Cutwork by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online

writing checks with a wonderful insouciance. So Betsy was pleased on several levels to see her, from the simple pleasure of watching her bloom to the joy of depositing a large check that never bounced.
    “What can I do for you today, Irene?” Betsy asked.
    Irene bustled up to the big desk that was the shop’s checkout counter. “I’ve come to be interviewed,” Irene announced.
    “What, is a reporter meeting you here?” That was great news; he might mention the shop and Betsy loved getting free publicity.
    “No, no, I’m here for you to interview me.”
    “What about?”
    Irene stamped an impatient foot. “About the Rob McFey murder, of course! I was the one who found the body, you must have some questions for me!”
    “Irene, the police have already arrested the murderer.”
    “Oh, that boy didn’t murder Mr. McFey.”
    Betsy felt her ears growing big points that swiveled toward Irene. “What? How do you know that? What did you see at The Common?”
    Irene writhed in pleasure at Betsy’s keen interest. “Let’s go sit down in back, it’s more private.”
    “All right. Godwin?” Betsy called. The young man came out from the back, where he’d been sorting a new order of Anchor floss into the cabinet of little plastic drawers. “Take over out front, I want to talk with Irene.”
    Goddy’s eyes sparkled, but he only said, “Of course.” Betsy and Irene took seats on little padded chairs around a very small round table. “Now, what is it you want to tell me?” said Betsy.
    “I saw that boy who was arrested going by my booth toward Mr. McFey’s, but that isn’t the order things happened in. There were other people at the booth first.”
    “And you think one of them murdered Mr. McFey?”
    “I don’t know that for sure. But there was an argument earlier, and there wasn’t any sound like that when the boy was there.”
    “That doesn’t mean—well, wait a minute, maybe it does.” Betsy thought a moment. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or tea?”
    “Tea, please. Do you have some of that delicious raspberry?”
    “Yes, I think I do.” Betsy went into the small back room and filled two of her prettiest porcelain cups with hot water from an electric kettle, put a teabag each on the matching saucers, and refilled the kettle from a jug. She considered Irene’s words while she did that. Irene was a very imaginative person, and growing more so all the time. But she was also a keen observer of the passing scene, and while inclined to draw strange conclusions about the motives of the people she observed, she did not ordinarily lie about what she actually saw. Betsy added a soupçon of imitation sugar to her own cup, and went back to the little table.
    “Who was the boy you saw?” Betsy asked.
    “Mickey Sinclair. I knew he was up to no good, skulking around like he was. Looking for something to steal, I’m sure. There should be more police on duty at the fair—some of the jewelry items are easy to stick into a pocket, and are quite valuable.”
    “Did you see him take anything?”
    “No, of course not. I made sure he saw me looking at him, so he didn’t dare take anything. He saw me and all of a sudden he was just a boy on his merry way to someplace, not a thief looking for something to steal. He was very obvious about it.”
    Betsy had a sudden recollection of a young man strolling the grounds, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly, very ostentatiously playing the innocent. Was that Mickey Sinclair?
    “What does he look like?”
    “Well, he’s not very tall, and he’s thin, with curly brown hair that’s too long for a boy and a ring in his nose.” Her own small nose wrinkled in distaste. “He was wearing jeans with holes in them and a black T-shirt with a skull on it, disgraceful.”
    That matched Betsy’s recollection.
    “Did you see Mickey at Mr. McFey’s booth?”
    “No, but he went past my booth headed in that direction.”
    “And then you heard a quarrel?”
    “No, the