Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01

by Crewel World

  Betsy had gone through boot camp to learn to shower, brush, make up, and dress in an amazingly short time, but somewhere Margot had learned it, too. In just under forty minutes she came into the living room with her hair rearranged, her makeup redone, and wearing a dark sheath dress topped with a short-sleeved sweater that caught the light strangely. Betsy approached her for a closer look.

  “Oooooh,” she said, fingering the weaving. “Oh, it’s that ribbon sweater you were making! It’s beautiful!”

  “Thank you. Is it too long?”

  Betsy stepped back and tilted her head while Margot did a slow pirouette. “N-no,” she said. “Actually, it seems just about right. Golly, I like the way it moves. Is there a trick to the way it’s knitted?”

  “No—Betsy, are you going like that?”

  Betsy looked down at herself. “What, am I daringly short for Excelsior?”

  “Heavens no; but it cools off quite a bit around here when the sun goes down. You’ll want something over that.”

  Margot went into her closet and brought out a cream-colored shawl with extravagantly long fringe that had been tied into a complex pattern of knots for its first ten inches.

  “McNamara lace!” Betsy exclaimed on seeing it, and explained, “In the navy, sailors unlay canvas and tie the fringe into patterns. It’s used as trim, on the captain’s gig for example.”

  “Well, the fringe is too long for me, so why don’t you keep it?”

  Betsy stroked the silky fringe, then looked at her sister, eyes stinging. “Oh, Margot, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “Well, it matches your dress, so you’re welcome. Now drape it over your shoulders and let’s go. Can you walk in those shoes? We’re only a few blocks from the house, it’s ridiculous to drive that short a distance.”

  The house was Christopher Inn, the Victorian bed-and-breakfast Betsy had seen on coming into Excelsior. On the way over, Margot said that the purpose of the gathering was to form a committee to plan a fund-raiser for a child who needed heart surgery. The family had no health insurance and the ‘father was working three jobs to try to raise the money.

  It was typical of Excelsior to rise to such an occasion, Margot had told Betsy proudly, noting that there were round plastic coin collectors at nearly every cash register in town supporting some cause or other. But this would be the most important fund-raiser of the year.

  They climbed the steps to the house and crossed the big old porch and went inside—the door wasn’t locked.

  There were eight people attending the meeting, which was to begin with a light supper served by George Anderson, the proprietor of the Christopher Inn. He was a dark, quiet man with a tennis player’s build.

  Betsy was pleased to note that the house hadn’t suffered much remodeling. The front parlor was intact, with two bay windows, and the dining room was large, with a fireplace. Only two of its eight round tables were set for this meal, marked with bouquets of roses and baby’s breath— leftovers from a wedding, noted Margot as they greeted Shelly.

  Assigned to Betsy and Margot’s table were a handsome man with sun-streaked auburn hair and a big young woman with ash-blond hair that looked natural. Betsy had already noticed more natural blonds in Excelsior than anywhere else she had lived.

  The man was Hudson Earlie, the assistant curator of Asian art at the Minneapolis Museum of Art; the woman was Jill Cross, a police officer.

  “But she comes of a very good family,” added Margot while making the introduction.

  “I’m sure being a cop is no disgrace,” remarked Betsy, a trifle surprised at her sister, taking Jill’s proffered hand, which was large and strong. There was an air of calm about Jill that inspired confidence, even while she gave you a look that seemed to read every peccadillo you had ever done. She was wearing a simple frost-blue dress that matched her eyes.

  Jill said with patently feigned indifference, “It’s okay, even my mother apologizes for me.”

  “What would she have preferred you to do for a living?” asked Earlie as Betsy and Margot seated themselves.

  “Nurse,” replied Jill thoughtfully. “Journalist. Business administrator. Stock-car driver. Checkout clerk at a 7-Eleven. Street sweeper. Streetwalker.” Though her expression remained impassive, Margot had become helpless with giggles and was waving at her to stop.

  Betsy smiled at Hudson Earlie. He was extraordinarily handsome, with an outdoorsman’s permanently sunburned skin. “And how about you, Mr. Earlie? What would your mother have preferred you do?”

  “Doctor,” he said in a good imitation of Jill’s smooth, expressionless voice. “Lawyer. Street sweeper. Used-car salesman.” He leaned forward and concluded in an undertone aimed at both Betsy and Jill, “Cop.” His eyes were a hot blue, his nose short but straight. His mouth, not large, hinted at arrogance, even stubbornness. Then he smiled, a wicked, lusty smile, with laugh lines cut deep. “Call me Hud.”

  “Sure—Hud,” Betsy said, smiling back. As an excuse to tear her eyes away, she arranged her napkin over her lap. “When do we eat?” she asked.

  “In a minute,” said Margot dryly, and when Betsy looked at her and at Jill, she saw them grinning.

  Fine, thought Betsy. “I think you would have made a wonderful policeman,” she said to Hud, batting her eyelashes a trifle. “I bet every woman crook in the city would line up to be interrogated by you.”

  Hud’s smile broadened, and he closed one eye in a not-so-surreptitious wink. “You have a right to remain silent,” he said in his own voice, a pleasant baritone, “but I hope you continue.”

  Betsy made a mental note to find out if he was married.

  For supper, Anderson served big, locally grown tomatoes stuffed with crab-and-celery salad, and sesame toast. Dessert was devil’s-food cake with coconut-caramel icing, cut into generous slabs. Betsy, with the sweet roll still undigested, earned a smile from Margot by taking only two bites. The coffee that came with it was very strong and delicious. Betsy followed Margot’s lead and turned down a refill.

  But without it, she began to sink into that happy languor that generally follows a generous meal. A thin man with dark hair and eyes rose at the adjoining table and rapped gently on his water glass with his dessert fork. “Let’s get started here,” he said with a strong Midwest twang. He rapped again, and when he had their attention, he said, “I think first we need a chairman of this committee.”

  “Who’s he?” Betsy murmured in Margot’s ear.

  “Odell Jamison. He’s our mayor.” She raised her voice. “How about you, Odell?”

  “No, I haven’t got time to do a good job,” said Odell. “I’m already working with the historical society for their Christmas pageant, playing at being mayor, and remodeling my house—if I don’t stay on those painters, they’ll never get it finished.”

  Betsy smiled. Mayor Jamison had listed his profession both second and offhandedly; such a low-key politician couldn’t get elected mayor anywhere but in a small town.

  “How about you, Paul?” said Shelly, who was sitting next to the mayor.

  A young man with a broad, black, closely clipped mustache lifted both hands in protest. “I’ve got enough on my plate right now,” he said.

  “How about you, Margot?” suggested Jill.

  “No, no, I’m on three committees already, plus the shop. And now my sister is in town, so I’ll be busy with her—everyone, this is my sister, Betsy Devonshire, here on an extended visit.” She smiled at the mayor’s table. “I’d like you to consider her an honorary member of this committee, as she’ll be a big help to me on it.”

  There were polite words of greeting from the other table, and an all-around murmur of agreement that Betsy could be a sort-of member; when it ended, Mayor Jamison said, “How ‘bout you, Joe?”

  There was a sudden silence during which every head turned, oddly, toward Margot, who became interested in stirring her coffee.

  A white-haired man seated across from Jamison said, “No time for that, thanks,” in
a gruff voice.

  The tension eased and Paul said, “Then how about you, Jill?”

  “Not till I retire.” That brought chuckles; Jill was probably not yet thirty.

  Betsy studied Joe curiously. His hair was thick and wavy, and looked as if it might once have been blond—his immense eyebrows were the color of sand, as were his old-fashioned bushy sideburns. He looked immensely strong, with a proud nose, wide mouth, and fierce eyes set well back under those eyebrows. Viking blood there, thought Betsy.

  She glanced at Margot, who nodded once. So this was the evil landlord, Joe Mickels.

  “How about you, Shelly?” This came from George Anderson, the inn’s owner, and Betsy was suddenly aware that he was seated between the two tables in a way that made him one of the group. And on the committee, apparently.

  “How about you?” she countered.

  “Well …” he said, and everyone jumped happily on this sign of weakness.

  “Oh, all right,” he said, and there was applause mixed with laughter.

  George proved as deft at running a meeting as he was at serving tables, and soon the committee had agreed to hold the event at the Lafayette Country Club in a month’s time, offering a dance, buffet, cash bar, and silent auction.

  “These silent auctions can be a big success,” said George, “but you’ve got to deliver the goods.” He pointed a finger at every member and asked him or her to pledge something of significant value to the auction and to badger friends and acquaintances to do the same. Margot offered a slash jacket. Shelly groaned with approbation, or acquisitiveness, as Betsy wondered what a “slash jacket” was. Hud offered a Dick Huss glass bowl, and this time the acquisitive sigh came from Margot. Jill offered sailing lessons next summer. The finger wavered, and Betsy, ashamed of being passed over, said she would contribute something, but would need time to think what it might be.

  Joe Mickels offered a luxury weekend at a ski lodge; Shelly ten hours of private tutoring; George a getaway weekend at Christopher Inn, “including an afternoon of bass fishing.”

  When other ideas were solicited, Hud said in his pleasant voice that he had a friend who used to play with Lamont Cranston, and that he would send a request via the friend that they play for this fund-raiser. “I’m sure they’ll at least come up with a good excuse for not doing it,” he said, with an air of confidence that promised better than that. Betsy wondered who Lamont Cranston was—it was a band, of course, not the man who was the Shadow—but what kind of music did they play? She also wondered what she should do if Joe Mickels said anything to her. He looked easy to offend, but should she let him know that of course she supported her sister in their quarrel?

  Betsy was impressed at how Margot gave ideas and recommendations to the committee. She would ask a question or go halfway with an idea so that someone else would answer or complete her thought and so at least share credit for it. At first, Betsy thought nothing of it, but the third time it happened, she realized it was a deliberate and clever ploy.

  Later, reluctant to break up, or perhaps just so caffeinated that going home to bed was not an option, the committee stood in couples or trios on the porch, talking and looking at the houses peeping through the trees that lined the lake, or at the restaurant down on the lakeshore. The Ferris wheel in the parking lot, trimmed in moving red lights, spun gently.

  For all the summertime appearance of the scene, Betsy was glad for the shawl. The breeze was definitely chilly.

  “I don’t understand the Ferris wheel,” she said.

  Margot replied, “There used to be a big amusement park down there, years ago. It sort of commemorates it.”

  Hud said, “I hear they found a buyer for the restaurant and the new owners are going to sell the Ferris wheel.”

  Margot smiled at Betsy. “So things do change, even here in Excelsior.”

  After a little silence, Betsy asked, “How did Joe Mickels get on this committee?”

  Margot only shrugged, so Hud replied, “He’s turning into a big-time developer; he’s got pieces of land working for him all over the state. That ski lodge is his, for example. We can use his money, and his influence.”

  “If he’s what Margot says he is, I’m surprised he’s interested in raising money for causes like this.”

  “Oh, he’s a proactive vulture, all right,” said Hud, displaying that wicked grin. “But this is a relatively small community, and you have to play along to get ahead. People who don’t take part in things like this may find doors closed to them when they want to do business. But I’m surprised he got asked to be part of this fund-raising effort. How about it, Margot; will you be able to work with him?”

  Again Margot shrugged. “At this distance, yes. But you could mention to George that he shouldn’t assign us to the same subcommittee.”

  “You’re nicer than I’d be about him,” said Hud. “But who knows? Maybe this will soften him up. And even if it doesn’t, we might find his hardheadedness useful. He’s got a good business sense, even if he keeps his heart in cold storage.”

  Shivering under her shawl, Betsy smiled. “I should think in Minnesota, you don’t need cold storage; just put things out on your back porch.”

  Hud laughed. “Wait till next July, you’ll change your tune.” He turned to Margot. “That’s when we had summer this year, right, Margot? July seventh and eighth, as I recall.”

  Margot chuckled. “I think you’re right; that was the weekend you took your Rolls off its blocks, right? Hud, I’m coming to the art museum on Wednesday to take a new look at the T‘ang horse. It’s for another needlepoint project. So long as I’m in the city, I’d like to stop by your office and talk about some board business. How’s your schedule?”

  “Pretty tight, but I can make a hole Wednesday morning, I think. About eleven, say?”

  “Thanks. It won’t take long.”

  Mayor Jamison came over then to ask Margot what she had done with the Founders’ Day parade sashes, and from there the talk wandered to other things.

  4

  Shelly Donohue sat at the white plastic table on a white plastic chair outside the Excelo Bakery shop on Water Street. She was eating a “wicked” sandwich—so designated on a hand-lettered placard—consisting of sprouts, tomato, avocado, two kinds of cheese, and green-goddess dressing on herb-flavored foccacio bread baked on the premises. Her own designation of it was “messy but interesting,” as in, “Will you make me one of those messy but interesting veggie sandwiches?” Shelly would not describe anything as wicked except murder and child abuse.

  She also had a cup of cranberry juice, not further designated.

  She was feeling frazzled, and looking a trifle frazzled as well; her hair was coming out of its bun and tendrils of it were lifted up here and there by a cool, vagrant breeze. An all-day preschool session was under way, and there were new laws and regulations to master, new textbooks (one with several egregious errors of fact) to study, and a new principal full of new ideas. And retirement was twenty years away.

  But the morning’s harsh edge was being smoothed away by a bit of friendly gossip. She was sharing her table with Irene Potter, a fellow needleworker, who was not drinking her coffee and was pulling fragments off a poppy-seed muffin with her lean, nimble fingers in lieu of eating it.

  Irene’s shining dark eyes encouraged Shelly to go on with what she was saying.

  “You know, you’d hardly think they were sisters at all,” Shelly continued. “Margot’s such a dainty little thing, so sweet and … and … oh, I know the word’s not considered nice anymore, but she’s a lady. A real lady. Betsy’s nice, too, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not just that they don’t look very much alike; I mean, that sort of thing happens in any family that doesn’t marry one another’s cousins. But Betsy’s …” She paused to think of the right words. “She’s … more so,” she said with an air of having at last put her finger on it. “You should have seen her putting the moves on Hudson Earlie Saturday night. And Hud was moving right back—you
know Hud—but Margot couldn’t say anything right there in front of him.”

  “Yes, we all know Hud,” said Irene, waggling her eyebrows.

  “But did you know Margot hired Betsy to work in the store?”

  “She did?” Irene had worked a few hours in Crewel World, and wanted to work more.

  “And Betsy doesn’t know anything about running a store, or all that much about needlework, for that matter. She asked the dumbest questions.”

  “No!” said Irene.

  “Yes. But she’s trying really hard to pick up on things. And she’s fun to have around, she really seems to like talking with the customers. She sold a whole lot of yarn to this woman by asking her questions about knitting. It was so funny to watch.”

  By her face, Irene didn’t get the joke. “I hear she used to live in San Francisco.” Her expressive voice turned the name into a synonym for depravity.

  Shelly shrugged eloquently. “Yes, she mentioned that. And London, and New York. As if none of us ever go anywhere. She’s been married a few times, too. But no children.” Her face was disapproving of both those facts, though she herself was divorced—once—and had no children.

  Irene said, “Of course, Margot never had children, either. Though I always understood it was Aaron’s fault.” They shared a slightly different expression this time, then smiled to show it was all just in fun. Each considered herself very close to Margot.

  Shelly glanced at her watch then quickly stood and began gathering the remnants of her meal. “Lunch break’s about over. I have to get back.”

  “Yes, you only get forty-five minutes, don’t you?” said Irene, also rising. Her job as a supervisor in the shipping department of a local manufacturer wasn’t as prestigious as Shelly’s, but they gave her an hour for lunch. “So,” she went on, walking Shelly to the trash barrel, her voice hopeful, “if Betsy doesn’t know much, it seems Margot will still be in the market for a part-timer to help out in the shop?” Irene Potter’s ultimate goal in life was to own a needlework shop, and meanwhile to gain full-time employment in Margot’s. When she’d heard Margot’s sister was coming to stay, she had trembled for the few hours of work Margot would give her.