Moon Spinners

by Sally Goldenbaum

  The end of his sentence was barely audible and Gracie looked away, out the window, then back to Joey.

  “Well, maybe you can stick around a little bit more. Fix the fireplace.” She lifted both shoulders, then lifted her hands in the air. “I give up, Joey. Maybe I’ll even let you paint a wall or two.”

  Chapter 22

  “Jillian and Rose have been amazing this summer,” Izzy told Nell. “They are wanting as many hours as I can give them. It makes my life so nice. Sam and I actually had a long lunch date today.”

  “Where did you go?” Nell began stapling the pattern copies together for Izzy’s sock class.

  “His place. We went for a walk along the beach, took some pictures of dogs chasing Frisbees, and then sat on his deck and ate Sam’s gourmet sandwiches. That means he piled everything in his refrigerator on some of Harry’s great nutty bread and slathered it with a spicy cucumber-yogurt sauce you gave him. Then he put it on a plate with a fancy toothpick holding it together. It was delicious, and probably half of it started life in your kitchen.”

  “A good break in your day.”

  “Sam is a good break almost anytime. He’s a very special guy—I think I’m beginning to like him.”

  Nell was noncommittal, calm, knowing that Izzy was cautious when talking about her feelings. She reached for Izzy’s box of supplies and began filling small baskets with scissors, needle gauges, measuring tape. Low-key or not, she almost felt guilty for the pleasure that washed through her in nice gentle waves when Izzy talked this way about Sam. It wasn’t her business, she told herself often. But she thought the world of Sam Perry. And Izzy was the daughter she never had. She and Ben had seen Izzy through low points of her thirty-three years. Witnessing the high points was pure pleasure.

  “Izzy, you’ve liked Sam for some time.”

  “Of course. Even when I didn’t like him, I suppose I liked him. At least a little. But when you’re thirteen, you don’t like your brother’s geeky friends. It’s not cool.”

  “I can’t imagine Sam geeky.”

  “Geeky in a good way.” Izzy got up, found her iPod on the shelf, and plugged it into the dock. Strains of the “Four Seasons” filled the yarn shop’s back room.

  Nell lifted her head. “Vivaldi?”

  “One of the men who’s coming today plays violin over in Rockport—Sam and I met him one night at a concert. He wants to learn how to knit.”

  “So you think the music will impress him?”

  “No, but if he’s comfortable, he may catch on to purling a little faster.” Izzy grinned. “It’s all about comfort, I say. You do what it takes.” She sat down at the table and touched a ball of pale green fingering yarn in the basket.

  Nell could almost see the image of a tiny green sweater, made up in organic cotton with a sweet floppy hat to match, pass in front of Izzy’s eyes. There was a shift occurring inside her niece, and it would be nice to see where it led.

  “As often as I see Sam, I want to see him more,” Izzy said. “I like that we can sit in the same room reading and not talk for an hour, but it’s a million times better than sitting in that same room alone—the air feels different and the funny sound he makes when he clears his throat is comforting. And then when we do talk, sometimes we say the same thing. I like it that some nights we can sit out on his deck and talk until the sun rises right up out of the ocean. I like it that he teaches those goofy kids how to sail and you’d think when he comes home that they were the ones teaching him.”

  “I like Sam, too.”

  Izzy laughed, a full deep laugh that often caused her customers to smile for no reason. “You’re so coy, Aunt Nell.”

  Mae stuck her head in the door. “I’m leaving, Izzy. Jillian and Rose will handle everything—don’t worry for a minute. We’ve had a couple more sign-ups for the class, so turn a fan on. Some of these youngsters could use a little lesson in body hygiene. Sweaty, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thanks, Mae. We’ll be fine.”

  Cass and Birdie hurried in a few minutes later. “What can we do?”

  “Lemonade. Ice. And a fan, I guess.” Izzy pulled open a drawer beneath the wall of bookcases and took out a collection of sock samples that she lined up on the table. They ranged from baby socks to anklets to heavy wool hiking socks.

  “Izzy!” Jillian Anderson stood triumphantly in the doorway. “Guess who’s here?” Jillian’s long hair flew in all directions as she tossed her head, and she pushed it back happily with her hand.

  “Ta-da,” she said, stepping aside and holding out her arms as if announcing a star onstage.

  A tall, very handsome man appeared in the doorframe, frowning at Jillian. “Cool it, Miss Anderson,” he said. Then softened it with a grin that showed a perfect set of white teeth.

  “Jimmy Rodriguez,” Cass said, dropping her bag on the table and walking toward him.

  The young man reached out his arms and gave Cass a hug, then released her. “This can’t be that old cranky babysitter who made me eat canned beans.”

  “I didn’t know how to make anything else, Jimmy.”

  He leaned down and whispered loudly in her ear, “Just between you and me, Cass, no one has called me Jimmy since seventh grade.”

  “Whatever,” Cass said, brushing off his words. “Izzy says you’re spending your whole salary on yarn.”

  “Seems like it sometimes. I’m ready for winter—two cable sweaters already finished. But damn if these socks don’t scare me. Izzy claims I can master it. We’ll see.”

  “You will, you will,” Izzy called across the table. “What you already do is much harder than socks.”

  “I hear you’re teaching Spanish, Jimmy—Jim,” Birdie said. “That’s just wonderful—though we miss our favorite Sunday waiter at the Ocean’s Edge. I would guess you are a wonderful teacher.”

  “He’s the best,” Jillian said, still standing in the archway.

  “She’s trying to get points.” Jim inclined his head toward Jillian.

  “I need them now that Mrs. Santos won’t be there to help.” A jingling of the bell and her sister shouting, “Jillian, where are you?” sent her scurrying off to the front of the store.

  The Spanish teacher’s smile faded. “That’s a big loss, Jillian’s right. Mrs. Santos was good with kids like Jillian. She’ll be missed for sure.”

  “That’s what Jillian tells us,” Nell said.

  Jim walked over and picked up one of the socks from the table, fingering the stitches. Several women walked in behind him, and Izzy began handing out patterns and pointed out the iced tea and platter of cookies.

  “How did Sophia become involved in tutoring kids?” Cass asked, staying close behind Jim.

  “It was Father Northcutt’s idea. Mrs. Santos and he were buddies, and he knows I worry a lot about the kids who have a hard time catching on. The language classes are too big—I couldn’t get to all the kids who needed help. So somehow Father talked Mrs. Santos into helping. She was great with the kids. Stern. Matter-of-fact. Didn’t put up with any crap. But they responded—and they learned.”

  Jim stepped away from the table so others could admire the collection of socks. He moved closer to Birdie and Cass and lowered his voice.

  “It’s an awful thing. Really awful.”

  “How was she, at the school I mean? Friendly?” Cass asked.

  “Polite, not especially friendly. The guys were all half in love with her, but they were certainly not friends with her. No way. She wouldn’t even see kids individually. There were always at least two of them. I thought it was a little overkill, but she set her own rules.”

  “What about teachers, administration?”

  Jim shook his head. “Everyone knew she was there a few days a week because you couldn’t miss her. She was drop-dead gorgeous. But I don’t know if she ever talked to anyone. She didn’t even talk to me much, and she was working with my kids. She’d ask for their tests and the textbooks we used, and everything else she did on her own.”


  Izzy refilled the iced tea pitcher, then rejoined the group. “How did she get back and forth? The famous Ferrari?”

  “She wouldn’t bring that car on the school grounds. She didn’t think it set a good example for the kids. Sometimes she’d park it down the street, but Mr. Santos dropped her off usually. Not long ago, a different guy picked her up once—maybe someone who worked for Santos. I saw her get in the car but just from a distance. I remember it because she seemed nervous that day, distracted, like she had something on her mind besides Spanish.

  “And that last week, the week she was killed, she looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. I actually felt sorry for her. I went up to her before class and asked if she needed help. She looked at me, kind of vague-like, then said yes I could. But all she wanted from me were directions. When I gave them to her, she turned around and left, leaving three students sitting in a classroom without a tutor. That wasn’t like her at all.”

  “Where were the directions to?” Cass asked.

  “The Delaney plant. Weird, huh? Her husband’s competitor. She wasn’t sure which road it was on. It’s kind of hidden back beyond the marshes.”

  Another wave of people came in then, and Izzy waved to them over the tops of heads. “Sit anywhere,” she said and moved off to greet a couple of lost-looking teenagers.

  “Find a place, Jim,” Birdie said. “Cass and I are on duty, so if you need help, wave.”

  “I can’t believe Cass can knit. She was pretty good at threading worms on hooks, but knitting?”

  Cass wrinkled her nose at him and headed across the room to help Esther Gibson find a chair. As she passed the archway to the front of the store, she stopped short. “Good grief,” she said, coming face-to-face with Danny Brandley.

  “Is this the right place?” He smiled at her down the steps. “I couldn’t find anyone in front to ask—they were all busy.”

  “This is absolutely the right place if you’re into socks. Or not,” she added. “You could come just because you like our company.”

  He laughed. “Ties, scarves. I love this stuff. It’s a helluva a lot cheaper than a psychiatrist.” He walked down the steps. “I take the T in Boston a lot, and knitting is a perfect companion—forces me to let go of whatever I’m writing, to sit back, watch the world, decompress.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” Danny pulled a long, narrow piece of knitting from his backpack. “This is my latest. A necktie for a friend. His baby has ten Uncle Danny bibs. And everyone in the entire Brandley clan has at least two scarves. The more unfortunate have nine or ten. My dad is starting to hang them like flags from the loft railing in his bookstore.”

  Cass laughed. “A generous knitter. The best kind.”

  “Oh, it’s not that they’re begging for my handiwork. I have only mastered the knit stitch. I can’t quite get a handle on how to purl—but I’m trying.”

  At the mention of her name, Purl jumped up on the bookcase, then proceeded to land comfortably on Danny’s shoulder and rub her cheek against his.

  “Her name is Purl,” Cass said. “How can you not know how to purl when our Purl seems to be in love with you?”

  A rapping on an iced tea glass broke into their conversation, and Izzy stepped up on her box, a pair of socks in each hand.

  “Guess this means business,” Cass whispered and pointed to a place next to Birdie at the end of the couch. “Maybe Purl can inspire you,” she added, and reluctantly left Danny’s side to stand by the door and help out when Izzy called.

  The class began with a flurry of chatting, laughter, and questions about the techniques they had used for last week’s miniature socks. Newcomers were filled in on what they’d missed, and Izzy checked to be sure they’d all come with double-pointed needles and had picked their yarn appropriately. They would all use the same pattern for the first sock project—later, when they were sock experts, they’d pick out their own patterns and knit up spectacular designs. There was much laughter as the Seaside Knitters moved through the group, helping the knitters divide the cast-on stitches between three needles, encouraging them to ignore the initial awkwardness of balancing three needles at once.

  “Just concentrate on the two you’re actually working on,” Izzy suggested. “You’ll get the hang of it. It just takes time. Be patient and don’t poke yourself in the eye.”

  Cass saw her chance and snaked through the crowd to Danny’s side. “Slip them onto the needles purlwise,” she said. “Don’t knit them yet, just slip, but it’ll help you get the hang of purling.” She leaned over and made sure his right needle slipped into the front of the cast-on stitch.

  Danny smiled at his signs of success. “You’re a decent teacher, Cass Halloran.”

  “And you’re much nicer without your computer,” she whispered, then moved on to help Mary Pisano untwist her stitches.

  The hour passed quickly, and the knitters reluctantly began packing away their supplies while Izzy handed out instructions for the coming week. “Once your ribbing is finished, we’re into the fun part—turning the heels!” She encouraged music lovers to bring their own playlists and they’d have a variety of music.

  “Whew,” Izzy said, wiping up spilled iced tea as the last idler walked up the steps. Cass and Birdie moved about the room, picking up stray bits of yarn and gathering scattered knitting supplies. Nell carried two folding chairs to the closet.

  “As always,” Izzy said, “you were a great help. In the middle of everything going on around here you managed to come to a socks class.”

  “As did you, dear,” Birdie said, packing up her own knitting. “We are in this together, the whole kit and caboodle, from my wayward Ella and Harold to fires to knitting socks. Besides,” she added, “these gatherings always reveal tidbits for us to chew on.”

  “Like Jim Rodriguez?” Nell said.

  “Exactly.”

  Birdie returned from the galley kitchen, a chilled bottle of white wine in her hand. Cass headed for the glasses. “Jimmy’s a good guy. More perceptive than I’d have guessed when he was a kid. His description of Sophia that last week or two was interesting.”

  “Izzy—come!” Jillian screamed from the front of the store.

  Izzy dropped her cleaning rag and ran up the steps, followed closely by Nell, Birdie, and Cass.

  Good Lord, Nell thought. Please don’t let it be another fire or car crash.

  They found Jillian at the front door, her face plastered to the glass.

  “What’s wrong, Jillian?”

  Rose stood behind the counter, counting the day’s receipts, her earphones plugged in, oblivious to her sister’s drama.

  “It’s him!”

  “Who?”

  “The man who picked up Sophia Santos from school. Her lover.”

  Izzy pried Jillian away from the door, and Nell opened it.

  “That’s him.” Jillian’s finger pointed straight ahead. “He must have been in your socks class, but we were so busy I didn’t see him come in.”

  Across the street, standing in front of McClucken’s Hardware Store, a backpack slung over one shoulder and chatting with Ben Endicott, stood Danny Brandley.

  Chapter 23

  “No way,” Cass said. She picked up the wineglass Birdie had filled, took a drink, and then set it back down, a little more forcefully than usual. Amber liquid sloshed against the sides of the glass. “Danny Brandley did not have an affair with Sophia Santos. That’s teenage garbage.”

  “None of us said he did,” Nell said calmly. “Giving someone a ride—assuming that he is the person those girls saw—certainly doesn’t mean there was romance involved. That’s just plain silly.” She looked across the room at Izzy. “Do you have any of that Roomkaas cheese left? There’s some flatbread in your cupboard, I think. We need something to eat with this wine or we won’t be able to think clearly about these developments—or rumors or whatever they are.”

  While Izzy was getting the cheese, Nell put
in a quick call to Ben. Dinner might be late, she told him. But if he’d toss a salad and grill some vegetables, she’d stop at Archie’s bookstore on her way home and pick up the latest Grisham thriller that he’d reserved.

  “Jillian seemed sure of what she saw,” Izzy said. She set the platter of cheese and crackers on the coffee table, then walked over and opened the casement windows above the window seat. Purl purred her approval from her prime spot on the seat cushion and lifted her head to catch the sea breeze. “So it seems the next step,” Izzy continued, “is to find out why Danny was picking up Sophia Santos at Sea Harbor High.”

  “And why he told me he didn’t know Sophia. Now that I think back, he hesitated when he said it, though it didn’t mean much at the time.”

  “I can’t imagine Danny having anything to do with any of this, but we need to find out. Maybe he knows something about Sophia that would help us,” Birdie suggested.

  “We could ask him,” Cass said. “But it’s a little tricky. How do you ask someone if he had an affair with a woman who was just murdered?”

  “I am sure you will come up with a way,” Izzy said.

  “We also need to talk about Harold,” Nell said. Her voice was quiet, the topic a difficult one.

  Birdie sat quietly, her knitting in her lap. “Yes, we do. Ella is afraid we’ll think ill of him. Even as angry with him as she is, she loves him. And he loves her. Maybe too much.”

  Birdie told Cass and Izzy about Harold being at the club that night, in spite of his protestations that he’d been home. “He finally admitted it when he realized others had seen him. He had reached the end of his rope. I think the ankle injury had him a little depressed. He’s had too much time to sit and think these past weeks. He imagined Sophia was taking Ella away from him.”

  Nell listened to Birdie talk and her heart grew heavy. Harold hated Sophia for the way his life had changed. Not only that, they all knew that Harold could fix everything from vacuum cleaners to stoves to cars. In her mind, the circumstantial evidence against Harold was every bit as powerful as that against Julianne Santos.