“Margot!” she called, falling into the little entranceway and slamming the door shut behind her. “Margot! There’s been a burglary in the shop!”

No answer. Was it possible the meeting at City Hall was still going on?

“Margot?” No reply.

Betsy hastened into the kitchen, flicked on the light. The phone was on the wall. She lifted the receiver and dialed 911.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?” asked a woman’s voice.

“A burglar! I’m afraid he might still be in there!”

“Is this burglar in your home?”

“No, in the shop downstairs!”

“Is it your shop?”

“No, my sister’s. It’s called Crewel World.” Betsy gave the address and promised to stay where she was until the police arrived.

Betsy stood by the window, arms folded tightly until, through the closed blinds, she could see the erratic pattern of flashing red and blue lights.

She ran down the stairs and waved to the two husky young men who climbed out of a patrol car, then pointed to the door of Crewel World. They nodded and, with drawn pistols, went inside.

A little later Betsy gave a little shriek and jumped aside, and was surprised to find she had squeezed her eyes shut and stuffed her fingers in her ears against the possible sound of gunfire. The person touching her shoulder was one of the officers.

She sighed with relief. “He’s gone, then?”

“Who?”

“The burglar. I was afraid you’d have to shoot him.”

“Are you the owner of this store?”

“No, my sister is. I mean, Mr. Joseph Mickels is the owner of the building, and my sister rents from him. I’m just visiting. From California.”

They were looking at her in some kind of expectant way, but she’d told them everything she could think of.

“Do you know where your sister is?”

“No. That is, she was here earlier this evening, up in the apartment. That was at about five-thirty, when I left to pick up Jill and we went into Minneapolis for dinner and then to a play. Margot was supposed to go to City Hall for a meeting about the art fair. I can’t believe it’s still going on. It’s after eleven.”

“Who’s Jill?”

Betsy said, surprised, “She’s one of you. A police officer, Jill Cross.”

“What’s your name?”

“Betsy Devonshire.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Margot Berglund.”

“What does she look like?”

“She’s about five-feet-one, slim, blond hair—why? Is she—”

A sound that had been growing louder got loud enough to impinge on Betsy’s concentration. It was another siren, and it belonged to one of those boxy ambulances that come to the scene of accidents. The officer turned to start toward it.

Betsy called, “Wait, what’s going on? Is someone in the store? Is it—is she all right?” She turned toward the shop’s entrance, but the officer was in front of her and he put both hands on her shoulders.

“Just take it easy, Ms. Devonshire.”

Two people ran from the ambulance into the shop, one carrying a large, square suitcase. Betsy felt her knees growing weak. “What’s going on? Is someone in there?”