How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Cass stood at the open French doors, thinking about their long day as Adele sang in the background about “when we were young.” She hummed softly along, looking across the deck, her ears tuning in to snatches of conversation, to the comforting sounds coming from the kitchen. Jerry Thompson had stopped by, convinced by Ben that a dry martini and fresh tuna would cure his ills and refresh his spirit. Or at the least, encourage a good night’s sleep. He stood at the grill, leaning against the rail, bantering with Danny and Sam about things that didn’t matter in the whole scheme of things, like sailing and sports and nice vacation spots, a coffee shop opening in Gloucester. Leaving murder alone and untouched. Out of sight, for a few hours at least.

  “He looks older today,” Nell said, coming up behind Cass and following her look.“A few more gray hairs at his temples.”

  Cass nodded. “Do you think Jerry can trace each gray hair to some horrible crime he’s had to deal with? To explore and figure out and make right for all of us who demand that he do exactly that?”

  “Yes, he probably could, dear man.” She touched Cass lightly on the arm, then walked across the room to the kitchen area. Cass followed her inside.

  Across the family room, Ham was taking over Ben’s martini-making with much direction from his wife. Cass could read Jane’s lips: No, no, just a whisper of vermouth. Don’t pour yet, sweetie—give it a good shake first. Both hands now, until your hands are icy cold. Yes, just like that. Hear the crunch of ice against the cold metal. Jane’s long skirt billowed about her legs, a purple shawl slipping from her shoulders as her hands moved with her words.

  Cass smiled at the sight of the two well-loved artists trying to turn martini making into its own art form.

  She turned away and walked over to the slipcovered couches and comfortable chairs around the fireplace. “She’s singing about when we were young.”

  Birdie looked up, her small stockinged feet resting on the thick wooden coffee table, her knitting in her lap. She’d left the icy-blue cardigan she was knitting for Nell at home, but always had a traveling pair of socks or mittens tucked away in her bag. She pulled out the beginning of a glove, the ribbed cuff strong, the yarn silky soft. For Rose, she thought, then confirmed it in her head, and began to knit into the first round of cable stitches. She paused for a sip of the icy martini Ham had put in her grateful hand. Her face was tired. “Who, dear?”

  “Adele.”

  “When we were young. That’s appropriate for the day.”

  Nell walked over with a plate of warm Brie, a pot of fig jam, and crackers, her face thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation with Patricia.”

  “Which part?” Cass asked, looking at the unfinished glove in Birdie’s lap. “It’s like that glove. All those dangling fibers, in front, in back, everywhere. I know by some miracle Birdie will turn them into a neat cable. But how?”

  Nell nodded. “How? I think we take the pieces of Patricia’s conversation apart, thread by thread, and see what’s there. Not tonight, but we will.”

  “Iz will bring some perspective to it. She always does,” Cass said, sitting on the arm of the couch and watching Birdie’s small fingers slip two stitches onto a cable needle and move them to the back, then to the front. It all still befuddled her.

  “These are for Rose,” Birdie said, looking up. “She and Stella dropped off a sack of apples they’d picked over at Russell Orchards today. Just for nothing, they said. Sweet young women, both of them. I invited them to come with me tonight but they were headed somewhere else—somewhere far away from the troubles that be, Stella said. In the midst of all this crazy, awful turmoil and uncertainty, they are finding a way to get away from it, and even better, a way to find joy. I could feel it.”

  The front door banged and Izzy came into the family room.

  “Where have you been?” Cass asked. “We were about to call out the dogs.”

  “Working,” she said. “Bree and I were making some final decisions about where to hang artwork for the show, and Bree was finishing up her third yarn creation—yes, third! She is amazing. I called Josh over to help figure out some placements. He’s a genius at that, and really generous with his time.”

  “Why didn’t you bring them all to dinner?” Nell asked. “Amazing and Genius are always welcome on Friday nights.”

  “I did invite them. Isn’t that what we do here?” She laughed and gave her aunt a hug. “Bree looked really tired and was heading home. Josh said something about fixing his bike.” She looked beyond the family room to the deck, checking out who was there and not there. “Chief Thompson is here?” She looked at Cass, surprised. “Okay, what did you do?”

  Cass gave her the look, eyes dark and glowering.

  Izzy looked outside again. “It’s probably good Bree didn’t come.”

  Ben walked in carrying a tray of tuna steaks and picked up on Izzy’s words. He glanced outside. Jerry was still at the far end of the deck, talking with Danny and Ham. “Why shouldn’t she come?”

  “Tommy Porter wants to talk to Bree again, go over her story—again—get it straight where she was, when, how did she get the keys. What time and why did she leave Spencer at the house.” She stopped for breath. “Anyway, it’s hard. And maybe she’s been spending enough time with the police. She’s trying hard to be matter-of-fact about it, but I can see that it’s getting to Josh, too.”

  “To Josh?” Birdie asked. She frowned, looking long at Izzy.

  Izzy read Birdie’s look. She was quiet for a minute. Then she looked at Nell and Ben. “Okay, Rose told Birdie and me that she thought she saw Josh riding his bike near the Bianchi house the night Spencer was killed. But when I asked her about it later, she said she was sorry she had said anything. She said it was dark, the biker had a helmet on. And she had just had that horrible encounter with Spencer. Who knows what she saw? Those were her words, not mine.”

  “Has anyone asked Josh about it?” Nell asked.

  Izzy didn’t know.

  Jane Brewster was refilling drinks and listening. Josh Babson was almost like a son to her. “Josh doesn’t keep secrets,” she said. “Including his feelings for Spencer Paxton. Tommy Porter has been in the gallery talking to him. Josh is up-front. And honest.”

  “Did he mention anything about riding his bike?” Nell asked.

  “Yes,” Jane said.

  Izzy nodded, a look of relief on her face.

  Nell listened as Izzy told Jane what a great help Josh was helping them prepare for the coming fiber show, clearly forgoing her lawyerly neutrality in favor of friendship.

  She looked out to the deck as the chief of police walked toward them. Jerry Thompson didn’t have the luxury of choosing friendship over duty. It must be a grueling task—questioning friends and acquaintances. And even more difficult if the questioning led to uncertainty, to suspicion even, to more questioning, and to more suspicions.

  He had mentioned earlier that Spencer Paxton’s body had been released and transported somewhere at the family’s request.

  Spencer Paxton was out of their town. Gone.

  But he wasn’t yet out of their lives, not by any stretch.

  * * *

  By the time the dishes were done and Ben had brewed a pot of coffee, the Friday night dinner crowd had nearly disappeared. The Brewsters had taken Birdie home an hour before, and the others followed soon after.

  The hour was late, but Jerry Thompson, the lone survivor, seemed reluctant to call it a night. He settled on a deck chaise, his head pressed back against the cushion, looking like he just might not move for another year or so.

  Ben and Nell wrapped themselves in blankets on deep deck chairs nearby.

  Nell smiled across the fire pit, watching the warm firelight reflect off the chief’s face. “It’s not easy to relax these days,” she said.

  “No. But I came close tonight. Thanks to you two.”

  The vibration of his phone erased that ease in the second it took to check the words on the screen.
/>   He pulled himself forward, his legs moving to the floor, elbows on his knees.

  “An emergency?” Ben asked.

  “Esther says no. She has sent men out to check on it. It’s a simple break-in.”

  “But you don’t think it’s simple—”

  “Nothing is simple if it touches this case, no matter how weak a touch, fragile a finger,” Jerry said, lifting himself out of the chair and shaking away the relaxed vibes he had briefly enjoyed.

  “It’s the Palazola Realty office. Looks like a human tornado hit it.”

  Chapter 25

  Ben and Nell were at the real estate office the next morning, waiting for Stella to appear. They’d brought coffee and rolls and shoulders to lean on.

  Birdie was correct the evening before when she’d given an update on Stella: She had indeed decided to get away, and in doing so had missed the call from the police reporting the break-in at her office.

  She and Rosie had headed north to Newburyport, meandering along Route 1A, through small towns with leaves beginning to turn and antique shops luring them in, then a late dinner and night away in a small Newburyport inn with a view of the water. They’d made it a total getaway by sticking their phones in the trunk, right alongside their concerns and the real life they’d come back to early the next day.

  Tommy Porter had finally gotten through to her when she’d taken her phone out to check directions early that morning, and she’d immediately called Ben to ask him to meet her at the office. He knew almost as much about her business now as she did, she told him, and Uncle Mario would be no help.

  It was Tommy whom Ben and Nell saw first when they walked up the staircase. He was standing just inside the door, its smoky glass insert, or what was left of it, a mass of glittering shards.

  “What’s going on, Tommy?” Ben asked, looking around at a room that resembled the remains of a four-year-old’s birthday party. Drawers were pulled out, boxes turned over, their contents littered across the floor. Filing cabinets open.

  “It’s crazy. Poor Stella. Wait’ll she sees this mess.”

  A loud clattering on the steps announced Stella would see it soon. She stopped to catch her breath at the top, then walked slowly through the door, smiling grateful thanks to Nell and Ben for being there.

  “Oh, geesh,” she said, looking around, then pointing to the shattered door. “We just had that tempered glass put in last year. Why would anyone do this?” She looked over at Tommy. “We’re not fancy, Tommy. There’s not much to steal.” She glanced toward the open door to her uncle’s office, then the small storeroom, the door also open and the room ransacked, and then looked back at the shattered door.

  Tommy assured her he had a guy on his way to board up the door until a new one could be installed, but they all knew that was only part of Stella’s grief.

  She glanced at the only file cabinet in the room, the drawers open and a few files tossed on the floor as if they’d made the intruder angry. A bookcase next to it was mostly intact, but several books were pulled out. Stella looked over at it and managed a smile. “Do you think he was looking for a secret safe behind it?”

  Tommy chuckled. “Maybe,” he said. And then he explained the police concern that the break-in might be connected somehow to the Bianchi house up on Cliffside Drive. That maybe the papers, the contracts, the negotiations—might somehow provide a connection to the murder. “We need to follow every lead, and since your company was involved in the sale of a house to the guy who was then murdered there, well, you can see why this break-in raised all sorts of red flags.”

  Stella gratefully took the coffee Nell handed her and nodded as if she understood, but her face showed that although she understood the connection or coincidence, maybe, she didn’t really see how her office could be involved at all. Nor did she want it to be.

  “I know, Stell, it’s hard to connect the dots,” Tommy said, “but it’s the kind of thing we need to follow. You never know, and your firm is tied up with the murder for better or worse.”

  Nell looked at the expression crossing Stella’s face. It was definitely for worse, it said.

  “So we should check the Bianchi files?” Ben asked.

  Tommy nodded and he and Ben followed Stella over to the disrupted file cabinet.

  “I only keep the most recent listings and active sales in here. We don’t have much need for paper anymore because eventually everything ends up digitalized.” She glanced over at her desk where her desktop computer sat intact, looking as if it had never been touched.

  She confessed with some embarrassment that the file cabinet was the same one Uncle Mario had when he opened the office. Meaning it was very old and wasn’t very secure. A fact that was obvious from the ease with which the intruder had pulled it out and dumped it on the floor, popping the drawers right open in spite of a lock.

  Stella leaned over and quickly pulled out a thick file. She leafed through it, noticing Uncle Mario’s shaky remarks on sticky notes here and there, then handed it to Ben. “You’ve looked through these Ben. Do you think anything’s missing? I can go through them one by one if you think we need to.”

  Ben took the fat file over to a table and leafed through it.

  Tommy looked down at the drawers on the floor, frowning. “The strange thing is, it doesn’t look like he went through the files carefully, if at all. It’s as if whatever he was looking for would be readily noticed—and it wasn’t manila folders.”

  Ben looked up from the file he was holding. “I think you’re right, Tommy. I can’t say for certain, but I think everything’s here. The important things, anyway. And the papers are neat and clean, no staples or clips disturbed. They look untouched.”

  Tommy nodded and walked toward Mario’s office. “Could you check in here, Stella? Maybe if we go through each room, you’ll notice if anything significant is missing. If it’s a routine robbery, we can at least make a record of those things for the insurance.”

  Ben checked out the storeroom, and Stella and Nell went through Uncle Mario’s office, replacing drawers, then cramming scattered contents back onto bookshelves.

  “This is so crazy, Nell,” Stella said sadly. “There’s not much here that’s worth stealing. Except for maybe Uncle Mario’s fancy television. And that’s still there. Along with all his whiskey. And my computer. The printer. Wouldn’t you think that if whoever did this wanted things to sell or pawn for quick cash, the orthodontist’s office across the hall might have been a better bet? He has lots of fancy tools over there. My teeth at one time could vouch for it.”

  Nell looked around as Stella talked. She agreed. It didn’t look like a normal robbery at all. But if not that, then what? Someone had clearly been looking for something.

  “Rosie and I straightened everything up a couple days ago—she’s good at that,” Stella was saying as they went through the rest of the office. “She brought in those plants over near the windows, and updated the bookcase with some great home decorating books, copies of Coastal Living, books on buying a home, things clients would enjoy browsing.”

  Nell could feel Stella’s pride and sadness mixed up together. It was more than the break-in. It was how it affected people. Her and Rosie, for starters.

  A short while later, Tommy finally conceded that there wasn’t anything else for him to check—it seemed to be a random robbery, even though they couldn’t account for any missing items. “A mystery,” he said. Then added with a touch of sarcasm, “Just what we need right now.”

  Stella was befuddled, too, but tried to shrug it off. Maybe a homeless person who needed a warm spot for the night or a slug of Uncle Mario’s whiskey. His office stash wasn’t a well-kept secret.

  Maybe. But as Nell and Stella stood in the middle of the ransacked office, saying good-bye to Tommy and Ben, not one of the four believed in Stella’s attempted easy resolution. And that left a lingering level of discomfort that would cause Detective Tommy Porter to go back to the station and assign someone to a special patrol of the
Palazola real estate office on Harbor Road. “Keep my friend Stella safe,” he would tell them.

  Stella and Nell were left alone in the office, and Nell started straightening up the bookshelf and collecting papers still on the floor.

  Stella stood still, standing in front of the all the framed photos of homes for sale or recently sold. She focused on one directly in the center of the display, the crème de la crème. The listing that shone. An elegant home on the cliff. The Bianchi home in all its seaside splendor.

  Stella stood staring at the photo for so long that Nell knew if eyes could truly burn into something, the photo of the Bianchi house would soon be a pile of ashes. She walked over and rested an arm lightly across Stella’s shoulders.

  Stella turned her head toward Nell, a small, sad smile on her face, but in spite of the smile, tears were collecting behind her glasses, fogging the lenses.

  Stella didn’t bother to blink them away. Finally she took off the glasses and looked at Nell. “It’s that house, Nell. That man. I wish he had never come back to Sea Harbor. Uncle Mario thinks the Bianchi house brought us a windfall. But sometimes, like right now, all I’m sensing is the ‘fall’ part. And I feel a desperate need for us to land safely.”

  Nell turned away from the photograph and looked at the desk right next to Stella’s, its top polished and a single peach-colored orchid reaching high. Another flower stood on Stella’s desk, this one with fuchsia-spotted soft petals that caught the light. Both plants stood tall, the flowers leaning slightly toward one another, proud and alive.

  Nell smiled. There were some things in life that Nell hoped for. And there were others she believed with certainty.

  “I believe you will, dear Stella,” she said. “We will all land safely.”

  Chapter 26

  They gazed at the hanging creations in awe, as if they were in the middle of the Boston aquarium instead of Birdie’s den. And right there in front of them, a spectacular jellyfish cavorted in a current of air, performing a ballet.