The merry notes of a sort-of-familiar tune on the toy organ announced her arrival. Was it a different tune than last time? She wasn’t sure.
Godwin and Betsy looked up as she came in. “How may we help you?” asked Betsy, starting to get up.
“No, stay there,” said Valentina. “I want to talk to you.”
“All right. Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” Valentina came to the table and sat down in a chair one space away from the two of them. But then her nerves failed her. She clasped her hands on the table and looked at the pegs holding needlepoint yarn in thin skeins on the far wall.
After a bit, Godwin asked, “How’s the work going on Tom’s house?”
“I’ve stopped it for now. The conservatorship died with Tommy, so I’m not in charge anymore.”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know. I think a judge has to decide.”
“Did the Leipolds finish their inspection?” asked Betsy.
“Yes, I’m supposed to go pick it up this afternoon.” She was still not looking at them, and so didn’t see Godwin and Betsy exchange puzzled glances.
Another silence fell, then Valentina took a deep breath. “Two police detectives came to talk to me yesterday. They think I murdered Tommy.”
“Strewth!” exclaimed Godwin.
“Police detectives from where?” asked Betsy.
“One from Minneapolis and the other from here in Excelsior.”
“Mike Malloy is such a jerk!” said Godwin. “It was Mike, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten to arrest you?” asked Betsy.
“No. But he said he doesn’t know anyone else with a motive as strong as mine.”
Then she looked at the two of them. “I don’t know what to do. Godwin, you said . . . you said Betsy helps people . . . with this kind of trouble.”
“Yes, I did,” said Godwin, looking significantly at Betsy.
“What is Mike doing investigating this in the first place?” asked Betsy, sounding defensive. “The murder happened in Minneapolis, and you’re living right now in Shorewood.”
“Betsy,” Godwin began.
“Plus, I’m very busy right now. We’re shorthanded and we’re at the start of our busy season.” She gestured at the papers on the table.
“Well, then, I’m sorry I bothered you,” said Valentina stiffly. “I’ll just go, okay?”
“No, you won’t!” said Godwin fiercely. “Sit still! Betsy, she came hundreds of miles to help her last living relative, and now she’s going to be charged with his murder if we don’t do something!”
“‘We’?”
“You know perfectly well my workload about doubles when you get started on these things. I’m willing to do my part, so you should be, too. Anyway, now we’ve got Connor to help out.”
“Connor has nothing to do with the shop.”
Godwin stared at her. “Oh, my dear, dear boss. Of course he does. He’s essential. He can work here when I can’t, and he can help you in your investigations.”
“I said—” Betsy halted.
Valentina listened to them argue and stood up. “Please, never mind,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself most of my life, and I’ll get through this. Forget I was even here.”
Godwin got to his feet, too. “Oh, Valentina, this is bigger trouble than you think. You can’t do this alone, you have to have help—you have to demand that someone help you.”
Betsy stood and held out her hand to Valentina. “Godwin’s right, you are in very serious trouble. I’m sorry I was reluctant to say right away I’d help you. All this—” She gestured at the table. “This can wait. Now, sit down and let’s talk.”
One thing they talked about was Tom Riordan’s remains.
“The medical examiner still has Tom’s body,” said Valentina. “I don’t know when he’s going to release it. I also don’t know what to do about Tom when he does.”
“Call Huber’s right here in Excelsior,” said Betsy at once. “They were wonderful to me when my sister, Margot, died.”
“And talk to Jim Penberthy,” added Godwin. “Surely Tom’s estate can pay for his funeral.”
* * *
BETSY went with Valentina to the Leipolds’ store on Water Street to pick up their report on Riordan’s house.
Darel was behind the desk today. He was a stocky man with heavy features. He had sharp dark eyes behind glasses and a cheerful smile. He handed Valentina a plain white envelope, and Valentina handed him a long blue check.
Darel said, “I’m glad you asked us. I’ve wondered what was in that house for a long time—Tom was very defensive about the place, so I suppose we should have guessed he was a junker. It was an interesting job; more difficult than the usual, but I think you’ll like the results.”
Valentina ripped open the envelope eagerly and found two sheets of paper numbering, describing, and valuing nearly thirty items. The dollar values ranged from eighty to—shockingly—five thousand dollars. That last was for an autographed first edition of Zane Grey’s first novel, Betty Zane. Valentina had heard of Zane Grey—he was her father’s favorite author—but thought the books were cheap potboiler westerns. “Oh, no,” said Darel, “he was a millionaire writer, back when a million dollars was serious money.”
There was not a total at the bottom, and Valentina was too innumerate, and too anxious, to estimate what that might be.
Darel said, “We only listed items worth eighty dollars or more. You should be aware that we went into the Dumpster and found some items of value. We left them in the living room.”
“What were they?” asked Valentina, looking at the list.
“I think we pulled six out in total and listed four of them on that report. I put a red check by them. One is a Victorian wicker birdcage—it’s worth ninety-five dollars. More if you clean it up and get the missing door replaced. Another is a brown pottery vase. It’s a North Dakota School of Mines piece, signed. If it didn’t have that chip on the lip it would be worth several thousand; even with the chip, it’s worth five hundred. The third is a Walt Disney Donald Duck comic book that has ‘Christmas on Bear Mountain’ in it—the first appearance of Uncle Scrooge. It’s worth about two hundred dollars, maybe more.”
“Wow, really?” said Valentina. “I thought the only comic books worth anything were Superman or Batman.”
“No, sometimes the lighter comics are worth money, too. If that Disney one were in mint condition, it would be worth over three thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” said Valentina.
“The fourth is a pair of cowboy boots,” said Darel. “They’re probably from the fifties, and handmade out of croc belly by a company called Lucchese. They need to be cleaned by a professional—it looks and smells as if the previous owner walked in something nasty while wearing them and tossed them. And Tom probably found them in the trash. But they’re worth about seven hundred dollars restored.”
“Oh my God, I threw those boots away!” said Valentina. “I found them at the bottom of a box. They stank so much I didn’t even look at them. I took them right out to the Dumpster, I couldn’t wait to get them out of the house!” She laughed, embarrassed at herself. “But—seven hundred dollars? Really? For that old pair of boots? Wasn’t the heel coming off one of them?”
“That’s right,” said Darel, with a smile. “Don’t lose that heel, it can be put back on. I put them in a Ziploc bag so they won’t stink up the room. Bad as they are, you could sell them right now for a couple hundred. It’s going to cost you something to get them restored, but you’ll be glad you did. If you do and then put them up for auction, you might get as much as a thousand.”
“Holy Shinola!” said Valentina. “That right there makes the price you charged for the survey worth it. I never would’ve thought that pair of boots was wor
th a nickel. Thank you!” She turned to Betsy. “This is so wonderful!” Then back to Darel. “Sergeant Malloy said you told him there was twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of things in the house, but I didn’t know whether to believe him!” And again she turned back to Betsy. “I’m so glad you suggested the Leipolds. And God bless Tommy for saving all this stuff!” Then she pressed the estimate and her other hand to her face. “Oh, Tommy, Tommy, you stupid, silly man! You could’ve sold some of this stuff and saved your house!” She burst into tears.
“Here, now!” said Darel, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”
“She’s just upset over her cousin, that’s all,” said Betsy, embracing Valentina with one arm, patting her on the far shoulder. “He died, you know. She’s taking his death pretty hard.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” said Darel.
Valentina managed to control her tears long enough to say, “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Penberthy, so I’d better get over there. See you later. Thanks, Betsy. Thanks, Mr. Leipold.” She fled up an aisle and out the door.
After she was gone, Betsy said, “Darel, did Tom Riordan ever steal anything from you?”
He laughed, his face scrunching up like a big-nosed Santa. “Oh yes. Once he found a Life magazine that was published on the day he was born and stuck it up inside his shirt. It was an old T-shirt, and I could see the cover through the fabric. I suppose I should have stopped him, but heck, it was probably worth three dollars. He never stole anything we couldn’t afford to lose. Or if he did, and I caught him, he’d give it back. He liked magazines, especially the kind with photographs of foreign places. That reminds me, tell Ms. Shipp that we’ll buy some of those magazines in her house, will you?”
“Yes, I’ll tell her. But about Tom, what was he like?”
Darel thought briefly. “He was a man baffled by reality. For example, he didn’t steal out of meanness. I think he thought it was clever of him to walk off with something he didn’t have to pay for.”
“Do you know anyone who was seriously angry with him for stealing something?”
“I’d want to ask LaVerna about that, but I don’t think so. I’m sure nobody ever said anything to me like that.” And Darel was known for talking to everyone on any occasion, so he, more than LaVerna, would know.
“Who actively hated him?”
“Oh, nobody hated him! He could be aggravating, of course, especially when it was near time for his next check and he was out of money. He’d come around talking about how he was kind of hungry and hoped somebody would give him a quarter for a candy bar, as if you could buy a candy bar for a quarter anymore. What he wanted was a dollar.” He smiled, remembering. “I’m going to miss him and his thieving ways. Odd, isn’t it? But he was a real character. He added spark to the community.”
“You say you and LaVerna were surprised by how many valuable things there were in Tom’s house. That Zane Grey book, for example. Where could he have gotten such a thing? Could it be that he didn’t always steal token items?”
“Oh, I suspect that came from a garage sale, or an estate sale. Families come from out of town to close up Grandmother’s place after she dies, and they’re in a hurry or they’re ignorant or both. Maybe Grandmother got a little foolish toward the end and mixed her good jewelry with her costume jewelry and a real diamond ring or ruby brooch gets put out on a tray at the yard sale and someone buys it for fifty cents. Happens more often than you think. Suppose your great-uncle had a thousand books in his house when he died; nobody’s going to look at every single volume, so a rarity or a first edition goes for a dollar.” He shrugged and said again, “Happens all the time.”
“So you think Tom Riordan had a good eye for a bargain?”
“Oh heck no! He was like a crow that picks up anything shiny. A chewing gum wrapper, a twenty-dollar gold piece, all the same to the crow. Tom just did so much collecting that no wonder he got lucky once in a while. They will undoubtedly throw a ton of useless, smelly, worthless junk out of that house.”
Chapter Eighteen
FRIDAY morning Betsy went to talk to Mike Malloy, to see if he’d found something helpful about the Riordan case. She brought him four fresh doughnuts from a shop on Water Street as the price of an audience. But at first he said he hadn’t got anything useful he cared to share with her.
Betsy knew Malloy didn’t trust her, because she had no official role in this case. He liked rules and clearly marked boundaries, not surprising since his job was to deal with people who didn’t honor them.
She said, “So do you have time for me to tell you my own ideas and conclusions about how this is unfolding?”
“Start in, I’ll tell you when we’re out of time.”
So Betsy set off telling the story of a woman who had compassion for her sole living relative who had been injured in an accident. She told Mike about her own efforts to organize a volunteer crew among Crewel World’s customers to help Valentina Shipp begin the gargantuan task of cleaning out Tom’s house.
“They did an orientation walk-through one day and started work the next day. Emily Hame was in the dining room and found a small red box containing three carved ivory needle cases and an ivory ball carved to look like it was covered with little white mice with red eyes. She left the room to go upstairs when Connor Sullivan called everyone to come look at the mailbag he’d found. Then everyone went out into the backyard to eat lunch, and when they went back in, Emily discovered the red box had gone missing.”
Malloy didn’t seem very interested in any of this. “So the red box was taken by one of the people working in the house?”
“That sounds extremely likely—except that I don’t see how it was done.”
“You should maybe expand on that a little bit.” He got out his fat notebook.
“Emily was working in the dining room with Georgine Pickering. Jill Larson and Valentina Shipp were in the kitchen, Godwin DuLac and Doris Galvin in the living room, Phil Galvin in the upstairs front bedroom. Connor Sullivan, also working alone, was in the back bedroom. When Connor shouted out, they all came to see what Connor had found. Emily says she was the last to arrive because she was dealing with the box, and saw them all up there, and they all went down the back stairs to the backyard—except Connor, who took the mailbag to the post office and then went to McDonald’s to buy everyone lunch. They ate together and went back into the house to get back to work together. And when they went back in, Emily went to show Georgine the box she’d found, and it was gone.”
Mike thought about it. “Looks to me like the only person who could have taken it is Connor. If they all came down the back stairs to the backyard, and Connor came down the front stairs with the mailbag, he could have ducked back into the dining room and taken the box. Hidden it in the mailbag until he got away from the house.”
Betsy nodded. “I’d entertain that solution if Connor were a dishonest person and came home that night with a Chinese-style red box, but he isn’t and he didn’t. And anyway, Emily hid the box under a big old magazine, so Connor would have had to go on a search for an item he didn’t know was there. If he was a thief, he’d more likely have continued into the kitchen and taken the cookie jar full of Morgan silver dollars. Which he and everyone else knew about.”
“Why did Emily hide the box?”
“It was less an attempt to hide it than an attempt to weigh it down. That ball of mice spooked her, so she put the lid back on the box and added the magazine for good measure.”
Malloy chuckled. “That sounds just goofy enough to be the truth.”
“Believe me, it sounds very much like her.”
“So who took it, do you think?”
“I don’t know. The theory of the volunteers at the house is that some kid on a dare slipped into the house while they were at lunch and grabbed the first thing he saw.”
“Which was hidden under a magazine.”
“Yes, that rather dashes that theory, doesn’t it? If he went in there on a dare, surely he’d be nervous and just grab the first portable object he saw, not go pawing around in the debris looking for something pretty.”
Malloy sighed and tossed his pen onto the notebook in which he’d been writing. “Have you been in the house?” asked Betsy.
“Yeah, I went in there right after we got the news about Riordan’s death. I was looking for something, anything, that might tell me who the hell wanted him dead.”
“What did you see?”
“Trash, trash piled to the ceiling. In the house, in the basement, out in the garage. He must’ve started bringing home stuff as soon as his mama let him go out of the yard.”
“He said his father and his grandfather were also collectors,” noted Betsy. “I wonder if it doesn’t go back further than that. I mean, those Morgan dollars date to the late 1800s.”
“The house was built around 1927 or 1928.”
“Ah well,” Betsy sighed. “You didn’t see anything that stuck out?”
“Not that would catch the eye of an amateur thief.”
“What about the rifle?”
“What rifle?”
Betsy stared at him. “You’re a police officer and you didn’t see the rifle? A rusty old thirty ought six. Connor says they found it when they were cleaning out the living room the first day. Now that I think about it, it seems to me a teen burglar would never walk past that to go burrowing under old magazines in the next room!”
Malloy looked at her. “There was no rifle in the living room,” he said. “Not in plain sight, anyway.”
Betsy got out her cell phone and punched Connor’s number. “Connor,” she said when he picked up, “what happened to the rifle you found in Riordan’s house?”
“Nothing, machree. It’s still there.”
Darned if You Do Page 13
