Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 Page 5

  Shelly, secure in her summer hours in Crewel World, smiled. “Probably not, but why don’t you go talk to her? Meet Betsy, too. Maybe you two would get along. Got to run. Bye-bye.”

  Irene stood on the sidewalk in the bright sunshine, staring after her. Irene had a tendency to see everyone as a rival or potential rival, so Shelly’s parting remarks gave her an idea that was positively brilliant. Know thine enemy, that was biblical, wasn’t it? Or was it Shakespearean? Never mind, if she went over there and made friends, then she might see how to sabotage this Betsy person. Who, after all, knew next to nothing about clerking in a needlework store, while Irene knew everything; that alone might nullify the blood connection.

  She hurried to scoop up the remains of her muffin and the paper coffee cup and toss them into the trash container. She dusted crumbs off herself with her napkin, then inspected herself in the window of the bakery. Dark slacks, white blouse, gray vest hand-crocheted herself with cotton thread in a pineapple pattern, and her favorite earrings, shaped like tiny scissors. She patted her dark curly hair, cropped close to her narrow head. She looked neat and competent. She smiled at the reflection, admiring the whiteness of her teeth. Perfect!

  She rose onto her toes before stepping off in the direction of Crewel World, a mannerism she had seen in a musical once and copied whenever she was feeling ebullient. She had twenty minutes left of her lunch hour, time enough to get there and start making friends with her new rival. What fun!

  Betsy sat behind the big old desk that Margot used as a checkout counter. She was biting on her lower lip. In her hands were two metal knitting needles and a ball of cheap purple yarn. Open on the desk was a thin booklet that promised to teach her how to knit in one day.

  The reason her lower lip was being held in place was that doing so prevented her from sticking her tongue out.

  Betsy considered herself very well coordinated. She could ride, she could shoot, she could thread a needle on the first try. Back when her hair was long, she’d taught herself to French-braid it down the back of her head without looking. But knitting was different.

  “Casting on” she could do. She’d cast on twenty-five stitches, as instructed, and on the second try done it loosely enough so that knitting was something she now could also do, after a fashion. She’d proved that by doing about an inch of knitting.

  But purling was not possible. The needle went through the knitted stitch, apparently as illustrated, and allowed itself to have a bit of yarn wrapped over it, but it wouldn’t capture and bring through the purl stitch. Not without the aid of a third hand, which she didn’t have.

  Not that she could see why anyone wanted to purl anyhow. It looked like the same thing as knitting, according to the illustration, except up and down instead of across. Which is why it was impossible. One knitted from one side to the other, not upward.

  Could it be some kind of secret knitters’ thing? They let outsiders try and try to purl while they, the cognoscenti, the in-crowd, the clique, rolled on the floor snorting and giggling? And after a week or two allowed as how there was no such thing as purling? Sure, it was just a hazing thing they did to people who wanted to join the knitting fraternity—er, sorority. Though Betsy knew there were men who knitted. Sorternity?

  Wait a second. If she tucked the end of the empty needle under her arm … Rats, for a second there she’d thought she’d got it.

  She gave up and went back to knitting another row, slowly easing the needle through, wrapping the yarn, lift-twist-tipping it back, slipping the old stitch off.

  She remembered how her mother would sit and watch television or her children play in the park, while her hands, as if with an intelligence of their own, moved in a swift, compact pattern and produced sweaters and scarves and mittens by the yard.

  And she’d watched Margot do the same on Sunday evening up in the apartment.

  While here she struggled slowly, stitch by stitch. Still, she was actually knitting. If she kept this up, in a year she’d have a potholder.

  Margot hadn’t watched television while she knitted, but talked with Betsy. Of course, there had been the odd pause while Margot counted stitches—knitters were forever losing track, it seemed—but on the whole, Margot had been able to keep up her end of the conversation.

  It had been very comfortable up in that apartment, the puddles of yellow light making everything warm and intimate. They’d done some catching up—though now that she thought about it, Betsy had been allowed to do most of the talking, about Professor Hal (the pig), and the cost of living in beautiful San Diego (the sunlight in April on the white buildings and the endless sussurant crashing of the ocean, the dry, harsh, beautiful desert), and the big El Niño of ‘97 spoiling things.

  Margot had said El Niño had even reached as far as Minnesota that year, giving them a very mild winter. Betsy, recalling the news footage of snow up to the eaves of Minnesota houses, decided that mild temperatures were a relative thing. Was she up to a Minnesota winter, she who could not knit well enough to produce a pair of mittens? Maybe she should cut this visit short and be on her way before the hard freeze set in.

  She had asked, “Is living in a small town like it is in books, everyone knowing everyone else’s business?”

  “It is harder to be anonymous, because there is only the one main street where everyone shops, so even if you don’t know someone’s name, you recognize the face. It’s like when you take the bus to and from work; you don’t know the people who ride with you, not really, but you recognize their faces. And if someone’s been absent for a few days and then gets on with his leg in a cast, you might express concern, even ask him what happened, as if he were a friend.”

  Betsy had nodded. Okay, living in a small town was like sharing a commute. She could do that.

  “And if you get really sick of small-town living there’s Minneapolis and St. Paul down the road—and hey, there’s the Mall of America, right? Is it as big as they say? How often do you go there?”

  “About as often as you visited the Statue of Liberty when you lived in New York City.”

  “But that was different! You go, you climb, you look out, you go home. At the Mall of America you can … shop.”

  “That’s true. I went when it first opened, and I’ve been back, I think, twice. No, three times, twice to take visitors and once because they have a specialty shoe shop. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m hard to fit.” Margot had stuck out a small foot complacently. She counted stitches for a bit, then continued, “But you know, there’s so much stuff there, a great deal of it things you don’t really need, like dried flower arrangements and personalized scents for your bath. To be so rich that you can shop as a form of recreation is … sinful. Yet people come from all over the world to entertain themselves by buying things they don’t really need.” She moved her shoulders. “It makes me ashamed somehow.” She stopped to count stitches again, and then twinkled over at Betsy. “I know, you want to go glut yourself in all that shopping anyhow, be sinful for a day. Okay, maybe a week from Wednesday?”

  And while they had continued talking, about movies and books, Margot’s hands performed the same compact dance as Mother’s had, and before they stopped to get ready for bed, the sweater she was knitting had become longer and developed a braid pattern.

  So if Margot and Mother could do it while talking, by gum Betsy could do it while concentrating. She bit down harder on her captured lip and sped up to three stitches a minute.

  She was concentrating so hard that when the door made its electronic sound, she jumped and, dammit, the needle slipped and pulled out of about seven stitches. Before she could figure out what to do, a bony, ice-cold hand covered hers.

  She glanced up and saw a stick-thin woman with short dark hair that stuck up in odd-looking curls all over her little head. Like Betty Boop, thought Betsy. Except the face wasn’t Boop’s merry square, it was long and narrow, with deep lines from nostril to mouth. The eyes were dark and intent. The woman suddenly showed bright, pate
ntly false teeth, and Betsy wanted to back away, but was held by the icy grip.

  “M-may I help you?” she asked.

  “No, my dear, may I help you?” said the woman in a chirpy voice that rang as false as the teeth.

  “Help me what?” asked Betsy.

  “With what you are doing,” said the woman, the smile slipping a trifle, looking pointedly at the knitting and back at Betsy.

  “Oh, this. Why, do you know how to knit?”

  The woman laughed a genuine laugh. “Of course I do! I know how to do every kind of needlework there is, except sewing canvas into sails. What seems to be the problem with your knitting?”

  With a small effort, Betsy managed to free her hands. “It’s not the knitting, exactly. It’s the purling. I just don’t get how to do it. And anyhow, now I’ve spoiled what I was doing, pulling the needle out.”

  “Oh, that’s easy to fix.” The woman took the knitting from Betsy’s hands and deftly rethreaded the stitches onto the needle. “See? Now, to purl, you hold the needles like this,” she said, putting them together in what Betsy was sure was the same way she herself had held them while trying to purl. “See, you go through like this, come around like this and off, and through and around and off, and-through-around-and-off.” If she’d continued as slowly as she’d begun, Betsy might have learned something. But she repeated “through and around and off” faster and faster while her hands worked more and more vigorously, until she’d done the row. Then she handed the needles back to Betsy. “Now you try it,” she said briskly.

  Betsy took the needles, turned the work around to begin the next row and tried to remember where to poke the empty needle through the first stitch. It went in front, she remembered that, but was it through the same direction as the filled needle was pointing, or the other way?

  “Here, dear, let me show you again,” said the woman impatiently, starting to grab at the needles. Betsy lifted her hands, trying to keep possession.

  Bing went the electronic note as the door to the shop opened.

  The woman turned toward the door, and Betsy pushed back from the desk, rising.

  It was Jill Cross, the police officer, this time in uniform, looking even taller and broader, probably because of that odd hat police officers wear and the thick belt around her hips, laden with gun and flashlight and handcuffs. She looked very authoritarian, and Betsy, who had been growing uneasy about the mad knitter, was glad to see her. But the other woman was already out into the aisle, one hand lifted in greeting.

  “Good afternoon, Officer Jill!” she gushed, touching Jill familiarly on the upper arm. “What are we buying today?”

  “Good afternoon, Irene.” Jill nodded, swinging her elbow forward to free it. “Hi, Betsy,” she added. “Did that ultrasuede I ordered come in?” Jill took off her hat, exposing her ash-blond hair, pulled back into a firm knot.

  “Let me just check,” Irene said, fawning.

  “Wait a second, Irene,” said Jill. “Margot’s trying to bring Betsy up to speed on running the shop, so let’s let her find the order for me.”

  Irene obediently halted and turned toward Betsy, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

  Betsy began trying to think where Margot kept incoming orders.

  “Shall I show you?” asked Irene.

  “No, I remember now,” said Betsy, and looked in a cardboard box on the floor under the desk. When she came up with the small package, Irene Potter’s superior smile turned into something scary. It may have been a desperate attempt at a broad smile, but there was menace in it. Then she whirled and fled from the shop.

  “Is … is she all right?” asked Betsy.

  “Irene? Sure. Well, maybe she’s a hair off center. She’s so desperate to buy her own needlework shop that it colors everything she does. It’s possible she’s been hoping Margot would die of something so she could start her own needlework shop. The town isn’t big enough for two of them.”

  “So why doesn’t she move?”

  “Because her ancestors were among the first settlers out here, and she would never think of moving away. But now you’re here, and it would be too much to hope that both of you die.” Jill grinned.

  “Both…” Betsy hardly knew where to begin her response to that. “She thinks I’m going to take over the shop?”

  “She probably suspects you and Margot are going to run it together. At the very least, you have put her out of her part-time work here. She just doesn’t realize she hasn’t a prayer of succeeding on her own, even if this place closes. I mean, would you go into a store a second time to buy something from her?”

  Betsy grimaced. “She isn’t dangerous, is she?”

  Jill said sharply, “Now don’t go getting weird ideas! The only thing she’s crazy about is needlework. She’s actually tremendously talented at it. Most of it is museum quality. She routinely takes first prize in any contest she enters. Her problem is, she was never properly socialized. A few years ago Irene begged and nagged until Margot hired her to teach a class, but Irene has no patience with people not as talented as she is, and every one of her students quit by the fourth lesson.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, she was trying to show me how to purl when you came in, but wouldn’t slow down enough for me to catch on. Now let’s see if I remember how to open the cash register.”

  A few minutes later Betsy was handing over the correct change. “Where’s Margot?” Jill asked, pocketing her money. “I’ve got a question for her.”

  “Upstairs having a bowl of soup. She’ll be back any second. Do you want to wait?”

  “I can’t, I’m on patrol. Tell her I’ve got a pair of tickets to the Guthrie, and my boyfriend went and switched shifts with someone, so now he can’t go. Ask her if she wants to come with me.”

  A new voice asked, “What’s the show?”

  They turned; it was Margot, coming in from the back.

  “The Taming of the Shrew.”

  “Oooooh,” sighed Margot. “When are the tickets for?”

  “Tomorrow. I know Wednesdays are your day off, so I was hoping you could make it.”

  “The Guthrie!” said Betsy, remembering. “I’ve heard about the Guthrie. It’s been written up in national magazines, hasn’t it? It’s supposed to be a great place to see good plays. I’d forgotten it was way up here in Minneapolis—or is it in St. Paul?”

  “Minneapolis,” said Jill, and for some reason there was disapproval again in her voice.

  Margot explained, “Minneapolis and St. Paul don’t like being mistaken for one another. Jill, I’m sorry, I can’t go. I promised to make a presentation at our city-council meeting about next year’s art fair tomorrow evening. Debbie Hart’s going to be out of town and I promised her I’d do it. I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe another time. Though I hate to see this ticket go to waste.”

  “Why don’t you take Betsy?”

  “Me?” They looked at her and Betsy tried to explain the tone of voice that had come out in. “I mean, I like Shakespeare very much, but if this is a grand production, you don’t want to waste that invitation on someone you hardly know. Surely another friend …”

  But some signal must have run between Margot and Jill because the latter said, “Betsy, you’ll have to take a look at what passes for the big city in this part of the world sooner or later. Might as well be tomorrow. So let’s make a night of it; we can have dinner at Buca’s, and you can tell me how awful Italian food is in the upper Midwest. Then we’ll go see how badly our legitimate theater compares to the stuff on the Great White Way.”

  Betsy took a breath to say no, but Margot had that look that meant she was hoping Betsy would not be rude, so Betsy turned to Jill and said only a little stiffly, “Well, I’ve only seen one Broadway production, so I hardly think I’m qualified to compare the Guthrie to the Great White Way. But on the other hand, I lived just two blocks away from the best Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, so I’ll be glad to come sneer at what the upper Midwest dares to c
all Italian food.”

  Margot laughed, but Betsy wasn’t sure Jill was amused. After she left, Betsy asked, “Margot, do you really have to go to a city-council meeting?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’m grateful for the ticket, but I’m not sure Jill and I will get along.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I’m sure once you get to know her, you’ll like her very much.”

  “Well, there’s no need to go out of your way just to be nice to me, when I’m guessing you’d really like to go.”

  “You’re right, I would like to go, but I really do have to attend that meeting. The art show is one of our biggest annual events, thousands of people come here for it, and advance planning is very important. Anyway, I enjoy being nice to you.”

  “Then I thank you very much.”

  Margot went behind her desk to check Betsy’s entry of the sale to Jill. Betsy followed, asking, “Margot, what are your plans for me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hope you aren’t planning on my being here forever.”

  “I haven’t, but all right, I won’t. Why?”

  “Irene Potter was in here a little while ago. Don’t you find her a little scary? She has the falsest smile I’ve ever seen. Then Jill came in, and when Irene tried to wait on her, Jill said to let me do it, and when I did it right Irene gave me a look that nearly froze my earlobes off.”

  “Oh, Irene just has this problem about being nice. She tries, but she doesn’t know how.”

  “No, listen. Jill says that Irene knows you are going to teach me how to run the shop. It seems Irene has her eye on this place, and she’s scared you’ve cut her out entirely by giving me her job.”

  Margot grimaced. “Hardly. I only hire Irene when all my other part-time help has flu, broken legs, and brain concussions.”