Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01

by Crewel World

  Betsy grinned. “City?”

  “It’s a legalism. The county passed a law years back that made all the little towns out here incorporate as cities or fold up. Wait till you drive through Navarre, which you must do without blinking or you’ll miss it, but it’s a city, too. Anyway, come on, I’ll show you our famous Lake Minnetonka.”

  They went back to the comer of Lake and Water, where the lakeshore was marked by small wooden wharves. The sun was bright, but already the sun was well on its southward path, and their shadows pointed north as well as east. Large square-built excursion boats were tied up here, along with one odd little boat whose shape reminded Betsy of an old-fashioned streetcar.

  “The Minnehaha.” Margot nodded. “Built in 1906, sunk in the lake back in 1926, then raised and restored a few years ago. Used to be owned by the public transit company, which explains its shape. It runs on weekends between here and Wayzata.”

  “Minnetonka, Minnehaha? Do I see a pattern?”

  “Indeed you do. The poem ‘Hiawatha’ was set in Minnesota and was very popular when things were getting named around here.”

  “Ah.”

  Beyond the wharves, the lakeshore was marked by a park, where some of the younger maple trees showed traces of orange. Apparently autumn arrived in September here. On their left, away from the lake, the ground swooped up, and was topped by grand old houses with big porches. How pleasant it must be to sit up there and watch the lake in all its moods.

  The lake drew away, the park enlarged and grew a hill of its own, marked with big trees, and Lake Street ended at a tennis court. The sisters turned left and Betsy found she was now on West Lake Street. Well, okay; the lake itself also turned the comer, she could see it through the trees.

  Here the houses were smaller, but still prosperous. None were new but all were in excellent repair, with neatly kept lawns. Some even had picket fences, and from one big tree hung a tire swing.

  It was all so charmingly sweet, Betsy remarked, “What is this place, Mayberry-of-the-North?”

  Margot laughed. “I’ll have to repeat that next time I’m trying to get the city council to understand why it’s important we fight to preserve the amenities of Excelsior.”

  They turned left at the next corner, and there was a quaint little church across the street, with a new, large, and modern church hall attached by a covered walk. “Trinity Episcopal,” said Margot. “That’s where I go.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Betsy, and pointed to a window on a house on her side of the street where a large brown tabby sat watching them suspiciously. “That cat looks almost as big as Sophie.” She didn’t want to start a discussion of churchgoing, because she almost never went anymore.

  Safely past the church, Margot continued with her tour. “If you look across the parking lot,” she said, pointing, “you can see the library, the fire department, and our little city hall on the other side.”

  Betsy, squinting, nodded. “I see the sign that says CITY HALL,” she said, “but it seems to be pointing to the same building that says FIRE DEPARTMENT.”

  “It is,” said Margot. “City Hall is in the basement of the fire department building. I voted against them moving into a building of their own,” she added. “Keeps them modest.”

  They walked to the comer, and found themselves in the heart of the miniature “downtown” of Excelsior. To the left was the movie theater, pet shop, and bookstore, with a gift shop on the comer. Margot turned right and Betsy went with her, past the hardware store, a toy shop, an antique store, and so on. The stores were small, in good repair, apparently prosperous. Delicious smells came from the pizza-by-the-slice shop and the bakery. The wallpaper-and-paint store was having a sale. An art-supply store up the way and across the street had its side painted with a mural of a small cottage and a pond covered with water lilies. In the mural, an artist had set up a large canvas and was painting the water lilies. Betsy saw it and started to laugh. “Monet, I love it!” she said.

  They turned and started back, past a dress shop and a florist. “I guess you’re farther from the Twin Cities than I thought,” remarked Betsy.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, this isn’t a bedroom community, is it? I mean, there are real stores here, open for business.”

  “Actually, we’re very close to Minneapolis. Even back at the turn of the century, people would commute from here to the Cities, using that streetcar boat to get to where the regular streetcars ran. But somewhere, somehow, when a lot of little communities gave up trying to be towns, Excelsior didn’t. And the people who live here have decided they wanted to keep the town intact. So they patronize the stores and organize lots of festivals, like Apple Days, which is coming up soon. Excelsior is an old-fashioned word that means ‘upward,’ and I like to think the name inspires the people who live here.”

  Betsy said with artful carelessness, “I thought excelsior was wood shavings used to pack fragile items.”

  Margot looked at Betsy with just the beginning of indignation, then both sisters laughed. Margot said, “All right, I’m a shameless booster. Just you wait, in a few weeks you’ll love it here, too. Here’s my bank, and up ahead is Haskell’s, where we turn to go home.”

  Back in her cozy living room, Margot sat down in the comfortable chair, opened a kind of wood-framed folding canvas bag at her feet, and took out a large roll of white fabric with needlework on it. She unrolled it to reveal a complex, stylized picture of a field of flowers and small animals, most of which was covered with small stitches. “Last week of the month we work on UFOs,” she said.

  Betsy, standing behind the chair, said, “That is obviously not a flying saucer, so what does UFO mean in needle talk?”.

  “Unfinished projects. Like a lot of needleworkers, I’m always buying something new and I get impatient to get started on it and sometimes abandon old projects in the excitement of starting something new. So the last week of every month I’ve promised to get out something unfinished and work on it. I started this over a year ago and stopped working on it back in February—but now it’s going to get finished at last.” She smiled up at her sister. “I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk. Is there something you want to work on, too?”

  Betsy shook her head. She’d once done quite a bit of embroidery, which had kept her occupied while her husband stayed late on campus. Not, as he’d said, grading papers or attending staff meetings or conferring with colleagues, but making love to various female students. Betsy had not touched an embroidery needle since filing for the divorce, and she had no intention of ever picking one up again.

  She went over to the heavily draped window and began lifting layers—drape, sheer, blind—“How big is the lake?” Of course, all she could see was the gray siding of the condominium across the street.

  “I think the shoreline is something over four hundred miles.”

  Betsy dropped the drape’s edge and said, surprised, “You must mean forty miles, and I’m surprised it’s that big.”

  “Oh, what you saw today was just one bay. The lake is a collection of bays—a collection of lakes, more like. Very untidy and sprawling. It’s hard to describe the shape, but I can show you a map in the store tomorrow. The only way you can see the whole thing is from the air. It’s spring-fed and very clean. Big bass-fishing attraction, we have competitions going all summer long. Draws people from all over the country.” As she was drawn into her needlework, Margot became telegraphic in her sentences. “You fish?”

  “No.”

  “Sail?”

  “Not lately.”

  “What do you do for fun?”

  “Go out with friends to dances and plays and movies. Body-surf. Read a good mystery or something by Terry Pratchett. Margot, how do you stand it?”

  “Stand what?”

  “It’s so quiet and peaceful here. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

  Margot laughed. “I don’t think it’s so peaceful. In fact, when things get too much for me, I take a week
off up in the Boundary Waters. There’s peace and quiet for you. Of course, I used to travel all the time, with Aaron. Miami, Cancún, even London and Paris one glorious spring. I’ve always been glad to get back here, though.”

  “I don’t understand how you can feel a need for someplace even quieter than this.”

  “After a week or so you’ll see how busy I am and you’ll understand. There’s plenty to do, committees to work on, church business, and of course Crewel World. They tried to get me to run for city council once, but I managed to slip by them that time.” She paused to put a new strand of floss into her needle. Betsy noticed she could do it that tricky way involving the edge of her needle.

  “That’s needlepoint, isn’t it, what you’re working on.”

  “Yes, do you like it? I haven’t decided if it’s going to be a pillow or a wall hanging.”

  “The colors don’t look as if they’d go very well in here.”

  “It’s not for up here, it’s going to be a display item in the shop. I have four canvases by this artist and want to encourage my customers to buy them.”

  “How much does one cost?”

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “No, I mean unfinished. Like if I wanted to try one.”

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars. Plus the yarn, plus finishing.” Margot glanced sideways at Betsy, a tiny smile on her face.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “No, it isn’t. Each canvas is hand-painted, and has to be done in a way so that the stitches that cover the painting will fit. It’s a difficult art, trust me. Tomorrow I’ll show you some of the really great work done by my customers on these canvases. Fancy stitches, beads, special flosses. Or maybe you’d prefer to take up counted cross-stitch.”

  “I’m not as fond of needlework as I used to be.” A little silence fell. “I have a friend back in San Diego who does counted cross-stitch, but I don’t think my eyes could take the strain,” amended Betsy. Margot’s needle went down and through then up and through. “It’s beautiful stuff,” further amended Betsy after a while. “She did this angel all in blues and golds that just blew me away.” The silence fell again. “But she showed me the pattern and I knew right away that wasn’t something I could ever do, not with my eyes.” More silence. “I think I’m too tired to keep up my end of this conversation. I’m going to turn in.”

  But just as Betsy was entering the little hall, Margot said, “Betsy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you called on me when you needed someone to take care of you for a while.”

  “Thank, Margot. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  3

  It was Saturday, late in the afternoon; the sun was going down, its reddening beams streaming through the open door of the back bedroom. Betsy had spent Friday resting, talking with Margot or her employees down in the shop, unpacking, and going for a brief swim (the water wasn’t salty, the waves were nonexistent, and the beach could be walked end to end in about a minute).

  Now she was secretly enjoying a cream-filled sweet roll from that very nice little bakery on Water Street in the privacy of the apartment while Margot, unaware, sold floss and evenweave fabric downstairs. She wished you could still see the lake from the living-room window—it really was a pretty lake. But lakeshore property had surged in value, Shelly had told her; new houses were being built that had kitchens bigger than the cottages they replaced. So the little wetland across the street had been filled in and a condominium built on the site.

  The price of a condo must be very high if it never occurred to Margot to buy one.

  Betsy sat at the small round table in the dining nook drinking a glass of orange juice with her sweet roll, and thinking.

  She’d been here three days, if you counted her day of arrival as one, rather than the less-than-half it was. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but Excelsior wasn’t a disappointment, yet. If this were still the fifties, Excelsior would be positively typical of a Midwestern country town, down to the lack of used-car lots and warehouse shopping outlets siphoning shoppers from the little downtown. They must have draconian zoning laws around here, she thought.

  The people in Excelsior she had met so far were friendly, and the worst teenager she had seen had not been scary, only very oddly dressed. Thoroughly pierced, of course, with hair colored Kool-Aid red. But even he had offered a halfhearted wave.

  Crewel World was a going concern, so far as Betsy could tell. Who would have guessed one could make a living selling embroidery floss, hand-spun wool, and bamboo knitting needles? But there had been a steady trickle of customers yesterday while Betsy watched. Two of them had spent lavishly, buying “canvases,” stiff white fabric woven so loosely the holes showed, with paintings of dolls, Christmas stockings, cute animals, woodland scenes, or whatever on them. That the customers then also bought yarn and flosses so they could carefully cover every inch of the paintings with wool or cotton or silk only made Betsy sure that they were crazy, especially since the artists who painted the pictures charged so much for their work.

  Of course, there was a trick to the store as well, Betsy had learned. Margot had somehow wrangled a lease at an extraordinary rent, even at upper Midwest prices. With the rent so low, it was easier to show a profit. Certainly the furniture in the apartment was of a quality to indicate the opposite of poverty.

  There was, of course, a fly in the ointment, and it was, not surprisingly, the landlord. Shelly, who turned out to be friendly and kind, also loved to gossip. She had told Betsy all about him. He was the brother of the original landlord, who had died a year ago, she reported. This brother was by no means the saint the original had been. The new landlord wanted to take advantage of the soaring land values. He proposed tearing down the old brick building and putting up something bigger.

  But Margot, bless her kind but stubborn heart, wanted to stay where she was, where people anxious to buy just the right shade of green silk to complete their counted cross-stitch pattern knew where to find her. And Margot had four years to go on that extraordinary lease.

  Shelly had described with awe the one visit she had had from the new landlord, whose name was a very prosaic Joe. He had come into the shop last Monday, she had said, with fire in his eyes, looking for Margot. Fortunately, Margot had been at the post office and he’d gone away again breathing threats and tucking some kind of paper back into his pocket.

  Earlier today, over an incredibly delicious fruit salad bought at the sandwich shop next door, Margot had chuckled at Betsy’s alarmed query as to what Joe Mickels was up to.

  “Oh, it was probably just another summons.”

  “Another what?”

  “Summons. It’s a tactic he’s come up with. Unlawful detainer of rent, possibly, or some other clause of the lease he’s trying to invoke against me. He figures a new one up every few weeks, he’s been doing it for the last four or five months. But I have James Penberthy on my side, he’s been wonderful.” Margot had smiled at Betsy’s inquiring face and explained, “He’s my attorney. He just laughs and says he’ll handle it. And he does. But it’s annoying, especially when I have to make a court appearance. I’m so glad Aaron taught me to keep very careful records. The last time, Joe tried to say I hadn’t paid my deposit when I first moved in here; but the canceled check was in my files, so I presented it in court and that took care of that. There’s no way Joe can run me off with those tricks, so long as Mr. Penberthy represents my interests.”

  So not everyone who lived in Excelsior was friendly. And Betsy wasn’t as sanguine as Margot about legal maneuvers. What if Joe Mickels succeeded in driving Margot out? Where would Margot move her shop? There didn’t seem to be many empty stores in Excelsior—Betsy hadn’t seen a single one on Water Street, in fact. If Margot had to move to another town, and pay a higher rent, she’d lose customers. Could she then afford to keep Betsy as a guest? When Betsy had tried to talk to Margot about this again, Margot h
ad laughed and waved her hand.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Betsy, don’t worry, we’re fine. Anyway, I’ve already told you: Joe can’t possibly do anything, not really.”

  Sipping her juice, Betsy’s frown deepened. Okay, with the low rent and the fact that her customers were faithful, Margot was doing all right here. But if Joe Mickels did succeed in making her move out, then she’d have to start all over again at an unfamiliar address and a much higher rent. If that happened, could she still afford to pay Betsy a salary and at the same time house and feed her?

  Maybe Betsy should start right in looking for work somewhere else. Tomorrow was Sunday, she’d take a good look at the employment section of the Minneapolis Star Tribune, called by Margot (in that casual way that meant everyone else did, too) “the Strib.”

  There was a sound of a key in a lock. “Hello!” called a chipper voice.

  “In here, Margot,” called Betsy. “Is it time to close already?”

  “Ten minutes past,” came the voice, traveling rapidly through the short hall that passed the kitchen and into the living room. “But I had a good customer and I couldn’t deny her the chance to spend an extra hundred, could I?”

  Betsy got a brief glimpse of her sister as she hurried into the other short hall off which were the bathroom and the bedrooms. From the back one the voice continued, “Are you dressed for the meeting?”

  Betsy looked down at herself. She was wearing an ivory knit dress with short, caped sleeves and a moderately low square-cut neck. Her shoes were a trifle clunky, with gold buckles. “Yes,” she said.

  Something big and furry moved in to block Betsy’s view of her shoes: Sophie. When the cat saw she had attracted Betsy’s attention, she walked into the kitchen to sit significantly beside her empty food dish.

  “I’ll feed Sophie,” Betsy called, having learned almost as quickly as the cat that if she didn’t tell Margot, Sophie would cadge an additional feeding. She took a half scoop of dry food from the big sack under the sink and poured it into Sophie’s dish. lams Less Active certainly described Sophie. Inactive might be even better, but lams apparently didn’t make that variety.