The Drowning Spool (A Needlecraft Mystery) (10 page)

Vivian punched three times, then turned her lap stand over to look at the result. “How sweet!” she exclaimed. “Just like I remember!” She punched a few more times, then lifted the needle to pull the end free. “Thank you, Betsy!”

She handed her work around to show the others the result she’d achieved, and two other women decided they wanted speckled eggs, too. “I’d like to make my blue egg speckled,” said one. “But I’ve already got a pink stripe on it.”

“Find the end of the floss on the stripe and pull gently,” said Betsy. “It will come out and you can repunch it.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, start over!” came a familiar cry. Wilma rushed in. She was wearing an ill-fitting orange dress and a green cardigan.

“Hi, Wilma, come sit down,” said Betsy. “I have something to show you.”

“Really?” said Wilma eagerly, hurrying to sit at the table. “What is it?”

Betsy reopened her attaché case and got out the Psyche pattern she’d found in her shop, which was printed on sheets of copy paper and came in a Ziploc bag. On top was a color photograph of a finished model. She handed it to Wilma, who looked at the picture of the beautiful woman with her pink gown falling off one shoulder, her auburn hair pulled into a careless fat knot at the nape of her neck.

“I stitched this pattern a long time ago,” Wilma said with a shrug. She looked at it again, more thoughtfully. “It’s making me think of something. My husband had auburn hair, maybe that’s what it is. But it turned all gray and then he died.” She looked around at Thistle, standing behind her. “His hair wasn’t as bright as yours, but he went through the door and died.” She turned back to face Betsy. “Did your husband go through a door and die?”

“No,” said Betsy. “He’s still alive. But I did divorce him.”

Wilma winked at Betsy. “Tossed him out the door, eh? Good for you!” She looked down at the pattern. “Out the door, out the door,” she chanted, and tossed the pattern back at Betsy, who took it and opened her case to put it in. But Wilma shouted, “Did I say you should put it away? Give it back, it’s mine!”

Betsy complied, and Wilma ripped open the plastic bag and strewed the multiple sheets of the pattern across the table. “Unlock the door!” she said loudly. Some of the sheets slid across the table to fall on the floor. Wilma stared at the result. “Oops, sorry! I’m sorry! So sorry!” She began to cry, softly at first, then louder and louder, until she seemed almost hysterical.

Thistle stepped forward to put her hands on Wilma’s shoulders, but Wilma shrugged them off angrily and choked back her tears to growl, “Don’t touch me! This is between Betsy and me!” She looked at Betsy and said in a small, pleading voice, “Will you take me out of here?”

Thistle said at once, “Her room’s 412, fourth floor, go left off the elevator.”

Wilma said in a dignified voice, “Come with me, Betsy.”

Betsy looked at the other women. “I think you all did a splendid job. I’ll be glad to bring a catalog of more punch needle patterns, if you like.”

Thistle said to Betsy, “I’ll write down the patterns they choose from what you brought, and we can settle up later.”

“Come on, come on!” said Wilma, starting for the door, one hand reaching out behind her. Her tone had turned cheerful and there was a mischievous smile on her face, though her cheeks were still wet with tears.

Outside the library, Betsy asked, “Which way to the elevator?”

“Did I say I wanted to go to my room? Ha!” She started walking swiftly down the corridor, the skirt of her orange dress fluttering around her thin legs. She wore old-fashioned red sneakers.

Betsy hurried after her. “Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something!” said Wilma.

“But my coat and purse are back in the library,” said Betsy.

Wilma laughed loudly. “Follow me, follow me!” She hurried ahead and ducked through a door.

Betsy slowed down. Had she gone into someone’s room? What if she frightened someone, raising a fuss and refusing to come out? But as Betsy got closer to the door, she saw the glowing red
EXIT
sign over it. She pushed it open and found herself in a stairwell, all concrete. She could hear the soft pattering of rubber-shod feet going down and followed as quickly as she could. She should not have agreed to bring Wilma to her room, but now that she’d done so, she was even more anxious not to lose her.

Wilma exited the stairwell on the first floor and fled across the lobby to the broad stairs down to the therapy-pool level. When Betsy followed, she could just see the top of Wilma’s white hair as she made her way down the steps. “Ha ha ha!” Wilma crowed, the sound floating up the stairs.

Betsy glanced at the woman behind the desk near the entrance, who rolled her eyes and shrugged elaborately. Apparently this sort of behavior was familiar to her.

At the bottom of the stairs, Betsy saw the elevator doors just closing and threw up her hands in aggravation. But then she saw someone with white hair just inside the exercise room, and quickly went to peer through the glass. There were three women and two men in there, using the treadmills and bicycles. And Wilma was already halfway across the floor, heading toward the pool room.

Betsy followed quickly. Through the glass insert she saw a man and a woman floating on their backs in the pool while Pam and Jaydie were pulling and lifting their arms.

As Betsy opened the door, she was met with a wet blanket of hot, moist air. Down the pool’s apron Wilma hustled, her old woman’s voice wafting behind her. “Ha ha ha!” She turned into the entrance to the men’s locker room.

“Hey, Wilma, wrong door!” Betsy called.

“Whoa, Mrs. Carter, watch where you’re going!” shouted Pam from the pool, and the two floating seniors tried to lift their heads to watch.

“I’ll get her,” Betsy said, and hustled across the tiled floor, hesitating only a moment before opening the door.

The men’s locker room, a mirror image of the women’s, was empty except for Wilma at the far end, where the lockers were. She turned to look at Betsy. “Well, come on, come on!” she said cheerfully.

“I’d prefer it if
you’d
come on,” retorted Betsy. “I’m supposed to accompany you to your room, not play ‘catch me if you can.’”

“Catch me if you can, catch me if you can!” Wilma laughed and went through another door, this one very plain with a small sign on it that read
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
.

Betsy waited, but Wilma did not come out again. After a few moments, Betsy went to the door and knocked on it. “Wilma, come out of there!”

No reply.

This was getting ridiculous. Betsy sighed and opened the door.

But no one was in there.

It was a closet, full of mops and buckets and brooms and other paraphernalia of the maintenance trade. Shelves held cleaning fluids and powders, rags and towels. A thin chain hung down from the ceiling, and when Betsy pulled it, a low-watt ceiling light came on.

By its light Betsy could see yet another door near the far end, closed. On it was a sign reading
HAZARDOUS MATERIALS—CHLORINE
, and under it, again,
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
.

Well, she reasoned, since Wilma had not come out and was not here, obviously she had gone through that door despite the warnings.

Betsy reluctantly opened it. She found herself on the verge of a big, deep space, a machine room, brightly lit. There was a soft sound of machinery—a smooth-running electric pump, perhaps—and a faint gurgle-rush of water through pipes. Betsy was at the top of a set of metal steps overlooking the room below. It had a concrete-block wall on one side, but the other walls were built of ancient brick and stone. Two big white tanks stood near the far wall, shorter than the propane tanks often seen outside farmhouses, but fatter. Pipes of different diameters led into and out of the tanks, into and out of the concrete blocks, and into and out of a blue cylinder about nine inches in diameter attached to the far wall. Several gauges on the wall wiggled their needles. Clearly all this machinery had to do with filtering, treating, and circulating water in the pool, which must be on the other side of the concrete-block wall.

Near the tanks, an old wooden desk looked as if it were a relic from the old mill era. File folders were stacked on it, and next to it stood a set of metal shelves crowded with big three-ring binders and fat instruction manuals.

In the right-hand wall was an immense pair of ancient wooden doors that filled an opening big enough to drive a team of horses through. But thick wooden beams bound with heavy metal bands fastened them permanently closed.

Wilma was standing beside the pair of doors. “I told you there was a door,” she said proudly.

Before Betsy could point out that the doors were blocked, Wilma put her hand on a smaller door set into the nearer of the big ones. It had a high sill, and a thick timber ran across the upper portion of it. An ancient padlock on a heavy metal latch was further proof against its opening.

There was a doorknob of some dark metal below the padlock, and Wilma grasped it with both hands, pressing and moving it in a small circular motion, as if it were a crank. After a few tries, the door opened. Betsy, astonished, saw that it led outside.

“Ha ha ha!” said Wilma as she stepped over the high sill, ducked under the timber, and went out into the cold.

B
ETSY
stumbled down the steps, which seemed steeper than normal, or perhaps she was just alarmed, even panicky. She had to get Wilma back inside!

Wilma had slammed the door shut and Betsy twisted the knob frantically without getting it to turn. She took a quick, calming breath and pressed inward, then up, around, and down, trying to imitate what Wilma had done, but with no result. She tried again, pressing harder, and the knob turned in her hands and the door opened. She had to duck her head and lift her feet high to get through the opening. It was shockingly cold out there, and goose bumps were raised on her bare arms.

She found herself in the narrow alley between Watered Silk and the gray brick commercial building next door. She looked in both directions without seeing anyone. Deep, frozen ruts scattered with dead cigarette butts made it clear the alley was in use, but there were no vehicles present, either.

Hoping there was still a crumb of sense in Wilma’s head, Betsy turned right, toward the front of Watered Silk. In as much of a hurry as she could manage, she slithered and slipped up the alley to the street, where she saw Wilma standing bewildered near the curb. Betsy hurried to her.

“Oh, hello,” said Wilma, taking her by the arms, but showing no sign of recognition. “I’m so, so very cold! Can you take me to my r-room?”

“Yes, of course. Come on, let’s get back inside. How ever did you find out about that door?”

“Psyche enters Cupid’s garden through a door,” said Wilma. She appeared to be guessing what Betsy’s question meant. Her teeth were chattering.

“Who is Psyche?” asked Betsy, forgetting her own chill and putting her arms around the trembling woman as she walked her toward the portico over the entrance. A stiff breeze plucked at their clothing.

“She was a beautiful Greek woman. The goddess Aphrodite was jealous and then angry that her son Eros fell in love with her. Aphrodite gave her impossible tasks, but she succeeded in performing every one of them.” Wilma’s bright tone reminded Betsy of a teacher trying to engage the interest of a dull pupil. “Psyche is often depicted with butterfly wings, which is a lovely image, isn’t it?” Wilma began to cry. “So beautiful, so beautiful.”

“There, there, it’s going to be all right, you’re going to be fine,” soothed Betsy, tightening her embrace. Wilma’s frame was thin and her face was pale. Betsy ran her hand up and down Wilma’s arm. “Come on, keep walking. We need to get indoors, it’s cold out here.”

“I’m afraid something serious is wrong with me,” said Wilma. “How did I get outside?”

“You came out through a door no one knew would open.”

“Psyche knew it would open. The talking tower sent her to Taenarus after Aphrodite tortured her.”

“Oh, Wilma!” sighed Betsy, exasperated.

Wilma stopped and pulled away from Betsy to explain, patiently, “It’s an old Greek legend, my dear, about the tasks Aphrodite set for Psyche because she was angry that her son Eros fell in love with a mortal. In the end Eros married her and they had a daughter, Hedone. Anyway, lots of people know about that door. I told people about it myself.”

“I see. Come on, we’re almost home.” They stepped under the portico, where the wind was funneled and strengthened. Wilma staggered and Betsy braced herself in support. She opened the door to the vestibule and rapped impatiently on the inner door.

It opened with a clack, and the black woman behind the desk stood, alarmed. “Wow, where did you two come from? Mrs. Carter, how did you get out of the building? And why is neither one of you wearing a coat?”

Betsy said, “Wilma surprised me by showing me a different way out. I’m going to take her up to her room. Please call someone, she may need medical attention; she’s confused and she’s terribly cold.”

“I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m fine, I’m okay!” chanted Wilma, still trembling. As Betsy led her toward the elevators, Wilma broke into song: “My object all sublime, I shall achieve in time, to let the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime!” She began to giggle and kept giggling, between verses from
The Mikado
, all the way up to her room.

• • •

I
T
was five thirty before Betsy got home. She staggered as she came up the stairs, exhausted both physically and emotionally. She had been questioned, not always kindly, by the administrative staff at Watered Silk and two policemen. She had gone down with them twice to the pool-mechanics room to demonstrate how to open the door, once with the policemen, then again with Ms. Woodward from Watered Silk Security. Detective Sergeant Burgoyne was angry with Wilma for not telling someone on the staff about the door, but this did him no good at all because she had lost all memory of it and thought he wanted to talk about seeing Betsy at water aerobics class. And the Watered Silk administrator seemed to be angry with Betsy for following Wilma down into the machine room.

When she came into the apartment she saw Connor, slouched deeply on the loveseat, reading a paperback novel. He tossed his book aside and rose, concerned, when he saw her. “Are you all right? Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling but you had your cell phone turned off.” As he got nearer, he saw the look on her face, of depression and exhaustion. “What on earth has happened?” He took her attaché case from her, set it down, and helped her off with her coat. “I was really worried about you!”

“I found out how Teddi Wahlberger’s body was brought to the Watered Silk pool. Wilma showed me.”

“Really? That’s wonderful! But why so unhappy about it?”

“The police and the Watered Silk staff have been hammering at me. I thought they’d never let me go. I think they’re angry that they didn’t discover it themselves.” She walked down the short hallway into the living room.

“How was it done?” he asked, hanging her coat up in the little hall closet.

“There’s a huge old door on the alley side of the building that is supposed to be blocked, but isn’t. It’s located down in the machine room, where the water for the pool is pumped and filtered.”

“How did Wilma find out about it?”

“I have no idea. She’s gone off the deep end again and can’t explain anything.”

“But she told you.” He came into the living room and took Betsy gently into his arms.

She leaned against him and spoke to his shoulder. “No, she showed me. She was so disruptive in class that I tried to take her to her room, but she got away from me and I chased her into the men’s locker room—”

Connor snorted in surprise and Betsy smiled. “I know, she is always going into places she doesn’t belong. Anyway, she disappeared into a maintenance closet, which turned out to have the entrance to the pool’s filtration system at the back of it. And down there is a big set of doors dating back to when the place was a factory. A couple of big beams are fastened across them. And there’s a little door in one of the big doors. It looks like it’s blocked with a board nailed across it, and it has a big padlock, too.

“Anyway, someone, sometime, somehow cut the little door behind the board so the board hides the cut. And rigged the hasp so it only appears to padlock the door. And there’s a doorknob that seems to be unusable, too, only it isn’t. You kind of wriggle it and it turns.”

Connor stepped back and made a whistling shape with his lips. “Who knew about this?”

“That, my dear, is the question. Wilma has apparently known about it for a while, she went right to the door and opened it on the second wiggle.”

“What do you think?” asked Connor.

“I think she saw someone using that door, someone who didn’t see her watching. She wanders around the building at all hours of the day and night, and she loves secrets—I told you about that wonderful book of photographs of hidden animals. She probably thought it was fun not to tell the staff of Watered Silk. Though she told me she
had
told people. I wonder who?”

Betsy went to her easy chair and fell backwards into it. “Whew,” she said, “I’m glad to be home.” She leaned her head back, closing her eyes. “I keep asking myself, who might have rigged that door so it would open?”

“How about that Juggins fellow? After all, it’s his bailiwick. Did he know Teddi?”

Betsy’s eyes stayed closed. “He says no, and in a way that makes me inclined to believe him.” She frowned without opening her eyes. “Although he
is
an actor.” She sighed. “You know, cops can be doggone rude. They talked to me like I must know who messed with that door and just didn’t want to tell them who it was.”

“Didn’t they play ‘good cop–bad cop’ with you?”

Betsy smiled and her eyes opened. “Just ‘bad cop.’ There was just one officer to talk to, the others were Watered Silk staff. But he was really mean. I wonder if he’s the one who was angry because he thought Ethan was fooling around with a white woman. I should ask Ethan if that detective’s name is Burgoyne.” She sighed. “I think they’re floundering, they don’t know who did this. They’re as lost and confused as I am, and it’s making them angry. Me, it’s making depressed.”

“Would you like a nice cup of tea?” Connor asked. People of the British Isles think a nice cup of tea is the answer to any woman’s distress.

Sometimes it is, Betsy thought. “You’re wonderful. Yes.”

He went into the little galley kitchen to heat some water. Betsy closed her eyes again and fell into a near doze. In a few minutes he was beside her with a cup of tea on a saucer accompanied by two peanut-butter cookies.

She took a sip. It was sweet and had been lightened with a dollop of milk. “Lovely,” she said, comforted.

Connor sat on the loveseat with his own cuppa. “What do you want to do now? Or are you resigning from the case?”

“I’m thinking about it. But before I do, I’d like to talk to someone who knew Teddi. Still, can I at least wait until tomorrow to start back in? I’m bushed.”

• • •

J
ILL
came into Crewel World the next day very close to closing time, with her two children, Emma Beth and Erik, in tow. She wanted to buy a counted cross-stitch pattern of hydrangea blooms to hang in the entryway of her house, to match the bushes in her front yard. “Do you have something by Thea Gouverneur?” she asked Betsy. “I like her designs.”

“That’s good, because I have at least four of hers, and three of them are hydrangeas,” said Betsy.

Jill picked one that was just the head of a single giant flower, mostly blue but with some pink petals in it. The bushes in her yard were blue and pink, blue for Erik and pink for Emma Beth. “I wish there was one that had all three colors,” she said, “blue, pink, and white.” She turned to Betsy with her lovely Gibson-girl smile, her gray eyes shining with unexpressed news.

“Oh, Jill!” exclaimed Betsy, and she hurried to give her a hug.

“Hug me, too!” demanded Emma Beth, who was six.

“Me, me, me, me!” chanted Erik, who was four and a half.

The two children attached themselves to the adults, all four of them laughing.

“When?” asked Betsy.

“End of August.”

“Which, another boy?”

“I don’t know. I may not want to know.”

“So what does this do to your plan to get that private-eye license?”

Jill stepped back and shrugged. “That can wait. I can be a PI after menopause, but the window for having children is narrowing. And I wanted at least three.”

“Are you all right?”

“All is very, very well—touch wood.” Jill bent over and touched the wooden toggle that fastened her daughter’s knit hat under her chin. Like Betsy, Jill only thought she was not superstitious.

Emma Beth looked up at Betsy. She was radiantly fair, her hair almost white, her complexion palest ivory, her large eyes a clear light blue. She was wearing royal-blue leggings and coat, and her hat was bright yellow. “Do you have any bubbles you need for me to snap, Aunt Betsy?”

Erik smiled his most winning smile. “Can I have popping bubbles, too, please?” he said. His hair was a golden red, his eyes dark gray. He was tall for his age, just a few inches shorter than his sister. He was wearing forest green snow pants and ski jacket, and his knit hat was white.

Betsy agreed she had some bubbles that needed popping and went to the checkout desk to pull out two sheets of bubble wrap. In short order, the two children were seated at the library table in the middle of the room, their expressions serious, their little fingers busy.