Margot Berglund was fifty-three, blond, with kind blue eyes and a bustling but comfortable manner. She had always been happiest with something to keep her busy, and so, when simply doing needlework and teaching her friends to do needlework and organizing expeditions to needlework stores and gatherings wasn’t enough, she had opened Crewel World. That was back when crewelwork was the rage; just because it was needlepoint nowadays, she saw no need to change an established name.

The front door went bing and a handsome woman whose dark hair was pulled into a fat bun hustled in.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so beautiful out, I found myself walking slowly to enjoy it.”

“I don’t blame you, Shelly.”

Shelly went to hide her purse in the checkout desk’s bottom drawer, looked around with a settling-in sigh, and asked, “What’s first?”

“The window, I’m afraid,” said Margot. The shop was deep but narrow; its front was mostly window, currently ornamented with canvases and patterns featuring brightly colored leaves and one-room schoolhouses.

“What, already? School hasn’t even started yet.”

Margot smiled. “Our customers are always working in advance of a holiday. Half of them are already making Christmas ornaments. So don’t get too elaborate with the window; soon we’ll have to advertise Christmas projects for the procrastinators.”

Shelly picked up the stack of display items Margot had chosen and went to the front window.

“Ooooh, I think I’d like this one for myself,” she said a minute later. Margot looked up to see her holding a counted cross-stitch pattern featuring an enormous pale moon with a silhouetted witch riding her broom across it. In the foreground was a heap of pumpkins out of which rose a windblown scarecrow.

“You’ll have to do it on black,” warned Margot.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been thinking of buying one of those Dazor lamps anyway,” said Shelly. She traced the tatters of the scarecrow with a finger. “Isn’t this just beautiful?”

“Shall I deduct it from your pay?”

“Let me think about it. Maybe I won’t have time.”

Margot laughed; Shelly sounded almost hopeful.

Shelly Donohue was a schoolteacher who’d taken this part-time job to earn a little spending money over the summer; she’d spent most of it on floss and counted cross-stitch patterns. “How many did you order?” she asked.

“Only three; not many people like working on black.”

“Ask me again when there’s only one left.” Shelly turned to find a place in the window to hang the pattern.

The shop fell silent except for classical music coming from a radio tucked under a table near the back. Mozart’s flute concerto, played on a flute for a change.

After a while Margot put down her needles to spread the jacket on the worktable. Was it done? She reached into a basket on the table and among the scissors, marking pencils, knitting needles, and all, found a fabric measuring tape.

“I thought I’d find your sister here when I came in,” Shelly said.

“Yes, I’ve been thinking she might be here today.” Margot stretched the tape down the back of the jacket.