Betsy had always wanted to hear the entire Miranda warning, but all of a sudden her head was swimming and someone grabbed her and the next thing she knew she was sitting sideways at the end of a booth and the room was empty, except for Jill.

“Hey,” said Betsy. “Where did everyone go?”

“Down to the police station,” said Jill. “They want to talk to you some more, but it can wait until tomorrow.”

“That’s good, I think I’m kind of talked out. Did Hud go quietly?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad, I would have liked him to feel a billy club or two.”

“Want to go back to the dance?”

“Oh, gosh no. But oh, and how am I going to get home? Hud brought me!”

“Want a ride in a squad car? I can arrange for you to ride in the front.”

“Can I play with the lights and siren? No, sorry, I don’t mean that. I think I’m still light-headed. Riding in the front—is that what you and Lars thought was so funny about riding in the back of Hud’s Rolls?”

“Yes, when he rolled up that window we started reciting the Miranda warning to each other.” Jill chuckled.

Betsy said, “We got him, didn’t we?”

“You bet we did. Mike has a whole lot more respect for you than he used to.”

“Did he order up the the list of Rolls-Royce owners like I asked him to?”

“Yes, he did. How did you know there were only seventeen of those cars in the state?”

Betsy stared at her. “There are? I just pulled that number out of the air. Wow, do you think I’m psychic?”

“No, I don’t. But I do think you are damn quick on your feet. Now come on, let’s go phone for transportation.”

Hud wisely invoked his right to silence. And the indictment did not mention a motive when he made his first appearance in court Monday morning. So the Strib put the story on the first page of its Metro section, below the fold, without a photo.

But when an Asian art expert came up from Chicago on Wednesday to look at the Minneapolis art museum collection, two employees of the museum resigned without notice. They were arrested and one of them began negotiating a deal.

A week later Jill sat at the table in Crewel World. She was in uniform, drinking coffee with one hand and stroking Sophie with the other. She didn’t seem too concerned that Mike Malloy might come in and run her off.

Betsy was grumbling over a piece of twelve-count aida, blunt needle in her hand threaded with scrap yarn. “I just don’t get it, Goddy.”

“I know, I know; but it’s like purling. Just listen and be patient and all of a sudden you’ll wonder what you were complaining about. Now, where do you go next?”