“I have business to discuss with Ms. Devonshire,” he said, a little more mildly.

“Why, I’m here on business, too.” Irene turned to Betsy. “No doubt you have heard that I am quite an expert needleworker,” she began in a reasonable tone, but excitement got the better of her and she continued all in a rush, “and I want you to know that I have some private financial resources, and a great deal of experience in running a small business as both an employee of Crewel World and as former manager of Debbie’s Gifts, so when you are ready to sell Margot’s shop, I know you will give me right of first refusal.”

“I’m tearing down the building,” announced Mickels.

“What? What? But that would spoil everything!”

“If it spoils some nutty plan you’ve concocted, then I’m twice as glad I can do what I like with my own property.”

Irene approached Mickels like a cat approaching a dog, but the man stood his ground. She came so close her forehead was nearly touching his nose. Then she lifted her face to his—for an instant Betsy was horrified to think she was going to lay a big wet one right on his lips—but she only said with quiet certainty, “I am going to be the new owner of the best needlework shop in this part of the state, maybe in the whole state, and if you get in my way, I’ll hurt you!”

This statement was in such marked contrast to Betsy’s first thought that she giggled. Both of them turned on her.

“What’s so funny?” they asked in near unison.

“The both of you,” said Betsy. “You’re both hilariously wrong. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the shop, but I doubt I will sell it to you, Ms. Potter; and until I decide, and so long as the lease is in effect, you can’t evict me, Mr. Mickels.”

She walked over to Margot’s chair and sat down. “What’s more, I am so greatly offended by the two of you squabbling over the shop like vultures that I think I’ll do whatever I can to keep either of you from profiting from Margot’s death. In fact—”

Again Betsy was interrupted by the doorbell. She rose to answer it.

“Can’t you just ignore it?” implored Irene. “I have a great deal to say to you. I’m sure if you’ll just listen a minute—”

“It’s like goddamn Grand Central Station around here,” Mickels growled.

“It may be someone bringing Sophie home,” said Betsy, and she pushed the release button.

“Who’s Sophie?” she heard Mickels ask.

Irene explained, “It’s that nasty cat Margot allowed in her store. I won’t have animals in my store.”