Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03

by A Stitch in Time

  Penberthy was Betsy’s attorney, a young man of great ability with an office on Water Street.

  “Except for being in danger of going broke, I’m fine, thank you. What’s up?”

  “This may cheer you up. I’ve got some more figures for you on the estate. Thanks to a healthy stock market, it looks as if the final numbers will be closer to three million than two and a half. The first million is now exempt from inheritance taxes, but the rest will be taxed at forty percent.”

  “Forty percent, huh?” Was that good or bad? Betsy hadn’t earned the inheritance, but neither had the government.

  “It also appears that certificates of deposit, money market accounts, and other assets are generating between twenty-five hundred and three thousand dollars a month, which Margot was using as income. I assume you will want to continue that, and meanwhile, the money is being put into an interest-bearing account. Not a very high interest, I’m afraid, as I’m sure you will want it to be accessible as soon as the estate is closed.”

  So that was how Margot kept the shop in the black, by not paying herself a salary. “Yes, please,” said Betsy, stifling an impulse to shout, “How soon can I put my hands on that money?” Instead she said, “I got your last letter, where you put in writing what you told me about the stocks and bonds, and I thank you. I’m getting better at this, but I’m afraid I don’t understand what you said about a silent partnership Margot was in. I can’t find any record of it at the courthouse. I wondered if perhaps you were acting as her representative so her name wouldn’t appear.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t represent her in that way. Why don’t you stop by my office today or tomorrow, and I’ll show you the file? You may find it amusing.”

  “Is it a lot of money?” asked Betsy.

  “It’s an irregular income, and right now there’s not much action. But it is going to pay off majorly in short order.”

  “What is it, interest in a gambling casino?”

  Penberthy laughed, but he only insisted Betsy should be looking at the file while he explained. “If I may make one more suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think you should consider making a will. You said there are no relatives, so it would be a shame if you died without one and the government got everything, after the time and effort we’ve spent keeping them from taking most of it. Name a favorite charity or give some friends a happy surprise. I will, of course, be very pleased to talk to you about it when you are ready.”

  “All right,” said Betsy. “I’ll think about it.” She hung up.

  After she settled back into her project, Betsy said to Godwin, “It’s different when you really become rich. I mean, instead of daydreaming about it. In the dream you get huge checks every week, which you cash and spend. In the real world, there are IRAs and investment properties and nonexempt bonds and taxes. I’m just grateful I have Mr. Penberthy to help me through it all.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be equally glad to hand you a substantial bill when you start getting those huge checks,” said Godwin. “And may I add just one little point of my very own? Connect the fact that you’re an heiress to the money problems you are having with Crewel World. Probate’s about finished, isn’t it? You could have stopped paying some of your bills last month, you know. Because well before your distributor refuses to ship any more DMC cotton floss to this address, you could buy that distributor and fire his smelly old credit manager.”

  Betsy smiled. “I would love to believe that,” she said.

  “Believe it,” said Godwin. “About money, I am always right.”

  Toward one, June Connor came in, her shoulders covered with snow. It had started in around noon, falling in thick, heavy flakes.

  June was an attractive young woman who did wonderful counted cross stitch. “Whew!” she laughed, pulling off a knitted cap and reopening the door just enough to shake it off outside. “It’s coming down out there! How are you, Betsy?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Connor. How are Steven and David?”

  “Very well, thank you. Impatient for Christmas to arrive, of course.”

  “I bet I know what brought you out in this,” said Godwin with a smile. “I warned you to buy six hanks of that wool, not five.”

  June laughed. “No, five was enough. Barely, but enough. I came to pick up my angel—you know, the one that was being finished as a pillow.”

  Betsy had a sudden sinking sensation. She’d gone through the box several times to find finished projects for other customers and didn’t remember seeing June’s wonderful angel pillow.

  On the other hand, she remembered writing up the order and packing it for the finisher, so perhaps she’d just overlooked it.

  But while June’s name was on the list, the pillow wasn’t in the box.

  When she saw the dismay on June’s face, she picked up the phone and dialed the finisher’s phone number. “Hello, Heidi? Betsy Devonshire at Crewel World. Fine, thank you. But we have a problem. A pillow with an angel on it, a big one, counted cross stitch—yes, the Mirabilia. You do? Oh, no! Well, can you—Oh, I see. All right, I’ll call you back.”

  “What?” asked June.

  “It’s finished, and it’s fine,” said Betsy, to June’s relief, “but it’s still there. She overlooked it when she packed our other finished projects. And she says she can’t bring it in until late tomorrow, she’s swamped trying to finish other last-minute projects.”

  “But we’re leaving for Florida at noon tomorrow!” wailed June. “And that pillow is a gift for my mother-in-law!”

  June was a very loyal customer who spent a lot of money in Crewel World. Betsy, feeling she could ill afford to lose a good customer, said impulsively, “I’ll go get it today. I mean, when the shop closes, of course. It’s not that far to Heidi’s place.”

  June said doubtfully, “It’s coming down kind of hard.”

  “You drove in it to come here and pick the pillow up,” Betsy pointed out. “Besides, I heard it’s supposed to stop in another hour or two. You can pick it up in the morning on your way to the airport.”

  “Well … thank you, Betsy.”

  But the forecast changed an hour later. The front had stalled, the snow wouldn’t stop now until early evening. The wind was picking up, making driving hazardous.

  Godwin said, “I think you shouldn’t go, Betsy.”

  Betsy said, “Hey, I grew up in Wisconsin. I learned to drive on ice and snow! And I’ve been doing fine so far.”

  But the Monday Bunch was more alarmed than June or Godwin.

  “Betsy, it’s really very bad out there,” said Alice. “Already the plows aren’t able to keep up, and the radio is saying road travel is not recommended.”

  Betsy looked out the window. In the gap she had cut in the snow lining the sidewalk, she could see cars passing by. “No one is staying home yet.”

  “They’re not driving out in the country on winding roads in the dark,” Martha Winters pointed out.

  “And the roads around here can be very confusing to an inexperienced driver,” added Patricia.

  “Now just a goldanged minute,” said Betsy. “I’ve been driving for nearly forty years! Heidi lives less than five miles from here. Besides, it’s for June Connor, and she has spent hundreds of dollars in the shop in just the past three months. The pillow is for her mother-in-law.” There was a little silence as the women thought about daughters-in-law who came to Christmas gatherings with presents for everyone but their mothers-in-law.

  “Well …” conceded Martha, and the talk moved on to the latest patterns in Cross Stitch and Needlework magazine.

  Godwin asked Patricia, “Have you ever bought a counted cross stitch pattern on eBay?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I saw a doll house rug kit on there I really liked. And the bidding wasn’t very active. Is it a good place to shop?”

  Alice asked, “Where’s eBay?”

  “On the Internet,” said Betsy. “It’s like an auction house that hand
les just about anything you can imagine. I’ve looked at some things but haven’t ever bid because I’ve heard you can get stung.”

  Patricia said, “I’ve never bought needlework items there, but I have bought antiques. I never bid on anything unless there’s a picture. Do you use a computer, Martha?”

  “No, I’m too old for a computer. Jeff has one.” Jeff was her adult grandson, her partner in the dry cleaning business.

  “Nobody’s too old!” said Godwin. “I know several people who share AOL accounts with their mothers so they can stay in touch. They send pictures of the grand-children and the grandmothers send pictures of themselves and their new husbands honeymooning in Hawaii. It’s not hard to learn. I’d be glad to show you, or you, Alice.”

  Alice, her large face reddening, blurted, “Oh, I couldn’t afford a computer,” which might have caused an embarrassed silence except she went on, “Betsy, could I see some of that new floss, the kind that’s a blend of silk and wool?”

  Betsy said, “Of course,” and brought a skein to the table. The Bunch, incorrigible fiber fondlers, handed it around and agreed the texture was marvelous. Neither computers nor the subject of Betsy driving in the snow was mentioned again.

  After the Monday Bunch left, Betsy said, “Are you going to put a bid in for that rug kit?”

  “Yes, but I probably won’t get it. Too many things go for more than they’re worth on eBay. I wouldn’t even bid, except I can’t seem to find it anywhere else.”

  “Godwin, what do you think about Patricia?”

  “I like her, but I wouldn’t get between her and something she wants. Why?”

  “Well, I was thinking about when I get my money. I wonder if it would be a worthwhile project to buy used computers for people who can’t afford them. Alice, for example. She’s a lonely person, and the Internet can be a godsend for the lonesome. Patricia has lived here all her life, and she’s active in her church, and I wonder if perhaps she knows other people who might benefit from a computer. But she’s not the sort I’m comfortable working with, she has that kind of rich person’s veneer that seems … I don’t know, impermeable, impenetrable. Do rich people send their children to special schools to learn that attitude?”

  “Well, yes. On the other hand, Patricia didn’t go to one. I think she tried to marry rich, but her in-laws didn’t approve of her. They thought their son was too young to marry and that Patricia didn’t have the right background, so they cut him off, refused to help out, even when Patricia got pregnant before their son finished law school. Now his grandmother dotes on the boy she wouldn’t acknowledge.”

  Betsy tilted her head. “Is any of this true, or is it just the usual Excelsior gossip?”

  Godwin laughed. “It’s true, really it is. Patricia used to talk about it, until her husband got into politics. Now you’ll never hear a bad word about her mother-in-law. Not that it was ever all that bad, I guess. I think Patricia was just tired from the constant struggle, and Margot was a sympathetic ear—and I’m a gifted eavesdropper.”

  “I guess a really hard struggle can give you that veneer, too,” said Betsy, feeling much more sympathetic toward Patricia and trying to put a good face on her own remarks.

  A little after five, just as Betsy was locking the front door, Jill appeared, large and dark, on the other side of the glass. She was in uniform and carrying a big box wrapped in midnight blue paper with silver and gold stars on it.

  “Betsy, the weatherman says the storm system is still stalled and there’s a blizzard warning out from here to Fargo.”

  “So? I’m not driving to Fargo. Who’s the present for?”

  “You. It’s your Christmas present,” Jill said.

  “Oh. Thank you,” said Betsy, ashamed for the second time that day of her sharp tongue. Jill put it into her arms and Betsy was surprised at how heavy it was. She hadn’t bought Jill anything remotely this substantial. “I’ll take it upstairs.”

  “No, take it with you. It’s a bunch of little things. If you skid off the road, you can open them up to keep from being bored waiting for rescue. Now I’ve got to get back on patrol. Good luck, and drive very carefully.”

  “I will. And thank you for the present.” Betsy had to go upstairs to feed Sophie, who was already sitting impatiently by the apartment door, but decided it was less effort to carry the heavy box to her car than up the stairs. She took it out back to put it on the passenger seat.

  Up in the apartment, she checked the map one last time, put on her heavy coat, her new leather boots, her hat and scarf, and, pulling on her driving gloves, went down the back hallway and out into the storm.

  Her big mistake was probably at that first turn. She knew Route 19 turned sharply to the right, but since she was looking for a curve rather than an intersection, she went right on through.

  She noticed soon after that her brakes seemed soft, but they went quickly from soft to virtually nonexistent. She had to shift down to control her speed on curves.

  It was totally dark, of course, and the snow was coming down heavily, so she had to weave a bit, using her headlights to make sure she was on her own side of the road. The road’s surface was a white blank, and slippery. And the bridge the map had indicated just before the turn to Heidi’s house never came. This was wrong. She was lost.

  Betsy was not the sort who wouldn’t stop and ask for directions, but now, ready to do so, there didn’t seem to be anyplace to stop and ask. When trees didn’t closely line the road, she could see nothing but thick snow, blowing directly into her windshield. But surely, if there were a gas station or some other kind of store, its lights would pierce the storm. Betsy saw nothing.

  After awhile, she looked at her watch. She’d been out for forty minutes, which was supposed to be the entire time of her journey. She decided to stop at a private residence if she could see one, and find out where she was. But she wasn’t afraid, she told herself, only a little nervous and concerned.

  She began to realize she hadn’t seen another car in some while. She couldn’t even see any trace of previous vehicles on the road.

  She tried to think what to do. Lake Minnetonka dominated the terrain around here. It was a large lake, with an extremely wobbly outline. Some said it was a collection of bays, others said it was actually seven lakes and a couple of creeks. In either case, that meant a thousand miles of shoreline. And by now, she had no idea which part of the shore she was on.

  A curve ambushed her, and as she went into it, the wind came sideways, pushing at her car like a huge, soft hand. Her brakes were useless, but she wasn’t going fast, so the car spun gently. Betsy could only hold onto the steering wheel, watching the play of headlights on a whirl of white snowflakes. Then the world went upward to the left and there was a twisty, bumpy slide, then she slammed to a stop, tipped at an angle to the right.

  Betsy sat still for a few seconds, trembling. Her engine was still running, no warning lights had come on, her headlights remained lit. She didn’t feel any sharp pains anywhere. She was all right, everything was all right.

  After a bit, she looked out the side window. She was against a pine tree. She could see the bark and branches pressed against the glass, which wasn’t broken. To the rear was blackness. Forward was driving snow, piling up on the windshield even as she looked. Her wipers leaped up, smearing the view. The instant they settled back, snow piled on again. To her left was a steep slope upward, dim and lumpish and scrawled with the marks of her passage.

  The road was up there, on top of that slope.

  She put the car into first gear and tried to move forward, but the wheels spun. She shifted into reverse, lifted the clutch gently, and again the wheels spun. She could see nothing out her rear mirror, not even a reflection of her taillights on the blowing snow. She shifted back into first. The car moved a few inches, tires spinning. The bark of the pine tree groaned against the door. She backed up, then rocked forward again, pleased to find an old skill still existed. She put it in reverse, and lifted the clutch. There
was resistance, then suddenly the car bounced hard over something and slid around the tree, tilting more obviously backward. That scared her, and she jammed on the brake pedal, forgetting it was useless. The clutch slid out from under her other foot, and the engine died.

  She started it up again, but the car ran only briefly before choking and stammering. She twisted the wheel, pumping the gas pedal, then the stink of raw gasoline filled the car and instantly she turned the ignition off.

  I’m okay, I’m still okay, she reassured herself.

  She left the headlights on, set the emergency brake, and found a flashlight in the glove box. It had been a while since she’d needed it, and she was unhappy to discover the batteries were half dead. She opened the door just an inch. The gasoline smell was stronger outside, and snow came in with a rush, driven by the wind.

  The tilt of the car combined with the push of the wind to make getting out a serious effort.

  She tried to walk around the car. An old fallen tree blocked her way to the back, stubs of branches poking up through the snow. That’s what she’d backed over, and apparently something sticking up had punctured her gas tank. The car’s back end was buried in a sprawling evergreen bush, and the shaggy-barked pine tree was a big old monarch. She turned around and went back, looking for the skid marks she’d made coming down the slope. She found them and followed them upward, slipping and falling, until suddenly she was on the road. She turned and looked down at her car.

  All she could see was a light twinkling behind curtains of whirling snow.

  Betsy trudged up the road for five minutes, the dying flashlight not much help. She hadn’t changed out of her work clothes before setting out for Heidi’s place, and the powerful wind whipped under both her heavy coat and her box-pleated woolen skirt, chilling her halfway up her thighs. When she stopped and turned off the flashlight, she didn’t see the lights of a store, a house, or a barn anywhere.

  Then she turned around, and she couldn’t see her headlights, either. Alarmed, she started back. The wind was strong, shoving and tugging at her as she walked. Staggering onto the slope was her only warning that she was not keeping to the road. This happened three times, and by then she was wondering if she’d gone past her car. She stopped to peer all around. An extra strong gust of wind stung her face and she turned her back to it. And there were the headlights, gleaming fitfully from down the slope. As suddenly as they appeared, they were gone again in the yellow swirl her dying flashlight’s beam made of the snow flying all around her.