Shelly sighed. “Nothing of Margot’s will fit anyone else. That’s the really sad thing about this business. I bet if it was Betsy who got murdered, Margot would have the murderer wrapped up in floss and delivered to the jail by now.”

The Dick Huss vase Hud brought to the meeting at Christopher Inn was eerily beautiful. It was black glass, about fourteen inches high, shaped like a jug, down to a little neck just the right size for a cork. But it was covered with a three-dimensional flowing pattern of tiny triangles, circles, and dashes. It cried out to be touched, and Betsy complied.

“How does he get that effect?” she asked.

“He puts little pieces of tape all over it, and sandblasts the spaces away,” Hud replied.

“It’s beautiful,” said Betsy. “Here’s the slash jacket,” she added, putting it on the table beside the vase. Its bright color only made the Huss vase stand out more.

“Can I talk to you?” asked Hud.

“Sure, what about?”

He led her to a back parlor. “I hear the cops are close to making an arrest.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I also hear the perp is a burglar.”

“Detective Malloy says he’s on the trail of a burglar. But I don’t think he’ll arrest anyone, because I don’t think it was a burglar at all.”

“Of course it was a burglar, the store was trashed like only a burglar does.”

“No, it was trashed way beyond that, like someone was angry at Margot.”

“Angry about what?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

He looked down into her unwavering eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t,” he said as sincerely as he could, putting all his concern for her into the words, and he could see a bit of wavering set in.

And her reply was defensive. “But I can’t just take everything Margot left behind, all that money, the shop, all her good friends, and not try to do anything in return!”

“Silly kid,” he said very fondly, and pulled her into a warm embrace.

Which she immediately began to struggle out of. “Let me go,” she said, and he did. She straightened her jacket and ran a hand over her hair. “Don’t ever do that again,” she said, and walked out of the room.

“Well, then, let me help,” he said ninety minutes later, walking her home.

“How can you help?”

“I don’t know. Ask me something you want to find out.”

“Who hated Margot?”

“Ha!” he said, surprised. “Nobody. I don’t think anyone was even mad at her.”

“Joe Mickels was.” How could people keep forgetting that?