Embroidered Truths by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online Page A

that might be a man on a horse. There was a dark stain on the horse’s rump, and from this angle they could see that the shape of John’s skull was wrong.
    Betsy broke away from Godwin to stoop and touch the face. It was cold and stiff.
    Godwin began making a peculiar noise, like a siren, “Rrrrrrrrrrrrr,” getting higher and louder, until Betsy rose to take hold of him again.
    “Easy, easy, Goddy,” she said, and stroked the back of his head and neck. “Steady, now. Where’s the phone? We need to call nine-one-one.”
    “K-k-kitchen. No, don’t leave me! Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
    “Come on, then.” She put an arm around his shoulder and led him into the kitchen, which was in the back, separated by a counter from the living room. He had fallen silent, though he was still trembling. She stroked his back, a gesture she repeated while she lifted the receiver of the cordless wall phone with her other hand and punched 9-1-1.
    “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” asked an operator very promptly.
    “My name is Betsy Devonshire and we’re at seven-twelve Larkspur in Excelsior, where there is a dead man in the living room.”
    “Are you sure he’s dead?”
    “Yes, he’s cold and stiff and not breathing.”
    “Do you know who the dead man is?” she asked.
    “Yes, he’s the owner of the house, his name is John Nye. He didn’t come to work this morning and we came to see if something was wrong.”
    “Who’s this ‘we’? asked the operator.“Is someone else there as well?”
    “Godwin DuLac. Godwin has the key to the house. He is a friend of the deceased.”
    It seemed to take forever for a squad car to arrive, though it was only a few minutes. Siren blaring, it roared up Third Street, slowing when it saw them on the porch, waving at it. The driver was Lars Larson, whom they both knew. He got out quickly for a very tall, broad man encumbered with a utility belt and bulletproof vest, and came trotting up the walk.
    “What’s the problem here?” he asked.
    “John Nye is dead,” Betsy said, opening the door for him. “It looks as if something hit him on the head.” She and Godwin followed him into the house, Betsy still talking. “There’s a metal statue in front of the body.”
    Lars went to kneel beside the body. He felt the face and neck, and tried to move the top arm, which resisted. He looked at the statue but did not touch it. “Cold,” he remarked. “And stiff.” He looked at Godwin and asked, “Who was here last night?”
    “We don’t know,” said Betsy.
    A frown formed. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Godwin, don’t you live here?”
    “I used to,” Godwin confessed, head down. “He threw me out four days ago. He sent my clothes and things over to Crewel World yesterday in a big box.” The young man gestured to show the dimensions of the box.
    Another siren became audible, growing louder.
    “This probably happened last night,” said Lars. He looked at Godwin. “Where were you last night?”
    “Huh?” Talking of the box seemed to have sent Godwin from near hysteria into a deep gloom.
    “He was with me,” said Betsy quickly. “He’s been staying with me.” When Lars moved his pale blue gaze from Godwin to her and raised his golden eyebrows in surprise, she said, “In the guest room, for heaven’s sake!”
    Godwin made a barking sound and then began to laugh. The laughter quickly became hysterical and Betsy wrapped her arms around him and said, “Hush, hush, hush,” over and over.
    The siren cut off and seconds later another police officer came into the house—Lars had left the door open, anticipating. He was shorter than Lars—but of course, almost everyone was shorter than Lars—with dark hair and eyes. “Whatcha got?” he asked.
    “DOA. One John Nye, attorney at law. This is his house. A homicide, looks like.”
    The man came over for a look and made a face of distaste. “Holy cripes!”
    Another siren approached. “That’ll be the ambulance,”