Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Who wanted to kill her? And why?

  “We need to start treating you for arsenic poisoning,” said Dr. McQueen.

  Betsy stared at her. “You mean Godwin was right? I’ve been poisoned?”

  “I don’t know who Godwin is,” said Dr. McQueen, “but if he was the one who insisted your food be tested, you need to thank him. One sample contained arsenic, and that urine sample was also positive.”

  Betsy rolled over gingerly and tried to relax. But alarm over possible side effects took most of her attention. And there were two other thoughts rabbiting through her mind.

  Who wanted to kill her?

  And why?

  Praise for Monica Ferris’s other Needlecraft Mysteries, Crewel World and Framed in Lace:

  “A wonderful amateur sleuth tale … Hobbyists and amateur sleuth lovers will enjoy the novel due to the deep, believable characters that provide local color to an interesting story line.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  “Abounds with tidbits of information about knitting, needlepoint, and the art of creating needlework … [A] very entertaining book with a good dose of suspense.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Filled with great small town characters … A great time!”

  —Readezvous

  “Fans of Margaret Yorke will relate to Betsy’s growth and eventual maturity … You need not be a needlecrafter to enjoy this delightful series debut.”

  —Mystery Time

  “Crewel World does a good job of informing as well as entertaining.”

  —Williamson County (TX) Sun

  Needlecraft Mysteries by Monica Ferris

  CREWEL WORLD

  FRAMED IN LACE

  A STITCH IN TIME

  UNRAVELED SLEEVE

  A MURDEROUS YARN

  HANGING BY A THREAD

  CUTWORK

  CREWEL YULE

  EMBROIDERED TRUTHS

  SINS AND NEEDLES

  KNITTING BONES

  THAI DIE

  Anthology

  PATTERNS OF MURDER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A STITCH IN TIME

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime edition / July 2000

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright @ 2000 by Monica Ferris.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced

  in any form without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-49571-1

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published

  by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  I can’t imagine doing this series without the help of both friends and willing strangers. Luci Zahray, toxicologist and poison guru, terrified me with how easy it is to poison someone. Chad Eschweiler knows about bankruptcy estate sales. The people of the real Excelsior, Minnesota, remain sanguine about my use of their beautiful town as my setting—and I want to add that all of these crimes and their perpetrators are entirely fictional. The members of rctn, the internet newsgroup, are a godsend to people as ignorant as Betsy Devonshire—and me.

  On the actual writing end, I sincerely thank my official editor, Gail Fortune, and my unofficial editor and dear friend, Ellen Kuhfeld.

  1

  John Rettger regarded the bustle and noise in his church hall with pleasure, hope, and concern. He was short, with mild blue eyes and ears that stood out beneath a circle of white, fluffy hair. He sat on a hard wooden chair, his offer to help gently but firmly refused, partly because he was the loved and respected rector of Trinity Episcopal Church, and partly because he was clumsy.

  Renovation would begin after the Christmas holidays. A columbarium would be added, something that had been talked about since before he became rector over ten years ago. The library would be expanded, the administrative offices reworked and redecorated, and the long hall between the old chapel and the new church upstairs would have a magnificent hammer-beam roof and a tile floor installed.

  But first, the church hall would be gutted and redone. The haphazard collection of small rooms that over the years had halved its size would be removed, and a modern kitchen installed. The antique and dangerous wiring would be replaced, the plumbing updated, the walls and ceiling repaired and repainted, the floor refinished, and new furniture brought in. The only thing unchanged would be the big, functional fireplace.

  He turned from the volunteers for a moment to look at the fireplace. It had a native pink limestone surround deeply carved with apple trees—the Wealthy apple was first grown in Excelsior. Beside it was a magnificent fir tree eight feet tall, the annual gift of a Christmas tree farmer. Still on it were a few construction-paper ornaments, made by poor families in the area. Parishioners had been selecting one or two during Advent to buy something suitable for the person described on the ornament. They’d wrap their gift and bring it to Trinity by the last Sunday in Advent, which, this being Thursday, was three days off. The gifts would be delivered Christmas eve.

  As Father John watched, three men came to tilt the tree, then lift and carry it up to the big hall outside the nave of the church. The instant they touched it, it shed needles as an alarmed cat sheds fur. He smiled to himself : fir tree, furry cat.

  Before the renovation began in earnest, all the movables in the church hall had to be taken away. The valuable things had already been removed, and the volunteers who ran the thrift shop had emptied their area. But there were long tables (some with legs that used to fold, the rest with legs missing), a pair of grubby wing chairs, two very shabby couches, an army of bent folding chairs, assorted broken hand tools, old Sunday school texts, a half dozen dim and ugly landscape paintings in cracked frames, an enormous collection of House and Garden magazines, a shoe box full of broken mouse traps, on and on—things needing hauling to recycling centers or a landfill.

  As the rooms had taken haphazard bites of the church hall, odd little corners had developed. Some were turned into closets or storerooms that were later closed off. The very farthest had a floor that had never been finished.

  Phil Galvin, a retired railroad engineer, came from that newly reopened room. In his arms was what Father John first took to be a piece of carpet or a small rug. The smell of mildew was strong.

  “What have you got there?” asked Father John, his nose wrinkling.

  P
hil was short and gray, but his manner was biisk and his voice loud and a little harsh, as if he had spent his life shouting orders in all weather. “I dunno. But it’s probably been back in there a hundred years.”

  Phil looked around and saw an elderly card table still standing. He unrolled his find across it. The rug was about four feet wide and long enough to hang off both sides of the table. It reflected its wadded-up past in uneven creases. “Well, looky here! It’s a tapestry! And hand stitched, too. Betcha it was done by the women of the parish.”

  Father John came closer. “Why, it’s the Good Shepherd,” he said. The tapestry depicted the Savior in a white tunic with a dark orange mantle draped over it. He was carrying a lamb on one forearm and held a shepherd’s crook in the other hand. A bright metallic double halo surrounded his dark head and beard, and six grayish-white sheep huddled close to his knees, their black legs making a complicated crosshatch over the bottom of the tapestry. The design seemed unsophisticated, the figures without shading or perspective, and the background a lightly mottled tan. But every line of it was drawn boldly, by a real artist. Something about the sheep said they felt safe, and by his expression, Christ was pleased to have found the lost lamb.

  “Nice, ain’t it!” barked Phil. “I was wrong, it’s not old, that design’s too modern.”

  It was nice, very nice. But it was also dirty and odorous with mildew. The stitching appeared to have worn away in several places. A long strand of tan yarn hung off one edge.

  Phil, his head turned sideways as he studied it, said suddenly, “Say, I bet this is Lucy Abrams’s work!” He explained, “She was Father Keane Abrams’s wife. Father Keane was your predecessor. She liked big needlework projects and designed some of her own.”

  “Ah,” nodded Father John. He had never met his predecessor’s wife. She had died of a heart attack the same day her husband suffered a severe and unexpected stroke. By the time Father John was called to be rector, months later, he had been greeted by an interim priest. Now, eleven years later, Father Keane still lived, but he lay helpless in a nursing home, beyond any ability to understand what had happened to him.

  “Say, Mrs. Fairland!” yelled Phil suddenly. Father John jumped, then realized the man was summoning her, and he turned to look.

  Patricia Fairland was a member of the vestry, a beautiful, talented, and intelligent person, one of those upper-middle-class women who intimidated Father John effortlessly. But apparently not Phil, by the way he’d shouted and was now gesturing impatiently at her.

  She was in khaki slacks and a cotton sweater and had wrapped her hair in a complicated way with a silk head scarf. Though she had been working hard for hours, she looked fresh. She came toward them with an inquiring look, pulling off cotton work gloves.

  “What’s up, Phil?” she asked. “Oooh, where did you find this?”

  “Back room,” said Phil, pointing. “What do you think?”

  “Attractive,” she said. “I don’t remember ever seeing it before. Moths have been at it, though. And uh-oh, it reeks of mildew. If I get a vote, mine is for tossing it.”

  “I think this was designed and stitched by Lucy Abrams.”

  “You do?” Patricia looked at it with more interest, though she didn’t come any closer. “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, I know she was working on a big project just before she died. She and Donna Claypool and Marge—oh, what was her name, I can’t remember—and maybe some other ladies. I never saw it, and I thought she hadn’t finished it. But here this is, and it’s like some other designs she made. I’d look close for her initials, but it stinks pretty bad.”

  “Her initials?” said Father John.

  “She liked to put her name or her initials or her husband or daughter’s name somewhere in her work. One time she did it by crossing blades of grass so they spelled out Lucy. You’d never notice it unless someone told you it was there.”

  “That’s right, I’d forgotten about that.” Patricia started to come closer, then waved a hand in front of her nose and sneezed twice before she could step back out of range. “Allergic to mildew,” she said thickly. “Whew!”

  Phil asked her, “Still think we should toss it?”

  She hesitated, then asked back, “How sure are you this is Lucy Abrams’s work?”

  “I’m not sure about anything except death and taxes. We can ask her daughter to confirm it, but I’ll bet you a dollar she’ll say it is. You sound like you’re changin’ your mind.”

  “Well, you know the parish thought the world of the Reverend and Mrs. Abrams. And mildew’s not hard to get out. From here it looks like it’s done in continental or basket weave, so it should be easy enough to repair. And it is a very nice piece. So yes, I am changing my vote—on a contingency. If it is her work, we should try to restore it. And if we succeed, I think it should go in the columbarium. Or better, the new library.” She brightened. “Which we should rename in honor of Father Keane.”

  “Say, that’s an idea!” said Phil. “I’ll help you with the repairs, if I may.”

  “I was counting on you to volunteer.”

  Phil saw the look Father John was giving him and said, “I’m a pretty good needleworker, took it up when I retired.”

  Patricia said, “He designs and stitches steam engine needlepoint canvases. He has them all over his living room. Extremely nice work.”

  “Thank you, Patricia,” said Phil with a little bow. “Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.” Phil had very old-fashioned manners.

  “How much will this cost?” asked Father John. He had been increasingly alarmed at the ever-rising estimates of this renovation—the hammer-beam roof being a particularly costly item—and the reluctance of his parishioners to be as generous with donations as they were with ideas.

  Patricia gave him a quelling look. “I’m sure this won’t cost Trinity a cent, Father,” she said. “Once people find out what it is and what our plans are for it, they’ll be more than willing to contribute to restoring this marvelous find.”

  Father John had heard that tone of voice before. It meant that will he, nil he, this tapestry was going to get cleaned and repaired in time to hang in the Reverend Keane Abrams Library.

  When Betsy came down to Crewel World on Friday morning, she saw out the big front window that it was snowing, huge flakes like the ending of a Christmas movie. Betsy sighed. It had seemed so beautiful a few weeks ago—and it was no less beautiful now. But also, she was now resentfully aware, snow had to be shoveled. Shoveling was not pretty.

  Even the Christmas lights around the window didn’t jingle her pleasure circuits. White Christmases should be a novelty to Betsy, who had spent many years in California. But they were no novelty in Minnesota, which often saw white Thanksgivings—they had, this year. This was the sixth snowfall since mid-November. Hardly any had melted between the last three storms, so it was really piling up. Betsy was already tired of snow.

  She went to unlock the front door and let Godwin, her one full-time employee, in. He stood a moment on the plastic mat, dusting his shoulders and stamping his feet. He was young, blond, good-looking, an expert at all kinds of needlework, and Betsy’s most valuable asset. She was ashamed she couldn’t pay him what he was worth.

  He hung his beautiful navy blue wool coat up in back, and they began the opening-up routine, turning on lights and putting the start-up cash in the register. Betsy stooped to turn on the radio hidden on a shelf half behind three counted cross stitch books. A local station was playing all Christmas music all the time, and Betsy kept the radio tuned to that, though at this point she was more than weary of singing heraldic angels and Rudolph’s cruel companions.

  Godwin got out the feather duster and began dusting.

  She looked around. “A-rew?” came a cat’s polite inquiry.

  “I see you, Sophie.” The big white cat with the tan and gray patches had come downstairs with Betsy and made herself comfortable on “her” chair, the one with the blue gray cushion. T
he sweet-mannered animal was as much a part of Crewel World as the Madeira silks or the eighteen-count needlepoint canvases.

  “Rrrr?” trilled Sophie hopefully.

  “No snacks,” said Betsy, and the cat sighed and put her head down to wait for a more malleable visitor.

  Betsy went to the back room to put on the ugly but warm coat she’d found at a secondhand store and went out to clear the sidewalk in front of her shop.

  When she came back in, breathless, falling snow had already laid a thin white cover upon her work. She went to plug in the teakettle and put the shovel away. Godwin had finished dusting and was restocking the yarn bins.

  The shop door opened—bing! went an electronic bell—and George Hollytree came in, feebly stamping snow off his galoshes. Betsy hurried to take his attaché case and help him with his heavy tweed overcoat. “Hello, Betsy,” he piped in an old man’s voice.

  Mr. Hollytree was eighty-nine. His small, rheumy eyes were set in a pale face as rumpled and folded as an unmade bed. His hands were roped with blue veins and his fingers were gnarled, the fingernails thick and yellow. He was, God help her, Betsy’s accountant.

  But for all his years, he looked Betsy up and down with an appreciative smile. Betsy was plump by today’s standards, but the old man would have described her as voluptuous. More, her complexion was fresh, her clear blue eyes were friendly and intelligent. Her cropped hair had some natural curl to it, and she had recently converted its gray streaks to blond with a home coloring kit. And she was nearly forty years younger than he was, a mere child.

  Mr. Hollytree walked stiff-kneed to the library table in the middle of the shop. He sat on the chair at the head of the table and opened his attaché case and brought out a very up-to-date calculator, the kind with several memories and the ability to print a tape.