The Drowning Spool

by Monica Ferris

  There was a pink chest of drawers next to the closet door. Above it a big poster featured just three words: DREAM SEEK ACHIEVE. Betsy opened the top right-hand drawer. It was packed full of thong panties in every color. As she rummaged through the drawer, she asked, “When are Teddi’s parents going to arrive?”

  Frey replied, “Tomorrow. Her body is going to be released any day, or so I’ve been told. They’re going to take her back to Florida with them.” She choked on a sob, a sound echoed by Lia.

  The other little drawer was full of toiletries, mostly fingernail polish, but also a nearly empty prescription bottle of a medicine Betsy couldn’t identify and a round plastic container of Enovid, the kind that displays a month’s worth in individual spaces. The user punches one pill out of the foil bottom every day. They were about half finished—but there were pills not punched out here and there, just as Tommy had said Teddi told him.

  “Did you find them?” asked Frey.

  “Yes.” Betsy put the packet back in the drawer and closed it.

  “Did she skip some days?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “She should’ve gotten that kind the doctor slides under the skin of your arm!” said Lia fiercely. “Stupid girl! Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She ran out of the room.

  “It may not have been being pregnant that got her killed,” offered Frey tentatively.

  “That’s true. Maybe the man who got her pregnant was pleased—some are, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Frey said, but her tone of voice indicated she didn’t know any man like that.

  “Let’s go see if Lia found a drawing of Pres,” said Betsy.

  They found Lia downstairs, in the kitchen by the sink. The water was turned on full force in an attempt to drown out the sounds of her wailing.

  “Lia, Lia darling!” called Frey, running to her, putting one arm around her, shutting off the water with the other. “Hey, now, pretty baby, what’s the matter? Calm down, calm down, everything’s gonna be all right!”

  “Oh, Frey, oh, Frey, I can’t stand this, I don’t know how to deal with this!” sobbed Lia. “This is all so wrong!”

  “I know, sweetie, I know. And I agree. But we have someone here who can help put things back together, at least a little bit. So come on, dry those tears, stiffen your spine, and let’s show Ms. Devonshire how helpful we can be, okay?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s right.” Lia sniffed lengthily, wiped her eyes with the edges of her hands, and blew a gusty breath. “All right, I’m finished, at least for now.”

  “Good girl.” Frey looked around the kitchen and saw a box of tissues. She pulled out several and handed them to Lia. “Dry your eyes and show us what you found in Teddi’s art albums.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lia looked shakily at Betsy, who was standing beside the big, squashy couch. “I’m sorry I lost it back there.”

  “I can’t even imagine your pain,” said Betsy. “I’m sorry to be inflicting this on you.”

  “Oh, I was an even bigger mess when the police were here,” said Lia with a tremulous smile.

  “Yes, she was, you should have seen her,” said Frey, starting for the couch. “Come on.”

  Lia pouted. “You weren’t such a big help, either,” she said, following.

  “I know, I know. But say, did you find anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I can’t believe the police didn’t think to ask about it. They were in her bedroom for over an hour, so they saw her artwork, signed and everything.”

  “The two portraits she did of you were quite good,” said Betsy.

  “Yeah, well, we posed for those,” said Lia. “She did the ones of Pres from memory because he refused to pose for her.” By now she had just about recovered herself, and only let out an occasional sniff. She opened the first of two scrapbooks sitting on the coffee table. She had marked two pages with tablespoons. “It’s what I had at hand,” she said defensively.

  “Never mind, let’s see what you found,” said Frey.

  On the first marked page was a cocktail napkin with a smear of lipstick on a corner of it, which featured a thick-line caricature—probably drawn with a light brown eyebrow or eyeliner pencil. It was just the head of a handsome man, drawn in profile, with a straight nose; a high forehead marked by a widow’s peak; a firm, manly chin; and a sensual curl to the wide mouth. The large, slanted eyes had long lashes. It was done with few lines, more a suggestion of a face than a detailed portrait, but the effect was striking and eloquent; Betsy felt she would know the man if ever she came across him.

  “Now that’s remarkable, really clever,” she said.

  “It kind of exaggerates him, I think,” said Frey. “He’s not that handsome.”

  “I agree,” said Lia. “And yet, it is him.”

  “What’s on the other page you have marked?” asked Betsy.

  It was a trio of pen-and-ink portraits, done on a single page from an artist’s sketch pad. The largest was of the head and shoulders of a handsome man, recognizably the subject of the caricature but more realistically drawn. Again, the widow’s peak split the top of the high forehead, and the dark hair on either side was combed straight back. The eyes were dark and intense, almost glowering under slightly arched eyebrows, the wide mouth turned down at the corners. The expression was that of someone intensely interested in the viewer. Whether that interest was friendly or threatening was beyond the artist’s ability to signify—or perhaps ambiguity was what the artist was trying to capture. The two smaller drawings were a three-quarter profile of Pres smiling, which put Betsy in mind of C. S. Lewis’s devil Screwtape, and a full-length version of him, very slim in tight-fitting jeans, dress boots, and a leather jacket with the collar turned up.

  “Very theatrical,” said Betsy. Why young women were attracted to sinister young men was a conundrum that Betsy could not solve. She remembered her own youth, when she was that way, but could not now remember why.

  “He probably isn’t as dangerous as he looks,” said Frey.

  “Of course he isn’t, it’s a trick, a . . . a pose he uses to get gullible girls’ attention!” asserted Lia.

  “You’re probably right,” said Frey, and to Betsy, “She generally is.”

  “May I borrow these drawings?” asked Betsy.

  “You know, I don’t think so,” said Lia. “I think we should give them to the police.”

  “You’re right, of course, you’re absolutely right.”

  “But I can scan them on my computer and send them to you,” said Frey. “Maybe I should also post them on my Facebook page, too?”

  “No, don’t do that,” Betsy said quickly. “That could be a dangerous thing to do. But first thing tomorrow, do contact the investigator who talked with you and tell him what you’ve found.”

  Fourteen

  BETSY called Godwin, as promised, as soon as she got home. She was sitting in the upholstered chair in her living room. On her lap, purring, was a half grown Siamese tomcat.

  “You brought home a cat? What’s Sophie going to say about that?”

  “So far, nothing. She’s in her basket under the window thinking bad thoughts at me.”

  Connor, sitting on the couch, glanced over at Sophie and chuckled.

  “‘You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din,’” quoted Godwin. “So what else happened?”

  Betsy obediently launched into a description of her visit to Lia and Frey. When she’d finished, she asked, “Goddy, where do young people go clubbing nowadays?”

  “Straight young people?”

  Uh-oh, Betsy thought. “Yes.”

  “You’re asking moi?” he returned, mock surprised.

  “I know, I know, but I have to start asking somewhere. I want to show those drawings around, and I haven’t gone clubbing since I moved here from San Diego.”

  “And probably some while before?” he asked slyly.

  “Goddy . . .”

  “All right, all right, sorry. Let’s see, how young ar
e these people?”

  “Mid-twenties, college-educated most of them, respectably employed—except one of them. Tommy Shore is playing above his pay grade. Bowling’s probably more his style.”

  “You’d be surprised at how many young professionals will take a night to go bowling. It’s inexpensive and fun.”

  “All right, and you make a good point—Teddi mentions bowling on her Facebook page. But I don’t think this fellow Pres goes trolling for impressionable young women at bowling alleys.”

  “Point taken. The warehouse district on the edge of downtown Minneapolis is popular—and I would imagine someone who looks as sinister as the man those girls described would do well there. But it’s maybe a little rough for people like Teddi and Lia and Frey. Suburban moderns like them prefer Uptown.”

  Uptown, Betsy knew, was a section of Minneapolis quite separate from downtown. Smaller, shaggier, without high-rises or business offices, it featured ethnic restaurants, boutique shopping, movie theaters, and nightclubs. Every summer an enormous art fair clogged its streets.

  “Okay, thanks, Goddy.”

  She hung up. The young cat, tiring of Betsy, jumped down and climbed up on Connor. He stroked him and said, “He’s rather skinny, isn’t he?”

  “The girls said he barfs a lot. He seems lively enough, it may just be they’ve been feeding him the wrong food.” In the kitchen was a plastic grocery bag with seven small cans of cat food. “He also needs a trip to the vet for another little problem.”

  Connor crossed his legs, looking alarmed, and Betsy laughed.

  “Hey, Sophie’s fixed,” said Betsy. She thought for a moment, then raised a forefinger. “Have you ever read John D. MacDonald?”

  “Sure! Great writer back in the sixties and seventies. Tough guy. Why?”

  “He wrote a biography called The House Guests, which focused on the two tomcats his family shared their home with. He said something . . .” She thought some more, then quoted: “‘Owning an unneutered tomcat is curiously akin to working in some menial position for one of the more notorious lotharios of show business.’”

  Connor burst into laughter. Startled, the kitten jumped down, looked around the room, and spied Sophie, whose eyes widened in alarm at his attention.

  He walked slowly toward her, and she rose to her feet. Sophie’s long fur made her seem even larger than her twenty-one pounds. Thai, on the other hand, was small, smooth-coated, and couldn’t have weighed more than three or four pounds.

  Sophie opened her mouth and gave her strangely thin, high-pitched cry, and when Thai continued his approach, she hissed.

  Then he belted her in the chops with his paw.

  Connor got there before Betsy could. Laughing, he scooped up Thai. “No, no, no!” he said. “Bad cat, bad cat!”

  Betsy knelt beside Sophie to look for blood or other damage. Fortunately, there was none. But Sophie was speechless with shock and outrage. She kept trying to look past Betsy for her new enemy.

  “There, there, Sophie,” crooned Betsy. “Did that nasty little kitty hurt my darling big cat?”

  Sophie let out a mew.

  “I know, darling, I know. But it’s just temporary. We’ll find a home very quickly for that awful other cat.”

  “Achhhhh,” hissed Sophie, catching sight of the Siamese, now standing on Connor’s shoulder and looking at her.

  “Row!” cried Thai. He jumped, but Connor caught him before he could get to the floor.

  “Hold on, pal!” said Connor, struggling to contain the tiny animal. He finally succeeded by wrapping both arms around him. After a few moments Thai surrendered. He looked up at Connor with those sapphire eyes, patted him on the front of his sweater, and began to purr.

  “Oh, lord,” sighed Betsy.

  “Yes,” said Connor. “We’d better do something right away about Thai.”

  “Well, first, he goes to the vet. Nobody is going to want a sick, unneutered tomcat.”

  While Connor introduced Thai to the litter box in the bathroom, leaving him there behind a closed door afterward, Betsy logged on to the Internet to look up entertainment possibilities in Uptown. She found three that looked good: Chino Latino, Uptown Tavern, and Bar Abilene, which Tommy had mentioned. The last had a Facebook page with lots of photos, an article entitled “Craft Beers,” and a look-ahead at Cinco de Mayo. There was also a curious little sidebar put together by the manager, who was either an old man or a connoisseur of old-fashioned newspapers, because he called it “Remembering Walter,” after Walter Winchell, the hugely famous former gossip columnist of radio and the New York Daily Mirror. A note under the title stated: “Our most widely read feature!”

  The column consisted of snippets of gossip about regular customers. “Maggie D has a brand new recipe for happiness, and is he good lookin’!” read one. “Is Joe the Head ever goin’ to master the salsa?” read another. “A little Byrd told us The Willowy One is infanticipating! Club soda from now on, sweetie!” Next, “Who’s the clumsiest bar maid in the Twin Cities? Drop by and cast your ballot for Linnie!” And so forth.

  Betsy was amused by the snippets, and could have read on, but she had things to do. She went to check her e-mail.

  She was pleased to find a reply from Jill, who said she would be delighted to review the Morgan lap stand.

  Another e-mail came from Thistle. “The chief of staff here isn’t telling us anything about Wilma’s death, which makes us think it’s probably murder. So sad, and lots of us are angry about it. But really hope you are going to continue the class on punch needle.”

  Betsy replied in the affirmative.

  Next was an e-mail from Emil Pedersen of Just Kidding, which was the name of the goat farm where Tommy lived.

  “Thomas Shore is a fine young man, very honest, and he works hard. He doesn’t drink too much. He has his own car and doesn’t get tickets. He is kind to animals.”

  Braced by that good recommendation, Betsy logged off and went to bed.

  • • •

  THE next morning Betsy found a downloadable file containing the drawings of the outré Pres. She printed them out and put them on the table next to Connor’s plate of coddled eggs on toast.

  “Would you like to go out hunting this weekend?” she asked when he picked up the printouts with a questioning air.

  “Shall I bring along my little derringer loaded with a silver bullet?” he asked, lifting the printouts a little higher.

  “He only thinks he’s a vampire,” she replied with a laugh. Then she added, more soberly, “But he may be a murderer.”

  • • •

  GODWIN looked at the printouts down in the shop later that morning. “This is going to sound weird, but I think I’ve seen him somewhere. Not out clubbing, not at a party, but doing something else. I think Teddi exaggerated his weirdness—because she liked it, maybe? I mean, I’m thinking he sold me something, like in a store.” He frowned over the drawings for a minute, then shook his head. “Can’t tell you where it was, sorry.”

  One piece of information Betsy had gotten from Frey and Lia was the name of the contractor their landlord had hired to build the deck behind their rented house. When Betsy phoned him to ask how to contact Noah Levesque, he gave an exasperated snort.

  “Now look,” he fumed, “I am not the owner of a dating service, nor am I a giver of advice to the lovelorn! If you want—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Betsy interrupted—then had to take a calming swallow as her request brought a sudden memory of an old woman’s voice making the same demand. “I am probably old enough to be Mr. Levesque’s mother, and I’m not in the least interested in having an affair with him. I want to speak to him about a project he worked on last summer.”

  “If you have a building project in mind, I’m the person to talk to about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him about building a deck, either.”

  The penny dropped, but into the wrong slot. “Oh, Jeez, are you a cop?”

  “No, I am p
rivately investigating a case and I think he can give me some useful information.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His snort this time was less emphatic. Then he said, “What the hell. Tell you what, you give me your name and number and I’ll ask him to call you.”

  After thanking him and hanging up, Betsy called the Excelsior Police Department and asked to speak to Sergeant Mike Malloy.

  “All right, whatcha got?” Malloy growled at her a minute later.

  “I went to talk to Lia Perrin and Frey Kadesh last night and found a pair of antique pillowcases in the armoire in their upstairs bathroom.”

  “And?”

  “The pillowcases were edged in Hardanger embroidery. Shortly after Teddi Wahlberger’s body was discovered, a woman came into my shop with an antique bedsheet she found in her garbage bin with the same pattern of Hardanger on its leading edge.”

  “And?”

  “The bedsheet isn’t hers. She found it when she went out at the last minute to put a bag of trash into the bin, which she’d put out to be picked up the night before. It was stuffed in with her garbage. Lia and Frey say the last time they looked, that same bedsheet was in the armoire, but it’s gone missing.”

  “So how come this lady brings the bedsheet to you?”

  “Because I wrote a little something about Hardanger on my web site, and she saw it and wanted to know if she could rescue and reuse the embroidery on the ruined bedsheet. I told her how to do it. Then I saw the pillowcases in the armoire and realized the pattern on the found bedsheet was the same. I’m wondering if perhaps the murderer didn’t wrap Teddi’s body in the sheet to carry it to Watered Silk. And if perhaps on his way home afterward, he tossed it in a handy bin sitting on the curb.”

  “You wouldn’t by some chance have the name and address of the woman who found it in her garbage bin?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Betsy gave him the woman’s name, Edith Ball, and her address.

  Godwin was standing, agog, at the other end of the checkout desk, listening to her end of the conversation. “Wow,” he breathed, “you’ve done it again, outsleuthed the police! Oh, Betsy, you’re so clever!”