Darned if You Do (6 page)

There were perhaps ten people in the place, six of them seated at the bar, the others crowded into a booth. They were varied in dress and age. Nobody was drunk or loud; the juke box was playing a big band tune.

Valentina chose the booth nearest the back and had hardly gotten around to the short, laminated menu before she was approached by a slim woman with long dark hair, lightly streaked with gray, and very intense dark eyes. The woman was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater under a tan cloth apron printed with the word
Barleywine
.

“Would you like to begin with a beverage?” she asked.

Jesting, Valentina said, “I think I'll have a taste of whatever you're brewing in those tanks back there.”

“You'd have to wait a few days. The beer we're making right now isn't ready yet.”

Valentina stared up at the woman, whose expression had turned humorous. “Oh, this place is one of those whaddya call 'em, microbreweries.”

“That's right. On the other side of the menu is a list of what we're currently offering.”

Valentina turned the menu over and found a list of beverages, including six beers, none of them a brand she recognized. “All homemade, right?” she said, and the woman nodded. “Well, what do you recommend?”

“What kind of beer do you normally drink?”

Valentina drew up her shoulders a little and confessed, “Actually, I don't much like beer. I'm more a lemonade and fruit juice sort of person.”

“We have lemonade and fruit juices, too.”

Valentina looked down at the rest of the beverage offerings on the menu's back side and, mindful of her wallet, said, “I'll just have water, thanks. And a BLT with chips.”

“Coming right up.” As the woman turned away, Valentina admired her dark hair, which was pulled into a very long braid down her back. She'd always wanted long hair like that but could never get it more than a little past her shoulders.

While she waited for her order, she began to eavesdrop on the quartet in the booth up the way. She couldn't hear everything, because they were speaking quietly and the music interfered a little bit.

“. . . couldn't believe she repeated that to him!” one was saying.

“She's always been the type . . .” replied another.

“. . . shouldn't have told her, you know what a . . . is.”

“
I
heard he went to Phoebe and . . .”

“Well, can you blame him?”

Valentina smiled to herself. It sounded as if Excelsior was a whole lot like Muncie. She was tempted to go over and introduce herself to see if any of them might be a friend of Tommy's, but she couldn't think of an excuse to barge in. And, to be honest, she wasn't sure she'd like what they might have to say about her cousin. She was not in a mood to hear him bad-mouthed.

But he must have friends, or why would Mr. Penberthy have suggested she round them up?

A plate with a big sandwich on toasted whole wheat bread, ornamented with a lot of potato chips, suddenly landed in front of her. Valentina looked up and saw the dark-eyed woman studying her.

“Are you visiting family here in Excelsior?” she asked.

“Sort of. I'm here to help out my cousin, Tommy Riordan.”

“Ah, I thought your face reminded me of someone,” said the woman.

“Do I look like him?” asked Valentina, surprised.

“Yes, you do.”

“Huh.”

The waitress laughed. “I'm told my daughter looks a lot like me, though neither one of us can see it.”

“Do you know Tommy?” asked Valentina.

“Sure. I think just about everyone in town knows Tom.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Certainly. He's a friendly man, not hard to like. Why, is there something you're wanting from people who know Tom?”

Valentina blinked at the woman's keen perception. “Well, yes. I'm going to be clearing out Tommy's house, and I can't afford to hire a company to do it. So I need to connect with Tommy's friends who might be willing to help.”

The woman frowned just a little bit and took a tiny step back.

Valentina said, “But I've been advised by Tommy's attorney, James Penberthy, to do this.”

“Oh, well, that's different. If Jim thinks it's a good idea, then that's what you should do.”

“The problem is, I don't know anyone in town, so I don't know how to connect with Tommy's friends.”

“Are you staying here in Excelsior?”

“No, I've got a motel room over in Minneapolis.”

“Hmm, that's going to make it a bit harder. Could you possibly relocate to Excelsior, even temporarily?”

“Well . . . to tell the truth, I can't afford the room rates out here. This business caught me kind of on the hop.”

The woman said, “There's a little motel in Shorewood, which borders Excelsior, very good for the budget conscious.” She named a rate that was actually a couple of dollars cheaper than what Valentina was paying now.

Valentina said, “Is it . . . I mean . . . is it . . . okay?”

“It's clean and quiet. No tubs in the bathrooms, but the showers have plenty of hot water. Ask for extra towels; theirs you can just about see through.” The woman touched the side of her narrow nose with a slim forefinger while she thought and nodded. “They'll offer you a discount if you're staying for more than a week.”

Valentina smiled. “Thanks.”

She paid for her meal, left an adequate tip, and asked the waitress for the address and phone number of the motel. “What's your name?” she asked.

“Leona Cunningham. And I'm one of Tom Riordan's friends.”

Valentina looked around the place. No one seemed to be signaling for service, so she decided to seize the opportunity. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked Leona.

“All right, but make yourself comfortable, at least. Have a seat at the bar. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Valentina hesitated—she didn't want to pay for something she didn't really need—but Leona added, “For free, of course.”

How uncanny, reading something—accurately—in her face so easily.

“Thank you, yes, a cup of coffee would be nice. Just black, please.”

The coffee came in a thick, heavy, old-fashioned mug designed to keep its contents hot. Valentina smiled as she picked it up; it was another reminder of the cafés of her youth. She took a sip. The brew was strong and flavorful. She hadn't had a good cup of coffee, not like this, in a long time.

She put the mug down, caressing it with two fingers.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Leona asked.

“You said you were Tommy's friend. What do you know about him?”

“I don't think I understand the question,” Leona said politely.

“Well,” Valentina tried to clarify what she was asking. “He's my cousin, but I don't really know him. When he was a little boy he spent a couple of summers with us, but after that I hardly ever saw him. He's ten years older than I am, so I guess there wasn't any real reason for us to be close. And he was kind of a strange little boy—” Valentina stopped and gave a hopeful look at Leona.

Leona shrugged. “He's an interesting man,” she said. “He has no enemies, but not everyone likes him, because he's still a little strange.”

“What do you think, is he backward? You know, slow?”

“No, I don't think it's that. He seems to have some form of Asperger's, although he functions reasonably well. He's friendly enough, but he can be socially awkward. He knows everyone's name, however, and he loves to listen to gossip.” Leona hesitated. “He also, on occasion, will take things that do not belong to him,” she added. She looked inquiringly at Valentina.

Valentina laughed. “Is he still doing that?” she said. “We came to call him ‘Klepto' when he stayed with us. He was a teenager at the time. After he went home the first time, Mom and I went into his room to clean it and found our missing stuff under the bed. The next summer, he did it again, and he'd gotten better at sneaking. It was never anything really valuable—we didn't own anything valuable back then—just things like Mom's thimble and my new sandals. And he didn't break them or light candles to them, or slobber on them. Just took them and hid them.”

Leona said with a smile, “And as an adult he does the same thing.”

“You mean, all those things in his house are
stolen
?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all! He buys some things, some things are given to him, and he brings home other objects that people have thrown away. A lot of people around here know about his collector's habit—just not that it has gotten so far out of hand.”

“And Mr. Penberthy has put the responsibility of fixing this problem on me.”

“Not completely. You don't have to fix Tom—nobody can fix Tom. All you have to do is fix his house. And you'd have to do that anyway, because look at how leaving it to him and Hennepin County has worked out.”

“Yeah, the government is not your friend,” sighed Valentina, and the two laughed, but not happily.

“So how do I connect with these people who Mr. Penberthy said would volunteer to help me?”

“When you get yourself relocated to Shorewood, get me your room number, and I'll hand it around so people can get in touch with you. Meanwhile I'll talk your problem up. Back when this place of mine was called the Waterfront Café, its nickname was Gossip Central, and it's still a good place to spread the word.”

“Oh, so this place belongs to you.”

“That's right. Another place you might consider visiting is Crewel World.”

Valentina's eyebrows rose sharply. “Cruel World? What, a store where you buy whips and handcuffs?” She did not think enlisting the aid of sadists was a good idea.

“Crewel—C-R-E-W-E-L, as in needlework.”

“Oh. Of course. I should have known. Whew!”

Leona chuckled. “We have our dark side, but that's not it. Anyway, drop in there, introduce yourself, and ask the owner—her name is Betsy Devonshire—to pass the word.”

Leona gave Valentina directions to the shop. “Go down the street toward the lake,” she said, “just the one block. Then turn right and look for the sign on your right.”

C
REWEL
World was the middle of three stores in an old, two-story redbrick building. On one side of it stood a used-book store, and on the other side a deli. Each had a big front window of plate glass with a narrow, diamond-paned window stretched above it. The needlework shop had a hanging wooden signboard painted with a needle pulling thread that spelled out
Crewel World
.

Luckily, there was a parking space right in front. Valentina pulled into it, then got out of the car into the bright September sunlight. She shivered a little, despite the sun, because there was a sharp chill in the air and her Windbreaker was inadequate against it. The previous day had been overcast, but at least it had been warm. “Almost feels like frost,” she murmured to herself. Back home in Muncie the leaves were still on the trees and not even starting to turn. Here in Minnesota the season was far advanced.

She remembered what her cousin had scrawled on one of his rare Christmas cards:
All thet is tween hear an the North Pole is a bob wire fence ha ha ha.

Tommy never was good at spelling or grammar. On the other hand, his comment had been clever. And—she thrust her bare hands into her pockets—it had been right on the mark, too.

She stopped to look in the big front window of Crewel World, which had finished needlework projects displayed all over it. The theme seemed to be Christmas. Ugh, Christmas already? It wasn't even Halloween yet. There were samples, big and small, of needlework, but mostly big and mostly needlepoint. Valentina was not big on needlepoint, because the canvases it required were so expensive. Besides, for rich detail, she thought counted cross-stitch was the way to go. Like the piece in the window, right at eye level, which depicted a country cabin deep in snow with three deer looking at a Christmas tree in the cabin's window. The stitcher had used some sparkly white floss for the snow.

She noticed that there were no knitting models. Valentina loved to knit. Her house back in Muncie had knitted afghans on chairs and on the couch and bed. She had sweaters and mittens and shawls and table runners in wool and cotton and acrylic and blends, all of them knit by herself.

But wait a minute: Inside the shop she could see a counter, and on top of it sat a gorgeous fuzzy shawl and a sweater knit in a complex pattern.

Valentina drew a happy breath and went in.

As the door opened, she heard a silly tune on what sounded like a toy organ. Startled, she paused to listen. Wasn't that a song she recognized? She rather thought so but couldn't identify it.

From behind a spinner rack holding white cardboard squares of Very Velvet floss came a young man with blond hair and wide, innocent-looking blue eyes. He was dressed all in a medium brown, from his shoes to the thin, faintly shimmering sweater he wore. Silk? wondered Valentina.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“I'm looking for Betsy—uh—” Rats, she'd forgotten her last name.

“Devonshire?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“She went to the post office to pick up a delivery. She should be back in a few minutes. Would you care to wait?”

“Yes, thanks.” Casting about for something to say, Valentina asked, “Are you her husband?”

The young man's mouth fell open in surprised laughter. “Oh, my
dear
—!”

Enlightened, Valentina laughed back. “I guess not,” she said.

“Not that she isn't a perfectly wonderful woman,” the man hastened to say. “But . . .
que sera, sera
. Meanwhile, is there something I can show you?”

“I'm in town on . . . on business, I guess you'd say, but it's turning out I'll be doing a certain amount of sitting and waiting, and I need something to do with my hands . . .” She gestured eloquently.

“I know just what you mean. Waiting to be waited on, it's good to have some handwork with you. What kind of needlework are you most interested in?”

“Well, I like to knit, but the needles are too long and the ball of yarn too bulky to fit in this purse of mine—I don't want to have to buy a new knitting bag. I can't afford needlepoint and I'm too fussed right now to focus on counted cross-stitch. I used to crochet, but I'm not sure I remember how.” She halted, embarrassed at this seeming attempt to anticipate and shoot down any suggestion he might make.

But he didn't seem to mind. He pressed a slim forefinger into the edge of his mouth, his head cocked a little sideways, and thought for a bit. Then he nodded once. “Crochet,” he announced. “Once you know how to crochet, you can pick it up again very easily. It's just the thing. It will keep your fingers busy, and it takes just enough concentration to distract you from worry.”

“But—”

“Just make squares and stitch the best ones into a scarf or, if you end up staying a long time, an afghan.” He looked inquiringly at her.

But she refused to be drawn into any discussion of why she was in Excelsior. “All right, then, crochet it is. What do you have that won't empty my purse?”

He went at once to one of the big baskets scattered around the shop and pulled out a ball of bright yellow worsted-weight yarn that had its shabby original label—the one that had surrounded it back when it was a skein—safety-pinned to it.

“This is pure virgin wool,” said the young man. “Betsy brought her other cat down here last week and he got into the yarn basket and killed three skeins before she could stop him.”

Valentina smothered a laugh. “‘Killed'?”

“He was trying to disembowel them.” The young man made a scratching motion with his fingers, his eyes alight with amusement.

Valentina released a laugh. Then she asked, “What do you mean, ‘other cat'?”

“Here's the usual cat.” He turned and gestured toward a chair at the far end of the long table in the middle of the room. Valentina took a step sideways and saw an enormous, mostly white cat lying on a powder blue cushion. Its head was raised, looking back at her with yellow eyes.

“That's Sophie. She's hoping you have something edible to share with her.”

Valentina spread her hands. “Sorry,” she said to the cat, and Sophie put her head down with a big, disappointed sigh.

The young man said, “The disemboweler is a Siamese named Thai. After that yarn incident, he's permanently banned from the shop.”

“Small wonder. Now, how much is that beautiful yellow yarn?”

He named a price she would have expected to pay for cheap acrylic. “But this is wool, right?” she said.

“Yes, but it's been washed, so it's considered secondhand.”

“I'll take it.”

He said, “You'll need a crochet hook, too, right?”

“Yes, of course. In fact, give me a pair of them, size E—I lose small things, especially when I'm traveling. And do you have a how-to book?”

“We carry a pretty good selection.” He led her to a set of white box shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling and divided the front and back of the shop. About half the boxes held books and magazines; the rest held exotic and expensive yarns, magnetic needle minders, tubes of beads, tiny frames, and gadgets Valentina couldn't identify.

She was looking at
Simple Crocheting
by Erika Knight—a good-size book, profusely illustrated—when the door opened again. She turned to see a handsome woman enter wearing a royal blue trench coat and balancing a large box on one arm. Despite her youthful, curly blond hair, she looked to be in her middle fifties.

“Here, Betsy, let me take that,” said the young man, hurrying forward to lift the box from her arm.

“Thanks, Goddy,” said Betsy.

Goddy?

“Are you Betsy Devonshire?” asked Valentina, tucking the book under her elbow and coming toward her.

“Yes,” replied Betsy.

“I'm Valentina Shipp, and Leona Cunningham said I should talk to you.”

“Leona called a few minutes ago,” Godwin broke in, as he was putting the box on the table. “She said she was sending a woman named Valentina over to talk to you. I told her you were out but would be back.” He gave Valentina a look of mild rebuke. “This lady didn't tell me her name.”

“You didn't look like a Betsy,” Valentina shot back.

“Well . . . no,” conceded Godwin, looking down at himself as if for reassurance. When he looked up, he had that mischievous look in his eyes again.

Valentina couldn't help it. She smiled. “You're quite a character!”

“You don't know the half of it,” said Betsy, who was shrugging off her coat. “Let me hang this up,” she continued, heading for the back of her shop. “Then you can tell me what this is about.”

“Do you want that book?” Godwin asked Valentina. “And these two hooks, size E?”

“Yes, please,” said Valentina, joining him at a big old desk near one wall.

He quickly added up the charges, and, with a sigh she carefully suppressed, she swiped her credit card to pay them. Everything else was a bargain, but that book wasn't!

He had just handed her a large paper bag printed with purple flowers when Betsy came back.

“Now,” said Betsy, “what does Leona want of me?”

“This is going to take a few minutes,” said Valentina. “It's about my cousin, Tommy Riordan.”

“Who?” said Godwin with a puzzled frown. Then his expression cleared. “Oh, Tom Take!” He drew up his shoulders and pressed the fingers of one hand against his mouth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!” he mumbled, casting glances at both Valentina and Betsy.

There was a painful silence. Then Valentina said, in a chilly voice, “Is that what he's called around here?”

“Yes,” asserted Betsy. “That's what a lot of people call him. Not being mean, not really. And Tom's not mean, either. We know he can't help it. He doesn't do it often and he doesn't take valuable things; it's more a nuisance. I understand that if you catch him in the act, he'll give the object back.”

Godwin, anxious to make good, said, “I heard that if you think he's got something of yours and ask him if he's seen it, he'll say he thinks he knows where it is and will bring it back to you a day or two later.”

Valentina's ire melted. “When he was a little boy,” she confessed to the two of them now, “he came to stay with us twice, and when he went home, we'd go into his room to get our things back.”

Godwin laughed. “So he was born like that!”

Betsy said, “So why are you here? What is it that you want from me? Here, come and sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

“No, thanks.” Valentina followed Betsy back past the box shelves, into another, larger room. Here the walls were covered with stitched models, most of them framed, each with a three-digit number in a lower corner. Below them, slanted holders of counted cross-stitch patterns lined the entire room, and the floor was scattered with spinner racks holding everything from pretty scissors to different kinds of floss. In the center stood a small round table covered with a white tablecloth embroidered with winter scenes: snow-laden trees, sledding children, cross-country skiers.

Around the table were four delicate, pretty chairs with thin pink cushions on the seats. Betsy took one and indicated with a gesture that Valentina should take another.

“This is such a nice place,” said Valentina. “Very cozy.”

“Thank you.” Betsy looked inquiringly at her.

Valentina took a deep breath. “Tommy's my cousin. I've been talked into taking responsibility for his house. He's going to be in the hospital for a long while, probably. He doesn't think the house needs anything but a new roof. But it does! It's in such bad shape that it might have to be torn down.”

“I don't imagine Tom is happy about this.”

“No, he isn't. But if I don't try to take care of things, apparently the county will. And he suspects—so do I, really—that they'll just send a crew in to throw everything away. Tommy says there are lots of valuable things in his house. And for all I know, that might be true. Those people might throw good stuff away with the bad—or, worse, steal the good stuff.” Valentina winced. “I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, that's a perfectly valid concern,” said Betsy. “I have heard garbage collectors find valuable things in trash cans all the time. And not all the things are returned to the people who threw them away.”

“The main problem is that I'm not rich enough to hire people to help—that house is too much for me alone. I don't know if you are aware of how awful the place is.”

Betsy nodded. “Well, there have been some rumors lately . . .”

Valentina smiled grimly. “Well, it's probably even worse than you've heard. The house itself has something wrong with its foundation. The brick sills are bulging.”

“Oh, I didn't know that! Was the foundation damaged when the tree fell on the roof?”