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—”
Again Betsy was interrupted by the doorbell. She rose to answer it.
“Can’t you just ignore it?” implored Irene. “I have a great deal to say to you. I’m sure if you’ll just listen a minute—”
“It’s like goddamn Grand Central Station around here,” Mickels growled.
“It may be someone bringing Sophie home,” said Betsy, and she pushed the release button.
“Who’s Sophie?” she heard Mickels ask.
Irene explained, “It’s that nasty cat Margot allowed in her store. I won’t have animals in my store.”
Betsy opened the door and saw Shelly coming up the stairs. She was carrying something about the size of a large cat wrapped in newspapers.
“What do you have there?” Betsy asked apprehensively.
“A hot dish. I wanted to bring you one last Thursday, but someone said you weren’t receiving visitors, so I brought you one tonight. It’s diced chicken with onion and celery, mixed with cream of mushroom soup and green beans, and crispy onions on top. I hope you like it. I’ll just put it in the kitchen. It’s still hot, that’s why I wrapped it in newspapers, to keep it hot.” Her voice had become less and less certain of her welcome as she approached. “Have I come at a bad time?”
“Uh, well, I do have some people here.”
“Then I’ll just leave this on the counter.”
“Shelly? Is that you?” Irene called.
“Hi, Irene. I brought a hot dish.”
“I’ve already eaten. But come in for a minute, will you?”
Betsy wondered where on earth Irene got the notion the hot dish was for her. She must think Betsy was going to invite her to dinner. As if!
Shelly obeyed. “What’s up?”
“I want you to tell Betsy what a good business head I have, and how good my needlework is.”
“Her needlework wins blue ribbons all the time,” Shelly said obediently, raising her eyebrows at Betsy.
“She wants to buy Crewel World,” said Betsy.
“She’ll have to find a new place for it,” warned Mickels.
“Yes, I was afraid of that,” said Shelly to Mickels, coming out of the kitchen. “Are you going to be okay, Betsy?”
“I think so, thanks.”
“But I can make the store the talk of the county,” Irene insisted, now arguing with all of them. “I’ve wanted to open my own store for years and years. You know that, Shelly, but Margot got hers started first, so there wasn’t anything I could do till she got out of the way.”
“That’s a strange way of putting it, Irene,” Shelly commented. “She didn’t exactly decide on her own to step out of anyone’s way. She was murdered.” Her face was suddenly sad.
Irene shrugged. “Well, it’s how I think of it. She wouldn’t let me become her partner, so what could I do?”
“What do you mean?” asked Betsy sharply.
“What makes you think Betsy’s going to sell Crewel World?” asked Shelly.
Irene turned to Betsy. “Of course you are, everyone knows that. You don’t know how to run a store, and you don’t know byzantine from basketweave.”
Shelly said, “And you don’t know how to be nice, Irene.”
“I don’t have to know how to do needlepoint to sell silk or cotton or metallic thread to people who do,” said Betsy, who had been quick to pick up some terminology from her few days in the shop. She turned to include all three of them in her next words. “I think you should know there are some unanswered questions about my sister’s death,” she began, but before she could continue, the doorbell started ringing again. This time it rang in an urgent series of pulses that continued until she hurried to press the release button by the door.
“What the hell does that mean, there’s ‘unanswered questions’?” said Mickels from behind her.
“Who knows?” said Shelly. “This whole business is so horrible, we’re all acting a little strange.”
“I’m not,” said Irene.
Betsy heard footsteps coming heavily up the stairs and opened the door.
Jill finished the last steps and hurried toward her. Her light-colored raincoat was rain-spattered and all bundled up in front, as if in her haste she had buttoned it wrong; and she held her arms across her breasts as if she were huddled against the wind or rain. “I found her,” she said.
“Who?”
“Let me in, she’s hurt.”
“Who’s hurt? What are you talking about?”
“It’s Sophie.” Jill brushed by her. “Find something I can put her down on,” she ordered. “Quick!”
Betsy ran to the bathroom and brought back a large bath towel. She flipped it open and let it drape across the table in the dining nook. “Here,” she said.
Jill ducked and maneuvered something out of her raincoat onto the towel. It was wet, filthy, and made a thin cry of protest.
“Oh, my God,” Betsy whispered.
“Take it outside, quick!” cried Irene. “It’s sick, it’ll give all of us its germs!”
“She was by the Dumpster in back,” said Jill. “I had to park back there, and when I got out, I thought I saw something move. I think she’s hurt pretty bad.”
Betsy bent over the animal. She took up a comer of the towel to wipe its forehead. The backs of her fingers brushed against a small ear. “Hot,” she murmured.
“Fever,” agreed Jill.
&
nbsp; “I’ll call her vet,” Shelly offered.
The cat hardly looked like Sophie at all, except that it was large and had once, perhaps, been mostly white. The coat was a dirty gray, streaked with mud and dirt, the eyes wide and staring, and one back leg was misshapen in a strange way.
Mickels came to peer over Betsy’s shoulder. “It’s dying,” he pronounced. “All a vet can do is put it to sleep, and he’ll charge you money for that. Best just take it back outside and let nature take its course.”
But Betsy continued wiping, down her back, on her side, down her front paws. “Oh, Sophie, Sophie,” she crooned, wiping gently under the animal’s chin. “Poor baby, poor suffering baby.” She let the dirty edge of towel slip out of her hand and just used her fingers to stroke. The staring eyes began to close, the head to sink. Tears began gathering in Betsy’s eyes; the cat was dying right here in front of her. She could hear Shelly speaking urgently on the phone. Should she stop her?
Her fingers paused.
“Awww, is she dead?” asked Jill.
“No,” said Betsy, and burst into tears.
“She’s dead, she’s dead!” Irene cawed from the living room. “I’m going home, she’s dead!” An instant later the door to the apartment slammed.
“I’m so sorry,” said Jill, stooping to put a hand on Betsy’s knee.
“No, no,” said Betsy, through her sobs. “She’s not dead, she’s purring!”
Jill rose and put two fingers against Sophie’s throat. “I’ll be dipped,” she said. “She is purring.”
“It’s just a damn cat,” said Mickels. “It’ll cost you plenty no matter what happens.”
“Shut up, Joe!” said Jill. “Shelly, what’s taking so long in there?”
“Hang on, hang on!” said Shelly. “Yes, I know where you are. About five minutes, I guess. Thanks, doctor.” She came over to the table. “He’ll meet us at his clinic out on Oak.”
Jill carefully picked up Sophie, towel and all, and put her into Betsy’s arms. “You’re the miracle worker, she didn’t purr for me. Let me get my car.”
“Mine’s out front,” said Shelly, “and I know the way.”
“Fine.”
Shelly drove a big Dodge Caravan with doors that opened when she pushed a device in her pocket. “Slick,” approved Jill. “Let’s go.”
Sophie purred faintly all the way to the vet’s office, and continued purring on the examination table. The vet complained, half-amused, that he could not hear her lung sounds very well. She even purred through the pitiful cry she emitted when he tried to work her knee joint. He opened her mouth and said she seemed shocky. But, he also said, she did not seem in imminent danger of dying. She stopped purring only when he administered the anesthetic in order to set her broken hind leg.
Out in the waiting room, Betsy said, “What do you think, she was back there all that while? Why didn’t she cry when we were out looking for her?”
“Hurt animals often hole up,” said Shelly. “It’s instinct for a hurt animal to hide from predators.”
“Like we were going to eat her for dinner,” snorted Jill. She added, “I wonder how she got hurt. Hit by a car, maybe?”
“Running out the open front door of the shop,” Betsy agreed. “This is so wonderful, finding her alive, I was so worried....” She began to cry again.
“Here now, that’s enough of that.” Jill put an arm around Betsy and rubbed her shoulders briskly. “She’s going to be fine. Tell me, who were you on the phone with a while ago?”
“Who not? I’ve been getting calls all evening from people who thought they’d found Sophie. And people have been coming by with likely candidates.” She hiccuped and smiled. “Unlikely ones, too. But now we have her, thanks to you. We’ll have to go around tomorrow and take down the posters. And cancel that ad.”
Jill said incredulously, “Joe Mickels and Irene Potter brought over some cats for you to look at?”
“No, Joe came to evict me.”
Jill leaned in and asked quietly, “You didn’t accuse him of murder, did you?”
“I tried to, several times, but kept getting interrupted.”
“Good. Say, you didn’t tell anyone else about this weird notion you’ve got, did you? Mike, for instance?”
“Who’s Mike?”
Jill sighed in relief. “Never mind.” She continued, “But don’t go spreading that suspicion about Mr. Mickels around, okay?”
“Irene Potter is just as good a suspect, you know.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, now you’re pointing at two innocent people! Listen to me, Betsy: it was a burglary that went really wrong. It’s a tragedy, an ugly, senseless tragedy, but that’s what happened. Please, please, stop making wild accusations. You can get your butt sued, and those two are just the ones to do it.”
“You’re probably right.” Betsy sniffled.
Shelly rummaged in her purse and produced a clean if wrinkled piece of tissue. “Here, kid.”
“Thanks.” Betsy blew, wiped. “I know I’ve been acting crazy the last few days. And I want to thank you both for caring about me anyhow.”
“That’s what friends are for, right?” said Jill.
“That’s right,” said Shelly, rubbing Betsy on the back. “We’re with you, we’ll see you through all of this. There are a whole lot of us who want to be your friends, who want to do anything they can, because you’re Margot’s sister, and we loved her.”
“Oh, Margot,” Betsy whispered, and this time when she wept, it was for that terrible loss.
11
Betsy had been afraid she’d wake with a sick headache from all the weeping, or emotionally exhausted from all the talking and sharing, of the night before. She also anticipated a state of anxiety over Sophie, who had a badly fractured leg and remained in the care of the vet.
But instead she woke refreshed and lay a minute, stretching slowly, lengthily, enjoying the energy that tickled along her nerves. And also enjoying a new and welcome clarity of thought.
Once upon a time, years ago, Betsy had been a morning person. She had, as she told her sister, “gotten over that.” But now she felt almost as if she were back in her twenties, when merely waking up meant a clear mind and high hopes for the new day.
And it was not cockeyed optimism here and now. Terrible as things were, they were not as bad as she had thought. There was hope, there was even a chance for future joy.
What a sad, blind mess she’d been! It was as if Margot’s death had plunged her into deep, murky water, where she’d paddled unseeing, unable to find the bottom with her feet, afraid all those around her wished her ill—when all the while the bottom was solid beneath her feet, and she’d been surrounded by people who wanted to be her friends, if only for Margot’s sake.
Margot was dead. Her kind and talented sister had been cruelly murdered, reduced to gray ashes, put into a beautiful jar, and buried in the same grave that held her beloved Aaron. Someday the jar would break, and her ashes would wash down through the soil to mingle with Aaron’s.
Maybe she could think of an epitaph to put on the stone that would evoke that thought.
Probably she could afford to do that. Shelly and Jill had been emphatically sure of it.
She sat up and fumbled on the floor with her toes for her slippers. According to Jill and Shelly, those few thousand dollars Betsy had found in Margot’s checking accounts were small indicators of a sizable money source. Jill said Margot’s late husband had left her very well-off. Shelly said she’d chosen to live in this modest apartment because it was convenient to the shop, that she had sold a fine big house because it was too big and too much trouble for just her.
So Penberthy had better be first on the agenda today. He could confirm the size of the estate—and more importantly, how to get hold of some of it, to pay bills and rent and Sophie’s medical bills, and buy food. Betsy couldn’t live on Shelly’s no-longer-hot dish forever.
There was a little bread left, and coffee; she would make toast
for breakfast. Then she would call Mr. Penberthy, and apologize for her behavior the other night. And ask how soon she could see him.
And after that, she would go visit Sophie, who was going to be fine. Maybe even bring her home.
Hud Earlie leaned back in the comfortably padded executive chair in his office and thought for a while.
He’d had to resort to a far less reliable source this time. However, she was certain in her assertions that Betsy was a mess. Some things he already knew: Betsy had shut out people trying to help her and had arranged the cheapest funeral she could for her sister. Now she was hysterical over a sick cat. That wasn’t all: she had told her landlord he couldn’t reclaim his property and at the same time she refused to listen to an offer that would get her out from under a business she didn’t know how to run. And, possibly weirdest of all, Betsy had hinted that her sister’s death was not just a burglary gone wrong.
He remembered the witty woman with the happy eyes at Christopher Inn. This sure didn’t sound like her.
Though it did kind of sound like the wounded person he had seen at the funeral. Poor broken thing, obviously in need of comfort.
Maybe he should give her a call. They could discuss ... the fund-raiser, sure.
To hell with Margot’s warning him off—she was dead. And to hell with his rules. What were rules for, if not to be broken?
And maybe he could be of some help to her.
Mickels sat at his desk in his office. He could have afforded a bigger desk in a large, well-lit comer office in a downtown Minneapolis tower. But why spend the money when he was just as comfortable in this little second-floor suite in Excelsior? Here he had three rooms, one with a window that overlooked Water Street. Years ago, at the bankruptcy auction of a business rival, he had bought an old, solid oak desk and matching armchair (on casters, not upholstered) and they had served him ever since. His personal assistant (as she styled herself, though he called her his secretary) had her own small windowless office. The third room, whose only entrance was through his office, was a reinforced and alarmed walk-in closet in which he kept his records. There were other employees, of course, who ran some of his other properties. Many people thought these employees were the owners, which suited Mickels just fine. They never came to this office, and Mickels himself rarely spent an entire day at this desk.
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