Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

  Richard came back with a tray of short, stout glasses. “Here we go!” he said, more jovially than he probably felt, setting the tray on the coffee table. He looked around, as if to see if the recent excitement had marred the room. This prompted Phil to look around, too.

  The room, a big one in an old, sprawling ranch, was both comfortable and comforting, its pastel-painted walls lit by standard and table lamps. Even Carmen was wearing a soothing dress, a lightweight wool in soft lavender. The two white dogs lying on a big, flat pillow nearby were possibly the best-behaved miniature poodles on the planet. They sat up to watch Richard put the tray down, but didn’t come over to wrap themselves around his legs in an attempt to trip him, or climb up on the table to sniff the drinks, or begin barking for no discernible reason. They merely sat up, like polite little animals acknowledging the arrival of a senior member of the pack. That, too, was soothing.

  Carmen smiled fondly at the pair. “Love you, babies,” she said to them, and they turned their heads in unison to grin at her.

  “What?” asked Dorie, raising her head.

  “My puppies are behaving well, so I told them I loved them.”

  “Oh,” said Dorie. “Yes, they are sweet.”

  “I always try to praise them when they do well. I think they understand when I say nice things to them.”

  “Yes, they probably do,” said Phil, a trifle too enthusiastically. “She really can talk to these two,” he said to Dorie. “I’ve been watching her.”

  Richard pressed a glass of scotch and soda into Dorie’s hand. “Try this and tell me if it’s okay.” He handed the other drinks around. Carmen shared a smile with her husband as she took hers.

  Phil took a small swallow, and his face lit up. “Wow, this is nice!” he said.

  Dorie took a sip of hers. “Nice,” she agreed, but absently.

  “Take a bigger drink,” urged Phil. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

  “Nothing . . .” began Dorie, but then she obediently took another swallow. “It’s good, thank you,” she murmured.

  “Doris,” said Carmen, putting her drink down untasted, “this is ridiculous. That doctor at the emergency room gave me some pills for you. The two you agreed to take are for pain, but the other two still in my purse are to make you sleep. I’m going to insist you take them. You really, really need more help to get through this than any of us, or even a whole bottle of scotch, can give you. What you need is a nice, long sleep to give you some distance from this.”

  “No, no!” cried Dorie. “What if he comes back, and I’m asleep?”

  “Wait right here,” said Richard as he turned and strode swiftly from the room. He was back a couple of minutes later, holding under one arm a Remington 870 pump shotgun, twelve-gauge with a barrel you could park a small automobile in, and in the other hand a big, matte black semiautomatic pistol. “Phil, do you know how to use one of these?” he asked, nodding toward the pistol.

  “Of course I do,” said Phil. “I have a sharpshooter’s medal at home somewhere. Back of my sock drawer, I think. It was a while ago, but I cut my army teeth on a semiautomatic.”

  Richard handed the gun to Phil, then stooped to look Dorie in the face, laying the shotgun on the floor at her feet. She stared at it. “Listen to me,” he said, and her eyes went obediently to his. “Phil and I are going to stay up while you sleep. We will lock all the doors and windows in the house, and we will walk through the house every fifteen minutes, looking into every room, out every window, checking every door. And I swear to you that Phil or I will blow away any son of a bitch stupid enough to try sneaking up to hurt you or my darling wife.”

  Dorie blinked at him, but did not reply.

  Darling wife Carmen said, “The dogs will stay up as long as anyone in the house is awake. They’re too little to be of much use in an actual fight, of course, but they will bark if they see or smell or hear a stranger. Nobody, nowhere, no how, is going to bother us.” She came over to kneel at Dorie’s feet, resting one hand on her knee. “I am going to sit up with you in one of those window-less rooms. I’ve been meaning to learn to knit, and I’ve got some yarn and a pair of knitting needles and a book of instructions.” She smiled. “The frustration alone will keep me awake.”

  Dorie looked up and around at them, her face a white blank. “Thank you,” she said.

  WEDNESDAY morning Betsy nearly shut the alarm off when it started playing classical music at five fifteen. She got up extra early on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so that she could drive to the Courage Center in Golden Valley for water aerobics. It was the only exercise program she had ever managed to stick to, mostly because it was early enough in the morning that it didn’t put a hole in her day. Also, she’d become good friends with everyone else who participated. She was already at the bottom of the stairs when her phone began to ring, so she didn’t hear it.

  At six thirty Betsy waded gratefully into breast-high warm water and began taking broad side steps, raising and lowering her arms in the water. The Courage Center’s Olympic-sized pool had flat platforms that stepped down at wide intervals, rather than the sloping bottom of most pools. There were about nine other women there, most of them her age or older, and two men, all stepping sideways, warming up. Greetings were murmured as they passed one another. Classic rock was playing, not too loud. Instructor Vicki stepped into the pool and called them to order. First head-to-toe stretches, then a slow jog, and pretty soon they were stepping lively, their heart rates at or close to where they needed to be.

  Betsy was blithely doing jumping jacks while everyone else had moved on to cross-country ski movements. Vicki’s instructions were tangled up in thoughts about the Thai silk case.

  Her first thought was about Doris. She recalled the bright and happy woman who had come home from Thailand, and the subdued, frightened, humbled woman who had haunted her apartment the past couple of days. Doris seemed to be suffering posttraumatic stress disorder, and small wonder. What an ugly reward for helping out an American doing business in Thailand!

  “Hopscotch!” called Vicki, and Betsy came to herself and began swiftly reaching for her right foot with her left hand, then reversing the gesture.

  Had David Corvis known Doris was coming to visit his silk factory? Was she somehow pointed out to him or pushed in his direction? How? And by whom? Or could it be a coincidence that David met an American woman who lived within easy driving distance of Fitzwilliam’s Antiques? Maybe he had a whole set of addresses all over the United States and would use whatever tourist he connected with who came near one of them.

  Now Vicki was doing one of her strange combinations of arm movements and Betsy had to stop musing and concentrate. Vicki called the chant: “Out, out, wide, wide, up, up, in, in.”

  It was a few minutes later, while doing the grapevine step across the pool, that Betsy noticed a situation forming. One of her classmates Dave Waterfill had an amusing predilection for gently nudging or splashing April and then claiming loudly that April was picking on him. But April was home recovering from surgery. Betsy saw him look around, as if searching for another victim. He was a handsome man despite his balding head, with a strong build and a captivating Kentucky accent. He came to the pool because he was facing arthroscopic surgery on his knees and wanted to stretch and strengthen his leg muscles in preparation.

  Dave’s eye settled on Irene, who was stocky without being fat and who had the most beautiful smile Betsy had ever seen. Her mouth was shapely and she had deep dimples. When she smiled, everyone in range felt better. On the other hand, she was black and Dave was a southerner, so when Betsy saw him focus on her, she held her breath. Dave moved subtly out of his path to nudge her on the shoulder as they passed one another. It could have been an accident: They each murmured “Sorry,” and kept going.

  But Irene evidently saw something in Betsy’s face when this happened. She flashed her smile at Betsy and continued grapevining placidly across the pool. On her way back, Irene deftly avoided anothe
r collision and flicked a few drops of water, hard, onto the back of Dave’s head. Dave saw Betsy watching and shouted, “You saw that! You saw that! First April, now Irene! Can’t get a moment’s peace in this place!” Amid the laughter Betsy was reminded that not all southerners were bigots—and that in her own concern for Irene, she was herself guilty of condescending racism.

  BACK home, Betsy had a quick breakfast and gave Sophie her meager breakfast of Science Diet dry cat food. She was engaged in an ongoing battle with Sophie. She wanted Sophie to lose weight, and Sophie felt every ounce gained was more insurance against famine. Betsy would have won long ago, if only her customers would stop sabotaging her efforts by slipping the cat little bites of candy, bread, cheese, or whatever else they brought into the shop—some of it deliberately meant for Sophie.

  She brushed crumbs off her trousers. It was going to be an overcast day, so she wore a bright pink pantsuit and matching shoes. She powdered her face lightly, darkened her eyebrows, applied lipstick, and put on her sterling-silver earrings. It was not yet nine; the shop opened at ten, so now she had time for the Internet. She usually read parts of the Washington Post, the St. Paul Pioneer Press, and James Lileks’s blog, Bleat.

  But today she noted an unusual number of e-mails waiting for her, almost every one from the Monday Bunch.

  The latest one, from Phil, had just an exclamation point in the subject line. She clicked it open and was confronted with an angry message:

  Don’t you ever read your goddamm e-mail or listen to your phone messages??? Someone took another shot at Dorie, and she went to the emergency room last night for stitches in her head and her hand. She’ll be all right, but someone came after her with a GUN! AGAIN! We’re at Carmen’s place, give us a call.

  —Phil

  Betsy pulled her clenched fists against her chest while she read the message. She’d told Doris she was safe, but she was wrong.

  The woman who came after Doris in St. Peter was dead. Who was this new person?

  She hurried into the living room, looked up and dialed the number of the Diamond house.

  “Hello!” said a curt male voice.

  “Mr. Diamond?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Sorry, I’m Betsy Devonshire, Doris’s friend.”

  “All right. But you can’t talk to her, she’s asleep.”

  Betsy asked warily, “Is something wrong over there?”

  “There better not be. Phil and I are armed and dangerous.”

  Good Lord! “May I speak with Phil?”

  “Hang on. Yo, Phil! Front and center!” Now he sounded like a drill sergeant.

  “It’s me, Betsy,” she said when Phil answered. “And don’t yell at me, I’m just sick that I didn’t find out until now! Is Doris all right?”

  “Yes. We finally talked her into taking a couple of sleeping pills the doctor gave us, and she’s asleep. Richard’s touring the house, and Carmen’s asleep—she sat up all night watching over Dorie. It was rough getting Dorie to take those pills. She was scared to go to sleep.”

  “I can imagine. What happened last night?”

  “Well, they told me things went to hell around eight. Dorie was in the guest room trying on a new dress, and someone shot at her through the window. The police think they shot at her reflection in a mirror instead of her—I guess the light wasn’t good. She’s got cuts and bruises all over her.”

  “Why is she still there? Why didn’t they take her into protective custody or something?”

  “Because they’re not sure the shooter was after her. It might’ve been Carmen, you know. She was standing with her back to the window, after all.”

  “So why didn’t they take both of them?”

  “Because Carmen won’t go without Richard and her dogs, and Dorie won’t go if Carmen is staying. Damn fool women!”

  “Why would someone want to kill Carmen?”

  “Nobody seems to know—how could there be a reason? Carmen is an elementary school substitute teacher, and she’s not teaching this quarter. The one thing she did that ties her into this mess was go to Thailand with Wendy and Lena two years ago, and now both of them are dead.”

  “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “No. Not a clue. None of us do.”

  “So if you didn’t go away, how did you get through the night?”

  “We stayed up all night with guns. You wouldn’t believe the fantastic Remington shotgun Richard has or the gun he loaned me, a Colt forty-five semiautomatic, a model 1911. Beautiful weapon. He’s got that magazine holder polished so slick the magazine falls completely out when you release it, ready for a reload. And he gave me two magazines to carry. I’m telling you, we’re loaded for bear. We locked the doors and made regular tours of the house all night. We told each other war stories until I was almost hoping our shooter would come back so I could pop a cap in him.”

  “Phil!” said Betsy.

  “Well . . . No, dammit, we were ready! And if he did come back, we would have put an end to this nonsense.”

  Betsy sighed very quietly. “All right, maybe you’re right.”

  “So what do you think the next step should be?”

  “I don’t know.” Betsy thrust her fingers into her hair. If this was about the silk—or the statue—and Wendy and Lena were involved in smuggling it, why didn’t one of them bring it back? Why leave it to sit for two years and then get an outsider to carry it here? She said, “Hmmm,” because she had no idea.

  Then she asked, “Are you going to stay there?”

  “Yes,” Phil responded. “At least until Dorie wakes up. Then I’m taking her away—and I’m not telling you or anyone where we’re going.”

  After trying fruitlessly to talk him out of that, they hung up.

  Betsy thought it possible that the shooter was after Carmen, because this time there had been no demand of Doris that she turn over the silk.

  But if the shooter were after Carmen, the question still remained: Why?

  Sixteen

  THE shop had barely been open half an hour on Thursday morning when Betsy had to explain—again—to one of her part-timers that the customer is always right. Good employees never, ever argue with a customer over her choice of pattern, floss, wool, or canvas. Her other part-timer was avidly eavesdropping, which aggravated Betsy very much, since she’d had to give her the same lecture a week ago.

  The phone rang, and Betsy, thinking she was starting to rub the young woman’s nose in it, said, “You have a kind heart, Mary, so I’m sure you’ll do much better from now on,” and went to answer it. “Good morning, Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?”

  “Good morning, I may have good news for you.”

  “Oh, good morning, Joe! A little good news might be very welcome right now.”

  “Were you serious about needing just a few minutes of a textile expert’s time?”

  “Why, yes, I was.”

  “Good, because if you can get here by twelve thirty, you can see Dr. Edyth Booker for fifteen minutes. That is a serious time limit, because she has a luncheon engagement and has to leave at twelve forty-five.”

  “That’s wonderful. I may not even need the whole fifteen minutes. Who is Dr. Booker?”

  “She’s our new curator of textiles, very knowledgeable about anything woven, though her specialty lies in things Asian.”

  “Wow, the curator herself! Thank you very much!”

  “No problem. I hope she’s able to help you. I’d spend a few minutes right now begging for more money, but I’ve got an emergency meeting in Roseville I have to get to. You can rest assured I’ll call you later.”

  Betsy laughed. “All right.” She hung up and checked her watch. There was barely time to call another part-timer to replace one or both of the ones now working, but should she? These two tended to rub up against one another until sparks flew. On the other hand, they were experienced in retail sales and even better at the minutiae of needlework.

  She decided sim
ply to ask and called them to the desk in front. “I have to go out unexpectedly for a noontime meeting. I’m thinking of calling Goddy in as an emergency supervisor, or maybe sending one of you home and calling Chelsea as a replacement.”

  “Oh, don’t do that!” And, “Of course you can trust us!” they insisted, ashamed she’d even thought to propose such things, as if they were unruly children.

  Well, it wasn’t as if she was going to leave them alone the rest of the day.

  So at twelve Betsy left the shop and headed up Highway 7, exiting on the fringe of downtown Minneapolis. In a few blocks the white, classical front of the art institute came into view. It sat atop a low hill and had a magnificent set of about a hundred white granite steps leading up it. But since that was not handicapped accessible to a ludicrous degree, it was no longer the main entrance. She parked on Third and went through a much more modest entry lined with heavy glass doors.

  The entry lobby was light and airy, floored with highly polished tan marble. To the left was the Children’s Theater, on the right was another set of big glass doors leading into the museum proper, where the tan marble floors continued.

  The private offices of the museum were on the third floor, and carpeted.

  Betsy had rolled the Thai embroidery in a white cotton towel and carried it in a purse almost big enough to be an overnight bag. She wished she’d remembered to bring a small knitting or counted cross-stitch project. Experience had taught her that handwork made waiting easier on her nerves and her temper.

  But today there was no waiting. The secretary showed her right into a medium-sized office, where Dr. Edyth Booker waited beside her desk. Betsy had never met her, so she paused for a moment in the doorway to take her measure.

  Dr. Booker was a woman of late middle age. She had a somewhat stocky build and she wore her blond hair in a short and prickly cut. She was wearing a flowing black ankle-length skirt printed with big spirals of aquamarine and gray, and a severely cut white shirt. She had turquoise jewelry and sported rings on almost every finger. When she smiled at Betsy, her dark blue eyes twinkled.