Thai Die (18 page)

Doris looked sideways at him. “Already?” she said.

“What do you mean, already?”

“I know that tone. It’s over, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Godwin asserted, but falsely and Doris looked slantwise at him, so he shrugged. “Oh, all right, maybe it is.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask that kind of question. Because you know how it is. You’re sitting across the breakfast table one morning and you realize you can’t stand the way he butters his toast. It’s not personal—well, it
is
personal, but there’s no
reason
for it. Yesterday you loved his eyelashes, today the shape of his earlobes bothers you.” He sighed. “I guess I’m just not meant to find someone I can love forever.”

“No, I guess you aren’t,” said Doris, solemnly. So solemnly he began to smile.

“Hush, you,” he said.

Hearing a cozy silence, Betsy came back to find the two looking at Godwin’s latest version of a white cotton sock—he was always knitting white cotton socks, claiming the dye in commercial socks made his feet break out. Like Betsy, he never went anywhere without a stitching project. His “man bag” was on the table and from it trailed the white yarn. The sock was a pattern of his own invention, a white-on-white argyle, the pattern discerned by subtle variations in the shades of white and the use of stitch changes to outline the diamonds.

He looked up at Betsy and said, “Are you going to let Doris stay with you for a while?”

“She can stay as long as she needs to, as long as she wants to, for that matter. I’m going to redecorate her apartment so thoroughly she won’t even recognize it.”

“But that will take a while,” Doris said. “Meanwhile, I’m in the way. You use that spare bedroom for an office. Anyway, you haven’t had a roommate for years—neither have I, for that matter—and while we can get along for a few nights, I’d better find a temporary apartment really soon.”

Godwin said, “Maybe after a couple of nights away, you’ll be ready to go back to your old place.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll never go back, never.”

Another customer came in. Her name was Gwen, and she was an immigrant from Liberia. She had discovered counted cross-stitch in America and was here to select the new floss she needed to work Stephanie Seabrook Hedgepath’s beautiful Mabry Mill counted cross-stitch pattern. Its depiction of a water wheel on the side of a gray-weathered mill with rhododendrons in bloom was “so very American,” she said. “I will send it to my aunt in Katata.”

Betsy took her to the back portion of the shop where the counted cross-stitch materials were displayed.

After a few minutes back there, she heard the door again sound its two-note alarm. This was followed by squeals of joy. Betsy looked out between the stacks of box shelves to see Doris embracing a slim, attractive blonde while Godwin stood by beaming.

“Carmen!” cried Doris.

“Doris!” cooed Carmen. “We’re just back from New Mexico, or I would have been here sooner.” She was pulling off her gloves, which covered beautiful, slim fingers. Even from the back of the shop, Betsy could see the diamonds glittering on several of her fingers.

“Now, you must tell me yourself about this dreadful mess you got involved in,” she heard Carmen say to Doris. “I’ve been hearing all sorts of stories, and I’m sure half of them aren’t true.”

A few minutes later, Betsy added up Gwen’s purchases, walked her to the door, then turned to the three people seated at the library table. Where there had been joyous greetings, there was now sorrow and worry.

“Betsy, this is Carmen Diamond,” said Doris. “She’s the one who was supposed to go to Thailand with me.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” said Betsy, coming to the table. “Diamond, what an appropriate name,” she added, noting there were diamonds in the woman’s ears as well as on her fingers.

Carmen laughed complacently. “I’m so glad I didn’t marry a man named Potts.”

Betsy declared, “My next husband is going to be named Mr. Sapphire.”

Godwin laughed, then put on a serious face. “I told Carmen you’re just like Patricia Wentworth’s Maud Silver.” He offered his most guileless smile. “Only not
quite
as old.”

“Goddy!” said Doris with a smile, but Carmen looked shocked.

“It’s all right, you get used to him or you learn to ignore him, one or the other,” said Betsy.

“Seriously, Betsy,” said Carmen, “what we would like for you to do is find out what all this mess is about.”

“I’m already working on it,” said Betsy.

“Well, that’s wonderful! What have you found out so far?”

Betsy sat down. “It’s all sad news, unfortunately.”

“You mean you haven’t found out anything important?” Godwin said, surprised.

“No, I’ve found out things, and I think some of them are important, but all it’s doing is making the mystery uglier, without showing me any solution.”

“Like what?” asked Godwin. “What bad things?”

“For one, the owner of the antiques shop, Fitzwilliam, apparently has been involved in the sale of smuggled antiquities for several years. His son discovered this when he was going over the books, after closing the shop.”

“That
is
sad,” said Doris. “But not really a surprise, right?”

“I suppose not.”

“What else?” asked Carmen.

“Lena Olson has committed suicide.”

“Doris was telling me,” said Godwin, “and it’s awful news. But what does she have to do with this mess?”

“I hadn’t finished!” said Doris. “Lena Olson and Wendy Applegate went to Thailand with Carmen here, where they met David Corvis. Lena, Wendy, and David took a trip up to Chiang Mai in the north of Thailand. Then Wendy and Lena started an import business when they got back home, and now both of them are dead.

“I go off to Thailand and meet David Corvis and next thing I know, I’m bringing something back with me hidden in a suitcase. What’s more, the day I deliver it to Fitzwilliam’s Antiques, who is sitting out in front waiting for me to leave? Wendy Applegate.”

Doris turned to Carmen. “I never met Wendy, so I didn’t recognize her climbing down from her Hummer outside Fitzwilliam’s Antiques. But she was the same woman who attacked Phil and me in St. Peter. That’s how I discovered who she was—when the police identified her.”

Carmen said, “Was there another person with Wendy in St. Paul? A short woman, with curly red hair?”

“No,” said Doris. “Or at least I didn’t see anyone with her.”

“But hold everything,” said Godwin. “Are we saying
our
Lena Olson was involved in a
smuggling ring
? And
committed suicide
? I don’t believe it! Why, she was here on Saturday, to pick up that Japanese moon goddess canvas! No one as happy as she was on Saturday commits suicide three days later!”

Carmen said, “I talked to her on Sunday. She told me about that moon-goddess thing that she had started to work on it. She said it was going to take her at least a year to finish. But she was thrilled to pieces about it, she said it was something her great-great-grandchildren would cherish.”

“See?” said Godwin. “
Not
suicidal.”

Doris said, “I told Betsy that if the police came by to ask questions after Wendy was killed, she might have panicked.”

“What do you think?” Betsy asked Carmen. “Oscar Fitzwilliam was murdered, you know. Mike Malloy told me that the gun Wendy was carrying was the gun that killed him. That might make Lena an accessory. Was she the kind of person who might panic if she thought she was going to be arrested for murder as well as smuggling?”

Carmen thought for a moment. “I don’t know.” She paused again then said, “She was a happy sort of person, all bouncy—like Tigger, you know? Her son actually bought her a Tigger T-shirt for Christmas a few years ago. Which she wore only once, because it was too big and she liked to show off her figure. The way she’d flirt and tell naughty jokes would embarrass poor Burke—he’s just fifteen—to death. But she had a serious side; she had a fine arts degree from Northwestern, and she liked artsy things—she was a member of the Walker Museum and the art institute and she always bought season tickets to the Guthrie. She was the hardest worker, worked even harder than Wendy. Well, no, that isn’t true. Where Wendy would get quiet and determined, Lena would get loud and cheerful and pushy. Maybe that was because she wasn’t very tall; you know, short people need to speak up to get noticed. She loved life, she did everything full bore, whether it was selling a house, traveling to Thailand, cooking a Thanksgiving dinner, even doing those canvas paintings, needlepoint. The harder it was to do, the better she liked it.” Carmen’s voice faltered; she was near tears. “No, no, you see? I don’t believe it! I can’t believe she saw any problem as so big she had to run away from it!”

Betsy shared a look with Godwin. “Maybe she didn’t.”

Godwin nodded. “I bet you’re right.”

Doris cried, “Oh, please no! Not another murder!”

Carmen stared at Betsy. “Oh. Oh, well, yes, if there are only those two choices.” She put an arm around Doris. “Now, darling, it’s got to be. I knew Lena, and I know she wouldn’t take that way out, no matter how hard things got for her.”

But Doris said, “Only think about it. How she died. You don’t kill someone by putting her into her own car in her own garage and starting the engine. Not without tying her up—and that would leave marks, wouldn’t it? You’d have to sit there with her, pointing a gun at her. And then you’d die, too.”

But Godwin was reaching for the cordless phone in the middle of the table, punching numbers into it. He handed it to Betsy. “Tell Mike,” he said.

Fourteen

AFTER Betsy finished talking with Mike, who promised toto share with her the results of the police report on Lena’s death, Carmen said, “If we’re right, this is very scary. First the antiques store owner, then Wendy, now Lena.”

“No,” said Betsy, glancing at Doris. “Wendy was an accident. Until this business with Lena, I had been thinking Wendy murdered Mr. Fitzwilliam. If it turns out that Lena did commit suicide, then I’ll still think that.” She turned to Doris. “And that would mean you’re still safe.”

Godwin said, “What about the silk?”

“What about it?” asked Betsy.

Doris said, “I was telling Carmen that the statue I brought back was wrapped in an old piece of embroidered silk. It was filthy and raggedy, so I threw it in the wastebasket, but you pulled it out again. And I explained that you were thinking that was the ‘Thai silk’ Wendy came after me for.”

Betsy said, “Yes, well, you said Wendy was demanding the Thai silk and while that piece is silk, I don’t believe it’s Thai.”

“Ohhhhhhh,” groaned Doris.

“But Doris brought it from Thailand!” Godwin said.

“Yes, so maybe it is what Wendy was after. On the other hand, the design isn’t at all like the patterns in the silk Doris brought back. Or like any other Asian patterns I’ve seen. It looks kind of like . . . well, I had been thinking it looked like a riff on Celtic, but now I think it looks sort of Scythian.”

“
Scythian?
” said Carmen.

“Last time I went to the dentist, I read an article in an old
National Geographic
magazine about an excavation at a burial mound in Siberia of some ancient people called Scythians. And there was a golden reindeer that kind of makes me think of the embroidery on the silk that was wrapped around the statute that Doris brought home.”

“Celtic or Scythian—that’s a weird pair of choices,” said Carmen.

“No, it’s well beyond weird,” said Godwin.

“Like I said, the design is not really
like
anything I’ve ever seen. I think whoever stitched it was familiar with many different styles of needlework. I’m going to try to get an appointment with someone at the art institute who maybe can identify it, and tell me if it’s worth my while to try to repair it.”

Godwin said, “But if that old rag Doris threw away is what Wendy was after, that must mean it’s not just an old rag but something much more important.”

“Yes,” said Doris slowly. “But if it’s important, why was it treated like a rag? And why did it look like a rag? Shouldn’t it have at least been washed? I guess I don’t understand this at all.”

Betsy sighed. “Welcome to the club. Carmen, you knew Wendy, didn’t you?”

“Yes, though apparently not as well as I thought.”

“What was your impression of her?”

Carmen thought briefly. “She was driven. Everything she did, she put all her effort into it. Marriage, children, career, even vacation—she got more out of that trip to Thailand than Lena and I put together.”

Doris made an odd sound in her throat, and Betsy saw her sit back in her chair, as if she were trying to put some distance between herself and Carmen. Then she saw Betsy looking at her. “It feels weird to hear you talk about Wendy,” she explained. She rubbed her upper arms with her hands as if to wipe away the tactile memories of that nighttime struggle.