When she had first met Margot’s sister, she had thought she was a live one, full of wit and good humor, just the kind of person she liked.

Now she was concerned for the woman’s sanity. Betsy was shut down tight except for these nutso eruptions—Joe Mickels a murderer, for Pete’s sake!

And wanting to close Crewel World. Well, that was more understandable. Betsy wasn’t Margot and didn’t have Margot’s investment in Excelsior, and she didn’t know how the store was a warm center of activity for the action-minded. Probably she wasn’t a do-gooder like Margot had been in any case. And now the murder had taken away her chance to learn what Margot meant to the town and its people.

Jill put down the needlework. Whenever she was alone and any thought of Margot happened by, she had to stop whatever she was doing because her eyes filled. God, how she missed Margot! All her friends loved Margot’s warmth and borrowed from her bottomless store of ideas and energy. But Margot and Jill had become closer than that. Jill was a good little Norwegian. She didn’t show her emotions in public, or even to many close friends, but with Margot it had been different. With Margot she could let down all the barriers, talk about how tough it was being a cop, how her boyfriend was pressuring her to quit and start a family with him. And how tempted she was to do just that. Margot had listened, allowed Jill to talk until Jill herself understood that, for now, her sense of duty would not allow her to quit and be happy about it. But she had also nourished Jill’s sense of humor until if Jill chose to laugh right out loud, laugh till her sides ached, that was okay, too. With Margot it was all right, with Margot—Jill sobbed once aloud, startling herself. Get a grip, she told herself. Get a grip.

It really wasn’t fair that Margot should have died at the hands of someone who could have asked for her help and gotten it, gladly. Margot was always helping—kids with heart problems, people down on their luck, even Prisoner’s Aid.

That did it; Jill broke down and wept bitterly. When the storm ended, she went to the bathroom and washed her face.

Back in the living room she picked up her project, found her place, and resolutely stuck the needle in. If she could get into the rhythm of the needlework, she would find peace. That’s why she loved needlepoint—it worked like meditation. It was better than meditation, actually, because after a while you found you had both peace of mind and a work of art.

In another minute she was calm and could think some more about what Betsy had asserted. The woman had been right about one thing: Margot had no business sneaking down those stairs to see who was burgling her store. It was a stupid thing to do, and Margot was nobody’s fool.