Free Embroidered Truths by Monica Ferris

a friend, to stay with you?”
    “No,” he said, but absently, still staring.
    “Godwin,” she called, drawing out the sound, and he looked up at her. “It’s going to be all right. It’s terribly, terribly hard right now, but it will get better.”
    “I don’t see how.”
    “I didn’t either, when I lost Margot. But it does. Time passes, and wounds heal. You have a lot of friends, and their love will help.”
    “All right.” This time he didn’t sound convinced.
    “I’ve got to go back downstairs. Nikki’s been a great help. Thank you for calling her.”
    “Yes? All right. You’re welcome.”
    “Will you eat the soup? It’s chicken soup, the universal medicine.”
    He smiled faintly. “All right.”
    She turned to leave.
    “Betsy?”
    “Yes?”
    “Are you going to try to find out who murdered John?”
    “Do you want me to do that?”
    “Yes. Yes, please. We never got a chance to make up, and that’s what makes this like the end of the world.” He sniffed, and two big tears rolled from his eyes. He blotted them with the sleeves of his shirt.
    “I’ll see what I can do. But if this is a burglary, then Mike will probably solve it before I can even get started. He’s good at that kind of crime.”
    “Come on! Everyone knows he’s not the swiftest boat on the river.”
    “That’s when it’s about amateur criminals. When it comes to the pros, he’s very, very swift.”
    “Okay, we’ll let him have a shot at it. But if he doesn’t arrest someone in the next day or two, then it’s your turn.”
    “All right.” Betsy did leave then.
    On her way back downstairs she reflected on Godwin’s simple trust in her sleuthing abilities. It was a strange thing, this ability of hers to solve crimes. She had no training in investigation, and she never sought out opportunities to sleuth. It was as if crime came looking for her, usually in the person of a customer who had a relative falsely accused—sometimes by Mike Malloy. And to her mind, when she solved a case, it was more luck than skill or talent.
    Of course, this time there would be no relative anxious to clear a brother or cousin. Betsy was pretty sure Mike was at this moment bending over a dusty fingerprint and nodding sagely. A burglar who hadn’t realized John was home, who had been surprised and frightened when confronted by John, and struck out with the first thing to hand, then run off with only a few pieces of jewelry. And who would pay very dearly for what he’d done.
    Betsy came in the back door of the shop, where she took out the little three-step stool, opened it, and climbed up to reach for the shop’s Christmas decorations in the large box high on a shelf.
    Nikki, hearing the sounds of effort, came to help. In the box, near the bottom—of course—was a small wreath made of golden sleigh bells. Betsy had bought it at a post-Christmas sale, intending to cut the thing apart and sell the bells in Christmas kits. She still might, but meanwhile she would hang it on her door to use as an announcement of a customer’s entry.
    She hung it by its loop over the doorknob and opened and closed the door to try its effect. “Good enough,” she pronounced. Then she noticed she had slammed the door in Bershada Reynolds’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, opening it again.
    Bershada, a slim black woman, was a retired librarian made eloquent from years of nonverbal expression. She paused a moment to take in the apology, then, eyebrows raised in gentle rebuke, entered the shop.
    “What can we do for you?” asked Betsy.
    “I came for a knitting pattern. I want to try that kind that looks like strips of color woven together.” Bershada looked around the shop. “Where’s Godwin?”
    “Upstairs. He won’t be in today.”
    “Then it’s true?”
    “What’s true?”
    “John Nye was found dead at home?”
    “Has it been on the news already?” asked Betsy.
    “Not that I know of. I stopped at the Waterfront Café—do you