The Drowning Spool (A Needlecraft Mystery) (20 page)

“These are from your closet?” asked Betsy.

“Yes,” said Frey. “Though I would never put these together as an outfit. I mean, those slacks and that sweater? Really! Especially with those boots!”

“And Teddi never borrowed your clothes?”

“How could she? I’m four inches taller and ten pounds lighter than she was! None of my stuff fit her, not even my shoes!”

• • •

“S
O
obviously someone came into Frey’s room and pulled this stuff out to take along with Teddi’s body to Watered Silk,” Betsy said to Godwin a little while later.

“I don’t see why Frey wanted you to come over,” said Godwin. “I agree with you, Teddi’s parents couldn’t control whether or not Frey called the police to tell them about the clothes. They weren’t Teddi’s clothes, after all.”

“I think they made her nervous, and she wanted an ally to stand with her on her decision. Plus, she feels guilty about Teddi’s murder.”

“Why should she feel guilty?”

“Well, suppose something awful were to happen to Rafael—God forbid, of course—but it happens in your condo. Now it’s not your fault, perhaps you were not even there. Wouldn’t you beat yourself up over it, anyway? ‘Why wasn’t I at home? Why didn’t I see this coming?’ Those kind of questions.”

Godwin nodded. “Oh, wow, yes, you’re right. I think anyone would think those things. Poor Frey. Poor Lia.”

“And poor Stan and Louise Wahlberger. I have heard repeatedly that the death of a child is the hardest kind of loss there is. Even an adult child—she was still their baby, no matter how old she was.”

“How
awful
this all is!” exclaimed Godwin. “I wish it were over!”

He looked at the drawings of Pres, picked up the one with the three images on one page.

“I keep thinking I’ve seen him somewhere,” he murmured, attempting to distract himself.

“I wish you could remember where,” Betsy said, a bit more sharply than she probably meant to. She walked into the back.

Godwin sat down behind the desk and thought for a minute, then took out a pencil from the soft foam fish head that was a souvenir of a trip to Florida. It was meant to hold a soft drink or beer can, but Betsy used it to hold pens and pencils, a pair of scissors, a crochet hook, a plastic ruler, and a pair of ebony knitting needles, size ten.

He opened a couple of drawers and found a thin box of tracing tissue paper, took one out, and placed it over the drawing. He traced just the face of the man, and drew a cowboy hat on him. He shook his head no, then traced it again on the same piece of paper, this time giving him lipstick, mascara, and a woman’s bouffant hairdo. Again no. He sighed.

In the back, Betsy was restoring order to a slanted holder of counted cross-stitch patterns. A customer looking for something had pulled them out in handfuls and left them scattered on the floor. She grew so irritated when that happened.

“Hey!” shouted Godwin, “here he is!”

Betsy came rushing out to the desk and halted, surprised. No one was in the shop but Godwin. Nor was anyone walking by outside.

“Where?” she asked.

“Here! Here! Look at this!”

Betsy came for a look at the sheet of tracing paper Godwin was holding out. There were two faces on the sheet. On one of them Godwin had drawn a baseball cap with the Twins logo on it; on the other he had drawn hair parted on the side, hiding the widow’s peak, and redrawn the eyebrows so they were less satanic. He’d lowered the eyelids, and adjusted the mouth from a firm line to an ordinary smile.

“Okay,” said Betsy, confused. She still didn’t know who he was.

“He’s the manager at an auto parts store,” Godwin said. “Remember when I needed a new pair of windshield wipers and a new brake pedal pad? I had worn my old one right down to the metal. And you would not believe what the Miata dealership was going to charge me for it. So I went to Halloway’s Auto Parts, and this man”—he took the paper back from Betsy—“got out a huge catalog and looked it up and ordered it for me. Cost me less than half what the dealership would have, so it was worth putting up with his attitude.”

“Attitude?”

“Rude. Partly because I’m gay, partly because he’s so important and I’m a time-wasting, ignorant member of the public who just happens to keep his store in business.”

Betsy smiled.

Godwin continued, “I had to ask another person to show me how to put the wipers on because he couldn’t be bothered. I was mad at him for three whole minutes, and I broke a nail doing it myself, but it was worth it for the money I saved.” He held out a slim-fingered hand complacently.

“So what’s his name?” asked Betsy.

“I don’t have the slightest idea. But hey,” he added, “at least I’ve told you where you can find him.”

• • •

B
ETSY
took her Buick to Halloway’s Auto Parts in Saint Louis Park. She noted the pale blue pickup trucks with the fiberglass tires on their roofs, a memorable advertising gimmick. The building was large, white, and single story.
TONY HALLOWAY AUTO PARTS
, read a long blue and yellow sign across the front, the
o
’s shaped like tires.

Betsy pulled into a parking slot near the main entrance and went in to find stacks of tires—their smell was overpowering—and row upon row of automobile parts and supplies, from many kinds of engine oil to air filters to headlights to brake pads, and so on. After a brief search, she found in one aisle a bewildering number of windshield wipers in myriad sizes.

She went to the long counter in back to ask for help. There were three men standing behind it, none of whom looked like Pres. One of them was helping a burly man in work clothes. Cut into the middle of the wall behind him was a broad door into the back. There must be a big warehouse behind it, Betsy thought, remembering the sheer size of the building from when she first entered the parking area. She wondered if Pres was back there and how to summon him if he was.

But first, she might as well attend to the errand that brought her to Halloway’s Auto Parts. The counterman she chose to talk to was young, of medium height and average build with dusty-brown hair, amiable blue eyes, and very large hands. He wore dark blue coveralls with a
HALLOWAY
logo over the pocket and above it his first name, James.

“My windshield wipers are streaking,” she said, “so I want to replace them. Normally I go to my dealer, but I’ve decided to save some money by buying new ones here and putting them on myself.”

“What are you driving?” asked James with a smile.

“A three-year-old Buick Regal,” she replied, and added, in case it mattered, “four door.”

James’s amused smile told her it didn’t. He consulted a thick catalog to find the right kind of wipers for her car. She went back to the wiper aisle to choose a heavy-duty variety that promised to sweep away sandy salt-water as well as snow.

She paid for the wipers, then went out to install them, a task she’d seen done many times in her driving lifetime but had never tried before. To her surprise, she couldn’t even get the old wipers off.

Embarrassed, she went back inside, to the same young man, and asked him if he could show her how it was done.

He turned and went to the warehouse door and shouted, “Pres, you back there?”

And to Betsy’s gratification, out came a medium-tall, slender man with dark hair and eyes, looking a whole lot like Goddy’s reinterpretation of Teddi’s sketch. He was not dressed in coveralls but was instead wearing a nice black sport coat and gray trousers. He followed James to where Betsy stood.

“This young woman,” said James, “can’t put the wipers we just sold her on her car. Okay if I help her?”

Pres looked at Betsy with an impatient grimace, looked around to see no customers waiting, then lifted a what-the-hell hand. “All right, go ahead.”

James made his own grimace of apology at Betsy for the man’s attitude, shrugged himself into a winter-weight jacket, lifted the wipers off the counter, and said, “Follow me.” He went down to the end of the counter and led Betsy out to the parking lot.

“Where—oh, there.” He strode quickly to Betsy’s car and in a few seconds had her old wipers off.

“Will you show me how to do that?” she asked.

“Sure.” He put one of the old wipers back on and showed her the little lever on its underside that could be lifted so it slid off. “Easy peasy,” he said with a smile.

She watched as he opened the package holding her new wipers. But before he could put them on, she asked, “Is your boss always so rude to customers?”

He almost dropped the empty package. “What did you say?”

“He gave me such a look when you asked if you could help me put those on. Is he always like that? Who is he, anyway?”

James looked over his shoulder at the big front windows as if afraid he’d find Pres watching. “He’s the store manager, Preston Munro. And he’s all right.” But that last was said in a tone of resigned disbelief.

“Is he married?”

James looked shocked. “Why? You interested in him?”

“No, but he was dating someone I sort of know who thought he was single.”

He raised his eyebrows, glanced again at the store windows, then shrugged. “Yes, he’s married. He’s married to the boss’s daughter.

“He’s Tony Halloway’s son-in-law?”

“That’s right.” He turned away from her to begin putting one of the wipers on. “Now, first you lift up—”

“So that’s how he gets away with that attitude.”

He put the wiper down and turned back to her. “What’s this about, anyhow?”

“The woman he was dating has been murdered.”

“Sufferin’ cats!” he said. “Hold on, are you a cop?”

“No, I’m conducting a private investigation. Have the police been here yet to talk to Mr. Munro?”

“No.” He was staring at her, alarmed. “Will they?”

“I’m sure they will.” Especially since Betsy was going to phone Mike Malloy as soon as she got back to Excelsior.

“Because he was dating a woman who’s been murdered?”

“Don’t you think they should?”

He thought about that. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not the president of Pres’s fan club, but murder is serious business. Do you actually think he might have killed that woman?”

“I don’t know. I’m just collecting information.”

“Maybe I should warn Pres about this.” He nodded toward the store. “Or Mr. Halloway . . .”

His expression was significantly enigmatic, so Betsy asked, “What do you think Mr. Halloway’s reaction would be?”

James suddenly showed Betsy a malicious grin. “Whatever it is, Pres won’t like it.”

• • •

B
ACK
at the shop, Betsy searched the Internet phone directories for a Preston Munro in Minnesota and was surprised to find only one listing, right down the road in Minnetonka. It even offered his wife’s name, Sonja.

She picked up the phone and dialed the Excelsior Police Department. “May I speak with Sergeant Malloy?” she asked.

“I’ll see if he’s here. Who’s calling, please?”

“Betsy Devonshire. Mike knows me. It’s important.”

“One minute.”

In slightly less than a minute Malloy’s voice came impatiently over the line. “I can’t tell you anything about an ongoing investigation,” he announced.

“Maybe not, but I can tell you something.”

The tone mollified. “Is that so?”

“Did Lia or Frey get in touch with you about that drawing of Pres?”

“Yes, and I have the drawings here on my desk. That was good work, thank you.”

“Well, I know who he is, and where he works, and where he lives. With his wife.”

“Have you talked to him?” Malloy asked sharply.

“No.”

“Good, that’s good.”

“But I talked to someone he supervises, and I’m afraid that man will purely enjoy telling Pres the police may come by.”

“Dammit—”

“There’s no way I could know that would happen, Mike.”

“All right, all right, I can see that. How did you find him?”

“Goddy remembered buying a brake pedal pad at the Halloway Auto Parts store in Saint Louis Park from a man who resembled the one in the drawing. So I went there to buy a pair of windshield wipers and saw him in the flesh. But I bought the wipers from another employee, who gave me additional information about him. Pres is the son-in-law of the owner of that store.” Betsy gave Mike all the information she’d gathered, including Pres’s home address. “His wife’s name is Sonja,” she added.

“Nice piece of detective work,” Malloy said, not too grudgingly. “Maybe you should think about getting a license.”

“And give up needlework? Not gonna happen. But may I ask a favor?”

“What kind of favor?”

“Let me know what he says when you talk to him.”

“I’ll think about it.”