Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 (14 page)

“Count up what you have left, how much is ruined, and all that,” said Jill, with a look in her eye that warned Betsy it still wasn't time to tell anyone she planned to close the shop.

“I think—” Betsy started to say anyway, but was interrupted by another knock at the door.

This time it was a handsome man of about thirty with fine dark eyes. He was standing under a big black umbrella, though it had stopped raining. He was wearing a good gray suit and carrying a large briefcase that looked older than he was.

“Hello, Mr. Penberthy,” said Jill.

That was the name, this was Margot's attorney. Betsy had meant to call him today but hadn't gotten around to it.

“Ms. Devonshire?” he said, looking at Betsy.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was out of town, closing our cabin at the lake, and so missed this entire sad business of your sister's death. I was shocked to hear the news, and I hope you will accept my belated condolences.” He spoke with a formality that somehow made him seem even younger.

“Thank you,” said Betsy.

He made his umbrella collapse. “I hope you don't mind my just stopping by. I've been calling your apartment today without an answer, then someone told me you were in the shop.” He put down his briefcase while he fastened the umbrella shut. “I live right across the street from you, so I decided to stop on my way home. Perhaps you know, I was Margot's attorney.”

“Yes, I'd heard your name; how do you do, Mr. Penberthy?” Betsy extended her hand.

Penberthy had a nice, warm handclasp. The Monday Bunch began to make hasty excuses for leaving. Pat—was it Pat?—went out waving the photo of Sophie and promising, “All over town by nightfall!” which made Penberthy blink after her.

“Sophie's missing. Margot's cat,” explained Betsy. “They're going to put up posters.”

“I hope you get her back,” said Mr. Penberthy politely, and followed her through the shop and up the back stairs to the apartment.

The lawyer declined the offer of a cup of coffee or a cookie, saying his supper was waiting.

He took a chair at the little round table in the dining nook and opened his briefcase.

“How much do you know about your's sister's financial condition?” he asked.

“Almost nothing,” replied Betsy, and when she saw him notice how her fists were clenched on the table, she dropped them into her lap.

“Do you know the names of any heirs besides yourself?” he asked.

“I don't think there are any.”

Penberthy nodded. “Yes, Margot once told me there was only her sister. That's the reason I could not persuade her to make a will, because everything was going to come to you in any case.” He pulled a thick file folder with the name Margot Berglund on it from his briefcase. Betsy stared at it, then at Mr. Penberthy, who was smiling.

“This won't take long,” he reassured her. “Most of the papers in here have to do with her ongoing quarrel with Mr. Mickels, the owner of this building.”

“Yes, Margot told me about him, about how he's trying to get her to move out and suing her for things. She said you were taking care of all that.” She added bitterly, “But I suppose he's won, now.”

“That is not the case at all,” he said.

Betsy hastily suppressed a triumphant smile. “I don't see how,” she said.

“Well, first of all, there is this rather strange lease,” said Penberthy, picking quickly through the documents and finding it. It had been typed as an original on ordinary typing paper, rather than filled in as a form or properly done on legal-size paper. “This lease was, I believe, drawn up rather carelessly, probably by the original owner himself. It is my opinion that the lessor at that time felt the lessee would not stay the full term of the lease.” A glance showed she did not understand, and he started again. “That is, I don't think the original Mr. Mickels thought your sister would stay in business very long. That's why the rent was set so low, and that's why there are some curious omissions in the terms of the lease. For example, he failed to include a restriction on the assignment of the lease. That's where the current situation arises.” Again he noticed she didn't understand.

“Normally a lease will state that the lessee—the renter—can't turn the lease over to someone else without the prior, written consent of the lessor—the landlord. This lease does not have that restriction. When your sister incorporated, she assigned the lease to the corporation, so it remains in force.”

“What corporation?”

“Crewel World. Your sister incorporated herself, and named two officers, herself as president and you as vice-president.”

“She did?”

“She didn't tell you about this?”

“No. When did all this happen?”

“She began the process some weeks ago, and only signed the final papers last Wednesday.”

“She came to see you the day she died?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes, she did die on that Wednesday evening, didn't she? How ... dreadful.”

“I thought you were out of town that day.”

“I left right after I finished with her, and didn't get back until late Sunday evening. Long Lake is three hours from here, and my cabin has no phone or electricity. My grand-parents bought it in the twenties and added two rooms on to it, but preferred to get right away from modem conveniences. I spent many summers up there as a boy. When I inherited it, I kept it just as they had left it. It's a dozen yards from the lake, and there have been loons nesting near the dock for as long as anyone can remember—” Penberthy brought himself back from his vacation with a little start. “Sorry.”

“Margot never mentioned incorporating to me,” said Betsy.

“Perhaps she meant to tell you once it was all done, and ... and never got a chance.”

“Yes, that might be. What time did she come to see you?”

Penberthy took a few seconds to think about it. “Her appointment was for two o‘clock, but she was about five minutes late, which isn't like her. She apologized, I remember.”

“How long was she there?”

“Not very long. Perhaps half an hour. I had closed up and was on the road before three.”

“Did she say where she was going next?”

“No, I assumed it was home.” Penberthy looked around. “Are you going to keep the apartment, too? It hasn't got the same kind of lease the store has, you know.”

“I don't know, yet.”

“You are going to keep the shop open, aren't you?”

Betsy started to say no, but instead said, “I haven't finalized my plans. Does Mr. Mickels know about this incorporation?”

“I don't know how he could.”

Her voice sharpened. “You mean she didn't tell him?”

“It is not required by law that she inform him ahead of time, if that's what you're asking. And again, I don't think there was time between the signing of the documents and ... her demise.”

“Then I know,” she whispered. “I know. Thank you very much for coming by, Mr. Penberthy,” she said, rising. “This has been very enlightening.”

“But—” he began.

“Good-bye, Mr. Penberthy,” she repeated, more firmly, and walked to the door.

He followed unwillingly. “I'll call you tomorrow,” he promised. “There are still a great many details you need to be advised of.”

“Okay. Or how about I call you later this week?” She all but pushed him out the door, closing it in his face as he turned to say something more.

Betsy slammed the door shut and ran to the phone. Margot had a list of phone numbers taped to the wall beside it, and Jill's number was first under the Cs.

Jill answered on the second ring, and Betsy said, “I got it, I knew there was something, and I've got it!”

“Got what?”

“The proof! Motive! Everything! Margot was murdered, I knew there was something funny about the whole burglary thing, and now I know who did it!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Penberthy was just here, and he told me about that legal business between Margot and Joe Mickels, over the lease. He wanted her out, she wouldn't go, there's a thick file of all the legal tricks he's been playing trying to get her out. So at last he just killed her!” Betsy made a huge gesture of triumph at the ceiling. “And now there's this incorporation thing! It's clear as daylight!”

“What are you talking about? How could Mr. Penberthy give you proof that Joe Mickels is a
murderer?”

“Mickels tried every way he could think of to get Margot to give up and move out, but she wouldn't budge. And his threats turned ugly, so she decided to protect herself by incorporating—see, you can't murder a corporation! But she was waiting to sign the final papers before she told him—and he murdered her before she got a chance! Or maybe he somehow found out what she intended to do and tried to kill her before the deal could go through. Penberthy says Joe didn't know, don't you see? I told you that burglar idea was all wrong! And now we know he did it! Who do I tell, how do I get him arrested?”

“Betsy, Betsy, calm down. Take a breath, for heaven's sake. Tell me, exactly what did Mr. Penberthy say?”

“He doesn't know Joe Mickels did it, of course. But he showed me this thick file of legal stuff, the record of the fight Mickels and Margot have been having over the shop. Mickels wanted Margot to move out so he could tear down this building and put up a bigger one.”

“Yes, I know. And?”

“Well, don't you see? Murdering Margot didn't do him any good. Margot finished incorporating, you see, and there was something wrong with the lease, some kind of assignment thing, which she did, so I get the shop. So it doesn't mean a thing, not a thing, that he murdered her!”

Jill, trying to understand, said, “So because it doesn't mean a thing, that's proof he murdered her?”

Betsy nearly shouted yes, then swallowed the word whole. Because that wasn't what she meant. What had she meant? Her “proof” that Mickels had murdered her sister was gone as suddenly as a hatful of smoke.

“Betsy?”

“Huh?”

“Are you all right?”

“I guess not.” Betsy dropped the receiver back into its cradle and went to sit on the couch in the living room. What was the matter with her?

She remembered back when menopause had started, how she'd suddenly be overcome with some notion: to devote all her spare time to gardening or the study of medieval history, or becoming a vegetarian. She'd start with great determination and energy, only to wake from the vision in a week or a month and wonder what on earth she had been thinking of.

This seemed an echo of that curious time. Where on earth—she suddenly remembered that she was out of estrogen, had been for over two weeks. She'd meant to get here, find a doctor, get a new prescription, but of course all that had flown out of her head because of Margot's death.

So menopause was back. And where some people get hot flashes, Betsy got hot ideas.

She ran the conversation with Mr. Penberthy over in her head, looking for something that might actually point to Joe Mickels as a murderer.

What the attorney had given her was confirmation of the legal battle between her sister and her sister's landlord, and the incorporation trick Margot had pulled on him. Margot hadn't realized it might be important to tell Mickels right away. Well, maybe it wasn't important, maybe he wasn't the murderer. But there was the place Betsy had jumped off, assuming Margot was murdered because she failed to tell Joe Mickels. What had their mother called notions with no substance to them? Snow on your boots. Nothing but snow on her boots, sliding off as soon as you took two steps, melting as soon as you came inside.

No wonder Penberthy had stared at her so strangely. What he must have thought!

She suddenly realized that he had come to tell her about her sister's estate—and that they hadn't gotten to that. She was sure her sister wasn't rich, but maybe there was an IRA or life-insurance policy or something somewhere. And Betsy had wanted to ask what she needed to do to close the shop and turn whatever there was into cash so she could get out of this place.

She would definitely call Penberthy tomorrow. She went to the refrigerator and wrote on Margot's sheet of lined paper under Margot's magnet shaped like a sheep, Call
Penberthy,
and underlined it and put three exclamation marks after it. Then she started looking for something to fix for supper.

She hoped there was enough money to keep her in sandwiches until the closing sale was over. Funny she hadn't told Penberthy she wasn't staying.

Soon she'd have to figure out how to use Margot's computer. Margot had access to the Internet, and surely a search engine could find a Web site that would tell her how to get on that trailer-park waiting list.

 

Jill tried to lose herself in her current needlepoint project, but her concern about Betsy kept getting in the way of her concentration. The ultrasuede she was using for the horse's hide, not sturdy to begin with, kept getting frailer and frailer because she kept having to unstitch the section she was working on.

When she had first met Margot's sister, she had thought she was a live one, full of wit and good humor, just the kind of person she liked.

Now she was concerned for the woman's sanity. Betsy was shut down tight except for these nutso eruptions—Joe Mickels a murderer, for Pete's sake!

And wanting to close Crewel World. Well, that was more understandable. Betsy wasn't Margot and didn't have Margot's investment in Excelsior, and she didn't know how the store was a warm center of activity for the action-minded. Probably she wasn't a do-gooder like Margot had been in any case. And now the murder had taken away her chance to learn what Margot meant to the town and its people.