Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_02 by Framed in Lace

register were last-minute items such as packets of needles, a pretty display of little scissors, and a shallow basket of small kits marked Sale.
    A hidden sound system played classical music.
    Track lighting picked out items: here a sweater, there a basket of wool, over there a spinner rack of silky floss. Though Diane was not a needleworker, the colors and displays attracted her eyes ever deeper into the place. Beyond the desk were boxy shelves laden with more wool, magazines, books, and needlework accessories Diane could not imagine the use of. But she nodded in appreciation; as a fellow shop owner, she knew a good layout when she saw it.
    There was a library table in the middle of the room, at which sat a slim, fair-haired man in an expensive-looking sweater, and a plump, attractive woman in a peacock-blue dress that, while a little light for the season, suited her. The woman was putting down a mitten she’d been working on; the man was looking up at her while continuing the motions of knitting a white sock.
    â€œMay I help you find something?” the woman asked.
    â€œNo, but if you are Betsy Devonshire, I’d like to talk to you.”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    The woman had a pleasant smile and a look that invited questions. Diane smiled back, and said, “My husband and I own The Old Mill on Water Street.”
    â€œOoooh,” said the slim man, and to Betsy, “It’s that sweet collection of gift shops halfway down Water Street.”
    â€œYes,” Diane nodded. “I also run the gift shop at the front of The Mill.”
    â€œI’ve looked in your window,” said Betsy. “I really like that big vase, the one filled with silk roses.”
    â€œThank you. My place is the reason I’m here. I want to add something to my line: needlework. I spoke to an employee of yours, Shelly Donohue, who said she would make a list of prospective needleworkers for me, but I see she’s not here.”
    The slender young man said, “Oh, you’re the one she talked to! I can tell you she’s been having trouble with that list. I’m so sorry.”
    Betsy was looking confused, so Diane said to her, “I brought in some antique embroidery just for display, but it seems to have created a demand, so now I’m looking for needlework to sell.” Diane looked around the shop. There were four or five completed pieces framed and hung on the wall, and some pillows on display in a rocking chair, but none of them impressed her as the kind of collectibles her customers might be interested in. Beyond the checkout desk hung a collection of thin doors, each slightly more ajar than the next, and attached to them were canvases painted with Santa Clauses, angels, puppies, kittens, and mottoes. Again not what she wanted—except one. “Like that garden with the gazebo, for example,” she said, pointing. “That’s quite nice.” She walked over for a look. “I suppose the idea is to cover the picture with embroidery?”
    â€œNeedlepoint,” said the young man.
    â€œWhat would it cost, if I bought this stamped cloth and the yarn or floss, to have someone else do the work? I’m sure I could sell several of these a month.”
    The young man frowned and shook his head. “Those aren’t stamped. Each one is hand-painted, and that brings us to the problem of Shelly’s list. I’m sorry, but I don’t think you could afford to carry a piece like that in a finished state.”
    Diane felt her cheeks flame. “What do you mean? I don’t sell cheap things in my shop!”
    â€œOf course you don’t!” said the young man. “But—”
    â€œWhat Godwin is trying to say,” interrupted Betsy, “is that these canvases are not inexpensive to start with. Each is not only hand-painted but done in a special way to make it possible to needlepoint over it. Even so, it takes skill to do the needlepoint properly,