Blackwork (17 page)

She reminded herself to let Malloy know about Joey’s alibi. Let Mike check it out—Joey didn’t seem to be lying or mistaken about the night of the chess games, but perhaps he was. Meanwhile, she, Betsy, would cross him off her list.

Now, who on the committee was angry with Ryan?

She had no idea. Who would know? Betsy remembered the indulgent tone in Billie’s voice when she brought the little sandwiches and orange to Ryan’s booth.

It was Billie who had encouraged Ryan to finish restoring the antique fire engine for the parade, and invited him to the meeting to report success, and led the cheering when he had a super idea for supplying it with ghostly riders. So she knew him, or at least had been talking with him for some while.

Billie was easy to find and probably willing to talk. The one Betsy didn’t know was LuLu—and according to Shelly, LuLu was a suspect. She’d better talk to her next.

The McMurphy home was a modest wood-frame bungalow with a deep front porch whose roof was set on pillars, the top half planks, the bottom stones. The house was freshly painted crayon brown with crayon green trim. Lace curtains edged the windows. Two children’s bicycles were on the porch, the smaller one pink, with training wheels.

Betsy, weighty with pity for the ugly event that had damaged and possibly destroyed this scene of domestic bliss, went up to ring the doorbell.

Luella—LuLu—McMurphy was pounds lighter than Betsy remembered from seeing her at church. She was tall for a woman, attractive, with naturally curly brown hair cropped short, and hazel-brown eyes. She was wearing deep blue slacks, a black sweater, and a big green apron with autumn leaves appliquéd all over it. Her face was pale, and there were shadows around her eyes, so intense they looked like bruises. Her full mouth was pulled tight.

“Yes?” she said in a very crisp voice.

“Mrs. McMurphy, I’m Betsy Devonshire. I own Crewel World over on Lake Street, but I’m here because I’m looking into your husband’s death.”

LuLu frowned at her in forming anger, then her brow cleared. “Oh. Yes, I’ve heard about you doing that.” There was a thoughtful silence of about fifteen seconds, which Betsy did not break, before LuLu said, “Very well. Come in.”

It was nearly noon, and a little girl could be heard crooning in the kitchen. “Ohhhhhhh, ’mato soup, ohhhhhhh, crackers, ohhhhhhh, ’mato souuuuuuuup! Mommy?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Am I finished?”

“Not yet, darling. Mommy has company, can you sit quietly for a little while?”

“Yes, Mommy. I’m eating. Ohhhhhhh, ’mato soup . . .”

“She could do a commercial,” said Betsy.

Lulu smiled thinly. “Yes, I suppose she could. Will you have a seat?” She gestured toward a comfortable easy chair upholstered in worn chintz, and she took a matching one, which swiveled to face it. The living room was longer than wide, comfortable and lived in, fully carpeted, with couch, coffee table, fireplace, television, none of it new but all clean and well cared for.

Betsy sat but did not get out the intimidating notebook just yet.

“First,” she said, “let my offer my most profound condolences on the death of your husband. It must have been a terrible shock to you.”

LuLu nodded stiffly. “It was. I knew he was drinking too much, but I didn’t think the damage at this stage was fatal, not yet. I hoped—I’d hoped that making him leave our home would shock him into changing his behavior.”

“Shelly told me that she thought it had, that he immediately stopped drinking—but he started in again last week.”

LuLu nodded. “Yes, he tried to come into our home drunk, crying and saying he was sorry . . . he was so sorry . . .” She began to cry.

Betsy immediately rose and went to her, stooping to reach for her hands. “This is too hard for you. Do you want me to go?”

“No, no, I want to help you believe this was some kind of terrible accident, not . . . not a murder.” She sniffed, and Betsy released her hands so she could reach into her purse and find a Kleenex. LuLu wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and put the Kleenex into her apron pocket.

Betsy asked, “Why do you think it was an accident?”

“Because the room was locked! How could someone asleep in a locked room be killed? It’s ridiculous! And anyway, there was an, an . . . autopsy!” She choked to a stop and had to close her eyes while she hid away any unpleasant knowledge of what an autopsy entailed. “The medical examiner said he died of natural causes. Do you know there is a rumor that Leona Cunningham did it with black magic? Can you believe it? This is the twenty-first century and there are people who want to bring back the ducking stool and the stake! It’s nonsense! Stupid, scary
nonsense
!”

“I agree,” said Betsy firmly. “I completely agree. That’s why I’m investigating. I want to prove it’s nonsense. Will you help me?”

“How can I help?”

“Answer some questions—perhaps some hurtful, embarrassing questions.”

LuLu’s big, dark eyes searched Betsy’s. “All right,” she said.

“Is it true that Ryan took out a very large life insurance policy on his life a few months ago?”

“Oh, you think
I
—well, I suppose you would, if you’re looking at murder. Though I hope you aren’t too serious about it. Still . . . Anyway, it was more like a year ago. Well, almost a year. Ten—nine months, actually.” She seemed a little surprised that it was so recent.

“Is it true that you suggested he do this?”

“No, not exactly. That is, I, uh, well . . . we were having a fight. Another fight, one in a long series of them. And I said his drinking was going to kill him, either from liver failure or a car accident, and what were the children and I to do, since we don’t have any savings? And he said not to worry, and a week later he came home with the policy. As if that fixed everything.”

She bowed her head and said, so softly Betsy had to lean close to hear, “He wasn’t a bad man. When he was sober, he was the best husband in the world. He was sweet and hard-working and he loved me and the kids. And I loved him. Alcoholism is a disease and it was killing him—it did kill him. There was no need for anyone to murder him; he was murdering himself.”

“Where were you the night he was killed?”

“Here. Right here. With the girls. Winnie’s too young to remember what happened which night, but Claire—she’s nearly eight—she’s at school, she could tell you we all three slept in Mommy and Daddy’s big bed that night, just like we did the previous nights. And ever since, too. Every night since he moved out.”

“Mommy?”

They both looked around to see a little girl in red flannel trousers and bright yellow shirt with red teddy bears on it. She was barefoot, and her dark hair was tousled. Betsy guessed the soup had come after a nap.

“Hello, darling.”

“Who’s that lady?”

“Her name is Betsy Devonshire,” said LuLu.

Betsy stood, and the child came to offer her rather grubby hand. She had a tomato soup mustache.

“How do you do, Betsy Dove-sheer.”

“That’s Devonshire, darling,” said LuLu.

“Devon-sheer. Okay.”

Betsy took the proffered hand, then stooped. “How do you do? What’s your name?”

“Winnie. But
not
The Pooh.”

“No, you don’t look much like a Pooh Bear, but you do look like a very pretty little girl. I’m very glad to meet you, Winnie. How old are you?”

“I’m three going on four.”

“Going on four? That’s means you’re getting to be a big girl. Are you going to sleep in your own bed tonight?”

“No! I sleep wiff Claire and Mommy every night in the big bed.” She gestured widely to show how big it was.

Betsy nodded, satisfied. “I bet that’s fun. But I can’t stay and talk any more. I must go away now.” Betsy straightened and said to LuLu, “May I call on you again if I have more questions?”

“Yes, of course. I wish you luck in your sleuthing.”

 

 

 

 

O
UTSIDE, she checked her watch. Nearly twelve noon. She wanted to be back at Crewel World in time for the Monday Bunch meeting at two. There was enough time to get to The Barleywine and have a quick lunch while she talked to Billie.

Betsy drove over to the brew-pub and found a depressing paucity of customers—and no Billie. From behind the bar, Leona said, “She’s gone to Saint Paul to pick up kitchen supplies—there’s a special price but only if we send someone over right now. She’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Betsy used her cell to call Shelly and found out Harvey was in Chanhassen, supervising the cleanup on the park he’d been designing. She had Leona pack up a ham on rye with Swiss, a handful of potato chips, and a long spear of pickle, and set out.

Chanhassen was a pretty and growing town, famous for its dinner theater. The new park bordered a new town house development on the north side of town. Betsy pulled into a freshly tarred parking lot, prepared to eat her sandwich in her car before setting out on a search, but saw four men sitting at a picnic table under a shelter a few dozen yards away. One was a young man in a business suit and raincoat, two were workmen in gray coveralls and muddy boots, and one was wearing jeans, a blue shirt and tie, a tweed jacket, and less-muddy workboots. They were consulting a large sheet of paper that wanted to roll up at the edges.

Betsy got out of her car and started up a freshly graveled walk toward them. As she got nearer, she caught fragments of their conversation, which included terms like
barm
and
punch list
.

“Very good, Mr. Fogelman,” said the man in the business suit, and everyone stood. Harvey Fogelman—the one in the tweed jacket-—rolled up the big sheet of paper and nodded at the workmen, who turned and walked off. The businessman shook Harvey’s hand and came up the walk toward Betsy, giving her a curious glance as he passed by.

The air was chilly, a weak sun unable to warm it. The shelter was a blue-shingled roof set on concrete pillars. Harvey watched the businessman—no, he must be a politician, thought Betsy, here to approve the completion of the park.

She saw Harvey turn to go in the opposite direction, and hailed him. “Mr. Fogelman! Hold on just a minute!”

He turned to look at her, his face puzzled. “May I help you?” he asked as she came under the shelter’s roof.

“I sure hope so,” she said, a little breathless from hurrying. “I’m Betsy Devonshire, from Excelsior, and I own Crewel World.”

“Oh?” he said. Then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, you’re the amateur detective, and a friend of Shelly’s.” Then the frown came back. “And you want to talk to me about Ryan.”

“Yessir, I do. Do you have just a few minutes?”

He considered this for several long seconds, then sighed. “If you’ll let me smoke while we talk, okay.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pipe and a pouch of tobacco.

Betsy didn’t mind the smell of pipe tobacco, and anyway there was a soft breeze flowing under the wall-less shelter. “All right,” she said.

He shoved his pipe into the pouch and began some twiddling motion to fill it while she asked, “How long did you know Ryan Mitchell?”

“More years than I’d like to admit.”

“How did you meet?”

He stuck the pipe in his mouth, found a lighter in a dungaree pocket, turned it sideways to light it, and sucked its flame into the bowl of his pipe. He took a few puffs to get it going, then said, “After I got out of the service, I fooled around doing groundskeeping and managing a garden center before I decided to get serious about making a career of garden design. So I was sixteen years older than Ryan when we met in technical school. He was taking engine repair and small business management, I was studying garden architecture and small business management. I’m not sure why we hit it off at the start, our ages and backgrounds were so different. But we did have the same dumb sense of humor, and the same taste in music—and women, too. Plus, we were about equally broke. But I had my GI bill to help with school, plus a job, and he only had a job, so I let him share my apartment for less than half the rent, if he’d do more than his share of cleaning up. And he did. He was very cheerful about it, too, even if he did put on a ‘Yeth, Mathter’ accent when I’d remind him of a chore.” He smiled and blew a long streamer of fragrant smoke.

Betsy chuckled. She’d gotten out her notebook and now she made a little note. “Did you graduate the same year?”

“No, I finished up a year ahead of him, got a job after only two months of looking. He had a job waiting for him. He’d already been working in the engine repair section of the car dealership part-time, and just went to full time. He was really, really good with his hands.”

“Was he drinking back then?”

Harvey’s face went sad. “I don’t think I realized at the time just how much he was drinking. We both used to party pretty heavy when we partied, but it was an occasional thing. Looking back, I think it was more because we couldn’t afford it than because he didn’t want to get drunk more often. Even back then, he was an ugly drunk, and that’s why I decided not to renew the lease on the apartment when it ran out. I didn’t have the heart to throw him out, so I told him the landlord didn’t want us there anymore, and I found a place with only one bedroom.” He puffed on his pipe for a while, but Betsy waited and at last he said, more softly, “He slept on my couch for about a month before he moved in with someone else.”

“So why did you invite him to stay with you and Shelly after his wife threw him out?”

Harvey’s drawing on his pipe made his hesitation barely noticeable. “Because he really needed a place to stay. He swore he’d quit drinking and he said it would only be a short stay, that he’d talk LuLu into taking him back.”

“But when he started drinking again, you didn’t tell him to leave.”

Harvey’s hesitation was longer this time. “I know.” He sighed. “I know,” he repeated. “I thought Shelly was going to throw us both out—she might’ve if . . . if what happened hadn’t happened. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she threw me out. God, what a mess! I feel so bad for her! She was so angry with him—mostly on LuLu’s behalf, but still. Then walking into
that
in her sewing room, that was really unfair. And now hearing it might be murder. I can’t believe it! Who could do such a thing?” He seemed to catch himself then, stopping short and swallowing whatever else he was going to say, puffing angrily on his pipe.