On the other hand . . . “When you say expensive, how much are we talking about?” Betsy asked.

  Dr. Porter turned back. “Something in the neighborhood of three thousand dollars for the surgery, then there will be a fairly long recovery time, with further X-rays and physical therapy, which may total another six hundred dollars. Perhaps more.”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” said Vicki Sue in a low voice.

  “Amen,” said Betsy, her voice equally awed. She’d had no idea!

  Vicki drew herself up and asked, “Can she get along on three legs?”

  “Ah . . . yes,” said Dr. Porter. “She’ll do a funny-looking hop when she walks, but she’ll run just fine.” A light in his eyes had gone out.

  “But . . . will she be happy?” asked Vicki Sue desperately.

  The light came back on. “Yes,” he said, and for the first time there was compassion in his voice. “She’ll be just as happy as she was before the accident.”

  “Well then . . . all right, let’s go with amputation,” said Vicki.

  “How much will it cost?” asked Betsy. “And when can you do it?”

  “It will cost six hundred and fifty dollars, plus kennel care of twenty dollars a day for as long as she remains here. And it should be done as soon as possible. The dog is in a lot of pain, and pain causes stress, which can send a little dog like yours downhill in a hurry. I can do it today, if you like. Then I’ll want to keep her for at least three days afterward, to make sure she’s healing properly.”

  “All right,” said Vicki with a slight note of query in her voice.

  She looked at Betsy, who obediently asked, “How do you want to be paid?”

  “I’ll want three hundred now, and the balance when you pick her up in three or four days.”

  “All right,” said Betsy, glad she hadn’t been able to opt for the airplane ride home from Fargo. “Do you want a check or credit card?”

  Vicki began to cry again, murmuring between sobs, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll pay you back, every dollar, every dime.”

  She was allowed to visit Penny, who was still heavily sedated.

  Meanwhile, Betsy asked, “Do you think Penny knows her mistress is in there with her?”

  “Probably not, but it’s hard to tell the level of awareness in an unconscious animal. They can’t come back and tell us what it was like.”

  “But humans can. I mean, aren’t you using the same medication on the dog as gets used on people?”

  Dr. Porter looked faintly shocked. “No. The sedation I used on Penny is not used on human beings.”

  “But—”

  The door opened and the assistant was back with Vicki Sue, who was trying to smile through her tears.

  And she wept all the way back to Excelsior.

  VICKI Sue insisted on staying at work when they arrived back at Crewel World and told Godwin the good—and bad—news. “I’d go crazy at home, and besides, I need the money.”

  “All right,” said Godwin. “That means we’ll be here to hear from Dr. Porter that your little Penny sailed through the surgery and is going to be just fine!” he said.

  “I’ll give you a ride home after work,” said Betsy.

  “Thank you, so much, for everything, Betsy,” Vicki Sue said. “You know you are an angel!”

  “I don’t know what else I could have done,” said Betsy.

  Betsy went upstairs, took a one-hour nap, then a shower, and put on her bright pink knit dress. Just looking at it was a wake-up shock to the system. Back downstairs, she called Margaret Smith and asked her if she could come to Antiquity Rose’s combination antique shop and restaurant for lunch.

  “All right,” said Margaret.

  Betsy looked up the phone number and then called her veterinarian.

  “Dr. Marsden, do you know if animal medicines work the same way on humans as they do on animals?” Betsy asked.

  Dr. Marsden replied, “Some do, some don’t. Why do you want to know?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Uh-huh. But all right, most mammal medicines work on humans as well as cats, dogs, and horses, though not always in the same way. But there’s significant crossover. For example, glucosamine, a medicine that improves joint function, was first used exclusively on animals. For another, there is currently a problem with an animal anesthetic called ketamine, or ‘Special K’ as it’s known on the street. Thieves break into veterinary clinics to steal it.”

  “Anesthetic? Is it an opiate?”

  “No. It’s used as an anesthetic in combination with another drug. It is a mind-altering drug, detaching the mind from the body.”

  “But it knocks you out.”

  “Not exactly. Used recreationally by humans, it’s like LSD combined with alcohol and marijuana. Users claim it gives you an out-of-body experience and puts you in touch with spirits and sometimes a higher power. But it also temporarily paralyzes the users’ limbs and has an aftereffect of at least partial amnesia, along with an energetic feeling of wellbeing.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Betsy, disappointed.

  “‘Fun’? What are you looking for?”

  “Something that’s not an opiate that will knock you out.”

  “Why not an opiate?”

  “Because it has to pass a drug-screening test.”

  “What are you mixed up in?” Dr. Marsden asked.

  “I’m sleuthing for a friend. Please, it’s important.”

  “All right. Hmmmm, something nonnarcotic, nonbarbi-turate, that will knock you out.”

  “And doesn’t leave symptoms that turn up on autopsy.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you tell me what this is about.”

  “Those two women who froze to death in Excelsior a few weeks ago. Our local police detective thinks it might be murder. He was thinking the murder weapon was an opiate dissolved in alcohol, but they screened for that and didn’t find anything. A cousin of one of the women is a suspect, and she asked me to help her clear her name.”

  “I see. I guess.” A pause for thought. “All right, there’s Telazol.”

  “What’s Telazol?”

  “It’s an anesthetic that’s used on cats and dogs.”

  “How is it used? I mean, is it a gas?”

  “No, a liquid. You inject it. But injections leave a mark most medical examiners notice.”

  “Could you mix it with alcohol and drink it?”

  Another pause. “Yes, I suppose you could.”

  “That’s very interesting. Telazol, eh? Thanks, Dr. Marsden.”

  The problem was, of course, why Dr. Porter—if he was the murderer—would want to kill Carrie. After all, Carrie was the one in possession of the bottle of liquor.

  And then, how did Janet get a share? Betsy remembered Annie holding up her last shortbread cookie. Then here comes Janet, talking trash, telling stories, and next thing you know, she’s eaten my cookie her own self.

  Was that how it happened? Janet insisting on a share of the bourbon? What a cruel trick for Janet to play—on herself!

  So then, not Dr. Porter, but someone else, someone who wanted Carrie dead. Someone who knew how to contact her, knew her weakness for liquor, knew where she was that fatal evening. And who had access to Telazol or some similar drug.

  Marty Smith had extensive medical knowledge, probably. Did he know his choice of poison would not be detectable in a standard lab test? No, wait. Why would he have to know that? A known alcoholic found frozen to death in an obscure back alley would not rouse suspicion. Of course, Mike Malloy didn’t buy it, and demanded a screening test—and even though it was negative, he was sure, now that there were two of them, that the deaths were suspicious. Had Mike found out about Telazol?

  She’d better call him right now.

  Twenty-one

  ANTIQUITY Rose was in a converted house on Second Street, on the opposite side of the block from Crewel World. Though it was bitter cold out, Betsy felt it would be foolish to drive. She wore her warmly lined boots and wrapped a big hand-knit shawl over her head and lower face before setting out. Her mittens were felted wool with suede leather palms.

  The sun was shining brightly, dazzling the eye where it struck on the snow piled on lawns, along the curbs, and on the roofs of houses. It might have been beautiful if one were not so weary of the effect.

  Margaret had already arrived when Betsy got there. She looked tired and depressed. Though her eyes were bright, Betsy suspected it was from unshed tears. She wore a very subdued brown wool dress with a pattern of black leaves on it. Her mink coat was draped over one arm.

  The main room of the shop was crowded with tables and display cabinets full of porcelain, silver, costume and real jewelry, books, and even a few antique dolls and other collectibles.

  “I haven’t been in here in a while,” said Margaret, looking around. “But I like this place. I hope the food is still as good as it used to be.”

  They were greeted by young and pretty hazel-eyed Bonnie, whose blond hair tumbled attractively around her shoulders. “Hello, Betsy,” she said. “I have a table waiting for you.” Bonnie led them to a corner table in a small room off the main display room. The adjoining tables were empty, though from the sounds of conversation coming from other rooms, the rest of the café was crowded.

  “Hot Russian tea to start,” said Betsy.

  “I’ll have coffee,” said Margaret.

  The two opened their menus. Betsy saw the listed special—old-fashioned salmon loaf with creamed peas. Then she remembered her extra-hearty breakfast and decided on a salad.

  “Margaret, tell me about Carrie’s last visit to your house. What time of day was it?”

  Margaret put her menu aside. “I don’t remember the exact time,” she said. “It was dark out, so it must have been after five. Probably around seven. She must have taken the last bus out from the city.”

  “Was she drunk?”

  “Not staggering, but I could smell alcohol on her breath—but I always could smell it on her the last few years, always. She was very rude and demanding, already angry—” She cut herself off as the waitress arrived with their drinks.

  “What have you found out?” asked Margaret after the waitress went away with their order.

  “Margaret, remember how I warned you when you asked me to look into this that I might find out some family secrets you’d rather I didn’t uncover?”

  Margaret’s mouth pulled into a pained thin line. Two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. But “Yes?” was all she said.

  “Well, I didn’t find anything—but Mike Malloy has, and he told me about your secret and Marty’s. I’m so sorry to haul them out now, but there are some things I need to ask you about them.”

  “Oh, my God. Who else has he told?”

  “No one,” said a man’s voice, and when the two women looked up, there was the detective in person.

  “Hello, Sergeant Malloy,” said Margaret with icy politeness.

  “Hi, Mike,” said Betsy. “What’s up?”

  “I would like to interview Mrs. Smith. Your husband told me you were here,” he added.

  “I’ll want my attorney to be present,” said Margaret.

  “That’s fine, if you like. But you’re not under arrest.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll call Mr. Frank Whistler and have him come to your office, because I am not saying another word until he is sitting beside me.” Margaret sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap in a very determined manner.

  “All right, have it your way,” said Malloy. “If you’ll come with me.”

  Margaret stood and Betsy helped her on with her coat, and then Margaret used her cell to call Mr. Whistler.

  Then Margaret’s composure broke and she reached for Betsy’s hands to say weakly, “Will you come and sit with me, too?”

  “I’d love to, but I don’t think Mike will allow that.”

  “Why not?” said Malloy. “I have some questions for you, too.”

  “Would it be okay if we had our lunch first?” asked Betsy.

  “Sure. I’ll see you there.”

  Neither of them did justice to the meal. Margaret was so upset that Betsy offered to drive her to the police station. Margaret gratefully accepted.

  Betsy stopped by Crewel World and explained the situation. “Are you two going to be all right without me?”

  “I think we’ll have to be,” said Vicki Sue. “I mean, when the police want to talk to you, you have to go. Right?”

  “Yes,” said Godwin, “even if it’s only dopey old Mike Malloy.”

  “Now, Godwin,” said Betsy, but she was smiling. “I’ll come back as soon as we’re finished.”

  When Betsy drove up to the brick and stone police building out on Excelsior Boulevard—which was actually the logical terminus of a street in Minneapolis—she pulled in beside a new-looking bright yellow Mercedes.

  In the lobby of the station was a handsome black man in a dark blue suit just this side of too fabulous. He stood poised in a confident way, holding a heavy mug of coffee in one hand, his black overcoat hanging from his shoulders. He greeted Margaret in a gentle, reassuring voice. “Ms. Devonshire?” he said next. He studied her curiously. “Have we met before?”

  Twenty-two

  “WHAT an extraordinary memory you have!” said Betsy. “I interviewed you a few years ago when I was seeking representation for Godwin DuLac.”

  “Ah, yes, but you went with someone else.”

  “Yes, but it was a difficult choice. I’m glad to see Mrs. Smith has retained someone with as good a reputation as you have.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed very slightly, then turned to the police officer behind the reception desk in the room. He checked his watch and said, “Could you tell Sergeant Malloy that we’re all here now?”

  Betsy knew Whistler’s office was in Wayzata, on the other side of the lake, and she wondered how he got here so fast from there—did he take a shortcut directly across the ice?

  He smiled at Betsy as if he were reading her mind. “I was in town for a meeting.”

  Malloy appeared then, and signed for them to follow him back to his cramped office, which had two desks pushed together head-to-head. The second desk was unoccupied. “Take a seat,” he said to Whistler, gesturing at the office chair behind the empty desk. “Mrs. Smith, if you’ll sit here,” he added, pulling out a wooden chair so it sat a little beyond the end of his desk, and slightly turned so it faced his chair.

  There was only one other chair in the room, another wooden one alongside the other desk.

  “Everyone comfortable?” asked Malloy. “Mrs. Smith, Ms. Devonshire, may I get either of you a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” said Betsy, who hadn’t finished her Russian tea at Antiquity Rose and was feeling the lack of a good night’s sleep. “Plastic sugar and cream,” she added.

  “Nothing for me,” said Margaret, hanging her coat over the back of the wooden chair and throwing a pleading look at Whistler before sitting down.

  Malloy brought Betsy a mug identical to Whistler’s, and sat down at his desk.

  “Mrs. Smith, do you know why I’ve asked you to come down here to talk with me?” he said.

  “Yes, it’s about the death of my cousin, Carrie Carlson.”

  “Very good.”

  Whistler interrupted. “I want to instruct Mrs. Smith not to volunteer any information; to answer only the questions asked; and to look at me before making any answer.”

  “This isn’t an interrogation,” objected Malloy.

  “Still,” said Whistler, unperturbed.

  “All right,” said Margaret.

  Mike opened his notebook and paged back and forth until he found the page he wanted.

  “Could you please tell me about the last time you saw your cousin?”

  Margaret obediently looked at Whistler, who nodded sagely.

  “It was on a Saturday. Marty was at work, and I was doing some housecleaning. The front doorbell rang, and when I answered it, there stood Carrie. She smelled of wine, but she didn’t seem particularly drunk. I let her in and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee. She said no, but could I give her fifty dollars toward a bus ticket to Jacksonville, Florida? I said no, I couldn’t. She started to cry, but she’s done that sort of thing before, and I could see she was making crying noises, but there was not one tear. I told her she had to leave, and she got angry and called me names, but I just said she had to leave, now. So she did, looking all brokenhearted. About two minutes later, I heard a crash from down in the basement. When I went to take a look, there were two chunks of ice on the floor—it looked to me like one chunk of ice that had broken in half when it went through the window—and a mess of broken glass. I heard Carrie’s voice yelling, ‘Serves you right, serves you right, you—’ Well, never mind what she called me, it was just more of the same. I never saw her again.”

  Margaret went into her purse and pulled out a handkerchief, which she used to wipe her nose.

  “You’re sure it was Carrie who broke the window?”

  “Well, there was the sound of breaking glass and I recognized her voice . . .” Margaret looked around at Betsy, who smiled reassuringly. “Who else could it have been?”

  Mike nodded and went forward a few pages in his notebook. “I understand you used to work at your husband’s business . . .” Malloy had to check his notes again to make sure he had the name right. “Din-Din, Incorporated.”

  “That’s right.” Margaret smiled.

  “Interesting name.”

  Margaret looked at Whistler, who nodded. “I invented it. It started as a joke, just among the employees, but pretty soon our customers started calling it that, too. You see, in the beginning we just sold pet food.”

  “But then you expanded into animal medicines?”