It was a stunning work of art, with many subtle changes of color. “Incredible,” breathed Betsy. “Tell me, how did you get that misty effect?”

Godwin said over her shoulder, “Oh, my God, she did the entire thing in half cross!”

Betsy looked closer; it was true, instead of the X of cross-stitch, here Irene had used only one leg of the cross—and in places, less than that, half of one leg. The colors shifted constantly, it even appeared that some of the stitches contained more than one color.

“Didn’t you get headaches?” asked Betsy.

“Sometimes,” Irene admitted. She turned and stared at Godwin until he walked away, then leaned toward Betsy and muttered, “I hear Mr. Mickels told you he was at a business meeting the night your sister was murdered.”

“Who told you that?”

Irene hesitated, then lied badly. “I don’t remember, exactly. But if that’s true, he must have held the meeting on his rowboat. And had a for-real battle with his board of directors.”

Betsy stared at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I saw him walking up Minnetonka Boulevard that Wednesday night with a broken oar in his hand.”

Betsy frowned at her. Irene nodded several times. “That’s the street that goes out past the old Excelsior Park restaurant—where the Ferris wheel is?”

Betsy nodded wordlessly. You could see the Ferris wheel a long block away from the front porch of Christopher Inn, which was itself barely more than a block from Crewel World.

“What time was this?”

Irene thought briefly. “I’d say around ten-fifteen.”

“Could it have been earlier?”

“I don’t think so. I started out from my house right about ten, and it usually takes me about ten minutes to walk to the lake. I wasn’t walking fast, as I was enjoying the weather. It had stopped raining, and was dark and cool and misty, and as I was coming up the street, he kind of loomed up under a streetlight. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned black rubber raincoats and his hat had the brim turned down, and he was carrying a broken oar. I thought for a second I was seeing a ghost, but then I saw the silver whiskers and I realized it was just Mr. Mickels. I think he saw me the same time I saw him, because he suddenly ducked into the parking lot and went behind this big car.”

“A broken oar ... ?” Betsy prompted.

“Yes, you know.” Irene nodded. “The paddle part was gone.”

“So how do you know it was an oar?” thrust in Godwin, back like a bad penny. “Without the paddle, it’s just a stick, isn’t it?”

Irene drew herself up. “The oarlock was still on it.”

“Oarlock?” echoed Betsy.