Thai Die (19 page)

“I’m sorry, but I have to know.”

“I know, and it’s all right. It just makes me uncomfortable.”

“Do you want to take a walk while we have this conversation?”

“No, I guess not.”

Then Betsy turned to Carmen. “Was Wendy any kind of expert on silk, or embroidery, or antiques?”

“She thought she was, enough so that she and Lena started this little company, a part-time thing, selling Asian art.

“When they were in Thailand, Lena and Wendy just went berserk at the markets and among the street vendors. They couldn’t get enough souvenirs. It was obvious to me they had buyers’ hypnosis—you know, ‘Aunt Kate would just love this,’ when they know perfectly well Aunt Kate wouldn’t have it on a bet. They’re just finding reasons to buy, buy, buy.”

Betsy nodded. “Happens to me all the time at the grocery store.”

Carmen laughed. “I’m like that when I get to the shoe department. Anyway these two, Lena and Wendy, ended up shipping two big crates full of stuff home because there was no way they could check it all on the plane. But then, when the crates arrived in the States, they opened them and came to their senses.

“Even if they wanted to keep all that stuff, there wasn’t room in their homes. So rather than rent a storage place, they decided to try to sell it. They set up an account on eBay and got such high bids that they started going around to local art galleries and antique stores. It was less trouble, you see. They were getting three, four, even five times what they paid for it back in Thailand.”

“Wow,” said Betsy.

“So that gave them another idea: Go get some more.”

Betsy didn’t say what she thought of that idea, just nodded and sipped her tea.

Carmen went on. “Lena went back over there—this is when the housing market was going through the roof, so with her real estate commissions she could afford it—and bought two more crates of stuff. And the second load of artifacts she brought back sold just as well as the first. Well, this was much more fun than real estate or buying clothes for Target. On the profits of that second trip, Wendy went over. At one of the markets, she met a man who knew his way around. He took her to wholesale markets even few Thai ever visit and helped her buy some things from Laos, Vietnam, even China and Japan.”

“Was his name David Corvis?”

Carmen stared at Betsy. “You know, I didn’t think of that. I don’t remember if they told me his name. I know he had an export business, selling Asian artifacts to markets in Europe and America. Anyway, Wendy sold everything she brought home at a big profit, so she and Lena formed a company they called Exotic Asia, Inc. And eight months later they went broke.”

“Was it a failure because they didn’t know how to run a business, or because they didn’t know enough about Asian art?”

“Both, really. I mean, they spent an awful lot of money renting an upscale place and taking out some big ads, which was probably not the smartest thing to do just starting out. Then taxes hit them hard. I remember Lena moaning about the import and sales taxes. And the rent and utilities—I don’t think they ever broke even, not one single month the whole time they were in business. But their stuff wasn’t all that good, either. Well, at first it was, but when they realized how high their expenses were, they dropped the quality of their goods. Got into imitations, then bad imitations—
plastic
, you know?”

Godwin said, “They shouldn’t have dropped their quality. Didn’t they know that every small business loses money the first year?”

Carmen stared at him. “They do?”

“Sure,” said Godwin nodding. “So eight months wasn’t even a fair trial.”

“Did they quit their other jobs?” asked Doris.

“They didn’t, thank God. Lena cut back to part time, but Wendy stayed at her job as apparel buyer and worked at this import business part time. Neither of them went back to Thailand anymore, because this exporter over there agreed to buy stuff for them. They thought they knew what they were doing, but they didn’t, not really. I think they were in over their heads right from the start. I don’t know all the ins and outs of owning a business myself, but I do know that once it started going down for them, it was like being on a playground slide.” She made a steep downward move with one hand. “The final straw was some kind of tax trouble. Or maybe it was insurance. Poor things, they tried, they really did. But there’s a knack to running a business, I guess, and they didn’t have it.”

Betsy nodded. “Neither do I,” she said.

Carmen looked around. “You don’t?”

“I’m operating closer to the edge than it looks.” Crewel World was a little more than paying its way but only because Betsy didn’t draw a salary. She had other sources of income, which was a good thing, because now and again she also had to draw on it to keep the shop open. She made the shop pay it back, of course, but it was scary when Crewel World slid into the red like that. She felt better about her shop when she learned there were other needlework shops kept open as hobbies by women—usually retired—with more money than sense. Those who made them pay had a work ethic that had to be seen to be believed.

Carmen continued, “So it turned out they were glad they kept their regular jobs. Even though the housing market had—what’s the word they use? ‘Softened,’ that’s it. So Lena wasn’t earning what she used to. But it turned out Wendy really needed her job, because after a couple of years of fighting with her husband, he decided he wanted a divorce. And he was being a total bastard about it. It was costing her all her savings to keep her end up in the custody battle for their two kids. Lawyers are bloodsuckers, but you have to hire them, and you have to pay them. He could afford it, but she was really struggling.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a surgeon—wait a second while I think of his specialty. Orthopedic, that’s it. Bones. There must be good money in bones, he’s practically gold plated.”

“How old are the children?”

“Let’s see, Pippa is eleven, Mick is nine. Very, very bright children, they both go to Mounds Park Academy, which is what Wendy called a posh school. I guess that means high tone. High cost, certainly, but one of the best schools in the area.”

“What does Lena’s husband do?”

“He owns a construction company, building mostly private homes. But that’s a softened industry, too. If you can’t buy an existing house, you don’t want to build one, either. It’s not like they’re broke, of course—they’re just reining in the spending a bit. Tad wanted a new boat and couldn’t get one, Lena wanted a new kitchen and couldn’t afford to put one in—like that. Not exactly going to the food shelf once a week.” She chuckled, sat back in her chair, and took a drink of tea. “You’re too easy to talk to. I’m telling an absolute stranger things I don’t tell my husband.”

Betsy smiled and lifted her cup. “Tell me about your husband.”

Before she could stop herself, Carmen said, “His name is Richard, and he owns a management consultant company called Information in Action.”

 

 

“WELL, poor things,” said Carmen a half hour later. She sighed and began looking around for her coat. “Okay, are you ready, Doris?”

“Ready for what?” asked Betsy.

“Shopping,” said Carmen. “Nothing she owns fits her anymore. I’m taking her to buy new clothes.”

Godwin spread his arms at Doris. “You go, girl! Nothing like shopping to cheer a person up! You’ll have to stop by later and show us all your new pretties.”

Doris struggled to find a smile in response as she obediently rose and put on her coat.

After Doris and Carmen left, Godwin said, “How about I come over tonight and take another look at this Scythian/Celtic embroidery?”

“I’d love to have you, except I’ve got a date.”

“Who with? Is it that Minneapolis detective, what’s his name, Omernic? I
told
you he was a sweet man, and just right for you!”

“No, it’s not Sergeant Omernic. This man is not connected with the police at all. And”—she held up her hand, palm toward Godwin’s nose—“no more questions. It’s none of your business who he is.” Sometimes Betsy felt Godwin was just a little too interested in her love life, and she was determined to draw the line before it became embarrassing.

Fifteen

DORIS was standing in front of one of those oval mirrors with a wooden frame that’s fitted into a stand. She could tip the whole thing forward and back until she found the right angle to see her whole self in it. She was wearing a new black dress that had looked good in the dressing room at Marshall’s, but—as sometimes happened—might be too small at home. But in the flattering soft light of Carmen’s guest bedroom, it was just perfect. She smoothed its matte textured fabric over her backside with both hands as she turned a little to the left and then to the right. Yes, it fit very well—she was a bit long-waisted, so it was sometimes hard to find a dress that suited her figure. It had a square neckline she liked, too. She picked up a smoky gray tweed jacket and put it on over the dress. The length was right, but maybe she should have picked the smoky green one? She twisted at the waist to study the effect of movement. The embossed pattern on the jacket’s silver buttons twinkled in the soft light as her fingers deftly fastened and unfastened them.

She caught a movement in the window behind her, reflected in the mirror. Before she could turn around, there was a double crash as a bullet slammed through the window glass and into the mirror. Shards blew all over the room and into her face and her hands, which she threw up to defend herself.

She fell like a rag doll onto the carpet and did not move.

 

 

 

BETSY’S date that night was with an old friend named John Wagner, who was blind and very quietly gay. He had two season tickets to Theater in the Round, and each time a new play would open he would spread the wealth among his friends, asking one who hadn’t been been able to go with him in a while. Betsy liked his company at plays. His opinions were interesting, both because he was a sophisticated theater buff and because he “saw” things differently. Betsy and John went out after the play for a late supper and to talk about the theater’s terrific performance of
Arsenic and Old Lace
. Betsy had especially liked the part where Dr. Einstein made his way across a darkened stage to open a window so his partner, Jonathan, could bring in a dead body, singing
sotto voce
as he went, “Cream of Wheat is so good to eat, you should have some every day . . .” About half the audience had been old enough to be familiar with the reference and laugh. John wasn’t one of them, so his great baritone guffaw came after the play, as they ate their salads. They lingered over cups of hot cocoa, comparing the play with the movie version starring Cary Grant. And their conversation naturally segued into a depressing discussion of how the world had changed from when they were young—not that they were old, of course, especially John!—so Betsy was late getting home. She was too tired to notice the phone message light blinking and went right to bed.

 

 

 

DORIE sat on the couch in the Diamonds’ living room. She was not weeping, but she shivered from time to time, though it was warm in the room. Carmen was sitting in a wing chair, and Richard was perched on its arm, holding his wife’s hand.

Phil had his arm across Dorie’s shoulders. Carmen had called him from the emergency room. He had broken several traffic laws getting there, then followed them more sedately to the Diamond house when Dorie was released. He thought Dorie was comforted by his presence, though he might simply have been hoping it were true. He’d stopped saying anything to her. He’d said all he could think of, twice already, and her replies had consisted mostly of two-word phrases like “all right” and “thank you.”

Carmen was studying Dorie with sympathetic eyes, but she, too, was out of words.

Dorie herself looked like she had survived a grenade attack. There was a shaved place on her scalp with a bandage on it that was even bigger than the one on the other side of her head, put there in St. Peter. Her left hand was thickly covered with a gauze-and-tape mitten. She was resting it tenderly on her other arm. Various small scrapes and scratches were marked with Betadine on her forehead, nose, neck, and left cheek; her right cheek had been protected by another St. Peter-acquired bandage. There were more scrapes on her right hand and forearm and on her shins. Her new dress was torn. Her face was so white that the Betadine looked black by comparison.

The police had been brisk and officious, and not very comforting. They had asked a lot of questions, taken a lot of photographs. They’d found an old plastic milk crate—Carmen had put it out to be carried away by the recycling truck, due the next day—under the guest bedroom window, and footprints in the surrounding snow indicated that the shooter was a woman or a man with smallish feet, wearing badly worn boots. None of the neighbors had seen anything. The window was five feet nine inches off the ground, so even a tall man would need a box to bring his arms up high enough to shoot through it. The police theory was that the man had shot Dorie’s image in the mirror by mistake.