No matter how many times Blair Sandburg read the statement, the facts did not change. He did not have enough money in savings. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

Admittedly, he didn't really need the book, but he `wanted' the book with all his anthropological heart. Although it wasn't rare, it was a near mint copy. The used bookstore owner was holding it for him, promising to wait till the end of the month before putting it out on the shelf.

Blair tapped his desk with a pencil. Even with the reduced rent he paid to his roommate and friend, Jim Ellison, he couldn't scratch up the two hundred dollars he needed. He'd had a few unexpected expenses this month, plus he'd doubled up his student loan payments, trying to get the principle down as fast as possible. Who knew this book was going to surface?

He reread the title, `Among Wild Tribes of the Amazons: An Account of Exploration & Adventure on the Mighty Amazon & its Confluents'. He'd wanted a decent copy of this book since he was fourteen. It just wasn't fair.

His phone rang, breaking into his gloomy contemplation.

"Blair Sandburg."

"Hey, what time are you getting home?"

Blair checked the clock in the corner of his computer and groaned. He hadn't realized how late it was.

"I'm heading out now, what's up?"

"We need milk. Can you pick up a half-gallon?"

"I'm on it, man."

"Not that soy milk stuff, Sandburg, nothing less than two percent."

Blair rolled his eyes. He'd tried slipping `Silk' into Jim's Cheerios last week and gotten busted. Now, Jim was suspicious of every food item in the kitchen. He probably shouldn't have tried disguising it in a regular milk carton first.

"Right, God forbid you have something that's actually healthy for you, man. It tastes just as good as milk and it's..."

"Chief, are you trying to tell a sentinel that he can't taste the difference between something from a cow and something from a bean?"

Blair snorted. "You may have enhanced senses man, but you are `so' lacking in the `common sense' department."

"Just for that, Julia Childs, I want whole milk."

Blair laughed.

Jim woke up the next morning to the sound of rain hitting the skylight above his bed. Glancing at his alarm clock, he rolled over just in time to hit the silence button as the alarm activated his radio.

He refused to start his mornings with the news. He got enough of that throughout the day. Jim liked to keep his mornings simple, without stress. Since he inherited a roommate, a perfect morning now was getting to the shower first, followed by a quiet breakfast of recognizable food items.

Donning his robe, he headed down the stairs from his bedroom, glancing to his left in time to catch the tail end of a Blair-comet shooting into the bathroom. Ah, well. At least he had real milk to look forward to with his cereal. He would have preferred some bacon and eggs, or pancakes with melted butter and real maple syrup. He let his mind drift into a House of Pancake fantasy involving him and the entire menu.

He opened the fridge and reached in to pull out the...fat free milk?

"Sandburg!"

He could hear quiet snickering sounds coming from the direction of the shower, followed by the rattle of metal shower rings sliding across the shower bar.

"I'm only following your doctor's orders, man. Don't shoot the grocery boy," Blair said from behind the closed door.

Jim considered turning off the supply of hot water, but decided against the plan. Blair was not above vicious counterstrikes. Slamming the door with more force than prudent, considering the age of his refrigerator, he removed a bowl and the box of Multi-Grain Cheerios from the cupboard. Fixing his meal, he sat at the table to enjoy cereal wetted down with watery milk.

The little twit did this on purpose, Jim thought. Blair knows that even soymilk tastes better than this fat free junk.

After falling several floors in an abandoned warehouse a few months ago, while chasing after a nut case that had kidnapped Blair, the department had insisted he have a full physical. The results of the blood work-up returned, bringing warnings about his cholesterol level, something about the bad being bad and the good being bad, whatever that meant. His mistake had been sharing the information with Blair.

Blair may be nearly a decade younger and dress like a hanging-on-hippie, but he took his self-appointed job of taking care of Jim's health very seriously. The way he reacted, you'd think Jim was the President of the United States and Blair was the presidential physician. He even went so far as to call Jim's doctor and together they worked up a new diet to bring his cholesterol back under control.

Jim hated it.

Blair had been lecturing him on carbohydrates and fiber and other stuff that seemed to take all the fun out of eating. Some of the dishes Blair fixed weren't too bad and he liked all the available fresh fruit and vegetables. But he missed his Wonder Burger lunches. When the soy products started popping up everywhere, Jim staged a one-man mutiny. Soy meat, soymilk, soy flour, soy cheese, it was too much for any sane man to take.

They shouldn't mess with a man's cheese. That just wasn't right.

Blair walked out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and a big grin. "I got you a peace offering, dude. Did you find the blueberries? They taste great on cereal."

Jim frowned. They did, actually. He was so pissed about the milk, he hadn't noticed. He looked down at his empty cereal bowl. No matter, he'd just fix himself another bowl.

"Good news, man." Blair wandered into his room, continuing his dialogue. "I got the rest of the week off at the university. My advisor backed me up with the administration to get me more ride-a-long time for my first chapter. They're covering my classes for a few days. Now we can work on your senses, especially your hearing."

The last couple of weeks, Jim had been experiencing problems with his control. Nothing major, but finding yourself on your knees in the middle of a busy crosswalk because some joker's car alarm was going off two blocks over was bad for one's image.

"Good," Jim said loud enough to be heard in Blair's room. "The case load has been light this week. I can burn up some comp time and take some afternoons off. How long before you fix this?"

Blair entered the kitchen, dressed in his usual attire of blue jeans and flannel. He finished attaching a silver loop to his left earlobe, tucking his wet strand of long wavy hair behind his ear. "You're not exactly a V-eight in need of an overhaul, man. I have no idea until we run some tests and see," he said, setting out his ingredients for an algae drink.

Jim's eyes narrowed. He did not like the sounds of that. It was tests that resulted in having to eat colored water over little oats of `oh's. "I thought you were on top of this, Sandburg."

"I'm working on it." Blair waved his hand, sounding a little irritated. "I can't just go to the medical section of the library and read up on sentinel maintenance."

Jim backed down, noting Blair's defensive tone. He reminded himself not to push his friend. Sure, Blair was getting to study his senses for his PhD dissertation, but in many ways, Blair went beyond the call of duty, like his intense interest in Jim's health.

Before he'd met Blair, Jim had reached a near critical stage with his senses. Suddenly his favorite food tasted vile. He couldn't bear to be touched. He was hearing voices twenty-four hours a day. His depth perception was so off; he vomited when he looked out his windows in his living room. And the smell from the trash can behind the Thai restaurant kept him from sleeping. He considered calling the health department to complain, until he realized that restaurant was five blocks away. He was convinced he was going crazy. None of the doctors he made appointments to see were able to help him. Then he'd met Blair.

"Maybe it's a chemical reaction to all the weird food we've been eating lately," Jim suggested with a grin as he dug his spoon into his cereal.

Blair slapped his back as he walked past, returning to his room his algae shake in hand. "Man, you are `so' pathetic."

They arrived at the Cascade main police station late. The weather had been pleasant for several days in a row, but the dry spell ended that morning with heavy cloud cover and rain. Oil buildup on the roads reacted to the moisture creating a slick film on the road surface. It wasn't very long into the morning commute before fire and police units were responding to several accidents.

Jim's morning was not going at all the way he'd planned.

They reached the department of Major Crimes well past eight. Jim walked over to his desk quietly to take a seat. The key was to `look' as if you'd been busy at work for half an hour.

"So nice of you to join us, detective," Simon said, striding out of his office with a slight frown on his dark face.

Jim hung his jacket over the back of his chair. "Sorry, sir. Traffic was bad."

"Hi, Simon!" Blair said with a little wave. "I got the rest of the week off at Rainier."

Simon stopped next to Jim's desk, file in hand and studied Blair over his gold rim glasses. Simon's six foot plus frame dwarfed Blair's five-eight. "I'll notify the press, Sandburg."

He tossed the file in the middle of Jim's desk.

"What's this?"

"We call this a `new case', Jim," Simon said. "Don't bother to open it, nothing in there but an address. DB found at the Red Lion by the Airport. Some sort of convention going on; one of the members was found stabbed this morning."

Jim picked his coat back up and handed the file off to Blair, so much for the plan of short days.

"We're on it, sir." He gave Blair a small push towards the door, happy to be out of the bullpen. Simon was not a person to be around when he was in a bad mood.

Riding down in the elevator, Blair opened the file. "What's wrong with Simon, man? I've never seen him so grouchy."

"There's been friction between the department and a woman's activist group. The Mayor's pressuring the Chief to fix it." He unlocked the Ford truck.

"So the Chief turns around and yells at the guy under him."

"The chain of command works both ways, Sandburg."

"Who do the low guys on the totem pole get to kick?" Blair asked.

Jim gave his roommate an evil smile.

The Red Lion was a large multi-story semi-posh hotel with room to host many conferences. Businessmen and women stood waiting to check out of their rooms. Their luggage already tagged for the airlines to take. Cascade's international airport was directly across the busy four-lane road. They checked in at the front desk and were immediately escorted to the rear of the building.

A police officer stood in front of a door with the universal sign for a woman's restroom.

"Vaughn, what've you got?" Jim asked the female police officer standing by the tape.

"Hi, Jim. Medical examiner is still a few minutes out." She flipped open a notebook. "Victim is a sixty-five year old female, Pamela Smith-Manson. Found by her friend this morning in the bathroom. Looks like a single stab wound to the chest. No CPR was started. She was pretty cold to the touch when the hotel security got here."

"If she's been dead for a while, why didn't anyone notice her before now?" Blair asked.

Officer Vaughn gave Blair a puzzled look.

"This is Blair Sandburg, he's with me," Jim said.

"Hi." Blair raised his hand in a single wave.

Vaughn smiled. "Hi, yourself. I thought I knew all the Major Crime detectives, are you a transfer?"

Jim noticed Blair's grin widened to show his dimple.

Oh, brother.

"No, I'm an anthropology major, I'm riding with Jim for my dissertation."

"What about Sandburg's question?" Jim interrupted before the two started chatting. "Why are we just now getting the call?"

"Come and see, no one's touched anything." She lifted the yellow tape for both men to enter.

The restroom was large. A room off to one side accommodated two comfortable looking couches and a wing back chair. A woman sat in a wingback chair next to a small end table, a large tote bag cradled on her lap. Both arms rested comfortably on top of the bag, folded as if in prayer. Her head was tilted to one side, resting against one wing of the chair.

"Oh, man. She looks like she's sleeping," Blair said in a sad voice.

"Exactly," Officer Vaughn agreed.

Jim removed a pair of non-latex gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Carefully he tilted the tote back away from the woman's chest. A thin, blue metal rod extended out from her left rib cage, just below her breast. Judging by the angle, Jim guessed it hit her heart.

"Looks like she was stabbed with a knitting needle."

"No way!" Blair's head bobbed back in surprise.

"Yeah, size three."

"Needles have sizes?" Officer Vaughn asked.

"I'm just guessing, there's a three on the end."

Vaughn pointed at the door with her thumb. "I'm going to wait for the M.E. outside."

Jim nodded as his eyes gazed around the small bathroom. The sitting room was softly lit. The deep red carpet was plush and looked recently vacuumed.

"I don't see anything."

"How about smell?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Sandburg, you realize this `is' a bathroom? I'm not exactly looking forward to turning up that particular dial in here."

"Just filter out the...you know and concentrate on anything that might not belong." Blair gave him a `go ahead' motion with his hand.

Jim sighed, closing his eyes to concentrate. He let his sense of smell dominate his thoughts. Using the technique that Blair had taught him, Jim pictured a small dial. He slowly turned the dial, mentally watching the numbers go around, getting higher. As if by magic, different smells exploded in this brain.

Blair's algae shake from the morning, along with his toothpaste he used.

A pack of mint gum and close to it, some cigarettes; that was coming from the tote bag.

The soap in the soap dispenser.

"Whew!" He pinched his nose. "Some one's been sick recently."

He walked into the attached room and started inspecting the stalls. Each toilet had been flushed. He came to the stall closest to the lounge area.

"Oh, yeah. They flushed, but some one threw up in here recently."

Blair joined him, looking over his shoulder. "You think the murderer did it?"

"Maybe. I'll have the techs check this out and see if they can find a sample.

Their exploration was interrupted by a short woman entering the room carrying a large leather case. She looked about forty-five, a little overweight and pissed off. Her face was set in a permanent scowl as she eyed the two men.

"You investigating the stabbing?"

"Yeah, Detective Ellison."

"Froehlich." She looked into the side room and saw the body. "My team is right behind me. You didn't screw with anything, did you?"

Blair threw Jim a look, obviously amused by the woman's attitude. He stepped back when the female M.E. turned her steely glare in his direction.

"We haven't moved anything. I don't think the uniforms did either," Jim informed her crisply. "We'll get out of your way, but I want your team to include the stalls and sink area, too. I get a faint odor of vomit from this one."

"We'll do our normally thorough job. Where can I find you when I'm done?"

Escaping back out into the hallway, Blair rocked on his toes, his hands jammed into is pockets. "Wow, man. Is it just me or is everyone in a bad mood today?"

"That was Froehlich in one of her better moods, Chief."

Jim checked with Officer Vaughn on where to find the dead woman's friend, the one that found the body. The hotel had set up a large vendor room in the rear of the building for the conference, on the ground floor. Vaughn's partner had taken the woman, along with her adult daughter, back to the conference room to wait.

"Well, look at it this way. This case should be a breeze to solve." Blair gave his friend a cheeky grin as they walked towards the room.

"How do you figure?"

"Easy. How many people are walking around with a size three knitting needle? Those come in sets of two, right? Find the other one and you've got your killer."

"I'm not sure I have probable cause to search everyone in the hotel, Sandburg."

Blair scratched his head, stepping to one side to let a particularly attractive woman pass. He tracked her with his eyes for a second, then jogged a few feet to fall into step beside Jim. They were getting close to the double doors leading into the room. A floor sign welcomed the members of the G.O.L. Guild.

"Well, then just look for a person carrying a knitting bag, how many of those can there be around here?"

Jim opened the door to a five thousand square foot hall filled with hundreds of woman and a few men. Rows of tables lined the room with vendors standing behind them selling wares. Shoppers wandered up and down the rows, stopping to chat or buy.

"You just had to say that, didn't you?" Jim groaned, waving his hand at the crowd.

Literally two out of every three guild members milling around carried some form of knitting or needlework basket. The tables were overflowing with thread, yarn, needles and other items for handwork.

Blair stood in shock as he gazed out at the scene; his jaw dropped.

"What..."

Jim turned, looking over his shoulder to read the smaller lettering under the welcome sign.

`Global Old-Lacers Conference, hosted by the Cascade Guild Local.'

"Well, Miss Marple. This appears to be a convention for needlework crafts." He clapped a hand on Blair's back. "I'm glad you're here to show me how to crack this case, junior."

Blair's jaw closed with a snap as he tossed his friend a dirty look.

Officer Vaughn's partner was sitting behind a screen that shielded them from the rest of the room. Jim introduced himself to a distraught woman sitting next to the cop. The victim's friend, Margaret Thurber, was in her early sixties with a slender frame. Her hair was sprinkled with gray and worn in a stylish cut to her shoulders. Brown eyes were bloodshot from emotion as she touched her cheeks with a damp tissue. A younger woman with similar facial features sat next to her with an arm around her shoulders. Jim guessed her to be the daughter.

Margaret sat in her chair, head bowed. She didn't look up when Jim squatted down in front of her chair. Judging by the hostile looks from the younger woman, any chance of an interview at that moment was going to be an uphill fight.

He glanced over at Blair. Sometimes the younger man could work a miracle with upset witnesses, getting them to settle down sufficiently for a decent statement.

Blair shook his head.

"Detective, can you talk with my Mother later? We're in room number five-twelve." The younger woman stood up, gently pulling her mother with her.

Jim nodded. "We'll be up later this morning. The officer will wait with you."

They watched as the police officer escorted them out of the large room.

Jim ran a hand through his short hair and looked around. Hearing soft music coming from speakers in the room, he found a hotel employee and requested a ladder and a microphone to connect him into the P.A. system. After the items had been brought, he flashed the overhead lights on and off a few times. Jim climbed a few steps onto the ladder and turned to address the crowd.

"Can I have everyone's attention? I'm Detective Jim Ellison, with the Cascade police department. Unfortunately, I'm here to investigate a suspicious death this morning of one of your members."

The crowd gasped in unison. Jim waited patiently for the place to become quiet again.

"I'm going to need everyone's assistance. Officers from the police department will be coming by to ask your name. If anyone is holding a bag, we'd like permission to check its contents. If you have any reason not to allow this to happen, just let us know."

The crowd started murmuring again, their heads bending together to discuss what they had just been told. A tall woman stepped forward, motioning for Jim to step down as she pulled a small leather case from her knitting bag.

"Detective, I'm Beth Alvarado. I'm a deputy prosecutor with King County. What's happened?" She held out her I.D. and badge for Jim to see.

"A body's been found in the restroom." Jim covered the mike with one hand, happy to have someone in the crowd that could help them. "She was stabbed with a knitting needle."

"Oh, my God." She closed her eyes, bringing her hand up to her forehead. "Who was it?"

"Pamela Smith-Manson," he said in a quiet voice. "Please don't tell anyone just yet."

Beth nodded and held her hand out for the mike. "Let me talk to the group." She took Jim's previous position and addressed the crowd. After calming them down, she urged her fellow convention members to cooperate with the police investigation.

Several people asked for the identity of the victim, but she explained that it was too early to release that information. With her help, they soon had the group organized into smaller cells. Four more uniforms from patrol arrived to help with the mass interviews. Blair was given a notebook and instructions and within half an hour the process was done.

Three conference attendees declined to be searched, a man in his early twenties and two elderly women. Each time, Jim was able to detect the distinct odor of marijuana on the person. After asking them a few general questions, he was convinced the true reason for their refusal to be searched was the possible possession charges they may receive. He made small asterisk by their names.

"Wow, I can't believe all these people are into making lace," Blair said. Beth, Vaughn and Jim stood together by the main entrance to the vendor room.

"This is a west regional conference. It's one of our bi-yearly events," Beth explained. "Pamela was hired to teach a class on lace knitting. Her new book was released this weekend."

"I guess it's possible she was killed with her own knitting needle," Jim said.

"Was it a circular needle?" Beth asked

The men looked at each other with puzzled expressions. Beth picked up her own bag and pulled out a silver colored knitting project. "These are circular needles. They connect so we can knit in the round, like when we're making sweaters without seams."

"Wow, that's beautiful." Blair gently touched the edge of the garment. The yarn looked soft, slightly fuzzy, with a lacy pattern. "I didn't know lace could be knitted. I thought it was all crocheted."

"There are lots of laces. It can be created with a sewing needle or bobbins or a shuttle," Beth explained.

"The knitting needle we found was straight, made of blue metal with a number three on the tip," Jim said.

Beth shook her head. "Pam never used a number three. She seldom knitted on anything over a number one. Three's too large for her type of work."

Jim glanced over the empty vendor room. After the lace makers had been interviewed and searched, they were escorted out. Jim told the hotel manager the room could be opened up again after lunch. Now the police could search for the missing knitting needle. Jim watched as the uniformed officers wandering through the cluttered booths. Talk about your proverbial needle in the haystack. This was going to take forever.

"Hey, Jim. I've got an idea," Blair whispered.

Vaughn was still admiring Beth's sweater. Jim towed Blair back out of earshot. "What's your idea, Sandburg?"

"You remember the color of the needle, right? Use your vision to search for the color, nothing else."

Jim raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. "That might work. Hold this ladder for me."

Climbing to almost the top, Jim scanned the room. Blair had one hand on his ankle as he steadied the six-foot ladder. He used the pulse in Blair's thumb to anchor himself from zoning as he turned his vision dial up. If he concentrated too much on a single sense, like vision, he could fall into a coma-like zone. He has no desire to take a `header' off the top of the ladder. After ten minutes of carefully searching each row, Jim grunted and climbed down the ladder. He paused a moment to rub his eyes.

"Well?" Blair asked, springing up and down on the balls of his feet.

"Maybe, come on." Jim's long legs carried him to the side wall in the middle of the room. Blair jogged along side.

A large cardboard box with a hand-lettered sign above advertising `Donations for Bosnia' was sitting between two booths. The box was almost full with odd bits of yarn and supplies. Jim pointed at a blue knitting needle sticking out from a ball of gray wool yarn.

"We've got it."

"Wow, you are `so' awesome, man," Blair said.

Jim waved over a nearby uniform to take a message to Froehlich to get a tech in for photograph. He glanced at Blair in surprise. "I'm awesome? It was your idea, chief."

"You would have thought of it, Jim. Once we get you comfortable with your senses, man, you're gonna be unstoppable!"

"Okay, we've got four hundred plus registered attendees," Jim said, checking the completed list that Officer Vaughn handed him. "About sixty-five percent have been interviewed. The others were not in the vendor room, right?"

Vaughn nodded her head, her blond ponytail waving. "There are classes being taught on this floor and the floor above. The rest of the people were attending those. Everyone is scheduled to be at the luncheon for a fashion show in about thirty minutes."

"Cool, I can't wait to see a lace fashion show," Blair said.

Jim looked down to see if Blair was being sarcastic. Blair returned his look with a happy smile, honestly excited about the new experience.

"Remind me to show you the definition for the word `party animal', Sandburg." Jim said, shaking his head. "We might as well see if the victim's friend is ready to talk with us yet."

They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor where the mother and daughter were sharing a room. The older lady seemed calmer as she sat next to a small round table in the corner; her daughter sat on the edge of the nearby bed. Margaret Thurber was about five-nine, her figure just starting to show signs of too many trips to the dessert bar, but still attractive. She wore a long one-piece dress decorated with a collar of lace that looked homemade. Her daughter looked in her late thirties, taller than her mother by a few inches. She had a boyish build, giving her an athletic look with tan skin and short blond naturally wavy hair.

"Mrs. Thurber, I know this is a bad time, but I was hoping I could ask a few questions," Jim said, taking the empty chair. Blair stood by the door with Vaughn's partner.

The woman nodded her head, her chin quivering. Jim waited a few more seconds, pulling out his small notebook and taking a pen from his pocket, allowing the woman to get her emotions back under control.

"Anything, I can do to help, Detective..."

"Ellison, ma'am."

"This is my daughter, Connie."

Jim nodded. "And this is my associate, Blair Sandburg." Pointing back at the door.

Blair gave both women a smile.

"I know you've probably given your statement already, but could you retell it to us?"

Margaret Thurber took a shaky breath. "I noticed... Pam wasn't at breakfast. We'd made plans to get together before classes started. When she didn't show up for her first class, I..."

"I'm sorry, what time was the class supposed to start?"

"Eight-thirty."

"Okay, go ahead."

"I'd already checked her room, she didn't answer. I was getting a little concerned. So I started checking the bathrooms and..."

Connie left the bed. Standing next to the chair, she put her arm around her mother and squeezed. "It's okay, mom."

"I... can't believe she's gone! I thought ...she was sleeping," Margaret cried softly, leaning into her daughter.

"Was anyone in the bathroom, or just leaving it when you came in?"

Thurber shook her head.

"How long have you known Ms. Smith-Manson?"

Margaret smiled sadly. Tears were falling now. She caught them with a crumpled tissue. "She was an actress in my favorite soap opera. I went to see her when she was signing autographs."

Blair raised a hand. "She was in `General Mercy', wasn't she?"

Margaret looked over at Blair. "That's right. I'm surprised you knew that. You look too young to have seen that show. It's been off the air for over fifteen years."

Blair shrugged his shoulders.

"So you've known her for more than fifteen years?" Jim asked.

"Twenty-five years." Margaret relaxed and leaned back in her seat, obviously comfortable in her memories. "She was a wonderful actress. I knitted her a sweater and wanted to give it to her. She loved knitting and we became best friends." Her face collapsed into a mask of sorrow. "I can't believe she's gone..."

Connie knelt in front of her mother's chair, pulling her into her arms as the older woman began to sob.

"Why don't we leave for now, we may need to come back later if that's okay," Jim suggested quietly as he stood. Jim had carefully monitored Margaret Thurber's heart rate during the interview. He was satisfied she was telling the truth.

"Jim, you realize you have over four hundred suspects?" Blair said, keeping his voice low as they walked towards the elevator. "Anne says she was a popular knitting teacher, everyone knew her."

"Anne?" Jim asked, his thoughts on the few questions he had for the hotel management.

"Officer Anne Vaughn, we've got a date for Sunday," he added happily with a slight spring in his step.

Jim rolled his eyes. That didn't take long. He wondered if he should warn Blair about Vaughn's interest in the opera. Nah. Let him find out on his own, maybe he'll like it. Classical music in the loft would be a nice change from the noise he plays now.

"Well, she wasn't very popular with the killer, Chief," Jim said, returning to the Blair's original observation. "By the way, how is it you recognized Smith-Manson as a soap opera star? I'm seeing a whole new side of you."

They'd arrived in the hotel lobby now. Large floor-to-ceiling windows gave the guests a view of lush landscaping. The lobby had a tropical-like holiday feel about it. Jim leaned on the gleaming wooden counter top as he studied his roommate, waiting for a response.

"A friend of mine did a paper on the impact of day-time drama in our society," Blair explained. Jim recognized the look on Blair's face as he warmed up to the subject.

Uh oh, now he'd done it.

"He used `General Mercy' as his subject. You know? That show ran for nearly twenty years! Did you ever stop to realize how..."

Jim stopped the verbal warm up with a raised hand, thankful for the timely appearance of a desk clerk. He turned to talk with the clerk. After asking about house cleaning schedules and a list of employee names, Jim asked if he and Blair could join the G.O.L. luncheon in progress. The hotel was happy to add two lunches to their schedule and the two men were taken into a large banquet room.

Jim and Blair joined a group sitting at a large round table. Waiters were just setting plates of food down in front of those seated. The large room was filled with tables, bisected by a long runway. Their appearance caused the nearby eaters to stop and stare, obviously nervous with the sudden appearance of the police.

Blair picked up his fork and turned to the large mountain-size man sitting next to him.

"So, man. Do you make lace?"

The man smiled, reminding Jim of an adult that had to tolerate an annoying kid.

"Yes, I tat. My brother and I teach classes on a technique we developed."

Blair shifted in his seat. "Cool! What's tatting? It's a lace, right?" He speared a steamed baby carrot and started to eat.

Jim shook his head as he started to cut into his rubbery chicken with a knife. He listened to the conversations begin around the table. There was some murmuring about the investigation. It was not a surprise to Jim to hear most of the gossip was correctly identifying the victim. After all, they knew she failed to appear that morning to teach class and they'd seen Margaret Thurber being led out of the vendor's room in tears by her daughter. So far, no one knew how she had died. Several people were guessing from a heart attack.

He spotted a familiar face in the room. Beth Alvarado was sitting at the next table. She looked up and made eye contact with him. Picking up her plate, she said a quick word with the woman sitting beside her and moved to take the empty seat next to Jim.

"How's the investigation going?" she asked.

"Not bad. We've interviewed over half the members. I've got a list of all the attendees from the Convention Registrar. After lunch, I'd like to address the group at large. The hotel gave me a room near the vendor floor. Anyone that thinks they may have some information to share with the police can come see me."

Beth nodded. "If you need anything, let me know."

They continued to eat in silence. Jim tuned back to the ongoing conversation between Blair and his new friend.

"...For a company what works on remote weather stations, it gives me a lot of time in the evenings to read, if I remembered to pack a book in, so I learned to tat. It's small and light to carry. Both my brother and I got hooked on figuring out new patterns. We got nicknamed `The Shuttle Guys'."

"Wow, don't be offended man, but you `so' do not look like someone that makes lace." Blair laughed.

The man joined in with his own laughter. "I've heard that a few times. But if you study the history of lace-making, the men were the designers of lace patterns in the old days."

"Really?"

"That's right." A woman across the table joined in. "Lace was very important. In Italy, lace was more valuable, ounce per ounce, than gold. A man that designed lace couldn't even leave the country with his family on vacation, the government was afraid they would take their patterns to another country."

Blair shook his head. "I had no idea. I just think of little old ladies with crochet hooks..." Blair suddenly looked horrified at what he'd said.

The table burst into laughter as Jim watched Blair blush and give the group a dopey grin.

"Smooth, Sandburg," Jim murmured to his friend, eyeing the people sitting at the table. Only one woman fell into the category that Blair labeled. The rest were all under the age of fifty; in fact almost half were younger then Jim.

It turned out the lace makers understood. They forgave Blair and a lively discussion about the history of lace began. Jim listened with more of an interest in the group. Except for Beth, the table seemed to be filled with instructors. These people would be peers with the victim and could possibly give Jim some insight into the dead woman. Before he could swing the conversation away from lace, the lights in the room dimmed. The fashion show was about to start.

Beth leaned over and whispered into Jim's ear as the room became silent. "A few of the pieces in the show were in Pamela's new book."

Jim nodded. "Point those out for me."

The models were fellow guild members, old and young. Jim recognized some dresses being similar to the one Margaret Thurber had worn. Shawls were a big hit with the room as several were modeled, causing applause.

"That diamond pattern shawl is in Pam's book. It's one of the few pieces that she knitted herself," Beth said, pointing to a blue shawl on a model.

Jim zoomed in on the knitted garment. The woman wore the blue shawl around her shoulders, the edge reaching past her hips. As she turned, Jim noticed an inconsistency in the pattern near the border. He doubted that any of the others would even notice the mistake.

"Who did most of the knitting?" Jim asked.

"Her friend Margaret Thurber, an excellent knitter."

The next model was a young twenty-something woman wearing a lacey top over a clingy body suit. He glanced over to see his roommate staring in adoration at the attractive blond on the runway.

"Wow, my grandma never looked like that..." Blair whispered almost too quiet for even Jim to hear.

Jim's cell phone vibrated, pulling his attention away from the fashion show. He excused himself and slipped into the hallway to answer the call.

"Hey, Jim. I've got the background you asked for, man," Detective Henry Brown said.

"Great, H. Give it to me."

"Okay, Pamela Smith-Manson. Lived in L.A. Used to be Pamela Thompson, changed her name when she became a...you'll never guess this part man..."

"Soap opera actress." Jim cut him off. "What else?"

"Way to steal my thunder, babe. Anyway, she was a semi-major character for a long time until they cut her out of the story. After that she started promoting a line of make-up for a while, but that didn't take off."

"She have any family?"

"An older sister, lives in a nursing home in Florida. They don't expect her to live much longer."

"We get anything off those knitting needles?"

"Not even enough to call them partials, man."

"What's the victim's financial situation?"

"Not so hot. Her publisher made noises like she was broke. I checked the Internet and found a few sites that still had fan info from the soap opera she was in. Apparently she was seen a lot in Vegas, playing the tables, only she wasn't very good at it."

"Huh," Jim said. "Any chance she used a loan shark?"

"I knew you'd ask about that. I tossed out a few lines, might have a nibble for you tomorrow."

"Thanks, H. I owe you."

"No prob, bro. The M.E. gave a preliminary guess on time of death, about two hours. Oh, and Simon is asking if you're coming in today?"

"Maybe, I'm not sure. I've got about four hundred and fifty suspects here," Jim said, rubbing his earlobe as he leaned against the wall. The hallway was deserted.

"Ouch. Sucks to be you, man."

Jim hit the end button, cutting off Brown's laughter. Back in the banquet room, the lights were on and the runway was empty. He'd missed the rest of the fashion show. Blair had his glasses on and sat with his chair pulled away from the table. He was watching the tatting guy's hands with interest. Jim could see the man held a small oblong wooden gadget that had white thread coming out of one end.

"Second move ...don't use your pinky ... droop thread down ... over the top and back under. Now, do the flip ...put that in pinch, that's the double stitch." The man held the thread out for Blair to see. "Now, you try it."

Jim watched in horror as Blair pulled some thread off a similar plastic gadget and began to mimic the actions with both hands.

"Sandburg! What are you doing?" Jim hissed quietly as he returned to his seat.

"Hey, Jim. Look! Cliff gave me my own shuttle. I'm tatting. See?" Blair held up his thread with a grin. "Okay, that part's just a knot, but see that? That's a picot."

Jim looked at the small ring that Blair had created. Yep, it looked like a picot, whatever that was. "I see that, but `why' are you tatting?" He asked, slightly exasperated.

Blair pulled his hands back to happily contemplate his creation. "It's cool, man. I'm preserving a part of our past."

"Riiight."

Beth had spoken with the woman running the fashion show. A few minutes later, Jim found himself standing on the runway with a microphone in hand, addressing the guild members. After overhearing some of the comments from the ladies in the group, it was all he could do not to blush. It seemed the older the woman, the raunchier the comment.

They didn't really make lace bikini underpants for men, did they?

"Ahh...Hello. For those of you that were not in the vendor hall earlier today, I'll reintroduce myself. I'm Detective Jim Ellison with the Cascade police department. I'm very sorry to inform you that Pamela Smith-Manson was found dead this morning." He paused as the group reacted to his news. He looked over to see Blair still working away with his shuttle.

"If anyone spoke with or saw Ms. Smith-Manson this morning, I'd like you to come and talk to me after the luncheon. I'll be in the Tahoma room, two doors down from the vendors."

A woman stood up and raised her hand. Jim gave her the nod to speak. "How did Pam die?" she asked in a loud voice.

"I can't give you the details of the investigation yet, but we are labeling it as a suspicious death."

That caused a second wave of murmurs and whispered conversations. Jim overheard them share concerns with each other of safety and fear of being killed in their sleep. He held up his hand to quiet the group down.

"We don't have any reason to believe anyone is in danger. However, it would be a good idea to stay in groups of two or more and if you see anything that looks suspicious, call 911. The hotel has informed me that they have undercover security personnel throughout the building and they are dedicating extra resources to make your conference a safe one."

No other questions were asked. Jim returned the mike to the woman who went on to make announcements about rescheduled classes. Jim returned to his seat to find Blair still tatting away in earnest. After the new class schedule was covered, tickets were drawn for door prizes. Jim pulled Blair away from his tatting class and headed for the room he was to use for interviews.

"Sandburg, do me a favor, don't tat when we're at the station, okay? I get enough grief having to explain to everyone about your bizarre tea supplies you keep in the break room," Jim ordered as he set out the tape recorder and supply of blank tapes that a patrol unit had dropped off.

Blair carried some folding chairs into the hallway. Jim wanted witnesses to wait comfortably, but not be in the room when another person was giving their statement.

"Cliff showed me a simple flower I can tat in about an hour," Blair said, returning to get a couple more chairs. "I think I can sell them at the `U' and maybe the station."

Jim paused from putting a tape in the recorder. "Why?"

"I need the cash to buy that book man, the one on the tribes of the Amazons. I told you about it. I would have had the money, if some nameless person hadn't insisted I have my car worked on last month." Blair disappeared with two more chairs.

Waiting for his friend to return again, Jim inserted the tape and looked for an electrical outlet to plug the recorder in. Standing straight with both hands on his hips, he nailed Sandburg with a stern look.

"That ear piercing screech you heard every time you hit the brake pedal was caused by metal on metal. Even `classics' need brake shoes, Mr. Earnhardt. Besides, I already offered to loan you the money for that book."

Blair waved a hand in the air and shook his head, his long hair whipping back and forth. "No way, I'm earning this money myself, man. I'm `not' borrowing."

"I seemed to remember you borrowed a twenty from me just last week."

Blair leaned over the table that separated them, both hands palm down on the surface. "That was for food, man. That's totally a different issue. Besides, I paid you back."

"No one said you didn't. The point is, you took the twenty, so why not the two hundred?"

Blair pushed off from the table and stood, combing both sets of fingers through his hair, he reached into his jeans and pulled out a hair tie. "I don't want it unless I can earn it, okay? Otherwise, I don't get to have it." Blair flashed a crooked smile. "It's just the way I do things, I can't explain it."

Jim rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Fine, but no tatting at the station."

Blair laughed, "I'll be right back, man. I need to buy some thread."

Jim noticed glumly that he never promised. He had a feeling his life was going to take another bazaar turn down Sandburg's `yellow brick road'. Blair returned seconds before the first knock announced the beginning of their afternoon of interviews. Jim hung a handmade sign on the door requesting people wait in the hallway.

The first woman introduced herself as Jan Benton. She explained she saw Smith-Manson in the bathroom that morning. She was near tears when she related the story to Jim, she felt guilty that the woman she'd thought was sleeping must have actually been dead. Jim tried to comfort her as best as he could. Blair was ready with Kleenex and a kind word. While they got her interview on tape, the chairs outside began to fill up.

Two hours later, Jim had a dozen tapes labeled and stored in evidence bags. Three women had seen the victim in the bathroom, alone. Seven thought they saw her in the hallways or in the elevator. One man saw her on the payphone near the lobby. And one woman didn't see her that morning, but did see her arguing with another, younger woman in the parking lot the night before. After that, the people stopped coming. They waited for another thirty minutes before giving up.

Blair had finished his first tatted flower. He held it up with pride.

"Cool, whatcha think?"

Jim studied the variegated red and white flower with a frown, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. "What are you supposed to do with it?"

"It's for decoration, man," Blair said with a huff. "You know, you pin it on a collar or lapel."

"Forget it, Martha. I'm not wearing a tatted flower."

Blair snorted. "Hellooo...I was thinking more along the lines of Rhonda or some of the ladies at the `U', man. Women love this stuff."

Jim tucked the box of equipment under his arm and led the way out of the room. "How many do you need to make before you can get the book?"

"About forty or more, I guess," Blair said trailing along behind his friend.

Jim locked the tapes into his truck, using an old blanket to cover them. He wanted to finish the interview with Margaret Thurber he'd started that morning. They headed back to the fifth floor.

Thurber's daughter answered their knock. She didn't look pleased with their second visit, but allowed the men to enter.

"How are you feeling?" Blair asked as he took a seat by a small round table.

Margaret was propped up in bed, her back against the headrest. She wore a robe over a flannel nightgown. "Better, thank you. I've been sleeping most of the day."

Jim took the second seat, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I just have a few more questions. Can you tell me if Ms. Smith-Manson was receiving any threats?"

"Oh, no...everyone loved Pamela," Margaret said with feeling. "She was a wonderful teacher and knitter. Did you see her new book?"

"No, I understand it is being sold this weekend," Jim said.

"The publisher had to work hard to get them ready in time. Pamela had them delivered directly to the hotel."

Her daughter's face flashed in annoyance. Jim noted that she was careful to keep her head turned so her mother wouldn't see her dour expression.

"So, to your knowledge, Ms. Smith-Manson didn't have any enemies that may have wanted to harm her?"

Margaret shook her head sadly. Both men could see the water works were starting up again. Jim rubbed his brow as he considered his options. She still seemed upset and they would be coming back tomorrow. Maybe he should give her more time before going any further. Right now, he really wanted to talk to the daughter.

"Thank you for your time. Are you going to be staying through the end of the conference?" Jim asked.

Margaret nodded. "I'm going to teach Pamela's classes starting tomorrow. She wouldn't have wanted her students disappointed."

Connie escorted the men to the door and followed out into the hallway. After closing the door carefully behind her, she turned to Jim with a frown. "I'd like to talk with you, without my mother present, if that's okay."

Jim nodded. "I was going to suggest the same thing, Mrs....?"

"Ewing. Wait until I settle my mom in. She hasn't been feeling well this week. I'll meet you both in the coffee shop in fifteen minutes?"

"Okay, we'll be there."

Jim sat at the table drinking his coffee and watching Blair work with the thread. He noticed that Blair's fingers were working faster than before. He must be getting the hang of it. Jim shuddered at the thought. It wasn't enough he had to explain to the police force who this guy with the long hair and earrings was, now he'd have to explain what the guy with the long hair and earrings was doing. The coffee shop was filled with women and men, chatting in groups and doing some kind of handwork.

"Sandburg, the bullies are going to beat the snot out of you after school if they see you doing this."

"Jim, you are `so' retro." Blair laughed, not looking up from his work. "We've got jocks at the `U' that needlepoint and women taking auto shop. Get with the program, already."

"It was worth a try," Jim muttered.

Connie arrived to join them. She had a cloth bag over one arm with yarn and needles poking out. Jim was beginning to feel like the oddity.

"Thanks for waiting, Detective Ellison." Connie waved at the passing waitress and pointed at Jim's coffee cup.

"I got the impression in your room that you didn't share your mother's opinion of Ms. Smith-Manson," Jim stated.

"You're right, I don't." She looked over at Blair's work. "Nice job, is that the self-closing mock ring?"

Blair looked up with a grin. "Yeah, just learned to tat today."

She gave him an encouraging nod. "You're doing good. It took me forever to tat. Try holding your pinkie a little higher, you won't find the first step as hard."

"Thanks!" Blair's head bowed as he attacked his work in earnest.

Jim scrubbed his face. He could see a new ride-along rule forming in his mind. There will be no tatting during murder investigations.

Connie turned back to Jim. "Pamela was a leach."

"Really? You're the first one to say anything negative about her." Jim waited until the arriving waitress poured Connie's coffee and freshen his before continuing.

"She used my mother. She knew squat about knitting. But her `Hollywood' reputation drew other knitters in like sheep. Mom taught her everything she knows about lace knitting and practically teaches all of her classes at these conferences."

"Why did your mom stay in Smith-Mason's shadow?" Jim asked.

"She adored her," Connie said shaking her head sadly. "She loved that stupid soap opera and in her eyes, Angela Seasons could do no wrong."

Jim felt lost. "Excuse me?"

Blair looked up from his tatting. "That's the character that Pamela Smith-Manson played, Jim. She was a nurse that was dumped by her husband/doctor for a younger nurse."

Connie smirked. "Mom was going through her own divorce when the show was running. She really latched onto the character. Angela was able to do everything that Mom couldn't do in real life to my Dad."

Jim sat back and studied the woman sitting across the table. Connie didn't just dislike the dead woman. She hated her. Question was: did she hate her enough to kill her?

"We have a report of a woman arguing with Smith-Manson last night in the parking lot. That wouldn't have been you, would it?"

Connie gave Jim frown. "Who told you that?"

"Was it you?" Jim felt his case against the woman strengthen.

Connie shook her head. "Pam and I have had words, but never at conferences. I don't want my Mom upset." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Talk with the shuttle guys."

"Cliff?" Blair asked in alarm.

"Cliff's brother, Ernie, was not very fond of Pamela," Connie said with a snort. "Neither brother is, but especially Ernie."

Jim found his patience becoming thin. "Ms. Ewing, this is a murder investigation. If you know something, trust me, you don't want to keep it to yourself."

Connie seemed to take his warning to heart. She nodded her head and became serious. "Okay, sorry. This is what I heard, so you can take this for the gossip that it is. Ernie is married. Apparently, about a year ago, Pamela saw Ernie with another woman. Rumor has it that Pamela tried to blackmail Ernie." Connie leaned back and picked up her coffee, taking a drink.

"Wow," Blair whispered. "So you think that the woman arguing with the victim was Ernie's wife? Or the woman he was seen with?"

Connie mouthed the word `wife'.

Jim found Ernie Newell on the vendor floor. The classes were done for the day and the guild members had an hour of shopping before dinner was scheduled, with another fashion show. Jim had already decided to call it a day after this interview. Sitting through another fashion show went above and beyond the call of duty.

Ernie was as tall as his brother but heavier. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt. His skin was tanned from long days of working outside. He shook hands and examined Blair's completed flower with interest.

"This is very good for a beginner. You're a natural," Ernie said with an easy smile. He stood next to a booth selling hand-carved wooden tatting shuttles. Several women were shopping, asking the big man questions about types of woods used and prices.

"Is there somewhere we can talk, Mr. Newell?" Jim asked.

"Sure." Ernie signaled an attractive woman with long black hair. "Rose, watch the booth, I'll be right back."

Rose nodded with a frown to Jim, obviously not happy with having to deal with the swarm of shoppers on her own.

They followed the big man out a side door to one of the hallways in the hotel. Few people were in sight, giving the three men more privacy then the crowded shopping area.

"What can I do for you, Detective?"

Jim flipped open a notebook. "I have information that you and Pamela Smith-Manson have some history together."

Ernie's eyes narrowed, his face showing confusion. "What history? We hardly spoke to each other."

"Was she trying to black-mail you?"

His eyes widened and he let go a laugh. "Oh, god! Who told you that?" He rubbed his jaw as he tried to control his chuckles.

"So it's not true?" Jim asked, tapping his pen against the paper in frustration. Was he the only one that realized this was a murder investigation?

"Oh, yeah. It's true," Ernie said with a snort. He must have seen Jim's reaction as he held up his hand in apology. "Sorry, Detective. But you have to understand. This is very old news and we lace makers are a tight group. We don't have a lot of secrets from each other. That's what made the blackmail attempt so funny."

"Mr. Newell, murder is `not' funny. So why don't you cut to the chase."

"Right, of course." The big man took a deep breath and calmed himself. "Okay, yes. Pamela saw me last year at a beachfront resort, Ocean Shores actually. Anyway, I was there with my niece, my sister's daughter, for her senior trip. I was the chaperon. Pamela saw Lindsey and me in the lobby and decided she'd pay off her gambling debt with a little help from me."

"No way," Blair said with a surprised look. "How could you both continue to go to the same conferences after something like that?"

Ernie shook his head. "No one took Pamela very seriously, she was a flake. But she had a famous name, she brought the guild a lot of publicity. All the new students love to sign up for her classes."

"So why was your wife seen arguing with her last night?"

Ernie grimaced. "Rose `hated' Pamela. I had to keep her away from that woman all the time. Must be that Latino blood of hers, she's a real spitfire."

Jim rubbed his forehead. "Mr. Newell, I need to ask where you were from six to nine A.M. this morning."

"Rose and I were together, in our room. We left for breakfast at seven-thirty." Ernie seemed to get an understanding of the seriousness of the situation as he answered solemnly.

"Anyone see you?"

Ernie shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, maybe some of the lacers. Cliff was already at the table when we walked in."

Jim shut his notebook. "Are you staying through the weekend?"

Ernie nodded.

"Good. I just want to have a word with your wife before we go. We'll be back tomorrow."

Ernie took a business card from Jim. "Okay."

Later, during the drive home, Jim looked over at his partner. Blair was still working on his lace. His head bent forward as he concentrated on his work. He was just finishing the flower.

"How many is that?" Jim asked.

"This will be my third." The reply came without a pause.

Jim did the math. Fifteen dollars, if he found three buyers. He braked for a red light and watched Blair's fingers fly. The shuttle moved through a loop of thread held open by his other hand...over...under...tighten...

"Jim!"

The insistent honking from behind them startled Jim back into the present. Blair had a hand on his arm, gently shaking him. Glancing up at the light, Jim saw the green signal and pulled out into the intersection. He felt a blush start to crawl up his neck and warm his cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Blair put his shuttle and thread into a clear baggie and slip it into his pack.

"So, who's at the top of your list for suspects, man?"

Grateful that Blair didn't comment on his mini-zone, Jim shook his head. "Our victim wasn't the easiest person to get along with. I have a feeling the deeper we go, the more suspects were going to find."

"It takes some kind of guts to kill someone in a public restroom at a busy hotel," Blair said fiddling with the vents in the cab.

"It may have been committed in the heat of the moment, without thinking."

"Yeah, but we found the other needle in the vendor hall. So the killer had to hold the anger during the walk between the two locations."

Jim tilted his head. "Well, it's possible the killer dumped the extra needle `after' she was killed."

"Oh, yeah. I didn't think of that," Blair admitted. "I just can't see the killer being any of the people that we talked to today. Everyone is so nice."

Jim glanced at his friend with amusement. Did Blair expect the killer to start swinging when the police showed up? "Whoever did it is not going to draw attention to themselves by acting hostile."

"I know that, man. It's just... it's a lace conference! Ya know?" Blair shook his head. "You don't expect bad karma at a gathering like that."

Jim didn't have a response to that.

Jim parked in the underground garage of the police station. He didn't plan on staying long, just needing to check this email and bring Simon up to speed on the investigation. They rode the elevator up to the seventh floor in silence.

The bullpen was nearly deserted when they arrived. Rhonda was cleaning her desk off in preparation to leaving for the day. Blair made a beeline to her side, his tatted flower in hand. Jim went to his computer and hit the power button. He dropped into his seat with a sigh and waited for the machine to cycle through its start-up procedure, keeping an eye on Blair's sale attempt.

"Hey, Rhonda. Wanna help a starving college student buy a wonderful book?" Blair held the flower out for her inspection, his face full of pride. "I'm selling these for five bucks a flower. I made it myself. It's tatted."

Rhonda took the flower with a look of amazement. "Blair! You're tatting? My grandmother used to tat. I still have her pillow-cases she trimmed." Rhonda examined the flower with a look of fondness.

"You want to buy this one?"

Jim shook his head. The kid was a piece of work.

Rhonda had her purse open and was digging inside. "Of course, I love it. If you have another one, I'll give you a ten. I'm going to mail it to my Mom."

Blair was fast with the second flower and soon had a ten-dollar bill clutched in his hand. He waved happily at Rhonda's retreating back and then danced a jig gleefully as his roommate watched from his chair.

"Did you see that, man? This is a walk in the park. That book is mine for sure!"

"Sandburg!"

Blair's dancing came to an abrupt halt. He twisted his head over a shoulder to see Simon standing in his open doorway to his office. He wore the same scowl that Jim had seen on his face earlier in the morning.

"Hey, Si...Captain."

"What did I just see you do?"

Blair shot Jim a look of panic. "Uh...dance?"

Simon stepped forward and leaned a hip on his secretary's desk, his arms folded across his chest. "'Before' the Fred Astair routine."

"I ...sold Rhonda some lace flowers," Blair said.

Simon nodded his head slowly. He looked over at Jim, then returned to pin Blair with a piercing gaze. "Do you realize there is a policy about solicitation in the police station?"

Jim frowned. He knew of no policy, in fact, he was constantly getting hit on for money: Campfire cookies, sports fundraisers, walk-a-thons, just to name a few. He rubbed his jaw. How much hot water would he'd be in with Simon if he stuck up for his roommate?

"Policy...?" Blair asked.

"Yeah." Simon held his hand, his fingers waggling. "You have to show the captain what your selling before they're all gone."

Blair gave the big man a weak grin. "Jeez, man. Way to give me grey hair..." He pulled out his last flower and placed it in the dark hand.

Simon nodded. "This is good work. Joan's mother tatted. She made some for Joan's wedding dress." Simon's voice trailed off as he stared into space. Suddenly, he glanced at his watch and pushed off the desk. "You two stay put, I'll be right back."

Jim watched his boss stride out of the bullpen, heading for the elevators. Blair was left behind, his empty hand still stretched out.

"He took my lace, man!"

"It's okay. We know where he lives," Jim replied as he opened up his email account.

"It took me an hour to make that," Blair huffed, falling into an empty chair next to Jim.

Fifteen minutes later, Simon returned with a pleased look. He clapped Blair on the shoulder. "How many of these can you make, Sandburg?"

Blair frowned in confusion. "Huh?"

"Tatted flowers. Can you make forty-seven by next week?"

"Forty-Seven!" Blair bounced out of the chair. "Really! You'd buy that many?"

"The department will. We've been looking for an inexpensive gesture of good will to give to the activist group at the meeting next Thursday. I showed this to the Chief and he wants it. These little babies are perfect." Simon studied the flower in his hand for a moment.

"You told Rhonda five dollars. That would be ..." Simon looked at Blair.

"Two hundred and thirty-five bucks, yahoo!" Blair said, rubbing his hand together.

Jim closed his email account and powered down his computer. Why was he not having a good feeling about this?

Later that night in the Loft, Jim stirred the Alfredo sauce while watching his roommate work. Blair had immediately started on his flowers, pausing only to wash his hands before picking up his shuttle. Dinner was almost ready and the first flower was being attached to a small safety pin.

"Okay, Sandburg. Dinner's on." Jim drained the pasta and retrieved two dinner plates from the cupboard.

"You go ahead, man. I don't want to stop."

Returning one dish back to the shelf, Jim filled his plate and sat down to eat. He twisted the cap off his beer and twirled his fork in the noodles.

"You know, you don't have to make the entire forty-seven in the first night," Jim said as he swallowed his first mouthful. The sauce was made with low fat milk. It wasn't too bad. Blair had talked him into adding chicken. Jim liked it.

"I figured it out, Jim. I need to make seven-point-eight per day if I plan on delivering them on Wednesday. I can't afford to get behind." Blair worked the shuttle in and out of the loop, pausing to flip the loops as they tightened.

Jim sighed and returned to his meal. He should've insisted Blair take his two hundred.

Jim woke early the next morning, feeling the need for a workout. Slipping out of the loft without waking Blair was not a problem. Blair would sleep through a troop of enemy soldiers storming his futon. The cool air was invigorating as he slung his carry bag over one shoulder and headed for the Ford. He could get a decent workout and still be back in time to eat breakfast before work.

The gym was empty, save a few professional looking body builders working with the free weights. Setting the machine for his desired weight, Jim began to work a series of arm repetitions. He let his mind wander to the murder case.

The murder of an elderly knitting teacher was not an everyday occurrence in Cascade. If it weren't for a rash of armed robberies occurring in the business district, the media would have been all over this case. Jim smiled at his luck. Good thing Cascade was having a busy news week.

By seven, Jim was driving back toward the Loft, satisfied from his workout. He'd already showered at the gym, so Blair could use all the hot water that morning he wanted.

Unlocking the door to the loft, Jim listened for his roommate. Blair was still asleep. He emptied the contents of his gym bag into the dirty clothes hamper and wandered into Blair's bedroom. A small pile of Baggies rested on top of a pile of books. Jim counted eight finished flowers. He shook his head, how late did he stay up last night?

"Rise and shine, Sandburg." Jim shook the lump on the bed.

Blair shifted under the mountain of blankets. A low groan followed by a string of incoherent mutterings. Jim shook harder.

"Come on. If you want to shower and get something to eat in time to ride in with me, you've got to get up now."

Blair rolled over, pulling the blankets down to expose his sleep creased face. His hair was a mass of confused curls looking for an exit. "...I'm up...I'm up, already..."

"Yeah, you look up." Jim stood and pointed to the tatting. "How late did you work last night?"

Blair raised a head to rub his eyes. "..Don'no, `bout...ow."

"What?"

Blair looked at his right hand in confusion. "My hand hurts..."

"You probably over used it with the marathon tatting session yesterday, Darwin," Jim said as he walked out of Blair's small room and headed towards the coffee maker.

Blair followed a few moments later, flexing his hand as he walked. "I can't afford to rest it, man. I've got a schedule to keep!"

Reaching into the cupboard, Blair started to pull down a heavy ceramic mug. Jim watched his hand muscles spasm. The coffee cup dropped from his fingers.

"Ow!"

It was a scramble, but Jim caught the mug after it bounced off the counter and was heading toward the floor. It was a minor miracle the mug was still in one piece. Setting the cup on the counter, Jim turned Blair with a firm hand on his shoulder and gave him a little push towards the bathroom.

"Shower. I'll bring you something to put on your hand."

Blair walked away with a worried frown, staring at his offending hand. "I've got to make at least seven more today..."

They arrived back at Red Lion Hotel as the lace-makers were finishing breakfast. Jim found the hotel manager and arranged to use the same room that he had yesterday.

"What's first, Jim?" Blair asked. They had tried some unscented Flex-all to relieve some of the pain caused from overworking his fingers yesterday.

"I want to talk with Thurber again and then interview more of the instructors."

They walked into the vendor hall. The conference was in its second day and shoppers were concentrating on their shopping. Some booths seemed more popular than others. Jim spied a large group around the table selling the victim's books. Jim led Blair through the crowd toward the booth.

Smith-Manson's books were about an inch thick and soft bound with a picture of the deceased wearing a knitted lace shawl on the front cover. Jim picked up a copy and thumbed through the pages. Black and white photos of shawls and scarves appeared on each page. Each knitted piece was modeled by the author. The back cover had quotations from different people, giving their impressions of the book and its contents. Jim didn't recognize any of the names, but then, he didn't expect to.

"These books are really selling, man," Blair whispered as he examined another copy. "Decent binding job."

Jim returned the copy and looked up to see Connie Ewing standing several booths down the row. She had a small round padded pillow with a flat bottom in her hands.

"Good morning. Is your mother around?" Jim asked as he approached.

Connie shook her head setting the object down. Jim noticed the small sign on the table: `portable bobbin lace pillows'. He hoped Blair wasn't going to take an interest in this type of lace making as well. As least tatting was something his friend could slip into a pocket.

"She's still in the room. She'll be down in time for her first class," Connie said. "She had another headache this morning. They usually go away in a couple of hours."

Jim nodded. There went that idea. He looked around the crowded room. "Who can I talk to about getting a list of the teachers at this conference?"

"That would be Mindy," Connie said, her eyes scanning the crowd. "There she is."

Mindy was a short woman with long gray hair braided into a single plait down her back. She wore a long denim dress that covered her portly shape and comfortable sneakers. Jim waited to one side as the woman finished reading a list of tasks from her clipboard to a tall man wearing overalls. After she was satisfied the man understood her instructions, she turned to look up at Jim.

"Detective Ellison, isn't it?" Her voice was low and commanding.

"Yes, ma'am. This is my associate, Blair Sandburg, with Rainier University. I was wondering if I could get a list of the teachers and a schedule of their classes for yesterday and today." Jim tried for a friendly smile.

She nodded her head briskly. "I'm Mindy Clark. We've got a temporary office set up with a copy machine, follow me."

After making a copy of the required information, she gave them both a stern look. "You're not going to interfere with the classes are you? We've got a tight schedule, especially after Pamela's death yesterday."

Jim got the impression she was blaming him for the interruption to her conference. He took a deep breath and remembered the current reputation the Cascade Police Department was fighting with some of the activist groups in the city. Simon would have his head if he received a call from this woman about his `attitude'.

"No ma'am. I need the schedule to figure out the best time to talk with the teachers so I `won't' interfere with the classes," he assured her. He ignored Blair's faint snicker.

She let them go with an unspoken warning. Jim felt her talents were wasted on organizing conferences. She had enough command presence to run a SWAT operation.

"Wow, she's spooky, man," Blair whispered with an exaggerated shudder. "If Simon ever meets her across a conference table, my money's on her."

Jim studied the schedule and checked his watch. "Come on, Jerry Springer, we can talk with an Angela Baker before she starts teaching something called `Lace Charting'.

They found Ms. Baker getting prepared to teach in a classroom at the end of the hallway on the second floor. The room was the type with a folding wall that could be opened up to make a larger room by combining the adjacent class space. The back wall had floor to ceiling windows with blinds to block the view of the parking lot and the large airport across the street. A large whiteboard hung behind a long conference table. A few dozen empty chairs were lined up to face the table.

"Ms. Baker?" Jim tapped the doorframe before entering the class. No students were present yet, as the class wasn't due to start for another twenty minutes.

Angela Baker looked up from placing blue folders on each empty seat. She was a pretty woman with red hair and a slender figure. She looked more like a CEO for a successful company than a lace teacher. Jim guessed her age to be in her early thirties.

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Ellison with Cascade Police, this is Blair Sandburg. We were wondering if you had a moment."

She nodded and waved them both in. "It's about Pamela, right? Her murder?"

Jim nodded. "Can you tell me if you spoke with Ms. Smith-Manson?"

She dropped to a nearby seat and began to roll a pencil between her hands. "Pamela and I rarely saw each other, let alone talk." She kept her face expressionless.

Jim had a feeling there was something more to their arrangement. "Did you two often see each other at conferences?"

"These only happen every other year. I met Pamela when she asked me to help with her book." She allowed a frown to mar her forehead for a moment, and then slip away. "I chart lace patterns."

Blair sat down in an empty chair a few seats down from Baker. "Like tatting?"

"No, I do knitted lace. Most of the older knitted lace patterns were written out in step-by-step instructions. It's much easier to follow a chart, but it takes a little training to get the hang of it."

"Did you work on her book?" Jim asked, returning the conversation to the murder investigation.

Angela nodded, glancing at the pencil in her hand. "I charted one of the patterns for her." She tapped the pencil on the small writing platform that extended off the right arm of the chair. "We had a disagreement on my payment, so as it turned out, it was the only charting I did. The rest of her patterns are written out the old fashion way."

"When did this happen?"

"About eighteen months ago, I guess."

Jim had his notebook out and was writing. "What was the disagreement about?"

She frowned again and looked at Jim's hand as he wrote. "I don't understand what this has to do with her being murdered."

Jim smiled and closed the small notebook. "I'm just trying to get a complete picture of the victim's personality, what she was like. I'm not sure if any of this will help until I put all the pieces together."

She sighed and nodded her head once. "Well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Pamela Smith-Manson is a user. She'd take what she could get from you and then return for more. We just had a verbal agreement when I worked for her. Charting is more than a hobby. It's my business. I teach, consult and do research. I was clear with her as to what my fees would be. My mistake was starting the work before getting the agreement in writing." She shook her head. "I don't make that mistake anymore."

"So she took the work and never paid you for it," Jim asked.

Angela nodded. "Exactly."

Jim gave that some thought. Her statement was consistent with what they'd been told so far. "Do you know of anyone who hated her enough to want to kill her?"

She seemed to give that some thought, ending the pause with a quick shake of her head. She tucked a red curl behind her ear. "No, most of the people that I know just put up with her. Like an irritating relative that you have to endure until the holidays are over. I do know that Connie Ewing had had more than one shouting match with her. But only when her mother wasn't around."

After the interview, Jim checked the schedule. The classes were either thirty minutes or one hour long. They had some time to kill before he could talk with another instructor.

"I need to call in and see what the M.E. has." Jim led the way to the hotel's restaurant. "We can grab some coffee while we wait."

Blair didn't waste any time, he had his shuttle out before Jim could hit the speed dial to the station. Jim watched as Blair worked the thread. Blair was definitely getting faster.

"How long is one flower taking you now?"

Blair looked up, his eyes sparkling with pride. "My best is fifty-two minutes."

"Huh." He spoke into the small cell phone. "...Yes... This is Detective Ellison..."

The preliminary information was finished. Jim was able to talk with the tech that performed the autopsy. The knitting needle had punctured the victim's heart, tearing her left ventricle. The heart had bled out into the thoracic cavity until it stopped beating.

"Did you find any evidence that she had vomited recently?"

"No," the tech answered. Jim heard some papers rustling. "She'd had enough stomach contents to believe she'd eaten dinner, no breakfast. No signs that she'd vomited."

"Okay, could you transfer me to Froehlich?" Jim steeled himself for the next voice he heard. The waitress poured his coffee and set a small teapot with hot water along with a wicker basket of assorted teabags in front of Blair. He noted with amusement that Blair was too engrossed in his tatting to notice the interested looks the pretty waitress was giving his partner.

Blair's new interest in tatting may damage his social life.

"Froehlich."

"This is Detective Ellison, I'm calling..."

"Yes, the stabbing. Hold on."

Jim rolled his eyes. He eyed the display of pie slices on the counter. The coconut cream was calling his name, or maybe some cheesecake.

"Okay...you get the autopsy notes yet?" she asked.

"Yeah, anything else?"

"Not as much as I expected. Apparently that hotel has pretty decent house cleaning. I'll have to remember to recommend it for my mother-in-law. That and the fact it's no where close to my house..."

What was this? Frumpy Froehlich has a sense of humor?

"We did find enough evidence of vomit in that toilet you suspected to give us a good shot at DNA."

"Great. They don't think the victim threw up recently, chances are good that was the killer."

"Maybe sickened by the act of the stabbing?"

"If I'm lucky. Can you call me if anything else noteworthy comes up?"

She took his number. Jim hung up with a feeling of accomplishment. The day was starting to go his way. Maybe he'd indulge in that morning treat. He caught the eye of the young waitress and pointed silently towards the pies.

"Don't even think it, man," Blair said without looking up from his flower in progress.

Or maybe not.

The classes had fifteen minutes to allow the guild members to roam the vendor area, use the bathroom or run to their room for forgotten supplies. Jim and Blair waited as the students began to trickle through the doors. The `Shuttle Guys' were at their booth with Rose. Jim spotted Beth looking over a selection of videos further down.

He felt Blair nudge his ribs with an elbow. "Look, Jim. Margaret must be feeling better."

Jim looked over to see the woman with her daughter walking into the vendor hall. "Good, I want another word with Connie."

They made their way over to the mother-daughter team. Each woman had the ever-present knitting bag over one of her arms. Jim watched as Connie realized their approach, the edges of her mouth turned downward. Margaret looked bad. Her brow was creased as if in pain, she seemed to be slightly dragging her left leg as she walked.

"Mrs. Thurber, are you alright?" Blair asked.

"Just a headache, dear. They tend to go away before lunch," she replied.

"Mom, let's get you back to the room. You don't need to be up for another hour." Connie had her mother's elbow and was allowing the older woman to lean on her.

"I'm fine, honey. I want to see how the book sales are going."

"I'll go with you." Blair stepped up to help the woman towards the booth. "Jim wanted to talk with Connie."

Jim nodded, that was a good idea. Connie didn't look very pleased with it, though. She allowed Blair to take her place and gave the detective a hostile look.

"What is it, Detective? My mother isn't feeling good. I need to be with her."

"I just had a few more questions, we can talk over there." Jim pointed to an area that had chairs set out for tired shoppers.

"Please make them quick." She walked over to the rest area but remained standing.

"I wanted to ask you about your arguments with Smith-Manson," Jim said, deciding to jump in with both feet. Why not? He could tell the woman was already hostile towards him. Maybe her temper would loosen her tongue.

"Which one?" Connie asked returning Jim's gaze boldly.

"The most recent," Jim said, feeling like he'd lose if he blinked first.

Connie took a deep breath and shifted her angry gaze to the ceiling for a moment. "Pamela promised my mother credit in her book. In fact, Mom knitted most of the garments in it. I talked to the publisher last week. He told me that it went to press without any acknowledgment at all for anyone but Pamela Smith-Manson."

"So you fought?" Jim felt he was getting close.

"I called her and left a few messages, which she never returned. I planned on having it out with her yesterday. I never saw her when we registered. I knew mom and Pam had a breakfast date yesterday." Connie rubbed her forehead. Her anger seemed to dissipate, replaced with sadness. "She was killed before I had a chance to see her."

Jim was monitoring the woman as she spoke. He wasn't an expert, but he thought she was telling the truth. Her vitals stayed consistent. She was angry, of that he had no doubt, but she didn't act like someone trying to hide a violent act from being discovered.

"The thing is, detective, I should have expected nothing less. She was a sponge, always taking, never giving."

Jim nodded. This was nothing new. These interviews were like a broken record. Which one of these individuals had decided enough was enough? He scanned the large room, finding Blair and Margaret standing by the books being sold. Now that the author was dead, he doubted any would be available by the end of the weekend.

A small voice in Jim's brain began to nag him. Everyone he'd spoken with knew Pamela's true colors. She had fooled no one, except her biggest fan. What would a best friend do, when faced with the undeniable fact of betrayal?

"How did your mother react when she found out?"

Connie shook her head. "I'm not sure if she knows. I never told her. She should have seen the book for the first time yesterday, but with all that's happened..."

Jim extended his hearing towards his partner. He easily picked up the concerned voice of his roommate in the growing crowd.

"..'re you're alright?" Blair was asking.

"Can't be...she wouldn't..."

Jim headed for the booth. Blair was standing close to Margaret, who was looking at the book, her face frozen in disbelief. Jim could hear Connie following close behind him.

With a sudden angry shout, Margaret shoved a stack of the books off the counter. They dropped to the floor with a loud thud. Blair moved in close, both hands extended toward the distraught woman.

"Blair!" Jim shouted out. The crowd had reached full capacity for the room. With the sudden noise of the disturbance, the shoppers turned to check out what was going on. Jim found himself pushing shoulders aside as he worked to cross half the length of the room.

A woman screamed.

Shouts of surprise and anger followed, telling Jim that something had gone wrong. Blair's head was no longer visible. The distinctive head and shoulders of Ernie Newell reached the booth before Jim could get close. Jim watched the man reach out and pull Margaret Thurber back, effectively securing the older woman in his grasp.

Jim searched the sea of bodies for Blair. He could still hear the distinctive heartbeat of his friend, beating a rapid tattoo. Where had he gone? Finally, he reached the booth, not caring about the hostile looks from the men and women he had shoved forcefully. Blair was curled in a fetal position on the floor, almost under the table. Both of Blair's arms were wrapped tightly around his rib cage. His breathing seemed shallow, each inspiration ending in a painful gasp.

Checking that Ernie had Margaret in a firm hold, Jim dropped to his knees next to his friend.

"Blair!" He tried to pull an arm away, but Blair fought the movement.

"Jim...hurts..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw a foot stepping down on a twelve-inch long metal knitting needle. One end had a rusty color about five inches in.

Oh God.

"Back away!" Jim shouted at the crowd of people. He heard the voice of Beth taking charge, giving orders. The crowd began to move backwards. Jim ignored the frantic sounds Connie made with her mother, the sharp tang of vomit in the air, and the splattering noise behind his back.

"Beth! Call an ambulance!" he shouted. He dropped his voice and leaned forward towards Blair. "Chief, let me look."

Blair's eyes were open, unseeing as he struggled to breath. He looked up into Jim's face with an alarmed look, but he stopped resisting and let Jim pull up his shirt.

"She...stabbed..."

"Just breathe, nice and easy." Jim studied the small puncture wound, lightly running his fingers down the rib cage. The knitting needle was smaller in diameter than the blue number three that had killed Smith-Manson. It had penetrated Blair's chest cavity slipping between two ribs. Judging by the amount of blood on the needle and the location of the hole, it had to have penetrated his left lung. But did it hit his heart?

"Jim? Tell...me..." Blair was panicked, his respirations fast and shallow.

"Sandburg, listen to me." Jim squeezed his friend's arm, looking him directly in his eyes. "Slow down your breathing, keep it shallow." Jim dialed his hearing up. With each breath Blair took, he could hear the wet sound of air being drawn into Blair's chest cavity through the hole. Blair's left lung was collapsing. If left unchecked, it would push against his heart and collapse the other lung from the external pressure.

"Jim, what...do you...hear?" Blair's hand had Jim's forearm in a tight grip.

Laying his finger on Blair's neck to feel his pulse, Jim closed his eyes and dialed his hearing up to maximum. He pictured himself entering the artery by sound and traveling downward, into the heart muscle. He listened to each valve in Blair's heart contract, forcing the blood from the upper chamber of the heart into the lower chamber. A mirrored echo from the other side sounded the same. He couldn't hear any indication of a leak. The organic pump seemed to be fine, working as it should. Jim dialed his hearing back to normal and gave Blair a reassuring grin. He lowered his head near Blair and squeezed his shoulder.

"I think you're fine, Chief. Your lung is damaged, but the doc will have that patched up in no time." He kept his voice low, intending the announcement for Blair's hearing only.

Blair nodded and caught his lower lip between his teeth as his face contorted briefly, then relaxed again. "You... woulda made a ... great doctor, man," he whispered back.

A woman appeared by his side with a plastic baggie and some clear packing tape.

"I'm a nurse," she explained as she handed the plastic to Jim and started stripping off long pieces of tape. "The fire department's been called."

"Thanks," Jim said with a look of gratitude. He pushed Blair gently onto his back. "Keep your legs bent, Sandburg."

Placing the plastic over the puncture wound, Jim watched the woman tape three edges of the plastic square to Blair's skin, leaving the last downward side free.

"This will prevent any more air from going in," Jim explained to Blair. " But it'll allow air to come back out."

"Is that...a good...thing, man?" Blair's voice was higher than normal. He was scared.

"Yeah, we want air to come out, kiddo."

The room was almost empty now, save Ernie, Beth, Connie, Margaret and the off-duty nurse. When the fire department arrived with their large cases of aid supplies, Jim found himself cast aside, demoted to an observer. He looked back to see Connie with Margaret sitting in some chairs. Margaret looked pale and weak, her whole body shaking.

Jim got the attention of a fire lieutenant and pointed to the older woman. "I think she's sick. She's having headaches, nausea and some paralysis on one side. Could you guys check her out?"

"Okay." He spoke into a small microphone clipped to his shoulder and tapped a firefighter on the shoulder. Together, they moved over to start assessing Margaret.

Jim found an opening that allowed him to get close to Blair again. An I.V. drip was attached to Blair's arm. A firefighter sat above his head with a bag mask that covered Blair's lower face and forced oxygen into his lungs. Jim reached out and grasped his guide's hand, smiling as Blair's fingers closed and squeezed in response.

Jim watched as a drug was introduced into the I.V. fluid. He knew what was coming. Blair's fingers became relaxed as he drifted off to sleep. The bag mask was removed and in no time at all, a tube was inserted into his air passage.

"Okay, let's get him on a backboard."

Simon entered the waiting room. Jim gave him a halfhearted wave from his seat in a padded chair. His legs were stretched out straight and crossed at the ankles. The room was empty. He'd only been in the E.R. waiting room for half an hour before he followed the sound of Blair to the second floor and into the surgical unit. Being a sentinel came in handy sometimes.

"So what's going on with Sandburg," Simon asked nodding towards the double doors that led into the surgery rooms. "I know you've been listening."

"Left lung is damaged. They repaired it and closed his ribs. They're doing the final suturing now."

Simon shuddered with mild disgust. "Uugghh. How can you listen to all that?"

Jim shrugged. How could he not?

"What happened?" Simon asked as he dropped into the adjacent chair.

"Margaret Thurber stabbed Sandburg with a steel knitting needle."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope, lace knitting needle, size one."

"Why?"

Jim shifted upwards to sit properly in the seat. "I think she's got a medical condition, Simon. I doubt she even is aware of what she did."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Head bleed, trauma, tumor...I don't know. She was having headaches in the morning that seemed to get better during the day. This morning she acted like she was having problems moving the left side of her body. She's been throwing up." Jim rubbed his eyes. "They've admitted her for examination."

"Do we need an officer guarding her?" Simon asked.

"I put in a request for a uniform. Right now the hospital security is with her. I'm certain she's the killer, Simon. But I don't think this case will ever go to trial."

An hour later, Jim was sitting next to Blair's bed in a private room. Simon had left to arrange the care of the suspect and start the paperwork for him. Jim studied his friend's face. He didn't look good. His color was too pale, almost white. He slept the peaceful sleep of the drugged. Jim tried not to lose himself in the sounds of the air properly traveling in and out of Blair's lungs.

Blair's backpack was leaning against the wall next to Jim's chair. Bored with waiting, Jim opened the zipper and removed the baggie of tatting. He opened the plastic and removed the shuttle. Blair's current flower was almost done. He checked the closed door carefully, not hearing the sound of any approaching footsteps.

How had Blair held the shuttle?

Jim mimicked the position and wrapped the variegated red and white thread around his left hand. The shuttle when in...

When Ernie Newel opened the door, Jim was busy picking a knot out using the small hook on one end of the shuttle. He looked up with a guilty expression.

"Oops, forget to do a flip, detective?" Ernie said with a grin.

Jim rolled his eyes and shrugged. What was the use of hiding the evidence? "He has to have eight of these made a day. He's been commissioned by my department for more than forty," Jim explained with a sheepish look. Blair was still asleep, not due to wake up for several hours.

Ernie folded his long legs and sat down on the floor with grace, pulling out his own shuttle. "Watch," he ordered.

Blair heard voices. They spoke softly around him. In the center of the conversation was the familiar voice of his sentinel. Jim sounded calm. Everything must be fine. Blair felt no pain and he drifted back to sleep.

The next time he heard the voices, there were more than before. This was curious. He knew he was in the hospital, no mistaking the starchy sheets and funky smell. So he knew he'd been hurt and Jim would be in his room when he woke. But normally it would just be Jim, well maybe Simon too. But this sounded like a lot of people.

He opened his eyes.

"Hey, partner. How ya feeling?" Jim was smiling down at him.

Blair blinked a few times and grunted. Huh, that was supposed to come out as `okay... what happened?', not this return of the caveman act.

"You got poked with a knitting needle. The doctors repaired the damage, so you're as good as new. You just need to take it easy for a few days."

Another head appeared next to Jim's. Cliff Newel smiled down at him. Over his shoulder, Ernie was grinning. What was going on? Did the lace convention decide to meet in his hospital room?

The men all backed away when an older man wearing a white smock appeared. Blair found himself being examined by the doctor. He tried to sound a little more together when he responded to the questions he was asked. He must've passed the muster, because the doctor made some notes on his chart and disappeared.

Jim and the `Shuttle guys' returned to his bedside.

"Guess what?" Jim asked, sounding strangely pleased.

"Wha'..." Blair was getting tired. The doctor was gone and he didn't have to act better then he felt now.

Jim held up a tatted flower. "I can't beat your record, but I tat a pretty mean flower."

Blair looked at the lace with a puzzled frown. What was Jim talking about? Tatting?

"You've had a bunch of visitors from the conference. Each one tatted a flower for you before they left. Look." Jim held up several finished flowers. He picked up the one he made and looked at it proudly. "But I get to send this one to Carolyn." Jim smiled down at his friend. "Don't worry, though. I'm making you another one."

"Jim..."

"Yeah?"

"When I wake up for real...'mind me to tease you...'bout this dream...'kay?"

"Okay, Chief. Go back to sleep."

"I missed my date with Vaughn," Blair groused as he let Jim slip his sweatshirt over his head. He gently eased his arms through the sleeves, taking care not to pull on his left side.

Jim fished into a small duffle bag and pulled out a pair of white tube socks. "I thought you said she called."

"Yeah, she was like all understanding and stuff, but it's still a rocky beginning. Culturally, the first date is very important." He held his hand out for the socks.

Jim watched as Blair tried to wrestle a sock over one foot, but the movement tweaked his ribs. He handed the sock back to Jim with a sheepish look.

"Is this another one of those dating rules you eggheads think up, like the window thing?" Jim asked as he worked the sock over his friend's toes.

"Hey! Even eggheads have to date, man." Blair let Jim finish with his tennis shoes and stood up from his position on the edge of the hospital bed. "I am `so' ready to blow this place. Is Margaret still here?"

"Yeah. She's scheduled for another cat scan."

Blair shuffled toward the door to the small bathroom. "Man, It's sad she's got a brain tumor."

Jim started folding the hospital gown that Blair had changed out of. "Frontal lobe tumor. It was causing the headaches, nausea and giving her periods of unnatural behavior as well as being unable to remember them."

"Well, stabbing her best friend definitely falls under unnatural behavior," Blair said as he started to close the door. He gave his roommate a playful grin. "I think I can manage this part alone."

"Hope so, junior." Jim snorted as he started stuffing books and papers into the duffle bag.

A few minutes later, Blair returned to find Jim standing next to a wheelchair. "The nurse will be back in a second, she's hunting down your discharge papers. Take a seat."

Blair eased himself into the chair, watching as Jim flipped down the footrests. "Will she go to trial, Jim?"

"I don't know. She has to survive the surgery first."

Blair shook his head. "That's so rough, man."

"What's rough is the way Smith-Manson treated her. I'm not surprised Thurber resented her."

Blair was surprised that Jim was siding with the murderer. "She may not see it that way, Jim. Pamela wasn't the greatest, but they were still friends."

Jim sat on the edge of the hospital bed and studied the man in the chair. "Sandburg, a friend doesn't use the other like that. In fact I've been meaning to talk to you about a few things."

Blair shifted nervously in the wheelchair, not liking where this conversation was heading.

"I don't want you having to work like a slave to make enough money for books. You're doing the work of two persons with school, teaching, working at the station and helping me with my senses---"

"I don't mind, Jim. I'm used to --- "

Jim cut him off. "Let me finish. You're living too close to poverty and it's my fault. So I'm canceling the agreement about the rental of the room."

"What..." Blair felt his stomach flip. Jim was throwing him out of the loft?

"No more rent. You continue to pay for part of the utilities and your share of the groceries but that's it. Understood?"

Blair relaxed, releasing a shaky breath. Man, that was close. "We'll talk about it later, Jim. No fair picking these fights when I'm on the disabled list."

Jim pinned him with a look. "I just don't want to be a Smith-Manson here."

"The difference here, man, is I'm not blind to your faults." Blair said after a few seconds. "I `know' you're a pushy, anal-retentive, control freak with a short fuse."

Blair watched Jim's eyes narrow as he moved toward the wheelchair.

"I'm just kidding, man!" Blair exclaimed with a laugh, holding up his right hand and guarding his ribs with his left. "You can't beat me up, I'm wounded!"

Jim leaned over and grabbed the arms of the wheel chair, his face level with Blair's. "I know we can't tell anyone what you're really doing and we may joke around, but I `do' appreciate your efforts, okay?"

Blair was stunned, unable to respond for a few seconds. He settled for a nod, not trusting his voice at the moment.

The door opened and the discharge nurse appeared to finish the task of releasing the patient to go home.

"There's a spot, man." Blair pointed to an empty parking place on a side street.

Jim parked the Ford and joined his friend on the sidewalk. Today was Wednesday. Blair had delivered the flowers as ordered, with a lot of help from his lace friends and a few from his roommate. Now he was walking toward the used bookstore with close to two hundred and forty dollars in his wallet. Simon had tried to explain about city vouchers and a fourteen-day waiting period before the city would be able to pay. But after a threatening look from Jim and a desperate explanation from Blair, Simon paid the full amount from the snitch fund.

Blair arrived first at the door to the bookstore, but was unable to pull it open because of his healing injury. He waited impatiently for Jim to catch up and open the door.

"You're not even supposed to be out of the loft, Sandburg."

"Relax, I'm fine." Blair slipped between the tall rows of bookcases and headed toward the back counter where the owner sat.

"Hey, Roger! I came into some extra cash!"

Roger looked up from his ledger with a guilty expression. He was an older man with thick glasses and a pale complexion.

"Blair, I'm so sorry about that book."

Blair leaned against the counter, visually searching the shelves behind the man in alarm. He couldn't see the book that he'd watched Roger put away last week.

"What? Where is it?"

"My part time helper sold it when I was out. I tried to contact the buyer but he was only in town for the weekend. I can't find him." Roger shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, if that title ever comes in again, I'll let you have it at cost, son."

Blair swallowed hard, ignoring the growling sounds coming from behind him. "Oh, well. That's okay. I'll wait for the next one. You've got my number, right?" He forced himself to smile at the man.

Roger nodded in relief, a smile on his face. He patted the ledger with his hand. "You're in here. Thanks for understanding, Blair."

"No problem, I promise I'll be in next week and check out your new stuff, okay?"

"You bet."

Outside again, Blair saw the murderous expression on Jim's face. He slapped the tall man's shoulder lightly. "What's with that animal kingdom act, man? I thought you were going to eat him alive," he asked with a laugh.

Jim glowered down at his roommate. "He was supposed to hold that book for you, Sandburg. What kind of operation is he running, anyway?"

"Jim, it was a mistake! No biggie. There will be other copies."

"You told me you haven't seen a good copy in over ten years."

Blair nodded, his humor slipping away as the disappointment returned. "Well, yeah. I haven't, but who knows? I'll put this dough somewhere safe and check the Internet tonight. Someone might have a decent copy."

Jim studied his friend. "You just refuse to let anyone keep you down for long, don't you?"

Blair crossed his arms over his chest. "Look man. It's just a book, okay? I've learned a long time ago not to confuse the wrapping paper with the gift." He dropped his arms and pointed towards a caf down the street. "Feed me, man. I'm starving."

Jim looked over at the restaurant. "What kind of food do they have?"

Blair headed down the sidewalk. "The kind you eat," he replied with a laugh.

Jim caught up in a few strides. "You've got the cash, you feed me."

"Hey, I just told you, I can't spend that. Besides, I'm the one trying to survive a vicious stabbing here, I need my strength."

"Oh yeah, vicious. A sick little old lady poked you with a knitting needle."

"I'd like to see how you'd feel if I ran you through with a steel needle."

"Like you could, Sandburg."

"You've got to sleep sometime, big guy."

"What say lunch is on me this time, junior?"

"Good call, man."

The End.

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