Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

She was right. Excelsior looked like a sweet little country town—and it was—but its residents paid big bucks to live in a safe, clean, attractive, Mayberry-like place this close to the Twin Cities. Betsy had some lucrative investments that made the shop almost a hobby and enabled her to charge less-than-average rent for two apartments and stay in the third herself.

  “Once everything gets put away, I think you’ll feel better,” Betsy said.

  “You’re probably right.” But Doris didn’t sound as if she believed it. She bent to gather up the last of the papers and shove them into another drawer.

  “Where’s Waldo?” asked Betsy.

  “Hiding in the linen closet. He hates company.”

  Betsy went off to see why Bershada had been calling Phil. It turned out she needed help getting the queen-sized mattress back on the bed. It was thick but inclined to sag. Betsy arrived in time to help guide the thing into place. Bershada wadded up the sheets and pillowcases and found a hamper in the closet to stuff them into. On the floor in front of the linen closet in the bathroom, Betsy found a fitted sheet and a top sheet that didn’t match, but were in the middle of a heap and therefore clean. She also found a single pillowcase of yet another color. Phil went back to the living room while Betsy and Bershada made the bed.

  “She’s really upset,” said Bershada, pulling on a corner.

  “I know.” Betsy floated the top sheet out. “I wish there was some way to comfort her.”

  “I know she’s in a lot of pain, but maybe what comforts me when I’m sad will help to comfort her just a little, too,” said Bershada. Betsy looked at her inquiringly, and Bershada leaned forward to murmur, “Chocolate!”

  Betsy smiled. “I wonder if she has any cocoa in the kitchen.”

  “Don’t just stand there, honey, go and see.”

  Of course Doris had cocoa, though it was an inexpensive brand that needed just hot water. In a cabinet Betsy found six mismatched mugs, one a thick diner-style claiming to come from the Chatterbox Café in Lake Wobegon. Betsy knew it was Doris’s favorite, so she set it aside for her. There was another stamped SOUVENIR OF THAILAND and others printed with many-hued roses. Betsy started the kettle and put into each mug a little more dry cocoa than the carton called for. As soon as the kettle boiled, she filled them, added a splash of condensed milk, stirred, set them on a tray, and called Phil and the women into the living room for a break.

  Doris came to sit on the couch beside Phil. Betsy sat on his other side, Alice took the shabby old upholstered chair, Shelly took the desk chair, Bershada sat on the floor. “It’s yoga,” she said, when Doris remarked on how easily she got down and how erect she sat. “You still goin’ to that water aerobics three days a week?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Betsy replied. “It’s horribly early in the morning, but that way it doesn’t put a hole in my day. I like the stretches best—they keep my spine flexible.”

  Phil said, “I worked damn hard all my life, and I said that when I retired the most strenuous thing I’d ever do again was casting a line into a lake or river. Turns out I like weeding a garden, too.”

  “And walking,” said Doris. “We do a lot of walking.”

  Phil said, “In the winter we walk around Ridgedale Mall; in the summer we walk up to Gray’s Bay and back.” He smiled at her. “She carries me part of the way.”

  “And he carries me the other part,” Doris said, but she looked down at her hands as she said it, as if repeating a joke so old it had lost its humor.

  “Have you taken an inventory?” Alice asked Doris in her brusque way.

  Doris widened her eyes in surprise, but then she took a breath and said, “Yes, the police were very nice about that. They made me take my time to be sure I didn’t miss anything. The burglar took my wonderful new ruby necklace and ring that I bought in Thailand, and a silver and garnet ring that Phil bought for me, and that silk brocade panel and”—she had to stop for another breath—“my laptop.” She looked over at the desk. “What I don’t understand is why they had to tear the place apart! How could they be so cruel?” She burst into tears.

  “There, there!” said Phil, turning to put his arms around her. He gave Alice an angry look.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alice. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Doris.”

  “They why the hell did you bring it up?” demanded Phil.

  Alice gestured around the room broadly enough to take in the whole apartment. “I didn’t think I needed to bring it up. After all, what are we here for, if not to clean up the mess the burglar left?”

  “You’re right, Alice, you’re right,” Doris said, pulling away from Phil to wipe her face with both hands. “I’m just upset, that’s all.”

  “Of course you are,” said Alice. “Anyone would be. Betsy, what do you think? Is this the sort of crime you could solve?”

  Betsy smiled wryly. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is just the kind of thing the police are good at, but not me. You know, fingerprints, fibers, tiny pieces of lint or cryptic footprints. No, not cryptic. What’s the word? Footprints it takes ultraviolet rays to expose.”

  “I really, really liked that silk brocade,” mourned Doris.

  “More than the ruby necklace?” asked Shelly, surprised.

  “Rubies and sapphires are mined in Thailand, and they sell for low prices over there. The stones I bought were small and probably not very high quality—it was just the idea of owning rubies. But the silk, oh the silk! That was special. I’ve never seen anything like that anywhere.”

  “It was beautiful,” agreed Bershada. “I’m so sorry it’s gone.”

  There was a little silence.

  Shelly said, “Well, if we’re going to get this done, we’d better get back to it.”

  Betsy, who had taken off her shoes, groaned and began to feel around for them with her toes.

  Bershada said, “Now, people, wait just a minute. Look at Betsy, she’s been on her feet all day. I think we should send her home and finish up without her.”

  “No, no—” Betsy started to object.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said Shelly.

  “But I don’t want to go home,” Betsy said.

  “So don’t,” said Bershada. “You just sit there. When we want more cocoa, we’ll ask you to make it. That’s your job for the rest of the night—making cocoa.”

  “I agree,” said Phil, but tentatively. He looked at Doris.

  “Fine with me,” she said. “What’s left to do?”

  “The bathroom,” said Shelly.

  “The kitchen floor needs a scrubbing,” said Alice.

  Bershada said, “And, Doris, we made a big pile of your undies on the bed.”

  “I’ll be right in,” said Doris.

  “Let me help you, sweetie,” said Phil.

  “No, you don’t,” said Bershada, laughing. “You go scrub the kitchen floor.”

  In another minute, they were back at it. Betsy at first felt useless to be consigned to the couch while everyone else got busy. But in a few minutes her head fell back and her eyes closed. She wasn’t asleep, just relaxed. She wished someone would come and rub her feet; she loved having her feet rubbed. A shame Morrie was no longer her boyfriend—he gave the best foot rubs.

  Thoughts and ideas drifted through her drowsy mind. Doris was a very nice woman, and she sure didn’t deserve to have a vandalizing burglar pay a visit. Stealing the silk brocade was an odd thing to do. Who would the burglar sell it to? The teen vandals Shelly had talked about were a group, and they spent hours in the school. Could it have been a group of teens who did this?

  But this apartment didn’t seem a likely teen target. Or even a burglar’s. Doris wasn’t a rich woman, or one of those crazy old people who lives alone in a raggedy house and has a reputation as a miser. Yet the burglar had done everything but take up the floorboards. Mike Malloy was right—this was more like a search than anything.

  But for what?

  Maybe the search was for that lovely statue of the Buddha.
No, it couldn’t be. Doris had delivered the statue. There was no need to search her apartment for it, when it was not here.

  Maybe something else, then: a diamond-studded cat collar or a Rolls Royce concealed in the bathtub—

  “Betsy?”

  She came to with a start. “Huh?”

  It was Shelly, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Have you heard from Susan Greening Davis yet?”

  “What? Oh, hum, yes.” Betsy squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again, trying to get her brain to wake up. “Yes, she’s coming late this summer. She’s going to teach a counted cross-stitch class. Oh, and I’ve written to Lisa Lindberg asking her to come and do a spinning demonstration.”

  “What’s this? Lisa Lindberg is coming?” said Bershada, coming out of the bathroom.

  “It’s not firm yet,” said Betsy. “You told me she’s great at spinning and dyeing, so I decided to ask her. She says she’ll see.”

  “Are you thinking this Lisa will teach a spinning class?” asked Doris. “And then you’ll be carrying spinning supplies? I’ve always wanted to learn how to spin. I even bought a drop spindle, but I can’t get it to work.”

  “Girl, you will love Miss Lisa!” said Bershada. “She spins angora yarn right off the rabbit!”

  “What?” said Phil, over Shelly’s shoulder. “How does she do that?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. She starts her spinning wheel, and hooks the rabbit up to it somehow, and the result is angora yarn.”

  “Well, that I’ve got to see!” declared Phil.

  “Me, too,” said Doris, seeing Phil and hastily hiding a small garment behind her back. But the expression on her face as she listened to Bershada was pleased and interested.

  “Well, why wait?” said Bershada. “How about we make a day trip and go see Lisa? Amboy isn’t that far, just south of Mankato. Lisa also owns a cute little restaurant, makes fabulous pies. And she sells hand-spun, hand-knitted hats and mittens in a store she also owns.”

  “Busy lady—oops!” said Shelly, suddenly realizing her sponge was dripping. She cupped a hand under it.

  “She’s a working fool,” declared Bershada with a laugh. “But that yarn shop is something to see. She dyes some of her yarn, but the rest she leaves the natural color of the animal she took it from: goat, bunny, or sheep. And her yarn is beautiful stuff.”

  “Does she sell it? Her yarn?” asked Phil. He had become an avid knitter.

  “Sometimes,” said Bershada. “Not in great quantities, though,” she added to Betsy, who was always looking for new sources of yarn, especially varieties that were hand spun.

  Phil said, “Well how about we go tomorrow? Betsy, you’re closed tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I am, but I’ve got my account books, laundry, grocery shopping, and housecleaning to do, so leave me out.”

  “Shelly?”

  “I’m in.”

  “Alice?”

  “I’d be pleased to go, thank you.”

  “Bershada?”

  “Tell me what time, and I’ll be there. And how about we take my car? It’s old, but it’s big and runs smooth.” She drew that last word out, and ran her hand in a long, even line in the air, out as far as she could reach.

  “Dorie?” asked Phil, and they all turned to look encouragingly at her.

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Well, then, let’s get this finished!” said Shelly. “We’ll need a couple of hours sleep before we set off, I guess. Is seven thirty too early?”

  “Hold ’er, Newt, she’s headin’ fer the barn!” declared Phil. “I say ten is plenty early to leave.”

  Alice agreed. “Some of us want to go to church.”

  “Ten is fine,” declared Bershada. “That will get us there in time for lunch.”

  “ ‘Hold ’er, Newt’?” said Shelly.

  “It’s an old saying,” said Doris. “Picture a farmer in the days when they used draft horses, and Old Nelly was trying to avoid her day’s work pulling the plow. I learned all about it from Phil, who is much, much older than he looks.”

  “You’re only as old as you feel!” said Phil, and in great good spirits, he went back into the kitchen to finish scrubbing the floor.

  Five

  “WHERE on earth did you get this thing?” asked Shelly from the backseat of Bershada’s big old Lincoln Town Car. The car, a blue so deep it was almost black, was rust-free. Usually, it takes only a few winters for road salt to make a Minnesota car start bubbling around the edges, and this model was thirty years old. There are a lot of Saturns in Minnesota, because they have plastic bodies.

  “It comes from Arizona,” said Bershada. “I have a friend who subscribes online to several Arizona newspapers. He keeps track of estate sales and reads used-car ads, and when he sees one of these old tanks for sale, he goes and buys it. There’s always a market for them up here. I love ’em. This is my third one. My first was twenty years old. The older I get, the further back I reach for my cars.” She laughed.

  “Okay, I understand where,” said Phil, who was also sitting in the backseat. “My question is, Why? Why buy something like this? It must get terrible mileage.”

  “Well, it doesn’t get the best mileage, that’s true,” admitted Bershada. “But suppose I had one of those modern mini-cars? How would you decide who has to sit in back? Best two falls out of three?”

  Phil chuckled. “I’ll admit, it is roomy back here.”

  As they settled back in their seats, Bershada turned off Highway 7 onto 169 South. This would take them all the way to Amboy.

  The sky was a mottled gray, but it wasn’t windy, and the temperature daringly approached twenty degrees. A scant couple of miles later, the car started across a long bridge over a marsh. Some construction anomaly gave cars crossing it an amusing ride: kuh-thump as the tires went over a joint, then a gentle whump as they drove over a slight depression. Sixty-two miles an hour was the optimum speed, and with a little effort—the car’s big engine thought seventy a nice cruising speed—Bershada held the speedometer right there. No one in the car spoke as they went kuh-thump, whump; kuh-thump, whump; kuh-thump, whump; but all were nodding in time to it. Anyone who drove Highway 169 frequently was familiar with this particular rhythm, which worked in either direction, and the few cars in sight were all bobbing across the bridge, kuh-thump, whump, as if in some happy ritual dance.

  Highway 169 was a freeway until it crossed the deep, broad valley of the Minnesota River, where it turned into a two-lane highway. Bershada tried to go no more than seven miles over the speed limit. The highway was clear of snow, and traffic had thinned to almost nothing, which didn’t help with her efforts not to drive too fast. Once across the river, the land was low hills running parallel to the highway. A dense line of leafless trees marked the Minnesota River not far away, and the highway curved now and again to stay near it. They skirted the small towns of Jordan and Belle Plaine, whose apple stands and garden centers looked forlorn in the winter landscape.

  Half an hour later, the highway ahead dropped out of sight, and a sign announced the approach of the town of Le Sueur. And there, on top of one of the hills, higher then the naked gray trees, was a huge figure of a green man in a brief costume of leaves, waving a greeting.

  “Well, looky there!” said Phil, waving back. “I haven’t seen him in a long while.”

  “Who?” asked Doris, looking vainly in that direction as the car drove by the gigantic billboard and started down into a deep valley.

  “Come on,” said Shelly, “haven’t you bought Le Sueur peas? He’s the Jolly Green Giant, and this is his valley.”

  At the bottom, they crossed a long bridge over the Minnesota River. Not long afterward, then approached St. Peter, a pretty, little, old brick city on the banks of that same river.

  South of St. Peter, the skies cleared somewhat, and shafts of sunlight turned the highway here and there a blinding white. The Minnesota River had gone west, on its way to caress New Ulm.

&
nbsp; The land beside Highway 169 rose to become very flat; the only irregularities in the scene were old, shallow drifts of snow making curved gray snakes across the barren fields.

  “Looks like Kansas out there,” noted Bershada.

  “Looks like North Dakota to me,” said Shelly.

  “Looks lonesome,” said Alice.

  “I think you’re all right,” said Phil.

  Then came another valley as a major city, Mankato, came into view. “Oh my, it’s grown a lot since I saw it last,” said Doris.

  “When did you see it last?” asked Shelly.

  “Years ago. I went to college here.” Doris blushed faintly. “It was just a technical college—a trade school, really,” she said, anxious not to mislead them into thinking she went to the Minnesota State University.

  “I did, too,” said Phil, determinedly on her side. “We went to the same school, took the same classes. Just not in the same years.”

  “What did you study?” asked Bershada.

  “Steam,” said Phil. “We both have boiler’s licenses. I was among the last of the steam engine drivers; then years later I went into heating plants. Dorie was one of the very few women after World War Two who worked in a factory maintaining the steam power units.” There was pride in his voice.

  “Have you two ever watched Lars Larson work on his steam car?” asked Shelly. “He’s explained how it works to me a couple of times, but I don’t really understand.”

  “I’ve seen him driving it around town, but I haven’t talked to him about it,” said Doris. “I’d love to, though, sometime,” she added a little wistfully.

  Phil said, “When the weather turns warm, I’ll take you over to his place and get him to start the old machine up for you.”

  “What p.s.i. does he run it at?” she asked.

  “Would you believe six hundred?”

  “Oh my goodness!”

  He nodded. “My old steam locomotive did just fine at two, two-fifty.”

  “My first factory boiler burned fuel oil and ran at thirty.”

  The conversation became even more technical at this point, until they saw incomprehension on the faces of the other two and bashfully fell silent.