Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 by Framed in Lace

and there’s been a lot of encroachment. Some of it inadvertent.”
    This budding problem had made the news recently. When the Excelsior Fire Department was young, its pumper drew water from the lake, and so eight or ten narrow access lanes to the lake were marked off and maintained for its use. The installation of fireplugs in the ‘50s removed the need for the lanes. Some were turned into public access boat landings. But over the years the others blended into the lawns of the houses on either side of them. A quarrel was developing over what should be done about the lanes. Sold to the homeowner(s) who had encroached with garden or lawn? Divided equally between the properties on either side? Reclaimed by the city? Before anything could be settled, the city had to first discover just how much land was involved and where it was located.
    â€œIf I might pull you off your work for just a few minutes,” Malloy said, “I’d like to know if you can tell me if there was a report of a woman gone missing in 1949.”
    â€œFrom just Excelsior?” asked the second oldest woman, whose name, Malloy suddenly remembered, was Myrtle Jensen.
    â€œExcelsior and the area close by—unless you can search other areas easily,” said Malloy. “And also, can you find the month the Hopkins was sunk? I assume it was summer, but it could have been any time there was no ice.”
    Myrtle pressed a crooked forefinger to her lips. “I can tell you that,” she said. “It was just before the Fourth of July. I remember because Jack brought up a bushel basket of sweet corn from Illinois—ours wasn’t ripe yet. We boiled it up and had a Fourth of July picnic in the backyard and a neighbor came by for an ear and said he’d seen the Hopkins towed out to be sunk. That was the best sweet corn I ever ate, and ever after, I associated corn on the cob with the Fourth of July, even though it’s never ready up here by then. We always have to buy it from people who bring it from down south. There used to be a man who would drive to Tennessee—remember him, Lola?—he’d fill his trunk and the backseat of his car and drive all day and night and park down by The Common and sell it. I remember my dad used to put about half of our garden in sweet corn, each row planted a week later than the one before, so it didn’t all ripen at once. We used to have a real big backyard garden. I remember being sent out to work in it when I was a child, weeding and picking caterpillars off the leaves. My brother’s son Jimmy worked in that garden, but Jimmy’s boy Adam went to college and he uses mulch and organic bug spray.”
    Malloy had patiently waited for her to run down, then reaffirmed the pertinent part of her remarks. “So it was July they sank the Hopkins .”
    â€œDidn’t I say that? Yes, early July, before the Fourth, because on the Fourth we heard it had been done, so a day or two before. It was hot that day, just blazing sun. Jack set up a cauldron outside, and was miserable tending the fire. Good corn, though.”
    The littlest woman said, “I’ve got a missing person story. Trudie Koch ran off with Carl Winters, or so everyone said. Maybe he murdered her instead and ran away.” Her eyes sparkled at the thought.
    Malloy looked at her. “Who was Trudie Koch?”
    â€œWaitress down at the Blue Ribbon Café. No better than she ought to be, remember, Myrt? Had a steady boyfriend, what was his name? Vern something. Mean fellow, gave her a black eye once in a while, not that she didn’t provoke him something awful. She dated a lot of men, and was very easy, or so everyone said. We were surprised that she ran off with Carl, or rather, that Carl ran off with her. He had a perfectly nice wife and a good job.” She looked at Myrtle. “Remember?”
    Myrtle was looking thoughtful. “But that didn’t happen the year they sank the