Betsy replied, “No, they weren’t for sale. Although there has been a customer who wanted to buy the blue horse. Margot had agreed to make a copy of it for her for a thousand dollars.”

Malloy’s eyebrows elevated. “A thousand dollars?”

Irene said, “It’s quite an art to make a needlepoint project from scratch.”

“Would these other two things cost that much if they were for sale?”

Betsy said, “I don’t know. An unfinished canvas by the artist who did this stocking sells for three hundred dollars.”

Irene said, “If my stocking were for sale, which it is not, I would charge fifteen hundred.” Betsy thought it possible that Irene made up that number on the spot, seeking to outdo the value of Margot’s work. Certainly she beamed brighter when Malloy wrote that down.

Malloy said, “But people who don’t know needlepoint wouldn’t know the value of this stuff.”

“Probably not,” said Betsy. “I didn’t before I started helping my sister out in the shop.”

“So the fact that a framed horse is missing instead of the stocking tells me the burglar hasn’t got a kid, but has got a mother or sweetheart with a birthday coming up.”

Betsy stared at him. Malloy laughed, but not unkindly. “Most people don’t realize that crooks have a life outside their criminal activities. A lot of burglars are married or have steady girlfriends. And all of them, of course, have mothers. It’s not uncommon for a burglar to take something to give as a present. Which is how we catch them, of course.”

Irene said, “You mean their own mothers will turn them in?”

Malloy laughed again. “Not very often. But Mom will show off the present, wear the ring or fur coat, hang the painting in her living room, and of course her friends will ask where it came from. ‘My son gave it to me,’ says Mom, and word gets around, and one of my informants calls me. Then”—Malloy produced a pair of handcuffs—“you’re under arrest.”

Irene chuckled but Betsy frowned.

“Now, what if it wasn’t a burglar who did this,” she began.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Suppose someone wanted my sister dead, and came to see her the night I was out, and somehow talked her into going down to the shop, maybe pretending he, or she, wanted to see something. And then murdered her and trashed the shop to make it look as if a burglar had done it.”

“Where did you come up with an idea like that?” Malloy asked, his tone patronizing.

“There are a couple of things. For one, the shop was trashed after she was murdered.”

Malloy nodded. “Yes, we know that. A very cold-blooded individual did this.”

“Second, the shop was completely torn apart. Either the thief was angry because there was nothing of value to steal, or he was looking for something.”

“Looking for what?”