Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 by Crewel World Page B

slipping a trifle, looking pointedly at the knitting and back at Betsy.
    â€œOh, this. Why, do you know how to knit?”
    The woman laughed a genuine laugh. “Of course I do! I know how to do every kind of needlework there is, except sewing canvas into sails. What seems to be the problem with your knitting?”
    With a small effort, Betsy managed to free her hands. “It’s not the knitting, exactly. It’s the purling. I just don’t get how to do it. And anyhow, now I’ve spoiled what I was doing, pulling the needle out.”
    â€œOh, that’s easy to fix.” The woman took the knitting from Betsy’s hands and deftly rethreaded the stitches onto the needle. “See? Now, to purl, you hold the needles like this,” she said, putting them together in what Betsy was sure was the same way she herself had held them while trying to purl. “See, you go through like this, come around like this and off, and through and around and off, and-through-around-and-off.” If she’d continued as slowly as she’d begun, Betsy might have learned something. But she repeated “through and around and off” faster and faster while her hands worked more and more vigorously, until she’d done the row. Then she handed the needles back to Betsy. “Now you try it,” she said briskly.
    Betsy took the needles, turned the work around to begin the next row and tried to remember where to poke the empty needle through the first stitch. It went in front, she remembered that, but was it through the same direction as the filled needle was pointing, or the other way?
    â€œHere, dear, let me show you again,” said the woman impatiently, starting to grab at the needles. Betsy lifted her hands, trying to keep possession.
    Bing went the electronic note as the door to the shop opened.
    The woman turned toward the door, and Betsy pushed back from the desk, rising.
    It was Jill Cross, the police officer, this time in uniform, looking even taller and broader, probably because of that odd hat police officers wear and the thick belt around her hips, laden with gun and flashlight and handcuffs. She looked very authoritarian, and Betsy, who had been growing uneasy about the mad knitter, was glad to see her. But the other woman was already out into the aisle, one hand lifted in greeting.
    â€œGood afternoon, Officer Jill!” she gushed, touching Jill familiarly on the upper arm. “What are we buying today?”
    â€œGood afternoon, Irene.” Jill nodded, swinging her elbow forward to free it. “Hi, Betsy,” she added. “Did that ultrasuede I ordered come in?” Jill took off her hat, exposing her ash-blond hair, pulled back into a firm knot.
    â€œLet me just check,” Irene said, fawning.
    â€œWait a second, Irene,” said Jill. “Margot’s trying to bring Betsy up to speed on running the shop, so let’s let her find the order for me.”
    Irene obediently halted and turned toward Betsy, a malicious gleam in her eyes.
    Betsy began trying to think where Margot kept incoming orders.
    â€œShall I show you?” asked Irene.
    â€œNo, I remember now,” said Betsy, and looked in a cardboard box on the floor under the desk. When she came up with the small package, Irene Potter’s superior smile turned into something scary. It may have been a desperate attempt at a broad smile, but there was menace in it. Then she whirled and fled from the shop.
    â€œIs ... is she all right?” asked Betsy.
    â€œIrene? Sure. Well, maybe she’s a hair off center. She’s so desperate to buy her own needlework shop that it colors everything she does. It’s possible she’s been hoping Margot would die of something so she could start her own needlework shop. The town isn’t big enough for two of them.”
    â€œSo why doesn’t she move?”
    â€œBecause her ancestors were among the first settlers out here, and she