Framed in Lace

by Monica Ferris

  Betsy decided to put a more attractive canvas on top. She pulled the flawed canvas out and then paused to take another look at it. Here were black and white not-quite-round shapes that could almost be a black and white cat, curled tight, with some overlapping balls of yarn—was this dark purple or more black?—well, sure, here were the ears, and here the black tail overlay a white leg. What you’d do, if you wanted the cat to stand out, would be to brush the floss that you used to color the body, and maybe do a little backstitching or shading on the yarn balls, and not do that ball in dark purple but in wine or even a cherry red. Then the way the cat had snuggled itself into the basket of yarn would be more apparent. Look at how it was holding onto that green yarn, like a child with a doll.

  Why, this was clever and attractive!

  She’d marked the canvas down to ten dollars, which was within her own price range. Plus she got an employee discount. Let’s see, how many colors would she need?

  She was arranging a selection of DMC skeins on the canvas when the door went bing and Mayor Jamison walked in.

  “Hiya, Betsy!” he said cheerily.

  “Hi, Your Honor,” she said, laying the DMC 321 (a rich red) next to the 821 blue—too obvious?

  “How many times do I got to tell you? Just call me Odell.”

  “Sorry, Odell.” She smiled at him. “What brings you in here? Thinking of taking up needlepoint?”

  He chuckled. “Naw, I haven’t got the patience for that sort of thing. I came to ask if it’s true you’re investigating the murder charge they’ve brought against Martha Winters.”

  “I’m trying. Jeff Winters’s attorney said he needed to hire a private investigator, but he can’t afford a licensed one. So he’s asked me to look around and see if I can’t come up with something to create reasonable doubt.”

  “Well, I’ve got kind of a weird story to tell you that may or may not help. It happened back when I was just a kid. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now they found that skeleton on the Hopkins, maybe it means something.”

  “Odell, if you’ve got something you think is relevant, you should bring it to Sergeant Malloy.”

  “Oh, I already did that. He wrote it down and thanked me. But in the interest of fair play, I’m also telling you. What happened was, they towed the Hopkins—the Minnetonka III she was then—over to the City Docks from the dredging company, where she’d sat pulled up on the shore for years. They put a temporary patch on the hole in her bottom, which was caused by ice from a late freeze, and they were gonna take her out the next morning and sink her. I was eight years old, but I already had a notion that sinking her marked the end of an era. After all, I’d caught my first bass off her stem, y‘see. So after dark I snuck out of the house and went down to see if I couldn’t pry something off of her, kind of a souvenir. Now in July, dark comes after ten o’clock at night. I’d never been out that late before, except on the Fourth of July watching fireworks, and that was with my folks and about eight hundred other people.

  “So here I was, all alone, sneaking from tree to tree through the park, toward the docks. There was a streetlight at the bottom of Water Street, so I could see the boat floating in the water alongside this barge, and there was this big pile of boulders and concrete chunks and old bricks heaped up on the shore. What they was gonna do was pile the rubble on the barge and tow it out with the boat, then pry off that plug on the bottom of the boat, and then pile the rubble into her to make her sink. Bein‘ wood, y’see, she wasn’t gonna go down easy.”

  “So the Hopkins was sitting there empty.”

  “Oh, there was some rubble in her, maybe to test out how much they’d need, I don’t know. Me an‘ four or five other kids had been to see her during the day, that’s how I knew all that, and where she was. They’d let me climb on her, and me and some of my pals was gonna take something from her then, but they was watching too close, so we didn’t.

  “Well, anyhow, that night I got as far as the rubble when I heard someone on the boat. I’d talked it over with my best pal Eddie, who double-dared me to do it, so I thought maybe it was him. You know, trying to scare me so he could razz me the next day. So I come out and there’s this man jumping off the boat onto the barge. I’d already said, ‘Hey—’ meanin‘ to say ’Hey, Eddie!‘—and this fellow like to fell off the barge when he heard me. He spun around and came rollin’ up the dock toward me in an awful hurry, but I was probably halfway home by the time he got to where I’d been standing, and I was in bed under the covers about forty-three seconds after that. I didn’t go back, even to watch them tow her out, and so I never did get my souvenir.”

  “Who was it?” asked Betsy. “The man. Who was it?”

  “I dunno. I didn’t get a good look and didn’t particularly want one. What I remember is, he wasn’t fat or skinny, and he wasn’t wearing a tie but he wasn’t in overalls like a workman, either. I think I remember a coat or a jacket, though it was a hot summer night. He seemed big and dangerous coming up toward me, but that’s because he about scared the pee out of me.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I don’t think so. And I didn’t hear him running after me, but I was too scared to look over my shoulder to make sure.”

  “And you never told anyone?”

  “Told them what? That I snuck out of my house and went down to the docks to steal something off a boat and got run off before I could accomplish my mission?”

  “Oh, well, when you put it that way ...” Betsy said and the two smiled at one another.

  “Sure,” Jamison said. “I kept waiting for the fellow to ring our doorbell and tell my folks what I’d been up to, but after a week went by and nothing happened, I figured I was safe. It all kind of faded into the background until they raised the boat and found that skeleton. Then I got to thinking, and finally decided I’d better tell someone. So, what do you think?”

  “I think you saw the person who murdered Trudie hiding her body on the boat.”

  Jamison, suddenly serious, wiped his mouth with the edge of his hand. “Me, too. And it wasn’t Martha Winters, was it?”

  The store was closed at last. Betsy made sure the doors were locked and hastened up the dark and lonely street to make a bank deposit. The bank was barely two blocks away if she went by way of the post office.

  Then she went upstairs to her apartment, took off her good clothes, and put on a thick flannel robe she’d bought at a consignment store in San Diego during her divorce proceedings. It was practically an antique and had been designed for a big man and so came nearly to the floor and overlapped comfortably in front. It had broad vertical stripes of gray and maroon and looked like something Oliver Hardy might have worn—and for all she knew, he had. Movie stars’ castoffs were known to turn up in California consignment stores. She loved the robe; it was her “blankie,” and generally made her feel comforted.

  But it didn’t tonight. Betsy heated a can of soup for supper and unbent so far as to feed half a cracker to Sophie, who actually ate it. Then, feeling a headache coming on, Betsy took her contacts out, swallowed a couple of aspirin, and lay down on her bed. She curled onto her side and tried to make her mind go blank. In a few minutes Sophie, purring loudly, came up on the bed and fell heavily beside her, tapping her hand in a request for a stroke.

  Betsy complied, because stroking a cat is a soothing operation for the stroker as well; but tonight her mind remained a jumble of thoughts. Sophie was snuggled close beside her at about hip level. A fight over whether or not the cat was allowed on the bed hadn’t lasted long; the night after coming home from the vet’s, Sophie had cried piteously outside Betsy’s bedroom only five minutes before Betsy got up and opened the door.

  Sophie had slept with Margot. Obviously, the cat missed Margot. And so did Betsy. Why shouldn’t they take comfort in one another’s company during the long, dark hours of the night?

  Now she stroked the cat’s head and was rewarded with a deep, sighing purr.

  She wondered wh
at Sergeant Malloy was going to do about Mayor Jamison’s story. Surely he would agree now that Martha wasn’t the murderer. It was probably Carl Winters who Jamison had seen. Carl had murdered Trudie, hidden her body on the boat, and—being seen—fled town. Carl had no way of knowing the little boy would run home and not tell anyone. Doubtless as he shook the dust of Excelsior from his feet he was sure the sheriff or constable or policeman, at the excited direction of a small boy, was already making a grisly discovery in the bottom of the old Hopkins.

  And that’s why Martha never heard from him. He was afraid someone would see the letter or postcard and know where he’d run to. Or that Martha would turn him in herself.

  So okay, that was solved: Carl murdered Trudie and hid her on the boat.

  Well, then, who murdered Carl? If Carl was the murderer, surely no one would want to stop him from telling his story.

  A glimmer of an idea began to lift its sleepy head from the back of Betsy’s mind. She tried to discern something, anything about it, but felt herself growing less connected, drifting away ... the cat purring ... the new needlework project ... who would want to murder Trudie?

  Then she dreamed she was walking up Water Street toward Nightingale’s, and ahead of her was her mother, dressed as if for church. Betsy ran and ran, calling, until she had nearly caught up. Then her mother turned, and it was her father who turned and smiled down at her from under her mother’s best Sunday hat, the one with a veil.

  Wednesday displayed a morning sky the color of old pewter, though the forecast did not call for rain or snow or sleet. It was supposed to be Betsy’s day off, but Godwin had a doctor’s appointment and they agreed he could take the rest of the day and Betsy would have Thursday off.

  Betsy was ringing up a sale of a single skein of embroidery floss—and that was not by far the smallest sale she had ever made.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Frazee,” she said, handing over the blue Crewel World bag.

  As Mrs. Frazee left the shop, she left the door open for Jill, in civvies. Jill wore a magnificent Norwegian blue patterned sweater with pewter fasteners over a white turtleneck sweater. Her mittens were white angora wool, and her cap matched them. She looked wonderful, and Betsy said so.

  “Thanks,” said Jill, blushing faintly. “I came to ask you to lunch—except, if it’s all right, I’d like to.buy something from next door and we can eat it while we chat.”

  Betsy thought she read anxiety in Jill’s face. “Of course,” she said. “Could I have soup and a salad instead of a sandwich?”

  “Oh, for that you want Antiquity Rose, not next door,” said Jill. “Their house salad is marvelous, and their soup comes with a homemade bread stick. My treat; I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait a second,” Betsy said. “How do you stand it out there with just that sweater?”

  “This sweater is a lot warmer than it looks,” said Jill. “Anyhow, it’s not really cold out yet. It’s not even freezing today.” She smiled a superior smile. “Wait till January, then you’ll see weather!”

  Jill came back with a double paper sack and a friend. “You remember Melinda Coss, don’t you?” she asked.

  Betsy wasn’t sure, but she smiled and said, “Hello, Melinda.”

  “Wait till you see the ornament she made for the tree!”

  Melinda had a white cardboard cube in her hands, which she put on the checkout desk. She lifted out a small round ornament with a basket hanging from it.

  “Oh,” said Betsy, “it’s a hot-air balloon, how clever!”

  The balloon was made of many tiny pentagons, each covered with silk gauze cross-stitched with holly, ivy, pine, a Christmas wreath, mistletoe, a bow, or a sequin snowflake held in place with a tiny bead. In the basket underneath was a mouse wearing a crown and carrying a tiny pair of binoculars.

  “Do you get it?” asked Jill, and sang, “Good King Wencesmouse looked out ...”

  Betsy laughed so hard she nearly dropped the ornament, which alarmed her into stopping. “Where did you find the pattern?” she asked, thinking how well it would sell in the shop, especially with one already finished on display.

  “I made it up. I found a papercraft book that told me how to make the ball of pentagon shapes—”

  “Geodesic dome!” exclaimed Jill. “I knew there was a name for that shape!”

  Betsy said, “You should publish the pattern, Melinda. I mean, can’t you just see this on the cover of a needlework magazine?”

  Melinda smiled. “I’ve already submitted it.”

  “I’m afraid this won’t go along when I give the tree away—if that’s okay with you,” said Betsy. “I want to keep this on permanent display.”

  “Of course, if you like,” said Melinda, beaming with pleasure.

  A few minutes later, Jill and Betsy were seated at the library table. The salad was great, with candied pecans and bits of orange; the soup a hearty ham and potato with an interesting blend of herbs.

  “These bread sticks are wonderful,” said Betsy. They were thick and chewy, with a thin crust of cheese on top.

  Jill agreed, then asked, “Did Odell Jamison come to you with his story about seeing a man climbing around the Hopkins the night before it was sunk?”

  “He sure did. What does Malloy say about it?”

  “He thinks Odell saw Carl. He figures Carl came to meet Trudie and saw Martha getting off the boat and Trudie not there. He got suspicious and went for a look and found Trudie’s body. Then he saw the boy—Odell—watching him and got scared and ran away. That would explain Martha’s handkerchief on the boat and Carl’s disappearance. Carl had no idea the boy wouldn’t raise the alarm, and every reason to think they’d blame him for the murder. Then, all these years later, they find Trudie’s skeleton. Carl hears about it. He’s old and tired, and back home there is a business that is rightfully his, that he can sell or lease to take care of him in retirement. So he comes home, phones his wife to tell her he’s back, and she, in a panic, agrees to meet him and instead she shoots him.”

  Betsy had been nodding through all this, finding it very believable—until the end. “Wait a second,” she said. “If I thought someone was a murderer, I don’t care how many years later it got to be, I wouldn’t call that person and say come over and let’s talk about it. And I certainly wouldn’t agree to meet that person all alone in a motel room.”

  “Not even if it was your wife?”

  “Not even if it was Mother Teresa.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Jill.

  “What does Martha say?”

  “On advice of counsel, she’s not talking to the police.”

  “Smart lady. What else does Malloy have?”

  “He says the gun used to murder Carl was a World War II era semiautomatic pistol. Standard army officer issue. It was in excellent condition, with original ammo in it. Something found in an attic, maybe, tucked away with an old uniform. Not registered.”

  “Interesting,” said Betsy. “Was Carl in the army?”

  “No. He was 4F, Malloy said.”

  “Has he looked at Vern Miller?”

  “Vern went down for his physical two weeks before he got on the bus to boot camp. At that time, their quarrel was over and she was fooling around with a new boyfriend—not Carl, someone else. Trudie was murdered the night of July first, the boat was sunk July second, he left town July third. He couldn’t have known two weeks prior to that the sequence of those events.”

  “He knew the date he was leaving for boot camp. Maybe he went down to talk to Trudie, say good-bye, they quarreled, and he killed her.”

  “Malloy doesn’t think it happened that way. How would Carl fit into that scenario?”

  “He was the one Trudie was to meet in the park. He gets there in time to see Vern murder Trudie and hide her body. He runs because he knows the whole town knows he’s been flirting with Trudie.”

  “Hmmmm.” Jill nodded.

  “What else does Malloy have?” asked Betsy.

  “He found a picture of T
rudie in an old yearbook and says the reconstructed face matches close enough.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly news.”

  “No, I guess not. He says Carl was shot once in the chest from across the room. Nicked his heart, blew one lung all to pieces. He was sitting on the bed and fell back and died of internal hemorrhaging.”

  “Ugh,” murmured Betsy, swallowing.

  “And whoever murdered him waited until it was over, then walked to his side and wrapped his fingers around the gun, then let it fall on the floor beside his hand.”

  Betsy said, “Wait a second. Would bullets that old still fire?”

  Jill said, “Malloy says some of the best ammo ever made was made during World War II. He says lots of gun enthusiasts look for it. He says there are markings on the casings that indicate it was made in Lake City in 1941. He says the gun had three bullets fired from the clip, but there was only one empty shell in the room and only one bullet in Carl.”

  Betsy said, “Ah.”

  “What, ‘ah’?”

  “Well, I didn’t know ammunition could last that long, so probably whoever got the gun out didn’t either. So he digs through his souvenirs of the war and finds the gun, and takes it someplace to test fire it. Who do we know who was an officer in World War II? Or a gun collector?”

  “A gun collector would unload it, wouldn’t he?”

  “Okay, who came home from the war and put everything into a trunk in the attic?”

  “Hundreds of people, probably.”

  “Help me out here, Jill. Who involved in this mess is a World War II veteran?”

  “Vern Miller—no, he’s Korea. And Vietnam. Plus he wasn’t an officer.”

  Betsy thought that over. “Anyone else?”

  “Jessica’s husband was killed during World War II in a plane that got shot down over Germany.” When Betsy looked exasperated, Jill shrugged. “Sorry! Those are all I know about. I suppose you can check somewhere, veterans’ services or someplace; I know Malloy is doing that. Oh, I know Alice’s husband didn’t serve because he was a minister. Malloy’s probably thinking along the same lines you are. But he also says you can go to gun shows and buy just about anything.”