The Drowning Spool (A Needlecraft Mystery) (22 page)

“I want to talk to him—and maybe her, too,” said Betsy. “Do you think they’d be open to answering some questions?”

“I don’t know about him, but Sony loves to meet new people, especially if they’re crafty. Tell you what, I’ll talk to her and let you know.”

“Thanks, Ramona.”

• • •

B
ETSY
called in two part-timers so she could take the afternoon off. “You know what this is doing to my bottom line,” said Betsy, who could be of two minds about anything. She was complaining to Connor in the apartment upstairs, where she went to change out of her work clothes.

“You want to take back the arrangement, maybe drop this case?” asked Connor.

“Well . . . no.”

“So hush, and get on with it.”

So Betsy got on with it. The first thing she got on was the Internet. She went to Lia’s and Frey’s Facebook accounts and found, as she suspected she would, an almost daily diary of their activities. Both spoke of an agreement they’d made with each other and with Teddi before she died: that if one of them wanted to entertain a guest, the other two would make themselves scarce for the evening. In this case they had gone out clubbing together with dates—making solid alibis for the night Teddi’s body was taken to Watered Silk. Their alibis were weaker, though, for the period during which Betsy estimated someone got into Wilma’s room and doctored her Exelon patches with atropine.

Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t have a Facebook page at all.

Noah had one set up to describe his professional skills, with little about his personal life—though he did have two photos taken at a barbecue party at Teddi’s house, designed apparently to show off his deck-building skills. In one of the photos, he and Teddi stood smiling in the backyard with the deck behind them. They did make a handsome couple, Betsy had to admit.

Preston didn’t have a Facebook page, either; but Sony did, full of photos of their happy-looking and adorable dark-haired son, Tony, and some pages from her scrapbooks. Ramona was right, the pages were beautiful, cleverly and skillfully designed. Of the photos that included Pres, none featured him in “vampire” mode. The closest he came to it was a photo from last Halloween, when he and Sony went to a costume party where he was a 1930s gangster in an outsize fedora and she was his tall and sturdy moll in a deeply fringed dress. He was laughing but she was looking serious, a pose underlined by the fact that she was holding a plastic tommy gun.

“I love to keep souvenirs of my life,” Sony wrote above a series of photos of documents ranging from her baptismal certificate to a report card from fourth grade to her high school diploma and a college examination paper she had aced; even to her big plastic name tag from St. Luke’s Hospital.

Here and there Sony mentioned that she didn’t want baby Tony to grow up as an only child, and that she hoped for a baby sister for him some day “soon.” There was even a photo of an empty nursery waiting for an occupant, as Tony had been moved to another bedroom with a “big boy bed” shaped like a sports car. The word “VROOOM!”—ornamented with streaks indicating movement and clouds of exhaust—was spelled out on the wall over the bed, painted there by Sony.

Wow, thought Betsy, what a lucky little boy. She could just imagine the pleasure his mother would take in decorating her prospective daughter’s room. Ponies, perhaps? Or, more likely, a princess’s boudoir.

She got out her notebook and looked for the pages of notes she’d taken while interviewing Tommy Shore. She found the contact information for his bosses for both of his jobs, and also the web site url for his landlord. On that web site, Betsy found adorable photos of kids and adult goats, which were unfortunately close to photos of cuts of goat meat. But there was a “Contact Me” link, too, and she left a note there asking the landlord to e-mail her about Tommy Shore. She was careful to word it as if she were seeking a reference rather than an alibi.

Then she called the pharmacy. The manager told Betsy that Tommy was pleasant with customers and fellow employees, rarely late to work, but obviously not interested in getting promoted. “He prefers outdoor work. He quits every summer to work at a golf course,” she said.

Tommy’s supervisor at the office-cleaning company said the same thing. “I offered to make him a crew chief if he’d quit taking the summer off, but he wouldn’t accept my offer.”

His work schedule had enough holes in it to make his alibis worthless.

Betsy was composing a little article about Thai—its central question was, Does anyone want a fine, healthy, neutered Siamese tomcat?—when her cell phone rang. It was Godwin.

“Ramona called. She talked with Sony without giving her any details, and told me that Sony would like to talk to you. She gave me her cell phone number—or you can contact her via e-mail or Facebook.”

But Betsy did not want to advertise to stray readers that she was talking with Sony, so she called her cell.

Sony’s voice was pleasantly deep and resonant. She spoke slowly, as if she wanted to make sure she was not misunderstood. “Little Tony,” she said, with an emphasis on “little” to make clear to Betsy that she was not speaking of her father, “has a playdate this afternoon, so we can talk on the phone without interruption. Is that okay?”

“Well . . .” said Betsy, “actually, I’d prefer to see you face-to-face. I’m much better at in-person interviews than conversations over the phone. Would you like to come here? Or should I come to you? Or shall we meet somewhere in between?”

“Why don’t you come over here? That way I can show you my work, and anyway, I want to be nearby in case Little Tony’s playdate gets interrupted and I need to pick him up early.”

“All right, thank you. In, say, twenty minutes?”

“Fine.”

• • •

A
LITTLE
while later, Betsy was driving up a winding street in a Minnetonka development of large, attractive houses, not quite McMansions but multistoried stone-and-clapboard homes on large lots in a newer development not far off Highway 3.

The Munro house was on a corner lot, a pale blue wood-and-stone structure marked by a tall picket fence. The two-car garage had its door either up or missing, and sawhorses and ladders showed some kind of work was going on inside, though no workmen were present. Betsy pulled into the driveway and got out. A flagged walkway led in a curving line from the driveway to the house.

Sony was a dark-honey blonde, tall and solidly built, with a calm strength in her face that Betsy found very attractive. Betsy had called Sony on her cell to let her know she was arriving, and Sony stood in her doorway waiting for her. She was wearing a deep yellow velour jumpsuit with honeybees embroidered all over it, and brown leather slippers.

“Hello, Ms. Devonshire,” she called in her warm voice. “Please, come in out of the cold.” The sun was shining, but the temperature was in the midtwenties. “Excuse the mess, we’re putting in a new door and insulating the garage so Pres can work on his car in there.”

“I suppose since he works in a car parts store, he gets good advice as well as a price break,” said Betsy with a smile, coming up three steps and into the foyer.

The entrance area was tall with a pale oak staircase at the end of it. Sony led the way into a big living room, deeply carpeted, furnished comfortably in earth tones. A triple bookcase stood against one wall, full of books that looked well read; and a huge, deep green plush chair sat in a bay window, where the sun pouring through could provide good reading light. A children’s book was on the seat, and Betsy could easily imagine Sony reading to her son there. There was no television in sight—probably in the family room, thought Betsy. A good-size palm shrub was growing in a large green pot standing on a wheeled platform next to the chair. It looked healthy. Everything looked new or well kept.

“What a pleasant house you have,” said Betsy, shedding her coat.

“Thank you,” said Sony. “Won’t you sit over there?” she added, gesturing toward the couch. It was long and modern, a color somewhere between tan and gray-brown with subtle stripes of darker gray-brown. Two pillows were standing stiffly upright on it, printed in thick wobbly stripes of gray-brown, green, and white. Betsy was glad to tuck one of them behind her back—the couch was deep. On a coffee table she saw three fat scrapbooks, closed.

Sony curled into the plush chair and regarded Betsy with friendly brown eyes. “Tell me, what can I do for you?”

This direct question surprised Betsy, but amused her just a little, too; it was a technique she’d used herself not long ago.

“I’ve been asked to find chinks in the armor of a homicide case the police are building against the grandnephew of a good friend.” Seeing Sony’s surprise, she added, “It’s something I’ve done before.”

“What do you mean?” Sony was sitting up, her manner no longer friendly. “I thought you were here about my scrapbooking, to ask me to give a program or teach a class in your store!”

“No, not at all. My shop doesn’t sell any scrapbooking products. Oh, I see what’s wrong here. Ramona said she didn’t tell you what I was after. I do have a needlework shop, but I sometimes supplement the efforts of the police in their criminal investigations. I’m looking into the drowning death of Teddi Wahlberger. The poor young lady was murdered, possibly by someone she accused of being the father of her unborn child.”

“How . . . interesting. But why do you want to talk to me?”

“Well, it seems Teddi and your husband knew each other.”

“Now hold on,” Sony said heatedly. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I never heard of this Teddi person.”

“I’m sorry about that, but there’s no doubt Pres knew her. He took her out on several occasions, even came to her house for parties.”

“I don’t believe you!”

Betsy spoke gently. “I’m really sorry, but people had seen them together, and Teddi drew a really clever sketch of Pres one night while they were out, and another more formal portrait of him. He was careful not to allow his photograph to be taken, but Teddi was a talented amateur artist, and apparently she couldn’t resist capturing the face of a man she found fascinating.”

“I don’t know why you are telling me these lies,” Sony growled quietly, but her eyes were blazing.

Betsy, oblivious to the warning in Sony’s voice, said, “Perhaps you’ll believe a police investigator when he comes to talk to you. I believe he’s talking right now to Pres.”

“You’re trying to scare me! I won’t listen to any more of this!” Sony jumped to her feet. “You leave this house immediately! Right now, do you hear? Out,
out
,
or I’ll hurt you!” Sony was standing tall, her teeth actually bared, her arms reaching out as she started to move toward Betsy, her fingers curled like claws.

Betsy grabbed her coat but didn’t wait to put it on. She ran for the door, with Sony at her heels. She managed to wrench the door open and jump through it before Sony could get her hands on her.

She hurried down the walk without even slowing to pull the door shur behind her, and didn’t pause to look around until she was pressing hard on the button that unlocked her car door. Safe inside, she clicked the doors locked, then peered out the side window.

Sony was standing in the open doorway, her face red with fury, mouth open as she shouted threats.

Betsy backed hastily out of the driveway and sped away.

“Whew!” she whispered, as she went too fast around a curve. The car swerved as she made her way to a side road that would take her back to the highway.

Then the adrenaline rush subsided and, with trembling hands, she sighed in relief. That had been a close call. She even managed a shaky laugh. “And I never got to ask her about an alibi!” she said to herself.

D
ETECTIVE
Sergeant Mike Malloy checked in with the Saint Louis Park Police Department before he went to find Tony Halloway’s Auto Parts store. One of the detectives, Investigator Alex Webster, elected to come along. Webster was a taciturn man, a little above medium height, overweight, with decidedly Asian features. He listened closely to Malloy’s account of the case on the drive over to the store, but didn’t ask any questions.

They entered the premises and headed to the counter at the back of the store. “May I help you, gentlemen?” said the tall young man standing there.

Malloy produced identification, as did Webster. “We’d like to speak to Preston Munro,” said Malloy. The counterman, who had the name James embroidered on his jumpsuit, managed, barely, not to smile. But his eyes sparkled with glee. He cleared his throat twice and said, “Just a second.” He went to a broad door in the back of the store and called, “Pres! Some people here to see you!”

“All right,” came the reply, and a man Malloy recognized from Teddi Wahlberger’s drawings came out and up to the counter. “Help you?” he said in a surly tone of voice.

Malloy displayed his badge a second time, and the color drained from Munro’s face.

“We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s all right,” said Malloy.

Munro suddenly grew much more polite. “Certainly,” he said. “There’s a break room back here where we can talk. Okay with you?”

“Sure,” said Malloy.

James looked disappointed. Evidently, he’d been hoping for a takedown ending in handcuffs.

Munro went to the end of the long counter, where he lifted a hinged section to allow Malloy and Webster through. The two followed him through another door that led to a very clean break room furnished with soft drink machines, two white formica tables littered with car magazines, and eight orange plastic chairs.

“This okay?” asked Munro.

“Sure,” said Malloy. He went to the nearest table but waited for Munro to choose a chair. They all sat down.

“Do you know why we’re here to talk to you?”

“Um . . . no, not really.”

Malloy got right to the point. “Did you know a woman named Teddi Wahlberger?” he asked.

“Wahlberger?” Munro appeared to think briefly. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You didn’t take her out, to dinner or dancing or to parties?”

Munro frowned in disapproval. “Of course not, I’m a married man.”

Malloy reached into an inside pocket, a movement which clearly alarmed Munro. Malloy paused to make sure of the reaction, and glanced at Webster to ensure that he saw it, too. When Munro saw there was just a piece of folded paper in Malloy’s hand, he relaxed.

But when Malloy unfolded the paper—which turned out to be two sheets, photocopies of Teddi’s drawings—and smoothed them both out on the table, Munro stared at them wordlessly for nearly a minute. Then, too late, he looked up at Malloy. “Am I supposed to know who this person is?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious who this is.”

Another long pause. “Where did you get these?” Munro asked. He started to touch them, then withdrew his hands and placed them in his lap.

Malloy said, “Teddi Wahlberger drew them. See her initials on the corner of the second sheet?”

Munro didn’t look at the second sheet, but nodded. “Okay, she saw me out somewhere, was taken by my appearance, and drew some pictures. So what?”

“That little cartoon drawing was done by Ms. Wahlberger at the Bar Abilene, where the two of you were sitting together. You left the table briefly, and she drew this on a napkin while you were gone. I have an eyewitness who saw you two together and watched her make that sketch.” As Malloy watched Munro trying to think up a response, he thought to himself,
Thank God for that Devonshire woman. Although she continues to foolishly involve herself in murder investigations, at least she keeps me abreast of her findings, which are frequently sound.
Though of course he would never, ever say that to her.

“All right,” said Munro in a low, defeated voice. “I took her out a few times.” More strongly, he asked, “So what?”

“Did she later contact you with an accusation that you were the father of her baby?”

He twisted his face into a grimace, upset that they knew that, too. “Shit. Yes, she did.” His chin came up. “But she was lying. I knew it wasn’t possible.”

“Why is that? You were seen coming out of her bedroom.” That was close enough to the truth that it didn’t matter.

Munro said in a low, shamed voice, “Because I had a vasectomy over a year ago.”

Why was he ashamed? Having had a vasectomy was a terrific defense against an accusation of having impregnated a woman.

“Did you tell her that?” he asked.

“Absolutely. She sent me an IM, I sent her one right back. ‘So sorry, honey,’ I said. ‘No way it’s mine. Vasectomy.’” His tone shaded into impudence. “I might’ve misspelled ‘vasectomy.’”

Aware he’d missed some point, Malloy shifted ground. “Where were you the night of Monday, January twenty-eighth?”

“Is that when Teddi drowned?” asked Munro. When Malloy didn’t answer, Munro’s eyes moved to Webster, who sat as impassively as the Buddha he resembled.

Munro appeared to cast his mind back. “Let’s see. Yeah, I remember that day. I had left work early to pick up a salesman named Marvin Beasley at the airport. He represents McGowan Import Auto Parts of Atlanta. I brought him to the Doubletree Hotel here in Saint Louis Park, where we had a couple of drinks at the bar and talked for an hour. Then we went out to dinner at Benihana, that Japanese place in Golden Valley where they juggle the cleavers while they grill your food right in front of you. Had a couple more drinks there, then I drove him back to Doubletree and went home. Sony—that’s my wife—and I watched the late news and shared a bottle of wine, and we went to bed, where I slept like a liquor-soaked log, with her beside me, till seven-forty the next morning. She can tell you I was there all night—she wakes up if a leaf falls from a tree in the yard. Took a shower and downed half a bottle of aspirin and went to work. Okay?”

As Malloy drove Webster back to the Saint Louis Park police building behind city hall, he asked, “What do you think?”

“I think once you confirm his story with that Beasley fellow, and his wife in Minnetonka, you’ll be able to eliminate him as a suspect.” He smiled. “Okay?”

Malloy sighed. “Okay.”

• • •

“H
ONESTLY,
I thought she was going to knock me down,” said Betsy to an open-mouthed Godwin. “She came at me like a mama grizzly bear defending her cub.”

“But her cub is Little Tony,” said Godwin, puzzled. “And you weren’t threatening her cub.”

“That’s true,” said Betsy, and frowned. “Still, she was protecting her husband, that seems obvious to me. No matter what she said, I think she at least suspects that he dated Teddi. Maybe she even suspects—correctly—that he’s been dating a lot of other women. Remember that bartender who said he came in with different women?”

“If someone came to me with proof that Rafael was tomcatting all over town, the person I’d be mad at would be Rafael,” said Godwin, with an air of stating the obvious.

“Yes, but wouldn’t you also be mad at the person who told you the bad news?”

“No, of course not . . . well, maybe . . . okay, yes. But I’d definitely be mad at Rafael, too. I bet if you could be a fly on the wall of their bedroom tonight, you’d hear them go at it something fierce.”

Betsy brooded about the episode, and finally called Ramona.

“Oh, hi, Betsy, did you get to talk to Sony?”

“Yes, but she blew up at me before I could ask her any questions, and ran me off her property.”

“Seriously?”

“Very seriously.”

“Golly, how did that come about?”

“Probably my own fault. Instead of feeling my way into the subject of her husband’s infidelity, I came right out with it, said I had proof.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

“Well, um, Sony knows way far back in her head that Pres is not exactly faithful. I mean, he came on to me at a party at their house one time, and I made kind of a joke about it to Sony—you know, feeling her out about it—and she cut me out of her life for three months. I had to apologize to her, say I must have been mistaken, before we were friends again. But she’s like that about him. She tries hard to pretend she doesn’t know the truth about him. No, she tries hard to pretend he is as devoted to her as she is to him. You know those comedy scenes where someone puts his hands over his ears and goes ‘la-la-la-la’ when he doesn’t want to hear what’s being said? She’s like that. She absolutely ignores any hint he’s not the perfect husband, because—well, I’m not sure why. Maybe because she’s crazy in love with him.”

“Uh-oh,” echoed Betsy.

“Exactly.”

“So why didn’t you warn her that I wanted to talk to her about a murder investigation that might involve her husband?”

“Because then she wouldn’t have let you come over. Or, she might’ve contacted Pres and together they would’ve concocted a story for you. I kind of let her think that you wanted to talk to her about scrapbooking.”

Betsy recalled the set of scrapbooks on the coffee table in Sony’s living room. “Yes,” she told Ramona, “she thought I wanted her to give a talk about the craft, or maybe teach a class. I’m sure she felt blindsided. How long have they been married, do you know?”

Ramona’s voice was laced with amusement as she said, “About four and a half months shorter than they would be if Little Tony had been conceived on their honeymoon.”

“I see.”

“Not entirely you don’t, not yet. The reason Pres married her is that Sony’s father had a little talk with him. Sony wanted him, and Big Tony likes giving her what she wants. And he can be, um, extremely convincing. Big Tony had that nickname even before Little Tony came along, you know.”

“I see. At least Pres didn’t flee to Atlanta.”

“What? Well, no. Mr. Halloway is well off, and he was willing to bring Pres into his car parts business, so Pres decided not to leave town.”

“This is wonderful information—but how did you come by it?”

“Pres has a sister who is a stitcher and a quilter. We met in college. She adores her nephew and likes her sister-in-law, but doesn’t like her brother.”

“In your opinion, is Pres capable of murder?”

“I don’t know. I believe Paige would tell you he is. But like I said, she doesn’t like him—I mean, she
really
doesn’t like him.”

• • •

B
ETSY
went upstairs to find that Connor had gone grocery shopping—he’d left her a note—so she went into the kitchen to prepare a sandwich for her lunch. She gave Thai a snack—he was doing splendidly on grain-free canned cat food, but needed to be fed at least three times a day. She had purchased a rimmed plastic pet food place mat and kept it on the kitchen counter. Aging, fat Sophie could no longer jump high enough to get up onto the counter—another point of contention between the two cats. But right now there were no complaints, Sophie was down in the shop. Godwin would put her out at closing time.

Betsy had barely sat down with her sandwich when her phone rang.

It was Sergeant Mike Malloy, wanting to talk to her about her interview with Sony Munro. He knew she’d talked to her because Sony had given him an earful about Betsy’s visit.

“She wanted to know what right you had to talk to her like you did, telling lies, she said, about her husband,” said Malloy. “What the hell did you say to her?”

“That I had a drawing of her husband made by a woman he was dating, and that there was a witness to his presence at a tavern in Uptown with a number of women.”

“She said you approached her under false pretenses, claiming that you wanted to talk about scrapbooking.”

“No, I never said that to her,” Betsy said. “The woman who put me in touch with her may have given her that impression.”

“Which you instructed her to do.”

“No, it was her own idea. The woman is a friend of Pres’s sister, who doesn’t like him.”