A Finely Knit Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “She liked men, but never married,” Izzy said. “I wonder why.”

  “Maybe growing up in that male-dominated family had something to do with it,” Cass said.

  “I think it had everything to do with it. Living with men who disliked her. Who kept her in her place. Blythe made sure those days were behind her. ”

  Of course it did. A young girl without a mother. Raised in a household of powerful men—all of whom had little or no use for the female in their midst.

  The thought was a sobering one, one that had somehow been pushed to the back of their minds because it was too uncomfortable to think about. A child being deprived of love—while probably being showered with all that money could buy. A murder in its own right, but with no visible body.

  Izzy shivered, rubbing her arms and sending invisible hugs to Abby, asleep in her bed and surrounded by love.

  “That’s why she never married,” Cass said.

  “And maybe why she had to exert her own power over her life. Over people in her life. It’s all she knew.”

  “Perhaps she was proving something to her own father. Or grandfather. She was the one with power now, no matter that they weren’t alive to see it,” Birdie said.

  Their opinion of Blythe Westerland shifted slightly as they talked. Not focusing on the cruel things she did, but on a young girl raised in a household with every imaginable material advantage, surrounded by people who wished she hadn’t been born.

  “Izzy’s point about getting to know Blythe is the key. We’re getting there, inch by inch, but we need to dig deeper. And then Blythe herself will tell us who murdered her in this awful way and why.”

  Their thoughts were all on the same page, their convictions ripe and firm. Nell looked at the skeins of yarn in front of each of them, the needles in their laps and their fingers. The colors and textures strong and enticing. Birdie was right. They had already begun pulling apart the stitches, trying to make sense out of the event that was shaking their lives. And getting ready to stitch them back together.

  Birdie looked over at Nell. “I can read your thoughts, my dear friend. We all can.”

  Nell laughed. “It’s what we do, isn’t it? Read thoughts, join hands. Piece together stitches until they make a whole, until they make sense. And I think we’ve already figured out more than we think we have.”

  “We know Blythe used men. And we know why,” Izzy added. “It makes perfect sense that she wanted to tip the scales—to be the one with the power. It’s an odd kind of revenge.”

  “Yes. She exerted the power, but when someone crossed over that line and tried to have an equal role in the relationship or was so bold as to break up with her, she had them fired or tossed them aside, or tried to tarnish their reputation, or whatever tricks she had to pull into play,” Birdie said.

  “What we don’t know is what kind of hurt was so overwhelming, so awful, that she was killed because of it,” Nell said.

  Saying it out loud, watching their words fall into some kind of logical order, brought satisfaction. And it also brought a clearer picture of where they needed to go.

  “Yes,” Birdie said, her eyes lighting up with the wisdom of her years. “It’s right here in front of us. The pieces. A pattern we need to put together. And I’d say the best time to start stitching in earnest is right now.”

  Chapter 26

  N ell filled Ben in on the Thursday night knitting discussion the next morning. She watched a slight cringe shadow his face as she mentioned Birdie’s determined plan.

  “Stop with that look, Ben.” She poured a cup of coffee and joined him at the island. “It’s not really a plan. It’s something all of us, you included, have been doing since the moment we heard about Blythe’s murder—trying to find the guilty person. Being observant as we walk through the day isn’t putting us in any danger. But maybe it’s helping Elizabeth. And Angelo. And anyone else who might be harmed by this.”

  “Someone was killed,” Ben said, his words heavy. There is a murderer out there.

  “You said yourself that the police think it was a targeted killing. Not random.”

  “But the murderer doesn’t want anyone figuring out that he killed Blythe. Asking questions can put you in danger, Nellie. The police are trained to handle things like that. You’re not. Birdie, Izzy, and Cass aren’t, either.”

  But Ben knew Nell better than he knew anyone on earth. He knew she’d listen politely. And he knew she and her friends would do what they needed to do to help a friend. It was still worth saying. Just maybe his warnings would linger for a while, and, at the least, he had to make them. It was as ingrained in him as his own mother’s warning—never letting him leave the house without telling him to “drive safely.”

  “If anyone wants this person caught and off the streets, it’s Jerry Thompson,” Ben continued. “I know you like Elizabeth, but imagine what he’s going through and how hard it’s making him work to find the true killer.”

  Nell was quiet as Ben talked, listening as she always did. Everything Ben said made sense. But so many things went unsaid. Like the fact that the police didn’t have the same access to a town, to neighbors and friends, to fishermen and shopkeepers, as the ordinary person walking through an ordinary day did.

  That was all any of them were saying last night. Listen. Look. Follow the patterns. It was second nature to the women who met in the back room every Thursday night. And they were very good at it. And although she would never say it out loud to Ben, Nell sincerely thought they were inching their way to the finish line.

  Blythe Westerland was becoming more real to them in death than she ever had been in life—and she was about to speak.

  “Ben,” she began.

  But Ben changed the subject, hoping a shorter message might have a longer shelf life in Nell’s memory. And convincing himself that these women so integral to his life would never knowingly put themselves in danger.

  The problem was that danger sometimes came to them.

  “Jerry joined Ham, Danny, and me for a beer last night,” he said. “I was surprised he came, but glad to see him.”

  “I’d rather see him with Elizabeth than with you.”

  Ben managed a smile. “Me, too. And I’ve no doubt that would be his choice, too. I know he’s calling her, keeping in touch that way at least. But Elizabeth is doing him a favor in the long run by keeping her distance, especially now that the piece of scarf caught on the rocks is getting so much attention.”

  “I think someone took that from her house, Ben,” she said. It wasn’t until she said it out loud that she realized she believed it completely. It was the only thing that made sense. Elizabeth was so upset the night of the murder she probably tossed that scarf on a chair, the floor even. If someone was looking for something personal, it would be so easy to spot: the color was vibrant. Easy to fold up and slip into a pocket and be out of the house in an instant.

  She and Birdie had very conveniently taken Elizabeth out of the house, allowing the person easy entry. She retraced their steps that day and said out loud, “We were gone at least a couple hours.” She frowned, remembering the walk, the Tea Shoppe, the walk home—and she remembered something else. The thought surprised her. Her eyes widened.

  Ben was watching her face. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Random thought.” One to bury in the shadows for now. But not to forget.

  “Tommy Porter should know about the possible break-in. It’s at least something, though the whole scarf thing is perplexing. It’s weak, I think, which is good. And the break-in possibility makes it even weaker. If it had come loose when Elizabeth was supposedly down on the boulders, why didn’t someone see it sooner? The police canvassed that whole area. Sure, smaller boulders can shift with the force of the water, hiding something between them, maybe, but it seems awfully convenient.”

  “There’s also the
matter of the rest of the scarf.” Nell reached over and took a bagel out of the toaster. “It’d be wonderful if they found it.”

  “Or not, I suppose, depending on where they find it and what it tells them.”

  Maybe. It was exceedingly odd that a small piece of the scarf ended up in the crevice of the boulder while the rest of it—yards of elegant hand-knit silk—had disappeared. It had been planted there; Nell was sure of it, but she held it in, knowing Ben would want more than his wife’s emotions to agree.

  But even after forty years of marriage, Ben sometimes surprised her. “I think you’re right, Nell. It could have been put there by someone wanting there to be no doubt that Elizabeth was down at the boathouse that night and murdered Blythe. Someone determined not to be a suspect.”

  “So you’ll talk to the police?”

  “Sure. This morning.”

  “I don’t suppose Jerry mentioned anything else last night . . .”

  “No, nothing we don’t already know. Bob filled him in on her upbringing. Being raised by the Westerlands was unfortunate.”

  “It wasn’t unfortunate. It was terrible,” Nell said, more emotion than she anticipated carrying her words.

  Ben took a swallow of coffee. “You’re right. It softens one’s view of Blythe Westerland. Not an easy way to grow up.”

  * * *

  Izzy found Blythe’s upbringing almost unbearable to talk about. Lonely and sad.

  She climbed out of Nell’s car in the Canary Cove parking lot, the utter horror of a baby like Abby being left with people who didn’t want her weighing down her thoughts. She tried to shake it off as she lifted Abby’s stroller out of the back of the car and snapped it into position. Suddenly she stopped and looked up. “That’s it, Aunt Nell. That’s why she had such affection—such an investment in the school. She probably felt more at home there than anywhere else in the world when she was a child.”

  Of course, Nell thought. That made all the sense in the world. It was a safe haven for the young Blythe.

  She carried a happy Abby over to the stroller and strapped her into the seat. Then she kissed the top of her blond curls and placed a small Red Sox hat on her head. She and Izzy stood there for a minute, watching the bouncing movement of her head and the small plump hands cuddling a bunny blanket.

  Loving her.

  And thinking of a child who never had that kind of love.

  It was a sunny day, and the excuse for being in Canary Cove was to drop off an old painting of a ship that had once belonged to Ben’s father. Ham Brewster had offered to clean it up. Friday at noon would be a good time, he said.

  Izzy wanted to tag along. She hadn’t yet seen Josh Babson’s paintings and her curiosity couldn’t wait any longer.

  They picked up take-out coffee at Polly’s Tea Shoppe. Nell promised Polly there’d be no throwing of soup.

  Polly laughed. “Teresa was acting crazy that day,” she said, her wide smile never leaving her face. “She’s usually shy and quiet. She simply has a bee in her bonnet that needs to get out; it’s just a shame she picked the headmistress as her target. Elizabeth Hartley is a very nice lady. My grandchild is thriving at her school. The woman could no more murder anyone than I could.”

  They left the Tea Shoppe, sipping Polly’s strong coffee and trying to imagine a shy and quiet Teresa Pisano flinging a container of soup across the patio.

  “Iz,” Nell began. Then stopped. Then she started again. The thought needed a home. Someone to attend to it with her. “There was something else that happened that Saturday when Birdie, Elizabeth, and I were walking.” She talked slowly. It was unformed. And made little sense. But it was something to think about. Perhaps to look into. To see if there were any legs there to stand on, ones that might have been hidden behind more obvious people in Blythe’s life.

  Izzy listened carefully, her face expressing concern. And then she tucked it away, too, knowing it needed to be brought up later. And hoping no one would be hurt in the process.

  They made their way down the road to the Brewster Gallery in silence. Even Abby had settled down, her hand playing with a tiny bell attached to her stroller and her eyes watching the gulls and the clouds and leaves falling in her path—the things in life that others sometimes missed.

  Nell had called ahead to see if Josh was working Friday morning.

  He was.

  Nell still was ambivalent about the artist, but wanted to see him again, to figure him out. It was becoming a challenge.

  Izzy thought he was “cute”—a descriptive Nell didn’t especially like. Birdie didn’t know him, and Cass thought he was a typical artist, whatever that meant. Ben thought he was talented. And he was working in her close friend’s store. She supposed the biggest plus on his side was that Gabby and Daisy were clearly fans. That weighed heavily in his favor.

  The shop was empty of customers when they pushed the stroller through the door, jingling the brass bell above it. Josh stood behind the counter, fiddling with the computer. The bell brought Jane out from the back room.

  “My Abby is here,” she said, her long skirt swishing against her legs as she hurried to the stroller’s side. She leaned over and let Abby tug on the long beaded necklace that looped and swayed in front of the baby.

  Nell laughed and asked if Ham was in the back, then took her painting from beneath the stroller and disappeared to find her friend.

  Josh looked up briefly, then went back to work.

  Izzy left Jane with the baby and walked over to the artist. She stretched one hand across the counter. “Hi. I think we met a couple times but always in crowds. I’m Izzy Perry and hear by the grapevine that you have some paintings worth seeing.”

  “Sam’s wife,” Josh said. He hesitated at first, but then reached out and shook her hand.

  “You know Sam?”

  “He and I were chasing the same colors one day.”

  Izzy laughed.

  “It was a couple months back, after a nor’easter. I was out early and spotted a wicked rainbow over some schooners. I headed down to the harbor to paint it. He was there taking pictures.”

  “I think I remember that. Sam’s an early riser. He says the light then is good for photo shoots. You have to move fast to catch the rainbows before they disappear behind the horizon,” Izzy said. “Painting one has to be even more of a challenge.”

  “Yeah. For sure. I was late for my job that day because of that rainbow—not at all appreciated by the powers that be. But hey, rainbows wait for no man. Or woman, I s’pose. It was worth it.”

  “Right.”

  “So you came to see my paintings?”

  His voice had changed as they talked, warming slightly.

  Izzy nodded, and he pointed through the archway to the exhibit wall.

  Izzy walked over and Josh followed her, leaving enough distance not to intrude.

  “They all have Sold signs on them,” Izzy said.

  “Yah. Rent money.”

  “And then some,” Jane Brewster said, coming up behind them.

  “Well, I think I can see why.” Izzy began on the left with the first small painting of sailboats, smiling when she saw her uncle’s initials beneath the sold sign.

  “Josh is good with light, just like Sam,” Jane said. “His paintings remind me of Fitz Hugh Lane’s. Ben liked that, too, and the way the light reflected off the white sails.”

  “It’s beautiful. Does Aunt Nell know she has to find a space on a wall?”

  “Or build another room?” Jane said. “She’ll make it work.”

  Josh had moved into a shadowy corner and leaned against the wall, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands, enjoying the women’s reactions.

  “I need another dose of Abby,” Jane said to Izzy, excusing herself and moving back to the stroller.

  Nell came out of Ham’s studio and stood near Izzy,
watching her face as she moved from painting to painting. Her niece was very creative, and she wondered what she would glean from the largest painting. Light? Shadow? Life? Or would she see an enormous boulder, one on which a woman tragically died?

  They had talked about the painting at knitting group, the mystery of why he would paint it. And display it. Izzy knew before she stood in front of the large painting what she would see: a murder scene.

  But that wasn’t what she saw.

  Nell saw the awe in Izzy’s eyes almost before it lifted her face.

  Josh saw it, too.

  Nell tried to read Josh’s expression, but he was a master at remaining unreadable. She wondered what he saw in the painting: murder or beauty or . . .

  And she wondered again why he had chosen to perpetuate a tragic scene in a masterful painting.

  “It’s romantic. Breathtaking,” Izzy said softly.

  She looked around and saw Josh watching her. “I see romance and moonlight. Glorious light.”

  Josh was quiet, waiting for more.

  “But it’s the scene of a murder,” Nell said.

  “No,” Josh said. “It’s not.”

  Nell looked at him.

  “I painted it a couple months ago.”

  Nell and Izzy looked back at the painting.

  When they didn’t speak, Josh went on. “I don’t like the painting much, though I suppose I did at the time I painted it. For sure I experienced some artistic pleasure in painting it. And hopefully that’s what anyone who looks at it sees. They shouldn’t see murder. There was none.”

  “But you don’t like it?” Nell looked back and forth between Josh and the lovely oil painting. “Is it because someone was murdered there?” A reminder of a night he wanted to forget?

  Josh was surprised by Nell’s reply. His laugh was more a scoff. “Blythe Westerland’s death? No. I don’t think about that when I look at this painting. But there was romance in the painting when I did it—and that’s been dead longer than Blythe.”

  “But it was there when you painted it?” Izzy said.