They were happily surprised to see people wandering around in the shop’s main room. Fingers found their way into baskets of cashmere and wool and alpaca yarn. Lively voices admired the knit sweaters and hats decorating a Christmas tree in the center of the room. And everywhere tiny white lights spoke of a warm, safe place.
Birdie and Nell waved to Mae and her nieces, then made their way across the room to the back steps, lured by the chatter and the tender voice of Andrea Bocelli dreaming of a white Christmas.
“Izzy’s shop,” Nell murmured as she stood in the archway, looking down at the women gathering around the fireplace and the library table, the cozy corners of chairs. “It feels safe here. No matter what lurks in the darkness beyond this shop, there’s no room for fear here.”
At least that was her hope. She followed Birdie down the few steps, shrugging off her coat on the way.
Izzy stood over on the far side, encouraging people to find their niche—around the fire or table, the beanbag chairs and groupings near the window. She was clearly happy with the turnout.
Nell and Birdie stood in the back, watching Izzy work her magic, explaining things clearly but with the rush of emotion she was rarely allowed in the courtroom. Her passion had clear reign in the small yarn shop where the magical therapy of knitting happened daily. It was “the new yoga,” she’d say as a sweeping calm settled over a group of beginners or old-timers, young or old, as they worked their needles, caressed their yarn, and breathed more deeply.
Tonight’s group was a hodgepodge of young and old, singles and young moms, older moms and grandmothers and professional women balancing their lives by adding a respite to crowded days. Izzy explained that there were helpers scattered around—just wave a hand, she said. They’ll be there to help.
Nell looked over heads and around bodies and knew it wasn’t help with knitting that was most on their minds tonight—it was the warmth, the companionship that Izzy’s back room offered, not to mention the happy sounds of carols, hot tea and spicy punch, and the freshly baked Christmas cookies that Margaret Garozzo had brought from her deli. It was a safe haven in a menacing world.
A touch on her arm pulled Nell’s attention away from Izzy. She looked into the carefully made-up face of Beatrice Scaglia, a brocade knitting bag holding yarn and rarely used needles hanging from her arm. Helen Cummings stood just behind her, talking to Birdie.
The fact that Beatrice and Helen were friends never failed to intrigue Nell. Barbara, it seemed, would have been a better match for Beatrice, her commanding presence and authoritative ways not unlike the mayor’s. But each to his own, and Helen was probably a lot easier to be with, more amenable to whatever Beatrice had to say. She was also more available, and a good source for what was going on inside the Cummings dynasty.
“Now, when does a busy mayor find time to knit?” Nell said to Beatrice.
“Nell Endicott, don’t play games with me,” Beatrice scolded. “You know I can’t knit worth a tinker’s damn. Someday when I get my rocker I’ll have Izzy come over and teach me.”
Nell chuckled. “Your secret’s safe with me. And as long as you keep buying yarn here, Mae and Izzy will never tell.”
Beatrice didn’t fool anyone. The gatherings in the yarn shop’s back room were her favorite place to get her political finger on the pulse of what women in Sea Harbor were thinking, talking about—and who they might be voting for. She was also not immune to catching any gossip or rumors circulating around. Nell suspected tonight her attention would be focused on talk of a murderer wandering the town she governed.
“I’m actually here because Helen asked me to come with her,” Beatrice said. “She doesn’t need a beginning knitting course but she did need a lovely dinner and drink at Ocean’s Edge. So we simply combined the two. Women’s night out.”
“I suppose Stu is extra busy these days,” Nell said.
“Of course he is, poor man. It’s crazy, all that’s going on over there. All the distress. Helen said she’s just relieved that Lydia isn’t alive to see it.”
Nell was silent. The fact that Lydia might have caused it all seemed to have escaped the mayor.
“I understand Helen was close to her mother-in-law,” Nell said. It wasn’t a topic she particularly wanted to pursue, but she was finding it difficult to hear about the Cummingses’ suffering when a niece of theirs lay in a morgue, unnoticed.
Beatrice nodded. “Helen was over there every day, even before Lydia got sick. Barbara didn’t get along well with her mother, but Lydia and Helen seemed to have a good relationship, one that benefited them both. Helen confided in her, and Lydia liked that. Lydia listened to Helen’s woes, her worries about Stu. Her fear of being alone.”
“Being alone?”
“Oh, you know. Helen went from her parents’ home to marrying Stu. She was, I suppose you’d say, a little naïve and not very independent. But there was probably more to it, especially in the early years of her marriage—Stu was prominent, wealthy, and there was probably a niggling fear that some glamorous woman might seduce him. Helen knows she doesn’t have movie-star looks.
“But there wasn’t any way on earth Lydia would ever have allowed a divorce in the Cummings family; her religion wouldn’t permit it.” Beatrice gave a small laugh. “Sometimes I think that’s why Barbara never got married. It’d definitely have to be for life, and Barbara likes her independence, doing her own thing.”
Beatrice paused, as if enjoying her own observation, then went on. “Knowing Lydia’s strong commitment to marriage brought a certain comfort to Helen. She could worry with Lydia, then go home feeling better. But no matter—she’s been a good wife to Stu, loyal to a fault. Sometimes I think without her at his side he really would have the heart attack Helen so often worries about.”
As the crowd grew, Helen and Birdie walked over to claim the window seat. Nell watched Helen sit down next to Birdie. She was calm and composed, the way Nell was used to seeing Stu Cummings’s wife. She wondered briefly who the real Helen was. The dutiful corporate wife? The one who sometimes handled liquor poorly? Or the one who had confronted Amber Harper, perhaps had threatened her on a public street?
She said, “You mentioned all the things the Cummingses are dealing with. What did you mean?” She felt sure it wasn’t a prolonged grieving for their murdered niece.
Beatrice looked offended at the question. Her answer was clipped. “Finding Amber’s murderer so they can get on with their lives running a successful company.”
Nell followed her over to the window seat. “That’s what all of us want, Beatrice.”
“Of course it is,” Beatrice said, but her words lacked their usual friendliness.
Helen looked up. “Nell, I owe you an apology for Stu’s rant yesterday.”
“No apology is necessary,” Nell said. “Beatrice and I were just talking about what a tense time this is for everyone. Knowing a murderer may be walking free in our town—someone who has killed a member of your own family—is an awful thing to live through.”
Helen took a deep breath and a sip from her coffee carafe, then spoke in the tone of a teacher. “The murderer is long gone, Nell. Stuart is right about this. The police are looking in the wrong places. It was probably an old boyfriend, maybe someone Amber jilted or hurt or cheated on—someone who followed her here and killed her. Then he disappeared across the country and left the police to turn the lives of all of us here upside down.” She smiled, pleased at the perfect way she’d made her point, and she took another drink, carefully setting the coffee thermos on the floor beside her leg.
She pulled out her knitting as if she had solved the crime herself, and began to knit a row on a lacy angora scarf.
Birdie politely admired the pattern and offered help if it was needed—“That’s why we’re here,” she explained, moving away from the subject of murder completely.
Nell looked around the room
at the women sitting in small groups, sharing their lives. But as festive and welcoming as the room was, the chatter was more subdued than normal, and here and there Nell caught words that told her even knitting holiday gifts with good friends couldn’t completely assuage the fear that traveled up and down the streets.
Helen’s voice brought her attention back. “It’s a terrible time,” she was saying. “She should have taken Stu’s offer and simply gone away. It would have been best for everyone.”
Certainly for Amber, Nell thought, wondering at the odd way Helen was expressing herself. Her words were overly controlled, though coherent, and Nell wondered if they were bolstered by the coffee carafe in her hand. Poor girl certainly wasn’t the sentiment she had seen on Helen’s face outside the deli.
“Stu’s offer?” Birdie asked.
“Stu and Barbara offered Amber a fair price for the nursery. It was more than fair. But she said she couldn’t think about it.”
Nell held back her surprise. She didn’t know an offer had been made, though she had heard Stu mention putting one together. She wondered if Charlie knew.
“Maybe she thought by going through the financials she could force the price up,” Beatrice said.
Helen sighed, her whole body looking tired. “Maybe. She claimed she had more important things to think about than the offer.”
More important things? Nell looked over at Birdie. Their eyes met as they both replayed Amber’s conversation with Birdie in their heads, their thoughts aligning.
Birdie looked at Helen. “I’m not sure money was that important to Amber. When she left town all those years ago, Esther suggested that she ask Lydia for an allowance—the sort of thing grandparents gladly do if they’re able—but Amber refused to ask, even though she had little money of her own. And she forbade Esther to bring it up with your mother-in-law, Helen, who probably would have given it to her. Taking Cummings money wasn’t a goal of Amber’s.”
“Then what was her goal? There was something wrong with that girl. No one walks away from money,” Beatrice said, her voice incredulous that anyone would turn down honest money they didn’t have to earn. A gift. “I’m sure she would have taken the offer eventually.”
Helen fiddled with one of her knitting needles, pushing on a stitch with the tip of her finger. She uttered a slight yelp when the stitch slipped off the needle, then the next and the next until the entire row pulled free, curling like a red snake in her lap.
Helen’s face fell, as if the lost stitches were worthy of great sadness.
Birdie held out her hand. “Let me,” she said, taking the needles and yarn into her own lap and bringing the row back to life.
Helen watched nervously, sitting straight on the bench, her cashmere turtleneck elegant on the long-necked woman, her earrings and a collar brooch the color of her eyes. She looked startled when a phone pinged.
“That’s yours, Helen,” Beatrice said.
Helen pulled it out of her pocket, read the message, and stood up. “It’s Stu. I need to call him.” She excused herself, dialing her phone as she walked up the stairs.
“As you can plainly see, my friend has been unnerved by the pressure we’re all under. She wants, like we all do, life to return to normal.”
Nell watched her walk up the stairs, slightly wobbly near the top. “Helen is certainly a vigilant wife. I’m sure it’s helpful to Stu, with the busy life he leads.”
Beatrice didn’t say anything at first; then she nodded. “Marriage is never easy. And having a formidable sister-in-law like Barbara isn’t easy, either, but Helen handles it well, much better than I would.” Beatrice glanced up the stairway.
“Is Stu all right?” Nell asked.
“I’m sure he is,” Beatrice said. “We’ll see. I think he’s meeting with his sister and Rachel Wooten and some others. Trying to settle things now that the parameters have changed a bit.”
Of course. Nell had almost forgotten. Ben was at that meeting, too.
Minutes later Helen reappeared, her stride more confident than when she left. She walked back, leaned down, and picked up her carafe, taking a sip.
If Nell had believed in teleportation, she would have sworn that in the few minutes Helen had been away, she had visited a fountain of youth and vigor. She was once again the strong woman, the swimmer Nell often admired over at Long Beach. The woman with the long stride who walked the Ravenswood Trails. A rosy blush replaced the sallow worried look that she’d worn before. Even her eyes had changed, now bright and clear.
“It’s over,” she said. “Our lives can return to normal.”
Nell’s breath caught in her chest and she pressed one hand against her heart.
Birdie pushed herself from the window seat, her eyes wide. “They caught the murderer?”
Helen looked at Birdie, surprised. “Murderer? The murderer isn’t in Sea Harbor—he’s far away by now. But we do know that Amber Harper didn’t have a will.”
Chapter 23
Ben was home when Birdie, Izzy, and Nell walked in an hour later. They had helped Izzy clean up after everyone left, and when a text on Izzy’s phone told them Sam had taken several of Harry Garozzo’s pizzas over to the Endicotts’, they had piled in Nell’s car and driven up the hill to 42 Sandswept Lane in record time. They were starving.
Sam and Charlie sat at the kitchen island in front of a laptop and several bottles of beer. Ben stood at the counter, uncorking a bottle of wine.
“So, is it true? Amber doesn’t have a will?” Birdie asked, shrugging out of her coat as she walked across the room.
Ben nodded. “I figured you’d know. I was sitting next to Stu when he talked to Helen.”
“Helen’s excitement made us think that the police had arrested the murderer,” Nell said. “She and Beatrice were on an entirely different wavelength than we were.”
“It’s their family business,” Ben said cautiously, trying to tamp down the emotion.
“Business or not, somehow the priorities seemed skewed,” Nell said.
“To us, maybe.”
“You’re way too understanding, Uncle Ben. So, what happened?” Izzy demanded.
“And what does it mean?” Charlie said, his voice agitated. “I still don’t understand why this is even important. Is it going to help us find who killed Amber? Is it just a detour, something to divert attention? Who cares who gets the money or the company? Amber sure didn’t.”
It was the question that had bothered Birdie and Nell, too, as they watched Helen and Beatrice leave Izzy’s shop. Somehow the unhappy facts that a relative had been murdered and a killer was roaming freely around their town were buried deep beneath the joy of an inheritance lost, a company regained. A husband happy.
Ben offered a brief explanation. “Since Lydia had willed the Sea Harbor nursery to Amber, it was hers to dispose of. We knew that, but it was a little more complicated than at first glance. The nurseries were legally connected in such a way that if Amber sold hers to someone else or somehow initiated poor financial policies, it could harm all the nurseries. It’s what caused the uproar last week when the will was read. No one trusted her; she was an unknown. But it seems she didn’t have a will, so according to Massachusetts law, her inheritance would go to the next of kin.”
“Stu and Barbara,” Sam said.
“How do we know she didn’t have a will?” Birdie asked.
“Rachel had an investigator in Florida look into it. Amber actually had a lawyer there, which was a surprise. He worked for legal aid but lived in her complex and helped her out as a friend on a couple of things. He was zealous and tried to talk her into a will, but she laughed at him because she said she had nothing to put in it. And even if she did, she’d prefer that fate took care of it. She’d never have a will, she told him.”
“That sounds like her,” Charlie said quietly, nursing a beer. “She was like a bird, you
know? Free—she said possessions tied you down.”
He’d known her just one week, one short week. And in that time Charlie had read Amber’s soul. Her aunt and uncle and grandmother knew her not at all. The thought made Nell happy and sad at once. She pulled the pizza cutter out of a drawer and handed it to Ben. “So the Cummingses didn’t know they’d get the nursery back if Amber died until today?” Something was missing from this, something she’d heard, a stray piece of conversation. But hard as she tried, she couldn’t pull up the memory.
“That’s how it looks,” Ben said.
Nell tucked the thought away. She wondered about the Cummings family, and how far they’d have gone to keep their company intact.
But surely she wasn’t the only one wondering. Surely they were on Jerry Thompson’s radar as he questioned people and gathered alibis. Surely.
And yet in her small world it seemed frighteningly clear that it was Charlie in the limelight. Not the Cummingses.
At least until more layers were peeled away.
It was time for serious peeling.
Chapter 24
Thursday was cold with a blustery wind, and Birdie offered to have Harold drop off some extra logs at the yarn shop so they could build a lovely fire that night. He’d been chopping firewood for weeks, she said.
It just might turn out to be a long knitting night, was Birdie’s thought. One in need of warmth and yarn, of dear friends—and maybe even an extra bottle of pinot gris.
• • •
A large figure, slightly slumped, was walking out of Archie’s bookstore as Nell got out of her car and opened the trunk. For a moment, in the shadows of the alley, she didn’t recognize him.
He carried a bulky book bag under one arm. A puffy black jacket flapped open over his wide girth, and high-waisted slacks were shoved into large furry boots.
The figure was now unmistakable. “You’ll catch your death of cold out here, Father,” she scolded, abandoning the bags of food in her trunk and walking over to him. She smiled into his eyes, rheumy from the blast of cold air. “Button up.”
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