Obediently, one said, “I saw they caught that man who stole that painting.”

“What painting?” asked another.

“A famous one. It was being delivered to Sotheby’s New York for an auction, and he took it right off the truck. A Monet?”

“It was a Manet,” said Betsy, glad at last to be able to contribute. “And they found the painting first, which led them to the thief. Apparently the buyer reneged.”

There was a silence. Betsy looked around the shelves to find them all looking at her inquiringly. “Margot wrote to me about it,” said Betsy. “She said that when a valuable painting like that disappears, it very often is stolen to order. When someone with more money than morals wants a Rembrandt or a Monet or a Rubens, he mentions it to the right person, who will arrange to steal it. In this case, the buyer got scared for some reason and backed off. So the thief had to try to get rid of it through a dealer, and the dealer turned him in.”

One of the ladies said, “How interesting,” but not as if she meant it.

They worked in an uncomfortable silence until Betsy announced she was going to start the coffee urn perking and, for good measure, go upstairs for cookies. When she got back, the women were comfortably deep into a discussion of which was the best evenweave: luguna, jobelan, or jubilee.

Jill saw her coming and gave her an “I tried” shrug, to which Betsy replied with an “I understand” shrug back.

The women broke off their work and came gratefully to the table to drink and eat. “Nice coffee,” said one.

“Good cookies,” said another—kindly, because they had been bought at the bakery four days ago and there is only so much a cookie jar can do.

“I don’t know who was responsible for that funeral, but it was quite, quite wonderful,” said one of the women.

“I don’t think I ever—” started another.

“Sophie’s gone missing,” interrupted Jill firmly, her eye caught by a pleading look from Betsy.

“What?”

“Yes, we’ve looked everywhere and we can’t find her,” said Betsy.

The ladies stared at Betsy.

“I’m sorry,” apologized Betsy, not sure for what.

“Did you call the humane society?” asked one of the ladies, the one who had been rolling yarn. “That’s where they take found animals.”

“N-no,” stammered Betsy, now aware of what she should be ashamed of.

“Of course she didn’t, poor thing,” said Jill. “She’s had far bigger things on her mind.”

The lady who had been rolling yarn put it down, went to the checkout desk, found the phone, and dialed a number. “I volunteer over there,” she said while waiting for someone to answer. “Hi,” she said into the phone. “We’re looking for a lost cat—yes, it’s me; hi, Merle. A lost cat. Last Wednesday, in Excelsior. A white Persian cross, pastel tortie on top of the head, along the back, and all of the tail. Big cat, close to twenty pounds, female spay, no front claws. Very friendly. No collar. Answers to Sophie and any sound that means food. Yes, I’ll hold.” She smiled at the others, and they all waited in silence. After a while she said, “Thanks,” and hung up. “No cat matching that description found.”