Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_04 (10 page)

“Beats me.”

James agreed that the presence of Sharon's car was concrete proof that Sharon had been here, and that a thorough search of the building and grounds was the obvious next step. “I'll call Sheriff Goodman,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later a salty, dirty white car with a five-pointed star on its door pulled up. Sheriff Gregory Goodman, a short, brisk man with slicked-back dark hair and a rough-edged voice, was more indignant on behalf of the lodge than its owners.

“I still can't believe what you're telling me!” he barked at Betsy when she told him her story of seeing Sharon dead in room 10 for the second time. “Things like this just don't happen to decent folk like the Ramseys!”

“Yes, they do,” said Betsy sadly. “Not often, and it is terrible, but they happen.”

Goodman frowned at her. “You sound like you been in a mess like this before.”

“I have,” said Betsy. “More than once. I came up here to get over the last one, and now I seem to be involved in another one. Of all the things in the world, this is what I wanted least.”

Her sincere tone brought a sharp look from James, and the sheriff asked, “How do you know the person you saw on the bed is Sharon Kaye Owen? Have you ever met Mrs. Owen before?”

“No. But her appearance is striking, and her picture
is on the cover of a magazine I subscribe to. That's why, for a little while, we thought perhaps I'd only dreamed I saw her. Because when I saw her, she was wearing the same sweater she's wearing in the photo.”

“So how come you think now you didn't dream the whole thing?”

“I told you: Because her car is here. And she was supposed to be here to teach a needlework class.” Betsy knew from previous encounters with law enforcement people that they made every witness tell his or her story at least twice, and then asked questions.

Goodman, frowning, went back a page in his notebook, read something, and nodded. “How sure are you that when you saw her on the bed she was dead?”

“I went close to her, and I could see she wasn't breathing. Her lips were blue, and her face was discolored in places. I pressed the carotid artery in her neck, but couldn't find a pulse.” Betsy shivered. “I was sure she was dead.”

“But you're not a doctor. Or a nurse.”

“That's right.”

“So it's possible she had passed out, then woke up after you left and walked out under her own steam.”

“Yes, that's possible. The question is, since she didn't take her car, where did she go?”

Jill and the sheriff exchanged a look, and suddenly Betsy felt a chill. It would be horrible if she woke and, sick and confused, wandered out in the cold, perhaps into the surrounding woods, to become another body found too late by that part-time forest ranger.

Maybe,
Betsy thought,
I should have stayed with the body. I could have opened the door and yelled for help, couldn't I?
She shook herself out of that thought, having learned long ago that “shoulda-woulda” regrets were the most useless.

“Show me the car,” Goodman said, and Betsy and Jill
walked out with him. He walked all around it, peering in the windows, but didn't touch the door handles. Betsy, noticing that, was glad she had refrained as well.

“The trunk was unlatched so we opened it,” said Jill, and he gave her a disapproving glance.

“There's two suitcases in it,” said Betsy. “But no dead body. We pushed it closed.”

Goodman went back to his squad car to check the vanity plate, and when it proved to belong to Sharon Kaye Owen of Duluth, he asked a deputy to swear out a search warrant for the car and for a search of the lodge and its outbuildings. When Jill offered to assist, he told her to go stand guard on Frank Owen's room, allowing no one in. “Is he here?”

Betsy looked into the dining room. “He's over there, by the fireplace.”

The sheriff looked as well. “Who's that with him?”

“Carla—what's her last name? Prakesh. One of the stitchers.” Carla had left her Penelope canvas to sit on the couch opposite Frank, listening intently while he spoke to her.

The sheriff started across the room. Betsy watched to see if he would arrest Frank. When the two glanced toward him, Carla stood but Frank didn't. The sheriff said something, Carla replied and added something more to Frank, then went into the lounge. The Sheriff sat down and pulled out his notebook.

Betsy, feeling her work was done, decided to go into the lounge. She paused in the doorway, blinking, shifting gears from sleuth to stitcher. The sun poured full strength through the windows, its brilliance doubled by reflection off the snow-covered lawn. It came through the big windows like a barrage, ricocheting off the light-colored walls and ceiling. If it had been sound, it would have been deafening.

There were about thirty women and two men in the
room. They were all busy. The sunlight flashed on the movement of needles, laying tools, embroidery hoops, the knobs on scroll bars. Wool, acrylic, silk, and cotton colors glowed, both on the stitchers and their work. It was so womanly a scene, the quiet, cheerful voices, the peaceful bent heads, the busy hands—and not Betsy's responsibility to supply their material or cope with their wants or complaints. And now, with law enforcement on hand, there was no pressure to do any sleuthing.

Betsy looked around, thinking to sit with or near Carla, but the woman had chosen the last open place in a cluster of upholstered chairs the stitchers had rearranged.

At first disappointed, Betsy told herself firmly she was relieved; after all, she wasn't going to sleuth anymore. She retrieved her needlework bag from beside Isabel, who was describing an encounter with a “pattern from hell” to a woman nodding sympathetically, and continued down to an empty wicker chair facing a sofa on which sat a plump woman totally involved in her stitching. Her indifference was welcome; Betsy didn't feel like talking to anyone right now. Anyone else, anyhow. She looked through the glass of a French door, where the sheriff, now standing, looked about to lead Frank out of the dining room.

Betsy again firmly quashed her curiosity, and got out her stitching.

She pulled her needle from its place on the border of the Aida cloth, consulted the Sue Lentz pattern, and took a couple of stitches.

“Oooh, the rose window patterns; I worked those a few months ago,” said the woman sitting across from Betsy, not so totally involved in her own work after all. She was a tall, heavyset woman, her dark blond hair given golden highlights by the sun.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Not the stitching.” The woman chuckled. “But they were beautiful once they were finished. I see you're working the one on black.”

“Yes, I haven't tried doing a pattern on black before, and I guess it's time. I'm Betsy Devonshire, I inherited a needlework shop in Excelsior and I've decided to keep it running. That means I have to get serious about needlework.”

“I'm glad to hear you're keeping the shop open. We treasure our independents because of the special attention and the classes—though too often we buy our floss at Michael's or Wal Mart.”

“I know.” Betsy sighed and the woman chuckled again. Betsy leaned forward to see what she was working on. It was a rectangular needlepoint canvas, painted with grapevines top and bottom, and a beautiful uncial H leading off a William Morris quote:
HAVE NOTHING IN YOUR HOUSES THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW TO BE USEFUL
,
OR BELIEVE TO BE BEAUTIFUL
.

“I don't think I've seen that canvas before,” said Betsy.

“It's a Beth Russell kit, I ordered it from England, by Internet. I'm Nan Hansen, by the way. Oops!” She had begun to reach out a hand to Betsy, but instead knocked over the bottle of water resting on the arm of the couch.

“Nice to meet you.”

Nan picked up the bottle of water and put it on the coffee table. “Were you out for a walk? It's so lovely up here in the summer, but I've never been one for winter sports. Outdoor ones, anyway. You're a lot braver than I am.”

Betsy was considering how to reply to this when a man's rough-edged voice called from the other end of the room, “ 'Scuse me, ladies! May I have your attention!”

Betsy looked up to see Sheriff Goodman standing,
hands on hips. “Who's in charge of this sewing shindig this weekend?”

Isabel stood. “Since the woman who organized it couldn't be here, I suppose I am.”

“Will you come with me, please?” Goodman said, bending a turned-back forefinger at her.

They were no more than out the door when James Ramsey came in. The lodge owner said into the staring silence, “As most of you know, Sharon Kaye Owen was supposed to be here to teach a class. She was actually seen here yesterday, but not since, nor can she be located anywhere else. The reported circumstances of her disappearance are . . . disturbing, and the sheriff is here to begin an investigation. I'm sure he'll be asking all of you some questions.” A brief murmur rose and quickly died as he continued. “Her car has been found in the parking lot, so a search will be conducted of the premises. I know this is an inconvenience and I apologize for it, but of course we are anxious to have this mystery solved.”

A murmur of agreement rose, but one woman asked, “Are they going to search our rooms?”

“I can't imagine why,” said James. “Can you?” There was uncomfortable laughter. “Now, if you will excuse me?” He bowed slightly, and left the lounge.

When he was gone, their voices rose in varied discussion of this turn of events. But in a couple of minutes, as work resumed, the noise quieted.

“You seem to have stirred up a mystery—maybe,” Nan said to Betsy.

“Me?”

“Yes, that's what you were doing outside, looking for Sharon Kaye's car, isn't it? Of course it was, you were in here asking what kind of car Sharon Kaye drove. Are you a detective? I know that woman you were with is a police officer. What's going on, can you tell me?”

“There's hardly anything to tell,” said Betsy. “Did you know Sharon Kaye?”

Nan nodded, and pulled a strand of cream-colored yarn through another basketweave stitch. “Yes, I did. A few years ago, she buckled down and got really good at counted cross-stitch, after years of just fooling with it. But then she couldn't do what she really loved anymore, which was climb mountains and swim oceans. She liked doing hard things, so I suppose we shouldn't have been surprised when she recently decided to challenge herself by designing.”

“Were her designs any good?”

She took another stitch. “Well . . . not brilliant or breaking new ground. But competent, and getting better with every new one.”

A woman across the way cleared her throat, and when they looked at her she said, “I'm doing the flower series she designed.” She held up her project, a counted cross-stitch pattern of five daffodils in a glass vase. “I'm Linda Savareid, from Albert Lea. This is the first pattern of hers I've worked, and I love it. Her design is so easy to follow.” Linda had streaky brown hair and the gentle, competent air of a grade school teacher Betsy had once loved.

Nan said, “Getting on the cover of
ANW
was a real coup for her. If she ever comes up with something really fresh, she could become one of the shining lights of counted design.” She looked at Betsy over half-moon glasses. “Well, unless . . .” she said.

“Unless she's dead,” said Linda.

“Yes.”

Having broken the subject open, the women on the couch with its back to Betsy began talking about Sharon Kaye, and soon the women across from them joined in. Betsy shamelessly eavesdropped (and so she didn't
realize for some while that she was making some mistakes in counting her stitches).

“I can't imagine her dead,” said a woman with an interesting white streak in her russet hair. She had finished stitching a hardanger pattern of squares and was very carefully snipping out their centers. “She sort of took over any room she was in.”

“I hope nothing bad has happened to her,” said one young woman dressed in a red sweatsuit. She was stitching the alphabet in bright silks on Quaker cloth. “She is so nice! When I was just starting out, she sat with me for half an hour and showed me how to grid and follow a pattern. She was so patient and so encouraging, it made me feel special.”

“Well, good for you, Katy; she was rude to me every time we met,” said a young woman with several earrings and a glint in her eye.

“Now, Anna,” warned Nan.

“Humpf!” snorted Anna. “You know as well as I do, she could be damn rude when she felt like it, and what's worse, she always had to have her own way about everything or she'd walk out right in the middle of whatever we were doing.”

“She wasn't well,” said Nan.

“She was as well or as sick as she wanted to be,” retorted Anna. “All that stuff about being allergic! I saw her shopping at a mall once, looking healthy as a horse, then she turned up the next morning at a stitch-in wearing a mask and whining that someone present had eaten peanut butter. She positively enjoyed making us all feel guilty for having a life. Poo!”