“I don’t have to know how to do needlepoint to sell silk or cotton or metallic thread to people who do,” said Betsy, who had been quick to pick up some terminology from her few days in the shop. She turned to include all three of them in her next words. “I think you should know there are some unanswered questions about my sister’s death,” she began, but before she could continue, the doorbell started ringing again. This time it rang in an urgent series of pulses that continued until she hurried to press the release button by the door.

“What the hell does that mean, there’s ‘unanswered questions’?” said Mickels from behind her.

“Who knows?” said Shelly. “This whole business is so horrible, we’re all acting a little strange.”

“I’m not,” said Irene.

Betsy heard footsteps coming heavily up the stairs and opened the door.

Jill finished the last steps and hurried toward her. Her light-colored raincoat was rain-spattered and all bundled up in front, as if in her haste she had buttoned it wrong; and she held her arms across her breasts as if she were huddled against the wind or rain. “I found her,” she said.

“Who?”

“Let me in, she’s hurt.”

“Who’s hurt? What are you talking about?”

“It’s Sophie.” Jill brushed by her. “Find something I can put her down on,” she ordered. “Quick!”

Betsy ran to the bathroom and brought back a large bath towel. She flipped it open and let it drape across the table in the dining nook. “Here,” she said.

Jill ducked and maneuvered something out of her raincoat onto the towel. It was wet, filthy, and made a thin cry of protest.

“Oh, my God,” Betsy whispered.

“Take it outside, quick!” cried Irene. “It’s sick, it’ll give all of us its germs!”

“She was by the Dumpster in back,” said Jill. “I had to park back there, and when I got out, I thought I saw something move. I think she’s hurt pretty bad.”

Betsy bent over the animal. She took up a comer of the towel to wipe its forehead. The backs of her fingers brushed against a small ear. “Hot,” she murmured.

“Fever,” agreed Jill.

“I’ll call her vet,” Shelly offered.

The cat hardly looked like Sophie at all, except that it was large and had once, perhaps, been mostly white. The coat was a dirty gray, streaked with mud and dirt, the eyes wide and staring, and one back leg was misshapen in a strange way.

Mickels came to peer over Betsy’s shoulder. “It’s dying,” he pronounced. “All a vet can do is put it to sleep, and he’ll charge you money for that. Best just take it back outside and let nature take its course.”