Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 (27 page)

“I finished it,” said Mrs. Hamilton, holding up the bag, whose contents were small. Betsy rose and went behind the checkout desk.

“How did it come out?” she asked.

In reply, Mrs. Hamilton brought out a belt made of needlepoint canvas with a pattern of cats in various poses, each with a different design of coat. Made to be worked in silk or cotton floss, Mrs. Hamilton had decided to do it in beads. The canvas and beads, plus thread and the hair-fine needles, which broke or bent often, had cost over a hundred dollars. The work had taken months. And now the belt needed to be finished: washed, blocked, attached to a strip of leather, and given a good brass buckle, which was going to cost another eighty dollars. And the result would be a “fun” belt.

But to a needleworker's sophisticated eye, the beadwork was flawless. The texture pleasured the fingers. Betsy looked up at Mrs. Hamilton and saw she didn't need to say a word in praise; Mrs. Hamilton understood.

The woman at the bookshelves came over with her selection. “Ooooh,” she said. “That's very nice. Did you make it?”

Mrs. Hamilton nodded. “Do you do beadwork?” she asked.

The woman laughed. “I can barely sew a button on. I came in to buy this for a friend who does blackwork, whatever that is. I've never been in here before. I usually buy her Christmas gift on eBay or Amazon dot com, but time got away from me, and I can't wait for shipment now.”

Mrs. Hamilton said, “My daughter shops on the Internet, but I'm afraid I don't trust it. I mean, who are those people?”

“Well, there's all kinds, just like in real life. I like it because I can shop from home, plus you find things there you won't find anywhere else. Especially on the auction sites. I can search for exotic gifts and I don't get tired feet or lose my car in the parking lot. And by exercising a little care, I haven't been burnt yet.”

Betsy said, “I know someone else who loves eBay. She buys antiques.”

The woman nodded. “I've done that, too. I got into the glass bottles the other day and bid on two items. One was a medicine bottle from the 1800s with the pills still inside it! Of course, it came with a warning not to take the medicine.” The woman laughed. “I'm Christine Schleuter, by the way.”

“Betsy Devonshire,” said Betsy, “and this is Mrs. Hamilton.”

“How do you do?” the women said to one another.

“You aren't really going to give this to your daughter, are you?” asked Betsy, getting the conversation back on topic.

“Yes, I am. She's going to specialize in small-animal medicine, and she's always loved cats. She'll enjoy wearing this.”

Shelly and Jill came to admire the belt while Betsy wrote up the order.

“You'll call when this comes back?” asked Mrs. Hamilton.

“Of course. Merry Christmas,” Betsy added, as Mrs. Hamilton went out the door.

“Oops,” said Jill behind her.

Betsy turned. “What?”

“Didn't you know? Mrs. Hamilton is Wiccan.”

“She is?”

Shelly giggled and nodded. “She belongs to a coven in Minneapolis.”

Betsy and Ms. Schleuter looked at the closed door. “Funny,” said Ms. Schleuter, “she doesn't look like a witch.”

“Yes, but who does, nowadays?” said Betsy. “Next time I'll wish her a happy solstice.”

Toward noon, Betsy was just finishing with another customer when Joe Mickels came in. He glared at Shelly when she approached, and she retreated to a spinner rack, rearranging the floss a shopper had disordered. He looked with equal anger at Jill, who only looked back.

He
should play
the
lead
in
A Christmas Carol, thought Betsy when she was finished, noting his long coat with the lamb collar, the big silver sideburns that framed his shaggy eyebrows, the arrogant nose and angry mouth. She said, “May I help you, Mr. Mickels?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said, glancing again at Jill and adding, “Alone.”

Jill said at once, “I'm sorry, Mr. Mickels, but she's under police protection and is not allowed to be alone with anyone.”

Mickels turned as if to leave, but Betsy said, “Jill knows everything, Mr. Mickels. You know that.”

Mickels looked at Jill, and for the briefest instant there was again despair. Betsy started, “Look, I'm really sorry about—”

“Sorry don't cut it,” he growled.

Jill said, “I think we should send Shelly out to buy us all some lunch.”

Shelly, who had been trying to eavesdrop from behind the spinner rack, came shamefacedly out.

“I can't afford to buy lunch today,” she said.

“Me, either,” said Betsy.

There was a pregnant pause. Jill held her tongue until Mickels with a soft groan said, “All right, I'll buy us all a McDonald's hamburger!” He took an ancient coin purse from his pocket. It was all Betsy could do to keep from laughing when she saw it. He twisted the catch open and removed with regret a ten-dollar bill. “You've got coffee here,” he said, “so no drinks. Get two big orders of fries, and we'll share. And bring me my change.”

“Yessir,” said Shelly, not bothering to hide her grin. She grabbed her coat and hurried out.

“Do you know why the rich have money?” Mickels said to Betsy.

“Why?”

“Because they don't spend it.”

“I'll take that as the good advice it probably is. Won't you sit down?” Betsy went to the library table and pulled out a chair for him.

As he came to sit down, Betsy was struck, as she had been once before, by his slightness. His wealth and arrogance made him seem large; from behind he was a scant two inches taller than she was.

Jill sat across from him, hands on the table and chair not pulled in close. Betsy sat at the head of the table, facing the door so she could see anyone approaching.

Mickels said, “I had no idea your sister was such an expert on bankruptcy estates.”

“She wasn't,” replied Betsy. “It was Vicki Prentice who knew how to do it. What Margot did was give her the money to start the company. Margot was a silent partner; she didn't take any part in running it. Vicki found the assets and bid on them, so even if she knew you were the actual owner of that restaurant property, she didn't know of your relationship with Margot.”

“Huh,” said Mickels, doubting that.

“Well, if she did, she didn't tell Margot. Because Margot didn't tell me, and I think she would have.”

“Fat lot of good your ignorance did me.”

“Look here,” said Betsy, “acting like a sulky little boy isn't going to help. You signed that contract of your own free will, so the consequences of not making the balloon payment are your own. You're going to lose that property, along with all the money you put into making those payments.”

“And I'm supposed to smile and take that?”

“There isn't anything
you
can do about it,” she snapped.

He brought keen gray eyes to bear on her from under those eyebrows. “And you're going to dance on the ruins of my prosperity, right?”

“I could, if I liked. While I agree Margot was responsible for you losing that property, it wasn't on purpose. And your behavior toward her was disgraceful. I could consider the two of you even. But perhaps we can work something out.”

 

When Shelly came back with the hamburgers, she was surprised to find the three of them talking almost cordially. But even after Mickels left, neither Jill nor Betsy would disclose what brought about Mickels's change of attitude.

Soon after lunch, Betsy sold a huge order of needlepoint, counted cross stitch, and knitting materials to a woman who was leaving for Texas in the morning, where she would spend the winter. Her loyalty to Crewel World was touching, and Betsy said as much to her while Shelly carefully added up the bill.

“You always have everything I need,” the woman said, writing out a check, “and you allow me to return unused materials. And I just love your staff.” She looked around the shop as if for a particular one.

Betsy said, “Godwin has the day off. I know he'll be sorry to have missed you.”

“You'll wish him a happy holiday from me, won't you?”

“Yes, of course. And we wish you a happy holiday, too.”

Shelly helped the woman carry her order out to her car. Betsy said, “That order should put us in the black.”

Jill said, surprised, “Are you operating at a loss?”

“We might have, if she hadn't come in. In fact, we may still. I'm supposed to be working more so I can cut back on employee hours, but with all that's happened ...”

Shelly came back in, dusting snow off her shoulders.

“
Again?
” groaned Betsy. It had clouded over without her noticing.

Shelly said, “The radio says it's only supposed to be an inch or two.”

Jill said, “Be glad you live in Minnesota. If they got snow like this in, say, Atlanta, the city would be paralyzed.”

“If they were getting snow like this in Atlanta,” retorted Betsy, “
we'd
be fighting off glaciers.”

Laughing, they looked around and saw no customers. They sat at the table to continue some projects. Shelly was knitting a minuscule cap on tiny needles to be donated to a preemie program for local hospitals. Betsy was trying out some DMC rayon floss. She liked the shimmer it gave to the snowflake she was working in counted cross stitch on maroon evenweave.

Bing
went that annoying door alarm, and as she did often, Betsy promised herself a new, more dulcet-sounding one.

Jill was moving to get between Betsy and the person coming in: Hal Norman, hat in hand.

Hal said, “Betsy, I'm leaving Sunday for California. I'd like to talk to you before I go.”

“We're busy here. I can't talk to you now.”

“Then how about supper? Do you still like Chinese? There's a decent Chinese place here in town, the Ming Wok. I can meet you there after closing.” He saw her about to refuse and said, “Or I can bring Chinese to you.”

Betsy hesitated, then gestured surrender and said, “Bring carry-out for three to my apartment tonight.”

“All right. Thank you.” He hesitated, obviously hoping his sweet reasonableness would make her say something more, something nice, even just “You're welcome.” But she didn't.

 

He remembered her favorite, chicken with pea pods and straw mushrooms. He also brought Mongolian beef and moo shu pork, and everyone took a little of everything.

He was attentive and humble. He had a little box of loose jasmine tea, another favorite, and brewed it for her, making funny jokes about not being able to find the tea strainer in the strange kitchen. He used chopsticks with grace, and put a series of tasty tidbits on her plate. He remarked on the tree, apparently not realizing it was the one he'd bought—or too clever to say so.

Jill sat quietly, watching and listening.

When the meal was over, he said, “There, was that so bad? Was that so difficult? Please, please, darlin'—yes, here in front of a witness—can't we work something out? It's Christmas eve, and this would be a great present, just knowing you're willing to try once more.”

“There's nothing to work out.”

“Are you sure? You don't act like you're still mad at me.”

“I'm not mad.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“I don't care.”

Hal's look of charming contrition slid off his face, leaving a confused expression behind. “What?”

“I used to think up ways to get back to you, to humiliate you like you humiliated me. I was so mad at you, I got physically sick. But you know something? I got well again. It could be learning that I can stand on my own feet, run my own business. Or maybe it's the chelating agent, taking you out of my system along with the arsenic. All I know is, when I poke around for my feelings about you, I can't find any. I don't care about you anymore.”

“You've found somebody else, haven't you? Don't tell me it's that little pansy down in the store!”

“Okay, I won't.”

“Oh, Betsy, how could you fall for someone like that?”

Betsy giggled. “I haven't fallen for him.”

“But you just said—”

“You said not to tell you, so I said I wouldn't. Now go away.”

“Won't you at least accept my apology?”

“No.”

“But you don't know how sorry I am!”

“I don't think you're sorry enough. I don't think you're able to be sorry for anything except yourself. Now go.”

And he went. Betsy cried when he'd gone, but it was tears of relief. Jill said nothing, only handed over tissues until the storm ended.

T
he first Christmas service, at 8:30, was for the children of the parish. Children formed the choir, they took the collection, the sermon was aimed at their level. Betsy found it all passable, though she had trouble with the hymns. She'd gotten too used to “O Come, All Ye Faithful” in secular settings to think of it as a hymn anymore. Father John's sermon, on looking inward rather than outward for the true meaning of Christmas, was good but hardly original.
What was I hoping for?
she asked herself, as the Eucharist came to its end.
Did
I think God was going to arrange a particularly brilliant service just to tempt me into coming back again?
And then she realized that was exactly the sort of question the sermon had addressed.

After the service, the congregation scattered, rather than staying for coffee. By the eager manner of the children as they rushed for the exits, they were going home to open presents.