“Here, dear, let me show you again,” said the woman impatiently, starting to grab at the needles. Betsy lifted her hands, trying to keep possession.

Bing went the electronic note as the door to the shop opened.

The woman turned toward the door, and Betsy pushed back from the desk, rising.

It was Jill Cross, the police officer, this time in uniform, looking even taller and broader, probably because of that odd hat police officers wear and the thick belt around her hips, laden with gun and flashlight and handcuffs. She looked very authoritarian, and Betsy, who had been growing uneasy about the mad knitter, was glad to see her. But the other woman was already out into the aisle, one hand lifted in greeting.

“Good afternoon, Officer Jill!” she gushed, touching Jill familiarly on the upper arm. “What are we buying today?”

“Good afternoon, Irene.” Jill nodded, swinging her elbow forward to free it. “Hi, Betsy,” she added. “Did that ultrasuede I ordered come in?” Jill took off her hat, exposing her ash-blond hair, pulled back into a firm knot.

“Let me just check,” Irene said, fawning.

“Wait a second, Irene,” said Jill. “Margot’s trying to bring Betsy up to speed on running the shop, so let’s let her find the order for me.”

Irene obediently halted and turned toward Betsy, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

Betsy began trying to think where Margot kept incoming orders.

“Shall I show you?” asked Irene.

“No, I remember now,” said Betsy, and looked in a cardboard box on the floor under the desk. When she came up with the small package, Irene Potter’s superior smile turned into something scary. It may have been a desperate attempt at a broad smile, but there was menace in it. Then she whirled and fled from the shop.

“Is ... is she all right?” asked Betsy.

“Irene? Sure. Well, maybe she’s a hair off center. She’s so desperate to buy her own needlework shop that it colors everything she does. It’s possible she’s been hoping Margot would die of something so she could start her own needlework shop. The town isn’t big enough for two of them.”

“So why doesn’t she move?”

“Because her ancestors were among the first settlers out here, and she would never think of moving away. But now you’re here, and it would be too much to hope that both of you die.” Jill grinned.

“Both...” Betsy hardly knew where to begin her response to that. “She thinks I’m going to take over the shop?”

“She probably suspects you and Margot are going to run it together. At the very least, you have put her out of her part-time work here. She just doesn’t realize she hasn’t a prayer of succeeding on her own, even if this place closes. I mean, would you go into a store a second time to buy something from her?”

Betsy grimaced. “She isn’t dangerous, is she?”

Jill said sharply, “Now don’t go getting weird ideas! The only thing she’s crazy about is needlework. She’s actually tremendously talented at it. Most of it is museum quality. She routinely takes first prize in any contest she enters. Her problem is, she was never properly socialized. A few years ago Irene begged and nagged until Margot hired her to teach a class, but Irene has no patience with people not as talented as she is, and every one of her students quit by the fourth lesson.”