With her energy and knowledge, Irene knew she could make a much bigger success of a needlework shop than Margot. After all, Margot hadn’t needed to make a living out of it, as Irene did. So it was clear that she, Irene Potter, should take over the needlework shop.

And when she did, then everyone would see that she was good at this! She’d show those people who said she wasn’t any good with people! When they had to come to her, then they’d see; the shop would be wonderful, better than before, and everyone would love her for ensuring that the tradition continued.

That thought set off an almost painful excitement, and she had to stop and take several calming breaths. That made her smile. Jill was always saying that: take a breath. Amusement calmed her nerves to steadiness.

Then she got into her raincoat, took up her umbrella, made sure her savings book was in her purse, and left her room. Outside, on the sidewalk, she raised herself onto her toes, pivoted in the direction of the lake, and began walking.

Jill’s sharp questioning had brought Betsy to her senses, but she still had felt restless, needing to do something. So she went down to the shop and found the list of employees and their phone numbers, brought it up, and started calling. Before long she found two more of them available to help with inventory tomorrow during the day. Also, Shelly could come after twelve, and another would come by after five to help Shelly take up where the day workers left off.

One of the part-timers who had done inventory before said it would take at least two days, maybe three if it was as bad as Betsy said. This person—a male, oddly enough—recommended she call the insurance agent, which she did (TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR SERVICE his calendar on the kitchen wall advertised). Betsy wasn’t up to seeing him tonight, so he would also come by tomorrow.

The phone rang. It seemed as if every time she hung up, it rang again. It was, as before, someone with a cat they thought might be Sophie. This one, by the description, was a kitten.

“No, Sophie’s big, really big. Huge,” Betsy said. “But thank you for calling, and I hope you find the owner of the kitten.”

She had no more than taken her hand off the phone when the doorbell rang. She went to push the button that released the lock. She should go down and unlock it and stick up a note: Bring Alleged Sophies Up to Apartment One.

So far two people had come by with cats. The first time, seeing the large heap of white fluff in the woman’s arms, her heart had leaped with joy—but it hadn’t been Sophie.

The second one, brought in a carrier, hadn’t any white on it at all.

It was sad and disturbing to realize how many homeless cats there were in just this small town.

So she was really surprised when she opened the door this time and it was Joe Mickels standing there.