A Holiday Yarn

by Goldenbaum, Sally

  “We’re being too scattered about this,” Birdie said, scolding everyone to attention. “Let’s concentrate again on Troy DeLuca, just for a minute. He had motive, we’ve decided.”

  “And he has suddenly come into some money, it seems.” Nell told them about the gifts Troy was buying for the Scaglias. “Beatrice was surprised at how quickly he’d managed to become solvent.”

  “That’s odd,” Birdie said. “Mary is paying him fairly, but not extravagantly.”

  “And there’s another thing.” Nell told them about seeing Troy in the Edge with Agnes Pisano. “They were friendly,” she said.

  “Agnes?” Cass’ and Izzy’s voices collided.

  “Dining with two women in one day. Troy seems to be on a roll,” Birdie said.

  “What if Troy knew Agnes was next in line? He was working at the bed-and-breakfast during the family meeting days—he could have heard something to that effect,” Izzy said.

  “Agnes seemed comfortable with him,” Nell said. “His chances of charming her into a modeling job are certainly better than they were with Pamela.”

  “Which brings us to Agnes. Shouldn’t she be a suspect? She benefited—maybe more than anyone—from Pamela’s death. Pamela’s death gave her a job she’d wanted for years.” Birdie took a sip of wine.

  They fell silent, jarred by the thought of one cousin murdering another—for a job. But Agnes Pisano had changed almost overnight from a quiet, plain woman to an assertive, take-charge editor, and assumed the outer trappings to match the position. The caterpillar just waiting in the wings to fly into a glamorous new life.

  “Agnes. Troy,” Birdie said, as if scribbling them on an unseen dry-erase board.

  “And Kevin,” Izzy said reluctantly.

  “Kevin,” Birdie repeated.

  “What about Henrietta O’Neal?” Izzy asked. “An unlikely suspect, true, but who knows?”

  “She’s causing a minor revolt over on Ravenswood Road, all intended to bring the bed-and-breakfast’s opening to a dead end,” Birdie said.

  “And she’s using Pamela’s death as a reason that it be closed, insisting there is an evil spell around the house.”

  “Which is silly. Henrietta doesn’t believe what she’s saying.” Nell thought about the woman, a generous, loving neighbor one minute, a destructive crusader the next. It didn’t make sense.

  “I suppose her name should be up there, as silly as it is,” Birdie said.

  “What else do we know?” Nell asked. “No fingerprints, for one. And Pamela must have known the person.”

  Cass smoothed out her finished eight-inch square, a bright green block with flecks of gold scattered throughout. Irish gold, Cass had called it, and decided she’d add more squares to make a boxy sweater for a teenager, a pattern she’d found on the Kas Web site. She was on a roll, she’d said. She set the square aside. “Why do you think she knew the person?”

  “Because there was no sign of a struggle. Birdie and I could see that. The scene was almost gentle—like a child falling into the snow, looking up at the sky. Neat letters printed in the snow, no skirmish. Nothing.”

  “Except for Pamela’s cigarette butts.”

  “I wonder if she was waiting for someone. There was a pile of them. Was the other person a smoker, too? Could they have been sharing a smoke, and then she was killed?”

  The encounter between Troy DeLuca and Kevin in the kitchen replayed itself. Kevin, Mary’s watchdog, sending Troy outside to smoke. “Troy DeLuca smokes,” Nell said.

  She thought again about the night Pamela was killed. Standing in the dark, seeing a curtain moving in the carriage house.

  “I could have been seeing things,” she said, describing what she thought she’d seen that night. “When we looked a second time, it was still. But could the murderer have gone to the carriage house, maybe looking for . . . ”

  Her words dropped off. Looking for what? The police hadn’t noticed things missing. Except for her wallet. The one found in Kevin’s locker.

  Silence hung heavy in the room as needles clicked.

  “What about the words in the snow?” Izzy said, looking up from the hat. “ ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s what the paper said. . . . ”

  Nell and Birdie nodded. The words printed in a bright crust of frozen snow, straight and neat.

  “So what does that mean?” Cass pulled her hair back and pulled a band from her wrist around it.

  “The murderer meant it to seem like a suicide note,” Birdie said. “At least that’s how it appears.”

  “But what an odd choice of words—‘I’m sorry.’ ”

  “I thought so, too,” Nell said. “For Pamela, anyway. Mary said Pamela has never said she was sorry about anything her entire life. She certainly wouldn’t do it before dying. If the murderer meant it to sound like Pamela, he—”

  “Or she,” Cass said quickly.

  “Or she,” Nell continued, “failed. I wonder if the words could be a clue. Could they mean something else? Could the murderer have wanted Pamela to be sorry for something?”

  “Like sorry for calling him washed-up and basically ending his career?” Cass swallowed the last bit of wine and set her glass down.

  “We’re stacking the deck against Troy,” Birdie said to Cass, waving a bamboo needle her way. “We need to step back, be objective.”

  Nell traced one of the squares in her throw, finding an odd comfort in the Persian blue yarn. It was flecked with gold, and a contrast to the more muted oatmeal squares and the rich emerald green and plum-colored blocks. Nell’s blanket was to soften the end of Enzo Pisano’s ancestral bed, Mary had told her. And Nancy had dictated the rich, bold colors. Manly colors, she’d suggested, and Mary had added, “But with a touch of romance.”

  Grandfather Enzo had loved to love.

  A skein of warm gold yarn sat in her lap, a defining rope around the squares, a touch of sunshine. Nancy hadn’t suggested it—it had simply appeared, as those things sometimes did. A soft circle of sunlight.

  She looked up to see Izzy carrying plates of warm apple cobbler to the table. A dollop of ice cream floated on top, dripping down the cinnamony sides of each dessert.

  “You’re right, Birdie,” she said, setting them down on the table. “We need to be objective, but that doesn’t eliminate Troy.”

  “No. But focusing too much on him could keep us from seeing something right in front of us.”

  “That old elephant in the room is back again,” Cass said.

  Nell chuckled. She attached a strand of golden yarn. “Talking to Mary and Nancy again might help us. Maybe some little thing they saw last week that didn’t matter then might matter now.”

  “Mary’s been so protective of Kevin,” Izzy said. “I wonder why. I think he’s slightly uncomfortable with it.”

  “Mary mothers. She’s always been like that. I think with Ed gone so much of the time, she finds some comfort in it. Take Georgia, for example. And she follows a long line of strays that Mary has taken in.”

  Cass looked at Birdie, her brows lifted. “So Kevin Sullivan is a stray?”

  “Of course not,” Birdie said, glaring back. “You are twisting my meaning, Catherine Mary.”

  Cass laughed. She gave Birdie a peck on the cheek and helped herself to another scoop of apple cobbler.

  “Mothering or not, Mary seems to think she has to shield Kevin from something. I wonder if we can delicately pull it out of her,” Nell said. “Just like this knot in my yarn.”

  Izzy took Nell’s needles away from her and expertly picked the knot apart. She handed it back. “Or him?” she suggested. “Why not talk to Kevin?”

  “Good idea,” Nell said. “It would be easier to get Kevin Sullivan to talk to us than to convince Mary to betray his confidence.” It might be an awkward conversation, true, but a small price to play if it led to a murderer among them.

  If it led the way to normalcy. To peace.

  Pax. An image of the kindly Irish priest bending at the waist, his pa
lms pressed together as he faced his parishioners. Peace be with you.

  Yes, she thought with a curious certainty and a lightening of her heart. They would find it and bring it back in abundance, all those things buried in the muddle of murder. Peace. Joy. Love.

  Chapter 17

  It was late when the knitters finally put their plan in place, switched off the lights in the back room, turned on Izzy’s alarm, and headed out the door. The shops along Harbor Road were closed, and all but the restaurants and bars were dark, save for small security lights and the dangling white lights of Christmas wound through the trees.

  Izzy and Cass were off to a holiday party at Gracie Santos’ Lazy Lobster and Soup Café—just old friends, Gracie had said—and urged them all to come. Miniature lobster rolls . . . the best in town.

  Birdie looked tired, and Nell was her ride home. Her excuse, perhaps. As luring as the lobster rolls were, it had been a long day. Her mind felt fuzzy, filled with cotton candy. And buried in the folds of fluff were keys to a murder that she couldn’t quite get her fingers on.

  “My car is just down the street,” Nell said, walking with Birdie passed the Brandleys’ bookstore and Harry Garozzo’s deli.

  They waved to the delicatessen proprietor, his beefy form visible in the shadows of his darkening restaurant. He’d be back in the early hours of the morning, opening the kitchen to bake bread and breakfast pastries. Harry waved back, blowing them a kiss.

  “Crazy man,” Birdie said, shaking her head.

  They looked into Harry’s colorful window. It showcased his wife, Margaret’s, talent for flowers and delectable surprises. Tonight it exploded with Christmas cactus, the tiny red buds ready to burst, and boughs of white pine, spruce, and variegated holly creating a holiday forest. Nestled among the branches were platters of imported cheeses, bottles of olives and mushrooms, and narrow vials of olive oil.

  “I want one of each,” Nell said. “Margaret is amazing.” She nodded toward her car, parked across the street.

  Birdie stepped from the curb, and Nell followed close behind.

  Across the way, Tommy Porter, a young woman on his arm, emerged from the yellow door of the Gull tavern. He spotted Nell and Birdie and waved.

  Before they could respond, a silvery Z spun around the corner, its wheels skirting the curve, heading directly toward the two women.

  “Birdie!” Nell screamed, and pulled the older woman back against her body.

  Birdie’s boots slid out from under her, and she landed soundly at Nell’s feet.

  Tommy Porter was across the street in an instant, his jacket flapping in the breeze.

  “I’m fine; I’m fine,” Birdie said, dusting snow from her coat. “Don’t fuss so.”

  “You could have been killed,” Nell said, kneeling beside her and peering down the street.

  The Nissan had pulled to a stop halfway down the block. The driver got out and looked down the street as the trio helped Birdie to her feet and back up on the curb. A moment later, he drove on.

  “Crazy fool,” Tommy said, staring after the car.

  “You sure you’re okay, Miz Birdie?” A willowy woman, standing next to the young policeman, looked into Birdie’s eyes. Enormous red earmuffs covered her ears.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Birdie said, looking up and smiling brightly in recognition. “And you are looking mighty nice yourself, Janie Levin. Now, what are you doing here?”

  Nell dusted off a concrete bench beneath a streetlight and insisted Birdie sit. “Just to catch your breath. You can catch up on Janie’s life sitting down.”

  Tommy laughed. “Janie’s with me. In fact, she’s with me a lot, if you know what I mean.”

  Birdie looked from one to the other. “Well, now, that’s lovely. Are you still working at Delaney Construction, Janie?”

  “Nope. Tommy here convinced me that I should go to nursing school. What do you think of that?” She grinned. “And I almost had my first patient right here on Harbor Road, but I’m really glad I didn’t.”

  “You’ll be a fine nurse,” Nell said.

  “Yep, she’ll be that,” Tommy said proudly, and looped one arm around Janie’s shoulders. He looked back down the street.

  “Do you know who that was?” Janie asked, following his look. “I haven’t seen a Z around here in, like, forever.”

  Tommy nodded. “It’s a new one. Showed up yesterday. Troy DeLuca, showing off his manhood.”

  “That’s Troy’s car?” Nell asked.

  “I saw him at city hall getting a temporary license plate. He’s a character.”

  “And a terrible driver,” Janie said.

  “That, too.”

  “Tommy, did you happen to see Troy in Canary Cove that morning, the day that Pamela Pisano died? I was in the tea shop with her that day, and I noticed you through the window. . . . ” Staring at Pamela, Nell thought, but she kept the words to herself.

  “Yeah, I saw him. I was on duty, and we were patrolling around because Willow Adams noticed some weird papers plastered all over her gallery windows. Turns out Henrietta O’Neal had wallpapered Canary Cove with posters citing the evils of opening that bed-and-breakfast on Ravenswood Road. Troy was having a beer at the Palate—at nine in the morning. Flirting with Merry Jackson. Hubby Hank nearly killed him with dagger stares. So, yeah, I saw him.”

  “And you saw Pamela, too?” Nell wasn’t sure why she was taking Tommy down this road. She could see that Birdie was beginning to shiver, but Tommy noticed, too, so he answered quickly and shifted his stance to protect Birdie from the wind.

  “I thought I saw her through the tea-shop window, so I looked closer to be sure it was her; I’m not sure why. I didn’t like the lady very much, though I suppose you shouldn’t say that of the dead.”

  Nell noticed that Tommy’s stuttering had all but disappeared. She wondered whether the young woman at his side had anything to do with it. “I suppose seeing her could open old wounds.”

  “You mean because she ditched my brother Eddie that summer?” Tommy laughed. “Yeah, that was a lame thing to do, leading him on while she had another guy on the side—but Eddie was okay about it. He was beginning to get the picture that Pamela would eventually dump him. I think she made it out like he was devastated—she liked to do things like that. She actually told people she was afraid he’d hurt himself. But that wasn’t true. And he’s sure better off. He’s married to a real nice girl over in Gloucester. Even gave me my first nephew a month ago.”

  “That’s great, Tommy. Congratulations.”

  “So Pamela was seeing another man that summer?” Birdie asked.

  “An affair,” Janie blurted out. “A torrid affair. At the same time that Eddie was spending his hard-earned money on her. Awful woman.” She shook her head, and her ponytail slapped one shoulder, then the other. “Eddie’s wife, Susie, is my cousin, and she told me all about it. The other guy really fell for Pamela—hard. Like, granite hard.”

  “What happened?”

  Janie’s cheeks blushed with the excitement of her story. “At first it was glamour plus. He gave her expensive presents. Flew her to fancy places. Susie’s mom used to take care of Mrs. Pisano at the nursing home, and she heard stuff. The guy was totally in love with Pamela. He wanted her to run away with him.” She rubbed her freezing hands together, and her skinny boot heels tapped on the sidewalk as she talked.

  “Run away? That’s dramatic.”

  “The guy was obsessed with her, I guess.”

  “Obsessed,” Nell repeated the word, wondering exactly what Janie meant by it. Obsession could be an awful thing. A disease. Or it could be an exaggeration. “Was Pamela in love with him?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Who knows? But she wasn’t the kind that loves, I don’t think. Eddie says Pamela got her kicks by playing with people, like little kids do with dolls. Getting them to do what you want. Then throwing them away when they no longer entertain. That’s harsh, but Eddie says it was pretty accurate.”

  “It’s
a wonder the whole town wasn’t talking about this.”

  “They were sneaky. Never knew who the guy was, but knew the sordid details,” Janie went on, caught up in the drama. “The guy was rich, and that helps hide things, if you know what I mean.” Jane’s brows lifted straight up into her wispy bangs.

  “She was here that whole summer, helping her mother. I guess it’s how she handled boredom,” Tommy said.

  “What happened to the relationship?” Birdie pushed herself up from the bench and picked up her knitting bag.

  Tommy shrugged, but Janie seemed to have an inside track. “When the guy started getting so possessive and demanding, Pamela cut her summer here short and headed back to New York to one of the magazine’s offices to get away from him. Susie’s mom says her leaving so suddenly upset her mom a lot.”

  “And the man?”

  “He, well . . . ” Tommy started.

  “He went berserk,” Janie blurted out. “Susie heard it on good authority. He was so nuts about her. He’d do anything to get her back. Anything. You know, like Fatal Attraction?”

  Tommy frowned at Janie. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  “Could this man be a suspect, Tommy?” Nell asked. “He certainly had motive.”

  “No,” Tommy said quickly. “Absolutely not.”

  His words were blunt and definitive.

  At the surprised look on Nell’s face, he quickly closed the subject, directing his concern to Birdie. “Miz Birdie, I think you need a hot toddy or something to warm those bones. It’s wicked cold out here.”

  Janie immediately followed his example and turned her full attention to the small woman standing beside her. “Tommy’s right—you need to get inside where it’s warm.” She touched Birdie’s hand gently, as if to take her pulse, but instead looked into her eyes intently. “Do you know that if your tissue temperature drops below freezing, your sweet little blood vessels could be severely, even permanently, damaged?”

  As he stood next to his girlfriend, Tommy Porter’s chest puffed with pride.