Blackwork (22 page)

“As you can see, the apartment is unfurnished. For an increase in rent, I can furnish it.”

“No, I have furniture,” he said. He was looking around with a critical but approving eye. He thumped a wall with a knuckle, testing its thickness. “How old is this building?” he asked.

“Built in 1910,” she said.

“Very good,” he said. “I like old places.”

The bathroom was a model of efficiency, and Betsy had spent money on bronze and brown natural tile, even to a raised frieze of fish about halfway up the tub-shower enclosure.

Mr. Sullivan nodded his approval.

The kitchen had Corian counters in dark green, and there was a light green and blue glass tile backsplash along the wall, under the pale wood cabinets and over the stainless steel sink. The refrigerator and stove were new, the floor an imitation stone tile. “Real tile is hard on your feet,” Sullivan noted approvingly as he cast a cook’s eye on the arrangements. Lots of lighting and a big opening into the living room helped to disguise the fact that there were no windows in the kitchen.

“Very snug,” was his final remark on the place.

“Would you like to see the other apartment?” Betsy asked. “It will be available in about three weeks. It comes furnished.”

“No, no, I think I like this very well. Do you rent from month to month, or would you prefer that a tenant sign a lease?”

“A one-year lease would be good,” she said.

They went back downstairs and Betsy gave him a copy of the lease to look over.

“When would you want to move in?” she asked impulsively. With that question, she cut out the several people ahead of him in line.

“Would November first be all right?” he asked.

“That would be fine.” She walked him to the door, and as he turned to say good-bye, he said, “I see you’ve got a broken door over here.” His light tone took the sting out of the implied criticism of her shop.

“Yes, I keep meaning to call a handyman about it. I’ll get on that today.”

“Would you like me to fix it for you?”

“What, are you a cabinetmaker?”

“In an amateur way, yes.” Again he spoke lightly, but somehow Betsy had no doubt he could do it.

Still, “Let me get back to you,” she said.

After he left, Godwin came up to the table, where Betsy was returning to her task of putting together little kits of Christmas ornaments in clear plastic bags. These would be kept in a basket by the checkout desk for impulse buyers.

“He likes you,” he said with a hint of a leer.

“Who likes me?” she asked absentmindedly, sliding a tiny sprig of plastic holly onto the ribbon that was holding the plastic bag shut.

“That man who just rented Doris’s apartment. He really likes you.”

She looked up at him. “Just because you’ve found a new love, you think you see it everywhere! Honestly, Goddy! And anyway, he hasn’t rented it yet. He just took a copy of the lease to look at.” She shook her head at him, and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, leaned toward her, and captured the little length of spider web from her left ear. He showed it to her before putting the handkerchief away.

“Oh, for cripe’s sake!” she groaned, and he laughed.

 

 

 

 

T
HREE hours later, Betsy was alone in the shop when Shelly came in with a flat Tupperware cake pan. Inside it, wrapped in many layers of tissue paper, was a small, counted-cross-stitch piece of fabric.

Done in shades of purple, lavender, and silver-gray, with touches of silver and black metallics, it was a witch’s hat in a sturdy frame of cross-stitch counterchanged in light and dark lavender, the space between the hat and frame filled with a net of delicate blackwork lightly strewn with tiny leaves. The stitching was done in silk, which gave it a subtle shine, as if it were seen in a half-light—very appropriate for the theme.

“Well, this is
nice
, very balanced and attractive!” Betsy said. “May I ask you where you got the blackwork pattern?” Because it looked familiar.

“It’s mine. I mean, there are only so many variables you can do in blackwork; the vine-and-leaf, for example, is a common motif. But the pattern layout is my very own.”

“I like the way it fills the space without overwhelming it. Kreinik should be pleased.”

“Thank you, I hope so. See that dark purple there? That’s going to be their newest color in silk. If they like this pattern, they’ll use it to introduce the color.”

“Wow, that means it will get worldwide distribution! How nice for you!”

Shelly simpered just a little, then said, “It needs to be finished quickly—can you or even Heidi send it directly to Kreinik? I can tell them it’s coming.”

“I’ll call Heidi today.” Heidi Watgren was a finisher, a person who took a piece of completed needlework to wash it, stretch and dry it, mat and frame it. It was an expensive service, but a piece that was to become a family heirloom or a published design deserved special treatment.

Shelly said, “It’s not to be matted and framed, okay?”

“Then why don’t you wash and stretch it yourself?”

“Oh, I’m too nervous. What if the colors run, or I stretch it all out of shape? I want an expert’s hands on it at this late stage. This is too important to risk a finishing mistake.”

“I understand completely. Do you want it sent in the Tupperware?”

“Oh, gosh, no! I want a proper mailing box for it. You can use the tissue paper, however. Here’s the pattern, and here’s the address.” Shelly handed over a sheet of typing paper and a three-by-five card on which was very carefully printed the address of Kreinik Manufacturing in West Virginia.

“All right, fine. I’ll let you know the day it goes into the mail.”

Betsy hesitated to ask her next question, but she felt she had to know. “Shelly, may I ask you what you’re going to do about Harvey?”

“I’ve told him he has to move out until the mess with his first marriage is fixed.” She added unhappily, “However long it takes.”

“You could suggest that he hire a licensed private investigator to find his wife.”

Shelly frowned at her. “Would that be a good idea?”

“They do it all the time. There even used to be a radio show about it. Godwin told me about Mr. Keen, tracer of lost persons.”

If Shelly was happy about getting her project finished, she was ecstatic about the PI notion. “I’ll tell him!” she declared, and hurried out of the shop.

 

 

 

 

R
AFAEL, I think we may have to do something about her! Or him! Or him and her!” Godwin sounded anxious.

“Why should we have to do something,
Gorrión
? They are adults—more adult than either of us, for that matter. She is what, in her later fifties?”

“That’s not the
point
. The point is, she is very bad at picking men. She lets the right one get away and she marries the wrong one!”

“And yet you brought me around for her to judge if I was right for you.”

“About other people, she’s amazing. It’s about herself that she’s hopeless.”

“Well, what do you propose that we do?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you can think of.”

Rafael looked fondly at Godwin. “You are such an idiot, you know that? How am I to know such a thing?”

“Maybe if we put our heads together, we can think of something.”

“Better that we try to persuade her to stop meddling in police business. Do you know how dangerous that can be? She could find herself the subject of an investigation! Or worse, the victim of a murderer!”

“No, she’s very careful, truly she is.” But Godwin felt uneasy saying that.
After all, Patricia Fairland
could
have killed her
, he thought. He had often wondered himself why his boss felt drawn to sleuthing. It was exciting and interesting, but like Rafael said, it could be dangerous.

“Suppose I were to be a criminal, would she investigate me? And how would you feel about that?”

“Are you a dangerous criminal?”

“I’m sure I have broken many laws. It is impossible to live long in any country without breaking a few laws.”

“What laws have you broken?”

“Oh, I have murdered quite a few people. Not any important ones, however.”

Godwin stared at him, then the two started laughing.

 

 

 

 

T
HE next day Betsy went out for lunch, walking over to The Barleywine. She saw Leona behind the bar talking with a patron and approached. The patron was saying, “I just put my first IPA in the primary and I’m hoping you can give me some direction on dry hopping the secondary. I formulated my own recipe, and my OG was one point oh eight oh, and the IBUs between a hundred and one oh five. I was going to dry hop in the secondary an ounce whole leaf cascade the first week, a one-ounce pellet Centennial the second week. I figured I’d brew the first twelve days at sixty-eight degrees, the last two days much lower to settle, then bottle—but that was based on a recipe with lower OG and IBUs. Is two weeks in a secondary good enough for the higher gravity and IBUs?”

Betsy hesitated. Technical talk could be lengthy, and this fellow had a lengthy question.

But Leona just said, “It all depends on what you want the aroma, taste, mouth feel, and appearance to be like. I’d do twelve days in the secondary with the first dry hop, the last four days at forty-two degrees to clear the beer, then bottle.” Then she looked up and saw Betsy, and waved her over.

As Betsy approached, the patron said, “Thanks, Leona,” and retired to a booth with his mug of beer.

Leona asked Betsy, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like a burger, medium rare, with lettuce and tomato, and potato chips, and a cup of tea, please.” She glanced over her shoulder at the patron. “You know, I had no idea how complicated beer making is.”

“It’s as simple or complicated as you care to make it. The more you look for a reliable product, the more careful you are about your recipe. But you can’t get so careful that you never try anything new.”

“And speaking of that, what’s new with you?”

“I’ve been experimenting with pumpkin beer, and I think we’ve got a good one right now. But what I’m doing now is making pumpkin pie with the leavings. Care for a slice?”

Betsy smiled. “Yes, if you’ll change my order to a chef salad. But does the pie smell of beer?”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

“What made you think to try it anyhow? Is it a lambic beer like the cherry and peach?”

“No, it’s an early American idea. In the Colonies, barley was expensive and hard to come by, so people made beer out of pumpkins. But this is my own version of the recipe, because it’s got brown sugar and nutmeg in it—and sugar and spices were even harder to come by than barley in the white man’s early days on this continent. One of the bonuses of pumpkin beer is that you can get pumpkin pie from what’s left behind after straining the mash. I found the recipe in a magazine for amateur brewers, a guy named Mark Pasquinelli came up with it—including the pumpkin pie idea.”

“Okay, I’d love a slice of pie—but I hope you’re right about it not tasting of beer. I have to be careful of my breath when I’m in the shop. Do you have milk on your menu? I think nothing tastes as good with pumpkin pie as milk.”

“Certainly. Chef salad, pumpkin pie, milk. I’ll get your order in right now.”

Leona disappeared into the kitchen area of the brew-pub.

Betsy looked around. Besides the patron with the brewing question, there was only one other customer. Normally, the place would be crowded with people eating lunch. The way he was dressed made it clear that the one customer was a businessman, and he was finishing up a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

By the time Leona came back, he was standing at the cash register at the far end of the bar, with his credit card in hand. He did not speak to Leona beyond the word or two necessary to complete his transaction, and he went out into the noon-time’s vague sunlight without a word of good-bye.

Betsy looked at Leona, feeling a stab of compassion.

Leona nodded. “We really need to clear this up, Betsy,” she said.

“I agree. And I’m trying. I came over here to talk to Billie.”

“She’s got the day off, and she’s got a list a mile long of things she needs to get done before the Halloween thing kicks off on Saturday.”

“May I ask you some questions, then?”

“Certainly.”

“When you told me you were here at The Barleywine on Sunday, did you mean you were back in the brewery area or out front here?”

“Out front. And let me tell you, the only thing harder on the feet than that tile floor in the brewery is the slate floor we put in here. If we ever get far enough into the black, I’m going to replace it.”

Betsy looked down at the irregular slabs that had likely cost a pretty penny to buy, install, and seal. The floor looked beautiful, but doubtless Leona was right—it looked like it would be hard on the feet.

“Maybe just replace it behind the bar,” Betsy suggested.

Leona said, “Now that’s probably a good idea.” She nodded to herself, storing the suggestion away, then said, “Why are you asking about an earlier alibi? Has the medical examiner changed his estimate of time of death?”

“No, but that method I think was used could have been set up as many as six hours before Ryan died.”

“‘As many as’? Does that mean there’s a big spread?”

“Yes,” said Betsy.

“Well, doesn’t
that
just make your task a whole lot easier!” Leona’s tone was sympathetic.

Just then, the door to the kitchen opened and a young woman Betsy recognized as a part-timer in her shop came into the pub. She was holding a tray with Betsy’s salad, pie, and milk. She smiled at Betsy. “Well, hello!” she said. “Good to see not everyone’s staying away!”