Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 Read Online Free PDF

what?”
    â€œIt’s so quiet and peaceful here. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”
    Margot laughed. “I don’t think it’s so peaceful. In fact, when things get too much for me, I take a week off up in the Boundary Waters. There’s peace and quiet for you. Of course, I used to travel all the time, with Aaron. Miami, Cancún, even London and Paris one glorious spring. I’ve always been glad to get back here, though.”
    â€œI don’t understand how you can feel a need for someplace even quieter than this.”
    â€œAfter a week or so you’ll see how busy I am and you’ll understand. There’s plenty to do, committees to work on, church business, and of course Crewel World. They tried to get me to run for city council once, but I managed to slip by them that time.” She paused to put a new strand of floss into her needle. Betsy noticed she could do it that tricky way involving the edge of her needle.
    â€œThat’s needlepoint, isn’t it, what you’re working on.”
    â€œYes, do you like it? I haven’t decided if it’s going to be a pillow or a wall hanging.”
    â€œThe colors don’t look as if they’d go very well in here.”
    â€œIt’s not for up here, it’s going to be a display item in the shop. I have four canvases by this artist and want to encourage my customers to buy them.”
    â€œHow much does one cost?”
    â€œThree hundred and fifty dollars.”
    â€œNo, I mean unfinished. Like if I wanted to try one.”
    â€œThree hundred and fifty dollars. Plus the yarn, plus finishing.” Margot glanced sideways at Betsy, a tiny smile on her face.
    â€œThat’s ridiculous!”
    â€œNo, it isn’t. Each canvas is hand-painted, and has to be done in a way so that the stitches that cover the painting will fit. It’s a difficult art, trust me. Tomorrow I’ll show you some of the really great work done by my customers on these canvases. Fancy stitches, beads, special flosses. Or maybe you’d prefer to take up counted cross-stitch.”
    â€œI’m not as fond of needlework as I used to be.” A little silence fell. “I have a friend back in San Diego who does counted cross-stitch, but I don’t think my eyes could take the strain,” amended Betsy. Margot’s needle went down and through then up and through. “It’s beautiful stuff,” further amended Betsy after a while. “She did this angel all in blues and golds that just blew me away.” The silence fell again. “But she showed me the pattern and I knew right away that wasn’t something I could ever do, not with my eyes.” More silence. “I think I’m too tired to keep up my end of this conversation. I’m going to turn in.”
    But just as Betsy was entering the little hall, Margot said, “Betsy?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI can’t tell you how pleased I am that you called on me when you needed someone to take care of you for a while.”
    â€œThank, Margot. Good night.”
    â€œGood night.”

3
    It was Saturday, late in the afternoon; the sun was going down, its reddening beams streaming through the open door of the back bedroom. Betsy had spent Friday resting, talking with Margot or her employees down in the shop, unpacking, and going for a brief swim (the water wasn’t salty, the waves were nonexistent, and the beach could be walked end to end in about a minute).
    Now she was secretly enjoying a cream-filled sweet roll from that very nice little bakery on Water Street in the privacy of the apartment while Margot, unaware, sold floss and evenweave fabric downstairs. She wished you could still see the lake from the living-room window—it really was a pretty lake. But lakeshore property had surged in value, Shelly had told her; new houses were being built that had kitchens bigger than the cottages they replaced. So the little