A Finely Knit Murder (18 page)

“It’s definitely not in your home?” Ben asked gently.

“No. It’s gone. Except maybe for the small piece now in the hands of the Sea Harbor police.”

I
t was Nell’s day with Abigail Kathleen Perry—a sacred time, something not even a night of little sleep would keep her from.

She welcomed the baby with open arms as Izzy rushed in and out of the kitchen in a flurry of words: “Sam will pick her up later.” “She’ll need a nap.” “Stroller’s in the driveway.” “And it’s Thursday, Aunt Nell! Finally. I thought it would never come. See you tonight for knitting.”

Lunch with Danny Brandley was on the day’s agenda—he’d been in and out of town on book tours, and Nell was looking forward to catching up. And a trip to the market to find something for the knitters’ dinner that night. Maybe an hour or two working on a grant proposal for the community center while Abby napped.

And Elizabeth Hartley would be with her the whole way. At least in her thoughts.

She had seemed broken last night. A strong, intelligent woman weighted down with more than any woman should have to shoulder.

Ben had wanted to call Jerry from her office, but Elizabeth said no. He had enough on his plate, enough worry about her. The last thing he needed was to add to it. But they’d accomplished one thing: more talk and several cups of coffee had convinced Elizabeth that resigning from her position at the school would be a bad decision—not only for her but also for the school. At least for now.

Elizabeth had almost looked relieved, as if she had been
needing someone to play devil’s advocate, to keep her from doing something she desperately didn’t want to do. Ben and Nell’s opinion had saved her from dooming herself—even though she knew there were major hurdles to overcome before her position was secure.

They’d followed her home, making sure she got in safely, then gone on down the block to their own bed and a restless night.

Nell looked down at Izzy’s baby, sitting in the center of an activity toy, vigorously batting a rotating wheel. Peaceful and playful and beautiful.

Exactly what she needed.

“Come, my sweet Abby,” she said. “We have a day to live.”

By noontime, Abby and Nell had charmed the owner of the Cheese Closet, collected some books Nell had reserved at the library, then strolled their way down Harbor Road, in and out of shops, as Nell checked off things on her list. The fat wheels of the stroller glided smoothly through the door of McClucken’s hardware store.

Gus, the owner, bent down on two creaky knees to entertain Abby while Nell picked up a teak wax Ben needed for the boat. As she walked back to Abby and the checkout counter, she came face-to-face with Harry Winthrop, his hands full with a bag of nails and a can of paint. He greeted her, then placed the items on the table for Gus to ring up.

“You got that place nearly finished?” Gus asked him.

“Close. That crew you recommended is doing a good job. I’ll be out of your hair soon.” Harry spotted Abby and crouched down, his blue eyes engaging her. Abby responded immediately, reaching out to touch his mustache. He laughed, then continued to speak to her in soft playful tones that brought giggles—and then the contagious full-blown laughter that caused everyone within earshot to smile.

“Beautiful,” he said, standing up but keeping his eyes on the blond toddler in the stroller.

“She is certainly that,” Nell said. “A blessing for all of us.” She handed her credit card to Gus. “Do you have children, Harry?”

Nell immediately regretted her question. She didn’t know this man. For all she knew he had a wife hidden away, a houseful of children somewhere. But there was something about the way he looked at Abby that spoke to a love of children.

Harry didn’t answer, but his face turned pale, as if Nell had brought him devastating news. In the next instant the shock gave way to anger, red, moist anger. And then finally, profound sadness. It was as if she were watching a movie that was being fast-forwarded.

“Harry, I’m sorry. That was indelicate of me. I shouldn’t have—”

He held up one hand to stop her words, then took a deep breath as he regained his composure. “No, it’s okay. I apologize.” He looked down at Abby, then finally met Nell’s eyes. “I lost a baby . . . before he or she was born.” He looked off, as if visualizing the baby, giving it life in his mind.

“That can be a shattering experience,” Nell said. She waited for him to say more, but he was silent, his eyes filled with anguish.

Finally he looked up. “It was devastating. Especially when you have no control over it.” He looked at Abby again, and his eyes warmed to her sweet sounds. “The baby would have been like Abby, special, amazing. You dream about it, you know? It’s all I ever wanted. Friends wondered about it—I even saw a therapist once who assured me such an overwhelming desire is more common in women, but some men have it, too. Maybe being an only child has something to do with it, I don’t know. My parents were only children, all up and down the line. I’m what’s left, no siblings, no cousins. I’d give everything I own in the world to have a child.” He paused, took another deep breath, then said, “Izzy and Sam are very fortunate. I hope they never forget that.”

He looked once more at Abby, shoved his receipt in his pocket, and left the store.

*   *   *

Nell pushed Abby’s stroller down Harbor Road, her head filled with thoughts of Harry Winthrop. She tried to sort through the
conversation, unsure what to make of it. He appeared raw, vulnerable, almost naked in his emotion—this man who had barely spoken a dozen words to her. She hoped he wouldn’t regret that she had seen him that way.

Still waters run deep, perhaps.

She knew women whose deep-seated need and desire to bear a child dominated their life. This was the other side of it, what it was like for a man. So difficult. She wondered about the mother, and hoped she hadn’t suffered as grievously as Harry had. Nell had several friends whose marriages had been pulled apart by such a loss.

Her thoughts circled around to Cass, who had rarely talked about having children, although Mary Halloran lit vigil lights every day to that end. It had never entered her mind that Cass wouldn’t want children. She loved Abby, that was clear. But what Nell had heard in Harry’s voice was a desperate kind of need, one she wasn’t sure Cass would share.

And then she looked up into the face of the man standing in the door of Garozzo’s deli, and her face lit up, thoughts of Harry Winthrop disappearing in an instant.

“There she is, lovely Nell,” Danny said, his arms wrapping around her.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said.

But Danny was already crouched down, and Nell was all but forgotten as he played a finger game with his goddaughter, one that made her giggle and laugh and tug on his arm to be lifted out of the stroller and cuddled in the writer’s arms.

Another man who loves babies.
It seemed to be in the air today. Nell pushed a now-empty stroller after Danny as he carried Abby into the deli.

Margaret Garozzo, the restaurant owner’s wife and business partner, ushered them to a choice booth—one in the back with a window that opened out to the Harbor. Danny held Abby on his lap for a short while so she could watch the fishing boats move in and out of their slips, unloading an early morning catch. She waved her
chubby hand to anything that looked as if it might move, gulls included. When she tired of their nonresponses, she squealed and Nell settled her with a tray full of musical toys in the stroller.

Margaret appeared with two heaping bowls of clam chowder. “We’re worried about Angelo,” she said without preamble, moving the salt and pepper shakers and placing a basket of warm rolls in the center of the table.

“This murder has taken a toll on him,” Nell said.

Margaret nodded. “Angelo and my Harry fight like a cat and a dog, but when it comes to protecting each other, there’s no better brother either of them could have or want.”

“Has he talked much about how this is affecting the school?” Danny asked. “Murder anywhere is awful, but at a school it seems more dangerous somehow.”

Margaret looked over her shoulder to be sure customers were happy—and not listening. She leaned closer. “Angelo talks mostly about his guilt.”

“Guilt?” Nell frowned. “Why?”

“Guilt because he’s not sad she’s dead. She had been pushing Angelo to the edge. He did not like that lady, not one bit.” One finger shook in the air.

“How did she push Angelo? He’s a pretty tough guy.” Danny took a spoonful of creamy soup.

“Well, here’s the thing. It was that headmistress. Angelo was obsessed with her, with helping her, protecting her. My Harry wanted him to quit the job. He didn’t think it was healthy.”

Nell was confused. “Not healthy? Did he think Angelo—” She wasn’t sure how to word it.
Did he think he had a crush on Elizabeth?
The incongruity of the thought brought an unintended smile to her lips.

Margaret’s cheeks reddened. “Well, you know those Garozzos and their Italian imaginations. They’re romantics, the whole bunch of them. But there was something going on that bothered Angelo. The problems Blythe Westerland was causing for the school. And
for the headmistress. It worried all of us that Angelo would get too involved. He gets crazy sometimes when he thinks people are treating him or people he cares about poorly.”

“I understand,” Nell said, though she wasn’t sure she did. She was sure Angelo had been questioned by the police early on, but she wondered if his sister-in-law, Margaret, had been. If so, she hoped she wasn’t sharing her thoughts with the police in so subjective a way. Before Nell could comment, Margaret spotted an empty table cluttered with dirty plates and glasses and hurried over to clean up the mess.

Danny seemed intent on enjoying what the sign in the deli claimed was the best clam chowder in New England, but Nell could tell from the look in his eyes and the deep line between his eyebrows that he had listened carefully to Margaret Garozzo and was trying to order things in his head.

Finally he looked up. “This thing is consuming the town,” he said. “My dad said he’s sold more books on self-defense techniques and making your home secure in the last week than he has since he opened the store. It’s not a healthy vibe, that’s for sure.”

“No.” Nell looked down at Abby’s curls, moving to whatever music she was hearing in that precious head of hers. Innocence—it was soul-stirring. And that was what the town had lost.

“I had breakfast with Jerry Thompson today,” Danny said.

Nell looked up.

“We meet now and then to talk about police things. He’s been a big help in keeping my mystery novel facts accurate. And over time, we’ve become friends.”

“Does he talk about cases when you’re together?”

“You know Jerry. He’s discreet and professional, always. What he says about the case is kind of what Ben knows, I’d guess. We might hear something new a few hours before, but what he would say is pretty much public knowledge. He does share some personal things now and then. It’s clear to me that nearly every person the police have interviewed who had a reason to kill Blythe Westerland—and
who had opportunity—is someone Jerry knows. And that’s killing him. He’s says it’s the hardest case he’s ever had.”

“Especially because of Elizabeth.”

Danny nodded. “He cares a lot about her. They have something good together. And sure, he’s thinks she couldn’t possibly have done this . . .”

“But?”

Danny didn’t answer right away. He buttered a roll and broke off a tiny piece, putting it down on Abby’s tray. Finally he said, “The thing is, Nell, you and I both know what love does. It blinds us.”

N
ell carried Danny’s comment with her to the market and then back home, where Abby happily settled down for a nap and she sat in front of her computer, pretending to write a grant proposal. But all she saw on the blank screen were Danny’s words.

Love blinds us.

How personal was Danny’s comment? Was he truly analyzing the murder—or was it something else? They’d talked little about Cass, although it was clear from a few things he said that he knew Harry was still in town and that he was at least a semiregular presence in Cass’s life.

And that he didn’t care for the guy.

And as Ben said when he arrived home that afternoon, that was about as much as the two of them knew about the whole situation, too.

He sat at the kitchen island nursing a beer, listening to her talk about her day and watching her chop a pile of fresh vegetables for a quick and easy seafood salad. She knew the knitting group would be happy with something light—as long as there was plenty of it.

“So Harry Winthrop loves kids. I guess that kind of surprises me, but it shouldn’t,” Ben said, cutting into a block of aged cheddar that Nell had picked up at the Cheese Closet.

“I had the same reaction. Danny loves kids, and that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

“But we know Danny.”

Nell handed him a whisk and a bowl of sauce. “Speaking of Danny, he said he had breakfast with Jerry—”

“So I hear. Jerry thinks Danny’s top-notch—and not only because he mentions him in the acknowledgments page in his mysteries.”

Nell laughed. They teased Jerry about it, his obvious pleasure in seeing his name in a
New York Times
bestseller. Something sincere and well deserved, according to Danny.

“You saw Jerry today?”

“For lunch. He just wanted to talk through some logistical things—like Blythe’s will and the body. It can be released and somebody needs to claim it.”

“Bob Chadwick, right?”

“Yes. He’s coming in to talk to the chief again and staying for the weekend. I suggested he bring back any legal papers I might be able to help him with. Also Blythe’s papers, bills, that kind of thing—anything that might trigger a thought or two. Things that probably will tell us nothing, but who knows? I’m not sure Bob can be of much help, but the guy is trying. He’s also going to meet with Father Northcutt to put together a memorial for Blythe.

“And the will?”

“Sure, he’ll be interested in that, too. He’s her only relative and from all accounts, it’s a sizable estate. I haven’t seen it yet but will soon.” Ben whisked the sauce ingredients together, the scent of cilantro and lime wafting up into the air.

Nell settled back against the counter, watching him. “How is Jerry doing? Finding that scrap of scarf must have set things back.”

“That wasn’t a welcome find, for sure. Although it might not mean much.”

“But it’s probably Elizabeth’s. She said so herself, and it’s causing such heartache. Tommy Porter called her in again today for more questioning. That’s, what, three times? And not that she would, but this time they told her not to leave town.”

Ben handed Nell the bowl. “They have to look into it, sure. How
many people saw Elizabeth wearing that scarf Friday night? And not only that, but the woman is brutally honest. She volunteered that someone made it for her. It was unique.”

“That kind of honesty isn’t exactly what you’d expect from a guilty person.” There was a slight edge to Nell’s words. A touch of anger. It wasn’t rational, but it was there.

“You’re upset Elizabeth has to go through all this.” He moved over to the sink and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Me, too.”

Nell poured the sauce over the grilled shrimp and spooned in the vegetables. She mixed it together with deft, swift sweeps, finding relief in the movement.

“I’m going to a meeting at the club tonight, then having a sandwich and beer with Danny and Ham. Jerry may come. Or not. He’s noncommittal these days.”

Nell barely heard the rattle of his keys or felt the kiss to her cheek as Ben headed out.

Instead it was Danny’s words that came back with a force, rattling around in her head and blocking out all other sounds.

“The thing is, Nell, you and I both know what love does. It blinds us.”

But from what?

*   *   *

Mae Anderson was at the cash register organizing the day’s receipts and talking to one last customer before flipping around the closed sign. Nell walked in carrying dinner. She’d made up a small container for Mae, as she often did, and walked it over to the counter.

Chelsey Mansfield turned around, a smile filling her face when she saw it was Nell.

She pulled open a bag to reveal several luxurious skeins of deep green cashmere yarn. “A cashmere sweater is about to be born.”

Nell handed Mae her dinner and looked admiringly at the yarn. “This is absolutely beautiful. Is it for you?”

“For Anna. Dr. Hartley suggested that she participate in one of
the choir groups. Her small ensemble will be a part of the fall music program. The girls were told to dress in autumn colors.”

“It’ll be perfect. She’s a lucky songstress,” Nell said, moving toward the back room. “It’s nice to have something happy to look forward to.”

Chelsey didn’t answer, but Nell could feel her watching her as she walked away. She stopped at the alcove to the back room and turned back. Chelsey’s smile was gone and her long, angular face bore the look of a lawyer about to argue a case. Her voice matched. “I know it’s only been a week since Blythe was murdered,” she said slowly, “but Elizabeth is already helping bring the school back to life again. The school, the students. Things are alive again.”

“Alive?” Nell frowned, unsure of where Chelsey was going.

“Yes. The unity, the respect for each child’s uniqueness, the spirit of goodwill that Elizabeth was trying to instill in our school is moving ahead without the roadblocks Blythe was creating. The school’s soul is intact.” She took a breath, then added, almost as an afterthought, “No matter what happened a week ago—or how, or why, or who—I know it was tragic and I should feel bad about it. But you know what I feel? Relief.”

She waved good-bye to Mae. Then she tucked her coveted yarn under her arm and walked out of the shop.

Nell watched her leave the shop, the discomfiting words hanging in the air. She looked over at Mae.

Mae simply shrugged, dismissing Chelsey’s comments. To the store manager, Chelsey was simply a happy customer, one pleased at the thought of knitting a lovely cashmere sweater. None of the rest of it made much sense.

But she’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?
was what Mae’s body language said.

Dramatic wasn’t exactly how Nell would describe it. She shifted the food bags and walked down the steps, wondering if she was beginning to blow things out of proportion. Perhaps Mae had the right approach. Keep things simple.

But simple wasn’t helping them find a murderer.

Birdie was already in the knitting room, getting out glasses and approving of Izzy’s choice of music. Her foil-wrapped glass dish was on the counter. Once again Ella, the Favazza housekeeper, had come through with a perfect dessert for a nippy autumn night—apple cobbler, with apples handpicked by Gabby and Daisy from Russell Orchards.

“Where’s Cass?” Nell asked. Although it was rare that one of the foursome was missing on Thursday night, Nell wanted to be sure.

“She’s on her way.” Izzy turned up the iPod and began swaying to the smoky voice of Madeleine Peyroux singing an old Ray Charles song.

A horn blasting in the alley announced that Izzy was right.

Nell emptied her bags on the old library table and began tossing the seafood salad, spooning up the dressing that had collected at the bottom. Birdie warmed the rolls in the shop’s small oven, and Cass breezed through the side door.

She took the opener from the counter and began uncorking Birdie’s wine.

“Long day?” Birdie asked, handing Cass a fat slice of aged cheddar cheese.

Cass nodded. “But it’s over. So let’s eat and drink and be merry.”

“Be merry. A large order,” Nell said.

“We can do it,” Cass said.

The routine on Thursday nights was so ingrained in each of them that words weren’t needed to start the dance. Once the food was ready, they filled their plates with Nell’s grilled shrimp salad and added slices of cheese, gherkins, and olives to the side. The basket of rolls and the butter plate went on the low coffee table, and in minutes they were cozily settled around the idle fireplace, the harbor lights slanting in through the open casement windows, warming the hardwood floor.

Cass poured four glasses of wine before flopping down in the
old leather chair taken from Ben’s den years before. Cass claimed it still smelled of his Old Spice aftershave and it brought her great comfort, she said. Purl waited until Cass tucked one leg up beneath her before jumping off the chair arm and taking her place beside her.

The knitting would wait until plates were empty and hands clean, but conversation would start before the last person sat down.

“Is Harry around?” Nell asked. She’d struggled with what to say or ask or bring up with Cass, unsure if her conversation with him had been a private one, though usually things discussed at Gus McClucken’s checkout counter didn’t fall into that category. She was still baffled by the unexpected emotion Harry had shown.

“Around?” Cass asked innocently, biting into a warm roll. “Like ‘around tonight’?”

“I guess that’s as good a place as any to start,” Izzy said. She stabbed a shrimp with her fork.

“He’s around. He doesn’t understand routines—or knitting—so he actually thought I might be free for a beer tonight. ‘Thursdays?’ I asked him. ‘Are you insane?’ I think he’s going to grab a bite at the yacht club, drool over a few boats, and go back to work on the cottage. It’s looking good.”

“I ran into him at McClucken’s getting some paint.” Nell paused, waiting for Cass to fill in the silence. Had Harry told her he saw her? Replayed the conversation?

But Cass had moved on to another forkful of salad. She bit into a shrimp and closed her eyes. “Nell, whatever you marinated this shrimp in is amazing.”

Nell smiled and passed around the basket of rolls. “I had lunch with Danny today,” she said.

Cass looked over at Nell, then into her glass of wine. She swirled it slowly. “You know, whatever you think, I do miss Danny,” she said. “He’s . . . he’s a great guy.”

Nell nodded and Birdie smiled. They didn’t push, just kept their thoughts quiet and tried hard not to let their feelings spread
across their faces. They knew Cass well, and knew that getting too close would shut her down. So they took what she offered, held their silence, and moved on.

“Elizabeth Hartley came into the shop late today,” Izzy said, sensing it was time to change the topic. “She’s aged ten years in this horrible week. Frankly if the murderer isn’t found soon I worry that we’re going to lose an outstanding headmistress. It’s like her spirit is slowly eroding. She puts on a good front, but it’s clear what this is doing to her. And it’s simply not fair.”

It was clear where Izzy was coming from. In her former lawyer life, she had seen innocent people destroyed, proven innocent or not. The longer that cases went unsolved or the longer trials dragged on, the more severe the damage to innocent people.

“The more I talk with her, the more I like her,” she went on. “And she’s a very fine knitter, on top of it all.”

The latter was attempted to lighten the mood, but Izzy’s message echoed in the cozy room. They all liked Elizabeth. And they all hated to see people they cared about suffer, whatever the reason.

“Jerry Thompson isn’t in such great shape, either,” Nell said. She bit into a warm roll, then wiped a trace of butter from the corner of her mouth. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to be so close to an investigation that keeps digging up things incriminating someone close to you.”

“What kind of incriminating things?” Cass refilled her plate and walked back to her chair.

Nell filled them in on what had happened the evening before: finding Elizabeth down near the boathouse, and then learning that a scrap of scarf, similar to the one Elizabeth had worn the night of the party, was now in the hands of the police.

Izzy was crestfallen. “That was a gorgeous scarf. Unique and so finely knit—tiny little stiches for the main section, and the romantic, lacy edge. Chelsey Mansfield told me she knit it for Elizabeth when she got her doctorate.”

“She knew Elizabeth before moving here?” Cass asked.

Birdie nodded. “I think so. Back in Boston.”

“Are the police sure the scarf was hers? After a week tangled in water and seaweed, it would be difficult to tell,” Cass said.

“Elizabeth is sure. She can’t find her own—and she identified the scrap, regardless of the wear and tear. But she has absolutely no idea how it ended up in the sea and then caught in the boulders.”

“She may not, but I think I have an idea,” Birdie said suddenly. She pushed aside her plate and sat up on the couch, her back as straight as a bamboo knitting needle.

“Clearly we need to pull some things together here,” she said. “If we were able to figure out that complicated anniversary shawl with all those panels and stitches that we made for you and Ben, Nell, then surely we can figure out this mess. Or at least come up with feasible possibilities to hasten this awful plodding investigation.”

The fact that it had been only a week didn’t escape any of them, but in light of the lives it was affecting, it had been an interminable week.

Birdie went on. “We are expert at ripping things apart and putting them back together. We are expert at knitting fine things. No matter how finely knit this murder is, surely we can help figure it out. So let’s do it.”

They were all sitting up straighter now, except for Izzy, who had cleared all their dishes while Birdie talked, scooped the warmed apple cobbler onto plates, put on a pot of coffee, and returned to the group with a tray of dessert plates. She passed them out without fanfare and sat down next to Birdie.