Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 (2 page)

Betsy smiled at him even as she hoped there wasn't a breakup in Godwin's future. He was her best employee: knowledgeable, loyal, and reliable. He could be charming, gossipy, witty, and sympathetic in turn with customers, all in an exaggerated, self-deprecating way designed to make them remember him, talk about him, and come back for more. Betsy sometimes wondered if there was a deeper, more reflective Godwin—though she had no intention of doing an archaeological dig on his personality. He suited her, and the shop, just fine as he was.

He smiled back, and they moved with one accord to the library table in the middle of the floor. They sat down opposite one another. Betsy reached into the basket under the table, he unzipped his canvas sport-club bag, and each pulled out a project. Godwin was knitting a pair of white cotton socks. Betsy was trying to learn knitting in the round by making a pair of mittens.

Betsy found where she'd left off and, after a brief struggle, got her needles under control. Knitting with alpaca wool onto three double-pointed needles is a definite step up from stretchy polyester yarn on two single-point needles. She glanced across at Godwin who was knitting with tiny, swift gestures while looking out the window. He had turned the heel of his sock and was heading for the toe.

“Why do you knit your own socks when they're so cheap to buy?” asked Betsy after a few minutes. “And why white? I should think you'd be into argyle or at least magenta.”

He laughed. “I'd
love
to wear magenta socks! But my feet are so
sensitive
, they break out in
ugly red welts
when I put colors or anything but one hundred percent
cotton
socks on them. And advertisers will say
anything
to get you to buy their products.”

“Uh-huh,” said Betsy, who had never been plagued with allergies.

“The weatherman says snow flurries tomorrow, did you hear?” said Godwin. “Say, did I ever tell you about our Halloween blizzard?”

“Yes, you did, at the same time you told me that I really should get going on my mittens.” She had thought the famous Halloween blizzard a serious anomaly in the Minnesota weather until she, too, had heard the forecast. Snow flurries in October were apparently standard: the weatherman had been blasé about his prediction. Minnesota children must wear snowsuits under their costumes when they go trick or treating, thought Betsy.

She had been raised in Milwaukee and thought she had a good grasp of winter weather in the upper midwest, but she couldn't remember snow of any sort in October in Milwaukee. Good thing she was going to the Mall of America tomorrow on her day off. She would buy sweaters. And a winter coat and hat. And mittens. She was only halfway up the cuff of her first mitten, and at the rate she was going, she wouldn't have this pair finished until January. The only thing she didn't need by way of winter wear was a scarf. She had learned to knit by making herself a beautiful bright red scarf.

Betsy had come to Excelsior from San Diego at the end of August for an extended visit, planning to work her way through a midlife crisis. She'd been here barely a week when her sister was murdered. The police had thought Margot had interrupted a burglar in her shop, but Betsy had been convinced there was a more sinister connection between the shop and her sister's murder. She was proved right, and because of her efforts a murderer was in jail awaiting trial.

Shortly before her death, Margot had incorporated Crewel World, naming Betsy as vice-president. Now, as sole surviving officer, Betsy could do as she liked with the shop. She had thought to close or sell it, but since she had to remain in town anyway until her sister's estate was settled, and because Crewel World's customers were both friendly and insistent she not do anything hasty, Betsy was still here and Crewel World was still open. And, perhaps, dealing every day with people who had known Margot well was a way of holding onto her just a little while longer.

Betsy Devonshire was fifty-five, with graying brown hair and big blue eyes surrounded by lots of laugh lines, plump but not unattractively so. The loss of her sister was too recent to do other than weigh heavily on her heart, and the midlife crisis that had brought her to Minnesota had been triggered by an angry divorce, so the fact that at times she could smile and even laugh was proof of a resilient soul.

There was something else that helped. Margot had been the childless widow of a self-made millionaire. Since Betsy was Margot's only sibling, the estate would come entirely to her. The prospect of wealth made Betsy more of a gambler than she might otherwise have been.

At ten-thirty, the knitting became an aggravation and she put it away. “Coffee?” she asked Godwin.

“Thanks,” he said. “You know, you can work on more than one thing at a time.”

“I know. I'm going to try one of those little Christmas ornaments I ordered. I hope counted cross-stitch isn't as confusing to learn as needlepoint was.” Betsy had long ago mastered embroidery, but only recently picked up the basics of needlepoint. To round out her understanding of her customers, she needed to venture into counted cross-stitch.

She paused on her way to the back room to stroke Sophie, who, after a hard morning of getting Betsy out of bed, wolfing down her pittance of lams Less Active cat food, and making the long, difficult journey down the stairs and along to the back entrance, was ready for her morning nap. Perhaps it really was a difficult journey; Sophie had broken her hind leg a few weeks ago and still wore the cast, which she now arranged in what Betsy was sure was an obvious display. Sophie had quickly learned that seeing the cast excited customers to sympathy and even small treats.

I believe she'll be sorry when that leg heals
, thought Betsy, bending to search in the tiny refrigerator for a bottle of V8 Extra Spicy for herself before pouring Godwin's coffee into a pretty porcelain cup.

She had barely brought them back to the table when a shadow darkened the doorway. There was an electronic
bing
as the door opened to admit police officer Jill Cross. An expert needlepointer, she was a tall woman who looked even bigger in her dark uniform jacket, hat, and utility belt. But her face below the cap was the sweet oval of a Gibson girl, and her figure, while sturdily built, was definitely female.

“Hi, Jill,” said Godwin, getting to his feet. “How may I help you?”

“Trade jobs with me,” said Jill in her best deadpan.

“Not bloody likely,” Godwin said sincerely, then added, “Tough day already?”

“No worse than usual,” she sighed, then brightened. “But I think things are improving. Betsy, can I offer you a change in plans? They're raising the
Hopkins
this morning; Lars and I are assigned to boat duty. Want to come along?”

Betsy hesitated. She didn't want to change plans; she really wanted to go to the Mall of America, where Shop Till You Drop was an actual possibility.

Godwin said, “How about you take off the morning today, Betsy, and tomorrow afternoon? I'll be okay here by myself; it's shaping up to be a slow day.”

Jill said, “It must be something to watch; there's been a crowd gathering since daylight.”

Betsy weakened. “Is it okay to take me along in a police boat?”

“Sure. It'll be a kind of ride-along. Except it isn't a police boat; Lars is using his own.”

Jill had twice asked Betsy if she wanted to go for a ride-along in her squad car for a shift, to get a look at police work on a street level. But Betsy, needing all the time she could get hold of to learn how to run a small business, hadn't found a big enough block of time to go.

She asked, “What's the
Hopkins
, that they want to raise it?”

“You saw the
Minnehaha
before they pulled her out of the water for the winter?”

Betsy nodded. The old steam-powered boat had been raised from the bottom of the lake and restored by a local group of volunteers. It retraced part of its old route on weekends for tourists. Its shape was reminiscent of a streetcar—which was deliberate, as it had originally been one of six boats owned by Minneapolis Rapid Transit and used to take passengers to the Twin Cities streetcar terminus in Wayzata.

Besides being a wreck on the bottom of the lake, how did the
Hopkins
relate to the
Minnehaha?
“Oh, the
Hopkins
is another one of those streetcar boats!”

“Yep,” said Jill. “The
Minnehaha
is doing so well that the people who restored her want to do the same with the
Hopkins
. They thought they'd have the money by next spring, but an important grant came through, and now they'll have all winter to work on her restoration.”

“I hear the Queen of Excelsior Excursions are so pleased they're going to have more competition they could just spit,” said Godwin. Queen of Excelsior Excursions sailed along without volunteers or grants and made a profit besides.

“They'll manage,” said Jill, and to Betsy, “Want to come?”

“How long will it take?”

“They only asked for police patrol till noon, so Godwin's right that you could go with us this morning and still go shopping tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then I think I'd like to see it. When do we leave?”

“I'm supposed to meet Lars down at the wharf in fifteen minutes. Better go change into slacks and a sweater. And bring your jacket, it's chilly, though not as cold as it could be. Say, did I ever tell you about the Halloween blizzard?”

“Yes, you did, but why don't you compare notes with Godwin while I go upstairs and change?”

Betsy reappeared six minutes later in an old pair of jeans and her heaviest sweater. She had a long-sleeved T-shirt on under that, and her only jacket over one arm. She hoped the boat wasn't fishy.

It wasn't. It was an immaculate flat-bottomed, flat-topped, four-seater, fiberglass, with a windshield and a steering wheel. It reminded Betsy of a ‘70s compact car; it was even two-toned, raspberry and cream, and its motor was hidden under a hood at the back. It being Lars's boat, he got to drive.

Lars was Jill's boyfriend, a big blond Norwegian who looked like a poster telling schoolchildren The Policeman is Your Friend. His huge hands were callused, which surprised Betsy when she shook hands until she remembered Jill had told her he was buying a five-acre hobby farm. The notion that someone might take on the labor of farming as a hobby amazed Betsy, but Lars had done it, and he worked as hard on it as he did at being a policeman.

The boat's motor burbled deeply as they pulled away from the dock, then Lars pushed a lever and it roared, stood up on its stem, and went flying over the blue water.

Betsy shouted to Jill, “Where are we going?”

Jill shouted back, “Other side of the Big Island!” She pointed to what looked like part of the shoreline on the north side of Excelsior Bay. But as the boat went by it, Betsy saw that it was indeed an island.

As they came around to the other side, Betsy could see two barges sitting broadside to one another, each with a crane on it. Near the barges were eight or ten motorboats and a couple of sailboats, their sails furled. Lars slowed as they approached, and when the roar of his motors fell to a guttural murmur, Jill picked up a small bullhorn.

“Move back from the barges!” she ordered. “You are in danger of being struck from below! Move back from the barges!”

Heads swiveled, but nobody moved.

“Is that true?” asked Betsy. “Being struck from below?”

“There's a seventy-foot boat down there,” Jill replied. “It's gonna need some room when it comes up.” She spoke into the bullhorn again. “This is the police! Move back from the cranes!”

That worked. Boats started moving. Betsy looked at the slowly widening area around the barges. She could see cables running from the cranes into the water, which was otherwise undisturbed. Huge engines in the cranes whined deeply. “Is it happening now?”

“Beats me,” Jill shrugged. “Our job is to keep the gawkers away until after it does.”

“And then to keep them from bumping into the thing, or climbing on it, or trying to steal hunks of it for souvenirs,” added Lars.

Betsy chuckled uncertainly. “People wouldn't actually do that, would they?”

Lars said over his shoulder, “Civilians do things you wouldn't believe. I was sitting in a Shop and Go parking lot so near the door the guy in the ski mask had to walk around me to get in and hold up the place. I actually sat there and watched him do it. I couldn't believe it. And guess what he said when I busted him?”

When Betsy shrugged, Jill said, “What they always say.” She and Lars drawled in unison, “ ‘I didn't dooo nuthin'!‘ ” Then she and Lars laughed wicked, evil laughs.

The whining of the cranes went on long enough that Betsy began to realize that was the sound of their engines in neutral. Lars and Jill realized it, too, and, once they had established a perimeter, they relaxed and took turns telling Betsy stupid-crook stories. The stories were so hilarious Betsy forgot this was taking a lot longer than she thought it would.

The sun shone, the water rocked the boat. Lars and Jill removed their jackets. A couple of the motorboats went away, a new one joined the watchers. Several of the boats standing watch were of a size that looked capable of going to sea. Betsy wondered what kind of job it took to afford a cabin cruiser and yet have time to come out on a Tuesday morning to watch volunteers raise an old boat.

Jill identified some of the boats, gossiped a little about their owners. “I thought Billy'd left for Florida by now,” she noted about one called
The Waterhole
.

“What, is there a river out of Lake Minnetonka that connects to the Mississippi?” asked Betsy.