How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Izzy is trying to protect this shipload of yarn that just arrived. I saw her nearly faint when two drops landed on the cardboard box.” Nell nodded toward the FedEx boxes, now safely moved to the floor.

  “Someone better protect that yarn,” Mae said, all but wagging a finger at Izzy’s aunt. “I just paid the invoice. Costs a fortune. What’re you girls doing, knitting gold like that little Rumpelstiltskin guy?”

  “It will be transformed into beautiful art, and art is priceless, my dear Mae,” Birdie said, a myriad of tiny wrinkles spreading out from her gray eyes.

  “So who is she, Mae?” Nell lifted the lid off the casserole, stirring the seafood concoction once more before replacing the cover.

  “I don’t rightly know. She’s young, younger than you, Cass. And Izzy, too. And I had the feeling she knew what she was talking about, no matter who she is. She had that air, you know?”

  They didn’t know.

  “Well, sure you do. But anyhoo,” Mae went on, “now that missy no-name is about to save us from a flood, I’m going to close up shop and skedaddle home to meat loaf and Grey’s Anatomy. You gals behave yourselves.” Mae wiggled her fingers at them and disappeared into the main shop area. In minutes the lights dimmed and the creak of the heavy front door signaled her official good-bye.

  Cass carried a bottle of chilled wine over to the coffee table. It would take more than a leaky ceiling to halt their Thursday night ritual: Birdie’s wine, Nell’s dinner, knitting socks and sweaters and hats and sharing lives and gossip while the moon moved slowly over the ocean—it was sacred, a life-affirming time.

  A ritual from which great friendships had been born.

  Nell walked over and set a tray of olives and figs and a pot of tangy bar cheese on the low coffee table. “This should keep your stomach from groaning until Izzy comes back.”

  Cass fiddled with Izzy’s iPad to find some music, finally settling on an old Beatles station, but her eyes were on the Crock-Pot.

  Nell caught the look on Cass’s face.

  “It’s fine, Cass. It won’t be overcooked. And not a drop of the ceiling water got in. Trust me.”

  Cass walked over and lifted the lid, just to be sure, inhaling the intoxicating aromas of wine and lemon and freshly chopped dill.

  “Cod,” Nell said, and smiled at Cass, knowing she probably had already identified the other ingredients.

  Suddenly the Beatles’ guitars were overshadowed by a banging from above. They stared at an old hanging lamp now swinging back and forth above the table. Heavy footsteps and the sounds of metal against metal rattled the tin plates on the ceiling.

  “Goodness,” Birdie said, “let’s hope the good guys win.” And then it stopped, just as the voice of Ringo Starr rang out from the speakers: “I’d like to be, under the sea . . .”

  They broke out in laughter as Cass snapped her fingers in the air, moved her body across the room, and began singing along.

  Once they assumed the plumbing work was coming to an end, Nell began pulling out plates and napkins from the bookcase, relieved they could soon concentrate on things more important than leaky pipes: food, wine, and finishing knitting projects.

  Cass joined her, lining up utensils on the library table and inching closer to the casserole. It was only the creaking of the alley door and rush of outside air that kept her from lifting the lid and taking a spoonful.

  “Yay for Rose,” Izzy said, stepping inside with her arms stretched wide. She moved aside and ushered the ponytailed woman in. “This is Rose. She’s a magician. We owe her profound thanks.”

  Rose? The three women all looked at the woman directly behind Izzy. Was her name really Rose? Maybe Izzy did have karma.

  The woman behind Izzy was leaning over to pry off wet tennis shoes. She struggled to look up at the same time, acknowledging Izzy’s rattled-off introductions. A brown limp ponytail fell over one shoulder.

  “I hope you didn’t finish all the wine,” Izzy said, “because we need it for a toast.” Then she stopped and glared at Cass, who was hovering over the fish soup.

  “Don’t get yourself in a state, Izzy. The food is safe. But I’m about to faint, so let’s get on with this toast.” She offered a half smile at the stranger. “No offense. You definitely deserve a toast.”

  “And a meal,” Izzy said. “I told her it was the least we could do.”

  Rose looked unsure but followed Izzy across the room.

  Nell gave the sauce a quick stir, covered it again, and picked up the second bottle of wine that Birdie had brought. Cass followed with glasses and they gathered near the fireplace, shoving knitting baskets beneath the coffee table and eyeing Rose discreetly—her pleasant, oval-shaped face, the practical ponytail. Her jeans were clean but faded, and she seemed comfortable in her body, neither fat nor thin.

  “Sit,” Birdie urged, then filled the wineglasses and passed them around. She lifted hers and smiled at the others, her eyes lingering the longest on their guest. “Here’s to fixed pipes, dripless ceilings, and to the person who has saved the evening for us—to Rose.”

  Glasses clicked and Rose’s cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t anything, honestly. I didn’t even finish the job, like I told Izzy—”

  “It wasn’t anything?” Izzy interrupted, her brows lifting up into scattered bangs. “It was everything, Rose.”

  Birdie patted Rose’s slightly damp knee. “Although our Izzy can be a little dramatic, you did appear at just the right moment. Our own deus ex machina.”

  “There’s something to be said for keeping the ceiling from falling on Nell’s dinner,” Cass added. “That’s definitely worth a toast.”

  That drew a smile from a slightly more relaxed Rose. She looked around at the baskets of yarn, the paintings on the wall, and the shelves lined with books about knitting and fleece, sheep and alpacas. “Izzy said that you have a weekly knitting group here.”

  “Oh no, dear. It’s far more than that,” said Birdie, short silvery waves moving with her words. “Some knitting, some gossip, some catching up on one another’s lives. We’ve been known to solve all the world’s problems, right here in this very room. We are quite good at it.” Birdie took a sip of wine and sat back.

  Rose smiled, warming to the small woman who was nearly lost in the wide leather chair.

  But what the octogenarian lacked in stature, she made up for in charisma and wisdom and her presence. Sea Harbor’s grande dame. And the others in the room could see that Rose was feeling her spell.

  “Do you knit?” Nell asked.

  “Oh, no,” Rose said quickly. She spread her hands apart, palms up, and looked at them. “See? Big fingers. I’d mess up such delicate art.”

  “That’s poppycock,” Birdie said. “Everyone can knit.”

  “I’m proof of that,” Cass said. “I came in here one night because I smelled the food. Then I kept coming, pretending I knew what needles were. But now? Now I am practically a master at winter hats for my lobster crews. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. My men don’t go bareheaded. Not ever.”

  Izzy laughed. “That’s mostly true. If Cass can learn to knit, anyone can.”

  “And speaking of me—” Cass looked over at the casserole on the table, “I’m going to collapse if we don’t eat in the next two and a half minutes.”

  Laughter followed and in minutes the coffee table was filled with silverware, warm rolls and butter, and deep bowls of fish chowder.

  After allowing Rose a few spoonfuls of soup, Birdie asked, “Have we met before, Rose? There’s something about you that’s familiar to me.”

  Rose paused, her spoonful of chowder held in midair. She looked closely at Birdie. “I don’t think so. I would remember you, Birdie. I know I would.”

  “So where are you from?” Cass asked.

  “Nebraska.” She took a drink of wine and concentrated on Purl, now purring comfortably in her lap.

  “You’re on vacation?” Cass prodded. “A leaf peeper?”

  “Sort of.”


  And then Rose mumbled something about bringing her mother to see the ocean, and how her mother had died before they could make the trip. The words hung out there awkwardly.

  “Sometimes life is like that. Things happen,” Izzy said softly.

  “Yes, they certainly do,” Birdie said, looking at Rose. “But you’ve brought your mother back to the sea in your heart and that’s a loving thing to do.”

  Rose was silent and for a few minutes, the only sound in the room was that of soup being slurped. Finally Nell asked, “Where are you staying, Rose? Do you need suggestions?”

  “A boarding house on Bell Street. It’s very reasonable.”

  Nell’s eyes widened. Mrs. Bridge’s Victorian Bell Street house was on the verge of being condemned. An assortment of bugs, broken locks, and suspicious odors were a few of the most recent citations recorded in the Sea Harbor Gazette. “Oh, Rose, that might not be wise.”

  “She should be paying you to stay there,” Cass said. “It’s a dump. I hope you’ve been vaccinated.”

  “She was staying there,” Izzy said. She looked sternly at Rose not to object. “That’s the other reason for our toast. The apartment’s been lonely. It’s probably why the pipe burst. Rose is my new tenant.”

  Nell and Birdie exchanged looks.

  The apartment above the yarn shop was cozy and clean and warm. And presently empty, except for Purl, who had found a secret way of getting to it through the yarn shop rafters. But the three women were acutely aware that Izzy had a dismal track record picking appropriate tenants. Especially when the decision was the spur-of-the-moment kind.

  Nell brushed a strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear and then looked over at her niece, her expression questioning.

  Izzy ignored her aunt’s look. “Like Rose said, the leak is fixed but the job isn’t finished. It’ll be easier for her to do the work if she’s right there.”

  Birdie broke the awkward silence. “Well, that’s a nice solution, then. A collaboration of sorts. And you’ll be comfortable there, Rose. Purl will love the company.”

  Izzy looked over at Cass, silently warning her not to pursue the tenant decision.

  Cass complied and changed the subject completely, asking, “How did you learn how to fix pipes?”

  They could read Cass’s thoughts. It was an easier question than asking Izzy if she had lost her mind, inviting a perfect stranger to stay in the empty apartment simply because she was handy with a wrench.

  People killed people with wrenches.

  “My dad was a fix-it guy. He taught me,” Rose said. “So those are my credentials. Or lack of them. If you need someone with real ones, I totally get that.”

  “Absolutely not,” Izzy said. “You’re fixing it. That’s all I care about. We don’t need college degrees.”

  “Well, I have that, too, if it helps.”

  “Oh?” Birdie said.

  “Children’s literature.”

  Izzy was impressed. “The older my amazing Abby gets, the more appreciative I am of children’s books. Do you have a favorite author?”

  “Only about two hundred. But I’ve been in love with A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh books since I was two.”

  “Ah,” Birdie said, her voice singsong. “‘You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think, and loved more than you know.’” She smiled and sat back in the chair. “I don’t think Milne actually wrote it, but Christopher Robin said it somewhere—in a film perhaps? I’m fond of it. And many other wise words from Pooh and Christopher Robin.”

  Rose looked startled, as if someone had crawled inside her head. “Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting Birdie’s. “Children’s literature taught me a lot about myself.”

  “Do you want to be a librarian?”

  Rose hesitated, then said, “No. Although my mother thought I should be that, or maybe a teacher.”

  “Tell me about it,” Izzy said. “My dad has never gotten over all those years of helping his only daughter through law school, only to have her land in a yarn shop in a tiny little town.”

  “But I can see you love this shop,” Rose said, glancing around the room. “I fixed up a lot of student housing places I lived in and I loved doing that.” She looked embarrassed for a minute, as if she’d been too personal.

  Then she looked at Cass. “But about the apartment, I know you don’t know me from Adam, and suddenly I’m invited to stay above a shop you love because I fixed a pipe. I’m a stranger.”

  Izzy started to stop Rose, but she went on. “I wouldn’t have accepted Izzy’s offer, except”—she nibbled on her bottom lip—“well, except that I’d like to hang around Sea Harbor a little longer, and having a place to stay would make that possible. I’m a good tenant, I’m neat, I don’t throw wild parties—not ever.” She managed a half smile and looked down at her hands, as if she’d said her piece and now it was up to the jury to decide.

  Rose looked like she had used up every bit of vim and vigor she possessed.

  Birdie eased the awkward moment. “I’m sure you’ll be a good tenant, Rose.”

  “See? I told you,” Izzy said to Rose. “Birdie’s wise. I’m happy to have someone staying up there. It’s been empty too long.”

  “It’s beautiful. This whole place is. It feels safe.”

  Nell watched the array of expressions flitting across Rose’s face. She prided herself on reading people, honing her skills on Boston’s wealthy donors when she was a nonprofit director for all those years. But Rose eluded her. She was vague when talking about herself. And the gaps seemed unusually ominous. There was more to Rose’s visit to Sea Harbor than a sweet girl visiting the sea to honor her mother.

  As if anticipating more questions, Rose put her napkin on the table, a half-finished bowl of soup in front of her, and stood up quickly. She glanced at her watch and quickly explained that she had to leave.

  Izzy dropped her spoon. “You don’t have to go yet. Finish your soup at least.”

  But Rose was already stepping away from the table. She thanked Izzy and then the others, murmuring something about being tired, of needing to get back to the boarding house.

  “But you’ll move in tomorrow,” Izzy said. “And we’ve no house rules, except to pet Purl hourly and make sure the pipes don’t burst.”

  Rose gave Izzy a thumbs-up and disappeared out the back alley door and into the night.

  They watched her go—and wondered if they would ever see her again. And if they did, was that a good thing . . . or not?

  Chapter 4

  Izzy had declared the subject of Rose Chopra off-limits while they were clearing the dishes, and soon the four women had settled into their Thursday night routine, opening knitting bags and pulling out yarn and needles and partially finished projects. The coffee table was soon littered with soft skeins of alpaca, stray bits of yarn, and one of Izzy’s half-completed neon green socks that she was knitting for her husband. “It’ll go perfectly with Sam’s orange high-tops. Perfect, right?” And her husband would love it because Izzy made it—his fashion sense totally dictated by Izzy’s remarkable sense of color and finding beauty in odd matches.

  But later, after they’d locked the doors and were standing on the front steps of the shop, a full moon creating puddles of light at their feet, Cass decided she was no longer muzzled.

  “So. Do we even know her last name?” she asked, including Nell and Birdie in the question but her deep, dark eyes settling on Izzy.

  Izzy finished locking the shop door and pulled a piece of paper from her jeans pocket.

  “Chopra. Rose Chopra.” She handed it to Cass, then dropped the key ring into her bag.

  “Chopra. Chopra. I don’t know any Chopras,” Birdie said.

  “I’m curious why she came to Cape Ann. She could have found an ocean view that was easier to get to. We’re not exactly on the beaten path.” Cass held the card under a streetlight, repeating the name scribbled on the paper scrap.

  Izzy snatched the card b
ack. “Rose Chopra. That’s who she is. You’re too suspicious, Cass. Danny’s mysteries are rubbing off on you.”

  Izzy looked at the silent faces around her and shook her head. “Okay, here’s what I think. It’s better to judge a prospective renter face-to-face. It’s like looking at jury members. I could read things on their faces that I’d never discover on a piece of paper. Besides, Purl likes her. And she probably won’t be staying long, anyway. Enough said.”

  No one asked How long? They knew Izzy was finished answering questions.

  “It was nice meeting Rose, and I made great progress on my sweater sleeves,” Birdie said, clearly ready to bring the evening to a close. “But this body is tired.” She slipped one arm through Nell’s, wiggled her fingers at Izzy and Cass, and began walking toward Nell’s car, her thoughts already moving on to a long, lavender-scented bath and a soft bed.

  Izzy watched the two older women walk away, thoughts of Rose Chopra and bursting pipes fading as a flood of affection washed through her—an unexpected reminder of goodness in her life. Birdie and Aunt Nell walked slowly beneath the lamplight near the Brandleys’ bookstore, two shadowy figures weaving together, then apart, as if in some age-old dance. The twenty-year age difference between them wasn’t visible—nor significant.

  Nell slowed, then leaned in, her head lowered to catch Birdie’s words, a softness between them. Birdie’s small chin tipped up into some quiet secret they shared. Then Nell straightened and began walking again, her long steps slow to accommodate Birdie’s, their bodies again moving in the rhythm that mirrored a friendship they sometimes claimed began in another life.

  “Gifts,” Izzy murmured, her brown eyes filling. She blinked the moisture away, then felt Cass beside her, following her look.

  Cass nodded. “I know,” she said.

  The blare of a horn from a passing car broke into the moment and Izzy and Cass turned their attention back to why they were standing together on the curb. Waiting.

  Cass pulled out her phone and checked the time. “The Sox game should be over by now. Where do you suppose our knights in shining armor are?”