Crewel World

by Monica Ferris

  He was there this morning because he needed to think.

  He pulled a yellow legal pad from the middle desk drawer and a cheap ballpoint from his pocket. He clicked the point out and drew a dollar sign on the notepad, then a circle around it and a diagonal line through it. If this incorporation business was true, his plans might be in trouble. That Devonshire woman had had that tone of voice people use when they’d won one, but some people were pretty good at faking it. Was she pleased because she was right, or pleased because he’d lost his temper believing her lie? He drew another dollar sign, this one sprouting wings. Was she crazy? She’d acted nuts when Officer Cross brought that hurt cat into the place—but that lady cop and the schoolteacher had been all excited as well. What was that all about?

  Okay, okay, he remembered seeing a cat belonging to Margot in the store, a big fat thing, sleeping in a chair. (He was drawing a cat’s head, with crosses for eyes, as he thought this.) He didn’t remember its name, but it had been white, like the hurt cat might have been under the dirt. So maybe it was Margot’s cat. So what? Betsy Devonshire hadn’t been in town long enough to get attached to it, had she? All three of those women went hustling it off to the animal doctor like it was a human emergency.

  Check cat, he wrote on the pad, because he was a detail person, and it might be useful to know if it still lived.

  But that wasn’t the real problem here. The real problem was, what if Betsy hadn’t been just making idle threats about the corporation? He unlocked his desk and got out a photocopy of the lease, almost illegible with scrawled notes. The original must have been drawn up by his brother from memory, to judge by the semilegal language of the thing. That was what the notes were about: they marked the chinks he’d found in it, hoping one would be the crowbar to pry Margot out of her place. None of them so far had proved strong enough, and now this sister claimed she had a chink of her own that meant she could stay if she wanted to.

  “Assigned the lease,” that was the term she used, a legalism he was familiar with, being a landlord. It meant that the tenant turned the lease over to a new tenant. In every lease Mickels had ever signed, when assignment wasn’t flat forbidden, the landlord’s permission was needed for assignment. He glanced over the document, more to refresh his memory than to glean information, because he was already pretty sure the clause forbidding assignment was not in Margot’s lease. And it wasn’t.

  What a jerk his brother had been! On the other hand, as Joe understood it, his brother had been doing a favor for Aaron Berglund, Margot’s husband, giving her that lease. He had thought Margot just wanted to play at owning a business, that she would get bored or do something terminally stupid and fold up in six months or a year. Ha! That had been nearly thirteen years ago. He shoved the photocopy back in the drawer and locked it.

  Interesting that Betsy Devonshire not only used the right terminology, she was right about the lease not forbidding assignment. Was she brighter than she looked? Or did someone tell her about it?

  Wait a second, he hadn’t noticed that Margot was arranging to be incorporated! And he kept close check on all his tenants, especially Margot, the fly in his ointment, the bug on his birthday cake.

  Margot had been a “d/b/a”—doing business as—back when she started Crewel World, but she’d never incorporated. Never needed to. Never hinted she was thinking about it. He began doodling again, drawing a big threaded needle and then putting a circle with a slash around it. But he added a question mark. Margot was smart enough not to talk about her business to people who didn’t need to know. If she had incorporated, it was very recently. And wherever she was, she was laughing up a storm, because he was screwed once again. Dammit, he needed to know!

  He reached for his phone, dialed. But Penberthy was still tied up with a client, said his secretary, and could not be interrupted. Mickels left an urgent message and slammed the phone down. Stupid secretary, wouldn’t listen when he said he had one question that wouldn’t take more than ten seconds!

  He settled back to wait, but in a minute he was up and pacing the perimeter of his office, which after four trips put him in mind of a hamster in a cage. He started to reach for the phone to call Penberthy’s secretary back and shout at her—but instead did the one thing guaranteed to cool his temper.

  He told his own secretary he didn’t want to be interrupted for half an hour (she wouldn’t let anyone through even for ten seconds, either), locked the door to his office, and went into his strong room. He opened his safe and took out a chipped green metal chest about eighteen inches square, heavy by the way he handled it. He brought it to a small table in the strong room and unlocked its padlock with a key on a ring that was never out of his reach.

  The box was nearly full of silver dollars and half-dollars minted in the era when they were all silver, not a base-metal sandwich. The coins were bright and worn from handling, and Mickels plunged his hands into the hoard, rubbing them between his thick fingers, lifting his hands and letting them pour back into the box, then plunging his hands in again. At first energetic in these motions, over the next ten minutes or so he gradually slowed, his actions becoming more playful, then almost sensual; at last holding just one in his palm, and rubbing it over his hands as if it were a sliver of soap. Then he dropped it back in the box with the rest, locked the chest, and put it back in his safe, smiling and calm.

  Ms. Devonshire sat very straight and attentive in the big leather chair in Penberthy’s office. He was relieved to see her looking far less scattered and unhappy than she had only yesterday. And much more prepared to listen. Poor Huber, he’d had to deal with her when she was truly distraught.

  “You know your sister died intestate?” he began.

  “Without a will,” she replied.

  “Yes.” He nodded, pleased at this sign of intelligence. “I talked with her on more than one occasion, but she said there was only you and she wanted you to inherit, so there was no need. I believe she was wrong—she had many interests and charities, some of which would have been very glad to be remembered. But it is too late now to know what she might have wished done about that.” He gave a subtle shrug. “Of course, she was so active and helpful during her life that perhaps she felt that was enough, and did in fact intend to leave everything to you.”

  Ms. Devonshire said carefully, “I have been told by two of Margot’s friends that there is a rather large estate.”

  Penberthy replied, “That depends on what you mean by large. I think, when everything has been accounted for, and all debts paid, there should be in the neighborhood of two and a half million.”

  Ms. Devonshire froze and then her face began to flush. “Two—” she began, but her voice tripped over itself and she fell silent again.

  “Two and a half million is only an approximation. And that’s before taxes, of course.”

  “Wow. I mean, Shelly thought five hundred thousand, and Jill said maybe a million; but two and a half million—” She tried a smile, but failed. “That’s a lot of money. I had no idea. When I saw how Margot was living, I mean, in that little apartment and running that little shop, and her car is a Volvo—what nationality is a Volvo anyhow?—I thought she wasn’t doing as well as it seemed from her letters. What was it, the stock market? Is that where the money was, I mean? That there’s so much of it?” She touched her lips with her fingertips to stem the flow of words.

  “You, as the personal representative, will conduct a search to discover where and in what form the money presently is held,” replied Penberthy. “I know Margot kept good records, so there should be no trouble.”

  “We’re already doing an inventory of the shop.” Ms. Devonshire nodded. “But I don’t know where to begin looking for anything more.”

  “I can explain how, if you like. I understand Margot put everything onto her computer. Have you, er, ‘logged on’ to it as yet?” Penberthy was glad to let his secretary run his computer.

  “No. But I guess that has to happen soon.”

  “Do you k
now how to operate a computer?”

  “Well, I used to own one, when I was living in San Diego, and I kept some records on it, and did my correspondence. I could even surf the net, and send E-mail. But I sold it before I came here.” She shivered and rubbed her upper arms with her hands. “This isn’t what I wanted to be doing right now,” she said. “I came to stay with my sister because I’ve been having a midlife crisis. I wanted to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, because I didn’t like where I was or what I was doing. Margot always had her life together and she seemed so content with herself that when she invited me to come I said yes, gladly. I gave up everything, threw my old life over, left San Diego shaking even the dust of the streets off the soles of my sandals.

  “And then when I got here, I worried that Margot couldn’t afford to keep me very long, because her shop is just that little place, and her apartment was kind of small. And then she was murdered and I was scared I couldn’t even afford to bury her—oh!”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I was really rude to Mr. Huber at the funeral home. I think he tried to tell me that I didn’t have to pinch pennies but I wasn’t in a state to listen to him. I’m not sure what I can do about that.”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to do the funeral over again.”

  After a startled moment, this seemed to strike Ms. Devonshire as funny, and when she smiled this time, it worked and she was suddenly very attractive. “No, I suppose that isn’t the correct thing to do. But I will have to apologize to him next time I see him. Now, what is the process of transfernng Margot’s accounts into my name? I will need some money—I’m about broke, and I don’t have a job, and I probably won’t have a place to stay real soon.”

  “Then we will begin at once to get the process started—you will need to select a lawyer ... ?” He paused, hesitating.

  And she replied on cue, “I hope you will represent me. If Margot trusted you, then I know I can do the same.”

  “Thank you. You will need to go through Hennepin County Probate Court. We’ll draw up a petition to have you appointed as personal representative. I’ll start that at once, and will help you write the announcement you will have to publish in the newspaper, telling people who are owed money to contact you. There will be a brief hearing in court. It will take about a month between the filing of the petition and the hearing.” He consulted a leather-bound appointment book. “If I contact them today, we can probably get a hearing around October fifteenth. You must be there to ask the judge to appoint you, and anyone who has any opposition to that will have a chance to be heard. I doubt there will be any trouble of that sort.

  “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.