“She says we should look at Banner Wilcox instead of her brother as a suspect.”
“And Banner Wilcox is—?”
“According to Skye, her father’s old business partner. He took a bath when the business was sold and he was mad as hell at McFey. Skye says Wilcox called McFey almost daily to rant and make threats.”
“And where was Mr. Wilcox when the murder went down?”
“At church, he says. But who cares?”
Jill blinked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I think someone sicced Skye on me about Banner.”
“Her mother.”
“Huh-uh, Pam McFey’s far too cool a head.”
“Her brother?”
Mike nodded, satisfied that Jill had seconded his own opinion. “Who lied to me about his trip to seek work at a car dealership? Coyne McFey. The boy’s afraid I’ll find out he lied and arrest him.”
“You gonna go talk to him?”
“No need to. Take a look at this.” He turned the drawing toward her.
She came to the desk to look. It was on soft twenty by twenty-four paper, done in black crayon. “It’s from that lady at the art fair, the caricaturist,” said Mike. “When it started to rain on Sunday, customers dried up.” He paused to admire that oxymoron, then continued, “She was on the side of the field near the bandshell, so to keep her drawing hand warm, she did this.”
The sketch was of people standing out of the rain in the bandshell. There were ten or twelve of them, and near the front was a sullen-faced young man. His expression made him stand out from the others even though they were a diverse bunch, from the soccer mom in front to the old hippie in back. And he also looked very much like Mickey Sinclair.
“Is this admissible as evidence?” asked Jill.
“I am going to ask the county attorney that. But also, get a load of this.” He handed her two sheets of paper stapled together. “It’s from BCA: The blood on the shoes we retrieved from the Dumpster is Robert McFey’s, and the DNA inside the shoes makes them Mickey’s.” He smiled a very cool smile. “This is as close to open and shut as we can get without an eyewitness to the actual murder. A new ten-dollar bill in Mickey’s bedroom had McFey’s thumbprint on it, the cash box had Mickey’s fingerprints on it, there is a footprint at the scene that came from a shoe we can absolutely tie to Mickey. I’d say the only person who could remain convinced he didn’t do it is his mother.”
“What about Betsy Devonshire? Last I heard, she’s still trying to prove he didn’t do it.”
“Why should I care about Betsy Devonshire’s opinion, when I have fingerprints, footprints, and blood evidence? I’ve got an iron-clad, rock-solid case, so there’s no reason to try to build a second one.”
It had been a busy morning, but things had slowed down, and Betsy was thinking about lunch. Godwin had the day off so Shelly was working. Shelly hummed as she bustled about, her eyes bright and her movements brisk. She had hinted a time or two that she wanted to gush about Ian, but Betsy had headed that off. Between one thing and another, she hadn’t seen Morrie for four days and was in no mood to hear how fulfilled and happy Shelly was.
But with no customers present, all the stock in order, empty spaces on spinner racks refilled, orders for new stock placed, every flat surface dusted, and a different, more-pleasant radio station found, Betsy couldn’t think of anything else for Shelly to do.
She was about to allow her to gush away when the door went Bing! and Betsy looked up to see a teenager in a black evening dress and Kool-Aid hair come in. Betsy had never seen her before, even walking around town. There was a city bus that ran from Minneapolis out here; perhaps she had come out on that.
“May I help you?” asked Betsy.
“Is one of you named Betsy?” asked the girl.
“I am.”
“I’m Skye McFey and a police officer named Jill Cross told me to come and talk to you.”
A few minutes later Shelly was headed next door to Sol’s Deli for lunch with instructions to bring back a chef salad, hold the cheese, and poppy seed dressing on the side.
“Now,” said Betsy, after seating Skye at the little round table in the back area of the shop, “why did Jill ask you to come and talk with me?”
“Because of Banner Wilcox, who used to be my father’s partner in the ad agency, and who was mad when Pop sold out.”
“Do you know if the police have talked to him?”
“I was just over there, and I talked with Sergeant Malloy about him. He seemed interested and wrote things down.”
“Hmmm. Can you wait right here a minute?”
“Sure.”
Betsy went to the library table in the front of the store, where she used the cordless phone to call Jill at the police station. “Is it all right to ask if Mike Malloy has gone to talk to Banner Wilcox?”
“Skye did come to see you, then,” said Jill.
“She’s here now.”
“I can tell you that Mike spoke briefly with Mr. Wilcox on the phone, but isn’t interested in going any further. He’s satisfied that he’s got enough to convict Mickey Sinclair.”
“Oh? What does he—no, that’s not a good question, is it?”
Jill smiled; Betsy could hear it in her voice. “No, not a good question. Go talk to the child.”
So Betsy went back to talk to Skye. “Do you have to ask her if you can talk to me?” asked Skye.
“Not always, but in this case, yes. You see, interfering with a police investigation is illegal.”
“You mean Sergeant Malloy? He thinks Coy did it.”
“No, he thinks Mickey Sinclair did it.”
“Then why did he come out and scare Coy and Mommy half to death?”
“Because sometimes cases fall apart, and he doesn’t want to have to start over from scratch on a case that is several weeks old. Or older, if it goes to trial and Mickey is found not guilty.”
“I think Mickey did it.”
“So why are you here to tell me about Banner Wilcox?”
Skye crossed her arms and tried to look huffy, then sighed and uncrossed them again. “For the same reason, I guess. Because if it turns out Mickey didn’t do it, they may come after Coy, and I don’t want my brother to go to jail. Because he didn’t do it, either.”
“You’re sure?”
Skye went white. “My brother may be a jerk, but he wouldn’t kill his own father! So it has to be Mickey. Unless it’s Banner Wilcox.”
“Do you know Mickey?”
“Kind of. We’re in the same school. When he comes to school. And he hangs with a different crowd than me; all of them are criminals. He steals stuff and he smokes marijuana like all the time. So I don’t know why you’re trying to help him. And anyhow, if you don’t think Mickey did it, who do you think?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking questions. For example, why did Banner Wilcox have a motive to kill your father?”
Skye swallowed hard and said, “Could you not say it like that? Killed my father? I feel all icky when I think about someone killing my father, especially Banner.” Her voice rose high. “Banner’s always been nice, and it’s bad enough he’s, my daddy’s dead.”
Betsy reached out to touch the girl on her shoulder. “I’m really sorry. It must be terrible for you.”
Skye only nodded, no longer able to speak.
Betsy said, “May I get you something to drink? We have bottled water, coffee, and several kinds of tea.”
Skye made an effort. “Water,” she said in a shaky voice.
Betsy took her time getting a bottle of water out of the little refrigerator and pouring it into two foam cups. She berated herself for being so focused on her sleuthing she missed the obvious signs of Skye’s suffering. Skye had loved her father, with whom she shared an artistic soul and who had been taken from her in a very ugly way—and now suspicion was falling on her mother and her one sibling. Betsy resolved to treat her with more respect.
When she got
back to the table, Skye had taken hold of her emotions. “Thanks,” she said in a near-normal voice, taking the cup of water. She took a quick swallow and said, “I’m okay now. You can ask me anything.”
“Skye, I am very impressed that you would make this effort to help your family. I know this is a difficult thing for you to do.”
“It’s okay, I want to help if I can. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Banner Wilcox.”
“Well, he was my father’s partner in Information Please. He didn’t want Pop to sell it, but Pop thought he was dying and he wanted to spend his last year carving animals and selling them. Pop told Banner that the company he was selling to—”
Betsy interrupted, “Excuse me, but if they were partners, how did your father sell it over Banner’s objections?”
“Pop was the senior partner. It was like two-thirds and one-third. Besides, Pop told Banner it was a great deal, that the alternative was to wait till he died, when the sharks would close in. What he meant was, Banner didn’t have Pop’s sales sense and he might mess up trying to run the company alone. Banner was nice; he wasn’t a hard-nose like Pop could be. And Pop told Banner that Makejoy, the company making the offer, was solid and growing. So Banner went along. And Makejoy gave him a job, only it wasn’t as good a job as he’d had with Pop, and he didn’t get along with the new bosses. And then he got downsized. He’d put most of his share of the money he got from selling into Makejoy, so he still thought he was all right—but then Makejoy went broke. So he was really screwed and he was really, really mad. He used to call our house and yell. One time he went off on Coy, because he thought it was Pop answering the phone, and Coy said he was like insane. He threatened to kill Pop.”
“How did your father take this? Was he frightened?”
Skye shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was upset, but it was about Banner, not himself. He really liked Banner. We all liked him.”
“If your father was a hard-nosed business man earning good money, it’s interesting that he should want to throw all that away to become an artist earning very little.”
Skye sat still for a few moments, but she was only gathering her strength, and choosing among memories to relate. “Pop started carving before I was born, before Coy was born, I think. He said it relaxed him, which I thought was funny, because he’d get really intense about it. But now I know what he meant, because I get intense about drawing, and it’s like everything else goes away, all my problems, all my sadness, even my good things. Nothing matters but getting the way light lays on a horse’s face just right.”
She paused to think some more. “My mother’s okay, mostly. It’s just that she likes having lots of money. I think she pushed Pop into advertising so he’d make a good salary. What’s interesting, now I think about it, is that he went along. I think he must have loved her very much.” She sniffed lightly and folded her lips in, biting them to regain control. “But then, when . . . when we thought he was dying, she let him do what he really wanted. And once he found out how good he was, nothing in the world would make him go back to advertising, even when he found out he wasn’t dying after all.”
Skye nearly broke down at this point, but Betsy, while filled with distress, took a page from Jill’s book, and only sat quietly. Skye doggedly pulled herself back together and went on, “Pop had a friend named Ian Masterson, he’s a famous artist, and Ian was going to help Pop get his work for sale in a big, important gallery. Then everyone would see that Pop was also a great artist.”
“Have you met Ian Masterson yourself?”
Skye suddenly bloomed into a smile. “Oh, yes, lots of times. He’s like if your grandpa was a king, so he’s famous but he’s like a normal person to talk to. Strong and bossy, but nice. He . . .” She hesitated, then made up her mind and went on, “It was his idea that I should tell the police about Banner, because I told him—Ian—about how Banner said he wanted to kill my father.” She reached for her water, but changed her mind. Her face was sad.
The door to the shop went Bing! Betsy stood, but it was only Shelly, back with Betsy’s salad.
She came between the box shelves and was pulled up short by the look on Skye’s face. “What’s the matter here?” she asked.
Skye turned to her and demanded, “Is it true this person helps people the police think killed someone?”
Shelly smiled. “Yes, she does. She’s very good at it.”
“But she’s trying to help Mickey Sinclair.”
“Yes. His family asked me to.”
“But he really did it, you know. It wasn’t Banner, it couldn’t be Banner! He’s too nice!” Skye was near tears.
Shelly said, “Are you sure of that?”
“I’ve known him since I was a little baby! I don’t want him to go to jail!”
“Of course you don’t. But think about it; Mickey’s family doesn’t want him to go to jail either.”
“But he’s such a criminal!”
“Perhaps. But people always stick up for their family.”
Betsy, inspired, said, “Yes, they do, just as you are doing now, trying to help your mother and your brother.”
Skye frowned. “Is it really the same thing? Me trying to help Coy and them trying to help Mickey?”
Shelly said, “Yes, almost exactly the same. And if your brother and your mother—and even Banner Wilcox—didn’t do this terrible thing, Betsy will find that out, too.”
Skye settled back in her chair and thought that over. Shelly and Betsy let her take her time. At last Skye said, “Okay, you can go talk to him.” She gave his phone number as well as an address in Edina.
Betsy said, “Thank you. Have you had lunch, Skye?”
“I was supposed to have it with a friend, but it’s too late now.”
“Would you like my salad? I can go next door for another one. Meanwhile, Shelly can keep you company. Right, Shelly?”
Shelly smiled and said, “Of course.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Betsy smiled, and went next door for another salad, which she ate slowly. When she came back to the shop, she found Shelly and Skye looking at Halloween patterns. She stayed out of their way until Skye left a few minutes later.
“That is one mixed-up kid,” said Shelly. “She’s almost crazy with grief over her father, and her mother is not helping. And you’re not any better, Miss Snoop.”
Betsy sighed. “I know. That’s why I aimed her at you. She was about to walk out on me because she’s so distressed at having to make me suspect Banner Wilcox of murder. She may become angry at Ian for putting the idea in her head.”
“How do you know he did that?”
“Well, I don’t. But it was her confiding in him that opened this particular can of worms, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I suppose so. But she’s not mad at him now. We mostly talked about Ian Masterson, how nice he is, what a great artist he is. But she’s hurting badly right now, poor kid.”
“Is she going to be all right, Shelly? What do you think of her? I know you specialize in elementary-age kids, but she’s not all that far out of elementary school, is she?”
“Hah, in some respects she’s forty years old!” Shelly added, more seriously, “I’ve hardly ever seen a kid more in need of a sympathetic shoulder. Ian can talk to her better than I can, about art anyway, but I can fill in around the edges. Which I am glad to do.”
“What about her mother? What will she think of you taking on this burden?”
“It’s not a burden, and I don’t think her mother will mind.”
“Shelly . . . thanks.”
They settled into one of those afternoons that makes a shop owner despair. Not even a passerby stopped long enough to look in their window. Betsy got her cutwork pattern out, and the ball of Number Five thread, and continued tracing the lines with buttonhole stitch.
When she’d first learned it, it had been called the blanket stitch. Blanket or buttonhole, it was a series of vertical stitches wit
h a raised edge, like a row of capital T’s whose crossbars overlap: TTTTTT. It wasn’t hard to learn, but it took a bit of concentration at first to make every stitch identical, especially when working around curves.
Shelly kept coming by the desk, pausing to look at what Betsy was doing, and when Betsy refused to look up, sighing and going on. She had a project of her own to work on, and even got it out, but kept putting it down to sigh and look significantly at Betsy.
Who finally said, “Is there something you want to talk about, Shelly?”
“Who, me?” said Shelly, laughing.
“Well, all right,” said Betsy, pretending to take her at her word, and returning to work on her project.
“Oh, okay, if you’re going to twist my arm, then sure, I’ll talk about him.” Shelly put her work away and came to the desk.
“Who?” asked Betsy.
“The man I am seriously thinking of falling in love with.”
“I thought you were already in love with Ian.”
Shelly started to say something else, but paused. “Have you ever experienced love at first sight?”
“No.”
“Then it’s hard to explain. It’s not really love, because it’s not based on anything.”
“Sure it is. It’s based on looks, isn’t it?”
“No, not the way you think, because once before when it happened to me, the guy wasn’t good looking at all. It’s more like . . . like recognition. It’s enough to make you believe in reincarnation, truly it is, because you see this person and it’s as if you’ve been waiting for years, maybe all your life, for him to come back. Even though you’ve never seen him before. It’s like, somewhere in your heart you recognize him and you can’t imagine why you didn’t realize he wasn’t around, that you’ve been longing for him without knowing it, and here he is at last.”
“Sounds spooky,” said Betsy.
“It isn’t, it’s like at last the world has come around right, and everything’s okay. You didn’t know before anything was wrong, but now you realize it’s all been wrong until now. The bad part is, any complications, like he’s married or he’s a criminal or he’s a drug addict, don’t really matter. They’re things you’re sure you can fix. It’s only later, when he’s gone, that you look back and seriously wonder if for a little while you were insane. That part is scary. I’ve been lucky; this is my third trip on the twinkie-mobile, and none of my fellow passengers have been carrying serious baggage.”
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