charming grin on her and said in a pleasant growl, “Are you Betsy Devonshire?”
Shelly turned to gesture at Betsy. “No, this is she.”
Betsy said, “May I help you?”
“I’m Ian Masterson,” he said with a slight bow, his tone indicating she should perhaps recognize the name. When she didn’t, he said, “I’m an artist and an old friend of Rob McFey’s. I was helping him get a gallery show in Santa Fe when . . . all this happened.” His smile dissolved into an unhappy look. “I hear you know something about the case, so I decided I should talk to you.”
Lars said, “I gotta go. You want a rain check on that ride?”
“Yes, please. Thanks, Lars.”
Ian held out the bandaged hand sideways to stop him. “Hey, you the owner of that Stanley sitting out front?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I always wanted to see one of them up and running. You from around here?”
“Yeah.”
“Would it be possible to talk to you about your car? I can’t believe you actually drive one of those things on the public streets. Aren’t they dangerous? Is it hard to keep it running? What kind of fuel do you use?”
“Naw, it’s safe, and it’s not hard. I use Coleman gas and kerosene, though I’m thinking of changing the pilot light fuel to hexane, because it runs cleaner than Coleman. Your pilot light clogs easy, and that can lead to real trouble.”
“Can you use regular water for the boiler, or do you need distilled?”
“Hell, I can suck it up out of a ditch if I need to. Here . . .” Lars was reaching into a front pocket. “Here’s my card. I really gotta go, but give me a call sometime and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Lars handed over the card and went out.
Ian looked the card over, and one eyebrow lifted. “He’s a cop ?”
“Yes.” Betsy nodded. “Of course, the department uses internal combustion automobiles.”
Ian looked blankly at her, then suddenly broke into such complimentary laughter that Betsy felt herself blushing. His laugh was infectious, and Shelly began to laugh too. He stuffed the card into a trouser pocket. “I’m sure the local criminal element is unhappy to hear that!” he said, still laughing. Then he sobered and asked Betsy, “Tell me, can I help you in any way with your investigation?”
“Who told you I was investigating?”
He looked embarrassed. “Uh-oh. Am I wrong? The woman I talked to, she, uh—she does some interesting fiber art, but she’s a little . . .” He broke off again with a swift glance around the shop, worried that now he’d put his foot in yet another wrong direction.
But Shelly said, “Irene Potter! Honestly, that woman is a worse gossip than I am!”
Ian turned to look with interest at Shelly. “That’s her name. You know her?”
“Everyone knows Irene,” said Shelly. “She’s a fantastic needleworker, and starting to get famous. I heard she’s not going to take a booth at the art fair anymore, because she’s getting above them.” Shelly blushed. “There, see what I mean? Gossip.”
Ian grinned. “But she as much as told me the same thing.” He turned back to Betsy. “It was your Ms. Potter, all right. But is that some kind of fantasy she was spinning, about you looking into Robbie’s murder? I mean, she said you solve murders all the time . . .” He let that trail off, looking Betsy up and down.
There was that lack of intimidation again. It wasn’t that Betsy was a frump, nor did she have a vacuous face. But she was short and plump, with a pleasant, middle-fifties face. No thin, hawk-like profile here—nor a darkly powerful costume. She was wearing a pale green pantsuit with a cross-stitch pattern of flowers on the collar and pocket.
Shelly said, “Irene exaggerates, but in this case, she’s absolutely right. Betsy’s amazing. She’s solved several murder cases, some of them right here in town.”
Betsy hastened to say, “I don’t know yet if I’m going to get involved in the Rob McFey case. I’ve
Shelly turned to gesture at Betsy. “No, this is she.”
Betsy said, “May I help you?”
“I’m Ian Masterson,” he said with a slight bow, his tone indicating she should perhaps recognize the name. When she didn’t, he said, “I’m an artist and an old friend of Rob McFey’s. I was helping him get a gallery show in Santa Fe when . . . all this happened.” His smile dissolved into an unhappy look. “I hear you know something about the case, so I decided I should talk to you.”
Lars said, “I gotta go. You want a rain check on that ride?”
“Yes, please. Thanks, Lars.”
Ian held out the bandaged hand sideways to stop him. “Hey, you the owner of that Stanley sitting out front?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I always wanted to see one of them up and running. You from around here?”
“Yeah.”
“Would it be possible to talk to you about your car? I can’t believe you actually drive one of those things on the public streets. Aren’t they dangerous? Is it hard to keep it running? What kind of fuel do you use?”
“Naw, it’s safe, and it’s not hard. I use Coleman gas and kerosene, though I’m thinking of changing the pilot light fuel to hexane, because it runs cleaner than Coleman. Your pilot light clogs easy, and that can lead to real trouble.”
“Can you use regular water for the boiler, or do you need distilled?”
“Hell, I can suck it up out of a ditch if I need to. Here . . .” Lars was reaching into a front pocket. “Here’s my card. I really gotta go, but give me a call sometime and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Lars handed over the card and went out.
Ian looked the card over, and one eyebrow lifted. “He’s a cop ?”
“Yes.” Betsy nodded. “Of course, the department uses internal combustion automobiles.”
Ian looked blankly at her, then suddenly broke into such complimentary laughter that Betsy felt herself blushing. His laugh was infectious, and Shelly began to laugh too. He stuffed the card into a trouser pocket. “I’m sure the local criminal element is unhappy to hear that!” he said, still laughing. Then he sobered and asked Betsy, “Tell me, can I help you in any way with your investigation?”
“Who told you I was investigating?”
He looked embarrassed. “Uh-oh. Am I wrong? The woman I talked to, she, uh—she does some interesting fiber art, but she’s a little . . .” He broke off again with a swift glance around the shop, worried that now he’d put his foot in yet another wrong direction.
But Shelly said, “Irene Potter! Honestly, that woman is a worse gossip than I am!”
Ian turned to look with interest at Shelly. “That’s her name. You know her?”
“Everyone knows Irene,” said Shelly. “She’s a fantastic needleworker, and starting to get famous. I heard she’s not going to take a booth at the art fair anymore, because she’s getting above them.” Shelly blushed. “There, see what I mean? Gossip.”
Ian grinned. “But she as much as told me the same thing.” He turned back to Betsy. “It was your Ms. Potter, all right. But is that some kind of fantasy she was spinning, about you looking into Robbie’s murder? I mean, she said you solve murders all the time . . .” He let that trail off, looking Betsy up and down.
There was that lack of intimidation again. It wasn’t that Betsy was a frump, nor did she have a vacuous face. But she was short and plump, with a pleasant, middle-fifties face. No thin, hawk-like profile here—nor a darkly powerful costume. She was wearing a pale green pantsuit with a cross-stitch pattern of flowers on the collar and pocket.
Shelly said, “Irene exaggerates, but in this case, she’s absolutely right. Betsy’s amazing. She’s solved several murder cases, some of them right here in town.”
Betsy hastened to say, “I don’t know yet if I’m going to get involved in the Rob McFey case. I’ve
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