A Finely Knit Murder (5 page)

“S
o, where’s Cass been?” Izzy took a bag from Nell’s arms, holding the yarn shop door open with her back. “Sam saw her at the Gull the other night. She doesn’t even like the Gull.”

“Who was she with?” Nell followed Izzy through the archway to the back room, where the big wooden worktable was already cleared, plates and wineglasses at the ready.

“A handsome dude. The same one we glimpsed Monday, unless Cass is suddenly seeking out men with facial hair. Sam was meeting a client for a beer, so they didn’t talk. But he wouldn’t have gone over to them anyway. You know Sam. He takes respecting others’ privacy to an absurd level.”

Nell laughed and began filling a basket with sourdough rolls. “I suppose we should do the same. She’ll be here soon—”

Of course she would. Thursday nights were the closest thing to sacred in the knitters’ lives. Other traditions could be shuffled around occasionally—even, on rare occasions, Friday night on the deck. But the place and day that had fostered the four-way friendship over the years was rarely upstaged. They couldn’t explain it easily to others. Was it the cozy knitting room with its casement windows that opened to the sea, the comfortable, worn seats around the fireplace? Or Nell’s fresh pasta dishes, Birdie’s fine pinot gris? The music, the yarn, the intricate patterns that engaged their minds and busied their fingers? All of that. But most of all, it was the
friendship that deepened every single week over angora sweaters and finely knit baby hats.

Birdie walked down the stairs, a cloth bag that held her wine looped over one arm, a knitting bag over the other. “Something is going on with our girl Catherine. I’ve noticed it for a while. I think she’s been lonely.”

“Her own fault,” Izzy said, dipping a carrot stick into a pot of cilantro hummus. “There’s Danny waiting in the wings.”

“He won’t wait forever,” Nell said. “Danny is forty. It’s not just women who become aware of some clock ticking away in the distance. The breakup with Cass was difficult. Danny sees things in an uncomplicated way—and realizing that the more Cass loved him, the more she felt she was losing something in herself was probably nearly impossible for him to understand.”

“Of course it was,” Izzy said. “I don’t completely get it myself. I kind of do—Cass is complicated. But to push away someone who loves you—and someone you love right back—just because you might feel jealous sometimes or might miss him and need him—or all those other emotions that sometimes get mixed up in a relationship—that’s hard to understand.”

“I think seeing her own mom be devastated when her father died at sea affected Cass greatly,” Birdie said. “It was an awful time for the whole family, and maybe Cass feels pushing Danny away will save her from ever going through that great hurt.”

“But it won’t work,” Izzy said. “I’m sure of it. Cass loves Danny. She’ll come around.”

Birdie agreed. “But let’s allow Cass her privacy, too. She’ll be here in a second—her truck pulled into the alley as Harold was dropping me off.”

“So stop talking about me,” Cass said, her words tumbling down the three steps just seconds before she appeared in the arched opening. In one large leap she was at the bottom.

“What makes you think you’re that special?” Izzy said, bringing her iPod to life and turning the music up a little louder than
necessary. In seconds Laila Biali’s rich vocals filled the air and Izzy floated over to Cass, then twirled her around, joining her own voice to the artist’s as she sang out, “Let’s go down, down to the river to pray.”

Cass laughed. “Now you want me to pray? You’re a crazy lady.”

Izzy threw back her head and laughed, her thick, streaked hair floating in slow motion. Then she moved away and wrinkled her nose. “And you smell like fish. Were you out on the boats today?”

“Briefly. Someone wanted to see our lobster operation, so I did a little tour thing for the guy.” Then her words sped up and she leaned over the table. “Hey, what’s in the magic bowl, Nell?”

Before Nell could answer, Cass went on. “No, don’t tell me. Crab, a splash of wine, ginger, lemon butter, and . . . uh . . . pasta?”

“Close. It’s scooped into potato nests. My mother used to make them. And in case you think we missed it, that was an excellent job of changing the subject.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Cass took the glass of wine Birdie offered her and, with the other hand, pushed a handful of hair behind one ear, a nervous gesture they all knew well. “It’s no big deal. We’re just getting to know each other. I don’t mean to seem mysterious.”

Izzy set the butter dish down beside the rolls and began rolling the silverware inside napkins. Nell tossed the arugula pecan salad.

Birdie filled the remaining glasses with wine.

As routine and natural as breathing.

In the background the jazz artist was singing an old song Birdie knew well, “The Best Is Yet to Come.”

And they waited.

“His name is Harry Winthrop.”

“Okay, so, what happened when Harry met Cass . . . ?” Izzy lined the rolled napkins up next to the plates.

“They drank beer,” Cass said, ignoring Izzy’s tease.

“Another Harry?” Nell said. “We have so many Harrys in our lives.”

“He’s not in
our
lives,” Cass reminded them, “unless you’ve
been in the backseat and I missed seeing you. But he’s okay. Smart enough. Great-looking. And he took me to a good restaurant in Boston a couple days ago. Sometimes a change of place is good.”

“Boston?”

“He has a house there. It’s where he lives in real life.”

“Winthrop . . . ,” Birdie said, drawing the word from her memory and searching for a connection.

“He sounds rich,” Izzy said.

Cass filled her plate and walked over to the fireplace. “He is. A Winthrop. And rich, too. He doesn’t seem to be concerned about money, anyway.”

“His folks were summer people,” Birdie said. “Yes, now I remember.”

Cass nodded and sank down beside Purl in the leather chair that had once been at home in Ben’s den. “I guess that’s what they were. He knows his way around Sea Harbor. I don’t remember seeing him before, but then, I probably didn’t run in the same circles. Most summers when I was young and free, I worked on my dad’s boat.”

She bit off a piece of a crusty roll while the others filled their plates and made their way over to the fireplace.

“I knew Margaret and James Winthrop socially. They owned a vacation house over near the lighthouse and had lovely Gatsby-like parties each summer,” Birdie said. “I think they were from Boston or New York.” She smiled, satisfied with herself for pulling up memories of people she hadn’t thought about in decades. “Margaret thought it set the Winthrops apart to buy vacation real estate on Cape Ann instead of the Hamptons.”

“That’s them,” Cass said. “At least I think so. They’re long gone. The house hasn’t been taken care of in a long time. Harry said he’s been back now and then to check on it.”

“It looks haunted,” Izzy said. “I can’t get Red to walk by it—and he’s an excellent judge of character.” She threw Cass a narrow look.

“So Harry’s bad because Red is afraid of his house?” Cass frowned. “Come on, Iz.”

“Sorry. I was out of line. It’s just that—”

“I know,” Cass said quietly.

And they all knew. It was just that they all loved Danny.

“Is he moving to Sea Harbor?” Nell asked.

“I doubt it. He said he had personal things to take care of here. I think he was trying to take care of one of those ‘personal things’ the night I met him. He was sitting at the bar talking on his cell. I heard bits and pieces. It sounded like he was trying to ask someone out, saying he was back in town, wouldn’t it be nice to reconnect, that kind of thing. It was awkward because even though he talked low, I could hear him. Then he hung up, slammed one hand on the bar, and spilled his beer all over my napkin. Anyway, he apologized, mumbled something about an old girlfriend, and then changed the subject.”

“So you were his second choice?” Izzy said.

“I was no choice. I was just there—and we started talking. He was embarrassed that I had heard some of his conversation, so he started talking fast about other things—his family vacation house and how he had to fix it up or tear it down or something. He inherited it and had set aside some time to make decisions, come up and figure out what to do with it.”

“His parents died some time ago, if I’m remembering right,” Birdie said.

“And he waited until now to fix it up?” Nell asked.

Cass shrugged, her mouth full of Nell’s savory crab. “Who knows why he waited? Or if it’s simply an excuse for him to come back to town and find an old girlfriend. He didn’t seem to want to talk about that. He said he had a few weeks in his schedule that he could commit to being away from Boston. He’s having his place in Boston renovated, so it’s not very livable. Not that the vacation home is, but at least it has heat, he said, and he needs to be here to hire workmen. So it all worked out.”

“So those ‘personal’ reasons you mentioned? Doesn’t it bother you that he might have come to reconnect with an old girlfriend?” Izzy passed around a basket of rolls. “Even one who may have hung up on him?”

“Nope. Not at all. I’m not looking for a husband, Iz.”

“So he’s your date for Friday’s party?” Birdie asked.

Cass scoffed. “No, not really a date. Actually he asked if he could come.”

“What?” Izzy’s voice was incredulous, her feelings about fancy benefits coming to the surface.

Cass slathered butter on a roll. “I know—crazy, huh? He said he remembered the school from summers here and wouldn’t mind supporting the event. Make a donation. Be a good citizen, was how he put it.”

“That’s generous,” Birdie said. “We’ll be happy to have him at our table.”

“What’s he like? Do you like him?” Izzy asked.

Cass stood up and brushed bread crumbs off her jeans, which Purl promptly cleaned up.

“Like him?” Cass walked her now-empty plate to the kitchen alcove and returned with a new bottle of pinot gris. “If we’re going to explore my love life, I need another glass of Birdie’s wine.” She refilled all the glasses and sat back down. “I guess that’s where you’re going with this.”

“We don’t mean to pry,” Nell began.

Cass’s robust laugh lightened the lines of her face and brought the old Cass back. “Of course you do. But hey, I love you guys. It’s okay. It’s just that I don’t have much to say. Except lately I’ve been feeling a little restless—rootless, maybe. Not my usual peppy, Pollyanna self. Premenopausal? Midlife crisis? Who knows? And then this guy shows up at the Gull. I never went to the Gull alone before, but I did that night. And there he was, all alone, with this Tom Selleck mustache, a trimmed beard, and a hot car, and looking kind
of sad—I’m a sucker for sad—so I thought, well, why not have a beer? Maybe have some diversion in my life.”

“So, are you?” Izzy picked up the rest of the plates and stood next to Cass, waiting for an answer. Her words were soft, not threatening.

“I suppose. He’s . . . what? . . . interesting, I guess. I really think he came here looking for a lost love or something and maybe it isn’t working out for him. Or, heck, maybe she’ll come around. But for now it’s surprisingly nice spending time with someone who has few expectations of me. It’s safe. It’s . . . well—”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but all their thoughts turned to Danny Brandley. Cass had fallen in love with him—and she hadn’t felt safe. She had felt herself losing her footing. Being dependent, and jealous, even, an emotion she didn’t wear well.

“Anyway,” Cass said, her voice lifting, “he’s nice. He likes boats. I like boats.”

“A match made in heaven.” Izzy made a face at Cass again and then carried the plates to the table, returning with a stack of wet wipes.

“I’m glad you’re getting out, Cass,” Nell said. Birdie had been right earlier—Cass hadn’t been herself for a while now. She was slightly withdrawn. Her generous laugh had gone down a notch. If Harry Winthrop was responsible for changing all that, it was a good thing. “You work hard. You deserve to have a good time.”

Cass didn’t answer. Her eyes drifted over to the window that looked out onto the alley—and Danny’s parents’ bookstore across from it

“Okay, then,” Izzy said, clinking Cass’s glass with her own and bringing her back. “I’m for good times, too. But mostly tonight I’m for getting Gabby’s dagnabbed project off the ground.”

“Not Gabby’s project, my dear,” Birdie said. “It’s ours now. And these enrichment sessions are a wonderful addition to the curriculum. Cooking. Organic gardening. And what could be better than teaching knitting? It does marvelous things for developing brains.”

“Well, all right, then. You all heard Birdie. We need to get our act together.”

With that, the last of the dirty dishes was stashed in the sink, the big wooden table that centered the room wiped off, and chairs pulled out. Izzy carried a pile of bright, colored yarn to the table and spread the skeins out next to a stack of pattern books.

“Gabby and Daisy have done their homework,” Izzy said. “Dr. Hartley e-mailed me the paper they’d presented in lobbying for this knitting class.”

Birdie took the printed sheet from Izzy, slipped on her glasses, and began to read: “Knitting helps get both sides of the brain going, has a calming effect, and helps students in problem solving.” She looked up. “And at the bottom are a list of research references.” Her laughter was fluffed up with pride.

“The question, then, is, are we ready for this? Elizabeth said she’s having to limit the number of participants because Gabby and Daisy have done such a great job of marketing the sessions.”

“So, what do they want to knit?” Cass asked. “And be sure I get the kids who have six thumbs.”

“Gabby suggested that each student work on two projects—something for herself and also a warm winter hat for kids in Father Northcutt’s community project or that one at the community center,” Birdie said. “Or maybe both.”

“That’s our Gabby,” Izzy said, her voice sharing Birdie’s pride. “She’s a good kid, Birdie.”

Good kid
. Words that carried so much more meaning when said of Gabby. Not perfect, unusual in some ways, irritatingly precocious sometimes. She hadn’t had the most normal life so far, not with a series of stepmothers coming and going, and a father who loved her fiercely but who wasn’t around much. And even when he was, Christopher Marietti wasn’t always sure what to do with his wild filly of a daughter. But somehow, amazingly, it was working out.