Bershada said, “I tried it, but it was too much work. The buttonhole stitch isn’t my favorite.”
“But that’s the stitch we’re doing here!” said Betsy.
“No, the kloster stitch isn’t the same as buttonhole; plus we change direction by ninety degrees every five stitches. Cutwork is following a line that curves forever—and I hate going around curves with that sad buttonhole stitch.”
But Betsy remembered doing curves in a decorative buttonhole stitch back when all she did was embroidery, and how it was interesting to follow the curves. So while everyone else settled into making kloster blocks, Betsy took a sharp needle from the packet of them on the table and spent the rest of the session rediscovering the buttonhole stitch.
After the class broke up, Char again remained behind. “Any progress to report?” she asked. “I only ask because Faith called me. She said she wasn’t sure what you were doing and she didn’t want to bother you if you were busy and . . .” That trailed off.
“And she realized she and Greg didn’t make a very good impression?” asked Betsy.
Char nodded, shamed. “The girls were angry and Faith was scared and Greg was being Greg.”
Betsy said, “I almost walked away from this. Mickey is not exactly the shining ornament of his generation, and he’s a liar besides, which makes him hard to work with. Or for. But I have been looking around, and there are some possibilities. I think it’s possible, for example, that someone else murdered Rob McFey and Mickey simply came along after and took the money.”
Char beamed. “So you are looking into it!”
“Yes. There are some people who are not unhappy that Rob is dead.”
“Who?” Char asked at once.
“I don’t want to name anyone, because I have no proof.” But she was thinking of Ian.
“I hope you keep looking until you find the proof. Oh, Betsy, if you could just bring that boy home! The scare he’s been given will straighten him out for certain!”
Betsy wasn’t at all sure of that, but she just nodded and sent Char away happy.
After the class Betsy went upstairs and changed into her pajamas. She had thought to make an early evening of it, but remembered she had some shop business to take care of. She pulled on a robe and went into the other bedroom to open her business accounts program on her computer. She hadn’t realized there was so much paperwork to do—but she’d been neglecting it to sleuth. She entered the latest time-card hours, then told the program about Godwin’s new wages. She was only halfway through entering a stack of sales records when the doorbell rang.
She had invested in an intercom system for her upstairs tenants, one of whom was herself, so she went to the little hallway that led to her front door and pressed a button.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Ian Masterson,” came the prompt reply.
“Me, too—Shelly,” said another voice.
Frowning, Betsy pressed the release button, which made a loud buzz she could hear from all the way downstairs. She opened the door to her apartment and watched as their heads appeared in the stairwell. Shelly was looking important and excited, Ian sober and uncertain.
They came up into the big hallway that was divided by the staircase and turned toward Betsy’s door. Shelly was in a flowing, flower-print, sleeveless dress with a deep scoop neckline—the breasts on display made Betsy realize, with a little shock, that Shelly probably had a sex life. Ian wore another pair of too-short trousers and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt.
“Come in,” said Betsy, stepping back and holding the door open. “Excuse the way I look.” The robe she wore was a big, long flannel number with broad vertical stripes of gray and maroon, the very opposite of Shelly’s outfit.
“You look very ‘at home,’ ” said Ian kindly.
The hallway was short but narrow. A doorway on the left led into the galley kitchen; visible beyond it was the dining nook with its round table and prettily curtained window. Betsy noticed Ian’s nosy interest and was glad the table was cleared and its bouquet of silk flowers in place.
The living room was low-ceilinged, which gave it a snug feel. The curtains on the double front window were chintz. One of their reds was the same shade as the dark red carpet. Betsy had replaced her sister’s original love seat with a couch upholstered in light gray, but had kept the very comfortable upholstered chair and footstool. A magnifying light on a wheeled pedestal was beside the chair and on the other side was a large fabric bag in a wooden frame that held Betsy’s latest counted cross-stitch work.
Ian stood a moment or two, just looking around with his artist’s eye, nodding at the lighted cabinet with its books, Bose audio system, and the Lladro figurines Betsy’s sister had collected. “This feels like my aunt’s condo in Ohio, even though hers looks nothing like this.”
Shelly giggled and said, “How can it feel the same if it doesn’t look the same?”
“They’re both—cozy,” said Ian. “You just know a pampered cat lives here, the bathroom smells of perfumed soap, and there’s a cookie jar in the kitchen.”
Betsy said, “Your aunt and I have been living parallel lives, I guess.”
“Oh, you and her and lots of people. Nice people. Backbone of our culture. It’s people like you who give bohemians like me the security to live as we like. If everyone lived the way I do, the country would collapse into chaos.”
Shelly laughed. “He’s right, Betsy. You should see his place, heaps of dust everywhere, nothing in the fridge but three cans of beer and a very old pizza.” She looked at him admiringly. “But his art is wonderful.”
“Here, sit down,” said Betsy, remembering her manners. “May I get you something? Iced tea? Coffee?”
“No, we just had a late supper,” said Shelly, and she smiled at something. Lovers can be tedious, but Shelly didn’t go with the moment, no rapturous sighs or blowing of kisses.
Ian took a seat on the couch, still looking around, amused and sharp-eyed. He patted the back of the couch and Shelly sat down next to him, smiling at Betsy.
“What brings you here?” asked Betsy, who had work to do before her evening was over.
Shelly was instantly serious. “Ian told me something that I think you should know.” Ian made a gesture as if to disagree, but she waved it off, saying to him, “Now, we agreed. I told you how Betsy does this thing where she finds out someone who everyone thinks committed a crime, didn’t; and she does it by finding out who did. She thinks Mickey Sinclair didn’t kill Robert McFey, and you know something that may help her investigate.”
Ian looked at her for a long moment, then at Betsy. “All right, I did hear something.” He drew a sigh. “Do you know the McFey family?”
“Not really,” said Betsy, sitting down in the comfortable chair, prepared to listen.
“Well, there’s Robbie’s widow, her name is Pam. And there are two children; the older is in college, his name is Coyne, and the younger is a girl, Skye. Skye was very close to her father, and he left her all his unsold artwork in his will. She wanted me to help her arrange a sale, so we went over to Robbie’s apartment this past Sunday. She was upset because the police came twice to talk to her family and seem to think that if the teenager they’ve arrested proves to be innocent, then Pam or Coyne make excellent replacement suspects.”
“Not Skye?”
“No, she was swimming with friends when it happened. Anyway she was very close to her father, she wouldn’t have harmed him. But she’s very upset that the police are looking at her mother and brother. She told me that if the police need another suspect, they should be looking at Banner Wilcox, who was Robbie’s partner in his advertising business.”
“Why does she say that?” asked Betsy.
“Because Banner took a real bath in the breakup of the business. And he was, according to Skye, pretty damned mad about it. He used to phone Robbie at home and shout threats and obscenities to the point where Pam took out an order of protection. According to Skye, Pam said Banner
was having a nervous breakdown. Once Coyne picked up the phone when it rang, and Banner thought it was Robbie and ranted at him. Coyne told Skye about it. Said he threatened Robbie’s life.”
“Was Banner serious about the threat?”
“I don’t know—this is third-hand, after all. And I’ve never met Banner Wilcox. But Skye said that when Robbie moved out, he told everyone not to give his new address or phone number to Banner.”
Betsy thought this over for a while. Then she asked, “How old is Skye?”
Ian said, “Fifteen.”
“Is she the sort to exaggerate?”
“I don’t think so. I do know she’s an artist in her own right, with an artist’s honest soul—you know, tell the truth and damn the consequences.”
“What do you know about Banner Wilcox?”
“Only what she told me. Robbie never mentioned him that I can remember. Skye’s known him for years, and thought he was a gentle person. ‘Wuss’ is the term she used, actually.” Ian smiled and shook his head at the term.
“So what do you make of all this?”
The grin vanished. “Well, it occurs to me that if I was a successful businessman and had it all taken away from me, I’d be damn angry. Banner lost his career, his executive job, his retirement account . . . Oh, yes, that’s another detail: Skye said Banner was persuaded to invest in the company that bought Information Please, and then that company went belly up. What she didn’t say was that Banner might be right to blame Robbie for all this.”
“Do you think Banner was right?”
Ian hesitated. “Robbie was a good friend,” he hedged, after a few moments.
Betsy persisted. “Do you think it possible he lied to Banner about the terms of the sale, or about the company he sold out to?”
“No,” he said. Then he twisted his head sideways and pursed his lips. “Not deliberately,” he amended. Shelly put a hand on his knee, and when he looked at her, she nodded encouragingly. He shrugged and said, “He didn’t like advertising. He thought he was going to die doing a job he hated. He was drinking more than he should, which distorts judgment. I don’t think he would lie to Banner on purpose, but he would probably make the deal look as good as he could so Banner would go along.”
“That would explain why Banner invested in the new owner,” noted Betsy.
“Yes, and why, when the company went out of business, he blamed Robbie.”
“Is there a reason why none of the McFeys have told the police about this person?”
Ian looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know that they haven’t,” he said.
“I do know they haven’t,” said Betsy.
“Maybe they didn’t ask,” suggested Shelly. “You know Mike, not the sharpest hook in the tacklebox.”
Betsy nodded. Mike was sure he already had the murderer safe in custody down at Juvenile Detention. He’d gone to see the McFeys only because Jill persuaded him to.
“All the same,” she said, “I’d prefer not to be the one bringing this to Mike.” She looked at Ian. “I think you should advise the family to tell Sergeant Malloy about this.”
After they left, Betsy went back to entering data into her computer. But she found herself impatient with all the numbers—numbers weren’t like words; “lfoss” was obviously a typo for floss, while 743 was as good a number as 437. Except, of course, it wasn’t. Accounting numbers had to be correct in a cruel and mindless sort of way, no inattention or creativity allowed. Like Hardanger. Worse, in fact; incorrect numbers could lead to bankruptcy or even trouble with the IRS. Was Ian in trouble with the IRS? Why was she thinking that? Her fingers came away from the keyboard. She didn’t like Ian, did she?
She considered the man, his keen, amused eyes, his smug smile. No, not smug, something else. Lacking in sympathy? That was closer. Self-centered—that was it. He was like many artists, totally in thrall to his muse. Everything must get out of the way when Ian wanted to create. Like Rob McFey. Yes. When you thought about it, it was surprising those two were friends, because each was so focused on his art there was little time or room to consider the other’s wants or needs.
Except Ian did consider the needs of other artists. He gave money, arranged for viaticals or mortgages in support of them. Had Rob McFey ever done anything like that? She felt a dash of anger at Rob, who had allowed his partner in business to be ruined, and ignored the needs of his family, too, all because he was desperately desirous of carving wood into shapes. Beautiful shapes, of course.
What was it about artists, who seemed so brimful of feeling, so in touch with their childlike hearts—and so ruthless in pursuit of their heart’s desire?
Was that why she didn’t like Ian? Because he went after Shelly ruthlessly, and it wasn’t because he loved her but because she thrilled his muse? And would the resulting work of art be worth her broken heart? She had seen Rob’s art. It was very beautiful. Was Ian’s art beautiful? Or was he, despite Shelly’s protests to the contrary, a poseur?
That was an even uglier thought. She determinedly pulled her attention away from it, and finished her book-keeping.
But when she was done, she didn’t shut down her computer, but sat thinking some more.
Rob’s work was wonderful, almost lyrical. Ian, working in a much harsher medium, must hear a harder music. Or was it something decidedly unmusical? She logged on to the Internet, did a Google search for Ian Masterson, and was directed to his site. There wasn’t much of a biography, just a mention of a degree in fine arts from the University of Minnesota and two adult children. There were a lot of pictures of his work. His early pieces were folk art, passionate but hardly talented, consisting of sheet iron hammered, bolted, and welded into hollow shapes. The effect was of aliens’ discarded and rusty suits of armor. Then came the big beams or girders, some several stories high, Ian himself a small figure standing by one of them. Then, in another total change of pace, came his newest works, metal cut into clumsy strips or chunks and welded together into mere suggestions of human shapes. But here was a powerful step upward, onto a new plane. The first set of his works had been amusing, the second derivative. But here was Art, unmistakably. An angry child with a raised fist, its strips of descending metal plates suggesting rags; the head of a frightened man, all wide-open, screaming mouth; a sad woman whose huge tears were like a flow of lava. Amazing how a seemingly careless crooked twist to a mouth, the way the weight was distributed on the unequal legs, the awkward droop of hair on a forehead, all evoked a powerful emotional response in the viewer—and these were only photographs. What must they be like when seen in person? Betsy clicked out of the site and went to bed, awed and reflective.
16
It was late Tuesday morning. Malloy was alone in the small, two-man office trying to put together a progress report on the McFey case. His partner was out talking to the Leipolds about a chronic shoplifting problem in their store, though how they could tell items had gone missing in the dense maze of secondhand books, wind socks, souvenir T-shirts, lamp shades, antique toys, fishermen’s maps, and comic postcards, Mike couldn’t imagine.
His phone rang twice, a sign of an internal call. “Malloy,” he said on picking it up.
“Mike, Skye McFey is here to see you.” It was Sergeant Cross.
“She say what she wants?”
“To talk to you.”
Mike looked at the sprawl of papers on his desk: forensic reports, autopsy reports, interview and interrogation reports, a drawing, forensic sketches, and worst of all, photographs of the crime scene. He said, “Give me two minutes, then send her down.”
“Right.”
Malloy sorted the papers into three piles, stacked them with the photographs on top, and put them in a file folder, which he slid into a desk drawer. He’d barely finished when there came a single rap on the open door and he looked up to see the teen in a long, slinky-but-raggedy black dress held together with safety pins. And black army boots. She’d been sent down the hall alone—the station was small, finding hi
s office wasn’t hard.
He studied her briefly. Her spiked hair was an angry red on the left side and a totally wrong shade of fuchsia on the right. There was a tiny silver ring in one nostril. Her expression behind the black eye shadow and brown lipstick was resolute. He remembered the preppy clothes on her brother and the pretty dress and elaborate jewelry her mother wore and decided here was rebellion in full bloom.
“Miss McFey?” he asked, rising.
“Yes,” she said quietly, but not shyly.
“Come in,” he said. “Take a seat.” There was a green metal chair with a padded green seat beside his desk, which he indicated with a wave of his hand.
She marched bravely into the room, her lace-up boots thumping on the linoleum floor. It was nearly ninety degrees outside, with the humidity way up there; her feet must be soggy with sweat. Kids today were out of their minds, in Malloy’s seldom-humble opinion.
She took the chair. “You’re the one who talked to my mother and brother last week,” she said.
“Yes. Your mother said I could talk to you if I wanted to, but only in her presence. Does she know you’re here?”
“Like I told Sergeant Cross, she drove me to Excelsior, but she thinks I came to have lunch with my friend Madison and then go to a movie with her. I didn’t tell Mommy that I want to talk to you. She’s picking me up in three hours, that’s enough time to do all that and talk to you, too. You aren’t going to call her, are you? I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t want me talking to the police. But this isn’t about her, or Coy, so it’s all right, isn’t it?”
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“A man named Banner Wilcox. He was very angry with my father.”
Right after Skye left, Sergeant Cross stuck her head into his office. She noted the resuming sprawl of paper, the drawing, sketches, and photos on his desk, and started to say something but wisely said instead, “Did Skye McFey have anything to say?”
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