Thai Die (17 page)

Betsy hadn’t read anything about that. She and Doris fell silent as they imagined that sound. A soothing sound, like rain . . . Betsy felt herself slipping into a light doze; she wriggled her shoulders to get back awake.

“China kept the secret of silk to iself for hundreds and hundreds of years,” said Doris.

Betsy knew that, too. Even its own people didn’t know about it. At first, only the emperor and his family had silk garments. But then the nobility were permitted to wear it, then the gentry. It became a very important export, and traveled a trade route across the heartless Taklimakan desert to India, Egypt, and points west, a route that came to be called the Silk Road. Silk was used as money, and even as paper, in China.

Inevitably, of course, the secret escaped, partly because the border of China shifted through the centuries. First it was discovered in Korea, then in northern Thailand and parts of Vietnam. Then India received what its history says was a “tribute” of silk and silkworms. Silkworms slipped into Byzantium in the sixth century, brought by monks who hid the worms in their hollowed-out staffs. By the thirteenth century Italy had the
Bombyx mori
worms at work for them.

Betsy’s head fell sideways, startling her back to wakefulness. She looked over at Doris, and saw that her friend had tumbled over, asleep. She roused her gently, supported her into the guest room, removed her robe, and folded her into bed.

As she crawled into her own bed and greeted Sophie, who came purring for a brief cuddle, Betsy decided she would remodel Doris’s apartment. Take down the wall between the kitchen and living room, replace it with a breakfast bar, maybe. Retile the bathroom. It would be like a new place—that should destroy the ugly associations. And as long as she was at it, she’d remodel the other apartment, too. It was while deciding what color to paint the remodeled living rooms that she fell asleep.

Thirteen

BETSY barely woke up in time to get to work the next morning. She had no more than opened the store when her phone rang. “Crewel World, Betsy speaking, how may I help you?” she said as she answered it, and was dismayed at the lack of levity in her voice.

“Ms. Devonshire? This is Eddie Fitzwilliam.”

It took a moment. “Oh, of Fitzwilliam’s Antiques! Good morning!”

“I wanted to tell you that we’ve finished clearing out the store, and there was no sign of the Buddha.” His voice was quiet but a little hoarse, as if he’d had to do an unexpected amount of talking lately. “That is, there was no sign of the standing Buddha the police were looking for. There were several of the laughing fat ones, and a beautiful Buddha hand cast in bronze, but no slim young man with upraised hands.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

“Yes, but it’s a hard question.”

He sighed. “I doubt it could be harder than what the police have asked.”

“Is it possible that your father was involved in something dishonest?”

“What do you mean, dishonest?” He sounded depressed but not surprised at the question; doubtless the police had asked him that, too.

“Well, he was waiting for the delivery of a very beautiful statue of Buddha that was being brought into the country under somewhat peculiar circumstances. You told me his store was improving its sales but in an irregular manner. And now he’s been murdered and the statue has disappeared. Have you gone over his books?”

He sighed and said in his roughened voice, “All right, I guess you are a detective. We’ve just started going over his books, and there are some . . . irregularities. I’d say yes, he was involved in something dishonest, probably involving the sale of stolen art objects. There was money coming in with no explanation. There were objects sold—not for very great amounts—that didn’t have inventory numbers, or were obviously added to inventory after the fact.” He stopped and then continued in a lower voice, “I believe he was taking additional money under the table for these things.”

“That’s very interesting.”

His voice turned much harsher. “Interesting? Oh,
very
interesting! What I’m giving you is evidence of a man destroying his whole life! No wonder he didn’t want me anywhere near him—he didn’t want me to see what he’d become, or to get myself involved in his predicament! I’m happy you find that
interesting
!” The connection was broken with a crash.

Betsy had to go sit down for a minute. The pain and anger in Eddie’s voice were a shocking wakeup call. He must have been devastated to discover his father had become a criminal, and she was dismayed that she hadn’t realized that. Of course he was insulted when an insensitive amateur came strolling by to find the wreck and remark that it was “interesting.” Betsy’s own father would have been disappointed in her.

Betsy went to make herself a strong cup of black tea. She sat at the library table in her quiet shop and sipped it slowly, letting it finish her waking-up process while increasing her feeling of shame. What a wretched business sleuthing was, turning hurting human lives into an “interesting” puzzle!

She finished the tea and, looking around the shop, decided she couldn’t afford to wallow in misery. A bit of shop business might put her back on track. She began a search for Joe Brown’s phone number. She remembered scribbling it—somewhere. After a minute, she found it in the margin of a Nordic Needle catalog. She was about to dial it, then backed off and first called a fellow member of the Minnesota Art Institute.

“You don’t know who Joe Brown is?” Jenna said, surprised.

“Well, yes, sort of. I know he’s a big noise in the financial world. But I want to ask him for a favor, and I’m hoping you can tell me what my chances are.”

“Okay, let’s see. He’s a money manager, big-time, earning big bucks in the upper echelons of an investment company in St. Paul. He’s on a hospital board, a museum board, and the local public television board. He’s got a Ph.D. in economics from the University of Chicago, so he’s a brain to the nth degree. He collects art, some modern but especially ancient—Egyptian, Chinese, Greek—and he really knows his stuff. But you’d never know any of this by talking to him. He’s funny,
and
kind,
and
charming. He’ll probably be delighted to do you a favor, both because he’s nice and because he’s after some money from you. I didn’t realize it was pledge time already—have you noticed the gap between pledging and asking for more pledges is getting shorter every year? Meanwhile, he’s called you twice and you haven’t agreed to up your pledge? You are probably the only person in the area who hasn’t succumbed to his charm.”

Armed with this information, Betsy was less on her guard as she dialed the number for Joe Brown and waited for the phone to be answered. To her surprise, it was a direct number and he answered it in person.

“Mr. Brown—
Doctor
Brown,” she addressed him. “This is Betsy Devonshire.”

“Well, hello!” he said warmly. “I really didn’t expect you to call me back. After all, I am a beggar—on behalf of the institute, but nevertheless a beggar. So please, call me Joe.”

She laughed. “All right. Joe. But this isn’t about money. I’m afraid I have another reason for calling you.”

“Uh-oh,” he said, but he sounded more amused than wary. “I hope I can be at your service.”

“I have a piece of damaged needlework that I can’t figure out how to fix, and I wonder if you could get me an appointment with someone who does textile restoration at the institute.”

For some reason he seemed a trifle taken aback at her request. “May I ask what it is?”

“Well, it might be an old Cari Buziak design.”

She could hear bemusement in his voice. “Who is Cari Buziak?”

“She’s a Canadian who designs cross-stitch patterns in the medieval Celtic style mixed with modern elements.”

“Oh, contemporary.”

“Well, probably. Or it might be some blend of styles cooked up by a Christian missionary—probably not earlier than twentieth century. But the person who stitched it was extraordinarily talented, and I think it might be very beautiful if it’s cleaned up. But I can’t seem to find the time it would take to research the repair, and I don’t want to ruin it. I thought that since you’re on the board of the institute, and since I’m a member in good standing, perhaps you could do me this favor.”

“Not to mention the fact that I’m trying to talk you into a hefty increase in your annual pledge and you feel entitled to use that on me.”

“Since you brought it up, I don’t have to mention it, do I? But I
am
prepared to succumb to your charm.”

“You’ve been talking with Jenna, haven’t you?”

She laughed. “Yes. So can you help me with this?”

“Hmmmm,” he said, which might be an indication that this was a bigger favor than he thought she’d ask for—or that he wanted her to think so. “You want someone over there to do the research on it?”

“No, I can do the research if someone will narrow the field, point me in the right direction.”

“Ah. Do you know what the fabric—”

The door sounded its two notes and Betsy looked up to see Leona Cunningham enter the shop. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk more right now, I have a customer. But you can tell whoever you talk to that this won’t take more than ten minutes, I swear.”

“Let me call you back,” said Joe.

Leona was looking for a pattern suitable for an altar cloth—but not the kind found in churches. Leona was Wiccan and kept a small altar in her home. She changed the cloth four times a year in honor of the four seasons. She’d recently come into an inheritance and so had decided over the next year to buy four really nice pieces of even-weave linen for the altar. Currently she was planning a summer cloth, and wanted to embroider an emblem on it for Lammas.

“Lammas?” echoed Betsy. “But that’s a Christian word.”

Leona nodded. “It means ‘loaf mass,’ after the first loaf of bread made from the first ripening grains, put on the altar as a summer thanksgiving. But celebrating harvests wasn’t invented by the Christians. It’s as old as agriculture—older, maybe.”

“Yes, of course,” said Betsy. She helped Leona search the patterns and they selected one of a sheaf of wheat tied in a red ribbon.

“Are you going to just have the sheaf on it?” asked Betsy.

“No, but I already have patterns for the four elements,” Leona replied. Wiccans—rather, some Wiccans, Betsy knew, since it’s a very individual religion—think of the four sabats or major holidays, as each relating to one of the four elements: air, earth, fire, water. Lammas was earth, so the altar cloth was a rich brown. Betsy gave Leona one of Doris’s gold silk skeins, asking for a report on how useful it was. Leona paid for her purchases, and as she left, Betsy reflected that she was learning more than she wanted to know about Wicca.

At noon Betsy called up to her apartment and persuaded Doris to come down and go next door to buy them each a sandwich. “I’d ask you to fix me one upstairs, but I’m out of bread.”

She was just taking her second bite of a roast beef sandwich on rye when the door sounded its two notes. Betsy glanced up—and dropped her sandwich to go give Godwin a big hug. His good wool overcoat was cold from the outdoors and his “man bag” slid off his shoulder and thumped her on the leg.

He laughed as he hugged her back. “So good to be home!” he said.

“How come you’re back early?” she asked, because Godwin was not one to leave a warm, sunny place for a cold, snowy one.

“Oh, the weather turned bad. The forecast was for three days of rain, so instead of the Everglades tour I bought a new ticket home.”

“Bless Florida’s bad weather, because I’m really glad to see you!” She stepped back. “Wow, what a nice tan you have!”

He made a little face. “You think so? I got more sun than I meant to—not good for the skin, you know.” He looked over Betsy’s shoulder.

“Doris, is that you? What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

“I’m all right,” she mumbled, and forced a smile. “I’m so glad to see you.”

He looked from her to Betsy, back to her, back to Betsy. “
Not
all right, I think. Who’s going to tell me what’s going on?”

He took off his coat as they took turns telling him, and his mouth hung open in amazement through most of it. “Strewth!” he exclaimed at intervals. At the end, he came to sit beside Doris and give her a sideways hug. “Oh my dear, dear sweetie, how very brave you are to be sitting here at all! I’d be quivering in a closet, alternately screaming and crying, and eating Valiums like they were M&M’s.”

Doris leaned her head on his shoulder. “You are the very best, thank you.”

Betsy went in the back to give them a little privacy.

 

 

“SO, you and Dax had a good time?” Doris asked Godwin after Betsy retreated.

“Yeah,” said Godwin, but he drew out the word until it sounded more like a question.