But that was where she was going to end up, probably. On that waiting list.

The doorbell rang. Betsy frowned and went to the door of the apartment. There was only a button, not an intercom. Still frowning, she pressed it.

In a minute someone knocked on the door and she opened it a fraction, keeping one set of toes pressed firmly against it.

“Hi, Betsy, it’s me, Jill.”

“What do you want?”

“To talk to you. Please, it’s important.”

Reluctantly, Betsy released the door. “Come in,” she mumbled, and returned to the love seat.

After shedding a raincoat, Jill detoured into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, then brought it with her to the comfortable chair. She hesitated very briefly before sitting down in it, and with an almost ceremonial gesture shifted the needlework holder farther out of her way. She was wearing slacks and a soft gray flannel shirt, which made her fair hair look almost silver. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Okay, I guess.”

“When are you going to reopen the store?”

“I’m not. I have to get in touch with Margot’s lawyer to find out how to get everything shut down and sold off.”

“Why?”

“There’s a silly question! Because I don’t know how to run a business—especially a needlework store!”

“You’ve done fine the times I’ve come in and found you behind the counter. Besides, we can help you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“First and foremost, the people Margot hired to work in the shop. Some of them have worked in that place for years and know all about running it. And there’s the Monday Bunch.”

“‘Monday Bunch’?”

“Today’s Monday, so you’ll meet them today. They’ll turn up around two. They meet to talk and do needlework. Give advice. Help out. Buy supplies. When it’s my day off, I join them. Like today. But I decided to come over early to warn you they’ll be here, and see if there’s anything that needs doing. Have you been into the shop?”

Betsy felt her shoulders tighten. “I don’t want to go down there.”

“What, you think the police are going to clean up?”

Betsy thought to reply sharply, and instead asked with genuine curiosity, “Who cleans up after a murder?”

“Unfortunately, that’s left to the survivors. There are companies you can hire to clean up horrible messes, like after an ax murder or deaths that don’t get discovered for weeks and weeks.”

“Please!”

“You asked. You don’t want to hire someone in this case, unless you can find someone who also knows floss and silk and wool and canvases, so they don’t just dump it all in bags and toss it. And, of course, you’d have to supervise them if they do know about it so they don’t walk off with the good stuff.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“You don’t have to do it right this minute, of course.” Jill’s tone seemed familiar, and Betsy glanced up. Was there the merest hint of a twinkle in those ice-blue eyes?