Betsy took a drink of her coffee. “I hope they catch the person who murdered her,” she said.

“Well, they probably won’t. It was an impulse thing, I’m sure—a burglar who was startled and just swung without meaning to kill. And don’t they need fingerprints to solve a murder?” Irene was doing a great deal of stirring and hardly any drinking.

“I should think he’d be sick about it, unable to eat or drink or sleep,” said Betsy.

“Probably,” agreed Irene, stirring.

Betsy leaned forward, seeking an aura of confidentiality. “You know how you remember what you were doing when something important happens?” she asked.

Irene nodded.

“I was sorting socks from the laundry when the first men landed on the moon.”

“I was working on ‘Autumn Roses’ in crewel for the chair in my living room,” said Irene.

“And I was sitting next to Jill Cross in the Guthrie Theatre, watching The Taming of the Shrew, when Margot was murdered.”

Irene’s eyes slid sideways, then back. “I was doing the background of a Kaffe Fassett in basketweave,” she said.

“At home?”

“Yes.”

“All alone?”

“Yes. I was using Medici wool, which I think works better than Paternayan. That’s one of the projects I’ll bring in to show you; it came out rather well. Perhaps you’ll want to hang it up where Margot’s blue horse used to be.”

Betsy turned to look at the blank wall behind the checkout desk. “You noticed it was missing?”

“Of course. Was it taken with the rest?”

“Rest?”

“Yes, the Designing Women angel and my Melissa Shirley Christmas stocking and that child-size Irish fisherman sweater. Margot usually kept three or four completed projects on display.”

Betsy remembered the sweater, knitted in a beautiful cream-colored wool. “We found the sweater, trampled. I’m going to try washing and reblocking it.” She raised her voice. “Godwin, do you remember the other things?”

“What things?” asked Godwin, coming out from behind the shelves where he’d been rearranging instruction books, his eyes suspiciously innocent.

Betsy glanced at Irene for confirmation as she named them, the Designing Women angel and the Melissa Shirley Christmas stocking. He shook his head. “I remember them in the shop, of course, but I don’t remember seeing them when we were digging through the trash looking for the T‘ang horse, and I think I would have.”

“Me, neither.” Her eye, too, had been set for finished needlework during the search; she would remember if she’d seen any.

So more than the T‘ang horse was missing. What did that mean? She had no idea. She picked up the phone book to look for the police department’s number. What was the name of the investigator in charge of her sister’s case?

Chapter 13

13