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.

So maybe there was something to Betsy’s insistence that there was more to this than Detective Mike Malloy was saying.

But if it wasn’t a burglar, then—who? To think Joe Mickels had turned into a murderer in order to break a lease—that was ridiculous!

Yes, yes, Joe wanted Margot out of his building. Jill recalled when Joe had made one of his early moves, thinking that if he got everyone else out, Margot would surrender. So he had sent out eviction notices and soon, except for Margot, the place was empty. Little good it did him. Margot was one of those short, thin women who looked like dandelion fluff, but who was actually made of steel. She wasn’t proud or needlessly stubborn, but she knew the real value of Crewel World: what it meant to the stitchers in the area, to the women of Excelsior—to all of Excelsior, really. She had come to her full strength and purpose after her husband died, and Joe had been a fool not to see that. He’d ended up getting new tenants for the other two stores, and new renters for the apartments. None of them seemed very worried about the month-to-month conditions under which they rented, probably because they were locals and knew something about Margot.

But greedy and impatient as Joe Mickels was, Jill couldn’t believe he’d resort to murder.

No, this was just Betsy wild to find closure, to get someone arrested. Jill was sure this was some peculiar form of mourning, that what she needed to do was cry her eyes out—Jill had a feeling Betsy hadn’t shed any tears over this yet—and then she’d straighten up.

But meanwhile, what if she called Mike?

Or contacted some reporter?

Lord, what a stink that would make!

Jill leaned sideways and lifted the receiver of the phone off its base on the end table. Dialing swiftly, she was rewarded with a busy signal, She disconnected, waited, and tried again. Still busy. She’d better get over there.

Chapter 10

10