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she needed to support herself while the money portion of her inheritance worked its way through probate. She had good employees already on board, and running a needlework shop with them seemed more interesting than any temporary job she might otherwise have found.
    But she had come to like needlework for its own sake—and why not? It was beautiful stuff. There were counted cross-stitch patterns as exquisitely detailed as any painting. It took patience, and an eye for detail, to make one of those big pieces. And if they were challenging to work, what an eye it must take to design the patterns! Betsy vowed one day to go to a needlework show and meet some of these amazing people.
    Betsy’s own natural talent seemed to be in the area of needlepoint, where a couple of mistakes didn’t screw up the whole doggone piece, and where you could get creative with stitches, fibers, and colors.
    The shower and voice cut off together. Betsy, not wanting to be caught lazing in bed, hastily climbed out.She went to the closet and found her clothes in something like the order she would have chosen herself, if Jill hadn’t done it for her. She settled on a brown wool skirt and an ivory sweater.
    Jill came out of the bathroom wrapped in a thick terry robe, her pale hair only slightly darkened by being wet. “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep all right?”
    â€œThe second time, yes, thank you. Where’d you put my underwear?”
    â€œBottom drawer, on the left.”
    Drying off after her own shower, Betsy’s stomach growled. Wow, she was hungry. She hadn’t been really hungry since back in December, when a dose of arsenic had ruined her digestion for what she feared was forever. But here she was, wondering if breakfast would be as good as last night’s dinner.
    It was: waffles with a delectable orange-rum syrup, and the bacon just smoky enough. There was a side dish of peeled grapefruit sections that had never seen the inside of a jar.
    Jill didn’t mention the too-real dreams Betsy had been having, for which Betsy was grateful.
    They were savoring second cups of coffee—robust without being bitter—when a tall, heavyset woman with a very short haircut walked to stand in front of the fireplace. She wore an unflattering purple knit dress.
    â€œGood morning!” she called, with laughter in her voice, and called it several more times, until the room quieted down. Betsy looked around. She thought at first that here was a nice cross section of young, old, slim, fat, tall, short, and everything in between—even a woman in a wheelchair—then she realized everyone looked prosperous. Of course, nobody poor would spend three hundred dollars for a weekend of stitching.
    Including Betsy.
    Betsy felt a little guilty about that, but only for amoment. After all, not everybody could be poor.
    The woman said, “Good morning,” one last time, then went on. “As most of you know, I am Isabel Thrift, treasurer of the Grand Marais Needlework Guild. Welcome to the First Annual Naniboujou Stitch-In. I am so pleased at this wonderful turnout for this first time. But . . .” Her tone was suddenly very sober, and a soft, portentous groan went around the room. Obviously rumors were about to be confirmed. “But, as some of you know, the organizer of this event hasn’t been feeling well lately. Two days ago the doctor diagnosed walking pneumonia, and going to her car after leaving his office, she fell and broke her leg. The pneumonia isn’t the walking kind anymore; she’s at St. Luke’s in Duluth. But the hard work is done, and the stitch-in goes on. Charlotte Porter is, of course, also president of the Grand Marais Needlework Guild. And she’s the one who arranged for our mystery guest, who, I’m pleased to announce, is going to teach two classes, one on hardanger and a beginner’s class on designing counted cross-stitch