Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03

by A Stitch in Time

  Joe Mickels turned up, ruffled and angry. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Someone tried to set fire to the building by stacking cordwood at the back door and squirting charcoal starter on it,” said Jill.

  “Is this another attempt to get at you?” Joe asked Betsy.

  Betsy nodded, unaccountably embarrassed.

  “Well, goddam it, why don’t you leave town?”

  “Because they might follow her,” said Jill. “Here she has friends to help watch out for her, and she’s on familiar ground. I don’t think you want her to be put at more risk just so you don’t have to fill out a few insurance forms.”

  “Hmph,” snorted Mickels and borrowed the phone to summon someone to board up the back door.

  After Mickels left, Betsy, too tired to lift her arm, asked, “What time is it?” and Jill looked at her own watch.

  “Quarter to four.”

  The fire chief came in and said they could go up and gather a change of clothes and, if the apartment smelled too strongly of smoke and they had no place to go, a Red Cross representative would be called to find them a place to stay for a day.

  Betsy went up with Jill. She stood inside it a long minute, sniffing, then said to Jill, “I can’t tell if it stinks of smoke or not.”

  Jill said, “I think it does, but not too badly. I’m sorry about this, Betsy.”

  “Why? There wasn’t anything you could do. I’m just glad Patricia was feeling homesick. If she hadn’t seen that fire, it might’ve gotten into the stairwell. But I’m mad at Malloy. I thought he would have Hal under arrest by now!”

  Jill said, “Maybe he does. He was probably waiting outside Hal’s motel room for him to come home, and caught him with bits of firewood bark all down the front of his coat and a can of charcoal starter in his trunk.”

  The doorbell rang. “Now who—” began Betsy.

  “Malloy, I’ll bet.”

  It was. “Bad news, Ms. Devonshire,” he said, once inside the apartment.

  “What?” demanded Betsy. “Couldn’t find Hal? Don’t tell me you’re here to take me to jail till you do?”

  “No, Hal is down at the police station,” Malloy said.

  “Well, that’s one good thing!”

  “No, you don’t understand. He was sitting down there telling me he loves you, he wants you to forgive him, yadda, yadda, yadda, when the fire siren went off.”

  That did it. Betsy was overcome by fury. She stomped across the living room and flung herself onto the love seat. “I can’t stand this, I’m sick of this whole thing! It has to be Hal! It all made sense that it was Hal!”

  Malloy said, “You had me convinced. But Hal Norman has one of the best possible alibis: he was sitting in our interrogation room telling me he had no reason to want to kill you at the very moment someone else was trying to do it.”

  There was a long, depressed silence. Then Jill asked, “So what do we do now?”

  Mike shrugged like one who has had this happen before. “Start over. Look at everyone else. Obviously, we’re missing something.”

  “No,” said Betsy. “We’ve been trying to solve this by trying to see what we’re missing, and that’s not working. Let’s look at what we do know. It can’t be Hal, all right, that’s one thing we know. We don’t know why this is happening to me, okay, to hell with why. What else do we know? It has to be someone who knows what a brake line is. It’s someone who knows where to get arsenic, and—well, I don’t suppose there’s any special knowledge to starting fires, is there?”

  “There is, but not in this case. Pros use toilet paper, gasoline, and candles, not firewood and charcoal starter.”

  Betsy said, “I thought it smelled like a barbecue back there.”

  Jill said, “The fire marshal said he never saw an arson fire started with firewood before.”

  “And starting it by that back door was dumb, right?” said Betsy. “Why not start it by the front? If it had burned through the back door, it still would have had another door to burn through before it could climb up the stairs. Dumb.”

  “Because the back door was out of sight of passersby,” said Jill. “Not so dumb.”

  “If it had been me,” said Betsy, “I would have broken that back window, squirted the charcoal starter on the floor, and thrown a lit match in after it.”

  “That’s what the fire marshal said,” said Malloy. “Another reason he thinks it was an amateur.”

  “But I’m not an arsonist and I thought of it,” Betsy pointed out.

  “That is odd,” said Jill. “What do you think, he isn’t seriously trying to kill her?”

  “Then what the hell is he doing?” asked Malloy.

  “Maybe he’s trying to scare her. Or keep her from doing something.” Jill looked at Betsy. “What haven’t you gotten done because of all this?”

  Betsy scowled. “I haven’t finished my Christmas shopping. I haven’t picked up my dry cleaning. I haven’t balanced my checkbook—well, I usually put that off anyway, so that’s no big deal.” She saw Jill was serious, so she started to think more deeply. “I need to be lining up people to help with year-end inventory. I need to figure out what goes on sale after Christmas. I’m supposed to be working more hours in the shop to cut expenses. I’m supposed to be thinking of other ways to cut expenses. What, you think this has something to do with the shop? Someone trying to make me close up?”

  “Who besides Joe and Irene wants that to happen?” asked Jill.

  “I don’t know. Nobody.”

  Mike said, “So maybe he’s trying to keep you from doing something else important.”

  Betsy said, “I’m not doing anything else important.” She started to think more about that, then with a gesture sliced that thought off. “Now hold it, we’re supposed to be looking at what we know. Why do people kill other people?”

  Malloy said, “The usual motives are sex, money, and revenge.”

  Betsy smiled wryly. “Well, it’s sure not sex. And since Hal has a perfect alibi, it’s not money.”

  “Hold up on that conclusion,” said Mike. “You’re going to be a wealthy woman in a few weeks. If you die, who gets your money?”

  Betsy looked embarrassed. “Well … right now it’s Godwin and Jill.” She had finished the hasty holographic will last night.

  Blushing, Jill said, “That was all her idea, I don’t want any part of it.”

  Malloy, grinning, said, “You can leave it to me instead, Ms. Devonshire.”

  Betsy lit up. “Mike, tell everyone that joke. And you, Jill, blush all over the place. Both of you, talk about my new will. If this is about the money, that should stop it.”

  Jill said, “But if it isn’t—”

  Betsy scowled but said, “Then back to what else we know. Where did Dr. McQueen say the arsenic mines were? That’s the only weapon used so far that can’t be found in any house in town.”

  Jill said, “New Jersey.”

  Mike said, “Arsenic mines?”

  Jill said, “It comes out of the ground, like gold or silver.”

  “No kidding. Well, I don’t know of anyone recently back from New Jersey. So I’ll have to find out where else you could get hold of some.” He pulled out his notebook and wrote that down. “Now, Ms. Devonshire, what I want to do is go over with you again everything you’ve done in the past few weeks. I know you already told me there were no quarrels, except with your ex-husband. But think over that period again. Anything at all strange, any new demands made on you? Any disagreements or quarrels, however minor? Have you overheard any odd conversation? Found anything that struck you as odd? Any feeling of being watched? Has anyone stolen anything from you?”

  “Only something really trivial.”

  “What is it?” asked Mike, pen poised to write.

  “I volunteered to supply the material to restore an old tapestry from Trinity Episcopal Church. I went over to look at it, and I saw some tiny pictures stitched onto it. The rector said they were attributes of
saints. I recognized some of them, but a lot I didn’t, so I copied most of them down, typed up notes about them, and Father John loaned me a book about Christian symbology. And the notes vanished.”

  “And you think someone could have taken them?”

  “Well, I’ve looked and looked, and I can’t find them. And the book I was using to look them up is still in my apartment. And now the tapestry is gone, too.”

  Malloy’s interest sharpened. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I called over there yesterday, and the secretary said she didn’t know where the tapestry was. She said it hasn’t been seen since it got moved out of the church hall when they were clearing it out for the renovation.”

  Mike closed his notebook. “I guess I’d better go over to the church and see about this missing tapestry.” He looked at his watch. “Well, in about five hours.”

  After he left, Jill said, “Why didn’t you tell him about Joe Mickels and New York Motto?”

  “Because if Joe doesn’t know, then his money problems are nobody’s business. You and I will go see him as soon as he gets to his office. In about five hours.”

  15

  Jill and Betsy slept for two hours after Malloy left, then washed and dressed. Jill toasted a frozen breakfast pastry. “Sure you don’t want one?” she asked Betsy. “We’ve got time.”

  “No,” replied Betsy. “The shots are easier to take on an empty stomach.”

  “How long does this go on?”

  “When they can’t get any more arsenic from a urine test, that will be it. Today could be the last, or it might go on into January.” The thought of weeks of the painful and sick-making Dimercaprol shots depressed Betsy, and she fell silent as they got into Jill’s big old car.

  Jill picked her moment and pulled out of the driveway onto Lake Street. Then, sensing Betsy didn’t want to talk, she snapped on the radio.

  KSJN’s morning show was mostly Christmas music. Odd and eccentric, but definitely Christmas music. Betsy’s frown of discontent turned to dismay when announcer Dale Connelly casually noted that day after tomorrow was Christmas eve.

  Where had the time gone? Betsy sighed, because she knew the answer to that. Gone to car accidents, the hospital, the doctor’s office to pee into ridiculously tiny plastic cups leading to more painful injections.

  Who’d be a medical technician?

  Who, for that matter, would own a small business? She didn’t want to go from the doctor’s office to Crewel World. She didn’t want to be reminded by some customer’s question of how little she knew or endure the tireless chitchat of her help or Godwin’s comments. She didn’t want to see the stack of bills the postman would bring or argue with suppliers sold out of everything but what she didn’t want. And tonight was another late closing night; she had a normal eight-hour day to get through, then another three hours of evening work. Same with tomorrow.

  Most of all, she was sick of being the target of someone murderous, an unknown someone, angry for an unknown reason. Half frozen, poisoned, choking on smoke—not dead yet. Not yet.

  Betsy snorted softly.

  “What?” said Jill.

  “Oh, I’ve been sitting here working myself into a foul mood, and I just thought that would be a terrible way to spend my last few hours on earth, grouchy and complaining.”

  “Last few hours?”

  “If the assassin succeeds.”

  “He won’t,” growled Jill and set her jaw.

  Betsy, looking at that grim profile, was suddenly reminded of a beer ad, hugely popular in Britain during World War II. It was just two words, a verb and the name of the brewer: Take Courage. She smiled and then set her own jaw.

  A little after ten, Jill and Betsy were back in Excelsior, parking behind Crewel World. The back door was covered with a big sheet of plywood, so they went around front. Shelly was waiting there with a man Betsy thought she’d met before, though she couldn’t place him. “This is Mr. Reynolds,” said Shelly casually, sure Betsy would know him.

  Jill unlocked the front door and they came in. “Whew!” said Shelly, wrinkling her nose. “Gee, you’d think there was a fire in here last night or something.” Mr. Reynolds laughed.

  Betsy turned on the lights. The smell wasn’t strong, but it was there, like yesterday’s campfire. But there was no visible smoke damage. She walked to the rear storage area, limping on the left just a little. The smell was stronger back here, and the door into the hallway had a dark gray edge. Betsy plugged in the teakettle, then reached and pulled a forefinger down the white-painted surface of the bathroom door. The finger came away dusty but not sooty.

  When she came back out, Mr. Reynolds was taking off his overcoat, and Betsy, seeing the loud houndstooth sport coat he wore under it, recognized him as her insurance agent. “This keeps up,” he said to her, “your rates will go through the roof.” He had last been in the shop when it had been trashed by Margot’s murderer.

  “What can you do for us?” asked Betsy.

  He looked around. “How long ago was the fire?”

  “It was reported around midnight,” said Jill. “It was out within an hour, pretty much.”

  He checked his watch. “And there’s hardly any smell right now. But there were what, three closed doors between the fire and here? That’s what really helped. I think you lucked out. If there had been smoke in here, you’d’ve lost your entire stock. Smoke gets into fibers something frightening, and it never comes out. So I tell you how we’ll handle this. I’ll call ServiceMaster and have them come by for a look-see. Likely they’ll put in an ozone maker for a day, and that will be that. Any damage anywhere else?”

  “The fire was set outside, against the back door,” said Jill. “We caught it before the back door burned through. But the back door is charred, and the back hall is definitely smoky.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the landlord’s responsibility,” said the agent. “Mickels doesn’t have coverage through us. What we cover for Ms. Devonshire is the contents of this store.” He strode through, made some notes on a pad, and said he would call ServiceMaster. “We may be able to get them here yet today. Meanwhile, don’t try any cleanup yourself; you’ll only make things worse. And don’t sell anything out of here until we deodorize the place.” He appeared to really look at Betsy for the first time. She drew herself up straight and tried on a smile, but she didn’t fool him. “You live upstairs, don’t you? I think you should close the place, go upstairs, and sack out for about ten hours.”

  “No, I have things to do,” said Betsy.

  “Well, don’t go far; I need to let you know about ServiceMaster. Can you give me a phone number?”

  Betsy said, “You can leave a message on one of my machines. I’ll keep checking.”

  “Oh-kay,” he said, and left.

  Shelly said, “Well, I guess that means I don’t get any hours today, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  The phone rang, and Betsy picked it up. Godwin’s cheerful voice said, “Do I get to go shopping the rest of the month?”

  “My insurance agent says he may be able to get it cleaned up today. Can you come in tomorrow?”

  “That’s another reason I called. A case was settled out of court, so John is taking tomorrow off and wants me to go skiing with him. Can you get Shelly to come in?”

  Betsy looked at Shelly, who had her hand up in a Call on me! gesture. “I’m sure she will. So consider yourself covered tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you Friday. Oh, and Betsy …” There was a lengthy silence. “I guess I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s okay, I wouldn’t know what to say back, either. ’Bye, Godwin.”

  “So what do we do first?” asked Jill, when Shelly and the insurance man had gone.

  “Let’s go beard the lion.”

  A few minutes later, the two were climbing the old wooden stairs to the second floor of the Water Street building. At the far end of the hall they found a glass office door painted with plain bl
ack letters: Mickels Corporation. Jill went in first. They found themselves in a small room in front of a gray metal desk. A row of gray metal filing cabinets took up most of a wall. The young woman at the desk was working on a very modern computer. She glanced up and said, “May I help you?”

  Betsy said, “I’m Betsy Devonshire. Is Mr. Mickels in?”

  She glanced at Jill in her uniform and said, “Just a moment, please.” The woman went through a back door, shutting it behind her. The door must have been a good one; they couldn’t hear a sound through it. She came back, leaving the door open, to say, “Go on in.”

  Mickels’s inner office was barely more opulent. It did have a big wooden desk with carved corners that was probably a hundred years old, but the chair behind it was an old wooden thing on casters with a back that curved into the arms. The single window overlooking the street was uncurtained. There was a wooden filing cabinet against one wall, and a low bookcase contained law books and three-ring binders. The floor was bare, and there were no pictures on the walls. A thick metal door probably led to a strong room.

  Mickels sat behind the desk, his back to the window. “Ms. Devonshire, Officer Cross,” he said. His white sideburns lined a very good poker face.

  “Mr. Mickels,” said Betsy, who had thought hard about how to approach Mickels on this, “you own the building that contains Crewel World, am I right?”

  Mickels nodded, frowning a little. “You know that.”

  “And you know I am the sister of the founder of the company, the late Margot Berglund?”

  Again Mickels nodded, his frown deepening.

  In exactly the same tone, Betsy asked, “And you know that Mrs. Berglund was the founder and silent partner in New York Motto, right?”

  Mickels blinked, then jumped to his feet. “What?” he shouted.

  “I said, my sister was the owner of New York Motto.”

  “By God, I might have known!” roared Mickels, flinging his arms in the air. “That bitch! That sweet-talking, milk-faced, embroidering, conniving bitch!” His anger fed on itself, and the madder he got, the stronger his language became. Betsy, backing away, was further startled when the door to the outer office opened and the secretary stood in the doorway, her eyes wide.