Hanging by a Thread (10 page)

The Marbek Nativity glowed under the track light, and on the wall behind it were three counted cross stitch stockings, Marilyn Leavitt-Imblum’s Angel of the Morning, Dennis P. Lewan’s scene of snow-covered Victorian houses at sunset, a Christmas sampler from Homespun Elegance, and a cross-stitch pattern of Santa aloft in his sleigh with an American flag flying off the back of it.

For the less sentimental, there was an amusing model of Linda Connors’s black cat destroying a Christmas tree.

For the curmudgeons, there was Santa sitting on a chimney, pants down, a satisfied scowl on his face, and under it the legend, “For Those Who Have Been Really Naughty ...”

But Betsy was most concerned about the front window. She went out to take a look at it in the daylight. Last night she had thrown out her plan for a Christmas theme, having been overcome by a wonderful, exciting
Idea.
But what if the Idea had been a bad one? After all, she’d been tired. Or if it had been a good one, perhaps she’d done it too fast, and now, in the chill light of morning it looked slipshod. She hadn’t sat down and drawn up a plan, after all. She and Godwin, laughing with excitement, had just pulled patterns and models and stuck them up quickly, like children drawing on a wall. (How great it was to have an employee like Godwin!) But what if the window was just a muddle?

She stood a moment, eyes closed, outdoors in front of the window. Then opened them.

It wasn’t awful, or slipshod. It was good. The theme was the onset of winter, which every culture that ever lived in four seasons has marked. The layout was terrific—not too cluttered, not too regimented. The eye moved naturally from place to place.

There was a knit stocking with its pattern of Christmas tree lights, and Just Nan’s Liberty Angel, and the needlepoint rocking horse, but there was also a canvas that, when finished and cut out, could be sewn up into a set of Hanukkah dreidels. And there was a Wiccan pattern of Bertcha, goddess of the winter solstice. There was the Kwanzaa kinora with its black, red, and green candles, stitched in silks. There was a canvas of Arabic calligraphy, to be covered with gold and silver stitches, a verse from the Koran admonishing the believer to study nature in order to understand the mind of God. There was an American Indian in a blanket huddled close to an evening fire, the Hunger Moon glowing in the background to illuminate subtle patterns of wildlife among the naked trees all around him. There was even a deep blue cloth covered with elaborate patterns of silver snowflakes, for the atheists.

Betsy had these models on her walls, the patterns in stock, but it hadn’t occurred to her to pull them together in a single display, until last night. She looked long at it, deeply satisfied. She had left two not obvious blank spaces in case customers came in with suggestions for other winter celebrations—and the name of a pattern she could order. There were growing populations of Hmong and Somali in the cities. Betsy wanted them to know they were welcome, too. Excelsior itself was mostly white Christian, but her shop drew customers from all over the area.

The sky was clear this morning, but the thermometer had fallen into the teens overnight. Any more precipitation between now and April would be snow. Betsy suddenly realized she was cold, and came back into her shop shivering and chaffing her arms. She went on through the back to start the coffee perking and the electric tea kettle heating. She’d had a cup of strong English tea with her breakfast bagel, but she’d need at least another to get her brain fired up.

She went behind the desk to put the start-up money in the cash register, check order slips and billing statements (the price of fuel oil was up again; thank God the new roof was deeply insulated). There was a note to remind her to phone Jimmy Jones, the man she’d hired last winter to plow the parking lot in back, to make sure he was on again for this winter; and another to say her accountant would be in on Friday to balance her books.

The door made its annoying
Bing!
(another note: replace that ugly noise!), and in came a tall woman in her late fifties, her full face marked with an emphatic pug nose. She had a lot of makeup on for this early in the morning. Betsy frowned—she was sure she didn’t recognize her, but the woman looked familiar. Her brown hair was done in complicated curls and her gray winter coat had a beautiful silver fox collar. The woman glanced at Betsy, hesitated, then took a breath and approached the desk as if afraid she’d be sent away. Betsy hastily turned the frown into a smile of welcome.

“Good morning, may I help you find something?”

“I hope so,” said the woman in a low, husky voice. “I’m thinking of taking up needlework. I did factory work all my life, and it ruined my hands.” She held them out, and they were indeed work-thickened, though clean, and the nails carefully polished. “I’m retired now, and hoping to regain some fine motor skills by taking up a hobby. I first thought about music, but I was told I have no talent, so my brother recommended your shop.”

“Oh!” said Betsy, recognition setting in. “You must be Mr. DeRosa’s sister! You look a lot like him. ”

“Yes, everyone says that. We’re twins, in fact. I’m Doris Valentine. Mick has said some nice things about you.”

“Well, that was kind of him.” Michael DeRosa lived alone in the smallest apartment upstairs and kept very much to himself. Betsy couldn’t imagine what nice things he might have said about her; she couldn’t have said anything at all about him, except that he always paid his rent on time. When the couple who rented the other apartment waylaid Betsy in the upstairs hall to complain about the smell of tar last month, he had stood shyly in his doorway, and only nodded in agreement when she looked at him.

“How long are you going to be visiting?” asked Betsy.

“Oh, just this week. But I’ve moved into the area, and will stop by often, I hope. Mick is my only surviving relative, and I want to spend as much time as I can with him.” She looked around the shop and asked timidly, “Where do you suggest I start?”

“Have you ever done embroidery or knitting?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I can turn up a hem and sew buttons on, but that’s all. My mother knitted, but she never taught me how. Not that I was very interested—I liked outdoor activities, horseback riding and softball.”

Still ashamed of her frown, Betsy reached out with, “Me, too. In fact, I used to ride all the time. I keep making plans to take it up again, but never find the time.”

“Did you ever try jumping?”

“Not in competition; to do that, you need a good horse, and we couldn’t afford one. You?”

“I won a blue ribbon at our state fair the year I turned fifteen. But we had to sell the horse when Daddy lost his job, so that was the end of that.”

“Too bad. Well, let me show you some of the things involved in stitchery. We also offer classes, if you don’t live too far away to come in once a week.”

“You know, I think I could manage that, if it turns out I have an aptitude for this stuff.”

Betsy recommended Stoney Creek’s wonderful and extremely basic
The ABC’s of Cross-Stitch,
which Doris took, along with a book of simple patterns for beginners, a skein each of Anchor 403, 46, 305, and 266—black, red, yellow, and green—a roll of fourteen-count Vinyl-Weave, and an inexpensive pair of scissors. Betsy threw in a needle and a needle threader, told her about the Monday Bunch, and gave her a schedule of classes.

“Now, I tell you what,” said Betsy. “Why don’t you sit down in back for a while and try out some things from the book? Just shout if you get stuck, and I’ll be glad to show you how to go on.”

“Why ... thank you,” said Doris, a little overwhelmed at all this kindness. Betsy wondered where she’d gone to be told she had no musical talent. Funny how some shop owners seemed determined to put themselves out of business. Which of course just left more for those willing to go a little distance.

Betsy showed her how to use the needle threader, and then the door went
Bing!
and she went out to see who it was.

Godwin was taking off his gorgeous Versace leather trench coat to reveal a silk shirt in a heavenly shade of lilac under a purple vest. He said, “That window looks good, boss lady.”

“Thanks for not complaining when I had my flash of inspiration and made you tear down the original.”

“Aw, shucks, ma’am,” he began in a teasing voice, then saw there was someone in back.

“Who’s that?”

“Doris Valentine, my tenant Mr. DeRosa’s twin sister. She’s visiting for a week, and decided to try her hand at counted cross-stitch. Very much a beginner.”

Godwin went back to introduce himself and soon had her trying out French knots and the satin stitch. When she’d finally had enough, she thanked them both profusely and departed, all smiles.

Godwin, amused by something, said, “Kind of fun to watch someone take those first steps down the road.”

“Do you remember your first steps?”

“Depends on which road you mean.” He waggled his eyebrows, grinned, and sashayed away.

“Give me strength,” Betsy sighed and went to brew another cup of black tea. When she’d finished it, she called Alice Skoglund. “Would you care to have lunch with me?” she asked. “I want to talk with you.”

“All right. Where? The Waterfront Café?”

“No, too many eavesdroppers. How about the sandwich shop right next door to me? He’s featuring a tomato-basil soup that’s very good.”

“All right. Twelve-thirty okay? I’ll meet you there.”

T
here were two other shops in Betsy’s building, a used-book store called Isbn’s on her right and Sol’s Delicatessen (though the owner’s name was Jack Knutson) on her left. Betsy went into the deli. It looked as if it were original to the building and never redecorated, with a potted palm partly blocking the front window, large black and white tiles on the floor, and a long, white-enamel case faced with slanted panes of glass behind which were displayed cold cuts, cheeses, smoked salmon, salads, and a tray of enormous dill pickles. The stamped-tin ceiling was high.

The deli was mostly a carry-out place—there was a line of customers waiting to buy Sol’s (or Jack’s) wonderful thick sandwiches—but the owner had set up a couple of small, round, marble-topped tables and wire-backed chairs for the few who chose to eat in.

Betsy picked a chair that faced the door. She had barely sat down when the door opened and Alice came in. Tall for a woman in her sixties, and broad-shouldered, Alice wore a man’s raincoat and sensible lace-up oxfords. Her eyeglasses had unstylish plastic rims. Her face was set with grim determination, an expression that did not change when she saw Betsy and came to her table.

She sat down stiffly and said, “I know what you want to ask me. And I’m glad to tell you, get it off my chest. This is all my fault.”

“What is?” asked Betsy.

But Alice’s answer was forestalled by Jack’s appearance at their table. He was a tall, bald man with tired eyes and a paunch that sagged into his white apron. His hands were covered with clear plastic gloves. “What can I get you ladies?” he asked, with a special nod to Betsy, his landlady.

“I’d like a mixed green salad with strips of smoked turkey on top, ranch dressing on the side,” said Betsy. “Water to drink.”

Alice consulted the menu handwritten on a whiteboard behind the white enamel case and said, “A cup of coffee, black, and a mixed meat sandwich with mayonnaise on an onion roll, please.” Mixed meat meant ham, smoked turkey, thuringer, salami, and roast beef, sliced thin but piled high. Alice was not afraid of cholesterol.

When the man had walked away, Alice said to Betsy, in a low, shamed voice, “It’s my fault Foster is suspected of murder.”

“How can that be? You were saying he was innocent only yesterday.”

Alice replied, “I mean it’s my fault he’s suspected, not my fault he did it—which I’m not convinced he did.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Alice frowned and shifted around on her chair. “Maybe I should start at the beginning, which was when I realized Angela was afraid of her husband.”

“What?”

“I said, when I realized Angela was afraid of her husband. Paul was a bully and a brute. And she wasn’t timid, she was
intimidated.
I told her once that if she wanted to get away, she could come hide in my house. But she didn’t even thank me, much less take me up on the offer.”

“I don’t understand. Why—how did you get involved?”

“My late husband was a pastor, you know that. Well, we both heard a lot of sad stories. After a while, you learn to look at people, and I could very plainly see that Angela lived in fear of her husband.”

“If that was true, why didn’t she leave him? After all, she had Foster to go to.”

“True. But women stay in abusive relationships for a number of reasons. Fear of what he might do if she leaves is near the top of the list.”

“So he really didn’t love her.”

“What he felt was nothing like love, it had nothing to do with wanting the best for the beloved, it had everything to do with control.”

“How long were you aware of this situation?”

“I first saw it about eight or ten months before her murder. But Paul’s smile had never fooled me, ever; more than once I saw him smiling when there was nothing funny or happy going on. But as I said, I saw Angela looking unhappy when she thought no one was noticing. That worried me, and I offered to help her any way I could, but I wasn’t the pastor’s wife anymore, and anyway, I don’t know how to be subtle, so I only scared her more. Then one Sunday I saw her talking to Foster after church. It seemed an innocent conversation, but friendly.” Alice made a sudden curved gesture with a large hand, startling Betsy. She nodded. “Like that, Paul swooped in and just yanked her away. He was smiling, but for just a second there was a look on Angela’s face that frightened me, she looked terrified. I phoned her at home that evening, pretending I wanted a recipe, and she seemed almost all right, you know what I mean?”