Buttons and Bones (24 page)

“Rafael said you’d be better this morning,” said Godwin, “but I wasn’t so sure.”

“Was I so awful yesterday?” asked Betsy.

“My dear, you were perfectly dreadful.” Godwin’s smile remained. “Almost as bad as I was about this time last year when we thought it was never going to stop raining. Remember?”

“You weren’t crabby, you were depressed.”

“It amounts to the same thing as far as I can see. I did thank you for being patient with me, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and you were wonderful yesterday. Thank you. Let me tell you something that happened last night.”

“Strewth!” Godwin exclaimed when he learned that the skeleton was not Dieter Keitel’s—but he leaped to Betsy’s overnight conclusion before she could tell him about it.

“It’s that missing runaway uncle’s, isn’t it?” he said. “Have you told the Cass County sheriff about this yet?”

“No, Jill’s doing that, probably right now. Like it or not, Max Nowicki is going to have to talk to them about his parents.”

“So it looks as if you’ve solved another one,” said Godwin. “How many does that make?”

“I don’t know, Goddy, I don’t keep track.”

“But you should. Start a journal. Someday you’ll want to write your memoirs,
My Forty Years as a Sleuth
.”

Betsy laughed. “Forty years? Do you know how old I’ll be in forty years?”

“Maybe ten years older than you are right now,” said Godwin, and he went away to turn the shop sign to OPEN.

Soon after opening up, Sergeant Mike Malloy called to say the only fingerprints on the four by five “Lay Off” card he had taken away were Betsy’s. “Morris PD went and had a little talk with Robert Nowicki about it,” continued Mike. “He denied all knowledge of it, of course, but Sergeant Philips reported he was scared and angry. Philips thinks he put the fear of God into Nowicki, and now the man knows we’re on to him, that’ll likely be the last threat you’ll get.”

“Thanks, Mike,” said Betsy. “Have you talked with Jill or Lars yet this morning?”

“No, why?”

Betsy told him about the break in the case that had occurred yesterday evening. “Jill is going, if she hasn’t already, to talk with Investigator Mix up in Cass County,” she concluded.

“Maxillary or
what
?” Mike asked.

“Mandibular.”

“Well, who knew?”

“Nobody we know, that’s for sure. Except Peg Sullivan.”

“Hell’s bells, this is ridiculous!”

“No, it probably means that missing teen, Jerry Nowicki, is who the skeleton belongs to.”

“Maybe. Maybe. How about, just for once, we don’t go leaping to a conclusion?” suggested Mike. “Let’s see what Cass County makes of those bones now.” He hung up.

For some reason, the customers today seemed much calmer, friendlier, and happier than yesterday. Their questions seemed less like whining, their demands not at all annoying. And nobody stole anything.

Around three, Jill came in with her two children, and a couple of flat packages. The bigger one contained a counted cross-stitch pattern of two realistic black-and-white loons—well, three; one of the loons had a fluffy baby riding on its back. The pattern was worked on a piece of fine linen dyed in mottled shades of deep blue and violet. The effect was as if it were twilight, when sky and water are the same dark color. It was the Paula Minkebige pattern from the Crossed Wing Collection that Jill had purchased just a few weeks ago.

Emma Beth said, “I won’t cry when the loons sing a sad song anymore.”

“She says she wants this hung in her bedroom,” said Jill.

“Not up at the cabin?” asked Betsy.

“Up at the lake are real loons,” said Emma Beth.

“I told her we had to have it properly finished before we hang it up anywhere,” said Jill.

“It’s beautiful,” said Betsy. To Emma Beth she added, “I’m sure it will look beautiful in your room.”

“I helped stitch it,” said Emma Beth proudly.

Betsy looked at the tiny crosses on the dark fabric.

“Mama let me pull the needle lots of times,” she added.

“I see. Well, the stitching is very well done, you did a good job.” Lots of women encouraged an early start to stitching by allowing even very young children to pull a needle, once started, through the fabric.

“She was surprisingly persistent,” said Jill with a wry smile. “She’d work for up to half an hour with me on this piece.”

“I can stitch real good,” said Emma Beth.

“You stitch very well, darling. I think that very soon we’re going to have to start you on your own plastic canvas.”

Betsy and Jill discussed the possible colors of mats and styles of frame for the loon piece—with some input from Emma Beth. Airey showed his own talent for patience through it all. Jill said, “We’re going to go look at puppies if he’s good.”

“I be
good
,” Airey declared.

The finishing decisions made, Jill said, “Now, this other package is for you. Good luck with it.”

When she and the children were gone, Betsy opened the package to find a cardboard-stiffened brown envelope. Inside that were six color photographs of a human skull, a full face, right and left profiles, and right and left quarter profiles. In several of them a gold crown on an upper molar was visible.

Godwin, coming for a look, said, “Is that real?”

“Yes, it’s what we thought was the skull of Dieter Keitel.”

“And now is known to belong to Jerry Nowicki.”

“Mike says not to leap to another conclusion. I’m pretty sure the sheriff of Cass County has a way of finding out. Probably dental records exist, he can check them. But there are other ways.”

“Like what?”

“He can get a face put on these bones.” Betsy stared at the photographs. “I’ve heard forensics departments generally have a severe backlog of work so that’s likely to take a while. I wish I didn’t have to wait for them. Hmmm, I may have a way of getting it done faster for myself.”

“Don’t you have to have the actual skull to do that?” asked Godwin, remembering how it was done in a case some years back.

“I know it’s usually done with a computer nowadays, instead of a person laying clay down on the skull with the aid of markers they glue on. I’m hoping all we need is photographs. I’m going to call Connor.”

“You think he knows?”

“No, but his daughter does.”

Connor promised to ask his daughter to call Betsy as soon as he could get hold of her, which he thought was likely to be this afternoon, unless she was doing some lab work.

Betsy was helping Godwin compare the contents of an order from Norden Crafts against her original order form when the phone rang. “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?” she said on picking up the phone.

“Betsy, this is Peg Sullivan. Da said you wanted to speak with me?”

“Oh, yes, thank you for calling so promptly! I have the most audacious favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?”

“Remember how you pointed out that, by the description, the skeleton we found couldn’t be Dieter Keitel’s? Well, I have a set of six very clear photographs of the skull and I’m wondering if you know someone who could put a face on one of them, working just from the photographs.”

There was a thoughtful little silence. “It can be done,” she said at last. “I’m taking a class on how to do it this semester.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

Peg laughed. “I’ll come over this evening, all right?”

“Thank you.”

Peg came over around seven. “Hmmmm,” she said, looking them over swiftly. And going through them again, more slowly, “Hmmmmm.” There was an eager, almost greedy, look on her face. Her mouth opened and Betsy thought she was actually going to lick her lips.

Betsy asked, “Does the ruler in the photographs help?”

“Not really; it’s the proportions between features that tell you the shape of the face. These are excellent photographs. May I borrow the wanted poster with Dieter Keitel’s picture on it?”

“Certainly. How long will this take?”

“Possibly as long as a week.”

But Betsy got a phone call the following afternoon. “Well, it isn’t Dieter Keitel’s skull.”

“I thought we knew that.”

“What we had was a description that didn’t match. I made an overlay of Keitel’s face on the skull and it doesn’t fit. The placement of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, the nose—it doesn’t fit.”

“So now what?”

“Now I try to make a face that does fit. Betsy, thank you for calling me about this. I am really looking forward to doing something . . . something
real
. I hope I don’t disappoint you—and myself.”

“I’m sure you won’t.”

Twenty

JILL was adamant: “No more investigating up in Cass County. They’re on it now,” she said. “And if we butt in the wrong way, we could hurt the case they’re building. Plus we could generate some ill will that I don’t think Lars and I need, since we’re going to be spending time up there in the cabin.”

So Betsy gritted her teeth and agreed. But it was hard. She felt she was hot on the trail to the solution.

Jill called the next day, Friday. “Did you get something in the mail today?” she asked.

“Just the usual. Why, what did you get?”

“Another of those three by five cards. Mine says ‘STOP SLEUTHING’ in all capital letters.”

Betsy was so shocked and frightened she could only think of banalities in response. “Terse fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I’ve called Mike Malloy, he’s on his way over.”

“I thought they had this stopped,” Betsy said. “What do you think we should do?”

“Well, first of all, I sent Lars to take the children to Gram and Grampa Larson until we get this figured out.”

“Yes, that’s imperative. What can you tell about the card?”

“Not much. I think it’s just like the one you got.”

“What’s the postmark?”

“Same as before: Minneapolis.”

“Jill—”

“No, I don’t think we should quit.” This was quite a change from her statement the previous day. Jill sounded sure to the point of anger about it.

After they hung up, Betsy sat at the checkout desk for a while, thinking. Mike had sounded awfully sure that Robert Nowicki had received the message to stop writing threatening notes. Of course, Betsy was getting the report from Mike, who had it from someone in the Morris Police Department, who had it from Robert. Who knew how that message had changed over the course of being handed down? She did understand that Robert had strongly denied he was responsible for the notes.

Could that be true? What if Robert hadn’t written them? Maybe it was Max of the shattered cheekbone sending them. Maybe it wasn’t the Nowicki family at all.

Since there were no customers in the shop, Betsy reached into the carpetbag under the desk and pulled out her knitting. She had long ago found that knitting a simple pattern, as of a knit two, purl two scarf, was a way to free her mind of anxiety and clarify her thoughts. She was currently working on one in Christmas colors of red and green. In a minute or two she could feel her pulse slow and her thinking become more coherent.

But sadly, no new ideas formed.

 

 

 

IT was Sunday, only three days since Betsy gave the photographs of the skull and the wanted poster to Peg Sullivan. She had just come home from church and was deep into English muffins and jam and her second cup of black tea with milk and sugar when there was a knock on her door.

With a sigh over her interrupted breakfast, Betsy went to answer it.

Peg stood at the door, with a big smile on her face. “I’ve got it!” she said. “May I come in and show you?”

“You have it already?” replied Betsy, stepping back and waving Peg in.

“Professor Johnson let me turn it into a project for credit,” she said. “So I could take the time to really focus on it. The face I got looks like a real person, almost. At least as much of one as I could make it. It’s hard to resist the temptation to ignore some clue the skull is giving you in order to make the face more realistic. And of course, there’s the problem of not having the basic talent for drawing to do this really well.” Peg’s smile had been becoming more and more apologetic as she spoke. “Plus, without being able to handle the skull, I wasn’t sure what age he was. But anyway, I have a face to show you.”

Betsy led the way into the living room, where she took the envelope Peg was carrying and said, “Let’s have a look.”

The envelope was held shut with a big paper clip, which Betsy slid off. Inside were three sheets of paper, an original and two photocopies. Behind them were the six photographs of the skull.

The original, a pencil drawing, was just the head of a man in his forties with a thick head of dark hair cropped short on the sides. His jaw was square, his nose short and a little broad, his eyes large and set well apart, light-colored and intelligent. His mouth was wide and heavy, the artist trying for a sensual effect that didn’t quite come off.