How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Ben says the news is still under wraps,” Nell said. “People know there was an accident at the Bianchi house, but that’s about it. How’s Bree doing?”

  “She’s painting.”

  “Oh?” Birdie said, at first surprised. Then walking it back. Of course she was painting. She was a painter. That was exactly what she should be doing.

  “I’m like that, too,” Izzy said. “Well, not painting. But when I’m worried or upset or think Abby’s stomachache needs a trip to the Mayo Clinic, I knit.”

  “We all need a safe place to go to when times are rough,” Nell said. “Today definitely qualifies.”

  “It’s such a sudden, unexpected death,” Birdie said. “And then to pile the tragedy of murder on top of that—a tragedy and a crime. It makes it almost unmanageable.”

  The sound of padded footsteps turned their attention down a short hallway where Bree appeared, smiling warmly. She wore a pair of paint-spattered jeans, her platinum hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, and a plaid shirt tucked half in and half out of the waistband. Thick knit socks muffled her steps.

  Bree looked beautiful. And calm.

  Before they had a chance to offer condolences, Bree tucked her arm through Birdie’s and led them all through a small kitchen and into an open, airy space at the very back of the house.

  “This is my refuge,” she said, spreading her arms wide as they stepped into pools of sunlight. “It used to be an old sunporch, but it’s been winterized and turned into a studio. It’s where I go . . .”

  That it was Bree’s special place was never in doubt. An easel and small supply cart filled with brushes and tubes of paint stood near one window, a worktable crowded with yarn and sketches in front of one another. The cherrywood floor had throw rugs scattered around with a few paint spatters in between.

  And beyond the back wall of windows was a small yard and then the ocean for as far as anyone could see.

  Bree saw them looking around. “I know, it’s kind of a mess. The lady we rent from is an artist, too, and she told me anything goes. I took her at her word.”

  They hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room until a familiar voice called over from the far end of the room. “Isn’t this the best? A bit of artist’s heaven.” Jane Brewster rose from a slipcovered divan, her floppy skirt covering all but the tips of her Birkenstocks. She smiled as she walked across the room.

  “Jane,” Nell greeted her close friend. “You blended right in with that sofa.”

  Jane laughed and hugged her as she talked. “Our Bree here is the Rock of Gibraltar, I swear she is.” She pointed to one of Bree’s paintings, still wet on an easel. “Izzy and I came over bearing hugs and offers to help, our sad faces down to the floor, and Bree ends up making tea and holding our hands, consoling us, and telling us she will be fine.”

  “And I will be, Jane.” Her smile was sad, but her eyes warm toward the woman who’d welcomed her into the family of Canary Cove artists.

  Bree looked fine, too, but they all knew the erratic pattern of grief, and wondered how long it would take for the facts to settle in and become a reality. Bree would be caught up in an awful frenzy for a few days—with police and reporters and gossip. But then it would be over. And then the pain would have time to emerge and take over her whole being.

  “Thank you for coming over,” Bree said. “I probably should have had you over a long time ago—I practically live in your shop, Iz. But, well, when Spence was here, well, anyway. I’m glad you’re here. I’m kind of a loner except for my family, but I’m learning that sometimes it’s nice not to be alone. Especially with people like you.” A flush colored her cheeks as if talking about emotions wasn’t something she did easily. Nor was she used to people coming into her house.

  “Okay,” she said, looking around the room. “Let’s just sit—let’s just be together. You are . . . well, you are like my family.” She motioned to the divan and a rocking chair on either side of it, each one painted in wild colors.

  “Just shove things aside,” she said, waving at a heap of art magazines on a chair.

  Jane, Nell, and Birdie sat while Izzy and Bree folded their bodies like accordions onto the floor, straight-backed and comfortable.

  “I remember when,” Nell said, looking at the gymnast-like bodies.

  “I don’t,” Birdie and Jane said in unison.

  Izzy smiled, enjoying being put in the same category as a woman almost ten years younger. “This is a wonderful room,” she said.

  Bree looked around her studio. “Yes, it is. And it’s definitely me. Messes and all. Spencer never came back here. He didn’t like much about this house. Too small. Too plain. Too messy.”

  Her voice wasn’t critical, her comment matter-of-fact, and it didn’t surprise any of them that someone who coveted the Bianchi house on Cliffside Drive didn’t like this small cottage in Canary Cove.

  Bree smiled sadly. “But to each his own,” she said, more to herself than the others. Her face was young and clear, without a trace of makeup, calm, and lovely—but it was clear she wasn’t immune to what was happening. Her eyes reflected the jolt of the news that had started her day. “He hated this house, in fact.”

  “The thought of leaving it and moving up to that huge place must have made you sad,” Izzy said, looking around at the room that fit Bree to a T. This was Izzy’s kind of house, too. Although the house she, Sam, and Abby lived in was a little larger, it had the same warm, cozy and unpretentious vibe.

  “I wasn’t going to leave here. Spencer knew how I felt about the Bianchi house. I told him I would never live there. Not ever. There was bad mojo around that house. I knew something bad was going to happen there.”

  She glanced over at her computer and a shiny brass key ring next to it. She pointed to it. “I guess he thought a shiny key ring would change my mind. He left those there the other day. There was even an elevator in the house, he told me. An elevator?” Bree looked up. “Would you want to live in a house that needed an elevator? What if there was a fire?”

  Jane looked around for tissues, found a box on the floor and held it on her lap, but Bree didn’t reach for it.

  “But this isn’t about me. And even though I didn’t like that house, it’s awful what happened to Spencer in it.” Her voice quivered.

  “It’s difficult to get your arms around something like this,” Birdie said softly. “It takes time. A lot of time.”

  “Impossible, maybe,” Bree said, looking at Birdie. “I can’t grasp it. I can’t make sense of it. Nor how I fit into it all. I don’t know what I should do. Or not do. Or say. I’ve never been . . . well, I mean . . .” She shook her head. “I haven’t been in a situation like this before. Not ever.”

  “Well that’s a good thing,” Birdie said. “And let’s hope you never are again.” Then Birdie’s eyes grew thoughtful, her voice serious. “Bree, dear, is there any chance you might be in danger here? Have the police mentioned that possibility? You’re welcome to stay with me for a while until this gets sorted out. My housekeeper is a fortress in her own right.”

  The others echoed the same invitation, although Birdie was right about her housekeeper and her house being the most impenetrable, if that was an issue.

  Bree looked surprised at the invitation. “Oh, Birdie, how thoughtful of you. All of you. But no, I’m sure I’m not in danger. Spencer and I, well, he had his world. And I had mine. It worked for us, you know? Our names aren’t even the same, so someone looking for a Paxton would walk right by a McIntosh. Spencer’s family was upset when I kept my own name, but . . .” She looked like she might say more, but instead, she pointed to the teapot and extra cups on a shelf next to Nell’s elbow, then at the basket Nell and Birdie had brought. “You are kind to bring this.”

  “I don’t suppose you know more about what happened than we do,” Nell said, turning to lift the still warm teapot behind her and filling cups. “Nor how anything so tragic could happen.”

  Bree was silent for a few minutes whil
e Birdie spotted a pot of sugar and some small spoons on a shelf and set them on the end table.

  “No. I know Spencer is dead, that’s all I know. They want me to come in to the station later today. I think the policeman wanted to give me some time, you know, to absorb it all. I know they will have questions, though I probably won’t have any answers. Spencer knows a lot of people in Sea Harbor, everyone probably. He’s been getting involved in town things. But I haven’t. I don’t even know his friends. I only know you all. And the artists here. Canary Cove, your shop, Izzy. That’s my world.” She looked around, her smile slightly embarrassed, but only at the way it might sound.

  “The police will understand all that,” Birdie said. “They will probably want you to tell them about Spencer himself. What he was like.”

  Bree looked up. “Sure. I’m sure you’re right. So far the only person I’ve talked to is the young guy who came by today—the one who told me what happened. He was kind and understanding. It must be awful to have to tell people things like this, that someone has been killed. Murdered.” She took a deep breath, then released it and pulled a rumpled card from her shirt pocket. “Tom Porter, that’s his name.”

  “Tommy is a friend and a good man,” Birdie said. “He’s a detective now—as fair and honest and kind as they come.”

  The title seemed to have little effect on Bree, but she listened and nodded politely.

  “What a horribly long night for you,” Izzy said. “To get that news anytime is awful, but in the middle of the night would be shattering. Someone should have been with you—”

  “I was okay, really. I am used to . . . well, no, not used to this, sure. But it’s okay. And actually, I didn’t find out what happened until this morning.”

  “It was considerate of the police to wait,” Jane said. “What could you have done in the middle of the night? Nothing. But I’m relieved a reporter didn’t show up at dawn before you’d heard the news, asking you one of those awful questions, like How do you feel?”

  Bree looked out the window, her face unreadable. Finally she looked back, her words measured. “Actually they did try to reach me, he said. My phone must have been off.” She looked over at a cell phone lying on a table, as if it had somehow betrayed her.

  Bree’s telling of the story was the same as what Ben had told them the night before. But one thing was slightly off. The police hadn’t been able to find her. It wasn’t difficult to find people in Sea Harbor. Surely they’d have come by the house.

  Bree went on. “The policeman said they came by here, but I’m a sound sleeper.” She forced a smile.

  Jane leaned forward on the divan, her elbows on her knees. A look of concern clouded her face. “Well, no matter,” she said. “They found you.”

  An ear-piercing screech interrupted Jane’s calm voice and drew their attention out the windows. A welcome diversion, from the look on Bree’s face.

  Just outside the cottage, a raucous colony of seagulls had gathered and were fiercely and noisily battling for a mound of food near an Adirondack chair.

  Bree watched them for a minute. “Sophie, a sweet little neighbor girl who has become my buddy, came over yesterday with a bag of trail mix to share with me,” she said. “We sat out there on the chair, tossing some to the gulls, and when Sophie saw how happy it made the birds, she gleefully emptied the whole thing on the ground and promised to bring more for them today. That must be today’s lunch.”

  When she finally looked away from the birds, her face was dreamy, as if she had gone off to another place in that moment and was having trouble coming back.

  Nell used the moment to refill cups. “Lovely,” she said, admiring one of the delicate porcelain cups.

  “They belonged to my nana.” Bree rubbed her finger along the rim. “I’m sentimental. My sister and I used to have tea parties with them.”

  Izzy stirred her tea with the tiny silver spoon and then shifted the conversation back to something that had been bothering her, something that played into her own crazy fears. “When Spencer didn’t come home last night, it must have made you crazy,” she said. Izzy knew she was bringing her own hypochondria to the thought. Her middle-of-the-night worry became even worse after Abby was born. She’d once called the state police when Sam hadn’t come home from a late-night meeting in Boston. He had been fine, but she wasn’t.

  Bree looked slightly confused at the comment. And then she tried to brush it off completely. “Oh, you know,” she said, her voice clipped and matter-of-fact, “I’m a sound sleeper. Spencer is a night owl. He often goes to bed late. So I didn’t think about it.”

  Izzy hadn’t meant her comment to be personal, but somehow Bree’s answer left her wondering if she had hurt her feelings or intruded in a way she shouldn’t have.

  “The police asked me to contact Spencer’s sister and brother,” Bree said, changing the subject.

  “Will they be coming to Sea Harbor?”

  “They’re both out of the country right now. But no, even if they were in New York, they probably wouldn’t come. This could be harmful to the company, and I think they’ll try to keep it as quiet as they can, at least that was the impression I got. That’s sad, isn’t it? The company comes first. And yet their brother was murdered.” She looked down, twisting her wedding ring. “When you have as much money as the Paxtons do, you can do whatever you want, I guess. And they want to keep it quiet.”

  No one was quite sure how to respond to the odd family dynamic, so instead they asked if there were any calls they could make for her or what her own plans were.

  Leaving Sea Harbor as soon as she could, they suspected, would be at the top of her list.

  But they were wrong.

  “Right now what I want to do most is to concentrate on the art show that all of us are planning. I want to work with you and work with yarn, design more pieces—” Her voice picked up strength as she talked until finally, as if running out of energy, she slowed down and looked around the group. “The truth is, I don’t have anywhere to go. My mom’s in a nursing home. My siblings all moved away. I’ve never had many friends. You guys have become that to me. I feel at home in Canary Cove, and in your shop, Izzy. And I love being out on that strip of lawn behind my little cottage with my three-year-old friend Sophie, feeding seagulls.” Her eyes filled. She took a deep breath and then she continued to talk, as if revitalized by some kind of resolve. Her voice was strong.

  “I am so sad this happened to Spencer Paxton. And no matter what he’s done, this . . . this act is awful and brutal, and beyond anything I could ever imagine. In my world, in my head, people don’t kill each other. Strangers or neighbors or lovers or friends. Even enemies. Nobody deserves to be killed, to suffer like that. And nobody has the right to do that. Not ever. Spencer didn’t deserve to die like that. He simply didn’t.” She looked up at them, her eyes moist, and continued.

  “But it’s not because he was my husband, or I came here with him, or I lived with him that I feel that way. It’s not because of that.”

  Jane handed Bree the box of tissues, and this time she took it and pulled one from the top. They waited, knowing Bree wasn’t finished yet.

  In between wiping the tears running down her cheeks, she looked at all of them. And she said, “I . . . I didn’t love Spencer Paxton. In fact, well, the truth is—I didn’t even like him very much.”

  Chapter 16

  In the space of a day, Sea Harbor had changed. Talk of apple picking and October fests had given way to grim talk about a house on Cliffside Drive, a man who some thought should never have come back to Sea Harbor, and a strong message from the town’s mayor that people should lock their doors at night.

  By Tuesday morning the Sea Harbor Gazette had a front-page story, the three-inch headline screaming at people as they drank their coffee and ate their oatmeal.

  WEALTHY DEVELOPER MURDERED IN BIANCHI MANSION

  And to further the sale of newspapers and the number of clicks on the paper’s website, the subhead, in
smaller print but not to be missed, read:

  Potential homeowner bludgeoned to death with common household tool

  * * *

  Uncle Mario read the headline bleary-eyed, shortly after waking from an early morning snooze in his office lounge chair. Had he been there all night? He couldn’t be sure. He remembered cold air, being out, but maybe not. He heard Stella in the outer office, quiet as a mouse, letting him sleep.

  He squinted to make out the words.

  And then, when the words cleared, he pounded a boot on the floor and followed it with colorful Italian words of the sort that brought Stella hurrying into his office.

  She placed a mug of thick black coffee next to him and ordered him to drink it. Her eyes moved to the crumpled newspaper now on the floor beside his boots.

  “It’s going to be okay, Uncle Mario. But you need to watch your mouth.”

  “Oh, cara mia. Sometimes cuss words are good ones, happy ones. You needa to learn the difference. It is good.” He squeezed his fingers together, kissed them, and punched the air.

  Stella looked at him sternly, and then wondered if she should call a doctor. His face was ruddy and the blood vessels in his neck seemed to be pulsating. “Yes, all’s good. It will be okay. And once this is all over, we’ll have buyers lining up to buy that house. I promise you.”

  She didn’t know that at all. What she knew was that people shied away from buying houses in which someone had died, even from natural causes—they got the heebie-jeebies. Houses in which someone was murdered? The bad juju could be insurmountable.

  Uncle Mario seemed on the verge of some kind of attack and it wasn’t a good time to talk about bad juju, so Stella stayed positive. “Some other people were interested, you know. A retired head guy from Microsoft who loves it here. He called twice about the house.”

  Mario’s bushy eyebrow lifted and a strange look passed across his flushed face. He took a long drink of coffee and told Stella to sit down, he had a confession to make.