Authors: Monica Ferris
Thirteen
T
HE
Monday Bunch was in session. An informal club of stitchers, its members gathered early Monday afternoons in Crewel World to stitch and gossip. Present at this session were serene Patricia, earthy Bershada, naive Emily, stalwart Jill, bluff Alice, friendly Doris—and rakish Phil, the lone male member.
Phil wasn’t a hanger-on, he was a committed counted cross-stitcher. Normally, he worked on train-themed pieces, but he’d been taken by Winter Retreat, a twelve-by-sixteen-inch Gold Collection outdoors pattern, and was working hard on it. It featured four boldly marked Canada geese standing in a field of tall tan grass beside a body of dark water. There were glints of gold in the grass and a gray, overcast sky into which more geese were vanishing. It was a finicky piece, he was finding, with lots of changes of subtle colors in the grass, sky, and water. Working on the piece was stretching his talent and his patience to their limits. Which, after all, was not a bad thing.
Betsy had an errand to run and so she wasn’t there when the meeting convened.
“Anyone know how Julie’s doing?” asked Doris in her husky voice. She was working on a small needlepoint canvas of two swans, a gift for a friend who liked birds.
“She’s home from the hospital,” said Jill, who was crocheting a tiny cap to be donated to a neonatal care unit. “But she’s not able to drive yet.”
Phil said, “She’s already got a plastic thumb and a pacemaker; with that new hip she’s turning into a geriatric Barbie doll. Damn.” He consulted his pattern, grimaced in confirmation, and began to unpick a couple of stitches.
Bershada looked up from the birth announcement she was cross-stitching and said, “You better pray you don’t need a joint replaced one of these days.”
“Why? I might enjoy being a bionic Ken!” He lifted his chin and looked sideways to give them all the benefit of his profile. While he might once have been a rather handsome young man, he was, now in his seventies, looking a bit shopworn. But his wife, Doris, smiled tenderly at him.
Patricia paused in her work on a very intricate candlewick pattern of snowflakes to ask quietly, “How is Betsy doing?”
After a pause, Jill said, “She’s not happy with the way the Hailey Brent case is moving.”
“Because it’s not moving very well, is it?” said Emily diffidently. She was knitting the second of a pair of sky blue mittens for her second-oldest daughter, who was on a growth spurt and might not even be able to wear these bigger ones come November.
“No, it isn’t,” said Jill.
“Poor thing,” said Emily.
Alice put down the afghan square she was crocheting. “Godwin,” she called in her deep voice, “does Betsy seem depressed to you?”
“Not especially, why?” Godwin came out from the back, where he’d been sorting a shipment of cross-stitch patterns to be put into bins. “Have you noticed something?” He looked concerned.
“I think we all have,” said Alice, looking around the table. The others seemed as if they’d like to disagree, but none did.
There was a little silence, then Doris spoke up. “I think we’re all worried about Betsy’s investigation into Hailey Brent’s death.”
Phil nodded in agreement. “This thing is taking a long time, longer than any other case she’s tried her hand at.”
“Is she making any progress at all?” asked Bershada.
“She’s made a lot of progress,” said Godwin stoutly. “It’s just taking a while to pull things together. And important parts are still missing.”
“Like what?” asked Bershada.
“Yes, maybe we can help,” said Phil.
“Well, I know for one she would like to be able to interview Walter Moreham.”
“Who’s he?” asked Emily.
Godwin gestured while he considered how to explain, a book of cross-stitch patterns in one hand. “Randi Moreham’s husband. Hailey was trying to persuade Randi to get a divorce, and when Hailey was killed Randi realized she really didn’t want one. And Walter had said from the start he didn’t want one, either, so now they’re working on staying together. But you see, that gave Walter a motive for removing Hailey’s influence.”
“So why doesn’t Betsy just go talk to him?” asked Emily.
“Because she has no legal standing. He’s a stranger to her, and she’s not a police investigator, so she can’t just go knocking on his door.”
“Does he know she wants to talk to him?” asked Patricia.
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Well, now, maybe he does,” said Jill. “Betsy has talked to Randi, and I can’t imagine that Randi didn’t tell her husband about it.”
“So why hasn’t he come forward?”
Jill raised an eyebrow with a little twist of her head, encouraging them to consider the question.
Patricia said, “Betsy’s trying to prove that Marge Schultz didn’t do it, so that means she’s looking for other suspects. And Walter is not interested in being one.”
* * *
T
HE
door sounded and Betsy came in, using her back to push the door open because she had a big box in her arms. Godwin hurried to hold the door for her.
“Thanks, Goddy,” she said. “These must be the baskets we ordered.” Betsy used baskets to display yarn and counted cross-stitch patterns in the shop. She also sold baskets. She carried the big box to the checkout desk and put it down with a sigh. “No wonder the post office wanted me to come pick this up,” she said. “This box would’ve taken up half the back of their little van. Hello, everyone,” she added, looking at her friends around the table.
“You must have more muscles than you look like, carrying that box by yourself,” said Emily, whose grammar was not her strong point.
“No, baskets aren’t heavy, just bulky,” said Betsy. “Sorry to have missed the start of your meeting. What were you talking about?”
“You, of course,” said Phil.
Betsy sighed. Any member not present was often talked about. “Nothing too unflattering, I hope.”
Phil said, “Well, we hear there’s someone you’d like to talk to: Walter Moreham.”
Betsy had been rummaging in a drawer for a box cutter. She stopped and looked at him. “Yes, that’s so.”
“Well, I think I can arrange that. Walt plays poker every other Wednesday evening with a group I’m also a member of.”
“Well, there you go, girl!” cheered Bershada. “Good for you, Phil! Are you meeting this Wednesday?”
“As a matter of fact, we are.” He looked at Betsy. “Shall I speak to him?”
“All right, yes. Thank you. But don’t be disappointed if he says no.”
With wifely pride, Doris said, “I think Phil can get him to say yes.”
* * *
P
HIL
wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know Walt all that well. The man was one of the quiet ones, a conservative player who, while cheerful, rarely laughed out loud, and who rarely either lost or won big. Yet he was a faithful player, hardly ever missing a session.
Phil tried to think how best to approach Walt. Would a direct appeal work? Or should he play it cool, let someone else bring up the topic of Hailey Brent’s murder? Surely someone would. The fact of it going unsolved for over a month was a complaint heard everywhere. Then he could brag a little about Betsy and work it around to her still needing to talk to some people.
This week they were meeting at Paul Miley’s house. Paul had beer and soft drinks set out, along with chips, dip, and crackers and cheese. They gathered in the “man room,” down in the basement, which was furnished with a pool table, a poker table, a big elderly refrigerator, and a little wet bar. Neon signs advertising beer lit up the cream-colored walls and strewed patches of color across the Berber carpet.
The six men each bought forty dollars in chips from their host. The highest value was five dollars, a chip rarely used.
They popped open beers and began with a complaint about the weather. It had been a slow-opening spring, but now it was too warm and dry.
Kurt, the youngest, who lived with his severely handicapped brother in a condo apartment, said, “If they don’t run the sprinklers every other evening the grass turns brown.”
“My dad washes his car twice a week, trying to make it rain,” said Paul, a big, genial man with a close-cropped gray beard.
“Maybe we should start a movement,” suggested Parker, a very obese man in his fifties. “Everyone washes their car twice a week.”
“Can I run it through a gas station car wash?” asked Mick, a short man with big ears and a crooked smile. “Or does that superstition only work if you wash it by hand?”
Paul appeared to consider that. “I think washing by hand makes it stronger—but only if you do it yourself. Hiring a neighbor kid to do it doesn’t count.”
Walter, a tall, handsome man not yet forty, with steady light blue eyes, said, “We have two cars. Do we have to wash both of them, or can we alternate?”
It was clear to Phil that they weren’t going to talk about the murder. He said, “Let’s get this show on the road. Come to the table, and let’s cut the cards to see who deals first.”
They began playing at around seven thirty and stopped for a break at nine thirty, rising from the table to walk around the big room. They made jokes about the neon signs. “If the county attorney peeks in a window and sees all that advertising, he’ll make you buy a liquor license,” laughed Kurt. They ate chips and dip—the cheese and crackers were for during the game, as they did not mess up the cards like greasy potato chips did.
Phil walked over to Walter, who was standing near the refrigerator. “Get me a brewski, too, will you?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Walter.
They lifted the tabs on the cans, and Phil took a swig from his. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”
“What about?” Walter cocked his head a little, hearing the discomfort in Phil’s voice.
Phil, wincing at Walter’s perception, abandoned any attempt at subtlety. “I have a friend who would really, really like to talk to you.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
Walter smiled and proved himself not so perceptive after all. “No, thanks, I’m happily married.”
Phil forced a laugh. “No, no, it’s not like that. My friend’s name is Betsy Devonshire and she owns a needlework shop. But she investigates crime on the side, and she’s damn good at it. She’s working on a case, and she needs to talk to you about it.”
Walter’s mouth opened, then shut again. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s important. The work she does on these things is important.”
“This must be about Hailey Brent’s murder,” Walter said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve already talked to a police investigator about that.”
“Of course you have. Your wife knew Hailey Brent.”
“You seem to know a hell of a lot about this.”
“That’s not important.”
“Yes, it is. What, has this Betsy person got some kind of pipeline to the police department?”
“No, this is information she’s obtained on her own.”
“And shared with you—and who else?”
Phil shrugged and lied. “How would I know? She asked me to ask you if you’d talk to her.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know that, either. She’s just gathering information, and she thinks you might be able to help. She’s solved a couple of murders in her time, and she would like to help the police solve this one. You can ask Mike Malloy about her, if you want. He’ll tell you she’s good. Hell, ask your wife.”
“Come on, you two,” called Paul from the poker table. “You’re holding up the game.”
“Think about it,” urged Phil. “Let me know before we go home.”
* * *
W
ALTER
had three sevens, a good hand in a game with no wild cards. He saw the bet of fifty cents and raised it a quarter.
He didn’t know Phil very well. He saw him as a wiseass who was fond of bluffing at poker and who played more for fun than to win pots. Not his favorite kind of person—though Phil was very witty, and occasionally even laugh-out-loud funny. This request—that he talk with Betsy Devonshire—came as a total surprise; he hadn’t known Phil was acquainted with the woman. He had suspected Ms. Devonshire wanted to talk to him—Randi thought it might be so—but he was against it.
Phil saw his quarter raised, and raised it another quarter. He was smiling in a superior way, but he often did that when he was bluffing. The other two remaining players folded. Walter studied Phil’s face, shrugged internally, and called the bet.
He won the hand—Phil had a pair of nines.
“Good call,” said Phil, his smile turned rueful.
Then it was Phil’s turn to deal and he called seven card stud, deuces, and one-eyed jacks wild.
Typical
, thought Walter, whose favorite game was five card draw, nothing wild. He studied Phil as he dealt cards facedown, then faceup, calling each faceup card as he put it in front of a player and remarking on it.
“King of hearts, nice but no help; ten of spades, that’s a pair, watch out; jack of clubs, that’s three clubs,” and so forth.
Still he must not let personal dislike of a man’s style at poker affect his judgment regarding his request.
Randi, bless her heart, had found Ms. Devonshire a kind and sympathetic listener—but she had found Hailey Brent to be the same, and she was certainly wrong there.
Walter couldn’t figure this Devonshire woman out. She wasn’t a cop, she wasn’t a private investigator for hire, so what was she doing messing around with a murder she had no real interest in? Was she just some kind of super snoopy person? That couldn’t be it; Phil wouldn’t have invited him to talk to Sergeant Malloy about her unless Malloy knew and approved of her poking around. Walter had heard of her, of course; just about everyone in town had. Funny how they all seemed to accept her investigating as if she were just another branch of the police department.
“Your bet,” said Phil, calling him back to the game. Walter had three clubs showing and another one in the hole. There was another facedown card to come. A look at the cards on the table showed fewer than average clubs faceup. That fact was not enough to make him raise, but he called the bet.
“Down and dirty,” announced Phil, distributing the final card facedown.
Walter took a look and carefully prevented his expression from showing his pleasure. He raised fifty cents in the next round of betting. Two players dropped out, his bet was called—and he lost when Paul had four tens, a deuce, and a one-eyed jack making two of them.
I should have considered all those wild cards
, thought Walter. Phil’s request that he talk to Betsy Devonshire had distracted him.