Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 Page 10

  “Wait a minute, I thought you were on nights.”

  “We’re working double shifts until everything’s back to normal. There are still roads closed, and we’ve got a pair of thieves on snowmobiles hitting summer cottages around the lake. I’m cruising in a four-wheel-drive vehicle, hoping to surprise the little buggers.”

  So much for that serene cottage in the snow. “Good luck,” said Betsy.

  Someone knocked on Betsy’s bedroom door again, and Betsy, who thought she’d only dozed off for a minute, opened her eyes and said, “Sorry, Jill.”

  But it was a man’s deep, warm, familiar voice that replied, “Hello, darlin.”

  Betsy groaned. “Oh, no, it’s the Pig.”

  “No, it’s me, Hal, the world’s greatest fool.”

  “You got that right.” Betsy hauled herself into a sitting position again, glad she’d worn her thickest flannel nightgown to bed, and hoping her hair looked awful. “Go away, Hal.” She looked at her bedside clock. It was a little past seven. She’d no idea she’d been asleep five more hours!

  “Not till you let me have my say.”

  “Nothing you say could possibly interest me.”

  “There’s a saying, ‘Experience keeps a hard school, but a fool will learn in no other.’ I’ve been to experience’s grad school, let me tell you.”

  “It seems to me, since you’re standing upright and have all your limbs and both eyes, it wasn’t hard enough.”

  Hal’s voice took on a pleading tone. “What can I do to show you I mean it when I say I’m sorry? That I’ve learned my lesson? What do you want from me?”

  “Besides your head on a pole? Nothing. And all you’re going to get from me is a hard kick to a delicate place if you don’t get out of here. Now.”

  “Please, let’s talk! I really want a second chance!”

  “To what? Hurt me again? Never! If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.” When he didn’t start immediately for the door, she picked up the bedside phone’s receiver and glanced at him, fully prepared to dial.

  Betsy had read in English novels about a person “going white to the lips,” but had never seen anyone actually do that before. In the blink of an eye, he went from hurt and contrite to ferocious, his dark eyes blazing at her from that white face, his lips a thin slash. But he didn’t say anything, only turned on his heel and walked out of the bedroom. Seconds later, she heard the door to the hall slam.

  “Whew!” she said, replaced the receiver, and slid down under the covers again.

  But the excitement of that visit had left her wide awake. She huffed a bit, trying to work up a sleepy yawn, but no good. So she twisted over and picked up the bedside phone again, dialed the shop.

  “Godwin?” she said when he answered. “If Hal comes back, don’t let him upstairs again, okay? I don’t want him up here. Thanks.”

  She hung up and realized she was hungry—no, famished. When had she last had a real meal? Yesterday? The day before? She went out to the little kitchen and was touched to find the counter space crowded with baskets of fruit, a large selection of Excelo Bakery’s cookies, and a loaf each of their beautiful herb and multigrain bread. In the refrigerator were a six-pack of Diet Squirt, a liter of V8 Extra Spicy, three brand-new quarts of milk, and four kinds of casserole—er, hot dish—plus two orders of her favorite chicken salad made with red grapes and cashews, a plastic bowl of homemade potato salad, and a whole banana cream pie. She checked the freezer and, as Shelly said she would do, there were more no-longer-hot dishes waiting in there.

  This was ridiculous. And vastly touching. She stood there sniveling until cold air spilling out of the refrigerator started to chill her toes.

  Then she got a dinner plate out of the cabinet and made an enormous and peculiar dinner by taking a sample of every hot dish that wasn’t frozen. She washed it down with milk.

  She washed the plate, glass, and fork and wandered into the living room. Normally eating an enormous meal made her sleepy, but having slept so much already, Betsy was in no mood to go back to bed. She looked around for something to do. She didn’t feel up to the concentration it took for counted cross stitch. She was about to pick up the scarf she was nearly finished knitting for Godwin, when she remembered the mystery of the tapestry.

  Those little symbols, the shamrock, the flaming heart, the pig. Attributes, Father John had called them, because they identified certain saints. Was there a pattern to the ones selected?

  She went into the back bedroom where she had her notes, and the book on attributes Father John had loaned her. The book was there, on the computer desk, but her notes weren’t. Betsy could be absentminded, moving things and forgetting where she’d put them, so she looked all around the room. No luck. She even went into the two-drawer file cabinet, though she knew perfectly well she hadn’t been so organized as to make up a file folder and put the notes in there. She started to boot up her computer, then remembered she hadn’t saved the notes, just printed them out.

  She expanded her search to her own bedroom, then the living room. The doorbell’s ring found Betsy on her knees in the kitchen, looking under the sink. She answered it warily, afraid Hal might have talked his way past Godwin again. But it was Jill.

  “I saw your lights on and thought I’d check on you,” said Jill, who looked barely able to stand.

  “I’m feeling pretty good, but you look terrible,” said Betsy. “When were you last in bed?”

  Jill thought. “I can’t remember, though it wasn’t all that long ago. I’m just tired. Driving on icy roads after a storm like this isn’t much fun.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “You don’t have to feed me.”

  “Okay, how about I let one of my many friends feed you?” Betsy went to her refrigerator, brought out one of the hot dishes, and spooned half of it into a Tupperware bowl. “Here,” she said, “take this home, put it in the microwave, and hit your soup button twice.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t even think I was hungry until you started spooning it out. Then I had to keep swallowing so drool wouldn’t drip off my chin. Whose is it?”

  “Patricia Fairland’s. It’s got shrimp, pea pods, mushrooms, and three kinds of cheese.”

  “Golly,” sighed Jill.

  “It tastes as good as it smells, too.”

  Jill said, “Well, thanks so much. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Late tomorrow morning.”

  After Jill left, Betsy gave up her search and sat down to knit. Knit two, purl two, fifty times, with an odd one at either end of the row. There were only a few inches left to do, so she turned on KSJN and finished it to Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony—she had to get out her Learn to Knit in One Day booklet to remind herself how to cast off—then, to the odd cadences and plaintive harmonics of medieval music, used all the colors of yarn that were in the scarf to make a long fringe at either end.

  Tired at last, she went to bed and read enough of the book, which was actually called Attributes and Symbols of the Christian Church and was nearly a hundred years old, to put herself back to sleep.

  8

  Betsy came down to her shop around ten-thirty on Thursday morning looking bright and chipper.

  Godwin was explaining how to use blending filament in counted cross stitch to a customer, so Shelly hurried to intercept her, exclaiming in an undertone, “What are you doing down here? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I feel fine. I couldn’t stay in bed any more without being tied down. How are things?

  “Fine, really, just fine. I’m here with Godwin, so why don’t you go shopping or something?”

  “I don’t know if I’m up to shopping. Too much walking.”

  Betsy went to the library table. “But I feel odd not coming down to work. How are we doing? Has it been busy? Did that ad salesman come in? Anything going on I should know about?”

  “It’s been fairly busy, enough so we’re glad there are two of us. We had three people waiting at the door for us to open. Godwin’s jus
t winding up the last one. And the ad salesman came in yesterday, so we showed him the ad you designed and he should call you today with prices. Are you going to advertise in all the weeklies around the area?”

  “Depends on the price. Maybe only the Excelsior Bay Times.” Betsy leaned right, then left. “Is my project down here?”

  “What, the ornaments?”

  “No, the needlepoint one, the kitten asleep in the basket of yarn.”

  Shelly came to pull out a chair. “Here, sit down. What’s it in?”

  Betsy sat. “The basket with the lid.” She bent again to look for it, but Shelly had already picked it up. She put it on the table, her movements hasty and her face anxious. “What’s the matter, Shelly?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I mean, Betsy, we were afraid you were going to die, and you still looked awful when I brought you home. I can’t believe you think you’re well enough to go back to work already.”

  “Plus,” drawled Godwin as he closed the shop door on his customer, “Shelly wants that Wentzler Camelot sampler, and is afraid you’ll send her home before she earns enough money to buy it.”

  “Goddy—!” scolded Shelly, but her face was pink. “It’s not true!” she said to Betsy. “Well … not altogether.”

  Betsy laughed. “I want you to stay. I don’t think I have the stamina to work a full day.”

  Godwin said, “I don’t think you should work at all. Aren’t you supposed to stay in bed until Saturday?”

  “No, I’m supposed to rest until Saturday. And if I have to stay upstairs, I will start climbing the walls, which isn’t very restful. I’d rather be sitting down here with you.”

  The shop door went bing, and Godwin said, “Who’s sitting?”

  It was Martha Winters. “Well, I’m so glad to see you up and about, Betsy,” she said. “I’m here to see if you have any of those Rainbow Gallery ‘Wisper’ colors.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Godwin. “They came in yesterday.”

  The two went off to the back. Shelly said to Betsy, “You might want to try them for your kitten. They’re fuzzy, and if you brush the stitching, they look just like fur.”

  “Sounds great,” said Betsy. “But let me figure out this stitch for the yarn first. What do you think of—”

  Just then the door sounded, and Joe Mickels came in. He nodded at Betsy and said, “You should be in bed.”

  Betsy, beginning to get annoyed at this insistence she shouldn’t be at work, snapped, “Why, do I look sick?” She had taken some care with her appearance this morning, and thought she looked at least healthy.

  He frowned at her, taking her invitation seriously. “I guess not. I came by to see if your help can tell me if you’re recovering on schedule. I can see that you’re ahead of predictions.” Joe managed not to sound pleased, but on the other hand, he didn’t sound like his usual blustery self.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said Betsy, frowning at him. This was the second time Joe had passed up an opportunity to bluster.

  As if reading her mind, he swelled his chest and said more strongly, “You let me know right away if what happened makes you decide to move to a warmer climate, all right?”

  “Yes, I’ll be sure to do that,” retorted Betsy, and he turned on his heel and left.

  “What was that all about?” asked Shelly.

  “The usual,” said Betsy with a shrug.

  “You know, it’s odd how he hasn’t gone after you like he did Margot. He was in here growling at her or serving her with some kind of legal paper practically every week for a long time.”

  “Maybe he has a mad, secret crush on me,” Betsy joked.

  “More likely it’s some new trick. You watch out for him, Betsy. For Joe, everything comes down to money, and with your lease, he’s losing money every day.”

  Betsy got out a piece of scrap canvas and consulted her book of needlepoint stitches. Someone on the needlework newsgroup had suggested the stem stitch for the balls of yarn, and though her book showed it only in straight lines, she set out to see if she could curve it just a little to make the balls look round. And maybe if she used a slightly darker shade around the edge …

  She’d only done a few stitches when the phone rang. Godwin, who had just sold Martha four packs of hairy yarn, picked up and said, “Crewel World, good morning, how may I help you? Oh, hello, Vern!” He listened and said, “Great!” and to Betsy, “It’s Miller Motors. They towed your car in and Vern wants to talk to you.”

  Betsy reached for the cordless on the table and pushed the talk button. “What’s it going to cost me for the tow?” she asked. Miller Motors was a shabby old place, located in a converted stable, and Vern Miller was a retired army sergeant who had learned about motors by repairing tank engines. Betsy had no intention of allowing him to work on her car.

  “We ain’t got that figured, yet,” replied Vern. “What I want to know is, who’s got it in for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your brake line’s been cut. Did you notice your brakes goin’ soft while you was out drivin’ in the snow?”

  Betsy said, “Well yes, and then they quit altogether. That’s why I went off the road. But I thought it was my gas tank that was punctured.”

  “It wasn’t your gas tank, it was your gas line; it got ripped loose back near the gas tank. That was an accident that happened while you was wallowin’ around that pine tree. I’m talking about your brake line. It was cut, like with a box ripper or a good pair of scissors. And you’re supposed to be smart, so think: If your brakes went out while you was driving, it was done before the accident. Which means it wasn’t an accident.”

  Betsy sat perfectly still for a few seconds. “You’re sure?”

  “You want to come and take a look for yourself? I’m tellin’ you, the line was cut!”

  “All right, all right,” said Betsy. “I believe you.” She thought, then said, “Okay, just park the car someplace. Don’t let anyone touch it, and don’t start any repairs; I want someone else to look at it. I’ll call you back.”

  “Storage is twenty bucks a day.”

  “Fine.” Betsy hung up and picked up her canvas. But she only stared at it without making any stitches.

  “What?” demanded Godwin.

  “Mr. Miller says someone cut my brake line.”

  “You mean when they were hauling it back up on the road?” asked Shelly.

  “No, before I went into the ditch. My brakes failed, that’s why I went off the road. He’s very sure it was cut, like with a box opener, deliberately.”

  “Nonsense,” said Shelly. “Why would someone do that?”

  Godwin said, “That, my dear, is a very good question.”

  Shelly said, “Oh, Godwin, you don’t mean—Oh, Betsy! ”

  There was a little silence. Betsy said in a small voice, “I can’t think of anyone even miffed at me right now.”

  Shelly said, “Joe Mickels?”

  Godwin said, “It’s silly to think anyone would seriously want to hurt you for any reason, even Joe.”

  The silence fell again, then Shelly said lightly, “Who didn’t you invite to your party that you should have?”

  Godwin stared at her, scandalized, then started to laugh. “Yes, and you haven’t held a pre-Christmas sale. That’s bound to upset at least some of your regular customers.”

  Betsy giggled. “Maybe it’s Sophie, angry because I put her on a diet.”

  “Yeah,” said Godwin, “I can just see her sneaking out to crawl under your car and rip that puppy loose with her hind claws. That’ll teach you.”

  “How would she know—” Betsy paused, frowning.

  “What?” asked Godwin.

  “How would anyone know? I mean, if it really was cut, who do I know who knows what to cut? I don’t know what a brake line looks like. I don’t think I know anyone who would know; most of my customers are women. Well, except Phil Galvin. Or Steve Pedersen, or Donny DePere.” These were her three most faithful male custom
ers.

  “Trust me, Donny wouldn’t know, either,” said Godwin.

  Shelly said, “You’re wrong; a lot of us women know, Betsy. Remember that course, Godwin? Introducing Your Car, it was called. It was aimed primarily at women. Open U taught it four years in a row. I took the first one, and it was so great I told everyone, and a lot of women from around here signed up. Four or five of the teachers at the elementary school did. And Patricia did, she said she was sick of being taken by car repair shops. And Martha, and June, and Eloise, and Heidi, and—gosh, a lot of your customers. Mandy Abrams took it. We learned how to change the oil as well as flat tires, and we studied all the parts of the engine and transmission. It was very interesting. I kept all my notes, and I haven’t felt intimidated by car repairmen since. Though I never did change my oil after that one time. I thought I’d never get my fingernails clean!”

  Godwin nodded. “I think two used-car dealers went out of business while they were teaching that course.”

  “Only one,” corrected Shelly. “And he was already notorious.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Betsy.

  “You don’t think Vern is right, do you?” asked Shelly.

  “Probably not,” said Betsy, “but I’m going to call Mike down at the police station anyhow.”

  Detective Sergeant Mike Malloy, somewhat to Betsy’s surprise, took her report seriously and said he would stop by Miller Motors and look at her car.

  He stepped into Crewel World less than an hour later, a slender redhead with freckles spattering a thin-lipped face. “All right, what are you mixed up in now?” he growled.

  Betsy said, “You mean Vern Miller was right? The line was cut deliberately?”

  “Yes. You didn’t discover another skeleton did you? Maybe under that old tapestry they found at Trinity?”

  “No, of course not,” said Betsy.

  Godwin said, “What she means is, she hasn’t figured out yet what her new case is about. Though obviously someone has.”

  “Goddy, go help Shelly with that customer back by the counted cross stitch patterns,” ordered Betsy, and he sniffed and walked away.