Blackwork (7 page)

Jill said, “It’s interesting that he wasn’t taken to Detox when he got arrested last Thursday.” Detox was a clinic under county contract to care for people in the grip of severe intoxication. Drunks were brought there to sober up under medical supervision.

“Well, he was walking and talking at The Barleywine just before it happened,” said Betsy. “And he gave Lars a pretty good fight when he tried to arrest him. So maybe they thought he was just drunk and disorderly, not in danger.”

“Besides,” said Godwin, “that was Thursday. He died three days later, last night.”

“Don’t you have to be drunk for weeks to die of it?” Emily asked. “He was sober for a week or more before he went on this binge, right?”

“Well,” said Jill, “normally a person will drink for years before his body breaks down under the load. On the other hand, a person drinking for the first time can drink enough in one evening to injure or even kill himself. I don’t think Ryan was in serious trouble. I do know the Department’s been kind of keeping an eye on him, cutting him off at the pass when they see him drunk in public, but that’s because he’s a nuisance drunk.”

Bershada snorted. “Nuisance? That’s putting it politely!”

“Yes, but when he’s sober, he’s fine,” said Jill.

“Was,” said Godwin. “He
was
a nuisance, he
was
fine. Now he’s dead.”

The silence that fell this time was less thunderstruck and more reflective.

“I wonder who called Leona to tell her she was a murderer?” mused Betsy.

“Is
that
why she was so upset?” demanded Godwin.

“Yes.”

“How incredibly gauche and rude!” said Bershada. The others agreed, but the news set off a round of gossip as everyone slowly got back to the normality of stitching. There was no consensus on who might have done it. Ryan was well known in Excelsior for his wildly aggressive drunk personality, only a little less well known for his friendly and helpful sober one. Drunk or sober, he was volubly, often ridiculously, superstitious, and the Monday Bunch agreed he seriously believed Leona eager—and able—to put a curse on him.

“So then whoever called Leona agreed with Ryan probably,” said Doris. “Who do we know who would believe that?”

“Hold on,” said Jill. “Some people just like to stir up trouble.”

“I think it was that friend of his, Joey Mitchell,” said Emily. “He’s probably pretty upset about Ryan’s dying, and he knew Ryan had a problem with Leona. Plus, those two have been friends since high school.”

“Not so much since that accident a few years ago,” said Bershada. “It was Ryan driving the car that smashed Joey’s arm.”

“They were both drunk that night,” noted Alice.

Betsy said, “Joey seemed friendly enough to him in The Barleywine the other night. Sat with him and kept buying him beers.”

“And I suppose Ryan bought a round or two himself,” said Godwin.

“No,” said Betsy. “But that was because he wasn’t supposed to be in The Barleywine in the first place. Billie and Leona banned him after he got drunk and belligerent a time or two. He was only there because he was invited to tell the committee about the fire truck being ready for the parade.”

Godwin, who fancied himself a bit of a sleuth, said, “How about this: Ryan ruined Joey’s arm, so he got Ryan drunk on purpose, hoping he’d get into an accident and ruin
his
arm and not be able to work anymore?” No one seemed to think much of his idea, so he went back to the original question and said, “I think Irene Potter called Leona to tell her she was a murderer. That is just the kind of thing she’d do.”

There was a soft, guilty laugh of agreement around the table.

Irene was Excelsior’s most famous resident artist. With Betsy’s encouragement, she had started selling her very eccentric needlework, first at art fairs, then at local galleries, now to art museums. Her work was brilliant but unsettling. Betsy recalled in particular a flower garden with an evil-looking snake winding its way among resplendent blossoms. Her mind was as eccentric as her work, and she looked at human activity from an angle few others could achieve. Godwin was among the first to see how phenomenal her work was, but that didn’t stop him from laughing at her theories about why people acted as they did. That Irene was as avid a gossip as any person in town only added to his amusement.

“Well, now we know there’s not a chance in hell Leona had anything to do with Ryan’s dying,” said Phil. “Irene hasn’t been right about anyone, ever.”

The others were not sure about that, on the stopped clock theory, but still they chimed in with their opinions on who made the call to Leona. Since actual information was lacking, this was a fruitless exercise. At last, Phil picked the least likely person he could think of: Alice. “She’s been lying to us, y’see,” he insisted, smiling impishly at her. “She’s more superstitious than all the rest of us put together, but she pretends she isn’t. Just ask to look in her purse; I’ll bet you’ll find a membership card in the Old Wives’ Tale of the Month Club.”

Everyone laughed more comfortably, and on that note the meeting began to break up.

F
OR a wonder, it wasn’t raining, nor was the wind blowing a gale. Daylight was fading, but the sky was clear and that deep blue only autumn can turn it. Godwin and Rafael stood at one end of the driving range. They both looked good in gray wool pants and brightly patterned sweaters, and there was something pleasant about the darkness of one and the fairness of the other. Rafael had golf shoes on, but Godwin wasn’t sure he really wanted to become a golfer, so he wore sports shoes in a shade of silver-gray that matched his trousers. They were using Rafael’s clubs—the two men were less than two inches apart in height, so the clubs fit both of them. The driving range was for irons only and had green canvas signs marking distances of fifty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty, and two hundred yards. It was level, with four slightly raised greens complete with flags.

“You’re not really supposed to use a tee on the fairway,” said Rafael, “but I find it helpful sometimes. And it was very helpful when I was a beginner.” He pushed a white tee into the sod and placed one of the range’s orange balls on top of it. “Now, remember what I said about your swing. The ball should not be centered between your feet, but toward the forward foot. Put the club just behind the ball. Keeping the left arm straight, lift the club back, past the level of your right shoulder. Then . . .” Bringing the club down in a swift but not effortful movement, Rafael connected with the ball. With a sharp
click
, it flew down the range to land on a green a hundred yards away. “See how I follow through,” he instructed, and Godwin tore his admiring eyes away from the distant green to see his friend standing in the classic golfer’s twist, right foot up on its toes, club over his left shoulder. “Always follow through,” he repeated, and handed the club, a five iron, to Godwin.

Godwin was athletic, partly because he liked being active and partly because it helped him keep an illusion of youth—he was perilously close to thirty but didn’t look over twenty-three. He played tennis, bocce, and a killer game of croquet, could swim and dive, owned a bicycle (though he rode it only on cool, sunny days), and did just enough of any of this to keep himself slightly buff. So why couldn’t he get the hang of this golf business? Just hit the ball with the stick. Not the ground behind it, not the air above it, not just the very tip-top of the ball so that it fell off the tee and rolled an embarrassing few feet away. He bit his lower lip, balanced his ball in place—after three tries and a resetting of the tee—and silently reciting Rafael’s instructions, took a mighty swing. To his amazement and satisfaction, the ball went flying. Okay, off to the left, but more than fifty yards down the range.

“Well done!” cried Rafael. “I believe you are going to be better than I!”

Godwin started to laugh; he couldn’t help it. He looked into Rafael’s bright brown eyes, kind and amused, and both of them began laughing. When they finally stopped, and after Rafael sent a ball flying nearly two hundred yards, Godwin decided to try hitting the ball without a tee and, to his immense satisfaction, sent it nearly seventy yards. Maybe he would get the hang of this stupid sport after all. He hoped so; it was Rafael’s passion.

Later, in the clubhouse, over hamburgers and beers, Rafael said, “There is something about your boss you have alluded to that rouses my curiosity. Among her other talents, it seems she is also a detective. Is this really true?”

Godwin, unable to speak because of a mouthful of meat and bread, could only nod.

“And is it also true that she will investigate the mysterious death of Ryan McMurphy?”

Godwin shook his head, swallowed, and said, “No, the death is mysterious, but the person who will find the cause is the medical examiner. This isn’t a murder; it’s a medical mystery. Betsy isn’t a doctor.”

“She could investigate the
bruja
.” Seeing Godwin’s incomprehension, he translated for him. “Sorceress.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What is the word? Oh,
witch
. You have a witch living in Excelsior, am I not right?”

“You mean Leona? She’s not a witch, she’s Wiccan.”

“Now I do not understand. What is Wiccan?”

“Wicca. It’s a religion. I think it’s called an ‘earth religion, ’ because its practitioners believe in things like spirits and goddesses. But she doesn’t go around in long black dresses, or ride on a broom, or cook poisons in a cauldron by the light of the moon.”

“But does she cast spells?”

Godwin grimaced. “Well . . . I think so. She believes in magic, I’m sure. But only to make good things happen. She says it’s terribly wrong and dangerous to try to hurt someone with a spell, that it can backfire on you three times over. She makes herbal things, potions and soap, and nice-smelling dried bouquets. But she’s not a wicked person, she’s nice. No one could believe she’s a wicked witch. I mean, she’s a
stitcher
!”

Rafael laughed softly. “You are amazingly sweet and somewhat naïve, you know that? She is not wicked, but she calls it Wicca.” He leaned closer and said, “Do you know my favorite quote? It is from Shakespeare, from his play
Macbeth
, and it goes, ‘And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the spirits of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles—to betray us in deepest consequence.’”

Godwin smiled and said, “If you could taste Leona’s beer, you wouldn’t think it an ‘honest trifle.’”

Rafael said, “You are a . . . cheeky person, do you know that? May I give you a nickname?”

Godwin was instantly interested. “All right, what is it?”

“
Gorrión
. It means ‘sparrow.’”

Godwin couldn’t keep from looking a little disappointed. “Sparrow?”

“When I was a young man, a sparrow flew near me and I reached out my hand without thinking and caught him. He was a cock sparrow, very small in my hand, and I held him up to my face for a closer look. I could feel him struggling to be freed, but instead of being frightened, he reached around and bit me on the thumb. ‘
¡Bravo, Gorrión!
’ I said, and released him.”

“You think I’m brave?” Godwin sat up a little straighter.

“I know it,
mi pequeño Gorrión
.”

S
ERGEANT Mike Malloy took brief notes as Dr. Rendelle reported his findings. The doctor, Hennepin County’s assistant medical examiner, was short, and so obese his stiff movements seemed more a result of tight-fitting skin than a natural reflection of his character. He didn’t make eye contact once during the conversation. “After a superficial examination, I could find no cause for Ryan McMurphy’s death,” he said, his speech as stiff as his movements. “He was very intoxicated, point one eight, but that is not a lethal level. An autopsy may disclose more.”

“So speculate for me, what do you think happened?” asked Mike, taking notes.