Knit Your Own Murder (12 page)

“What's the son's name?” asked Alice.

“What son? Maddy had a son?” said Valentina.

“No, I mean Harry Whiteside's son, the one come to town to clear up his father's affairs.”

Phil said, “I'm not sure. Howard, I think.”

“He's very upset with the investigation,” said Connor. “Thinks there's a cover-up.”

“A cover-up? In favor of who?” asked Phil. “Harry was the richest man in Wayzata, if not the county. On whose behalf would the cops do a cover-up?”

Godwin said, “Joe Mickels, of course. I bet Howard's angry because the cops haven't arrested Joe.”

“Is Joe richer than Harry?” asked Connor.

“I don't know,” said Betsy. “I don't think anyone but Joe knows how rich he is. He doesn't want it known. And I don't know how rich Harry was, for that matter.”

“But Joe wouldn't carry any weight in Wayzata, would he?” asked Phil. “His home ground is over here, in Excelsior.”

Betsy said, “He has an office in Excelsior, which is his official mailing address. I suspect he has other offices elsewhere.”

“Why does he keep all these secrets?” asked Emily.

“I don't know that they're secrets,” said Betsy. “He just doesn't advertise his wealth. People with a lot of money can be targets. If he needs to show the power of his wealth to gain something, he'll show it. But otherwise, he prefers to run quiet.”

“Sort of like you,” said Emily.

“Me?”
Betsy stared at her.

“Sure. You have a lot of money, but you don't let it show.”

“Emily, I am not rich!” Depending on how you defined rich, this was true.

“Sure you are. People say you could give this shop to Godwin for free and never have to work a day in your life ever again.”

Godwin said, in perfect imitation of Betsy, “
Me?
”

“Sure, you. Who else would Betsy give it to?”

“Connor, of course,” he said.

Connor said, “No, I'm done working for a living. I've got a fully funded pension and some modest investments that provide me rent, food, and the occasional new pair of shoes. I especially don't need to be sole proprietor of a small business that has recently decided to stay open late on Mondays.”

Betsy said lightly, “Before we start a quarrel over who wants my business least, may I ask Emily who on earth told her these things?”

Emily blushed and looked down at her needlework. She mumbled, “I don't want to say.”

There fell an uncomfortable silence, as several members of the group held the same opinion as Emily about Betsy's wealth but had never been rude enough to say so to her face.

Connor said, “Speaking of money, tell us, Bershada, how much money did the auction take in?”

“Our goal was twenty-five thousand dollars, and we raised thirty-six,” said Bershada, chin lifted, eyes shining.

“Oooh, that's smashing!” cheered Godwin.

“Good for you!” agreed Cherie, and the others chimed in with congratulations.

Jill asked Betsy, “When is that Barbara Eyre trunk show going to come in?”

“I'm not sure. It got held up when the show was at Orts Galore in Cincinnati and a flood damaged the shop—and about a third of the canvases. Ms. Eyre is trying to restore some of them and add new ones to the collection. We're hoping to see it in about a month.”

Cherie said, “I've heard you people use the word ‘orts' before. What's an ort?”

“When you finish stitching with a length of floss,” said Bershada. “The little end you snip off is an ort.”

Emily said, “I collect mine in transparent Christmas ornaments. They look pretty on our tree, and remind me of finished projects.”

The stitchers moved on to other topics and broke up around three thirty.

Bershada gave Betsy a few minutes to put her stitching away. Then she said, “What do you want to ask me about?”

“Maddy. How well did you know her?” Betsy picked up her long reporter's notebook.

Eyeing the notebook, Bershada said, “Not really well. I don't think anyone but Chaz knew her well. But I have—did know her for about seven years, maybe eight. Helen Fasciana started a book club, and Maddy was the third person to sign on. She had some excellent suggestions for what we should read, and she had interesting insights into the books, too. She was a very intelligent woman. But, she didn't like it when someone disagreed with her. We were all relieved when she dropped out after her first year.”

“But you reconnected,” suggested Betsy.

“Yes, we had become friends—of a sort. I wanted to stay in touch because of Chaz—he sometimes forms attachments to people who can hurt him. But I liked her for myself, too, because she had attitude, and I find people with attitude interesting. She wasn't cruel or dishonest. In fact, she was kind, in a sort of angry way. Always giving money to causes, usually anonymously. For example, the library—she'd write a check for a hundred dollars to me, tell me to cash it and give the money to them and not tell them where it came from. ‘Here, take this,' she'd say, shoving a check
at me. ‘Give it to Trinity's food shelf.' Or, she'd say, ‘Here, cash this, and give it to Temple Israel, they're raising money to send some young adults to Jerusalem.'” Bershada shrugged. “I think she didn't want to be thanked. Strange, strange lady.”

“I got the impression that she was shy, that day she brought that last box of knit toys in here,” said Betsy. “She didn't want people to look at her, put her forward, give her any attention. That's why she objected to your plan to put her in front of the auction room.”

Bershada thought about that, then nodded. “It could be you're right. Does that put us any closer to finding her murderer?”

“Not really.”

“You know, now you've put the word
shy
into my head, maybe another word for her is
defensive
. But I never heard her complain that someone was being cruel or unfair to her or that someone was angry with her—not murderously angry. Chaz says lots of people were angry with her for business reasons, and that Harry Whiteside was a particular thorn in her side. But is that a reason to kill her? She had no family, so there wasn't someone thinking he or she could inherit her money if only she'd die. Is any of this helpful?”

Betsy sighed. “Not in the way I was hoping.”

I
t
took some arranging, but Hector Whiteside agreed to meet Betsy for lunch at Sol's the next day. The morning brought a rash of problems. The credit card reader worked only half the time, a customer brought in a painted canvas she'd obviously started and then pulled the stitches out and now she wanted a refund, two part timers called to say they couldn't work next week. Betsy left with a little sigh of relief. The delicatessen was next door to Crewel World, and Betsy went over a bit early so she could watch for him.

A few minutes after twelve a man in his early thirties came in. He was not quite six feet tall, stocky, with curly brown hair just barely covering a bald spot, a pleasant expression on his large, dark-eyed face, and a comfortable way of walking that indicated strength. This was a man who did not spend his workday at a desk. He was wearing a navy blue pullover and dress slacks. The collar of a light blue shirt grazed the sweater at its neck.

Betsy raised her hand, and he smiled affably and came to where she sat at the little table, one of three in the room. The chairs at the table had round wooden seats and wire legs and backs, a charming old-fashioned style, but Betsy wondered if the chair would hold his weight when he dropped onto it.

It did, and without protest. “Hello,” the man said. “I'm Heck Whiteside, from Dallas.” He did have a mild Texas accent.

“I'm Betsy Devonshire. I'm glad to meet you.” She held out her hand, and he took it rather gingerly in his big, calloused one.

“I was shocked and sorry to hear about your father,” she said.

“Thank you. But there's more than that with you, right?” he added. “You're interested in how it happened to him.”

“And by whom, yes, you're right. I'm at the start of an investigation into your father's murder—into two murders, actually.”

He studied her closely, leaning toward her, his mouth pulled a little sideways. Then he came to a conclusion. “You actually think you can find out who murdered my father.”

“I think I can. I have done this sort of thing before.”

“That's good. So, you have a license, a PI license?”

“No.”

His eyes widened in surprise, then his whole face clenched, eyebrows pulling together and mouth pursed. “You're some kind of a goddamned amateur?”

“That's right. Didn't your brother tell you?”

He sat back, but his expression remained angry. “No.”

“Nevertheless, I have solved several murders.”

“How?” It was a demand.

“I don't understand the question.” Was he looking for anecdotes?

“What are your methods? Do you kidnap a suspect and refuse to knit a sweater for him until he confesses?” Now he was teasing her, and not in a nice way.

Betsy held back the angry retort she wanted to make—she had come to this meeting already aggravated. But instead she took a breath and waited for her overheated blood to simmer down. Then she said, “I have been doing this for a number of years, and I have had the support of several current and former police investigators. I do not use force or deception or any illegal method. What I mostly do is talk to people. I look for motive and opportunity. Because I am not a professional, people tend to take me lightly and so give away more than they realize when I talk with them.”

“What have I given away?” He was still annoyed but also clearly curious.

“Mostly that you are very angry about your father's death. That is both sad and understandable.”

“Only mostly?” he said, eyebrows raised.

“Anger might—might—make you leap to conclusions. You and your brother want a fast, easy solution to this. Since it hasn't come, you and he both think the investigators are incompetent. I think that's why you agreed to talk with me, and why you are so disappointed to find that I'm an amateur, and worse, that I own a sweet little needlework shop. But I'm telling you that perhaps there is more to me
than you think, and more to the situation with your father than you would like. Your anger and impatience won't change the facts.”

“What are the facts?”

“I don't know all of them, or even most of them. But I want to find out. And I've been asked to find out.”

“Who asked you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Ha, I bet it's that Mickels person.”

“And if it is?”

Again he sat back, convinced and assured, smirking. “Then I won't talk to you. I think he killed my father, and now I think he's convinced you to help him get away with it.”

“I think you'll regret that decision.”

He leaned forward again and said softly, “I think I won't.”

“Very well,” said Betsy. She looked around and saw the current Sol—in Betsy's time there had been two previous owners of Sol's Deli, none authentically named Sol—behind the meat and cheese counter. He was looking at her. She called, “I'd like a tuna sandwich on whole wheat, small chips, and a big spear of kosher dill, to go.” She looked at Heck. “You?”

And yet again that studying look. “All right,” he said, his nod accepting her unspoken offer to pay. “I'll have a chicken on rye.” He looked over at Sol and repeated his order, louder. “Chicken on rye! Lettuce and tomato! Mayo! Soup of the day!” He grinned at Betsy. “For here!”

Betsy paid for her meal and his and went back to her shop, her mood not improved by the encounter.

“Uh-oh,” said Godwin on seeing her enter. Today the door was playing “With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her
Arm,” and she grimaced instead of laughing at the music. “Not a good interview, I take it,” he said.

“No, he's too angry to see I'm trying to help.” She went to the library table and dumped her white sack on it. “Rats.” She went into the back room to make herself a cup of black English tea, refilled the electric teakettle, and when she came back was surprised to see Heck Whiteside standing at the table.

“I'm not apologizing,” he announced stiffly. “But hey, maybe I can tell you something useful and you can pass it on to someone competent.” He smiled, recalling to her that affable look she'd noted when he first came into Sol's, though now she could recognize the snark behind it. “I'm not a badass,” he continued. “I'm just angry. I've got things to do at home, but I can't leave till this is over.”

He held up a white paper bag, a copy of the one in front of Betsy on the table. “Okay?” he asked.

“All right,” she said, and gestured at a chair opposite the one she was about to sit in.

But before he could seat himself, she turned toward her store manager and said, “Godwin, this is Hector Whiteside, the youngest son of Harry Whiteside. Heck, this is my store manager, Godwin DuLac.”

Godwin said neutrally and without moving, “How do you do?”

Hector replied in an echo of Godwin's tone, “How do you do?” and sat down.

“Mr. Whiteside,” said Betsy, “would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, pulling a bottle of cranberry juice from his paper bag.

“Goddy, could you go back to the counted cross-stitch section and straighten out the Thanksgiving and Easter patterns?” Two customers from out of town had taken a special joy in finding patterns they hadn't seen before—and pulling them out of the slanted cabinets for closer looks, and dropping the ones they voted against on the floor. Or worse, stuffing them back into the slots any which way, out of order or even upside down. In the end, they hadn't bought enough to make up what it would cost Betsy in Godwin's wages to put them right again.

Betsy could have stayed after closing and done it herself, but she wanted to talk with Hector now, while he had come willingly to her—and she wanted to reassure him that no one would eavesdrop.

“What made you change your mind?” she asked Hector, opening her lunch bag.

He unwrapped a fat sandwich that dribbled shredded lettuce. “I decided to stop letting my anger run my mouth.” He pulled a big, squat cardboard cup from his bag, lifted the white plastic lid, and released a gout of steam that smelled of ham and beans.

She pulled out her own sandwich and snack-size bag of chips. The sandwich was wrapped in translucent paper, the spear of pickle visible, laid diagonally on the bread.

“So, where do we start?” he asked, putting the sandwich down on his unfolded napkin and opening the glass bottle of juice.

“Tell me about your father. What was he like as a father? Were you close?”

“Depends on what you mean by close. He wasn't an absentee father.”

“Well, did he take you to work with him when you got old enough?”

“Oh, hell, yes. Put all of us to work while we were still kids, gave us a little plastic bucket and had us picking up nails. He started in construction, was a foreman when I was in middle school. As we got older, we were treated like the rest of the help. He played some mean tricks, threatened to fire us three times a week—but never gave us that relief. By the time I started high school I could read a blueprint as well as anyone on the job, including him. All of us could, the three brothers. I liked it, Ham hated it, Howard started making his own blueprints in junior high. Howard's a designer and contractor, has his own company in Pennsylvania building warehouses and big-box stores. Dad tried to hire him to design the building right here in this town he was out to buy, but Howard turned him down.”

“How did you find out about his plans?”

“Howard called me to warn me Dad wanted someone to help him with a building. I was primed to say no, but he never called.”

“Were you disappointed?”

Heck thought about that briefly. “Kinda. Like the girl who doesn't want to go to the party but is sad she wasn't invited. Except I think I was more relieved. Dad always was a shouter, even to us as grown-ups.”

“He must have been pretty confident he was going to win that bid if he contacted Howard ahead of time.”

“He always thought he'd win—and he usually did. Dad was brilliant at acquiring property and making a profit on a build, but he was hell on wheels to work with. He used to knock me down when I made a mistake on the job, even
after I was as tall as him. As soon as I graduated from college I moved to Texas, and this is the first time I've been back in Minnesota since then.”

“You didn't come home for Christmas or Thanksgiving?”

“No. My wife included him on our Christmas newsletter list, but that was about it.”

“Was he a crook?”

He grimaced at her plain speaking but then shook his head. “I don't think so. I'm sure he skated close to the line, and if he did cross it, I don't think it was deliberate. He was pretty sure people were out to ‘do him,' as he put it, so he'd get mad, or excited, and push back, sometimes sneaky, sometimes hard, sometimes first. But his—and my—line of work is tough. It's not a place for the meek of the earth.”

“How is your business doing?”

He paused to slurp a noisy spoonful of soup. “Okay. We're okay. Not that an infusion of cash wouldn't come in handy right now.” He shrugged and admitted, “Damn handy.”

“I suppose the lead investigator in Wayzata has checked your alibi?”

He put down his plastic soup spoon so firmly the handle cracked. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Come on, Heck, it's a question anyone with an IQ number above room temperature would ask. You could use the money, and you were not on loving terms with your father.”

He said, just a little too casually, “So you actually think I flew up here one afternoon, murdered my father, and flew back the next morning.”

“It's possible. Did you?”

“Hell, no!” He picked up his spoon, saw it was broken,
and put it down again. He said in an exasperated voice, as if he'd already said it several times before—as doubtless he had, to the Wayzata investigators—“I was, and am, working on a job, converting a high school building into condominiums. I talked with my foreman, an electrician, a plumber, and an interior designer, all of them on the day and into the evening that my father was murdered, went home to my wife, then first thing the next day I fired the plumber. Okay?”

Betsy, smiling, nodded. “Sounds good to me. Especially the plumber.”

“Why the plumber?”

“Because he isn't a friend and so is not likely to lie for you.”

The affable look settled again on his face. He nodded once. “Yeah, I see what you mean. And you're right, he was royally pissed.”

“Who else was—to borrow your phrase—‘royally pissed' at your father?”

“I don't know. I hadn't talked to Dad for three or four years, not a real conversation.”

“You said your wife sent him a Christmas letter every year. Did he send one to you?”

“No. A card, yes, one of those commercially printed ones with a photograph of him smoking a cigar while seated in a big leather chair. Even his signature was printed. Two years in a row, the same card. They're cheaper if you order five hundred of them.”