How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Before any of them had a chance to sing the shrimp’s praises, a click of stilettos drew attention away from the food.

  “Thank heavens you’re here.” Beatrice Scaglia looked from Birdie to Nell, her greeting landing on the table with a thud.

  Nell and Birdie looked up and smiled, ignoring the confusing tone in the mayor’s voice. Beatrice was dressed in her uniform—an impeccably tailored suit—today a bright pink outfit with an orange scarf looped twice around her neck. Colorful and memorable, trademarks of the Sea Harbor mayor whom few had ever seen in jeans or with windblown hair.

  She air-kissed Birdie and Nell, then stopped short when she saw Rose.

  “Who are you, young lady? Why don’t I know you?” Her words were punctuated and distinct, sounding like a fifth-grade teacher being tricked by a student. She looked more closely. “Or do I?”

  Rose shifted beneath the scrutiny. One hand fiddled with a napkin near her water glass.

  The mayor tilted her head, examining every inch of Rose and trying to place her among her constituents. No matter what else people said about Beatrice Scaglia, she cared about her flock, as she called Sea Harbor residents. And she especially cared about their votes. On the chance that Rose might be one of them, she continued to hold her with a steady gaze.

  Nell finally broke Beatrice’s inspection with introductions. “Rose is new to Sea Harbor.”

  Beatrice shook Rose’s hand, holding on and once again scanning Rose’s face for something, although none of them were sure what. “You’re the young woman living above Izzy Perry’s shop,” she said finally.

  “The Harbor Road gossip mill is in fine working order,” Birdie said with a smile at Rose.

  “Yes.” Beatrice’s frown deepening. “It can be an evil thing, a gossip mill.”

  “Evil?” Nell asked.

  Beatrice seemed not to hear. Her gaze was still on Rose, now on her brown, nondescript hair, her painfully tight ponytail.

  “Beatrice?” Birdie said gently, hoping to avert Beatrice’s habit of offering unsolicited fashion advice.

  But the mayor seemed to have other things on her mind and she turned her small body away from Rose, shifting her attention to Nell and Birdie. Her expression was grave.

  “There is a meeting scheduled early next week at city hall. I hope you will come.” She looked at them, glanced at Rose as if she wished she’d go away, then turned her back to her and said to Birdie and Nell, “No. I need you to come. Both of you. And Ben, too. The Perrys. I need all of you to be there.” She looked at them both, her forehead distressingly tight. “I need this desperately.”

  Then, without a good-bye or explanation, Beatrice turned, straight and stiff as a pencil, and headed toward another table, this one occupied by several businessmen whose conversation was about to be interrupted by whatever Mayor Scaglia wanted them to hear. And whatever it was, it was very important to her.

  “She’s interesting,” Rose said.

  Birdie and Nell both laughed.

  “She has a good heart,” Nell said. “She grows on you.”

  “And she’s passionate about being mayor of Sea Harbor,” Birdie said, passing around the platter of shrimp. “It’s her whole life, and for the most part, she’s been a good one. She sincerely cares about this town and the people in it. And she won’t forget meeting you or your name—”

  “—especially around election time.”

  The conversation changed to lighter topics, and the appetizer quickly disappeared over talk of Izzy’s apartment, the softness of the bed, the windows that opened to the sea, and the loveliest yarn shop east of the Mississippi. Or maybe anywhere.

  By the time the table had been cleared to make room for three steaming bowls of clam chowder and a basket of sourdough rolls, Birdie had run out of chatter.

  She looked at Rose as garlicky steam rose up between them. “Now that you have a decent place to stay and a bed without bugs, what do you plan to do while you’re here? And do you know how long that will be?” To keep her manners intact, she added, “I hope it will be a long, leisurely stay and we will have plenty of time to teach you to knit and to show off our bit of paradise.”

  There. They’d asked one of the unknowns that had lingered after Rose had finished with fixing the pipe. It was puzzling all of them. As was Rose herself. A conundrum, Nell said. One with a degree in children’s literature, a love for Winnie-the-Pooh, and an aptitude for fixing pipes.

  Rose looked up from her soup. She shifted in her chair. “I planned on coming for a couple days, that’s all. But . . . well, I’d like to stay a little longer. I’m in between things right now, figuring out my next chapter. My mom’s illness and all.”

  “Of course,” Nell said. “Losing someone has a way of putting plans on hold for a while and letting life take its time.”

  “That’s it, exactly. A friend practically packed my car and pushed me out of town. I’m not used to thinking about myself, but I’ve been told that’s who I should be taking care of now.”

  “Such good advice,” Birdie said. “It may seem selfish, but it’s not. It’s where you live, after all. Yourself.”

  “You sound like my therapist.” Rose wiped a dollop of cream from the corner of her mouth. “My older sister wants me to move to Seattle, where she lives.”

  “It’s a lovely town,” Birdie said.

  “Somehow it seems so far away.”

  Nell looked at her quizzically. Sea Harbor, if her geography was correct, was nearly the same distance from Omaha as Seattle. But she tucked the thought away. Sometimes emotions factored into how distances were perceived, and what was near or far.

  “Sea Harbor can be a perfect interlude for you,” Birdie said. “Time to clear your head and to think about your life.”

  “Maybe. If only I could live on air—” She offered a half-hearted smile. “I’m grateful to Izzy for putting me up, but I’ve never been a freeloader. I always pay my way, no matter—”

  Rose’s thought dropped off as a sweep of yellow enveloped Birdie from behind, two arms wrapping around her and hugging her close.

  “Sold another house, Birdie. That’s two this week.”

  Birdie swiveled out of the hug to beam up at Stella Palazola. “Of course you did, dear. Who could say no to you?”

  Stella gave Nell a quick hug, too, and then focused on Rose. “Hi. Hey, sorry to barge in like this, but Birdie is my guardian angel and I had to share my news. I’m Stella Palazola.” Then she stopped, her eyes widening. “I think I know you. We met the other day, right?”

  Rose looked at her, then the blouse. It was the same bright yellow blouse she’d seen walking out of the yarn shop.

  Stella adjusted her glasses. “Well, we didn’t really meet, but I saw you outside Izzy’s shop, right? Sorry about staring at you. It’s a bad habit I have. I was trying to figure out if we knew each other.”

  “Stella, dear,” Birdie said, interrupting the flow of words, “this is Rose Chopra.”

  “Rose Chopra,” Stella repeated, then looked at Rose again. “Nope, I guess I don’t know you. That happens all the time. What do they say, there’re seven people in the world who look just like you?” Stella laughed, a full laugh that made them all smile. “I think I have a hundred of those. People always think they’ve met me before, too. But anyway, Rose Chopra, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Rose fixed Izzy’s broken pipe and saved us from building an ark,” Birdie said.

  Stella looked puzzled. “Ark?”

  “As in Noah. It was raining in Izzy’s shop.” Birdie patted the empty chair next to her, her eyes lighting up with a thought. “Can you sit for a minute, Stella?”

  Nell watched Birdie’s mind working from across the table. She was putting the law of attraction to work. Or maybe the law of need, if there was such a law. She sat back, smiled, and watched it unfold.

  “You fix pipes?” Stella plopped down in the chair, dropping her briefcase on the floor with a thud.

  “Yes, she does
,” said Birdie. “Rose has fixed up many old houses, made them new again.” She smiled brightly at a waitress placing four slices of lemon bars on the table. Flakes of powdered sugar decorated the plates.

  “So you’re a plumber, then?” Stella glanced over at Birdie and laughed. “Or maybe I should be asking you, Birdie? Are you Rose’s manager?”

  Birdie chuckled, a forkful of lemon bar on its way to her mouth.

  “I do a little bit of everything,” Rose said.

  Stella put her elbows on the table and leaned in toward Rose. “Everything?” she said. “Are you in the market for a job? Part time? Long time? Anytime? I need you, Rose.” Her deep eyes held Rose’s amused gaze.

  Birdie was right. Few could refuse Stella Palazola, and there was something about the way Rose Chopra was listening to Stella that suggested she was happily being taken in by the friendly Realtor. For friendship or a paycheck, Birdie wasn’t sure. But before the last lemony crumbs had disappeared from their plates, Stella had dug into her briefcase, handed Rose business cards, addresses, a company ad, and extracted from her a promise to meet at eight o’clock the next morning for coffee.

  Birdie might be Stella’s guardian angel, she said as she stood up, slinging the strap of her briefcase over one shoulder, but Rose just might be her savior. And then she left, her smile as wide as her face.

  “Well, look at that,” Birdie said. “You have a job, Rose Chopra. Now isn’t Sea Harbor a very nice place to be?”

  Nell chuckled. “Did you want a job?” In spite of Stella Palazola’s charming ways, it seemed a sudden decision for something that usually required a little planning.

  But Rose looked pleased. Happy, even excited beneath the quiet demeanor.

  “Stella’s office is right across the street from Izzy’s,” Birdie said. “You can roll out of bed and be there in three minutes, depending on traffic.”

  Rose knew exactly where the office was. Across the street and up those familiar wooden stairs. A small smile softened her face as one of her mother’s familiar refrains slipped out, one meant to make the regular trips up those steps happy ones for her daughter. Up, up, up and away . . . Dr. Dentist will make our day . . . And the trip was always made sweeter by a hot fudge sundae on their way back home.

  “What, dear?” Birdie said, her brows lifting. She’d been complaining of late that her hearing was dimming like a worn-out lightbulb. But also wondering why the younger generations seemed to mumble their words.

  Rose smiled. “Oh, nothing. I was just saying that it was a wonderful lunch. Absolutely the best clam chowder I’ve ever had. You were right, Birdie. Thank you both.”

  While Birdie signed for the meal and Nell chatted with the waitress, Rose wandered over to the French doors opening onto the club patio. The stone expanse fanned out in a crescent shape, leading down to the manicured beach below, empty today because of the ominous heavy clouds above. She stood still, mesmerized by the endless motion of waves leaping high and crashing with abandon against granite boulders, then folding in upon themselves and sliding back. Dramatic and powerful. She could see her mother in the motion of the water—her sweet, generous smile. Her soft eyes that saw only goodness and goodwill and beauty. A fairylike world, gossamery and delicate and light. And fragile. Gladys Woodley saw no evil.

  She finally pulled her eyes away from the tide and forced herself to look in the other direction—up the too familiar beach, past a grove of pine trees and waving sea grass, beyond the boathouses and vacant picnic tables. Her mind’s view stopped when it reached the neat rows of elegant sailboats in their slips, lined up like soldiers, swaying in the heavy wind. And finally the last group, the dinghies, tucked into their slips, ready for the gangly youth racing down the hill for sailing classes. Tanned, good-looking college instructors waiting with clipboards, whistles hanging from lanyards.

  Block. Jibe. Boom. Bow. Keel. The words came in a rush, like the crack of bullets from a gun.

  She placed a palm against the cold, damp window, drizzles of rain catching the patio lights, and steadied herself against the memories.

  “Rose, are you all right?” Nell’s gentle voice came from behind her. She touched Rose’s arm lightly.

  Rose took a breath, released it, and turned away from the window. She looked into Nell’s concerned and caring face and her mind and body came together. She felt a lessening of whatever was caged inside her. A loosening. She hadn’t thought she could come back to this spot, to see that beach. The sails. The memories. But she had.

  And she was fine.

  She smiled at Nell and silently rejoiced in the feeling of control and resolution that slowly passed through her. She felt her mother beside her. Within her.

  Yes, I am going to be fine.

  And Rose believed it.

  She picked up her bag and followed Nell and Birdie across the dining room to the hostess desk, where Liz Santos stood waiting to take them on a tour. She was eager to hear about Rose’s first taste of the yacht club’s famous New England clam chowder.

  Amazing, Rose would tell her with a smile.

  And, thank you, yes—she’d love a tour of the yacht club.

  Chapter 6

  It was a cosmic explosion, one that might never have happened if the sun and moon and stars had not been aligned perfectly that cloudy, drizzly day.

  Or, in this case, if Beatrice Scaglia had not chosen to walk out of the Sea Harbor Yacht Club at the precise moment a tall, casually dressed man had chosen to walk up those same steps. He was coming from the circle drive, his head thrown back in laughter at something that a man near him had said, seemingly oblivious to the weather.

  Beatrice Scaglia had donned a plastic rain cap to protect her hair from the drizzle and tied it beneath her chin, then lowered her head to protect her makeup, her eyes focused on her already damp Christian Louboutin heels.

  It wasn’t until she heard a voice calling out to her that she looked up, a smile beginning as she readied herself to greet a friend or potential voter or businessman.

  But the smile fell away before it had completely formed when she saw the self-assured, handsome man in front of her. Face-to-face.

  Her face drained of color, the rain cap slipped back off her head and gathered around her neck.

  Then, seemingly without thought or planning, she dropped her purse to the steps and took a huge lungful of air, puffing up her chest and raising her body to her Louboutin-assisted height.

  In the next second Mayor Beatrice Scaglia did something that mayors seldom do. She lifted her slender arm, flattened her hand, and smacked the man across his face, the sound echoing in the wet air.

  Finding that the higher step gave her surprising leverage, Beatrice followed the first slap with another. Harder this time. And then the pummeling began, her hands turning into small, balled fists that landed one after another on the man’s well-muscled chest.

  As the man attempted to collect himself, a torrent of words began to spew forth from the small woman. Rough, audacious words that seemed to be coming from someone other than the petite mayor.

  In that moment, Beatrice Scaglia was the eponymous Carrie White at her most ferocious, determined to best her foe at the high school dance.

  “Hey,” Spencer Paxton III said, his arms outstretched and palms flat out, prepared for another possible blow. “Mayor Scaglia, stop, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that you are a lying, lowlife, heinous person who needs to be wiped off the face of the earth before your germs spread. And if there are no volunteers, I will do it myself.”

  Ben Endicott heard the onslaught of words as he walked across the circle drive, hurrying to keep his luncheon appointment. He rushed toward the entrance, then stopped suddenly, looking from one person to the other, a space now opening between the two as Spence took a step backward to safety, massaging his cheek with one hand.

  He turned toward Ben, one hand lifted in greeting and a perplexed look on his face.

  Ben looked beyond him
to the mayor. “Beatrice? Are you all right?”

  “Ben, thank the Lord you’re here. Am I all right? Of course I am not. I am in distress. This man—” She raised a hand and pointed wildly, then dropped it and continued. “This man is a despicable excuse for a human being.”

  Although her arms had finally fallen to her sides, her clenched hands quiet, Beatrice’s face was pinched tight with anger, her cheeks flushed and raindrops dotting her forehead.

  Ben’s voice was calm. “I’m worried you’re going to have a heart attack,” he said, reaching out to take her arm. “I’ll walk you to your car and get you out of this rain. We can talk there.” He glanced at his lunch companion for understanding.

  Spence managed a half smile.

  But Beatrice refused to move and ignored the raindrops running down her cheeks, taking traces of mascara with them. She spoke to Ben as if he were the only one there on the steps, as if she’d already beaten the other man into oblivion. “He’s a lying fake, Ben. Don’t you forget it. And he’s trying to steal what’s rightfully mine with lies and innuendoes. That isn’t what we do in Sea Harbor. That isn’t who we are.”

  Her voice became quieter, her body loosening as Ben encouraged her to breathe.

  Footsteps from the club’s open doorway drew attention to a small group of women gathering just outside the wide doors. A bright blue canopy shielded them from the rain.

  Nell’s eyes met Ben’s, confusion on both their faces. She remembered now why he was there. A luncheon invitation from Spencer Paxton. They’d both been surprised by it. But the drama going on in front of them diminished that surprise to nothing.

  A few steps behind Nell, Birdie and Liz Santos stood still, their conversation stopped midstream by the ruckus below. Liz took a step forward, clutching her cell phone, ready to call for help. “Is everyone all right?”

  But Beatrice had calmed down, and when Ben snapped open his umbrella, she took it graciously and, having pulled a clean handkerchief from her pocket, proceeded to wipe the mascara from her face with one hand, balancing the umbrella with the other. She nodded to Ben, then waved to Liz, and continued down the steps as if she’d just had a lovely meal and it was time to get back to work.