Knit Your Own Murder (10 page)

T
he
next morning, up in her apartment, Betsy found a reply to one of her e-mails. It was from a Howard Whiteside.

Hello, Ms. Devonshire
, it began
. I am Harry Whiteside's oldest son. I am in Wayzata to make final arrangements of his estate, and to oversee the police investigation of my father's murder. I am the executor of his will. Are you a police detective? Your name is not familiar to me. Is this an interview we can conduct by e-mail? Or Skype? Or even old-fashioned telephone?

But he did not give his phone number, so she e-mailed him back.

Hello, Mr. Whiteside
, she typed.
I understand how busy you must be, and how sad an occasion this is for you, so thank you for your prompt reply. I am not associated with the police but an independent business owner who occasionally does private criminal investigations. I have been asked to look into a pair of murders that happened within a few days of each other in the area around
Lake Minnetonka. One of them was your father's. It is possible that two different people are responsible but also possible that they are the work of a single individual. I would take it as a great personal favor if you would care to talk with me, however briefly.

She concluded by offering details about the shop she owned and giving the hours it was open and its phone number. She re-read the e-mail a couple of times, corrected a typo, and clicked Send.

When she went down to the shop fifteen minutes later, the phone was ringing.

“Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?” she answered.

“Seriously? Cruel World?” demanded a man's voice, a light tenor with a little pleasant sand in it.

“Yessir. Perhaps you have the wrong number?”

“Are you Betsy Devonshire?” he asked.

“Yes, I am. Are you Howard Whiteside?”

“Yes. But Cruel World?”

“Oh my gosh, I didn't put the shop's name in my e-mail! It's crewel, C-R-E-W-E-L. It's a kind of needlework.”

“Ah, I see. And you're also a private eye.”

“No, I don't have a PI license.”

A little sarcastically, “Oh, so you like to mix a little crime into your knitting.”

“Sometimes. Reluctantly. It's a wild-card talent I often wish I didn't have. Murder is a very unhappy event.”

“You got that right. Things are upside down around here, and I'm having all kinds of problems dealing with not just my father's business affairs but the fact that he was . . . murdered.”

“It's an incredibly painful thing to have happen, I know.
My sister was murdered. The unfairness of it, the mess of trying to wind things up, the unexpectedness of it making your own life complicated—it's hard, very hard. I'm sorry this has happened to you.”

There was a little pause, while he estimated the accuracy of that statement. Then, “So why are you poking your oar in?”

“Because someone has asked me to. As I said, it's something I have a talent for.”

“I wish the local cops did. They're like from a comic book.”

“Real cops are rarely from a comic book. I take it you're not happy with the official investigation?”

“I am not!”

“Why is that?”

“They all know who did this. They just lack the guts to go and arrest him!”

“Which ‘him' are you talking about?”

“That jerkface from over your way: Joe Mickels.”

“What makes you think that the police are ignoring evidence pointing to Mr. Mickels?”

“He had a motive, didn't he? He's rich, isn't he? He's not under arrest, is he? That triplet of facts speaks for itself.”

“Maybe he's not under arrest because there's not enough evidence to make the case. Do you know of anyone else who was in opposition to your father? Because of something he might have done, or said?”

“No, of course not! My father was an honest businessman, well respected in his community.”

“I see,” said Betsy, and even as she spoke she could tell her doubts rang clear.

There was an icy pause. Then Howard Whiteside surprised her by saying, “All right, what I said is not exactly true. My father was a successful businessman, and successful businessmen have to step on toes now and then to make a buck. But I've been taught it's worse than rude to say something mean about someone who recently died. Plus, he's my father. Double-plus, who can I trust not to repeat anything I may say?”

“I understand, truly I do. All I can do is say that I'm trustworthy. I could give you some names of people to ask about me—but you don't know them any more than you know me.”

“And so here we are, Mexican standoff—right?”

“All right,” Betsy said, but doubtfully, because she was pretty sure that wasn't the definition of a Mexican standoff.

“Somebody's at the door. I'll call you back later.”
Kuh-lick.

*   *   *

G
odwin
was late. She wasn't too worried; sometimes he didn't show up quite on time—and he was always willing to stay a little late to compensate. When he finally came in this morning, he was grinning so broadly she began to be nervous for his mouth.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes, oh yes, I'm all right, I'm more than all right, I promised myself I wouldn't say anything until you asked, thank you for asking, I'm engaged!”

“Engaged? You mean to be married?” She was smiling herself.

Godwin was nodding over and over, short little nods, bob, bob, bob. He came and took her hands in his. “Isn't it wonderful? He asked me last night, just popped the question out of thin air! I couldn't believe it, I can't believe it, my face hurts from smiling, but I can't stop it, I'm engaged to the most wonderful man in the world!” He was dancing a kind of jig. His face was pink, his eyes shining. He had buttoned his shirt wrong. He'd missed a spot shaving.

She pulled him in for an embrace. “I'm so happy for you!” she said.

“We're going to be married in June next year, an indoor wedding. Will you be my matron of honor?”

“Hey, Goddy, are you sure?” Betsy looked flustered. “I mean . . . me? I'm not gay.”

“Of course you. You're my best friend—except for Rafael, of course. And you're such a level head, maybe you can keep me from turning the wedding into a three-ring circus. I mean, I started planning last night, and I think Rafael is already scared. It's okay that you're not gay, nobody's perfect. Except Rafael, of course.”

Moved to tears, Betsy hugged Godwin again. “Then of course I accept. I'm honored. You're the sweetest man I know. Except for Connor, of course.”

He laughed, delighted, and did his famous “Singin' in the Rain” dance step, arms holding an invisible umbrella out in front of him, around the library table.

“I didn't get an e-mail about this, Goddy,” she said when he'd made two circuits and stopped to breathe. “Who else have you told?”

“No one, I wanted you to be the first. Except Rafael told
his family last night. Or was it already early this morning there when it was last night here?”

“I'm sure they will be very pleased for him,” said Betsy.

That dashed cold water on Godwin's ebullience. “Well . . . probably not. I'm pretty sure they've been holding on to the last shreds of hope that he would marry—not me, of course—and produce a son to carry on the family name. He's the only male of his generation, and they really do not want the name to die. They can trace their line back six hundred years, you know. And there are knights and earls and dukes and even a king or two in their lineage, I think. He doesn't care, he hardly talks about it, but it's terribly important to them.”

“Oh dear.”

“Do you know his grandmother actually suggested he marry a woman and keep a boyfriend on the side?”

Betsy nodded. “I think he mentioned that once, a long time ago.”

“And she's the reasonable one.”

“Oh
dear
! Maybe he shouldn't have said anything until after the wedding.”

“I told him that, but he's got this honor thing going—can you imagine, honor among a family group like that?—and said it was the right thing to do.”

“Well, it's his family, perhaps he knows best.”

“We can only hope.”

Apart from intermittent sighs and giggles on Godwin's part, the day went as usual. Howard Whiteside did not call back.

*   *   *

C
onnor
and Betsy were preparing for supper. He was building a very elaborate omelet around a pair of pork chops, and she was setting the table. They were anticipating a quiet evening at home, so she put out the wineglasses.

“So Mr. Whiteside never called back,” Connor called out from the galley kitchen.

“Well, he didn't say he'd call back today,” she replied, inserting a napkin in an embroidered fabric napkin ring.

After they sat down, they used up the wine making first elaborate and then increasingly silly toasts to Godwin and Rafael and their amazing (probably) wedding.

They were just wrapping up dinner when the phone rang. Connor took the last of his wine in a single gulp (“And to their all-girl band,” he said) and went to answer it.

“Hello?” he said, and after a pause, “Yes. Just a minute.” He turned to Betsy, who was gathering up the dishes, and said, “It's for you. Hector Whiteside.”

“You mean Howard,” she said, coming to take the receiver from him.

“He says Hector.”

“Hello?” she said into the receiver.

“Hello, Ms. Devonshire. Am I interrupting anything?”

The voice sounded different than Howard's, deeper, with a slight drawl. “Who is this?” she asked.

“I'm Heck Whiteside, Howard's brother.”

“Oh, are you in town, too?”

“No, Howie called me. We agreed I might be the better one to talk to you. I'm flying out tonight, to Minneapolis.”

“Just to talk to me? We're talking now, saving you a trip.”

“I prefer face-to-face whenever possible. And I need to come anyway. Ham will fly in day after tomorrow.”

“Ham? Oh, Hamilton.”

“Yeah, cute nicknames we ended up with, Howie, Ham, Heck. Our parents obviously weren't thinking clearly when they named us.”

Betsy chuckled politely, not sure whether the complaint was sincere. “I'd like to meet with one or all of you, if that's possible.”

“It's possible, maybe. But I'm not sure if we can be of any help. We're not exactly a close family. Plus, I'm not sure Ham will go for this. But I'm with you; I think it might be a good idea.”

*   *   *

“H
am,
Heck, Howie,” said Connor later from his side of the bed. “What a collection of names! How can parents do that to their children?”

“I don't know. Some of them aren't thinking of nicknames—I mean, Hamilton is a great American name, Hector a famous ancient Greek hero, Howard—Howard, hmmm, I don't know any famous Howards.”

“There's Thomas Howard, a man famous in fifteenth-century England. His niece was Catherine Howard, who married Henry VIII, although that didn't turn out so well.”

Betsy chuckled. “And on thinking further, there's Howard Hughes, Howard Hawks, and Ron Howard, from television and the movies. Or maybe Howie's named after a grandfather, or uncle. He's the oldest, so that's not unlikely. And then his parents went with that custom of giving each
of their kids a name starting with the same letter of the alphabet.”

“I see that none of the brothers live in Minnesota. What kind of information from them could be useful? What can they know about their father's business dealings?”

She said, “I want to know what kind of person Harry Whiteside was. I'm looking for the kind of personality that creates enemies. These three have probably known Harry Whiteside longer than anyone. I'm hoping they're perceptive and willing to be honest with me.”

“Two—count 'em, two—big requests of this trio. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you.” And despite being excited at the prospect of really digging into Harry Whiteside's personality, Betsy quickly drifted off to sleep.

“E
verything
is closed in London today,” Connor remarked over breakfast Friday morning.

“What for, spring break?” Betsy replied, dipping into her Rice Krispies topped with canned peach slices.

“No, because it's Good Friday.”

“I thought England was no longer a Christian country,” she said, surprised.

“As long as the Church of England is the state religion and the queen is Defender of the Faith, schools and many stores close on Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday.”

“Wow,” said Betsy, after a moment, because for all that America was a Christian country, stores were open the entire Easter weekend, at least in part.

“You're a Christian,” he said.

“Is that a hint?” she asked, smiling.

“The weather report this morning is for unseasonably warm weather under clear skies.”

“If we were to close Crewel World for religious reasons, we should go to church.”

“I intend to, from twelve to three. The morning is for walking from Minnehaha Falls to the Mississippi and back again.”

“I'm going to redesign the front window with Godwin to reflect summer patterns, and design the ad for the Big Bang July Sale. We've got to do something to recoup the bad sales we've suffered the past four months.”

The first three months of any year at Crewel World were slow, but this year, for some reason, sales had been alarmingly poor. And despite the two good days of fourteen so far in April, they hadn't fully rebounded from the slump. Politicians had been insisting the economy was recovering, but evidence of it in Betsy's shop had been lagging. The fall and winter hadn't been too bad, but once Christmas was over, the bottom—while not exactly falling out—had been steadily drifting downward.

Easter was late this year, falling on April 16. Easter marked the start of spring, which generally brought in advance a noticeable uptick in sales. But that wasn't happening. Where was everyone? Had all of Betsy's customers moved south? It had been a hard winter, after all.

No, customers had been coming in, but fewer in number, and they just weren't spending as usual. Mrs. Hardy, for example, hadn't bought the materials for another pattern that would need expensive finishing.

When Betsy went down to open the store, she found Godwin impatiently waiting. “What's up?” she asked.

“Two things. First—” He held out his left hand. His
ring finger was newly graced with a fat gold ring set with a large, red cabochon stone.

“Oh my goodness!” said Betsy.

“I can't afford anything like this to give him for an engagement ring,” he said a little sadly. Then he brightened. “Still . . . It's a real ruby!”

“It's beautiful, congratulations!” She took his left hand and looked more closely at it, a massive chunk of gold, elaborately worked in an antique design, and a startlingly large stone red as fresh blood. “Gosh, Goddy, I bet your hand will get tired carrying that thing around.”

He smirked. “I'll have to start eating my Wheaties every morning.”

“So, what's the other thing?”

“I've got a couple of ideas for the window.”

“Good, let's get opened up and you can share them with me.”

They turned on the lights, made an urn of coffee—Crewel World offered a free cup of coffee to any customer—and put on the electric kettle so there would be hot water for anyone who preferred tea. They put the start-up cash in the drawer, turned on the computer, and tuned the Bose radio to a soft jazz station. They did a walk-through to make sure the shelves were stocked and in order and dusted. Then, since the kettle hadn't started to sing, each pulled a Diet Pepsi from the little refrigerator in the back and sat down.

“So what's your idea?” asked Betsy. He had two, actually. One of them was a Fourth of July theme: “Skyrockets of happiness! Explosive bargains! Shooting star designers! Like that.”

Betsy nodded. Little wonder Godwin had chosen something exuberant. “I like it, but we'll have to come up with another idea for after the Fourth.”

“Well, yes, that's right. But that leads to my second idea. So we'll keep the Fourth and then have something else so the summer window doesn't start to look tired. I'm thinking we could call it Summer Under the Stars? Showcasing our best and most popular designers.”

“Now that I like, it's a follow-on!” said Betsy. “Okay, let's start pulling patterns for the Fourth. There's that red, white, and blue butterfly, the eyeglasses case kit that's a flag, the patriotic Jim Shore angel, the E Pluribus Unum eagle.”

“There's that sampler that says ‘O Beautiful for Spacious Skies,'” said Godwin. “That needs to go in the window for sure. It's really pretty.”

“And so for the Summer group, let's use Lizzie Kate's Sweet Summer booklet,” said Betsy. “And keeping up the star theme, there's Flag of Stars from Bent Creek.” That one was a simplified American flag made of red, white, and blue stars.

“Ooooh, good, we can feature that in the newsletter when we announce the Summer Under the Stars sale.”

When Connor came in a little before noon, he found them at the long table scattered with patterns and models and notebooks covered with sketches. Betsy looked up to see he was smiling. “A nice walk?” she asked.

“A pretty walk and too early for mosquitoes,” he said. “Now, can you abandon all this and come to church with me?”

“I would, but I can't. Mrs. Phillips called, and she wants to place a special order for a canvas.”

“Goddy can take the order.”

“Mrs. Phillips doesn't like Goddy,” said Betsy, casting a compassionate look at Godwin, who raised his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture.

“You could tell her you won't serve her until she changes her attitude,” said Connor.

“And end up like that bakery that refused to bake a wedding cake for a couple they disagreed with? Not a chance,” said Betsy.

“Ah so,” said Connor. “Sorry, fellow,” he said to Godwin and, “See you later,” to Betsy, and he went out. Mrs. Phillips was nearly eighty, hard to please, and chronically tardy. After she had finished placing her order, Betsy, fasting, spent the third hour in Excelsior's Trinity Church listening to readings and music until the lay reader declared, “It is finished.”

*   *   *

G
ood
Friday in the Christian religion memorializes a shocking, painful, sorrowful, “precious” event. But it's an event, something happening to make a big change in the world. “Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying,” predicts one of the Three Kings at Christmas.

Connor, usually not able to keep a Christian calendar while at sea, nevertheless often found himself during those years inquiring of God if He please could see Himself taking care of Captain Connor, his crew, and his ship when the seas were high, the sky dark, and the wind a massive, roiling presence. “O God, Thy sea is so great and my boat is so small,” he often pointed out.

So now in safe harbor for good, he was glad of a church nearby where he could offer thanks for the fact that he had never been shipwrecked, or taken by pirates, or cheated by owners.

He and Betsy sat patiently through the reminder of the terrible three hours that Jesus had endured on the cross, and they came away mildly downhearted at the end.

He was glad that Betsy, this strong, warm comfort of his later years, would join him for part of it.

Of course, there was another big event coming, the polar opposite of Good Friday: Easter Sunday. But first, of course, there was Holy Saturday, a day the Christian world sat with its pensive head down, sorrowing, waiting. It's possibly the longest day of the religion for believers.

*   *   *

B
etsy
closed on time Saturday afternoon and shared a light supper with Connor. Then they shortened the wait for Sunday by setting off for Saint Mark's Episcopal Cathedral near downtown Minneapolis around seven ten, arriving just at seven forty to find parking already at a premium. It was a clear, chilly evening.

The church was unlit, but there were people, lots of people, gathered inside. And more coming.

It was dark out, or as dark as a big city gets at night. And dark inside. The big stained glass windows were barely visible shapes in the brick walls of the cathedral, the saints depicted indecipherable. Betsy and Connor found seats about halfway up the center aisle. An usher waiting at the door had given them, like everyone else, a slim, unlit taper with a cardboard collar and a bulletin with the order
of the service printed in it, which they could not read in the dark.

At eight, a hush of garments was heard at the back, and heads turned as the congregation tried to make out who was gathering there and not coming forward. Then a click and a gout of yellow flame rose out of a pale stone about twice the size of a football, a stone that hadn't been there in the middle of the floor before. By its light people could be seen, perhaps a dozen of them, in ecclesiastical robes. One of them lit a long, fat candle at the flame and then from it, smaller candles young people in white albs were holding.

The acolytes came forward to light the tapers of the people in the back pew, who in turn lit the tapers of the people in front of them, who handed the flame forward until everyone had a lit candle, two hundred and more dots of yellow filling the nave with very soft, warm light.

Meanwhile, the Dean of the Cathedral was reciting, in a carrying voice, prayers about Christ passing from the darkness of death into the light. When everyone had a lit taper, a deacon raised the big candle and called, “The Light of Christ!” and the congregation, now reading from the bulletin by the light of the tapers, responded, “Thanks be to God!”

The group of priests, deacons, and acolytes at the west door started forward and up past the choir to the altar. As they processed, a member of the choir floated, a capella, something exotic and mournful in Latin. Gregorian chant, thought Connor, half closing his eyes in pleasure.

The hymn ended, and, having reached the altar, the
Dean turned to the congregation and proclaimed, “This is the night when Christ vanquished hell, broke the chains of death, and rose triumphant from the grave!”

Then a woman from the congregation made her way to the lectern on the left side and turned on a small reading lamp. She read from Genesis about Adam and Eve in the Garden. She was followed by three more lectors, all men, who read about Abraham, ordered and then stopped from sacrificing his son Isaac; then about the Jews crossing the Red Sea out of slavery in Egypt; and last, about Ezekiel telling of God turning from anger to bless his people.

The readings weren't long, but by the end Connor noticed his taper was becoming short, and he saw Betsy adjusting the collar on hers down to the very bottom.

The last reader was still making his way back to his pew when every light in the church came on, the organ blasted a mighty chord, and the Dean shouted above the uproar, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!”

The reader staggered in surprise, then laughed at himself and joined with everyone shouting in reply, “The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!”

And, accompanied by the organ, the choir broke into “Glory to God in the Highest.”

Betsy's was not the quietest voice giving the reply, and Connor looked a little sideways at her. But she merely grinned back at him and blew out her taper, so he blew out his.

The candles on the altar were lit during all this, and there followed an Episcopal High Church Eucharist service, without a sermon, and with lots of familiar joyful
and triumphant hymns. By ten o'clock it was over, and the altar crew stood at the door to shake the hands of the congregation as they left. Betsy noticed several women in large and elaborate hats. She turned to Connor. “I wish I had consulted with Cherie about an Easter bonnet for me.”

“Please do next time,” he replied. “I'd like to see you in one.”

“You have to promise not to laugh.”

“Oh, well, in that case, never mind.”

They shook half a dozen hands and went out into the chilly night's nippy breeze to find Betsy's Buick. She wove it expertly through the crowd of departing vehicles, and they started up I-394 for home.While driving, Betsy remarked, “I've always felt a little sorry for people who celebrate Easter without suffering through Good Friday. You really need the contrast to get all the flavor.”

“You wish they would just stay home and eat a marshmallow bunny instead?”

“No, it would be unkind to wish that. For a long while I was a Christmas and Easter Christian, myself. But it's much more thrilling to glory at someone rising from the grave when you first grieve at His dying.”

“Kind of like celebrating spring without first suffering winter,” agreed Connor.

“And Mardi Gras loses some of its meaning if you don't follow it with Lent.”