“You are doing quite well keeping up with transactions,” he piped, speaking slowly around ill-fitting false teeth. From a pocket in the lid of the case, he extracted a file folder with Crewel World in thick black letters on its tab. Betsy noted two other file folders in the pocket as she walked behind him, and wondered who else was keeping this man from a happy retirement in a warm climate. She sat down at his right, prepared to listen.
Mr. Hollytree had turned up a couple of weeks after her sister Margot’s death. He’d explained that Margot kept computer records of sales and purchases related to the shop, and he turned them into tax records and an account of profit and loss. Frail as he appeared, he seemed to know his business. And Betsy, helplessly ignorant, had reached for his expertise like a drowning sailor grabbing at a broken spar. She had followed his instructions, and the second time he appeared, she had a computer disc ready for him. He had insisted on explaining the charts he made of her data, and though he’d been as slow and patient as he could, she understood only that so far, the shop was paying for itself.
Until today. Today, his high-pitched sigh was deeper, his shuffling of papers more snippy, his patience with her ignorance more fleeting.
“Now look here, young woman,” he said at last, causing her to blush like a teenager, “what it comes down to is this: You are on the verge of spending more than you are taking in. This cannot continue. Early winter is supposed to be the best time of year for a business that serves the public, but yours is actually doing worse than last month.” His mouth formed a grim line. “Unless you do remarkably well this month, this will be the third or fourth worst Christmas since I have been keeping Crewel World’s books.”
Betsy felt a rush of defiance. “Perhaps if we checked, we’d find the bad Christmas seasons occurred for reasons beyond the owner’s control, such as a bad economy or,” she rushed to add, since the economy could hardly have been hotter, “bad weather?”
The old man glared at her, then his face wrinkled alarmingly as he began to cackle. “You are Margot’s sister, all right!” he crowed. “I wondered if you would ever show your spunk, or if maybe your sister got it all.”
Betsy smiled. “There’s far too much spunk in our family for just one of us to hold it all, Mr. Hollytree. And I’m sorry we’re not doing so well right now. But I’m doing the best I can, and I don’t know what changes I can make.”
“Since salaries are your biggest expense, you need to cut your employees’ hours. Check what your competition is charging and charge less, even if it’s only a penny less—and make sure your customers know your prices are lower.”
Betsy nodded. “I’ll talk to my employees about working fewer hours. Perhaps, with Christmas so close, they’ve got all their shopping done and won’t be so disappointed in smaller paychecks. And I’ll look into competition prices.”
“Perhaps you should hold your after-holiday sale now. That means a special advertisement, but you’ll more than make it up in extra sales.”
Betsy hadn’t done any advertising at all, and her face must have shown that, because he said, “I thought so, when I saw no expenses for ads. Some people may think Crewel World’s gone out of business because its original owner is dead. I am sorry to add another expense to your burden, but advertising always pays, especially when there’s a change of ownership.”
Betsy hadn’t thought about that. There had been so many people who rallied around her when her sister was murdered that it never occurred to her that there were people out there who didn’t know about her. What a terrible thought; once-loyal customers who had found another source of supply! Customers who might still be loyal, who might keep Crewel World in the black, if only they knew.
Oh, yes, she must advertise, tell these people Crewel World was still here, ready to serve all their needlework needs.
But how, with money already in short supply? How much did advertising cost, anyhow? Where was the best place to put it? What should she say in her ad? She didn’t want to make a further display of ignorance by asking her accountant. Maybe Godwin would know.
Mr. Hollytree was making a neat stack of her copies of his report. He paper-clipped his calculator printout to it before rising. Godwin brought his coat and helped him back into it.
Betsy answered his good-byes almost absently. Crewel World’s logo, needle and yarn spelling Crewel World in cross stitch, should appear in the ad. And how deeply could she cut the prices of—what? What bargains would be most likely to bring customers in?
Though Godwin must have wondered what she was thinking, for once he didn’t ask. Instead, he went to take inventory of the stitchery books in the box shelves toward the back of the store. Such books were a big favorite as Christmas gifts, and he wanted to make sure they weren’t out of the most popular ones.
When the phone rang half an hour later, he was putting an order of little scissors, thimbles, and other items on a spinner rack near the back, so Betsy put down her pencil to answer it.
“Crewel World, good morning, how may I help you?”
A mild voice said, “Good morning, Betsy. This is Father John Rettger of Trinity. Are you busy at present? I can call back.”
Betsy said, “Oh, hello, Father. Unfortunately, no, we’re not busy. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know if you are aware, but we’re about to start a major renovation of the church hall and business offices of our church.”
Betsy had seen the story in the weekly Excelsior. Bay Times. (What would it cost for a two-column ad in the Times?) “Yes, I read about it.”
“Well, we’re in a great uproar, moving furniture, cleaning out storage areas, and so forth. Not surprisingly, we are finding things we thought were lost or sold or given away long ago.”
“Mm-hmmm,” Betsy murmured. Her eye fell on the ad she had been designing. Would it cost a great deal more to put the word SALE in red?
“One of the things we’re going to do is expand our library. We have found a tapestry in a basement storage closet that would be very appropriate. Unfortunately, the tapestry has been damaged by moths—not very badly, but noticeably.”
“Mn-hmm.” A tapestry, a huge ruglike thing people hung on castle walls.
“Patricia Fairland, who is a member of our vestry, has kindly volunteered to coordinate the restoration of the tapestry. She said I should tell you that it is not woven but stitched, a distinction I am afraid is lost on me. It is about six feet long and four wide, a beautiful thing, very appropriate for the use we hope to put it to.”
That wasn’t so enormous. But Betsy, mindful of those extra hours she was going to have to work, said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to volunteer right now, this is the busiest part of—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t presume to make demands on your time. I understand that as new and sole proprietor of a business, your time is very limited. No, I was hoping you would be able to make a contribution of materials for the restoration.”
This, on the heels of a warning of imminent failure to break even, should have made Betsy refuse immediately. But wait—surely there would be more stories in the paper as renovation continued, and a big one on completion. If there was a photo that included the tapestry, perhaps Betsy could be mentioned as contributing to its restoration. Free advertising, whispered the merchant in her.
So even as she took a breath to say no, Betsy changed her mind.
But then in the second it took to change gears and say yes, Betsy had another thought.
“I’d like to see the tapestry, see what materials are required, and how much,” she said, because “not badly damaged” could mean anything. “Would that be possible?”
“Oh, of course. It wouldn’t be fair to ask for a donation of material without an understanding of how much and what kind. Mrs. Fairland has told me that she would be glad to come in at the same time and explain to you what is needed. I understand there is a group of needleworkers who meet at your shop, the, er, Monday Bunch? Mrs. Fairland is going to ask for volunteers fr
om that group to do the work. I’m very pleased she has taken on this added responsibility, as I have no knowledge whatever about the needle arts. Shall I ask her to phone you? Or would you rather contact her yourself?”
“I’ll call her, I have her number.”
“I want you to know that we appreciate your agreeing to do this, especially since you are not a member of Trinity.”
Was there a hint of rebuke in his voice? After all, Betsy had been raised in the Episcopal Church, and her sister had been an important member of Trinity. But perhaps she was being too sensitive. What she said was, “That’s all right, it’s my pleasure to be of service.” Because it was. She enjoyed being generous—when she could afford it. And in this case she might actually injure herself by saying no and thus giving free advertising to a rival needlework shop.
Betsy worked some more on the ad, called the weekly newspaper and was shocked by their rates, but agreed a salesman might call, then made herself a cup of raspberry tea and dialed Patricia’s number.
Patricia wasn’t available this coming Wednesday, which, Hollytree notwithstanding, Betsy was taking off. Christmas was on the horizon, and Betsy had shopping to do. Funny how the less money she had, the longer it took to find gifts. After going through the calendar and failing to find any mutually agreeable time and day between Wednesday and mid-January, Betsy said despairingly, “I don’t suppose you’re free this evening?” And to her surprise, Patricia was.
2
It was dark when Betsy set off for Trinity at quarter to six, and cold. In San Diego—no, Betsy wasn’t going to think about that. She lived in Minnesota now, and she liked it, really she did. If not the climate, then the people. They had taken her to their hearts when she’d come here all dispirited and unhappy, and supported her through the even worse time after her sister had been murdered. And they had encouraged her to keep her sister’s needlework shop open, which introduced her to a subculture she’d barely realized existed. There were people, mostly women, who would rather do needlework than eat.
Betsy halted in the middle of the sidewalk. She could remember when she’d liked embroidery. And she could remember a time when she thought people who did lots of needlepoint or counted cross stitch were obsessed, possibly a little crazy. But now she thought about how, when she was really lost in the sweet rhythm of basket weave, she, too, was on the verge of loosing little knots that daily life tied in the back of her neck.
She started walking again, smiling at herself, until she came to Water Street. The foot of Water Street was open to Lake Minnetonka, and the north wind had a long, uninterrupted start down the length of the lake. She quickly turned her back to its bitter bite and went up Water, past the Waterfront Café and the movie theater, the bookstore, the pet store, and the imported gift shop, crossed and turned right, up the hill to the church.
Patricia met Betsy at the glassed arcade between the tiny stone church, the first church built in Excelsior, and the large building that was so modern it didn’t look like a church at all. Standing next to Patricia was Martha Winters, another member of the Monday Bunch. Martha was a short woman with snow-white hair and a round, pleasant face that made her look like Mrs. Claus, an effect emphasized by the fur trim on her wine-colored coat and hat. She was an expert counted cross stitcher but did just about every kind of needlework. Though well into her seventies, Martha had an alert and vigorous manner. She still worked part time in the dry cleaners she owned with her grandson.
“Jill Cross says she will try to drop by for a while before she goes on duty,” said Patricia. “Phil Galvin couldn’t make it.”
“All right.” Phil was a regular customer, but Jill was Betsy’s good friend. She was a police officer with a quiet manner that belied her strength of character—and she did exquisite needlepoint.
Patricia bent and unlocked the heavy glass door and led them into the arcade. To their left was a large room in front of the big, new church, made fragrant by a tall Christmas tree that had half a dozen paper ornaments on it. Betsy inhaled rapturously. Another reason to be glad to live in the north: Christmas trees were less of an artifice here. In this part of the world, the message they had brought Betsy’s pagan ancestors—that the world in winter had not died—still had meaning.
On one wall of the hall was a row of black-framed photographs of bygone rectors. The last one had a broad, sweet face and a big nose, with white hair and intense eyes under shaggy eyebrows. His smile was sizzling enough to provoke an answering one in Betsy. On the picture frame was a little metal plate that said he was the Reverend Keane Abrams, and giving the years of the pastorship, which only amounted to seven. I wonder what he was like as a person, thought Betsy.
Patricia and Martha paused at the head of a stairwell to wait for Betsy. She came out of her musings and hurried after them, following them down into darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, Martha and Betsy stopped.
Patricia’s footsteps went ahead, paused, and lights went on in a room off a narrow hall. Betsy and Martha walked into a severely plain and obviously elderly room with a high ceiling and a magnificent fireplace at its far end. Because the church complex overlapped the hill it was set on, the left wall had windows and there was a door at the far end leading outside.
But Betsy’s eyes were quickly drawn to the only furniture in the room, a card table near a wall with a large piece of light-colored needlework draped over it.
She approached and saw, on a neutral background, a near life-size figure of Christ as the Good Shepherd, the design flat and stylized. Christ, deeply tanned and sporting long black hair and a curly beard, wore a white robe under a dark-orange mantle. A lamb rested complacently on his right forearm, and he held a crook in his left hand. Around his head was a halo of two bold lines of metallic gold, with a blue gray stripe between them. Six sheep crowded around him, their expressions benign.
The work was done in plain diagonal stitching. Martha stepped forward and laid bold hands on it, even turning a corner of it over.
“Basket weave,” she said, meaning the stitching. “And whew, is it mildewed!”
“Smells awful,” agreed Betsy, wrinkling her nose. “Is that moth damage?” she asked, gesturing at a spot where the stitches were missing, exposing the heavy canvas. “I mean moth larvae, don’t I? It’s not the moths, it’s the grubs, right?”
“That’s right,” said Patricia, and she sneezed. “Eggscuse be,” she said, and held a handkerchief to her nose.
There weren’t a lot of bare places, and most were smaller than the palm of her hand. Betsy smiled. She could supply the wool to mend this with very little strain. But, “What about the mildew? No one can work on it like this. Is there a treatment we can use?”
“Sunlight is good,” said Martha—surprisingly, because she owned a dry cleaning shop. “But also you can mix one or two tablespoons of sodium perborate in a pint of water and sponge it on the mildew. That will get rid of the mildew stains, too, and it’s a mild enough bleach that it shouldn’t hurt the colors. I’ll see about treating it before we start work.”
“Thanks,” said Patricia.
There were footsteps, and the women turned to see a tall woman in a police uniform coming toward them, taking off her hat as she approached. Her jacket was thick, her utility belt weighty, and her gun large. Above all that was a lovely Gibson girl face surrounded by ash-blond hair, pulled back into a short braid.
“Hello, Jill,” said Patricia. “Glad you could come.”
“I can’t stay long.” Jill came up to the table. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Betsy. Anything you want me to bring to the party tomorrow?”
Betsy was giving a Christmas party to thank her friends and employees for their loyalty. Both Patricia and Martha were coming, so it was all right for Jill to talk about it.
“No, I have everything I need, thanks.”
Jill leaned closer than Betsy had dared to examine the tapestry. “This doesn’t look so bad,” she said. “That ground color should be easy to match. Wh
o’s working on it?”
“So far, just me, Martha, and Phil Galvin,” said Patricia.
“I’m too busy with the shop,” Betsy said, feeling a slight blush warm her cheeks at this need to justify herself. “But I’ll supply the wool, the needles, Febreze, anything you need.”
“That’s generous of you,” Jill said, frowning at the bottom left corner, where a strand of tan yarn hung down. “Are you in charge, Patricia?”
“Yes, I told Father John we could do this at no cost to the church. But Betsy, I didn’t tell him to ask you to donate the materials. I’m sure we could raise the money to pay you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. It won’t break me to donate a few yards of tan wool. How old is this tapestry?” The style of the design made Betsy think of the 1950s or early ’60s.
Patricia said, “Ten or twelve years. But it has never been displayed that I know of. Lucy Abrams designed it and worked on it with other members of Trinity. I called her daughter, and when I described it, she said she remembered her mother and some other women working on it shortly before she died. She said she thought it was lost, thrown away.” Patricia explained to Betsy, “Father Keane Abrams was Father John’s predecessor, and one of the best-loved rectors we’ve ever had. Lucy was his wife.”
“What a character he was!” said Martha. “A diamond in the rough, certainly, but a twenty-carat diamond, at least. His sermons were down to earth, addressed to the common man, which made us refined types sit up and take notice. Pithy, that’s how we described his sermons.”
Jill said, “My father liked him. But my mother thought he was probably a reformed burglar who should be a chaplain down at the jail.”
Patricia, laughing, said, “The first time he stepped into the pulpit, I thought, O Lord, what have we got here? He looked like a longshoreman or a retired boxer. But in five minutes, I was thinking how wonderful he—” She broke off, blinking.
Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 Page 2
