“Who is it?” she called in response to Betsy’s knock.
“Me, Betsy.”
“Come in!”
As Betsy entered, she found Shelly tossing a lightweight blue Saint Paul Saints blanket over her needlework. “Mike Malloy has a crew down in my sewing room again. This time they’re doing a more thorough job of treating it like a crime scene. And they’re drinking coffee as fast as I can make it,” she added with a little sniff. “I knew I should’ve bought that big coffeemaker when it was on sale at Target. But usually Harv and I just have two cups apiece in the morning. I think I’ve made fresh for these guys about five times already. They’re running me ragged.”
She was talking too fast, and her eyes were too shiny. “Are you all right?” Betsy asked.
Shelly sat like a statue for a few seconds then melted into tears. “No,” she said. “I’m not handling this well at all! I’m trying so hard, so hard to be b-brave.” She broke down completely.
Betsy led her to the couch and made her sit down. She sat beside her, holding her hands. “Take it easy, Shelly,” she soothed. “It’s all right, this is a terrible situation.”
“My beautiful sewing room! I can’t go down there anymore! It’s ruined for me! Ruined, ruined!”
“Now, now, that’s how you’re feeling right now—and it’s no wonder. But in a little while you’ll change your mind, you’ll see.” She chafed the backs of Shelly’s hands. “Now, pull yourself together. You don’t want Harvey to see you like this.”
“Oh, Harv’s been so wonderful!” sighed Shelly. “He’s been my rock, so patient with me. Oh, Betsy, I wish I’d given him a chance back when I knew him in high school! All those wasted years! He is so kind to me, so thoughtful and understanding! I could just cry!” In fact, she did start to cry again, then saw the humor in that and turned it into a strange laugh.
Her dog, a short, blocky black-and-tan type who, judging by her long ears and big feet, had basset hound in her ancestry, came to sniff at her legs and whine softly.
“Oh, Portia, it’s all right,” said Shelly, and the dog wagged her tail and collapsed at her feet.
“She’s so sensitive to my feelings,” sighed Shelly fondly. “And she hardly ever barks, except at strangers.” She leaned forward to confide, “By his second visit, she was greeting Harv like an old friend, but she’d still like to take a bite out of Mike and company.”
“Why don’t you let Mike and his crew make their own coffee?” asked Betsy.
“Because I don’t want them poking around in my kitchen, the nosy snots.”
Betsy smiled, then sobered. “Shelly, you know, I’m sure, that I’m looking into this myself.”
Shelly nodded, and then grew serious. “What do you want to ask me?”
“Have you been down in your sewing room since you found Ryan?”
She lifted her shoulders and shuddered. “It’s too awful down there. That business with the mice was just too grotesque. They are supposed to be all cleared out, and the walls are repaired, but it still gives me shivers. I store my projects in there, but I bring things up here to work on. It’s difficult, and it’s making Harv crazy, but I can’t bear to be down there.”
“That may be a good thing. I want you to go down there in your mind, the day you found Ryan. Picture it in all the detail you can recall, exactly as it was. This might be important. What did you see down there that was wrong? Besides Ryan’s body, of course.”
Shelly bowed her head and closed her eyes. Betsy was struck by how handsome she was, her oval face surrounded by all that light brown hair, the thick eyelashes underlining her large eyes, her straight nose and sensitive mouth. Normally mobile, her features became still as she drew into herself, thinking. Betsy could see her eyes moving behind the closed lids as she explored the room in her memory.
But all she said after nearly a minute was, “Nothing.”
“Nothing was out of place, no chair pulled away, no window open?”
“The window doesn’t open. It’s made of glass blocks cemented together.”
“What did Ryan have in the room? Where did he keep his clothes, for example?”
“In a suitcase, he had this big suitcase. And a couple of grocery bags for his laundry. That stuff was right where he always left it.”
“Did you do his laundry?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did he eat with you?”
“Yes, except when he was drunk. Once he started getting drunk, I told him he had to eat out.”
“He didn’t ever eat in his room?”
“I don’t allow food in there! Or any drink besides water. He could eat his supper on the porch or in his car if he brought something home. But he did eat breakfast with us, because he was sober in the mornings.”
“Did he ever talk at breakfast about someone who was angry with him?”
“Not that I recall.”
“What did you talk about?”
“The usual things. The awful weather we’re having. What his girls were doing in school. Harv is designing that new park over in the development in Chanhassen, so we talked about that. Once Ryan showed us a new amulet he’d ordered from a town called Raipur in India—can you imagine? From India! I said, ‘I don’t think it works on pink elephants, Ryan!’”
“What did he say?”
“He said it brought peace. He said he could use some peace. And I will admit, he looked hag-ridden. Oh.” She pressed her fingers against her lips. Then she sighed. “Was that politically incorrect?”
“I don’t know. I think the term for a senior witch is crone, not hag—it’s one they use themselves. And anyway, I should think he was riding Leona rather than the other way around.”
“He was afraid of her.”
“Apparently he was afraid of a lot of things.”
“Including the dark—oh!”
“What?”
“Every night when he got in, he’d light a candle. The lights in the sewing room are very bright, too bright to sleep with them on, but he was afraid of the dark. I told him he could have a candle so he borrowed my big pottery bread bowl—he was afraid of fire, too, poor fellow—and he had this box of white emergency candles he bought at the grocery store. I had a little candle holder I loaned him, and he’d put it in the bowl and put one of those candles in it. He’d light it and let it burn all night, down to nothing. But his last night on earth he must’ve gotten over his fear of the dark, or let his fear of fire overcome it, because when we looked around the room, we found the bowl beside the futon and the candle was only halfway burned down.”
“Or his murderer blew it out.”
“Oh, Betsy! Don’t say that! The thought of a stranger in my house . . .” She shuddered.
“You think it wasn’t murder? Then what was it?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” She rocked back and forth in anxiety.
Betsy pulled a little red spiral notebook from her purse. “Who hated Ryan McMurphy?”
Shelly drew her shoulders up. “No one.”
“Shelly, we both know that isn’t true.”
She sat back on the couch, one of those squashy ones, upholstered in putty-colored corduroy. Her royal blue slacks and top made a pretty contrast with it and with her light hair. But she drew her shoulders in as she wrapped her arms around her upper body in distaste. “An ugly question.”
“An ugly crime. And you’ve heard the talk.”
“Leona?”
“I now know she has a good, solid alibi. How about Joey Mitchell?”
“How about him?”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not a whole lot. He had wanted to be a full-time fireman since he was a little kid—our Excelsior firefighters are just part-time volunteers, everyone knows that. There are firefighters all over his family, uncles and cousins and grand-fathers.”
“Does Harv know him?”
“Not very well. He’s never said anything to me about him other than he feels sorry f
or him because of his arm.”
“Did Joey ever visit Ryan here at your house?”
“No.”
“Who else hated Ryan? Come on, help me out here, Shelly.”
“I’m trying! But all right, let me think.” She did, for a long while. Finally, as if she was coming to a decision rather than recalling something, she said, “Well, much as I hate to say this, Ryan’s wife, LuLu, has to go on your list.”
“LuLu? I thought her name was Luella.”
“It is. But her baby sister couldn’t say Luella and called her LuLu, and it stuck. Anyway, LuLu was sick to death of Ryan’s drunken antics, frightened to death he was going to lose his job, and furious with the chaos he was bringing into the lives of the children. They—Claire and Winnie,” she said, playing to the notebook in Betsy’s hand—“loved him when he was sober and were scared of him drunk; and they never knew which he’d be when he walked in the door at night. Also . . .” Here Shelly paused to think, and to gather her nerves. “All right, there was a really enormous life insurance policy on him. LuLu shouted at him once when he was on a bender, saying what was she to do if he killed himself while he was drinking? How would they pay for the house, educate the kids? So, still half drunk, mind you, he went out and got this policy for two million dollars.”
“Good Lord!” said Betsy. “When was this?”
“Just about six months ago. Maybe a little longer, but I don’t think it’s been a year. He kept the premiums up on it, too, because he seemed to think it gave him permission to drink.”
“Two million dollars,” said Betsy. For a woman scared of what might happen, two million dollars could buy a lot of relief.
Eleven
BETSY, still desperate to “get a clue” as she left Shelly’s house, reflected that a viable suspect would have had to know where Ryan was staying. Not just at Shelly’s house, but specifically in her sewing room in the basement.
She sat in her car and thought about it. LuLu knew, of course. Then Betsy had a sudden recollection. Ryan had announced at The Barleywine, on that awful night of the committee meeting, that he was staying with Shelly. Rats, that meant that first the committee members knew, and soon after, the whole town knew. Wait, most of the Monday Bunch already knew his body was found in Shelly’s sewing room, so that little item was probably already circulating.
So much for that clue.
Still . . . Betsy wrote down the names of the committee members present. Plus Joey Mitchell, he of the maimed left arm, who wanted to drive the fire engine Ryan had restored.
She reminded herself to let Malloy know about Joey’s alibi. Let Mike check it out—Joey didn’t seem to be lying or mistaken about the night of the chess games, but perhaps he was. Meanwhile, she, Betsy, would cross him off her list.
Now, who on the committee was angry with Ryan?
She had no idea. Who would know? Betsy remembered the indulgent tone in Billie’s voice when she brought the little sandwiches and orange to Ryan’s booth.
It was Billie who had encouraged Ryan to finish restoring the antique fire engine for the parade, and invited him to the meeting to report success, and led the cheering when he had a super idea for supplying it with ghostly riders. So she knew him, or at least had been talking with him for some while.
Billie was easy to find and probably willing to talk. The one Betsy didn’t know was LuLu—and according to Shelly, LuLu was a suspect. She’d better talk to her next.
The McMurphy home was a modest wood-frame bungalow with a deep front porch whose roof was set on pillars, the top half planks, the bottom stones. The house was freshly painted crayon brown with crayon green trim. Lace curtains edged the windows. Two children’s bicycles were on the porch, the smaller one pink, with training wheels.
Betsy, weighty with pity for the ugly event that had damaged and possibly destroyed this scene of domestic bliss, went up to ring the doorbell.
Luella—LuLu—McMurphy was pounds lighter than Betsy remembered from seeing her at church. She was tall for a woman, attractive, with naturally curly brown hair cropped short, and hazel-brown eyes. She was wearing deep blue slacks, a black sweater, and a big green apron with autumn leaves appliquéd all over it. Her face was pale, and there were shadows around her eyes, so intense they looked like bruises. Her full mouth was pulled tight.
“Yes?” she said in a very crisp voice.
“Mrs. McMurphy, I’m Betsy Devonshire. I own Crewel World over on Lake Street, but I’m here because I’m looking into your husband’s death.”
LuLu frowned at her in forming anger, then her brow cleared. “Oh. Yes, I’ve heard about you doing that.” There was a thoughtful silence of about fifteen seconds, which Betsy did not break, before LuLu said, “Very well. Come in.”
It was nearly noon, and a little girl could be heard crooning in the kitchen. “Ohhhhhhh, ’mato soup, ohhhhhhh, crackers, ohhhhhhh, ’mato souuuuuuuup! Mommy?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Am I finished?”
“Not yet, darling. Mommy has company, can you sit quietly for a little while?”
“Yes, Mommy. I’m eating. Ohhhhhhh, ’mato soup . . .”
“She could do a commercial,” said Betsy.
Lulu smiled thinly. “Yes, I suppose she could. Will you have a seat?” She gestured toward a comfortable easy chair upholstered in worn chintz, and she took a matching one, which swiveled to face it. The living room was longer than wide, comfortable and lived in, fully carpeted, with couch, coffee table, fireplace, television, none of it new but all clean and well cared for.
Betsy sat but did not get out the intimidating notebook just yet.
“First,” she said, “let my offer my most profound condolences on the death of your husband. It must have been a terrible shock to you.”
LuLu nodded stiffly. “It was. I knew he was drinking too much, but I didn’t think the damage at this stage was fatal, not yet. I hoped—I’d hoped that making him leave our home would shock him into changing his behavior.”
“Shelly told me that she thought it had, that he immediately stopped drinking—but he started in again last week.”
LuLu nodded. “Yes, he tried to come into our home drunk, crying and saying he was sorry . . . he was so sorry . . .” She began to cry.
Betsy immediately rose and went to her, stooping to reach for her hands. “This is too hard for you. Do you want me to go?”
“No, no, I want to help you believe this was some kind of terrible accident, not . . . not a murder.” She sniffed, and Betsy released her hands so she could reach into her purse and find a Kleenex. LuLu wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and put the Kleenex into her apron pocket.
Betsy asked, “Why do you think it was an accident?”
“Because the room was locked! How could someone asleep in a locked room be killed? It’s ridiculous! And anyway, there was an, an . . . autopsy!” She choked to a stop and had to close her eyes while she hid away any unpleasant knowledge of what an autopsy entailed. “The medical examiner said he died of natural causes. Do you know there is a rumor that Leona Cunningham did it with black magic? Can you believe it? This is the twenty-first century and there are people who want to bring back the ducking stool and the stake! It’s nonsense! Stupid, scary nonsense!”
“I agree,” said Betsy firmly. “I completely agree. That’s why I’m investigating. I want to prove it’s nonsense. Will you help me?”
“How can I help?”
“Answer some questions—perhaps some hurtful, embarrassing questions.”
LuLu’s big, dark eyes searched Betsy’s. “All right,” she said.
“Is it true that Ryan took out a very large life insurance policy on his life a few months ago?”
“Oh, you think I—well, I suppose you would, if you’re looking at murder. Though I hope you aren’t too serious about it. Still . . . Anyway, it was more like a year ago. Well, almost a year. Ten—nine months, actually.” She seemed a little surprised that it was so recent.
&nbs
p; “Is it true that you suggested he do this?”
“No, not exactly. That is, I, uh, well . . . we were having a fight. Another fight, one in a long series of them. And I said his drinking was going to kill him, either from liver failure or a car accident, and what were the children and I to do, since we don’t have any savings? And he said not to worry, and a week later he came home with the policy. As if that fixed everything.”
She bowed her head and said, so softly Betsy had to lean close to hear, “He wasn’t a bad man. When he was sober, he was the best husband in the world. He was sweet and hard-working and he loved me and the kids. And I loved him. Alcoholism is a disease and it was killing him—it did kill him. There was no need for anyone to murder him; he was murdering himself.”
“Where were you the night he was killed?”
“Here. Right here. With the girls. Winnie’s too young to remember what happened which night, but Claire—she’s nearly eight—she’s at school, she could tell you we all three slept in Mommy and Daddy’s big bed that night, just like we did the previous nights. And ever since, too. Every night since he moved out.”
“Mommy?”
They both looked around to see a little girl in red flannel trousers and bright yellow shirt with red teddy bears on it. She was barefoot, and her dark hair was tousled. Betsy guessed the soup had come after a nap.
“Hello, darling.”
“Who’s that lady?”
“Her name is Betsy Devonshire,” said LuLu.
Betsy stood, and the child came to offer her rather grubby hand. She had a tomato soup mustache.
“How do you do, Betsy Dove-sheer.”
“That’s Devonshire, darling,” said LuLu.
“Devon-sheer. Okay.”
Betsy took the proffered hand, then stooped. “How do you do? What’s your name?”
“Winnie. But not The Pooh.”
“No, you don’t look much like a Pooh Bear, but you do look like a very pretty little girl. I’m very glad to meet you, Winnie. How old are you?”
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