Blackwork (26 page)

Lars almost had a hand on her when she ducked out into the street and ran up through the swinging lawn chairs, taking a knock on the shoulder from one and knocking another over. Lars accounted for three more marchers while following her. Betsy ran up the street beside the men; the uniformed officer didn’t cross the street, but instead tried a flanking move by running up the same side.

By now the Indian braves were aware of the disturbance. They moved aside to let Billie run through—she was running up the street, not crossing it—but they made yipping sounds at her to show disapproval, and one of them waved a feather-bedecked coup stick at her.

When Billie got among the Osseo Band members, some left off their playing to shout at her. The uniformed cop moved in, at which point Billie grabbed a tuba player and shoved him at the cop, spinning him around some more to block Lars’s approach. She let him go and he fell. Lars had to leap high to get over him. Billie ran into the crowd lining the other side of the street.

“Grab her, stop her!” shouted Betsy, daring to run almost under the hooves of the Indian ponies in pursuit.

Then: nothing. Billie was a short woman, dressed like everyone else in jacket and jeans, and she simply vanished into the thick mass of people.

Frantically, Betsy pushed and wriggled her way through the crowd, standing on her tiptoes now and again, looking but seeing no sign of Billie.

A powerful hand grabbed her arm. “Ow!” she shouted, trying to twist away before she saw it was Lars.

“Which way did she go?” he shouted over the noise of the band.

“I don’t know. You’re tall, you look!”

He obeyed. “I don’t see her!” He turned and called, “Mack! Mack! Down to the corner!” and gestured forward.

“We’ll never catch her!” lamented Betsy.

“Sure we will. I’ve called it in, backup is coming, and they’ll be watching her house. Do you know where her car is parked?”

“No.”

“Leave your cell phone on. Call me if you see her.” He hustled away.

Betsy turned her cell phone back on and started her own search through the crowd. She couldn’t move faster than a walk; the crowd seemed a stubborn thing, determined to block her movement. She couldn’t hear anything but the bands—and the whoosh of the hot air balloon burner as she passed it, which brought not only illumination but a touch of welcome warmth. She was cold, cold, cold, with fear.

This was her fault. She should have told Lars and let him handle it properly. Or she should have waited until tomorrow and then told Mike Malloy, who could have arrested Billie at her home, quietly, without any fuss.

Instead here she was, pushing her way fruitlessly through a standing crowd, trying to look over shoulders higher than her head for a person who most definitely did not want to be found. The fire truck was making a sound like a gigantic frog with croup, its bell ringing a dirge, its big engine running more raggedly even than when it started out. The riders were making moaning sounds, barely audible over the other noises, and while most of the crowd applauded, some were hooting back or laughing.

If only she could get up on the second floor or even the roof of a building—but everything was closed, locked tight, lights shut off.

The
whoooooshhh!
of the hot air balloon basket’s burner was suddenly close—the thing had caught up with her.

Betsy ran out into the street and around to the front of the truck, gesturing at the driver to stop. He did, rolling his window down to peer at her.

The truck was enormous. It had a flatbed big enough to carry a pickup.

“I need to get onto the back of your truck!” she called up to the driver.

Instantly, the man in the passenger seat—he of the gray coveralls and yellow watch cap—hopped out and Betsy ran back around to him. He showed her a square strap of metal near the front end of the flatbed, then formed a stirrup with his two hands. She stepped onto them, put a foot into the metal square as into another stirrup, then stepped up onto the bed of the truck.

The man ran back and got into the cab of the truck and it began to roll.

Betsy rocked around a bit to regain her balance, then she went over to the basket and startled the daylights out of the burner operator by reaching in and tapping him on his arm. His knit cap was, appropriately, orange.

“Hey! What are you doing up here?”

“I’m Betsy Devonshire, and I’m in charge of this parade. It’s desperately important that I find someone who is in the crowd. Please let me into the basket, I don’t want to call attention to myself.”

It was a tall basket, coming more than halfway up to Betsy’s chest. The basket actually had a little door in the side, though it opened only halfway down, making a very high sill for Betsy to step over. There was not as much room inside as it seemed from the outside, because there were four large propane tanks buckled into straps along one side. Still, the basket could probably hold four people, in addition to the operator.

Betsy pulled her dark knit hat down over her forehead and nodded at the operator, who reached up and pulled down his semicircular handle, releasing a huge plume of flame.

Betsy was amazed at how much light it gave off, and how well she could see from up in this basket.

She saw Lars, and the uniformed cop—no, it was a different cop. In fact, it was a female cop. And there was another cop over there. And another one crossing the street.

But she didn’t see Billie. The flame went out.

In the next block was a “park” about the size of the flatbed; behind it stood a parking lot that doubled as a farmer’s market on Wednesdays during the summer. It took up an entire city lot, and ran from the restored trolley car tracks on the north to the art supply store on the south. The art store’s mural—a reproduction of a Claude Monet painting beside a pond of water lilies—was almost invisible in the dim streetlights. But something moved beside it, heading toward the back of the building.

“Light it up!” ordered Betsy. “Now, light it up!”

With a breathy roar, the flame leaped from the burner into the night sky.

And there was Billie, looking over her shoulder, her face pale orange in the fiery light. Then, as the burner cut off, she was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared.

Betsy yelled for Lars, but the Roosevelt Band behind the truck was riffing on its drums and she was sure no one could hear her but the burner’s operator.

She opened the little half door of the basket and fell out, hurting her knees, then staggered to her feet. The crowd cheered and laughed. Reaching, she found her cell phone and punched 911.

“I’m Betsy Devonshire in Excelsior, working with Sergeant Lars Larson of the Excelsior Police Department,” she said rapidly when the call was answered. “There is a woman named Billie Leslie, wanted for murder, moving along the north side of Artworks, a store at 345 Water Street, heading for the rear. There are police all over the place looking for her. Tell them!” She cut the connection and pushed the speed dial button to call Lars.

“Lars, I just saw Billie on the north side of the Artworks building. I don’t know if she knows I saw her. I’m riding on the flatbed that is carrying the hot air balloon basket.”

“Gotcha. Thanks.” The connection was broken.

Betsy went to the front of the flatbed and thumped on the roof of the cab with a fist. It slowed to a stop—it wasn’t moving very fast anyway—and the passenger got out to help her down. She leaped into his arms, making him stagger back and nearly fall. Betsy made another swift resolution to go on a diet, thanked him profusely but hastily, and hurried off around the back of the truck, ignoring the stares of the Roosevelt High School musicians.

She ran through the handkerchief park, then across the parking lot at an angle designed to bring her to the back of the Artworks building—and collided with Billie, who was coming out of the shadows in her direction.

“Out of my way!” growled Billie, rebounding and starting to circle Betsy.

“Don’t run away, Billie!” pleaded Betsy. “The police are everywhere, looking for you. Stay here with me! Give yourself up!” She moved to block Billie’s passage.

“You stupid bitch! You think I’m crazy? I’ll hurt you if I have to, but I’m not going to wait for the police to arrest me! Move, dammit,
move
!” Billie lunged this way and that, trying to get around Betsy, who half crouched, arms spread, prepared to grab and pull if Billie got within reach.

Which she did, with extreme suddenness. One moment they were both jumping and glaring at each other, the next Betsy was on the rough blacktop of the parking lot, holding on for dear life to one of Billie’s ankles.

There was a sound of running feet and the shouting of many voices, male and female: “Stay where you are!” Instantly contradicted by, “Get on the ground!” and “Show me your hands!”

“Oh, Christ!” wept Billie as Betsy let go.

L
EONA’S alibi was solid. I knew it wasn’t her,” said Betsy. She was sitting with the Monday Bunch, splendid in a red and lavender silk shirt that matched the surround of her right eye and (though her gray trousers covered them) her empurpled knees.

Present were Phil and Doris, Emily, Alice, Godwin, Bershada, Jill, and Patricia Fairland, back from a vacation in Arizona with her in-laws.

A banging over near the front door gave away the presence of a tenth person, Conner O’Sullivan, busy replacing the broken door to the shop’s antique counter.

“Shelly and Harvey were right on the spot. They had opportunity galore,” continued Betsy. “Shelly was upset that this drunk was occupying her sewing room at the behest of her boyfriend. But the house belongs to her. The solution was not murder but an invitation to one or both of them to get out.

“Harvey, on the other hand, was my main suspect. He had great opportunity and what I thought was a superior motive. It wasn’t until the night of the parade that everything suddenly pointed to Billie.”

“Ah,” said Phil.

“Yes. Poor Billie, whose adored daughter had her dreams of a prestigious career spoiled by the cruel and careless gossip of a drunken nephew.”

“But Billie had an alibi, too,” said Doris.

“Not for the whole time. It takes about six hours for a big block of dry ice to evaporate, but it only takes four for pellets, especially if they’re scattered. Billie’s alibi really wasn’t very good. She said herself that getting out of bed wakens her husband—who would ask, ‘What time is it?’ She could tell him any time she liked.”

“How do you know the killer used pellets?” asked Jill.

“Because of this,” said Betsy, holding out her hand to display the fading burn mark in the palm. “This happened when I was conducting an experiment with pelleted dry ice and accidentally grabbed one of the pellets. The size and shape of the burn is the same size and shape as the mark on Ryan’s foot. Like me, Billie spilled one or more while she was laying them in little piles, distributing them around the room. And Ryan, walking around in his bare feet getting ready for bed, stepped on one.”

Godwin said, “I thought it might be Irene. She kept making those strange accusations against Leona . . .” His sentence trailed off, because Betsy had told him about Irene’s spying on Leona on the condition that he not share what she told him.

“I think Irene wants to do some sleuthing herself,” said Betsy. “She made the beginner’s mistake of deciding who the guilty party was and then trying to prove it, rather than just gathering information and letting that reveal the culprit.”

Godwin said, “Tell them about the dream of galloping oranges.”

“Usually my dreams about cases aren’t any help,” said Betsy. “Either they’re wrong or I don’t understand the symbology or I don’t realize it’s a helpful dream—which was almost what happened this time. I dreamed I saw a whole herd of oranges running on horses’ feet, and I picked one up and tried to pry off its tiny horseshoes with a screwdriver.” She looked around the table and met only blank stares.

“Back when I was in the Navy, I knew a couple of hospital corpsmen—medical technicians—who told me they used to practice giving injections on oranges, and that someone came up with the idea of filling the syringes with vodka instead of water. They called them screwdrivers on the hoof.”

“Yes, and . . . ?” said Bershada in her dry voice.

“That’s how Billie sabotaged Ryan’s sobriety. She brought him a couple of finger sandwiches and an orange she’d picked up for herself when Roger brought them to the table during a break of the Halloween festival planning committee. Not just any orange but one prepared in advance to be a screwdriver on the hoof. Ryan said someone sabotaged his sobriety that night. He thought it was Leona, and he was sure anything bad that happened to him was her fault.”

“Where did Billie get a syringe?” asked Patricia.

“From her daughter Cara, who is studying to be a veterinary tech. Billie helped her with her homework, part of which is learning to give injections—so she had access to a syringe. It’s very likely that Cara and her classmates know that trick with vodka, and Cara told Billie about it.”