Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 (15 page)

Jill put down the needlework. Whenever she was alone and any thought of Margot happened by, she had to stop whatever she was doing because her eyes filled. God, how she missed Margot! All her friends loved Margot's warmth and borrowed from her bottomless store of ideas and energy. But Margot and Jill had become closer than that. Jill was a good little Norwegian. She didn't show her emotions in public, or even to many close friends, but with Margot it had been different. With Margot she could let down all the barriers, talk about how tough it was being a cop, how her boyfriend was pressuring her to quit and start a family with him. And how tempted she was to do just that. Margot had listened, allowed Jill to talk until Jill herself understood that, for now, her sense of duty would not allow her to quit and be happy about it. But she had also nourished Jill's sense of humor until if Jill chose to laugh right out loud, laugh till her sides ached, that was okay, too. With Margot it was all right, with Margot—Jill sobbed once aloud, startling herself. Get a grip, she told herself. Get a grip.

It really wasn't fair that Margot should have died at the hands of someone who could have asked for her help and gotten it, gladly. Margot was always helping—kids with heart problems, people down on their luck, even Prisoner's Aid.

That did it; Jill broke down and wept bitterly. When the storm ended, she went to the bathroom and washed her face.

Back in the living room she picked up her project, found her place, and resolutely stuck the needle in. If she could get into the rhythm of the needlework, she would find peace. That's why she loved needlepoint—it worked like meditation. It was better than meditation, actually, because after a while you found you had both peace of mind and a work of art.

In another minute she was calm and could think some more about what Betsy had asserted. The woman had been right about one thing: Margot had no business sneaking down those stairs to see who was burgling her store. It was a stupid thing to do, and Margot was nobody's fool.

So maybe there was something to Betsy's insistence that there was more to this than Detective Mike Malloy was saying.

But if it wasn't a burglar, then—who? To think Joe Mickels had turned into a murderer in order to break a lease—that was ridiculous!

Yes, yes, Joe wanted Margot out of his building. Jill recalled when Joe had made one of his early moves, thinking that if he got everyone else out, Margot would surrender. So he had sent out eviction notices and soon, except for Margot, the place was empty. Little good it did him. Margot was one of those short, thin women who looked like dandelion fluff, but who was actually made of steel. She wasn't proud or needlessly stubborn, but she knew the real value of Crewel World: what it meant to the stitchers in the area, to the women of Excelsior—to all of Excelsior, really. She had come to her full strength and purpose after her husband died, and Joe had been a fool not to see that. He'd ended up getting new tenants for the other two stores, and new renters for the apartments. None of them seemed very worried about the month-to-month conditions under which they rented, probably because they were locals and knew something about Margot.

But greedy and impatient as Joe Mickels was, Jill couldn't believe he'd resort to murder.

No, this was just Betsy wild to find closure, to get someone arrested. Jill was sure this was some peculiar form of mourning, that what she needed to do was cry her eyes out—Jill had a feeling Betsy hadn't shed any tears over this yet—and then she'd straighten up.

But meanwhile, what if she called Mike?

Or contacted some reporter?

Lord, what a stink that would make!

Jill leaned sideways and lifted the receiver of the phone off its base on the end table. Dialing swiftly, she was rewarded with a busy signal, She disconnected, waited, and tried again. Still busy. She'd better get over there.

10

I rene Potter struggled with her harried nerves until finally a good and necessary calm came over her. This was her great opportunity, and she must not, must not, must not mess it up.

She began quite coolly to reason this out, to be sure she was right in her plan of action.

Margot was dead, dead and buried, any quarrel between them gone, forgotten.

Excelsior had had a needlework shop for a very long time, and it was not right to discontinue that tradition.

Betsy Devonshire might be Margot's sister, but she didn't even know how to knit, and Shelly had said she didn't know anything at all about running a needlework shop.

Whereas Irene Potter knew everything about needlework, and almost everything about running a small business.

And she had over sixty thousand dollars in savings.

Therefore it was right, good, and proper that Irene should take over that shop.

Sixty thousand wasn't really enough, of course. Though if Ms. Devonshire was as ignorant as she seemed to be, it might do. If not, then it would serve as a down payment.

With her energy and knowledge, Irene knew she could make a much bigger success of a needlework shop than Margot. After all, Margot hadn't needed to make a living out of it, as Irene did. So it was clear that she, Irene Potter, should take over the needlework shop.

And when she did, then everyone would see that she was good at this! She'd show those people who said she wasn't any good with people! When they had to come to her, then they'd see; the shop would be wonderful, better than before, and everyone would love her for ensuring that the tradition continued.

That thought set off an almost painful excitement, and she had to stop and take several calming breaths. That made her smile. Jill was always saying that: take a breath. Amusement calmed her nerves to steadiness.

Then she got into her raincoat, took up her umbrella, made sure her savings book was in her purse, and left her room. Outside, on the sidewalk, she raised herself onto her toes, pivoted in the direction of the lake, and began walking.

 

Jill's sharp questioning had brought Betsy to her senses, but she still had felt restless, needing to do something. So she went down to the shop and found the list of employees and their phone numbers, brought it up, and started calling. Before long she found two more of them available to help with inventory tomorrow during the day. Also, Shelly could come after twelve, and another would come by after five to help Shelly take up where the day workers left off.

One of the part-timers who had done inventory before said it would take at least two days, maybe three if it was as bad as Betsy said. This person—a male, oddly enough—recommended she call the insurance agent, which she did (TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR SERVICE his calendar on the kitchen wall advertised). Betsy wasn't up to seeing him tonight, so he would also come by tomorrow.

The phone rang. It seemed as if every time she hung up, it rang again. It was, as before, someone with a cat they thought might be Sophie. This one, by the description, was a kitten.

“No, Sophie's big, really big. Huge,” Betsy said. “But thank you for calling, and I hope you find the owner of the kitten.”

She had no more than taken her hand off the phone when the doorbell rang. She went to push the button that released the lock. She should go down and unlock it and stick up a note:
Bring Alleged Sophies Up to Apartment One.

So far two people had come by with cats. The first time, seeing the large heap of white fluff in the woman's arms, her heart had leaped with joy—but it hadn't been Sophie.

The second one, brought in a carrier, hadn't any white on it at all.

It was sad and disturbing to realize how many homeless cats there were in just this small town.

So she was really surprised when she opened the door this time and it was Joe Mickels standing there.

Betsy nearly slammed the door in his face, but restrained herself. Still, she managed a good degree of frost in her voice as she asked, “What do you want?”

“We've got some business to discuss, Ms. Devonshire,” he said. His voice was calm, so decided a contrast to his fierce expression that it occurred to her his face looked that way naturally. “May I come in? This won't take long.”

“Very well.” She stepped back and led him into the living room. Because she did not want him to sit in her sister's chair, she took it, and when she did, he sat on the love seat.

“I understand you are taking inventory in the store.”

“We haven't begun yet, we're still cleaning up after—” The words choked her, she could not finish the sentence. “Anyhow how did you find that out?”

He showed a fierce grin. “This is a small town.”

“Then perhaps you also know I have spoken with Mr. Penberthy,” she said, allowing the ice to show once more, “and he tells me we need to complete an inventory to close the estate.”

“Any idea how long that will take?”

“At least three days.”

“I can find some helpers if you need them to hurry things along, and to help you set up for the going-out-of-business sale. How about I let you stay in the apartment until everything's finished?”

Something about this offer of a favor got her back up. “What if I decide to keep the shop open?”

“Of course you won't decide that,” he said, his certainty now reaching the insufferable stage. “You can't, since the lease ended when your sister died.”

“You're wrong. I have the option of continuing the operation of Crewel World.”

It was wonderful to see his color change, to watch his eyes widen, then narrow, to see the way the nostrils in that beak of a nose widened. “What idiot told you that?”

“Mr. Penberthy told me that Margot incorporated herself and ‘assigned' the lease to the corporation. I was made vice-president of the corporation, and I can keep Crewel World open if I want to.”

If she wanted proof that Mickels had not been told about the incorporation, she got it. He jumped to his feet and flung his hands over his head. His raincoat spread itself wide, making him appear enormous in the low-ceilinged room. “That's not true!” he shouted. “I don't believe Penberthy told you that! This building is mine, this property is mine, and the lease died with your sister! You're out, d‘you hear? Out! I'll get an eviction notice on you. You'll be out of that shop in thirty days, and this building will be gone before the ground freezes! I've waited too long for this, and I won't have you start in on me like Margot did!”

Betsy was on her feet now, too. Some little alarm was ringing, but she was beyond hearing it, and was about to make the big accusation when the alarm became a real sound, the sound of the doorbell pealing. It rang in one long noise that continued until she ran to push the door release.

She opened the apartment door to look out and see who had such an urgent need to see her.

In just seconds Irene Potter's excited face appeared in the stairwell, and when she saw Betsy waiting, she raised a thin arm to shake a wet umbrella at her. “I'm so glad to find you at home, Betsy!” she said, rushing up the stairs. “I have something exciting to tell you; I just could not wait!”

Betsy had to step aside or be sluiced down by Irene's wet raincoat as she brushed by.

Irene trotted into the living room, shedding water all the way and exclaiming about the weather and her breathless state. “I hurried over because I was afraid someone else might be talking to you, and I wanted to be the first if I could—” She stopped in mid-sentence to stare. “Why, Mr. Mickels, what are you doing here?”

“This is my building, I can come here if I like,” he growled.

“Do you mean to tell me that you often call on your tenants?” Irene demanded, her tone suggesting she had a personal interest in his answer.

“I have business to discuss with Ms. Devonshire,” he said, a little more mildly.

“Why, I'm here on business, too.” Irene turned to Betsy. “No doubt you have heard that I am quite an expert needleworker,” she began in a reasonable tone, but excitement got the better of her and she continued all in a rush, “and I want you to know that I have some private financial resources, and a great deal of experience in running a small business as both an employee of Crewel World and as former manager of Debbie's Gifts, so when you are ready to sell Margot's shop, I know you will give me right of first refusal.”

“I'm tearing down the building,” announced Mickels.

“What? What? But that would spoil everything!”

“If it spoils some nutty plan you've concocted, then I'm twice as glad I can do what I like with my own property.”

Irene approached Mickels like a cat approaching a dog, but the man stood his ground. She came so close her forehead was nearly touching his nose. Then she lifted her face to his—for an instant Betsy was horrified to think she was going to lay a big wet one right on his lips—but she only said with quiet certainty, “I am going to be the new owner of the best needlework shop in this part of the state, maybe in the whole state, and if you get in my way, I'll hurt you!”

This statement was in such marked contrast to Betsy's first thought that she giggled. Both of them turned on her.

“What's so funny?” they asked in near unison.

“The both of you,” said Betsy. “You're both hilariously wrong. I don't know what I'm going to do about the shop, but I doubt I will sell it to you, Ms. Potter; and until I decide, and so long as the lease is in effect, you can't evict me, Mr. Mickels.”

She walked over to Margot's chair and sat down. “What's more, I am so greatly offended by the two of you squabbling over the shop like vultures that I think I'll do whatever I can to keep either of you from profiting from Margot's death. In fact—”