Sins and Needles

by Monica Ferris

The nurse nodded. “I think so. We got to her right away.”

  “Are you sure it was a woman who did this?” The person Rice glimpsed seemed tall for a woman.

  “Well, no, I’m not sure. She walked like a woman but—I don’t know. She was wearing scrubs and had a hair cover and a face mask.”

  “But you didn’t think she was on the hospital staff?”

  “No. First of all, I didn’t recognize her. Second, there was no reason to be in there doing any procedure. And third, she was doing too much, pulling out the IVs and resetting dials—it was totally wrong. As soon as I shouted ‘Hey!’ she turned and ran.” The nurse frowned. “Or he.”

  “Could the selection of Ms. Jones be random?”

  Another nurse said, “Oh, no. I saw him, too. He was walking past the units, looking at the names. He was looking for Jones. Funny, we only have one Jones right now. Usually there’s two. Once, three.”

  Rice went back to the nurses’ station, but no one matching the description—lousy though it was—had gone running out any exit. Great, thought Rice. Now there’s another jurisdiction involved in this mess. Too many cooks, definitely. At least this new department has the manpower to spare a guardian for Ms. Lucille Jones.

  Twenty-three

  SO Jones won’t talk for awhile, Sergeant Rice thought glumly, back in the little hospital office he’d used earlier. Bobby Lee was sitting next to his wife, determined to stay there until an armed guard arrived to sit outside the door. The incident had occurred while Jan and Betsy were on their way to see Susan, who could possibly have done it and gotten back home, just barely in time to be sitting calmly in her living room when they arrived. But he didn’t think so.

  And that meant the news wasn’t all bad, because the timing eliminated Jan and probably Susan. Not that he hadn’t sort of eliminated Jan anyway. Betsy had suggested that an examination of the double-zero Skacels in Jan’s needle holder under a strong magnifying glass would find one of them without a scratch—knitting rubs two needles together, which puts tiny scratches on them. Betsy used that method when customers returned “unused” needles for a refund after finishing a project—the same people, she imagined, who returned dresses after wearing them to a wedding. If they all had scratches, then Rice should ask the teen in the Henderson house why he had taken a needle from his mother’s collection. It turned out Ronnie had, in fact, “borrowed” a needle for a school science experiment in magnetism. He repeated the experiment for Rice, determining which needle he had borrowed by suspending a succession of them from a thread until one showed it was still magnetized by drifting around until it pointed north.

  Rice began to feel he had the list of suspects whittled down to a manageable three.

  BETSY, faced with a dearth of customers, got out her knitting. Crewel World was involved in an ongoing project to knit tiny caps for premature infants in local hospitals. They were so tiny, and the patterns were so simple, that they worked up very quickly. Customers brought in leftover yarn, and Betsy added a few skeins of yarn too soiled to sell—after washing it, of course. Volunteers could take home the yarn and knit the caps. Every so often, when she got a bag full, Betsy would head off to a hospital with a care unit for these fragile babies.

  She sat down at her library table and started on her cap. In barely two minutes, she had picked up the rhythm and felt the welcome settling and clearing of her mind. The humming coming from Godwin as he was getting out the Halloween charts and models barely made an impression on her.

  While knitting away, she decided she needed to arrange events in chronological order.

  First, there was this old woman named Edyth Hanraty with a great deal of money and a peculiar will.

  Second, there was a medical conference in Houston, where Lucille met a woman who looked like her and from whom she stole a hairbrush. A genetic test revealed that the two were very likely related.

  Third, Bobby Lee and Lucille Jones came to town seeking Lucille’s genetic parents.

  Fourth, Lucille and her possible genetic sister met and became friends.

  Fifth, the old woman was murdered.

  Lucille claimed she didn’t know about the rich old aunt, but Betsy—hardly an accomplished surfer of the Internet—had found several stories about Edyth Hanraty, two of which mentioned Susan McConnell as her niece. A story about Dr. “Hugs” Henderson mentioned that his wife, Jan McConnell Henderson, was a nurse in his office. Betsy was sure that someone who really knew her way around the Internet could find the information that linked Edyth, Susan, and Jan.

  Lucille had sounded very sincere when she said she did not know about the wealthy, childless Edyth Hanraty when she tried to connect with Jan. But she had tried to make the meeting here with Jan seem like an accident at first, hadn’t she? She had seemed very sincere then, too.

  There was still a step missing: DNA proof that Lucille was Susan’s daughter. Betsy and Jan believed it; but belief is not proof. If Lucille was after the money, then the logical progression was, get the proof, then murder the old woman. Without the proof, there was no need to hasten her death—Edyth was an old woman. She might die of natural causes while they waited for the test results.

  Nevertheless, right now, Bobby Lee was Betsy’s strongest suspect—or would have been, if he hadn’t been sitting with Sergeant Rice when somebody made a second try at killing Lucille.

  Could Susan be responsible for the attempt on Lucille’s life? The motive would be greed. Lots of people who seemed fiscally secure were actually treading on thin ice. Or maybe she feared the exposure of the secret in her past. Susan thought she had put that portion of her life behind her, until Lucille turned up. She had confessed the truth to Betsy and Susan, but maybe she couldn’t envision making it more widely known.

  Betsy put down her knitting and called Alida Dove over at the cabins off Oak Lane.

  “Are you calling to tell me that yarn I ordered has come in?” Alida asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Alida, I want to ask you something in strict confidence.”

  After the briefest of pauses, Alida said, “All right.”

  “You have a couple staying there, Lucille and Bobby Lee Jones.”

  “Yes, they’re here until the end of the month.”

  “Did they have any trouble checking in? I mean with their credit card?”

  The pause this time was longer. “Well…the first two credit cards they tried were close enough to their limit that they couldn’t pay the rent on the cabin.”

  “Thank you. I was wondering about that. I like Lucille—she’s become a good customer—but I don’t know anything about her husband.”

  “I know he goes off by himself to Wayzata every couple of days, is gone for a few hours, and comes back looking like he’s been to church, except he doesn’t dress for it. Of course, no one does, any more.”

  “Are you sure he goes to church?”

  “Well, he carries a New Testament with him. Or maybe it’s a prayer book.”

  “Does Lucille ever go with him?”

  “Nope, never. But she goes to Trinity, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Have you ever seen or heard the two of them quarrel?”

  “No. They’re sharp with one another on occasion, but mostly happy. I’d guess they’re close, which is nice after being married so long. I just love their accents—and they say the cutest things! Just the other day Lucille was saying to her husband, ‘That Stewart, he’s all hat and no cattle.’ Cute, huh?”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you for the information.”

  “You’re welcome. Bye-bye.”

  Betsy hung up. When, she wondered, had Lucille met Stewart?

  And what about Stewart? Had he murdered his aunt in order to get the money for his newest enterprise, Lure of the Lake? He was described as greedy, lazy and feckless, a man with a very high opinion of himself. Betsy’s introduction to him had done nothing to disabuse her of those acquired opinions, though she also had to agree that Stewart was very charming and amu
sing.

  Had Katie done it in order to acquire the silver? By all accounts, she and her husband were struggling with a double burden of an incipient baby and college tuition. What might she do to win a prize of tens of thousands of dollars? But wait, Katie didn’t know how to wield a thin, steel knitting needle as a murder weapon.

  Or did she? Hadn’t Jan said something about someone in the family pithing a frog? At the time, Betsy hadn’t known what that meant.

  But Bobby Lee did. Bobby Lee was good at it. He had done it for his then-girlfriend, Lucille, who was distressed to think a frog suffered during the procedure. There were too many medical experts in this mess.

  And as for Bobby Lee going off to frequent church meetings, Betsy didn’t think so. She had once been shown a copy of The Big Book, the text for alcoholics—also used by other twelve-step programs, such as Gamblers Anonymous. It was about the right size to be mistaken for a Testament or prayer book.

  She sat back down and resumed her knitting. She went over her various conversations with Jan, searching for the memory she wanted—and there it was. Stewart, Jan said, had been interested in studying medicine until he had to pith his first frog.

  Stewart had told Betsy that he wanted his daughters to have something of value, something he was unable to give them because of his lack of business acumen. Was that sufficient motive? Given his self-centeredness, probably not.

  And if the same person who murdered Edyth tried—twice—to murder Lucille, that took Stewart out of the picture. Someone tried to murder Lucille because she was cutting into the inheritance.

  The two-note bell of the shop’s door sounded, and Betsy looked up to see Heidi Sweitzer coming in. She was struggling with a big cardboard box, and Betsy jumped up to go help. Heidi was Betsy’s finisher, the person to whom Betsy brought needlepoint and counted cross-stitch pieces to be washed, stretched and/or blocked, and framed. The box contained all sorts of beautiful handwork: a lovely crewel piece, Angel of Autumn; a stunning “The Sangoma,” a needlework portrait of a South African medicine woman whose braided and beaded hair was made of black yarn and real beads; a framed counted cross-stitch “quilt” of many squares, each containing a toy, basket, teapot, cat, rooster, or little motto (“To live well, laugh often, love much”); a needlework stocking painted by Liz of Tent Tapestry in the form of Santa riding a bentwood sleigh down the sky with a kitten in one hand and a puppy in the other; a reproduction nineteenth-century sampler stitched on uneven-count linen; and a square velveteen pillow with bands forming a sandstone-colored cross filled with a geometric pattern of squares and triangles in brown, green, and garnet. That last pattern had been in the September 2004 Stitcher’s World Magazine. The stitcher was Doris, who became more adventurous in stitchery all the time.

  Betsy compared the contents of the box to her master list and declared everything there. She wrote a large check to Heidi and then said, “You do a lot of restoration work, too, don’t you?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “I got a call from a Mr. Todd Warner who wants to know if I know someone who can restore a small antique Persian rug.”

  Heidi pursed her lips and blew lightly. “Afraid not. But maybe I can find someone. Todd Warner, you say? The guy that owns Mahogany Bay?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s Mahogany Bay?” Betsy thought she knew the names of all the bays on Lake Minnetonka.

  “In Mound. It’s a store. He restores antique boats. I went there one time with a friend. I tell you, his prices lifted the hair on the back of my head like a Van de Graaff machine.”

  “What’s a Van de Graaff machine?”

  “Oh, you’ve seen them. They’re like silver balls. You put your hands on it and you hair stands straight up.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen photos. But hold on, he sells antique boats? What kind, like Chris-Craft?”

  “Them, and Gar Wood and other famous boat builders. He had a little bitty canoe in his display room, a very simple but pretty wooden thing. He wanted ten thousand dollars for it. And people think my prices are high!” She laughed. “Well, if I find out about someone who can restore his rug, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  When she sat down to her stitching again, Betsy thought about what Heidi had said. So Gar Wood was a famous name in old boats? She had never heard of him. On the other hand, she had never heard of Charles Craft or Susan Greening Davis, or Doug Kreinik before getting into needlework, and they were famous.

  Hmmmmmm.

  She went to her desk and found the phone number of Mahogany Bay.

  “This is Betsy Devonshire of Crewel World. Is Mr. Warner in?”

  He was, and he came to the phone sounding hearty and pleased to hear from her.

  “Did you find me someone to restore my rug?”

  “I’m afraid not—my finisher doesn’t do that kind of work. But she promised to see if she can find someone. I’m calling for a different reason. Have you ever heard of a Baby Gar?”

  “Sure I have. Why?”

  “Well, there’s an old, beat-up one sitting in a shed over in Orono.”

  There was a several-second pause. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen it. The finish is flaking off and bubbly, and it’s sitting on a trailer with four flat tires—”

  “Four flat tires?”

  “Yes, is that significant?”

  “Maybe, maybe. Is it an inboard or outboard, and is the motor on the boat?”

  “The person who showed it to me says it’s an old aircraft engine. And it’s inboard, in the boat.”

  “Well, well, well. That’s interesting.”

  “Is it? The current owner says it’s not very valuable. He wants to restore it, see if he can get it running again.”

  “Has he started working on it?” Warner sounded dismayed for some reason.

  “No, he hasn’t taken possession of it. The boat belonged to Edyth Hanraty.”

  There was a little pause. “Is the boat the Edali?”

  “Yes, that’s the name on the stern. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes, it used to run all over Lake Minnetonka; I can actually remember seeing it when I was a little boy. I thought that old boat was wrecked years ago. How very interesting.”

  “I take it the boat is worth something?”

  There was a significant pause; Betsy could almost hear Mr. Warner stroking his chin. “Well, that would depend on the condition it’s in.”

  “Would you be interested in taking a look at it? I don’t know when Stewart is coming to pick it up, so it would have to be fairly soon.”

  “Yes, I think I can break loose half an hour if you can arrange it.”

  “I’ll have someone call you.” Betsy hung up and immediately dialed Jan.

  “Jan, this is very important. A man who sells antique boats almost swallowed his tongue when I told him the Edali was in a shed on the late Edyth Hanraty’s property. He wants to take a look at it.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes, and I think it might be a good idea.”

  “All right. When?”

  “He says any time you can arrange it, he can find half an hour to take a look.”

  “Stewart is coming over tomorrow afternoon to pick it up. I think maybe we’d better do it before that. Problem is, we’re booked solid here at the clinic. I’ll bet Mother could do it. I’ll call her. And we’d better get the estate lawyer in on it, too.”

  “I want to see it, too, all right?” Betsy felt it was very important to hear what Mr. Warner had to say about the boat.

  Twenty-four

  THE next morning, Betsy watched while Marcia Weiner keyed open the padlock on the shed. The dining room table, its chairs, and most of the oddments that had blocked it had been moved back into the house in anticipation of the estate auction. Susan pulled open the other door so light could pour in and splash on the corroded red brown surface of a boat with an extravagantly long bow.

  Todd Warner gave a very long, low whistle
. He was a short man, muscular, with a craggy-handsome face, the sort who could be any age from thirty-five to fifty-five. He took off his Panama hat as if in homage as he approached the craft. He put a square hand on the side and pushed lightly. “How long has it been in here?” he asked.

  “I think the last time it was on the water was in 1962 or ’63,” said Susan.

  “Jesus, the original trailer and everything,” he said, prodding a rotten tire with the toe of his shoe. He turned to them. “Did you know this is a car frame from a Pierce-Arrow?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Susan. “I do know it came with the boat.”

  He turned and started walking around the craft. He squatted at the stern to pull on a blade of the big bronze propeller—and, after a little effort, got it to turn. “Is the engine in it?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Susan. “Aunt Edyth said it’s an aircraft engine—and certainly I remember it as very loud.”

  “Yes, it’s a World War I Liberty V-12—if it’s the original. Gar Wood bought forty-five hundred of them after the Great War as war surplus. He turned around and sold fifteen hundred of them to the Russian air force.” He stood and again put a hand on the boat. “Some have four hundred horses, some five hundred horses—” He turned toward them. “You know what one of these boats cost new?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Eleven thousand, eight hundred dollars for the five-hundred horse engine. That was in 1927, when you could buy a brand new car for six hundred dollars! This was the top-of-the-line runabout. Only the richest men in the world could afford one.” He stepped back to sight along the side of the boat, looking for evidence of warping. “Do you know who the original owner of this one was?” he asked.

  “No,” said Susan. “Someone who was hurt badly when the market crashed in 1929, because he sold it to my grandfather for three thousand dollars.”

  “The question I have today is, how much is it worth right now?” said Marcia.

  “Can I look some more?”

  “Sure,” said Susan.

  “Got a ladder?”