by Anne Canadeo
“The Black Sheep knitting series has it all: Friendship,
kniting, murder, and the occasional recipe
create the perfect pattern. Great fun.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Anne Krentz
Praise for While My Pretty One Knits
“The crafty first of a cozy new series…. The friendships
among the likable knitters … help
make Canadeo’s crime yarn a charmer.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fans of Monica Ferris … will enjoy this engaging
amateur sleuth as much for its salute to friendship as
to Lucy’s inquiry made one stitch at a time.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“Delightful. Enchanting. Humorous. Impressive. Witty.
Those are just a few adjectives to describe Anne Canadeo’s
effervescent cozy debut, While My Pretty One Knits.”
—Book Cave
“[A] unique murder mystery…. Fast-paced
and electrifying…. First in a new series
you are sure to enjoy.”
—Fresh Fiction
“The diverse group of friends and their
heartwarming camaraderie is what makes
While My Pretty One Knits an enjoyable read.”
—Kwips and Kritiques
Knit, Purl, Die is also available as an eBook
Meet the Black Sheep Knitters
Maggie Messina, owner of the Black Sheep Knitting Shop, is a retired high school art teacher who runs her little slice of knitters’ paradise with the kind of vibrant energy that leaves her friends dazzled! From novice to pro, knitters come to Maggie as much for her up-to-the-minute offerings like organic wool as for her encouragement and friendship. And Maggie’s got a deft touch when it comes to unraveling mysteries, too.
Lucy Binger left Boston when her marriage ended, and found herself shifting gears to run her graphic design business from the coastal cottage she and her sister inherited. After big-city living, she now finds contentment on a front porch in tiny Plum Harbor, knitting with her closest friends.
Dana Haeger is a psychologist with a busy local practice. A stylishly polished professional with a quick wit, she slips out to Maggie’s shop whenever her schedule allows—after all, knitting is the best form of therapy!
Suzanne Cavanaugh is a typical working supermom—a realtor with a million demands on her time, from coaching soccer to showing houses to attending the PTA. But she carves out a little “me” time with the Black Sheep Knitters.
Phoebe Meyers, a college gal complete with magenta highlights and nose stud, lives in the apartment above Maggie’s shop. She’s Maggie’s indispensable helper (when she’s not in class)—and part of the new generation of young knitters.
Knit, Purl, Die
Anne Canadeo
Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Anne Canadeo
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Books trade paperback edition January 2010
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Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4165-9812-1
ISBN 978-1-4391-2694-3 (ebook)
To Nick Deane—
who lived large, loved life, and was loved by all who knew him.
We were privileged to be your friend.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank attorney Dwight Vibbert of Peabody, Massachusetts, for a thorough review of the estate probate process. Thanks also to Chief Gavin Keenan of the Ipswich Police Department in Essex County, Massachusetts, for his explanation of police procedure at the scene of a drowning.
I would also like to thank Crystal Palace Yarns and designer Lisa Dykstra for permission to include a link to the mist lace scarf pattern, and Wendy D. Johnson, author of Socks From the Toes Up, for permission to include a link to Sprucey Lucey Socks pattern and WendyKnits.net.
I’d also like to thank my editor, Kathy Sagan, for her sage advice and encouragement, and my agent, Bob Mecoy, for his unflagging “yes, we can!” spirit.
Last but not least, my family must get some credit for putting up with all that takeout food and a frightening lack of clean laundry as I staggered toward the finish line.
Everyone is a moon and has a dark side
which he never shows to anybody.
—Mark Twain
Chapter One
Hemingway was wrong. The rich are different.” Lucy gazed out the passenger-side window of her friend Maggie’s car as gated entryways, privacy hedges, and lawns as lush as country club greens rolled by. “They definitely have longer driveways.”
“And better haircuts, usually,” Maggie agreed. “But Gloria isn’t different from us. Not really.”
They were on their way to Gloria Sterling’s house, driving down tree-lined roads deep with afternoon shade, traveling from the heart of the village to The Landing, a neighborhood of gracious old homes that flanked not-so-gracious minimansions and a variety of architectural styles in between.
Maggie had known Gloria a long time, but Lucy had met her only recently.
“Gloria wasn’t born with money. Just the opposite,” Maggie reminded her. “It’s nice of her to have us all over tonight. She’s not even part of the group.”
Their knitting group—five friends in all—normally met on Thursday night at one another’s homes, or at the Black Sheep, the knitting shop Maggie owned. Gloria had just jumped into the rotation like a sidelined player in a volleyball game. She wasn’t an official member of their circle, more like a “guest star,” Lucy thought.
Since Gloria had returned to Plum Harbor a few months ago, after a long stay at her house in Florida, she’d been spending a lot of spare time at Maggie’s shop. If Gloria happened to be hanging around when one of their meetings started up, it seemed rude to exclude her. She was always interested in Maggie’s demonstrations of a new stitch or technique. Or just happy to stitch and chat.
Gloria’s irreverent humor and “live large” style had taken some getting used to, for Lucy at least. But the plain-talking blonde bombshell definitely kicked up the evening a notch. And they all liked her husband, Jamie.
Gloria Sterling and Jamie Barnett were pretty much a package deal. Newlyweds, joined at the hip. Or so it seemed at times. Jamie was Gloria’s third run at matrimony, clearly the trophy husband. Gloria, the iconic cougar, wasn’t coy about it. “I’ve put in my time with men my age. This one is dessert,” she’d told them one night.
The invitation had been for cocktails, knitti
ng, and supper, poolside. Perfect for a surprisingly warm night in June. Would Gloria actually make the meal herself, or have it catered, Lucy wondered. She didn’t seem the cooking type and probably had a housekeeper. There was always Jamie.
“Maybe Jamie is doing the cooking.” Lucy turned to Maggie and smiled. “Those macaroons he brought to the meeting last week were intense.”
“I’ve had dinner there. He is a good cook. Among his other talents.” Maggie was still watching the road, but Lucy caught her small smile.
Jamie was a man of considerable talents. He cooked, he baked, he even knit with the group from time to time, all without seeming to feel any threat to his masculinity.
Who would question his masculinity? No woman Lucy knew, that was for sure.
A big, broad-shouldered, dirty blond hunk of guy, he had less guile than a golden retriever and even more devotion when it came to Gloria. They did seem amazingly happy together, both blissfully unaware of their age difference. Which was in the double digits, Lucy guessed.
If Gloria were a man and had hooked a babe ten, fifteen, or even twenty years younger, no one would think twice about it. But with the roles reversed, the pair did raise a few eyebrows around town. Plum Harbor’s Main Street was not exactly Rodeo Drive.
Of course, the fact that Gloria could easily pass for forty made the math less obvious. But Lucy had to wonder how long anyone could keep that up. How many mindless treadmill miles or gallons of Retinol cream did it require? How many discreet nips and tucks and cellulite suctions?
How much money did it take to hold back time’s handiwork? The inevitable changes had to catch up sooner or later. At least on the outside.
But Lucy didn’t want to take a pessimistic view. The connection between Jamie and Gloria seemed more than skin deep and they seemed to have made some separate, private peace with what others might view as a fatal flaw in the partnership. They even joked about it.
No, it was the real thing. You could tell by the way they looked at each other. She delighted in him. Everything Jamie did was charming to her. And Jamie acted the same way about Gloria, even her flaws, her impatient and demanding side, seemed amusing and even endearing to him. You only had to be around them for a short time to see it. Lucy had witnessed enough relationships, good and bad—including her own failed marriage—to know the difference.
“I think the turn is coming up soon, on the right,” Maggie said. Then she suddenly swerved into a narrow lane. The sign read “Sugar Maple Way.”
“Here we are. Number five.” Maggie steered the little car up a long, gravel-covered drive. Lucy noticed that their other friends Dana and Suzanne had already arrived; their cars were parked farther up, near the front door. Phoebe, a college student who worked part-time at Maggie’s shop and who was also part of the group, wasn’t coming tonight. Her boyfriend’s band had a gig at a bar in Gloucester. Phoebe was needed to clap loudly and help move the equipment.
Which was probably just as well, Lucy decided, eyeing Gloria’s impressive house and property. Phoebe was likely to have an attack of social conscience in this setting and act out in some countercultural, college-student way.
Maggie hadn’t said much about Gloria’s house. Lucy had pictured an older home, beautifully decorated and meticulously maintained. Just like Gloria herself. But it wasn’t quite what she expected.
The house was a large, abstract-looking structure with clean, stark lines, constructed of wood and glass. A style very popular in the 1970s. Considered “modern” back then, though the years since had continually redefined that term.
Maggie parked on the drive and Lucy reached into the backseat for her knitting bag and a knapsack that held a bathing suit and towel, though she doubted she’d swim. At this time of year, she was reluctant to bare too much skin. Her legs especially looked pale and doughy, she thought, like slices of Wonder Bread. When Lucy got out and headed for the stone path that led to the front door, Maggie waved her back.
“I hear them in back. We’ll just go ’round the side. Follow me.”
Lucy followed Maggie up the driveway and then around the far side of the house. From behind a tall white fence she could hear the sound of voices, splashing water, and music. Was that Latin jazz? Her friends always kicked back at a knitting night, but Gloria’s version already seemed like a real party.
“Sounds like they started without us,” Maggie said, pushing open the gate.
“Don’t worry, we’ll catch up,” Lucy whispered as she followed.
“Welcome, ladies, come right in. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Gloria was sitting at a round, wrought-iron table shaded by a white market umbrella, along with Dana and Suzanne. She stood up and came to greet them. The other women both looked up from their knitting for a moment and waved. Lucy saw tall cocktail glasses and knitting paraphernalia already spread out around them.
The table was one of three, set on a multilayered stone patio that flanked a kidney-shaped pool. The pool and patio were bordered by flower beds and thick green shrubs. At the far end of the pool, Lucy noticed a waterfall, about six feet high, the water tumbling over large rocks into the deep end. It was a gorgeous setting, like something out of one of those “houses to drool over” TV shows.
Gloria approached, high-heeled slides clicking on the smooth stones, her wrap-style sundress swinging around her legs and clinging in all the right places. The halter-style neckline displayed a deep tan, killer cleavage, and a perfect figure.
Lucy had once read that the Barbie doll’s body was anatomically impossible. Designed by a man, of course. So was Gloria’s. Lucy tried to remember that any time she felt a twinge of envy. Gloria was a poster girl for cosmetic, surgical intervention—and every boy’s dream.
Gloria gave them each a hug hello. Lucy stared at the pattern on her dress. A designer logo of interlocking letters she couldn’t quite translate. It was either Calvin, Coach … or Le Shopping Channel?
“So glad you could come. Ready to knit the night away? Jamie’s grilling. Shrimp and chicken saté with spicy peanut sauce and grilled vegetables.”
“Sounds delicious.” Maggie smiled and offered a bottle of wine she’d brought as a hostess gift.
Lucy silently agreed. A gourmet, lo-carb meal. She had expected no less.
Jamie stood at the far side of the patio, manning a huge stainless-steel grill, equipped with several cooking areas and rows of shiny black controls and dials. It could probably send and receive e-mail and had a GPS system, Lucy thought.
He checked something under the large dome lid, then turned to wave hello, his hand covered by a hot mitt.
Lucy and Maggie waved back. Lucy smiled quickly and looked away, aware that she’d been staring. Bare chested, he wore a black chef’s apron over red bathing trunks. The incongruous outfit reminding Lucy of those male pin-up calendars passed around during bridal showers. Tacky … but effective.
Gloria leaned over and took Maggie’s arm. “Come and sit. I’ll get you both a drink.”
They walked to the patio where Suzanne and Dana were busily chatting and knitting. “Hi, guys. Join the party.” Suzanne jumped up and pulled out the chair next to her for Lucy.
Suzanne, a Realtor and mother of three who lived by her BlackBerry, seemed very relaxed tonight, Lucy noticed. Whatever she’d been drinking had done a good job unwinding her.
“What can I get for you two?” Gloria asked Maggie and Lucy. “We made a big pitcher of caipirinhas. Jamie and I had them every night on our honeymoon. We brought the cachaça back from Brazil. Want to try one?”
“Highly recommended,” Dana said, taking a small sip from her frosty glass.
“I’ll try one,” Lucy answered bravely. “I may not be able to knit a straight row after, though.”
“Possibly. But you won’t worry about it, sweetie,” Gloria promised.
“Just white wine for me,” Maggie said.
“Whatever you like. But you still need to be in the samba contest.”
Samba contest? She was kidding … right?
“Be right back.” Gloria grinned and trotted toward the house.
“Don’t worry, Lucy. There’s no samba contest. Not that we’ve heard about.” Dana glanced her way and smiled. Lucy guessed her expression had given her away.
She watched Dana turn her project over, a pale yellow vest with an argyle pattern on the front. She was making it for her husband, Jack. Knitting a pattern with so many colors was a bit advanced, but Dana could handle it. She was a very careful, methodical knitter who rarely started one project before finishing another. Not like most people Lucy knew, who had plenty of UFOs—unfinished objects—lying around at any given time.
A psychologist with a busy practice in town, Dana’s office was just a few blocks down Main Street from Maggie’s shop. She often stopped in at the shop for a knitting break between appointments with her clients, a routine she claimed kept her own sanity intact.
“I know everyone’s in the middle of something,” Maggie began, “but I found a project I want to show you.”
She pulled out a few pages that looked like they’d been printed off the Internet. “I heard about this organization called Warm Up America. I went to the site and found a project we can make together. It’s very simple. We each knit squares, seven by nine inches. Just a garter stitch. Then we put all our squares together to make a blanket and send it in. Warm Up America will give it out to someone in need, in a hospice or a homeless shelter. Or to a family who has lost their home in a fire or flood.”
“What a great idea. Sounds easy, too.” Suzanne took the pages from Maggie, eager to look at the instructions. “I was thinking of trying a pullover for Kevin. I figured if I started now, I might be done for Christmas.”
Suzanne held up a photo of a classic but complicated fisherman knit sweater, then passed it over to Maggie.
