A Murderous Yarn

It was Irene. “Hello, hello, hello!” she caroled, striding into the shop with a broad, happy smile. Betsy and Godwin exchanged a surprised glance. Neither had ever seen her wholly joyous like this, without a hint of anxiety or arrogance. “Have you got a shopping basket?” she asked.

Godwin grasped the situation faster than Betsy. “Big or small?” he asked, reaching for a two-gallon size currently holding yarn and nodding at the pint-size one Betsy was taking floss out of.

“Oh, the big one,” said Irene, and Godwin happily spilled its yarn onto the library table, then handed it to her.

Godwin said to Betsy, “Some people go to Disney World, Irene comes here.”

Irene chortled in agreement and began to fill the basket. Never in her life had she been able to buy as much as she wanted of ribbon, floss, wool yarn, silk yarn, alpaca yarn, and fabric, in every desirable color, all at one time, with no thought of the cost. Irene filled the basket three times. Betsy, eyeing the heap, estimated there was over a thousand dollars’ worth, and Irene had not bought a single painted canvas-the most expensive single item a needleworker can buy.

“Have you quit your job yet?” teased Godwin, helping Betsy start to write up the order.

Irene said, “No, but I’m thinking about it. What do you think, Betsy?”

Betsy said, “I think you shouldn’t, not yet. You’ll lose your benefits when you do, and I know from experience how expensive buying your own medical insurance is. Right now you need to talk to a financial advisor, which all by itself is going to cost you something.”

“Oh,” said Irene, the light in her eyes dimming just a little.

“I’m sorry to let more air out of your balloon,” said Betsy, “and much as I would like to encourage you to continue buying one or two of everything in my shop, I think you should be aware that you are going to have to share any money you received with the state and federal government.”

“Maybe I should put some of this back,” said Irene, now definitely looking alarmed.

But Godwin said, “Oh, come on, it’s not as bad as all that. How much did you take in last weekend?” asked Godwin.

She turned to him. “Twenty-seven thousand.”

Godwin whistled.

“But I had to give fifteen percent of that to the gallery. On the other hand, I have orders for two more pieces, and Mark-Mr. Duggan-wants me to bring in three more by the end of the month. That’s why I was thinking of quitting, because I can’t think how I can do all that in so short a time. These pieces take a lot of planning, and they’re complicated to stitch. Also, a reporter from the Star Tribune interviewed me and they took pictures. After that appears in next week’s Variety section, there’s likely to be even more orders.”

“Then for heaven’s sake, don’t worry about spending a single thousand here! What are you charging for these orders?”

“Depends. The most expensive is five thousand. One of the orders is for a small piece, and I’m asking twenty- two hundred for it. It’s only six inches by six inches. Is that too much?”

“On the contrary. Raise your prices.”

“But I’m already charging so much-”

“You can’t fill the orders you’re getting now. Raise your prices until you have only as many orders as you can fill. I bet you could charge twenty or thirty thousand apiece and still have enough work to keep you busy.” He glanced at Betsy. “And buy medical insurance. What you’ll have left over even after you pay those nasty taxes will keep you very comfortably.”

Involuntarily, Irene’s hand reached out as if to touch Godwin on his hand, but stopped before she made contact. She turned to Betsy. “Could he possibly be right?”

“He might be. He knows a lot about things like this. Maybe you also need to hire an agent.”

“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” Irene murmured. The glow had come back. “An agent.”

Godwin said, in a darker voice, “So long as you’re listening to me, hear this: Art is the strangest thing. What you’re doing may grow and grow, or it may vanish entirely overnight. It’s like, one year the museums can’t get enough big piles of penny candy, the next year it’s Lent.”

“What I do isn’t silly like those piles of candy!” flared Irene. “What I do is real work!”

“Oh, I agree,” said Godwin quickly. “It’s a form of Impressionism, which has been around for a long time and is a very respected art form. But the quote real unquote Impressionists use paint on canvas. It may be the critics will decide you’re just as real in this different medium. Or they may decide it’s a weird offshoot, a cute fad, but not really valid.”

Irene glared at him, panting, yearning to fight, but she was weaponless.

“Do you have some vacation time coming?” asked Betsy, anxious to sooth her savage breast.

“What? Oh, yes, I haven’t taken any yet this year, and I get three weeks.”

“You might see if you can take some now to get a running start on these commissioned pieces.”

“Now that’s a good idea! And I will also seek professional advice.” She smiled. “I am so glad I came in here to buy my materials!”

“So are we,” said Godwin, smiling as he added his sales slips to the stack Betsy was adding up on her little calculator. “So are we.”

12

On Wednesday, her hair still damp despite riding home from Courage Center with the windows down-she would never get used to the humidity around here-Betsy sat down at her computer to download her e-mail, going to make a second cup of tea while RCTN downloaded. There were always lots and lots of messages from the newsgroup, and there was generally a useful nugget or two among them. Betsy quickly arrowed down the subject lines, read several, replied to a few, then deleted the download.

Among her e-mail messages was one from Susan Greening Davis about window displays, a response to a question from Betsy-and another from Lisa Birmingham in reply to Betsy’s e-mail of yesterday evening.

Lisa said she had long suspected her parents’ marriage was “under a strain,” but hadn’t known about the counseling sessions. She was not surprised her father had refused to go. My father never thought anyone else’s opinion was superior to his own, she wrote.

Did you get to talk with Marvin at The Courage Center pool? Isn’t he a dear? I know it’s far too early, but maybe in a year or two, Mother will stop seeing Marvin as the family’s good friend and develop a romantic interest. I think he’s in love with her. I think he’s been in love with her for years. But he never even flirted with her, so far as I know. I remember when he came with my family to see me get my baccalaureate degree. Mother and Father were simply beaming at me, and a little off to the side I saw Marvin. He was looking at Mother. There was just that something in his eyes, you know what I mean. And I saw him look at her that way again when I was home last Christmas and she was opening his gift. He gave her an inexpensive piece of antique jet jewelry. She gave him a gag gift, a pair of socks in a shocking fuchsia color I think she knit herself. I mean, where on earth would you find socks that color in a man’s size? He actually wore them to a New Year’s Eve party at the Herbert Manleys the next week. He didn’t care who saw the socks, and if that’s not love, what is? But I asked Mother what she thought of Marvin not long ago and she said, “I’m so glad he’s a friend of this family.” She’s a bit of an actress, but I’m sure she has no idea.

Betsy clicked on Reply and typed, You are very observant. Thank you. Now, can you find out where Broward and Marvin were on the day your father was murdered?

Lars never did anything by halves. Now that his new hobby consisted of an old car, he researched it thoroughly, reading books and looking for web sites on the Internet devoted to Stanley Steamers, and downloaded