Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

  “I don’t understand why the rabbit puts up with you pulling its fur out,” said Shelly.

  “It’s not attached very firmly,” said Lisa. “And, anyway, all that fur is hot, so he likes having it thinned out.”

  Indeed, the rabbit sat quietly across her lap—hanging over it actually, because of its size—its nose working in the putt-putt-putt way of its kind.

  “They grow new fur fast. I can do this to Fernando about every four months.”

  Lisa spun until everyone was satisfied by the demonstration. Then she put the rabbit back into its cage and accompanied her visitors as they walked around her shop. The big room was sparsely furnished, with a table and display shelves of felted wool hats and mittens, angora berets and helmets, a couple of knit sweaters in earth tones. Alice tried on a couple of hats, with Shelly supervising, and it was Shelly who chose the angora beret in a silvery gray color for her. Alice frowned over the price, but said she’d take it, anyway.

  Doris picked up a brown felted hat with tiny white loops standing up all over it.

  “Is this woven? I don’t see how you got these picots so even all over it,” she said.

  “Mohair doesn’t felt,” Lisa explained. “When I knit the hat, I mixed wool and mohair, and when I felted it, the wool shrank but the mohair didn’t.”

  “Well, isn’t that amazing? I just love the effect!” It was obvious that Doris wanted the hat, but she put it back down without even asking the price. She told herself it was because she had spent so much in Thailand—and she had overspent her budget. But in truth, her losses in the burglary made her fearful of acquiring anything nice and new.

  Though Lisa didn’t normally sell yarn, Phil persuaded her to part with a skein of white angora, enough to put a collar and cuffs on a sweater he was going to knit in sky blue wool.

  Bershada picked up some small wads of wool in bright hues of orange, red, and purple. “I thought you only used natural dyes,” she said, holding them out.

  “Oh, those were done by third-graders in a class I taught. The dye is Kool-Aid. You have to use it in a very concentrated form, of course. I use vinegar to set the dye.”

  They stopped to look at a strange machine in the back. About the size of an ice chest, it was made mostly of large and small rollers covered with long, shining wire bristles. It was sitting on a metal cabinet that brought it up to near eye level. “It combs the wool,” explained Lisa.

  “Wow,” was all any of them could think of to say for a few moments. The thing looked dangerous. The mere thought of a hand getting mangled by the menacing prickles made all of them keep a respectful distance.

  Phil said, “I never knew, never thought to think, that there was a happy medium between hand-combing wool and having it processed in a big factory.”

  “Well, there’s too much carding for me to do it by hand,” said Lisa, “but not enough to send it to a factory, so I’m exactly in that place, Mr. Galvin.”

  Doris said, “This is a very pretty town, Ms. Lindberg. But it’s so small. How do you keep the store going?”

  “Tourist trade,” replied Lisa. “We get more visitors through here all the time. I used to leave the front door unlocked even when I wasn’t here, because local people knew to come to the restaurant to pay for anything they wanted. But with so many strangers passing through, I don’t dare do that. I can’t afford the losses of a theft.”

  “I understand,” said Doris softly. She turned and slipped away toward the front.

  The others had more questions, and then Phil noticed she was gone. “Dorie?” he called.

  “I’m up here,” said Doris in a choked voice. “And . . . and look, it’s starting to snow.”

  “Is it snowing hard?” asked Phil, hustling to the big front window where Doris was standing.

  Shelly started to follow him, but Bershada took her by the arm and shook her head. “She’s upset,” Bershada murmured. “Let him talk to her alone.”

  Phil came up beside her. “It’s not snowing very hard,” he said. “Say, are you crying? What’s the matter?” When she did not answer, he said, “Now, Dorie, I know it’s something.” He leaned close to her ear and murmured gently, “You can tell me.”

  She turned away. “No.” Then she changed her mind and turned to face him. “Well . . . all right. When Lisa talked about leaving doors unlocked, it reminded me how I’d left my apartment unlocked. So it’s my fault the burglar got in. Just thinking about it makes me sick and sad.”

  “Well, you poor thing!” Phil said, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Here I’ve been admiring you for being so brave, but not realizing what a struggle it’s been for you. I think all of us appreciate your letting us help you forget for a little while. When we get home, you can cry all you like, and I promise I’ll be right there to lend you my shoulder.”

  “Thank you,” Doris said, in a shaky voice. “I’ll take you up on that. Now, give me a minute and I’ll be all right.” She sniffed, found a Kleenex in her purse, blew, and the tears stopped.

  The others came over soon after to look out the window. They saw more than mere flurries, but not a heavy snowfall.

  “Maybe we’d better start for home,” said Shelly.

  “Why?” asked Bershada. “I’d like to visit that antiques store. The weather forecast this morning was for light snow, and that’s what’s happening out there. I already told you, my old car can plow through anything up to six inches.”

  “Yes, but we’re kind of a long way from Excelsior,” noted Alice. “If this keeps up . . .”

  Bershada turned to Lisa. “Is the antiques store open?”

  “Yes, and it has some wonderful things. The owner must have three hundred old hats in there, for example, and some clothes that date back to the early twentieth century. And he also has a tame squirrel that climbs all over him.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Phil said, looking encouragingly at Doris.

  But Shelly said, “I’m sorry, I still think we should start for home.”

  Alice, looking out the window, backed her up. “Me, too,” she said.

  Lisa raised her hand to discourage further argument. “Let me check to see if the weather forecast has changed,” she said. She pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number, and listened.

  “It’s snowing hard in Minneapolis,” she said, after she broke the connection, “and the prediction is for six inches as far south as Mankato.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Phil.

  “All right, let’s go,” said Bershada.

  They gathered up their purchases, put on their coats, hats, and mittens, and thanked Lisa warmly.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Come again, soon.”

  “We will, we will,” they all promised as they hurried out the door.

  “It’s still not very cold,” noted Bershada as she pulled her keys from her purse and unlocked the car. “I hope this doesn’t turn to freezing rain.”

  There were groans of anxiety as they climbed into the big old car.

  They didn’t have any serious problem on the road back to Mankato, so even though it was now snowing harder, they decided to push on. But then it turned bad. Bershada had to drive slower and slower as the snow thickened, blowing directly into the car’s windshield, making it hard to see more than a dozen yards ahead. The border between the highway and the shoulder became invisible under all the snow.

  Then the sky grew darker, and Bershada’s headlights reflected off the snow rather than lighting the road.

  Soon she was down to less than thirty miles an hour. She had Phil and Doris take turns looking out the back window for a braver driver coming up fast behind them.

  Shelly got out her cell phone but she couldn’t get a signal. And when Bershada turned on the radio, she learned the roads were worsening all the way up to St. Cloud—well past the Twin Cities. The radio station was giving such alarming news that she shut it off again. She had barely done so when they all felt a bump as the heavy car fell off the macadam onto the sho
ulder. It almost veered into the ditch, but Bershada, fighting the wheel, managed to get it back on the pavement. Still, it gave her such a fright that she slowed the car even more.

  The windshield wipers were set on high, but snow had built up around their edges, and the warm air of the defroster could only turn it to slush as the temperature dropped. Snow built up on the side windows, too, and they were so fogged with condensation that the people in the car began to feel claustrophobic.

  “I think we should find a motel,” said Shelly in a low voice.

  “I agree,” said Doris from the backseat.

  “It’s getting dangerous out there,” said Alice, rubbing a side window with a gloved fist. A single huge semi going the other way churned the snow into a thick fog. Bershada slowed to a crawl until they were out of its range.

  Phil said, “I’ll sleep in the lobby if they’re full up.”

  “I just hope we don’t have to sleep in the car,” Bershada murmured under her breath, but her passengers were in such a heightened state that they heard her. They were all frightened, and frightened people become superstitious, so no one dared call attention to the remark for fear of having it come true.

  “How far are we out of St. Peter?” asked Phil.

  “Maybe we should turn back,” suggested Alice.

  “No, I think we’re closer to St. Peter than Mankato now,” Bershada replied. “Anyway, if this storm is moving south, it’s as bad behind us now as ahead. Problem is, I’m down to twenty miles an hour. Plus, manhandling this old car is wearing out my shoulders.”

  “I’ll drive!” came a chorus of voices.

  “No, really, I’m fine. And it shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “We are stopping in St. Peter,” said Phil. “Right?”

  “I think we’d better,” Bershada said.

  “Is there a nice motel in St. Peter?” Shelly asked, already imagining a warm, snug room safe from the storm.

  But Doris was looking out the window. There was nothing to see out there. They might as well be on the moon—no, it didn’t snow on the moon. Did it ever snow on Mars?

  She kept her desolate thoughts to herself while praying that they’d arrive in St. Peter safely.

  Shelly was praying, too, that they didn’t slide off the road again. That semi was the first vehicle they’d seen in a long while—and it was going in the opposite direction. If they went into a ditch, they wouldn’t be found until morning.

  The last time Bershada had had her car serviced, she’d had been advised to get new tires, but tires were expensive, especially the big ones this car took. She’d hoped to make her old tires last until spring. Now she hoped they had enough tread to keep them on the road.

  Despite the car’s weight, it shuddered a little as a blast of wintry air pushed at it from the side. Phil frowned, then quickly turned to Doris with a smile to say, “Cozy back here, ain’t it? This old baby’s got a good heater.”

  And Doris drew yet more courage from somewhere and smiled back. “Oh, yes, I’m nice and warm.” She leaned a little sideways and added softly, “Especially with you beside me.” She looked past him at Alice, who obligingly was not looking at them. Phil lifted an elbow to subtly touch Doris on her arm, and she smiled again.

  Alice asked in her blunt way, “Is there a Motel 6 in St. Peter? I can’t afford a nicer place.”

  “We’ll take whatever we can get,” replied Shelly, equally blunt. “We’ll pool our money if we have to, and of course we’ll double up.” She looked over her shoulder. “Except poor Phil, of course.”

  “Awwww, now . . .” said Phil, but then he chuckled wickedly. “I bet not one of you has something I’ve never seen before.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to give you a glimpse of mine!” said Shelly.

  “What if all the motels are full?” asked Alice. “A lot of people will have been caught out by this and will have needed to stop for the night instead of getting on home.”

  A worried silence fell.

  “Finally!” said Bershada as the lights of St. Peter came up gradually from behind curtains of blowing snow. Her relief was enormous.

  They passed two motels with No Vacancy signs lit, then stopped at a third, despite its sign also indicating a full house. The desk clerk called all the other places in town, but they were all fully booked. As Alice had predicted, so many people were caught out in the storm that every room for rent was occupied.

  “The hotel is letting people stay in the lobby,” offered the clerk.

  “Oh dear,” said Doris unhappily.

  “I bet I know a place that won’t be full,” said Bershada.

  “Where?” everyone asked—even the desk clerk.

  “It’s a bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Why won’t it be full?” Phil asked. “Too expensive for the average stranded traveler?”

  “No, it’s because it’s a secret bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Don’t play with us!” said Alice. “There’s no such thing!”

  “Yes, there is. It’s called the March Hare. It’s not really a secret, but the owner is still renovating it, so he doesn’t advertise.”

  “Oh, wow,” said the desk clerk, who was very young. “I forgot about that place!”

  “Can you phone them for us?” asked Phil.

  But Bershada said, “No, don’t bother, it’s just a few blocks from here. If all the rooms are taken, I’d sooner spend the night in their parlor than in a hotel lobby.”

  They hustled back outside and climbed into the car again—except Phil, who took the brush-scraper out of the back seat and cleared off the side and back windows. He got back in, a little breathless from his hurry.

  “Shall we stop on the way for a bite of supper?” he asked.

  “Look around,” said Bershada. “Everything’s closed.”

  “There’s a gas station up ahead,” said Phil.

  “I’d rather go to bed hungry than eat gas station food,” declared Shelly.

  Bershada pulled out onto the street. “Me, too,” she said. “That gas station, is it a Freedom station?”

  Shelly rubbed at the side window with a mittened hand. “Yes.”

  “Then this place is in the next block.” Bershada pulled close to the curb. “It’s a Victorian, made of brick, set back from the street. Keep an eye out, everyone.”

  “Does it have a big sign?” asked Shelly, peering outward.

  “I told you, it’s a secret place. No sign.”

  “There it is, I think,” said Shelly, her face barely an inch from the window. “Right on the corner.”

  “Yes, it’s on a corner.” Bershada glanced off to the side briefly. “This is probably it.” She turned the corner and stopped. A tall, untidy hedge lined the other side of the sidewalk. “Great, I remember that hedge—it was covered with lilac blooms when I stayed here two years ago.”

  “Heck of a good memory you’ve got,” said Phil. “Come on, let’s go knock on the door.”

  “Use the side door,” Bershada instructed. “It’s never locked until nine; the manager has a buzzer that sounds when anyone comes in.”

  The house reared up in the snowy darkness, the outline made irregular by bow windows. The group went up to a screened side porch lit dimly from inside the house. Bershada pressed down the old-fashioned latch on the heavy antique door, whose top half was fitted with thick glass. It opened and they crowded into a tiny hall with a steep staircase right in front of them and rooms to their left and right. The left-hand room had a low-watt bulb shining far back in it. After a moment, they realized in the dimness that they were looking at a big modern kitchen with professional-sized appliances.

  From somewhere beyond the back of the kitchen came an attractive young woman with light brown hair pulled back. She was wearing a cream Aran sweater and blue jeans. “Oh, you’re here after all!” She looked them over. “But I thought it was a party of eight women.”

  “No, we’re a party of four women and a man,” said Bershada in an amused
voice, “and I’m sure we weren’t expected.”

  Seven

  BETSY was tired. Tomorrow was Monday; she had to get up early for her water aerobics, and she had a class that evening, so she’d be in the shop late. She ought to get to bed early, but her apartment was getting grubby from neglect. The kitchen floor in particular needed a good scrubbing. Plus she needed to work on an amusing counted cross-stitch pattern that was turning out to be difficult. It was Brett Longley’s design of a realistic Dalmatian puppy looking at the floor in front of him where half his spots had spattered off. The name of the piece? “Achoo!” The difficulty lay in the subtle shading on the white fur.

  But the Internet was alluring, and she just couldn’t quit until she added her opinion to a thread on Jacqui Carey’s patterns. That done, she was about to log off when she heard the juicy click that meant an incoming e-mail. She nearly ignored it, but curiosity—and a lack of desire to do housework—won and she went to the screen that held her e-mail. It was from Dorie101. She started to open it, then drew her fingers back. Hadn’t Doris’s laptop been stolen? What if this was from the thief?

  Well, what if it was? Maybe he wanted someone to pay a ransom to get it back. She’d heard sometimes that thieves did that. So she should read it just to see.

  And, of course, if it had an attachment, she wouldn’t open that.

  Hold on, maybe it contained a virus or a worm, and she shouldn’t read it at all. She let her fingers rest on the keys while she tried to make up her mind.

  But Betsy had a curiosity bump the size of Mount Shasta, and she just had to take a look.

  Hi Betsy! We’re in St. Peter. The snow got so bad we couldn’t continue. All the hotels are full so we were lucky to find this bed-and-breakfast right on the main street, called the March Hare. It hasn’t even got a sign in front, because the owner is still renovating the building, though it looks all renovated to me. They rent rooms to groups coming to seminars and things at Gustavus Adolphus College, so I guess they have some kind of deal with the school. The group they were expecting couldn’t come because of the storm, and we were stranded, so the manager said okay. She’s nice; her name is Heidi. The place is a really old mansion, from the 1870s, and the furniture is real antiques. I have the least expensive room, a servant’s bedroom in the back corner of the house. I could see the lilac hedge from here, if it weren’t snowing so hard. As it is, I can’t see anything. Hard to believe that in three months the hedge will be covered in blooms. My room is very small, but cozy, and it has a beautiful quilt made of scraps of velvet. We are hoping the snow quits tonight so we can get back on the road tomorrow. Got to go, the manager needs her computer back.