Embroidered Truths (25 page)

“I’m sorry, wasting time with this. Now I wonder if he didn’t like that one night club we went to.”

“What happened there?”

“Well, we’d gone to a couple of loud party-night ones and we both were a little tired, so I talked to the concierge and he gave me a list of three quieter places. Mario said we’d like this one only a couple of blocks away. ‘There is a guitar player who is so
marvelous
!’ he said. So we went. It was a small place, with this little, little stage, and a man came out in shirt-sleeves with an acoustic guitar, sat down, and played—what’s it called? Flamenco, that’s it. I’m not a flamenco fan, but it was interesting just to watch him. His fingers were flying up and down the neck and he played with all the fingers of his other hand, but his face was very still. And after awhile”—Godwin’s voice dropped and he half-covered the receiver with his hand—“it was like he was making love to the guitar. His face got—oh, I can’t describe it, but I’ve seen it often enough. You know, the upper lip, and the eyes . . . And later, John—” He cut himself off with a gesture. “
Anyway,
I liked it, and I still think John liked it, too.”

“You should write for a travel magazine,” said Betsy. “That was a beautiful description, Goddy, I almost feel like I was there with you.”

“Really?” He brightened at that. “Thank you!”

“Now, on another topic entirely, I’m having trouble with the entrelac pattern I’m knitting.”

“What kind of trouble?”

She tried to explain it, but soon he was lost in its complexities. “That’s all right, I’ll call Rosemary today, she can tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

He looked sad again, so she said, “If they won’t let you knit for real, try visualizing knitting.”

“Visualizing?”

“Yes, when you get back to that quad, lie down and close your eyes. Think about holding your needles—”

“What size?” he said, eyes already closed.

“Fives. You’re making me a pair of socks. You want to put beads in the cuffs.”

“What color?”

“Oh, I don’t know—yes, I do, purple yarn and iridescent pink beads. You want them kind of lacy around the edges. Do you do scallop edges on the cuffs, or little hanging rows of beads?”

His hands began to move. “Scallop edges, they’re more fun. With a row of beads above the scallops, and then another row, offset, above that.” His head cocked sideways. “
Lacy
scallops, that would be nice.” His fingers moved for awhile, then his eyes opened and he smiled at her. “Thanks, boss, that really helped. I’ll make you those socks when I get out of here.”

“Deal,” she said.

On the drive back to her shop, she wondered what she would find there. Though she tried hard not to be superstitious, she tended to look for omens. The water exercise hadn’t been great—though that glimpse of the fox looking over his shoulder in the pre-dawn light had been nice. Or was it mysterious? Was mystery to be her portion today? Godwin had started out glum, then had turned bitter and sad, even angry, on learning how John had not enjoyed the trip he’d been so proud to take him on—the cheesy bastard!—but then had been cheered by her suggestion that he imagine knitting in lieu of the real thing. By all that, she was going to have a very mixed day.

She hoped Godwin wouldn’t actually knit her a pair of purple socks. If he did, he’d expect her to wear them, and she’d have to buy some purple slacks—and then everyone would be asking her where her red hat was. Gray, now, with pink beads, that would be nice. She’d only said purple because it was easier to imagine purple yarn.

Lacy scallops, hmmmm . . .

A horn brought her back to herself. The light at Route Seven and 101 was green. She drove through and continued up Seven. Maybe dark green if he didn’t want to work in gray. Or white with red and blue beads, for the Fourth of July.

The shop was in good order. Two Monday Bunch volunteers were helping Peggy, who was retired and only worked enough hours in the shop to pay for her needlework materials, and Nikki.

“Now, you go right on upstairs and draw some deductions,” Peggy ordered, and the others seconded that heartily.

She went up to find her cat weaving impatiently by the door. Betsy had not come back from aerobics, and so the cat had not been taken down to the shop. Denied her opportunity to cadge snacks from chance customers, the cat was in no mood to be placated by a stroke or two.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said it was Sunday, old girl,” said Betsy. Sunday in Excelsior was observed by all the shops, and was the one day when Sophie stuck to—or was stuck on—her diet. Betsy took her downstairs, where she was greeted with glad cries and immediately given a small piece of cookie. Betsy pretended not to see that, and went back upstairs.

It was close enough to lunchtime that Betsy went into the kitchen—and discovered there was nothing to be eaten but a dry-looking orange and some wilted lettuce.

She grabbed her purse and went out.

Not directly to the grocery store, but first up to the Waterfront Café. Buying groceries while hungry was a sure recipe for excess spending, especially on cookies, doughnuts, jams, cheesecake, and frozen waffles, none of which Betsy wanted in her apartment. She had too many moments of weakness to allow temptation to take up residence.

The Waterfront Café was an old institution in Excelsior, though not its only restaurant. There was a new and elegant Italian place a couple of blocks away, and a good Chinese place even nearer. The Waterfront, small and shaggy, was more nearly like a greasy spoon, except its spoons were not at all greasy. The food was very basic, on the order of ham and cheese or tuna sandwiches on white or whole wheat with chips and a pickle on the side, homemade soups, pie a la mode. Like The Polonaise, its menu invoked an earlier, simpler time.

The Waterfront Café was also where people came to hear the latest. Even the Internet was not as efficient at spreading the news as the Waterfront—though there was a single station in the back where you could go on-line. It created an interesting anachronistic
frisson,
eating a tuna melt and reading the
National Review Online.

Betsy decided on a hot dog with relish and mustard, no chips, and a Diet Coke. She had no more than given her order when Sergeant Mike Malloy sat down across from her. “What’s new?” he asked.

“Nothing much,” she replied, and watched as a slow smile grew on him, lighting up his whole face. She yearned to smack it off for him. Instead she said, “But I’m not finished looking yet.”

That was almost as effective as a smack. “Well, look away, look away. You won’t find anything to disprove my case.” He rose in one swift move and went out.

When her lunch came, she was too angry to eat. She paid her bill and left.

By the time she got out to the big grocery store on Highway 101, she had cooled off enough to wheel her cart around without running into anyone. Godwin would be home soon—somehow, somehow—and she wanted the kitchen stocked for some of his great cooking. It was too early for even the earliest fresh local produce to be showing at a farmers market, so she went to the produce section and did her best among items imported from Texas, Florida, Mexico, and California.

She filled five grocery bags and came home with a hunger headache.

She built a quick sandwich, ate it while putting things away, and after finishing was still putting things away—had she really meant to buy an apple pie?—when the phone rang.

It was Susan Lavery. “Hi, I’ve got some news,” she burbled happily.

“Well, great! What is it?”

“David Shaker has no alibi. In fact, he left work early last Thursday, and called in sick on Friday.”

Betsy felt a hot stab of pleasure. “Gotcha!” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. What else?”

“D’Agnosto—”

“I don’t care about Mr. D’Agnosto!” interrupted Betsy.

“Well, listen to me and you won’t have to read it in day-after-tomorrow’s news. This is big, Betsy, seriously big. The man is going to prison.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am now. I’d try to explain in detail, but that might take awhile. Here’s the brief—the real brief, not a lawyer’s brief. D’Agnosto’s specialty is arranging settlements between clients of the firm and dissatisfied or injured litigants. Recently a client was pleased to pay a hundred thousand dollars to avoid a trial, but D’Agnosto, the dirty rat, persuaded the litigant to settle for sixty-five thousand.”

“Well, good for D’Agnosto, working hard for his client. Right?”

“Wrong. The client wrote a check for a hundred grand and sent it to the firm, to be deposited. The firm wrote a check on another account for sixty-five thousand and sent it to the litigant. And a third check for the difference went into a special account only he knows about.”

“Oh, but didn’t the people who wrote the checks notice what’s going on?”

“D’Agnosto is our chief finance officer.
He
writes the checks.”

“Oh,
Susan
! Have you told anyone about this?”

“Not yet. I’m going to make some photocopies of documents first. Gotta run.”

She hung up before Betsy could ask her more about David Shaker. Betsy wanted to call her back, but didn’t in case someone at Susan’s end was paying attention. Instead, she worried all afternoon about Susan.

A little before seven she tried Susan at home. After six rings Susan’s answering machine picked up. Betsy waited for the beep and said, “Susan? Susan, are you there? It’s Betsy Devonshire! Please pick up if you’re there.” She waited a few seconds, then concluded, “Please call me as soon as you get home. Thank you.”

At eight she called again. Still no answer. Nor at eight-thirty, or nine.

So she called Mike Malloy at home. “I wouldn’t bother you, but I think this may be an emergency. I’ve been talking with an attorney named Susan Lavery, who works at Hanson, Wellborn, and Smith, John Nye’s firm. She hasn’t come home from work, and I’m terribly worried.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because she called me today and told me two things: one, that David Shaker, who was John’s superior, has no alibi for the night John was killed and called in sick the next day. John and David had a very serious confrontation the day before John was murdered. Two, she has collected evidence that a partner in the firm, one Walter D’Agnosto, has been stealing thousands of dollars in settlements he arranged for clients of the firm. If either of those people found out she’s been snooping . . . I’m scared for her, Mike.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you damned amateurs!”

Fright made her flare, “Oh, yeah? If it weren’t for us ‘damned amateurs,’ you professionals would send innocent people to prison for crimes they didn’t commit!”

“All right, all right, calm down. What’s this female attorney’s name again?”

“Susan Lavery. She has a child, Mike, a little boy.”

“The two of you should’ve thought of that before you got her involved in this.” The phone slammed down.

Betsy went to the couch in her living room, fell into it, and wept bitter tears.

In a few minutes, she felt a gentle tap on her elbow. It was Sophie, who looked up into her face with concern. Betsy touched her on top of her head, and the cat climbed heavily into her lap, curled herself into place, and began to purr. Whenever Betsy stopped stroking, she would gently tap her arm again.

Half an hour later, the phone rang. Betsy jumped up, spilling the cat onto the floor, and ran to pick up the receiver.

“It’s Sergeant Malloy,” he said, his voice tight. “She’s at County General. All I know is what I was told, and I was told she fell out of a car. Not her car, apparently. She’s not able to tell anyone right now how that happened.”

Betsy thrust the fingers of one hand into her hair. “Are you there now?”

“Yeah. And I need to talk to you.”

“Can you stay till I get there?”

“Yeah.”

Betsy grabbed her purse and started for the door—then turned back. In her experience, going to the hospital meant a lot of sitting and waiting. Betsy had a hard time just sitting. She ran to her easy chair, grabbed her knitting bag from beside it, and then went out.

Twenty-three

BETSY found a parking place on the street near the Hennepin County Medical Center, and hurried into the Emergency Room reception area.

Mike Malloy, thin and grim, was waiting for her in front of the long, tall counter. He took her by the elbow, not gently, and steered her into a small office. “What do you know about this?” he demanded in a low, firm voice, shutting the door behind them.

“How is she?” Betsy replied.

“I said—”

“No. You first. How is she? What happened to her? Can I talk to her?”

“She’s still unconscious, but she has a very thick skull, and she’ll likely wake up in a little while, none the worse except for a bad headache. She’s got a pretty good case of road rash on her arms and legs, along with assorted bumps and bruises, from falling out of a moving car. No broken bones. How did she come to be in the trunk of a car?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Who called me away from a terrific basketball game with a complaint that she might be in danger?”

“Um.”

“Right. Your turn. How did she come to be in the trunk of a car?”

“Someone put her there, of course. I don’t
know
who!” she burst out, forestalling his next question. “I called you to say there were two people she was suspicious of, for two completely different and unrelated reasons.” She turned around and saw a metal chair with an imitation leather seat and sat down.

“I went to Hanson Wellborn to see if someone there had a grudge against John. I talked with John’s secretary, but she couldn’t tell me anything useful. Then I met Susan Lavery, just by chance. I know her, she’s a customer. I was surprised to learn she’s an attorney. Anyway, we talked and she volunteered to look into various people at the firm. First, she told me about David Shaker, how John had shown him up in an important meeting, and how David had come down to John’s office and . . . and there was some kind of confrontation. Tasha, John’s secretary, doesn’t seem to know anything about it, but Susan is sure it happened. David has a reputation as the enforcer of the firm. I only talked to him briefly, but he seemed perfectly nice right up until he gave Susan a look that should have frozen her marrow.” Betsy choked and wiped her eyes. “She told me she expected she would hear from him before the week was out. Oh, I feel just so
terrible
!”