Murder in Merino

OTHER SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERIES BY SALLY GOLDENBAUM

Death by Cashmere

Patterns in the Sand

Moon Spinners

A Holiday Yarn

The Wedding Shawl

A Fatal Fleece

Angora Alibi

Murder in Merino

A SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERY

Sally Goldenbaum

AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

OBSIDIAN

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Sally Goldenbaum, 2014

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Goldenbaum, Sally.

Murder in merino: a seaside knitters mystery/Sally Goldenbaum.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-698-14668-6

1. Knitters (Persons)—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3557.O35937M84 2014

813'.54—dc23 2013049946

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The recipe contained in this book is to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipe contained in this book.

In memory of my parents, Frances and Armin Pitz

M
y heartfelt thanks to Cindy Craig, the talented and generous teacher, designer, and manager of the Studio Knitting and Needlepoint shop in Kansas City, Missouri. Cindy not only designed the amazing pattern for Nell and Ben’s anniversary throw, but she filled her design with meaning and symbolism reflective of the Endicotts’ forty years of marriage. How lucky Nell and the Seaside Knitters are to be beneficiaries of Cindy’s talent. A special thanks, also, to Trendsetter Yarns for their generous donation of the merino yarn used to make a replica of Nell and Ben’s anniversary afghan.

Many of the “imaginings” for
Murder in Merino
were nurtured by my loyal muses: Sr. Rosemary Flanigan, who years ago mentored me through logic, metaphysics, and Greek philosophy. Her creative suggestions for this book brought alive Socrates’ warning about the unexamined life as she urged me to probe more deeply into the psyches and lives of Nell, Izzy, Birdie, Cass, their neighbors, and their friends. And my Minnesota muse, Mary Bednarowski, who reads my often- scattered proposal ideas and runs with them in a dozen directions, imagining all the what-ifs as she helps me follow them to surprising conclusions.

My thanks to Nancy Pickard, who not only provides me with a place to write, brainstorming sessions, occasional egg scrambles, and a glass of pinot grigio at the end of our mutually intense writing days, but who, in word and deed, inspires me to be a better writer.

Forever thanks to my terrific agents—Christina Hogrebe and Andrea Cirillo—and to my wise and wonderful editor, Sandy Harding.

Warm thanks to my Kansas City friends who show up at book signings, pass the Seaside Knitters along to their unsuspecting relatives and friends, and, most important, are friends—of the very best kind.

And to my sisters, Jane Pitz and Mary Sue Sheridan, always encouraging, always loving, always proud, and always there when a listening ear is needed.

My husband’s, children’s, their spouses’, and my grandchildren’s involvement is absolutely essential in getting these mysteries from thought to print. Their loving support—both emotional and practical—makes writing novels possible. Without them, the seaside knitters would be adrift in one of Cass’s lobster boats, without a strip of land in sight. They are my life jacket.

THE SEASIDE KNITTERS

Nell Endicott:
Former Boston nonprofit director, semiretired and living in Sea Harbor with her husband

Izzy (Isabel Chambers Perry):
Boston attorney, now owner of the Seaside Knitting Studio; Nell and Ben Endicott’s niece; married to Sam Perry

Cass (Catherine Mary Theresa Halloran):
A lobster fisherwoman, born and raised in Sea Harbor

Birdie (Bernadette Favazza):
Sea Harbor’s wealthy, wise, and generous silver-haired grande dame

THE MEN IN THEIR LIVES

Ben Endicott:
Nell’s husband

Sam Perry:
Award-winning photojournalist, married to Izzy

Danny Brandley:
Mystery novelist and son of bookstore owners

Sonny Favazza and Joseph Marietti:
Two of Birdie’s deceased husbands

SUPPORTING CAST

Andy Risso:
Drummer in Pete Halloran’s band; son of Gull Bar owner Jake Risso

Annabelle Palazola:
Owner of the Sweet Petunia Restaurant; Liz and Stella Palazola’s mother

Archie and Harriet Brandley:
Owners of the Sea Harbor Bookstore

August (Gus) McClucken:
Owner of McClucken’s Hardware and Dive Shop

Don Wooten:
Co-owner of the Ocean’s Edge restaurant; married to Rachel Wooten

Ella and Harold Sampson:
Birdie’s longtime housekeeper and groundsman

Esther Gibson:
Police dispatcher (and Mrs. Santa Claus in season)

Father Lawrence Northcutt:
Pastor of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church

Garrett Barros:
Works at Ocean’s Edge

Grace Danvers:
Hostess at Ocean’s Edge; cousin of Laura Danvers

Gracie Santos:
Owner of Gracie’s Lazy Lobster Café

Harry and Margaret Garozzo:
Owners of Garozzo’s Deli

Jane and Ham Brewster:
Artists and cofounders of the Canary Cove Art Colony

Janie Levin:
Nurse practitioner in the Virgilio Clinic; Tommy Porter’s girlfriend

Jeffrey Meara:
Longtime Ocean’s Edge bartender and co-owner

Jules Ainsley:
Visitor to Sea Harbor

Jerry Thompson:
Police chief

Karen Hanson:
Mayor Stan Hanson’s wife

Laura Danvers:
Young socialite and philanthropist, mother of three, married to banker Elliot Danvers

Lily Virgilio, MD:
Izzy’s obstetrician

Mae Anderson:
Izzy’s shop manager; has twin teenage nieces, Jillian and Rose

Maeve Meara:
Jeffrey Meara’s wife

Mary Pisano:
Middle-aged newspaper columnist; owner of Ravenswood B&B

Mary Halloran:
Pete and Cass’s mother; secretary of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church

Merry Jackson:
Owner of the Artist’s Palate Bar and Grill

Penelope Ainsley:
Jules Ainsley’s mother

Pete Halloran:
Cass’s younger brother and lead guitarist in the Fractured Fish band

Rachel Wooten:
City attorney; married to Don Wooten

Rebecca Early:
Lampworks Gallery artist in Canary Cove

Stan Hanson:
Mayor of Sea Harbor

Stella Palazola:
Realtor in Sea Harbor; Annabelle’s daughter

Tommy Porter:
Policeman

Tyler Gibson:
Esther Gibson’s grandson; bartender at Ocean’s Edge

Willow Adams:
Fiber artist and owner of the Fishtail Gallery

Late September
Sea Harbor, Massachusetts

T
he wind was coming out of the northeast, blustery and heavy with salt. It stung the woman’s cheeks, turning them the color of her bright red Windbreaker. Thick strands of hair flew about her face, wild and free—like the sea she was beginning to call home.

After days of warm sun and soft breezes, the weather had suddenly turned. But she loved it in all its guises—foamy surf crashing against the rocks or water smooth as silk, a chilly wind or sun-warmed sand. Each day was new and amazing and comfortable, as if she’d been born to this place. It had been fortuitous to travel halfway across the country to this strange little town where she knew no one, yet she felt as if she’d finally come home.

She’d awakened that morning to leafy branches banging against the bed-and-breakfast’s roof, rattling windows and pulling her attention away from the coffee and blueberry scones the inn’s owner had brought to her room. It was a wild sound, unnerving and exciting at once.

Mary Pisano had explained that September was a weatherman’s delight. A time of change. A month filled with surprises. An exciting time, she’d said, and then brought Jules another scone.

That was true enough. Already the week had been filled with unexpected happenings—though none a weatherman could predict. The green-shuttered house on Ridge Road was just the beginning. More would come. She felt it deep inside her with a ferocious certainty that would have made her mother uncomfortable. Penelope Ainsley didn’t believe in thinking about the past or in secrets or in peeling away layers of anything, other than expensive wallpaper, maybe, during one of her remodeling efforts. Sad things, after all, disappeared if you didn’t hold them in your memory.

She told her daughter often that there was only one reality: the one they were living in at that precise moment. Not what was to be . . . or what had been. The past could bring only pain, she’d say, the warning in her voice sharp.

And in those latter days, when Penelope had lain motionless on the white sheets, the bedside table littered with medicine bottles, she’d repeat her mantra with unexpected urgency to her nearly forty-year-old daughter. Live in the day, my darling. Write your own script. The past is gone; let it be. Let it be . . .

During those last days Jules wasn’t sure who was talking—the pills or the mother who had loved her so passionately.

But no matter. She would hold her tongue when her mother talked. And then she would follow her own path, a practice honed at an early age and one that served her well.

Thoughts of her mother squeezed her heart. Her lovely, refined, rigid mother, controlled by her parents. Jules had loved her deeply, but they rarely saw things with the same eye or sensibility. Penelope never wavered in what was correct—the way to act, to talk, to be—never allowing for those shady areas in life where happiness might be found. They were look-alikes, some said, but that was where the similarities ended. One woman sought security at all costs. The other simply wanted to be free and whole. And she couldn’t be. Not yet.

Chin tucked to chest, she headed into the wind, climbing the gentle hill to Ridge Road, then turning onto the shady street.
Her
street, as she thought of it. She had intentionally come early, in time to explore before the caller would show up—and before the open house. She quickened her step as she passed the Barroses’ place. The small frame house reeked of bad karma. A cranky woman. A weak husband, she suspected. And the grown son. Clarence? Garrett? She’d seen him one day from the road below, standing as still as a rock, looking through binoculars. But the Barroses didn’t worry her, not really. She’d turn them into decent neighbors.

Or not.

Some yards ahead, a gray Toyota, the engine quiet, sat at the curb directly in front of the house at 27 Ridge Road. She stopped, startled, and checked her watch again. He was too early.

At first the thought frightened Jules. Maybe the man had ulterior motives for meeting her, maybe ones not as innocent as he’d led her to believe.

No, she scolded herself. Early was fine. The mysterious conversation wouldn’t take long, and then she’d spend the extra time exploring the property on her own before the Realtor arrived.

He needed only a few minutes, he’d said when he called. At first, she had tried to put him off, suggesting she stop by the Ocean’s Edge the next day—it would be an excuse to have a bowl of the restaurant’s mussels, she’d told him, sending her smile across the phone line. Today was bad for her. She had a list of things to do, including this important open house.

Things more important than talking to a man—sweet as he was—whom she barely knew.

But he had been persistent, offering to meet her at the open house so he wouldn’t mess up her day. He knew the house well. He’d said the latter words in a way that made her wonder whether he, too, wanted to buy it. Perhaps that was the urgency of meeting her. A worrisome thought. But if that was the case, she’d persuade him otherwise. She was good at convincing men to see things her way.

She walked over to the car window and leaned in, a wide smile in place, a greeting on her lips.

The car was empty.

She stood back and looked around the neighborhood. There were no signs of life along the winding street, and only the relentless wind added movement and sound. She glanced over at the Barroses’ house. A curtain in the front window fluttered, then went still.

The watery wind picked up with renewed vigor and slapped a piece of newspaper against her jeans. Jules jumped, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. She pressed a hand against her chest, uncomfortable with the stab of fear that had strained her breathing. Few things frightened her. Certainly not wind . . . a newspaper . . . an empty car.

She looked at the house, trying to dislodge the tightness in her chest. It was beautiful. But so much more than that. It was an unexpected treasure, hidden behind the trees, waiting for her to find it. A key to the life she was looking for.

She was startled the first time she saw it, not believing it was real. The shingles were weathered, the shutters in need of paint. The back swing moving slightly in the breeze. It was a miracle—if you believed in such things. A miracle that she had found it, a miracle that it was to be hers.

Her mother had been wrong in her warnings. There was joy in this house.

Jules glanced at her watch again. Daylight was fading and a flash of lightning lit up the sky in the distance. But she had enough time to explore the back, the view of the sea, the potting shed. She had imagined the porch as wide enough to dance on or to curl up in the old porch swing, a pile of yarn as high as the sky beside her.

She wouldn’t allow an irrational fear or a cold wind to color this day. The day was hers, hers to color in rainbows.

And then another thought occurred to her. Perhaps he was here after all, the man she was to meet. Perhaps he, too, was walking about the property, surveying it, imagining it as his own. She looked at the house, listened, then pushed her hands into the pockets of her Windbreaker and walked quickly up the front walk, the ends of a silky knit scarf flapping around her shoulders. If that was the case, she would convince him otherwise. There was no doubt in her mind about that.

The flagstone path led around to the north and Jules followed it past the shuttered windows, the empty flower boxes, the wild rosebushes. She breathed deeply, pushing against the feeling that still clung to her, prickling and niggling inside her chest.

As she rounded the corner of the house and passed the garage, a gust of wind sliced through the trees and met Jules head-on, sending her scarf flapping to the ground. It snagged on a granite boulder beside the path and she leaned over to pick it up, then stayed there for a minute, one hand on the cold, damp surface of the rock. She steadied herself, breathing in and out, slowly and purposefully, pushing away the sudden fear that threatened to disturb this day.

Her eyes were closed, lashes dark on her wet cheeks. She was aware only of the oxygen filling her lungs, and oblivious to the world beyond it. Deaf to the sounds of the sea crashing against the rocks below, to the roar of the wind. Deaf to what lay ahead.

In her head, all was silent.