“No—Betsy, are you going like that?”

Betsy looked down at herself. “What, am I daringly short for Excelsior?”

“Heavens no; but it cools off quite a bit around here when the sun goes down. You’ll want something over that.”

Margot went into her closet and brought out a cream-colored shawl with extravagantly long fringe that had been tied into a complex pattern of knots for its first ten inches.

“McNamara lace!” Betsy exclaimed on seeing it, and explained, “In the navy, sailors unlay canvas and tie the fringe into patterns. It’s used as trim, on the captain’s gig for example.”

“Well, the fringe is too long for me, so why don’t you keep it?”

Betsy stroked the silky fringe, then looked at her sister, eyes stinging. “Oh, Margot, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Well, it matches your dress, so you’re welcome. Now drape it over your shoulders and let’s go. Can you walk in those shoes? We’re only a few blocks from the house, it’s ridiculous to drive that short a distance.”

The house was Christopher Inn, the Victorian bed-and-breakfast Betsy had seen on coming into Excelsior. On the way over, Margot said that the purpose of the gathering was to form a committee to plan a fund-raiser for a child who needed heart surgery. The family had no health insurance and the ‘father was working three jobs to try to raise the money.

It was typical of Excelsior to rise to such an occasion, Margot had told Betsy proudly, noting that there were round plastic coin collectors at nearly every cash register in town supporting some cause or other. But this would be the most important fund-raiser of the year.

They climbed the steps to the house and crossed the big old porch and went inside—the door wasn’t locked.

There were eight people attending the meeting, which was to begin with a light supper served by George Anderson, the proprietor of the Christopher Inn. He was a dark, quiet man with a tennis player’s build.

Betsy was pleased to note that the house hadn’t suffered much remodeling. The front parlor was intact, with two bay windows, and the dining room was large, with a fireplace. Only two of its eight round tables were set for this meal, marked with bouquets of roses and baby’s breath— leftovers from a wedding, noted Margot as they greeted Shelly.

Assigned to Betsy and Margot’s table were a handsome man with sun-streaked auburn hair and a big young woman with ash-blond hair that looked natural. Betsy had already noticed more natural blonds in Excelsior than anywhere else she had lived.

The man was Hudson Earlie, the assistant curator of Asian art at the Minneapolis Museum of Art; the woman was Jill Cross, a police officer.

“But she comes of a very good family,” added Margot while making the introduction.

“I’m sure being a cop is no disgrace,” remarked Betsy, a trifle surprised at her sister, taking Jill’s proffered hand, which was large and strong. There was an air of calm about Jill that inspired confidence, even while she gave you a look that seemed to read every peccadillo you had ever done. She was wearing a simple frost-blue dress that matched her eyes.