Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_04

by Unraveled Sleeve

  She looked at her. “You think it’s my mother they found, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “Why?” When Betsy didn’t reply at once, Liddy demanded, “What do you know you’re not telling me?” She looked at her father. “What do you know?”

  Jill put a glass of water in front of Liddy and said to her, and Betsy, “Let’s not borrow trouble, all right?”

  And Liddy suddenly pulled herself together, shoulders squaring, chin lifting, displaying a stronger version of the backbone her brother had also found. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She lifted the glass and took several small sips.

  Betsy looked toward the row of French doors overlooking the parking lot, her eye caught by movement, and they all watched as Sheriff Goodman and his deputy put Doogie into the patrol car’s backseat. It wasn’t until the car’s headlights came on that Betsy realized the swift purple twilight of winter had fallen.

  Too awful how the world goes right on, thought Betsy, remembering how it continued after her sister was buried. Here, too, the sun had gone down. The delicious smell of roast beef had grown strong without her noticing. Soon the stitchers would be coming in to eat and drink and talk about silk and overdyed floss, and how seductive linen was to stitch on. Betsy felt cold and stiff, and wished she were home.

  How much worse this must be for Liddy!

  They stayed at the table they were sitting at as the stitchers came in. The waitress took Liddy’s name and advised the kitchen they’d need an extra meal. The beef was prime rib, tender and medium rare, just the way Betsy liked it. But she couldn’t do it justice, and Liddy ate only a few bites. Jill and Frank, on the other hand, conscientiously cleaned their plates, and kept the conversation firmly on cross-country skiing.

  They had nearly finished dessert when Doogie came back. He looked badly shaken. “It’s her,” he said, pulling a chair away from a nearby table and sitting down hard.

  “Oh, my God!” said Liddy. “Oh, no, oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes,” said Doogie flatly. “What’s more, they asked some damn hard questions about where I was on Friday. I don’t know why they talked to me like that. It’s perfectly clear to anyone with a brain that she was glad to be visiting a place she loved, that because it was winter there were no allergens to keep her from taking a hike to the falls. They even agreed I could be right, that she got here and went for a hike in Judge Magney Park, and walked right to the edge of the falls from up on top, where the ice broke and she fell in. They said the opening in the top of the rock narrows inside, so she stopped it up instead of going on down.” He locked eyes with Liddy and said, “It was horrible, having to see her like that. I couldn’t even tell it was her at first, because she was so beat up from being inside the Devil’s Kettle. Our mama was so beautiful, but this person I saw was all crooked and—”

  Liddy made a faint sound of protest, swayed, and fell out of her chair.

  “For God’s sake, Douglas!” barked Frank, moving swiftly to kneel beside her. Doogie rose, looking stern rather than apologetic. Jill whipped around to kneel on the other side.

  James appeared as if out of nowhere. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Shall I call an ambulance?”

  “She fainted, that’s all,” said Doogie with a curious indifference. James backed off but hovered at a distance.

  Jill was checking her for injuries, murmuring in a soothing voice. Frank lifted her limp hand to rub it gently while Doogie and Betsy watched.

  At last Liddy muttered something and Frank lifted her back into her chair. He patted and stroked her hand some more. “Are you all right now, soldier?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, ’m all right,” she said, her voice tired and cross, pulling her hand free. “Sorry, I’m sorry, making a spectacle of myself. Oh, Mama, Mama!” Frank knelt to offer a shoulder, and she wept on it.

  James, satisfied the emergency was over, went away.

  After a bit, Doogie said, “Take it easy, Liddy, take it easy.” He gave a hard look at the the people at the nearby tables, who turned away, embarrassed.

  “Is there anything we can do?” asked Betsy when Liddy’s weeping slowed nearly to a halt.

  “Oh, I think you’ve done enough,” said Frank.

  “What—what do you mean?” asked Liddy, lifting her head to look wildly at her brother, who shrugged, then back at her father.

  “I’m not talking about your brother, but these two. Didn’t they tell you? That one”—he pointed at Betsy—“says she saw your mother dead on my bed yesterday afternoon.” His voice swelled with anger. “She and her friend here call the sheriff out and he searches my room, searches the whole damn lodge. Can’t find hide nor hair of her, of course. Then she and her friend go on a hike up the Brule and come back saying they saw the waterfall acting strange and they get the sheriff and his deputies out there, and they find Sharon’s body inside the Devil’s Kettle.

  “Now the sheriff is looking slantwise at us because of this one’s story, but you two weren’t even here on Friday, and I haven’t seen Sharon in months! What’s more, no one else saw Sharon here at Naniboujou. I told the sheriff that when he was here the first time, and I told the deputy when he came up to my room. When he says what do I think, I said to him what I say to you: Look at the ones who are telling all these strange stories, the ones who see Sharon when nobody else does, the ones who told the sheriff where to find Sharon’s body. Look at these two!”

  11

  Frank Owen’s voice had been getting louder and louder, and more and more attention was being paid to him. By the end of his speech the whole room was looking their way. Without being aware of the attention, or not caring, Frank left the room.

  The diners broke into murmurs. Liddy, casting angry looks at Jill, then Betsy, stood and hurried out after her father, Doogie close behind. Betsy heard Doogie murmur, “Isn’t Dad brilliant?” to his sister’s back.

  A waitress, bearing down on Betsy’s table with a fresh dinner, stared after Doogie, then shrugged and headed back for the kitchen.

  Betsy turned her face to her plate to avoid her eyes being caught by anyone sitting nearby.

  “Heck!” muttered Jill, the sincerity in her voice lending weight to the mildness of the epithet.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Nothing!” said Jill, and raised her own voice. “You told me, you told the staff, you told the sheriff she was dead, and no one believed you. Now she turns up dead. All that means is you were right. The fact that the body was moved from where you saw it indicates foul play. Sharon Kaye told you she was here to see Frank, to try to get their relationship back on track. It was his room you saw the body in, but someone took it away. You had obviously never been to the Devil’s Kettle before I took you there this afternoon, at which point Sharon’s body had been inside it for hours.” Betsy had looked at Jill when she started speaking and Jill never broke eye contact, but she was addressing the room. “The police don’t suspect you. Why should they? You’re not lying or hiding facts, you’re the one reporting what you find. They’re suspicious of the obvious person, the person who knew Sharon, the person Sharon was coming to see, the person in whose room she died!”

  The room filled again with murmurs. Jill took a bite of apple crumble and said, much more quietly, “That’ll fix ’em.”

  And indeed it did. Before leaving the dining room, perhaps half of the stitchers came by the table, casual and friendly (as if they hadn’t made imputative remarks in the lounge earlier, or listened minutes ago with growing belief to Frank Owen’s accusations).

  Nan wanted to know if Jill had ever known another murderer who tried to get rid of a body in some strange way, and Linda Savareid remarked that of course it would have taken a strong man to carry a dead body through all that snow up to the Devil’s Kettle.

  Which was something that hadn’t occurred to Betsy. There had been ski trails on the river and footprints on those remarkable wooden stairs. And all around the falls. Jill said it
would be a very difficult walk up the snow along the river without snowshoes. How much more difficult while carrying a dead body. Who but someone in fine physical condition could do that, much less venture to climb that steep bank or come down those many icy steps?

  Isabel came by to say, “I think this whole thing is so sad. Frank was disappointed and impatient with Sharon over her illness, but I will admit, Sharon treated Frank shamefully.”

  “Frank was as understanding and patient with Sharon as it is possible to get!” muttered Carla to Isabel as she brushed by her. She did not look at Jill or Betsy.

  The last person to stop by was Sadie Cartwright, rolling up in her wheelchair. “Now that they’ve found the body just where you said it was, we’ll see some action, right? Who do you think moved it? Not Frank, he’s too obvious. It’s always the least obvious one, isn’t it? I think it’s Doogie. Who would suspect a person with a silly name like that?”

  And with another of her loud laughs, she whirled away.

  Betsy said, “Gosh, she’s annoying!” She turned back to Jill. “I wonder what time Carla checked in on Friday?”

  “That may not matter,” Jill pointed out. “I didn’t need a key to open the back door to our wing, and I wouldn’t need one to get into the other wing, either. Anyone who has been here before might know that.” Jill sat back in her chair and looked hard at Betsy. “Decision time, girl.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when the autopsy shows Sharon Kaye Owen wasn’t drowned, they are going to arrest Frank Owen, if only for attempting to hide a death. If that’s okay with you, fine. On the other hand, if you don’t think Frank is guilty of any crime, then you have to decide whether or not you’re going to try to get to the bottom of this mess. Whatever you decide, I’ll be with you. But this speculating and prying while claiming you don’t want to damage your psyche with another investigation is getting old.”

  Betsy said angrily, “I am not—Well, so what if I try to figure out what happened? Everyone in this room was talking about it, you heard them!”

  “They’re going back to the lounge to stitch. What are you going to do?”

  Betsy fell silent. What she had planned to do was go ask James if he could tell her who was checked in by 3 P.M. on Friday.

  Jill said, “Face it, you have the biggest curiosity bump in Excelsior, which makes you probably the nosiest person in the state—if not the entire upper Midwest. Plus, you have a gift for investigation. I know that combination has brought you all kinds of grief, but on the other hand, there are two murderers and one would-be murderer whose names would be unknown if it wasn’t for that gift. Only you know if that’s a fair exchange. But the question has to be answered, you can’t keep whipsawing yourself like this.”

  Betsy sighed. Jill waited her out. At last Betsy said, “I appreciate your unwavering support of my wavering. I really, really don’t want to get involved in murder anymore. The quiet life has never looked so attractive to me. On the other hand, I had a nice talk with Frank Owen earlier today, and I liked him. It’s not just that he seemed nice—because he wasn’t when he thought I might hurt some innocent people—his reactions to my questions were of a crystalline innocence I found convincing. I don’t think he’s guilty of murder.”

  Jill said, “And you’re going to report all this to the sheriff, and let him investigate?”

  “Yes. So okay, he can ask James about check-in times.”

  “So it’s back to the lounge, right?”

  “Yes, let’s go see if Carla is in there. I’m wondering if her bad-mouthing Sharon has less to do with a dislike of Sharon than a liking for Frank.”

  Jill coughed, fist to mouth, and followed Betsy to the lounge. Carla was not there.

  Jill said, “She’ll probably be here in a minute. Meanwhile, Ginni Berringer promised to show me a project she’s working in Schwalm embroidery. I know you used to do embroidery, so let’s both go see it.”

  Ginni was a plump woman with dark eyes and dark hair pulled back into a little bun. The embroidery was done in white coton Broder on 32-count white linen, hearts and tulips in a design that made Betsy think of rosemaling, or the kind of artwork produced by the Pennsylvania Dutch. Ginni was an advanced embroiderer, Betsy used to embroider, so in another minute the pair were talking about coral knots, chain stitch, and buttonhole scallops. “I’ve pulled every fourth thread inside the heart,” Ginni said, “and I’m about to start the eyelet filling.”

  “Very nice,” said Betsy.

  “I wouldn’t want to try that,” said Jill, who had never done embroidery. “But it’s very handsome.” She went off to do more work on her tiger.

  In another minute Betsy said, “I think I’ll quit bothering you with questions and join her.”

  Betsy got her canvas bag and pulled out the rose window pattern. Slowly and carefully, with only two errors found immediately and corrected, she finished the last wedge. She clipped a short length of the Kreinik, consulted the pattern, looked at the wedge—and saw she had started it a stitch further over than the pattern called for. Growling softly, she frogged—rip it, rip it, rip it—the error out and started working it again. But after a dozen stitches she saw that while she had corrected its placement in relation to the previous wedge, now it didn’t sit correctly in relation to the inner medallion. Or the first wedge, which was next to it. She looked back at the previous wedge, and saw it, too, didn’t sit where it should in relation to the center.

  Jill heard her groan of dismay and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I have messed up big time. These last two wedges are wrong. It would break my heart to frog them. I know people find a way to work around an error, but I can’t see how to do that here. Can you?”

  Jill shook her head. “I’m sorry. Counted cross stitch broke my heart years ago and I gave it up. Maybe you should talk to Nan or Sadie or someone else here who does counted.”

  But Betsy couldn’t face the other questions that would come if she initiated a conversation.

  “I’ll ask them tomorrow. It’s getting late, I think I’ll just go up to bed.”

  She wasn’t all that sleepy, just tired and discouraged. She brushed her teeth and discontentedly got into her pajamas. As she crawled between the sheets, she wondered if she should take some aspirin against the muscle soreness she would probably wake up with because of that strenuous trek up and back down the frozen Brule, but the thought was only half formed before she slid off a dark cliff into slumber.

  Soon she was in a canoe floating down a fast-moving river. It was summertime. The banks were level, scattered with trees and flowers. But the water was a little rough, complicating her efforts to work on a counted cross-stitch pattern of a big barking basset hound.

  Suddenly a roar ahead indicated she was coming to a waterfall, and she knew it was the Devil’s Kettle. Unless she paddled for shore, she would dive, canoe and all, into that hollow black rock and never be seen again. She began stitching faster, because she could not put down the stitchery until it was finished. The water grew rougher, the canoe bouncing over the rapids, and it became difficult to get the needle through the right place from underneath. Fumbling with it, the needle slipped out of her fingers and came off the thread to fall into the bottom of the canoe. Somebody on the shore shouted at her to hurry, the water was cold. She bent over to look for the needle among the leaves and pine needles that covered the ribs on the bottom of the canoe, and noticed she was barefoot. The roar got louder, but bending over was all right, because she didn’t want to watch the falls come closer and closer. As the person on shore shouted at her to stop, she felt the canoe tip over the falls, and woke with a start. She was alone in bed.

  There was a conversation in distressed voices going on out in the hall. “I’m all right, please stop fussing!” someone was saying.

  Betsy climbed out of bed and reached for her robe, holding it around her shoulders with one hand while she hurried to the door and opened it.

  Jill was out
there, wrapped in her thick terry robe, with auburn-haired Liddy in a lush, cream-colored, ankle-length silk nightgown trimmed in ecru lace, sun tanned Carla in a pale green chiffon peignoir, and plump Isabel in a pink flannel nightgown stitched with her initials in elaborate script. Liddy was barefoot, tousled, her eyes wide and confused, tears streaking her cheeks.

  “What’s going on?” asked Betsy.

  “Sleepwalking,” said Jill.

  “I’m fine, I’m awake now,” said Liddy.

  “She’s staying in my room, and I heard her open the door on her way out,” said Isabel. “I got up and called her name, then realized she was sleepwalking. They say not to wake them, but I followed because I was afraid she might fall down the stairs.”

  Carla said, “Isabel knocked on my door as they went by, and I came out, and I told her she should take Liddy gently by the hand and lead her back to bed.”

  Isabel continued. “But I didn’t want to because what if she woke up, and just then your door opened and it was Jill. She said it’s okay to wake sleepwalkers, if you do it gently. But by then Liddy was halfway down the stairs. I still thought we shouldn’t touch her, but Jill insisted, so we let her go get her, and sure enough, as soon as she took her by the arm, Liddy woke up and started crying.”

  Jill said, “She’s scared, that’s all.”

  Liddy, who wasn’t crying now, said, “I’m telling you, I’m all right.”

  Isabel said, “I told her, ‘Hurry, let’s get her back to bed before she catches her death of cold.’ I mean look at her, barefoot on a night like this! But see how she’s crying. I don’t know if Jill did the right thing.”

  Jill said, “If we’d left her alone, she might have gone outside.”

  “I wouldn’t have done that!” exclaimed Liddy. When she saw them looking at her, she went on, shamefaced. “I don’t know what made me walk in my sleep. I haven’t done that since I was a child. I’m sure I won’t do it again.”

  “What were you dreaming about, do you remember?” asked Betsy.