“He wasn’t retired, then?” asked Betsy.

“Not quite. He had turned over most of the day-to-day management to Broward-he’s our oldest son-but went in to the office three mornings a week, just to keep an eye on things. People like Bill never really retire, I suppose. He was thinking of organizing a new company, one that would centralize the ordering of parts for Maxwells, and perhaps do some restoration work as well. He really liked working on those cars.” She sighed and sniffed-then stirred herself to take a new tack. “Your husband, what does he think of you owning your own business?”

“I’m divorced,” said Betsy. “I inherited the shop after the divorce. My sister founded it. And her husband was proud of her, though at first he didn’t take her seriously. You know how men are, or how they used to be, anyway. He thought of it like a hobby, a way of keeping the little woman busy.”

“Yes, I know,” said Charlotte, with some feeling.

“Did you help your husband in his business?”

“I was in sales for several years at the start, until I got pregnant with Broward. I was pretty good at sales, and I liked it. But he wanted me to stay at home, and before I knew it, there I was with four children, and no time for anything outside the home. Not that I minded too terribly. Our children were a great pleasure always, reasonably good kids, very bright. Lisa won several scholarships and is a pediatrician in St. Louis. Tommy owns a car dealership in St. Paul, and David is working on his masters in education at the U. But after the youngest left home, I wanted to do something more, get a job, but Bill was too used to me being home. Do you have children?”

“No, it turned out I couldn’t get pregnant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It turned out I couldn’t pick a good man to father them either, so it’s just as well. Are you close to your children?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s going to be hard on them, losing their father all of a sudden like this. Broward and Bill were especially close, working together like they did.”

“What sort of company is it?”

“It’s called Birmingham Metal Fabrication. We make doors, metal doors, for houses and apartments, garages, and businesses. We sell to builders mostly. Broward’s been wanting to expand into window frames and maybe even siding. He’s very ambitious.”

“Perhaps you could get back into sales, working for your son.”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte let her head fall back on the headrest. “All that crying has given me a terrible headache.”

Someone knocked on the window and Charlotte jumped. “What, what?” she cried. “Oh, it’s Adam!” She began to fumble with the door. “How do I roll the window down?” she demanded.

Betsy pushed a button on her side, and the window slid down about eight inches. Adam’s anxious face peered in at them.

“Hello, Betsy,” he said. “ Charlotte, may I talk to you a minute?”

“Is something else wrong?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean, you’re not sure? What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

Adam said uncomfortably, “Well, the medical examiner was there, he and the police looked at the scene, and they seem to think there’s something funny about what happened. Here-” Adam handed her a business card. “This is the medical examiner’s name and phone number. You can call him when you feel up to it, though he said he would be in touch anyway. He’s going to do an autopsy, and they’ve impounded the Maxwell.”

“Something funny?” echoed Charlotte. “What could that mean?”

“I have no idea, they wouldn’t tell me what they’re thinking.”

“What could be funny about Bill’s dying in his car?” Charlotte turned to look at Betsy. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” said Betsy, afraid to say the word that was big in all their minds: Murder.

7

Monday morning, Betsy was preparing an order of stitched items to be sent to Heidi, her finisher. A Christmas stocking done on needlepoint canvas, stiff with metallic threads and beads, needed to be washed, stretched and shaped, cut out, lined, and sewn to a heavy fabric so it would be a proper stocking. A highly detailed counted cross stitch pattern of a Queen Anne house needed washing, stretching, and attachment to a stretcher before being matted and framed. There were five other items needing finishing, two to be made into pillows. Some needleworkers finished their own projects, but many turned to a professional. It was expensive, but gave a proper finish to a needlework project that its proud owner hoped would become an heirloom.

Last on the list of items to be finished was an original Irene Potter. Name of owner: Betsy Devonshire. Betsy had gone to the art fair on Sunday-and been disappointed to find the amazing Columbus Circle Blizzard piece Irene had brought half-shyly to Crewel World had been sold. However, there were three other pieces on display, and Betsy, wincing only slightly, had written a check for a piece called Walled Garden, a riot of color and stitches about sixteen by sixteen inches, done in brightly colored wool, silk, ribbon, cotton, and metallics on stiff congress cloth. There was a pond in the center, worked in irregular half-stitches of blue silk and silver metallic floss. A single orange stitch suggested a goldfish in its depths. A rustic wooden bridge crossed the pond, leading to a winding path among daisies, azaleas, daffodils, lilies, and many other varieties of flowers, some invented, done with no regard to season or proportion or perspective. In the upper background, the waving limbs of mighty trees threatened to crush or climb the wall, which was braced here and there by slender young poplars. Outside the wall a hurricane raged. Within was a hot, strangely lit, tense silence.

The work made Betsy feel she was looking into Irene’s mind, or perhaps Irene’s notion of the world. Whichever, it was a place both beautiful and frightening.

“Oh, my God, what is that?” demanded Godwin, reaching for the piece.

Betsy started to explain, then changed her mind. “What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s wonderful, it’s… what a garden must seem like to the plants. Who stitched this-no, who designed it?”

“It’s another Irene Potter,” said Betsy. “I bought it at the art fair.”

Godwin tenderly fingered the stitching of the garden wall, done in shades of red, garnet, and brown in a herringbone stitch that looked like bricks laid in Tudor fashion. The formal wall formed an orderly base for the tree branches tossing in bullion and wildly irregular continental stitches. In front of the wall were stiffly formal blooming shrubs worked in-what? He looked closer. Fancy cross? No, a variety of half-buttonhole.

“I am humbled,” he said sincerely. “This is totally amazing.” He handed it back. “You’re having it framed, I assume.”

“Yes, but in something severe, I think. Narrow cream mat, thin black frame? Because the work is so hot and wild.”

“Sounds good.” Godwin looked around. “Where are you going to hang it?”

“Upstairs. This isn’t a model. Irene says she can’t turn these pieces into patterns.”

“Bosh,” retorted Godwin. “If she can stitch it, she or someone can make a pattern of it. They’d be difficult patterns, but not impossible ones. She just doesn’t want to share. I don’t blame her, I guess. Do you realize this confirms she’s turning into an artist with a capital A?”

“Oh, yes. And so does she. You should have seen her at the fair, preening and talking with vast condescension to anyone who stopped to look at her work. But she’s earned the right, her work is wonderful. She brought nine pieces to the fair and sold all of them. Mr. Feldman is now taking her very seriously indeed; he was asking three or four thousand apiece.”

“You paid how much?”

“Thirty-five hundred for this. I know that’s a lot-”

“She should have given you a discount.”