Sins and Needles (7 page)

 

S
TEWART
was at home with his youngest daughter, CeeCee, fourteen, when the police came calling. Actually, it was just one police officer, a six-foot man probably in his forties, wearing a baggy suit and too-tight tie. He was about Stewart's height and probably thirty pounds lighter—Stewart had once come across the arch term
embonpoint
to describe a certain plumpness of person, and ever after used it to describe himself. This man was more big boned than a man of embonpoint.

The cop was polite: “Good afternoon, sir. I hope I'm not taking you away from something important.” Or was that an insult? Hard to tell—his eyes were shiny flat surfaces and his mouth an unexpressive line. He showed an ID card and a badge, which Stewart only glanced at.

“No, nothing important,” Stewart said. Nothing at all, in fact, but an old movie he'd been trying to use as a distraction from the terrible news about Aunt Edyth. It was just starting to work when the doorbell rang. “Come in, come in,” he said quickly, remembering his manners. “Don't mind the mess.”

“Not at all, and thank you,” said the detective, his eyes darting all around the big living room with its several windows looking out at the lake. It was a beautiful room, in a beautiful house, even if the furniture was rather shabby. The scattering of belongings were mostly Stewart's: an old shirt, his slippers, his box of Lorna Doone cookies, his boating magazines, his big bunch of keys that gave a satisfying jingle when carried in his pocket. He made a hasty stack of the magazines on the coffee table, then went to turn off the TV.

“CeeCee,” Stewart said, “why don't you go out in the yard and play for a while? I need to talk to this man.”

“Okay, Dad.” CeeCee, a leggy, long-haired blonde with deep blue eyes, cast a speculative look at the detective and departed.

“Won't you sit down?” Stewart said to the detective.

“Why, yes, thank you.” The man took the upholstered chair, the one with little bits of stuffing coming up through one arm—their late cat had loved that chair. But it was a comfortable chair, nonetheless.

Stewart sat at one end of the couch and said, “I suppose you're here because of the death of my aunt, Edyth Hanraty.”

“Yes,” said the man.

“May I—I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name,” confessed Stewart.

“I'm Sergeant Mitchell Rice,” said the man, reaching into a pocket inside his suit jacket and bringing out a business card, which he handed to Stewart. “Orono PD,” he added.

Stewart looked at the card, which had a lot of information on it that he couldn't read without his glasses. He rubbed it with a thumb—not embossed, he noted—and put it into his trousers pocket. “May I get you a cup of coffee or a soft drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well then, what can I do for you?”

Rice went into a side pocket and produced a ballpoint pen and the smallest notebook Stewart had ever seen. “An autopsy performed on Miss Hanraty has shown that her death was not from natural causes,” he said. “It is the opinion of the Hennepin County medical examiner that her death is a homicide, brought about by a human hand.”

Stewart looked into Sergeant Rice's inexpressive brown eyes. “You mean she was murdered.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stewart looked away, wiping his mouth with his fingers. “That's just about too awful to think about,” he said, coming back to look at the man. “I mean, who would want to murder her? She was just an old woman who never did anyone any real harm that I know of.”

“How well did you know her?”

“Pretty well. She was my aunt, my mother's sister. I used to go to her house a lot when I was a kid. I still go out there—well, I guess it's I
used
to go out there, now—to run errands, help around the place. She was pretty rude to me—she didn't like the male gender; anyone who knew her can tell you that—but she liked the things I could do, lift and haul, minor household repairs, you know the drill. She wouldn't always thank me pretty, but she never ran me off the place with a shotgun.” He laughed.

“Was she involved in a quarrel with anyone that you know of?” Rice asked.

Stewart widened his eyes in surprise as he shook his head. “Not that I know of. I doubt if you'll find any sign of a quarrel. She didn't go out much anymore, didn't have many visitors outside of the family. She had a housekeeper named Fran March—been there a few years. She was one of a series that started when Aunt Edyth was in her late sixties and couldn't do for herself anymore. Fran may know if she was mad at someone or someone was mad at her. But I'll bet you no one was.” He grimaced and dared to ask, “Are you really sure she was murdered? It seems so damn unlikely.”

“The medical examiner says so, and I have no reason to doubt his conclusion.” Sergeant Rice wrote a brief note and then asked, “Where were you last Saturday evening?”

Stewart jumped as if he'd been shot at. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, and instantly cursed himself for being an idiot.

“I'm sorry, sir, but we have to ask.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you do. But I should tell you, I don't in the least profit by her death.”

“No, sir, I understand that. Still, could you tell me where you were?”

“Certainly. Here at home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. My wife took our daughters out to dinner and a concert. One of those girl-bonding things they like to do. I'm not all that fond of Asian food and I don't like Bach, so I played like a bachelor and fixed my own little dinner, watched a ball game on the television, and went to bed early.”

“I see.”

“Now hold on a minute. My wife called me at least twice, and I was here to talk to her. You can check with her to confirm that.”

“What time did she call?”

“Let me think. About seven the first time and somewhere around nine the second.”

“So your wife was with the four girls, and you were here, but in touch with her by phone.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Cell phone or landline?”

“What? Oh, cell phone. We don't have a—what d'ya call it?—a landline anymore. Ever since we went wireless on our computers, we couldn't see the use of it.”

Rice nodded. “How old are the girls?”

“Well, Katie's just turned twenty-one. She's married and out of the house, but she comes home a lot now she's pregnant. And Lexie is nineteen, Bernie's sixteen, and CeeCee, who you just got a glimpse of, is fourteen.”

Rice wrote it all down. Then he asked, “What is your occupation?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do you do, sir?” asked Rice, a hint of impatience showing in his voice.

“Oh. Well, at present, I'm a house husband. You know, take care of the house and the kids. I used to be an office manager at Markham and Sons. They run a pair of big excursion boats on Lake Minnetonka.” Stewart tilted his head toward the windows overlooking the lake. “But they decided to give the job to their daughter, so out goes me.” He let the grimace slide into a wry smile. That had been one of his favorite jobs. It was not in the least difficult, and he got to schmooze with the public, mostly while selling tickets, though once he even got to help plan a wedding reception on the
Lake Minnetonka Empress
, the bigger boat. It wasn't his fault they invited too many people.

“Is your wife employed?”

Stewart, ruminating on the job, almost missed this question. But he got the last two words—enough to know what the man wanted.

“Yes, she's the principal of Lincoln High in Wayzata.”

“Do any of your children go to Lincoln High?”

“No, Katie and Lexie are in college, but Bernie and CeeCee decided to go to Orono. They're all good kids. We're proud of them.”

“I can believe that,” said Rice. He went back a page in his little notebook and studied something.

“I don't understand about how Aunt Edyth died,” Stewart said to fill the silence. “I talked to my niece, and she said something like a pin was stuck in her head?”

Rice nodded and closed his notebook. “Yes, that's right.” He stood, but looked at Stewart as if waiting for another question or comment. Stewart held his tongue, and Rice said, “Thank you, Mr. O'Neil, you've been very helpful.”

“Well, I hope you catch whoever did this.”

“Me, too.”

Stewart showed him to the door and watched him walk out to his car.

The moment he closed the door, Stewart went to pour himself a stiff whiskey and water—hold the water. After the first big gulp, he drank the rest slowly, going over the conversation in his head. Should he have asked him the piano wire question? No. Never volunteer you know something about murder to the cops. He'd done all right, he was all right, everything was going to be all right.

I
T
was quitting time, but Mitch never paid much attention to the clock when he was on a case. The first forty-eight hours after a murder were the most important to an investigator—several television shows had made everyone aware of that—but he hadn't even gotten this case until after that golden window had closed.

Still, he'd collected some useful information. And when he'd seen those counted cross-stitch pieces on Mrs. McConnell's wall, a lightbulb had gone on inside his head. That piece of metal—not a wire, not a screw, not a nail—resembled, he was pretty sure, a tapestry needle with its eye cut off.

He'd gone back to the medical examiner's office to ask for a photocopy of the murder weapon and found a small stack of photocopies already waiting for him. The ME had thought to put a little flat ruler beside the thing so you could see the size of it. One copy Mitch posted in the station house with a note:

He stuck another copy in the file folder he'd started, and he put one in his pocket.

Then he did go home. There, he sat down to a late dinner with his wife and all four of the kids—for a change—then helped get the kids ready for bed. He came downstairs to sit with his wife, who was doing some needlepoint. “Hon?” he said.

“Yes, dear?” Funny how still, after all these years, her calling him dear was almost painfully pleasant.

“Can I see your box of needles?”

“Certainly,” she said, putting down the canvas after tucking the needle into it. “May I ask why?”

“Believe it or not, it's for a case I'm working on.”

She handed over a gray-blue plastic box about four inches long, two wide, and half an inch deep, with a twist-snap closure. He opened it and found a white magnetized surface scattered with blunt-pointed needles of varying sizes. He selected the biggest and compared it to the photocopy, grimacing as he tried to get them both in focus.

Without a word, she handed him a pair of magnifying glasses. He used the glasses without putting them on, looking first at one, then the other.

“Huh,” he grunted after a minute, disappointed.

“What's the matter?”

“Oh, I had a notion this thing might be a tapestry needle. But it isn't.”

“May I see?”

“Sure.” He handed over the needle, the photocopy, and the magnifying glasses.

She put the glasses on, slid them down to the end of her pert little nose, and compared the needle with the photocopy. “Oh, I see what you mean,” she said. “The needle forms its point right at the tip, while the point on whatever this is starts back almost a quarter of an inch.”

“You got a good eye, Liz.” He reached for the paper and refolded it, careful not to form a crease across the object.

“You know what it might be?” she asked, putting the needle back in its box and nodding at the paper in his hand.

“What?”

“A knitting needle.”

“Go-wan, it's too thin to be a knitting needle.” Liz knit, so he'd seen lots of knitting needles in many sizes, but none even approaching this slenderness.

“It is not! There are people who knit lace and doll clothes and baby sweaters with needles as thin as triple zero.”

“Triple zero?”

“Just when you think you can't get a size smaller than one, they come up with zero, and then double zero, and even triple zero. Steel ones, usually, because wood is awfully fragile when ground down that thin.”

Mitch unfolded the paper again. “You really think this could be a knitting needle?”

“Possibly, but just the end of one. They're generally about seven or eight inches long.”

“Yes, this one was snipped off.”

“I see.” She picked up her canvas and pulled the needle out of the corner where she had tucked it in. She didn't ask for any more details, so he didn't offer any. But before he went to get their evening glass of wine, he kissed her very tenderly.

 

I
T
was time for another sock lesson. As before, Doris came first, her lavender sock bristling with needles at the top and hanging down about seven inches from her hand. Phil was next, his sock in an opaque plastic bag, the needles making tiny peaks from inside. “How're ya, Ms. Doris?” he shouted in his rough voice.

She shied, then saw him smile and managed a smile back. “I'm fine, Mr. Galvin.”

“Call me Phil!” he ordered, then smiled sheepishly when she winced. “Sorry,” he said, much more quietly. “Y'see, I'm a little deaf.”

“It's all right—Phil,” she said. She raised her own voice, and held up her sock as a further aid. “Did you get your sock's cuff done?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure,” he said, holding out the bag. “You?”

“Yes.” Doris was a little shy and couldn't think how to continue the conversation, and after a moment she bowed her head and went to sit at the table.

Phil looked at her for a few seconds, crestfallen and baffled, then went into the back to look at counted cross-stitch patterns.

Lucille came next, with the smile of someone who has successfully completed her homework. She went to sit across from Doris and engage her in conversation. They got their socks out to compare progress.

As the start time approached, Betsy began to worry that Jan and Katie might miss the class. Then they came in together. Katie seemed protective of Jan, looking around at the others with a “don't start something” expression on her face.

Which Lucille ignored. She stood and asked, “What's the matter?”

“Nothing!” snapped Katie.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” said Jan. “Everyone will know. It'll be on the news tonight.”

“What will?” asked Godwin, entering with Phil from the back of the shop.

Jan stopped and heaved a quick sigh. “You know that my Aunt Edyth died?”

“You mean Edyth Hanraty?” asked Doris. “I didn't know she was your aunt! I'm so sorry.”

“Well, she was—my great-aunt, actually,” said Jan. “And it seems she didn't…” She hesitated, unsure how to continue, and finally blurted, “She was murdered.”

Everyone gasped and stared at her except Katie, who touched her on the shoulder comfortingly.

Jan looked down as if ashamed. “I know, I know, it's too terrible, it's so horrible I can hardly believe it. The Orono police are investigating. And although they say they don't suspect a member of the family, I think they do. And as one of the two family members who stands to inherit some money, I'm high on the list!” She seemed more angry than frightened about it.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Jan, don't be silly. They can't seriously think you're a murderer!” Katie stroked Jan's shoulder.

“Maybe I should just go home. I'm so upset over this.”

“No, no!” said Godwin and Lucille, almost in chorus. They looked at one another and smiled.

“Please don't go,” Godwin went on. “Sometimes a class like this can be a break from trouble.”

Lucille added, “We're your friends here. Maybe we can help.”

“Help? What could any of you do that would help?”

“Um,” said Godwin, casting a sideways look at Betsy, who nodded. “One of us really can help. Some of you know what Betsy did for me.”

Hope flared in Jan's eyes as she looked at Betsy. “That's right, it was your doing that got him out of jail, wasn't it?”

Lucille looked at Godwin, scandalized. “You were in
jail
? What for?”

“Murder.”

Lucille went from scandalized to horrified and saw Phil and Doris backing up Godwin's serious nod with nods of their own.

“But I didn't do it, and Betsy proved it,” he said.

“Betsy is amazing,” said Doris. “She can solve crimes just like Miss Marple.”

“Well, dip me in glitter and call me a Christmas tree ornament,” said Lucille. “I had no idea!”

Phil stared sideways at Lucille. “Dip me in glitter?”

“It's just an expression,” she said impatiently. “The thing is—” She looked at Jan. “How seriously do the police suspect you, and can Betsy, here, help?”

“Oh, never mind,” said Jan. “I mean, they haven't even talked to me yet, so I can't believe I'm in real trouble. I'm just upset, that's all. It was a shock when Aunt Edyth died, so unexpected.”

“How can you say that?” said Katie, sharply. “She was older than dirt!”

“Mary Kate!” scolded Jan.

“Well, she was. Rude, cranky, and unfair, too. Come on, let's sit down.” She went to the table.

After a moment's hesitation, Jan followed. “Mary Katherine, I can't believe you'd speak ill of the dead,” she said.

“If she were alive, I'd say it to her face,” said Katie obstinately.

“So, your aunt was old,” said Lucille with the air of a peacemaker. “Was she sick?”

Jan said, “No, that's why her death surprised all of us. I—I'm the one who found her. Her housekeeper had gone to help out her daughter with a new baby, so I went to check on her, take her to church. It was kind of a shock, but she was in her bed, and it looked as if she'd had a stroke or something in her sleep.”

“So how come they now think she was murdered?” asked Godwin.

“I don't know all the details. Mother called to say the mortician found something like a pin or needle stuck in Aunt Edyth's skull.” She touched the nape of her neck. “So they did an autopsy, and the medical examiner said it was murder.”

Lucille touched the nape of her own neck and looked thoughtful. Phil asked, “You can kill someone by sticking a little pin in the back of their head?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jan, nodding. “If you stick it in the right place.”

“Oh, ick!” exclaimed Katie. “Stop talking about it! I can't stay if you're going to talk about it!”

“All right, all right,” said Betsy. “Katie's right. If we're here to give you two a break from it, then let's do that. Goddy, are you all set to start them turning the heel?”

Godwin wrenched his attention to business with a visible effort. “Sure. Did everyone get their cuff done?”

Everyone sighed, some from relief and others from disappointment that such an interesting topic was finished. Everyone held up his or her sock. Katie's pretty pink one had just the top inch or so as knit-purl cuff. The rest of the leg was just knit. Lucille's blue and white and Jan's dark red were knit-purl all the way down. Phil and Doris had done three and four inches of cuff, respectively. Phil's light green sock was several inches longer in the leg than everyone else's. “Don't like them mingy short socks,” he said.

“You'd better pick up another ball of yarn, then,” said Godwin.

“Already did.”

“No, I mean a third ball. Not only did you make your legs longer than the directions call for, your feet are big, so you'll need more yarn than average.”

Phil turned in his chair and stuck out an ancient work boot of considerable size, which he contemplated for a moment. He said loudly, “Y'hear that, Betsy? I need another ball of this green color.” He held up his sock; with his foot also lifted, he looked as if he were performing a circus stunt.

Betsy, who had been doing her books, rose promptly. “I'll get it right now,” she said, and went to the bin of sock yarn. A not infrequent consequence of classes was the student who saw something she wanted or who needed to buy more materials for the class.

Godwin said, “Phil, I think I remember telling you to cast on seventy-two instead of sixty-four, right?”

“Yep.” He turned back around and prepared to knit.

“Good. Last week I had the instruction sheet but forgot to give it out. So here it is—” He handed them around. “Put this on the table in front of you and find the part about turning the heel.”

The instruction sheet was printed on two sides of a yellow sheet of paper and laminated. A color picture of a striped sock was in the upper right-hand corner. Everyone nodded when he or she found the place.

“First,” said Godwin, “divide what you've got onto three needles, half onto one needle and a quarter onto each of the other two needles. That's thirty-two stitches on one needle and sixteen apiece on the others.”

Phil anticipated Godwin by saying, “Thirty-six and eighteen for me and my big feet. Got it.”

“Good. Now the heel is a flap that wraps around the foot, and we're going to work it first. Make sure your sock is right side out.” He paused while his students checked, and Jan, with a little exclamation, righted hers. “The flap is the bigger section. We start with it. Everyone ready? Okay, slip one stitch.” He saw Doris's confused look. “Just slide that first stitch off the needle onto your working needle.” He watched Doris slip the needle into her lavender yarn carefully. “Got it? Now, purl across.”