Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 by Framed in Lace Page B

which a young woman with short dark hair frowned at a computer monitor.
    He walked back and she looked up. “May I help you?” she asked. Her features were attractive, but she had made no effort to enhance them with makeup.
    â€œI’m interested in learning about the Hopkins ,” he said. “What can you tell me?”
    â€œIt’s no longer at the bottom of the lake,” she replied with a twinkle.
    â€œTell me something I don’t know.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œWhen was it sunk?”
    â€œ1949.”
    â€œThat’s what everyone keeps telling me. Who knows that for a fact?”
    She smiled. “If everyone’s telling you that, then everyone, I guess. What are you looking for, an eyewitness?”
    â€œYou got one?”
    She looked around. There was no one there but the two of them. “Not here in the office.”
    He laughed, but then produced identification, which stopped the banter as it widened her light blue eyes. Then she turned abruptly and reached for some books tucked into a shelf under the counter. “These are stories about the lake and the towns on it, and here’s one about the streetcar steamboats in particular. They all say the Hopkins —well, it was renamed the Minnetonka by then—was sunk in 1949. This one even has some pictures of it on the bottom of the lake.” This one was Salvaged Memories , the blue paperback Malloy already had a copy of.
    Still, he took the books and went to a corner of the store that had a chair and looked them over. They all agreed that the Minnetonka III, née Hopkins , had been sunk on the north side of the Big Island in Lake Minnetonka in 1949.
    All right, he’d accept that. He got the phone number for the author of Salvaged Memories and left.
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    Diane Bolles was sorting through a thin stack of cardboard signs when a customer came to the checkout counter. Distracted, she glanced up without at first recognizing the woman, who had a half dozen old books. “May I help you find something else?” she asked—then blinked. “Oh, hello, Shelly!”
    â€œYou must have something else on your own mind today, Diane,” said Shelly Donohue.
    â€œWell, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I’m thinking of changing the name of my store.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with D. B. and Company?” Shelly looked around at the store, which looked like an old-fashioned general store in layout. There was even a penny candy counter next to the checkout. But elsewhere were silk flowers, old-fashioned tea sets, doilies, vases, jars, and over by the door a large cement statue of a frog.
    â€œNothing, actually. Except it doesn’t describe the store.”
    Shelly giggled. “I don’t see how you would describe this place in one sentence, much less one word.”
    â€œWe sell the final touch for your decor, in the house or the garden.”
    â€œOh. Well, yes. In fact, you put that so well, you must already be writing your new radio ad.”
    â€œNot until I get the new name.” Diane picked up the cardboard squares. “May I try some out on you? I’ve sorted it down to these, but I don’t know which one I like best.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œBelles Choses, which means Beautiful Choice in Italian. Or, there’s Nightingale’s, after the bird. Or Near Midnight—I like that one because it’s romantic. You know, midnight, the bewitching hour. Or Chenille—did you know that’s French for caterpillar? And last, My Favorite Year, which was my favorite this morning. This evening I’ll like a different one.”
    Shelly said, “I like Nightingale’s. The bird was a symbol of home and hope to the British during World War II, and it has a very beautiful song. I did a counted cross-stitch of a nightingale a couple of years ago for a friend who was born in England, and she just loved it.”
    â€œThat reminds me. I was thinking