Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 by Crewel World Page A

harsh, beautiful desert), and the big El Niño of ‘97 spoiling things.
    Margot had said El Niño had even reached as far as Minnesota that year, giving them a very mild winter. Betsy, recalling the news footage of snow up to the eaves of Minnesota houses, decided that mild temperatures were a relative thing. Was she up to a Minnesota winter, she who could not knit well enough to produce a pair of mittens? Maybe she should cut this visit short and be on her way before the hard freeze set in.
    She had asked, “Is living in a small town like it is in books, everyone knowing everyone else’s business?”
    â€œIt is harder to be anonymous, because there is only the one main street where everyone shops, so even if you don’t know someone’s name, you recognize the face. It’s like when you take the bus to and from work; you don’t know the people who ride with you, not really, but you recognize their faces. And if someone’s been absent for a few days and then gets on with his leg in a cast, you might express concern, even ask him what happened, as if he were a friend.”
    Betsy had nodded. Okay, living in a small town was like sharing a commute. She could do that.
    â€œAnd if you get really sick of small-town living there’s Minneapolis and St. Paul down the road—and hey, there’s the Mall of America, right? Is it as big as they say? How often do you go there?”
    â€œAbout as often as you visited the Statue of Liberty when you lived in New York City.”
    â€œBut that was different! You go, you climb, you look out, you go home. At the Mall of America you can ... shop .”
    â€œThat’s true. I went when it first opened, and I’ve been back, I think, twice. No, three times, twice to take visitors and once because they have a specialty shoe shop. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m hard to fit.” Margot had stuck out a small foot complacently. She counted stitches for a bit, then continued, “But you know, there’s so much stuff there, a great deal of it things you don’t really need, like dried flower arrangements and personalized scents for your bath. To be so rich that you can shop as a form of recreation is ... sinful. Yet people come from all over the world to entertain themselves by buying things they don’t really need.” She moved her shoulders. “It makes me ashamed somehow.” She stopped to count stitches again, and then twinkled over at Betsy. “I know, you want to go glut yourself in all that shopping anyhow, be sinful for a day. Okay, maybe a week from Wednesday?”
    And while they had continued talking, about movies and books, Margot’s hands performed the same compact dance as Mother’s had, and before they stopped to get ready for bed, the sweater she was knitting had become longer and developed a braid pattern.
    So if Margot and Mother could do it while talking, by gum Betsy could do it while concentrating. She bit down harder on her captured lip and sped up to three stitches a minute.
    She was concentrating so hard that when the door made its electronic sound, she jumped and, dammit, the needle slipped and pulled out of about seven stitches. Before she could figure out what to do, a bony, ice-cold hand covered hers.
    She glanced up and saw a stick-thin woman with short dark hair that stuck up in odd-looking curls all over her little head. Like Betty Boop, thought Betsy. Except the face wasn’t Boop’s merry square, it was long and narrow, with deep lines from nostril to mouth. The eyes were dark and intent. The woman suddenly showed bright, patently false teeth, and Betsy wanted to back away, but was held by the icy grip.
    â€œM-may I help you?” she asked.
    â€œNo, my dear, may I help you ?” said the woman in a chirpy voice that rang as false as the teeth.
    â€œHelp me what?” asked Betsy.
    â€œWith what you are doing,” said the woman, the smile