Cutwork

by Monica Ferris

  He cocked his head at her, then nodded once. “All right, I do. And perhaps it is a good thing for you to know not to trust him.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because there’s a streak of insecurity and greed in Goddy. It comes from his early experiences. If something happened in your relationship that frightened him or made him feel insecure, he’d do whatever he felt necessary to save his own neck, even if it meant breaking yours.”

  “Is that why he breaks your confidences?” asked Betsy, anger flaring again, understanding suddenly who was the manipulative one in their relationship. “Because you deliberately make him feel insecure?”

  “I’ve always treated him with every kindness,” declared John. He looked away. “But you see how he repays me.”

  How could he speak of Goddy as if he were some kind of pet? Betsy sat down and tried to put a tone of sweet reason into her voice. “Godwin has never before told me about any of your cases, and I doubt if he ever will again. But this is important. A young man’s life is at stake. Please, so long he has told me about the viatical, can you confirm the details as he explained them to me?”

  He made eye contact and held it for several seconds. “All right, yes. I’m Ian Masterson’s attorney. He came to me and I arranged a lump-sum payment to Robert McFey, in return for which Mr. Masterson was made beneficiary of an insurance policy on Mr. McFey’s life.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But if you think that gives him a motive for murder, let me disabuse you of that notion. I can assure you, absolutely, that Mr. Masterson is in no need of the payout of that policy. If Mr. McFey lived to be a hundred, it would not have incommoded Mr. Masterson in the least.” His look was intent, his tone sincere and confident.

  Going down in the elevator a few minutes later, Betsy reflected that while she had lost a dandy suspect, she would no longer have to worry about Shelly dating a murderer.

  Betsy had been pleased to find a parking spot on a downtown Minneapolis street, but the instant she unlocked the door, she wished she’d gone into a parking ramp. The car was like an oven inside, and the steering wheel was so hot it burned her fingers. She started the engine, turned the air-conditioning on high, and stood outside for a minute while things cooled off in there. She was parked near Mr. Nye’s office, the great, green-glass IDS Tower, the one where Mary Tyler Moore was seen shopping on the old television show. There was even a bronze statue of Ms. Moore just a block away that captured her throwing her cap in the air. When that show was made, the IDS Tower was the only real skyscraper in Minneapolis; now it had a number of rivals. Betsy looked around while her car’s air conditioner worked. There was something to be said for a skyline that managed to wait until American architects had outgrown their fondness for plain glass boxes—the newer towers were of brick or stone, with interesting cornices and toplines.

  Coming back into the shop half an hour later, Betsy saw two customers and said to Godwin, “Could you show me how to fix the coffee urn? It’s acting up again.” Which was Betsy’s way of getting Godwin out of earshot into the back room of the shop.

  Godwin, knowing where she’d been, followed her warily. She closed the door behind them and said, “Godwin, I seem to do nothing but put my foot in it lately. First Jill, now you.”

  Godwin’s wariness deepened to fear. “Why? Where did you—oh, my God, you went to see John, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I felt I had to confirm that Ian Masterson bought that viatical. He did confirm it, but he says he told you about it in confidence.”

  “Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy!” sighed Godwin. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned it!”

  “How could you not, knowing how important it is to the case I’m investigating?”

  Godwin turned away from Betsy, to lean against the door, hiding his face in his elbow. It was an exceedingly dramatic pose—Goddy was fond of dramatic gestures—but also a very sincere one. Over the last couple of years, the relationship between John and Godwin had become strained, and Godwin had often feared it was coming to a breach. “He expects me not to repeat his gossip. And I don’t! I never did before!”

  “Why does he tell you things he shouldn’t?”

  “I don’t know. It makes him feel even bigger when he can dish the dirt about important clients. He knows you’re looking into the Rob McFey murder, it was talking about you doing that that reminded him about the viatical. Sometimes I think he sets me up to do things that will make him angry!”

  Betsy didn’t doubt it. And now she had to add to his sorrows. “He ordered me to fire you.”

  Godwin smacked his hand against the door. “Oh, no! He’s wanted me to quit for simply ages, he says it’s making me too serious! Oh, this is terrible, I adore working here! Does he think working at Stitchville or Zandy’s would be the same?” He sighed deeply, trying not to cry.

  Betsy said, “I told him I wouldn’t, of course.”

  Godwin peeped over his shoulder at her. “You did?”

  “Of course. Goddy, I can’t run the shop without you, surely you know that!”

  He came away from the door to hug her. “Oh, you are the sweetest, the bestest, I just love you to death!”

  “Now, now, settle down, or I might suspect you of heterosexual thoughts.”

  He giggled, but let go. Then he turned serious. “But what am I going to do about John?”

  “Can I help? What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I’ll have to figure out how to make up with him, and try to get things to be like they were before.”

  “Do you think you can do that without quitting this job?”

  “I don’t know. He can make things very hard if I don’t.”

  “Well, I told him I’d fight any attempt on his part to make you quit.”

  “How can you fight him? What can you do?”

  Betsy’s chin came up, the way it had in John’s office, the way it had on the trip home, when she’d come to a decision. “Can you stay after work tonight for, say, half an hour? I’ll tell you then.”

  He looked at her, trying to read her expression. “I think you’ll like it,” she said. “At least, I hope you do.”

  “Does it involve a raise?”

  “Well, yes, it does.”

  He beamed at her. “Well, all right! Sure I can stay awhile.”

  They went back out and found two customers waiting for them. They stood together at the checkout desk, talking like friends, their selections heaped on the desk.

  They were from Canada, here for an Embroiderers’ Guild of America meeting. They introduced themselves as Alice Morgan and Tara Dewdney. Alice had found a Christmas stocking kit she’d been looking for; what’s more, it was in a sale bin, so she was very pleased. But Tara had come into a small inheritance. She had spent one portion of it buying tickets for herself and Alice to the conference, and another on a buying trip to Stitchville USA. She was in Crewel World for a final splurge before flying home.

  “This is Becky,” she said to Alice, introducing Betsy by the wrong name. But Tara was buying a color wheel and some other items that brought her total to over two hundred dollars. At that level of spending, Tara Dewdney could call Betsy Monkey-face if she liked. Perhaps Betsy’s accountant would smile this month after all.

  11

  Godwin shooed the last customer out right at five, and turned the needlepointed sign around to CLOSED. The money was counted, the deposit slip made out, the coffee urn unplugged, emptied, and washed, stock replaced, the radio shut off, and all but one light extinguished.

  They both stood a moment, looking around, going down the close-up list in their heads. This was Betsy’s favorite time of day, and not just because another hard day at work was finished. The air in the shop seemed full of small vibrations and a very fine dust, as if a herd of horses had just gone through. Betsy felt as if she were exhaling slowly after having inhaled all day, and the shop was exhaling with her.

  Though it was still bright daylight outside, in the shop wit
h the lights off the glowing colors of the yarns were dulled and the shimmer of the flosses was gone, and the little herd of yarn baskets in the corner had blended into a mass of smooth wicker and fuzzy wool. Godwin sighed softly, changing gears himself, then turned toward Betsy, who was standing behind the big old checkout desk. “Well?” he said.

  He’d been very patient all afternoon, disarming and amusing every customer who came his way with his usual gay-on-parade behavior, only very rarely looking at his watch and rolling his eyes at heaven for arranging such a pokey passage of time.

  “Yes,” said Betsy. “Let’s sit down.” She picked up a legal-size yellow notepad and made for the library table that filled the center of the room. She pulled out a chair and seated herself. She put some effort into not smiling; she wanted this to be a real surprise.

  “All right,” said Godwin, hurrying to take another chair.

  “I had a talk with my financial advisor last night,” began Betsy, speaking with some deliberation. She turned over the blank top page of the pad, revealing some notes on the second page. “He suggested several changes I need to make in my fiscal planning for the next few years.”

  “Oh, my God, he told you to declare bankruptcy!” shrieked Godwin in faux hysteria. “I knew we weren’t making much money the last two months, but I didn’t know it was as bad as all that!”

  “Godwin, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Sorry,” said Godwin, not very contritely. “But can’t you talk any faster? Or just give me the summation? I’m simply dying of curiosity.”

  Betsy allowed her smile to appear, and accepting the challenge, she said rapidly, “All right, here’s the bottom line: I propose to double your salary, offer you a benefit package like my own, and arrange for you to have power of attorney if something happens to me and I can’t take care of things myself.”

  Godwin took in a great gulp of air and stopped there, staring at her for long enough that his complexion turned deep pink. His hands splayed on the table and then began to scramble as he struggled for control. He finally managed to exhale and draw another breath. “Strewth!” he exclaimed.

  “Was that succinct enough for you?”

  “Have mercy!” he gulped. “I guess it is! Why, this is so amazing! I—I—” A slow-going grin morphed his expression from amazement to delight. “John will just shit!”

  “Good. I’ll teach him to mess with my employees.”

  Godwin held out his arms, wrists together, then yanked them apart. “The golden handcuffs are broken!”

  She patted the air with one hand. “Now, don’t get too excited. Even on double your current salary, you won’t be able to jet to New York on weekends to attend Broadway shows and dine at whichever restaurant is hottest at present.”

  “Salt,” said Godwin absently.

  “What?”

  “Well, L’Impero, then. Does this mean I get to make more decisions about running the shop?”

  “You already make decisions.”

  “But I mean like a, a manager! Could I be Manager of Crewel World?”

  Betsy laughed. “Why stop there? Why not be Vice President in Charge of Operations?”

  “Could I? Really? Could I?”

  Caught up in his excitement, she laughed and said, “Why not?”

  Godwin rose from the chair to dance in a series of curved-spine, arms-forward, Gene Kelly turns all the way around the table. He wound up standing behind the chair he’d occupied, one arm bent in front, the other up and out.

  Betsy, still laughing, rose to give him a standing O, and he bowed deeply, then sat down. “What does an operations manager do?” he asked.

  Betsy hesitated. Her main purpose had been to thwart John, and she had reacted impulsively in saying Godwin could be an officer of Crewel World, Inc. But Godwin was not just a golden, eager puppy, and she was not going to be like John, winning him with trifles, to betray him when it came to realities. “If you’re serious, I’m prepared to give you real responsibility.”

  He grinned and spread his arms. “Lay it on me.”

  She reached into a coffee can in the center of the table that held scissors, rulers, crochet hooks, a pair of size eleven knitting needles, and an assortment of marking pens and pencils. She pulled out a pencil, turned over another page in the notebook, and wrote the numeral 1 on the top line. “All right, manager, you run the shop.” She went back and wrote MANAGER on top of the page, then went to number 1, and numbered the rest as she wrote them down. “First, you set the hours we’re open; second, you decide how much off the regular price we’ll give for sales—and third, you can set the dates of sales. Fourth, we work together on ads, but you’re in charge of ordering stock from now on. And you can set the work schedules, too—which means you can hire and fire part-timers as necessary.” She dotted the last item with a firm mark and put the pencil down. “But run your decisions past me, at least at first, so I can approve them.”

  Godwin had been nodding eagerly, watching the list grow. “Yes, yes, I can handle all of that,” he said. “Can I do a newsletter, too?”

  “Come on, isn’t this enough?”

  “Please?”

  “Goddy, newsletters are a lot of work. It’s easy to do one or two, or even three, but then they turn into a real chore. I helped put out a monthly one for a book club a long time ago, and I came to hate that deadline. Trust me, you will, too.”

  “Yes, but Stitchville has a newsletter, so it’s not like it’s impossible. Susan Greening Davis says they’re important, and since they go only to customers who want them, they aren’t wasted like newspaper ads can be. And they’re cheaper than any other kind of advertising except a sign in the window.”

  Susan Greening Davis was a needlework shop maven, appearing at conventions and markets and putting out her own newsletter full of advice and suggestions. Betsy subscribed to it, but Godwin also read it, and he was always trying to get Betsy to use more of her ideas.

  “They’re way, way more work than you think, Goddy.”

  “I’m up for it! You wouldn’t believe how much material I’ve already got. Please, I’ve always wanted to do one, I have a computer at home with a newsletter program.” He raised his right hand. “I swear, you won’t have to lift a finger, I’ll do all the work.”

  “Okay, all right,” yielded Betsy, but then she picked up and pointed the pencil at Godwin as if it were a pistol and warned him, “If you come to me one time for help, that will be the last issue.”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! Vice President and Editor in Chief!” Godwin pumped a fist in the air while she wrote “7. Newsletter” on the list. He shifted mood instantly to worry, “What shall I call it?”

  He looked at Betsy for advice, but she refused to be drawn. “It’s your project, you name it.”

  “All right.” He pressed a forefinger into his cheek, composing. Godwin was a really good actor; Betsy could almost see the green eyeshade and ink stains. “Crewel World News? Stitchin’ Print? A Stitch in Time?” He looked over to see if Betsy had brightened at any of these.

  She hadn’t. “May we talk about some other things now?”

  “Sure, like what?”

  “Like the apology I owe you for not doing something like this a long time ago. Mr. Forseth was rather sharp to me about that. He says I should be more willing to respond generously to valuable employees.” She went back a page in the notepad. “In fact, one thing he also suggested is that I take out ‘valuable employee’ insurance on you. Even though I told him that no amount of money would bring me a replacement with all the qualities you bring to Crewel World.” Betsy felt her face grow hot.

  Godwin swallowed hard and said carelessly, “Oh, I don’t know. Donny DePere can stitch. And he’s even more flamboyant than I am.”

  “Yes, but is he as handsome?”

  Godwin smiled and preened just a little. “No.” This broke the sentimental moment satisfactorily. Godwin frowned. “What did you mean about becoming incapacitated? Oh, my God, you’re sick, aren’t you?
”

  “No, no, of course not! But remember how I was in the hospital twice winter before last? Suppose I’d had to stay longer, or had to stop working for a long while? Who would have paid my bills, ordered more stock, arranged to have the parking lot plowed?”

  “I suppose Shelly and I could have handled that.”

  “No, you couldn’t. Neither of you are legally able to sign checks or withdraw funds from my bank account. That’s what this is about. Mr. Forseth is drawing up a legal document called a ‘springing durable power of attorney,’ and that means if I become incapacitated, you’d be able to do those things. In fact, if I’m in a mysterious coma due to ingestion of an unnamed drug, or chained to a wall in the farthest reaches of a secret dungeon constructed by the maniacal Doctor Dread, you could even make decisions about my other holdings.”

  “Hey, what else are you investigating?” asked Godwin, alarmed.

  “Nothing, nothing,” she replied. “The only way I can talk about such things is by making a joke of them. But you know what I mean. If I get run over by Lars’s Stanley Steamer, or fall through the ice on Lake Minnetonka . . .”

  “All right, I get it,” Godwin said, nodding. “If I might be allowed a serious remark, I’m honored you think I can handle things like that. But why me? Why not Shelly?”

  “Because while she knows quite a bit about running Crewel World, she can only work regular hours here in the summer. You know how it should be run even better than Shelly does. Or me, for that matter.” She looked around the shop, at the six door-like flats on one wall that held painted needlepoint canvases, and the white dresser near the door on whose mirror were taped announcements of classes and needlework events. “I wouldn’t have this place if you hadn’t been there from the start for me.”

  He looked around, too, at the box shelves with their burdens of books, magazines, and needlework gadgets. “That’s true,” he said, not kidding. “But I don’t know much about the other things. I suppose I could collect the rents. I’ve been a tenant enough times to have a little understanding of how that works. But what about the other stuff? Like New York Motto?”