. “Hugs, there's a policeman on the phone.”

“What does he want?” Harvey—he hated that name, hence his acceptance of the marginally less offensive nickname—put down his razor and looked at her with steady, hazel green eyes.

“To talk to me.”

“About what?”

“He didn't say, but his name is Sergeant Rice, and that's the name of the man who talked to Mother about Aunt Edyth.”

“Well, then of course you have to talk to him. Are you afraid of what he might ask?”

“No, of what I might say. You know me, when I'm nervous I just can't stop talking.”

“And you're afraid you might say…what?”

“I don't know.” She smiled suddenly, realizing that she couldn't think what she might say that could harm her. “Never mind, I'm worried about nothing. And who knows? I may be able to say something useful.”

“Want me to come along?”

She recalled the full schedule waiting at the clinic and said, “No, and I don't want him to come to the clinic and disrupt things. I'll ask him to come here.”

“All right. But if you're at all nervous, maybe we should get our attorney to sit with you.”

“Well…no, because then he'll think I'm guilty.”

“You sure?”

She hesitated, then said firmly, “Yes.” After all, he was Lizzy Rice's husband. And Mother had said he was nice.

“All right. But make sure Ronnie isn't here when he comes. He can be a terrible wise ass.”

“Ronnie's going fishing after his summer classes. He won't be home till dark.”

“Fine. Call me as soon as he's finished with you.”

She went back to the phone to negotiate a time for the sergeant to come over. He wanted to come over now; she wanted him to come over at four, near the end of the workday. They settled on one thirty.

Jan went back to the bathroom to tell Hugs she'd work till noon and might or might not come back after the interview, depending on how tough he was. “Of course, I might call you from jail,” she joked.

“That's not funny,” he said, and his eyes were so worried she went to him for one of the hugs he was famous for, and got shaving cream in her hair.

 

B
ETSY
had barely more than unlocked the door when a customer came in. He was a burly man with dark hair and a thick neck cruelly restrained by a white shirt and dark red necktie. He looked around like someone who'd seen this sort of place before, but not with a stitcher's real interest. Betsy pegged him as the husband or father of a stitcher.

“Do you have zero or double-zero knitting needles?” he asked. “Steel ones?”

“Yes, sir, I do. They're right over here.” She led him to a spinner rack of knitting needles. He glanced at the rack and chose a flat packet of four Skacels. Then he pulled out a piece of paper and seemed to be comparing it with the needles in the plastic pack. Thanks to LASIK, Betsy had a good pair of eyes, so she drifted a little closer and looked around his elbow. What she glimpsed was a black-and-white picture of part of a needle with a short ruler beside it.

The man must have sensed her near him; he turned abruptly and caught her peeping. But he only smiled and folded the paper. “I'll take this, please,” he said, handing her the packet, and followed her to the checkout desk.

She punched code numbers into her computer and, screwing up her courage, asked, “Are you from the Orono Police Department?”

His eyebrows climbed his forehead in surprise. “What makes you ask that?”

“A customer of mine is taking a knitting class and she told us that the police suspect her aunt was murdered in Orono. She described the murder weapon as a pin or nail and she touched herself here”—Betsy touched the nape of her neck—“as the place the weapon was used.”

The man looked thoughtful. “Huh, your customer did that?” he asked.

Betsy nodded. “Now you come in and somehow I don't think you do needlework, and you have a sheet of paper with a printout or photocopy of a steel knitting needle on it and you buy a set of steel double-zero knitting needles.”

“Maybe my wife sent me for the needles.”

“She'd've written a note saying she wanted Skacel double zeroes, not sent you with a picture that could be any brand and any size from one to triple zero.”

The man smiled suddenly. “I bet you're Betsy Devonshire.”

“You win. But how do you know?”

“My wife comes in here a lot. Liz Rice? Plus, there's a cop here in town who complains about this amateur crime-solver.”

“Oh, my gosh! You're Lizzy Rice's husband? Well, isn't that nice!” Betsy put out her hand. “How nice to meet you!”

He took the hand in a warm, slightly-too-firm grip. “Nice to meetcha,” he said. “Was this customer Susan McConnell, by any chance?”

“No, her daughter, Jan Henderson. Have you talked to her yet?”

“No. So she's a knitter, is she?”

“Yes, among other things. Most people who stitch do more than one kind. But you know that; Lizzy knits, does counted cross-stitch, free embroidery, and needlepoint. She's thinking about tatting or needle lace, but she's waiting for a good class on it.”

His eyes twinkled. “Yes, I know.” He paid for the needles, tucked the receipt into his wallet, and left.

 

R
ICE
pulled into the driveway of Jan Henderson's home just as the minute hand arrived on the half hour. He'd just had lunch with Sergeant Malloy of Excelsior PD, whose opinion toward Ms. Devonshire seemed to have mellowed a bit over the past year. He had recommended that Rice pay attention to her conclusions but not even think about her methods. “She's one of those one-of-a-kind people, y'know?”

“Yeah, there's one of them in every crowd.”

“You said it,” Malloy had said fervently—then saw how he'd been suckered and laughed.

Rice shut off his engine and climbed slowly out of his car. The Henderson house was nice-size, not new, a Cape Cod or saltbox, he couldn't remember which label to apply; white clapboard with black shutters, two stories. Well maintained. Fireplace chimney up one side. Maybe three blocks from the lake. He paused to inhale the sweet, warm air. June in Minnesota made a lot of people forgive Minnesota's version of March.

As he walked up to the little porch that marked the front door, he saw a woman standing in a window, watching for him through lace curtains. He lifted a hand in greeting, and she twitched the curtain shut. A moment later, the front door opened.

She was dressed in medical-clinic scrubs, baby blue with cartoon songbirds printed all over them. He recalled that her husband was a pediatrician. “Ms. Henderson, I am grateful you took time off work to see me,” he said.

“No problem. Come on in.”

He stepped into a living room cooled by air conditioning, made to seem even cooler by the use of pale green as the main decorating colors—the same color her mother used—interesting. There was even framed needlework on the walls, like at her mother's house. On the couch sat an amazing purple needlepoint pillow. It had silver threads, fancy stitches, and big tassels.

She saw him looking at it and said, “Your wife saw me at a local needlework shop having a fight with it and taught me how to do the interlocking wheat stitch.”

He smiled. “I keep running into people who know my wife,” he said. “The common denominator seems to be Crewel World.”

“It's a wonderful shop,” said Jan. “Just about everyone who stitches in the area goes there. Won't you sit down?”

“Thank you.” He took an armless upholstered chair and got out his pen and tiny notebook. Jan sat on the couch. She picked up the pillow and held it on her lap with both forearms, as if it were a pet and could comfort her. Or a shield that would protect her.

He began by gathering basic information, some of which he already had—but asking again helped establish whether people were being truthful or not. Her answers checked out, and she seemed only about as nervous as anyone would be in her situation. As she spoke of the murder victim, something in her tone made him go deeper into that subject.

“Tell me about her,” he said.

“I loved Aunt Edyth, even though she was cranky and peculiar.”

He smiled. “If she was cranky and peculiar, why did you love her?”

“She wasn't like a lot of people today, all full of contradictions. There was something about her that was…all in one. She said what she thought, and, much as I disagreed with her on some things, she was consistent. All of a piece, the expression is. And never dishonest.”

“You mean she never told a lie?” He let a little doubt show in his voice.

“It wasn't like that; I'm sure she told fibs, maybe even a whopper or two. It was more that she paid her debts in full and never broke her word. She was rigid, but in the really floppy world we live in today, that was kind of refreshing.”

He nodded, making a note. “I agree, very refreshing. Was she religious?”

“Yes, church every Sunday, rain or shine.” Jan thought a bit, then said, “Believe it or not, she was very kind—at least she was kind to me, always. She listened to me, even when I was just a kid, which is an enormous favor, you know. She was fair with her employees, who were loyal to her. She expected them to do their work, but she was good to them. And she had a great sense of humor. She was fearless and didn't care what people thought of her. She used to ride a motorcycle back when that was considered not just dangerous but unladylike. And she rode that stinky old machine well into her sixties. Never had an accident, either.”

“Interesting,” he said, amused at the thought of a skinny old woman tearing up the asphalt on a Harley.

“Back when she was still driving, she always drove too fast, but I was never scared, because she was so good. She had a speedboat, too. It was her father's, one of those old wooden ones, but it could go really fast. I never got to ride in it, never even saw it, but Mother told me about how she would take her and sometimes her brother all over the lake. And she would give Mother rides on her motorbike, too, until Grandmother put a stop to it. Said Aunt Edyth would break her neck on that old thing one of these days and didn't want her to take someone else with her.” Jan smiled. “She didn't take Mother anymore, but she continued to ride herself. She was not one of those helpless-female types at all.”

“Do you know why she never married?”

“Hah, she never even had a boyfriend. She had some kind of twitch about men, though I don't think she was a lesbian.” Jan paused. “I tried talking to her about it from time to time, but she'd just say there was nothing anyone had ever shown her about the male sex that could hold her interest for more than three seconds. They were ‘untrustworthy scoundrels' in her book and ‘not worth the powder it would take to blow the lot of 'em to hell.' Those were her exact words.” Jan was smiling more broadly now. “And she wasn't easily moved to profanity. So, see? Opinionated and not to be moved, in a world full of people scared to death of being called judgmental.”

Rice made a brief note:
Liked Edyth Hanraty.
“And her will reflected that judgment,” he said.

Jan hesitated. “Yes. I used to be really upset about that. She never made any secret of it, and I think every member of the family tried to talk her out of it, but she had made up her mind long ago. Then one day I thought, well, it's her money, she can do whatever she likes with it. I mean, if it was my money and someone kept bothering me to leave it to an organization dedicated to—oh, I don't know—taking away the right of women to vote, I'd stand as firm as Aunt Edyth in refusing to change my mind.”