Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 (7 page)

“With what you are doing,” said the woman, the smile slipping a trifle, looking pointedly at the knitting and back at Betsy.

“Oh, this. Why, do you know how to knit?”

The woman laughed a genuine laugh. “Of course I do! I know how to do every kind of needlework there is, except sewing canvas into sails. What seems to be the problem with your knitting?”

With a small effort, Betsy managed to free her hands. “It's not the knitting, exactly. It's the purling. I just don't get how to do it. And anyhow, now I've spoiled what I was doing, pulling the needle out.”

“Oh, that's easy to fix.” The woman took the knitting from Betsy's hands and deftly rethreaded the stitches onto the needle. “See? Now, to purl, you hold the needles like this,” she said, putting them together in what Betsy was sure was the same way she herself had held them while trying to purl. “See, you go through like this, come around like this and off, and through and around and off, and-through-around-and-off.” If she'd continued as slowly as she'd begun, Betsy might have learned something. But she repeated “through and around and off” faster and faster while her hands worked more and more vigorously, until she'd done the row. Then she handed the needles back to Betsy. “Now you try it,” she said briskly.

Betsy took the needles, turned the work around to begin the next row and tried to remember where to poke the empty needle through the first stitch. It went in front, she remembered that, but was it through the same direction as the filled needle was pointing, or the other way?

“Here, dear, let me show you again,” said the woman impatiently, starting to grab at the needles. Betsy lifted her hands, trying to keep possession.

Bing
went the electronic note as the door to the shop opened.

The woman turned toward the door, and Betsy pushed back from the desk, rising.

It was Jill Cross, the police officer, this time in uniform, looking even taller and broader, probably because of that odd hat police officers wear and the thick belt around her hips, laden with gun and flashlight and handcuffs. She looked very authoritarian, and Betsy, who had been growing uneasy about the mad knitter, was glad to see her. But the other woman was already out into the aisle, one hand lifted in greeting.

“Good afternoon, Officer Jill!” she gushed, touching Jill familiarly on the upper arm. “What are we buying today?”

“Good afternoon, Irene.” Jill nodded, swinging her elbow forward to free it. “Hi, Betsy,” she added. “Did that ultrasuede I ordered come in?” Jill took off her hat, exposing her ash-blond hair, pulled back into a firm knot.

“Let me just check,” Irene said, fawning.

“Wait a second, Irene,” said Jill. “Margot's trying to bring Betsy up to speed on running the shop, so let's let her find the order for me.”

Irene obediently halted and turned toward Betsy, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

Betsy began trying to think where Margot kept incoming orders.

“Shall I show you?” asked Irene.

“No, I remember now,” said Betsy, and looked in a cardboard box on the floor under the desk. When she came up with the small package, Irene Potter's superior smile turned into something scary. It may have been a desperate attempt at a broad smile, but there was menace in it. Then she whirled and fled from the shop.

“Is ... is she all right?” asked Betsy.

“Irene? Sure. Well, maybe she's a hair off center. She's so desperate to buy her own needlework shop that it colors everything she does. It's possible she's been hoping Margot would die of something so she could start her own needlework shop. The town isn't big enough for two of them.”

“So why doesn't she move?”

“Because her ancestors were among the first settlers out here, and she would never think of moving away. But now you're here, and it would be too much to hope that both of you die.” Jill grinned.

“Both...” Betsy hardly knew where to begin her response to that. “She thinks
I'm
going to take over the shop?”

“She probably suspects you and Margot are going to run it together. At the very least, you have put her out of her part-time work here. She just doesn't realize she hasn't a prayer of succeeding on her own, even if this place closes. I mean, would you go into a store a second time to buy something from her?”

Betsy grimaced. “She isn't dangerous, is she?”

Jill said sharply, “Now don't go getting weird ideas! The only thing she's crazy about is needlework. She's actually tremendously talented at it. Most of it is museum quality. She routinely takes first prize in any contest she enters. Her problem is, she was never properly socialized. A few years ago Irene begged and nagged until Margot hired her to teach a class, but Irene has no patience with people not as talented as she is, and every one of her students quit by the fourth lesson.”

Betsy nodded. “Yes, she was trying to show me how to purl when you came in, but wouldn't slow down enough for me to catch on. Now let's see if I remember how to open the cash register.”

A few minutes later Betsy was handing over the correct change. “Where's Margot?” Jill asked, pocketing her money. “I've got a question for her.”

“Upstairs having a bowl of soup. She'll be back any second. Do you want to wait?”

“I can't, I'm on patrol. Tell her I've got a pair of tickets to the Guthrie, and my boyfriend went and switched shifts with someone, so now he can't go. Ask her if she wants to come with me.”

A new voice asked, “What's the show?”

They turned; it was Margot, coming in from the back.

“
The Taming of the Shrew
.”

“Oooooh,” sighed Margot. “When are the tickets for?”

“Tomorrow. I know Wednesdays are your day off, so I was hoping you could make it.”

“The Guthrie!” said Betsy, remembering. “I've heard about the Guthrie. It's been written up in national magazines, hasn't it? It's supposed to be a great place to see good plays. I'd forgotten it was way up here in Minneapolis—or is it in St. Paul?”

“Minneapolis,” said Jill, and for some reason there was disapproval again in her voice.

Margot explained, “Minneapolis and St. Paul don't like being mistaken for one another. Jill, I'm sorry, I can't go. I promised to make a presentation at our city-council meeting about next year's art fair tomorrow evening. Debbie Hart's going to be out of town and I promised her I'd do it. I'm really sorry.”

“Yeah, well, maybe another time. Though I hate to see this ticket go to waste.”

“Why don't you take Betsy?”

“Me?” They looked at her and Betsy tried to explain the tone of voice that had come out in. “I mean, I like Shakespeare very much, but if this is a grand production, you don't want to waste that invitation on someone you hardly know. Surely another friend ...”

But some signal must have run between Margot and Jill because the latter said, “Betsy, you'll have to take a look at what passes for the big city in this part of the world sooner or later. Might as well be tomorrow. So let's make a night of it; we can have dinner at Buca's, and you can tell me how awful Italian food is in the upper Midwest. Then we'll go see how badly our legitimate theater compares to the stuff on the Great White Way.”

Betsy took a breath to say no, but Margot had that look that meant she was hoping Betsy would not be rude, so Betsy turned to Jill and said only a little stiffly, “Well, I've only seen one Broadway production, so I hardly think I'm qualified to compare the Guthrie to the Great White Way. But on the other hand, I lived just two blocks away from the best Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, so I'll be glad to come sneer at what the upper Midwest dares to call Italian food.”

Margot laughed, but Betsy wasn't sure Jill was amused. After she left, Betsy asked, “Margot, do you really have to go to a city-council meeting?”

“Yes, why?”

“I'm grateful for the ticket, but I'm not sure Jill and I will get along.”

“Oh, nonsense. I'm sure once you get to know her, you'll like her very much.”

“Well, there's no need to go out of your way just to be nice to me, when I'm guessing you'd really like to go.”

“You're right, I would like to go, but I really do have to attend that meeting. The art show is one of our biggest annual events, thousands of people come here for it, and advance planning is very important. Anyway, I enjoy being nice to you.”

“Then I thank you very much.”

Margot went behind her desk to check Betsy's entry of the sale to Jill. Betsy followed, asking, “Margot, what are your plans for me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I hope you aren't planning on my being here forever.”

“I haven't, but all right, I won't. Why?”

“Irene Potter was in here a little while ago. Don't you find her a little scary? She has the falsest smile I've ever seen. Then Jill came in, and when Irene tried to wait on her, Jill said to let me do it, and when I did it right Irene gave me a look that nearly froze my earlobes off.”

“Oh, Irene just has this problem about being nice. She tries, but she doesn't know how.”

“No, listen. Jill says that Irene knows you are going to teach me how to run the shop. It seems Irene has her eye on this place, and she's scared you've cut her out entirely by giving me her job.”

Margot grimaced. “Hardly. I only hire Irene when all my other part-time help has flu, broken legs, and brain concussions.”

Betsy insisted, “Margot, I think Irene Potter seriously hates me.”

“How can she hate you? She doesn't know anything about you.”

“She thinks I'm taking something that should be hers. And if she hates me for taking her job, I bet she hates you for giving it to me.”

But Margot wasn't listening; she was examining Betsy's knitting. “This is very good, Betsy. The knitting is a trifle tight, but this row of purling is really well done!”

5

Margot woke early the next morning. Her usual first thought presented itself: What day is it?

Ah, Wednesday, her day off. What was on the agenda? Well, there was that art-fair presentation this evening, at seven sharp. Her notes were still on the computer. She'd read them over one more time, then print them out.

Betsy's here, came a sudden memory, almost an interruption. That was something new in her normally predictable life. But not a disruption, came the reassurance, Betsy was all right, Betsy was fitting in fine, Betsy was enjoyable company.

But it did make a difference to have someone else living in the apartment, if only because she had to remember to wear a robe and to check the refrigerator rather than think that just because she had not used the last of the milk that there would be some for the morning coffee.

The question was, was Betsy enjoying herself? Margot hoped so. Because despite what she had said yesterday, this was someone who was not just a weekend guest but a long-term arrangement. All Margot's immediate plans had to be changed, and some of her long-term ones, now that there was another person who had to be considered. It was almost like being married again.

So while it was okay, even enjoyable, to have Betsy here, it was also different.

She must decide when she would formally talk to Betsy about her future. Betsy made a nice salesperson, she was interested and friendly; she would make an excellent one once she got up to speed on the terminology and practices of needlework. Yesterday she had sold a beginning inquirer an impressive amount of silks and evenweave fabric and counted cross-stitch patterns, though she knew almost nothing about counted cross-stitch.

But was Betsy really interested in the shop, or was she only “helping out,” as any polite guest would? Perhaps it was still too early to get an honest answer. Betsy had always been interested in something new.

But today was not the day to start inquiring. Margot was going to be out all day today. First, to the Minneapolis art museum, to make a detailed drawing of the T‘ang horse for the canvas.

And about time, too, if she wanted that project finished by Thanksgiving. She wished she hadn't thrown away the original drawings; then she wouldn't have to make this trip. No, wait, she was also going to meet with Hudson Earlie at the museum, so she had to go anyway.

She found herself smiling at the memory of Betsy meeting Hud at Christopher Inn. Betsy was attractive and witty and she enjoyed flirting. But twice burned by bad marriages, what would she do when she found out Hud was himself a three-time loser? Run? Or make another bad choice?

Probably neither. Betsy wasn't a youngster anymore; she knew better than to get mixed up with someone like Hud. And she was in the process of sorting herself out, which was not the time to be starting a courtship, or even an affair. But what if she was her usual reckless self and got involved, and it turned out badly? Where would she run to this time? She'd confessed she was here because she had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. Perhaps Margot had better say something to Hud, though if he got on his high horse about it, she'd warn Betsy, too.

Margot eased herself out of bed, remembered her robe, and used the bathroom as quietly as she could. Once Betsy had been a morning person, but confessed she had gotten over that. The sunrise over Excelsior still had two hours of travel before it reached the West Coast; morning would come early until her internal clock adjusted.

Margot went back into her bedroom and booted up her computer, checked her E-mail, and started to download a couple of newsgroups. RCTN took forever; its thousands of members were incorrigible chatterers. While it was working, she went into the kitchen and started the coffeemaker, then went back to the computer to scan the messages, reply to a few, and send them. Then she finalized and printed the presentation she was going to make this evening. By the time that was done, she could hear Betsy in the bathroom.