“What were you dreaming about, do you remember?” asked Betsy.
“No. Actually, I don’t think I was dreaming,” said Liddy. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and sniffed hard. “I’m sorry for creating such a disturbance—again. It seems to be what I do up here, fall out of my chair, walk in my sleep, scare people.”
“We’re not in the least afraid, we all know you’re upset about your mother,” said Isabel, taking her by an elbow and leading her away. “Good night,” she said firmly over her shoulder, a hint to the others to return to their rooms.
“Well!” said Betsy a few minutes later, climbing back into bed. “What do you think about that?”
“I think Isabel’s right. Liddy is upset about her mother. It’s sad when a parent dies, and Sharon died in an awful way. Liddy came up here because she was worried about her, remember. I wonder if it’s true she wasn’t dreaming? She was rubbing her fingers as if they were cold.”
“I was having a bad one,” said Betsy. “I dreamed that I was about to go over the falls in a canoe.” She began squirming around and pulling at her too-big pajama bottoms to smooth away a fold. “Maybe you should go order her not to sleepwalk, like you told me not to have any more nightmares last night. It worked, you know.”
Jill sighed, but gently, and said in a firm voice, “No more bad dreams. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Betsy, composing her mind to obedience.
And again, it worked.
“You should bottle that voice,” Betsy said the next morning at the breakfast table. “Or, anyway, sell recordings of it.”
Jill protested, “You are the one in control of your own head. Just listen when you order yourself not to have any more bad dreams. You don’t need me to do that.”
Betsy took her first bite of Wake Up Huevos—eggs scrambled with tomatoes, jalapenos, cilantro, scallions, and a hint of garlic, served over tortilla strips and topped with sour cream, grated cheddar, and salsa—and focused intently on that. “Wow,” she murmured, and took a second bite to confirm it was as good as it had seemed. “Forget the cattle drive, let’s come up here again in September,” she said.
Off and on, Jill and Betsy talked about going on a late-summer cattle drive offered by a dude ranch. Jill said, “Speaking of that, I found a new place, not a dude ranch, that allows people who can ride to come along. It costs a thousand dollars for two weeks. They supply the horses, but you have to be able to ride and work cattle.”
Betsy hadn’t been on a horse since she started getting plump—or had she started getting plump when she gave up riding? Now she was wealthy enough to afford a health club membership and lose that weight, get back in shape. She put down her fork, immediately determined to at least not put on another pound.
Because she could just see herself rounding up strays while dust kicked up, and the cattle bawled, and the cowboys whistled at the herd to keep it moving. And maybe a cow with a sore back would need to be cut out to have it doctored. Savvy cow ponies did all the work of cutting a steer out of the herd; all a rider did was aim him at a cow and hang on.
Betsy had attended a horse show at which there was a cutting contest. A horse had to separate a steer from a small herd and keep it from returning. Betsy remembered how badly the cow had wanted to rejoin its fellows, and how that horse had jumped and dodged so nimbly it was a wonder the skilled rider wasn’t flung off. She said, “Do you know someplace I can get some riding lessons? Now I think about it, I’m kind of rusty.”
Jill said thickly, around a sticky pecan muffin, “I’ll check into that. Have you ever ridden a quarter horse?”
“No, but I rode a mustang for a couple of years.”
That began an animated discussion about horses. Betsy picked unconsciously at her huevos while they talked until she suddenly realized she was looking down at a clean plate. The food here was simply too good to resist.
They were having a final cup of coffee when Sheriff Goodman sat down at their table as abruptly as if he’d been teleported into the chair. “Where’s Elizabeth Owen?” he asked without preamble.
Betsy and Jill both craned their necks, looking around. “I don’t see her,” Betsy said at last.
“Liddy had a bad night last night,” said Jill. “I guess she’s sleeping in this morning.”
“She’s staying here, then?”
“She was in Isabel’s room last night,” said Betsy. “I don’t know about Doogie.” She looked at the lawman. “You’ve got news?”
“Sharon Kaye Owen was dead before she was put in that hole in the rock. From the look of her lungs, the Cook County medical examiner thinks she was suffering a severe, possibly lethal, allergic reaction. He’s asking the Mayo Clinic down at Rochester to do fancier tests than he can. But you see how that makes it more likely that what you told me about seeing her body in Mr. Owen’s room Friday afternoon is true. You’re sure it was Mr. Owen’s room?”
“It was on the second floor, a room painted green, with a fireplace, and whose door is at an angle to the corridor. There is no other room on the second floor of the lodge with a fireplace except ours, and our room is paneled in knotty pine.”
“You’re sure you went up to the second floor?”
“Absolutely.”
“But Mr. Owen wasn’t in there when you went in?”
“No. I tried to use my key and it didn’t work, but when I tried the door, it was unlocked.”
Jill said, “It has occurred to us that it was very foolish of Mr. Owen to leave the body in an unlocked room, but the door wasn’t locked when the two of us went to talk with him later, and it was unlocked when your crew arrived to search the room. He apparently doesn’t lock his door when he stays here.”
Goodman shrugged. “Hardly anyone locks their doors at the lodge.” He looked around the room. “Have you seen Frank Owen this morning?”
“Wait a minute,” said Betsy. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“No, I’m going to have a little talk with him.” He looked around the room. “Is he here?”
Jill said, “He’s over there,” and nodded toward the big stone fireplace.
Betsy looked in that direction and saw him at one of the larger tables, where the geologist Parker Lundquist sat with Anna, Isabel, Carla, and three other women. When the sheriff stood, Owen glanced over, and his face became still. The others at the table looked where he was looking, and they, too, became still. It was like an infection, that stillness. By the time the sheriff reached the table, no one else in the room was moving or talking.
Goodman bent over and spoke very quietly to Frank, who nodded gravely and stood. “I’ll see you later,” he said, or something like it, to the others at his table, and they nodded confusedly at him, not sure whether to believe him, pretend they believed him, or openly doubt him.
As Goodman escorted Owen from the room, a wave of whispers followed behind them, which broke into speech the instant they reached the lobby.
“Did you see that?” seemed to be the gist. A few dared the scorn of their fellows by adding, “I knew it, I just knew it.”
There was a high-pitched cry of rage from the lobby. Jill was on her way toward the sound before Betsy could stand, but she hurried to catch up.
In the lobby were Liddy and Doogie, a single suitcase between them. Liddy was in a hysterical rage, shouting at the sheriff, “He’s done nothing, nothing! You can’t take him! I’ll have you fired if you don’t let go of him!”
“Ma’am, ma’am,” the sheriff kept saying, stepping back with one hand on Frank’s arm, the other reaching to ward her off, “he’s not under arrest. We just want to talk to him.”
Doogie moved to stand between Liddy and the lawman, facing her. “Listen to me, soldier,” he said very firmly. “You are behaving like a little girl, and we can’t have that. This is a serious situation, and you need to pull yourself together.”
“He’s right, Liddy,” said Frank, and to the sheriff, “May we go upstairs and g
et my coat and hat?”
“Yessir, no problem.”
“But, Daddy, Daddy!” cried Liddy. “You can’t leave me! Make them let you go, I want you to come home with me!”
“I can’t do that right now, soldier. But I won’t be long. You stay here until I get back.”
“I can’t! I can’t!”
“Of course you can,” he said. “I expect you to calm down right now.”
And amazingly, she took a shuddering breath and fell silent.
“Here—” He pulled his room key from his pocket and gave it to the sheriff. “Let’s go up.”
Liddy, her eyes two blue wounds, stared after him. “I’ll be brave,” she whispered. “But I want to go home.”
“We’re not going home until we find out what’s going to happen,” said Doogie. “Dad might need us, and we both had better be on the spot, ready to do whatever needs doing.” Liddy nodded, then closed her eyes and put her face on her brother’s chest. After a moment, Doogie put a stiff arm around her and stood firm. This controlled young man was a striking change from the scared boy of yesterday.
Betsy caught a movement from the corner of her eye and turned to see Carla come into the lobby. “What’s going on out here?” she demanded.
“The sheriff is taking my father away!” cried Liddy.
This confused Carla, as obviously the sheriff was following Frank upstairs.
Doogie said, “They’re going to get his coat, then he’s taking him into Grand Marais.”
“I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it!” Liddy wept.
Carla stepped around Doogie to take Liddy from behind, saying gently, “Come up to my room, both of you.”
“No,” said Doogie. “The two of us are going up to Dad’s room as soon as they leave.”
“Please, will you come with us?” said Liddy, surprising Doogie.
Before he could object, Carla said, “Of course, baby, of course.”
Betsy said, “If you don’t mind, I would like—”
“Not now,” said Carla. “Not now.” Her voice continued, sweet and gentle, and already Liddy’s anguished sobs were lessening as they vanished up the stairs, Doogie following close behind.
In another minute, Frank came back down with Sheriff Goodman, and they went out to the parking lot without either of them so much as nodding at Jill or Betsy. Through the window set into the door, they watched as the sheriff led Frank by the elbow to his patrol car and put him into the back seat. Beyond them, the lodge maintenance man came out of the furnace shed brushing bits of bark off his front. He halted and stared at the scene in front of him.
Jill said quietly, “Poor fellow—but no wonder Liddy likes Carla. When you’re brokenhearted, you naturally prefer ‘baby’ to ‘soldier.’ ”
Betsy started to reply, but turned it to a wordless exclamation, and ran out the door to the parking lot. Jill started to follow, but stopped on the little front deck to watch as Betsy, slipping and shouting and waving her arms, ran up the lane after the patrol car. Its brake lights came on, and Betsy, huddled against the cold, bent to speak to the sheriff. Then she went around to climb in the back, and the car’s backup lights came on.
When the car stopped beside the door, Betsy climbed out and rushed in. “Where is it?” she said.
“What?” asked Jill.
“That floss I found out by the shed. Where is it?”
“How should I know? Last I saw it, you were putting it in your coat pocket.”
Betsy fled into the dining room.
“I’ll wait here,” the sheriff said, and Jill stared at him uncomprehendingly.
12
Betsy dodged among the tables as she dashed across the dining room, through the door, up the stairs, and into her room. She was back a minute later to hand the floss to the sheriff. “See if—it’s pure cotton—or not,” she gasped, all out of breath.
“Why, what’s this about?”
“Murder. If this floss is—something other than pure cotton—If it’s got peanut oil, pollen—dust, cat hair—wheat flour, dried milk—anything Mrs. Owen—was allergic to—this—this could be—murder weapon.”
Goodman looked at the slim lavender skein. “Where did you get this?”
“Out by the furnace shed. Dropped.”
“And you probably didn’t pick it up with tweezers or keep it in a plastic bag.”
Betsy waved a finger at him. “You—there first—didn’t find it at all.” Jill cleared her throat, and Betsy flinched and then said more humbly, “No, I put it in my coat pocket.”
“Uh-huh.”
But Goodman put it in his shirt pocket, buttoned the flap down, and went away.
Betsy went into the dining room and sat wearily on the Victorian round couch with the pillar growing out of its center.
“All right, tell me what that was about,” Jill said.
“I remember that Sharon Kaye put the end of her floss in her mouth to wet it before threading her needle. Stitchers who do that, do that habitually. Someone who knew Sharon was a floss licker might think to switch flosses, put something she was allergic to in place of her cotton floss, or dip the floss into something she was allergic to. Or spray the floss with something. But then the evidence had to be destroyed. Remember that place in the snow by the furnace shed, where it looked like someone fell?”
Jill nodded.
“Okay, that was him. Or her. The idea was to get rid of the body and everything of Sharon Kaye’s he could get hold of, any proof she had been here at all. He, or she, was in a hurry. He was carrying everything, including her project bag, out to the furnace, and he slipped and fell, and in his haste to pick everything up, he missed one little something. I think it’s a very important thing.”
“The lavender floss.”
“Yes, I remember she was using lavender floss. And though I very cleverly found it, I didn’t realize its significance and much less cleverly put it in my pocket and forgot all about it. I hope they don’t delay the test, or have to send it away to get it tested.”
“I can’t imagine the lab test for fibers is all that elaborate. We’ll probably know fairly soon.”
“But that’s not all. There is no Eddie. What she said was, ‘I have to go get my EpiPen.’ ”
“Are you sure? Wait a second, why did she have to leave to get it? People who need them have them at hand. Why wasn’t it right there with her?”
“Because it was in her purse, and she didn’t have her purse with her. All she had was her canvas sewing bag. “Maybe she went right up, as soon as she arrived. If Frank was out, she couldn’t ask him if she could stay, so she didn’t bring her luggage up to his room.”
“So why didn’t she bring the coat and purse down again?”
“Maybe she was pretty sure she could convince him to take her in. Or she did bring them down and left them—where?”
“In the ladies’ room,” said Jill. “There’s a coat rack in there.”
“Then her murderer is a woman,” said Betsy. “Because she went in there to retrieve them and bring them up to Frank’s room, where I saw them.”
“That all fits. But why was her car still here, then? If the murderer had her purse, he had her keys.”
Betsy blinked at Jill and felt the confident structure she’d been building sway dangerously.
From the other side of the counter came the sound of someone rapping on a table. Isabel’s voice said, “Good morning, everyone!” with no trace of her usual good humor. Jill and Betsy stood to watch.
Isabel was standing in front of the fireplace, hands raised to command attention. She continued. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news for those of you who haven’t already heard—though I suspect that’s very few of you. Sharon Kaye Owen of Escapade Design was found dead in Judge Magney State Park yesterday. And as you just saw, Cook County Sheriff Goodman took her ex-husband away for questioning. This is very sad and distressing for those of us who knew Sharon Kaye and Frank. Sharon was so vibrant, and Frank always seemed
so very pleasant.” She paused and showed her own distress by intertwining her fingers and squeezing them into painful configurations. After a few moments she said, “I am going to call for a vote. The stitch-in is going to end at three this afternoon in any case. Should we call a halt to it now, and quietly go home? Or should we continue? I’ll ask for a show of hands. Everyone who thinks we should go home now, raise your hands.”
Three women immediately raised their hands, saw they were a minority, and yanked them back down again. One shook her head to show she’d changed her mind.
Sadie, wheeling forward, raised her hand, but it was for permission to speak. “I didn’t know Sharon Kaye or her husband, so maybe it’s not right for me to have an opinion. But I came up here to meet some stitchers, learn new techniques, and—and just be around people who share my passion for needlework. I don’t want to go home till I have to.”
Anna, who had been one of the trio to raise her hand to vote to go home, stood. She looked wretched, and her voice was uneven as she said, “I want retract my vote to end the stitch-in. I think Sadie’s right, I think we should stay. Some of us have fond memories of Sharon, and perhaps we can share them.”
Betsy turned to Jill, but saw she was already thinking the same thing Betsy was: Anna had displayed no fondness for Sharon yesterday. Jill murmured, “The workings of conscience in the presence of death is a mysterious thing.”
“I agree with Anna,” said Nan, who looked equally distressed, and several others nodded and raised their hands as if to vote in favor of sharing fond memories.
“Very well,” said Isabel, not sounding happy about it, “the stitch-in will continue. Let us adjourn to the lounge.”
Jill and Betsy sat down again.
Betsy said, “Every time I think I understand what happened, there’s always this odd piece sticking out. I probably ran after the sheriff for nothing, too. That floss will turn out to be totally innocent.”
“Then how did it get out by the furnace?”
“It could have fallen out of someone’s pocket. I doubt we’re the only ones who have gone for walks.”
Unraveled Sleeve Page 16
