Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03

by A Stitch in Time

  “Don’t listen to Godwin, Mike,” Betsy said. “There isn’t anything to figure out. I was thinking after I called you that if Vern is right, if the brakes were tampered with, then perhaps someone got the wrong car. People park back there once in a while while they visit someone who lives across in the condos.” Mike turned to glance out the front window at the gray eminence across the street—a large complex that blocked what once must have been a lovely view of the lake.

  “All their parking is underground,” continued Betsy, “and you need one of those magnetic keys to access it. So visitors have to park on the street. And with the snow emergency rules being so confusing—what are they? Something like you can only park on the even-numbered sides of the streets on odd-numbered days—anyway, people who don’t want to get towed try to park off the street.”

  “And you’re telling me someone across the street wanted to kill a visitor?”

  “How would I know? I’m just looking for an alternative to the explanation that someone wants to kill me. Because no one does. I don’t know about over there, I don’t know anyone who lives over there.” She smiled suddenly. “Well, except John Penberthy. And attorneys are too valuable to the law breakers to get murdered, aren’t they?”

  Mike laughed. “Unless they lose a case. But I see your point. Some stranger hustles back there, it’s dark, it’s snowing, your license plate is covered with it, and they’re in a hurry. Makes sense to me.” He wrote something in his notebook, tapped it to his forehead in a kind of friendly salute, and departed.

  He had to sidestep out the door because someone half hidden behind an enormous plant bundled in green florist paper was coming in. The delivery man put the plant on the table and lifted a finger in a warning to wait and went back out again. When he came back, it was with a big, long white box, the sort roses come in.

  “Wow, who loves you?” asked Godwin.

  “They’re more likely for you,” said Betsy, nevertheless continuing to peel back the green paper to reveal a huge, deep, deep red poinsettia.

  “Ooooh, pretty!” said Shelly. “I think that’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen!”

  Betsy began poking among the leaves for a card and found one on a clear plastic stick. It had her name on it.

  She opened the envelope and found written on it, in a familiar hand, “Remember?” “Oh, damn,” she muttered.

  “Why? Who’s it from?” asked Shelly.

  “My ex-husband.” She tore the card in half and tossed the pieces into a wastepaper basket under the table.

  “Then I suppose this one’s from him, too,” said Shelly.

  Godwin said, “It might not be. And it might not be roses, either. To fill a box that size would take two dozen roses, at least. Was the Pig one for spending big time on flowers?”

  “Sometimes.” Betsy sighed and opened the box. Inside were at least two dozen red roses. She picked up the card in its little envelope and opened it. In the same hand was written, “My Love is Like the Red, Red Rose. ” She sighed again, tore the card in half, and tossed it after the first.

  “Maybe you should talk to him,” said Shelly.

  “No.”

  “But he spent a lot of money on those flowers.”

  “If they were made of rubies, I still wouldn’t want to talk to him.”

  “Since they’re only real roses, shall I put them in water?” Shelly bent to inhale the fragrance.

  Betsy started to order them thrown away when she was forestalled by Godwin. “Let’s give them away. A Christmas rose for every customer until they’re gone.”

  Betsy nodded. That’s a nice idea, Godwin. There’s a bucket in back, Shelly. Fill it halfway with warm water, cut the bottoms off the stems, and put them in there.”

  “What about the poinsettia?” asked Shelly.

  “Do you want it?”

  “No, I’ve already got one.”

  “Godwin?”

  “No, ever since I saw them growing like weeds in Mexico, I don’t think of them the same.”

  “Me, too,” said Betsy. That was what Hal was reminding her of with his card. She smiled. “I know, let’s give it to—to Irene Potter. Poor lady, she spends half her salary in here, and I bet she’s never gotten flowers in her life. Godwin, can you remember the company where she works?”

  Godwin could. Betsy called and, handed along to the shipping department, got Irene on the line and said, “Irene, someone brought in a big, beautiful poinsettia and there’s no room for it in the shop. Would you like it?”

  “How much?” asked that suspicious woman.

  “For free. You are one of our best customers, and I would like for once to give you something.”

  Irene came in from work a little after five and stood a moment staring at the plant. “It’s awfully big,” she said.

  “I didn’t think of that. It’s too heavy for you to carry,” said Betsy. “How about I drop it off after we close? We’re open till nine tonight.”

  “And every night till Christmas,” added Godwin with a little sigh.

  “Why,” said Irene, torn between suspicion and pleasure, “that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Thank you. It is a beautiful thing, and we wouldn’t want it to freeze its little leaves off, would we? Which it might do if I were to carry it home. Yes, thank you. Thank you.” She backed toward the door, then turned abruptly and hurried out.

  “Poor thing,” said Shelly. “Thinks it’s some kind of prank, I bet.”

  When Betsy carried the big plant, wrapped again in its green paper, to the front door of the elderly boarding house where Irene lived, she was waiting in the parlor. Betsy, looking through the half-glassed front door, could also see four other roomers sitting on the two couches and three easy chairs that filled the room. But they all waited while the owner, a very old woman, answered the door.

  “Why, Betsy Devonshire, how nice of you to come in person!” she said in her creaky voice. “Do come in! Irene, you have a caller, and look, she’s brought you something!” This was said in a patently false voice. Obviously, Irene had told everyone about her gift.

  So Betsy made a little ceremony of it, putting it on an end table and carefully unwrapping it. She said, “Irene is such a talented needlepointer that her work is an advertisement for us. I thought it would be nice to reward her loyalty and applaud her talent, so I am bringing her this little gift.”

  As the “little gift” was unwrapped, it spread like a red and green avalanche. The man sitting on the end of the couch beside the table had to scoot over to keep it from draping across his lap.

  “Oh, my, that is just gorgeous!” said the landlady. “I’ve never seen one so large or beautiful! I just hope Irene will let it stay down here at least for tonight, so we all can enjoy it.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Irene, and it was a pleasure watching her be magnanimous. Her cheeks were pink and her little dark eyes glowed as she raked in the smiles. She said to Betsy, “Will you come up to my room for a bit? There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Of course.”

  Irene’s room was about what Betsy expected: small and inexpensively furnished. Except for the Dazor light, of course, and the magnificent needlepoint cover on the bed. Every possible surface was covered with needlepoint or with needlepoint supplies, but there was a ruthless order to everything and not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere.

  Irene sat on the bed and Betsy took the only chair, which had a petit point cushion.

  “I hear someone cut the brake line on your car,” said Irene.

  “Yes,” nodded Betsy. Unlike most native plants, the Excelsior grapevine did not go dormant in winter.

  “Have you thought that it might have something to do with that tapestry they found in Trinity?”

  “How could an old tapestry make somebody want to commit murder?”

  “Well, I’ve always said it was suspicious how Lucy Abrams died on the same day her husband had that stroke,” said Irene. Which was probably untrue, as Betsy had never heard
anything of the sort from her, or anyone else, either. “And then this tapestry, which she was working on just before she died, got put right out of sight. Now it turns up, and someone tries to murder you. I think there’s a connection.”

  “But I’m not the one who found it,” protested Betsy.

  Irene leaned forward, eyes shining. “No, but you’re the one with a talent for discovering murderers, aren’t you?”

  9

  Godwin expected to find Betsy already in the shop when he arrived the next day, Friday, at about ten minutes to ten. But he had to unlock the door and turn the lights on himself. Shelly arrived a few minutes later and, seeing Betsy was not there, said, “She’s probably still in bed. I thought she was pushing it, staying till five yesterday.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Godwin. “Still, she didn’t look tired when she left for Irene’s place. I was hoping to get the morning off. I’ve got some errands to run. If I have to stay all day, I can’t work this evening. Two eleven-hour days in a row is too much.”

  “Well, I’ll see who’s willing to work this evening,” said Shelly, going to the big desk that served as a checkout counter. “Where’s the list?”

  “Top drawer on the left. Do you have the opening-up money?”

  “I thought Betsy gave it to you.”

  “She must have taken it upstairs. Maybe we should call her.”

  “Okay, after I get someone to work this evening. Or would you rather have this afternoon off, and come back this evening?”

  Godwin shrugged. “Stores are less crowded during the day, but it would be hard to come back here once I get into full shopping mode. On the other hand, fighting crowds after an eight-hour day isn’t fun, either. Since either choice is vile, get who you can when you can.”

  Shelly was still talking to the first part-timer when Sophie came trotting out from between the box shelves that marked off an area in the back of the shop. “Wait a second, I think Betsy’s here,” said Shelly.

  And she was. She paused in the opening, blinking blearily and looking truly ill.

  “Oh, my God, what happened to you?” exclaimed Shelly. “ ’Scuse me, I’ll call you back,” she said and hung up.

  Godwin hurried to take Betsy by the arm. “Here, sit down.” He led her back between the shelves to a pair of little upholstered chairs on either side of a small table.

  Betsy sank gratefully into a chair. Her hair was sketchily combed, her clothing was an old pair of jeans, a faded cotton sweater, and bedroom slippers. Her complexion was pale, except under her eyes, where it was dark gray.

  Godwin said, “If you feel as bad as you look, you shouldn’t be down here.”

  “I told Godwin it was too soon for you to come back to work!” said Shelly, coming to look with concern at Betsy. “You obviously wore yourself out yesterday.”

  “No, I was still feeling pretty good right up to when I went to bed last night,” said Betsy. “But I woke up sick in the middle of the night, and I’ve been getting sicker and sicker. I’m so sick now I’m scared to be up there alone.”

  Godwin said, “Then we’re glad you came down. What do you think, Shelly, a delayed reaction to frostbite or whatever she got from spending the night in the cold? Or maybe to the drugs they gave her at the hospital?”

  Betsy said, “No, I think it’s something I ate.” As if saying that reminded her, she rose and made a wobbly dash for the bathroom in the storage room. When she came back, she looked, if that were possible, even worse.

  “I’m calling your doctor,” declared Shelly, starting for the phone. Then she stopped and turned back. “Who is he?”

  Betsy sighed. “Melody McQueen. Isn’t that the silliest name? I’ve only seen her once, but I like her. Well, maybe twice; I think she came to the hospital. Don’t call her. I’m too sick to go to the doctor’s office. Do doctors in Minnesota make house calls?”

  Godwin said, “I don’t think so. Call her anyway, Shelly. Her phone number’s on the Rolodex.” He felt Betsy’s forehead, which was cool and clammy. “If this is food poisoning, it’s the worst case I’ve ever seen. What was it you ate?”

  “Cashew chicken salad with red grapes, my favorite. There were two cartons of it in the refrigerator, they came with the hot dishes. I don’t see how it could have gone bad so quickly. I came back from taking that poinsettia to Irene—you should have seen her, Godwin, she was so proud that we gave her a gift, it nearly made me cry. And you know, she said the oddest thing—” Betsy got a sudden, inward look, and leaned forward a little. “Cramps,” she muttered. “There’s nothing left in there, but my body still keeps trying to shove it out.”

  Godwin reached for her hand. It was alarmingly cold. He chaffed it gently between his own for a bit. “Have you got her doctor yet?” he called to Shelly.

  “I’m on hold for her,” replied Shelly.

  “Change places with me, I want to talk to her,” said Godwin.

  Shelly came to sit with Betsy. “Have you had food poisoning before?” she asked.

  “Yes, years and years ago. I think it was fish that time, not ch-chicken salad …” She fell silent, swallowing ominously.

  Godwin called, “Betsy, Dr. McQueen wants to talk to you!”

  Shelly helped her to the phone.

  “Yes?” said Betsy. Between pauses of various lengths, she continued, “Yes. About ten last night. Yes. No. No. Do you really think—yes, all right. Yes, I will.” Betsy hung up. “Since I can’t keep even fluids down, she says I should go back to the hospital.”

  “I’ll drive you,” said Shelly.

  “All right. But first go up to my apartment and get both cartons of that salad. She wants to see what kind of bug it has.” Betsy reached into the desk drawer, got the spare key to her apartment, handed it to Shelly. “Bring my purse, too, will you? They’re going to ask for that darn medical insurance number.”

  “That wonderful medical insurance number,” corrected Godwin firmly. “I’m glad you listened to me when I told you not to cancel your medical insurance.”

  As Godwin was helping Betsy up and into Shelly’s big purple SUV, she stopped and said over her shoulder, “Call Jill when you think she’s up, will you, Goddy? Tell her I want to talk to her.”

  Jill joined Betsy in the emergency room an hour later, where she was still waiting for treatment.

  “There’s two heart attacks and a hand shredded by a snow blower ahead of me,” said Betsy. “They say this is the usual result of a bad snowstorm.”

  The waiting room was large but dimly lit, with four television sets hanging down from the ceiling, all tuned to the same soap opera. The dozen people in the room bent under the sound as if being beaten.

  Jill sat down on the chrome and plastic chair beside Betsy. “What do you think you’ve got?” she asked.

  Betsy pointed to the paper bag between her feet. “I came home around ten last night and I hadn’t had any supper, so I ate some of this chicken salad, and I woke up a little after midnight, very sick.” She hesitated, then asked, “Can you, as a police officer, order them to test this salad for poison?”

  Jill blinked and replied, “What kind of poison?”

  “The kind that makes you lose everything you’ve eaten since the Fourth of July, makes your inside hurt like you’ve got ulcers, makes your fingers and toes tingle, and gives you a headache and chills.”

  “Sounds like bad mayonnaise to me,” said Jill.

  Betsy nodded. “It probably is. But Vern Miller says my brakes failed Monday night because someone deliberately cut the brake line.”

  Jill searched Betsy’s eyes. “Does Mike Malloy know about this?” she asked.

  “Yes. He checked it out and says it does look as if the line was cut. I told him I haven’t made anyone mad at me lately, so it was probably somebody after someone else’s car. But I don’t think someone mistook my refrigerator for someone else’s.”

  Jill touched Betsy on the arm. “You stay right here.” She went back to the treatment area and used the authori
ty of her badge to get Betsy seen right away. Then, because she could not require a test for poison on her own authority, she took the paper sack to a phone and called Malloy.

  “If I hadn’t seen that brake line with my own eyes, I wouldn’t do this, you know,” he said.

  “I know. But she’s really, really sick, Mike, bad enough that they’re going to admit her. Besides, her doctor’s having the food tested anyway, for botulism or E. coli or whatever.”

  “What kind of poison is it supposed to be?”

  “She doesn’t know. You’re the detective, what kind of poison appears to be serious food poisoning?”

  “I’ll call someone at the toxicology lab.”

  Jill thanked him and hung up, then went to see how Betsy was doing. They’d started an IV line—she was seriously dehydrated—and were going to admit her under a preliminary diagnosis of food poisoning. Under the white sheet on the narrow gurney, Betsy in fact looked very sick. But as they wheeled her away, Jill heard her joke to the nurse’s aide, “Can I have my old room back?” Which Jill considered to be a good sign.

  It was toward evening when Dr. McQueen came into Betsy’s room. She was a Viking princess, nearly six feet tall with very pale blond hair pulled back into a French twist and a cool, assured manner. She was wearing a pale blue jumper over a thin white wool sweater. With her was a nurse carrying a little tray with a green cloth over it. “We’ll be treating you for arsenic poisoning,” said Dr. McQueen.

  “Arsenic—Is that what it is?”

  “Yes, and I congratulate you for recognizing the symptoms all by yourself. One of the two samples given the toxicology lab contained arsenic, and your urine sample also was positive.”

  “Could it be accidental? I mean, I remember reading there’s some kind of poison in nuts.”

  Dr. McQueen replied, “Cyanide occurs naturally in peach pits and almonds. But you’d need to eat a bushel of almonds at one sitting to get sick. And in your case, the poison is arsenic, which is a mineral—an element, actually, almost but not quite a metal.” Dr. McQueen gestured at the nurse, who uncovered her tray and picked up a hypodermic that looked suitable for an elephant.