“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Betsy, don’t worry, we’re fine. Anyway, I’ve already told you: Joe can’t possibly do anything, not really.”

Sipping her juice, Betsy’s frown deepened. Okay, with the low rent and the fact that her customers were faithful, Margot was doing all right here. But if Joe Mickels did succeed in making her move out, then she’d have to start all over again at an unfamiliar address and a much higher rent. If that happened, could she still afford to pay Betsy a salary and at the same time house and feed her?

Maybe Betsy should start right in looking for work somewhere else. Tomorrow was Sunday, she’d take a good look at the employment section of the Minneapolis Star Tribune, called by Margot (in that casual way that meant everyone else did, too) “the Strib.”

There was a sound of a key in a lock. “Hello!” called a chipper voice.

“In here, Margot,” called Betsy. “Is it time to close already?”

“Ten minutes past,” came the voice, traveling rapidly through the short hall that passed the kitchen and into the living room. “But I had a good customer and I couldn’t deny her the chance to spend an extra hundred, could I?”

Betsy got a brief glimpse of her sister as she hurried into the other short hall off which were the bathroom and the bedrooms. From the back one the voice continued, “Are you dressed for the meeting?”

Betsy looked down at herself. She was wearing an ivory knit dress with short, caped sleeves and a moderately low square-cut neck. Her shoes were a trifle clunky, with gold buckles. “Yes,” she said.

Something big and furry moved in to block Betsy’s view of her shoes: Sophie. When the cat saw she had attracted Betsy’s attention, she walked into the kitchen to sit significantly beside her empty food dish.

“I’ll feed Sophie,” Betsy called, having learned almost as quickly as the cat that if she didn’t tell Margot, Sophie would cadge an additional feeding. She took a half scoop of dry food from the big sack under the sink and poured it into Sophie’s dish. lams Less Active certainly described Sophie. Inactive might be even better, but lams apparently didn’t make that variety.

Betsy had gone through boot camp to learn to shower, brush, make up, and dress in an amazingly short time, but somewhere Margot had learned it, too. In just under forty minutes she came into the living room with her hair rearranged, her makeup redone, and wearing a dark sheath dress topped with a short-sleeved sweater that caught the light strangely. Betsy approached her for a closer look.

“Oooooh,” she said, fingering the weaving. “Oh, it’s that ribbon sweater you were making! It’s beautiful!”

“Thank you. Is it too long?”

Betsy stepped back and tilted her head while Margot did a slow pirouette. “N-no,” she said. “Actually, it seems just about right. Golly, I like the way it moves. Is there a trick to the way it’s knitted?”