“No, she shouldn’t. We’ve laughed too often at her expense. Besides, this is really wonderful. I think it’s worth the price. Plus, it’s only going to increase in value. Irene said the Walker Art Museum bought one, and a reporter from the Strib wants to interview her. If this keeps up, a local employer is going to lose the head of its shipping department very soon.”

“Maybe I should bring them my résumé.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I am going to need a job with benefits. Betsy, I talked with John yesterday. He started shouting at me, right there in the restaurant-” Godwin sobbed once, gulped it back, and continued, “And I got hysterical and ran out. And… and he didn’t come after me. He just let me go!”

“Oh, Goddy,” sighed Betsy, putting an arm around his shoulder.

He suddenly twisted around to embrace her, soaking her shoulder with hot tears. “Betsy, what am I to do? I don’t know how I’m going to live without our darling house, and having wonderful clothes and traveling, and him taking care of me…” His voice trailed away, and then he pushed himself away to stare at Betsy aghast, his eyes still shining with tears. “Oh, my God! It’s happened. Donny told me it would happen, and it has!”

“What’s happened?” asked Betsy.

“The Golden Handcuffs! I don’t miss John, I miss all the things! John got me used to nice things, and now I’m upset because I’m losing the things, not because I’m losing John!”

If Godwin hadn’t been so sincere, Betsy would have laughed at him. As it was, she couldn’t withhold a smile. “Oh, Goddy,” she sighed.

“What?” he said, and when she didn’t answer at once, he demanded, “What? Tell me!”

“Well… I’m afraid I always thought what you and John had was an arrangement, not a relationship. Now I’ve only met John once, but he didn’t impress me as a very nice person. And I’ve never met anyone who seemed to actually like John. So I guess-” She broke off, afraid she was getting into dangerous waters. “Let’s not go there.”

“No, no,” said Godwin, suddenly very serious, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know how to say it, or even whether I should say anything at all.”

Godwin’s eyes gleamed, though his expression remained serious. “I think it’s important that you try to tell me anyway.”

“Well, I’ve always known gay people, and some were friends. But I’ve never met a gay person before who was as much like the old stereotype of the gay man as you are. I’d gotten to thinking no real gay person was like that, until you came along. So… well, I sometimes wonder if it’s really you, either. I mean, I wonder if maybe I’ve never really met the real Godwin. I’ve wondered if this is a put-on, that you only pretend to be this person who is solely interested in clothes and parties and startling straight people. Now I like that fun and funny persona, and it’s extremely valuable here in the shop. But is this surface Godwin… perhaps too frivolous to be real? I sometimes wonder what you’re like when it’s late at night and you’re tired. Or what you might be like when the party comes to an end. I’ve never tried to dig into your personality, because I like the surface Godwin very much, and because that Goddy has been so useful to me. I wonder if that was wrong of me, because I think of you as a friend.”

“And because maybe you were afraid that’s the only me there is?” asked Godwin with a little smile.

“Not afraid, just wondering. You know me, I can’t help wondering if things are as they seem. But I don’t want you to feel you have to act serious just to make me think you’re deep.”

Godwin shrugged. “I suppose there is another me down inside somewhere, but he’s not nearly as much fun as this upper me. Being the fun Goddy is fun. And it’s taken me a long way. Being serious is… serious. And not much fun. See how my vocabulary suffers when I try to be serious?” He grinned. “So that’s enough depth plumbing for today. Why didn’t you buy the Columbus Circle Blizzard piece?”

“I couldn’t, it was the first thing sold on Saturday.” Betsy took Walled Garden back and held it in both hands. “But I like this one too.”

“Speaking of Saturday-” began Godwin, but was interrupted by the electronic Bing! that announced the door to the shop opening.

They looked up and saw a tall, very slender man standing just inside the door. He wore a lightweight gray suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. He looked to be close to sixty, with thin silver hair, a bit of a stoop, and a diffident, thoughtful expression somewhat at odds with his stuck-out ears and humorous narrow jaw.

He glanced at Godwin, and took in his whole life story in a single intelligent look. His smile was friendly, with a hint of amusement in it.

Godwin, not sure whether to be affronted, stood fast.

Then the man looked at Betsy and the smile broadened into a sideways grin. “I bet you own this place,” he said in a reedy voice too young for his years, gesturing around with a large, thin hand.

“That’s right,” said Betsy, wondering why alarms were sounding in her head. He certainly looked harmless enough. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I certainly hope so.” He came to the big desk, fumbling in an inside pocket for a slim wallet. Only it wasn’t a wallet, it was an identification holder. Opened, it told Betsy he was Detective Morrie Steffans, Minnetonka Police. “I’ve been talking with Mrs. Charlotte Birmingham, and she says you can confirm that she was with you most of Saturday.”

Alarms now sounding loud indeed, Betsy said, “Why do you need that confirmed?”

“Weren’t you with her when she was told there were unanswered questions about the death of her husband and the burning of his car?” He put the wallet away and brought out a thick, palm-size notebook and a ballpoint pen.

“Yes-I take it some of the questions have been answered?”

He grinned. He had very light blue eyes and good teeth. “I take it she hasn’t contacted you since she talked with me?”

“Why should she contact me?” asked Betsy. “Will you tell me what this is about?”

“Certainly, as soon as I get some basic information from you.” He took Betsy’s name, address, and phone number, then said, “It seems that the late Mr. Birmingham was shot in the chest before being put under that old car of his.”

“Oh, my,” murmured Betsy. “How terrible.”

“Shot?” echoed Godwin. “You mean he was murdered?” He said accusingly to Betsy, “You didn’t say there was anything funny about his death!”

“I didn’t know there was, not for certain,” replied Betsy. “None of us did.” To Detective Steffans, she said, “So I take it the car didn’t catch fire by itself, either.”

“That’s right, it was torched. A clumsy attempt was made to make it look like an accident, but this was clearly homicide.”

“Or suicide,” suggested Godwin.

Detective Steffans frowned at Godwin. “Why would someone crawl under a car, set it on fire, and then shoot himself?”

“Oh,” said Godwin.

Detective Steffans said to Betsy, “You talked with Mr. Birmingham?”

“Yes, we exchanged a few words,” replied Betsy. “I was a volunteer for the Antique Car Club, and they assigned me the task of logging the arrival of the antique cars in Excelsior. I wrote down their number and time of arrival, and instructed the drivers to report to the booth. Mr. Birmingham didn’t say much, but I could see he was upset because his car was running badly, so I talked mostly with his wife, Charlotte. I did tell him reporters were here and might want to interview him, and he said he didn’t want to answer questions.”

“Had you met Mr. Birmingham before?”

“No.”

“But you’re sure it was him.”

“Well, Charlotte seemed sure, and she was his wife.”

Steffans chuckled and made a note. “You’ve never met Charlotte before, have you?”