“Hello, Betsy,” said a woman’s voice.
“Hm?” Betsy said, straightening and turning. “Oh, hello, Patricia! Look what we’ve found! Little pictures, saints’ attributes, in the halo. I’m so glad we don’t have to redo this part. That would take special skills.”
Patricia took a breath, held it, then leaned forward to look very briefly at the halo. She straightened and said, “Why, yes, I hadn’t noticed that before. What did you call them?”
“Attributes. Father John has gone to get a book on them. I want to see who they represent. I know the three crowns are Elizabeth, and the shamrock is Saint Patrick, but here, who has a horseshoe? Isn’t this interesting? Like a puzzle. And look, there are two cats. I wonder why.”
But Patricia was taking two steps backward, fishing for a handkerchief in her purse. “That’s very interesting and clever. I wonder what metallic she used for those, er, attributes that maintained its shine all these years? Real silver would tarnish, and anyway I don’t think you could get real silver thread until fairly recently. Maybe aluminum … Such very fine stitching, too, looks as if it was done with a single thread.”
Reminded, Betsy said, “Patricia, there may be another problem.” She showed Patricia the moth-eaten section of mantle and was just starting to say something about twelve-year-old dye lots when Godwin appeared, breathless from hurry, with a dozen strands of wool in one gloved hand.
“This is what we have in stock,” he said. “Hello, Mrs. Fairland,” and added, “Customer waiting,” over his shoulder as he turned and rushed out again.
Betsy tried each strand over the mantle. None of them matched. “See, this is what I was worried about.”
“Oh, dear,” said Patricia.
“Yes,” said Betsy, her eyes estimating the size of the mantle. She wished she’d done what Jill had suggested, memorized the length and width of her hand, so she’d have a way to gauge size when she didn’t have a measuring tape in reach.
“Now look, Betsy, if we have to redo this whole area, that will take a lot of wool, which I’m sure will be a real hardship for you. Why don’t you just forget that offer of a donation? As I told you, I’m starting a drive to name the renovated library after Father Keane. He was so popular that I’m sure we’ll succeed. We could even raise the money to pay for a professional restoration of the tapestry, I’m sure.”
Betsy, surprised and grateful, opened her mouth to accept the offer, but to her even greater surprise what came out was, “But Martha has told the Monday Bunch, and they’re all excited about the project. I’d hate to disappoint them. I’ll check around for more samples—and so what if I have to supply enough for all the mantle? I hardly think even that much wool will send my shop into bankruptcy.”
Patricia frowned doubtfully. “Well, if you’re really sure …”
Betsy said, “I’m sure. Now, I’d better get back to the shop. Godwin needs his lunch break.”
On her way up the stairs, she met Father John. He was carrying a thick book. “It took me awhile to find it on my shelves,” he apologized. He opened it at random to display a page divided into six squares, each with a simple line drawing in it: a book pierced by a sword, a ship’s wheel, a harp, a lantern, a Celtic cross, a pair of pincers. The facing page was part of a dictionary of saints’ names with their dates and attributes.
“Oh, lovely!” exclaimed Betsy. “May I borrow it? I’ll be working on the tapestry, and I’ve already written down some attributes I want to look up.”
“Of course,” said Father John, kindly neglecting to point out that he’d gone for the book because there were some attributes he wanted to look up himself. He handed the book over and went back to guarding the tapestry against those who might store it away so securely it was never found again.
3
“Why didn’t you take her up on that offer?” asked Godwin.
“I don’t know,” said Betsy. “Especially since I got some really bad news from George Hollytree.”
Godwin looked up from his knitting—another in his endless series of white cotton socks. “Um, how bad?”
Betsy took a deep breath but kept her eyes on her cross stitching. “He says I have to cut back employee hours and at the same time stay open longer. That means I have to work more.”
“How can I work more hours? I’m already full time.”
Betsy looked sideways at him. “No, you need to work fewer hours. I need to work more hours.”
Godwin laughed. He laughed so hard he had to put down his knitting. When the laughter slowed, he would look at Betsy and start in again.
Betsy tried to wait him out, but Godwin’s endurance was apparently bottomless. At last she said, “That’s enough, Godwin,” and he stopped as if she had clipped him one on the nose. “Now, why is that so funny?”
“Because, my dearest, most wonderful, and favorite living employer, you are learning both needlework and the art of owning a small business with breathtaking skill and speed, but you are a long way from accomplished at either. You may do well here in the shop all by yourself—or you may not. For example, Mrs. Hagedorn came in while you were mucking about with that tapestry to ask me if I could get her some one hundred twelve count silk gauze. I looked in our catalog, and sure enough it comes that high. But she also wanted to buy some needles to use in this project. An ordinary needle won’t fit through the silk gauzes, so if you were here alone, what would you have told her?”
Betsy looked uncomfortable. “Well… I guess I would’ve got you on the phone.”
“And if I’m not at home but in Cancun basking in the sun?”
“Okay, I’d look in that catalog that has every kind of needle you can think of.”
“And it wouldn’t help, unless you already knew where to look. You use the short beading needles; if you look them up, it says they are also for extremely high-count fabrics. Fortunately for you, Mrs. Hagedorn already knew that. I have ordered the silk gauze for her, but we already have beading needles in stock.” Beading needles were thin as hair.
Betsy said, “Well, if she already knew—”
“But what if she hadn’t known? Would you have known who to call? I would, because I know almost everything, including who to ask.”
“Whom. All right, I know, too. I would dash upstairs and put the question on the Internet, to my favorite newsgroup, RCTN. I’d have an answer in about sixty seconds. Collectively, those people know everything.”
Godwin nodded. “You’re right, they do. But it’s not good business practice to leave a customer alone in the shop. Admit it, boss, you need me here as much as possible. I only cost a dollar an hour more than the part-time help. Theirs are the hours you’ll have to cut down on. If you can’t do that, you’ll have to cut some other expense.”
“Which brings us back to my original question, doesn’t it? Why didn’t you enthusiastically jump on Patricia’s suggestion that you back out on your offer to supply the material for the tapestry?”
Betsy said, “Because Mr. Hollytree also told me I should advertise, to let people know Crewel World didn’t die with my sister. Which I am going to do. A salesman should be here on Tuesday. But if I get involved with this project, then the name of my shop will get in the paper as the supplier of materials. Before I knew we might have to replace a huge area of the thing, that seemed an easy, cheap way to get some publicity.”
Godwin widened his blue eyes at her. “Then it was a good idea!” he said.
“Of course it was! I may be ignorant, but I’m not stupid!”
Godwin winked at her. “Honey, no one thinks you march with the stupid platoon, not after you beat our local police to the solution in two murder cases.”
Betsy grimaced, looked for her place on the fabric, then consulted the pattern. She thought herself lucky, not bright, when it came to solving murders. But no one paid any attention when she said that. She stuck her needle in, pulled the floss through. “I was thinking of calling Picket Fence and Stitchville USA to see if they have any da
rk orange wool in a shade I don’t have,” she said, and put down her stitching again to reach for the cordless on the table.
Godwin nodded. “Another good idea.”
But they didn’t have anything different. Betsy was looking up more shops’ numbers when a customer came in with a large cardboard box, its top folded shut.
“I’m hoping you can help me, Betsy,” she said, dropping the box onto the library table. “My grandmother died a month ago, and when she got sick last spring, she said I should get her stash. But I already have a stash, and I may never get around to using this stuff.”
“Are you saying you want to give it away?” asked Betsy.
“Some of it.” She pulled the flaps of the box apart and began lifting out clear plastic bags filled with needlework projects, rolls of linen and Aida cloth in several colors, packets of needles, silk and perle floss, and balls of yarn. She gestured at one pile. “Look at all these needlepoint canvases! This one’s stamped, but look, this one and this one are hand painted, so they’re valuable. Thing is, I don’t do needlepoint. And see this big bag of wool? Lots of colors but there’s not more than a yard of any one color.”
Betsy eyed the bag speculatively, but didn’t see any dark orange.
“At least now I know where I get my squirrel nature. My mother throws leftover yarn away unless she’s got another project that can use it, but I’ll end up in one of those houses with paths winding among the stacks of newspapers, except my stacks will be patterns and projects waiting for me to find time to finish them, and leftover yarn and floss from projects I’ve completed.”
Betsy said, “I hope you don’t think your mother is the normal one. Almost all my customers save leftover cloth and floss.” She picked up a needlepoint kit depicting a tropical sunset. The sky and sea were mauve and blue and lavender and pink, with palm trees making graceful black arcs in the foreground. She’d been to that beach, back in San Diego. But first things first: “Is there any dark orange wool? I need some for a project.”
“Not in this box. If I find some, I’ll bring it in. This is only a quarter of what we found. About the stash I’m keeping: Can I store everything as I found it?”
“No, you can’t,” said Betsy. “You need to get it out of these plastic bags and into acid-free paper or cloth bags. Fibers need to breathe.”
Godwin had come over for a look. “You know,” he said to Betsy, “Margot would do consignment selling once in awhile. Some of this is very nice. Like this kit, which was never even opened.” Then he picked up a completed needlepoint of a white horse rearing in storm-tossed surf. “This is beautiful,” he said. “Do you know Diane Bolles, down at Nightingale’s? She’s looking for needlework to sell.” Godwin reached for something else. “And look at this, too, Betsy.” He was holding an un-worked canvas covered with hearts and cherubs. “It’s a Patti Mann canvas. ”We could sell this in a New York minute.”
Betsy said, “All right. Are you willing to part with some of this on consignment, Katie?”
In half an hour, Katie left for Nightingale’s with a gleam in her eye. Betsy spent another half hour putting the new items out, making sure they were artistically displayed, then properly marked and listed in the notebook Godwin showed her, in which Margot had kept track of consignment items.
“Do you have a stash, Godwin?” she asked, stepping back from the Patti Mann to see if it was hung straight.
“Honey, I’m at the point where I’m throwing out clothes to make room. Everyone has stash, but we’re all too enamored of SEX to quit looking for more.”
Betsy laughed; Godwin meant Stash Enhancement experience, one of the terms invented by her favorite newsgroup. Betsy was not herself immune to the lure of SEX; she set the tropic sunset kit aside for herself.
At five they locked the front door. Godwin and Betsy straightened up the shop: washing out the coffeepot and unplugging the teakettle, shutting off the radio, running the credit card machine’s total, counting the take. Betsy made out a deposit slip, which Godwin took along with the cash and checks to the bank a couple of blocks away. “See you later at the party,” he said. “I’ll be the one with the tie that lights up.”
Betsy and Sophie went upstairs, where Betsy took a quick shower and put on her prettiest party dress, the cranberry velvet, and stroked on evening makeup, more emphatic than her daytime wear. She put on her garnet earrings and necklace, inherited from her mother.
The apartment was sparkling clean, but Betsy went around putting breakables higher or into cabinets, leaving as much flat surface as possible for plates and glasses. Sophie followed her, whining until Betsy remembered she hadn’t fed her pet.
Sophie was alleged to be on a diet. She was allowed two small scoops of diet cat food a day, which should keep even a lazy cat like Sophie at a svelte seven or eight pounds. Sophie, by dint of nonexistent metabolism and a lifestyle that “Less Active” overstated, had lost three pounds, gained one back, and now held stubbornly at eighteen. The problem was, she cadged treats from anyone who approached her in the shop, and would accept any offering. Betsy had needlepointed a little sign that read, “No, Thank You, I’m on a Diet,” to hang on the back of Sophie’s chair, but just today, a customer, still laughing at the sign, had fed Sophie a potato chip. Betsy had thought of a muzzle, but Sophie might find it very tasty, too. And Betsy couldn’t stop the lams feedings ; Sophie’s diet otherwise was too unhealthy.
“You could leave her upstairs,” Godwin had suggested. But the thought of the friendly, ornamental, happy creature condemned to a life of waiting for Betsy to come home was too awful.
Two hours later, Betsy took off her slippers and put on her highest heels. The apartment was beginning to smell of hot hors d’oeuvres and rock gently to the jazz piano of Ramsey Lewis. The little table in the dining nook was laden with crystal goblets, bottles of good red and white wines, and a big punch bowl filled with something pink and fragrant. Beer and soft drinks were in the refrigerator. Betsy took a ceramic pie plate out of the freezer. Last night she had overlapped alternating slices of lemons and limes in a ring in the pie plate and scattered a few maraschino cherries on top. She had put a straight-sided bowl of water in the center, poured half an inch of water into the plate, and put the whole thing in the freezer. Now she dismantled the arrangement and put the ring of frozen fruit into the punch bowl, where it would serve to chill and ornament the punch.
By the time the first tray of hors d’oeuvres came out of the oven, three couples had arrived.
Betsy loved to give parties. Godwin was there, of course, with his lover John, a tall attorney with a distinguished profile and just the right amount of gray in his hair. He looked around her apartment and then at Betsy with the amused air of the New York Times home/arts editor visiting Archie Bunker’s house. He was obvious enough about it that Jill Cross, Betsy’s police officer friend, raised an inquiring eyebrow at her when they met over the punch bowl a few minutes later. Betsy rolled her eyes to show she didn’t care what the jerk thought and went to get a fresh batch of cheesy, spicy hamburger on tiny rounds of rye bread out of the oven.
Shelly Donohue, an elementary school teacher who worked part time in the shop, came with an extremely handsome fellow she introduced as Vice Principal Smith.
Joe Mickels, Betsy’s landlord, came. Betsy had an ironclad lease at a ridiculous rent on the shop, a mistake Joe’s late brother had made with Betsy’s late sister. Joe had made numerous strenuous attempts to break the lease when Margot had run the shop, but they had stopped when Betsy took over. She didn’t know why, and it made her uneasy.
Joe was a short-legged, pigeon-breasted man with enormous white sideburns and a great beak of a nose. His winter coat with its astrakhan collar was as anachronistic as he was—Joe should have lived in the era of robber barons.
He had an attractive woman his own age with him. “Still think you’re going to stay the course?” he asked Betsy with an icy twinkle.
If Betsy had the occasional tremble for herself a
nd Crewel World, she wasn’t about to show it to Joe. “We’re doing fine, thank you,” she said with a determined twinkle of her own and took their coats to the back bedroom.
The part-timers came with spouses or significant others. The Monday Bunch, a needlework group that met at the shop, came mostly alone. The party divided into clusters, naturally, but Betsy went casually from cluster to cluster, taking a person from the Monday Bunch to introduce her to someone in the business discussion Joe was leading, and a person from the business world to introduce to the arts discussion, and so forth, making sure everyone got a chance to meet everyone else.
The five or six on and around the couch were into politics. “Do you think Mayor Jamison will run again?” asked Peter Fairland, Patricia’s husband, a state senator contemplating a run for Congress. (The mayor, typically, was in the kitchen, helping stir up a new batch of that hamburger-on-rye hors d’oeuvre.)
“I think the job is his as long as he wants it,” said Godwin.
“I think it’s time for a woman mayor, don’t you?” asked Martha Winters, a refugee from the Monday Bunch.
Betsy paused to listen. She admired Patricia’s smooth, classic exterior and wanted to see what her husband was like. Peter showed himself quick-witted and friendly, with piercing gray eyes and a great laugh. He was smooth in a practiced way, an intense listener, and Betsy found him not quite as intimidating as his wife.
Betsy left the political group to deal with a minor explosion in the business corner, where Joe Mickels was defending his latest attempt to squeeze yet more money out of a nonprofit group renting one of his buildings. “You all seem to forget,” Joe growled, “that our great wealth happened because we use the capitalist system.” Betsy asked Joe if he could help her open the sticky window in the dining nook just an inch, because it was getting rather warm in the apartment. He would have taken that as criticism of his maintenance until he recognized the look she was giving him. He came and opened the window and meekly did ten minutes of penance with the needleworkers, who were gathered around the punch bowl.
Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 Page 4
