Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

  “Look at this, we’re crossing the Minnesota River again!” exclaimed Shelly. “Are you sure there’s only one river called the Minnesota?”

  “Only one,” said Bershada, “but, girl, it gets around.”

  After the excitement of Mankato, the land flattened out again, and there was little to see until Vernon Center, which appeared to consist of a house, a bar, and several shedlike structures gathered tightly along the highway, as if waiting for a bus to take them away to Mankato’s bright city lights.

  Not long after that, Bershada slowed the car, as it approached a sign along the highway. AMBOY, the sign said, with an arrow pointing left.

  “Now, nobody blink, or you might miss it,” said Bershada, making the turn.

  Actually, there were two blocks of dwellings, nice single-family houses set back a little from a street lined with trees. Some of the houses already had lights turned on inside. Although it was barely noon, the sky had darkened, and clouds were dropping lower as they thickened.

  Alice leaned forward and looked up through the windshield. “I think it’s going to snow.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Phil said. “The weather report last night said cloudy, but no precip.”

  “The weather forecast this morning predicted light snow,” said Bershada. “But my car can go through up to six inches of the stuff, no problem. And here we are,” she added, pulling to the curb.

  “Where?” asked Shelly. All she could see was a large antiques shop outside the passenger window.

  “Across the street.”

  There, on the corner, stood a picket fence in front of a small lawn divided by a curved walk. It led to a little cream-colored stucco building with a steep, dark roof set with a single small gable. A Model A Ford would have looked right at home parked in front of it. AMBOY COTTAGE CAFÉ, announced a modest sign on the wall beside the door.

  “Is everybody hungry?” asked Bershada.

  “You bet!”

  “Well then, come on!” She climbed out and everyone hustled after her as she crossed the street.

  The interior was about thirty feet wide but only twelve feet long, with perhaps a dozen very small, mismatched tables under a high, peaked ceiling paneled in light-colored pine boards. The walls were covered with quilt squares, quaint tchotchkes, small farm implements, and old photographs of the town. Incredibly good smells were coming from the kitchen, which was separated from the front by a pair of small flapper doors, like those in a western saloon. Near the doors was an old-fashioned cast-iron stove. Doris could feel the heat coming from it; she went over to hold out her hands to it. Not that she was cold, it was just a comfort to see a stove like the one she remembered from her grandparents’ farmhouse, one that was really used, not a relic.

  A very attractive woman—probably somewhere in her late thirties, tall, with honey brown hair and blue eyes—came out of the kitchen. “Are you all together?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Bershada, pulling off her dark red wool coat.

  The place was nearly full, but the woman gestured toward an empty table under a side window. “I’ll bring you some menus,” she said. “Would any of you like coffee?”

  “I would,” said Phil, shrugging himself out of his old army-style parka.

  “Me, too,” said Doris, and there was a polite chorus of agreement that coffee would be nice.

  The woman went into the back room. “That’s Lisa, the owner,” Bershada said.

  “She looks nice,” said Shelly.

  “Let’s ask her about her other shop,” said Alice, who was eager to see it.

  When Lisa came back with a tray of steaming mugs and menus tucked under one arm, Bershada said to her, “When the lunch rush is over, will you show us your other shop? I’ve been bragging about your spinning and dyeing.”

  “Well, if you can wait until two . . .”

  “Yes, we can,” said Alice firmly.

  Doris, still standing, began a struggle to get out of her long wool overcoat, which had a gray houndstooth pattern printed on a cream ground. Phil was behind her in an instant, taking the coat off her shoulders, hanging it on the back of her chair. She held her knit hat and mittens, felted to make them thick and warm, in one hand.

  Lisa gestured at the hat and mittens. “Did you knit those yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Doris, shyly holding them out.

  “They’re well made.” Lisa said, examining them professionally before she handed them back. “I’ll return in a minute to take your order.”

  Doris sat, picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. The coffee was a Scandinavian brew, strong but not bitter. She took another, deeper, sip and nodded. “This coffee is delicious,” she said.

  “Let me see that mitten,” ordered Bershada, after taking a drink of her coffee.

  Doris handed it over. “It’s not that good,” she said.

  “Come on, honey, how can you say that? This is really nice! I like the suede palms.”

  Doris had sewn a thin piece of suede in the palm of her mittens so they wouldn’t slip on her steering wheel. “Thank you.”

  “I say, I say, I say,” said Phil in almost a Cockney’s accent, “look at all this, then!” He lifted his open menu to indicate the object of his happy surprise.

  Everyone was duly amazed at the variety of foods on the menu. Here were roast chicken and vegetable wraps, spinach quiche, and salads garnished with pine nuts and homemade sourdough croutons.

  “And, oh boy, look at the pies!” said Phil. “Makes it worth while to go traipsing through all this highfalutin stuff to get pie for dessert!”

  Doris gave him a look and he grinned at her. “Gotta keep up the male side at this party,” he said.

  “I think I’ll have the salad,” said Bershada, “so I’ll feel less guilty about the pie.”

  Everyone else ordered the salad, too—except Phil, who had a bowl of chili with whole-grain bread. And he asked for his slice of pie to come with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

  The food was delicious, and everyone cleaned his or her plate—or bowl. Then they went for a little walk, stopping to look into the store windows two doors up, where Ms. Lindberg had her yarns and handmade hats and mittens on display.

  “Is that a spinning wheel I see?” asked Alice, shading her eyes to peer into the dimness.

  “I think so,” Bershada replied.

  Phil went to the door and tried it, but it wouldn’t open.

  “Let’s go back,” said Shelly, shivering and looking up at the sky.

  “What, you’re cold?” asked Bershada, surprised. “It’s not that cold out here.”

  “I know, but I’m chilled to the bone. Can’t you feel it? I hate this damp cold.” She shivered again.

  Phil looked at her with his eyebrows lifted and a grin starting, until he realized she said “damp,” not “damn.”

  “It’s like England,” Shelly went on after making a face at Phil. “I spent two weeks over there many years ago, and I don’t think I got warmed up until I was back home for a month.”

  The others laughed, but they also agreed this was a cruel sort of cold and turned back to the restaurant.

  They found it almost empty and Lisa waiting for them.

  “You don’t have anyone working in your store,” said Bershada, faintly accusing.

  “No, I don’t have a lot of customers—and most of them know to come in here and find me.” She pulled on a light jacket—her shop was just a few doors down from her restaurant.

  “Well, I want to see you do some spinning,” said Alice, child-like in her determined interest.

  “Come on then,” said Lisa, and led them out under the lowering sky.

  BETSY looked over at the huge, white Baroque-style church on top of a tall, sudden hill to her right. The snow had begun as she started out for St. Paul and was now coming down heavily, blurring the outlines of the cathedral, its dome nearly invisible high above. She consulted her Google map—she was not very familiar with St. Paul, though she recogniz
ed the cathedral and could see ahead the immense block that was the Xcel Energy Convention Center.

  She hadn’t meant to leave Excelsior today. What she had said to the Monday Bunch was true—she did have a lot to do. Plus, she really was tired from the sale yesterday. It would have been nice to stay at home, cleaning and doing laundry, catching up on her bookkeeping and stitchery, taking little naps. But she’d started thinking about Doris and the burglary of her apartment, and the fact that Mr. Fitzwilliam had been found dead in the disorder of his own antiques store, and so here she was. She had no expectations, but she’d told Mike Malloy that she was going to get involved in the burglary case and she couldn’t think how else to start.

  She turned right onto Exchange Street, found a parking place, and got out to walk back up the street.

  There were lights on in Fitzwilliam’s Antiques, and she could see people moving around inside. The place was pretty much as Doris had described it, except the beautiful upholstered chairs were no longer in one window. The other window was empty, too. Must be good sales lately, Betsy thought, opening the door to enter.

  “Hey, who left the door unlocked!” shouted a man’s voice.

  Betsy stopped just inside the store, waiting for developments, unbuttoning her coat.

  From somewhere in the far back she heard a woman’s voice reply. “I did! I’m taking stuff out, and it’s making me crazy having to put it down to unlock the door, then remember to lock it again when I come back in. Nobody’s out in this storm anyhow!”

  “I am!” Betsy announced.

  There was a startled silence, and then the woman shouted, “Eddie, take care of that!”

  A man came out from behind a high shelf that was half full of old dolls, children’s books, and toys. He was tall and thin with dark hair and brown eyes. His old twill trousers, very dusty, were held up with blue suspenders. His eyes were red-rimmed and sad.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” he said. “For good, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I suppose I should have realized . . .” said Betsy. “May I offer my condolences?”

  “Thank you. Did you know my father?”

  “No. In fact I never met him.” It was stiflingly warm in the shop, so Betsy pulled her heavy coat open. “I’m here because a friend of mine is involved in this case.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Her name is Doris Valentine. She brought something from Thailand to Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  “Is that so?” he asked in the tone of someone with his suspicions confirmed. “How do you connect to her?”

  “I told you, she’s a friend.”

  He looked Betsy up and down. She was casually dressed in jeans and a green sweater—one of her earlier efforts. And it had cat hair on it.

  “You’re not a cop.”

  “No. Or even a private eye.” Betsy smiled. “I’m Doris’s landlady. But I also do investigations.”

  “Okay.” He was still frowning, but at least he put down the big cardboard box he’d been holding.

  “If you like, you can call Sergeant Mike Malloy of the Excelsior Police Department. He can tell you I sometimes do a good job of investigating.”

  Again he looked her up and down, but this time he nodded and seemed to relax a bit.

  Betsy said, “You see, she had her apartment practically destroyed by a burglar looking for something. This happened soon after she brought a statue of the Buddha to Mr. Fitzwilliam, and just after Mr. Fitzwilliam was killed and his shop was torn apart in a search. I think this burglar was looking for the same thing in both places.”

  “What thing?”

  “The statue, probably. Because it seems to have disappeared. Unless you’ve found it?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, Doris is the one who was asked to bring it to Mr. Fitzwilliam from Bangkok. May I ask your name?”

  “I’m Edward Fitzwilliam.”

  She looked around the shop. “May I ask you a few questions?”

  “What’s your name?” he asked instead, but not in a suspicious tone.

  Betsy told him, then asked, “Was this shop on its way up or down? I mean, I’m not an expert on antiques, but it looks to me as if some of the things in here are of very high quality, while other things are . . . well, not.”

  The man looked around. “It looks like that to me, too—and I am a bit of an expert.”

  “Was your father a poor judge of quality?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that things had been sliding for the last six or seven years, and then, more recently, they started picking up again.” He stuffed his hands into his back pockets, shoulders drawn up against unhappy memories. “But the come-back was slow and uneven, so he couldn’t just toss out all the drek and fill the space with good things.”

  “Was he a bad businessman?”

  “No, but I think he got lazy.” He sighed. “Or maybe just depressed when he realized he wasn’t ever going to attract the Summit Avenue crowd to his store.”

  “So what changed his mind?” she asked.

  “I . . . don’t know,” he confessed, his shoulders now up nearly to his ears. “All he told me was that he made a couple of good deals, and he thought things were going to turn around.”

  “Was he normally secretive about his deals?”

  “No, not usually. See, every so often he’d try to get me to come into the business with him. That pretty much stopped when the store started sliding. But it didn’t start in again when he started coming back.”

  Just then, a short, trim woman with dark hair, luminous skin and sober gray eyes came toward them. Betsy hastily moved out of the way. The woman was carrying a large, raggedy cardboard box full of table lamps. “I’m sorry,” she said to Betsy, “but we’re not selling anything today, and we’re kind of busy.” She stooped and dropped the box by the front door. It clattered sharply—most of the lamps were made of porcelain—but it didn’t sound as if anything broke. She gave the man an angry look and went toward the back of the store.

  “I think I’d better get back to work,” he said.

  Betsy said, “Please, could you call me? I’d like to talk with you some more. Maybe I can help you find out who is responsible for your father’s murder.”

  He studied her face for a long few moments, then nodded. “All right. What’s your number?”

  Betsy dug in her purse for the her card case, then gave him a card, saying, “E-mail or phone, it doesn’t matter. Thank you.”

  And she left.

  Six

  LISA Lindberg’s woolen-goods shop took up most of the ground floor of the two-story building. The original hardwood floor had been refinished and polished. Lisa had removed the plaster from the walls to expose the original brick, and she had half-finished installing an antique embossed-tin ceiling. On one wall hung a large piece of abstract art, made of thick ropes of hand-spun wool, loosely woven and fastened to a tree branch.

  Phil went over to a display of skeins of yarn in soft tans, browns, and grays. Shelly went to try on the various hats made of wool, mohair, and angora, also all in the natural colors of the animals’ fur coats. She mugged at herself in the mirror as she pulled the tams into various shapes and positions on her thick hair. Doris went for a closer look at the abstract weaving.

  But Alice went directly to the spinning wheel. “Is this for show or use?” she asked.

  Lisa smiled. “Use. Want me to show you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Lisa went to the back of her shop, where she disappeared behind a curtain, then almost immediately came back with a wire cage about two feet long and almost as wide. It contained what at first looked like two large white rabbits. But on closer inspection, they all realized it was only one immense rabbit with long fur.

  “What is that?” exclaimed Doris.

  “A rabbit with a pituitary problem, I bet,” said Phil.

  “It’s a perfectly healthy rabbit,” said Lisa. “He’s a giant angora, which is a breed, like the silky,
English, or French breeds. Most angora rabbits run six or seven pounds, but Fernando here weighs fourteen pounds.” She put the cage on the floor beside the spinning wheel, pulled a towel off the back of a hard wooden chair behind the desk and moved the chair up to the spinning wheel, where she sat and draped the towel across her lap.

  “Where are your clippers?” asked Alice.

  “You don’t clip their fur, you pull it,” Lisa said. She leaned sideways, opened the top of the cage, and lifted the rabbit by the scruff of its neck onto her lap. It sat there calmly, with its ears—with amusing tufts at their tips—erect at first, then laid back. It had red eyes and a long, thick coat, shorter on the face. Lisa gathered a tuft of fur on the back of the creature with her fingers.

  “Oh, don’t!” cried tenderhearted Shelly.

  “He doesn’t mind in the least,” said Lisa. “Watch.” Using her thumb and two fingers, she tugged gently and pulled out a clump of fur. The rabbit did not wince or even stir. Lisa started the wheel turning, keeping it going by working a wide, flat, wooden foot pedal. There was a short twist of string or yarn coming out the side of a simple mechanism above and to one side of the wheel. It consisted mostly of a wooden U shape lying on its side and surrounding a spindle with yarn already started on it. Alice was sure there was more to it, but she couldn’t see because the mechanism had started spinning.

  Lisa twisted the clump of white fur onto the end of the yarn, moving her fingers to attach it to the end of the string. With her other hand she pulled more fur from the rabbit and gave it to the hand feeding the yarn. Her fingers moved in a smooth, experienced way and very quickly a length of white, fuzzy yarn went into the mechanism.

  Doris said, “I always thought the yarn went around the big wheel.”

  “No, the big wheel is there to operate the flyer assembly,” Lisa said. Her hands were busy, so she simply nodded toward the spinning mechanism.

  “Well, I’ll be switched!” said Phil, coming closer for a good look. “That is a remarkable thing to see!” He was not speaking of the spinning wheel but of the way Lisa was pulling the fur off the quiet rabbit.