Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 (18 page)

“You will gather together all the assets, pay all debts, distribute what's left to heirs—that is, yourself—and close the estate. We'll ask for unsupervised administration, which should be no problem. Then you file a personal-representative statement to close the estate. It will take at least four months before you can do that, to give creditors time to file claims. So six or seven months overall.”

Betsy said, “It sounds very complicated.”

“It's not, trust me. The procedure is well established and easy to follow. The most complicated part will be computing the taxes, because Congress is reworking the tax codes again. With the old six-hundred-thousand exemption, you can figure a little over two million subject to tax. They are reworking the exemption now, but you'll probably be paying thirty-two percent or more. Minnesota estate tax starts at nine percent.”

“So the checks to the state and fed will be dillies.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“But what about my living expenses, rent and bills and all, in the meantime?”

“Technically, you are not supposed to give yourself any money from the estate even after you are appointed, not until the period of probate runs out; but you can keep records and reimburse yourself. If you are truly in need, we can petition the court to allow you maintenance.”

But Ms. Devonshire obviously didn't like that idea. Penberthy reminded her that Crewel World Incorporated was not included in Margot's personal estate. As the new chief executive and store manager, she could write checks, and pay herself a salary that would let her stay in the apartment and buy groceries.

“Hey, I never thought of that!” she said, and was greatly comforted. Then she sobered again. “I'm afraid Mr. Mickels will continue to make trouble.”

“You may be right. You may, of course, call on me when and if he does.”

His pleasure at continuing to joust with Mr. Mickels showed in his voice, and she gave him another handsome smile. “Thank you, Mr. Penberthy. I will certainly do that.”

Betsy came back to the shop to find Shelly sitting at the table working on a needlepoint canvas that looked, to Betsy, as if it were already finished. A customer was sitting close beside her, watching.

“You got your stitches all nice and even,” Shelly was saying. “So I want to be careful to maintain the same tension.” Her needle probed from below, came up and went down again. She looked up and said, “Hi, Betsy. My housework's done, so I decided to come in early. This is Mrs. Johnson; she wants this finished and framed.”

“What are you doing to it?” asked Betsy.

“Looking for skipped stitches. Everyone has to do this. This is Mrs. Johnson's first big project and she has fewer than a lot of people.”

Mrs. Johnson smiled, first at Shelly, then at Betsy, who wondered if that simple remark wasn't good for the sale of at least one more project to Mrs. Johnson.

Betsy nodded, then looked toward the big checkout desk where an exceedingly handsome young man was conferring with a middle-aged man in a black-on-gray hounds-tooth sports jacket. They both turned to look at her.

“I'm Godwin,” said the young man, and Betsy recognized the name and voice as a part-time employee she had called. “I think Mr. Larson came prepared to write us a check.” He added in a sweet drawl, one eyebrow raised a little too significantly, “It's a shame we haven't finished taking inventory.”

“Yes, I'm afraid we're a little behind where we should be,” said Betsy. “I'm Betsy Devonshire,” she added, holding out her hand. “You must be Mr. Larson, from the insurance agency.”

Taking Godwin's hint, she told the agent that they needed to complete the inventory before they could claim a loss honestly. He was understanding and left.

Two other part-time employees—one barely out of her teens, the other Betsy's age—came from behind the bookshelves where they'd already started counting things. They introduced themselves shyly and went back to work.

Betsy learned a great deal about Crewel World in the next few hours: about stock, about pricing, about storage, about record keeping. Godwin told her he was gay, accepted Betsy's indifference to it, and proved himself very knowledgeable about the workings of the shop.

They were all working in various parts of the shop when Godwin found Betsy's practice knitting in a desk drawer. “What's this?” he called out, holding it up as if it were a dead mouse.

“It's mine,” admitted Betsy. “I'm still learning how.”

That made him take a second look. He stretched it sideways, examining the stitches. “Not bad for a beginner,” he said, “nice and loose. Have you been taking lessons very long?”

“Actually, that's my first try,” she said, with less of an air of confessing to a misdemeanor than a moment before.

“Really? Then this is very nice indeed. But of course you're Margot's sister, so I guess a talent for needlework runs in the family. What are you going to make first?”

Betsy hadn't really thought about it. She'd been learning as a show of support for Margot.

“A scarf's easy and useful,” Shelly suggested.

“Okay,” she said. “A scarf.”

They went back to work and continued until lunchtime, when Shelly went next door and bought sandwiches and an herbal iced tea in celebration of the return of mild and sunny weather. Betsy was suddenly hungry and ate quickly.

While waiting for the others to finish, Godwin brought her a skein of bright red wool and showed her a clever way to cast on using two lengths of yarn. Betsy discovered the doubtful pleasures of knit two, purl two, fifty times a row with an additional odd one at each end. Very soon she decided that it wasn't changing from knit to purl that aggravated, but the nuisance of moving the yarn from the front of the knitting to the back with each change. She felt she could make real progress if she could just knit or just purl.

“You could do that, and it would be faster,” said Godwin. “But this way it will make such a pretty pattern. You'll see.”

Betsy allowed a little additional time for gossip after Godwin and the others had finished their sandwiches. Shelly took out a length of off-white linen on which she was painstakingly cross-stitching an angel in shades of gold, wine, and moss green, consulting a pattern printed in Xs, Os, slashes, and other symbols. Godwin produced a rip-stop nylon sports bag, from which he took his own knitting: a half-finished white cotton sock, done on three small two-ended needles. He worked swiftly with a fourth needle, using tiny gestures, as if he were tickling a kitten.

He paused to look at Shelly's angel. “That is going to be really pretty,” he said.

“Yeah, well I started it on forty-count aida, but only got the face done before my eyes crossed and threatened to stay that way if I didn't quit. This twenty-four count is much more comfortable, even if it is linen.”

Betsy tried to imagine cross-stitching on fabric woven forty threads to the inch and her own eyes crossed in sympathy.

But soon the talk drifted to Margot.

About how scrupulous she was in sharing out part-time hours.

About how she paid only base wages, but allowed plenty of chat and personal project work—as long as it was needlework—in the shop while waiting for customers.

About how she insisted customers were the most important part of the place and that her employees must always go the extra mile to ensure customer satisfaction, whether it was special orders or returns or private lessons “just to get them started.”

About the loyalty felt in return by her customers. “We have several customers who now spend their winters in Arizona or Mexico, but who will buy a winter's worth of projects before they leave rather than buy them from someone else,” Godwin said, to LeAnn's emphatic nod.

“And we have some real talented needleworkers in the area,” said LeAnn. “For example, Irene Potter—have you seen her work?” she asked Betsy.

“No, but I've heard it's wonderful.”

“She's a difficult person, but her work belongs in the Smithsonian, I kid you not.”

“Whereas Hud Earlie is a really easy person,” said Shelly, exchanging a significant look with Godwin.

“What does that mean?” demanded Betsy.

“He fancies himself a bit, that's all,” said Godwin airily. “I mean, where
does
he get that hair dyed? And a matching brass cane, for heaven's sake,
and
a smile that says he's God's gift to the world.” Godwin tossed back a lock of his own unnaturally blond hair and Betsy smirked into her knitting—may be Godwin was miffed that Hud wasn't gay.

“Margot had his number, that's for sure,” said the younger of the volunteers. “He never got away with anything when she was around.”

“Margot had all our numbers,” Shelly put in gently.

The talk went on, and soon there were sniffles. “It was such a beautiful funeral.” Godwin sighed. “Didn't you just love that reading about the woman who dresses her servants in scarlet and is always busy with business?” He said to Betsy, “Her Christmas gift to her employees every year is something knitted; year before last it was red mittens, that same shade of red you're working with.”

Shelly said, “And that part about the sashes. Wasn't that amazing?”

“But everyone laughed during that!” Betsy protested. “I thought it was a joke!”

“No, no, nooooo.” Godwin looked at her, very surprised. “We had a Founders' Day parade last year and Margot made bright green sashes for the people playing the characters so the watchers would know who they were supposed to be. So when that psalm—”

“It was from Proverbs,” Shelly corrected.

“Whatever,” said Godwin. “When he read that, it was the high point of the whole funeral, if there can be a high point of a
funeral
. I mean, the whole thing was so
apt.
No one will ever forget that reading.”

Betsy was working on the fourth row of knitting without seeing any sign of the pattern promised when the door went
bing
and a woman came in. She was tall, about sixty years old, slim, and wearing a heather-blue knit dress.

Betsy put her knitting down and stood. “May I help you?”

“I understand the owner has died,” she said. “I had placed an order with her and I wonder what the status of it might be.”

Betsy went to the desk. “What is the name, please, and what was it you ordered?”

“I am Mrs. Lundgren. Mrs. Berglund agreed to copy her needlepoint Chinese horse for me for one thousand dollars, to be picked up here before Thanksgiving Day. Since she obviously won't be able to fill that order, I am here to inquire if someone else has taken on the task.”

Margot had told Betsy about the commission, and had remarked that Mrs. Lundgren was a longtime customer. Yet the woman standing at the counter did not indicate in the slightest that she was shocked or saddened by the death of Margot.

“I see the framed original has been taken down,” said Mrs. Lundgren. “Do you know if it will be for sale?”

“That's
what's missing!” shouted Godwin.

“What do you mean, it's missing?” Shelly asked. “It was here last Wednesday, I saw Margot matching silks with it. In fact, I hung it back up on the wall myself.”

Godwin came around the desk to look on the floor under the wall where the horse had hung. “I wonder where it got to?”

“Broken; stepped on, probably,” said Betsy. “Thrown away.”

Godwin stared at her. “Did you throw it away?”

“No, of course not. Actually, I don't remember seeing it while we were cleaning up. I know I didn't throw it away. But somebody did. Or else why isn't it here?”

But everyone else emphatically denied that anyone would have thrown away Margot's T‘ang horse. They all knew it was Margot's finest original needlepoint piece, that she had loved it. Godwin said there was not a flaw in it, and Shelly said it was very valuable, with a glance at Mrs. Lundgren. They all agreed that even if it had been broken out of its frame and dirtied, it would have been set aside to be cleaned and reframed, not thrown away.

“So it must be here somewhere,” Betsy concluded. She began to look through the several boxes of things still waiting to be sorted. Everyone, except Mrs. Lundgren of course, began searching the whole shop.

The search took a long while; they even emptied and sorted through the trash bags. It continued long after Mrs. Lundgren had given up and gone away. But at last Betsy called a halt. “It's gone,” she said. “I told the police I thought nothing was taken in that burglary, but it appears I was wrong. Margot's needlepoint T‘ang Dynasty horse is missing.”