Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 Page 11

  “I don’t know, yet.”

  “You are going to keep the shop open, aren’t you?”

  Betsy started to say no, but instead said, “I haven’t finalized my plans. Does Mr. Mickels know about this incorporation?”

  “I don’t know how he could.”

  Her voice sharpened. “You mean she didn’t tell him?”

  “It is not required by law that she inform him ahead of time, if that’s what you’re asking. And again, I don’t think there was time between the signing of the documents and … her demise.”

  “Then I know,” she whispered. “I know. Thank you very much for coming by, Mr. Penberthy,” she said, rising. “This has been very enlightening.”

  “But—” he began.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Penberthy,” she repeated, more firmly, and walked to the door.

  He followed unwillingly. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promised. “There are still a great many details you need to be advised of.”

  “Okay. Or how about I call you later this week?” She all but pushed him out the door, closing it in his face as he turned to say something more.

  Betsy slammed the door shut and ran to the phone. Margot had a list of phone numbers taped to the wall beside it, and Jill’s number was first under the Cs.

  Jill answered on the second ring, and Betsy said, “I got it, I knew there was something, and I’ve got it!”

  “Got what?”

  “The proof! Motive! Everything! Margot was murdered, I knew there was something funny about the whole burglary thing, and now I know who did it!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Penberthy was just here, and he told me about that legal business between Margot and Joe Mickels, over the lease. He wanted her out, she wouldn’t go, there’s a thick file of all the legal tricks he’s been playing trying to get her out. So at last he just killed her!” Betsy made a huge gesture of triumph at the ceiling. “And now there’s this incorporation thing! It’s clear as daylight!”

  “What are you talking about? How could Mr. Penberthy give you proof that Joe Mickels is a murderer?”

  “Mickels tried every way he could think of to get Margot to give up and move out, but she wouldn’t budge. And his threats turned ugly, so she decided to protect herself by incorporating—see, you can’t murder a corporation! But she was waiting to sign the final papers before she told him—and he murdered her before she got a chance! Or maybe he somehow found out what she intended to do and tried to kill her before the deal could go through. Penberthy says Joe didn’t know, don’t you see? I told you that burglar idea was all wrong! And now we know he did it! Who do I tell, how do I get him arrested?”

  “Betsy, Betsy, calm down. Take a breath, for heaven’s sake. Tell me, exactly what did Mr. Penberthy say?”

  “He doesn’t know Joe Mickels did it, of course. But he showed me this thick file of legal stuff, the record of the fight Mickels and Margot have been having over the shop. Mickels wanted Margot to move out so he could tear down this building and put up a bigger one.”

  “Yes, I know. And?”

  “Well, don’t you see? Murdering Margot didn’t do him any good. Margot finished incorporating, you see, and there was something wrong with the lease, some kind of assignment thing, which she did, so I get the shop. So it doesn’t mean a thing, not a thing, that he murdered her!”

  Jill, trying to understand, said, “So because it doesn’t mean a thing, that’s proof he murdered her?”

  Betsy nearly shouted yes, then swallowed the word whole. Because that wasn’t what she meant. What had she meant? Her “proof” that Mickels had murdered her sister was gone as suddenly as a hatful of smoke.

  “Betsy?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I guess not.” Betsy dropped the receiver back into its cradle and went to sit on the couch in the living room. What was the matter with her?

  She remembered back when menopause had started, how she’d suddenly be overcome with some notion: to devote all her spare time to gardening or the study of medieval history, or becoming a vegetarian. She’d start with great determination and energy, only to wake from the vision in a week or a month and wonder what on earth she had been thinking of.

  This seemed an echo of that curious time. Where on earth—she suddenly remembered that she was out of estrogen, had been for over two weeks. She’d meant to get here, find a doctor, get a new prescription, but of course all that had flown out of her head because of Margot’s death.

  So menopause was back. And where some people get hot flashes, Betsy got hot ideas.

  She ran the conversation with Mr. Penberthy over in her head, looking for something that might actually point to Joe Mickels as a murderer.

  What the attorney had given her was confirmation of the legal battle between her sister and her sister’s landlord, and the incorporation trick Margot had pulled on him. Margot hadn’t realized it might be important to tell Mickels right away. Well, maybe it wasn’t important, maybe he wasn’t the murderer. But there was the place Betsy had jumped off, assuming Margot was murdered because she failed to tell Joe Mickels. What had their mother called notions with no substance to them? Snow on your boots. Nothing but snow on her boots, sliding off as soon as you took two steps, melting as soon as you came inside.

  No wonder Penberthy had stared at her so strangely. What he must have thought!

  She suddenly realized that he had come to tell her about her sister’s estate—and that they hadn’t gotten to that. She was sure her sister wasn’t rich, but maybe there was an IRA or life-insurance policy or something somewhere. And Betsy had wanted to ask what she needed to do to close the shop and turn whatever there was into cash so she could get out of this place.

  She would definitely call Penberthy tomorrow. She went to the refrigerator and wrote on Margot’s sheet of lined paper under Margot’s magnet shaped like a sheep, Call Penberthy, and underlined it and put three exclamation marks after it. Then she started looking for something to fix for supper.

  She hoped there was enough money to keep her in sandwiches until the closing sale was over. Funny she hadn’t told Penberthy she wasn’t staying.

  Soon she’d have to figure out how to use Margot’s computer. Margot had access to the Internet, and surely a search engine could find a Web site that would tell her how to get on that trailer-park waiting list.

  Jill tried to lose herself in her current needlepoint project, but her concern about Betsy kept getting in the way of her concentration. The ultrasuede she was using for the horse’s hide, not sturdy to begin with, kept getting frailer and frailer because she kept having to unstitch the section she was working on.

  When she had first met Margot’s sister, she had thought she was a live one, full of wit and good humor, just the kind of person she liked.

  Now she was concerned for the woman’s sanity. Betsy was shut down tight except for these nutso eruptions—Joe Mickels a murderer, for Pete’s sake!

  And wanting to close Crewel World. Well, that was more understandable. Betsy wasn’t Margot and didn’t have Margot’s investment in Excelsior, and she didn’t know how the store was a warm center of activity for the action-minded. Probably she wasn’t a do-gooder like Margot had been in any case. And now the murder had taken away her chance to learn what Margot meant to the town and its people.

  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.