How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Did she see him?” Nell asked, praying the answer was no.

  “No,” said Ben.

  Birdie looked up. “How did he die, Ben?”

  “He was hit with a pipe wrench. Several times.”

  Ben didn’t go into detail, but he didn’t need to. Spencer Paxton was beaten badly enough for the police to want to protect his wife. Bludgeoned was the word that came to mind.

  “Father Northcutt went over. I don’t know if Spencer was religious but it doesn’t matter to Father Larry. Sometimes I think he goes to help the policemen who have to deal with grisly scenes, to give some prayer or blessing that will help erase the horror they see.”

  “But Stella was saved from that,” Birdie said, reassuring herself. Stella was a strong woman, but she was also young.

  “Yes, Stella is doing okay,” Ben assured Birdie again. “You’ll be able to see for yourself shortly.”

  “She’s coming over here?” Nell asked.

  “She was at the station when I talked to Jerry. Stella insisted that the police not worry her mother, but as you’d expect, she was pretty shaken by it all. Jerry knew I’d been helping her with the business, so he suggested she come over here. In addition to the shock of it, she’s concerned about her responsibility as the Realtor. It was her listing, she had a contract with the owner. She’s probably worried about some of the legalities.” He looked at Birdie. “She’d called your house first, Birdie. She was glad to know you are here.”

  Nell walked over to the sink and poured glasses of water. Birdie had said Stella was unflappable, but would that be enough to get her through something like this? Stella had a million friends, but no one special in her life as far as Nell knew. She suspected her confidants were few.

  “Why was Spence in the house?” Nell asked, passing around the water. “Which house was it?”

  “It’s the old Bianchi house over on Cliffside Drive. He wanted to buy it.”

  “To buy it? That’s an extraordinary place,” Nell said. She and Izzy often jogged by, pushing Abby’s stroller up the hilly road. They were both taken by its grandeur, but agreed that it wasn’t the kind of house they’d be comfortable in alone. Maybe not even with a whole roomful of people.

  Birdie’s estate was nearly as large, but her home was filled with cozy corners, open windows, soft lighting, and low-slung, slipcovered furniture—the kind that welcomed you to sit and stay awhile. The Favazza place had a sense of home that she suspected the Bianchi house would have trouble achieving.

  “The listing is a feather in Stella’s cap,” Ben said. “She was rightfully proud when she got it. The Bianchi kids live in California, so they’re depending on her to handle everything. Palazola Realty was looking to profit nicely from the sale.”

  Nell leaned against the counter as she listened, fitting Spencer’s death into the last couple days. “Poor Bree,” she said. “I wonder if Izzy or Jane Brewster know. I think they know Bree better than most of us.”

  “They couldn’t locate Bree last night. But Jerry said someone was going out today to that Canary Cove home they’re renting.”

  “This will be so awful for her.” Nell tried to picture Bree and Spencer and realized that she had rarely seen the couple together. Fancy events mostly, where they’d be noticed immediately, a couple so handsome and youthful it was difficult not to stare. Bree brightened up the room with her beauty, but she often seemed to disappear as soon as she politely could. She’d told them at the shop one day that she didn’t like to dress up, a surprising admission from someone so lovely.

  Birdie watched Nell as her thoughts were mirrored in her face. The worry for everyone involved in Spencer Paxton’s death.

  Ben watched, too, knowing that Birdie and Nell only knew half of it, not the whole complicated story that would soon weave its uncomfortable tentacles around them.

  A minute later the doorbell rang, a foreign sound in Nell and Ben’s home, where close friends didn’t know they had a bell at the door.

  “That’s Stella,” Ben said. He headed across the room, calling back to ask Nell to put more coffee on and take the scones out of the oven. Fortunately he’d doubled the recipe.

  He reappeared with a hollow-eyed Stella at his side.

  And a surprise.

  A step behind her was Rose Chopra. Neither looked like they had had a minute of sleep.

  When Stella spotted Birdie, her face lifted and she was around the island in a second, wrapping her arms around her until Birdie disappeared, except for a small tuft of silvery hair sticking up against Stella’s shirt.

  Rose stood off to the side, uncomfortable and looking as if her world was spinning out from beneath her. She looked at Nell with an expression that begged for understanding—and maybe something more.

  Nell frowned, unsure of the message. But she was relieved to see her. Stella had been worried about her last night at the restaurant, but wherever she had been, she was here now, safe, and except for the look on her face, seemingly fine.

  Then it dawned on Nell. Rose had been repairing something in the Bianchi house. Of course. Both Rose and Stella were having to deal with the tragic event.

  “Well,” Ben said, rubbing his hands in front of him. “First things first, ladies. Coffee, and these scones are probably the best I’ve ever made.”

  Nell noticed that Ben’s smile went to Rose, as if she needed comfort more than anyone in the room, including Stella Palazola.

  The large kitchen island had room and stools for all of them, with Nell standing on one side because she found that she couldn’t sit. Not yet. Not with all the emotions and questions silently flying around them.

  Stella found it difficult to wait and she started talking, her scone and coffee cooling in front of her. She was sitting next to Rose and her look often went in her direction.

  “When I got that message at the restaurant, the only thing I could think of was Rosie. The text and the fact that she hadn’t shown up were connected. Sometimes you just know those things. I knew it—and I was frantic, crazy, that something had happened to her.”

  She looked at Rose, the worry still there in her eyes. “I knew she’d been working at the Bianchi place yesterday—”

  Nell looked up. So Rose had been at the house. How frightening. Did she see anyone around the property? Did she see Spencer himself? But she kept silent, sensing it was important to Stella to get her story out as it happened, in her own words.

  “The Bianchi kids who inherited the house wanted me to fix something that had happened up on the top floor of the house. It was awful. Dead squirrels,” she said, raising eyebrows around the kitchen, but she continued without explanation. “It had to be fixed before we could show the house. The smell was awful and the family agreed, and that was about the time you all dropped wonderful Rosie in my lap. She agreed to help fix the problem for me, and quickly.” Stella looked down at her hands, twisting a ring around her finger, then looked up again and said apologetically, “Uncle Mario’s firm is doing fine, really, but the commission on this house would help us tremendously in paying off some debts. And Rosie was doing her best to help us get it sold.”

  She looked again at Rose, biting down on her bottom lip, her face filled with emotion.

  Nell looked at Ben. She could read his mind. He, too, wanted to help Stella unravel the story more quickly. But Stella needed to do this herself. There was healing in sharing it, and however long it might take, they had the time.

  “It was all working, all going according to plan. We even had a couple other queries about the house, though I had told Spencer he was first in line. The thought of other interested parties upset him, I guess. He asked for a key a few days ago. I wasn’t going to do it, sure. But he didn’t like people saying no to him and he raised a fuss, and Uncle Mario told me to give him the blankety-blank keys. Whatever he wanted. So I did. Uncle Mario was sure it was the right thing to do, but now . . . now I’m so sorry I did that.” She looked at Rose again, and her eyes were damp.

&n
bsp; Rose hadn’t said a word. She picked at her scone, and drank the glass of water Nell handed to her.

  Stella’s story was unraveling in ways that were difficult to follow. She was speaking more to Rose than to the whole group. Apology after apology for getting her into this mess.

  Finally, to pull them back on track, Birdie spoke to Rose, her voice comfortable and easy, the voice that made people feel they were all alone with Birdie in some protective, safe place. Stella called it Birdie’s church confessional voice.

  “Rose,” she said, “were you at the house last night?” The question wasn’t specific, but Birdie knew Rose understood what was being asked. Was she there when Spencer Paxton came into the house? Was he alone? Why did he come up to the top floor?

  Rose nodded. “I was just finishing up. I went to close the window and that’s when I saw them. They were out on the back patio. I was surprised to see anyone out there. I thought they were trespassing, but I didn’t think too much about it. The house was on the market and people knew it was empty. People snoop.”

  “Them?” Birdie asked.

  “There was a man and a woman. But she left.”

  “And he came upstairs?”

  “Yes.” Rose looked down at the floor. “I heard the front door open.”

  “He came up to the third floor?”

  She nodded. “He came up on the elevator. I heard it moving, and I was frightened. He was upset when he saw me. He said it was his house. He owned it. But I knew, well, I didn’t think he owned it, not yet, anyway. Stella and I were getting it ready to sell.” She looked down at her coffee cup.

  Nell watched Rose closely. Her voice was careful, as if she were reading from a book but skipping some paragraphs.

  “Can you imagine how frightened she must have been?” Stella asked. “A man comes into that huge house and she was there all alone? He . . . he threatened her. Said he’d call the police. Oh, Rose, I am so sorry you had to go through that.” Her large, sorrowful eyes went to Rose again. Then back to the others. “I’m so grateful she got out before . . . before anything happened. But she left in such a hurry—wouldn’t you?—that she forgot her backpack. Her car keys, her phone, everything. It was dark by then, and she had to walk all the way back to Izzy’s shop apartment, all alone.”

  “It’s okay, Stell. I didn’t mind walking,” Rose said quickly. “I . . . I liked it. I like walking. It gave me time to calm down. It was all fine. But you . . . you needed this sale, Stell—and now . . .”

  And now the buyer is dead.

  Looks passed back and forth between Rose and Stella, each one blaming herself for complicating the other’s life. Each one sorry the other was upset or scared, or losing a commission.

  Nell looked at Birdie and read her thoughts. It was nice they were caring for each other, but Nell and Birdie both suspected that it was Rose Chopra’s life that would be impacted more. And in ways not easily repaired.

  “Do you think the woman who had been with him was still around when you left?” Ben asked. “Did you notice her outside?”

  Rose considered the question, then shook her head. “I thought I heard a car drive away, but I suppose it could have been a car driving by. But, no. I didn’t see her when I walked away. I didn’t see anyone.” She stopped and thought again. “Well, one person. It was dark, but I saw a guy ride by on a bike as I was walking off in the other direction. That was it.”

  Stella looked at Ben. “Ben—is there any way you can help Rosie? She needs to get her things back, but Tommy Porter told me today that they needed to keep them. Why?” There was a note of desperation in her voice, as if getting her car keys or wallet back would solve all Rose’s problems.

  Even though they all knew it wouldn’t.

  “I’ll be okay,” Rose said.

  Nell looked over at Ben. Stella was right. Practically speaking, Rose would need identification and keys. And without a cell phone? It might be a relief sometimes, but still difficult.

  Before answering the question, Ben asked another. “Rose, have you talked to the police yet?”

  Jerry hadn’t mentioned interviewing Rose when they’d talked on the phone. The thought was troublesome. He didn’t want to overstep anything that was the purview of the police department.

  Stella answered before Rose had a chance. “She did. They did. They talked. After I told Rose what had happened, Rose said she’d better go with me today, to fill in her part of the night’s events. She wanted Chief Thompson to know that she was there and what she saw. And, I guess, what she didn’t see. Like who did this to him.”

  Stella’s eyes got bigger as she spoke, her glasses clouding.

  Ben smiled at Stella, who looked like she needed to curl up in their guest room and get some sleep. And then he said to Rose, “Let’s see what we can do about your things, Rose. The problem is that the room—the whole property—is a crime scene right now. It may take a while, but I’ll check to see if we can at least get your keys and wallet back. The police’s first priority is finding out who did this but they’re not unreasonable.”

  Rose nodded. “I’ll be okay, Ben. But thanks. You’re very kind.”

  “Did you recognize the woman Spencer was talking to outside?”

  “I didn’t know who it was. I was looking from the third-floor window and they were way out at the edge of the patio. At first I thought it was the Bianchis. You know, the family members who were selling the house. It looked like they were arguing about something. Then the woman left.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “I wasn’t sure. I haven’t walked around the property so I don’t really know what’s there. All I know is that it’s a large estate, so she could have walked off near the guest house. But a few minutes later I thought I heard a car start up. I think she left.”

  “So then Spencer came upstairs alone,” Birdie said, confirming the sequence. Then she frowned. “Why do you suppose he went up to the third floor?”

  “He looked up toward the third-floor window—probably because it was lit up and the rest of the house was dark. He saw me standing there. I think he came up because he wanted to know why someone was in the house.”

  “So the person who killed him must have come upstairs after you left,” Nell said.

  Rose nodded. And then she frowned. “But you need a key to work the elevator. The person who came up would have needed it. And the front door, too. I heard it lock as I left.”

  They all listened, wondering how easily elevator keys were to come by.

  “That will be helpful to the police,” Ben said. “You are able to give them a framework—a time line.”

  But it was the other information that Rose had given the police that was worrisome: the fact that she was the last person who had seen him alive. At least the last one anyone knew of.

  Birdie looked over at Stella and saw the gravity of the situation sinking in. Her face was filled with sadness and regret, and then with affection for this woman whose life was going to be complicated for a while. Rose had been in absolutely the wrong place at the wrong time. And it was because Stella had asked her to be there.

  “You’ve both already helped the police out,” Ben said, sensing the emotion building. “It takes a lot to put the pieces together when something like this happens. But Jerry’s team will figure it out and you two shouldn’t worry. They’ll find out who killed Spencer Paxton, and hopefully we’ll put this behind us soon.”

  Stella finally ate one of the pieces of scone she’d been playing with on her plate. She looked at Ben. “I was so worried about Rose that I didn’t even give much thought to the fact that someone actually killed someone else. And in that very room where Rosie had been working. It’s terrifying. It’s hard to grasp when it’s someone you recently talked to—and then . . . and then that someone is dead.”

  Stella seemed to be absorbing the facts as she spoke them, her voice rising and falling with her words. “I didn’t know the guy very well, but I can’t imagine anyone want
ing him dead.”

  No one said anything. Ben refilled coffee mugs and passed the cream around.

  But Stella’s comment echoed in the room. It hovered heavily in the scone-scented kitchen air.

  And they knew that given pen and paper, they could put together a list of people who had reasons to want Spencer dead in less time than it’d take for their coffee to cool.

  And it was possible they might even be missing one or two.

  Chapter 15

  Nell looked around at the small houses on the hill above Canary Cove. It was peaceful. Postcard pretty. Golden and ruby-red leaves fell in slow motion to patches of still-green grass. Above, a blue sapphire sky spread out forever, a giant comforter, and up and down the hilly street shutters and house doors were painted in joyful, living colors that spoke to life.

  It was a disturbing contrast to why they were there.

  The power of death, Nell thought as they walked up to the bright green door. It strips the day of color and sounds that bring joy—the songs of birds, the bright laughter of children. It mutes the life it leaves behind and turns it gray.

  Beside her, Birdie pressed the doorbell and they both gave a small jolt. The sound was shrill and deafening, scattering three gulls patrolling a garbage can next door.

  Nell nearly dropped the basket of comfort food she’d hastily put together, the jar of jam clattering against a container of noodle soup.

  “I hope there’s no one sleeping within a block or so,” Birdie said apologetically, glaring accusingly at the round button. She held back a comment about it waking the dead.

  But Izzy didn’t. She opened the door instantly from the inside and said, “I know—it’s loud enough to wake the dead.” She ushered them into the entryway and closed the door. “I’m so glad it’s you two. I keep thinking some reporter is going to show up and I’ll say bad things to him.”