Authors: Monica Ferris
“Aren’t you afraid for her? Meddling in crime is no occupation for an amateur. Perhaps you should ask her if she has a will. Maybe she intends to leave the shop to you if one day she should be killed.”
“What an awful thing to say!”
“If she is behaving foolishly, you should act to defend yourself. You have worked there for years, and for low wages, too. She owes you compensation if you should suddenly lose your position because she dies.”
Godwin stepped back from the desk, about to say something in anger. Then, just in time, he caught himself. “You’re joking, of course.” But he said it in a tone laden with warning.
Rafael looked up at him, surprised. “Yes, of course. Sorry you did not find it amusing. I like your boss, she is a very nice lady, and very clever. But sometimes I think she should not interfere in the business of the police, who are quite competent.”
“She’s not interfering, she’s helping!”
“If she wants to help, why doesn’t she get the license? The private detective license?”
“Because then it would be a full-time job, and she already has a full-time job. I think for her to be sleuthing all the time would break her heart. There are too many horrible things in the world for her to get mixed up in them day in and day out.”
“So she prefers to remain a, a
dabbler
, is that correct?”
Godwin frowned at Rafael. “Why are you picking on her? She does damn good work. And she’s not ‘dabbling.’”
Rafael sighed. He reached out and stroked his book of coins. “You’re right. She doesn’t dabble. I’m the dabbler. That’s why I want to open a business of my own. I want to contribute something to this community, to this state, perhaps even to this country.” He sighed again. “It would mean breaking my grandmother’s heart. She thought a gentleman did not soil his hands with trade.”
Godwin laughed. “Your grandmother is dead. But I think I know what this is about. I think you’re jealous.”
“Jealous of Betsy?”
“Yes, but not because she owns her own business. You’re jealous of her relationship with me. You think we share things you have no part of.”
“Well, don’t you?”
“No. I tell you everything I tell her, truly I do.”
“Then why am I still jealous?”
“I don’t know. I think this is a stupid and dangerous conversation, so let’s stop it right now. Would you like a bowl of ice cream? I’m going to get one for myself.”
“No, thank you. I want to look on the Internet for small shops to rent.”
Godwin, heart sinking, went to the kitchen and filled a bowl—a big bowl—with cookie dough ice cream. He didn’t know which was worse: Rafael’s notion that he could run his own successful small business, or his sudden perception that Betsy and Godwin had a special relationship. The trouble, Godwin thought, was that it was true.
Twelve
S
UNDAY,
after church and a hearty breakfast, which was becoming a tradition with Connor and Betsy, the two of them went out in a light drizzle to plant lily of the valley on the steep hill behind the shop.
They worked in a companionable silence for a few minutes, then Connor said, “
Machree
, I wonder if you shouldn’t give up this latest case. You’re not making any progress, and I can see that the frustration is making you very unhappy.”
“Giving it up won’t cure my unhappiness.”
“Are you sure? It might be like putting down an impossible burden. I don’t like to see you frustrated like this.”
“I don’t like it much, either. But quitting would leave me unhappy, too. Besides, I haven’t decided it’s impossible yet. Hand me another lily.”
Connor, bless his wise heart, didn’t argue, or even bring it up again.
* * *
O
N
Tuesday morning, Jill came in with a stitching project she wanted stretched and framed—finished, in other words.
“Wow, this came out really well!” exclaimed Betsy.
It was a counted cross-stitch pattern, a big one that took eighty different colors of floss to complete. Teddies and Friends was the name of it, from Artecy Cross Stitch, and it depicted two shelves piled with two teddy bears, a plush puppy, a toy duck, and two clowns, all in soft, realistic colors.
“For Erik’s room, I take it,” said Betsy.
“Well, yes . . .”
“Oh, have you decided to have another baby?”
“Not quite. Lars really thinks we shouldn’t wait.”
“But you’re still thinking of that PI license.”
“Yes, though Lars keeps coming up with reasons I shouldn’t do that.”
“One reason is that you probably wouldn’t have time for another big project like this one.”
Jill chuckled and obediently turned her attention to the piece of stitchery. “What do you think, double mat?
“Yes, I agree, but how about a modest frame, something narrow and dark?” Betsy suggested.
Jill put her hand, palm down, on the canvas and tilted her head a little sideways. “Hmmm, yes, I like it.” She got out her credit card and made a deposit on the estimated cost of the project and left.
A few hours later Betsy was cutting fabric into salable pieces when the phone rang.
“Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?”
A man’s voice said, “Betsy Devonshire?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Pierce McMurphy, and my wife and I would like to come in and talk to you.”
Betsy was nonplussed for a moment. “All right,” she said at last. “When would you be able to come in?”
“How about right now? We’re parked less than a block away—it gives us less of a chance to chicken out.”
“That’s fine. We’re not busy right now. Come on in.”
“Thank you.”
“Who was that?” asked Godwin after Betsy had hung up. Clearly the look on her face had made him curious.
“Uh-oh,” he said when she told him.
Less than two minutes later the door rang its two notes and a medium-tall man with lots of gray in his dark hair came in behind a rigid-faced Joanne McMurphy.
Godwin was making a production of rearranging the knitting yarns in a basket near a wall, standing so he could keep an eye on the pair as they approached the checkout desk where Betsy was waiting.
“First of all,” said Joanne, speaking quickly and mechanically, “I want to apologize for losing my temper. I have some anger issues, and I want to tell you that I’m going to be doing something about that in the very near future.” Her tone made Betsy wonder how much of this apology was Joanne’s idea and how much was Pierce’s.
“And I want to thank you for not pressing charges against Joanne for her serious lapse of judgment,” said Pierce in his warm, deep voice. He had strongly marked and attractive features, and an athlete’s build. His eyes were sad, but his fists were clenched, and Betsy wondered if he’d ever had to express his gratitude before. She felt profoundly uncomfortable and couldn’t think what to say.
But then his wife turned to look at him, and he returned a smile so warm and tender that she fairly bloomed back at him.
Godwin, unable to see this exchange, spoke up. “Have you talked to Irene?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” said Pierce. “But we will.”
“I can’t think what came over me,” said Joanne without turning around. Her voice was smooth and gentle. Pierce rewarded her with a broader smile.
Betsy shot a quashing glance at Godwin, who had drawn a breath, doubtless to make a caustic remark.
“Is there anything we can do to show we’re really sorry?” asked Pierce.
“Nothing I can think of,” Betsy said.
But Godwin spoke up. “You can answer a question.”
“All right,” said Joanne, turning toward him. “What is it?”
“Godwin,” warned Betsy. She turned to Joanne then. “There’s nothing we want to ask you.”
“Did you murder Hailey Brent?” asked Godwin.
“No, I didn’t,” said Joanne, her voice calm but her face ashen. “I had no reason to murder her. I hardly knew her.”
“Godwin, that was incredibly rude!” said Betsy. “I apologize on behalf of my store manager.”
“I don’t think I accept your apology,” said Joanne stiffly. “Come on, Pierce, let’s go.”
“For heaven’s sake, Goddy!” said Betsy when the door closed behind the couple.
“Well, someone had to ask, and you didn’t seem about to. What do you think about them coming here like that?”
“I’m not sure.” Betsy turned and frowned at the closed door. She had never met Pierce McMurphy before, at least not that she could remember. But there was something familiar about him. She closed her eyes, remembering the details of his dark hair and eyes, his muscular build, his warm, deep voice—there it was.
Pierce McMurphy was the man behind the Green Gaia fence in a love quarrel with Marge Schultz.
* * *
“B
UT
the person Marge should have wanted to kill was her lover’s wife—Joanne, right?” said Godwin. It was later that day, and he and Betsy and Jill were sitting at the library table in the shop, eating sandwiches from Sol’s Deli. Jill’s son Erik was playing with Sophie the cat in the back. This wouldn’t distract him for very long; Sophie was far too lazy to be an agreeable game player with an active boy like Erik.
“No,” Betsy said. “Marge talked to Pierce about his divorce. She didn’t say anything about Joanne’s death.”
Jill said, “So Pierce was the one with a motive to kill Joanne.”
“Yes, but Joanne is alive and well,” Betsy pointed out. “Hailey is the person who is dead—and Pierce not only had no motive, he has a solid alibi.”
Godwin said, “So the question is, who had a motive to kill Hailey? Joanne, maybe? She certainly has the temperament for it.” He gave a dramatic shudder.
“But no motive,” said Jill.
“In her case, she doesn’t need a motive. Not much of one, anyway. Maybe Hailey looked at her funny while passing her on the street.”
Betsy ate a potato chip and said thoughtfully, “Maybe we need to look at what sets Joanne off. In my case, it was investigating Hailey’s murder. I don’t know if she felt personally threatened, or if she was protecting someone else—Pierce, for example.”
“But Pierce has an unbreakable alibi,” said Godwin.
“Maybe Joanne didn’t know about the alibi, or thinks it’s not unbreakable,” said Jill, after a sip of tea.
“Hmmmm,” said Betsy.
“You’re good,” Godwin said to Jill. “You should go back on the police force. You’d pass the detective test in a minute.”
Betsy said, “Jill is thinking about becoming a private investigator.”
“Lars is against it,” said Jill. “He says it’s too dangerous.”
Godwin looked surprised. “But his job is even more dangerous,” he said.
“All the more reason why he’s not in favor of it for me. We shouldn’t both have dangerous jobs.”
“So you’ve given up the idea?” asked Betsy.
“No, not completely. Not yet.” She smiled. “It’s just so interesting, trying to figure things out, drawing conclusions from an assortment of facts. It’s like reading a novel that has every other line missing.”
“And every tenth page missing, too,” said Betsy with a rueful laugh.
* * *
O
N
Wednesday, Betsy decided it was time for another talk with Marge Schultz. She left Godwin in charge of the shop and drove over. Though a weekday, there were plenty of customers walking up and down the long wooden tables lined with potted plants. The warm and sunny weather certainly wasn’t hurting business. Many shoppers were carrying plastic baskets, and some were wheeling shelved carts filled with their selections, the carts’ tiny wheels juddering over the uneven ground. The season had marched ahead, and the plants were blooming: petunias, lilies, marigolds, Indian paintbrush, and some that Betsy couldn’t identify.
Betsy found Marge consulting with two women in the marigold section.
“We just love marigolds,” one woman was saying. “They’re so hardy, and they bloom right up until frost. And the deer and rabbits won’t eat them like they do our other plants.”
“I think they’re like shards of sunlight,” said the other, poetically. “The pure yellow ones are like noon, and the different shades of orange ones are like sunsets. Let’s buy lots of them for edging.”
“Marge?”
The woman turned, and her eyes widened. “Oh, hello, Betsy! I didn’t see you standing there. What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk with you.”
“Right now? I’m kind of busy.”
“It won’t take long, just a couple of questions.”
“Is it about—um?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Hannah, Mimi, you just bring those into the shop when you’re ready and someone will cash you out.”
“Thank you,” they chorused.
“Follow me,” Marge said to Betsy, and she led her to the small, cluttered office in the back of her shop. “Here, sit down. Now, what’s this all about?”
Betsy took a breath and plunged in. “How long have you and Pierce McMurphy been lovers?”
Marge’s mouth fell open. She said, “What on earth?” in a strange, high voice, caught herself, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Whatever gave you
that
idea?”
“I overheard the two of you talking.”
Marge stared at her. “When was this?”
“When he told you that you shouldn’t see each other until after his divorce. You sold him a blue spruce.”
The stare continued. “But you weren’t—I didn’t—How could you—?”
“I was in Hailey Brent’s backyard, by the fence.”
“
Spying
on me? How
dare
you!”
“I wasn’t spying on you. I was at the estate sale at the Brent house, digging up lily of the valley to plant behind my shop. I recognized your voice, but not Pierce’s—at least not until he and Joanne came to talk to me yesterday.”
“Oh my God, you didn’t tell them—”
“No, of course not. I’ve had a glimpse of Joanne’s temper.”
Marge sat back in relief. “This is awful, this is so awful. Now you must think—”
“I don’t think anything, except that I happened to be by Hailey’s fence, and if I could overhear you speaking, then she could have, too. Really, you two ought not to have revealing conversations where other people can overhear what you’re saying. Is that what happened? Did Hailey find out about you two and threaten to tell Joanne?”
“We never talked back by the evergreens before, so I don’t know how she could have overheard us. She never told me she knew about Pierce and me. You think I murdered Hailey, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“But I didn’t! I came to you to help me prove that!”
“I know. The problem is, this looks very bad. Killing Hailey might seem an intelligent thing to do to keep Joanne from finding out about you and her husband.”
“But I tell you she didn’t know. All right, she’d been hinting around that she knew something bad about me, but I didn’t know what it could possibly be. Pierce and I have been so very careful it didn’t occur to me that she was referring to our relationship. She didn’t want me to file a complaint with the police about her stealing flowers, and I thought she was trying to prevent that by pretending she knew something bad about me. If I thought she knew about Pierce and was willing to share that knowledge, I would have told her, told the police—I would have told everyone! I would have taken out an ad in the paper: Marge Schultz and Pierce McMurphy are lovers. That would have stopped her gossipy mouth.”
“But what about Joanne?”
“If something happened to me, the police would know who to arrest.”
“So you had no idea what Hailey was hinting about.”
“Well, after a while I thought maybe she really
did
know something, because she was so gleeful about it. But I was sure it wasn’t about Pierce and me. I know my employees wondered why I didn’t make a police report, especially after Hailey took about a quart of my red marigold blooms.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t want even more trouble than there was between us. You know how marigolds bloom: a week after she took them, the plants were covered with flowers again. She didn’t strip the plants of all the flowers, and she didn’t damage the plants; she was careful about that. Like I told you before, she was more of a nuisance than anything.”
Marge leaned forward. “Please believe me. I didn’t know Hailey knew about Pierce and me.”
But Betsy was remembering Philadelphia saying Hailey knew something about Marge she called “illicit.” That was a term often used about an adulterous love affair. On the other hand, if Hailey knew, surely her hints would have clued Marge in to what she knew. Right?
And there the case seemed to come to a halt.