A Finely Knit Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “One of the hurricane lamps on the far side of the boathouse had been knocked down and the glass was smashed against the rocks. When they went to pick it up, they spotted a chasm between two boulders, less than two feet wide. The first thought was an animal, maybe a young sea lion, had been tossed against the boulders by the waves and was wedged into the space, buried there. But then the light from the moon hit the shadowy form and it sparkled, almost as if it were alive. When they got closer they saw immediately it was a body.”

  “A body?” Nell said. She pulled out a stool and sat down, feeling suddenly weak. Had a swimmer been swept in by the tide? Someone none of them knew, caught in some dangerous undertow and pushed between the boulders while they partied up on the hill, oblivious of nature’s treacherous tricks.

  Elizabeth had been staring down at Nell’s kitchen island as if gathering strength from the butcher-block top. When she looked up and spoke, her voice was steady. And very sad.

  “It was Blythe Westerland, Nell. She’s dead.”

  * * *

  Jerry left soon after. He had to get back to the scene where his second-in-command, Tommy Porter, was winding things up. Ben walked him to the door.

  “Most of the guests were gone when they found her,” Jerry said. He and Angelo were helping Elizabeth straighten up some things, making sure the cleanup crew had finished with their tasks.

  “The scene?” he said. “You called it the scene—”

  “I didn’t say crime scene. But we have to treat it that way. Right now all we know is that Blythe is dead. She had a nasty blow to her head. Either she somehow got in the water, lost her footing, and the waves smashed her into the boulder—or something else caused the blow that killed her. That’s what needs to be figured out.”

  Ben stood on the step and watched his friend walk away.

  The chief reached his car, then turned back toward Ben, one hand resting on the car handle. His voice was weary.

  “But face it, Ben,” he said. “It was a hell of a time for Blythe to go swimming.”

  Chapter 9

  A s was the way of small towns, the news spread like floodwaters, rolling down the hills and valleys of the sleepy seaside town, waking up its residents to a brilliant fall day that would quickly lose its color.

  “Gabby is still at the Danverses’. Laura called me before I had had coffee,” Birdie said, talking without pause as she walked through the family room and into Nell and Ben’s kitchen. She dropped her bag on the floor near the island. “Ben, coffee, please.”

  It was clear from her face why Birdie was there.

  Nell quickly filled her in on the little they knew.

  “Elizabeth stayed here with Ben and me for a very short while, but she thought she’d have a better chance of sleeping in her own bed, so Ben walked her home.”

  She and Ben had gone back to bed after that, the windows open and curtains fluttering in the breeze as slowly the sky turned into day. They lay together, finding comfort in the touch of each other’s body, and talked quietly, hearts heavy, as they remembered the party minute by minute. When they had seen Blythe. And then when they hadn’t.

  It was a conversation that would circulate around breakfast tables all over Sea Harbor that Saturday morning.

  Birdie’s thoughts were on the same page, repeating it aloud. “Blythe wasn’t around when Laura went to introduce her,” she said, pouring a hefty stream of cream into her coffee.

  “Was Laura still at the school when they found . . .” Nell stopped. Found the body was too difficult to say. Too impersonal when talking about someone who was flesh and blood and beautiful, greeting guests, not twenty-four hours before.

  “No. She had already left. Almost everyone had.” Birdie paused, then went on talking as if words would somehow make sense of it all.

  “She called first thing this morning because of Gabby, thinking I’d be worried about her, but of course I didn’t know what she was talking about. Why would I be worried? I asked her, suddenly afraid something had happened to the girls.” Birdie stirred her coffee, the awfulness slowly settling in.

  “And then she told me. But first she assured me that the girls were making pancakes and didn’t know anything about what had happened—there would be time for that. She hadn’t known, either, she said, until Elliott came back from his early-morning run along the water. He’d gone the long way around the shore because the weather was so perfect, and then came home past the school. That’s where yellow tape and flashing cameras made him stop. Tommy Porter was pulling out of the parking lot at the same time and told Elliott what had already been released to the press.”

  A death. A terrible tragedy. Blythe Westerland.

  Nell took a bowl of yogurt and blueberries from the refrigerator. “Blythe seemed happy last night. Playful, almost.”

  “I’m not sure that’s what Angelo thought when he looked at her.”

  Birdie looked over at Ben. “You’re unusually quiet, Ben.”

  He was leaning against the counter, a pensive look on his face as he thumbed through messages on his phone. “Just checking with the outside world. Sam and I had a sailing date with Jerry this morning.”

  “He couldn’t have gotten any sleep last night. I doubt if sailing is on his mind.”

  “Probably not,” Ben murmured, his mind elsewhere as the messages passed quickly across the screen.

  Nell absently scooped the yogurt into three bowls and sprinkled each with granola, her mind trying to put the evening into focus. When had Blythe gone down to the water? And why? Had they seen her before they left the party? She was difficult to miss in that beautiful, glittering sheath. But already, in this short a time, the order of events, the conversations, the waves and hugs, had all started to merge together. She handed Birdie and Ben each a bowl. “Eat,” she said.

  Nell ignored the frown on Birdie’s face—yogurt wasn’t her first choice for breakfast. She’d much prefer the buttery blueberry kolaches her housekeeper had probably made that morning. “It’s good for you,” she added.

  “Of course it is,” Birdie said.

  Ben was checking his watch, a spoonful of yogurt already on its way to his mouth. “Jerry left a message. He didn’t say much except to remind us to check in on Elizabeth. He was going to try to get over there later.”

  “Of course. Birdie and I will walk up.”

  “Poor Elizabeth,” Birdie said. “This will be so difficult for her. It’s as if it happened at her ‘house,’ at her party.”

  Ben rinsed his bowl in the sink and headed toward his den. “Sam is picking me up. We have to file some registration papers for the boat and may drop in to check on Jerry, see if we can help.”

  “How?” Nell asked. “How could you help?”

  Ben shrugged. “Tackle an irritating reporter maybe? Sam’d be good at that.” He half smiled and when the horn honked in the driveway, gave Nell a hug that was tighter and lasted longer than the usual “see you later, dear” embrace. In the next second he was gone.

  No sooner had the door swung shut than it opened again.

  Izzy came in carrying Abby. Like Birdie’s, her voice announced her presence as she walked through the house and into the kitchen.

  “Blythe Westerland wasn’t swimming,” she said. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Not with that four-thousand-dollar Julien Macdonald dress on.”

  “Did you stop at the coffee shop?” Nell asked. As wonderful as the coffee was—and the shaded patio—Coffee’s was a hotbed for rumors, sometimes spun by night workers, those grabbing early cups of coffee, practically before the sun was up, as they dragged themselves home after the night shift on the newspaper or hospital or some security job. People with access to overnight news.

  “Sam did. He went out for doughnuts and coffee and came back with the awful news, sprinkled with some of the guesses being tossed around. It doesn’t
take long—” She handed a giggling Abby to Nell and set a bag of bagels on the counter. Smothered in thick cream cheese, it was fast becoming Abby’s favorite snack.

  “I agree. The swimming story is hogwash. It was just something to say. Blythe was taking her hostess responsibilities very seriously. I think she spoke to every single person at that party. Taking a dip in the ocean would not have been on her mind. That rumor will be pulled apart like strands of seaweed in no time. Even if she had enjoyed an ample share of champagne—which, from what I saw, was probably the case—she wouldn’t have embarrassed herself like that.”

  “So, if it wasn’t the waves or the tide that threw her against those rocks, then what was it?” Izzy sat Abby on the floor along with a collection of Nell’s Tupperware containers.

  Nell and Birdie were silent, letting Abby’s joyful squeals fill the air and block out the unease that floated around the room.

  An easy explanation was that she slipped on the rocks. The boulders were perfect for climbing, for sitting on top and looking all the way to Boston. And they were slippery when wet. An unfortunate accident. That was what they wanted it to be. Tragic. Understandable. Nell herself had slipped on the back-shore boulders not long ago. She had lost some skin on her knee. But not her life.

  How?

  The answer came sooner than expected.

  In the time it took for Nell to make another pot of coffee and to move Abby out to the deck to chew on a cream-cheese-covered bagel, Sam and Ben were back to pick up their sailing gear.

  But their somber expressions as they walked out on the deck spoke less of sailing than of their recent visit to the county offices just off Harbor Road—and the adjacent police station.

  “Blythe was killed by a blow to the head. But she didn’t fall on the boulders or slip. Someone crushed her head with a rock. The coroner said the blow probably killed her instantly,” Ben said.

  Sam picked up Abby and kissed the top of her head. His baby daughter was his equalizer.

  “And there are two hundred and fifty-seven suspects,” Ben said.

  “There are . . . what?” Birdie frowned.

  “The number of people on the property when Blythe Westerland was murdered.”

  Chapter 10

  B en didn’t mean it of course, not literally. But as Jerry Thompson put it, each one of the guests and staff who attended the amazing party that Friday night could have, might have, seen something that might help them figure out how—and why—Blythe Westerland’s life ended in such an inglorious and tragic way.

  Far more sobering was the thought that the person responsible for the tragedy could have been strolling around on the lawn under that perfect moon, drinking champagne, eating Gracie’s lobster rolls, laughing, and having a good time.

  “But it could have been someone who came along the shore, not a guest at all,” said Ben. “People climb on those boulders all the time—and the boathouse shielded the spot from people on the lawn.”

  “So it could have been anyone. Anyone in the whole universe,” Izzy said. Her voice was edged with fear and anger that her baby daughter could be exposed to horrible things, no matter how hard she tried to protect her and hold her close.

  She stood and picked up Abby, whose face was covered with cream cheese. She pressed her sweet face into her blouse, ignoring the white smudges that would still be there when she put her down. “I have to get to the yarn shop. Mae’s nieces are helping out today, but it’ll be crazy.”

  “Do you want me to keep Abby?” Nell asked.

  Izzy shook her head. She wanted Abby with her. Nell understood. And Abby loved the commotion and attention the shop provided, especially the Magic Room, a small room in the shop that Izzy had filled with toys for children whose mothers were shopping. Today Izzy needed her close, around the corner hugging a rag doll or knocking over blocks.

  “One thing, though—” Izzy looked at her aunt. She paused, but only for a minute.

  “I’m thinking dinner together would be nice. Is seven okay? Your house?”

  Nell smiled. Of course it was okay. And the thought had already taken root before Izzy ever mentioned it. They had missed their Friday on the deck, after all.

  Dinner would be better than okay.

  * * *

  After the others left, Birdie and Nell rinsed the coffee cups and put them in the dishwasher. They were quiet, their thoughts fragmented, unable to find a focus.

  Finally Birdie said, “It’s Gabby’s school. That makes it seem so close, so personal.” Her voice was soft, her eyes on the towel she was using to wipe out a cup. “A woman . . . was murdered there. I don’t know what to do with it.”

  Nell nodded. And she knew there wasn’t anything Birdie could do with it. Not today. Not yet. And maybe not at all. Gabby wasn’t in danger. She’d be safer now than ever before with the eyes of Sea Harbor on the community day school. Any other alternative didn’t make sense.

  She hung the towel on a rack and reached for a sweater. “Let’s check on Elizabeth. Imagine what her thoughts must be.”

  “This is an awful thing, no matter the circumstances,” Nell said as they walked up the shady street to Elizabeth’s bungalow just a few houses up. “No one deserves to die in such a horrible way and we all feel sadness over her death. But there’s an extra layer of emotion, I think, when the person was someone you might have disagreed with.”

  “You feel even worse?”

  “Maybe. A friend in college had a horrible fight with her boyfriend just an hour before he stopped at a QuikTrip for gas. He was killed there in a random accident. We all felt awful about his death. But Charlotte was inconsolable, as if somehow the breakup was the cause for his death. If only she had done this or that.”

  “So Elizabeth may feel worse because . . . because of what?”

  Nell was quiet. It was a fair question. Where was her thought going with all this? Because of what?

  “I know what you’re thinking, Nell, but I think you’re imposing our feelings on Elizabeth. We didn’t like the way Blythe treated her. We didn’t appreciate the things she said at the board meeting. But we don’t know how Elizabeth feels or how she was handling it. Maybe it was just a little problem along with many others that you deal with when you’re the administrator of a school. It’s business. Who knows, maybe she had no feelings about Blythe whatsoever. Neutral. We all know someone we feel that way about, especially when it relates to business—which is what her relationship with Blythe was—board business, school business.”

  It was business . . . until it was murder.

  But Birdie was right. Elizabeth guarded her feelings closely. Except that night at the Lazy Lobster. She looked whipped that night. And although Nell didn’t know it for a fact, she strongly suspected it was Blythe who had contributed to the whipping. They had seen it in action at the board meeting.

  They walked up the short walkway to the plain bungalow that Elizabeth had turned into a bright harbinger of autumn. Huge pots of mums and Gerbera daisies welcomed them, and turned the plain gray-shingled home into a reflection of autumn.

  Before they had a chance to ring the bell, Elizabeth opened the door.

  It was the first time Nell had seen Elizabeth dressed so casually. It startled her for a moment—the Harvard T-shirt and jeans stripped the headmistress of her usual formality. With her face free of makeup and her hair slightly disheveled, she looked even younger than her almost forty years. And vulnerable.

  “We came by to make sure you’re all right. It’s been a terrible few hours for you. What can we do? Do you need anything?”

  “I don’t think so.” Elizabeth took a deep breath and released it slowly, then pushed a stray curl behind her ear and admitted ruefully, “Actually I’ve been standing in the middle of my kitchen for fifteen minutes, debating about getting coffee somewhere—I’m completely out. Jerry told me not to go over to the school to
day, which is what I usually do on Saturdays.

  “So I considered getting out in the fresh air to get a cup of coffee. It seemed like a good idea. I thought it might clear the fuzziness from my head. But seeing people—students, parents, maybe—kept me from going very far.”

  “Coffee and nourishment,” Birdie said briskly. “That’s an excellent idea and one we can help you with very nicely. If you’d like company, we’ll walk with you. It’ll be good for all of us. Come—let’s go.” Birdie’s arm motioned toward the door.

  The tension in Elizabeth’s face lessened a little as Birdie took charge. She needed a minute to get her purse, she said, then reappeared from the side door and met them on the sidewalk.

  “A good idea, yes?” Birdie said, and without waiting for an answer, began walking briskly down Sandswept Lane.

  Nell waved at several neighbors raking leaves and some bikers heading toward the beach. As they neared Harbor Road, Birdie suggested a change in direction. “I think we should head to Canary Cove instead of the Harbor Road haunts. There’s a wonderful little place there—Polly Farrell’s Tea Shoppe. Polly makes the best soup on the East Coast. And she has great coffee, too, in spite of the name. It’s just a slight detour, but it might cure all our ills.”

  Birdie’s reasoning was crystal clear to Nell—and wise. Canary Cove was a longer walk but a way to avoid the more crowded lunch places on Harbor Road. Crowds were something Elizabeth didn’t need to tackle today. Whether or not Birdie was right about it curing all their ills was a little optimistic. Nell suspected it was going to take more than soup and coffee to do that.

  They moved close to the side of the road as a biker headed their way. Then they smiled and waved as they recognized Harry Winthrop, helmet in place. He waved back, slowed slightly, then stopped, balancing the bike with one foot and taking off his helmet. “Found this old thing in the garage,” he said to Nell and Birdie. Then he turned to Elizabeth, assessing her for a minute. He nodded slightly as if surprised to see her, then slipped his helmet back on, waved a good-bye. In the next minute he picked up speed and disappeared around a curve in the road.