Blackwork (6 page)

“Do you mean to tell me that any of you sitting at this table thinks Mr. Wainwright’s accident was caused by a curse put on him by Leona Cunningham?” demanded Alice in an awful voice.

“Ryan believes it,” said Godwin. He pushed another pattern into the row of them on the shelf, and turned to face them. “And right after Ryan accused her of it, he goes out and gets his car wrecked. This despite all his amulets.”

“What are amulets?” asked Emily.

“Haven’t you seen that collection of his?” Godwin used his hands to form a softball-size shape in the air. “It’s got so many good-luck pieces on a big silver ring that if he ever fell into the lake, it would take him right to the bottom.”

“Oh, that Ryan is just silly!” pooh-poohed Emily, her knitting needles flashing. She was making a sweater for her toddler son. “She made him mad, telling him to walk home. Of course he felt he just had to drive his car, and so he blames her for the wreck.”

Bershada laughed, but Jill said, “That sounds just like excuses I’ve heard from drunks back when I was on patrol. ‘She told me I couldn’t, so I had to prove I could.’ And he probably doesn’t remember doing the vandalism to Leona’s back porch. He’s been drunk ever since he got out of jail.”

“He knew what he was doing when he dared Leona to put a hex on him at The Barleywine,” said Betsy, remembering.

Godwin said, “Even if he thought his lucky charms protected him in that accident, it seems stupid of him to tempt her again by trashing her back porch.”

“Of course, his accident had nothing to do with the fact that he was severely intoxicated that evening,” said Alice repressively.

“It had everything to do with it,” said Jill. “Being drunk also gave him the nerve to beard the lioness in her den—stand up to Leona in The Barleywine.”

Phil said, “I heard he jangled that keychain right in her face and dared her to lay a curse on him.”

“Did she?” asked Emily. “Lay a curse? You know, did she say the words that meant she was cursing him?”

“No, of course not,” said Jill. “She told him to walk, not drive,
walk
home and sleep it off.”

“Were you actually there?” asked Doris, hearing a note of authority in Jill’s voice.

“No,” said Jill, “but that’s what’s in the police report. I also happen to know Ryan blew a two-oh.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Emily.

“When they make you blow into a little machine that measures how drunk you are,” said Betsy, “it comes up in numbers.”

Jill said, “In Minnesota, oh-eight—that is, a zero-point-zero-eight percent blood alcohol level—is legally too drunk to drive. Zero point two zero is very drunk.”

Betsy said, “He must have had a lot more beer than we realized. I wonder why Joey Mitchell kept buying it for him.”

Bershada asked, “Aren’t those two good friends?”

“They used to be,” said Phil. “Then Joey was in a car accident with Ryan behind the wheel. Joey came away with a smashed left arm that’ll never be right. He had to quit the fire department because of that, and I know he was mad at Ryan for a long time.”

“He must have gotten over it, then,” said Betsy, remembering how Joey greeted Ryan warmly and came to sit with him in The Barleywine booth.

“How’d Ryan get drunk?” asked Bershada. “I heard Leona and Billie agreed never to sell him any more beer after that night he got in a fight and broke their jukebox.”

“Joey bought it for him. He admitted it.”

“What was Ryan doing there in the first place?” asked Emily.

“He’d come to tell the committee about having finished restoring that antique fire engine for the parade,” said Betsy.

“What would one point zero be?” asked Doris, idly curious.

“Dead,” Jill said. “I read not long ago of a woman who was zero point five seven and she is considered a medical miracle because she came out of her coma and lived.”

“Why would anyone drink till they nearly die?” asked Emily.

“Usually on a dare or a bet,” said Jill.

“Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug,” chanted Phil, nodding at an old memory.

Betsy frowned at him. Where had she heard that recently? Not directed at her, but overheard. Probably from someone at The Barleywine.

The subject was wandering away from superstitions, so Godwin said, “Look, a Hamsa Hand.” When they all looked toward him, he held out a counted cross-stitch pattern with a color photograph of the completed piece on its front. It looked like an open hand, blue, palm forward, with three fingers between two thumbs, all pointing down. In the center of the palm was an eye with a red heart for an iris. Above the hand was printed a line in some very foreign language. “Ryan has one of these in pewter,” he said; “I’ve seen it myself.”

“What does the writing mean?” asked Doris.

Godwin consulted a tag hanging on a string from the bottom of the canvas. “It’s Hebrew for ‘Let this home be filled with the blessing of joy and peace.’” He seemed disappointed that it didn’t say something like, “May this home be safe from hexes.”

Betsy said, “The Hamsa Hand is also found in Arabic countries. There, it’s the Hand of Fatima.”

“Muslims and Jews have the
same superstition
?” asked Emily incredulously.

“Actually, the hand is older than either religion. But sometimes Muslims and Jews will wear the hand as a sign that they want reconciliation.”

“Why is there an eye in the palm?” asked Doris.

“It’s protection against the Evil Eye,” said Godwin, looking again at the tag.

“It
looks
like an evil eye,” noted Alice.

“But it has a heart in the center of it,” objected Emily.

“There’s many an evil deed done in the name of love,” remarked Jill.

“Do you believe in the Evil Eye, Goddy?” asked Betsy in a very dry voice.

“No, of course not,” said Godwin, making cabalistic gestures with his free hand and pretending to spit left and right. Phil and the women at the table laughed, even Alice. Godwin often made grand, brave statements he would simultaneously contradict with a gesture. It was part of his insouciant charm.

“Are you superstitious, Betsy?” asked Phil in a jocular voice.

“Oh, no more than average,” said Betsy, trying for a distracted voice, picking up the next sales slip. She didn’t have any amulets on her keychain, but there was a small, real amber bead sewn into the lining of her swimsuit. Sailors knew that wearing an amber bead means the wearer will never die by drowning. In another life, Betsy had been a Navy WAVE.

Godwin decided to become direct. “Do any of you really believe Leona Cunningham is a witch?”

“Of course she is!” said Emily, staring at him. “Isn’t that what we’re talking about? She’s a Wiccan.”

“No, I mean, do any of you believe she can cast a spell on someone?”

“Well . . .” said Phil, scratching the underside of his jaw with two fingers. “There’s more things under heaven than most of us realize. We Christians believe in miracles, so maybe we should believe in the opposite, too . . .” He shrugged.

“Oh, stop it, Phil!” said Alice. “I can’t believe you think there’s anything in such silly superstitions. To think that in this day and age
anyone
would believe a person can boil up a potion of bats’ wings and tiger talons and harm another person with it is too ridiculous even to contemplate!”

“Bats’ wings and tiger talons?” echoed Emily. She began to giggle. “I thought it was eye of newt and toe of frog.”

“Well, whatever it is. No mortal human can harm another with fairy-tale rhymes and a . . . a kind of nasty soup.”

Emily’s giggle became a laugh.

Alice continued doggedly, “It’s wicked to spread belief in such nonsense. I should think responsible people would speak up against it.”

Doris said, “I think that when people are harmed by curses, it’s because they believe in them. I’ve read that if a person truly believes in witches and warlocks and such, and a witch throws a curse on him, he will actually get sick or even die just from believing in it.”

“Do you think Ryan got in that accident last week because he truly believed Leona put a hex on him?” asked Godwin.

“I agree with Jill—Ryan got into that accident because he was drunk,” said Doris.

“And mad,” amended Phil. “Leona told him he should walk home, so of course he had to show her she wasn’t the boss of him. Except he didn’t.”

“How could he go home?” asked Bershada. “I thought his wife threw him out.”

“I forgot about that, Bershada!” said Emily. “You’re right, she did. So where was he going? Does he have a place to stay?”

“He’s living with Shelly,” said Betsy. “Apparently her boyfriend is an old friend of Ryan’s and he talked her into it. It would have been an easy walk, even in the rain.” She remembered the hypnotic tone of Leona’s voice as she told him to walk the three blocks to Shelly Donohue’s house.

“I wish Shelly could join the Monday Bunch,” said Doris. “I love it when she’s working in here, and I’ve been admiring her designs. It would be very interesting to watch her work out a pattern.”

That set off a discussion of favorite designers. Emily loved Barbara Baatz-Hillman—her pillows ornamented her daughter Morgana Jean’s bed. Phil had recently added Stoney Creek’s patterns, “Railroad Memories,” to his stash.

Jill was singing the praises of Jane Greenoff when the door sounded its two notes and Leona Cunningham came in, her dark eyes enormous in her white face. She was without a coat or an umbrella and was streaming wet, a condition she did not seem to notice.

“Betsy,” she said in a trembling voice, “I want to talk to you.”

Betsy stood. “Of course.” She led Leona into the tiny room at the very back of the shop.

“Ryan McMurphy has been found dead.”

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

“I don’t know. But someone just called me to accuse me of murdering him.”

“What? Who?” demanded Betsy angrily.

“I couldn’t tell. But don’t people know? I would never,
ever
use the craft to harm anyone!”

“Of course not! We know that!”

“Someone doesn’t.”

“Oh, someone’s just being stupid and cruel. But how did they know?”

“It was the third caller to tell me the news. It’s probably all over town. Betsy, can you help me find out who it was? This sort of thing can take root and spread.”

“Yes, it can. All right, I’ll do all I can.”

“Thank you.”

B
ETSY walked Leona to the door, and as soon as she had left the shop, Betsy turned to the waiting group of stitchers. “Ryan McMurphy is dead. Someone called Leona to tell her.”

“Dead?” echoed Emily, looking frightened. “But we were just talking about him.”

“And Leona,” said Godwin.

For a few moments there was silence, then Jill pulled out her cell phone and punched a speed dial number. “Where are you?” she demanded when it was answered, and her face went still while she listened. “When?” she asked, then, “What do they think?” Jill had a champion poker face, but her brusque tone and too-stiff expression caused the others to watch her impatiently until she hung up.

“What did Lars say?” asked Alice, successfully guessing, along with everyone else, whom Jill had called.

“He says Ryan McMurphy is dead, all right.”

“Strewth!” exclaimed Godwin, and groans of dismay swept the table as the news was confirmed.

“What’s worse, he was found in Shelly’s sewing room.”

“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Phil.

“God have mercy on us all,” said Alice, bowing her head.

“Amen,” said Godwin, shaken. He had known Shelly longer than he’d known Betsy.

Betsy asked, “What happened? Was it . . . murder?”

“No, thank God,” said Jill. “He didn’t turn up at work this morning and didn’t answer his page, so his boss called Shelly’s cell to see if she knew what the problem was. She didn’t but volunteered to go home on her lunch break to see if he was there. At the house, she went down to check his room and found the door locked and no answer when she knocked. So she used her key to open it. She found him on his futon on the floor. He wasn’t breathing and she couldn’t rouse him, so she called 911. From the state of the body, they think he died sometime last night.”

“What did he die of, then?” asked Emily.

“They’re thinking heart attack, or possibly acute alcohol poisoning. There’s no mark of violence on him.”

“Ohhhhh,” sighed Betsy, relieved. “That’s—well, it’s not okay, but at least it’s not suspicious.” She looked at Jill. “Right?”

“They’ll do an autopsy, but I’m guessing the alcohol did it.” Jill looked at Phil. “Chug-a-lug.”

Phil looked abashed. “I wasn’t wishing that on him, you know!” He looked around. “I wasn’t!”

Betsy said, “We know that. But it’s awful. If he was that sick from drinking, I wish he’d signed himself into a treatment center.”