Purls and Poison

by Anne Canadeo

  “The family had left it closed and neglected for years. But most of the artwork and sculptures are in storage,” Amy said.

  Like all grand houses of its era, Mermaid Manor had a history. A few curious questions from Lucy led Amy to tell them a little about the industrialist, Ezra Cooperage, who had made his fortune in brass buttons during the Civil War. He bought the land and built the house in 1882. Ezra had a thing for mermaids. That much was obvious.

  Amy told them the tycoon believed he’d actually seen a mermaid one dark night, swimming very close to the shoreline below the cliffs, and had found himself a breath away from giving in to her seduction and plunging into the water after the fishy temptress. According to the story, he built the great house on the very spot of this experience.

  Ezra had downed a few too many after-dinner brandies, Lucy suspected. Or perhaps the tale was merely a colorful anecdote people told about the place. He did drown to death while sailing alone on his boat. Who knows? Maybe the mermaid returned and he was ready to take the plunge. Every old house needs a few tall tales, Lucy reflected.

  Lucy had always found those siren and mermaid legends extremely misogynistic, suggesting that women—especially beautiful women—had a sneaky, dark side, while men were so forthright and trusting. But she didn’t interrupt Amy’s guided tour with this comment.

  Their journey finally ended in the mansion’s library, a large room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, long windows with cushioned window seats, and even a wooden ladder with wheels, handy for reaching the highest shelves.

  Lucy loved books, and the room was her idea of heaven on earth. She stood a few feet from the doorway, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of its special perfume.

  “Are you all right?” Phoebe whispered.

  Lucy opened her eyes. “I’m fine. Just soaking up the atmosphere. I love the smell of books. Don’t you?”

  “More than yarn?” Phoebe looked shocked.

  Did yarn even have a smell? Maybe to moths—and Phoebe—but to most people, usually not. Leave it to Phoebe to come up with that question.

  Maggie’s happy exclamation broke the silence. “Goodness, Amy. I’ve never given a lesson in such a grand setting.” She set her tote bags down on a long oak table and spun in a circle.

  “My group usually doesn’t meet here, but I thought this room would be big enough. Oh, here they come.” Amy glanced at the door as a redheaded woman holding a designer purse and a knitting bag strolled through the doorway.

  “This is Helen Shelburn,” Amy said, introducing her.

  “Am I too early?” Helen asked.

  “Right on time,” Amy replied. “You get to sit next to our guest of honor.”

  Helen seemed pleased and did choose the seat next to Maggie. She seemed very friendly and eager for the lesson. More women started walking in. Lucy wasn’t that good with names and tried hard to keep track.

  An older woman named Betty Rutledge entered next. “I’m so excited for the presentation. Thank you so much for coming to see us.” Betty looked as if she was meeting a celebrity and Lucy noticed Maggie blush a bit as Amy introduced them.

  “And this is Meredith Quinn,” Amy said, as the next woman walked in. “She’s the yoga instructor I mentioned. I told them about your class tomorrow,” Amy added.

  Meredith smiled. “Please join us. All are welcome in my studio.”

  “I’ll be there,” Dana replied quickly. Lucy wasn’t so sure. She preferred bike riding to yoga, but cast Meredith a welcoming smile.

  She definitely looked like a fitness instructor. In her midforties, but petite and slim enough to be a dancer. Her arms—exposed by her sleeveless dress—were lean and toned, and her movements, lithe and graceful.

  As Meredith settled in her seat a man entered. Lucy thought for a moment he was in the wrong room, but everyone soon greeted him. Amy introduced him to Maggie and her friends. “This is Dr. Lewis Fielding, our token male member,” she teased.

  “Nice to meet you. Just call me Lewis,” he said, shaking Maggie’s hand. “Thank you for taking the time to give us this lesson.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Maggie said graciously.

  Lucy knew that many men knit, but, so far, no men in Plum Harbor had ever shown up at their knitting nights. Lewis seemed a serious knitter, though, setting down a bulging knitting bag. He took out a project, a long scarf knit with alternating blocks of dark green and golden yellow, and began working. He had already added the fringe to one side, and it looked as if he was almost finished.

  “A present for my granddaughter,” he told Maggie.

  “She was just accepted into college, and these are her school colors.”

  “Nice idea. I’m sure she’ll cherish it,” Maggie said.

  “I think everyone is here,” Amy said.

  “Great. Let’s begin.” Maggie stood to address the group of knitters.

  Though Maggie often introduced them to different projects and techniques, Lucy noticed she definitely had more of a theatrical air when teaching a group of strangers, as if she was a guest star on a television craft show. Lucy sat back, enjoying the presentation and her friend’s flair.

  “Summer isn’t a season that most people associate with knitting,” Maggie began. “They are mostly non-knitters who are unaware of the joys of summer yarns and summer projects.” A basket with several skeins of yarn in Popsicle colors sat on the table in front of her, and Maggie picked one up. “Working with summer yarns is like switching from a cup of hot cocoa to a chocolate ice cream soda. From down coats to tank tops. Summer yarns brighten your knitting spirit.”

  Maggie pulled a length of yarn from the light green skein. The color reminded Lucy of Key lime pie. “This cotton-silk blend knits as good as it feels, and the airy, light weight makes garments drape perfectly. I’ll pass these yarns around so you can get a feel for the choices. No pun intended,” she added, handing the yarn to the woman on her left. Betty, Lucy recalled.

  “This next skein is pure cotton. The tight twist of the yarn gives a great stitch definition, so keep that in mind when you’re working with an intricate pattern.” Maggie passed a cotton candy–pink skein to Amy, who sat on her right.

  “The last yarn I want to show you looks pricey, but it’s really quite reasonable. If you look closely, you can see that there’s a shiny satin wrap over the matte cotton blend. This yarn has an amazing sheen and drapes beautifully. Projects made with this yarn don’t require complex stitchery to look stunning.”

  Maggie’s sample of that yarn was sky blue, and she passed it to Betty again. “Here are three swatches made with the different yarns.” She took the three-by-three inch squares from the basket and passed those around, too.

  “The project I have in mind for you is a summer shawl. Which might come in very handy up here in Maine, where it cools down at night even on the warmest days.” Maggie turned and took a peach-colored shawl out of another tote bag. She spread it on the table as the group “oohed” and “ahhed.” She did have a flair for showmanship, that was for sure.

  “The eyelet pattern looks complex but is easy to follow. Some of you might even complete it over the weekend,” she said with a hint of challenge. “As you can see, the finished product is light, airy, and elegant. I’ll be around all weekend to help anyone who hits a few speed bumps.”

  While Maggie reviewed the pattern instructions, Phoebe flitted around the table, handing out balls of yarn to get the group started. The knitters were eager to choose, and delighted with the bright colors. Lewis was the only one who passed on the shawl project, concentrating instead on the gift for his granddaughter.

  Lucy started to read the pattern, but got distracted. Not far from where she sat, a set of glass doors opened to a smaller room, one that looked to Lucy like a private study—a “man cave,” circa 1900.

  The walls were painted forest green, with dark wainscoting and wooden shutters on the windows. She saw a collection of framed photos hanging there, antique-looking images of row
ing teams and groups of men showing off huge fish or other animal prizes. There were lots of bronze plaques and trophies, commemorating past glories of the grand old house and the family that once lived there. A mounted stag’s head hung opposite the doorway, its glassy stare taking in the scene with equanimity.

  Tonight, the room was fittingly occupied by a group of men playing cards. They were seated around an octagon-shaped table, which was covered in green felt. From where she sat, Lucy had a full view of their game. High-stakes poker, judging from the bets she heard. The men barely spoke, their few words sounding deep and low. Their expressions were intense, yet somehow blank at the same time.

  That is, except for the one player who sat at the far side of the table. Older than most of the others, the man’s head was bald and shiny, his thin face tapering down to a gray goatee. His dark eyes were bright behind black-framed glasses, and his eyebrows were thick and bushy, rising and falling with his animated expressions and loud conversation.

  He tossed down his cards with glee. “Straight flush, my friends. Ace high.” Then he swept up his winnings with both hands, taking obvious pleasure in his opponents’ defeat. He seemed very unsportsmanlike, even rude.

  Lucy wondered if this was just a male thing. It wasn’t enough to win. Your friends had to be humiliated? She didn’t think so. This player seemed a sore winner, if there was such a thing.

  “Caught you again,” the bald man added as he scooped up a pile of chips heaped in the center of the table.

  A few of the players grumbled. But most did not react.

  “Another winning streak for Julian,” the player who sat across the table from the bald man announced. “Just like last week. And just as we’re about to finish up. I could almost set my watch by the turn in your luck.”

  The expression on Julian’s face flashed from pleasure to anger. “If you’ve got something to say, Pullman, say it. Unless you don’t have the guts.”

  The other players glanced at each other. One picked up the deck and began to shuffle. “Come on guys. Let’s just finish up. Come on, Derek. Let it go.”

  Julian’s adversary ignored the request.

  “Cheater,” Derek Pullman said quietly.

  “What did you call me?” Julian’s tone was sharp and loud. It carried into the library, and a few of the knitters glanced over to the study to see what was going on.

  “I said you’re a cheater. What part of that sentence don’t you understand, old man?” Derek’s voice rose, sounding out the words loud and clear. “I don’t know how you do it. But I’d bet good money that you do.”

  Around the table, knitting needles went silent and still. All heads turned toward the argument.

  Julian stared at Derek Pullman, then laughed, a grim, cold sound that gave Lucy gooseflesh.

  “That’s another bet you’d lose. Because that’s what you are, Pullman. A loser. Don’t blame me for your sorry, pathetic life. You’re into me for over ten grand tonight. Probably more once I sort these chips. That’s not even counting what you owe from last week’s game. Do you think I’ll just wipe the slate clean because you call me a few school yard names?”

  Pullman stood up from the table. “I’m not giving you a nickel. You’re a fraud, Dr. Morton. I wonder if you’re even a real doctor. I do know you’re a conniving, backstabbing phony who’ll do anything to win. Maybe the rest of these guys will pay up like smiling idiots, but you won’t get another cent from me.”

  Julian Morton’s thick brows furrowed, and his small, dark eyes glowed with anger. “How dare you. I’ll make you pay for your loose tongue. Don’t doubt it. I’ll sue you for slander.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to pay. Watch your back, old man. Your free ride is over. I’ll see you rot in hell.”

  Derek Pullman stepped back from the poker table, slipped his hands under the edge and flipped it up.

  The other men called out and jumped from their seats, grumbling and shouting, while cards, chips, and cocktails flew in all directions.

  Dr. Morton was trapped in his chair, the edge of the overturned table balancing on his lap. All he could do was toss his hands in the air and yell, as most of the mess—including all of his winnings—slid to the floor.

  “You sore-losing bastard! My chips . . . how can I count my chips now?”

  Pullman laughed as he headed for the glass doors.

  Amy had run up to the doors—intending to shut them on the scene, Lucy thought—but ended up watching the drama unfold. Pullman swept by, nearly knocking her down. His gaze was fixed straight ahead. He stomped out of the library without making eye contact with anyone.

  Amy closed the doors quickly, and then pulled down linen shades. The sounds from the room were muffled now, though Lucy could still hear the card players trying to get their bearings.

  Amy returned to the table, looking pale and flustered. “I’m sorry for that awful interruption.” She spoke mainly to Maggie, then glanced around at the group.

  “We never act like that around here, do we?” she asked her neighbors and friends. “What an awful impression our visitors must have of our community.”

  “No need for you to apologize, Amy.” Lewis Fielding shook his head. “It’s certainly not your fault.”

  Meredith picked up her knitting again. She looked unfazed by the outburst. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Some people spread joy wherever they go. Julian Morton spreads anger and conflict. No secret about that.”

  An older woman sitting next to Maggie—Lucy thought her name was Betty—nodded, her lips tightly pursed. “Not that I wish anyone ill, but Dr. Morton will get a taste of his own medicine someday. Of that I have no doubt.”

  Amy had not taken her seat again. Lucy thought she looked a little nervous about the gossipy turn the conversation had taken. Though gossip was certainly not uncommon in a knitting circle—about as likely as jelly showing up around peanut butter.

  “Why don’t we take a break?” Amy said. “There are some delicious desserts tonight. Betty made a beautiful peach tart, and Lewis made some oatmeal and cranberry bars. Coffee or tea, anyone?”

  Maggie looked grateful for the suggestion. “Good idea. Let’s take a break, and Phoebe and I will come around and answer any questions. Here’s how the first few rows should look, if any of you were able to knit during the floor show.”

  Her quip brought a few smiles and some quiet laughter. Helen showed Maggie her work. “I know it’s a lace stitch. But I think I have too many holes.”

  “No worries. We can fix this.” Maggie plucked up the bumpy looking swatch as if it were a prize.

  Lucy set her needles aside and strolled over to the display of sweets. It all looked very tasty and tempting. She’d virtuously stuck to a Spartan diet and exercise plan for months, hoping to look super slim in her wedding gown. But she was ready to let her carb-guard down a little this weekend. It’s my last fling before the wedding, she reminded herself, as she added a cookie to the slice of tart already on her plate.

  She met Dana and Suzanne at the coffee urn. “Sweet tooth?” Dana said, eyeing Lucy’s plate. “I thought you were sugar free until the big day?”

  Suzanne waved away Dana’s remark. “Leave her be. No carb shaming here, please? It’s prewedding jitters. Brownies work better than Xanax. Everyone knows that.”

  Dana laughed and sipped her tea. “That might be true. And no dangerous side effects.”

  “If you don’t count a tighter wedding gown,” Lucy said between bites of the tart.

  “Live a little, Lucy. Just buy a tighter body smoother.” Suzanne took a bite of the oatmeal bar.

  “I didn’t plan on wearing a body smoother,” Lucy replied.

  Suzanne shrugged. “There’s your problem. You’ve got to get one. It pushes all your assets into the right place. Those perfect-looking movie stars wouldn’t go within ten miles of a red carpet without their body armor.”

  Dana blinked, looking in awe of the information. “I guess I can’t go near a red carpet, eit
her. I don’t even know where to find one of those things.”

  “You’re exempt from this conversation, Dana. You won the DNA lottery. Built like a string bean . . . an organic string bean. And I totally mean that as a compliment,” Suzanne quickly added.

  Dana grinned, choosing the oatmeal bar. “No offense taken. I do like string beans. How about you, Lucy?”

  “I like string beans,” Lucy insisted around a mouthful of tart.

  Dana laughed. “I meant, do you even know where to buy a body shaper? Not that I think you need one.”

  “I actually don’t . . . But I guess I’ll look into it.” Lucy was trying to be agreeable and get Suzanne off the subject, but she had no intention of being squashed into a tube of suffocating spandex beneath her wedding gown. She could barely abide tummy control panty hose. How would she ever enjoy her big day?

  “Don’t worry, I’ll order one for you,” Suzanne said. “A gift for your trousseau. I know what you’re thinking, Lucy. You’re thinking ‘No way in hell will I wear that thing.’ But you will wear it, and you’ll thank me later when you see how slinky and fabulous you look in the photos.”

  “In that case, I guess I’ll try the cookie, too.” Lucy took a small bite, and then tried to change the subject from her wedding day undergarments. Or lack of them. “What about that card game brawl? Quite a scene.”

  Suzanne moved closer. “An ugly one. I know that Pullman fellow started it, but Dr. Morton looks like a cold customer.”

  “Gambling, liquor, and testosterone concentrated for a few hours in a small room,” Dana said. “A highly combustible combination.”

  “High-stakes gambling,” Lucy added. “That puts the pressure on. Did you hear how much Derek Pullman owes Morton? No wonder he had a meltdown.”

  “True. But in case you didn’t notice, people in this community are pretty well-off,” Suzanne whispered, then glanced over her shoulder at a cluster of Amy’s friends who stood nearby. “A few thousand bucks might be dinner and a movie. Or a lunch and a quick stop at the mall.”