Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 (7 page)

A glass case held a big model of the restored
Minnehaha,
showing the peculiar long slope of her stem. Malloy remembered seeing photographs of the Great White Fleet back in Teddy Roosevelt's time, where the ships had that same odd back end. He wondered what its purpose was.

At the far end of the store was a counter behind which a young woman with short dark hair frowned at a computer monitor.

He walked back and she looked up. “May I help you?” she asked. Her features were attractive, but she had made no effort to enhance them with makeup.

“I'm interested in learning about the
Hopkins
,” he said. “What can you tell me?”

“It's no longer at the bottom of the lake,” she replied with a twinkle.

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“Like what?”

“When was it sunk?”

“1949.”

“That's what everyone keeps telling me. Who knows that for a fact?”

She smiled. “If everyone's telling you that, then everyone, I guess. What are you looking for, an eyewitness?”

“You got one?”

She looked around. There was no one there but the two of them. “Not here in the office.”

He laughed, but then produced identification, which stopped the banter as it widened her light blue eyes. Then she turned abruptly and reached for some books tucked into a shelf under the counter. “These are stories about the lake and the towns on it, and here's one about the streetcar steamboats in particular. They all say the
Hopkins
—well, it was renamed the
Minnetonka
by then—was sunk in 1949. This one even has some pictures of it on the bottom of the lake.” This one was
Salvaged Memories
, the blue paperback Malloy already had a copy of.

Still, he took the books and went to a corner of the store that had a chair and looked them over. They all agreed that the
Minnetonka III,
née
Hopkins
, had been sunk on the north side of the Big Island in Lake Minnetonka in 1949.

All right, he'd accept that. He got the phone number for the author of
Salvaged Memories
and left.

 

Diane Bolles was sorting through a thin stack of cardboard signs when a customer came to the checkout counter. Distracted, she glanced up without at first recognizing the woman, who had a half dozen old books. “May I help you find something else?” she asked—then blinked. “Oh, hello, Shelly!”

“You must have something else on your own mind today, Diane,” said Shelly Donohue.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I'm thinking of changing the name of my store.”

“What's wrong with D. B. and Company?” Shelly looked around at the store, which looked like an old-fashioned general store in layout. There was even a penny candy counter next to the checkout. But elsewhere were silk flowers, old-fashioned tea sets, doilies, vases, jars, and over by the door a large cement statue of a frog.

“Nothing, actually. Except it doesn't describe the store.”

Shelly giggled. “I don't see how you would describe this place in one sentence, much less one word.”

“We sell the final touch for your decor, in the house or the garden.”

“Oh. Well, yes. In fact, you put that so well, you must already be writing your new radio ad.”

“Not until I get the new name.” Diane picked up the cardboard squares. “May I try some out on you? I've sorted it down to these, but I don't know which one I like best.”

“Sure.”

“Belles Choses, which means Beautiful Choice in Italian. Or, there's Nightingale's, after the bird. Or Near Midnight—I like that one because it's romantic. You know, midnight, the bewitching hour. Or Chenille—did you know that's French for caterpillar? And last, My Favorite Year, which was my favorite this morning. This evening I'll like a different one.”

Shelly said, “I like Nightingale's. The bird was a symbol of home and hope to the British during World War II, and it has a very beautiful song. I did a counted cross-stitch of a nightingale a couple of years ago for a friend who was born in England, and she just loved it.”

“That reminds me. I was thinking of expanding into antique and vintage clothing. And then I found my grandmother's embroidered tablecloths and brought them in to decorate that table with the antique dessert dishes.”

Shelly said, “Your grandmother made those? I can't believe you're going to sell those, Diane; they are heirlooms. The embroidery on them is wonderful; those strawberries are almost three-dimensional.”

“Oh, they're not for sale, they're just decoration. But I've gotten so many inquiries from customers that I think I should add stitchery to my line.” She cocked her head. “Do you still work part-time in that needlework store down on Lake?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Maybe I should stop in there and ask the new owner if she can put me in touch with people willing to sell their work.”

“Well...” said Shelly. “Actually, she probably can't help you. She's a terrific person, I really like her, but she's not only new at needlework, she's not from here.” There was a subtle emphasis on that last part,
not from here.

“Ah,” said Diane.

“On the other hand, you could talk to her one full-time employee, Godwin. He knows everyone in the area who has ever done any kind of needlework. But you know something?” Shelly leaned forward in a mockery of her own posture when imparting a tantalizing tidbit of gossip. “
So do I
.”

Diane's eyebrows raised in surprise, then she laughed. “Well, of course! So where do I go? Who do I see? I'm looking for vintage, antique, and new items. Not a big selection, just a few things.”

“Tell you what. Let me think about it, maybe ask around. I'll draw up a list. And I think you should come to the shop anyway, meet Betsy—she's really nice. I'll consult with Godwin. He can probably suggest some names I miss. Let's see, today's Tuesday. I'll need about a week, can you wait that long?”

“Yes, of course. I'll come by sometime next week, maybe on my lunch break.”

Diane began to ring up Shelly's selections. “Do you collect old children's books?”

“No, I'm going to encourage my students to read them. I think it's helpful to expose even young children to a variety of reading experiences,” said Shelly. She had a variety, all right, from the sweet and innocent
Pokey Linle Puppy
to a pre-Disney version of
The Three Liale Pigs
that had the wolf eating the first two.

Diane put the purchases into a bag and handed it to Shelly, who wasn't finished talking. “You know about the skeleton on the boat they raised?”

“Yes, I read about it. How dreadful for the divers, finding something like that.”

Shelly nodded. “We're involved again.”

“Who is?”

“The shop, Crewel World.”

“I don't understand.”

“You know how we solved the murder of Betsy's sister for the police, of course.”

Diane started to object to that but changed her mind and only raised a mildly doubting eyebrow.

“I know the police are acting as if they solved it themselves, but they would still be looking for a burglar if it wasn't for Betsy Devonshire! She has a nose, or is it an eye, for crime solving. And so they're practically begging her to help again. They've left a big clue in our shop, and people are being asked to look at it and see if they can identify it.”

“What kind of clue?”

 

“It's a piece of silk with lace edging, or rather a picture of it. It was found on the boat, which means it went down with it in 1949. No one has come up with anything yet, but you just watch. Of course, Betsy won't suspect you or me, because we weren't around in 1949.” Shelly laughed, embraced the paper bag a little tighter, and left, not noticing the way Diane frowned after her.

 

The Saturday after Thanksgiving is traditionally the best day for American retailers, but for needlework shops, it's the Saturday after Halloween. That's when the procrastinators realize that unless they want to offend their mother-in-law
again
with a store-bought gift, they'd better get down to Crewel World and see if there is something that looks as if it took more than two months to finish, but doesn't.

For the first time, Betsy began to believe she could actually make a go of the little shop. Customers were waiting outside for her to open, and it was nonstop from then till closing. Fortunately, Shelly was able to join Godwin and Betsy.

Shelly was slim, not yet thirty, with long, thick, straight brown hair pulled into an untidy bun at the nape of her neck. She had beautiful eyes, intelligent and compassionate, and was a skilled counted cross-stitcher, a hard worker in the shop—but an incorrigible gossip. “... Linda chose that same cream-colored linen,” she was telling a customer, “and frankly, I think iris-blue and purple silk would go even better for your sampler than her shades of pumpkin.”

Meanwhile, Godwin was saying, “If the Ott table lamp is too small, you might want to try a light by Chromalux; it's a floor lamp, and comes already on a stand. And if you stitch in the nude—like
I
do—you'll appreciate the heat it puts out.” The customer giggled, and Godwin reached for a catalog. “See, here's a picture of it; we can order it for you ...”

Betsy stopped eavesdropping and looked at the completed piece of counted cross-stitch, Mermaid of the Pearls, lying across her hands. “Wow,” she said sincerely, “this is much prettier than the picture of it I saw. Let's look at the sample mats to pick a color to match, and then we'll choose a really nice frame. You'll want to do justice to this, I'm sure.”

While Betsy was writing up the order, her customer noticed the Xerox taped to a corner of the checkout desk. When Betsy saw her bend over it, she asked, “Recognize it?”

“What's it supposed to be?” asked the customer.

“Lace edging on a collar or handkerchief or sleeve. It was hauled up from the bottom of the lake, and we're hoping someone who does lace will be able to tell something about it.”

“Looks like a spill of spaghetti to me,” remarked the customer, taking her slip and looking at it. Betsy held her breath; the finishing, mat, and frame came to over two hundred dollars. But the customer only said, “You'll have this back in three weeks? Good, I can get it in the mail on time, then. Thank you, Betsy.”

“You're welcome, Mrs. Liljegren.” Betsy had thought she'd never get used to people calling her by her first name while she must address them more formally, but at these prices they could call her anything they liked.

“What's this about some lace you want identified?” asked a very handsome woman Betsy recognized as one of the Monday Bunch. She had a fistful of silk floss and a packet of needles for Betsy to ring up.

“Hello, Patricia. Detective Malloy found something on the
Hopkins
and hopes someone here can help identify it.” Betsy indicated the Xerox copy taped to the desk. “It's a corner of a handkerchief or maybe a bit of a silk dress, and that tangle- of string may be crochet lace.”

Patricia bent over the paper, frowning. Betsy wrote the sales slip, then rang up her purchase, but Patricia didn't move. Betsy gave her a minute, then saw Godwin bringing another customer to check out. “Er-hem, excuse me?” Betsy said. “That'll be seventeen dollars and fifty-three cents, including tax. Patricia?”

Patricia said, “Hmm?”

“That'll be seventeen dollars and fifty-three cents.”

“Okay.”

“Excuse me, Patricia?” said Godwin politely, instead of making a wisecrack. Godwin knew which customers enjoyed him at his outrageous best and which didn't.

Patricia straightened. “I wonder why someone thinks that might be crocheted lace. It doesn't look like crochet to me, the loops are all wrong. It might be tatting, but is more likely bobbin lace.”

Betsy looked at the copy. “You mean you can actually make sense of that?” She had thought the original unidentifiable, but the photocopy was even worse.

“Oh, it's definitely lace,” said Patricia. “Question is, what kind? There are a number of ways to make lace, but I think I'd want to see the original before I said for sure what kind this is.”

Godwin's customer crowded in for a peek but frowned and stepped back again. “I can't see any pattern to that,” she said as if in complaint.

“Patricia, Sergeant Malloy is going to be
so pleased
if you can really tell him something helpful,” said Godwin.

Betsy added quickly, “That is—would you mind talking to him?”

“No, of course not.” She pulled her checkbook from her purse. “I'll pay for my silks and you may copy the phone number on the check to give to him.” Her cheeks were pink with pleasure, her brown eyes alight. “This will be a poke in the eye for my husband, who says nothing of real value ever came out of a needleworker's basket.”

Hours later, closing time approached. Betsy, near exhaustion, was trying to rearrange a basket of half-price wool so that it didn't look so picked-over. Her feet were like a pair of toothaches. Shelly and Godwin were in back, quarreling tiredly over whose turn it was to wash out the coffeepot.

The door went
bing
(Betsy gritted her teeth and swore that someday soon she was going to replace that thing), but she forced her features to assume a pleasant look and turned to greet her customer. She was a small, thin woman with dark hair standing up in little curls all over her head. She had shiny dark eyes in a narrow face and a smile as false as the leopard print of her coat.