They continued to come all evening. Touching at first, it became amazing, then silly, finally ridiculous.
The last one arrived around nine. Godwin, hearing laughter, came out of his room to see what was going on. Jill Cross Larson, who rarely laughed, stood in the midst of outrageous abundance, every flat surface in the apartment covered with ceramic and glass bowls full of a wide assortment of meats (or tuna), vegetables, and cream of mushroom soup, with yet another hot dish in her hand, laughing. “Coals to New-castle!” she crowed.
Godwin, who had not so much as peeped out all day, looked around. Slowly a smile formed, and then he, too, began to laugh.
Betsy rejoiced to see it, but said, “What on earth are we going to do with all this?”
Godwin, leaning against the door frame, only shook his head and laughed some more.
It was Jill who came up with a solution. She was herself a police officer—a sergeant—tall, very fair, with a beautiful Gibson-Girl face normally displaying only the Gibson Girl’s cool aloofness. Yet behind that stolid face was a keen intelligence and a gentle heart, the latter evidenced by the package in her hands. “You can send most of it to homeless shelters, churches that feed the homeless, and a shelter for abused women,” she said.
Betsy asked Godwin, “What do you think? After all, this is yours.”
Godwin shook his head, “Even if we gave up eating any other kind of food, we could never eat all this.” He looked at Jill. “I bet you have a list of phone numbers we could call about donating.”
“I sure do. All police departments do. I’ll send you the list by e-mail tomorrow from work.” She handed her hot dish to Betsy, who found it warm to the touch through the layers of newspaper around it, and went to take Godwin by the shoulders in a firm grip. “Are you going to be all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied, nodding, looking around. “I think I will be. Thank you.”
And the next morning he insisted on coming back to work.
Word flashed around the town that Godwin was at work—e-mail and cell phones had made the gossip grapevine in Excelsior stunningly efficient—so at one in the afternoon there was a special session of the Monday Bunch. Its purpose was to lend aid and comfort.
Godwin soaked it up in bucketfuls. The Monday Bunch was emphatic. “How dare they!” was the sum of opinion about the media, though they put it variously. Needles flashed, scissors snipped sharply, and hearty sniffs and the occasional “Hah!” underlined their remarks.
“Don’t these reporters have anything better to do than harass our good citizens?” asked Alice, who a minute earlier had pinned verbal medals on Godwin and Betsy for taking the time to go see if something was wrong at John Nye’s house.
“Those reporters are like vultures, only worse,” grumbled Bershada, clipping off a new length of DMC 457 and separating the strands before threading her needle with two of them. “Vultures can’t help doing what they were designed to do, while reporters actually go to college to learn how to circle in on trouble.”
“What I don’t like,” said Alice, “is the way they ask a question they don’t expect an answer to, just to get themselves on the news. ‘Are you guilty of kidnapping that child?’ they shout at someone. What do they expect that person to do? Stop and give a long, complex defense? When the policemen are pulling him by the elbows?”
“That’s the perp walk,” contributed Godwin, bringing a fresh cup of hot water and a tea bag to the table for Doris.
“What’s a perp walk?” demanded Alice.
“A ‘perp walk’ is when the police take someone in handcuffs on foot along a route lined with photographers. John told me about it. He said it’s kind of a humiliation for the prisoner and it gets the police some air time, showing them doing their job.”
“Oh, I’ve seen their pictures in the paper,” nodded Martha, her crochet needle flying in and out as she built a brown and yellow afghan square. “They look funny trying to pretend they always carry their coats over their two wrists.”
“Or over their heads,” said Bershada dryly.
“What are you working on, Doris?” asked Alice, leaning sideways for a look.
“It’s something I just bought.” She handed around the chart, which was Maru’s Aztec design of a tlattoli, which looked like a J with square projections around its outside.
“Goddy brought it back from Mexico,” explained Betsy. “It’s a word in the Aztec language—tattle-tot, or something like that. It means speech or talk.”
Godwin sat down, picked up his knitting, and launched into his story of meeting the designer in a store in Mexico City.
“She sounds nice,” commented Emily.
“She’s very nice,” said Godwin.
“This means talk, huh?” said Bershada, looking the chart over. “I think we should adopt this as the official emblem for the Monday Bunch. Talk, talk, talk; that’s what we do.” There was laughter and agreement.
“This is interesting,” said Emily, taking it next. “Two sets of instructions. In this first one, you do the backstitching first, then fill in the color. That’s different.” “That’s different” is Minnesota Nice for “That’s weird.” She handed it to Alice.
“What did you say the designer’s name was?” asked Alice.
“Maru—it’s a nickname for Maria Eugenia.”
“Never heard of her,” declared Alice in her bluff way.
“No, she’s only been published in Spanish-language magazines so far,” said Godwin. “Here, let me show you something else she did.” He went to a spinner rack in the back and returned with a chart in a small Ziploc bag. From a distance it looked like a pair of fat, red, lumpy Xs, but on closer examination it was a pair of red frogs with their legs extended.
“Her daughter likes frogs, so she designed this to decorate a dress or pinafore.” He turned the bag over to show a white dress with a row of red frogs around the hem and waist.
“Too cute!” exclaimed Emily.
“No, it’s too icky!” said Martha, an elderly woman with a brisk air. “Slimy frogs, ugh!”
“I bet a boy would love to have a Sunday shirt with a frog on the pocket,” said Alice in her deep voice.
“A knit shirt with a row of these across the chest,” amended Bershada. “He’d be the hit of his kindergarten class. All the girls would scream and pretend to be horrified.”
“Except one,” nodded Doris, shyly. “And she’d catch him at recess and kiss him.” Some of the women gave knowing chuckles.
“What, hoping he’d turn into a prince?” said Godwin, and there was laughter.
“I’ll take one of those charts,” declared Emily. “But I also want Anchor 229. Frogs are green, not red.”
“One skein enough?” asked Godwin, starting for the back again.
“Yes, thanks.”
Godwin came back with the skein—and another plastic bag. “How about this Maru pattern?” he said, handing Alice a chart of stacked alphabet blocks in pastel colors.
“The same person did that Aztec thing, those frogs, and this?” she said, eyebrows raised high.
“That’s right; you won’t find her in a rut,” said Godwin.
Betsy, conferring with a customer over a scarf pattern only ten stitches wide to be knit on enormous needles, smiled at Godwin’s enthusiasm. He enjoyed pushing new designers, and evidently this Maru had made quite an impression.
Godwin stayed all day, buoyed by a steady stream of customers who came in to wish him well.
So he was in the shop when, near closing, a man, tall and seriously graying, with a somehow-familiar face, came into Crewel World.
Godwin simply stared, so Betsy said, “May we help you?”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied, looking not at her but at Godwin. “I’m Charlie Nye, John’s brother.”
Eight
NOW it was Betsy’s turn to stare.
Godwin, his face now stern, had come forward and stood with his feet apart and one hand in a pocket. “I’m Godw
in DuLac. I’m very sorry about your brother.” He spoke in a low, even register Betsy had never heard before.
“Thank you.” Charlie Nye’s face was sad.
“How did you find out about”—for an instant the façade broke, but was immediately restored—“about what happened?”
“The Excelsior police department called our parents,” replied Charlie, “who called my sisters and me. Then Johnny’s secretary called me directly—I was listed as next of kin at his office. I asked her if there was someone local I could talk to, and she gave me your name and said you worked here. I’d like to talk to you. Please?” There was a world of pain in his voice.
“Okay. I don’t know if you know how well . . . I knew him.”
The man smiled crookedly. “You two were lovers, right?”
For an instant Godwin looked frightened, then he blushed to the roots of his blond hair. Then he lifted his chin and growled, “Well, I don’t know if I like—that is—what makes you think that?”
And suddenly Betsy understood what Godwin was doing. He was pretending to be straight.
Charlie looked around, his attitude uncomfortable. “Look, is there somewhere private we can talk?”
Godwin looked at Betsy, who said, “Why don’t you take Mr. Nye upstairs?”
“All right,” said Godwin. He explained to Charlie, “I’m staying with Betsy—Ms. Devonshire—temporarily. She owns this whole building and lives upstairs. Come on, this way. I can make you a cup of—of coffee.”
Of course, thought Betsy. Straight men don’t drink tea. She was sorry she couldn’t go watch Godwin try to climb the stairs like a straight man. Trying to imagine it made her giggle, so it was just as well.
They were gone about forty minutes, and when they came down, Godwin’s swish was back. “He knows, but he doesn’t care!” Godwin murmured to Betsy as he sashayed by. He stopped by the knitting yarn to turn and say to Charlie, “Would you like to look around the shop?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot to do, a number of people to connect with. It was good of you to take time from your day to speak with me. Thank you.” He smiled thinly at both of them and left the shop.
“Well!” said Betsy as the jingle of golden sleigh bells died away. “That wasn’t what I expected!”
“Me, either!” said Godwin. “He is a nice man!” He sat down in a chair at the table. “I wish John had been more like him,” he added quietly.
“What did he say?” A thought struck. “Goddy, do you mean that he’s gay, too?”
Godwin chuckled. “Oh, no, he’s straight. Got a wife and kiddies and is very happy about it. But he’s nice. John . . . John could be nice, when he wanted something or needed to please someone. But Charlie’s just nice. He’s like I wish John was. Oh, Betsy!” Godwin put both hands over his face.
She went to sit down next to him. “Poor Godwin,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, and they fell silent for a minute while he pulled himself together.
“He wanted to know what kind of funeral John might want, and I had to say that we never talked about things like that, except like as a joke. You know, scatter my ashes on Cary Grant’s grave. Charlie said his family was all raised Presbyterians, so since I don’t have a better idea, he’s going to take John home to Fargo for the funeral, and have him buried in the family plot there. But he says it’s fine if I organize a memorial service, or see if I can get a role in the memorial service where John worked. Because I’m sure not going to be welcome at the funeral. Charlie says the rest of his family wouldn’t stand for any—how did he put it?—‘acknowledgment of John’s sexual practices.’ Funny word, ‘practice,’ isn’t it? Like doctors and lawyers are always practicing. When do they do it for real?”
Betsy pulled him gently back on topic. “You told me John told you his family wanted John to pretend he wasn’t gay when he was at home. But Charlie knew, he walked in here knowing—and knowing you were John’s partner. And he wasn’t cruel to you.”
“It seems Charlie was an exception, John could talk to him.”
“Then how do you know the rest of his family aren’t all exceptions? I mean—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know, but Charlie said the family was pretty set against John—he calls him ‘Johnny,’ did you notice that?” Betsy nodded. “Anyway, his family absolutely wouldn’t let him come home unless he let them pretend he was just a confirmed bachelor.”
“Yes, and leave you here alone.”
“Yes, well, what else could he do?”
He could have stood up to them, she thought angrily. Or, he could have stayed away and shared his Christmas with poor Godwin, whose family wouldn’t let him come home under any circumstances; and they’d both have had a merry Christmas with someone they loved. But, of course, John might have been one of those people who were loyal to their families no matter how flawed, who went home for holidays that were nightmares, because those ties were stronger than the pain. So she said, “I don’t know, Goddy, I don’t know.”
He stood. “Me either. I wonder what kind of memorial service Wellborn, Hanson, and Smith will put on? I should find out—Tasha will know, I can ask her. There will probably be a lot of people there who don’t know each other, I could sit real quiet in the back, out of the way.”
“I suppose you could,” agreed Betsy, knowing Godwin could no more sit quietly at such an event than he could fly. He’d bawl loudly and apply a handkerchief ostentatiously, because he was Godwin, who wore all his emotions on the outside.
“Or maybe I should call Donnie and Mark and Jo-Jo and Mickey. We could throw a great party. I bet we could rent the garden at Vera’s—God, we used to have some fantastic times there! I wonder how much it would cost?”
“I don’t have any idea,” said Betsy, who had never heard of Vera’s.
“You know, Charlie thinks John left me something in his will. I wonder what it is.”
“You’re the one who knows how John’s mind worked, not me.”
“Huh, it’s probably a gold watch. Isn’t that the usual gift you give someone who’s being put out to pasture?”
“Oh, Goddy, stop it. Anyhow, if it’s a watch, it better be a Rolex.”
Godwin giggled. “We could throw a pretty nice party on what you can get for a Rolex.”
“Would you sell it? His last gift to you?”
“No, I guess not. Maybe it’s not just a watch. Maybe it’s money. No, no, no, it’s the house, I bet he left me the house! I mean, I just know he’d hate to have some couple moving in with dirty-fingered children and a dog, a big, nasty dog that would dig up all our flowers. He knew how much I loved that house, so it’s got to be the house, how wonderful!” He spun around with joy, hands clenched under his chin.
“Now, Goddy, don’t count your chickens.”
“Oh, don’t be so negative! You’re always the wet blanket! It must be the house!”
Betsy stood. “You think what you like, but meanwhile could you go get me a bottle of water?”
“Certainly!” Godwin, full of good cheer, bounced through the twin sets of box shelves. There was a little refrigerator in the back room of the shop, where a coffeemaker, tea kettle, and boxes of stock were also kept.
Betsy shook her head after him. Poor fellow, his emotions were all over the place, and of course they ruled his intellect. Goddy might grow older, but he would never entirely grow up.
She went to the checkout desk to finish making up an order for floss. Rainbow’s Fuzzy-Wuzzy was selling well, and their overdyed silks, too. And Kreinik’s blending filaments. And here was a note from Godwin saying they were low on Anchor 941, 137, 139, and 142—someone must be doing a big lake or sea scene to judge by the dent made in her stock of those blues.
A clear plastic bottle of water was put on the desk. She looked up and saw Godwin looking somber. “I’m such a ninny,” he said. “I get carried away, like a cork on the outgoing tide. You’re right about counting chickens—especially when these aren’t even eggs y
et. Are you mad?”
Betsy smiled. No wonder John always made up with Godwin. When he was penitent, he was irresistible. “Of course I’m not mad. It must be exciting to know you’re named in a will.”
“Yes, but I could’ve waited awhile for this. I’d rather be making up with John than wondering what he left me.”
“I understand. This is a terrible time for you.”
“Worse than you know.” He brushed away a tear.
The phone rang and Betsy pulled herself together to answer it crisply, “Good afternoon, Crewel World, how may I help you?”
“Ms. Devonshire, this is Charlie Nye. Is Godwin there?”
“Certainly.” She handed the receiver to Godwin. “Charlie Nye,” she said.
“Well, hello again!” said Godwin cheerfully. He listened, the smile turning to a frown. “No, of course I didn’t take it, why would I do that? Besides, the police warned us not to touch anything.” He listened more briefly. “Yes, I guess you should ask them.” Pause. “No, I can’t imagine, either. Yes, could you let me know? Thanks, bye.”
“What?” asked Betsy when he had hung up.
“John’s computer is missing. Charlie was going to go through its files to see if there were some instructions for, you know . . .”
Betsy nodded.
“He told me upstairs, the police said he could go into the house, and I told him John kept all kinds of notes and things on his computer. And the computer isn’t in his den. It’s gone.”
“Is he going to notify the police?”
“Yes. But isn’t it strange? Do you suppose that whoever took our jewelry came back for the computer? He must’ve had a key—well, of course he did! He got in the first time without breaking a lock!”
“But who, besides you—and the Molly Maid—has a key to the house?” asked Betsy.
“No one. Well, no one I know of. Isn’t that strange?” He shivered and stared at Betsy with frightened eyes.
The mystery was solved ten minutes later, when Charlie called back to say the computer had been taken by the police, who wanted to see if John had been cruising the personals, looking for a connection with someone who might have proved deadly.
Embroidered Truths Page 7
