Crewel Yule by Monica Ferris, Melissa Hughes Page B

weren’t included in the kit, but mostly because Jill needed a new pair of scissors and wasn’t averse to buying them at a wholesale price, she was pleased to acquire a beautiful little pair of Ginghers. And because she was allowed to buy anything, she could not resist a lovely Purrfect Spots pattern of a polar bear on a blue ground, its nose lifted up to sniff a red Christmas tree ornament hanging on a red ribbon. It was called Yukon Yule. Though she liked needlepoint best, Jill, like most stitchers, could do several kinds of needlework. And this pattern was lovely.
    She started back to the elevator, but a suite that had needlepoint canvases caught her eye. J&J Designs was the name. The were printed rather than hand-painted, which meant their prices were reasonable. She paused to consider the beautiful Panda, a near-abstract, curved shapes of black on white, but bought the Measure Twice Cut Once canvas with its tiny models of tools and a frame for it taller on one side than the other, as if its maker had not followed the advice. Her husband would be amused.
    She went back to the suite. Before she sat down to stitch she figured out how the windows operated and slid one open a few inches, then opened the door to the hall so a draft was created. Jill almost always found hotel rooms far too hot for her taste and had to find a way to lower the temperature about fifteen or twenty degrees. She had already changed out of her clothes back into the flimsy nightgown Betsy had loaned her so she could rinse out her underwear and also so she would not be tempted to return to the sales floors. Soon she was content in the fifty-eight degrees of chill she had created.
    Also, she opened the door hoping the cleaning woman would come in. Or at least so Jill could hear her pushing her heavy cart and invite her in. No need to make her have to come back repeatedly to see if she could finish her assigned rooms.
    By now the glue was dry on the Santa head. Jill trimmed the felt back close to the head, threaded the hair-like beading needle, and made a quick circuit of the head on the felt with a single row of green and red beads. Then she consulted the instructions and did a row of picot beading—bring the needle up through the fabric, string three beads on the thread, and go back down close enough to the first stitch so the middle bead is forced out, making a tiny, square loop. Repeat all the way around.
    Jill had finished that and was stringing beads and tiny metal ornaments to make the first long string of fringe to hang down from the bottom of the Santa head when she heard a scream. By the time it was cut off, Jill was on her feet, and two seconds later she was out in the hall, looking over the railing.
    On the tile floor below, right at the foot of the carpeted stairs, Jill could see someone crumpled, limbs at impossible angles. The cockatoos in a cage near the body were shrieking, their noise nearly drowned in the shouts and yells of people rushing to the body.
    She whirled and ran back into the suite. No robe, no time to dress—she grabbed Betsy’s winter coat and shoved her toes into Betsy’s slippers. They were too small, her heels hung over the backs.
    She grabbed her purse by its strap and was out the door. She ran on long legs down the hall—not for the elevator. She went for the door back in a corner. The stairs.
    Like most parts of a hotel rarely seen or used by guests, the stairwell was utilitarian: gray paint over steel steps, buff paint on the rough concrete walls. Her feet thundered as she raced down. She was not even breathing hard when she reached the bottom.
    But the stairs decanted her into a hallway that led only outdoors. She opened the door into a blizzard. High winds and a thick whirl of snow batted at her. She started down a barely visible narrow walk that was snow over ice. She passed a thin tree and noted how the snow clung to leaves—the trees had leaves! In December! The slippers had no grip, and, distracted, she