Patterns in the Sand

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - The Friday before . . .

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  The Inside-Out Knit Chemo Cap

  ALSO BY SALLY GOLDENBAUM

  Death by Cashmere

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2009

  Copyright © Sally Goldenbaum, 2009

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Goldenbaum, Sally.

  Patterns in the sand: a seaside knitters mystery/Sally Goldenbaum. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-03273-2

  1. Knitters (Persons)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.O35937P37 2009

  813’.54—dc22 2008051617

  Set in Palatino

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Luke Robert McElhenny, Atticus Sage Goldenbaum, and Ruby Jane McElhenny

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my family, my sisters, friends, and readers—who have offered support, knitting patterns, ideas, and most of all, have invited the Seaside Knitters into their homes. A thank you to my brother Bob, whose art inspired Aidan Peabody’s. And a special thanks to Polly Arango and Mary Bednarowski, who are always there at the end of an e-mail with a welcome supply of sleuthing support.

  Prologue

  Sunday

  The fireworks that exploded in the midsummer sky were a surprise. None of the Art at Night flyers pasted on store windows along Harbor Road mentioned that the ocean sky would light up like the Fourth of July.

  But Nell Endicott suspected that few people in the packed crowds that milled about the narrow streets—moving in and out of art galleries and studios, greeting friends, nodding to strangers, enjoying a beer or iced tea—would focus first on the extravagant display when thinking back to that sultry Sunday night.

  What they would think of first was not dazzling colors against a black sky, but a death that would change the course of their summer days in a heartbeat—adding suspicion and gossip to long days at the beach and fishing off Pelican Pier.

  Chapter 1

  The Friday before . . .

  It was Purl, curled up in the center of a cushy pile of organic cotton yarn in the deep bay display window of Izzy’s shop, who first took notice of the stranger—a small young woman with a magnetic gaze matched only by that of the cat’s own green stare.

  It seemed to be love at first sight. Or at least an understanding between souls who may have shared a similar past.

  The Seaside Knitting Studio’s window display was more than a changing smorgasbord of rich, soft yarn. It had also become the calico cat’s favorite place to watch the people of Sea Harbor go about their lives. The task brought purpose to Purl’s day.

  In winter she’d find a circle of sun in the window and settle in its center, watching figures wrapped in downy jackets scurry up and down Harbor Road, to the bookstore next door or the dentist above Harry’s deli. To Jake’s Gull Tavern on the corner or the county offices just off the main street. People walked fast on those snowy days, with direction, shoulders rigid, bracing themselves against the freezing ocean air that brought color to their cheeks.

  In the summer, Sea Harbor slowed to a languid pace, and through the glass Purl watched tan, half-bare bodies stroll down the road, wandering in and out of shops, sitting on wooden benches with strawberry ice-cream cones or Coffee’s famous frozen mochas.

  And in summer, Izzy’s window boasted bright cotton and silk yarn for airy sweaters or lacy stoles. This night, Purl had found a wicker basket piled high with spun balls of pink and celery green organic cotton that could be knit up into the perfect light sweater for ocean-chilled evenings. Purl curled up cozily in the center, her white paws resting on the basket’s edge. A sliver of moonlight touched the white V on her forehead. Life was good.

  Beyond the window, gaslights blinked on, allowing Purl a cat’s-eye view of the village’s nighttime activity. Though many of the boutiques and shops were closed for the evening, music poured from Jake’s tavern on the corner, Harry Garozzo’s deli still served some lingering customers, and restaurant doors were held open to the soft summer breezes, welcoming summer people to a Friday night fish fry or lobster feast. Not many people paused at Izzy’s window at this time of night, though the security lights were on, offering a g
limpse of lovely yarn if anyone cared to stop.

  But this Friday night—a treat for the sociable Purl—someone did.

  When Purl looked up into the striking black eyes of the young woman, she welcomed the attention and purred in delight.

  The visitor placed one hand flat on the cool plate glass that separated them—woman from beast. Her eyes locked onto Purl’s. For a long time the two looked at each other, steady and unwavering. Then she smiled as if finding a friend, stepped back, and looked up at the weathered Seaside Knitting Studio sign above the door.

  The name of the store seemed to register on her face and she smiled again at the cat, then slipped a thick handful of dark hair behind her ear. She shifted the heavy backpack between her shoulder blades and walked over to the front door, a weathered door with an awning above it. The knob refused to turn. She rapped lightly, peering through the glass on the door.

  From her perch inside the bay window, Purl followed the movements of the young woman with interest. The store was locked, of course—a routine even shopkeepers in this sleepy ocean town practiced.

  When no one answered, the young woman walked back to the window and stood there for a few minutes, looking at Purl as if the kitten would know the next step. Her brows lifted and her dark eyes grew round as the moon above. She had come a long way and was bone-tired. She needed to rest. A locked door was a minor inconvenience—and the kitten was welcoming.

  With a nod and a smile to the cat, she lifted up a battered duffel bag, shifted the backpack once more, and walked around to the side of the store.

  A narrow alley ran between Izzy Chambers’ knitting shop and Archie and Harriet Brandley’s Sea Harbor Bookstore. At the end of the alley, beyond the granite rocks that kept the tide at bay, was the ocean. The young woman stopped short, as if paralyzed for a moment, her steps frozen. She stood still, listening to the sound of the night waves lapping against the seawall. Slowly, she breathed in the salty air, closing her eyes against the magnificent emotion. Her heart soared. And for reasons beyond her understanding, she felt that she was home at last.

  When she opened her eyes, the feeling was muted, nearly gone. And for that, the woman said a silent thank-you. She had a task, a purpose. Emotion couldn’t play a useful part in why she had come to this small town, thousands of miles from home.

  She turned her attention back to the shop. In addition to a flight of stairs leading to the second story, there were several windows on the first floor, too high off the alley to reach, and a side door.

  The security lights on the side of the shop lit the alley, and she spotted her access easily. Climbing up several steps, she leaned over and examined a window.

  This was too simple, or maybe one of those moments her mother used to call serendipity. The latch at the top of the window was jammed and didn’t close completely. She wouldn’t even have to break anything. With a few tugs, the latch shifted and the window opened a crack, then wider as Willow’s strong arms pried it up. She picked up the duffel bag from the step and pushed it through the open window, then listened as it hit the floor. The drop wasn’t much, a few feet at most. The backpack was next. With one smooth movement, she swung a jeans-clad leg over the sill, then the other, and slipped easily into the shadowy room.

  The lights from the alley and along the back of the shop outlined a long table, bookcases, chairs, and at one end, a sitting area with a couch and fireplace. She frowned. The sign had said this was the Seaside Knitting Studio. But even in the shadowy light, this room looked more like a cozy family room, a place to kick off shoes and settle in. Settle in and knit, maybe that was it. But she couldn’t settle in. Not yet.

  Faint light coming from the front of the store lit an archway. She picked up her backpack and duffel and walked through it, her Birkenstocks flopping softly on the wooden floor. She saw shadowy racks and cubbyholes filled with yarn and the outline of a checkout desk, then the window beside it, where streetlight poured in and cast long shadows on the wood floor.

  She dropped her belongings to the floor and with a twist of narrow hips, wedged herself behind a display of soft baby hats and into the raised display window. Pushing aside a sign announcing a new shipment of organic cotton, she slid her whole body in beside the piles of yarn. Folding her legs beneath her, she settled in and smiled at the cat. Her heartbeat slowed.

  It was nice not to be alone.

  Purl came into her arms in an instant, as if they were coated with sweet cream. She curled up against the young woman’s worn yellow T-shirt, her purrs loud enough to bring in a security guard, had the shop owners taken the time to hire a new one. But they hadn’t, and Purl shared the warmth of the newcomer’s body in private.

  The woman’s tired body relaxed beneath the comfort of the furry kitten, and in a short while, with Purl still purring against her chest, she curled up in a ball herself, and fell soundly asleep in the shadows of Izzy Chambers’ yarn-filled display window.

  Chapter 2

  Friday nights at 22 Sandswept Lane were predictable. Deliciously predictable.

  The only true surprise, Birdie Favazza liked to say, was the kind of fish that Ben Endicott sizzled on his oversized grill. And that was just jim-dandy with her. Although the silver-haired octogenarian usually loved change, the comfort of Ben’s martinis, a blanket of stars overhead, and the warm company of friends on the Endicott deck were constants she cherished.

  And this Friday night had been no exception.

  “This is my new favorite,” Izzy Chambers declared. She rested her head back against the Adirondack chair and looked up at the dusting of stars across the black sky. Then she closed her eyes and with deep satisfaction sighed into the soft breeze.

  “You say that every week, Iz,” Ben said.

  “And I mean it every week,” Izzy murmured. “Scallops and cucumber sauce—who would have thought? I didn’t even know I liked scallops.”

  “Of course you did, sweetie.” Nell Endicott reached over and patted her niece’s tan knee. “Everyone likes scallops. At least the way we fix them here.”

  “It’s great, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott,” Brendan Slattery agreed. After three helpings, Brendan had finally settled into the chaise with a contented smile on his angular face.

  Nell smiled at the high school art teacher. He was still quiet in their company—a trait that wouldn’t last more than another time or two on the Endicott deck. Although he’d taught for years in Maine, Brendan had just finished his first year teaching in Sea Harbor and didn’t know many people in town. Friday night suppers were the perfect remedy for that, Nell had decided when she insisted he join them.

  Ben picked up a bottle of wine from the makeshift deck bar. “If you’re going to hang around here, Brendan, you’ll have to get used to first names. It’s Ben.”

  “Sure. Ben it will be.” Brendan nodded. “A leftover trait from very old-fashioned parents.”

  “And Nell,” Ben added.

  “And Cass,” Cass said, piping up from the other side of the deck.

  The group laughed. No one ever called Catherine Mary Theresa Halloran anything but Cass, no one except Mary Halloran, of course, who prayed daily that her daughter Catherine would meet a nice young man and have a houseful of babies. And occasionally Birdie Favazza used the baptismal name when admonishing Cass about such things as refusing to rip out a lumpy row on a scarf or not washing her lobster gear thoroughly. But calling her “Ms. Halloran” wouldn’t even get a turn of Cass’ head.

  “Well, no matter what you call Cass, we’re glad you’re here,” Birdie said. “Jane tells me that you’re spending your summer break helping out in some of the galleries.”

  Brendan nodded. “Mostly Billy Sobel’s. But I help the Brewsters and Aidan when they need it.”

  “And he’s invaluable,” Jane said. “Brendan knows a lot about art. We’re happy to have him.”

  “Looks like you’re strategically placed to give us the scoop on those new paintings Billy just acquired.”

  “The Ja
mes paintings?”

  Nell joined in. “Imagine, finding those paintings all these years after Robert James’ death.”

  “Billy was fortunate to get them,” Rachel Wooten said. “That man has more connections than anyone I know.” An attorney in the county office building, Rachel was an infinite source of information, though she was always discreet in her conversation about things going on in the granite building. Rachel and her husband, Don, were among the handful of lingerers reluctant to leave the comfort of the Endicotts’ deck after enjoying platters of grilled scallops, Nell’s vegetable pasta, and icy martinis made with Ben Endicott’s secret touch.

  “It came at the perfect time for Billy,” Jane Brewster said. “The Sobel Gallery needs a boost. It seems Billy is either riding high and leading the good life or desperately coming up with ways to bolster his bottom line, and right now he’d like to see a little more profit.”

  “I think this new wife of Billy’s might need bigger coffers,” Ham suggested. He stroked his graying beard. “Natalie Sobel likes nice things.”

  The others laughed. Billy Sobel was a colorful character in Canary Cove, the small artists’ community in Sea Harbor. He’d had a number of wives and lady friends, and as Ben, Nell, and their artist friends knew, his financial situation was often directly related to his love life. Or how well he had done in Atlantic City. Or at Foxwoods. His new wife was a powerhouse, and they had all noticed that Billy was marching to a different drummer since Natalie Sobel had entered his life.

  And that wasn’t all bad, Ben had confided to Nell. Natalie liked to spend money, but she kept track of it, too—something Billy wasn’t always so good at.

  “Billy always lands on his feet, though,” Ham Brewster continued. “He’ll be fine.”

  As founders of the Canary Cove art colony, Jane and Ham Brewster were like parents to the artists and gallery owners who called the Sea Harbor neighborhood home, and though the Brewster gallery always did fine, Nell knew that “fine” for Jane and Ham happened only when the entire colony of artists was thriving.