How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  As Bree reached the door, she looked out, and then turned back to wave good-bye to Mae. Nell caught a happy smile flood the young artist’s face, as if her world hadn’t collapsed completely. As if there might be something good in her life, a light in the darkness, waiting for her just on the other side of the yarn shop door.

  Chapter 21

  Nell and Birdie didn’t wait long before pulling Izzy away from a group of knitters who had already turned the lecture room back into the familiar and cozy knitting haven. They were pummeling her with questions about a complicated pattern, the best cast-on method to use, how to knit a short row, and could she fix a major mistake one of them had made on a lacy shawl?

  “It’s past lunchtime,” they whispered to her, knowing those words alone would make Izzy’s stomach rumble. Her lean frame was a constant wonder to all of them.

  “We’re picking up an order of deli sandwiches at Harry’s and taking them down to the dock. Cass is still working on the boat computer and called in for food reinforcements,” Birdie said.

  The fun of seeing her friend in technological distress was almost as much an enticement for Izzy as the food—but not quite—and in minutes she had squared things away with her customers and with Mae, grabbed a windbreaker from a coat hook, and was happily walking down Harbor Road with Nell and Birdie.

  Harry Garozzo was standing outside his deli a block down, his apron stretched across his wide girth, deep in discussion with Gus McGlucken and Mario Palazola.

  “We need Sam to get a picture of those three. Norman Rockwell visits Sea Harbor,” Nell said, smiling at the three old friends.

  “We used to call them the four musketeers,” Birdie said.

  “And now there are three,” Izzy said.

  It was something that was almost forgotten in the shadow of a murder. The fact that not too long ago a man lived in that Bianchi house, one who was still mourned by his good friends.

  Harry looked up as the women approached, his face breaking out in a wide smile. His arms stretched wide. “Mie adora-bili signore.”

  Birdie walked up and touched his arm affectionately, staying far enough away to avoid the smear of tomato sauce on his apron. She smiled into his eyes, then looked higher, staring at the top of his head. “Harry, dear, you have a piece of pasta in your hair.”

  His gravelly laughter filled the sidewalk, chasing away two hungry gulls.

  Gus slapped him on his back as Mario’s laughter outdid that of his friends.

  Harry reached up and pulled the strand off his head, throwing it over to the curb, a bonus for a passing gull.

  “At least I have enough hair left to hold it, hey Bernadette?” He winked at her, a hundred tiny wrinkles spreading out from his eyes and his affection for one of his oldest friends as thick as his wife’s pasta sauce.

  “Now that we’ve cleaned you up, tell me, what kind of mischief are you three up to?” Birdie asked.

  “Not nearly as much as we were when our Anthony was with us. He was a dreamer, that one,” Mario said.

  Gus nodded. “We were reminiscing about the old times. We do a lot of that these days.”

  “Anthony passed four months ago today,” Harry reminded them, making the sign of the cross on his chest. “And not one of us has been back in the Bianchi place since. We miss the place. And we miss the crazy old galoot who lived there.”

  “Of course you do,” Nell said.

  “It’s just awful what happened over there,” Mario said. “It’s sacrilegious.”

  Gus chimed in. “Sacrilegious—sure was. That third-floor room was our sanctuary. Sacred place to us. It was ours. The four of us. We were in and out as free as the breeze.”

  Harry’s face was sad and happy at once, memories flooding his face. “It was the best of times.”

  “Did you know Mirabella?” Mario asked the women, and a smile broke through with the memory. “You musta known her, Birdie. Sure you did. Anthony’s old lady, fussy little gal, skinny as a fence post. She didn’t much like our shenanigans,” he said.

  “I don’t think I’d blame her,” Birdie said. “You three hooligans in and out of her house.”

  “We solved that one. Gus here managed a way we could sneak up there, and we had our own little club. For years, right guys?”

  “Oh, the things she didn’t know,” Gus said, shaking his head. “Those were the days.”

  “Have you ladies heard any more about the Paxton fellow who was offed up there?” Mario asked. “Rumors are flying, but the thing is, no one knew the guy very well. I mean he lived here and we tried to remember him as a kid and all, but who remembers other people’s kids?”

  Gus was thoughtful. He scratched his chin. “I remember him coming into the store a few times with his dad, mostly buying scuba gear. He was older than Robbie, but maybe just a year or two ahead of my daughter. But he was one of those super kids, you know? Entitled, we used to say. Fancy car, vacations. His dad was strict as all get-out, though. Not the nicest of fellows. I remember once when he chewed the kid out in the store, right in front of everyone. Called him some nasty names.”

  “We gave Mario here a hard time, selling our house to the guy. Anthony’d be rolling over in his grave, trying to get out and set it right.”

  Mario tried to look sheepish, but they all knew selling the house meant a nice retirement for their buddy. And it wasn’t the same house without Anthony there anyway.

  “I s’pose it should have gone to you, Gus,” Mario said. “You put in enough work on the place, fixing things up, if you know what I mean.” His bushy eyebrows lifted.

  They all laughed at that as if it was very funny, an inside joke. A four musketeer joke.

  “Paxton came in here a few times recently,” Harry said. “He liked my vitello Garozzo. Said it was the best he’d ever had. Left huge tips, too.”

  “Did he come in with friends? He must have had some local friends, people he knew when he was a kid growing up here,” Izzy said.

  “Now that’s a good point, Izzy,” Harry said. “But I don’t remember that. He came in with the mayor a few times, but that was before she attacked him.”

  They all guffawed at that. Apparently, to these men, Beatrice’s attack was credible, a woman showing her strength, and not a sign she was getting set to murder anyone. It wasn’t a disgrace at all. They liked Beatrice Scaglia. She was a fighter. She’d fight for herself and she’d fight for them.

  “Paxton came in with councilmen, some company heads, Rachel Wooten—the city attorney. But I don’t remember him coming in to relax or for a good time. Robbie came with him a couple times. They seemed to hit it off good. I was happy to see it because Robbie is usually a loner.” He looked over at Gus and shrugged.

  “Yeah. Robbie was working for him,” Gus said. “That’s all I know. And not from my kid. We don’t talk much these days, he doesn’t come around. But it seemed to be working. Good thing, since his Harley seems to be eating up all his money. Maybe he’ll even buy some shampoo and wash his hair for a change. But who am I to say?”

  The conversation lagged some as the unspoken estrangement between Gus and his son seeped into the conversation.

  Nell changed the subject. “Harry, how would we know what’s going on in this town without you?”

  “Ah, Nelly, sometimes that’s good, sometimes not so good. Too much gossip can be bad for the spirit. My wife Margaret tells me all the time to block my ears. I shouldn’t be listening to customers’ conversations, she says.”

  “Margaret is right,” Birdie said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure she is. But sometimes the words just get into your ears, like wax, you know? These days I’m hearing things about that poor Rose Woodley—her name is spinning around here like a gerbil wheel. The Monday bridge-club ladies say young Paxton teased Rosie when they were kids. Teased? Who wasn’t?”

  They listened, nodded, and were grateful the rumors were treated lightly, simple teasing, someone calling someone names—not the desperate bullying that ca
n strip one’s spirit naked. Rose didn’t need people passing that around.

  Harry went on, his opinion about the rumors clear.

  “But a nice girl like Rose murdering someone for that or anything else? No way, not ever. I remember her when she was wee. The Woodleys were good people. Came in every Sunday night when kids ate free. Rose loved Harry’s deli. She ate like an Italian—a whole muffuletta all by herself. I swear she ate more than her papa. She’s a good girl. That’s how I see it.”

  Chapter 22

  With Harry’s words ringing in their ears, they gathered the white sacks of olive and salami sandwiches, a few soft drinks, and walked along Harbor Road as if it were a normal day. But it wasn’t. Nor would the next days be until Spencer Paxton’s murderer was found.

  Mario Palazola had wholeheartedly agreed with Harry’s assessment of Rose. She was a good girl, he confirmed. She was a hard worker. And he’d fight anyone who said differently.

  But the fact that Rose had been thrown into the spotlight in such an awful way pained them.

  Beatrice and Bree were good women, too. Yet they’d all been pulled into it—into a web of suspicion that could eat away at them little by little. Spencer Paxton was bullying them from his grave.

  They walked in silence down Harbor Road and across the village green, passed the white gazebo, now quiet after a busy summer of concerts.

  Finally Birdie broke the silence. “How can the dead be so controlling?” She paused and looked up at the sky as the contrails of a plane drew vapor rings across the sky. Perhaps the vapor would loop into letters that would explain it.

  “Spencer Paxton is playing with everyone,” Izzy said. “Showing them who is boss. I hate it.”

  “Hate can be powerful,” Nell said. “But unfortunately it won’t give people back their lives. We need something else. We need to know who did this.” She looked over to the rows of pine trees, greening up for the thousands of tiny lights that would brighten their branches in time for Santa’s arrival in a few months. The season of peace. For a moment she wished she could fly over the intervening days—Mary Poppins on her broom, watching from above as life in Sea Harbor returned to normal and a murderer was caught.

  She dismissed her fantasy and followed Izzy and Birdie down the steps leading to the working pier, toward the sounds of brawny fishermen unloading pots and refilling bait bags. The Halloran slips were down toward the end, adjacent to a weedy wharf area holding stacks of lobster traps and a pile of Styrofoam buoys painted in the Halloran colors: bright green Irish strips with a white-nubbed band at the top.

  A black motorcycle was parked nearby.

  Nell breathed in the sounds and smells of the demanding, harsh work of fishermen. She felt it every time she ventured into Cass’s world. The thick smell of engine oil, the stinging squeal of rope against wood. The constant slap of the ocean against the side of rocking vessels.

  “Anyone home?” Izzy shouted out. Then she added the words that were sure to bring Cass out of hiding: “Food is here.”

  Cass’s head popped out of the cabin. “Angels from heaven.”

  “No, from Harry’s. Come.”

  Cass climbed over the side of the boat onto the dock. “Robbie McGlucken is helping me.” She turned toward the cabin and yelled, “Hey Robbie, come out here and take a bow.”

  An unshaven face appeared, black curly hair falling over his forehead. He lifted a hand, shoved his glasses up his nose, then retreated back inside. Several blinking digital screens were visible through the opening.

  “So, Robbie’s helping you?” Nell said quietly. “With the computer?”

  Cass nodded. “Danny’s idea. And he’s right. The guy’s a genius at all this. We’re having some trouble with the navigation system. It’s supposed to register the current and topography of the ocean floor, but yesterday the crew ended up in shallow water, scraping a rocky bottom. My pa would be mad as a hatter, wondering why we don’t just do it the way he did, remembering what’s what by the bend in the land, a clump of trees on an island. A rocky shore. When these gizmos fail, I think he’s right.”

  Izzy pulled one of the wrapped sandwiches from the bag. “It’s nice you asked him. He could probably use a diversion. And a job, now that he’s lost his. Here’s a sandwich for him. Harry always puts in extra.”

  The mention of food brought Robbie back out of the cabin and onto the pier in record time. He took the sandwich from Izzy and nodded a thanks.

  “Cool tattoo,” Izzy said, noticing several entwined daisies on his forearm.

  Instinctively he picked at the rolled-up sleeve, attempting to roll it down.

  Birdie leaned over and looked before it disappeared. “That’s lovely, Robbie,” she said.

  He managed to pull the rest of the sleeve down, then turned and began to walk away.

  But Birdie stopped him before his leg went over the rail. “Do you have a minute, Robbie?”

  Robbie stopped. He forked his fingers through the mass of curls with one hand, the other grasping the sandwich tightly, as if Birdie might want it back.

  “It’s so nice of you to help Cass out,” she said calmly.

  Robbie nodded.

  “And the next time my computer shows its mean side, I will be sure to call you. I know it must be hard right now, not only losing a friend, but a job.” She continued talking, holding Robbie in place with her calm voice. “We’re all terribly sorry about what happened to Spencer Paxton. But it must be especially difficult for someone who knew him and worked with him.”

  Robbie’s eyes narrowed. He looked down at his boots, his glasses sliding down his nose. He pushed them up with one finger, leaving a black mark across his nose.

  Nell picked up the conversation, almost as if she and Birdie had rehearsed it. “Ben said you had an interesting meeting at the yacht club the other day. He was impressed with how much you know about computers and the Internet. You were a huge help to Spencer.”

  Robbie nodded. “He paid me a lot. It was a good gig.”

  “That’s good. You can’t say that about all employers. I hope your next one is generous as well. I suspect you are worth every penny,” Birdie said. “I have a question about that. You may have known him better than anyone. I know some people in town were upset with him.”

  Robbie was silent.

  “Did you know that?”

  “Not really. He was probably upset with them, too. Goes both ways. All’s I know is I did my job and he paid me.”

  “I understand. You were wise. It’s probably best not to get in the middle of a boss’s feuds. But I have a question. Some of us received emailed newsletters the weeks before Spencer died. No one seems to know who did it. But there was something in it, a photo . . .”

  They all watched Robbie’s face. He bit down hard on his lower lip, silent. He shifted from one foot to the other. Then shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure what Birdie was talking about.

  “The photo was of dear friends of ours, Archie and Harriet Brandley.” Birdie smiled.

  Robbie’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh,” he said, air releasing from his lungs.

  “I would love to have a copy made of the photo,” Birdie said. “Could you arrange that for me?”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll print it out.” Looking relieved, Robbie turned and swung himself over the boat railing and disappeared into the safety of the cabin and the comfort of the computer screens.

  “Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it,” Birdie said smugly.

  The four women walked toward two old benches at the end of the pier.

  “So Robbie is responsible for the newsletter,” Izzy said, grinning at Birdie.

  “Geesh, Birdie, you’re our very own Columbo,” Cass said. “I think I’ll get you a raincoat and some cigars.”

  Birdie laughed. “I think if we’d asked him about it outright, he would have disappeared and your computer would never get fixed.”

  “Or he might have feigned ignorance,” Nell said.

  “I’m wondering
why he did it,” Cass asked. “Something to impress his boss?”

  “From the number of spelling and grammar errors, I’d say he wrote it,” Izzy said. “Spence wouldn’t have made those mistakes.”

  “He probably dug up the old articles, too,” Cass said. “He was always good at following directions. He’s very exact. He was terrific at Dungeons and Dragons.”

  “Do you suppose he played a hero or sneaky antihero?” Izzy said.

  “Ha, I wonder.”

  “So would Robbie have thought up the newsletter idea?” Birdie asked.

  “No,” Cass said. “Not unless he has a mean streak I’m not aware of. My guess he was following orders. No wonder Spencer paid him so well.” She glanced over at the boat and Robbie’s shadow, working the screen. “I don’t think Robbie considers consequences much.”

  “So it was Spencer Paxton’s idea,” Nell said.

  “In his effort to destroy Beatrice. Geesh. What a horrible man,” Izzy said.

  “So how does knowing that bring us closer to who murdered him?” Cass asked. “We suspected Spence was connected to the newspaper before. We just didn’t know the specifics.”

  They sat in silence, concentrating on the spicy tang of Harry’s sauce, the crispy bun and olive tapenade. They were all thinking the same thing. Bits and pieces of information were piling up, but none of them were pointing in a single direction. None of them were pointing to a murderer.

  “I was hoping Robbie might have something to say about the people who were upset with Spence. Surely he was aware of who they are, who was the angriest. Any threats that might have been made,” Birdie said.

  “Apparently Robbie liked Spencer,” Cass said. “And the feeling was mutual. But asking him to come up with people who didn’t like his boss might not be something he’d be comfortable doing. He still has to live here.”

  “That’s true,” Nell said. “And we’ve already figured out some of that by ourselves. We know Spencer was a horrible bully—he was as a kid, and he still was as an adult. He was bullying Beatrice. But we don’t know him beyond that. What is it you always say, Birdie? We need to walk in the dead person’s shoes? That’s where we’ll find the answer.”