Thai Die

by Monica Ferris

  “Aw, now—” began Godwin, but he bit the scoffing off before it could begin. “You really think this is some big international crime?”

  “I know it is. There was a man in Bangkok who got Doris to bring the stone Buddha back. He had earlier met Wendy and Lena over there, so he’s more than likely a part of the smuggling enterprise. And now he’s dead. A hit-and-run driver in a stolen car ran him over outside his export business in downtown Bangkok.”

  Godwin stared at her, his mouth making a small O. “And you think—”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes. This particular scam fell apart, the silk came into the wrong hands, and they’re covering their steps. Wendy killed the antiques shop owner and then was killed herself, and Lena was killed, and someone shot at Doris—twice, actually.”

  “What about Carmen?”

  “She’s been told to go into hiding, but she’s staying at home, where her husband, who is a gun collector, is guarding her. I don’t know if that’s wise or foolish, because the bad people know where she lives. But on the other hand, who could she trust herself to? Who knows how far the reach of these people is?”

  Godwin shivered. “Brrrr, no wonder you’ve decided this is too many for you.” Godwin liked old-fashioned expressions, and he had picked this one up from a Mark Twain story.

  THE coffee in its urn had just begun to perk when Jill Cross Larson came in with Emma Beth holding on to one gloved hand. The child was dressed in a cranberry red wool coat with a black collar and cuffs. Heavy leggings knit in khaki wool covered her legs, with matching mittens and hat—the mittens hung loose from the sleeves of her coat by crocheted strings and the hat was in one hand. Emma Beth was radiantly fair, a natural platinum blond, and she turned a very pretty smiling face up at Betsy.

  “Going to Gran’pa’s!” she announced.

  “Well, good for you! I hope you have a nice visit,” replied Betsy.

  Jill was a tall woman, nearly as fair as her daughter. About five months pregnant, her tummy was starting to press against her sky blue winter jacket. She said, “Lars has company. He and his visitors are going to talk steam for the next few days, maybe a week, and I thought maybe Emma Beth would get bored or something.” She leaned forward, and her light blue eyes took on a special intensity as she said with slow emphasis, “Steam boilers , steam locomotives, and Stanley Steamers, they’re going to let off a lot of steam over there. And I thought it might be good if Emma Beth and I got out of their way.”

  Betsy smiled and nodded. “I see.” Lars owned a Stanley Steamer, Doris had a boiler license, and Phil once operated a steam locomotive.

  A few years ago, Jill would have remained at home with Lars to guard the two refugees from violence. She had been an experienced and highly competent patrol officer. But now she was a stay-at-home mom. And while she could send Emma Beth away, she did not have that option with her unborn son.

  “Does Mike Malloy know you’re leaving Lars on his own?”

  Jill nodded. “He says Lars won’t be entirely on his own.”

  Good. That meant Lars was officially assigned to guard Phil and Doris, and the department would have his back if things got hairy.

  After Jill left, Godwin came to say, “Does she think she’s being subtle? I mean, really!”

  “I would rather believe she thinks she’s being subtle than the alternative, which is that I’m very dense.”

  Godwin chuckled. “But at least we know now where they went.”

  And it’s not South Africa, thought Betsy. Or a lonesome cabin in the piney north woods. No, they were right here in town.

  “Poor Doris,” said Godwin. “Who would have guessed a fun vacation in Thailand would lead to this?”

  “Yes,” Betsy said thoughtfully, then, “You know, I was surprised when she said she wanted to go to Thailand. But you didn’t seem all that amazed. She strikes me as a very quiet person, almost shy. Going to Thailand all by herself isn’t the sort of thing I’d expect a shy person to do. What is it you know about her that I don’t?”

  “Well, first of all, she’s not exactly shy. She’s . . . she’s rein-venting herself. She comes from blue-collar people, she worked in a factory. She’s always been a little afraid you’ll see her trying to act uppity and run her off.”

  “Why would she think that?” Betsy demanded indignantly. “Because we never—”

  “No, of course you never,” interrupted Godwin. “None of us did. We know how to behave.” He sighed. “But we noticed that ridiculous wig, and her overdone makeup, and that her hands were thick and clumsy because she did factory work, didn’t we? If she’d really been one of us, someone would have mentioned these things to her, and maybe very gently offered to help her do things better. She saw us noticing. She felt ugly and rough, but none of us said anything, so she wasn’t sure how or even if she should ask for advice.”

  Betsy fell into a half-shamed silence. Then her brain jumped into gear. “So how do you know all this? And why didn’t you tell me, at least?”

  “Because I didn’t know how bad it was for her, not until just before she left. We had this nice, long talk. It wasn’t the first one, but the deepest. You know how every so often I swear off dating?”

  Betsy nodded. Godwin always fell in love hard and was vastly disappointed when an affair ended. He’d come in to work with his right hand raised, ready to swear—again—that he’d never let love run his life. Which it didn’t, until the next time. But she didn’t know he took his problems to Doris.

  “It’s just once in a while, when I can’t stand myself for being such a ninny, I go visit Doris, or invite her to visit me. She’s a good listener. She lets me pour out my pain and gives me hot cocoa or iced lemonade to drink—or asks me to make some, if it’s my place—and tells me what a nice man I am until I feel better.”

  Betsy felt a squeeze on her heart; she didn’t know about Doris’s sympathetic nature. She considered Doris a friend, but she didn’t know this very basic thing about her. “Apparently you’re a good listener yourself.”

  “My dear, I like to think so. She did tell me something interesting about her trip to Thailand. Did you know the main reason she decided to go was Phil? She wants to look her best, so he can be proud of her.”

  “Oh, Goddy, that’s so sweet!” said Betsy, feeling the squeeze.

  “I think she looks amazingly better now that she’s thrown that wig away. And that red hair just suits her—so fun!”

  “Even her poor hands look better.”

  “I know. I’m so glad she went. If she thinks she looks nicer, she’ll feel more like one of the crowd, and she’ll be more comfortable around us, and will feel that we like her.”

  “Now don’t go piling on and on, Goddy. We all like her fine the way she is, and she’s as valuable as anyone in the Monday Bunch. Remember how she joined Shelly and Alice and the others to run the shop so I could go find out who really murdered John Nye? She wasn’t a voiceless little mouse in a dark, sad corner.”

  Godwin drew an indignant breath, then let it out. “You’re right, of course. You know how I get carried away when I get an idea. But that doesn’t mean what I’m saying about her is a lie. She did feel like she was missing out somehow, that she didn’t know the right words or get the jokes everyone else was laughing at.”

  “Oh, then I’m going to have to tell her about something I read in a John D. MacDonald novel once. The hero is feeling depressed and tells a friend he feels the whole world is sitting around a campfire singing songs he doesn’t know while he is stuck out in the weeds by his lonesome. And the friend says, ‘But don’t you know? That’s universal! Everyone in the whole world feels like that! ’ ”

  Godwin stared at her. “We do?” He frowned and shook his head. “Well, yes, I guess some of us do.”

  “Most of us, at least some of the time. It’s because none of us is truly privy to the ugliness in other peoples’ lives. We each think we’re the only one struggling, that others have found the secret and we haven’t.”
/>   “Sometimes I think I’ve found the secret,” said Godwin, but more to himself than to Betsy. Then he shook himself and said, “Are you really quitting the case?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Now that you know where Doris and Phil are, are you going to go over there and talk to them?”

  “No. I think it’s best if we all just stay away from them, at least for now. Although I’m grateful that Phil did the right thing and got the local police involved in hiding Doris.”

  Godwin shook his head. “There’s a really bad case of a person having no idea what’s going on in the minds of people around him. He actually thinks no one knows about him and Doris!”

  “I don’t think that’s true. I think all he wants is deniability. He comes from a period when people had private lives and tried to protect that privacy. And good people were ashamed to pry.”

  “He is kind of old, isn’t he? When did that change?”

  “Oh, in the seventies,” said Betsy with the conviction of an eyewitness. “‘Let it all hang out’—that was the motto.” She shook her head. “People thought it was a good idea at the time, but really, some things are not improved by letting in the sunlight.”

  “Strange ideas old people have,” said Godwin. “Do you think you could have found them if Jill hadn’t come in and told you?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. Finding people who have gone into hiding . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know how to find lost people.”

  “Makes me wish Mr. Keen were real, and still around.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons—an old radio show.”

  Betsy smiled. “You and your old radio shows. Fibber McGee and Molly, Lum and Abner, now Mr. Keen. Who will you be talking about next?”

  Godwin could not resist that straight line. He intoned, “The Shadow knows.”

  Twenty-two

  THE Monday Bunch was in session. It was a subdued meeting because the members were all close friends and Doris and Phil, who were members in good standing, were missing.

  Betsy was working on the counted cross-stitch of the Dalmatian. It was a bright but overcast day and the light coming through the front window helped her to see the subtle differences in the shades of white on the puppy’s face. Betsy sold all kinds of artificial lighting that advertised itself as “full spectrum” or “just like natural daylight,” but while some of the lamps came close, none of them really replicated the real thing. Betsy had no idea why this was the case.

  Alice was crocheting another in her endless series of acrylic afghan squares, which she sewed together into blankets sent by her church to African orphans.

  Emily was there, knitting a tiny blue sweater, not for the baby she was carrying but for Jill’s.

  Godwin was nearly at the toe of his white-on-white argyle sock; his fingers moved as if of their own accord while his sympathetic eyes looked around the table.

  Bershada was ornamenting the legs of a pair of jeans with dandelions, doing the yellow blooms in turkey work, an embroidery stitch done as a mass of close-set loops. She was currently using a tiny pair of scissors to snip off the tips of the loops forming a flower to give a realistic fuzzy effect.

  Nobody was saying much; in fact, nobody had said much during the past half hour.

  Finally Godwin sighed, “There, finished!” and pulled the yarn through to finish the toe of his sock.

  The others were willing to take that as a signal to wind up, and in a very few minutes, still mostly in silence, they pushed in their chairs, put on their coats, hats, scarves, and mittens, and made for the door.

  Their exit was complicated by the entry of Sergeant Mike Malloy. Seeing him made them all pause and try to think of a reason to linger—he looked weighty with news. But Mike was a cop and could command movement with a glance. In a single efficient movement of his head, he caught each woman’s eye, and the glint in his own eye made each conclude that her initial decision to go home was correct.

  When the Bunch had gone, Mike leaned back, then forward, looking to see if there was a customer in the part of the shop beyond the box shelves. Satisfied that he was there alone with Godwin and Betsy, he allowed an indefinable expression to resolve itself into unhappy excitement. He unbuttoned his heavy wool overcoat and came to the table where the two stood behind their chairs. He touched his top lip with the end of his tongue as he looked for the words to begin.

  “May I offer you a cup of coffee, Mike?” offered Betsy.

  Thus prodded, he finally spoke, “No, no. I came in to tell you there’s been a break in the case you’ve, ah, been assisting the department with.”

  Godwin made a tiny sound of interest but quickly stifled it. He did not want to be sent from the room.

  “I told you I had withdrawn from the case,” Betsy said with quiet reproach.

  “It doesn’t matter now, because even as we speak the Wayzata police are making an arrest.”

  “Wayzata?” She frowned at him. “Oh, but Mike, that would mean . . . No!”

  “I’m afraid so. They’re arresting Carmen Diamond for the murder of Lena Olson.”

  Godwin groaned softly.

  Betsy said, “But that can’t be right! Do you mean to say that Carmen is a master criminal?”

  “No, of course she’s not,” said Mike. “For one thing, none of the murders that we’re investigating were done by professionals. A crime boss would have ordered up a professional hit man. A professional wouldn’t have bungled the attempt to make Lena’s death look like a suicide. And he wouldn’t have shot at a reflection in a mirror instead of at Doris.”

  Betsy stared at him. “But you told me this smuggling operation was run by someone with contacts around the world, someone involved with a whole network of criminals!”

  “And I still think that’s the case. The overall case, smuggling valuable stolen art into the United States, that is. Something like that is not the work of amateurs or even everyday crooks. But these organizations will hire or involve amateurs or small-time criminals in a particular operation. That’s what we think happened here. And when it started to go wrong, when the important artifact they were sending over disappeared, the word went out to the amateurs: find it, bring it back, or something lethal is going to happen to you.

  “Oh, I see.” Betsy nodded. “That would explain Wendy’s journey through a blizzard to St. Peter and her screaming outrage when Doris said she didn’t have the silk.”

  Godwin said, “She must have been terrified. But then, so was Doris.”

  “And Phil,” said Betsy. “And Bershada. And Alice. And Shelly. And the March Hare’s manager. That was an altogether terrifying night.”

  “But she didn’t get the silk back,” said Mike.

  Betsy nodded. “Because Doris didn’t have it. I was wondering why Wendy would have thought she did, but when I read the e-mail Doris sent me from St. Peter again, it doesn’t mention Bershada, Alice, or Shelly, and it doesn’t say they were on their way back here when they had to stop because of the snow. When Wendy opened that e-mail, she must’ve thought Doris and Phil were leaving town—with the silk.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t actually going to kill Doris but just get the silk back,” said Godwin. “And she took the gun to frighten her.” Godwin looked inquiringly at Mike.

  “I think the decision to kill Doris had been made when Wendy started for St. Peter,” said Mike. “Wendy may have felt forced to that decision; maybe it was forced on her by the person who sent her.”

  Betsy agreed. “They didn’t want anyone around to testify that it was Wendy who came down with the gun. Especially after she’d already murdered Oscar Fitzwilliam in his antiques shop.”

  She looked at Mike, who said, “The revolver Ms. Applegate was carrying that night in St. Peter was the same gun that killed Mr. Fitzwilliam.” He raised a forefinger and suddenly realized that he was still wearing his leather gloves. He pulled them off a couple of fingers at a time while he continued to speak. “Here
’s an odd little detail: She got someone else to load it. His—or her—fingerprints are on the shell casings, not Wendy’s.”

  “Isn’t that kind of unusual?” Betsy asked. “If I were going to go kill someone, I wouldn’t show someone else my weapon.”

  Godwin asked, “It isn’t hard to load a revolver, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Mike. “We think the person who loaded it is the person who sold it to her.”

  “How many shots were fired in the antiques shop?” asked Betsy.

  “I’m not sure. Two or three, I think.”

  “But when she took it with her to St. Peter, the shells weren’t replaced?”

  Mike squinted at her. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Yes, either she went down there without a fully loaded gun, or she went back to the salesperson and got him to replace the used shells.”

  “Either of those scenarios is doubtful,” said Mike. “So neither is probably what happened. I wonder if the stranger’s fingerprints are on all the shell casings.” He got out his notebook and wrote something in it. “In any case, I think that’s a small detail, easy to clear up,” he said. “Her fingerprints are all over the outside of the gun, and no one else’s.”

  “How did he load it without getting his fingerprints on the outside?” asked Betsy.

  Mike shrugged that question off without answering it. He was here to deliver a conclusion. “What we think happened is this: These three—Wendy, Lena, and Carmen—went to Bangkok, Thailand, a few years ago and met a man in the export business. Probably the meeting was prearranged by Wendy, who had been buying Asian products for her employer for several years. At first Wendy and Lena started a legitimate import business. But they couldn’t make a success of it, so when their contact in Bangkok suggested a way to bypass those pesky customs charges, they made a deal with him. And that was like the camel’s nose in the tent. Pretty soon they were accepting stolen goods.”