How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Even Cass was at a loss for words.

  Izzy had woven the fanciful sea creature from sea-silk yarn, knitting the mushroom-shaped top in tiny, lacy stitches. As the eye moved down, silky fibers fell off the underside of the mushroom into long, thin tentacles—purple, bright pink, and orange.

  It would join others hanging from the ceiling at the Canary Cove Fiber Arts Show, she explained, where they’d catch the light and move in a slow-motion breeze as people walked by. They’d come alive.

  The jellyfish’s small poisonous sac that produced a nasty sting in real life was absent from Izzy’s work of art.

  But not from their conversation.

  “Aunt Nell, what else happened? You have that look,” Izzy said. She had been standing near the deep, mullioned windows of Birdie’s den, holding her art piece in the light for her friends to evaluate. She gently laid it over the back of the chair, content with the accolades and knowing Birdie had texted the invite for reasons other than to compliment her art.

  Come at 4 for cocktails, tea or water. And some crazy Moroccan appetizer Ella has dreamed up.

  The important part of the message, though, was come. Not if you want to or if you have time. Just come. Frustration was building, and somehow they needed to try to pull apart rumor from fact. Crawl inside the mind of Spencer Paxton III. And at the end of it all, find his murderer and get on with life.

  Meeting in Birdie’s den, high above the harbor on Ravenswood Road, was the perfect place to gain perspective. Removed from town noise but with a panoramic view of all the workings of Sea Harbor. Good and bad.

  A tray of gimlet glasses, a lime slice on the side, sat on a low table, and Birdie motioned for everyone to take one. “Raymond Chandler featured them in The Long Goodbye,” she said. “They will inspire us to untangle this mess and find out who did the crime.”

  They clinked their glasses in agreement, toasting the mystery writer and inspiration—and the fact that Birdie wasn’t leaving room for failure.

  They will inspire us.

  “All right,” Izzy said, bringing them back to business. “The look, Aunt Nell? You came in here with one.” She curled up in a large wingback chair. “What do you think is going on in Stella’s office?”

  Nell had gone over the break-in quickly when they all came in. It took little time to detail a robbery during which nothing was taken, but they all started talking at once at the thought of Stella’s life having another curveball thrown at it. Once those emotions had settled, others took their place.

  “What could you possibly steal from a real estate office—photos of houses?” Cass asked, reaching for one of the toasted pita triangles Ella had brought in. They were arranged around a pot of Moroccan-spiced carrot hummus. “It will keep you awake,” the housekeeper had said before abruptly walking out of the room.

  Izzy wrinkled her nose. “It’s so orange.”

  “She hasn’t poisoned us yet,” Birdie said. “Don’t be finicky, dear.”

  Izzy dipped a corner of pita into the hummus after seeing the look of pleasure on Cass’s face—and the fact that she hadn’t choked. “Leaving the electronics behind certainly makes it strange. There’d be little else to steal.” She chewed thoughtfully on the pita. “Well, except maybe for Uncle Mario. He’s probably wanted in Sicily for a few things.”

  The thought of anyone trying to steal the portly Italian Realtor lightened the mood for a minute.

  “Well,” Nell said, “we might not know for sure if anything was taken, but we do know someone broke in and was looking for something. The place was a mess.” Nell walked them through what she saw, but it wasn’t satisfying Cass, Birdie, and Izzy.

  “We’re missing something, Aunt Nell. In your head, go back in the office, look around, look at Stella. What did you see?”

  Nell held back a smile. She was in a courtroom, being prepped by this very lovely lawyer, to keep her recollection clear and detailed. “Izzy, I think I’ve told you everything.” She picked up her own knitting, the surprise-for-Birdie hoodie that Birdie was watching her knit, making sure she didn’t add too many stitches around the bustline. “Stella also seemed totally up-front when Tommy asked her questions. She was genuinely puzzled by it all. She keeps the place neat, and said Rosie is good at that, too. There’s little clutter. She would have noticed something missing. My worry for her is that it has to be frightening. It would almost be easier if they had taken the computer or something. That would make sense, at least.”

  Birdie hadn’t said anything. She was sitting in Sonny Favazza’s seventy-year-old cracked leather chair, sipping her gimlet. But the disruption in their lives had gone on long enough for her. “It has to be connected to the murder, then. To the house on Cliffside Drive. Maybe not the contracts, but something else. And maybe they didn’t find it there. Maybe Stella or a cleaning person or someone inadvertently removed whatever it is the person was after. I think we set that fact aside as a given. And then we will see where it fits into the larger picture.”

  Everyone agreed.

  “Talking to Patricia Stuber was enlightening,” Nell said. “I think she helped us understand Spence a little.”

  “From what you told me, his dad must have been a poor excuse for a father,” Izzy said. “A classic bully of a father, begetting—” She paused. “No, I don’t think one is born a bully. He was a classic bully of a father raising a classic bully of a son.”

  “Yes,” Nell said. “It’s textbook.”

  “So we have a bully. But what we don’t have is an adult knowing about the bullying. That was maybe the most interesting thing I learned from Patricia. She didn’t deny that Spence probably was one, she just never had anyone reporting him to her. Or few other people, for that matter.”

  “It’s the students who know those things. His buddies,” Cass said.

  “And don’t forget the others,” Izzy said quickly. “The kids like Rose, whose lives were made miserable because of guys like Spencer.”

  Birdie took a sip of her drink and set it down, her face thoughtful. “When we walked through the school and the kids were milling around, I was imagining Spencer and his friends. If someone is inclined toward that kind of behavior, I don’t think they would pick on just one person. People develop habits—patterns, like in knitting. Surely Rose wasn’t the only one they picked on.”

  “Has anyone asked Rose if she knew of other kids?” Birdie asked.

  “Rose said that when you’re the prey like she was, you become as invisible as you can. You don’t spend much time figuring out what’s going on around you. And she didn’t really have good friends that she could have talked to about it. She was one of the kids who sat alone in the cafeteria, studying,” Izzy said.

  The thought was a sobering one, especially for Cass, who’d wandered through that same cafeteria and been waved over to many tables, invited to sit and laugh and talk nonsense. She shook off the discomforting memory and thought of something else the principal had said.

  “Patricia also said something about some years being more difficult than others. And she mentioned that the years Spencer and his friends were in school were difficult for her.” She looked at Birdie and Nell. “Did you get that?”

  Nell nodded. “It was odd, the way she said it. As if she were remembering something that wasn’t necessarily connected to our conversation, but had been triggered by it. Clearly something happened that was difficult. She looked pained as she remembered it.”

  “And she didn’t want to talk about it,” Birdie said.

  “Do you suppose it was personal?” Cass asked.

  “I think it was somehow personal to her. But I suspect it had something to do with the school,” Birdie said. “It was in that context that she remembered it.”

  “Do you think it was connected to the Paxtons?” Izzy asked.

  “I didn’t get that feeling,” Cass said. “I thought she remembered it because we were talking about things that happened around that time.”

  Nell agreed. “Ye
s, that’s what I remember, too. But even if it didn’t directly involve Spencer, it was important enough to affect her, even after all those years. I think it’s worth looking into.”

  “If it was something that happened in town—even a minor thing—the Sea Harbor Gazette will have written about it. Anything that caused that sad look on Patricia Stuber’s face all these years later was probably newsworthy.”

  “Stella was a couple years older than Spence. I wonder if there was anything going on that she was aware of?” Birdie said. “I’m taking her and Rosie to dinner. I think we’ll have a good old-fashioned talk.”

  “Stella knew Spence, but he was enough younger that I doubt if she knew much more,” Cass said. “She remembers him mostly from summer at the yacht club, this kid who thought every girl—even a college kid like Stell—was in love with him.”

  “But she might have remembered something traumatic enough that it affected the principal,” Birdie said.

  Or not. They all knew that high school was the most important time in your life. Until it wasn’t. And for some, casting it aside happened very quickly.

  “We’re doing what we set out to do, following in Spencer’s footsteps,” Birdie said. “That’s a good thing. But I don’t think we can totally dismiss some of the others—”

  They all looked at her.

  “I am not sure Josh Babson has been completely up-front.” Izzy was quiet for a minute. They waited for a protest. But instead, she said, “You might be right. He’s holding something back. When I asked him why he was so rude to Spencer that night on the Palate deck, his voice was cold and almost scary, not his usual way at all. I asked him again the other day when I dragged him over to help Bree and me. He said Paxton was truly bad.”

  “I do like Josh. Jane does, too,” Nell said. “And you don’t want to believe that people like him could . . .”

  “No, of course you don’t,” Birdie said. “It’s that same question all over again.... Do good women—or good men—do bad things?”

  The room fell silent as a silent vow was made to find out.

  Chapter 27

  It seemed everyone had plans that night.

  “Except for the two of us,” Nell said to Ben, quite liking the idea. “Candlelight dinner.”

  “For two. Not ten.”

  Nell laughed, then added her choices. “A blazing fire and you to keep me warm. Oh, and tuna tartare.”

  * * *

  In minutes they were in the car and headed toward Gloucester, wishing for a spot on the Beauport Hotel’s deck, one next to the massive stone fire pit with plates of the hotel’s signature tuna tartare in front of them, soft jazz playing in the background. And hoping not to run into anyone they knew.

  “We’re in luck on all accounts,” Ben said, settling into the chair next to Nell. He laid a blanket across her knees and in minutes a tuna tartare appetizer and bottle of champagne appeared.

  “So far. My sister Caroline always says the only sure thing about luck is that it will change.”

  “Your sister is a pessimist.”

  Nell leaned back and picked up the thin glass of champagne. “Now . . . if only we had something to celebrate,” she said, resting her head back and gazing into a sea of stars.

  “That’s not the Nellie I know and love. That’s Caroline talking. Please tell her to leave—this is a dinner for two. And we do have something to celebrate.” He dipped a chip into the avocado cream and handed it to her. “We have this moment. You can’t ask for anything more.”

  Ben sang the last line of the old song and Nell laughed, a cleansing feel-good laugh that loosened her body and soul, the week’s events scattering like the sea spray below. They clinked their glasses together and sat in comfortable silence, alone in the world, until the empty tuna platter had been removed and the champagne glasses were nearly empty. A waiter came over and stoked the fire, and Nell leaned over toward Ben, resting a hand on his arm as if anchoring him—and the moment—in place.

  The evening passed in a pleasant blur—carried along by tenderloin filets, wine, and an unspoken agreement that talk of murder was not invited.

  * * *

  Hours later they walked down the staircase toward the parking lot, their heads light with pleasure and their bodies full. As they reached the bottom step, Nell pressed her palm against the pocket of her sweater to make sure her phone was still there—something she did with such automatic regularity that Ben teased her about it, especially when she made the motion to her pocket while speaking on the phone itself.

  She stopped, then dug through her bag, and then smiled apologetically. “I must have left it on the deck.”

  Ben offered to retrieve it, but Nell insisted on going herself. She patted her stomach. “Exercise,” she said.

  A few minutes later, Nell returned, just as Ben was wrapping up his conversation with the doorman, learning where he went to school, what he majored in, and what kind of boat he liked to sail.

  She took his arm and walked outside toward the parking lot. “We didn’t get all four things we wished for,” she said. “Although I suppose three out of four is pretty good.”

  Ben lifted one brow. “The three we got?”

  “A place near the fire pit, tuna tartare, soft jazz.”

  “All perfect,” Ben said.

  Nell held up her phone. “Our efficient waiter found it. It was already at the hotel’s front desk,” she said, holding it up.

  “Hmm,” Ben said.

  “And so were two people we know, checking in for the night.”

  “Ah, our fourth wish. Not running into anyone we know. Who was it?”

  Nell waited a second longer while Ben fished his keys out of his pocket. And then she answered his question.

  “Bree McIntosh and Josh Babson.”

  * * *

  As had been the case in recent years—ever since Ben Endicott had convinced Birdie that driving Sonny Favazza’s old Lincoln Town Car down Harbor Road at highway speed wasn’t wise—her groundskeeper, Ella’s wonderful husband Harold, drove the big shiny car, stopping at the curb outside the Palazola Realty office while Rosie and Stella piled in the backseat. He tipped his cherished chauffer’s hat at them, and then continued down Harbor Road and around the shoreline to the Sea Harbor Yacht Club.

  * * *

  “I was going to come up with a reason for this dinner,” Birdie said as they followed the waitress to a table near the wall of windows, “but finally decided I didn’t need a reason. Dinner seemed like a good idea. So here we are.”

  Birdie smiled at Rose. No one talked about Rose staying or leaving Sea Harbor, knowing the police would have eliminated that option for anyone connected to the Paxton murder until the investigation was complete. But Birdie knew one thing for sure: The more they could wrap the young woman in friendship, the easier that stay would be.

  Sitting at the table across from Rose, Stella was beaming brighter than the candles all over the room. Having two of her favorite people together—and then, as icing on the cake, the club’s seafood buffet—was a heavenly relief sandwiched in a rough couple of weeks.

  Birdie felt it, too. She suggested a bottle of wine and an order of crab cakes for starters, then settled back in the comfortable chair and listened to Rose and Stella talk about a new listing Stella had just landed, and a decaying bathroom pipe that Rosie was replacing. The interplay between the two younger women was comforting somehow, the laughter that came easily a perfect evening tonic. But she especially relished the respect and affection they gave to one another, and the calmness that Rose brought to the table. It was lovely to see what trust and chemistry could do.

  And also yoga and meditation, she knew. She and Nell had discussed Rose’s practices earlier that day. The conversation was left hanging when Nell suddenly suggested that she and Birdie take a yoga class at the Y.

  Looking at Rose now, her calm expression and thoughtful eyes, made Birdie wonder about it all. The young woman had lived through a painful adolescence, an u
nwitting connection to a murder, and now was caught up in a police investigation, exploring every footstep she took. And she looked happy. Or peaceful, at least. Rose Chopra was a survivor.

  Rose was looking around the room, taking in the candles flickering on the tables, a trio playing in the corner lounge, the amazing aromas. “It’s even lovelier here at night,” she said, and then reminded Birdie that they’d had lunch there together once before—not long ago, or maybe a lifetime.

  “It seems like a lifetime anyway,” Rose said. “You were here, too, Stell.”

  “Right over there,” Stella said, pointing to a table at the window. “I was getting the Destinos to sign a contract for that big old house on Ocean Spray Road.”

  “Oh, lordy, I almost forgot that day,” Birdie said.

  “You probably wanted to forget,” Rose said. “I did. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

  “You fainted. It was awful for you. What was it Izzy called it?” Stella asked.

  “Vasovagal reflex,” Rosie said. “It sounds made up but it’s true. It’s triggered by different things in different people. In my case it’s blood, needles—I could never be a candy striper—and also a sudden traumatic experience.”

  Birdie listened, revisiting that day in her mind.

  Rose looked over at her. “I know, there wasn’t any blood that day. But it was traumatic.”

  Birdie put it together in an instant. How Rose had walked up behind her and had seen Spencer Paxton, just feet away from her.

  “That was the first time I had seen Spence since I left here as a damaged kid,” Rose said. “I figured it would happen—I wanted it to happen—but I guess you could say I didn’t have my sea legs yet.”

  “It must have dredged everything up in that single second,” Stella said. “I don’t remember much about Spence from high school—he was an underclassman—though everyone knew him in a superficial way. He made sure everyone knew his name and that he was a successful quarterback. But I have this secret hope that I tripped him or something. I think I did.”