She said, “God bless my hometown forever, since it kept you from spending money on patterns I’ve already bought. But if you were in BritStitch, I assume you were in other suites on that floor?”
With a comic effort, Godwin raised his right arm and its burden of purchases to swear, “On my honor, boss, BritStitch was the only place I went into on five. I couldn’t resist that one of the sheep in front of the stone fence, but I paid for it out of my own pocket, since it’s going to be mine. It’s beautiful!”
“I know, I bought one for myself and two more for the shop. But if you, Mr. Needlepoint, like it, maybe we should buy another one or two tomorrow. Meanwhile, come on,” said Betsy, leading the way. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
They went through the short hallway into the bedroom. A great drift of white plastic bags was piled against the wall under the window.
“My word, you have been busy!” she said.
Jill came in behind them. “Say, before you get started, how about some dinner? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. Or are you two all right? I can go down alone.”
Godwin, piling his newest purchases on the floor, said, “I could eat something. A cow, a pig, a horse, even a dog. Cooked or raw, I’m not fussy.”
Betsy started to disagree, then realized that headache she’d been trying to ignore was from hunger. “All right,” she said. “Food first, inventory later.” But her eye was caught by lights beyond the thin curtains at the window, and she went there first to look out. Down at the bottom of the hill, the lights from other motels were showing clearly. “Hey, it’s stopped snowing! And see, up there! A star.”
“Great!” cheered Godwin, coming for a look. “We can start moving some of this stuff out to the trailer.”
“Better ask at the desk if they’ll loan you a shovel,” said Jill. “They don’t do snow plowing here, remember?”
“Maybe the snow will remember this is the South and melt away overnight,” said Betsy.
“Incurable optimist,” sighed Godwin to Jill. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but she just doesn’t understand that the world’s a frying pan and we’re all eggs.”
They took the elevator down to the atrium floor and after one look at the line waiting at the restaurant, joined the mob packed into the bar.
The bar was out of hamburgers and hot dogs—a notice to that effect was posted on a white board propped over the cash register. They had one kind of soup left: tomato. There were sandwiches: salami and cheese, cheese and tomato, and pimento and cheese, all on white bread. “The delivery trucks! Can’t! Get! Here!” the bartender bawled over the din, jabbing a forefinger downward.
Jill nodded in comprehension and held up three fingers. “Beer!” she shouted. “Tomato soup! Three of each!”
“Wow,” she said a while later, working her way out of the bar with a tray and heading for the elevators. Godwin and Betsy waited there for her. “This is about all I could get, unless one of you would prefer a pimento and cheese sandwich on white bread.”
“Gah,” said Betsy.
“Wait a second,” said Godwin, and he sprinted across the atrium to a tiny shop next to the lobby entrance. He came back with a bag of corn chips and two outsize PayDay candy bars. “This about cleans them out, too,” he said glumly. “I hate to think what we’ll be having for breakfast in the morning.”
They took the tray up to their suite and sat down at the round table to eat. Jill brewed a fresh pot of coffee, but she was the only one who drank any.
“All right,” said Godwin, scattering corn chips over his soup, “what did you two find out from Cherry Pye?”
“That Belle wasn’t a nice person,” replied Betsy, taking the bag of corn chips he handed her and imitating his scatter over her own soup.
“So Cherry says, anyway,” said Jill, reaching for the chips.
“Is Cherry a suspect, then?” asked Godwin.
“Don’t you think she should be?”
“No.” Godwin shook his head. “If she hated Belle enough to murder her, why would she be almost hysterical over her death?”
Jill said, “Betsy and I were talking about that. A lot of cops can tell you stories of men who call 911, crying and everything, to say they just shot someone. They get mad, and run over, hit or shoot whoever they’re mad at, then the adrenaline drains off and they’re scared and sorry.”
Godwin smiled and said, “But these are women.”
Jill said, “I have a friend who’s a toxicologist, worked for a poison center for awhile. She once told me that while almost everyone in prison for murder is male, she doesn’t think the sexes are all that different. Women don’t get that testosterone rush, but they are just as capable of hatred as men.”
Godwin smiled. “And they reach for the poison bottle, don’t they? And they aren’t sorry later.”
“Still, it seems that in the case of all three of our suspects there was a long-term buildup of hatred. Betsy thinks this murder was an impulsive thing. Belle was at the railing and it was easy to walk over, lift, and let go,” Jill said.
Betsy said, “It almost doesn’t matter who murdered Belle; the release is because she’s dead, not because the person crying murdered her.”
“I bet one of them is crying because she murdered Belle,” argued Godwin.
“Godwin’s right about the poison, however,” Jill said “It’s a shame she didn’t do what angry women traditionally do, put poison in her food.”
“Why would you prefer our murderer used poison?” asked Betsy.
“Because then we probably wouldn’t know anything about it. It’s not hard to get hold of, and with a little bit of care, it’s one of the safest methods. It’s what I’d use.”
Godwin stared at Jill. “You have depths I never knew about,” he said.
Jill smiled at him. “I couldn’t ever get mad enough at you to poison you, Goddy. But if you annoyed me enough, I’d start giving you tickets. Parking tickets and speeding tickets and littering tickets and operating an unsafe motor vehicle tickets—”
“Enough, enough!” cried the young man. “Betsy, if ever our inventory lists don’t balance out, it’s because I’m bribing a police officer with all the Kreinik gold braid she wants!” He looked back at Jill. “Are you going to eat those last three corn chips?”
They ate everything, even the PayDay candy bars.
Then Godwin and Betsy retired to the bedroom to go over their purchases. Jill turned on the Weather Channel and found that temperatures were to remain below normal until Sunday afternoon, when they would at last rise into the forties.
She changed channels and found the really good Christmas Carol movie—the one with Alistair Sim—got out the Santa pin and strung some more beads. The project worked up quickly, she was nearly done when Godwin and Betsy came back into the sitting room.
“Now what?” asked Jill, shutting off the television.
“There’s a pajama party downstairs,” hinted Godwin.
“No, we have more questions to ask, I think,” said Betsy. “What time is it?”
Jill checked her watch. “Eight forty-seven. Not too late to go talk to Eve Suttle. That’s her name, not Saddle but Suttle.”
“She’s the one you found sitting on the floor and crying, right?” Godwin asked Betsy.
“Yes.” Betsy frowned, trying to recall the details of the encounter. “She said Belle helped her get her life together and was very nice to her. At first, anyway. Those are the words she used, ‘at first.’ Then something happened—she didn’t say what—and she moved back to Savannah to be with family.”
“Cherry said it was because Belle took her husband away from her,” Jill noted.
“Do you think that could be true?” asked Godwin, amazed at Belle’s wickedness.
“Not only that,” said Betsy, “the stress of it caused Eve to miscarry her pregnancy.”
“Oh, my God!” said Godwin. “But wait, wait, didn’t you say before that she has a little girl?”
�
�That’s from a different pregnancy. She was a single mother when she first came to work for Belle and Cherry. A real mess, according to Cherry. Belle was very supportive and helpful until Eve became an attractive woman who was courted by and married a handsome man, at which point Belle turned on her.”
“All of this according to Cherry,” Jill pointed out.
A little silence fell. Godwin said, “Maybe you’ve got it all wrong. Maybe it’s Cherry. Cherry hid the note to Belle about getting Lenore’s model done earlier; Cherry seduced Eve’s husband; Cherry was running the shop into the ground; it’s all Cherry. And Belle was going to reveal her wickednesses—is that a word, wickednesses?—so Cherry had to kill her.”
Before Betsy could think up a reply to that, the phone rang. She went to answer it, and a man’s jolly voice said, “Are you the one trying to find eyewitnesses to that accident this morning?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because I think we have some information for you. This is Frank Bielec. Judy and I are in Room 834. Judy has some information about that terrible thing that happened this morning. Can you come over here?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“We’d come to you but we’re feeding the sugar gliders.” He said to someone in his room, “What? I’ll be right there, I’m on the phone.” And to Betsy, “Thanks, I’ll see you in a little while.” And he hung up.
Betsy hung up and tried to rerun that strange sentence. Maybe she’d hadn’t heard him right. “We’d come to you but we’re feeding the sugar gliders.” Nothing sensible she could think of sounded like “feeding the sugar gliders.” She turned to Jill and Godwin and said, “Is ‘sugar gliders’ a new slang term for moochers?”
Godwin stared at her. “Not that I know of. Sugar gliders: Sounds like hummingbirds on ice skates. Who’s got sugar gliders?”
“Frank and Judy Bielec. Do you know them?”
Godwin said, “Sure, and so do you. He and his wife are Mosey ‘n Me.”
“Oh, the designers!” said Betsy. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard their last names before.” Mosey ‘n Me published fun and easy counted cross-stitch patterns of amusing, cartoon-like bears, Santas, and homemade-looking charts of stars to be stitched in muted or dusty primary colors.
“And he is one of those people who helps amateur painters and carpenters on that TV show Trading Spaces,” said Jill.
Betsy felt her stomach go cold as she demanded, “Did one of you volunteer my apartment for a surprise makeover?”
“No,” they said hastily, and “Of course not!”
“Good,” said Betsy. “Because if either of you ever, ever lets someone come in to mess with my bedroom or kitchen, I’ll come and paint your bedroom or kitchen with tar and feathers!”
Jill hid a smile poorly. “Sounds like someone saw the episode that made the woman cry.”
Godwin asked frankly, “What makes you think we’d do something like that?”
“Because he wants to talk to us. Frank does.” Betsy rubbed the place on her temple where the headache used to be. Was it coming back? “They’d come over here, except they’re ‘feeding the sugar gliders.’”
Jill said, “It’s a little furry animal from Australia.”
Betsy looked sideways at her, not sure if she was serious. “Who is?”
But Jill said, “Sugar gliders. They have the sweetest little faces. For a while they were the latest thing in pets, after African pygmy hedgehogs and before prairie dogs.”
“How come you know about them and I don’t?”
“Because between tracking down murderers and running your own business, you don’t have time to pay attention to exotic pet fads.”
“Well, he did say something about you asking for eyewitnesses to Belle’s fall. That’s what they want to talk to us about—the murder of Belle Hammermill.”
Godwin said, “Can I come along? Not to hear the information, I want to see the sugar gliders. They sound too sweet.”
Nineteen
Saturday, December 15, 8:47 P.M.
Frank Bielec was a short, stocky man with white hair and beard, both cropped close around an extraordinarily likable face set with warm blue eyes. The living room portion of his suite was full of stock and the paraphernalia of a teacher: easel with big white tablet, handouts, and stitchery kits. He was wearing red jeans, red suspenders, and red high-top shoes. Judy was not in sight, but the door to the bedroom was closed.
“I’m Betsy Devonshire, this is Jill Cross Larson, and this is Godwin DuLac,” said Betsy. “You called?”
“Yes, yes, come in, come in!” said Frank with a big smile that abruptly faded as he went on, “Actually, it’s my wife you want to speak to. The one of you that’s a police detective.”
“Well,” said Jill, “half of that would be me, and the other half is Ms. Devonshire. I’m only a desk sergeant; Betsy is the sleuth.”
Godwin said, “I work for Betsy, I’m Vice President in Charge of Operations at Crewel World, Incorporated, and Editor in Chief of Hasta la Stitches, our newsletter.” Godwin loved to give his full title. “But I really came because I want to see the sugar gliders.”
Frank said, “There are no sugar gliders here, the hotel doesn’t allow pets.” He raised his eyebrows, nodded significantly, then winked. “Okay?”
“You mean you have more than one?” asked Godwin.
“Do you see any sugar gliders around here, son?” said Frank, at the same time nodding in the affirmative.
“How many don’t you have?” asked Betsy.
“An even dozen.”
Godwin whistled.
“I’ll take you back one at a time,” said Frank. “They get excited when they see too many strangers at once.”
Betsy, because she had another, more important, reason to speak with Judy, went first.
She found a slim, attractive woman with silver-and-iron hair standing between two stacks of hamster cages in various sizes. She was wearing an apron over a blue turtleneck sweater and slicing a banana into a bowl. “Excuse me if I keep on working. They have to be fed several times a day, and they just love fresh fruit,” she said. “I’m Judy Bielec.”
“Hi, I’m Betsy Devonshire. Your husband said you wanted to talk to me?”
“About. . .?” said Judy.
“The death of Belle Hammermill.”
The slicing stopped. “Oh! I’m sorry, I thought you were a shop-owner.”
Betsy smiled. “I am. And I carry your Mosey ‘n Me patterns. I’m sorry we arrived too late for your class yesterday. Several people told me the two of you are a riot.”
Judy smiled and finished slicing the banana as she said, “Well . . . not a riot, not really. But we do our best to amuse as well as instruct.” Judy took the bowl and went to one stack of cages. Betsy turned to peer over her shoulder.
“Want to see one?”
“May I?”
Judy opened a cage and reached in. She turned and enclosed in her fist was a small, pale-gray creature with black stripes running up its wide flat head. Its ears were oversized and round, its black eyes were enormous, and its pink nose wiggled. It looked like the most charming alien Industrial Light and Magic could invent.
“May I touch it?” Betsy asked softly.
“Certainly.”
Betsy stroked the tiny head with a forefinger, and found the fur delightfully soft. The sugar glider made a high-pitched inquiring sound, and twisted in Judy’s hand, trying to sniff her finger.
“This is Mama, our senior sugar glider, boss of this pack.” Judy indicated the stack of cages from which Mama had come. “We have enough of them that they have divided into two tribes.”
“Are you breeding them?” asked Betsy.
“No. We’re rescuing them. People buy them without realizing how much trouble they are.”
“How can something this small be trouble?” asked Betsy, amused, stroking again.
“To stay healthy they must eat only fresh food. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, live mealworms, f
resh chicken, four times a day. Nothing canned, nothing preserved, nothing leftover even from earlier in the day. And clean, pure water. They must be kept warm and out of drafts. And you can’t have just one, unless you give it constant attention, because they are tribal creatures and need at least one close friend. Fail in any of this, and they get sick, and, too often, they die. To me, the main thing wrong with them is that they are so adorable that people see them and want them and buy them without doing any research. When they realize how much trouble sugar gliders are, they throw them away. Sometimes I get to them before they die.”
“Poor babies. Don’t know how lucky they are to have you, I bet. They’re from Australia, is that right?”
“Yes,” said Judy, putting Mama back into her cage.
“Are they marsupials?”
“Yes. They also have that flap of skin between their front and back legs like flying squirrels, and can glide like them. In the wild they lap sweet sap from trees. That’s why they’re called sugar gliders.”
“Huge eyes,” Betsy said, “so, nocturnal?”
“Sort of. They’re active mostly in the early morning and late evening. That’s called crepuscular.”
Betsy snorted. “It sounds like a skin disease.”
Judy picked up the bowl of bananas and went to the other stack of cages. “I haven’t fed this bunch yet.” She opened a cage and reached in with some slices of bananas in her fingers and yanked her hand back as the cage erupted with tiny growls and miniature squeals and the sound of small creatures rushing about.
“Oops, I forgot to wash my hand. Did I mention that my two tribes are at war? This tribe hates Mama, even the smell of her.”
Judy went to wash, and the helium-fueled threats of mayhem gradually subsided. Betsy, peering into the cages to see them busy grooming ruffled fur back into place, didn’t know whether she was amused or dismayed by this display of envy and hatred among these darling, elfin creatures.
Crewel Yule Page 14
