Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 (8 page)

 

 

Betsy sighed and rolled over. Margot hadn't used to be such an early bird! It was barely light out, and already Margot was putzing around in the bathroom. Betsy pried an eye open and checked her watch. Six o‘clock. God, these Midwesterners; you'd think they all were farmers. Didn't they know that early to bed and early to rise means you miss all the parties?

Betsy rolled back onto her side, seeking more sleep. After all, it was only four A.M. in San Diego; some of last night's parties were just breaking up.

It was awkward living in someone else's home. You had to adjust your sleeping patterns, your TV-watching habits, your eating habits. No more cereal for supper, no more cold pizza for breakfast. And in this place,
lots
more salads.

Which Betsy could use a little of. So okay, bring on the salads.

Very faintly, Betsy heard a series of beeps, and then a chord of music—just the one chord. Ah, Margot was surfing the net. Interesting how her sister, who, back in high school, had difficulty mastering the electric typewriter, was now so proficient on the computer.

Betsy herself was computer literate. A shame she hadn't known Margot had an E-mail address; she could have saved herself this trip. A few weeks of E-mail exchanges and—no, that wouldn't have done it. She had needed to get away, start over.

She had sold her own computer along with most of her other household items when she'd decided to come to Minnesota. Too much trouble hauling a trailer over those mountains, too expensive to put things into storage. And wiping the slate clean was part of the process of starting over.

Should she talk to Margot about her computer? Margot kept it in her bedroom, and had yet to invite Betsy into that sanctum. Margot might think she wanted to pry, though she didn't. Certainly Margot hadn't come into the guest room once she'd turned it over to Betsy. Not that she wasn't welcome.

Margot was a much more private person than Betsy. That could be because Betsy had been such a snoop when they were kids. Margot had had to fight for privacy, and gotten into the habit.

But Betsy was willing to respect that. There were things she didn't want to share with Margot, either. Such as how uncomfortable she felt taking her sister's charity. She wasn't sure whether her sister's offer of a paying job in the shop was a sop to Betsy's pride or because she could really use the help.

But did any of that matter right now? Betsy felt herself sinking into the pillows, a very pleasant sensation. She dozed until the smell of coffee brought her awake again, and had a good breakfast with Margot—mushroom-and-green-pepper omelette with toast—then Margot left for the city and Betsy went down with Sophie to open the shop.

 

Shelly was somewhat distracted; school was going to start in five days, and she'd just found out that there would be thirty-five children in her fourth-grade class. That was far too many, and with the list of children's names came a little memo saying there would be no teacher's aide until halfway through the semester.

So Betsy's constant stream of questions about Crewel World, its history and profitability, were a nuisance. Shelly made her answers as brief as possible, though she sensed Betsy's growing frustration.

Officer Jill came in around ten-thirty for a cup of coffee and to place an order for more ultrasuede floss. On her way out she said, “Don't forget this evening,” and closed the door.

“What about this evening?” Shelly asked Betsy.

“We're going to dinner and the Guthrie.”

“Well, isn't that nice! I'm glad you two are going to be friends.”

“Us, friends?” said Betsy with a little laugh. “I'm only going because Margot can't go. It was her idea that I take her place.”

“What, you don't like Shakespeare?”

“Sure, but I'm not so sure about Jill. Is she always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Frosty.”

“She's not frosty, she's just Norwegian. They're not big on showing their feelings. She likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

“She came in for coffee, and Wednesday is Margot's day off, everyone knows that. I don't think she knows my schedule, so it wasn't me she came in to see. I think she likes you, or wants to.”

“Do you like her?”

Shelly laughed. “Sure, but I've known her since kindergarten.”

Betsy wanted to ask more, but a customer came in with a lot of her own questions, and Shelly took her to the back of the store, where a pair of upholstered chairs made answering the questions so comfortable the customer tended to stay a little longer and buy more than she might have otherwise.

 

 

Betsy drove to Jill's house about five-thirty. It was time she learned her way around, so she was driving into the city. Jill got in and directed her back down Highway 7, then onto Highway 100 north to 394, then east to Minneapolis. They got off on the Twelfth Street North exit. “When we cross Hennepin it will become South Twelfth,” Jill said.

And so it did. Almost immediately, Jill said, “There's Buca's.” It was on a comer, marked with an old-fashioned vertical neon sign, showing a wine bottle filling a glass.

The restaurant was in the basement of an apartment building, a series of small rooms. The walls were covered with old photographs of thickly dressed children—presumably the owner's ancestors—and photos of Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Pope Pius XII, Al Capone, Frank Sinatra, and other notable Italians.

There were the correct checkered tablecloths, and a shabby-friendly atmosphere that felt authentic, down to last Christmas's tinsel still wrapped around the overhead pipes. The plates didn't quite all match, nor did the silverware. The wineglasses were simple tumblers.

Betsy, remembering the shabby little restaurant in Brooklyn, smiled. This was a very authentic look.

And the smell was both authentic and heavenly.

The menu was on the wall, on a big rectangle of whiteboard. Betsy felt alarmed at the prices, which were anything but shabby. A small dinner salad for $6.95? She began to wish she hadn't insisted dinner be dutch treat.

Jill must have read her face, for she said, “We'll get one salad and share—the portions are large.”

That was an understatement; the “small” salad came on a platter, a great heap of mixed greens and purple onions, glistening with oil. Dark olives clung precariously to what showed of the rim. The garlic bread they ordered with it was the size and shape of a large pizza, crusted with Parmesan, greening with basil, thickly flecked with slices of roasted garlic.

Betsy had thought it was only New York cops who loved Italian food, but perhaps it was a universal trait; certainly Jill seemed familiar with the menu.

“How long have you known Margot?” asked Betsy as they waited for the entrée.

Jill considered. “Fifteen years, or thereabouts,” she replied, and added, “She taught me how to embroider and do crewel. And, more recently, needlepoint.”

“Do you knit?”

“No. And neither do you, I guess.”

Betsy thought for an instant that this was a witticism, but when she looked up from her second slice of garlic bread, all she saw was that implacable calm and a penetrating pair of eyes.

Jill had the full face the Victorians so admired; not a bone sticking out anywhere. And her eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible. So there was no quirky eyebrow or quiver of jaw tendon to read in that face.

A little defensively, Betsy said, “Knitting's a dull business, don't you think? It seems so mechanical, knit, purl, knit, purl, on and on—but you have to pay attention, or you end up with a mess.”

“You did learn how to purl, then?”

“Yes, Margot showed me. I thought I had taught myself, but Margot looked at it and said she thought I had invented a new stitch.”

Was that a glint of amusement in those cool eyes?

Encouraged, Betsy continued, “And while I thought I was dropping stitches, it turned out I had added six. Did you ever notice how knitters have to keep stopping and counting? Always dropping or picking up stitches. Give me the kind of needlework where all I have to do is look and I know where I am.”

“Me, too.”

The chicken Marsala was to die for. A single serving came as three large chicken breasts in a caramel-brown sauce, covered with big hunks of fresh mushrooms. They shared that, too.

“Well?” said Jill coolly as the meal drew toward its end.

“Well what?” replied Betsy, feeling overfed, and a little fuddled with Chianti. It was too easy to be generous when pouring it into a tumbler.

“Is it as good as that little restaurant in Brooklyn?”

Betsy tried to think. “Frankly, it's been too many years since I was in Brooklyn to remember. But I think so. In any case, it was delicious.”

“I'm glad you liked it,” said Jill. She looked at her watch. “We don't have time for dessert.”

Betsy began to laugh, she couldn't help it.

Jill's inquiring glance had the wintry look in it again, even though she, too, watched as the waitress packed up half a slab of garlic bread and most of the garlic mashed potatoes and one of the chicken breasts. Was it a local custom always to order dessert, even when all you could manage was a polite bite of it? Did Jill think there was an empty refrigerator at home?

But Betsy didn't feel like explaining why she thought Jill had made a joke. She was glad they were going to a play; soon she wouldn't have to try to keep up a conversation with this unreadable ice maiden.

They were well into the first act of the Guthrie production of
The Taming of the Shrew
before enough of the wine wore off that Betsy could look around with appreciation.

The theater was not small enough to be called intimate, but it wasn't a huge cavern by any means. The stage was a thrust, so the audience sat on three sides, but it went well back behind a proscenium as well. The seats were very comfortable. The actors were of the caliber that makes Shakespearean English sound natural, the special effects, while not Broadway spectacular, were well done, and the costuming was beautiful.

It had started raining sometime during the play, and was still raining when they came out of the theater. But the farther west they drove, the lighter the rain became, until out in Excelsior it ceased altogether, leaving platinum puddles as markers of its passing, and tree branches hanging lower, their leaves heavy with water.

They didn't say much on the way home. Betsy dropped Jill off at her house, then drove up Water Street toward the lake. The small downtown was quiet, already mostly asleep. Of course, it was eleven o‘clock at night. But there were not the boarded-up windows so sadly evident in many small towns. There was the bakery; Shelly had said they had nice sandwiches. Certainly their sweet rolls were good. And here was Haskell's, where she turned toward home. Interesting, she already thought of it as home. Maybe she would stay and see if she was up to a Minnesota blizzard.

As she pulled up to the curb in front of the dark brick building, her headlights caught the door of Crewel World. It seemed ajar. Probably just the way the lights hit it, thought Betsy.

But when she got out, she went to take a closer look. The door was open a couple of inches. Betsy, sure she had locked it firmly earlier, reached to pull it shut, and saw, dimly, things all over the floor. The drawers of the white dresser were open and canvases were sticking stiffly up and out of them.

She nearly went in, then remembered what she'd been told by a policeman during a National Night Out lecture about coming home to a burglary:
Don't go in; he might still be in there
. A chill ran right down her spine.

She let go the door latch as if it were red-hot and scurried into the little alcove that held the door to the upstairs. It seemed to take forever to locate her key, and it was horribly reluctant to go into the lock. Then it turned and she was inside. She dashed up the thinly carpeted stairs.

She reached the top all out of breath, her hands trembling so that she had to use both of them to unlock the apartment door.

“Margot!” she called, falling into the little entranceway and slamming the door shut behind her. “Margot! There's been a burglary in the shop!”

No answer. Was it possible the meeting at City Hall was still going on?

“Margot?” No reply.

Betsy hastened into the kitchen, flicked on the light. The phone was on the wall. She lifted the receiver and dialed 911.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?” asked a woman's voice.

“A burglar! I'm afraid he might still be in there!”

“Is this burglar in your home?”

“No, in the shop downstairs!”

“Is it your shop?”

“No, my sister's. It's called Crewel World.” Betsy gave the address and promised to stay where she was until the police arrived.

Betsy stood by the window, arms folded tightly until, through the closed blinds, she could see the erratic pattern of flashing red and blue lights.

She ran down the stairs and waved to the two husky young men who climbed out of a patrol car, then pointed to the door of Crewel World. They nodded and, with drawn pistols, went inside.

A little later Betsy gave a little shriek and jumped aside, and was surprised to find she had squeezed her eyes shut and stuffed her fingers in her ears against the possible sound of gunfire. The person touching her shoulder was one of the officers.

She sighed with relief. “He's gone, then?”

“Who?”

“The burglar. I was afraid you'd have to shoot him.”