Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_04 Read Online Free PDF Page B

is interesting, isn’t it?” She started the engine. They drove around the side of the building, which stood at a more-than-ninety-degree angle to the front portion. Jill pulled up at the far end. There werefour other cars already there, like their own, crusted with road salt. “Let’s unload.”
    The back door was unlocked. It let into a plain wooden stairwell that smelled faintly of age. At the top was a landing with a couple of fold-away beds. Through a door there was a richly carpeted hallway paneled in golden knotty pine. Prints of nineteenth century Native Americans punctuated the walls.
    Their room was at the other end of the hallway, through a door set at an angle. This place is just full of angles, thought Betsy.
    It took two trips to bring up the luggage and needleworking equipment. The room was small, and seemed smaller because its walls and ceiling were also paneled with planks of knotty pine. The bed was a four-poster, its cover forest green, and the two windows had narrow blinds behind forest green drapes. There was a fireplace with a dark metal surround flush against the wall, a small desk, a closet. The bathroom was little, too.
    â€œSee?” said Jill. “No phone, no TV.”
    â€œUh-huh,” said Betsy, looking at the one bed. It was queen-sized, but she had not shared a bed with another female since she was nine. Still, the bed looked as inviting as it had in the brochure. Despite all her dozing in the car, she craved a nap.
    Then she looked at her two big suitcases. Oh, why had she brought so much? The task of unpacking seemed overwhelming.
    Jill said, “You look all tired out. Care to trust me to unpack? You take your knitting and go down to the lounge. It’s really pretty down there.”
    â€œNo, I couldn’t, really . . .” Betsy began to sigh, then stopped. If she couldn’t nap, not having to unpack was a very pleasant second choice. “Well, thanks,” she said. She picked up her canvas bag and went out. There was a staircase right across the hall, and Betsy went down itto find herself in a short passageway that led to that amazing dining room. This time she was at the fireplace end. The big smooth stones, she saw, were matte ovals of granite, probably taken from local rivers. The small fire was still burning cheerfully, and the cranberry couches looked very inviting. The room was empty; the man in the brown uniform had gone away. On the far wall, a large Indian’s head was thrown back in laughter.
    Betsy went for a look into the sunlit lounge. It ran the length of the dining room, but its ceiling was low and it was painted a soft, warm cream. Six pairs of windows lined the room, and groups of couches and chairs with deep cushions and wicker arms invited one to come in and be comfortable. Sunlight picked out the polished surfaces of low tables and deep windowsills, the narrow green and blue stripes of the cushions, and the fuzziness of the leaves on the potted geraniums.
    Betsy picked a couch about halfway down, angled so she could lift her eyes and see the lake. She had grown up in Milwaukee, on the shore of Lake Michigan, and had lived many years in San Diego. She found views of big expanses of water homey and comforting. The clean white snow had only a pair of ski tracks across it. A dead birch, its trunk black and white, its limbs lopped short, stood near the shore. A quartet of birds, too far out to be identified, wheeled and turned over the water, which had gone from DMC 824 to a pale blue-gray—DMC 799, perhaps—scattered with golden coins of sunlight. The lawn outside the window wasn’t very broad, and edged with the brown and red stems of leafless bushes. Beyond was a mix of evergreen and birch trees, here and there a narrow pine thrusting itself high above the other trees. There had been a vogue for narrow artificial Christmas trees, but Betsy hadn’t realized there actually was such a variety. She