A Finely Knit Murder (19 page)

“Birdie, you said you had an idea about what happened to the scarf.” It was Cass, feeling that somehow she had missed something. “What was it?”

“It was last Saturday, the day after the murder.” They all knew about Teresa’s explosion at the Tea Shoppe, but Nell and Birdie hadn’t talked about the rest of it—the possibility that someone might have gone into Elizabeth’s house while she wasn’t there that morning.

“She said she had forgotten to lock the door. That was probably true. There were no signs of someone breaking in. She also didn’t find anything missing. But she looked around all of two minutes. Would she really have noticed if the scarf was missing? She hadn’t slept. Someone could easily have gone in the side door, looked around for something of hers, and taken it.”

“To incriminate her,” Cass said.

“Only one person would have reason to do that,” Birdie said.

“The real murderer . . . ,” Izzy said. Then she pushed the thought further. “Or Teresa Pisano. Sam and Ben said she’s at the police station constantly, giving them reasons to arrest Elizabeth. She is convinced Elizabeth killed Blythe. Maybe she was trying to nail the coffin shut.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Nell said. “Except for one thing.”

Birdie nodded, reading Nell’s thought. “Teresa was at the Tea Shoppe while we were there with Elizabeth. And when she left, Mary was right on her tail.”

“So if Mary stayed with her for at least the next hour, it couldn’t have been Teresa,” Nell finished.

“An easy thing to check,” Birdie said, mentally planning a meeting with Mary Pisano.

Nell fell silent. Listening to the conversation, reliving the day, the walk, and trying to tug something to the forefront that she was missing. She half listened as the others continued the discussion, pushing her memory. She was missing something. And it was refusing to reveal itself.

“So that takes us back to the murderer,” Cass said. “Elizabeth—no matter how sure we are that she couldn’t have done it, she had plenty of motive. And she had opportunity. She needs to be considered.”

“Cass is right,” Izzy said reluctantly. “But as Birdie said, we need to explore everyone we know who might have wanted Blythe gone . . . or dead.”

“Josh Babson.” Nell spoke quietly, still wondering about her own feelings about the artist. He managed to pull her emotions one way and then the other with a sleight of hand.

They talked about the painting exhibited at the Brewster Gallery. “It was the scene of the crime—the same boulders, a tiny slice of the boathouse.”

Cass was surprised. “I looked at it, too, but I didn’t even make the connection. There are so many spots on Cape Ann that are similar.”

“But without an old boathouse,” Nell said.

“Sure. Okay, but more than that, it wasn’t a painting that spoke to murder in any way. It was a beautiful oil painting. Kind of romantic.”

Nell agreed. “And that was strange, I thought. That he’d romanticize a murder scene.”

“But back to his motivation. He was angry at Blythe. He knew she was behind the firing,” Nell said. She explained the photo they had seen on Elizabeth’s phone. The giant circle with a line slashed through Blythe’s initials.

“Do the police have the photo?” Izzy asked.

“Yes. Ben talked to Elizabeth about it, and she agreed to give it to them—reluctantly. She was worried about incriminating Josh. I think she figured he’d been through enough—and some of what he’d been through she felt responsible for.”

“Eat,” Birdie said, reminding them all that research showed food was good for creative thinking.

No one dared to mention that copious amounts of sugar might not be what the studies had in mind. Instead they happily dug into Ella’s sweet, addictive apple cobbler, the fresh apples offering a welcome burst of energy.

“I think there’s more to Josh’s role in this than the fact that he was fired,” Nell said.

“Why is that?”

“I’m not sure. There’s just something about him that makes me think there’s more to the story. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of
guy who would let being fired devastate him. Or even make him that angry. Unless . . .”

“You mean maybe there’s more to why he was fired?” Cass asked.

“Maybe. Why did Blythe want him fired? The things she brought up to the board didn’t always add up. Josh was a good teacher, apparently, and I think Elizabeth was against the firing.”

“Barrett Mansfield had reservations, too,” Birdie said. “That’s an interesting point.”

“Speaking of Barrett, both he and Chelsey had problems with Blythe.” Nell repeated the exchange she’d overheard between Chelsey and Blythe the night of the party. “Chelsey came close to threatening her if she didn’t stop trying to get Elizabeth fired.”

“Chelsey admires Elizabeth. She thinks she is a wonderful headmistress,” Izzy said. “She talked about it in the shop with other moms, praising the way she treated individual kids.”

Nell was quiet, wondering again if she tended to read too much into things. But if she was doing that, the best people to call her on it were sitting right here in front of her.

“Chelsey was buying yarn tonight when I walked in the shop,” she began.

And then she repeated the strange conversation. “Mae didn’t think it was strange. She thought Chelsey was simply dramatic.”

“Chelsey Mansfield isn’t dramatic,” Izzy said. “She was an amazing lawyer, confident, calm, logical . . .”
Not dramatic
.

“Basically she said she was relieved that Blythe was murdered,” Cass said. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

“That’s awful,” Izzy murmured.

“But honest, I guess.” Cass scooped up the last bite of apple cobbler, then got up and began collecting the bowls. “People often sanctify even bad people when they die. Chelsey was calling a spade a spade—at least in her opinion, anyway.”

Nell nodded. “Yes—and there are probably others who share that opinion. And being relieved isn’t exactly the same as being
glad. But you’re right, it’s certainly honest. And it tells the world what she thought of Blythe. Combine that with the conversation I overheard—that Blythe would be stopped in her efforts to fire Elizabeth. It was close to a threat.”

“And once again, they both had opportunity.” Izzy wiped her hands on a napkin and pulled the beginnings of a sweater out of her knitting bag. It was a simple shrug in bright colors that two of the girls in the school class wanted to make—a simple knit that started at one cuff, then worked all the way across to the other. Her sample, she hoped, would help keep the newbie knitters from getting lost along the way. She stroked the soft crimson yarn. “But no matter what she said, I can’t imagine my former instructor killing anyone. I just can’t.”

Birdie had begun knitting Gabby a pair of fingerless mittens. She checked the cable row and said quietly, “I can’t imagine anyone killing anyone. But they do.”

They fingered their knitting and counted stitches, thoughts floating along on Madeleine Peyroux singing the slow lyrics of “Don’t Take Too Long.”

And they all hoped that would be true.

Nell finally pulled out the sweater she was knitting for Ben. The thick cotton would keep him warm when the wind and the
Dream Weaver
sailboat beckoned to him and Sam on cold fall days. Cass took out wool skeins in red and navy and began casting on for her specialty—warm winter hats, this one with stripes in the New England Patriots colors.

“Another hat?” Izzy said.
For whom?
hung in the air, unasked.

“For whomever,” Cass said, reading her friend’s face. “This soft wool makes me feel loved.”

“Hmm,” Izzy said, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Well, now we know that. When Cass is friendless, give her wool.”

Birdie shushed her with a wave of her hand. “My dear Angelo is next on our list,” she said. It was the first name on the mental list that everyone in the room would like to immediately scratch off.
“He was there, he found the scarf, he wanted desperately to protect his boss’s job.”

“His brother was worried about his zeal,” Nell added. She told them about her and Danny’s conversation with Margaret earlier that day.

They were silent, knowing Birdie was right to keep him on the list. Angelo was devoted to the school, to the students, and to Elizabeth Hartley. And his recent tirades indicated he’d do anything to stop Blythe Westerland from damaging the people and things he cared about.

Their knitting needles clicked away while four minds used to solving complicated knitting patterns tried to work their magic on a different kind of pattern. Pulling apart one that didn’t make sense so they could put it back together in a way that did.

A terrible kind of pattern. The complicated pattern of murder.

Finally Izzy said, “The thing that keeps us from stitching any of this together is that we’re still trying to figure out who Blythe Westerland was. Birdie, what is it you said about finding the person who commits a crime? You have to ask the victim. She’s the only one who can tell us.”

Nell took a sip of wine. “We know some things. We’re learning, I think. And we’ve seen Blythe in action.”

“But what really made her tick? Why was she so nasty to some people—like Josh Babson?” Izzy asked.

And other people, too. Nell remembered the conversation she’d had with Tommy Porter—his brother who had been thrown overboard by Blythe. She repeated the story aloud.

“Poor Eddie,” Cass said. “He always went for the glam. And it never worked for him. He finally realized that if he forgot about the glitz, he might find someone he could make happy—and who would love him, too.”

They laughed. Eddie had finally settled down with a waitress from the Sweet Petunia, had three little kids—boom, boom, boom.
And was one of the happiest guys on the Halloran Lobster Company payroll.

“Tommy mentioned another guy his brother knew—good-looking but really quiet, easy prey—who hung out with Blythe for a short while,” Nell said. “The fellow finally broke it off himself.”

“Good for him. What happened?” Izzy asked.

“Blythe had him fired from his job.”

“Geesh,” Cass said. “I’m glad she didn’t come on to me.”

“Maybe it was the loss of power that pushed her to action. Eddie wasn’t punished, but he didn’t end the relationship. Blythe did. Breaking up seemed to be exclusively her prerogative.”

“I’m glad Danny had the sense not to get involved,” Cass said.

Izzy thought about the picture emerging about Blythe and relationships. “When you’re as beautiful as Blythe, it’s probably not difficult to get men to respond to you.”

“And Blythe enjoyed men, we know that. Ben said she liked being on boards that were mostly men.”

“Maybe it was to show them up,” Cass said.

“She liked men, but never married,” Izzy said. “I wonder why.”

“Maybe growing up in that male-dominated family had something to do with it,” Cass said.

“I think it had everything to do with it. Living with men who disliked her. Who kept her in her place. Blythe made sure those days were behind her. ”

Of course it did. A young girl without a mother. Raised in a household of powerful men—all of whom had little or no use for the female in their midst.

The thought was a sobering one, one that had somehow been pushed to the back of their minds because it was too uncomfortable to think about. A child being deprived of love—while probably being showered with all that money could buy. A murder in its own right, but with no visible body.

Izzy shivered, rubbing her arms and sending invisible hugs to Abby, asleep in her bed and surrounded by love.

“That’s why she never married,” Cass said.

“And maybe why she had to exert her own power over her life. Over people in her life. It’s all she knew.”

“Perhaps she was proving something to her own father. Or grandfather. She was the one with power now, no matter that they weren’t alive to see it,” Birdie said.

Their opinion of Blythe Westerland shifted slightly as they talked. Not focusing on the cruel things she did, but on a young girl raised in a household with every imaginable material advantage, surrounded by people who wished she hadn’t been born.

“Izzy’s point about getting to know Blythe is the key. We’re getting there, inch by inch, but we need to dig deeper. And then Blythe herself will tell us who murdered her in this awful way and why.”

Their thoughts were all on the same page, their convictions ripe and firm. Nell looked at the skeins of yarn in front of each of them, the needles in their laps and their fingers. The colors and textures strong and enticing. Birdie was right. They had already begun pulling apart the stitches, trying to make sense out of the event that was shaking their lives. And getting ready to stitch them back together.

Birdie looked over at Nell. “I can read your thoughts, my dear friend. We all can.”

Nell laughed. “It’s what we do, isn’t it? Read thoughts, join hands. Piece together stitches until they make a whole, until they make sense. And I think we’ve already figured out more than we think we have.”

“We know Blythe used men. And we know why,” Izzy added. “It makes perfect sense that she wanted to tip the scales—to be the one with the power. It’s an odd kind of revenge.”

“Yes. She exerted the power, but when someone crossed over that line and tried to have an equal role in the relationship or was so bold as to break up with her, she had them fired or tossed them
aside, or tried to tarnish their reputation, or whatever tricks she had to pull into play,” Birdie said.

“What we don’t know is what kind of hurt was so overwhelming, so awful, that she was killed because of it,” Nell said.

Saying it out loud, watching their words fall into some kind of logical order, brought satisfaction. And it also brought a clearer picture of where they needed to go.

“Yes,” Birdie said, her eyes lighting up with the wisdom of her years. “It’s right here in front of us. The pieces. A pattern we need to put together. And I’d say the best time to start stitching in earnest is right now.”

N
ell filled Ben in on the Thursday night knitting discussion the next morning. She watched a slight cringe shadow his face as she mentioned Birdie’s determined plan.

“Stop with that look, Ben.” She poured a cup of coffee and joined him at the island. “It’s not really a plan. It’s something all of us, you included, have been doing since the moment we heard about Blythe’s murder—trying to find the guilty person. Being observant as we walk through the day isn’t putting us in any danger. But maybe it’s helping Elizabeth. And Angelo. And anyone else who might be harmed by this.”

“Someone was killed,” Ben said, his words heavy.
There is a murderer out there.

“You said yourself that the police think it was a targeted killing. Not random.”

“But the murderer doesn’t want anyone figuring out that he killed Blythe. Asking questions can put you in danger, Nellie. The police are trained to handle things like that. You’re not. Birdie, Izzy, and Cass aren’t, either.”

But Ben knew Nell better than he knew anyone on earth. He knew she’d listen politely. And he knew she and her friends would do what they needed to do to help a friend. It was still worth saying. Just maybe his warnings would linger for a while, and, at the least, he had to make them. It was as ingrained in him as his own
mother’s warning—never letting him leave the house without telling him to “drive safely.”

“If anyone wants this person caught and off the streets, it’s Jerry Thompson,” Ben continued. “I know you like Elizabeth, but imagine what he’s going through and how hard it’s making him work to find the true killer.”

Nell was quiet as Ben talked, listening as she always did. Everything Ben said made sense. But so many things went unsaid. Like the fact that the police didn’t have the same access to a town, to neighbors and friends, to fishermen and shopkeepers, as the ordinary person walking through an ordinary day did.

That was all any of them were saying last night.
Listen
.
Look
.
Follow the patterns.
It was second nature to the women who met in the back room every Thursday night. And they were very good at it. And although she would never say it out loud to Ben, Nell sincerely thought they were inching their way to the finish line.

Blythe Westerland was becoming more real to them in death than she ever had been in life—and she was about to speak.

“Ben,” she began.

But Ben changed the subject, hoping a shorter message might have a longer shelf life in Nell’s memory. And convincing himself that these women so integral to his life would never knowingly put themselves in danger.

The problem was that danger sometimes came to them.

“Jerry joined Ham, Danny, and me for a beer last night,” he said. “I was surprised he came, but glad to see him.”

“I’d rather see him with Elizabeth than with you.”

Ben managed a smile. “Me, too. And I’ve no doubt that would be his choice, too. I know he’s calling her, keeping in touch that way at least. But Elizabeth is doing him a favor in the long run by keeping her distance, especially now that the piece of scarf caught on the rocks is getting so much attention.”

“I think someone took that from her house, Ben,” she said. It wasn’t until she said it out loud that she realized she believed it
completely. It was the only thing that made sense. Elizabeth was so upset the night of the murder she probably tossed that scarf on a chair, the floor even. If someone was looking for something personal, it would be so easy to spot: the color was vibrant. Easy to fold up and slip into a pocket and be out of the house in an instant.

She and Birdie had very conveniently taken Elizabeth out of the house, allowing the person easy entry. She retraced their steps that day and said out loud, “We were gone at least a couple hours.” She frowned, remembering the walk, the Tea Shoppe, the walk home—and she remembered something else. The thought surprised her. Her eyes widened.

Ben was watching her face. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Random thought.” One to bury in the shadows for now. But not to forget.

“Tommy Porter should know about the possible break-in. It’s at least something, though the whole scarf thing is perplexing. It’s weak, I think, which is good. And the break-in possibility makes it even weaker. If it had come loose when Elizabeth was supposedly down on the boulders, why didn’t someone see it sooner? The police canvassed that whole area. Sure, smaller boulders can shift with the force of the water, hiding something between them, maybe, but it seems awfully convenient.”

“There’s also the matter of the rest of the scarf.” Nell reached over and took a bagel out of the toaster. “It’d be wonderful if they found it.”

“Or not, I suppose, depending on where they find it and what it tells them.”

Maybe
. It was exceedingly odd that a small piece of the scarf ended up in the crevice of the boulder while the rest of it—yards of elegant hand-knit silk—had disappeared. It had been planted there; Nell was sure of it, but she held it in, knowing Ben would want more than his wife’s emotions to agree.

But even after forty years of marriage, Ben sometimes surprised her. “I think you’re right, Nell. It could have been put there by
someone wanting there to be no doubt that Elizabeth was down at the boathouse that night and murdered Blythe. Someone determined not to be a suspect.”

“So you’ll talk to the police?”

“Sure. This morning.”

“I don’t suppose Jerry mentioned anything else last night . . .”

“No, nothing we don’t already know. Bob filled him in on her upbringing. Being raised by the Westerlands was unfortunate.”

“It wasn’t unfortunate. It was terrible,” Nell said, more emotion than she anticipated carrying her words.

Ben took a swallow of coffee. “You’re right. It softens one’s view of Blythe Westerland. Not an easy way to grow up.”

*   *   *

Izzy found Blythe’s upbringing almost unbearable to talk about. Lonely and sad.

She climbed out of Nell’s car in the Canary Cove parking lot, the utter horror of a baby like Abby being left with people who didn’t want her weighing down her thoughts. She tried to shake it off as she lifted Abby’s stroller out of the back of the car and snapped it into position. Suddenly she stopped and looked up. “That’s it, Aunt Nell. That’s why she had such affection—such an investment in the school. She probably felt more at home there than anywhere else in the world when she was a child.”

Of course,
Nell thought. That made all the sense in the world. It was a safe haven for the young Blythe.

She carried a happy Abby over to the stroller and strapped her into the seat. Then she kissed the top of her blond curls and placed a small Red Sox hat on her head. She and Izzy stood there for a minute, watching the bouncing movement of her head and the small plump hands cuddling a bunny blanket.

Loving her.

And thinking of a child who never had that kind of love.

It was a sunny day, and the excuse for being in Canary Cove
was to drop off an old painting of a ship that had once belonged to Ben’s father. Ham Brewster had offered to clean it up. Friday at noon would be a good time, he said.

Izzy wanted to tag along. She hadn’t yet seen Josh Babson’s paintings and her curiosity couldn’t wait any longer.

They picked up take-out coffee at Polly’s Tea Shoppe. Nell promised Polly there’d be no throwing of soup.

Polly laughed. “Teresa was acting crazy that day,” she said, her wide smile never leaving her face. “She’s usually shy and quiet. She simply has a bee in her bonnet that needs to get out; it’s just a shame she picked the headmistress as her target. Elizabeth Hartley is a very nice lady. My grandchild is thriving at her school. The woman could no more murder anyone than I could.”

They left the Tea Shoppe, sipping Polly’s strong coffee and trying to imagine a shy and quiet Teresa Pisano flinging a container of soup across the patio.

“Iz,” Nell began. Then stopped. Then she started again. The thought needed a home. Someone to attend to it with her. “There was something else that happened that Saturday when Birdie, Elizabeth, and I were walking.” She talked slowly. It was unformed. And made little sense. But it was something to think about. Perhaps to look into. To see if there were any legs there to stand on, ones that might have been hidden behind more obvious people in Blythe’s life.

Izzy listened carefully, her face expressing concern. And then she tucked it away, too, knowing it needed to be brought up later. And hoping no one would be hurt in the process.

They made their way down the road to the Brewster Gallery in silence. Even Abby had settled down, her hand playing with a tiny bell attached to her stroller and her eyes watching the gulls and the clouds and leaves falling in her path—the things in life that others sometimes missed.

Nell had called ahead to see if Josh was working Friday morning.

He was.

Nell still was ambivalent about the artist, but wanted to see him again, to figure him out. It was becoming a challenge.

Izzy thought he was “cute”—a descriptive Nell didn’t especially like. Birdie didn’t know him, and Cass thought he was a typical artist, whatever that meant. Ben thought he was talented. And he was working in her close friend’s store. She supposed the biggest plus on his side was that Gabby and Daisy were clearly fans. That weighed heavily in his favor.

The shop was empty of customers when they pushed the stroller through the door, jingling the brass bell above it. Josh stood behind the counter, fiddling with the computer. The bell brought Jane out from the back room.

“My Abby is here,” she said, her long skirt swishing against her legs as she hurried to the stroller’s side. She leaned over and let Abby tug on the long beaded necklace that looped and swayed in front of the baby.

Nell laughed and asked if Ham was in the back, then took her painting from beneath the stroller and disappeared to find her friend.

Josh looked up briefly, then went back to work.

Izzy left Jane with the baby and walked over to the artist. She stretched one hand across the counter. “Hi. I think we met a couple times but always in crowds. I’m Izzy Perry and hear by the grapevine that you have some paintings worth seeing.”

“Sam’s wife,” Josh said. He hesitated at first, but then reached out and shook her hand.

“You know Sam?”

“He and I were chasing the same colors one day.”

Izzy laughed.

“It was a couple months back, after a nor’easter. I was out early and spotted a wicked rainbow over some schooners. I headed down to the harbor to paint it. He was there taking pictures.”

“I think I remember that. Sam’s an early riser. He says the light then is good for photo shoots. You have to move fast to catch the
rainbows before they disappear behind the horizon,” Izzy said. “Painting one has to be even more of a challenge.”

“Yeah. For sure. I was late for my job that day because of that rainbow—not at all appreciated by the powers that be. But hey, rainbows wait for no man. Or woman, I s’pose. It was worth it.”

“Right.”

“So you came to see my paintings?”

His voice had changed as they talked, warming slightly.

Izzy nodded, and he pointed through the archway to the exhibit wall.

Izzy walked over and Josh followed her, leaving enough distance not to intrude.

“They all have Sold signs on them,” Izzy said.

“Yah. Rent money.”

“And then some,” Jane Brewster said, coming up behind them.

“Well, I think I can see why.” Izzy began on the left with the first small painting of sailboats, smiling when she saw her uncle’s initials beneath the sold sign.

“Josh is good with light, just like Sam,” Jane said. “His paintings remind me of Fitz Hugh Lane’s. Ben liked that, too, and the way the light reflected off the white sails.”

“It’s beautiful. Does Aunt Nell know she has to find a space on a wall?”

“Or build another room?” Jane said. “She’ll make it work.”

Josh had moved into a shadowy corner and leaned against the wall, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands, enjoying the women’s reactions.

“I need another dose of Abby,” Jane said to Izzy, excusing herself and moving back to the stroller.

Nell came out of Ham’s studio and stood near Izzy, watching her face as she moved from painting to painting. Her niece was very creative, and she wondered what she would glean from the largest painting. Light? Shadow? Life? Or would she see an enormous boulder, one on which a woman tragically died?

They had talked about the painting at knitting group, the mystery of why he would paint it. And display it. Izzy knew before she stood in front of the large painting what she would see: a murder scene.

But that wasn’t what she saw.

Nell saw the awe in Izzy’s eyes almost before it lifted her face.

Josh saw it, too.

Nell tried to read Josh’s expression, but he was a master at remaining unreadable. She wondered what
he
saw in the painting: murder or beauty or . . .

And she wondered again why he had chosen to perpetuate a tragic scene in a masterful painting.

“It’s romantic. Breathtaking,” Izzy said softly.

She looked around and saw Josh watching her. “I see romance and moonlight. Glorious light.”

Josh was quiet, waiting for more.

“But it’s the scene of a murder,” Nell said.

“No,” Josh said. “It’s not.”

Nell looked at him.

“I painted it a couple months ago.”

Nell and Izzy looked back at the painting.

When they didn’t speak, Josh went on. “I don’t like the painting much, though I suppose I did at the time I painted it. For sure I experienced some artistic pleasure in painting it. And hopefully that’s what anyone who looks at it sees. They shouldn’t see murder. There was none.”

“But you don’t like it?” Nell looked back and forth between Josh and the lovely oil painting. “Is it because someone was murdered there?” A reminder of a night he wanted to forget?

Josh was surprised by Nell’s reply. His laugh was more a scoff. “Blythe Westerland’s death? No. I don’t think about that when I look at this painting. But there was romance in the painting when I did it—and that’s been dead longer than Blythe.”