Crewel Yule by Monica Ferris, Melissa Hughes Page A

“I’m sorry, making a nuisance and all.”
    Betsy helped her to her feet, concerned at the pale face, the glazed brown eyes. “I think you should go lie down, at least for awhile.”
    “Oh, no, I’ll be all right. I’m supposed to be shopping for Silver Threads, and Mrs. Entwhistle will be upset with me if I don’t get all the things on her list.”
    “I wouldn’t worry about that right now. I think everyone’s stopped buying until this gets sorted out. Here, let’s go this way. Did you know Ms. Hammermill long?”
    “Three years.” Eve came along docilely. “But then things—well, I decided to move back home, to Savannah. That’s where I’m from originally, and there I went to work for Mrs. Entwhistle. I have lots of family there, and they’re helping me raise my little girl . . .” Her voice went high on the last two words, and she put her palm against her nose and mouth. “Sorry, sorry.”
    “Here, this has shaken you more than you know, I think,” said Betsy. “What’s your room number? I think you definitely need to lie down for a bit.”
    “We’re down there, in seven twenty-three.” The woman looked down the gallery.
    “On seven? But this is eight!”
    “It is? But the stairs went around twice . . .” Eve shook her head. “I was on the elevator, you see, and got off on the wrong floor.”
    Betsy frowned at this conflation of stairs and elevator, and Eve explained, “I was thinking about something else. So when I got off the elevator and went to my room, the card wouldn’t work and then I realized I was on the wrong floor. And I came down the stairs, and . . . and then there was this scream and when I looked . . . Oh, my God!” She bent over as if her stomach had clenched tight. “My God.”
    Betsy put a hand on the back of her sparkly sweater and circled it slowly twice, a calming stroke. “Take it easy, everything will be all right. Come on, I’ll walk you to your room.”
    Eve managed a faint, “You’re being very nice, thank you.”
    As they started along the gallery, Betsy cast around in her mind for something to say. Finally she asked, “Was Belle a good boss to work for?”
    “Yes, at first. But then . . .” Eve swallowed and said rapidly, “But I got homesick, I guess. You know how it is.” She made a gesture seeking understanding; but she didn’t look at Betsy, and seemed to withdraw into herself, so Betsy politely didn’t ask any more questions.

Seven

Saturday, December 15, 10:08 A.M.

    Jill was stitching in Betsy’s suite. Betsy had taken her down to the INRG desk in the lobby first thing this morning and explained that Jill had been trapped at the hotel last night by the snow, and so was not only without a change of clothes, but also the little stitching project she’d brought along to work on at idle moments during the law enforcement management seminar. Could she please buy a kit or something (she’d pay retail, of course) so she wouldn’t have to sit twiddling her thumbs until the streets cleared?
    They were generous—more than generous. They told her she could buy anything she wanted from any suite, at the same prices shop-owners were paying. They even gave her a special name tag so no one would question her right to shop. And they happily sold her an INRG T-shirt, too.
    Jill waited until they were on the elevator back up to eight to remark that it was a pity INRG wasn’t selling official Market underwear.
    After breakfast, Jill had seen Betsy and Godwin off on their buying spree, then gone shopping for herself. In Connie Welch’s suite she found a little kit with a Santa Claus face to be glued to a piece of stiff felt to which beads were added as ornament. No glue was included in the kit, so Jill made a side trip to the front desk, where the clerk found her a little bottle of Elmer’s white glue. Jill used it on the spot, drizzling it on the back of the plaster head and pressing it onto the center of the white fabric. Then, partly because scissors