Knit Your Own Murder (20 page)

Betsy began to smile. “God bless the scientists who keep getting better and better at using DNA,” she said. “Do you think it would be interfering if I called Detective Larabee and told him about these advances in DNA testing?”

“Oh yes, I think it would. He's better educated about DNA than you and I are. I would be very surprised if he isn't well aware of the separation technique.”

“Then he'll be able to test that second sample of DNA against all the suspects in Harry's murder.”

“I'm absolutely sure he'll do that,” said Jill.

*   *   *

J
ill
had been gone for about forty-five minutes, having left with one hand holding a fistful of beautiful Silk and Ivory floss in a small plastic bag, when the door began to play “Yes We Have No Bananas” and Joe Mickels came in. He was looking triumphant, and he said to Betsy, “You're fired!”

Godwin scolded, “Who do you think you are, Donald Trump?”

Mickels frowned at Godwin, then laughed, a sound rarely heard. Certainly neither Betsy nor Godwin had heard it before.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Joe?” Betsy asked.

“They arrested the man who shot me!” said Joe.

“Not Chaz, surely!” exclaimed Betsy.

“No, o' course not! I never thought it was him. It's Herman Glass. He used to be a tenant of mine. He's a student at Rasmussen College, and to finance his education he was selling drugs out of his apartment. When I found out about it, he asked me to give him a break, so I didn't call the cops on him, I just evicted him. He called me names anyway. Then he decided selling drugs wasn't his forte, so he started pulling stickups. When he walked into one of my stores and saw me there, he took advantage of the opportunity and shot me.”

“The dastard!” said Godwin.

Joe turned and looked at him. “What did you say?”

“Dastard.”

“What is that, a ladylike version of bastard?”

“No, it's a word of its own, dates way, way back, medieval. It means a contemptible, sneaky coward.”

“Dastard,” repeated Joe, trying it out on his tongue.

“Dastard,” agreed Godwin. He had a curious fondness for old-fashioned words—and old-fashioned music, and cartoons, and radio shows, too.

Joe turned back to Betsy. “But that's not what I'm here about. They found the man I had dinner with the night Whiteside was killed, so I've got an alibi for his murder, so I don't need your help anymore.”

“What about for Maddy?”

He shrugged. “They'd have to prove I had access to pure nicotine, and they can't, because I don't. QED, I'm in the clear.”

Betsy nodded. “Very well, I won't spend any more time trying to prove you didn't kill Maddy O'Leary.”

He turned serious, even morose. “I take it you will bill me for your expenses?”

“I don't charge for my investigative services. I thought we were clear on that.”

He brightened. “Yes, you did say that, didn't you? I'm glad to have that confirmed. Good day to you.”

He turned and stumped out.

“Not a ‘thank you' in a carload,” remarked Godwin. “But maybe we should be grateful he didn't poke you in the eye with a sharp stick.”

*   *   *

B
etsy
took the cordless shop phone into the back room and called Bershada. “Is Chaz there by some chance?”

“No, why?”

“Because apparently there's a cabin up on Pine Lake in Pine County that might have had its windows broken by a vandal. I'm wondering if that cabin belonged to Maddy. Does Chaz have access to a complete listing of her holdings?”

“I think he does, or knows how to get one, at least. A cabin up in Pine County, you say?”

“On property that used to belong to Harry Whiteside's grandparents.”

“Oh my Lord! Where did you find out—never mind! I'll ask him and call you back.”

“Thanks, Bershada.”

*   *   *

S
ergeant
Frank Larabee wrote up an order directing the Hennepin County medical examiner to take a sample from the body of Harry Whiteside suitable for DNA testing. He also ordered samples to be taken from Hamilton Whiteside and from the Merry Maid woman who cleaned Harry's house and from Harry's friend Martin LeBeau (who had dined with Harry the week he died), and for all samples to be compared to the separated DNA samples taken off the doorknob shank in Harry's house. All had denied cutting a finger while in the house, but the blood sample was very small, and it was possible they hadn't noticed. Or they were lying.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Larabee was rounding up files on known burglars active in the Wayzata area and checking their alibis. Someone had injured his or her finger on that loose screw, not badly, but enough to have left a usable sample of blood behind. He had a hunch that it was Heck's brother Howard who cut himself walking out after
slamming his father on the head and breaking one of the big front windows (not in order to get in, just in a fit of anger, or maybe to make the police think that was how a thief got in), turning over chairs and tables, and maybe stealing a few things from the house—there wasn't any inventory available to prove that—to make it look like the work of a burglar. Howard had his father's temper, and there were years of quarrels between them—that business of the dismissed lawsuit still rankled. Howard had tried to shrug it off as water over the dam when Larabee spoke to him, but it hadn't been difficult to see the anger still smoking in Howard's closed fists and tight vocal cords. And he didn't have an alibi worth spit.

Larabee was pretty sure he'd be able to arrest Howard Whiteside as soon as the results came back.

He was about to close up shop when his phone rang.

“Larabee,” he said on picking up.

“Sergeant Larabee, this is Betsy Devonshire—”

“Oh jeez, what is it now?”

“Have you had that mixed blood sample separated and tested?”

“It's being done. But I'm not going to share the results with you.”

“That's fine. I'm sure you're being very thorough and testing every possible person who might have been in that house.”

“You got that right.”

“Including Maddy O'Leary.”

“Maddy—? What makes you think I should test a dead woman's DNA?”

“She wasn't dead when Mr. Whiteside was killed.”

“Ms. Devonshire, I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me up to tell me how to do my job.” He hung up on her.

What a crazy, interfering, ignorant woman! Not only wasn't she a cop, she wasn't even a licensed private investigator!

He finished locking the files away and went off to spend ninety minutes in the gym, fifteen minutes of which he'd spend looking at himself in the big mirror in various poses. His chest was coming along well, but he needed to do something to tighten those glutes.

*   *   *

W
hen
Betsy closed shop and went upstairs that evening, Connor wordlessly indicated she should go look in the dining nook.

Standing proudly in the center of the round table was a bouquet of two dozen roses, with an additional half-bushel of baby's breath and some kind of large-leaf foliage. The roses were the large, pale ivory kind with deep pink edges to their petals. Best of all, they were the scented variety, filling the air with a heavenly odor.

“What's the occasion?” Betsy asked, flashing a delighted smile at him.

“They're not from me,” he said. “But there's a card.”

Betsy approached and found a small card tucked in among the blooms. She opened the tiny envelope and read the message inside:
Thank you for your efforts on my behalf. Joe Mickels.

Betsy laughed. “Goddy was wrong. He does know how to say thank you.”

“S
o,
you're off the hook, right?” said Connor over supper. They had had to move the rose bouquet to the living room; it was so large that it impeded sight lines, even the placement of dinnerware. Connor had actually had to go over to Leipold's for an especially large vase.

“I suppose I am. So why don't I feel like it?”

“I don't know. Why don't you?”

“I think because I have a theory about what happened. But I don't have any proof. It makes me uncomfortable, not having proof.”

“You're saying that for your own peace of mind, you need to continue sleuthing.”

She sighed. “Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying.”

“All right, it's your decision, and I understand what's driving you. Do you want to tell me whom you suspect?”

“N-no, I don't think so. Without proof it's just a theory.”

“I'm not going to find myself in a scenario where you're dead and I don't know whom to blame?”

She laughed. “No, absolutely no danger of that.”

“I'm glad to hear it. What do you want to do next?”

“I need to find out how someone on my list of suspects got hold of pure nicotine. It's not easy to come by. But it doesn't take a large quantity, so suppose I really, really wanted just a little, a couple of teaspoons or a tablespoon of it. Where would I have to go?”

“Contact the people who produce it, I suppose. Where does it come from?”

“Well, from tobacco, of course.” She held up both hands. “I know, that isn't what you're asking. It comes from laboratories, from chemical factories. I'll have to do a search to see if I can find someone who works in the manufacturing end willing to talk to me.”

It seemed startlingly easy at first. There was actually a company in Minnesota that advertised it made and sold nicotine (among other things)—and its factory was in Minnetonka, right up the road. But when she tried to phone them the next morning, their phone number had been disconnected, and Google Maps seemed never to have heard of them. They'd gone quietly out of business, leaving no forwarding address.

So she backed up and called an e-cigarette store. Where did they get the “juice” they sold? That led her to a distributor. Several distributors, actually; but at first her questions seemed to lead them to think she was an undercover activist, and they refused to give her any information.

Her line of questioning became more polished as she
went along—she'd even connected with a laboratory that made nicotine for commercial use, but they didn't want to tell her anything about it. Then, finally, a distributor gave her the name and phone number of the public affairs officer in a chemical company in Virginia—of course, prime tobacco country.

Jill had once told Betsy she'd make a good con woman because she was a good liar. So, since her various approaches to the truth weren't working, she decided to lie.

There were several female crime fiction authors in the Twin Cities area. Betsy picked one, and when she got the PR fellow on the line, she introduced herself as that person. She continued, “I'm writing a mystery in which my victim is killed when her husband pours a little liquid nicotine on her favorite sweater. She absorbs it through her skin.”

“Say, that's pretty mean,” the man responded.

“You bet. But would it work?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Good. But I've been having trouble finding out how he might get hold of the stuff without leaving a trail. Retail and wholesale e-cigarette dealers only get the mixes, and the strongest mix is still only three percent. What kind of job or occupation can I give my murderer that will allow him to get hold of one hundred percent nicotine?”

“He could be a chemist, of course. But that's a little obvious for your purposes, right?”

“Yes, that's right. I've discovered that when a medical examiner conducts the initial test for drugs on a body, nicotine is one of the basics. That surprised me.”

“It surprises me, too. Well, okay, in order not to leave a
trail, he's going to have to steal it, unless he takes classes in chemistry at a university under a fake name.”

“No, I think stealing it is best—fastest, anyway.”

“Sure, I get it. Maybe he's a painter and gets a job painting the walls of a factory where they manufacture the vapor mixes.” The man seemed to be getting into the spirit of Betsy's quest. It was surprising how many people had a trace of the criminal in them. Probably not a good thing, except for the bottom line of mystery authors.

“Have you handled pure nicotine yourself?” asked Betsy.

“Oh yes. Not often, but yes. You have to be careful; it doesn't take a lot to make someone damn sick.”

“So my idea of putting it on an article of clothing is good.”

“It would have to be something that comes into direct contact with the skin, and for a prolonged period of time. That sweater idea is good. Underwear might be better. Gloves would be good, too. Where are you calling from?”

“Minnesota.”

“Oh yeah, a land of winter sports. Pour it onto her socks, send her skiing, find her body on the slopes.” He really was getting into this.

“Is there a tobacco smell she might notice?”

“No, it's just about odorless. Colorless, too.”

“The stuff you buy for e-cigarettes seems to be like syrup,” said Betsy.

“That's an additive to make it burn. And another to make it smell good. Nicotine is only a little thicker than water. But it oxidizes fairly rapidly, so your killer would have to do it so it dries not more than a day or two before
your victim puts the socks on. Oh, and here's an idea: Have your murderer be a maintenance man, working in a lab. He could find an almost-empty bottle of the stuff in a wastepaper basket.”

“Scary to think someone would just toss a bottle away without at least rinsing it.”

“It's illegal to pour it down a drain. Much better to put it in a landfill.”

And on that note, Betsy thanked him and hung up before he could ask her to send him a copy of the book when it came out.

She barely had time to serve a customer who wanted to buy the magnificent counted cross-stitch Eagle Owl pattern from Riolis, when the phone rang.

“Wow, you really are a sleuth!” Chaz exclaimed when she answered. His previous anger toward her seemed to have disappeared. Betsy thanked her stars for Bershada, who obviously had been able to calm his resentment over being thought a suspect.

“Why, did she own a cabin up on Pine Lake?”

“She sure did! Bought it five years ago from a party named Makepeace. It had a raggedy old cabin on it, which she tore down and replaced with a log house. All modern conveniences, plus a river rock fireplace. It's on the shore of Pine Lake, so she built a little boathouse that you can paddle your canoe right into. And it was vandalized back in February, windows broken, couple cans of paint emptied into it. Froze the pipes, which broke the toilet. Over fifteen thousand dollars in damage.”

“Can you find out if there was an owner named Whiteside, back in the fifties?”

“Oh my God. You're thinking—oh my God. No, I don't believe it.”

“But you'll find out for me?”

“Yes, but you're wrong, Betsy.”

“For your sake, I hope I am.”

*   *   *

B
etsy
was restless in bed Sunday night. Some fragment of information was nagging at her, and though she chased it all over her brain, she couldn't catch up and get hold of it. “Laboratory,” she murmured to herself. And, “Landfill.” She finally fell into an uneasy slumber and dreamed all night of houses on fire. She woke up from a dream of someone setting fire to the back door of her own building and causing major smoke damage to the contents of her shop. The dream was so vivid she went all over the apartment, sniffing for evidence of smoke, thinking something must have triggered those dreams. But there was nothing but clean air.

So she pulled on her swimsuit and some clothes on over it, grabbed a change of underwear, and went off to water aerobics.

Over time, people had dropped out of the Early Bird class at the Golden Valley Courage Center and new ones came in, the instructors changed, even the kind of aerobics changed. Tabata was now all the rage, with its twenty seconds of action and ten seconds of “rest” (marked by gentler movements, not standing still). Yet it still all took place in the very large, heated, Olympic-size pool, with its flat platforms at increasing depths, under a pair of enormous glass windows with a stained glass pattern that looked like a map of several rivers converging here and there.

Betsy had been going to this aerobics class for years. It started at six thirty and went for an hour, which made it perfect for people with day jobs. Oddly, most of the current participants were senior citizens. Connor had joined her for a few classes then decided he preferred to sleep in and get up only in time to have her breakfast cooking when she got back home.

A Russian immigrant, Michael, with a hearing problem and not much command of English, was a newer member of the class. He had multiple physical problems as well and often just stood in one place, clumsily shuffling his feet and feebly moving his arms while everyone else was doing cross-country ski or jumping jack movements back and forth across the pool.

On the other hand, another newcomer, Sarah, was tall, young, and strong. Betsy was jealous of her ability to move swiftly and smoothly through the water while Betsy puffed and struggled.

An old, familiar, and much-liked couple, Peter and Ingrid, were no longer members of the class. Peter had had a stroke, and Ingrid dropped out to care for him; Betsy missed them both.

But there remained the heated water and the movements, and focusing on those elements gave her a break from everything else.

A small whiteboard was fastened to a section of wall between the windows. There was a new riddle written on it for each day's class. Today's was:
What happens when you don't pay your exorcist?
As usual, the answer was not written on the board, and Betsy spent several minutes trying to think what it might be.

Samantha—Sam—was running the class today. She was a new instructor, not fond of Tabata, and her method was to get a movement started and then let it run awhile—other people who taught the class switched off very frequently, not letting the muscles settle into a routine. But Sam liked to give each set of muscles a thorough workout. Once she picked up the rhythm, Betsy's mind was free to work on the riddle.

And suddenly, she knew the answer and laughed out loud. Lifeguard Amy had earlier acknowledged she knew the answer, so when Betsy arrived at Amy's side of the pool, she gave her guess, and Amy said, “Correct!”

Perhaps it was the mental exercise of the riddle, or the oxygenation of her brain from vigorous exercise, but on her drive home, Betsy thought she understood at last what her dreams had tried to tell her last night. Her shop didn't have those pipes that carried water that sprayed during a fire. A serious fire would have destroyed her whole building. But the University of Minnesota's waste-handling building did. Their pipes had needed replacement. And Harry Whiteside had contracted to replace them.

To Betsy's mind, that was a very large clue.

She got home to find Connor preparing to pour pancake batter into a heated pan as soon as she opened the door. A few minutes later, while sitting at the table, she was putting butter and syrup on those very pancakes. “What happens if you neglect to pay your exorcist?” she asked Connor as she tucked into her breakfast.

“I don't know, what?”

“Think about it.”

“You've the devil to pay?” he guessed.

She laughed. “Good guess, but no.”

He sat down to his own breakfast, and silence fell for a few minutes. Then he began to laugh. “You get repossessed?”

She laughed back at him. “That's right!”After breakfast, Betsy retreated to the bedroom to change into her work clothes. She put on a two-piece suit in a medium yellow that had very faint patterns of large pink flowers woven into it. She wore yellow heels with it that were more comfortable than they looked.

Connor approved. “You look like a morning in spring.”

“Thank you. Connor, could you do something for me?”

“Anything,
machree
.” The English spelling of an Irish word that means “my heart,” it was his favorite nickname for her.

“I need to visit the hazardous waste disposal building on the U of M campus. But I need an excuse.”

“And you think I might come up with one?”

“Well, can you?”

“Not off the top of my head. What's there for you to see or find out?”

Armed with her fresh insight, she was not willing to explain her theory.

“Does Mike Malloy know about this?” he asked.

“No—well, I don't know. I haven't said anything to him.”