Darned if You Do (16 page)

“Let me see,” ordered Julie, and Emily showed her the picture.

“That's not a chicken leg,” said the child.

“No, it's chicken bone,” said Godwin, reaching for the phone.

“Let me see an ivory one,” said Emily.

It took a couple of minutes before Godwin could find one close to Emily's description—the first one he found was shaped like a fish and the next was tubular, but English with modest carvings on it. But at last he handed the phone over to her, saying, “Here, is this what yours looked like?”

“Well, kind of. The one I saw wasn't brown at the edges like this one. But the shape is right. Mine had this little bitty dragon going around it, so pretty. This one doesn't. Is this one you found expensive?”

Godwin took the phone back and clicked back a screen. “Three hundred dollars, to buy it now—it's an auction. Current bid is a hundred fifty.”

“Ohhhh, that's a lot of money. I was hoping the needle cases in the box I found would be in the yard sale Valentina is going to hold, so maybe I could buy one. I have a silver needle my grandmother gave me back when she was teaching me to cross-stitch. The eye is worn through, but I just can't throw it away. I could keep it in the needle case—if I could buy it. If they ever find it.” She sighed.

“Mommy, can we go home now?” asked Julie. “I'm hungry.”

“Yes, darling, we can go home.” Emily smiled at Godwin and Betsy. “She gets so hungry after swimming. Good luck with your investigation, Betsy. Do you think what happened to Tom is connected to that missing box?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. There doesn't seem to be anything about it that would cause someone to murder Tom. A ball carved to look like mice, three needle cases, all in a lightweight red box. Besides, someone stole it from him, not the other way around.”

“Why, yes, that's true.”

Godwin said, “Suppose Tom stole it to begin with?”

Betsy said, “Okay, suppose. The box has been taken again—perhaps by the person it was taken from. No reason there to kill Tom over it.”

Julie began tugging at her mother's hand, and Emily, compliant, began walking toward the door. “Still, I hope there's some way to find out who took that box—and get it back. Bye-bye.”

O
VER
dinner that evening, Connor said to Betsy, “What if there aren't two Pickering sisters?”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“What if there's only one of them and she has this auburn wig? They look awfully alike, you know.”

“They don't look
that
much alike when you see them side by side. One's taller than the other, and about ten pounds heavier. I've seen them together—there are two of them, all right. You get the nuttiest notions.”

“They are extraordinarily alike,” Connor insisted. “Their features are virtually identical, they are the same height and weight. One wears higher heels than the other, and one wears fat clothes.”

“‘Fat clothes'?”

“You do it, too. You have a really nice figure, you know, but sometimes you wear clothes that disguise that lovely fact.”

“I used to weigh more than I do now, and haven't had the heart to give away some good clothes I really like. Besides, I'm not advertising for a replacement for you.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Anyway, I suppose my original point is moot, since you've seen the two of them together.”

She shook her head at him. “What a strange idea, that Georgie and Gracie are the same person. Why would someone want to do something like that, pretend to be two different people?”

“I don't know. I hadn't gotten beyond my original thought that Georgine and Grace look very alike, that their differences appear to be mostly in hairstyle and dress. Why do people do anything? And speaking of people, did you see the dinner invitation from Jill and Lars after the Halloween Parade tomorrow?”

“Yes, I think we should go, of course. And to the parade, too. I simply adore Emma Beth and Erik, and little Einar seems to be settling in at last.” The last few months of Jill's pregnancy with their third child had been difficult, and newborn Einar was a fussy, colicky mite. Born a month early, at three months he was still frail but starting to gain ground, his dark gray eyes no longer scarily huge in his little white face.

Amazingly, his favorite toy in all the world was the family's enormous black Newfoundland, Bjorn. The first time Einar smiled, it was when his father laid the infant against the dog's side and the huge head came around and whuffled at him. It was love at first sniff.

Bjorn, a model of his breed, was as gentle and protective of Einar as he was of Emma Beth and Erik. The baby smiled and cooed whenever he was with the dog, and clutched happily at his shaggy black coat.

This year the dog was hitched to a specially built wagon that Einar, Emma Beth, and Erik rode in the parade. The two older children wore costumes from the late nineteenth century and pretended to be fishing over opposite sides of the wagon. Their mother, walking alongside, wore a traditional Norwegian costume and a clown nose. She and the children had worn the same costumes—without the clown nose—in the Fourth of July Parade. This Halloween, as on the Fourth, their father drove the family's Stanley Steamer, a perennial favorite, elsewhere in the parade.

When Connor and Betsy arrived at the Larson house, they were not surprised to find Einar snuggled against the animal on the floor, watching the goings-on from that safe place.

Dinner was childproof salmon loaf with creamed peas, then a noisy and hilarious game of Chutes and Ladders—Connor was winning when he remembered his manners and allowed Erik to edge him out—and then the children were put to bed. The grown-ups sat down in the living room. Two minutes of blissful silence fell.

Then, “Have you discovered anything helpful on the Riordan case?” asked Lars.

“No,” said Betsy in a low, discouraged voice. “I never paid much attention to Tom when he was alive, so I don't really know how to explore his life now that he's gone.”

Lars said, “I can tell you about his police record.”

“He had a record?”

“An informal one. He was ‘known to the police' as a nuisance, not a criminal. Nor a drunk. I saw him drink half a glass of beer at a Fourth of July picnic once, and he made a face that lasted an hour. Said it tasted like goat piss—though how he knew that, I don't want to know.”

“So what kind of record did he have?” asked Connor.

“Trespass—he was banned from several stores because he'd go in and walk around fingering the merchandise. Probably waiting for someone to not pay attention so he could steal something. Begging. He was on a monthly allowance and was generally broke the week before a new check arrived, so he'd stand outside restaurants and ask people to give him their doggie bags, or he'd rummage through the garbage outside McDonald's—well, that is, until they moved the cans inside. At last Attorney Penberthy took mercy on him and started giving him an allowance every week instead of monthly. That schedule made it easier for him to manage the money he was given.”

“Good for Mr. Penberthy,” said Betsy, “but I don't see how any of that could lead to someone needing to kill Tom.”

Jill said gently, “That's why Mike is looking so hard at Valentina Shipp. She's the only one who profits by his death.”

Betsy looked down at her stocking feet—her shoes were over by the door, as were Connor's. “I don't think she's a murderer.”

“Not all murderers look the part,” said Jill.

“I know, I know,” said Betsy. “And it's true that anyone can be goaded into killing another human being if the circumstances come around just right—or do I mean wrong? But Valentina was living her own life in faraway Indiana and not involved in Tom's life at all. When the county called to ask if she would come and help Tom, she could have said no. They didn't make her come. And they didn't tell her Tom owned anything of value.”

Lars said, “Those three pieces of jewelry they found in Riordan's house are worth over seventy thousand dollars. The house and lot are worth at least two hundred thousand dollars. The Leipolds' estimate of items found in the house—not counting the coins or jewelry—is around twenty-five thousand dollars. That's a whole lot of money that comes to her because someone leaned hard on a pillow over Tom's face for a few minutes. You're right that she wasn't involved in his life, but that actually counts against her, don't you see? It wasn't like she was killing someone she knew.”

The silence that fell this time was darker.

“Well, I still don't think she did it,” said Betsy, setting a stubborn chin. “Come on, now, help me here. Who else should we be looking at?”

“Who's this ‘we,' woman?” asked Lars. “I think she did it. Tom Take was living just fine here in town until she arrived. He was obstinate and sometimes a pain in the neck. But he was also helpful, cheerful, funny, and kind. He was the small-town eccentric, and I think we're worse off without him. The only person I know of who might be glad he's gone, because she profits by his death, is Valentina Shipp.”

Betsy looked at Jill, who sighed and said, “I don't have any ideas. The person here who knew him best is Lars, and you just heard his thoughts.”

“Yes, but Lars knew him from a law enforcement angle. Did you know him from a personal angle? Was he a friend?”

“No, the person in this family who thought of him as a friend is asleep.”

“You mean Emma Beth? Or Airy?” (Erik's nickname was Airy, given to him by Emma Beth.)

“No, I mean Bjorn. Bjorn's tail would start wagging as soon as he saw Tom on the street.”

“Why? I suppose Tom sometimes gave him a treat?”

“No, all he did was stoop down and stroke him on the head and chest. Bjorn would stand there as long as I'd let him, grinning like a fool, soaking in the strokes.”

“Awwwww,” said Betsy. “I guess Bjorn knew a sweet soul when he met one.”

“Bjorn thinks everyone has a sweet soul,” said Lars. “No, it's because Tom would stoop. It's intimidating to a dog when someone looms over him. Tom would reduce his size so he was face-to-face with Bjorn, which Bjorn found friendly.”

“How did he know to do that?” asked Connor. “Did Tom ever have a pet?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” said Lars. “Of course, God knows what he kept in that house.”

Jill said, “I didn't see any sign of pet ownership, apart from the old birdcages, and they were just stacked in the upstairs hallway. No sign they were ever used.”

“Connor,” Betsy said, “did you notice anything missing after you broke for lunch and came back into the house that first day?”

“No.” He thought briefly. “No, I didn't. After Emily told us about the missing red box, I did look around—but there was so damn much stuff in such a mind-boggling variety, it was impossible to keep a running inventory in my head. Now I know Emily has that trick memory, but she said the only thing missing from the dining room was the box. Nobody else noticed anything missing that same day, which makes me think it likely that nothing else went astray. Though now, of course, there's that damn rifle.”

“Yeah, what about that rifle?” asked Lars.

“It was found on the grave of one Chester Teesdale,” said Betsy. “And someone with the same name, presumably his son, worked half a day in Tom's house. Lars, has Mike talked to him?”

Lars shrugged. “If he has, he didn't tell me about it.”

Betsy asked, “Can any of you think of a link that might exist between the red box and that rusty rifle?”

No one could.

Betsy said, “I can see someone taking a rifle, even a rusty one. But what was so special about the box that someone would take it?”

Jill shrugged. “Nobody knows, not even Emily. Nobody else saw it but Emily. Georgie was working with her in the dining room but says she didn't see it. Emily only found it because she literally stumbled over it, and that was after Georgie, Valentina, and I went upstairs to see what Connor was shouting about.”

Betsy said, “Emily says she left it on the table under a magazine.”

“So not only was it the sole item taken, it was actually searched for and taken?” asked Lars.

“Looks that way,” said Connor. “Which would mean the person who took it was after that specific object.”

“But why? It didn't have anything particularly valuable in it,” said Jill. “Three plastic needle cases and a Halloween trick.”

Betsy said, “Emily thinks the objects were made of carved ivory but describes them as light colored. If they are ivory, they are illegal ivory, because antique ivory—legal ivory—is deep yellow, even brown.”

“So where did Tom get it?” asked Connor.

“Does it matter?” asked Jill.

“Maybe he stole it, and the person he stole it from stole it back,” said Lars with a grin.

“That's been suggested,” said Betsy, “but how does that lead to murdering Tom? Once you've got it back, that should be the end of it. And on that note, I think we should start for home. I've got a busy day tomorrow.”

*   *   *

“Y
OU
aren't going to look!” said Godwin.

“Of course I am going to look,” said Rafael serenely in his lovely Spanish accent, pulling open the heavy canvas bag.

“But there's a thirty-day hold on working through the contents of the house,” said Godwin.

“The coins were not kept in the house,
mi gorrión
, but in a bank, a what do you call it, safe box, in her name.”

“No, she was supposed to stop working on the whole estate for thirty days.”

“Yes, that would likely be the case,” said Rafael, preparing to gently empty the bag.

Godwin said nothing, and Rafael paused to see what he would say next.

Godwin looked at the bag. “Oh, all right, let's take a look.”

Rafael smiled. Now that the objection had been made and acknowledged, Godwin was willing to take part in the illicit sorting.

Carefully, Rafael spilled out a lively hoard of silver coins onto the dining room table. Several rolled across the linen tablecloth nearly to the edge; one made it all the way and dropped onto the floor. “Catch it, catch it!” said Rafael.

Godwin stooped and picked up the coin. “Oh, wow, look at the face of that woman on the front.”

“Obverse,” said Rafael.

“What? Oh, that's right, it's obverse and reverse, I keep forgetting. Anyway, she looks like the teacher who made me tremble in fourth grade.”

“I don't know, she reminds me of my great-aunt, who was very kind to me. But I much prefer the face on the Peace dollar, so young and fresh.”

“Do you see a Peace dollar here?”

“No, but I have three in my collection.”

“Oh. So how do we begin?”

“Sorting them by year, I believe, is the most efficient way. I have my new copy of
The Official Red Book
, so we can see if any of them are especially valuable.”

The room fell silent except for the quiet clink of coins being arranged into a long row down the table. Morgan dollars were minted between 1878 and 1904, so they quickly formed twenty-seven places, though there weren't coins from all the years. Then Rafael said, “Hold on, hold on, here's one dated 1921.”