“Yeah, you really got it tough,” said Annie. “So if I can get one, I need a roommate, an’ last time I talked with Janet, she sounded interested. I mean, here’s my chance, thanks to my cousin. Ain’t it great to have relatives?”

  “Not if they’re husbands,” said the woman with the black eye sadly.

  “Yeah, ain’t that the truth?” agreed Annie sincerely. “But if I could link up with Janet, we could maybe afford to get a little place together, and I could start digging my way out of the hole I’m in.” She looked at her cards and smiled, because she had two pairs and three hearts in sequence.

  But she made sure not to win.

  With that very promising start to her inquiries, Annie sat with another set of women in the kitchen at lunchtime and yet another in the TV room afterward. But no one else she talked to had ever met or even heard of Janet Turnquist.

  At supper, a very tall woman with broad Indian features and sloping shoulders came up to where Annie sat and said in a thin, light voice, “You the one looking for Janet Turnquist?”

  “Yes,” said Annie eagerly. “Do you know her?”

  “I know something about her you won’t like to hear.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Annie’s heart sank, and she let it show on her face. “Are . . . are you sure?”

  The woman nodded emphatically. “Yes. She died over there in Minnesota. It was weeks ago. Froze to death right on the street in some little town.”

  The other women still sitting at the table offered expressions of shock, dismay, and sorrow. “That’s so awful!” said one. “I’m sorry for you, Annie, losing a friend like that.”

  “Gosh, I can’t believe it!” said Annie. “I thought . . . well, it don’t matter what I thought, I guess. But this is real bad news, and I’m sorry to hear it.” Mostly because it meant Annie couldn’t ask any more questions about Janet without rousing suspicions about why she wanted to know.

  She finished her meal in a depressed silence.

  Later, she took her metformin pill, put drops in her eyes, and went to the TV room to watch a G-rated movie with some women who said “Awwwwww” every time a puppy or kitten turned up, and who wept real tears when the family had to move out of its home. Annie herself got moist around the edges at that part. Losing one’s home was not an imaginary problem for these people.

  After the happy ending, Annie went to her room, where she found her roommate already in her nightgown, sitting on her bed, painting her toenails purple. Wads of Kleenex were stuck between her toes to separate them.

  “Hello,” said the woman shyly. She was thin and blond, and looked awfully young, like maybe sixteen, and she had a pimpled complexion.

  “Hi, I’m Annie.”

  “I’m Alex.”

  “Sorry to be taking up a hunk of your floor, Alex.”

  “That’s all right. It happens around here. They don’t like to turn people away.”

  “This is a real nice place. I won’t be here long, just a couple of days.”

  “Yeah, Shelly told me that. Is it true a friend of yours named Janet froze to death just recently?”

  Annie sighed at the efficiency of the grapevine. “Yeah. I mean, she wasn’t a real close friend, but I was hoping we could be roommates. One reason I stopped in Fargo was to see if I could find her.”

  “I knew her. For what it’s worth, it probably wouldn’t have worked out for you with her.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “’Cause she was crazy.”

  “No, she was a little offbeat—”

  “No, I mean she was insane. She heard voices.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Yes, all the time. Just sometimes she could ignore them.”

  “Wow. Are you telling me she was dangerous?”

  “No, she wasn’t dangerous. Poor thing, she was scared—scared of herself, isn’t that horrible? She hated being crazy, hated hearing voices, hated that people were scared of her. She woke me up one night crying and yelling, ‘Shut up, shut up! Stop it, stop it!’ So I sat with her for two hours and we talked. She was real intelligent about some things, but just insane about others, like her husband gave her pills that made her crazy. All mixed together.”

  “She was your roommate, then?”

  “Yeah, just like you, sleeping on the floor.”

  “She didn’t talk real crazy when I was with her.”

  “She could hide it when she had to, like when she needed to check in here. I just caught her on a bad night, I guess. She left the next day, said she had a bus ticket to Minneapolis.”

  “You mean Saint Paul.”

  “Does it make a difference?” asked Alex.

  “I don’t know. But suppose it does.”

  “Well, I remember for sure she said Minneapolis.”

  Annie wondered if that was just Janet being crazy, or if she really wanted to go to Minneapolis, and if that meant anything.

  Fifteen

  AS at Naomi, the Fargo YWCA had very strict rules about disclosing who was or was not staying at their shelter. The same applied to former residents. During Betsy’s interview with Fran Coleman, she learned some facts about the shelter, including that YWCAs were independent organizations, each of which could determine its own mission, whether it was advancing the health of the female community, helping women by educating them in classes, or offering shelter to those who were abused or homeless. After they’d spoken, Betsy wrote a check as a donation to the shelter and departed.

  She went back to the room at the Radisson. There, she got out the local phone book and looked up the names Bronson and Turnquist. She found a Mark and Lindsey Turnquist—Janet’s ex-husband and his second wife. Progress! She took a deep, encouraging breath and dialed the number. After four rings the answering machine picked up.

  “You have reached the home of Mark and Lindsey Turnquist and Jack Walton,” said a man’s voice. “No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message.”

  At the beep, Betsy said, “This is Betsy Devonshire of Excelsior, Minnesota. I would like to talk with Mark Turnquist. I am staying at the Fargo Radisson.” She gave her cell phone number, repeated it, and hung up.

  Durn.

  So what else could she do while she waited to hear from Annie? She wasn’t going to see Roz at Nordic Needle until tomorrow.

  Maybe she should try to find the condemned house Mark had given to Janet. She liked seeing locations—it helped to clarify her thinking—though the house was not the scene of any crime that she knew of.

  She checked her notebook—it was a tall, narrow reporter’s tablet—for the address, and reached for her coat. Just then her cell phone rang.

  Was Annie calling with a report already?

  No, the number was Crewel World’s. She punched the “Talk” button, and said, “This is Betsy.”

  “It’s Godwin. We have a little—well, not-so-little problem here!”

  Oh, Lord. “What is it, Goddy?”

  “ISBN’s front window is broken, really smashed!” ISBN’s was a used-book store next door to Crewel World in Betsy’s building.

  “Oh, no! How did that happen?”

  “A city snowplow was coming down Lake Street, and just as it was passing our building, a big chunk of ice or frozen snow flew up and smash! Right through Paulie’s window! Scared her half to death, of course.” Paulie Johnson was ISBN’s third proprietor since Betsy had bought the building. All of them liked the original name ISBN’s and had kept it on taking over.

  “You’re sure it was a snowplow?”

  “Are they dark blue with a big silver blade and a door that says CITY OF EXCELSIOR on it? Anyway, the driver pulled over and went in to see if anyone was hurt. I think he was driving too fast.”

  “Did he damage anything else?”

  “Nothing in the store, or on the street. Remember, they issued an order that no one was to park on our side of the street today so they could plow right up to the curb. We’re under a winter storm warning for tonight and tomorrow, and they want to clear some of the old snow out to make room for the new.”

  “You need to get that opening boarded up right away,” said Betsy.

  “I know that! That’s part two of the problem! When I called Wally Middleton, he said the order had to come from you! When I told him you were in Fargo, he said, ‘Haven’t the telephone wires reached as far as Fargo yet?’” Godwin did a good imitation of Wally’s nasal drawl.

  “Very funny. Give me his number.”

  Wally was a glazier who also turned out at any time to board up broken windows. As landlady, Betsy was responsible for the building. She needed to get the window repaired not only because it was a dangerous eyesore, but because heat was gushing out the opening. It wasn’t as if the cost of fuel for heating wasn’t high enough . . .

  She dialed the number Godwin gave her. It was answered on the second ring.

  “Wally’s Windows.”

  “Wally, this is Betsy Devonshire—”

  “About time you called.”

  “What do you mean? I only this minute heard about your refusal to go board up ISBN’s window for me.”

  “Who’s refusing? Okay with you if I go right over?”

  “Please do.”

  “I’ll leave my bill in your store.”

  “Thank you. Also please leave an estimate to replace the glass.”

  “I hope the City of Excelsior doesn’t raise a fuss about reimbursing you for all this.”

  Betsy sighed. “Oh, they probably will.”

  Well, at least that was settled. After she and Wally hung up, Betsy called Paulie Johnson at ISBN’s.

  “No, we’re all fine,” Paulie said to her. “I took a picture with my phone of the chunk of ice that came through the window. And I got the name and address of the driver of the truck, and the truck’s license plate, too.”

  “Well done, Paulie. I’ve called Wally’s Windows and he should be there very soon to put a piece of plywood over the hole in your window. I also asked him to leave an estimate for a replacement. Was your sign damaged?”

  “No, just the posters on the window. Thanks for being so prompt about this—it’s getting really cold in here.”

  “If he’s not there within the next half hour, tell Godwin, and he’ll raise hob with Wally.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Betsy.”

  After they hung up, Betsy put her coat and boots on, made sure her notebook was in her purse, and left the hotel.

  Blessing the inventor of in-car GPS, she followed its directions to an address on Southwood, near the river. The attractive forest green ranch-style house was set diagonally on a corner lot, with a white brick fireplace chimney in front. But Betsy had been told that the house Mark gave to Janet was condemned and abandoned. This house looked fine—and there was a cranberry-colored late-model car parked on the plowed driveway. Had her GPS failed her and taken her to the wrong address?

  She parked on the street and went up to the front door. The white-painted metal numbers going vertically down the frame of the door were correct. She opened the screen door to knock on the wooden one. She had to knock twice before it opened. A man, improbably wearing his winter coat, looked out at her.

  “Yes?” he said, sounding like a busy man needlessly interrupted.

  “Who’re you?” blurted Betsy.

  “No, lady, who are you?”

  “Yes, of course, you have the right to ask that. I’m Betsy Devonshire, and I’m looking for the house that Janet Turnquist used to live in.”

  “She’s not here anymore.”

  “I know. She’s deceased.”

  “So why do you want to see her house?” His voice suddenly warmed. “Are you interested in buying it?”

  “No. But now that I’ve answered your questions, will you answer mine?”

  “I’m Mark Turnquist, her husband. Ex-husband.”

  Now Betsy’s voice warmed. “Are you really? Well, I’m very pleased to meet you!” Betsy held out her hand.

  Mark looked down at it but didn’t take it. “Why are you pleased to meet me?” he asked.

  “I’ve been trying to think how I might get in touch with you. I’m looking into Janet’s death.”

  “Are you a cop?” His voice was definitely not pleased now.

  “No, I’m a private citizen. I’m trying to help two friends who are related to two dead women, one of them Janet Turnquist. Both of them have asked me to look into this. The police are thinking that perhaps one or the other of the relatives murdered Janet, as well as Carrie Carlson.” Seeing an incredulous expression forming, she said, “I have done this sort of thing before.”

  “Did you ever do this sort of thing successfully?”

  “Yes, often. Enough times that our local police investigator, Sergeant Mike Malloy, takes me very seriously.”

  “Maybe he should; he could hardly do worse than depend on his own talents.”

  Betsy smiled; she couldn’t help it. “You’ve talked with him? Be aware, he’s a lot brighter than he acts.”

  There was a pause while Mark studied her face. Betsy held her tongue while he thought things over.

  “All right, what do you want to know?”

  “May I come in? It’s awfully cold out here.”

  “It’s awfully cold in here, too. There’s no heat.”

  So that explained why he was wearing his coat indoors. As Mark stepped back, Betsy came into a living room that looked okay at first glance. There was gray carpet on the floor, green couches and chairs, a coffee table, end tables, a flat-screen TV against one wall. Then Betsy noticed that what she thought were two shades of blue paint dividing the walls horizontally was actually a high-water mark with a dark line of grime dividing the two colors like a chair rail. And then she realized the upholstered furniture wasn’t a deliberately muddy shade of green, but marred by having been soaked in dirty water.

  “Gosh, when did this happen?” she asked.

  “It’ll be two years ago this spring,” he said. “I gave the house to Janet as part of the divorce—it was all paid for—but she rarely lived in it, and didn’t even try to restore it after the Red River flood. The city condemned it, but she ignored the notices.” He held out a fistful of red and yellow documents. “Even when they nailed them to the door.”

  “So what are you going to do about the house?”

  “Nothing. The house was hers, and now it will go to some woman in Excelsior.”

  “You mean that holographic will she embroidered is good?”

  He nodded grimly. “Apparently so.”

  “So they have decided she died after her Uncle Jasper.”

  He looked at her with respect. “You’ve been doing your homework, I see. No, they’re still waiting for an official decision.”

  “If it goes the other way, then what?”

  “The house will still go to her niece in Minnesota—which is as it should be, she’s been paying the taxes on it for years. I called her and told her I’d take a look at the house, to see if I thought it might be worth something.”

  “Is it?” Betsy looked around. There was no moldy smell, but that was probably because everything was frozen.

  “No, the foundation is unstable, the plumbing is shot, the wiring is dangerous, the downstairs furnishings are destroyed. The land is all right, it’s a nice corner lot in a decent neighborhood, but the house will have to come down.”

  “What will you recommend?”

  “That she sells it ‘as is,’ takes the money, and walks away.”

  “Are you thinking of buying it?”

  “Hell, no, I don’t need the hassle of tearing down and then building a new house. Anyway, I’ve moved into my wife Lindsey’s house. I just don’t like loose ends, so I’m doing her this favor.” He looked around. “Too bad, this might have been salvaged if it had been taken care of right away.”

  “It is too bad, I agree. This is a very attractive house.” Betsy turned completely around, taking in details. When she faced Mark again, she said, “May I ask you a hard question?”

  “I didn’t murder Janet.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you that—at least not right away. I was going to ask you who you think might have wanted her dead?” Betsy was reaching into her shoulder bag for her notebook and pen.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. Sergeant Malloy thinks he has a motive for me, but I think I know someone with a better one.”

  “Who is that?”

  “His name is Alec Porter, and he’s a veterinarian at the Small Animal Medical Center in Saint Paul. He is also the one who gets the money left to Janet if it turns out that she predeceased Jasper.”

  Betsy thought that over while she took down Porter’s name, and the name of his clinic in Saint Paul.

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Nothing, except he seems to think very well of himself as a surgeon. He may be, who knows, but he’s very unfriendly.”

  “Strange trait for someone dealing with the pet-owning public.” She made another note, then asked, “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t. I met him one time, at a funeral, and he was damn rude. Someone told me he was like that most of the time.”

  “I see.” Betsy thought for a few moments, then said, “You know, if I wanted to ensure an inheritance and it was based on who died first, I’d try not to blur the line.”

  “Dr. Porter didn’t know Jasper was that close to dying.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, was there anything suspicious about Jasper’s death?”

  “I assume there wasn’t. Sergeant Malloy didn’t ask me anything about it.”

  “He wouldn’t, would he? Jasper died far outside Mike’s jurisdiction. But has anyone from around here come to talk to you about it?”

  Mark shook his head. “No.”

  “Is there anyone you know of who could talk to me about Jasper Bronson?”

  “He died right here in Fargo. Maybe someone at the nursing home knows the name of his doctor. Or you could talk to the cops about it.”

  “Were they called when he died?”