The Drowning Spool (A Needlecraft Mystery) Read online

  Thistle hadn’t returned by the end of the class, so Betsy was glad she’d paid attention when she’d been escorted to the library. She was able to find her way to the main entrance with no problem.

  • • •

  WILMA was crying like a child who’s been spanked. She was sitting on her bed, hands on her cheeks, her thin body racked with sobs. “I—I—I—can-can-can’t do anything an-any moooooorrre!” she cried. “It’s—it’s wrong, w-w-wicked, stu-stupid. I’m stupid!”

  “No, you’re not,” said Thistle, with a glance at the resident RN, Nurse Peggy Humphrey. Wilma had taken hold of Thistle’s hand and would not let go. Thistle was wishing the RN would say something helpful, but she was just standing there, nodding encouragement. “You’re just a little confused right now,” said Thistle.

  Sullenly, Wilma said, “I don’t want to have Alzheimer’s anymore.”

  “I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t want it, either.” Thistle glanced imploringly at Nurse Humphrey, who added a shrug to her nod. Wilma had told her that she didn’t know the nurse and wished she would go away. But the nurse was clearly not going to leave. She was staying out of Wilma’s line of sight and seemed to Thistle to be of the opinion that Thistle was doing quite well and should continue.

  “Is there something you do want?” asked Thistle, who was beginning to imagine Betsy wandering the halls in a futile search for a way out.

  Wilma thought for a few moments. “I want a pattern, a stitching pattern.” She thought again. “A cross-stitch pattern. Punch needle is too hard, but I already know how to do cross-stitch.”

  “Do you want me to go ask Ms. Devonshire to bring you a cross-stitch pattern?”

  Wilma considered that. “I don’t know any Ms. Devonshire. How would she know what to bring?”

  “Betsy Devonshire owns a needlecraft store, she could probably get you any pattern you want.”

  Wilma brightened. “Even Psyche Goes into Cupid’s Garden?”

  “Who goes into a garden?”

  “Psyche. That’s the pattern I want.” Wilma smiled as if letting Thistle in on a big mystery. “Maybe it’s Psyche Enters Cupid’s Garden. It’s so beautiful, a woman opening a door into a garden full of flowers.” Wilma gave a theatrical sigh, and touched her breast with her free hand. “Beautiful,” she murmured.

  “All right. Let me try to find her and ask her to bring you that pattern.”

  After a moment, Wilma reluctantly released her tight grip on Thistle’s hand. “Okay,” she said. “Will you come right back?”

  “Of course, if you like, as soon as I ask Ms. Devonshire about a psychic going into a garden with Cupid.”

  “Yes.” Wilma wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock to and fro. “Don’t be long,” she whispered. “I keep forgetting.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Thistle hurried back to the library, but Betsy had already left. She checked at the front desk and discovered that Betsy had signed herself out. Thistle went back to Wilma’s room, but by then the woman had lain down and gone to sleep, her arms still wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders.

  • • •

  WHEN Betsy got back to Excelsior, she dropped in at the shop to see how things were going.

  Godwin was waiting for her, fairly dancing with anxiety and distress. “I’m so relieved to see you! I left a message for you upstairs, but now I can tell you in person. You’ll also find a message from Bershada.”

  “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”

  “Bershada said to tell you that Ethan’s been fired. There was no notice or anything, they just phoned him and said he shouldn’t come in anymore, they’ll mail his pay to him.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “Bershada says no, he was an at-will employee, which means they can fire him for any reason at all. They don’t even have to give a reason, in fact.”

  Betsy felt her heart sink. Was the next thing an arrest? How was she going to face Bershada? Was this fine young man’s life to be destroyed before it could begin?

  Five

  THE Northwest Coin Club met one evening a month at a community center near the shore of Lake of the Isles, in an upper-class neighborhood in western Minneapolis. Long tables were arranged in an open rectangle and the members, all men, sat around its outside border. The room was decidedly minimalist in design, color, and style of furnishings.

  The club’s members were mostly middle-aged and well-to-do—they included a judge and at least two attorneys—but they were friendly and just a little boisterous. There were lots of handsome sweaters on display, a couple of blazers, and one bow tie, worn by the judge.

  Godwin had decided that if his partner, Rafael, was going to continue collecting coins, he’d better take an interest in it himself and so he’d come with Rafael to this meeting. After all, Rafael had taken up needlepoint, right? But Rafael hadn’t taken more than a passing interest in knitting, so Godwin hadn’t bought any coins except for a pair of shiny dimes minted the year he was born.

  Before the meeting got started, a few of the members showed off their newest acquisitions. One started a discussion about whether or not to keep the size and value, even the fact, of their collections secret so as not to attract thieves. This set off a sidebar in which several members shared indignant anecdotes of burglars who stole collections and spent valuable coins in vending machines.

  Godwin could have told a tale or two about priceless handmade lace or heirloom needlework selling for a dollar apiece at garage and estate sales, but he decided that wasn’t the point, especially with this crowd.

  The meeting was called to order right on time.

  Acronyms like ANA and PCGS were thrown around carelessly during the meeting. Godwin guessed the n in ANA stood for “numismatist,” a twelve-dollar word that meant “coin collector.” PCGS had something to do with coin grading, a subject of intense interest among collectors. Any sign of wear diminished the value of a coin dramatically, Rafael had told Godwin, and there were at least sixty-five grade levels.

  A big topic was the coming March Regional Coin Show. Club members who were coin dealers were offered a low rate for space in the coin show catalog. Buying an ad also entitled them to be mentioned on one of the billboards that would be strategically placed along freeways I-35W and E and I-94, crossing Minneapolis and St. Paul—one of the members owned a billboard company.

  Godwin had once attended a coin show with Rafael at which Rafael had purchased two coins that turned out to be phony—that was the main reason Rafael had decided to be more loyal in attending meetings like this, and Godwin had decided to support this decision.

  The speaker at this meeting was one of the members of Northwest Coin Club, an IT expert with a strong Mexican accent. He talked about the five-hundred-year post-Aztec history of Mexico as seen through its coinage. The mint in Mexico City was established in 1635, the speaker noted, and had operated continuously since then, despite numerous revolutions. It was in fact the oldest mint in the Americas. He handed around examples of Mexican coins. Godwin was amused at how many members casually hauled out pocket-size lighted magnifiers to examine them. He’d thought only Rafael habitually carried one. As he watched Rafael closely examine a big silver coin minted during Mexico’s First Empire period, Godwin wondered if Rafael was going to expand his collection into this new arena.

  When the meeting ended, they came out to find the predicted snow had instead fallen as freezing rain. The first two members of the club to exit the building whooped as their feet slid dangerously on the sidewalk leading to the parking lot, and their cries alerted those who followed to tread carefully.

  “Madre de Dio!” muttered Rafael as he nearly fell.

  Godwin clutched Rafael’s arm to steady himself, and slid around until they were facing each other. They embraced, and Godwin started to giggle.

  “Don’t, don’t,” warned Rafael, teetering on the very edge of his balance, but he began to laugh as well, and the two stood awhile, holding
each other at the elbows, snorting and choking with badly repressed laughter.

  “Get a room!” advised someone from behind them, his voice loud and cheerful.

  Rafael, prepared to take offense, turned to glare, and his feet went in two or three directions. The man—it was the club’s president—was grinning even as he was whirling his arms like a double windmill and sliding toward them on the ice.

  “Whoa!” he shouted and involuntarily joined their embrace. They all three laughed and, still joined, began edging down the sidewalk toward their cars.

  But the slippery drive home wasn’t funny.

  • • •

  ON Friday, Betsy woke to a world transformed. Everything was clad in a coat of crystal, from entire buildings to the smallest twig, and all of it glittering under a frozen sun.

  Trucks strewing sand and salt had been busy, so the main roads were safe to drive on. But the side streets Betsy took to get to her water aerobics class had not yet been serviced with de-icers and she drove at an uncertain crawl to the parking ramp across the street from the building.

  It was close to the start time of her exercise class when she entered the building. She grabbed the sign-in clipboard to scribble her name and the ID number she’d been assigned and only when she put it down again did she notice that Ethan had already been replaced.

  “Already?” she asked the thin young woman sitting there.

  “Already what?” The woman’s voice was high-pitched, a child’s voice. She looked very young, too, dressed too casually in a maroon sweatshirt with a zombie’s face printed on it. Her ears were lined with silver knobs and another knob pierced the side of her nose. Her eyelids were thickly blackened with mascara.

  “They’ve already hired you to take the place of Ethan Smart. He’s the person usually on at night.”

  The woman shrugged. “I don’t know anyone’s name, I’m new. This is only my second night on duty.”

  Betsy’s dismay over Ethan’s absence was obvious. She thrashed her way angrily through her exercises, drawing sideways looks from the instructor and fellow exercisers.

  “Kind of energetic this morning, weren’t we?” asked Rita in the locker room after the class as Betsy yanked on her underwear.

  “I’m not energetic, I’m angry. They fired Ethan.”

  After a blank pause, Rita said in a slow drawl, “Ohhhh-kay?”

  “He’s the young man who’s usually on the desk when we come in.”

  “Oh, the one you were talking to the other morning? The African American fellow? What did he do to get fired?”

  “Nothing!”

  Rita was scandalized. “You mean they fired him because he’s black?”

  “No, of course not,” Betsy said, slamming a foot into a sock. “They fired him because they think he let that woman who drowned into the building.”

  “Ah.” Rita pulled her corduroy trousers out of her locker and began to step into them.

  “And I’m going to prove they’re wrong.”

  Rita smiled at Betsy. “Another mystery for you to solve. Good luck.”

  Betsy stopped at the front desk on her way out. “I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge of security in this complex,” she said to the woman on duty—a different woman from the one she’d seen when she arrived. This woman was tall and stout, a black woman in dark green silk, with an elaborate hairdo and wickedly long painted fingernails. So, here was the person who manned the desk during the working day.

  “If you’re interested in applying for a position, I have an application right here for you to fill out.” The woman was already reaching into her multitiered filing tray.

  “No, that’s not what I want to do.”

  The woman paused without taking her fingers away from the tray. “Do you want to leave a message, then? Admin personnel aren’t here until nine.”

  Betsy looked at the big clock on the wall behind the desk: eight fifty. “I’ll wait,” she decided.

  She went to sit down. The plain buff chair was hard and uncomfortable. On the low metal-and-glass table were two stacks of brochures, each touting Watered Silk as a wonderful place to live: One was titled “Living in Comfort” and the other, “When It’s Time to Decide.” The first encouraged seniors to come live at Watered Silk, the other was directed toward adult children or grandchildren who might choose Watered Silk for their aging relatives. The color photos in each were identical, however.

  Very shortly after 9 a.m., an administrative assistant in the person of a young-looking Hispanic woman came to take Betsy down a long hall and up one floor in an elevator to a small office. There was no name on the door, just the word Security in white letters on a small sign. The office was painted a soothing blue and there was a piece of art on one wall depicting an autumn creek meandering among brilliantly colored trees. Betsy started to look for a hidden squirrel, then caught herself and looked instead at the stern-faced woman in a wine-colored suit who sat behind a wooden desk. On the desk were an antique pen set and a small wooden block engraved with the name Woodward.

  “How may I help you?” asked the woman in a beautiful low voice that contrasted startlingly with her expression.

  “I’m Betsy Devonshire. I’m enrolled in your water aerobics class and I am also teaching a needlecraft class to a group of residents. I’m a friend of Bershada Reynolds, who is the aunt of Ethan Smart, your night guard who was recently fired.”

  The woman looked a bit bewildered at this complex of connections to Watered Silk. “Yes?” she said encouragingly.

  “Ms. Woodward, I want to know if he was fired because you suspect he let a nonresident, nonemployee into the building, who was later found drowned in your therapy pool.”

  Woodward sat back, nonplussed for a few moments. “I’m afraid we don’t discuss personnel matters with people who have no official need to know,” she said. Then, with a hint of worry in her beautiful voice, she added, “Are you an attorney representing Mr. Smart or the family?”

  “No, but—” Betsy began, then stopped. The woman was right, of course. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that before I came to see you. Bershada is a good friend. She and Ethan’s parents are upset about this, and my reaction to their distress overrode my common sense.”

  Woodward sat forward again, her expression sympathetic but also relieved. “I can understand that,” she said. “I am also sorry that I can’t help you in this matter.”

  “Yes, well, in turn, I understand your position. I hope the problem can be resolved.” Betsy stood. “Ethan will deserve a big-time apology when it is, and perhaps an offer to give him his job back.”

  Woodward’s mouth thinned. “I hope so, too,” she said, but not, Betsy thought, with complete sincerity.

  • • •

  THAT evening Betsy and Connor were watching the local TV news. “The woman found drowned in a therapy pool at a senior residence complex in Hopkins has been identified,” the reader intoned. “She was Teddi Wahlberger, aged twenty-five, who lived in Excelsior.” A photo of a very pretty blue-eyed blonde was displayed on the screen, her long hair in a disorderly but attractive tumble past her shoulders, a big smile on her face. The name under it was the more formal Theodora Wahlberger.

  “Oh, how sad,” said Connor. “What a waste.”

  “Autopsy results are pending,” the announcer continued. “How Ms. Wahlberger came to be in the therapy pool of Watered Silk, a secure building, late at night is not yet known.”

  There was no mention of Ethan Smart, and moments later the reporter went on to a story about a big nonfatal pileup on I-94 caused by slippery road surfaces, as an introduction to the station’s ever-jocular weatherman.

  • • •

  ONE result of Betsy’s changes to Crewel World’s web site came in the form of a morning visit by a poorly dressed woman carrying a big, dirty, off-white bundle of fabric. She was short and a little plump, with a wistful look in her dark eyes, as if she’d had to make too many sad decisions in her life. Her old quil
ted parka was almost the same silver-gray color as her short, wind-ruffled hair.

  “I found this in my garbage can a few days ago,” she said. “I put the can out by the curb for pickup the night before and then the next morning I found that one of my wastebaskets hadn’t been emptied. So I brought it out to add to the can, and this was stuffed in on top.”

  She unfolded the bundle, which proved to be slightly malodorous as well as dirty and torn. Betsy took a step back. It was a bedsheet, a very old one to judge by its thinness and by several long tears, which were parallel splits. But the top edge showed a broad line of Hardanger stitching, complex and beautiful. Betsy stepped forward again, her eyes sparkling with interest.

  “I hoped you’d be interested,” the woman said, reading accurately the expression on Betsy’s face. “This is that same kind of thing you wrote about on your web site, right? Hard anger. Or is it har danger?”

  “Hardanger,” said Betsy, pronouncing it HAR-dahng-er. “It’s Norwegian embroidery. This is beautiful work.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” said the woman. “What I want to know is, can it be cut off this raggedy old sheet, cleaned up, and put on something else?”

  “Certainly,” said Betsy. “In fact, I hope you will do that exact thing. You say you found it in your garbage bin?”

  “Yes,” said the woman, nodding. “I don’t know how it came to be in there, it wasn’t one of my neighbors mistaking my can for their own, I asked them.” She stroked the embroidery with a work-thickened forefinger. “I never seen anything like this Har-dahng-er before.” She pronounced it carefully. “My grandmother used to do all kinds of embroidery, but nothing like this. This’s got little bitty holes cut in it.” She hesitated, then asked a little too casually, “Is it valuable?”

  “Yes, but not many people collect it. It’s generally of more value to the family that inherits it. I’m surprised it ended up in the trash. This is certainly heirloom quality, and has probably been in someone’s family for a long time.”