Free Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 by Crewel World Page B

Brooklyn?”
    Betsy tried to think. “Frankly, it’s been too many years since I was in Brooklyn to remember. But I think so. In any case, it was delicious.”
    â€œI’m glad you liked it,” said Jill. She looked at her watch. “We don’t have time for dessert.”
    Betsy began to laugh, she couldn’t help it.
    Jill’s inquiring glance had the wintry look in it again, even though she, too, watched as the waitress packed up half a slab of garlic bread and most of the garlic mashed potatoes and one of the chicken breasts. Was it a local custom always to order dessert, even when all you could manage was a polite bite of it? Did Jill think there was an empty refrigerator at home?
    But Betsy didn’t feel like explaining why she thought Jill had made a joke. She was glad they were going to a play; soon she wouldn’t have to try to keep up a conversation with this unreadable ice maiden.
    They were well into the first act of the Guthrie production of The Taming of the Shrew before enough of the wine wore off that Betsy could look around with appreciation.
    The theater was not small enough to be called intimate, but it wasn’t a huge cavern by any means. The stage was a thrust, so the audience sat on three sides, but it went well back behind a proscenium as well. The seats were very comfortable. The actors were of the caliber that makes Shakespearean English sound natural, the special effects, while not Broadway spectacular, were well done, and the costuming was beautiful.
    It had started raining sometime during the play, and was still raining when they came out of the theater. But the farther west they drove, the lighter the rain became, until out in Excelsior it ceased altogether, leaving platinum puddles as markers of its passing, and tree branches hanging lower, their leaves heavy with water.
    They didn’t say much on the way home. Betsy dropped Jill off at her house, then drove up Water Street toward the lake. The small downtown was quiet, already mostly asleep. Of course, it was eleven o‘clock at night. But there were not the boarded-up windows so sadly evident in many small towns. There was the bakery; Shelly had said they had nice sandwiches. Certainly their sweet rolls were good. And here was Haskell’s, where she turned toward home. Interesting, she already thought of it as home. Maybe she would stay and see if she was up to a Minnesota blizzard.
    As she pulled up to the curb in front of the dark brick building, her headlights caught the door of Crewel World. It seemed ajar. Probably just the way the lights hit it, thought Betsy.
    But when she got out, she went to take a closer look. The door was open a couple of inches. Betsy, sure she had locked it firmly earlier, reached to pull it shut, and saw, dimly, things all over the floor. The drawers of the white dresser were open and canvases were sticking stiffly up and out of them.
    She nearly went in, then remembered what she’d been told by a policeman during a National Night Out lecture about coming home to a burglary: Don’t go in; he might still be in there . A chill ran right down her spine.
    She let go the door latch as if it were red-hot and scurried into the little alcove that held the door to the upstairs. It seemed to take forever to locate her key, and it was horribly reluctant to go into the lock. Then it turned and she was inside. She dashed up the thinly carpeted stairs.
    She reached the top all out of breath, her hands trembling so that she had to use both of them to unlock the apartment door.
    â€œMargot!” she called, falling into the little entranceway and slamming the door shut behind her. “Margot! There’s been a burglary in the shop!”
    No answer. Was it possible the meeting at City Hall was still going on?
    â€œMargot?” No reply.
    Betsy hastened into the kitchen, flicked on the light. The phone was on the wall. She lifted the receiver and dialed