“Ms. Devonshire, this is Charlie Nye. Is Godwin there?”
“Certainly.” She handed the receiver to Godwin. “Charlie Nye,” she said.
“Well, hello again!” said Godwin cheerfully. He listened, the smile turning to a frown. “No, of course I didn’t take it, why would I do that? Besides, the police warned us not to touch anything.” He listened more briefly. “Yes, I guess you should ask them.” Pause. “No, I can’t imagine, either. Yes, could you let me know? Thanks, bye.”
“What?” asked Betsy when he had hung up.
“John’s computer is missing. Charlie was going to go through its files to see if there were some instructions for, you know . . .”
Betsy nodded.
“He told me upstairs, the police said he could go into the house, and I told him John kept all kinds of notes and things on his computer. And the computer isn’t in his den. It’s gone.”
“Is he going to notify the police?”
“Yes. But isn’t it strange? Do you suppose that whoever took our jewelry came back for the computer? He must’ve had a key—well, of course he did! He got in the first time without breaking a lock!”
“But who, besides you—and the Molly Maid—has a key to the house?” asked Betsy.
“No one. Well, no one I know of. Isn’t that strange?” He shivered and stared at Betsy with frightened eyes.
The mystery was solved ten minutes later, when Charlie called back to say the computer had been taken by the police, who wanted to see if John had been cruising the personals, looking for a connection with someone who might have proved deadly.
“The purple robe,” said Godwin, with wounded eyes. “Someone ate John’s food, drank his wine, took a bath in his tub—and murdered him.”
Nine
BETSY and Godwin worked on Saturday. It was a busy day, lots of working women had only Saturdays to browse, so part-timer Shelly also came in. The weather was nice, sunny, and warm, which added to the number of people out and about. Jill stopped by close to noon, looking for gold Kreinik braid for a needlepoint canvas she was working on.
“Heard anything?” asked Betsy, sotto voce.
“Mike found someone to make two copies of the hard drive out of John’s computer and they sent one to the state crime lab for scrutiny,” murmured Jill.
“I hope they find an e-mail from the person who was in John’s house last week,” said Godwin, who’d been hovering. “It gives me goosebumps to think I saw the robe he was wearing when he murdered John.”
“Now, Goddy, you don’t know that,” said Betsy. “He might have just been a guest.”
“No,” said Godwin firmly, shaking his head. “I know it,
here
—” He thumped himself on the chest. “I saw the robe of a
murderer
.”
Jill smiled over Godwin’s head at Betsy, who smiled very faintly back—but Godwin caught it. “You don’t believe me!” he accused her. He turned and repeated the accusation to Jill. “You think I’m lying!”
“Now, Goddy, I would never call you a liar. I just don’t see how you can be so sure the person who murdered John Nye did it while wearing a purple bathrobe. The police don’t know—yet—who wore that robe, and they don’t have any evidence that he’s the person who murdered John Nye. I know that preliminary testing showed no bloodstains on the robe.”
Godwin took a breath, then found he had nothing more to say. Jill had that effect on emotional outbursts. It was like shouting into a duvet; she soaked up sound and fury without them leaving a trace.
“You wait,” he managed to grumble and walked away.
“You’re right about that. We’ll find the person responsible.” She said to Betsy, “I’ll take these two spools, please.”
As Betsy handed her her change, she asked, “Jill, what does Mike think?”
“He’s trying to keep an open mind. He says it could be the visitor, it could be a lock-picking burglar, it could be someone John knew and let in. It could even be the Molly Maid.” Jill smiled, took the little bag of gold braid, and left.
Sunday the shop was closed, as were almost all of Excelsior’s businesses. Betsy went to church and on coming back home found Godwin cleaning the apartment. She changed clothes and started in herself, and did laundry besides. With his help, the work was soon done and Godwin cooked a Sunday dinner of roast chicken stuffed with garlic, rosemary, and lemon quarters. That evening, after doing the books, Betsy worked on her counted needlepoint project called Independence Day.
“What do you think of counted needlepoint?” asked Betsy.
“Oh, it’s okay. Easier to see the holes in canvas, of course. I like this one because each individual piece of the pattern is attractive and all, but it’s not until you see them all together that you realize it’s a fireworks display. I mean, look at this big one in the center: it’s
square,
with a gem in the center. It could be anything.”
“I’ve seen shaped fireworks,” said Betsy.
“Yes, but not like this. And all these squiggly things—cute, but what are they? Yet, here, look at the picture of the model. Obviously,
obviously,
it’s a fireworks display.” He stepped back from the canvas in its stretcher bars and cocked his head at an angle, narrowing his eyes. “But it’s, too early to say if your piece will work.” He went back to his knitting.
Betsy, smiling, reflected that it was indeed peculiar how the human mind worked, and went back to stitching.
MONDAY they were back in the shop. At little after one in the afternoon the Monday Bunch gathered, stitchery in hand, gossip spilling from every tongue.
“Joe Mickels’s sister wants to ship her triplets out for a month’s stay with Joe this summer,” said Martha. “I hear he’s trying to find a summer camp for them up on the Iron Range.” The Iron Range was in the northernmost part of the state, many hours from Excelsior. Martha had just started a large counted cross-stitch project of a lighthouse on jagged rocks with violent waves throwing foam nearly to the top of it. She turned the knobs to tighten the stretcher bars and pulled a threaded needle from the fabric.
“I heard the girls are very sweet,” said Doris. She was cutting bright red DMC floss into lengths, separating the threads and putting them together again in twos.
“You heard wrong,” asserted Martha, and there were smiles all around.
Then Alice dropped her bomb. “I hear Patricia Fairland is up for parole,” she said, her crochet needle flashing as she worked another of her endless series of afghan squares. She was doing them in yarn that could be washed in hot water, because she was sending afghans to a missionary group caring for orphans in Afghanistan. They had asked for knitted blankets, but the notion of afghans to Afghanistan was too amusing to pass up.
Emily looked around for Betsy, who had turned to stone back behind the box shelves, out of sight.
Several years ago Patricia Fairland tried to frighten Betsy out of town with a series of near-miss attempts on her life, one of which came far nearer than she intended. That Patricia might be getting out of prison was a startling idea.
“Does Betsy know?” Emily asked.
“I don’t think so, she hasn’t said anything.”
“Why do I think I remember that name?” asked Bershada, who was doing a counted cross-stitch pattern of a thistle on a plaid ground. “Patricia Fairland, Patricia Fairland.”
“That’s right, you weren’t in the Monday Bunch when Betsy was nearly killed by Patricia.”
“
Killed?
When was this?”
“A few years ago. Betsy was investigating a tapestry they found in a back room of Trinity Church. We were going to restore it.”
“I remember that!” said Alice. “There was a message in that tapestry that said Patricia was an adultress and the pastor was a thief.”
“I don’t remember hearing about any of this,” said Doris, who was folding her aida fabric to find its center.
“It must be because she only
nearly
killed Betsy that Patricia is up for parole already,” noted Emily, who was knitting a little yellow sweater with cable stitching up its front and down its back.
“Do you think she should get it, Betsy?” asked Martha, looking up and seeing her coming.
“Get what?” asked Betsy, stopping by the table with a chart of Maru’s Aztec symbol in her hand, an innocent expression on her face. She gave it to Doris, who had brought the red and black floss from her stash, ready to begin.
“Patricia Fairland is up for parole,” said Alice. “Do you want to appear out there to speak against it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why not?” demanded Martha. “If it were me, I’d go out there and have a conniption right in front of the parole board that they could even think of letting her out. She nearly
killed
you, Betsy!”
“Yes, well, she didn’t, and . . .” Betsy shrugged uncomfortably. “She said she was sorry.”
“Sorry wouldn’t cut any ice with
me,
” declared Martha. “All those felons are sorry once they’re caught.”
“I know. But she didn’t succeed after three tries, which made me think even at the time she wasn’t serious.”
“She tried three times and you say she wasn’t
serious
?” said Bershada, incredulous.
“You feel sorry for
her
!” declared Martha, amazed.
“No, not anymore. Now I think we’re even.”
After Patricia’s arrest, her mother-in-law, who had never liked her, had rolled into town demanding, on pain of disinheritance, that her son divorce Patricia—and disown his son, who, Betsy’s sleuthing had revealed, had been fathered by another man. Betsy had been concerned about the boy, who at eleven was old enough to understand most of what was going on.
But Peter Fairland had displayed a surprising backbone and told his mother that, so far as he was concerned, Brent
was
his son, and, further, that he was not going to abandon his wife. He told everyone his wife had “gone a little crazy there for awhile” and had done some strange things for which she was deeply ashamed, that he forgave her and was going to stand by her. Privately, he came to Betsy with a semicoherent note written by Patricia in jail, begging for forgiveness.
The details of Patricia’s behavior were kept from the public by having Patricia plead guilty to three felony assault charges rather than stand trial for attempted murder. Their attorney had suggested probation, but the judge, noting Patricia had pled to three counts, said five years. Once Patricia realized her husband was not going to throw her overboard, she had been a model prisoner and so now was up for parole after less than three.
Betsy, remembering the three beautiful Fairland children and their brave father, said, “Actually, I hope she gets paroled. Not for her sake, but the sake of her husband and children.”
“Honestly, Betsy, you’re too good for this wicked world,” said Martha.
Godwin, passing by, remarked, “And remember, the good die young.”
“Hah, if that’s true, I’ll still be running this place at a hundred and four,” said Betsy, and went back to straighten up the mess a customer had made among the Charlie Harper charts.
At two-forty the Monday Bunch was starting to wrap up. Betsy went behind the checkout desk to ring up purchases. Godwin was over by the wooden spools on the wall, helping a customer select the yarns for a Margaret Bendig painted canvas she was about to buy.
The golden bells jingled and Mike Malloy came in with two uniformed police officers, one of whom was Lars, the big uniformed cop of last Sunday’s horrible discovery.
“Hi, Mike,” said Betsy cheerfully, then saw the looks on their faces. “What’s wrong?”
“Godwin DuLac?” called Mike.
Godwin murmured an excuse to the woman with the painted canvas and came forward. “Yes? Hi, Mike. Hi, Lars. H’lo, Phil.” Betsy recognized the second uniform as the cop who’d also been at John’s house that dreadful morning. All three of their faces were grim, and Betsy’s heart began to pound even before Mike spoke.
“Godwin DuLac, you are under arrest for the murder of John Nye,” said Mike, as the other two came to put hands on him.
“No, wait a minute!” protested Godwin. But Phil had his handcuffs out and was reaching for Godwin’s right wrist.
“You have the right to remain silent,” continued Mike relentlessly. “If you give up the right to silence, anything you say will be written down and may be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to consult with an attorney before any questioning. If you wish to consult with an attorney, but can’t afford one, one will be provided to you at no cost. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
But Godwin had quit listening the instant the cuffs closed around his wrists. “What do you think you’re
doing
? Let me
go
!” he shouted.
“Mike, this is obviously some kind of mistake,” said Betsy, coming out from behind the desk.
“Don’t hand me that lie about him being in your apartment Sunday night!” barked Mike, shoving a palm toward her.
She was so astonished she could not think of a reply, and retreated behind her desk. How had Mike found out?
Alice, Martha, and Doris had scrambled back behind the baskets of knitting wool. Emily hid behind a spinner rack of overdyed silks. Only Bershada stood fast. “Be cool, Goddy, be cool!” she begged.
But he continued to yell, twist, and struggle while the two cops started for the door. His face red and streaked with tears, turned toward Betsy. “Help,
please
! Don’t let them
take me
!” His knees gave out, a shoe came off. Shrieking, “No, no, no!” he was dragged to the door.
Betsy darted over and picked his shoe up, but by then he was outside, so she handed it to Mike, who didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
Betsy, the customer Godwin had been helping, and the Monday Bunch members hurried to the front window to watch in awed silence as Godwin was pushed, still struggling, into the back seat of a squad car. There, his head lifted, and the cords of his neck stood out, as Mike, wincing against the racket he was making, threw the shoe into the back and slammed the door. Phil got behind the wheel, Lars climbed into the passenger seat, and the squad car, lights flashing, pulled swiftly away from the curb. Mike climbed into his own car and followed after.