How to Knit a Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Rosie laughed. “Bree told me Spence said you had a crush on him.”

  That brought a laugh from Stella loud enough to cause several nearby diners to look her way.

  Rose chuckled. “That’s what Bree and I thought.”

  Birdie rested her arms on the table, her eyes thoughtful as she remembered the scene at the club entrance. “We never put it together that day, your fainting and the Paxton incident.”

  “No, how could you have? Besides, it was Mayor Scaglia everyone was concerned about. Her relationship to him, certainly not mine.”

  “Well, that’s true enough.”

  “My mom subscribed to the Sea Harbor Gazette forever,” Rose said. “Our Omaha neighbors thought it odd, but Mom liked reading about things going on here, especially regarding the ocean, the tides, fishing. Every now and then I’d scan it. A few months ago, I saw Spencer’s name in that chatty column—Mary Pisano’s ‘About Town,’ I think. Something about him coming back to town and a little bit about where he’d been.”

  “You knew he’d be here?” Stella said.

  Rose played with the edge of her napkin. “Yes. That’s part of why I came. I knew from years of therapy that seeing him face-to-face was part of the process, maybe the only one left. I didn’t know what I’d do or say when I saw him, but I wanted to throw away the whole bad experience that was Spencer Paxton. I wanted to toss it into the sea, gone forever . . .” The sentence drifted off, and Rose turned her head, looking through the windows, into the blackness where the ocean rolled and churned.

  When she looked back, her voice had grown soft and faraway, as if coming from another time and place.

  “I needed to toss all of it into that same sea that I waded into one night a long, long time ago. I had planned that night carefully. A deserted beach, a gentle tide. I left my shoes at the footbridge and walked across the wet sand and into the dark water, feeling the bottom of the sea move beneath my toes, the salty water circling my ankles, my legs, and then my waist. And on and on into the deeper water until finally the top of my head would be covered. My hair waving like seaweed across the surface, my body relaxing. Dreaming peaceful thoughts. Then sinking down, floating gently. Until I rested on the bottom.”

  Birdie’s breath caught in her chest painfully.

  Stella’s face had gone pale.

  No one spoke.

  Rose shifted in her chair, then looked at Birdie and Stella, only realizing in that moment that she had talked too long. Said too much.

  “I don’t know where all that came from.” She tried to lighten her voice. “I didn’t get that far, obviously. Just to an outcropping of boulders where the water was shoulder high. Someone called to me from the beach. I don’t know who, but I heard my name and I waved back. Then I climbed up on one of the boulders, and I stayed there for a long time, until I’d counted every star in the sky. Finally I slid off into the water, more shallow now because the tide was low, and I walked through the water back to the shore.

  “Whoever had called to me was gone. The beach was deserted, except for one small sign of life. A skinny, homeless kitten was standing there, all by itself, meowing and then rubbing against me, needing my body warmth. It was like an omen, you know? Like he was waiting for me.

  “I picked him up and we went home.”

  She tried to put a smile in her voice.

  Birdie leaned forward to catch her words.

  “It was foolish. I was a kid. Kids sometimes do foolish things.”

  There was silence, but Rose soon broke it.

  “But I didn’t drown.” She looked at each of them, her eyes locking into theirs. And then she added with equal conviction, “And I didn’t kill Spencer Paxton.”

  The waitress walked into their silence, a welcome distraction. As was the wine that she uncorked and poured for Birdie to taste. After filling their glasses she discreetly disappeared, sensing a special occasion, but one she couldn’t begin to understand.

  Birdie looked into the candlelight, then lifted her glass, her eyes looking into each of theirs. “To new beginnings, and to new friends,” she said.

  The glasses clinked. And the single tear that rolled down Rose’s cheek did not go unnoticed, nor was it wiped away.

  “Let’s eat,” Stella said, pushing back her chair. “The buffet awaits.”

  Birdie and Rose followed her across the room to a long table groaning with fresh lobster, oysters on the half shell, grilled fish, and more offerings than one could see standing in one spot.

  Rose came back to the table and sat down in front of a plate with a giant lobster staring at her. “Lobster wasn’t a staple for us once we moved away from here,” she said. “My mom was one of those Catholics who still didn’t eat meat on Friday, and when we lived here, we’d have Friday lobster whenever we could afford it. Always drowning in butter and creating the rolls around my middle that caused embarrassment and suffering at the beach. But it made me happy in the moment. I missed it when we moved away.” She held the claw of her lobster and tried unsuccessfully to twist it off.

  Stella reached over and with one quick movement, pulled it apart. “It’s all in the wrist,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’re overrun with lobsters in Nebraska.”

  Rose laughed. She picked up a tiny fork and began pulling bits of meat from the shell. “Prem—the guy I was briefly married to—did most of the cooking. He said Indians are ambivalent about lobsters. But he’d try to please me, so he’d make something and call it lobster curry, but almost always it was made with frozen shrimp he’d picked up at the market. I knew because I’d find the wrappings in the trash.”

  “What was he like?” Stella asked. “Prem, not the lobster.”

  “Nice. Kind. A good friend. We were shy college kids, trying to find our way on a huge university campus and we helped each other navigate all that. Studying, going to movies. I shared a lot with him, including the help I was getting in therapy. Somehow, I can’t even be sure now why, we decided to get married. We were nineteen. He was my best friend, maybe my only one back then.”

  She looked shocked at her own admission.

  Birdie was watching Stella, who seemed to be concentrating on de-shelling her own lobster, but she was listening so intently to Rose that a sudden squirt of lobster water onto her chin went unnoticed.

  “Anyway,” Rose was saying, “we’re still friends. We both knew—maybe even before we signed the papers—that neither of us was cut out to be married to each other. We didn’t have those feelings, you know?”

  Rose went on and added some details about her relationship with Prem Chopra, casual things about their interests, helping each other excel in their classes, and then wrapping it all up in a friendly online divorce. Her voice was conversational, as if she had been talking about a camping trip or a trip to the shore.

  Birdie sipped her wine and listened to what Rose was really sharing with them: the story of two lonely people. Good friends. Two people growing into themselves and learning who each of them truly was. Helping each other do that. And then getting on with their lives. It was a sweet story.

  A while later the waitress returned with a dessert cart, and the conversation turned to the delicacies. Birdie thought she was about to explode, but she could see the eyes of the two younger women at her table brighten.

  Yoga, she thought. All right, I’ll give it a try.

  * * *

  When they finally walked out of the yacht club and were waiting for Harold to bring over the car, Birdie stood slightly apart, considering the evening and the stories that had unfolded. Considering what Rose Woodley Chopra had told them about herself. Her strength and understanding of who she was had not come easily. But it had come.

  The soft string music in the lounge had given way to a more energetic band with a deep thumping bass and words that sounded jumbled to Birdie as they streamed out the open windows.

  She looked over at Rose and Stella, talking, their bodies moving unconsciously to the music. Rose’s whole face wa
s smiling.

  And she thought of a young girl wading out into the ocean.

  And coming back.

  Her next thought was the one that stayed with her over the next days, teasing and tugging for more attention:

  But what if she hadn’t?

  Chapter 28

  Ben had decided he was going to Annabelle’s for his Sunday omelet, even if he had to go alone. Three weeks without an omelet at Annabelle’s Sweet Petunia restaurant was a bad thing. He’d lost three pounds. Nell thought that was a fine thing, but she turned off the coffee and grabbed her jacket.

  The small, out-of-the-way restaurant was the Endicotts’ favorite place on Cape Ann. Perched on a hill above the art colony, with trees climbing right up to the deck, it was a secret Sea Harbor residents tried to keep from tourists—their private place with a magnificent view of the century-old artists’ galleries and the ocean behind them.

  And according to many, Annabelle Palazola made the most memorable omelet on the East Coast. Every week it was different, and every week it was an incredible surprise, the extra ingredients picked from her own garden and never revealed.

  Nell waved at Patricia Stuber and her husband who were sitting at a small table toward the other end of the deck. Nearby, Esther Gibson sat alone, surreptitiously slipping bits of bacon to her ancient basset hound, Boyd, who hid beneath the table. She leaned down to give the police dispatcher a hug and promised with a whisper not to turn Boyd in to the restaurant police. Esther chuckled and promised in return they’d solve this damn murder soon, come hell or high water.

  Nell caught up with Ben and Birdie as they walked to the farthest table on the deck, near the back steps and an old maple tree that leaned comfortably against the railing, dropping crimson leaves on the table. A nearby heat lamp defied the end to their outdoor eating.

  Cass was pulling apart one of Annabelle’s fried biscuits, slathering it with homemade apple butter, when the others walked up. Beside her, Danny was deep into the NYT Book Review.

  “Sit,” Cass said, looking up. She held up a biscuit and grinned. “I saved you one.”

  Izzy and Sam showed up a few minutes later. Abby had been left behind, much to her great-aunt Nell’s chagrin. Izzy’s sitter had asked if she could come over that morning. Something about earning a badge for her scout troop. Little Abby was delighted. Playing on the floor with Legos and her favorite sitter was far more fun than sitting still in the middle of adoring adults.

  The waitress filled their coffee mugs, added more biscuits to the basket and took orders, although orders were optional, she said; Annabelle knew what would please them. “Sunday specials all around. Got it.” She smiled and disappeared.

  “Okay,” Cass said, her hands moving in the air as she dropped a topic in front of them without a preamble and before they’d had their coffee. “I’ve been thinking about Spencer Paxton, imagining that I’m walking those halls back at Sea Harbor High—”

  “With a letter jacket on, I hope?” Sam asked.

  “Quiet, Sam.”

  “Oh, wait, no. Not Cass. A cheerleading outfit. Short skirt. Skimpy top,” Danny chimed in.

  They laughed, trying to imagine the lobster fisherwoman doing handstands on a football field.

  “Hey, don’t laugh,” Izzy said, her brows moving up into highlighted bangs. “I did that.”

  Cass ignored all of them. “As I was saying, there was another article in the paper today. You late sleepers probably didn’t see it, but I’ve been up since five.”

  “Feeding our chickens,” Danny explained.

  “Really?” Birdie asked.

  “We really have chickens, yes,” Danny said, his voice a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

  Cass glared at him, daring him to interrupt again.. “It’s not a big deal. A neighbor left them behind when he moved. Danny wasn’t so sure about it, callous mystery writer that he is. But I couldn’t just leave them there. So yes on the chickens—my goddaughter Abby will love them—but I wasn’t feeding them at five. I was reading the paper. There was another article today about Spencer Paxton. One of those Who was this guy anyway? kind of articles.”

  Ben nodded. He’d seen it, too. “They still haven’t figured all that out. And without more to say about the investigation, reporters are grabbing at things to keep readers satisfied.”

  “Do you think they’re getting closer to solving this?” It was Sam who asked the question. He and Ben had regular breakfast dates with Jerry Thompson, and though the chief had been too busy of late, Sam knew Ben talked to him regularly.

  “I don’t know. As we all know, they have people with motives and means, and some of those people don’t have good alibis. But there’s nothing tangible.”

  “No bloody glove, so to speak,” Danny said.

  “Right. I presume they need more proof. Or any proof. Jerry doesn’t look happy.”

  “In the meantime, the press is trying to solve it?” Nell asked.

  “So it seems,” said Cass. “This article was one of their investigative attempts. They found a photo of Spence as captain of the football team and then dug up some locals who were classmates and interviewed them.”

  “Who?” Nell asked.

  “A gal who cuts my hair at MJ’s Salon and a waitress over at the Gull. A couple of others. Anyway, they all thought Spencer Paxton was one of those high school gods, but admitted that they didn’t know him. They weren’t in the in-crowd, they said, and he was kind of particular about whom he hung with, unless it was time for some election.”

  “And then?” Izzy asked. “Wait, I know. Then he’d canvass the cafeteria and roam the quad and charm the ‘lesser’ students.”

  “‘The little people,’ as Leona Helmsley once said,” Birdie added.

  Cass nodded and took another biscuit. “Students coveted Spence’s attention, and when they got it, they’d vote for him. But they made it clear to the reporter they were just impressionable kids and would act differently today. But they also told the reporter that although all schools probably had some nasty kids, they were positive they hadn’t gone to school with a murderer. So no one in their class could have killed Spence. Besides, if someone really wanted to kill him, why didn’t they murder Spencer Paxton way back then?”

  “They actually have a point,” Ben said.

  “Although there is such a thing as repressed hatred,” Izzy said. “It can emerge years later, triggered by something insignificant.”

  The thought was an ugly one. Simmering hatred. A volcano ready to explode.

  “Was there anything said about students who got Spence’s attention, but not in a good way?” Danny asked. “I know a little about bullying from some long-ago reporting I did. Where there’s one victim, there’s usually another.”

  “If there were others, I think they slipped through the cracks and are probably long gone from Sea Harbor,” Cass said. “Kids see what they want to see sometimes and the women in the article never mentioned friends being bullied. Once the reporter decided the women weren’t going to lead him to solving the crime, he shifted back to the present. The Spencer Paxton who wanted to be mayor. The man whose wife wasn’t happy with him.”

  Izzy said, “Poor Bree.”

  “The development angle is interesting—what Paxton Development was planning for Sea Harbor. Folks don’t seem to be talking about it much anymore,” Danny said.

  “I don’t think the company ever got far enough. A clerk at city hall told me that once Spencer realized the town didn’t want big box bookstores and fancy condos in the art colony, he divorced himself from it and left it up to others in the company,” Ben said. “It wasn’t the way to win the election. And there’s been no sign of the company since the murder.”

  “Not even to show up personally to claim the body, according to Bree,” Izzy said.

  “Do people like that really exist?” Cass said. “Ugh.”

  “Did today’s article bring us any closer to who might have killed him? Or am I missing something?�
�� Sam asked.

  The question went unanswered as the waitress returned with a tray of Annabelle’s golden omelets, served in a bed of chopped tomatoes and fresh herbs. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you,” she said, settling a large plate in front of each of them.

  Ben immediately forked into the creamy pocket, releasing slivers of spinach and avocado, crisp bacon pieces, and a stream of melted cheese. Flakes of fresh parsley and dill fell from his fork.

  “Don’t swoon,” Nell cautioned while passing a pot of Greek yogurt his way. “It looks bad in public.”

  Ben took a drink of coffee with a contented look on his face. “So what’s the point of the article?”

  “Maybe to trigger people’s memories,” Danny said. “Even though the women they interviewed weren’t much help, it might make other people come forward, people who went to school when Spencer did but perhaps knew him better. Or maybe, if not that, people who’d rubbed shoulders with him more recently, at the Gull or Ocean’s Edge. Down at the harbor. Spence got around.”

  “That’s a good point,” Sam said. “I retract my judgment about the reporting crew.”

  “I guess we’ll have to see,” Ben said. “You’ve been over at his school, what do you think?” He looked at the women around the table. “After all this time, can it be helpful? People change.”

  “I’m not sure Spencer Paxton changed,” Birdie said. “Being in the school building gave us a feeling for how he functioned then, and it wasn’t that different. Competitive, aggressive, willing to do almost anything to get what he wanted. And diminishing those who beat him at something, who threatened his ego, like our Rose.”

  Nell nodded. The definition of a bully. She was sitting at the end of the table, slightly apart, doing more listening and thinking than talking, her omelet nearly gone. She agreed that they understood Spencer better after the trip to the school. Even though Patricia hadn’t pointed to anything specific, there was something there. Something buried in those old lockers or trophy cases that would bring them closer to the person who killed Spencer Paxton. But saying it out loud made it sound insubstantial. Flimsy. More emotion than fact. So they’d hold it close for now, but each one of them was convinced they were closer to figuring it out.