Moon Spinners

by Sally Goldenbaum

  The foursome walked along the sidewalk in the June night, the smell of charcoal grills filling the air and loud music pouring from open windows.

  “Good choice,” Nell said to Sam as he held open the door and ushered them into the brick-walled pub.

  They found a table near the wall and, as if by magic, a tray of Guinness appeared on the table. The creamy heads were lined up like pristine chefs’ hats, each one a mirror of the other. “Mussels and curry fries to follow soon,” the waitress said, giving Sam a thumbs-up.

  “They haven’t forgotten you here,” Izzy said, watching the young waitress wiggle around the tables on her way to the bar. She lifted one brow.

  “I think I paid for her first year of college,” Sam said, ignoring Izzy’s look. He stretched his long legs beneath the table. “Big tips equate to Guinness at the ready.”

  Ben picked up the tulip-shaped glass. “Perfect.”

  “It feels like we’re on another planet. As dearly as I love Sea Harbor, a getaway is good. Not to mention the comfort food they serve up here. Running away is good.” Izzy took a long drink of the dark beer and moved her arm as the waitress slid a platter of fries with a pot of curry sauce to the center of the table.

  Nell nodded. She slipped her black cashmere sweater to the back of the chair and brushed a wave of salt-and-pepper hair behind one ear. She wasn’t sure if it was the dark bitter beer with the sweet aftertaste or the lovely company—or watching Sam’s large, competent photographer’s hand absently touching Izzy’s fingers, then her wrist, then tugging on a strand of her uncontrollable waves. But whatever the reason, the heaviness she’d felt that day in the salon gave way to the sweetness of a cool summer evening. And she was happy.

  First came the mussels—juicy and plump in a smoky chili broth. The group fell silent as they eagerly speared the mussels on forks and sopped up the sauce with bread like starving sailors. Their orders came shortly—shepherd’s pie, Irish bangers and mash, meat loaf and gravy.

  “Comfort food at its best,” Sam said. “It kept me hale and hearty while I was working for the Globe.”

  Izzy nibbled on a piece of soggy bread. “I’m surprised they didn’t have to roll you from one photo shoot to another.”

  “So you think you’re keeping me lean, Izzy girl?” he asked. He looped an arm over the back of the chair and rubbed the soft yarn of Izzy’s sweater between his fingers.

  Nell enjoyed the interplay, but wisely asked few questions regarding their relationship. Her sister, Caroline, had pleaded with her to get the scoop. Izzy provided her mother with few details.

  But Nell knew Izzy like her own soul, and stepping into the privacy of her niece’s heart would not be wise. Since Sam appeared in Sea Harbor to teach a photography class two years ago, his relationship with Izzy had visibly changed from the surprise of running into an old family friend to a far more intimate one. They were good friends and depended on each other, that was unquestionably clear to all those around them. But by the end of Sam’s first summer in Sea Harbor, the friendly teasing had deepened into conversations, looks, and touches that made everyone who knew them happy. And although she wouldn’t pretend to predict the future, Nell was quietly hopeful she’d be there to see it unfold.

  Ben remained true to his goal in getting away from the week’s traumatic events, and talk focused on Sam’s photography exhibit at the ICA in Boston and the work being done on the community center in Sea Harbor.

  “They have a great group agreeing to help out once the building is finished,” Nell said. “Annabelle Palazola wants to have cooking sessions with the kids, Joey Delaney is going to do some wood-working with the boys, and even quiet Sal Scaglia volunteered to teach about quarry history.”

  They laughed at the thought of the reticent director of deeds taking an unruly group of teens on field trips.

  “Jane said there’s a slew of Canary Cove artists donating time,” Sam said. “Willow is at the top of the list.”

  “She’ll be a good teacher. The kids will love her.”

  “And fall in love with her on the side. Willow is magical. And a gifted artist, too,” Sam said. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s only twenty-three. I see Pete around her Fishtail Gallery a bit. What’s that about?”

  Izzy laughed. “Cass is keeping an eye on it, too. For now, they’re being helpful friends to each other. That’s a good thing.”

  “Friends. Hmmm. That’s how it starts. I need to have a talk with Pete,” Sam said. He picked Izzy’s hand off the table and kissed it lightly.

  “You’re scaring me, Perry,” Izzy said, frowning.

  “What, I’m nice and thoughtful and romantic and take you to my favorite restaurant—and you’re scared?”

  Izzy looked at Ben and Nell. Her face was flushed, and for once in her life, Izzy Chambers had no retort.

  By the time the cheery waitress returned to talk Sam into the evening’s dessert special, plates were clean and stomachs were full. It was unanimous that they call it a night.

  Nell looked at Ben. “This was a good idea, Ben. Getting away was great therapy. I’m ready to go back.”

  Nell and Izzy made a quick trip to the ladies’ room while Sam and Ben split the tab and collected their credit cards. The foursome met at the front door.

  “And we didn’t see a single soul we knew,” Nell said, tucking her arm in Ben’s as they started down the street.

  “Well, except for one,” Sam said.

  “Who?”

  “Liz Palazola. I noticed her when I went over to the bar.”

  Izzy and Nell stopped walking. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Sam shrugged. “She was with a guy. A date, maybe, from the way she was looking at him.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. His back was to me, but they were leaning close to each other, and Liz seemed far more intent on him than seeing someone from Sea Harbor. So I didn’t bother her. Maybe she had the same goal we did—to get away, be anonymous.”

  “You’re probably right,” Nell said.

  “So let’s go,” Ben said, noticing the women had stopped moving.

  Nell and Izzy took a few hesitant steps, then stopped again while Sam and Ben went on.

  In retrospect, Nell didn’t know why they turned back, or why she looked through the tall narrow window of the Thirsty Scholar Pub. It wasn’t planned, nor was it like her to invade another’s privacy. But she did exactly that—turned and stepped close to the window. Then peered through.

  At that precise moment, Liz rose from her chair, her smooth blond hair falling across her shoulders. She half-turned from the window, a lovely smile lifting her lips as her light wrap appeared on the arm of her companion.

  As he held open the sweater for Liz’s waiting arms, the man lifted his eyes and looked toward the window. And in that briefest of seconds, Alphonso Santos looked directly into Nell Endicott’s surprised blue eyes.

  Chapter 12

  Birdie began pouring the wine as soon as Nell had finished her story about their dinner at the Thirsty Scholar Pub.

  “Liz . . . and Alphonso Santos?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Did they see you?”

  The questions cascaded out of Birdie and Cass without time for answers.

  Not that there were any answers, Nell thought. Yes, Alphonso had seen her. Or had she imagined it? It was so quick, a lift of a head, a shifting of a glance, and then he’d turned away. Or had she turned away first? The surprise of seeing Birdie’s widowed neighbor with Liz Palazola had unnerved her in a way that made recollecting it accurately nearly impossible.

  Sam had said Nell was probably thinking about everything going on back in Sea Harbor. Maybe Alphonso was on her mind and that’s why she thought she’d seen him with Liz. Sam had seen the man, too, and he hadn’t immediately thought it was Alphonso Santos. But when pushed, Sam admitted that he hadn’t really looked, hadn’t really wondered who it was, and that he’d only seen the back of his head.


  “Did his head look . . . well, older?” Izzy had pushed. “Were there gray hairs?”

  But Sam said that the couple was sitting in shadows, and he couldn’t really say what color the guy’s hair was. He probably didn’t even look at his hair. The two people were leaning toward each other, their heads nearly touching, so it was hard to see much of anything. Besides, he said, Liz was the one who usually attracted the attention, not the person she was with. And then he had added, tipping Izzy’s chin up with his finger and trying to make her smile, “Unless, of course, it was you, charming Izzy. Then I’d know every detail of every color of every hair on your head. And there are many.”

  “Men!” Izzy had grumped, pushing away his hand but allowing a trace of a smile to return. And then she softened her complaint by suggesting to Sam that if he wanted to grow up to be a famous photographer, he’d better start noticing details.

  Nell walked over to the bookcase and plugged in the Crock-Pot.

  “Let me help.” Cass appeared at her elbow and lifted the large Tupperware container out of Nell’s cloth bag. She pried off the top and leaned over it, breathing in the smell. “I knew it!” she said, pouring the thick, chunky soup into the pot.

  “It’s one of Nell’s summer secrets. I can smell the curry from here,” Birdie said from her chair near the fireplace.

  “It was a little chilly tonight. The kind of night that isn’t sure if it’s April or June. Soup sounded like a good choice.”

  “Perfect,” Birdie said from her favorite spot near the fireplace. Purl sat on her lap, purring happily.

  Izzy walked over to the coffee table and picked up a glass of wine. “I agree. It’s perfect. It will help us think.”

  “About?” Birdie said, slipping her glasses onto the top of her head.

  “Who killed Sophia,” Cass shot from across the room. “I’m concerned about Gracie. Her mom is worrying her. Julianne is wandering around like a beautiful lost soul. Gracie thinks she might just up and leave if something doesn’t come to a head soon.”

  “What are the police saying?”

  “Nothing. Maybe that’s part of the problem. There’re only telling Julianne that she can’t leave the area.”

  “It’s only been a week. They’re making some headway,” Nell said. “Ben told me the car was badly smashed, but they were able to retrieve the brake line to determine the cause of the failure. And they’re talking to the yacht club’s security, waitstaff, anyone who might have seen anything that night.”

  “The person would have had to get under the hood, right?” Birdie said, playing out the scenario in her head. “Sophia was so afraid someone would ding that car that she always parked in the most remote space. I spotted her car when Izzy and I arrived that night. It was as far from the clubhouse as possible, hidden by those pretty islands with greenery all around. It would be difficult to see someone out there.”

  “It had to be someone who knew what he was doing,” Cass added. “I’ve worked on cars, and you need to know what you’re messing with, especially on a Ferrari.”

  “What’s that awesome smell?” Jillian Anderson, one of Mae’s teenaged nieces, flew down the steps, taking all three in one graceful leap. Jillian and her sister, Rose, were Izzy’s regular weekend help, but once school was out for the summer, they were willing to come nearly anytime she asked them. Birdie said they did this because they were sweet and generous, but Cass and Izzy suspected it was to keep their cell phones in texting mode.

  “It’s roasted vegetables in a sweet potato soup. A splash of wine, some grilled chicken and—voilà—a chilly night surprise,” Nell said.

  Jillian glided to Nell’s side, looking down into the chestnut-colored soup. Flakes of parsley and slivers of roasted yellow pepper floated to the top as Nell stirred.

  “Looks yummy.” Jillian pressed a hand against her flat tummy. “You’re an amazing cook. Aunt Mae says she sometimes hangs around here longer than she has to on Thursday nights so she’ll get a taste.”

  Nell laughed. Mae would love her secret ploys being revealed by her teenaged niece.

  Jillian reluctantly turned away from the food and looked at Izzy. “I’m the last one here, boss. Aunt Mae had to go to a meeting and asked me to lock up. So I’m, like, out of here. You guys need anything?”

  “We’re fine, Jillian. Thanks.”

  “De nada.”

  Izzy’s brows lifted. “You’re taking Spanish, Jill?”

  Jillian’s smile fell away. “Well, I was. I mean I suppose I still am, but I’ll probably flunk out next year.”

  “Flunk? That’s silly. Why do you say that?” Cass asked.

  “You have me mixed up with my twin, Cass. She’s the smart one.” Jillian offered a lopsided smile. “It’s because of Mrs. Santos. She was helping some of us. She was so great. And now she’s . . .” Jillian looked back up the steps as if there might be someone there, ready to grab her words and run away with them. She looked back at the knitters. “She’s, like, dead.”

  Birdie looked at Jillian. “Yes, dear,” she said. “It’s a terrible thing.”

  “Did you say she was tutoring you?” Nell asked.

  “Yep. Mr. Rodriguez—you know him, Miss Birdie. He’s that cool dude who used to wait tables at the Edge on Sundays. I know he used to wait on those little old ladies you’d take in there for wine.”

  Nell held back a smile. Those little old ladies were all Birdie’s age, though Jillian clearly set Birdie apart as the young chaperone. The group had gathered at the Edge each week for over forty years, though their meetings of late were less frequent and smaller. “For tea,” they would say, though no one had ever seen a teacup grace their table.

  “Jimmy Rodriguez comes in here a lot,” Izzy said. “He’s a good knitter.”

  “And an awesome Spanish teacher. He said some people needed extra help, so the principal got him, like, an assistant. Mrs. Santos helped those of us who were having a hard time. Flunking, I guess is what you’d say was happening. She was, like, so smart. And wow gorgeous. Most of the guys in the class had a thing for her. Dweebs. As if she’d look at them.”

  Nell looked over at Birdie. She hadn’t known that Sophia was tutoring at the high school either. Sophia Santos was proving to be a bundle of surprises.

  “We—we think maybe she, like, had a lover.” Jillian looked over at Birdie, her cheeks pink. “You know, like a boyfriend, but more? And he killed her because she wouldn’t leave Alphonso Santos. I mean who would leave Alphonso Santos? He’s, like, richer than God.”

  And then, before she divulged more of the Sea Harbor teenage dissection of the Sophia Santos murder, Jillian was gone, calling out over her shoulder that she was off to decorate for Sunday’s regatta and she’d be locking the front door behind her.

  “Good grief,” Birdie said when the front door slammed shut. She put her needles and yarn down on the table, got up, and walked over to the long center table that now held the soup, a set of handmade soup bowls, and crusty hunks of French bread wrapped in a linen cloth. “We have more to digest tonight than Nell’s soup, so we better get started. Now we have teenagers accusing Sophia of having an affair. What’s next?” Birdie shook her head.

  Cass’ laugh mixed with the aromas of garlic and ginger as she followed Birdie to the table. “Well, it’s not with Jimmy Rodriguez, that’s for sure. I used to babysit him. He’s not much older than Willow. But if Sophia was having an affair, Jimmy might know something. Maybe we should ask him. Maybe it’s important.”

  “And maybe it’s teenage gossip,” Nell said.

  It took some minutes to fill the bowls with the chunky soup. The contents of Nell’s Summer Surprise depended on her refrigerator, and tonight’s held bits of grilled asparagus, sautéed squares of Vidalia onions, wild mushrooms, and red and yellow peppers, all swimming in a bath of sweet potato broth and wine. Juicy strips of grilled chicken bobbed on the surface like Cass’ lobster buoys.

  Izzy programmed her iPod, refilled wineglasses with Birdie’
s sauvignon blanc, and brought the basket of warm bread over to the coffee table. In minutes they were all settled on the Endicotts’ old den furniture, enjoying the comfort of one another, the soft worn leather, and Nell’s soup.

  “I think Sophia’s like these Vidalia onions,” Izzy said, capturing one with her spoon. “We’ll be pulling off layers for a long time.”

  “It’s interesting to think that the people who may have known her best were high school kids and Birdie’s housekeeper,” Nell said. “I wonder what that tells us.”

  “That there could be lots of motives for killing her that we can’t begin to imagine,” Birdie said softly.

  For a few minutes they savored the soup in silence, listening to the soft strains of Dar Williams singing about family.

  You are my family.

  The words settled inside the knitters as warmly as the soup. They were family. A friendship wrapped around a love of soft yarns and bamboo needles. Random lives woven together just like their sweaters and hats and shawls. Izzy often said she couldn’t quite remember what it was like before Thursday nights at the Seaside Studio. And Birdie would wisely say, “And thankfully we don’t have to, Izzy dear. Today is what we have to think about. Today is what we have.”

  Cass finished her soup and then began soaking up the remains with a piece of bread.

  “There’s more, Cass,” Nell said.

  It was a meaningless comment. Of course there was more. Nell didn’t know how to cook for four or five. There was always enough for drop-ins or to stash in empty refrigerators. One of the things Cass counted on every Thursday night was returning home with enough of the meal to avoid canned beans for another few days.

  Cass refilled her bowl and sat back down. “I didn’t think I was anything like my mother, but I’m beginning to think I got her worry gene.”