Hanging by a Thread

by Ferris, Monica

  “You also think he played that same kind of game to ruin the relationship with your brother and father?”

  “I don’t think, I know it. Jory and me was tight like Siamese twins all our life, but Paul played him and my dad first, just like he played me and Danielle later. He convinced me Jory wanted Dad’s business all for himself, and told Jory I wanted him out, and told Dad we both wanted to give him the shove. I never even heard of someone doing what he did, not in real life. While it was happening it was like a combination Twilight Zone and one of those spy novels where everything’s a double cross.” He held his watch up to catch the light and said, “I can’t talk anymore, I got to get back to the line.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller,” she said, but it was to his back, because he’d already turned to walk away.

  Betsy was shivering with more than cold on her way back to the Wagoneer.

  “What’d he say?” asked Morrie as she climbed in.

  “He’s either totally paranoid or Paul Schmitt was a dreadful, cunning person.” She repeated Alex’s story.

  “What do you think?” asked Morrie.

  “He’s sure he’s telling the truth. And I’m halfway to believing him. I’ve already gathered that Paul was a jealous, suspicious man, always prepared to believe someone was making a play for Angela. And back in junior high he had a talent for getting other people in trouble.”

  Morrie asked, “Did you ask Alex where he was the night Paul was killed?”

  “No, why?”

  “You are tired, Kukla. If Alex figured this out while Paul Schmitt was still alive, he had one hell of a motive.”

  “But he said he didn’t start figuring it out until things started to straighten out on their own.”

  “And that may even be true.”

  Betsy rode in a thoughtful silence all the way home.

  It was nearly midnight before they got back, which meant a second night Betsy did not get enough sleep; and this time not even the thought that Morrie had to be at work an hour before she did comforted her.

  The story of her window would not appear in the newspaper for another week, but word apparently was spreading anyway, because the next morning there were two customers Betsy had not seen before waiting at the door. They wanted the dreidel canvases.

  Four more followed soon after, one wanting a knitted Christmas stocking pattern, the bright-colored wool, the bobbins, and a pair of knitting needles. She said she hadn’t knitted in years, but the window had inspired her to knit one for her grand-son. The others were regulars, but they, too, remarked that the window was exciting to see, and one signed up for Rosemary’s January knitting class.

  Jill, currently working nights, came in yawning, saying she was shopping before going to bed. She bought some Kreinik gold cord and stayed to look at a new shipment of hand-painted canvases. She lingered over an M. Shirley canvas, a big tree in winter with small birds or animals on every branch. It was complex, beautiful—and four hundred dollars. Phil, a retired railroad engineer, came in to pick up a kit he’d ordered, and sat down at the library table to open it and make sure all the colors were there in the right quantity. He soon had that dreamy look all fiber fondlers get as he sorted, smoothed, and straightened the flosses, knotting them onto a floss stick, plotting his angle of attack on the pattern. Jill sat down to talk with him.

  Two more women came in to buy the snowflake pattern, and another wanted the Hunger Moon pattern. Betsy was making a note to order more copies of both when the door made its annoying Bing! sound. Betsy looked around to see who was coming in, and didn’t even notice the little silence that fell, because she was herself immediately focused on the tall, handsome stranger standing right inside the door. He was somewhere in his thirties, dressed in a fleece-lined leather jacket that was either old or expensively “distressed,” a white turtleneck sweater, and Dockers pants. His hair was dark, falling casually over a broad forehead. His eyes were dark, too, with early signs of laugh lines around them. His firm jaw was marked with a trace of beard shadow. His mouth was wide with a hint of sensuality, his shoulders filled the jacket, and his stomach hinted at six-pack perfection under the sweater.

  In Los Angeles or New York, he’d be an actor or a model trying to become an actor. Here in Excelsior, Minnesota, he had to be someone’s husband.

  Betsy looked around to see which of her female customers was looking at him possessively. Everyone, of course. Even Godwin. Especially Godwin, who was the first to move, heading toward him, lips eagerly parted. But the man brushed past him to stop at the desk and say, “I’m looking for a counted cross-stitch pattern of a dog, just the head, preferably.” His voice was slightly rough-edged, perfectly designed to tickle in private places. “I saw in the Spring preview of The Stitchery magazine that Stephanie Hedgepath does any breed to order, but I accidentally threw my copy away, and don’t know how to contact her.”

  Betsy almost said, “Huh?” just to get him to talk some more, but got a grip and said, “I keep the more popular patterns in stock, including Hedgepath’s. Which breed are you looking for?”

  He smiled, happy to reply, “A golden.” Because about every third purebred in America is a golden lab.

  “I’m sure we have several patterns you could use.”

  She went into the back to help him sort through the rack of cross-stitch animal patterns. His hands were broad with slightly knobby fingers, and without a wedding band. He can’t be married, thought Betsy; no wife would let a husband who looks like this wander around with a naked third finger. Several of her customers decided they were interested in animal patterns, too, and came to look. Interestingly, one of them was Jill, whose only usual foray into counted was small Christmas tree ornaments.

  Godwin hovered, making helpful noises. Even Sophie, the fat shop cat, came to rub gently around the man’s calves—but perhaps she thought there was a sandwich in his pocket.

  The man selected a pattern of the head of a golden lab, a piece of green evenweave to do it on, a set of stretcher bars, and a needle threader—“I’m into rotation, so I keep a threader on each project.” The only sign he gave he was aware of the stir he was causing was the wink he gave her as he paid for his purchases. He strode to the front door and was gone.

  “Strewth!” exclaimed Godwin, one hand splayed across his chest. “Who was that?”

  “I never saw him before,” said Betsy.

  “He paid with a check,” said Jill. “Read his name off it, will you?”

  “Oh, he’s got to be Elmo Slurp or something equally awful,” said Godwin. “There has to be something imperfect about him.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Betsy, putting it in her cash drawer and shutting it firmly. “The imperfection here is that each of us has a perfectly nice boy-friend.”

  “Oh, yeah,” sighed Godwin. And Jill gave a little nod, as if waking from a pleasant dream.

  “I’m available,” announced Phil, who had gone to the window to watch him drive off. “Not that I’m gay, but did the rest of you notice he drove off in a Porsche? Hell, I might consider converting for a rich man who does counted cross-stitch.”

  Laughter broke the mood satisfactorily. But Betsy said, “Goddy, can you come back and show me that trick with the coffee urn?”

  There was no trick with the coffee urn, it was what Betsy said when she wanted to talk to Godwin out of range of eavesdroppers.

  “Sure,” said Godwin, following her back.

  Betsy shut the door. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Surprised, he replied, “Yes, I’m fine.” He felt his forehead worriedly. “Why, do I look sick?”

  “No, not sick, but your reaction to that handsome customer made me wonder just how bad things are between you and John. You’ve told me before he gets upset if he thinks you’re flirting with someone else. If this is how you behave around good-looking men, maybe John is right to feel threatened.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, there’s no rule that says a man can’t look! Anyway,
there’s nothing seriously wrong between John and me right now. Well, nothing newly serious. Not that serious.”

  “Goddy ...” Betsy was pulled between compassion and annoyance.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it. There’s nothing I can do about it, either. He’s so cruel and suspicious right now, he drives me to behaving badly! He’ll get over it, he always does. It’s just that when he’s like this, I get to thinking what it might be like with someone else. Someone like—”

  “Mr. Lightfoot?”

  “Is that his name? Too dreamy! What’s his first name? Where’s he from?”

  “His first name is Rik, spelled R-i-k, and he’s not from Minnesota.” This wasn’t exactly true. His check had been printed with a Montana address, but lines had been drawn through it and a Minneapolis one handwritten beside it. His bank was a national chain with local branch offices.

  “Where, then? Iowa? Wisconsin?” Betsy put on her best poker face. “Oh, not farther? Where, then? I don’t remember an accent. Don’t tell me he’s from Atlanta!”

  “I’m not going to tell you, or anyone else.”

  “Wait a minute.” Godwin’s blue eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t take out-of-state checks.”

  “Perhaps in his case, I made an exception.” But her cheeks burned, and Godwin grinned.

  “He is local, isn’t he? Well, well, well, I wonder who’s in line to have his heart broken, John, Lars—or Morrie?” He fluttered out.

  Betsy followed more slowly, thinking. How deep was her affection for Morrie when a pretty face—all right, a truly gorgeous face, not to mention body—could turn her head like that?

  The shop remained busy until a little after one, when it abruptly became empty. Betsy had had a cup of coffee and a slice of untoasted raisin bread for breakfast and her stomach began making non-negotiable demands for lunch. She said to Godwin, “I’m going to run down to the Waterfront Café for a sandwich, then to the pet shop to get some cat food. Can I bring you a sandwich or something?”

  Godwin said, “If the café has a nice-looking apple, buy me one, otherwise I’ll take three ounces of bunny kibble.” He pinched at his waist. “I’m up two pounds and the holiday season is on the horizon.” He flexed his upper right arm, squeezing it tenderly with his fingers. “I’d better rejoin my health club, too. This pretty boy doesn’t want to get all flabby.”

  Godwin, barely but still in his twenties, was engaged in a struggle to stay seventeen, which meant slim but not skinny, athletic but not muscular.

  Betsy went out into the chill and walked briskly down Lake to Water Street, then up half a block to the small café on the other side of the movie house. She went in and was greeted by name by the young woman behind the counter and two late-lunch customers. Two women sitting in a booth raised their hands in a tentative wave. Betsy sat in the single booth under the front window.

  The Waterfront Café’s feature that day was their hearty but not very spicy chili. Betsy had a big bowl further thickened with crackers—she was a cracker crumbler from way back—and a small milk.

  She had only taken a few bites, when someone sat down across from her. She looked up and saw a slender man with light blue eyes and a thin mouth set in a face dusted all over with freckles: Detective Sergeant Mike Malloy.

  “Well, well, Sergeant Malloy,” she said. “What brings you in here?”

  “You do. I went to your place and Mr. DuLac said you were here.” He leaned forward. “What’s this I hear about you?” he asked in a low voice—the Waterfront Café was Gossip Central in Excelsior, and he was obviously unhappy being seen even talking to her. Two customers sitting at the counter had swiveled their seats around to look.

  Betsy replied equally softly, “What have you heard about me?”

  “That you’re poking around in the old Schmitt double murder.”

  “Do you object to that?”

  Surprisingly, he grinned. “If you can prove once and for all who it was who killed Angela Schmitt and her husband, I’ll be the happiest cop in the state.”

  “So it’s all right with you if I continue to look into things?”

  He sighed. “I’m not empowered to stop you. But I do want to warn you, this involves someone who has murdered twice. Someone who apparently still has the gun he used on Angela and then on Paul. You haven’t got the training or the experience to deal with the kind of person who would do something like that.”

  “Thank you for being concerned—no, I really mean that. I know you think I’m a silly, interfering amateur, and in a way you’re right. There are times I wonder what on earth makes me think I can do this. But it keeps happening, and I keep getting it right. If I do find things out, or have questions, may I come to you?”

  He made a face and seemed about to say no, but changed his mind. After all, she had solved a couple of baffling cases. “What kind of questions?”

  “Did you think at first, when Angela was shot, that Paul had done it?”

  He shrugged. “You always look at the husband. He seemed nice enough, and he’d never been arrested for anything, but I never liked that smirk of his.”

  “What about his alibi?”

  “Aw, it was okay, but I would’ve liked it better if someone had come into the gift store and seen him. There were some other oddities, too, but not enough to make an arrest. Then someone beat the crap out of him and then shot him with the same weapon ...” He tugged a freckled ear. “That put paid to any idea he did it. Except ...” He held out one hand, palm down, and waggled it slightly.

  “What?” asked Betsy.

  “If you weren’t a damn civilian ...” He said, and stopped yet again.

  She decided not to argue with him. After all, she was just a damn civilian, with no badge or private eye license. She straightened in her seat and took a deliberate bite of her chili. It reminded her of her mother’s chili; it even had elbow macaroni in it. She took a sip of milk, then dipped her spoon into the chili again.

  “All right, all right,” he grumbled as if she had been arguing with him. “There were powder bums on his trousers where he was shot, on his head, and on his hands. This means the gun went off very close up. This tends to mean self-inflicted wounds.”

  “But the beating wasn’t self-inflicted, surely.”

  Malloy nodded. “I know. I thought maybe someone came and beat him up for killing his wife, and Schmitt shot himself after that person left, maybe with an eye to framing whoever beat him up. But who? And then where’s the weapon? It’s gone. It’s never been found.”

  Betsy leaned forward to ask quietly, “Is it possible he could have thrown it out the door or out a window before he died?”

  Malloy shook his head. “With a bullet in his brain? Not a chance. He was dead before he hit the floor.” He shrugged. “Anyway we went over the whole property with a fine-tooth comb. The only possible conclusion is that someone shot him, and took the gun away with him.”

  “The same gun that shot Angela.”

  “Very probably. We never recovered the slug that killed her. It went out the window and, for all I know, fell into the back of a passing pickup and was carried away.”

  Betsy smiled incredulously. “Is that possible?”

  He shrugged. “All I know for sure is, six of us looking damn hard couldn’t find it. But we recovered the shell casings and they’re all the same caliber and the mark of the firing pin on all of them is identical.” He glanced around the café, but the men on the stools had turned away again.

  “How conclusive is that?”

  “Pretty good. Not as good as the marks the rifling of the gun barrel would’ve left on the slug, but pretty indicative.”

  Betsy took another bite of chili. “So what did you decide about the gunpowder burns?”

  “That it was close-in fighting. A struggle for the gun.”

  “Did Paul Schmitt own a gun?”

  “Yeah.” He looked uncomfortable, and added, “See what I mean? This whole case has screwy parts to it. The gu
n was registered, and it’s the same kind of gun that was used in the murders. And it’s gone, too.”

  “Did Paul Schmitt report it missing before the murders?”

  “No. He told us he had a gun when we first talked to him, but when we went to his house for a look at it, he couldn’t find it. He said he had no idea how long it had been missing. I thought he’d tossed it away after using it on his wife, and I wanted to arrest him right then, but there just wasn’t enough evidence.”

  She asked, “How sure are you that Foster Johns did it?”

  For the first time, Malloy spoke in full voice. “Damn sure! He was on the scene of Angela’s murder at the time it happened. We’ve got three or four witnesses to that. He has a half-assed alibi for Paul’s murder, but I think he could have rigged that. I hauled him in and grilled him good, but he wouldn’t break. So I had to let him go. I wish he’d leave town—just seeing him walking around free grates me hard.”

  There was a little murmur that ran around the café, and one of the men sitting at the counter grinned at the other.

  Malloy left, Betsy hastily finished her chili and went to the checkout counter. There was a bowl of apples and pears sitting by the cash register, so she chose the biggest apple and paid for it with her bill. As she stuffed it into a pocket, she looked around the little café, and there in a back booth she saw Foster Johns looking like a man waiting to be hanged.

  12

  Betsy went out into the chill air and up the street, past the beauty parlor and the bookstore. She paused a minute to look in the pet shop window. A lop-eared rabbit nosed about its low, wide cage, and two white kittens with blue eyes and just a hint of darkening on their ears and tails were tangled into a shifting, complex ball in their big cage. One was trying to chew the ear off the other. A bearded lizard in an adjacent aquarium was watching them with a beady eye.