The customer laughed all the way out the door.
The instant the door closed, Godwin said, “I bet Ian is John’s client.”
“You think so? But I didn’t see any signs of big bucks; I mean, he wasn’t wearing fancy clothes or lots of gold jewelry.”
“Yes, but how many rich artists try to help their poor artist friends?”
Betsy raised her eyebrows and one corner of her mouth in a kind of shrug. “Rob McFey wasn’t—well, all right maybe he was. But Ian said Rob turned him down.”
“He didn’t take Ian’s offer to pay for college tuition. But how about a viatical?”
“Wait, wait, I think I remember reading about them.” Betsy thought a bit. “It was a way to invest money, right? Something to do with gay men and AIDS and—and insurance policies? With a high return . . .” She frowned, trying to recall the details.
Godwin nodded. “You start with the news that you have a terminal disease and a hefty life insurance policy. You need money, but suppose there’s not much cash value in the policy. So you find an investor who will take over the premiums. He gives you a lump sum and you change the policy to make him the beneficiary. Gay men with AIDS sold them because they needed the money to pay for medical care. Years ago, they died pretty quick, and the investors made a decent profit. Everyone was happy, in a gruesome sort of way. The gay men got decent medical care in their final days, and the investors made a fast buck or two. It wasn’t like the gay men had wives and babies who needed the money.” His face grew sad briefly.
“What I remember is a magazine article that said it wasn’t a good investment anymore,” said Betsy. “They were finding medicines that really worked and the AIDS sufferers were living years longer than . . .” She hesitated.
“The investors were willing to wait,” nodded Godwin. “Yes. The deal was, investors had to take over premium payments. You do that long enough, and it’s no longer a quick return, plus it can cut deep into the profit margin.”
“But what’s the connection to this situation? Did Rob McFey have AIDS?”
“Not as far as I know. You don’t have to have AIDS to sell a viatical. John told me about this artist client who bought a viatical from another artist who had a terminal disease. He paid sixty-five thousand for a hundred-thousand-dollar policy. And he took over the premium payments. You said Rob McFey was supposed to die of liver disease in a year or two, right?”
“Yes, Ian told us all about it. But he didn’t mention anything about a viatical.”
“But he wouldn’t, my dear. Because then he’d have to admit he had a big, fat motive, wouldn’t he? When Rob didn’t die, and Ian had to keep making payments, where was the profit going? Down the drain.”
“Hmmmm,” said Betsy. Because Godwin also said John’s artist client was a spendthrift. Maybe it wasn’t just a loss of profit; maybe he couldn’t afford to wait.
Shelly glanced at her reflection in the mirror, smoothed her hair back, and touched the outsize earrings that twinkled down nearly to her bare shoulders. Her makeup was intense, and her long hair was pulled with seeming carelessness on top of her head whence it coiled and tumbled extravagantly down her back. She was wearing a pale yellow cotton dress that ran a ruffle across the top of her bosom and was tight in the short skirt. Though light-haired, she tanned quickly and easily, so the color glowed against her dark, unfreckled skin. She no longer looked like a clerk in a needlework shop, and even less like an elementary school teacher.
She’d been surprised when he’d called, and flattered. Now she waited a bit breathlessly for the doorbell to ring. At three minutes after seven it did. She opened the door to find him waiting with a small bouquet of flowers, how very charming and old-fashioned.
“Am I late?” he asked.
“No, of course not, Ian. You’re right on time.”
9
I an found Shelly more attractive than he had expected from their meeting in Crewel World—amusing name for a shop, he thought. He liked them young, whereas she was well into her thirties, perhaps even coming up on forty. He liked them to be lusty, while she taught fourth grade, for heaven’s sake. (What did kids learn in fourth grade? Times tables? Geography? He couldn’t remember. Was that because he was, oh, how many years past fourth grade? Never mind!) On the other hand, dressed to kill as she was now, he was prepared to change his opinion. She did have a sexy figure, with seductive shoulders and beautiful eyes. He liked her eyes; they were an unusual smoky brown with green highlights.
And there was a grace to her movements he found almost touching. Her upper bosom swelled softly, naturally, not quite too abundantly before it was interrupted by the ruffle. Having taken just about every ride in the female amusement park, he had a good idea what she looked like nude. Her torso, perhaps turned a bit more to the side than it was right now, standing and waiting for their table, would make a nice sculpture. Maybe with an effect at the hip as if the weight were mostly on one leg would be very nice—except it wouldn’t capture the grace of her movement. Well, then some kind of kinetic piece . . . He became aware that she was aware of his eyes on her. And not on her face, either. She was smiling as if she knew what he was thinking, which wasn’t what he was thinking at all.
That amused him, because his hormones normally were jumping. He took a deep swallow of his wine. “What do you think of modern art?” he asked, since that was what he was thinking about. They were in a nice restaurant near downtown Minneapolis, standing near the bar, waiting for their table.
“I like some things, I don’t like others.”
He felt his smile become condescending so he squashed it before she could notice that. He shouldn’t have spoken; nonartists had such clichéd opinions! “What don’t you like?”
“I don’t like pretenders.”
That surprised him. “Who are the pretenders?”
“You know, the ones who put flashing lights around a ceiling, or pile penny candy on the floor, and call it art.”
Oh, that old argument. Well, he’d asked for it. “It could be art,” he said with a little shrug. “If the candy were selected for its colors, or its shapes, and if it were piled into a kind of snowdrift of sugar . . .” His eyes kindled. “White saltwater taffy piled against a wall, with blue cough drops making the shadows, that could be interesting.” Call it “Saltwater,” hmmm . . .
“Perhaps a photograph or painting of it, don’t you think?” she asked. “So you could force the viewer to stand at the correct angle and get the perspective right.”
“All right,” he grudged, not being fond of collaborations, but acknowledging that she might have something there. Actually . . . “Or put it in a big box frame so you could control the lighting, too.” This was almost interesting.
“No, if you did that, it would be too much like those corn pictures.”
He frowned at her. “Corn pictures?”
“At the State Fair. Well, sometimes it’s grain, but most often it’s corn. Like a mosaic, with the corn as the pieces of stone. I’ve seen some that’re good, but most of it is awful. But that isn’t what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a big pile of penny candy on the floor, not arranged in any special way, and the visitors to the museum are invited to take a piece from the pile, and a janitor comes by every so often with a bucket of candy to replenish the pile. That’s not art, that’s . . . well, I don’t know what it is.”
“Performance art, maybe?” suggested Ian, a bit tiredly. Another evening about to be spoiled by an argument over art.
She looked at him, eyebrows lifted. “Well, you’re the first person who has suggested something that makes sense! It wasn’t advertised as performance art, but if the janitor were actually the artist, then sure, performance art. I like that, perhaps that was what was meant and the report I read had it wrong. So okay, maybe you can explain the cans of poop, too.”
“Cans of poop,” he repeated in an obedient voice. Piero Mazoni had been a jerk, and the museums who bought his offerings run by idiots.
Ian began to laugh, he couldn’t help it.
“But what aggravates me,” she said, in a mock-aggravated voice, “is that the cans were ‘industrially sealed,’ which means they are never to be opened. How do they know it’s really poop inside? And if it is, how do they know it’s his?”
“Artistic integrity,” he replied, and they laughed together, she holding on to his arm. And she didn’t spoil the joke by repeating it.
When they were down to chuckles, Shelly said with genuine seriousness, “But you do see what I mean, don’t you? That kind of art is by pretenders. Some don’t even pretend to be artists. They say things like, ‘Everything is art,’ or ‘It’s impossible to express my feelings in art.’ Well, if you can’t say it with art, perhaps you should go be a carpenter or a bus driver. And if everything is art, then why are museums paying terrific sums for a heap of candy they could buy from a wholesaler for twenty or thirty dollars? It wouldn’t be so bad, but most museums are tax supported, and that means all of us are forced into the despicable pretense.”
He cocked his head sideways and said, “But aren’t teachers paid with taxes?”
She took her hand away, and the twinkle in her eyes turned to a glint. “I’ll bet you there’s not a school board in the country that would allow its teachers to produce industrially sealed barrels and insist the public take on faith that each contains one properly educated child.”
He laughed again, but held up his bandaged hand. “I surrender! You’re right, I’m wrong. Truce?”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry, I do get a bit defensive, don’t I?” She studied his face. “Have I offended you? You aren’t a supporter of the pretenders, are you?”
He replied strongly, “No, of course not! My art is real and no relation to the piles of cheap candy or tinned excrement or other outrages. On the other hand, I don’t do representational art, so that stuff has an unwholesome effect on me and others like me. And it denigrates the difficult work of dedicated curators and critics who don’t think everything is art.”
“What is art?” asked Shelly, a trifle airily, understanding the question was a cliché, and letting him know that she wasn’t going to demand a serious answer.
The maître d’ approached at that point to take them to their table. Ian followed Shelly across the room with an eye to her backside to see if it was as attractive as her front. It was.
But after they were seated, he went back to her question, and he took it seriously. “Art is a medium of expression, and high art tries to communicate important ideas. Art can talk about life, art can comment on art. Art can also say silly things, playful things . . .” He leaned toward her and widened his eyes. “Sexy things.” She laughed encouragingly, but he felt he needed just one more serious statement. “I work hard on my art, and I like to think I have a certain recognizable method and talent.”
She said in a throaty voice, “I’d love to see some of your work.”
“I’ll have you out to my workshop someday, as soon as it’s repaired.”
“Repaired?” She glanced at his bandaged hand.
“Yes, I was stupid about a hot plate I’d installed, left a pot of coffee on it.” He held up the hand. “I like to think I was brave about trying to rescue a model I was building in wood, but anyone who tries to run into a burning building isn’t brave, he’s stupid. I’m lucky this was the only injury; the back half of the studio roof fell about forty seconds after I realized the danger and dashed out.” He opened his menu and made a pretense of looking at it—he knew what he wanted—then glanced around it to see if she was looking properly impressed. She was, but with a twinkle that indicated she knew he was looking for her to disagree, to say he was indeed a brave man. Damn perceptive women! Still . . . He grinned at her and put down the menu. “How come you clerk in that needlework store? Couldn’t you find something more challenging?”
“It’s challenging enough, to a brain tired of coping with the complex needs of thirty-five nine-year-olds for nine and a half months. Besides, Betsy gives her employees a discount on needlework materials. I have to struggle to keep needlework from turning from a hobby into an obsession. What’s good here?”
“Their prime rib. I’m having it.”
“Then so will I.” She closed her own menu.
“Tell me about her, your employer,” he said. “Is she really any good at detecting crime?”
“Oh, yes,” said Shelly. “I don’t know how she does it, she’s never trained to be a police officer. I’ve watched her solve cases, but I don’t really understand how she does it. We can both look at the same facts, but she—well, it’s like she looks at the facts from a different angle.”
“Different how?”
“A suspicious way, I suppose. She was suspicious of you, you know.”
His heart leaped into his throat, sending an alarm of sky-rockets into his brain. She was staring at him, so he went with it, feigning extreme amazement, dropping his jaw, pointing to his necktie with his bandaged fingers. “Moi? Why?”
She giggled, but nodded. “She wondered why you came in.”
“But I told her, I heard she was investigating, and wondered if there was anything I could tell her that would help.”
“Have you also talked with the police?”
“No, of course not.” He saw that was wrong and said, “But I expect a visit any day, at which time I’ll help them in any way I can, as well. I wouldn’t think they’d want people to just walk in and share what they know, unless it had a direct bearing. Or am I wrong?”
“No.”
“Does Ms. Devonshire have any other suspects?”
Shelly shrugged. “She suspects everyone at the start of a case. One of her best friends, a police officer named Jill Cross, told me that Betsy’s method is to look at everyone as if he or she is guilty, and only cross them off if she can prove they didn’t do it. Sort of a ‘last man standing’ method.”
“Has she ever looked at you with suspicion?” he asked.
“No, of course not!” said Shelly, surprised. Then, frowning, she added, “I don’t think so, anyway.”
“Perhaps you’re already crossed off.”
“Yes, probably. I mean, I have an alibi, I was working in her shop that day. She was volunteering at the fair, answering questions at the Information Booth.”
“Ah,” nodded Ian sagely. “On the scene and probably no alibi herself.”
Shelly giggled. “I’ll tell her that. She has a good sense of humor.”
“Irene says she’s a divorcee.”
“Twice,” nodded Shelly.
“She looks a mother type. Does she have children?”
“No.”
He smiled. “What about you?”
“No, just students. And three dogs. You?”
“I have two daughters, one married and the other going into her last year of college, thank God for just one more year of child support.” He finished the last of his wine. “Does that sound cruel? My ex-wife, the mother of my daughters, has seen to it that they dislike me intensely. After a while, I stopped caring. But the payments go on and on.”
“Divorces can be devastating,” said Shelly, “especially with children involved.”
“Between her store and her investigating, Ms. Devonshire must not have much of a social life,” he said.
Those beautiful eyes flashed. “She has a boyfriend who adores her. He wants her to sell the shop and move to Florida with him.”
He smiled at this badly hidden show of jealousy. He said, “I take it she’s not going to do that.”
“I doubt
it. She came to needlework late in life, but she’s having a ball with it. And owning her own business, actually making a success of it, she says is the American dream. She likes Morrie—in fact, she may be in love with him—but she’s not going to give up Crewel World anytime soon. She’s enjoying life in Excelsior too much.” She smiled slyly over her wineglass. “So you should just relax and enjoy being a suspect.”
Betsy was, in fact, not having a ball. She had tried for a while, between customers, to get the hang of Hardanger, but it seemed that the moment she caught the rhythm of it and relaxed her vigilance, she’d make a mistake. And she almost never caught it at once, but went on stitching. Then she’d put the stitching down to serve a customer, and when she came back to it, she’d begin to count to see where she was, and she’d realize the little row of five stitches, the kloster, didn’t line up. Sometimes it was because there was a stitch missing in a kloster block, and sometimes it was because she did a stitch two threads away instead of one. Whatever the problem was, the solution was the same: Pull the thread out until she was back to the last correct stitch. She’d done this so many times the thread was getting really fuzzy. She finally ran the fuzzy length under the backside of a kloster and clipped it off short. She cut a new length off the ball and threaded her needle.
It was then that a customer, trying to slip the cat Sophie a corner of a chocolate chip cookie without Betsy seeing her, realized she was spilling the cold cranberry drink in her other hand. The customer shrieked, and Sophie fled, swift and silent as a cloud’s shadow, the treat safe between her teeth.
“What, what is it?” asked Betsy, dropping her needle.
“I spilled my drink into that cute little basket,” confessed the customer with a humble smile.
Betsy came to look. The basket held four skeins of white alpaca yarn. Correction: pink alpaca yarn.
“Oh, dear, I am so sorry!” said the customer. “But if you hurry, surely you can rinse it out?”
The customer came along and the two crowded into the tiny bathroom off the back room of the shop. Betsy put the skeins into the sink and turned on the cold water faucet. The water in the sink immediately turned pink, too. But cranberry is a tenacious dye; no matter how much water she poured through the yarn, an uneven pink tinge remained.
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