Hanging by a Thread (11 page)

“Not exactly.”

“I mean she wasn’t crying, but she seemed anxious to get off the phone. Then all of a sudden I was talking to Paul, as if he’d snuck up and yanked the receiver out of her hand. I think he thought he’d caught her talking to a man, and when I said, ‘Hello? Hello?’ he said something like, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ It was then I knew I had to do something.”

“Why?” asked Betsy. “I mean, I understand completely how you could believe she was in danger, but why did you feel responsible for rescuing Angela?”

“Because I was the only one who thought she was in danger. I had talked to our pastor that Sunday, but he was a young man and—well, he was sure Paul was a good man and I was an interfering old woman. I couldn’t call the police, they won’t go over unless there’s a loud fight going on that minute. And that organization that protects battered women won’t take someone else’s word there’s a problem. There was no one else to tell; when people looked at Paul Schmitt, all they could see was that smile, all they noticed about him was how helpful he was to their neighbors.”

“But you were sure he was a thoroughly evil man.”

“Not thoroughly evil. He was like a lot of people, he put different parts of his life into different boxes. There was the Paul who programmed computers, the Paul who built cabinets for money under the table, the Paul who drove people home from the hospital. But I believe that at home there was a Paul who made his wife’s life a living hell.”

“Do you know why he did that? Not that she provoked him, nothing should provoke a man to behave like that, but what was it about him?”

“I don’t know. Abusers happen for different reasons. In Paul’s case, it may be because he needed to live up to that smile, he needed to make people think he was a good and happy man. And all the while, inside, he was afraid he wasn’t good at all. Or that he wasn’t good enough for Angela, who was a very sweet and gentle person—too sweet and gentle for her own good in this wicked world. Perhaps he was afraid someone would take her away from him. Do you know what I mean?”

Betsy nodded. “It’s what used to be called an inferiority complex and today is called low self-esteem. Some people are sure that if people saw what they really are, they’d despise them.”

Alice nodded back. “And he was sure Angela couldn’t really love him, or that one day she’d meet someone truly good, and begin to see him for his real self. When my husband was pastor of our church, he dealt with abusive husbands surprisingly often. And even once an abusive wife, a dreadful person who terrorized her children and nearly killed her husband one night with a frying pan full of hot grease. I learned that you don’t look only at someone’s face, you look at the spouse’s face as well. Paul was a smiler, but what I saw in Angela’s face told me that she needed to leave him, or find someone to protect her from him.”

“Did you ever see any bruises?” asked Betsy.

“Only once, the very next Sunday. She had finger marks around her wrist. She saw me looking and the shame in her eyes about broke my heart, but she hurried away when I tried to talk to her, and didn’t come to church for two Sundays after that. So that’s when I decided to put Foster in her way.”

“Why Foster?”

“Because he seemed to be a good man, a nice man—and he had a way of paying attention to people. He was an usher back then, and he could spot a child about to get sick or a woman about to faint or a man starting to nod off, and get them away before they disrupted the service—and so they wouldn’t embarrass themselves. And he was discreet, he never said a word to them or to anyone else afterward.”

“Your church won’t let people nap during the sermon?” asked Betsy, amused and diverted.

Alice smiled. “Oh, we don’t mind the napping, it’s the snoring that gets on people’s nerves. Especially during the sermon.”

Betsy laughed, then sobered. “All right, you knew Foster had an eye for trouble and a talent for averting it. He told me how you did it, by mentioning to him that Angela seemed unhappy. What did you think he would do?”

“The old-fashioned thing—throw a scare into Paul. Foster was taller than Paul, and he worked in construction, so he was strong. I wanted him to say something to Paul that would let him know we suspected he was cruel to Angela, and that he was prepared to take action if he wasn’t nicer. That might have been enough, if I was right that Paul cared very much what people thought of him. But ...” She sighed. “I had no idea Foster would fall in love with the girl. I feel very bad about that. And worse for what happened after.” She lifted her head toward the ceiling and the lights blanked her glasses, hiding the pain in her eyes. “I wish with all my heart I never, ever said anything to Foster.”

“So you think Paul murdered Angela.”

Her head came down. She was surprised at the question. “Yes, I think that’s most likely what happened. Abusive husbands, if they aren’t stopped, go further and further until at last they go all the way to murder. I have heard he has an alibi, but Mike Malloy was the investigator, and I’m afraid Mike is not always good at his job.”

“Did you tell Foster what you suspected?”

“No, of course not!”

“But you do think Foster murdered Paul?”

“I’m afraid that’s possible. That beating Paul was given before he was shot, that’s the kind of thing an angry man would do. I can well understand that anger, I was angry myself when I heard Angela was dead.” She was silent for a few seconds, then said bravely, because she was a good Christian and this went against her beliefs, “Betsy, if you find evidence that Foster killed Paul for murdering Angela, can I persuade you not to tell anyone? No matter how awful it is for Foster now, it would be far worse if he went to prison for murdering a man who badly needed to be killed.”

Betsy said, as gently as she could, “I’m not sure it could be worse than what he’s dealing with now. Nor am I convinced he did it.”

Alice’s homely face lit up. “Have you found something out?”

“No, nothing concrete. But don’t you see? That’s why I have to keep looking. If he didn’t do it, the agony he’s been going through for these past years is a gross injustice. And it’s been hurting you as well, because you’re blaming yourself for being an accessory. Just ask yourself: How would you feel if you found out for certain Foster was innocent?”

Alice blinked slowly, then nodded. “If you really could do that ... Oh my, what a tremendous relief to have that burden lifted! Yes, then I hope you will continue your investigation. And may God guide you in your efforts.”

 

Betsy went back to her shop to find no customers, and Godwin in an interesting mood, cheeks pink and his movements somewhere between preening and strutting, as if he’d won a fight.

“Guess who was here,” he said as soon as she hung up her coat.

“Who?”

“Foster Johns. Said he wanted to talk to you. But I sent him packing.” He snorted. “Don’t look at me like that! You’ve paid him for his services, and it’s not as if he was actually going to buy something!”

“Goddy, he needed to talk to me—and I needed to talk to him!”

“Say, you don’t believe that stuff Alice was putting out, that he didn’t murder anyone? No way, boss lady! Why, I’m sure that when you get to the real facts of this business, you’ll prove once and for all that he did murder Angela and Paul!”

“That may be true,” retorted Betsy, “but I’m not setting out with that in mind! I don’t investigate with an eye to proving anything. I want to find out the truth. But that means, Goddy, that I need to talk to Foster Johns and anyone else I think can help. Which means you don’t run him, or anyone else you happen not to like, out of the shop!” Betsy, her own cheeks flaming, went to the back room to fix herself a cup of raspberry tea. She sat down at the little table in the rear of the shop to drink it and allow her blood to cool. She shouldn’t have snapped at him like that. Saying that was over the line, and she was ashamed of herself. But she wanted to talk to Foster and was annoyed Godwin had prevented that.

And besides, Godwin had gone over his own line more than once lately. It was part of his attraction in the shop to be catty. His “gay bitchy” riff was amusing, and customers liked it; it made them feel sophisticated to realize he didn’t mean anything by it. And he had never been really cruel—though there had been a slightly unpleasant edge to his remarks lately. He was going through a bad patch—again—with his lover, she knew. That was enough to make anyone moody, but Godwin was in special circumstances.

She thought about that. Godwin had begun as John’s “boy toy,” and played the sweet young thing to John’s mature protective instincts. The relationship had lasted far longer than was usual with these arrangements. John had seemed honestly in love with Godwin, and certainly Godwin loved him back. But Godwin’s growing signs of maturity were stressing the relationship.

It was John’s continued support of Godwin that enabled him to work for minimum wages and no benefits at Crewel World, so these signs of strain bothered her. Godwin had been around long enough to know better than to put off customers, and—her own stress notwithstanding—she had to find a way to remind him of that without reducing him to tears or making him angry enough to quit. Godwin at his best was a tremendous asset, and his knowledge of needlework was too important to her to risk losing him.

She heard the door signal go as someone came in, but Godwin, his voice only slightly too cheerful, took care of it.

She had nearly finished her tea when he came and sat down across from her, a study in shame and gloom. “You don’t like me anymore,” he murmured.

“Of course I like you!” she replied at once, and was unhappy to note the edge in her own voice.

“Not really. You don’t talk to me anymore.”

“But I do, I talk to you all the time!”

“Not about important things. You didn’t tell me you were thinking of hiring a general contractor instead of finding a roofer yourself, for example. I could have warned you about Foster if you’d said something. And you haven’t been talking about Morrie. I have no idea how serious you two are. Are you perhaps thinking of selling the shop and moving to Florida with him?”

“No. He wants me to, but I’m not giving up this business. I enjoy the independence too much.”

He smiled in bright relief, and she suddenly realized that here was another source of his distress. “Oh, Goddy, I should have said something, shouldn’t I? Don’t worry about your job here. This job is yours as long as I’m here, and I have no intention of leaving.”

He smiled. “That’s super! I’m relieved about that. Sad for Morrie, of course.”

“Don’t be. He can continue to use that house in Fort Myers as a winter getaway, I’m sure.”

“Well, at least in the winter then you’ll talk to me.” His eyes turned serious. “That’s what it is, right? You’ve got him to talk to, and that’s why you don’t talk to me anymore.”

Betsy took a breath to deny that, found she was going to put it a trifle indignantly, and paused while she reconsidered her answer.

“See? I
knew
it! You tell
him
things you don’t tell me!”

Betsy began to laugh. “Well, of course I do! I imagine you tell John things you don’t tell me.”

Godwin hesitated, then blushed deeply. “That’s not quite fair,” he remarked.

“Neither of us is fighting fair,” agreed Betsy. “On the other hand, you have a point. I do confide in Morrie, and it’s made me confide less in my friends, particularly you and Jill.”

“Are you going to marry Morrie?”

“Not right now. That’s a question for the future, the
distant
future.” Godwin grinned in relief. “Anything else on your mind?”

“Do you really think Foster Johns is innocent?”

“It’s possible.”

“How
can
you think that?”

“Well, I talked with him. He
wants
me to investigate, Goddy. He’s heard that I’m good at sleuthing, and he offered me money to look into his case. Would a guilty man do that?”

“Oh-kaaay,” Godwin drawled, not willing to concede she had a point.

“Besides, Paul Schmitt really may have murdered Angela. He was very abusive to her.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Betsy told him what both Foster and Alice had said about Angela being afraid, and what Foster had said Angela told him about Paul’s abuse.

“Strewth!” said Godwin, taking it all in. “That’s incredible! Why didn’t anyone else notice it?”

“Do you know, I think some may have. But Paul and Angela are dead and all anyone wants to remember is what a devoted couple they were.”

“Yes, there is that tendency, isn’t there? But think, suppose Paul murdered Angela. Doesn’t that give Foster a super motive for murdering Paul?”

“Yes, it does. But he has an alibi for Paul’s murder,” said Betsy. “Confirmed by the police.”

Godwin stared. “I didn’t know that.” Then he scoffed, “A half-assed one, I bet.”

“Well ...” conceded Betsy, and added, over his rising look of triumph, “But it was given to him by Paul Schmitt!”

That quashed him properly, but after she explained, he said, “Half the credit has to go to that cleaning woman—do you know who she is?”

“No, why? Do you?”

“No, but it would be interesting to know if she bought a car, or even a house, after the police let him go.”

Betsy said, “Hmmmm. The thing to find out would be if he talked to her before the police did.”

“Betsy, is it possible Paul was telling the truth, and he had evidence of who really murdered Angela? And then someone killed him to stop him showing it to anyone?”

“The police didn’t find anything in his house. But then, if the killer came after him, he would have taken it away, wouldn’t he?”

“Do you have any idea who this other suspect might be?”

“Not the remotest.” But she was thinking of Vern Miller’s warning to his son not to speak his brother’s name.