The Drowning Spool

by Monica Ferris

  “Seriously?”

  “Very seriously.”

  “Golly, how did that come about?”

  “Probably my own fault. Instead of feeling my way into the subject of her husband’s infidelity, I came right out with it, said I had proof.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

  “Well, um, Sony knows way far back in her head that Pres is not exactly faithful. I mean, he came on to me at a party at their house one time, and I made kind of a joke about it to Sony—you know, feeling her out about it—and she cut me out of her life for three months. I had to apologize to her, say I must have been mistaken, before we were friends again. But she’s like that about him. She tries hard to pretend she doesn’t know the truth about him. No, she tries hard to pretend he is as devoted to her as she is to him. You know those comedy scenes where someone puts his hands over his ears and goes ‘la-la-la-la’ when he doesn’t want to hear what’s being said? She’s like that. She absolutely ignores any hint he’s not the perfect husband, because—well, I’m not sure why. Maybe because she’s crazy in love with him.”

  “Uh-oh,” echoed Betsy.

  “Exactly.”

  “So why didn’t you warn her that I wanted to talk to her about a murder investigation that might involve her husband?”

  “Because then she wouldn’t have let you come over. Or, she might’ve contacted Pres and together they would’ve concocted a story for you. I kind of let her think that you wanted to talk to her about scrapbooking.”

  Betsy recalled the set of scrapbooks on the coffee table in Sony’s living room. “Yes,” she told Ramona, “she thought I wanted her to give a talk about the craft, or maybe teach a class. I’m sure she felt blindsided. How long have they been married, do you know?”

  Ramona’s voice was laced with amusement as she said, “About four and a half months shorter than they would be if Little Tony had been conceived on their honeymoon.”

  “I see.”

  “Not entirely you don’t, not yet. The reason Pres married her is that Sony’s father had a little talk with him. Sony wanted him, and Big Tony likes giving her what she wants. And he can be, um, extremely convincing. Big Tony had that nickname even before Little Tony came along, you know.”

  “I see. At least Pres didn’t flee to Atlanta.”

  “What? Well, no. Mr. Halloway is well off, and he was willing to bring Pres into his car parts business, so Pres decided not to leave town.”

  “This is wonderful information—but how did you come by it?”

  “Pres has a sister who is a stitcher and a quilter. We met in college. She adores her nephew and likes her sister-in-law, but doesn’t like her brother.”

  “In your opinion, is Pres capable of murder?”

  “I don’t know. I believe Paige would tell you he is. But like I said, she doesn’t like him—I mean, she really doesn’t like him.”

  • • •

  BETSY went upstairs to find that Connor had gone grocery shopping—he’d left her a note—so she went into the kitchen to prepare a sandwich for her lunch. She gave Thai a snack—he was doing splendidly on grain-free canned cat food, but needed to be fed at least three times a day. She had purchased a rimmed plastic pet food place mat and kept it on the kitchen counter. Aging, fat Sophie could no longer jump high enough to get up onto the counter—another point of contention between the two cats. But right now there were no complaints, Sophie was down in the shop. Godwin would put her out at closing time.

  Betsy had barely sat down with her sandwich when her phone rang.

  It was Sergeant Mike Malloy, wanting to talk to her about her interview with Sony Munro. He knew she’d talked to her because Sony had given him an earful about Betsy’s visit.

  “She wanted to know what right you had to talk to her like you did, telling lies, she said, about her husband,” said Malloy. “What the hell did you say to her?”

  “That I had a drawing of her husband made by a woman he was dating, and that there was a witness to his presence at a tavern in Uptown with a number of women.”

  “She said you approached her under false pretenses, claiming that you wanted to talk about scrapbooking.”

  “No, I never said that to her,” Betsy said. “The woman who put me in touch with her may have given her that impression.”

  “Which you instructed her to do.”

  “No, it was her own idea. The woman is a friend of Pres’s sister, who doesn’t like him.”

  “Oh, I give up,” said Malloy, exasperated.

  “What did she tell you?” asked Betsy. “No, wait, first tell me what Pres told you. Does he have an alibi?”

  “He said he went out to dinner with a representative of a wholesaler in foreign auto parts, then came home around eight-thirty or a little after, played with his son, talked to his wife, and went to bed early. Sonja Munro says he didn’t come home to dinner because he had an appointment with a salesman, that he got home close to nine o’clock, watched a video with his son, shared a bottle of wine with her, and they were in bed by ten thirty.”

  “What time did you talk to Pres?”

  “First thing this afternoon, why?”

  “Because that gave Sony Munro time to call him after my visit and work up an alibi with him.”

  “You’re right, it would have given her time to do that. But Mr. Halloway says that Preston left work early to meet a car parts salesman flying in from Atlanta who wanted to meet with Halloway the next day. I don’t think Pres or Sony persuaded Halloway to help with their alibi. By the way, did you know that Halloway Auto Parts has three stores? One in Saint Louis Park, one in Fridley, one in South Saint Paul.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Preston manages the Saint Louis Park store—but the old man keeps his office there, probably to keep an eye on Pres. You were right about one thing, he doesn’t think much of his son-in-law.”

  “Does he think he is a murderer?”

  “No, he thinks he doesn’t have the guts to kill a woman—or the brains to think up a scheme like taking her to an indoor pool so we’d think she drowned there. But he does think he’s an adulterer. He’s got no proof, but he’s convinced of it nonetheless.”

  “Here’s an odd question,” Betsy said. “Would Tony Halloway kill a woman his son-in-law was seeing in order to protect his daughter?”

  “From what? Disappointment in her husband? Such a degree of disappointment that her eyes would open to what he really is and she’d divorce him? Not a chance.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Anyway, Halloway says the salesman told him that Pres took him out to a Japanese restaurant, then dropped him off at his hotel around eight thirty.”

  “So, I guess that lets Pres out of the running as a suspect.” Betsy sighed. “The only question I have left is, did Teddi Wahlberger call Pres to accuse him of being the father of her baby?”

  “No, she didn’t call him.”

  Betsy was surprised, but before she could say so, Malloy continued, “She did text him, however. Munro says he wasn’t worried. He knew he couldn’t be the father, he had a vasectomy fourteen months ago.”

  “Oh, no! Really?”

  “Why so shocked?”

  “Mike, visit Sony’s Facebook page and you’ll see why.”

  Whew! thought Betsy after hanging up. A vasectomy! And poor Sony has dreams of a sibling for Little Tony.

  She was suddenly hot with anger against Pres, not just for his infidelities but for the vasectomy he never told his wife about. “Wicked, wicked, he’s a wicked man!” she muttered, “even if he isn’t a murderer!”

  She went back to her sandwich, but her appetite was spoiled. In a little while Connor came in with two bags of groceries. He was whistling a plaintive little melody that took Betsy a few seconds to identify:

  If I should plant a tiny seed of love

  In the garden of your heart,

  Would it grow to be a great big love o
ne day,

  Or would it die and fade away?

  Connor had a liking for old English music-hall songs, both comic and sentimental. Betsy shared his interest, as her father used to sing these songs to her and her sister when they were children.

  She smiled at Connor and sang with him the next verse of “If I Should Plant a Tiny Seed of Love”:

  Would you cherish it and tend it every day,

  Till the time when we must part,

  If I should plant a tiny seed of love

  In the garden of your heart?

  “Machree,” he sighed tenderly. He put the groceries on a kitchen counter, then came to kiss her. “I’m so glad you know these songs, too.”

  “Connor, you are the dearest man in the world to me.” Betsy was near tears.

  “What is it, machree?”

  “I’ve found out something about Preston Munro that makes me sick. I wish he didn’t have an alibi supplied by his loving wife, whom he is deceiving and doesn’t deserve!” She told him what Malloy had told her.

  He made an ugly sound in the back of his throat and went to put the groceries away. In a few minutes he was back with a sandwich and a fistful of potato chips.

  “So how did it go with Sonja?” he asked.

  She told him. “She was enraged on his behalf, poor thing.”

  “So what do you think? He’s out as a suspect?”

  “I think so. I mean, if he really wasn’t worried about being the father of Teddi’s baby, why would he murder her?”

  “Maybe because she could raise such a stink about it that his wife would find out—and then Sony would find out about the vasectomy. If he had to tell Teddi why he wasn’t the father of her baby, what would she do? Was she above a little blackmail? What might he do to keep her from contacting Sony?”

  But after a minute’s thought, Betsy responded to his theory. “Now wait, that would depend on whether or not Teddi knew about Sony. And I don’t think she did.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because according to everyone who knew her, she was a beautiful, sweet, funny, joyous, harebrained ninny. It never occurred to her that Tommy might be insulted by her pity. It never occurred to her that Noah might be hurt by her refusal to be exclusive with him. And it never occurred to her that Pres might be married.”

  “So now what?” Connor asked, eating the last of his chips.

  “I wonder if Mike would agree to a lengthy sit-down, where we could both try to sum up what we know and who the evidence points to.”

  Connor looked at his watch. “Likely he’s home by now.” He stood and picked up his plate and hers. “I’ll do the dishes while you call.”

  Nineteen

  TO Betsy’s amazement, Malloy was open to the idea of a meeting. In fact, he said, “Why not get together this evening? My wife and kids are going out to a movie I don’t want to see, so I’ll have an excuse to miss it. Bring your POSSLQ with you, if you like.”

  “Possel-cue?”

  Malloy was surprised she didn’t know the acronym. “Person of the Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters,” he said.

  “Oh, you mean Connor.”

  “You mean there’s more than one of them?”

  Betsy was fairly sure Malloy was kidding. “See you in half an hour?”

  “Fine.”

  The Malloy house was a good-size orange-brick two-story about three blocks from the commons, toward the beach end. Connor and Betsy found handsome Mrs. Malloy and their two good-looking redheaded children putting on their coats and boots in the living room.

  Quick introductions were made, and the movie-going party went out the door.

  Malloy showed Connor and Betsy into the living room, neat and modestly furnished in blue and green. Old-fashioned slat window blinds covered the windows under ivory drapes. There was a gas fireplace lit by a brisk little dance of flames. A big flat-screen TV was mounted over the fireplace.

  Malloy offered them a choice of LaCroix sparkling water or coffee, and a platter of cheese and crackers. So this was to be a friendly visit.

  Still, as Betsy sat, she drew out her notebook, and Malloy chose the bow-backed occasional chair rather than the cushioned one. Connor sat next to Betsy, leaned back, and crossed his legs, prepared to listen.

  “May I ask something right away?” said Betsy.

  “What is it?”

  “Would you and Mrs. Malloy be open to acquiring a cat?”

  “No. But thank you for asking.”

  Betsy sighed. “Okay. Next question: Did you get that antique sheet back from Mrs. Ball?”

  “No. She’d cut the lace off it and thrown the rest away. Said it was torn and dirty and smelly.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad!” She wrote in her notebook that the sheet was gone.

  “Still, the existence of it in that trash can is significant, don’t you think?” Malloy said.

  “Oh, yes, especially when you look at where that trash can was located. But what I’m thinking now is that I’ve neglected the murder of Wilma. I don’t understand how it was done and my one contact at Watered Silk isn’t able to tell me.”

  Mike settled back a little and said, “Let me tell you what I know. Wilma Carter had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and it had reached a stage where she could not live on her own.”

  Betsy nodded. She knew this already, and Mike knew that she knew.

  He went on. “Her nearest living relative was a nephew, Tony Halloway.”

  Mike acknowledged her start of surprise. “Yes, the owner of the auto parts chain who has a son-in-law managing one of them. Which son-in-law has a good alibi for the murder of Teddi Wahlberger and an even better one for the murder of Mrs. Carter.”

  “I know Mrs. Munro says he was home with her when Teddi was killed, but where was he when Wilma was poisoned?”

  “Down in Madison, Wisconsin. He flew down there for a motor parts manufacturer’s convention and was gone four days.” One of Mike’s pale eyebrows raised on his freckled face. “Besides which, he hasn’t got the connections or the knowledge to have done what was done to Wilma.”

  “What was done to Wilma?” asked Betsy.

  “As I said, she had Alzheimer’s. She wasn’t bad enough off to be kept in a locked ward, but neither was she in a regular apartment with a kitchen. She was on various medications, including one called Exelon, which is administered by a patch. Every evening a nurse would come to her room and pull off the previous evening’s patch and stick a new one on between her shoulder blades, where she couldn’t get at it.”

  Malloy leaned forward and picked up a small notebook on the coffee table. He began a search through it, and finally stopped to read briefly.

  “When she was found dead, an autopsy was ordered,” he said. “There were no marks of trauma on the body. The usual screening test for drugs was negative—but those are generally done on drug addicts, looking for opiates and suchlike. So they did another, more detailed screening. And they came up with a positive for atropine.

  “Now, atropine is used during surgery to regulate the heartbeat, and quiet muscles. In eye surgery, it relaxes the muscles and dilates the eye. Mrs. Carter hadn’t had any surgical procedures recently to account for a medicinal dose of atropine, and anyway, the amount found in her system was more than would normally be used in such procedures.

  “The conclusion is that she was poisoned with atropine.”

  “And somehow the Exelon patch is involved?” said Connor.

  “Right. As soon as the body was taken away, her room was searched. The foil packet that held the patch was found in a wastepaper basket.” He put the notebook down on a knee and made a pulling-apart gesture with his fingers. “You peel it apart,” he said. “The patch is inside. And on the back of the foil cover was a tiny hole, such as you’d get by sticking a hypodermic needle into it.”

  Betsy sucked air through her teeth. “Oh, dear,” she said.

  “Damn clever,” muttered Connor, with a movement of his mouth as if tasting something
spoiled.

  “Yeah,” sighed Malloy. “The thing is, it could have been done at any time. The box of patches was about half gone, and it holds a dozen of them, so up to six days in advance someone could have come in there and interfered with that patch.”

  “Well, no,” said Betsy, “not if it was done after Teddi was put in the pool, to keep Wilma from telling who she had shown that door to. There were a number of people sneaking into Watered Silk through that back door. Which one of our three suspects knew about it first?”

  “Someone Wilma showed it to, I’ll wager,” said Connor.

  Malloy nodded sharply. “That’s my conclusion, too. But which one of them? Tommy Shore, Noah Levesque, or Preston Munro?”

  “Did any of them have access to a hypodermic and atropine?” asked Betsy.

  “Tommy Shore might have, since he works in a drugstore—but.” Malloy raised a warning finger. “The atropine stocked in a drugstore pharmacy is low dose. It’s used to treat eye problems. It would take a large quantity of drugstore atropine to kill someone. Putting a few drops of drugstore atropine on a skin patch might have made Wilma sick, but it wouldn’t have killed her.”

  “So where would a concentrated dosage come from?” asked Betsy.

  “A hospital. None of these men had access to a hospital pharmacy. In fact, nobody within spitting distance of this case has access to a hospital pharmacy.”

  Betsy frowned. “Sony was a surgical nurse,” she said thoughtfully. “But that was before Little Tony came along, about three years ago.”

  “Is there atropine in lethal doses at Watered Silk?” asked Connor.

  “No.”

  Betsy thrust her fingers into her hair and thought hard. Malloy leaned forward just a little bit, watching her expectantly. But she yanked her hand away with a sound like, “Bssshhhhh!” and added, “I can’t see how it was done.”

  Connor said, “Maybe Tommy figured out how to concentrate the atropine.”

  Betsy scoffed. “Tommy couldn’t figure out how to make a ham sandwich without watching an instructional video.”