So Betsy’s constant stream of questions about Crewel World, its history and profitability, were a nuisance. Shelly made her answers as brief as possible, though she sensed Betsy’s growing frustration.

Officer Jill came in around ten-thirty for a cup of coffee and to place an order for more ultrasuede floss. On her way out she said, “Don’t forget this evening,” and closed the door.

“What about this evening?” Shelly asked Betsy.

“We’re going to dinner and the Guthrie.”

“Well, isn’t that nice! I’m glad you two are going to be friends.”

“Us, friends?” said Betsy with a little laugh. “I’m only going because Margot can’t go. It was her idea that I take her place.”

“What, you don’t like Shakespeare?”

“Sure, but I’m not so sure about Jill. Is she always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Frosty.”

“She’s not frosty, she’s just Norwegian. They’re not big on showing their feelings. She likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

“She came in for coffee, and Wednesday is Margot’s day off, everyone knows that. I don’t think she knows my schedule, so it wasn’t me she came in to see. I think she likes you, or wants to.”

“Do you like her?”

Shelly laughed. “Sure, but I’ve known her since kindergarten.”

Betsy wanted to ask more, but a customer came in with a lot of her own questions, and Shelly took her to the back of the store, where a pair of upholstered chairs made answering the questions so comfortable the customer tended to stay a little longer and buy more than she might have otherwise.

Betsy drove to Jill’s house about five-thirty. It was time she learned her way around, so she was driving into the city. Jill got in and directed her back down Highway 7, then onto Highway 100 north to 394, then east to Minneapolis. They got off on the Twelfth Street North exit. “When we cross Hennepin it will become South Twelfth,” Jill said.

And so it did. Almost immediately, Jill said, “There’s Buca’s.” It was on a comer, marked with an old-fashioned vertical neon sign, showing a wine bottle filling a glass.

The restaurant was in the basement of an apartment building, a series of small rooms. The walls were covered with old photographs of thickly dressed children—presumably the owner’s ancestors—and photos of Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Pope Pius XII, Al Capone, Frank Sinatra, and other notable Italians.

There were the correct checkered tablecloths, and a shabby-friendly atmosphere that felt authentic, down to last Christmas’s tinsel still wrapped around the overhead pipes. The plates didn’t quite all match, nor did the silverware. The wineglasses were simple tumblers.

Betsy, remembering the shabby little restaurant in Brooklyn, smiled. This was a very authentic look.

And the smell was both authentic and heavenly.

The menu was on the wall, on a big rectangle of whiteboard. Betsy felt alarmed at the prices, which were anything but shabby. A small dinner salad for $6.95? She began to wish she hadn’t insisted dinner be dutch treat.