Knitting Bones (13 page)

B
ETSY
was awakened early the next morning by Sophie tapping on her shoulder. Ordinarily the cat left her alone until she started showing signs of waking on her own, so this new behavior drew an angry growl from her mistress.

But the cat persisted. “Whassa matta?” grumbled Betsy, blinking her eyes open. Then she heard it.

“Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw!” came the rough-edged noise. The door to the guest room was shut, her own bedroom door was shut, but the noise was quite audible: “Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw!”

“Awww—” Betsy bit the next word off firmly. No need to waste good scatology on the cat.

It took her a few minutes to get out of bed, make that first, necessary trip to the bathroom, and pull on a robe. All the while, the crow kept calling.

“All right, all right,
all right!”
scolded Betsy, shoving open the door to her office.

The crow, dry, clean, and every feather neatly in place, was on the higher of the two perches, his head turned sideways so he could pin her down with that beady black eye.

“What’s wrong in here?” Betsy asked. The crow did not reply, nor did it take its intent gaze from her. She walked to the cage. There were already several messes on the newspaper spread on the bottom. Did the creature expect her to clean up after every mess it made? Then the smell struck her in the face like a used diaper. It appeared that yes, indeed, she would be doing a whole lot of fresh papering of the cage.

Hampered by her need to balance on a crutch, it took a while to slide the old paper out on its tray and insert fresh. Good thing the cage was on a stand; she was not able to kneel. Meanwhile the crow kept cawing at her and once, when she got close enough to the bars, it reached through with its beak and pulled her hair. She took the messy paper to her kitchen, pulled a white plastic garbage bag from a box of them under her sink and shoved the paper in it, pulling the drawstring shut. Then she washed her hands thoroughly and went back to the bedroom, intending to boot up her computer. But the crow was waiting for her, and as soon as she appeared, it hopped from perch to perch, giving her hard looks and cawing.

Then she saw the empty dishes in the cage. Of course, it was hungry! It fell silent as she pulled the dishes, which were about the size of ashtrays, out of their holders, but it called after her as she took them out of the room.

Water was easiest, so she brought a filled dish of water back first. The crow came quickly to dip its beak and lift its head to allow the water to run down its obviously parched throat. Poor thing! Betsy hobbled to the kitchen to slice half a banana into one dish and half fill the other with smelly canned dog food. Sophie walked beside her, whining—she was hungry, too. Betsy brought the offerings back one at a time, one-handed because of her crutch. The crow abandoned the bananas for the dog food, and she left it to its meal to feed Sophie in the kitchen.

This was an angle she hadn’t thought about. Birds rise with the sun, and apparently rise hungry. Alice had said the crow wasn’t tame—but it wasn’t stupid. It had learned that hollering made humans bring food. Meanwhile, Betsy was going to have to find a source of fresh newsprint. A single daily wasn’t going to be enough, not if she wanted to do any work in the room she was now sharing with a crow. Thank goodness it was only for two more days.

G
ODWIN
was in Crewel World sorting through a shipment from Norden Crafts, a wholesaler in Chicago. There were some of the newest Kreinik silks, and boxes of DMC’s Color Variations. Also there was an order of “wool rovings,” soft, fat ropes of unspun wool in assorted colors. Spinners could use it, but Godwin had ordered it for a form of felting some of the shop’s customers had taken to. They would draw an outline on felt or thick fabric, lay a thin layer of the roving inside it, then use a button-shaped instrument with a thin stem on one side and four needles on the other to punch the wool into fabric. The rovings could make a soft, almost abstract pattern of leaves and flowers or animals, or be blended in shaded and complex patterns or pictures. Bernina made an attachment for their sewing machines to speed the process—Godwin had an order of the attachments in another box waiting to be unpacked and put on display.

A customer, Laura Briggs, had taken a plain, dull-green wool jacket and covered its lapels, sleeves, and bottom hem with a flowering vine that was startlingly beautiful. She had twisted green roving tight to make the vine, blended shades of green for the leaves, and used orange and yellow for the blooms. She had agreed to loan the jacket to Crewel World to display as a model. When the box from Norden had arrived, Godwin checked the packing list and phoned her, and the “bing-bong” of the shop’s front door announced her arrival less than ten minutes later.

She was very young, barely out of high school, a pretty, slender blonde whose cheeks were pink with excitement. Wordlessly, she held out the jacket.

“It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” said Godwin, taking it and holding it out at arm’s length. “
I
think it should go right in front,” he said, walking over to an old, glass-fronted counter painted white that jutted out from one wall. “We can set it up on top of this,” he said. “I’ve got a bust made of wire in back that we use for sweaters. That will be a real eye-catcher—you’ll be famous by the end of next week!”

“All right,” said Laura in a soft voice. She was a little in awe of being famous.

“We’ll put some of the rovings into a basket and one of these what-dya-callems—” He held up one of the implements used to punch wool into fabric. “Inside the cabinet.”

“It’s a felting tool. And I think that’s a great idea,” said Laura.

“No, wait, let’s put the basket and felting tool up here on top beside the jacket.” He put a little wicker basket on top to try it out.

“All right. That looks nice.”

“Well, maybe it should go inside. Someone might pick one of those tools up and forget to put it back. Better to have the basket and this gizmo behind glass.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Laura, starting to look a little confused.

“And instead of one, let’s put two of these felting tools out.” He glanced at her and misinterpreted her expression. “Okay, one.”

“Whatever you say,” said Laura gamely.

They settled on two felting tools and a small basket of rovings, inside the cabinet. Laura said she’d think about teaching a class and left.

A little later, Godwin was arranging coils of wool rovings in the little basket—the forest green twined around the deep orange with the red showing here and there—when the door chimed and Sharon, Ramona Tinsmith’s daughter, came in. “Hi, Goddy!” she said.

“Well, hello!” said Godwin. “I didn’t think I’d see you for weeks and weeks, after you bought all those chicken patterns!”

Sharon giggled. “I know, I know—and I’ve only started working on them. I found the most incredible fabric print to use as an edging on the quilt: chicken wire! Can you believe it? But I was thinking: What threatens the chicken coop in song and story?”

Godwin frowned at her. “Chicken hawks?”

“Well, yes, but there’s another reason for the chicken wire.” He shook his head, baffled. “A fox!” she said.

He laughed. “You’re right!”

“So my quilt needs a fox. What kind of fox patterns do you have? Remember, they have to be four inches by four inches.”

“I thought some of the patterns you bought were bigger than that.”

Sharon nodded. “Some are, they can make a square eight by eight. But most of the squares are four by four, and I want the fox to be kind of subtle. I want to place him along the edge. Top, side, or bottom, it doesn’t matter, but he should be skulking, don’t you think?”

Godwin was smiling along with Sharon. “I agree. Let’s see what we can find.”

There were quite a few fox patterns, but they were too small, or too cartoonish, or too big, or not “skulky” enough.

Godwin finally said, “I’m sorry, we don’t seem to have one you can use. Maybe you should try Needlework Unlimited, or Stitchville USA.”

Sharon sighed and started for the door, but Godwin called after her, “Hold on, hold on! Maybe I
can
help you!”

She came back eagerly, and Godwin said, “I have to make a phone call.” He would have run upstairs but there was no part-timer in the shop. He dialed Betsy’s number.

“Hello?” came the reply.

“What’s that noise?” asked Godwin.

“There’s a crow fight on the roof.”

“Sounds like it’s in the next room.”

“Yes, I know, I have a window open. What’s up?”

“Betsy, remember that class you took from Rachel Atkinson, the one where she taught that pattern of the fable about the fox and the grapes?”

“Oh, yes. But I didn’t finish it. Why?”

“Sharon’s here, and she wants to put a fox on her chicken quilt.”

“A fox looking up at a grape arbor?”

“No, just the fox. Looking up at all those chickens.”

Betsy laughed. “You told me about that quilt, all chickens. Now she wants to add a fox? That’s great, that’s funny! But don’t we have fox patterns in the shop?”

“Yes, but we haven’t got a fox pattern that’s right for what she wants. Do you still have the kit?”

“Yes, I think so. Let me see if I can find it. I’ll call you right back.” She hung up.

“Who’s Rachel Atkinson?” asked Sharon.

“She’s a teacher as well as a designer,” said Godwin. “That’s about all I know. But this piece is what you’re looking for, I think.”

Sharon was looking at a book on crewel when the phone rang a few minutes later. Godwin picked up and said, “Find it?”

“Yes. Come up, I’ll meet you at the door.”

He asked Sharon to wait and to knock down anyone who came in, picked out something, and tried to leave without paying—it had been a very quiet day, so there was small chance of that—and went out the back way and up the stairs. Betsy was standing in the open door with a clear, hard-plastic box in her hands. “Everything’s in here,” she said. “But be warned, it’s not grafted.” Meaning it wasn’t designed as a counted cross-stitch pattern.

“Thanks,” he replied, took it, and ran back down the stairs.

Back in the shop, he opened it and found, folded in half, a sheet of paper with a color photo of the project: a red fox sitting before a grape arbor. The pattern was round, but the fox’s tail ran off it onto what seemed to be the mat.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Sharon.

“Well, it looks great, but you’ll have to copy it onto fabric and stitch it free style.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And, you’ll need to contact Ms. Atkinson. Our policy is to never, ever violate copyright.”

“Oh,” said Sharon, in an even smaller voice.

“But it’s perfect for you, and look, her e-mail address is on here.”

Sharon brightened and said, “So it is. I’ll contact her and grovel hard. Maybe she’ll give me permission to use it.”

Godwin waved good-bye to her as she went out the door, then frowned and looked thoughtfully after her as she went cheerfully up the street. Interesting, he mused, waiting for the idea that conversation had sparked to come out and explain itself: The chicken wire fence was to keep the fox out.

He was reaching for the phone when it rang.

“Crewel World, this is Godwin, how may I help you?” he answered it.

“Goddy, it’s Betsy.”

“Strewth!”
he exclaimed. “I was in the very act of picking up the phone to call
you!”

“You were? What about?”

“Well, I have this idea, it came because of the fox.”

“The fox stitching pattern?”

“Yes, but the stitching part isn’t it—and anyway, it’s not all the fox.”

“You’d better explain.”

“What I mean is, EGA was in favor of that heart research charity. The officers got everyone excited about helping research women’s heart disease, and they raised a lot of money. When they heard that the Heart Coalition was going to send a VIP down to pick up the check, they were all puffed up about it.”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she replied, “Yes, I remember.”

“So I think, like the fox comes in from the outside to prey on the chickens, that whoever stole that check isn’t from the EGA, but an outsider.

“And once I started thinking that, I realized that if it
had
been someone in EGA or married to someone in EGA, then someone in the audience would have recognized him. But so far no one has said”—Godwin switched to a prissy gossip’s voice to continue—“‘You know, that Germaine person looks
so much
like Ruth’s husband, I thought it was him up there.’”

Betsy said, “If it wasn’t someone from EGA, then where was he from?”

“Well…he could be from the hotel. Or maybe he’s the newspaper reporter who wrote about the check. But I think he’s from the Heart Coalition.”

“So do I.”

“You
do
?” Godwin was even more astonished than he was thrilled that she agreed with him. “Why do you think so?”