Now Jill was totally back to disbelief. “Yeah, right; Margot had a secret, and she had a clue to it she didn’t know was a clue; nevertheless she hid this clue she didn’t know she had in her store. But someone knew she had it and that it was hidden in here. That sounds like a plot for the worst mystery novel ever written.”

But Jill’s sarcastic tone only fed Betsy’s stubborn certainty that there was something wrong with the burglar theory.

On the other hand, she didn’t know what else to offer as proof. She said nothing, and got serious about picking up and sorting.

Jill apparently didn’t know what else to say, either, and went back out front to work. The two continued sorting wool and cotton yarn, thread, and floss by color, picking up canvases and fabric and smoothing them on the table, finding magazines that were only rumpled instead of torn, putting crushed baskets into a pile, sorting thimbles (soft and metal), knitting needles and crochet hooks on the desk, and wrapping loose yarn around their hands. At two, they heard someone knock at the front door.

Jill went to unlock and open the door, and stand back to let three women and their umbrellas come in. They were middle-aged ladies in slacks, complicated sweaters, and bright head scarves, each carrying a bulging canvas tote bag. They stood inside the shop, staring with dismayed faces at the wreckage.

Jill introduced them as “Patty, Alice, Kate,” and said they were from the Monday Bunch.

Betsy came to say an uncomfortable hello. She was in no mood to host a gathering, and in any case didn’t know what was expected of her with this group.

“We are so dreadfully sorry about Margot,” said one of them, starting them all off on expressions of sympathy.

Betsy didn’t know what to say to that, either. “Thank you,” was all she could think of, said over and over.

“Well,” said the stoutest of them at last, putting her bag and purse on the table. “Where do you want us to start?”

“How about you go up in front, Pat,” said Jill immediately, “and pick up all those buttons and the bead packets. Put the whole packets into this basket, and the loose beads into this jar. And you, Kate, sit down here and I’ll bring you the loose yarn as I gather it, and you can start making balls. If it’s dirty, set it aside—here’s a wastebasket. And Alice, come over here, we’ve got all this perle cotton on the floor, see what you can salvage.” Jill went back to rescuing canvases and Betsy to sorting and smoothing graphs. With five people working, in half an hour there was a noticeable difference in the shop.

Betsy was glad she was in the back of the shop so her inability to contribute to the conversation going on up front wasn’t as noticeable. The women discussed the best catalog source for patterns, how old the grandchildren had to be before teaching them to stitch, whether or not aida came in twenty-five count, what to do when your knitting yarn starts to kink, needleworkers who had shamefully messy backs on their projects, overdyed versus watercolors, small laying tools—until Jill (apparently hearing the silence from the back of the room) said, “Can’t we talk about something besides needlework?” which surprised them as much as it gratified Betsy.