“Marty’s too much of a gentleman to poison a female.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Poison is traditionally a woman’s weapon, isn’t it?”

  “I want to know what the poison was.”

  “That’s unknown at the present time.”

  “Really? What did the autopsy show?”

  “It didn’t show anything.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because a toxicology test doesn’t show everything.”

  “If the test was negative, why are you so sure it was poison?”

  “Because I know drunks. Especially longtime drunks, like Ms. Carlson—her liver announced at the autopsy that she was an advanced alcoholic. Advanced alcoholics don’t pass out. They’re the people you read about in the paper, arrested for drunk driving with blood alcohol three, four, even five times what legally drunk is. And yet they’re alive, conscious, able to get behind the wheel, say in understandable English to the arresting officer that they are not drunk. These people can only sleep a few hours at a time because they have to drink some more, maintain that high blood-alcohol level, or they go into DTs.”

  Betsy said, “What are DTs anyway?”

  Mike sighed but said, “Delirium tremens—alcoholics who suddenly quit drinking go into withdrawal, start seeing things, and they get the shakes. A bad case can actually kill a person. That’s why they have to go to a detox center to sober up, so they can be medically supervised.”

  “So you don’t think Carrie passed out from drinking and froze to death in the snow.”

  “No, I don’t. She’d been in a fight days before she died, but it only bruised her a little. There was no sign she’d been stabbed or knocked in the head, so how come she laid down behind the Excelsior Dock Theater and died? Something’s screwy. I want to know what it is.”

  After they hung up, Betsy went back to her notebook. Under her first question, she wrote, “Mike thinks so,” and made a few notes about their conversation. Mike was not one to make work for himself, and he sounded very sure, so she decided not to dismiss his opinion out of hand. She was usually on the other side of Mike, trying to prove his theory wrong, but this was the first time she might have to prove there was no crime at all.

  She turned to the next page in the narrow tablet, and wrote, “If Carolyn was murdered, who killed her?” She underlined the “if,” then left a number of lines blank after that question, so she could list suspects and their motives. She paused for a minute, then reluctantly wrote, “Margaret or Martin Smith?”

  Next was question three: “When did Carrie die?” because alibis sometimes cleared a suspect.

  Number four: “Where did she die?” because perhaps she had been brought to that place behind the movie house after dying somewhere else. Which made Betsy think of number four-a: “Where was she poisoned?” because perhaps she had walked to the place where she was found.

  Five: “What was the poison?” because if it was poison, then once it was identified, perhaps she could deduce who might have access to such a thing.

  Godwin came by and read her list over her shoulder. “Looks as if you’re making a good start,” he said.

  “No, it only seems that way,” Betsy sighed. So many questions, and not one certain answer.

  AS she pulled into her driveway, Emily Hame was surprised to see a man standing on her front porch, with one of his fingers on her doorbell. Her garage door rose and she drove inside, pressing the button on the opener again to close it.

  She was a young matron, not yet visibly pregnant with her third child, with long, light brown hair and intense blue eyes.

  Who could the visitor be? Door-to-door salesmen were virtually nonexistent nowadays. Young Mormon proselytizers came around only in the summer. He wasn’t a policeman—that was a relief; nothing awful had happened.

  So who was he?

  She stepped out of her car, went into the house and through it to the front door. The man was just reaching for her doorbell again. He was of medium height, hatless, with very dark brown, curly hair, a narrow, straight nose, hazel-brown eyes, and a tentative smile showing white, even teeth. He wore a navy blue topcoat open at the neck to show a suit and tie. There was snow on his shoulders.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “My name is Irvin Morcambe,” he said, producing a business card. On it was printed, under his name, PRIVATE INQUIRIES .

  “I think you must have the wrong house,” said Emily.

  “Are you Emily Hame?” he replied.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m trying to locate a Janet Turnquist. Have you seen her lately?”

  “Not for months and months. What do you want with her?”

  “It will take a while to explain. May I come in?”

  “I don’t think so. I really don’t know that you are who you say you are.”

  He went back into his suit coat pocket and came out with a little leather folder, which he opened and showed to her. It contained a state identification card indicating he was truly a private investigator licensed in North Dakota. The photograph on it matched.

  “Well . . . all right. Come this way.” She led him into the living room, which was clean but cluttered with children’s toys—the children were with Great-Uncle Ben and Great-Aunt Martha for the afternoon. “I hope this won’t take long; I have grocery shopping to do.” Emily was just coming home from a dentist appointment. She took off her coat and gloves.

  “I’ll try to be brief.”

  “Thank you. Sit down, why don’t you?”

  Emily moved the Raggedy Ann doll so she could sit on the big squashy recliner; Mr. Morcambe unbuttoned his coat and sat on the couch next to a floppy brown corduroy dog.

  “Ms. Turnquist is your aunt, is that right?” he asked, taking a small notebook from an inside pocket.

  “Yes, that’s right, she’s my mother’s sister-in-law—she was married to my mother’s brother. They were divorced five or six years ago, but I still think of her as my aunt.”

  Morcambe made a swift note. “You know she’s homeless at the present time?”

  “Yes, she’s been homeless off and on for years.” When Emily was a little nervous, she tended to chatter. She didn’t like this trait in herself but couldn’t stop it. With dismay, she heard herself explaining, “She’s mentally ill but they keep turning her loose from the hospital because when they make her take her meds, she’s all right. And when she’s all right, they turn her loose and she stops taking her meds. Is she in trouble?”

  “No, on the contrary, she has a great deal of money coming to her, and I’m trying to find her to let her know.”

  Emily’s heart leaped with joy and excitement. “Money? From where?”

  “Her uncle, Jasper Bronson, has died and left it to her.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. She never mentioned him to me.”

  “Janet’s maiden name was Bronson, I believe?”

  “Was it? I only ever knew her as Janet Turnquist. It’s kind of funny to realize that once upon a time, when she was a little girl, she was Janet Bronson.” Excitement made Emily even more talkative. “Of course, I was Emily Swanson until I got married, and I don’t think my children know that. It’s going to be less complicated nowadays, with women keeping their maiden names, isn’t it? Except they get their father’s last name, don’t they? But that’s not what we’re talking about, is it? You’re here to tell me about Aunt Janet inheriting money.”

  “No, I’m here to see if you can tell me where to get in touch with her,” said Morcambe.

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, I can’t. She’s living on the street right now. She came to see me in, let me think, September, yes, September. She had a bad case of bronchitis and needed medicine and bed rest and some good food. We took her in—we’ve done this before—and got her straightened around. But as soon as she was feeling better, she left. She wrote a very pretty note and stuck it up on our refrigerator. It rhymed—she likes to think she’s a poet—and she decorated it with flowers using the children’s crayons.”

  “Does she come to visit you on a regular basis?”

  “No, only when she’s ill. She hates doctors and is afraid of hospitals, but she trusts me, though she never stays here long. She thinks there are government agents after her, you see, and doesn’t want to lead them to us. Kind of considerate of her, if you can look at it from her perspective. Of course, trying to stay in hiding with no money is a very hard life. She drinks but I don’t think she’s a real alcoholic. She says alcohol muffles the voices in her head, poor thing. I don’t understand why her uncle left her money; she’s not able to handle money. Or is it in one of those special accounts where it’s like she gets an allowance?”

  “My understanding is that it was left to her outright—but the will was made about fifteen years ago, possibly before she started having mental problems?” He looked at her inquiringly.

  “Yes, she started behaving irrationally only about six years ago, though she always was kind of funny. I loved her because she’d be waiting for me outside my middle school sometimes to sneak me home with her and we’d bake hundreds of cookies or go shopping for statues of seals—she collected statues of seals, isn’t that peculiar? She said seals are the ballerinas of the sea. She told me we were soul mates and we swore an oath to always take care of one another. I wonder if she and Uncle Jasper were soul mates, too. You know, it’s funny he didn’t change his will to put the money in trust for her after she became incompetent.”

  “I’m afraid her uncle contracted Alzheimer’s some time between making his will and your aunt developing mental problems. Even if he was aware of her illness, he was too tangled up in his own to make a new will.”

  “Oh that’s so sad!” said Emily. “That’s just awful.”

  “Yes, because it appears from what you’ve told me that she will not be able to properly handle this money.”

  “How much is it?”

  “I’m not sure, but I believe it’s as much as several hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Emily started to smile, she couldn’t help it. Hundreds of thousands—good, good news for Aunt Janet. For a change, poor thing.

  “By the way, I’m supposed to find out if she’s . . . that is, is it possible she’s deceased?”

  “Oh, no, or I would have heard. That is, I don’t think so. I keep giving her cards with our name, address, and phone number on them, so if she ends up in a hospital or jail or worse, they should get in touch with us. Though now I think about it, she pretty generally loses the cards, though not always. It’s interesting how she can keep track of her knitting needles or her tapestry needles and floss, but not a three-by-five card with my name and phone number on it.”

  “I thought she was living on the street.”

  “Yes, some of the time. She goes to shelters at night, especially in the winter. Oh, you mean because she knits or does embroidery. Well, why not? You can do that in a library if you’re quiet about it. It helps her pass the time.”

  “I see. Hmmm, maybe she thinks she’s protecting you by losing the card with your contact information on it.”

  That gave Emily pause. “I hadn’t thought of that. I think you may be right.” Emily smiled at this new evidence of Aunt Janet being sneaky-kind-clever, even if for a demented reason.

  “Does she ever let you know how you can get in touch with her?”

  “No, she refuses to use the telephone or a computer, she says the government listens in to all electronic communications. But you know, she’s about due to get in touch with me again; she generally comes to stay for a few days in the worst of winter. We have a fireplace, and she just loves to sit and look at the flames. She gets quiet then, not so agitated. Usually it’s right after Christmas, I get her a new pair of boots at the sales and some new yarn or floss. But she loses track of time and sometimes it’s not until the end of January that she shows up.”

  “Then I’ll leave my card with you, and ask you to tell her about her good fortune and that she should contact me.”

  Emily said, “I’ll tell her, but I can’t guarantee she will follow through. She may think it’s some kind of trick.”

  “Well, then, you let me know if you see her, all right? Try to find out where she’s staying, so I can track her down.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Emily posted his card on her refrigerator under the magnet shaped like a monarch butterfly, and went out to do her grocery shopping with a happy smile on her face. What good news this would be for Aunt Janet! Surely some kind of arrangement could be made with a bank so that the money wouldn’t be lost or wasted. Maybe there would be enough to get an apartment in an assisted-living building, with the kind of supervision that would make Aunt Janet take her meds, and Emily and the children could go over and have a marathon cookie-baking session with her. What a lovely thought!

  Four

  IT was a little after closing, and Betsy was tired. Her day seemed to have begun too many hours ago. The snow had just about stopped, but now it was dark out. Betsy started to put her coat on, it being her turn to shovel the front walk while Godwin finished the closing-up protocol.

  The phone rang, and Godwin picked up. “Crewel World, Godwin speaking, how may I help you?” he said into the receiver. “Yes, she’s here, just a minute.” He held the phone out to Betsy.

  “This is Betsy,” she said, on taking it.

  “Betsy, this is Margaret Smith. I know this is terribly short notice, but it only just occurred to me you might be interested. Carrie’s funeral is this evening. It’s at Huber’s Funeral Home right here in Excelsior.”

  “What time?”

  “Visitation is at six, the service at seven.”

  She’d already missed most of the visitation, the funeral was in twenty minutes. Too late to go? Betsy was not only tired, but hungry. On the other hand, she remembered reading that quite often the murderer would attend the funeral of his victim. The funeral home was within walking distance. Betsy wanted her supper, but this was important.

  “I’ll be there. Thank you for calling me, Margaret.”

  She shoveled the walk while Godwin concluded the closing-up routine. She made out a deposit slip for the day’s income, gave it and the locked canvas bag to Godwin, and went hustling out the door—only to find that Sol’s Deli had closed for the evening. No quick sandwich to eat on the way over. She was so miffed, she got in her car and drove down the block and around the corner to the funeral home.

  She found the room marked with a card bearing Carrie’s name. The door opened into the back of the room. It was small, but that couldn’t disguise the paucity of people in attendance. A woman and three men sat in the front row, in cushioned chairs; another man sat two rows back.

  The lighting was gentle on the severely plain wood coffin, with a single bouquet of mixed lilies on the closed lid. Weighty and solemn music played softly through speakers hidden in the ceiling.

  Betsy took a seat at the back and waited for something to happen. After a few minutes she realized the man sitting behind the others was Sergeant Mike Malloy. She recognized Margaret’s husband, Marty, but wondered who the other two men were. The woman was Margaret.

  The door opened and Betsy turned to see another woman shyly enter. She could have been any age between thirty-five and sixty, with dark, curly hair and a narrow, deeply lined face. She was poorly dressed, in an autumn-weight gray coat that would have been too large had she not been wearing at least two sweaters under it. Her boots were heavy and warm-looking but shabby, and she wore a long wool pinky-maroon scarf wrapped over and around her head with just a forelock showing. She stood for a long moment right inside the door, then came to sit in the back row, four chairs away from Betsy. She pulled off a pair of badly pilled, thick black mittens, sighed as she opened and closed her fingers, sniffed once, and fell silent. After a minute, her eyes closed.

  The door opened again and a slender woman in an olive green, thigh-length coat came in. In her early twenties, she wore black wool trousers and a pair of shiny black leather boots. She looked around the room, nodded at the shabby woman—whose eyes had snapped open—and unzipped her coat to reveal a black suit coat over a lavender turtleneck sweater.

  She went to the front of the room, paused a few moments in front of the casket, then came to murmur to the men and woman at the front of the room, shaking their hands and touching their shoulders. She nodded at Sergeant Malloy.

  She glanced up then, and caught Betsy’s eye. She came to her, hand extended, to say softly, “Hello, I’m Reverend Marsha of the New Gospel Mission, and I also work at the Naomi Women’s Shelter, where Carrie often stayed. I’m here to conduct the service.”

  “How do you do?” said Betsy. “I’m Betsy Devonshire, here at the invitation of Margaret Smith.”

  “Did you know Carrie?”

  “No, but Margaret is a friend.”

  “All right. I’m pleased you are taking the time to be here.” Reverend Marsha smiled and turned toward the shabby woman. “Hello, Annie,” she said, moving toward her. “Sit tight, we’re about to get started.” She patted Annie on the shoulder as she went by.

  Reverend Marsha went to the black lectern beside the casket, and somehow the music stopped. She tapped the microphone growing out of the lectern’s top to assure herself it was turned on, and said, “Good evening to you all. We are here to mark the passing of a Christian soul. Carolyn Carlson spent fifty-eight years on this earth, most of it engaged in a struggle with alcohol and drugs, a struggle she ultimately lost. Let us pray.”

  Betsy bowed her head.

  “O Lord,” prayed Marsha, “we ask you to grant Your salvation to Your humble servant, Carolyn Carlson. Heal her wounds, Lord, forgive her sins, reward her undying faith in You. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

  “Amen,” said Annie loudly, over the murmured amens from everyone else.

  “At this time,” said Marsha, “I would like to call on the people present to talk about Carrie, perhaps to share a favorite memory of her.”