Betsy stood. “Hello, Mrs. Birmingham,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“It looks as if your meeting is breaking up,” replied Charlotte, coming toward the table. “I was hoping to join you.” She looked the very opposite of the friendly woman in white Betsy had met on Saturday, more ravaged than the shocked and bewildered woman who had sat in her car later that same day.

“I’m afraid you’re a little late,” said Betsy, shaking herself out of her stare. “We meet at two, and it’s nearly three-thirty.”

“Oh, I thought you met at three,” said Charlotte. “How stupid of me not to have phoned to check that!”

“Well, since you drove all that distance, why don’t you stay at least for a little while,” said Betsy. “Perhaps Godwin can sit with you for a while.”

“I don’t have to leave right now,” said Phil, who was retired.

“Me, either,” said Alice, sitting back down.

The other women left-reluctantly, because they were going to miss something to gossip about. Charlotte got out a counted cross stitch pattern of her son’s name done in an alphabet by Lois Winston. It had little engineer’s tools worked into the letters: a compass, a T square, a level. Betsy remembered seeing the pattern in The Cross Stitcher magazine.

“It’s for Broward’s office door,” said Charlotte.

While Charlotte talked quietly with Godwin, Phil, and Alice, Betsy began the task of pulling the wool needed for a needlepoint canvas a woman had called to say she wanted after all. The canvas was a Constance Coleman rendition of a Scottish terrier looking out a big window at a winter scene that included a stag. Betsy enjoyed the task of finding just the right colors and textures to suit the painting-Very Velvet for the deer, Wisper for the terrier, shades of maroon wool for the chintz curtains. She considered the problem of the windowsill. Something vaguely shiny, maybe, to echo the lacquer finish of the paint?

Bing! went the front door, and Betsy looked around to see Phil and Alice heading up the street. She looked over and saw Charlotte bent over her needlework and Godwin signalling Betsy by raising and lowering his eyebrows.

“Goddy,” said Betsy obediently, “could you come look at this? I can’t decide what would do for the woodwork, and we need something creative for the snow. You know how Mrs. Hampton is.” And in fact, she would complain if the fibers weren’t clever enough.

“Certainly,” said Godwin just as if he hadn’t been desperate for her to summon him. He came over and, under cover of looking at the canvas, murmured, “She wants to talk to you about something. She keeps looking around for you and sighing.”

“All right. But do finish getting this ready. Mrs. Hampton will be by to pick it up soon.”

“All right.”

Betsy went to sit down across from Charlotte. “I hope you aren’t finding all the terrible details of your husband’s death too much for you,” she said.

“No, I’m lucky to have my children all rallying around to help,” Charlotte said. “Lisa has been a great comfort to me, and Broward has taken over most of the work. All I do is sign where he tells me to sign, and try to decide where we are going to ask contributions to be sent in lieu of flowers.” She smiled sadly. “But still I feel all off balance, like half of me is gone.”

“That’s what happens when a good marriage ends, I’m told,” said Betsy. “It will pass, and you’ll have some wonderful memories.”

“So my children tell me. The sad part is, we were building some new wonderful memories, going to a much better place in our marriage, but we never got a chance to finish the journey.” She bowed her head. “I am so angry about that! This should be a time of mourning, and instead I am angry. And I am angry about being made angry.” Her upside-down smile reappeared. “And isn’t that ridiculous? Being angry because I’ve been left angry.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Betsy, not knowing what else to say.

“But I didn’t come here to talk about my sorrows. In fact, I was looking for a little time away from all that, and here I sit talking and talking about it. But I do want to thank you for taking me under your wing on Saturday. As it turned out, it was more than kind. The police were looking rather sideways at me until they found out you were with me all through the… important hours.”

“I’m glad I could be of service,” said Betsy. “It was shocking to hear that your husband was killed. I remember how angry I was when my sister was murdered, too, so your anger is very understandable to me.”

Charlotte put down her needlework to confide, “The worst part is learning that someone hated Bill so much he felt the only way to handle it was to kill him. I know Bill could be difficult, but lots of people are difficult. I’m difficult at times. That’s no reason to kill! I can’t figure out what Bill might have done to make someone hate him enough to shoot him. It makes me feel as if my whole world is constructed of very thin boards over a very deep hole.”

“There is no need for you to feel like that. In fact, it’s just as well you don’t know why. If you knew why, perhaps the murderer would come after you.”

Charlotte stared at Betsy. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“No, of course not!” said Betsy hastily. “On the contrary! The fact that you can’t think of anyone angry enough at Bill to shoot him means it doesn’t involve you at all. It’s probably about his work, or something from his past.”

“Not his work, not his work,” protested Charlotte.

“Why not?”

“Because that might involve my son Broward. And he can’t have anything to do with this, he just can’t.”

“All right,” said Betsy, deciding Charlotte was not in any condition to seriously consider who might have done this terrible deed, if she was willing to let desire overwhelm fact. “I’m sorry you missed the Monday Bunch. Perhaps you can come again next Monday? I’d love to have you join us.” Betsy stood. She had a lot of work to do.

“Wait a minute,” said Charlotte, gesturing at her to sit down again. “Betsy, is it true that you have a talent for solving crimes?”

Obediently, Betsy sat. “Yes. But you don’t want me to look into this.”

“I don’t?”

“No, because you are already afraid of what might be found out.”

“No, I’m not.” But Charlotte ’s face was afraid-and suddenly she seemed to realize that, and smiled. “Well, perhaps I am, a little. I suppose it can’t be helped that the police will find out things that are better hidden. That’s why I’m here, really. When the police find things out, it gets into the newspapers. But you can find things out and maybe only tell the police things that will lead to the murderer.”

“My looking into this case won’t stop the police looking as well. And anyway, what if it turns out the murderer is someone you don’t want found out?”

Charlotte said very firmly, “I am perfectly sure that won’t happen.”

Godwin, who had been lurking with intent to eavesdrop, could no longer resist. “There are some people in prison right now who were perfectly sure an amateur sleuth couldn’t possibly figure out what they’d done.”

Charlotte looked around indignantly, but Godwin smiled and said gently, “I think that if you have a secret you don’t want revealed, whether about yourself or someone else, you should either tell her right now what it is, or change your mind about asking her to look into things. She will find it out.”

“Yes, but it won’t become part of an official file, or turn up in the newspaper.” She looked at Betsy. “Please, please help me. Help preserve the reputation of my family.”

“Is there something bad about your family the police can find out about?”

“No!” said Charlotte, too sharply. Then, “Well, yes. Do I have to tell you what it is?”

“Might it have given someone a motive to murder your husband?”

“No,” said Charlotte.

“Then I don’t need to know.”