All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-49575-9

BERKLEY^® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY^® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

http://us.penguingroup.com

I thought I knew enough about needlework to write this novel. I didn’t. Fortunately, people can be generous with their time and talents. Foremost are the owner, staff, and customers of Needle Nest of Minnetonka—particularly Pat Ingle, Sandy Mattson and the Wednesday Bunch. Denise Williams designed the T‘ang horse pattern and told me about painting needlepoint canvases. Elizabeth Proudfit encouraged and advised me, and lent generously from her own library of needlework books. And the people of rec.crafts.textile.needlework (an Internet newsgroup) have cheered me on, answered my questions, and continue to be an excellent resource.

To all of you, humble and heartfelt thanks.

1

Nowadays, when she stopped for lunch, Margot sat with her back to her shop’s big front window. That gray monstrosity they’d built across the street had taken away her view of the lake. She ate the last Frito and wadded the empty bag into the plastic wrap that had held her sandwich and dropped both into the little wastebasket under the table. She drank the last of the green tea in her pretty porcelain cup—brewed from a bag, but good nevertheless—and took the cup to the back room for a quick rinse.

There were no customers waiting to buy needlework patterns or embroidery floss or knitting yarn when she got back, so she made a quick tour of her shop, rearranging the heap of knitting yarns in a corner, adjusting a display of the new autumn colors of embroidery floss in a basket on a table, and moving a folding knitting stand an inch closer to the traffic lane. Her shop appeared aimlessly cluttered, but every display was calculated to draw customers ever deeper into the room, with items virtually leaping into their hands.

Satisfied, she sat down again and got out her own knitting. She was working on a bolero jacket she intended to wear to a meeting on Saturday. It was a simple pattern, just knit and purl, but she was doing it in quarter-inch ribbon instead of yarn, so the jacket had an interesting depth and texture. It helped that the ribbon blended every few inches from palest pink to soft mauve to gray lavender.

Margot started knitting, her hands moving with swift economy. The jacket was nearly finished—if it wasn’t finished already. She was slender enough to look good in a bolero jacket, but short enough that she had to try on everything in clothing stores, even things labeled petite, and nearly always had to adjust knitting patterns. After all these years she should be accustomed to it, but every so often she’d miscalculate or just get carried away with the pleasure of the work, and end up with the voluminous kind of garment teenagers wore. Of all the silliness of the current age, the silliest was a young thug who had to hold up his pants with one hand while he held up a shopkeeper with the other.