But Ms. Devonshire obviously didn’t like that idea. Penberthy reminded her that Crewel World Incorporated was not included in Margot’s personal estate. As the new chief executive and store manager, she could write checks, and pay herself a salary that would let her stay in the apartment and buy groceries.

“Hey, I never thought of that!” she said, and was greatly comforted. Then she sobered again. “I’m afraid Mr. Mickels will continue to make trouble.”

“You may be right. You may, of course, call on me when and if he does.”

His pleasure at continuing to joust with Mr. Mickels showed in his voice, and she gave him another handsome smile. “Thank you, Mr. Penberthy. I will certainly do that.”

Betsy came back to the shop to find Shelly sitting at the table working on a needlepoint canvas that looked, to Betsy, as if it were already finished. A customer was sitting close beside her, watching.

“You got your stitches all nice and even,” Shelly was saying. “So I want to be careful to maintain the same tension.” Her needle probed from below, came up and went down again. She looked up and said, “Hi, Betsy. My housework’s done, so I decided to come in early. This is Mrs. Johnson; she wants this finished and framed.”

“What are you doing to it?” asked Betsy.

“Looking for skipped stitches. Everyone has to do this. This is Mrs. Johnson’s first big project and she has fewer than a lot of people.”

Mrs. Johnson smiled, first at Shelly, then at Betsy, who wondered if that simple remark wasn’t good for the sale of at least one more project to Mrs. Johnson.

Betsy nodded, then looked toward the big checkout desk where an exceedingly handsome young man was conferring with a middle-aged man in a black-on-gray hounds-tooth sports jacket. They both turned to look at her.

“I’m Godwin,” said the young man, and Betsy recognized the name and voice as a part-time employee she had called. “I think Mr. Larson came prepared to write us a check.” He added in a sweet drawl, one eyebrow raised a little too significantly, “It’s a shame we haven’t finished taking inventory.”

“Yes, I’m afraid we’re a little behind where we should be,” said Betsy. “I’m Betsy Devonshire,” she added, holding out her hand. “You must be Mr. Larson, from the insurance agency.”

Taking Godwin’s hint, she told the agent that they needed to complete the inventory before they could claim a loss honestly. He was understanding and left.

Two other part-time employees—one barely out of her teens, the other Betsy’s age—came from behind the bookshelves where they’d already started counting things. They introduced themselves shyly and went back to work.