A Finely Knit Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Chelsey leaned slightly into her husband, her head inclined as if to view the painting from a different angle.

  “Hey, you two, we’re coming to dinner Friday night,” Jane said, motioning to Ham to stay at the desk in case someone had questions.

  Nell nodded, trying to pull her attention back to Jane. She glanced once more at the exhibit, but Chelsey and Barrett had turned away from the paintings and were walking over to Ham. She looked back at Jane and smiled brightly. “Of course you’re coming. Where else would you be on Friday night? Besides, you’ve nicely ignored us tonight and I need to catch up with my friend.”

  Jane grew serious. “Me, too,” she said. “We need to help each other make sense of the world, dear Nell.”

  If that was at all possible, Nell thought.

  She looked at Chelsey Mansfield, standing at the door, waiting for her husband. Chelsey was looking around at the art displayed in the room—Jane’s beautiful ceramics and some of Ham’s watercolors. Her face expressed appreciation of what she saw.

  She noticed Nell just as Barrett walked up to her. Waved, then tucked her arm in her husband’s. And then they were gone.

  “Hey, good news,” Ham said as he and Ben walked toward them from the order desk.

  He waved a check in his hand. “Who would have thought?” he said.

  Nell glared at Ben. He put up two hands and proclaimed innocence. “Not me. I’m waiting for the bigger exhibit. Ham promised me my own preview.”

  “So, if not you . . .” Jane moved toward her husband and the flapping check.

  “Josh sold his first painting tonight. It will pay several months’ rent for the guy, maybe more. He’s a happy camper.”

  “Which painting?” Jane asked.

  But Nell knew which one before Ham confirmed it.

  He handed the check to Jane. “The big one,” he said.

  Nell looked over her shoulder at the check.

  In the left-hand corner, just above the enormous sum, she read the address:

  Chelsey and Barrett Mansfield

  22 Seacliff Road

  Sea Harbor, MA 01930

  Chapter 23

  B en called ahead from his cell, then double-parked in front of Harry Garozzo’s deli and ran in to pick up their order.

  Nell rolled down the window to let in the evening breeze. Instead Tommy Porter leaned in, his forearms resting on the door. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Hi there. What’s up, Tommy?”

  “Just wanted to say hello. I’ve seen Ben off and on this week but have had hardly a glimpse of you.”

  Nell smiled. She had known the young policeman since he was a kid fishing off the pier. She had watched him grow from delivering papers to lawn jobs, including the Endicotts’. One of several children in a fishing family, Tommy had strayed off course by attending the police academy, and his family was inordinately proud of him. “A cop in the family can’t hurt,” his dad joked to anyone who asked, his chest puffing up.

  “It’s good you’re getting a night off now and then,” Nell said.

  Tommy glanced down at his jeans, and his smile melted away. “Nah, not really. None of us will really be off duty, ever, not until we catch this guy. We’re all on alert, always looking, all the time, no matter where we are. You can’t shake it, you know? You just never know, some overhead conversation in a bar or a stray piece of gossip—maybe it’ll lead somewhere. It’s hard on all of us, but especially on the chief. The guy isn’t sleeping much.”

  “It hasn’t even been a week, Tom—” But Nell knew, just as they all did, that every day without new leads diminished the chance of catching him.

  Tommy was quiet for a minute, as if he wanted to ask something, then thought better of it and held it back.

  “Are there theories?”

  Tommy nodded. “Yah. A couple.”

  “And suspects?”

  Tommy sighed. “Yah. And motive. Lots of people aren’t sad that Ms. Westerland’s not around. But . . . but the people the investigation keeps pointing at, well . . .” Again he looked as though he wanted to say something else, ask a question, but then fell silent, his head lowered and his eyes staring sadly down at nothing.

  Nell tried to give the conversation a twist. “Blythe was never married, was she?”

  He shook his head. “From what I hear, she wasn’t the marrying kind, even though men were attracted to her something crazy. You have to admit, she was quite the looker. One summer a couple years ago my older brother, Eddie, seemed to be the object of her affections. It didn’t last long. In a couple weeks she tossed him overboard like a bad fish. She liked conquests, Eddie said, and control. There was this guy, a friend of Eddie’s, whom she came on to. He went out with her a couple times, but he was kind of traditional, and was uncomfortable with all the flash. Eddie convinced him his days were probably numbered anyway, so he cut it off himself. That didn’t sit well with her. It was her job to conquer and discard, not his, I guess.”

  “What happened?”

  “The guy worked at the yacht club. Blythe had him fired.”

  “What?”

  “I know. She had this weird power. But I should zip it. I know it’s not good to speak ill of the dead and all that—my mom would be ashamed of me. But this woman has gotten in my head. I don’t like her there. But—”

  “But until the murderer is caught . . . ?”

  Tommy nodded. “Right. Until then, she’s going to be front and center—and giving me migraines.” He looked up as Ben walked around the car to the driver’s side. Tommy waved a hello. “Looks like a first-class feast,” he said, eyeing the white sack.

  “Nothing but the best for my bride.” Ben smiled and waved good-bye as Tommy headed down the road.

  Ben slid behind the wheel, bringing with him smells of garlic, ham, tomatoes, and cheese. And freshly baked bread. He handed Nell a bottle of wine to hold and started the engine.

  “What if Elizabeth’s already eaten?” Nell asked, positioning the bag of sandwiches between her feet.

  “Then I’ll eat the leftovers.” He shifted into drive and headed toward their neighborhood.

  They pulled into Elizabeth’s drive. The house was dark.

  “I wonder if we’re too late,” Nell said. “Maybe she’s gone to bed.”

  “At seven thirty? It’s just beginning to get dark.” Ben got out and checked the front door, then peered in the front window and a small one in the garage. He got back into the car beside Nell. “Her car’s gone. Something must have come up.”

  They both pulled out their phones and checked for messages. There were none.

  “This isn’t like Elizabeth,” Ben said. “I wonder if something kept her at school.”

  “It’s a nice night for a ride. Let’s drive over there. If she’s still working, we can at least give her something to eat—”

  Unsaid was a sudden worry that worked its way inside Nell. Undefined, irrational. And real.

  She looked at Ben. He felt it, too.

  The school parking lot was lit with security lights and Ben drove around it, past several golf carts the maintenance staff used and a pickup truck near a storage shed. At the side closest to the school, they spotted Elizabeth’s small green Prius, parked near the lit walkway that wound around to the entrance.

  Nell smiled in the dark car, relief settling in.

  But when they reached the entrance, the door was locked. Ben took a few steps back and looked over to the windows that surrounded the headmistress’s office. Dark. The only lights visible anywhere were the security spots strategically placed around the building and yard. He walked around to the side, and only the corner security lights added light to the stone school.

  Nell walked to the terrace, looking out toward the water. The boathouse was silhouetted against the darkening sky. “I know this is silly,�
�� she said, “but let’s walk down to the dock. Just to make sure . . .” Make sure of what? Nell wasn’t sure. But somehow knowing that Elizabeth wasn’t alone, down near the rocky shore, seemed suddenly all-important.

  Ben took Nell’s hand and squeezed it as they walked across the terrace and down the winding flagstone path. The hurricane lamps used for the party were gone, but small spots shone up into trees, and low solar lights were turning on as darkness set in, lighting the walkway. A light breeze lifted Nell’s hair from her neck. It could have been romantic, lovely, a peaceful walk at day’s end.

  But Ben’s squeeze of her hand was hard—there was nothing romantic about it. And there was nothing romantic about the determination that propelled their footsteps across the yard to the ocean beyond.

  They crossed the narrow beach road and approached the rocky shore, slowing down, as if intruding on a private space. The dock was old, but a good place to sit, to think. Something Elizabeth might be in need of.

  But there was no one around, no fisherman out for a final catch, no strollers or joggers.

  No Elizabeth Hartley.

  They stood still, scanning the shore, then beyond the boulders, out toward the spit of land that housed Canary Cove. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was deafening, blocking out traffic and town noises, breathing and heartbeats.

  It was Ben who finally looked over at the boathouse. Its angles were haunting in the diminishing light, the slight lean of the roof, the broken shingles along the side. Gone was the yellow tape, along with any sign of danger or crime or tragedy. As if the boathouse and majestic granite boulders that separated it from the sea were simply there for painters to capture in beautiful strokes on stretched canvas.

  “She’s not here, Ben,” Nell whispered. Her voice wobbled uncertainly, and Ben didn’t answer. Instead he walked over to the boathouse.

  The windows were dirty, but the small flashlight on Ben’s key chain showed the inside to be as empty as the beach.

  “I think we need to call Jerry Thompson,” Ben said, pulling out his phone.

  It was then that the sound of the waves diminished briefly, their punishing crash falling off in the distance, as if controlled by Sirens reclining on the rocky edifice.

  Another sound took its place, making its way into the night.

  Soft, like the mew of a kitten.

  Nell looked around, then over to the boulders that separated the boathouse from the water.

  Ben was a footstep behind her as they walked quickly toward the sound, the waves picking up again as the power of the wind pulled and tugged.

  Elizabeth sat on a smooth outcropping of the largest boulder, nearly hidden from view by the closer pile of rocks. Her knees were pulled up to her chin, her face a shadow in the receding light.

  “Elizabeth,” Ben said softly, not wanting to frighten her.

  She turned slowly, the tears streaming down her face visible now.

  Nell climbed over several boulders and sat near her, a crevice filled with seawater between them.

  “We were concerned . . . ,” she began.

  Elizabeth wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to push a smile into place. She was still dressed for work, dark slacks, now damp and rumpled, and a silky blouse, its ends loosened from the waistband. “I’m so sorry. I lost track of time—” She turned toward Ben. “You were so kind—and look at me. A mess.”

  “I hope we’re not intruding.” Nell looked off in the direction Elizabeth had been facing, seeing what she was seeing—endless ocean, and a sky beginning to come alive with stars. “I find strength and peace at the ocean’s edge,” she said.

  Elizabeth nodded. “Maybe that’s what I thought I’d find here. I don’t know . . .” She pressed one hand against the cold rock. “I had hoped that coming down here, to this spot, might help me make sense of this nightmare. Maybe I could feel what had happened that night.”

  She didn’t look at either of them as she talked, but rather at the boulders and the sea.

  “This isn’t like me. I don’t do things like this. I’ve always been able to weather storms, keep calm, think rationally. My mother died when I was young and my father raised me to be strong and resilient. He loved me fiercely but always made me stand up to problems, solve them, move on. He taught me how to make thoughtful and wise decisions. But I’m floundering with all this. It’s a treacherous awful storm, and it’s pulling people I care about into its waters.”

  “What decisions are you talking about, Elizabeth?” Ben asked. His voice was as soothing as a confessor’s.

  “I’m deciding if I should resign from the school.”

  It wasn’t what Nell was expecting, nor Ben from the look on his face. Elizabeth loved her job.

  “We’ve had some parents pull their children out of school, and there are a dozen rumors going around. People like Angelo and Jerry—they’re forced into terrible positions trying to protect me. Angelo knows better than anyone what Blythe Westerland and I thought about each other. Jerry knew, too.”

  She turned slightly, looking in the other direction across the wide lawn, toward the school, spread out over the land like a fortress.

  “Many people knew Blythe wanted me fired—and a few knew that I wanted more than anything to stop her from doing it.”

  “All of that could be true, but it doesn’t mean anything,” Ben said.

  Elizabeth looked sadly at Ben. “I wish you were right, Ben. But right now it means that unless someone else steps forward and confesses to the crime, a good many people in Sea Harbor will be looking at me. I feel it. I’m sure Jerry feels it. The teachers are loyal—and most of the students, blessedly, have escaped some of the buzz. And people like you have been wonderful. But it’s there, a swarm of bees surrounding me, ready to sting.”

  Nell watched her face closely and saw the hollows beneath her eyes. A look of utter weariness. “Did something happen today when you went to the police station? Something new in the case?”

  Elizabeth looked at her, then Ben, then pushed herself off the rock and climbed over the boulders to solid ground. Nell followed.

  “They found something back here.” She pointed back to the deep crevices in the rock formation. “It was a small piece of a scarf, ragged and torn, tangled in seaweed.”

  “A scarf . . . ?”

  “My scarf. Or at least one like mine.”

  Ben and Nell were silent. Finally Nell asked, “Who found it?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “Angelo,” she said.

  * * *

  Hours later, they wrapped up the remains of the sandwiches Ben had retrieved from the car and watched the dying embers in Elizabeth’s office fireplace. Ben had built the fire, not necessarily to ward off the early autumn chill, but to bring some kind of warmth into the sadness that was invading their lives.

  Ben refilled their wineglasses and sat back down, thinking as he looked into the flickering logs.

  Angelo wasn’t by himself when he’d found the scarf, Elizabeth said. “And that was fortunate. He might have been tempted to destroy it if he remembered I had a similar scarf. He’s a sweet man, and has become a dear, loyal friend. It would have been awful for him to put himself at risk because of me.”

  She’d asked Angelo to look at the boathouse, and he had taken several workmen with him, she explained. “We need to do something with the building, something to erase the image that is becoming embedded in people’s minds. They went down to take pictures and consider the feasibility of some of the teachers’ and students’ ideas. Angelo didn’t realize what the scarf was when he pulled it out of the crevice.”

  “Did he show it to you?”

  She nodded. “I knew immediately what it was. It was a small piece of a scarf, one that looked identical to the lacy scarf I wore the night of the party.”

  Nell remembered it. Turquoise and elegant, kn
it from sea silk yarn. Chelsey Mansfield had knit it for her, she’d told Nell that night. A graduation gift when she finally received her PhD.

  Nell didn’t want to ask, but a simple answer could clear it all up: the scarf was in her drawer, safe, sound, and in one piece. “Do you have your scarf?” she asked.

  Elizabeth set her wineglass down on the table and stared into the fire. “I searched everywhere last night. I don’t know where it is. I never missed it. I was so tired that night, I could have dropped it anywhere—in my office or on the lawn. Or dropped it on a chair when I got home. I could have left it on the terrace when we were cleaning up. Police, ambulances—the shock of seeing Blythe Westerland dead. That’s what has taken over whatever memory I have left.”

  “It’s definitely not in your home?” Ben asked gently.

  “No. It’s gone. Except maybe for the small piece now in the hands of the Sea Harbor police.”

  Chapter 24

  I t was Nell’s day with Abigail Kathleen Perry—a sacred time, something not even a night of little sleep would keep her from.

  She welcomed the baby with open arms as Izzy rushed in and out of the kitchen in a flurry of words: “Sam will pick her up later.” “She’ll need a nap.” “Stroller’s in the driveway.” “And it’s Thursday, Aunt Nell! Finally. I thought it would never come. See you tonight for knitting.”

  Lunch with Danny Brandley was on the day’s agenda—he’d been in and out of town on book tours, and Nell was looking forward to catching up. And a trip to the market to find something for the knitters’ dinner that night. Maybe an hour or two working on a grant proposal for the community center while Abby napped.

  And Elizabeth Hartley would be with her the whole way. At least in her thoughts.

  She had seemed broken last night. A strong, intelligent woman weighted down with more than any woman should have to shoulder.

  Ben had wanted to call Jerry from her office, but Elizabeth said no. He had enough on his plate, enough worry about her. The last thing he needed was to add to it. But they’d accomplished one thing: more talk and several cups of coffee had convinced Elizabeth that resigning from her position at the school would be a bad decision—not only for her but also for the school. At least for now.