Betsy smiled, then sobered. “So she didn’t understand what Mike was getting at?”
“What was he getting at?” asked Shelly.
“Yeah,” seconded Godwin, “what?”
Betsy said, “Alice Skoglund worked out the pattern of the lace edging on that piece of silk and showed it to me and Jill. There was a butterfly in the pattern. Martha used to do bobbin lace, and she always put her own design of a butterfly in the lace she meant to keep for herself. And the pattern Alice figured out looks an awful lot like Martha’s butterfly.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Godwin.
Betsy continued, “And so Mike gave her every opportunity to explain how a handkerchief with a lace butterfly on it came to be on the Hopkins—other than that she left it there after hiding Trudie Koch’s body on it.”
Jill said, “And Martha said she’d never taken a ride on the Hopkins, or gave a handkerchief to someone who later complained of losing it on the Hopkins.”
Shelly said, “Poor lady—but I see what you mean. If she had lost a handkerchief while hiding the body, she would have realized what Sergeant Malloy was doing, and at least tried to make up a story.”
Jill said, “Of course, he didn’t ask her directly, because that would have alerted her, and she might have lied. But you’re right, Shelly, if she did lose a handkerchief about then, even more especially while moving Trudie’s body, Mike’s questions would have put her on her guard. But they didn’t. So he thanked her and let her get back to her baking while he went and got a warrant. They’re booking her now. I think she still hasn’t got a clue why.”
Godwin said, “Gosh, Martha Winters in jail!” He turned to Betsy. “So, what do we do first?”
Betsy frowned at Godwin and said, “What do you mean?”
“Martha, of course. What are we going to do about her?”
“What could we possibly do?”
“We can investigate, of course! Where do we start? Who do you want to talk to?”
Betsy said, “Are you serious?”
Shelly said, “If he isn’t, he should be. The nerve of Sergeant Malloy, arresting Martha! Why, nobody with a functioning brain cell could believe she’s a murderer!”
Betsy said, “He’s an investigator. He’ll investigate, find out she’s innocent, and let her go. Meanwhile, it’s awful for Martha, and I’m very sad and sorry for her, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”
“You can help me find out about the lace,” Jill said, to Betsy’s surprise. “Seriously, Betsy, I’d like you to talk to some people. You would be giving me a hand here. No, no, I’m not an investigator, but Mike considers me his expert on lace, and God knows I’m nothing of the sort. I’m going to ask around, but I’d like you to ask, too; help me find out about who was making lace in 1948. And while you’re about it, maybe you can find out if her pattern was hard or easy to copy.”
“Oh, my!” said Godwin. “I didn’t think of that!”
Shelly said, “And so long as you’re asking those questions, you might as well find out who else had a reason to want Trudie Koch dead.” Seeing objection in Betsy’s face, she hastened on, “Since it’s all tied together, isn’t it? If Martha didn’t murder Trudie, and of course she didn’t, how did that handkerchief get on the Hopkins? Someone stole one of hers, right? Or made one just like it. Why? To frame Martha. Why frame Martha? Because if poor, dumb Malloy weren’t looking so hard at Martha, even he could see who really did it.”
Betsy said, “That handkerchief was left on the Hopkins before Mike Malloy was born.”
Shelly gestured. “You know what I mean, it was so the police would think Martha did it. A frame.”
“And who do you think was the author of the frame?” asked Godwin.
Shelly said, “I don’t know. That’s why Betsy has to try to find out, isn’t it? But Carl Winters knew. That’s why he came back, right? He learned about the skeleton on the Hopkins, and he knew right away who did it. He came back to tell what he knew, and that same person who killed Trudie killed him.”
Godwin said, “Then I think we should start with Carl’s murder; it’s newer, so everyone’s memory is fresher, there’s more to find out, and more people to talk to.”
Jill said, “There’s nothing to find. The only person he called when he got back was Martha. Nobody else knew he was in town.”
Betsy said, “Has she been charged with Carl’s murder?”
Jill shrugged. “Not yet, though the fact that only she knew he was back in town may be damning enough. I think Malloy is going to try to tie the gun to her.”
“But we know she didn’t do it!” said Shelly. “So there must be some explanation. Betsy?”
Betsy thought while the others watched. “He phoned her from the motel, right?”
Jill nodded.
“Well, he could have phoned or written or E-mailed someone else from Omaha before he left, couldn’t he? Or, he could have stopped on the road and called, or he could have gone out to supper and called from the restaurant.”
“See?” said Godwin, pleased. “See? She’s so clever! That’s probably what happened. So how do we find out? What do we do first?”
Betsy said in an annoyed voice, “We are not going to do anything! Because you are going to help Shelly finish with those lights and the other decorations, which had better look as if the two of you worked hard on them. And if there is any time left after that, you are going to change the yarn in the baskets to winter colors.”
“Yes, ma‘am,” said Shelly and she took Godwin by the elbow and led him off to the front window. But she was smiling.
Betsy said to Jill, “How about if I go talk to Alice Skoglund? She’s the one who figured out that pattern from that little piece Malloy found. She couldn’t be a suspect, could she? Because I don’t know from lace, either, and she could tell me just about anything and I’d believe it.”
“Alice, a suspect?” murmured Jill, her pale eyebrows raised. “Alice?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. But I imagine she could tell me the name of at least some of the people who were lace makers back in 1948, and who of them were familiar with Martha’s work.” She raised her voice for the benefit of the pair up front. “But I hope I’ve made it clear that I am not out to prove Martha isn’t a murderer. I’m just giving you a hand with some research, so you can pass it along to Mike Malloy.” She dropped her voice again. “Because at least one other person who poked his nose into this affair got himself shot.”
The day was overcast, the temperature in the low thirties. There was still some snow on the ground, and more was forecast for tonight. Betsy rummaged through her memory and came up with memories of early-winter snow in Milwaukee melting before more fell. But this was Minnesota, where the snow piled up to the eaves of houses. Apparently that didn’t happen in one spectacular blizzard, it was cumulative.
She pulled the bright red muffler tighter around her neck, snuggled deeper into the navy blue wool coat she’d finally bought at the Mall of America, and crunched across the frozen parking lot to where her car waited, doubtless bewildered by the new viscosity of its oil.
But it started bravely, and Betsy drove off to Alice Skoglund’s house, a charming but very small white house on Bell Street, four blocks from the lake. It had a picket fence that needed painting. Stiff, dead tops of flowers poked up through the crusty snow to trace the curve of sidewalk to the tiny front porch. Frowzy juniper bushes crowded the space under the front windows, whose green trim needed paint.
Betsy rang the doorbell. There was no answer. She rang again. When there was still no answer, she came off the porch and would have gone away but heard an unmusical clank from around back. She followed the narrower cement walk, stepping over patches of ice, around the side of the house. She stopped when she saw a man in a heavy overcoat shoving something into an old-fashioned metal garbage can, one of two. As she watched, he bent and picked up the lid, which he replaced with a loud clank. Then he turned toward the house—and it was Alice Skog
lund.
“Hi,” said Betsy, both startled and shy.
“Hello, Betsy,” called Alice. “What can I do for you?”
“I—I need to talk to you,” said Betsy, approaching. When close enough to speak without raising her voice she continued, “Do you have a few minutes?” Close up, she felt even more awkward. The coat Alice wore was a man’s overcoat, her boots had low, square heels.
“I wondered when you’d come to ask me questions,” said Alice. “Well, come on in, there’s coffee on the stove.”
Betsy followed her in the back door, which let into a little stairwell leading to the basement, so they had to go up a step to get into the kitchen. The linoleum on the floor had been scrubbed so often for so long that the pattern was nearly worn off, and the markers for the stove burners were partly gray and partly gone. Even the walls were a very pale yellow—though that might have been the original color. White curtains with yellow stitching and a pattern of square holes near the hems covered the only window, which was over the tiny kitchen table.
“Have a seat,” said Alice. “How do you take your coffee?”
“With everything, I’m afraid.”
“You say that like you’re ashamed of it. Why, don’t you like coffee?”
“Not much, actually. I like fruit and vegetable juices, herbal teas, and cocoa, and when I have a cold, I like hot lemonade, but I’m not that fond of coffee. But everyone around here sure drinks a lot of it.”
“It’s a Scandinavian thing,” nodded Alice. “I’m British myself, half English and half Scot. But after all those years married to a Norwegian, I got converted. I have some herbal teas around here somewhere, I can heat a mug of water in the microwave for you.”
“No, don’t bother. I’m fine, really. But you have your coffee.” Betsy glanced over her shoulder at the hook by the back door with the man’s overcoat on it. “Was that coat your husband’s?” she asked.
Alice stopped in the progress of the step and a half from the stove to the table and looked at the coat as if seeing it for the first time. “No, it’s mine. Bought it at a rummage sale.” She sat down. “A big woman like me, with shoulders like I got, regular women’s coats don’t fit me. They bind under the arms and at the elbows something painful, and my wrists stick out and get chapped. I’ve been wearing men’s coats almost all my life. Oh, once in awhile I’ll find something, usually in a real ugly color or priced so it takes me all winter to pay it off. And when I do buy one, do you know I have the worst time buttoning it? It buttons the wrong way—or at least what’s become the wrong way for me, for coats. Everything else I wear that buttons, I can button right the first time. But I always go to buttoning my coats from the men’s side.” She chuckled at herself, then took a drink of her coffee. “But you didn’t come here to ask about why I wear men’s coats.”
“I keep hearing about bobbin lace, but I wouldn’t know it if it came up and bit me on the knee,” said Betsy. “Do you have any you can show me?”
Alice smiled. “Yes, I have some. You just wait, I’ll go get some samples of my work. I’d invite you into the living room, but the light’s better here.”
Alice was gone several minutes. Betsy took advantage of her absence to look into the living room. It was nearly as small as the kitchen, and as worn, and as clean. Faded chintz curtains hung at the two windows, and a big rag rug made a shades-of-green circle on the hardwood floor. An old television set stood on a metal frame in one corner, with an upholstered chair close to it. No cable box in sight. The chair and a loveseat were both covered with afghans, doubtless made by Alice, in shades of green. On the wall were framed photographs, of Alice with a strong-looking man in a clerical collar, the man alone in front of a stone church, Alice very young in a wedding dress, and a single, sad photo of a very frail looking little girl.
Betsy saw another door off the living room start to open and scooted back to the kitchen table.
Alice came into the kitchen with a big round cushion supporting a little stack of magazines and a loose-leaf binder.
When she put the cushion on the table, the magazines and binder slid off, revealing that it wasn’t quite a cushion after all, more like a flat-bottomed doughnut. It was covered in a tan fabric that looked like twill. The opening in the center held a cylinder covered with the same tightly woven fabric, and around the cylinder was a strip of paper with a pattern of dots and squares drawn in ink. The uppermost part of the pattern was clogged with dozens of straight pins, and woven through the pins was thread, dozens of threads, each stretching from the pins to three-inch wooden pegs shaped something like the bishop in unelaborate chess sets.
“Bobbins!” said Betsy. “That’s why it’s called bobbin lace!”
“Yes,” said Alice.
“How many bobbins are there in bobbin lace?”
“It varies. This lace pattern calls for sixty-two. I’ve worked as many as a hundred and forty.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
Coming out the other side of the cylinder and draped across the cushion was a strip of scalloped lace about an inch and a half wide, perhaps seven inches long.
“How does it work?” asked Betsy.
Alice said, “The idea is to move among the pins according to the pattern. You’re only working with a few bobbins at a time.” She picked up four that had been lying side by side. “You would move this one over this, then these two like this—” She moved the bobbins deftly, like a three-card monte dealer, then scooped them up and pulled the threads attached to them to the left. She reached to the back of the pattern covered with pins, plucking one and putting it at the front, pushing the newest twist of threads into position behind it.
“Then you do this—” She stopped and bent forward, peering at the pins. “No, that’s wrong, I think. In fact, I think I did the last two—No, that one is—Ach, never mind!” She dropped the bobbins and pushed the cushion aside with an angry gesture, and a little wooden clatter. That immediately calmed her, and she ran her fingers across the bobbins again. “I miss that sound. When a lace maker is going fast, the bobbins chatter to her in a kind of rhythm. I used to recite nursery rhymes to the rhythm when my little Fifi was restless.” She sat down heavily.
“Who was Fifi?”
Alice put a big hand in front of her mouth, as if afraid to let the words out. “Our little girl,” she murmured through her fingers. “Phyllis Marie was her name, but I called her Fifi. She was born with a hole inside her heart. They called them blue babies back then, before they invented the surgery that could fix the hole. Because their little fingers and toes and lips were blue from lack of oxygen. She was a fighter, our Fifi. They said she wouldn’t live past her first birthday, but she was four years, three months, and sixty-one days old when she died. She was our only child. I remember when they invented that surgery, it was just amazing. They had it on the Today Show, an actual operation. They showed the open chest, and how the doctor stopped the heart, cut it open, did a few quick stitches, then sewed the heart back up. It was fascinating, he held the stopped heart in his hand, and when he was done operating, he squeezed ever so gently, and it started beating again. That baby, they said, had been dead for the time it took them to operate, but now she was alive again, and would grow up like a normal child. It was like a miracle, that surgery—and I was so angry! Because they didn’t dare to do that back when my Fifi was still alive, and she died. No one knew then you could stop a living heart and then start it again. It was a sin how angry I got, I think I actually hated those mothers who got their babies back healthy, and all I got was a little tombstone with a lamb on it.”
Betsy could not think what to say. She was embarrassed at the naked emotions on display, and ashamed that she thought Fifi a silly name. She wanted to be big herself, and emotionally kinder, so she could gather the woman into strong arms and let her weep on a capacious bosom. She reached out and put a hand on Alice’s shoulder. “I am so very sorry,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Alice, sniffing har
d. “And I’m sorry, too, for letting go like that. I think this mess we’re in is bringing up all kinds of old emotions. How about another cup of—oh, that’s right, you don’t drink coffee.”
“Well, I do, once in a great while, but not after noon, because it keeps me up all night.”
Alice smiled as one who often sits up at night and said, “Now, what else did you want to ask?”
“You said you’d show me some examples of your work.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Alice opened the loose-leaf binder, which was about a third full of blank paper. “Mine isn’t as fine as some.” Between the leaves were samples of lace. The first piece was as delicate as a daisy chain of snowflakes. It lay almost weightless across Betsy’s fingers, about seven inches of lace perhaps half an inch wide, the pattern an abstract suggestion of a blossom, repeated over and over.
Betsy smiled at it; that mere human fingers could create something so delicate and perfect was amazing.
Before she could say anything, another piece was added to the first. This one was shorter and narrower, with a curve. It was also stiffer, the pattern more dense without being less delicate, done in ecru threads, with just a few threads of palest pink and a single thread of pure green.
“How can you say your work is not fine? This is lovely.” Betsy wished she could put it more strongly; the work was exquisite, delicate, like photographs of snowflakes.
Another piece was offered, this one much broader. It had lots of open spaces connected with braids or twists of thread. “This is what I think of when I think of lace,” said Betsy. She experimentally crunched it up a little, seeing it gathered along the edge of a collar or running as a frill down the front of a dress. A shame such things were not fashionable anymore.
Framed in Lace Page 11
