A Finely Knit Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  The man looked grateful and held out his hand. “Thanks. I’m Bob Chadwick. And please, the least I can do is carry those for you.”

  Nell and Cass relinquished their bags without protest. They were heavy and Bob Chadwick’s broad chest and muscled arms would do a better job of carrying them down Harbor Road. And if he was sinister after all, he’d have his hands full.

  “Smells good,” Bob said as the aroma of Harry Garozzo’s pastrami and garlicky sauce rose from the bag.

  “It is,” Cass said. “Best pastrami sandwiches on the north shore. Where’re you from?”

  “Boston,” he said.

  “And you’ve never been to Cape Ann? Shame on you,” Nell said.

  He laughed. A nice friendly laugh and the two women relaxed a little. “It is a shame, actually. I like sailing. Mostly up in Maine. But don’t know why I never explored this place—I’ve been invited often enough.” Between the shops he spotted dozens of white sails, heading out to catch the breeze.

  “If you decide to give it a try, we know some mighty nice sailors,” Nell said.

  “Over there.” Cass directed as they passed Izzy’s yarn shop. She pointed across the street and to the end of the block, just across from the museum, where a small square of green was crisscrossed with paths. A small gazebo and benches invited picnickers and others to stop and rest.

  Izzy and Birdie waved as Cass and Nell walked around the stone statue of a lobster to where they sat in a circle of benches, papers spread out on the ground in front of them.

  “About time,” Izzy said. “We’re starving.” She looked again, startled. “Oops. Sorry. I thought you were Jake—the guy who works at the deli. Except you’re not wearing his greasy apron.”

  Bob looked down at his khakis. “Nope, he refused to give it up.”

  Nell took one of the bags and set it down, then introduced Bob Chadwick to Birdie and Izzy, who greeted him curiously, wondering, no doubt, why some stranger was carrying their bags for them.

  “These nice ladies are helping me find my way around town,” Bob said, and set the other bag down. “I have a meeting that I’m two hours late for. But I’ll definitely stop back at that deli before I leave town tomorrow morning. These sandwiches smell terrific.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the park. Then across the street to the old brick museum. And in the other direction where he looked again at the white tips of sailboats waving back and forth. “This place looks like Mayberry, U.S.A. with an ocean,” he murmured, more to himself than to the three women looking at him with restrained curiosity. He shook his head, still talking to himself. “Not what I was expecting . . .”

  He looked back at the women. “This sure doesn’t look like a place where someone would bash someone’s head in.”

  “So you know about the awful week we’ve had,” Nell said, watching his face change from pleasure to something else—not concern, exactly. Surprise, maybe. With a touch of sadness and disbelief.

  He nodded. “I don’t know much. I guess I’ll know more soon.”

  “Are you here to help with the case?” Nell asked. He didn’t look like a policeman. And Ben hadn’t mentioned that they’d be bringing people in. But who knew how these things were handled? He could be a detective.

  “No,” he said.

  “Do you have relatives here?” Izzy asked.

  The man was giving answers in a perfunctory way. He had mentioned jet lag earlier. Nell wondered if that explained it. Or it could be that they were pummeling him with questions.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Well . . . no. I did have relatives here. A relative.”

  For a moment they were all quiet. Then Birdie lifted one hand to her mouth, realization dawning on her. “Oh, my,” she said, and instinctively reached out to touch his arm.

  His head moved slightly, a nod. “She was my cousin—the woman who was killed,” Bob said. “Blythe Westerland.”

  * * *

  Things moved quickly after that.

  Birdie had pulled a bottle of water from the deli bag and practically ordered Bob to sit on the empty bench. “Drink the water,” she said.

  “Everyone in the courthouse will be out of their offices until one,” Nell said. “They won’t be missing you.”

  Cass pulled the sandwiches out of the bag and passed them around. “The deli owner is a friend. He always gives us extras.”

  Later they would talk about how instinctual their actions had been. It was what you did when someone died. You brought food. Offered drink. Company.

  But usually you knew the grieving person you sought to console.

  Bob seemed completely surprised by the attention swarming around him. But he followed instructions and seemed relieved to be putting off for a while longer the reason he was there. He sat, took a drink of water, unwrapped the pastrami sandwich from the waxed paper, and took his first bite, closing his eyes as his taste buds woke up to Harry Garozzo’s amazing sauce. “This is fantastic,” he murmured. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s been a long night.”

  “We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” Birdie said. “Were you and Blythe close?”

  Bob took a few more bites before responding. He pushed his sunglasses into a thatch of thick brown hair, took a drink of water, and spoke slowly, answering their question with one of his own.

  “Did you know my cousin?”

  “It’s a small town, Bob,” Birdie said. “Everyone is connected in one way or another. We all knew Blythe.”

  But did they? Nell wondered. Birdie was being comforting to someone who had just lost a relative in a horrific way. And yes, they knew her. But not in the way you knew those close to you—or even neighbors and shopkeepers, who shared illnesses and births and children losing first teeth, who accepted help when plumbing gave out or knew when your first grandbaby was about to be born. She knew Blythe by observing her, but no, she didn’t really know her.

  “Blythe had a difficult time letting people into her life. I guess I knew her as well as anyone did,” Bob said. “Our mothers were twins, and we were both only children. So there was that.”

  “Her mother? Does she know?” A mother—losing her daughter. The thought brought a sudden pain that burrowed deep inside her. She looked at Izzy and saw a flash of pain in her eyes, the same sad thought settling in.

  But Bob shook his head. “I’m her only living relative. I didn’t see her much when we were growing up, but we inherited a double brownstone together in the Back Bay when my mother died. Blythe lived there sometimes. Recently she’d been spending most of her time up here, but she was always back and forth. Doctors, dentists, dinners, a couple boards she was on, things like that always brought her back. She had her share of men no matter where she was.”

  “Where did the brownstone come from?” Izzy asked.

  “I grew up in one of them, one side, actually, and my mother bought the other side as an investment. She died a while ago and left it to both of us. I think she somehow wanted Blythe and me to be closer, and that was her way of doing it. And it worked. That’s when Blythe and I got to know each other. For two independent people, we actually became dependent on each other in odd ways. Rides to the airport and doctors’ appointments, talk about relationship crises. We took care of each other’s places if one was traveling, paid bills. It was good for both of us. Every now and then, we even confided in each other. Not often. But when it mattered.

  “Blythe was the kind of person who seemed to have everything, but she never wanted the things most people think about—she was adamant she’d never marry, never have kids. And she was true to her convictions, even when it meant . . . making difficult decisions.” Bob stopped, his forehead furrowed, as if he’d brought up a memory he hadn’t intended to let enter the conversation. He coughed slightly, then went on.

  “But I think she knew herself well and those
decisions were probably good ones. I don’t think she could have handled that kind of life. She certainly didn’t have any role models who could have helped her.”

  “What about her mother?”

  “She died early, at least as best we can figure out.”

  “You don’t know for sure?” Birdie asked.

  “My aunt Sandra—Blythe’s mother—married Clarence Westerland when she was young. He was a dozen years older. He was taken by her beauty. And she was impressed with his money and prestige, or at least that’s what my mother thought. Sandra had one child—Blythe. But according to my mother, Sandra—who was gorgeous, as you might have guessed Blythe’s mother would be—was never an emotionally strong person, and living as a Westerland wife was unbearable for her. When Blythe was two or three, her mother took off—and no one ever saw her again. Not even my mother. I don’t remember her at all. Blythe doesn’t—didn’t—either.”

  “Abandoned her own daughter?” Izzy’s mouth had dropped open. Another inconceivable thought to try to digest.

  They sat in silence, the screech of the gulls and the light traffic on Harbor Road the backdrop as they tried to wrap their thoughts around a mother abandoning her daughter. A daughter now dead. Suddenly Blythe Westerland was changing before their eyes.

  “Who raised Blythe? Your mother?” Birdie asked. But that didn’t fit the little she knew about Blythe’s upbringing. She had attended Sea Harbor Community Day School. And Bob said he hadn’t known her until they were adults.

  “No,” Bob said confirming her thoughts. “My mother wanted to raise her, but she didn’t have a say in the matter. Blythe’s father was a Westerland. That made Blythe a Westerland. My mom became estranged from Sandra when she married into the Westerland family. Mom thought the estrangement was encouraged, maybe demanded by the Westerlands.

  “The family had money and servants and lots of power in Boston and Cape Ann, too. Homes all over the place. Blythe was raised by the Westerlands—a family of men with numbers after their names—Elijah the second, Clarence the third or fourth, or whatever.”

  He crumpled the sandwich wrapping and tossed it into a nearby container. “Her own father—the grandfather, too, and a couple uncles—had absolutely no use for Blythe from what my mother was able to piece together.”

  “What? Why?” Izzy looked as if she was going to attack someone. Nell put a hand on her arm.

  “Because she was a woman—and even worse than that, she was her mother’s daughter and looked exactly like her—a constant reminder of someone they considered a weak, useless woman who ran away. Someone clearly beneath them. But you don’t give away kids. It doesn’t look good. So they kept her.”

  Bob checked his watch and got up, brushing crumbs off his tan slacks. He thanked them, got directions from Cass, and said he’d be in touch.

  They watched him walk off.

  They kept her. “How awful for Blythe,” Nell murmured. “Kept her, like a piece of furniture.”

  She thought about the Blythe who had sat on a school board with her, the woman of taste and means who had a gorgeous condominium near the water, who was involved in civic affairs. A woman who always seemed to have a man at her side. A woman seeking power, like the men who had raised her . . .

  Nell tried to put the odd and mismatched pieces in a puzzle frame that made sense. But they resisted and fell to the ground, mixing with crumbs from their pastrami sandwiches.

  In the end, all her thoughts produced was lunch for a hungry gull.

  Chapter 18

  T he school was quiet, the students gone for the day. A crisp breeze sent a sprinkling of leaves falling to the ground, the colors just beginning to change. It was tranquil. Peaceful. One would never have imagined that days before a murder had sullied the grounds.

  It had been a busy day. An hour after meeting Bob Chadwick, Nell and Birdie had received e-mails that sent them following in his footsteps. Could they please come to the station to meet with one of the men working on the case? When Nell called back and mentioned she was with Cass and Izzy, they were included in the meeting. It’s routine. Just to touch base, the policeman said.

  The meeting had indeed been routine, a series of who was where and when at the party. Who talked to whom? They were also checking on any out-of-town guests, especially ones who might not have been invited. Cass mentioned Harry, but only because he was an out-of-towner. “He had a paid ticket,” she said, and the officer dutifully recorded it.

  Although it had been so recent, memories of the party seemed far away, and conversations a blur. But they all promised to think about them, write things down, and send on anything they remembered.

  * * *

  Two hours after that found Izzy and Nell each carrying a box of supplies up the fan of steps leading to the school’s main entrance. Before they reached the door, Angelo appeared out of nowhere, his arms stretched wide.

  “Ladies, ladies, ladies, that is Angelo’s job.” He piled the boxes on top of one another, his head barely visible above them.

  “Yarn and needles and doodads,” Izzy said. “Nothing contraband, Angelo.” She held open the door and followed him into the foyer.

  Angelo chuckled, then sobered quickly. “Not a time to joke about anything criminal, Izzy. Sad times we have here.” He set the bags down and nodded toward the administrative suite. “How she does it, I don’t know. But she is holding it together.”

  “We were concerned about her. This is a difficult time.” They told Angelo about their hour at the police station that day. “I don’t see how they are going to question everyone at the party. It will be impossible.”

  Angelo agreed. He’d spoken to an officer himself earlier that day. “And I expect I’ll be back. They’re desperate for some glimpse of something off, something that might lead them from the party to the rocks. But the truth of it is,” he said, “it was probably someone who was coming along the shore. A diver, someone in a boat, or even someone climbing that rocky shore on foot. And just waiting for Blythe to make an appearance.”

  “But how would he or she know Blythe would walk down there?”

  Angelo shrugged. That was a sticking point. But she could have gotten a message from someone. She was in demand that night, he said.

  It didn’t hold together, though. Not completely. A far more rational explanation was that Blythe and a guest at the party were having a private conversation down behind the boathouse. And that person had killed her.

  Someone at the party. And though Angelo knew that made sense, Izzy and Nell could both see that he wouldn’t yet let himself go there. Not yet. He had lived in Sea Harbor all his life, and he probably knew almost all the people there that night, except for the occasional out-of-town groups.

  “Dr. Hartley is racking her brain,” he said instead. “She talked to nearly everyone that night, working at cementing relationships, doing all those things administrators are supposed to do.”

  Nell and Izzy agreed. “We saw her that night, so gracious and hospitable. Everyone felt her warmth.”

  “She’s a good boss. Dr. Hartley doesn’t think about herself. Ever. It’s all about the school. The girls. The teachers.” His frown deepened as he glanced again toward the glass windows of the suite.

  His head moved from side to side and his eyes narrowed. “But that other one—” He lowered his voice so that Izzy and Nell had to lean in to hear. “Even in death she is trying to destroy our school. She was evil.”

  A hand lay gently on his arm as Elizabeth Hartley appeared at his side from across the entrance foyer. She smiled at Izzy and Nell, then spoke gently to Angelo. “Let it go, please, Angelo. I need you to hold it together.”

  But the expression on Angelo’s face only became more pronounced, the furrows in his brow growing deeper, the look in his piercing blue eyes so intense that Nell turned briefly away.

  When she turned back, it was still
there. A look of hate so strong she rubbed her arms, willing the uncomfortable feeling away.

  Angelo turned away, as if trying to shake off the power Blythe Westerland seemed to hold over him from the grave.

  From one of the hallways that stemmed like an octopus arm off the round lobby, a teacher called to him. Trouble with a riser in the auditorium. Would he help?

  He took a deep breath, the old familiar Angelo reappearing as he said good-bye and hurried off after the choral director, his mind moving on to things more manageable.

  Elizabeth watched him disappear. Once he was out of earshot, she apologized. “Angelo tries to protect me. I couldn’t do my job without him—but he needs to take care of himself, not me.” There was a note of regret mixed with her apology, as if she wished they hadn’t seen his anger.

  Nell watched the stocky man disappear down the hallway. Elizabeth was right. Angelo needed to look after himself but maybe not in the way the headmistress meant. Emotions were running high along the streets of Sea Harbor. Neighbors looking at neighbors. And everyone wanting one thing: the murderer, whoever that might be, behind bars. There was a “someone” who might be walking too close to their children, someone who had wanted someone they knew dead—and someone who had made it happen. Allegiances sometimes fell away in the face of fear. Angelo needed to hold his anger in, lest it be snatched up, magnified, and used against him.

  Elizabeth glanced at the boxes on the floor.

  “Supplies for the knitting class,” Izzy explained.

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said. “Just leave them right here. I’ll have someone take them to the supply room.”

  She sent a quick text to security, then brought her attention back to Nell and Izzy.

  “Elizabeth,” Nell said, “it’s almost silly to ask you how you are. An empty question. Except you need to know that you have plenty of friends ready to help you through this time. We’ll do whatever we can for the school, for you. Somehow this school has worked its way into many hearts.”