Authors: Monica Ferris
Jill made a hushing gesture at Godwin. “Go on,” she said to Betsy. “Did you see anything that struck you as unusual?”
“No—well, nothing important. Just little things. Like there was a knitted square in a pot of indigo dye that otherwise had a skein of yarn. The square had already been dyed some other color, probably red or orange, so it came out brown.”
“What was strange about that?”
“Well, there wasn’t anything else in the dye kitchen that shade, and no other fiber, either dyed or waiting to be dyed, was knitted. It’s probably nothing, but it was a little unusual. Did you know indigo in the pot is green? When you lift the dyed material out into the air, it turns blue.”
“I’d read that somewhere,” said Godwin. “What’s even more interesting to me is that indigo dye has been known for thousands of years, but the formula for making it is complicated and not obvious, so how some really long-ago people without university chem labs figured it out is a real mystery.”
Jill said, “But that’s not the one we’re out to solve, is it?”
“I guess not.” He said it cheerfully, then gestured at Betsy. “Go on, go on, what else struck you as strange?”
Betsy thought. “This is probably even less important, but the wastebasket was empty, it didn’t even have a liner—and there was a box of liners right beside it.”
Jill said, “And that was strange because—?”
“Well, the flowers or whatever Hailey was using in one pot had been strained out and thrown away, but a second pot still had carrot tops in it. Not strained out. It was as if she strained out one pot of dye, threw the material away, big plastic can liner and all, while leaving the second pot with its material sitting right on the stove. It just seemed—inefficient. And from the orderly way everything else in that kitchen was set up, I don’t think Hailey was inefficient.”
“What do you think it means?” asked Godwin.
“I have no idea,” said Betsy. She flung her hands into the air. “I have no idea.”
Seventeen
“A
LL
right, then, never mind, let’s keep going,” said Jill. “What happened next?”
“Philadelphia Halverson, Hailey’s daughter, and Ruth Ladwig, Hailey’s friend, went through the house with me. Philadelphia—isn’t that a great name? But she wants to be called Del. Anyway, Del grew up in the house. So did Hailey, actually. Hailey moved back in as an adult after she divorced her husband, and she took care of both her parents and her children. The house is to be sold, and the proceeds divided between Del and her brother, JR.”
“Is the brother—” began Godwin.
“No, he’s out of it, not desperate for money, so no motive, solid alibi.” Betsy put a hand flat on the table, then turned it over. “On the other hand, he refused to talk to me.”
“What about Philadelphia? Does she have an alibi?”
“Not really. She’s a nurse; she was working the night shift at HCMC. She says she was home alone, asleep. And she agrees with Hailey’s sentiment, that artists—and she’s an artist, she sells knitted figures in art galleries—are allowed special liberties with regard to the law.”
“Hmmm,” said Godwin.
“On the other hand, she has no motive I can discover.”
“What about Hailey’s ex-husband?” asked Jill.
“He lives on the West Coast, married to his third wife, with two young children. It wasn’t a happy divorce, but he seems to have moved on. He hasn’t been back here for years, and he didn’t come to Hailey’s funeral. It seems Hailey didn’t like him or any other man; she acted like she didn’t like Del’s husband, and she tried to convince her friend Randi Moreham that her husband was a rat and she should divorce him. Which gave Randi’s husband, Walter, who didn’t want a divorce, a motive to murder Hailey.”
“Does he have an alibi?”
“Yes, but it’s not a very good one. He was at work, he says, but locked away alone in a conference room working on an urgent project—he’s a commercial artist for an advertising company. No one was allowed to interrupt him. The room had a door into a back corridor he could go out of without being seen. His only proof that he didn’t leave is a finished project. Plus he says he didn’t know Hailey was the source of his wife’s discontent until after she was killed.”
“Is he a rat?” asked Godwin.
“I’ve only talked with him once, but I don’t think so. And now that Hailey’s out of the picture, apparently Randi doesn’t want a divorce, either. They’re in counseling, working things out.”
“It would be a shame,” said Jill, “if it turns out he is a rat after all, just not the kind Randi was thinking he was.”
After a thoughtful silence, Godwin asked, “All right, who else besides Walter are you looking at?”
“Well, there’s Joanne McMurphy. I can’t find what the connection was between Joanne and Hailey, though at least they knew each other.”
Godwin turned to Jill. “She came in here the other day to yell at Betsy for sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. I was here, and so was Irene Potter. She frightened poor Irene half to death. Very scary person, very.”
Betsy said, “If I could find evidence of a quarrel between those two, I’d put her first on my list of suspects. Goddy was not exaggerating about her being scary.”
“Anyone else?”
Betsy started to tell them about the love affair between Pierce McMurphy and Marge Schultz, but thought better of it. Jill was entirely trustworthy, but Godwin . . . well, he was Godwin, and with all the goodwill in the world, he still might let something slip. And Joanne was a dangerous person to anger.
“You know what’s missing?” said Betsy. “I don’t really know any of these people, not them or their friends and relations. I don’t have a deep sense of what they’re like, or any way to find out.”
“We know what Joanne is like,” said Godwin with a dramatic shudder.
“We know what she’s like when she’s lost her temper, which I’ve heard she does frequently. But what’s she like when she’s calm? And does she have a job? What do you suppose she does?”
“Works for the IRS,” suggested Godwin promptly. “Or a collection agency.”
Ignoring him, Jill said to Betsy, “You’ve talked with Philadelphia—Del—about her mother, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but she spoke of a woman with an artistic soul who secretly liked Del’s husband, not a woman who was a thief and a man-hater.” Betsy consulted her notes. “Actually, I think I got a, a
different
, maybe more accurate, feel for Hailey from Ruth Ladwig.”
“What did she say?”
“That Hailey always thought she was right about everything. That she had strong opinions about politics and religion. That she was intelligent and talented and had a sharp sense of humor. That she loved to listen to gossip and then go tell the person being gossiped about what was said. Ruth forgot that one time and had to bribe Hailey with the cost of her lunch not to repeat something Ruth told her.”
Godwin laughed, but Betsy looked up from her notes. “Does that jar any ideas loose?”
Jill shook her head. Godwin, still laughing, said, “Obviously, the murderer is Ruth. Bribing Hailey with lunch wasn’t enough; she had to shoot Hailey to keep her quiet.”
Jill said, “Goddy, if you’re not going to be serious, you should leave the table!” But she was laughing now, too.
* * *
A
FTER
dinner that evening, Betsy and Connor sat down in her living room to work on projects. He was knitting a glove—he had given several pairs as Christmas presents last year, and friends who hadn’t gotten a pair gave envious glances to those who had; so he figured he’d better get busy. The current pair was being done in pink with purple “fingernails.”
Betsy was working on a piece of counted cross-stitch made from one of Valerie Pfeiffer’s paintings: Fuchsia Chick-Chat. The chart was designed and produced by Heritage Crafts and featured a pair of young, fuzzy-headed chickadees, one open-beaked in song, the other glaring as if wishing his brother (sister?) would Just. Shut. Up. The illustration was an enlarged photograph of the finished chart, the stitching very visible. Betsy found this to be part of its charm, and instead of working it on 27-count fabric, as the pattern called for, she was working it on 11-count Aida. At the moment, she was stitching the bright pink and red fuchsia bloom hanging from the twig the birds were sitting on.
“How about a movie on Sunday?” asked Connor.
“Anything good playing at the Dock?” The Dock was Excelsior’s movie theater, small but comfortable, with good popcorn.
Connor named two possibilities, one an animated comedy from Pixar, and one an action film with lots of explosions.
Though Betsy preferred comedies, she knew Connor had an affinity for pulse-pounding action. “All right, either one,” she said, knowing which one he’d choose. Rather than try to follow the action plot, she could put her fingers in her ears and plan an ad campaign for the shop.
A pleasant silence fell, as the two continued doing their needlework projects.
An idea began nudging Betsy, but she was focusing on backstitching the flower petals and ignored it.
The idea came back, insisting she pay attention, and she put her cross-stitch away. As she had done before, she got out her knitting—she was working on a plaited basket weave–stitched scarf in bright russet. Once the pattern had been established in her mind—it was a two-row pattern—it wasn’t difficult. And it was good-looking. Betsy was thinking it would make a nice Christmas present for Rafael. But knitting a simple repeating pattern was also a way to clear her mind for some serious thinking.
The idea was to make a list of what she needed that would push the puzzle of Hailey Brent’s murder forward. She wasn’t prepared to do any deducing; she wanted more information. For example, she needed to find out what the connection was between Joanne McMurphy and Hailey. Who was it who said she thought Hailey was a little afraid of Joanne? Irene.
Hmmm, how reliable is Irene?
she wondered. But Amy also mentioned Joanne as a friend of Hailey’s.
Must be something to it if both of them knew about it.
But what could Joanne and Hailey possibly have in common?
Was Joanne a man-hater? More like a people-hater. Had she always been like this? Probably not, or Pierce would never have married her. Betsy needed to find out what changed her. Was part of it Hailey’s malign influence? Had Hailey and Joanne found common ground in a shared belief in the uselessness of men? Would Pierce know? Though Joanne had yet to cause anyone actual physical harm that Betsy knew of, she had come close enough often enough to make her a valid suspect. And, after a period of thought long enough to finish two rows of knitting, Betsy recalled Mike Malloy saying Joanne had no alibi—something to ask Joanne herself about.
The problem was, of course, that Betsy didn’t want to talk to Joanne unless the woman was tied securely to a chair.
And then there was that red marigold blooming in Hailey’s overgrown garden. What did it mean? According to both Marge and her employee Katy, Hailey didn’t buy plants from Green Gaia, and she only stole blooms. Anyway, last year’s commercially sold red marigolds were purchased by just three gardeners, none of them Hailey; and this year’s weren’t yet for sale when Hailey was murdered. Red marigolds sometimes seeded themselves, but where did Hailey get them, if the only ones available were sold by Green Gaia?
What if the solution to Hailey’s murder had something to do with red marigolds?
Which made her think of Marge. Betsy knit a row and was halfway down another when she remembered something Godwin had said in jest.
But what if he was right? What if someone murdered Hailey to stop her mouth forever?
And what if that someone was Marge?
Eighteen
O
VER
a bedtime snack of frozen yogurt, Connor said, “I can tell this case is still weighing on you,
machree
. Or is it something else? Something wrong down in the shop?”
“No, it’s the case, or more like one aspect of it. I need somehow to talk to Pierce McMurphy, or, better, his wife, Joanne. I’ve been trying to think how to approach them.”
“I think a phone call would be the best way to start.”
“I can’t just call them up!”
“Why not? Joanne can’t get at you through the phone.”
“What would I say?”
“How about, ‘Joanne, we need to talk. May I buy you lunch?’ That’s harmless enough. Meet in some public place, of course.”
“Of course.” Betsy meant it sarcastically, but before she could voice it, she changed her mind. Why not try it? She turned to Connor with a smile. “You are such a brilliant darling, going straight to the center of a problem!”
He laughed, pleased. “Anything else I can help you with?”
She frowned and sighed. “I want to tell you something that must not go outside this room. It’s a piece of very dangerous information.”
He sobered at once. “All right. What is it?”
“Marge Schultz and Pierce McMurphy have been having an affair.”
He stared at her. “Are you sure? How did you find out?”
“I actually overheard them talking. I was uprooting lily of the valley in Hailey’s backyard—you remember, I brought home another batch of them for the hill in back—and heard their conversation right through the fence. He was saying he loved her, but they needed to avoid each other for now. She told him he needed to get working on a divorce. I didn’t know who the man was until Pierce and Joanne came in to apologize for Joanne’s outburst, and that’s when I recognized his voice. If somehow Joanne found out— No, wait a minute, that won’t work. Joanne would kill Marge, not Hailey.” Betsy bit the inside of her cheek, thinking.
“So obviously Hailey didn’t find out about it and tell Joanne,” said Connor.
“But I think she did find out about it,” argued Betsy. “Marge said Hailey had been teasing her about some secret she’d discovered. And Hailey told her daughter, Philadelphia, that she’d found out something ‘illicit’ about Marge. And when Hailey did that dyeing demo in my shop, she wondered out loud if Marge hadn’t stolen the flowers she brought to use in her dye bath. Unless Marge has a slew of secrets, I think Hailey was hinting about the affair.”
Connor held up a hand. “Hold on, stealing isn’t the same as adultery.”
“Well, I guess you can think of it as stealing another woman’s husband. But Marge is adamant that she and Pierce have been very careful and she’s sure Hailey didn’t know. But what other kind of hold could Hailey have over Marge? Marge says Hailey wouldn’t do more than hint. But what else could it be? Marge says she doesn’t know what Hailey’s secret was. See what I mean?” she said, throwing up her hands. “Every time I learn something, all it does is lead me to something else I need to find out!”
“All right, all right, settle down,” said Connor in his calm voice. “If something doesn’t make sense, it’s because we’re not looking at it right. I think it’s possible Hailey didn’t know about Pierce and Marge. So she didn’t tell Joanne. Maybe Hailey was just bluffing.”
Betsy smiled. “You know Godwin and his love of old-time customs and beliefs. He told me that it was widely believed back in the 1800s that if you sent a telegram to a random bunch of people reading, ‘Fly, all is discovered,’ that most of them would immediately pack up and slip out of town.”
Connor laughed. “I doubt that’s true anymore.”
“All the same, I really need to talk to Joanne. Or Pierce. Or both.”
“So call them tomorrow.”
* * *
T
HE
next morning—a slow one in the shop, unfortunately—Betsy was looking through the current issue of
Needlework Retailer
to see what new products might interest her customers. She was also building her nerve to make the phone call. She had looked up the McMurphy phone number, and wavered between hoping they were both out, or both at home, doing something pleasant around the house and therefore in a good mood.
Godwin had the day off and was out on the links with Rafael, so she couldn’t ask his advice. Jill and Lars had taken the children up to their cabin in Cass County, so she couldn’t talk to Jill, either. It had been Connor’s idea to call the McMurphy home, so she couldn’t bounce her indecision off him and expect him to suggest she just skip it.
Oh well.
She picked up the phone and, before she could change her mind again, dialed the number.
It was answered on the second ring by Pierce, who said in his pleasant, slow baritone, “Hello?”
“This is Betsy Devonshire—”
“It is you! I saw the name on caller ID, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Mr. McMurphy, I’m sure you will think me audacious for calling, but I really need to talk with you about Hailey Brent.”
“I have already spoken with Sergeant Malloy about Ms. Brent.”
“I’m sure you have. But sometimes talking with a different person will bring a new perspective. If you really feel you won’t bring anything new to the case, perhaps if I spoke with Joanne—”
“You’re insane if you think Joanne will talk to you.”
There was a brief, faint sound of a struggle, then a new voice, a harsh woman’s voice, said, “Who is this?”
Betsy replied in her gentlest voice, “This is Betsy Devonshire.”
“I thought I warned you to keep your nosy nose out of what doesn’t concern
you!”
Betsy had to yank the phone away from her ear. She paused for a couple of seconds, then said in a conciliatory voice, “I’m sorry you think it doesn’t concern me, Ms. McMurphy, because it does. I’ve been asked by someone to look into Hailey’s death, and I have been doing so, so I am involved.”
“Who asked you?”
“I don’t think I ought to tell you that, at least not right now.”
“Oh yeah?” The rude, childish taunt made Betsy smile. Joanne was suddenly merely cross, not scary.
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute, I think I would like to talk to you! You think you know so much? I bet you don’t know anything!”
Betsy hesitated. What to say to this volatile person? “That’s possible. But I appreciate your agreeing to talk with me. When do you want to do it?”
“How about right this minute?” Now Joanne’s tone was belligerent.
Betsy managed not to sigh. “I can’t right now. I’m at work. But I can meet you for lunch somewhere. My treat.”
“You think I can’t afford to buy my own lunch?”
Betsy bit down hard on her exasperation. “I don’t know what to think, that’s why I want to talk with you.”
Joanne snorted, but said amiably enough, “That’s probably the first honest thing you’ve said to me.”
Betsy laughed. “You could be right. Where shall we meet?”
“Maynard’s. Outside on the deck. One o’clock.” She was not asking, she was telling.
“Fine. Will you bring Pierce?”
“Ha!” She hung up.
I guess not,
thought Betsy.
Wow, talking to her is like taking that carnival ride that goes up and down while it spins around while it’s going in circles.
Betsy had barely blinked the feeling away when the door opened and a handsome, plump blonde in her fifties came in, limping on her cane. Her name, Betsy remembered, was Susan Okkonen—a Finnish name. She was dressed all in brown and gold with a gold mouse-shaped pin on her blouse.
“Hello, Betsy,” she said shyly, and came to the desk to rest her big leopard-print purse on it.
“Hi, Susan. How may I help you today?”
“I have an entry for your template contest, if that’s okay.” She opened her purse and brought out a big manila envelope from which she took the pattern, which was on black evenweave fabric.
Betsy was a little surprised. Susan was a cross-stitcher, all right, as well as a knitter and crocheter, but she liked to do extra-fine work, sometimes as small as thirty-two count over one. Betsy reached out and took the piece.
Wow
.
“This is really nice,” said Betsy, after she’d admired it for a few seconds. Using floss that shaded from pink to deep red, Susan had worked each rectangle of the template in a different pattern of delicate, lacy stitches.
“I call it Leaded Glass Windows,” said Susan.
“It’s beautiful,” said Betsy. “I’m really glad you decided to enter.” She looked up to see Susan’s hazel eyes shining at the praise, and took advantage of the moment to persuade her to take over a small knitting class whose students were struggling with their learning skills. Susan was a superb teacher if the class was small, and she seemed to do best if the pupils were hard to teach.
* * *
B
Y
noon the day had turned hot. Though Maynard’s was within walking distance from Crewel World, Betsy elected to drive; no reason to arrive breathless and perspiring when she needed her wits about her.
Maynard’s was a good restaurant in an orange-brick two-story building right on the lakeshore. Inside, it was dark and cool, with big, multipaned, floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. Out back was a broad, long deck overlooking the bay, set with nautical red chairs around high round tables, and green mesh benches marking the booths.
Betsy arrived exactly on time and was shown to a booth. The shoreline here had a nice marina, wooden ramps lined with slips. Customers could arrive in boats, tie up, and step ashore for lunch. A young couple on a Sea-Doo was doing just that as Betsy watched.
It was a really pretty day. Sailboats and sailboards dotted the bay and the lake beyond. A welcoming little breeze was coming off the lake; the loose silk sleeves of Betsy’s pale green dress fluttered in it. After fifteen minutes, when Joanne had not appeared, Betsy decided she wasn’t coming. She ordered a glass of white wine and began to study the menu.
Suddenly Joanne was there, dropping with a sigh onto the bench across the table from Betsy and offering a slightly insane smile. “I’m late,” she announced. Her face was shiny with perspiration. “I decided to walk,” she continued. “I didn’t realize how hot it is outside today.”
“Would you like a cold drink?” asked Betsy.
“Of course,” she said, as if thinking Betsy was stupid to even ask.
Betsy twisted on the bench to signal a server.
“Lemonade with extra ice,” said Joanne to the server, a nice-looking young man with extremely short dark hair.
They both turned to their menus. When the lemonade came, Joanne dropped her menu, picked up the glass, and rubbed it across her forehead. “Ahhh,” she said of its cooling effect. Then she drank deeply.
Betsy ordered first. “I think I’ll have Frannie’s chicken salad, please,” she said to the waiting server.
“Buffalo chicken wrap,” said Joanne brusquely, “and another lemonade.”
When the server was gone, Betsy said, “Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”
“Turning pro?” Joanne sneered, then touched her fingers to her lips apologetically.
Betsy replied mildly, “No, I just can’t always rely on my memory.”
“I won’t be saying so much that you can’t remember all of it,” said Joanne, less sharply this time. She drank the last of her lemonade.
“All right.” Betsy stopped reaching for her purse and took another sip of wine.
“Do you always start drinking at lunchtime?”
Betsy tilted her head. “Are you deliberately trying to start a fight?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve changed your mind about talking to me.”
Joanne’s eyes twinkled. “You’re pretty astute.”
“So you don’t want to talk to me. Then why did you come?”
Joanne hesitated. “Because I keep changing my mind. I said I’d come, then I wasn’t going to come, then I decided I should come so I started hurrying, then I slowed down, then I hurried again. You confuse me!”
“I don’t mean to. I’m just trying to figure out who killed Hailey Brent, and I’m hoping you can help me. How well did you know her?”
“Oh, pretty well. We met at Tai Chi class, mostly. And at the beach. She was a good swimmer.”
“One of these days I’d like to take up Tai Chi. It’s so beautiful, all those slow movements, like an underwater dance.”
“Underwater dance, I like it!” Joanne’s smile grew broader and broader until it turned into raucous laughter, which then quickly faded. “Even just thinking about it calms me down,” she said.
Wondering if thinking about it had helped Joanne stop laughing, Betsy said, “How long have you been doing Tai Chi?”
“About three years. I’m still a beginner.”
“Really? How long does it take to stop being a beginner?”
“It depends on the person. Hailey had been doing it for about ten years. She said she was still learning, but I think she got good at it right away. She had the patience and temperament for it. She helped me with some of the trickier movements—it takes good balance. You move slowly”—Joanne turned her head to one side and moved her arms in a slow motion, one palm up and one down—“so you can’t slip-slide fast-forward your way through the hard ones.”
“Is there a teacher right here in Excelsior?”
“No, but there’s one in Wayzata and another one in Saint Louis Park. Hailey would have made a good teacher, but she said she didn’t have the time.”
“She was a good teacher,” Betsy agreed. “She put on a good dyeing demo in my shop.”
Joanne’s pale blue eyes widened. “D-dying—?”
“
Dyeing
with an
e
. Vegetable dyes.”
“I knew that!” Joanne shouted angrily, startling patrons at other tables around them. She shut her eyes tight for a few seconds while her lips moved. “Sorry,” she muttered as her eyes opened again.
What was the matter with this woman? “It’s all right,” said Betsy. “It’s a mistake other people have made, too. She died in a place where she dyed—a horrible meeting of homophones.”
Joanne stared at her while she parsed this. “Oh,” she said at last, “she was killed in that basement where she mixed her dyes.” She added disapprovingly, “That’s a grotesque joke.”
“It’s not a joke. It just sounds like one when we try to talk about what happened. Do you remember where you were when it happened?”