Later, pouring Sophie’s little scoop of lams Less Active cat food into her bowl, Betsy had one of those flashes of too-late insight. She had helped Martha! She’d proved the skeleton wasn’t Trudy at all, right? Godwin doubtless had told some customers, who went eagerly to share the news with friends. For once, Betsy blessed the grapevine. By tomorrow afternoon, it would be all over town, and people would stop talking about Martha. Betsy smiled. She really had done a little deducing, and even some investigating, hadn’t she? After supper she’d call Jessica and put her mind at ease.
6
On Wednesday, Diane Bolles used her lunch hour to visit Crewel World. The temperature was above freezing and the sky was sunny, so it was a pleasant walk from the Old Mill shops.
Diane was a tall, slim woman with dark hair and eyes. She wore a navy blue coat with a bright yellow scarf, a pleasant complement to the day. It was only three blocks to the bottom of Water Street, to the lake, then right on Lake for another two blocks, and she was in front of the old, dark-brick building. There were three stores on the ground floor: a sandwich shop, a used-book store, and Crewel World.
An irritating electronic bing sounded when she opened the door, but then she stopped short, because the shop itself was very attractive.
The first thing she noticed was how pleasantly quiet it was. Fibers are sound absorbing, and here were not only a carpeted floor, but heaps of fibers everywhere. Hanks and skeins of wool in autumn colors filled baskets of all sizes, thin wool skeins in every possible color hung from spindles on one long wall, and circular spinner racks carried floss in clusters of greens, purples, golds, reds, and other shimmering colors. Here and there were sweaters knit in complex patterns; the booklet containing the pattern was next to each, along with a selection of knitting yams.
The shop was fairly narrow but deep. Halfway back was the checkout counter in the form of a big old wooden desk, and temptingly near the cash register were last-minute items such as packets of needles, a pretty display of little scissors, and a shallow basket of small kits marked Sale.
A hidden sound system played classical music.
Track lighting picked out items: here a sweater, there a basket of wool, over there a spinner rack of silky floss. Though Diane was not a needleworker, the colors and displays attracted her eyes ever deeper into the place. Beyond the desk were boxy shelves laden with more wool, magazines, books, and needlework accessories Diane could not imagine the use of. But she nodded in appreciation; as a fellow shop owner, she knew a good layout when she saw it.
There was a library table in the middle of the room, at which sat a slim, fair-haired man in an expensive-looking sweater, and a plump, attractive woman in a peacock-blue dress that, while a little light for the season, suited her. The woman was putting down a mitten she’d been working on; the man was looking up at her while continuing the motions of knitting a white sock.
“May I help you find something?” the woman asked.
“No, but if you are Betsy Devonshire, I’d like to talk to you.”
“Yes, I am.”
The woman had a pleasant smile and a look that invited questions. Diane smiled back, and said, “My husband and I own The Old Mill on Water Street.”
“Ooooh,” said the slim man, and to Betsy, “It’s that sweet collection of gift shops halfway down Water Street.”
“Yes,” Diane nodded. “I also run the gift shop at the front of The Mill.”
“I’ve looked in your window,” said Betsy. “I really like that big vase, the one filled with silk roses.”
“Thank you. My place is the reason I’m here. I want to add something to my line: needlework. I spoke to an employee of yours, Shelly Donohue, who said she would make a list of prospective needleworkers for me, but I see she’s not here.”
The slender young man said, “Oh, you’re the one she talked to! I can tell you she’s been having trouble with that list. I’m so sorry.”
Betsy was looking confused, so Diane said to her, “I brought in some antique embroidery just for display, but it seems to have created a demand, so now I’m looking for needlework to sell.” Diane looked around the shop. There were four or five completed pieces framed and hung on the wall, and some pillows on display in a rocking chair, but none of them impressed her as the kind of collectibles her customers might be interested in. Beyond the checkout desk hung a collection of thin doors, each slightly more ajar than the next, and attached to them were canvases painted with Santa Clauses, angels, puppies, kittens, and mottoes. Again not what she wanted—except one. “Like that garden with the gazebo, for example,” she said, pointing. “That’s quite nice.” She walked over for a look. “I suppose the idea is to cover the picture with embroidery?”
“Needlepoint,” said the young man.
“What would it cost, if I bought this stamped cloth and the yarn or floss, to have someone else do the work? I’m sure I could sell several of these a month.”
The young man frowned and shook his head. “Those aren’t stamped. Each one is hand-painted, and that brings us to the problem of Shelly’s list. I’m sorry, but I don’t think you could afford to carry a piece like that in a finished state.”
Diane felt her cheeks flame. “What do you mean? I don’t sell cheap things in my shop!”
“Of course you don’t!” said the young man. “But—”
“What Godwin is trying to say,” interrupted Betsy, “is that these canvases are not inexpensive to start with. Each is not only hand-painted but done in a special way to make it possible to needlepoint over it. Even so, it takes skill to do the needlepoint properly, and a fair amount of time. I believe the going rate for needlepoint is three dollars per square inch, and that’s just to cover the painting in a basic stitch like basketweave.” Betsy went to the swinging door set and looked at the painting Diane had liked. “That picture is twelve by sixteen, so that would be—” Betsy rolled her eyes, trying to multiply in her head.
“Five hundred and seventy-six dollars.” Diane had a gift for numbers.
“All right. Fancy stitches and beadwork would cost more, and to make a really beautiful project, you’d probably want both. Add that to the cost of that particular canvas, which is two hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus wool or silk and beads, plus two hundred dollars to be finished and framed, and you’re getting pretty high in cost for a piece of needlework.”
“A thousand and one dollars,” said Diane. “Plus materials. Yes, you’re right, that is a lot of money.” She bit a thumbnail and thought. “But what about something that doesn’t involve hand-painted canvases? An embroidered apron, for example? Or a tea cozy?”
Betsy said, “A favorite topic among my customers is what they might charge for what they do, if they were to do it commercially. And what it comes down to is, very few people would pay that much for an apron or a tea cozy. The work my customers do is often very beautiful, as you have realized, and takes considerable time and talent. They don’t do it for money, but out of love. They most usually use finished pieces as gifts for friends and family or to ornament their own homes.”
The slim young man—Godwin—said, “And on a commercial level, people who do needlework wouldn’t be excited at the prospect of doing twenty copies of the same project.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t want twenty copies!” said Diane. “In fact, if there’s just one of something, that makes it more likely to sell! Especially since, from the way you describe it, these are original works of art. And I assure you, I have customers who might be willing to pay a good price.”
Godwin said, “But wait. If you’re talking embroidered aprons, you’re talking iron-on patterns that are virtually identical. If you’re talking about original designs, then you’re back up into the four-figure price. More, lots more, if you want an original design that is to be worked only once.” He gestured airily. “And even if your customer had the money, it’s still not something you’ll be able to provide them, not reliably. As Betsy said, these things are made for th
e pleasure of working them. Putting a price on them takes away the whole cachet. I mean—” He dived under the table to unzip and reach into a sports bag. He came up with a large, magnificent, nearly completed stocking with a Christmas scene on it. Diane came closer, the pangs of covetousness curling her fingers. This was more like it! The scene was cleverly adapted to the shape of the stocking, crowded with a Christmas tree and part of a stair railing. Santa Claus’s head was peeping out from behind the tree at the upper halves of two children coming down the stairs. The boy’s Dr. Dentons were done in something that looked like brushed flannel; Santa’s beard was a collection of tight curls; some of the ornaments on the tree were tiny glass or metal objects, and the garland was made of microscopic glass beads. Santa’s sack and wrapped presents filled the toe of the stocking; like the little girl, they weren’t done yet.
Diane reached a very gentle forefinger to touch the subtly rough surface of Santa’s mitten. “Yes, something like this wouldn’t last a day in my shop. Would you think of parting with it?”
“Not even Bill Gates could buy this from me,” said Godwin. “It has taken me over two hundred hours to get this far. I did Santa’s beard three different ways before deciding on French knots—there are ninety-two of them, you may count them if you like, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that only a third of his beard is showing, because I may not ever want to do another French knot. I haven’t decided how to do the little girl’s hair yet, but it will probably be something difficult and tedious and wonderful to look at. I’m sorry”—Godwin did not sound the least sorry—“but it’s not for sale. It’s a gift for someone I love, that’s the only thing that makes it all worth while.”
Diane turned and saw the helpless, commiserating look in Betsy’s eyes. “I see,” she said.
“That’s not to say you couldn’t have someone do a really fine embroidered or counted cross-stitch apron for you,” said Betsy. “It’s just that the price would make it the kind of apron you drape over a chair or hang on the wall as an ornament, not the sort you tie on to protect your clothing while you decorate cookies.”
Diane smiled. “Some of my customers have kitchens with a full set of copper-bottomed pots no one is allowed to use. An apron also there strictly for show is a definite possibility.” She opened her purse. “How about I leave you my card? Perhaps you can ask some of your customers if they would be interested. They can call me or just drop by.”
“Certainly,” said Betsy, taking the card. It had the crisp clean look of a new coin. NIGHTINGALE’S Enchanted Vintage for Home and Garden, it read. Diane Bolles, Proprietor. She smiled suddenly. “Maybe there will be some people interested in selling some of their projects. I have customers who complain that they just can’t stop doing needlework, even though they have a closet full of things and no room left to display any more of it.”
“They should rotate their work,” said Diane. “That way, their eyes are always refreshed by the display, instead of getting bored and not even seeing it anymore.” She had used that reasoning to increase her own sales of prints and silk bouquets.
“What a good idea!” said Betsy. “I’ll suggest it; it makes my heart sink when a good customer starts in about having no more space.”
“Good idea, certainly,” drawled Godwin, “but I think Diane just shot herself in the foot by sharing it.”
Diane laughed. “I’ve done that before.” She looked around again. “You have really done some thinking in your layout.”
Betsy shrugged, her eyes suddenly sad. “No, it was my sister who did this. I only inherited it.”
Diane said, “I was very shocked when your sister died in that awful way. But I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. I’m certainly glad you were here to assist the police in solving your sister’s murder. Have you always done that kind of thing?”
Betsy smiled. “Never before in my life. It was beginner’s luck, I assure you. And not likely to happen again.”
“Really? But I understand you are involved in that skeleton business, helping the police with a major clue.”
“Not really. The police brought me a photocopy of some fabric they found on the boat, and I’ve been asking my customers if they can identify it. And, as it happens, just yesterday someone did. It appears to be a sample of bobbin lace.”
“Oh, I saw some bobbin lace once! It was so gorgeous. May I see the photocopy?”
Betsy indicated the Xerox copy still taped to the desk, and Diane looked only a moment before saying, puzzled, “This is bobbin lace?”
“I know, it doesn’t look like anything to me, either. But a customer assures me it is water-soaked bobbin lace.”
“It must have been soaking for a very long time.”
“Ever since that hot, dry Fourth of July in 1949,” drawled Godwin, making a sort of rhyme of it.
Diane turned to face him, her eyes blank.
“Don’t look at me, my mother was a toddler in 1949!”
“Hmm?” said Diane. As part of her gift for numbers, when someone said a year that came within her lifespan she automatically subtracted to see how old she was. In 1949, she had been six years old.
“I said—” began Godwin.
“You said it was a hot, dry Fourth of July,” interrupted Diane brusquely. “It wasn’t. In 1949, the Fourth of July was cold and wet. I remember because my Aunt Faye and Uncle James were in town and they were going to take me to the amusement park and then out on a boat to watch the fireworks, and we couldn’t go because it rained all day.”
Betsy said sharply, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because our police investigator is using an eyewitness to close in on the exact day the Hopkins was sunk. The eyewitness says someone came to her on the Fourth of July in 1949 to say he’d seen it towed out to be sunk a day or two before—and she described the day as blazing hot.”
“Then she’s wrong,” said Diane. “I cried all afternoon because we couldn’t go, and Aunt Faye said I mustn’t make it rain indoors as hard as it was raining outdoors. It rained all that day, and all evening, too, so we couldn’t go see the fireworks, either. I was so disappointed.”
Godwin said, “You were just a little kid; I bet you don’t remember the year exactly. It could have been 1948, or maybe 1950.”
“No, in 1948 my Aunt Faye wasn’t married yet, and in 1950 my parents took me to Yellowstone. So I am absolutely sure the Fourth of July of 1949 was cold and rainy.”
“Oh, my,” said Betsy. “We’d better call Sergeant Malloy right away.”
Malloy and his investigative partner stood in the doorway of the motel room, just looking. A uniformed officer was standing at parade rest just outside the door, the perfection of his stance slightly spoiled by the clipboard he was holding in one hand poking out from behind his back. Malloy’s partner would sign in on the clipboard— Malloy had handled the skeleton, so it was his partner’s turn to handle the physical inspection of this body—but neither went in just yet.
A thin, elderly man lay on his back across the bed, whose white chenille bedspread was slightly rumpled. He was wearing an old brown suit, more than slightly rumpled. His legs were off the end of the bed from about mid-calf, and his right hand hung off the bed on the near side. A semiautomatic handgun was on the floor under the hand.
A small table had a lamp on it, the lamp turned on, though it was broad daylight outside. Of course, the heavily lined curtains were pulled shut, so when the door was shut, perhaps the light was necessary.
The state crime bureau had sent a crew—“Getting to be a habit, isn’t it, Malloy?” one had wisecracked—and had photographed and videotaped everything. The medical examiner was on the scene.
Malloy held out his hand for the clipboard and asked the cop, “Were you the first responder?”
“Yessir.”
Everyone seemed to have signed in and out properly; Malloy gave the clipboard to his partner to sign. “Have you checked the other rooms?” he asked the cop.
“Yessir. There were only two other customers checked in last night, one up next to the office and the other down at the corner. Both checked out before nine this morning, and the room down at the end’s been cleaned up already. The other one doesn’t seem out of the ordinary, and none of the rest of the rooms looked disturbed.”
“Did you turn any lights on when you went in here?”
“Nossir.”
“Is the condition of the room now just as you found it?”
The cop came to attention before stepping around to peek in. You could always tell the ones who came to the police from the military. “Yessir.”
“Who found the body?”
“Cleaning ladies. Two of them.”
“Where are they?”
“In the office.”
“Your witness,” said Malloy to his partner and went to talk to the cleaning ladies. He detoured on his way to the unit at the end, the one also guarded by a uniformed officer. He didn’t go in, just opened the door and looked. Bed mussed, one pillow used, no luggage left, towels on the bathroom floor, smell of aftershave, empty pizza box standing slantwise in the wastebasket. Nothing odd or out of place. His partner would do a more thorough search, of course.
The cleaning ladies turned out to be a pair of middle-aged women. Sitting with them on a couch, equally scared and distressed, was the owner of the motel. Her husband, she said, was at his part-time job in Excelsior.
The Hillcrest Motel, which was not located atop a hill but at the foot of one just outside Excelsior, was owned and run by an older couple. It had twelve rooms and an office along two sides of a blacktop parking lot. A small, shabby laundromat, also owned by the couple, occupied the third side. All the buildings were coated with faded pink stucco crumbling around the edges.
The cleaning partners were locals who lived just up the road. They’d worked here two years, but only while school was in. They were dressed in those aprons that cover all your clothing, even in back. These were a matching set in mint green. Patterned scarves were tied around their heads, à la Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz. They had their heavy rubber gloves in their laps and they were smoking up a storm, their way of handling the fright, sickness, and excitement of this event.
Framed in Lace Page 8
