Hispanic woman came to take Betsy down a long hall and up one floor in an elevator to a small office. There was no name on the door, just the word
Security
in white letters on a small sign. The office was painted a soothing blue and there was a piece of art on one wall depicting an autumn creek meandering among brilliantly colored trees. Betsy started to look for a hidden squirrel, then caught herself and looked instead at the stern-faced woman in a wine-colored suit who sat behind a wooden desk. On the desk were an antique pen set and a small wooden block engraved with the name Woodward.
“How may I help you?” asked the woman in a beautiful low voice that contrasted startlingly with her expression.
“I’m Betsy Devonshire. I’m enrolled in your water aerobics class and I am also teaching a needlecraft class to a group of residents. I’m a friend of Bershada Reynolds, who is the aunt of Ethan Smart, your night guard who was recently fired.”
The woman looked a bit bewildered at this complex of connections to Watered Silk. “Yes?” she said encouragingly.
“Ms. Woodward, I want to know if he was fired because you suspect he let a nonresident, nonemployee into the building, who was later found drowned in your therapy pool.”
Woodward sat back, nonplussed for a few moments. “I’m afraid we don’t discuss personnel matters with people who have no official need to know,” she said. Then, with a hint of worry in her beautiful voice, she added, “Are you an attorney representing Mr. Smart or the family?”
“No, but—” Betsy began, then stopped. The woman was right, of course. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that before I came to see you. Bershada is a good friend. She and Ethan’s parents are upset about this, and my reaction to their distress overrode my common sense.”
Woodward sat forward again, her expression sympathetic but also relieved. “I can understand that,” she said. “I am also sorry that I can’t help you in this matter.”
“Yes, well, in turn, I understand your position. I hope the problem can be resolved.” Betsy stood. “Ethan will deserve a big-time apology when it is, and perhaps an offer to give him his job back.”
Woodward’s mouth thinned. “I hope so, too,” she said, but not, Betsy thought, with complete sincerity.
• • •
T HAT evening Betsy and Connor were watching the local TV news. “The woman found drowned in a therapy pool at a senior residence complex in Hopkins has been identified,” the reader intoned. “She was Teddi Wahlberger, aged twenty-five, who lived in Excelsior.” A photo of a very pretty blue-eyed blonde was displayed on the screen, her long hair in a disorderly but attractive tumble past her shoulders, a big smile on her face. The name under it was the more formal Theodora Wahlberger.
“Oh, how sad,” said Connor. “What a waste.”
“Autopsy results are pending,” the announcer continued. “How Ms. Wahlberger came to be in the therapy pool of Watered Silk, a secure building, late at night is not yet known.”
There was no mention of Ethan Smart, and moments later the reporter went on to a story about a big nonfatal pileup on I-94 caused by slippery road surfaces, as an introduction to the station’s ever-jocular weatherman.
• • •
O NE result of Betsy’s changes to Crewel World’s web site came in the form of a morning visit by a poorly dressed woman carrying a big, dirty, off-white bundle of fabric. She was short and a little plump, with a wistful look in her dark eyes, as if she’d had to make too many sad decisions in her life. Her old quilted parka was almost the same silver-gray color as her short, wind-ruffled hair.
“I found this in my garbage can a few days ago,” she said. “I put the can out by the curb for pickup the night before and then the next morning I found that one of my wastebaskets hadn’t been emptied. So I brought it out to add to the can, and this was stuffed in on
Security
in white letters on a small sign. The office was painted a soothing blue and there was a piece of art on one wall depicting an autumn creek meandering among brilliantly colored trees. Betsy started to look for a hidden squirrel, then caught herself and looked instead at the stern-faced woman in a wine-colored suit who sat behind a wooden desk. On the desk were an antique pen set and a small wooden block engraved with the name Woodward.
“How may I help you?” asked the woman in a beautiful low voice that contrasted startlingly with her expression.
“I’m Betsy Devonshire. I’m enrolled in your water aerobics class and I am also teaching a needlecraft class to a group of residents. I’m a friend of Bershada Reynolds, who is the aunt of Ethan Smart, your night guard who was recently fired.”
The woman looked a bit bewildered at this complex of connections to Watered Silk. “Yes?” she said encouragingly.
“Ms. Woodward, I want to know if he was fired because you suspect he let a nonresident, nonemployee into the building, who was later found drowned in your therapy pool.”
Woodward sat back, nonplussed for a few moments. “I’m afraid we don’t discuss personnel matters with people who have no official need to know,” she said. Then, with a hint of worry in her beautiful voice, she added, “Are you an attorney representing Mr. Smart or the family?”
“No, but—” Betsy began, then stopped. The woman was right, of course. “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that before I came to see you. Bershada is a good friend. She and Ethan’s parents are upset about this, and my reaction to their distress overrode my common sense.”
Woodward sat forward again, her expression sympathetic but also relieved. “I can understand that,” she said. “I am also sorry that I can’t help you in this matter.”
“Yes, well, in turn, I understand your position. I hope the problem can be resolved.” Betsy stood. “Ethan will deserve a big-time apology when it is, and perhaps an offer to give him his job back.”
Woodward’s mouth thinned. “I hope so, too,” she said, but not, Betsy thought, with complete sincerity.
• • •
T HAT evening Betsy and Connor were watching the local TV news. “The woman found drowned in a therapy pool at a senior residence complex in Hopkins has been identified,” the reader intoned. “She was Teddi Wahlberger, aged twenty-five, who lived in Excelsior.” A photo of a very pretty blue-eyed blonde was displayed on the screen, her long hair in a disorderly but attractive tumble past her shoulders, a big smile on her face. The name under it was the more formal Theodora Wahlberger.
“Oh, how sad,” said Connor. “What a waste.”
“Autopsy results are pending,” the announcer continued. “How Ms. Wahlberger came to be in the therapy pool of Watered Silk, a secure building, late at night is not yet known.”
There was no mention of Ethan Smart, and moments later the reporter went on to a story about a big nonfatal pileup on I-94 caused by slippery road surfaces, as an introduction to the station’s ever-jocular weatherman.
• • •
O NE result of Betsy’s changes to Crewel World’s web site came in the form of a morning visit by a poorly dressed woman carrying a big, dirty, off-white bundle of fabric. She was short and a little plump, with a wistful look in her dark eyes, as if she’d had to make too many sad decisions in her life. Her old quilted parka was almost the same silver-gray color as her short, wind-ruffled hair.
“I found this in my garbage can a few days ago,” she said. “I put the can out by the curb for pickup the night before and then the next morning I found that one of my wastebaskets hadn’t been emptied. So I brought it out to add to the can, and this was stuffed in on
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