“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Shall I call—” She stopped, confused, because Jill Cross was the police.
“Get out!” shouted Mickels. “Just get out!”
“Yessir,” she said, and went, closing the door behind her.
“I think you’d better sit down, Mr. Mickels,” said Betsy, a little alarmed at the color of his face.
But Mickels was too upset to sit down. “And she told you this, so you could just keep on grinding me down!” he growled.
“No, I didn’t know about it until Mr. Penberthy came to see me last night—”
Mickels exploded again, describing the attorney in atrocious language. “It was probably all his goddamned idea!” he concluded, leaning on his desk, his breathing alarmingly loud and uneven.
“Mr. Mickels, if you’ll just calm down—” said Jill in her smoothest voice.
“Calm down? I ought to go and shoot him down!” shouted Mickels. “Cheat me, will she?” And he spoke again about Margot Berglund in language that exasperated Betsy as much as it embarrassed her. Jill took her by the arm and signaled with nod and lifted eyebrows that they should just stand back and let Mickels get it out of his system.
When Mickels was reduced to merely walking around and around his desk, clenching and unclenching his fingers and grinding his teeth, Betsy tried again.
“It appears you didn’t know anything about this until I told you,” she said. “And a good thing, too.”
“What?” Mickels seemed surprised to find them still in his office.
“Mr. Mickels, someone has made three attempts on my life.”
“Yes, I know.” Mickels’s wide, thin, mouth pulled suddenly into an ugly smile. “I wish him luck.”
“You don’t mean that, Mr. Mickels,” said Jill.
“Don’t I? Do you know what this New York Motto has done to me? Ruined me, that’s what! My whole life is going to slide into the toilet in less than a month! It’s not just the goddam waterfront property, it’s my credit rating! My reputation as a man of business! I may have to give up on The Mickels Building, the dream of my life! All because some dotty woman wanted to sell the means to make a piddling doily! She’s ruined me, d’ya hear? She—and now you, Ms. Devonshire, who haven’t the littlest clue how to run a business! And all over what? A piddling doily! I hope whoever’s after you squashes you like a bug! I hope when he finishes with you, he takes after Penberthy! Now get out of my office!” Mickels stopped to do more of that effortful breathing, his fingers working. He threw a sudden glance at his strong room, then glared at Jill. “You, take her out of here, now!”
But that glance roused Betsy’s sleuthing instincts, and when Jill stepped forward, she could tell that Jill had noticed it, too. With a crack of authority in her voice, Jill said, “We’re not finished talking with you, Mr. Mickels. Why don’t you sit down and answer a few questions?”
Mickels stopped pacing and actually went to his chair and sat down. But it was with an effort, and he sat so rigidly that Betsy felt if she were to tap him on the shoulder he’d shatter like cheap pottery. Mickels’s hands were in white-knuckled fists, and again he glanced at the strong room.
“Something in there, sir?” asked Jill.
“In where?”
“In that room behind the steel door.”
“Just some records.”
Betsy asked, “Records of that deal with New York Motto?”
Mickels’s shrug seemed sincerely confused. “Yes.”
“What else?” asked Jill.
“You can’t search that room without a warrant, you know.”
“I could with your permission.”
“There’s nothing in there.”
Betsy said, “Show us.”
Mickels hesitated a long while. Then, with a too-elaborate shrug, he stood and fished in his pocket for a big, old-fashioned key.
The strong room was the size of a walk-in closet. There was a small, long-legged table beside a gray filing cabinet with a combination dial on its top drawer. A huge old green safe bulked large at the back. The light came from a naked bulb hanging on a wire from the high ceiling. The cabinet and safe were open. Betsy, remembering the old game of hot and cold, watched Joe closely as Jill looked first into the filing cabinet, pulling open one drawer then the next, fingers walking quickly along the file folders. Mickels didn’t show much, so Betsy said, “Maybe it’s in the safe.”
Jill pulled the safe door wide. Mickels tensed, and Jill, aware of what Betsy was doing, touched various papers, while Betsy played hot and hotter. When Jill touched an old metal box with a padlock on it, Mickels actually trembled.
“What’s in the box?” asked Betsy.
“My coin collection,” grated Mickels.
The box was extremely heavy, and Jill couldn’t lift it alone. Betsy hurried to help. It made a metallic noise when it tilted, and Mickels became a white-hot statue in order not to rush to their aid.
“Open it for me?” asked Jill, after they succeeded in sliding it onto the tall table.
Mickels came to unlock the padlock with a mild show of reluctance—or was feeling so much reluctance some leaked out around the edges of his attempt to disguise it. He put the padlock on the table beside the box and stepped back.
Jill opened the box. It was nearly filled with bright silver coins, mostly half dollars, but with dimes, quarters, and dollars mixed in. The coins were loose, not in the little cardboard holders collectors use.
Betsy, puzzled, picked up a few. They were badly worn and a trifle greasy, as if from much fondling. She turned and looked at Mickels, who looked back, grim-faced.
“I don’t get it,” said Jill, scooping up a handful of coins. She turned and held them out to Joe.
“They’re all real silver, not those cheap alloys the government issues nowadays,” said Mickels, staring at them, fingers working. “They’re badly worn, and of no interest to real collectors, so I bought ’em at face value. I don’t know why I keep them.” He shrugged stiffly, and tore his eyes away. “Anything else I can show you in here?”
Betsy, feeling she’d come to the heart of a mystery without solving it, glanced at Jill, then said, “No.”
Jill closed the box and would have snapped the padlock shut, but Mickels said, “Just leave it.” He turned and walked stiffly out of the strong room, and they followed. “Anything else you want to look at?” he asked, going to his chair. He put his hands on the back of it, a seemingly casual gesture, except that his grip was so tight his fingernails were pressed white.
Jill said, “Are you the one trying to murder Betsy Devonshire?”
“Not.”
“She really didn’t know about New York Motto until Penberthy told her, you know.”
Mickels nodded once, sharply. “Yes, that’s probably the case.” The nostrils of his big nose flared suddenly. “If I’d found out she owned New York Motto on my own, I might be asserting my right to silence and phoning my lawyer right now. But before God, I didn’t know.” The anger suddenly left him, and he said, with an air that seemed close to despair, “I suppose this’ll be all over the business pages tomorrow morning?”
“I have no intention of sharing this with anyone, Mr. Mickels,” said Betsy. “And neither does Officer Cross.”
“That’s something, at least.”
They left him still standing behind the chair.
Out on the street, Betsy said, “What was that about the coins?”
“Beats me. But I’d say it was pretty clear he didn’t know about New York Motto. Whew!”
Betsy giggled suddenly. “I haven’t heard language like that since I dated a first class bosun’s mate.” She sobered. “But damn. All right, let’s go to Trinity and talk to everyone. Find out when the tapestry was last seen, or if maybe someone walked out of the church hall with a suspicious bulge under his coat.”
Things were bustling in the church office. Jill and Betsy stood a moment inside the door, taking it in. A delivery man was standing beside a sta
ck of boxes with a local printer’s logo on them, waiting for someone to sign his clipboard. A plump, sad-faced woman in a head scarf waited on a hard wooden bench, and next to her a thin, nervous man in a light jacket, far too light for the weather. Betsy was surprised to see Patricia Fairland next to him. She was staring at the floor in front of her, looking ill with worry. Betsy thought, Maybe she’s going to ask Father John to ask me to leave town.
Two chatting women were sorting green pledge cards on a table, and the secretary was at her desk and on the phone, saying in a calm voice that no, Christmas day being on a Saturday did not mean that Sunday services were canceled. She had the receiver tucked under her chin and continued typing some text onto her computer screen as she talked. Probably Father John’s Christmas sermon, thought Betsy.
A noise came through the floor, as of a timber being torn in half the long way, and everyone paused to look down, waiting to see if the floor was going to collapse. In the silence, Betsy realized there were other sounds of destruction from the same source.
When the floor didn’t open, the secretary said to the room, “Renovation,” and everyone nodded and went back to whatever they were doing.
The door to Father John Rettger’s office opened, and a woman was heard saying, “But her sister was Mary two years ago, and Jessica is even prettier than Tiffany!”
Father John’s mild voice replied, “But rehearsals for the Christmas pageant have been going on for weeks. We can’t possibly make a last-minute substitution.”
“Can she at least be the understudy?”
“We already have two understudies, and—” something like laughter appeared in Father John’s voice “—I’m afraid every one of them is in very good health.”
A tight-faced woman came marching past Father John into the outer office. She had a gorgeous blond-haired child about seven years old in tow. “But Mother, I don’t want to be Mary,” said the child in a reasonable voice.
“Of course you do, darling,” replied her mother, weaving her expertly through the people and objects between them and the door to the outside hall. “We’ll call the bishop.”
Betsy wondered if it was in the bishop’s power to make Jessica Mary. It might be worth a try; she remembered how the girls who played Mary in her childhood pageants were forever marked as special.
Father John stood in the doorway. He already looked tired, though it was still morning. His secretary hung up and started to sign to Patricia, who rose, but Betsy spoke up quickly.
“Can I just ask something first? Father, can you tell me anything about the disappearance of the tapestry?”
Father John looked blankly at her. “Did it disappear? All I know is, I brought it up to the sacristy that day I loaned you the book, wrapped it in a white sheet, and put it in one of the drawers.” He looked at the secretary. “Crystal, did you take it out of there?”
“I didn’t know it was in there, Father. I don’t think anyone did. We’ve been looking for it.”
Betsy said, relieved, “I was hoping you’d let me have another look at it.”
“Of course. Crystal—”
But Patricia, already moving, said, “I’ll get it for you, Betsy. I want to talk to you about the project anyway.” She gestured at the thin man on the seat. “You may have my turn.”
The man looked at the secretary, then at Father John, who nodded and said, “Hello, Hadley. Come on in.”
Patricia had vanished down a short hall. She was gone barely a minute, then came back, to walk past Jill and Betsy to the secretary’s desk. “Crystal, I can’t find the tapestry in any of the drawers,” Patricia said. “I wonder if Father John is mistaken.” Her voice was a trifle thick, and she coughed. So it was a cold, not worry, that had Patricia looking ill.
“I wouldn’t think so,” said the secretary. “I mean, he said he wrapped it in a sheet and put it in a drawer in the sacristy, right? That’s kind of specific for even him to be mistaken about, you know what I mean?”
“May I look?” asked Betsy.
“I can help, too,” said Jill.
Patricia glanced at the secretary, who shrugged, then said, “Go ahead, if you like.”
“Come on, Betsy,” said Jill.
Jill led her down the short hall to a small room lined with wooden cabinets. There were two sets of wide, shallow drawers. One of the top drawers was pulled out, showing a green chasuble, the vestment that covers the arms and torso of a priest during the communion service.
Betsy bent and looked to the back of the drawer without seeing anything but chasuble. She closed it and pulled the next one out. It was empty. The one below that had a red chasuble.
Jill opened a vertical door and began gently pushing aside the rows of albs, the white gowns worn under vestments.
Finished with the drawers, Betsy opened a tall cabinet full of long candle holders designed to be carried in a procession. Another cabinet contained shelves with censers and other paraphernalia. A tall, narrow hanging space held stoles, the long, narrow bands hung from the neck. Next to the cabinet was a door, in the wall opposite to the one they came in by. Betsy opened it and saw it led into the chapel, which was as innocent of white sheets as the cabinets she had searched. She closed it again and opened the cabinet of albs, and checked each one to make sure Jill hadn’t mistaken a white sheet for an alb. She hadn’t.
Even with total overlap, it took less than five minutes to complete the search.
“What do you think?” asked Betsy.
“I think it’s not in here,” said Jill. “I don’t know why.”
“Where else could it be?”
“Beats me. It’s not in the outer office, and I doubt if it’s in Father John’s office. You looked in the chapel and didn’t see it.”
They went out of the sacristy. Betsy saw another door on her right that had a small metal sign: Rest Room. It was slightly ajar, and she opened it to find the world’s smallest bathroom. It had a toilet and a tiny sink. If the sink had been full size, there wouldn’t have been room for the toilet.
“Find it?” said Patricia from outside the room.
Betsy turned around and said, “No.”
Jill said, “Maybe someone saw it in the sacristy, realized it didn’t belong, and put it somewhere else.”
Patricia said, “Now that sounds very likely. I’m afraid Father John does put things down instead of away, so the staff is pretty used to picking up after him.” Her voice was more indulgent than annoyed, and Betsy remembered Patricia was on the vestry.
Betsy said, “I bet Father John was kind of a letdown after the fabulous Father Keane.”
Patricia frowned a little at Betsy. “Not at all. He’s different, but every man is different from every other. John’s kind and wise and has an amazing sense of humor.”
Betsy laughed. “Good to hear someone finally say that.”
“Say what?”
“Most of us women complain that men are all alike!”
Patricia started to laugh, but sneezed instead. “You’re right, you’re right!” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her coat pocket and blowing. “But don’t tell anyone I said it, or I’m liable to be drummed out of the gender corps!”
Betsy said, “But what are we going to do? This will hold up the restoration.”
“Well, nothing’s going to get done during the holiday season anyway; you know that. Even I’m going out of town—but I think I told you that. We’re leaving this afternoon for Phoenix. The tapestry will very likely turn up a day or two after Christmas, when it’s less of a madhouse around here.”
Jill said, “So you think it will be found.”
“Of course! After all, it’s not exactly something someone would steal. And everyone knows about it, so they aren’t likely to throw it away by mistake. It’s around here somewhere.”
Betsy said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Okay, I’ll just wait for it to turn up. If I don’t hear between now and New Year’s, I’ll call Father John or you.”
�
�Thank you, Betsy.”
16
When they got back to the apartment, the phone message light was blinking.
Betsy pushed the Play button, and the happy voice of her insurance agent said, “Hello, Ms. Devonshire! ServiceMaster says they want to stop by with a pair of their ozone generators. Call me as soon as you hear this and let me know where you’ll leave the key so I can let them in.”
Jill reminded her, “Don’t leave your key with anyone. Ask him when they want to come, and we’ll be here to let them in.”
Betsy did so, and found they would be over within the hour. Then she went into the kitchen to open a can of tuna and heat some tomato soup for lunch. “Do you think Patricia could have taken that tapestry?” she asked, handing Jill’s plate to her.
“I don’t know where to. You looked in the chapel, didn’t you?”
“I looked through the door. But she didn’t have time to go in there to tuck it back behind something, did she? She was only gone a minute, barely long enough to open a couple of drawers.”
Jill nodded. “You’re right. And in that short coat and slacks, she wasn’t wearing it. So assume someone else got there ahead of her. We’ll have to ask Father John who he told about putting the tapestry into the sacristy.”
“Yes,” said Betsy, “because I agree with Crystal: He was too specific about where he put it to be mistaken.”
Since she’d skipped breakfast, she finished her sandwich quickly and drank her mug of soup before calling Trinity. Father John had gone out but she was told he would be back soon. Betsy left a message, asking him to call back.
The ServiceMaster man was tall and young and wore a forest-green jacket and shirt. The ozone generators were small black boxes that made a faint humming sound. “It’s like concentrated oxygen,” he explained. “It just eats smell.”
Soon the box on the checkout desk was emitting a sharp, unpleasant odor. “Do we have to rent another box to get rid of this stink?” asked Betsy.
“No, ma’am,” said the man. “An hour after you shut it off, there’s no smell at all.”
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