Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_04 by Unraveled Sleeve Page A

oddly shaped landing and came into the painted hallway. There, an echo of their own hallway, was the door set at yet another angle. After a moment, Betsy became aware of Jill’s questioning regard, so she nodded. This was, in fact, the hallway she had entered, thinking it led to her and Jill’s room.
    Jill walked to the angled door and knocked brusquely.
    A man’s voice inside said, “Come in.”
    Jill turned the knob—the door was not locked—and opened the door. She felt Betsy close behind as they went in.
    The room was painted a medium green. The windows and four-poster bed were the same as in their own room, down to the paisley pattern on the comforter.
    There was nobody on the bed. A slim man with thick, coarse graying blond hair and a heavy mustache was sitting at the little desk, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand. The room was redolent of cheese, sausage, and spiced tomato. “It’s from Sven and Ole’s in Grand Marais,” he said, lifting the slice a little. “I always get one of their pizzas when I’m up here. May I ask why you’re here?”
    â€œWhere’s your wife?” asked Betsy.
    â€œI don’t have a wife,” he replied.
    â€œAre you Frank Owen?” asked Jill.
    Betsy said, “Eddie Owen, you mean.”
    The man said, “My name is Frank Owen. Who are you?”
    â€œMy name’s Jill Cross and I’m with the Excelsior Police Department.”
    â€œKind of a long way from home, aren’t you?” Owen’s voice was quiet and warm, with no hint of tension and only a little puzzlement.
    â€œI talked with your wife earlier today,” said Betsy—and was disappointed when there was no guilty start, only a mildly surprised look—“and she told me she was here with you in hope of a reconciliation.”
    Owen’s mustache shifted just a little, in either a grimace or a little smile. “She’s not here, I haven’t seen her.”
    â€œHas she talked to you about reconciling?” asked Jill.
    He nodded. “We’ve tried it, several times. It never works. It took me a long time to realize it was never going to work. Are you two friends of hers?”
    Betsy shook her head and Jill said, “So you did at least talk to her.”
    â€œNot today.” Owen shook his head and put down his slice of pizza, accepting that he wasn’t going to finish eating it anytime soon. “I wouldn’t dream of telling Sharon I was coming up here, and I certainly didn’t invite her to stay with me. She did call a couple of weeks ago, hinting she wanted to see me, but I wouldn’t agree to that.” His voice was firm, his blue eyes almost too guileless.
    â€œWhere were you this afternoon?” asked Jill.
    He looked at her for somewhat longer than it should have taken him to remember his whereabouts that recently. But there was no annoyance in his face and voice when he replied patiently, “I got here around noon andhad lunch in the dining room. I came up to my room and unpacked, then lay down for something over half an hour, maybe an hour. Then I got up and drove to Grand Marais. I did a little shopping—my daughter collects Inuit art, and there’s a gift shop in town that sells it—but I didn’t buy anything. I shopped for a new set of ski poles and then took a nice run on one of the Pincushion trails, came back to town, bought this pizza, came back here, and was having a quiet little supper when you two knocked on my door.” He looked at Betsy. “Who’s she, by the way?”
    â€œShe’s with me,” Jill said, and hoped Betsy wouldn’t add anything.
    Betsy didn’t, but Owen asked her, “What else did she say?”
    Betsy shrugged. “Not much. Does she smoke?”
    Owen grimaced. “Yeah. She keeps trying to stop, her doctor’s all over her about it. She’s allergic to damn near everything else,