Beside him, Halley rubbed her arms, then took a step away. A noise from the kitchen distracted Jed for the one brief moment that Halley needed, and while Po watched, she raised her knee, positioned her hand for a chop to his throat, and before Po could get up from the couch, she sent Jed Fellers flying to the floor.
In the next instant, Max appeared in the doorway, followed by the police. He wrapped his arm around Halley. “That was quite a move, young lady.”
“I walk home alone from the library nearly every night. A girl has to be ready,” she said, and moved over to Po, hugging her tightly.
Outside, lined up along the green lawn beneath a perfect, star-filled sky, stood a whole collection of Crestwood police, waiting eagerly for their prey.
And behind them, shivering beneath the folds of P.J.’s down jacket, Kate looked up beyond the stars and thanked her mother once again for looking out for those she loved.
Epilogue
You are cordially invited to
Thanksgiving Dinner
210 Kingfish Drive
RSVP—Adele Harrington
Adele had decided that Thanksgiving would be the perfect weekend to open the doors of 210 Kingfish Drive to the town that had finally embraced her as one of its own.
With a crew of many and the help of Jacques St. Pierre and his staff at the French Quarter, Adele threw a Thanksgiving dinner that would be remembered and talked about for a long, long time.
“Adele, you’ve definitely outdone yourself,” Po said, walking through the wide welcoming front door with Eleanor and Max on either side of her. “It’s absolutely beautiful!”
In the four weeks since the jail doors had banged closed on Jed Fellers, Adele Harrington had thrown herself full force into finishing the renovation of her home in time for the holiday. The knowledge that Ollie’s murderer was a man she knew, a man who was so present during all their grieving, was difficult to accept, and work provided an appropriate antidote to the pain.
Dozens of mums in rusts and gold filled the warm, inviting entryway of the home. Candles warmed tabletops and the soft light of sconces welcomed guests into Crestwood’s newest B&B.
Kate walked through the open door on P.J.’s arm. “I want to be married right here, in this amazing place. Can we do that, Adele?” She smiled over at their hostess.
Adele wrapped an arm around Kate and took her over to the staircase, just beyond the small desk where visitors would soon be signing in. “How proud I’d be to have little Kate Simpson be the first bride to come down those stairs. Adele pointed up the massive winding staircase that led to the second level. Thick forest-green carpet lined the stairs, and ropes of garlands lit with tiny white lights were wound around the walnut railing. A harvest tree decorated the landing.
“I guess I’ll have to find a man first,” Kate laughed.
“Oh, they’re all over the place. A dime a dozen,” Adele said, a new kind of smile softening her face. The looseness she was feeling was rejuvenating.
“Hey, what did I miss?” P.J. said, following the two women. “Wedding? Katie, am I invited?”
Po watched P.J. follow Kate up the stairs to tour the renovated bedroom suites. A wedding at 210 Kingfish Drive? The thought filled her with a rush of dizzying warmth.
“You’re wearing your heart on your lovely sleeve, Po,” Max whispered in her ear, then handed her a crystal glass of punch.
Po chuckled and walked on into the spacious living room where Selma and Susan were sitting on a couch in front of the blazing fire. Gus and Rita Schuette were off to the side, admiring the built-in bar that Adele would use for evening wine tastings, and the mayor and college chancellor sat watching a football game in a small alcove area off the living room.
“Something for everyone,” Po said, looking around.
“This place is amazing,” Maggie said, coming up behind Po. “I’m crazy about it, and Adele has already promised me that we can have a fundraiser for the animal rescue league here.”
Tim and Leah came in carrying Leah’s homemade pumpkin pies, and Po helped Tim carry them back to the kitchen. “Jacques,” she called out as they walked in, “here are more pies for your spread.”
Jacques swooped over to them, kissing them both on each cheek and motioning toward the sideboard, where pumpkin and apple pies were already lined up.
“A feast fit for a French pilgrim,” Jacques exclaimed with glee.
Halley appeared from the back room with Neptune the cat in her arms.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Po said, giving her a warm hug.
“I guess you haven’t heard, Po.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Adele has hired me to organize the library that she’ll have for the guests. It’s going to be absolutely wonderful, and I’ll work here when I’m not needed at the college. It’s kind of a dream,” she confessed. “I can pick the books I want, organize it, make it cozy and wonderful. I can’t imagine our guests will ever want to leave. There’s even a fireplace.”
Our guests. Po knew that Adele and Halley had talked, but she didn’t know the outcome had been so generous and forgiving on both their parts. They had each been hurt terribly by a man, and they had both loved another whom they couldn’t bring back to life. They certainly had a framework for friendship. Po was pleased to see that it had already begun.
When Adele called them all into the living room a short while later, Po was prepared for a toast. What she wasn’t prepared for was the announcement from the president of Canterbury University. “There will be a new printing of A Plain Man’s Guide to the Galaxy,” he said, “with our own Oliver Harrington’s name on the cover.”
Adele stood beside him, her eyes damp. She wiped the tears aside and took her place in front of the fireplace. “In addition to the book,” she said, “there’s something else we’ve decided to do in my brother’s memory.” She nodded toward P.J. and Max.
The two men walked in from the foyer, carrying a folded mound of fabric. With the quilters standing proudly by, they unfolded and held up a hanging that Susan and Leah had designed, and all the quilters had helped stitch together in these four short weeks.
A gift for Adele. A tribute to Ollie.
The background blocks of mottled midnight blue held a brilliant galaxy, created from small crimson and gold and deep orange-colored strips. The design was a swirl in all shades and hues. The swirl spread out against the deep background, bigger and bigger, flying upward, until the largest star of all—a brilliant blend of bright orange and yellow and white fabric filled the top of the quilt.
Ollie’s starry sky.
While champagne glasses clinked around the room, Po edged in beside Kate and Max. She looped an arm in each of theirs, her heart about as full as she could ever remember it being. There was magic in the air tonight, and she suspected she wasn’t the only one who felt it.
She hugged her goddaughter close and spoke softly. “A wedding, Kate? Is that what I heard you say? A wedding on a starry night…I think I could handle that just fine. Just fine, indeed.”
Turn the page for a preview of the next
Seaside Knitters Society mystery
HOW TO KNIT A MURDER
by
Sally Goldenbaum
A mysterious woman arrives in picturesque Sea Harbor, Massachusetts, and the Seaside Knitters welcome her into their cozy world of intricate patterns and colorful skeins. Unfortunately, nothing frays a warm introduction like cold-blooded murder…
Available now!
Chapter 1
“Great bones,” Spencer Paxton III said. “And look at these amazing grounds. We could have an extravaganza for two hundred here easily.”
Spencer didn’t look at his wife while he talked. Instead his deep-set eyes traveled over the wide lawns, the low winding wall that defined the property, a small guest cottage nest
led in a clump of woods to the side. He looked at the sturdy stone foundation and sides of the mansion, the dozens of long mullioned windows. His eyes went back and forth, up and down, hungrily combing every inch.
One of Sea Harbor’s finest.
Bree leaned back and looked all the way to the top of the three-story seaside villa. The fading light of early evening fell on the gabled roof, throwing shadows across the lawn and the flagstone walkway. The ocean wasn’t visible from where they stood, but the sound of crashing waves behind the house and the feel of salty air heralded its presence. She pulled her hoodie tight.
“It’s enormous,” she said. “Twenty families could live in this house.” She thought of the three-bedroom house in which her parents had raised their family of six. She had loved every inch of it.
“Yeah. Huge is good. We’ll fill it.” Spence walked his fingers up and down her back. “Rugrats. Maybe we’ll get us some. Who knows? Things can change.”
Bree was silent. No, contrary to what her husband thought, some things wouldn’t change. Ever.
“I called a Realtor last week,” he said, still not looking at her. His eyes were checking out the visible details—quality of materials, walkways, the grounds.
“You called a Realtor?” She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
“That’s how you buy a house, babe. I went to school with this gal—way back when.” He laughed. “Stella Palazola. She was an upperclassman, but flirted with me like crazy. She had this big crush on me. I ran into her at the Gull one night. She fell all over herself wanting to help me out.” He stopped and pointed. “Look at that balcony up there, the wrought-iron work. Amazing.”
“The house we’re renting is fine, Spence. It has wonderful light. I’m comfortable there. You won’t be here forever.”
Now he looked directly at her, his gaze sharp. “In the middle of that old art colony? My dad would roll over in his grave. Shove my face in it. No more. Canary Cove is a place for hippies and starving artists. Those knitters you hang around with would fit in there. Not a Paxton.”
Bree smiled as his comment took form. Those knitters you hang around with—those plain people. Ordinary.
Wise, wonderful Birdie, who could buy and sell all the Paxtons without a blink of an eye. Elegant Nell, who’d once single-handedly run a large Boston nonprofit. Smart, gorgeous Izzy, with her law degree tucked away in some drawer of her successful yarn shop. And clever, dark-haired Cass, owner of a lobster company. Attractive, sassy, and exuberant.
Spencer had no idea of whom he spoke. And that was fine with Bree. Instead she said, “The home on Canary Cove is cozy. I like it.”
“Not for me, babe. Doesn’t fit the plan.”
The plan. She looked sideways and caught the familiar odd smile that lifted the edges of his mouth, the lift of one dark brow. The set of his strong chin and the face that her own mother had compared to her favorite soap opera star the first time she’d brought Spence home.
“My old man wanted to buy this house when I was a kid. Did I tell you that? He wasn’t fast enough, not savvy enough, and he lost out to an old Italian. Anthony Bianchi. It’s my turn, babe. And I’ll get it. They’re doing some work on it now, fixing a few things. And then it’ll be mine.”
And it would be his, Bree knew. What Spencer Paxton wanted, Spencer Paxton got. She started to turn back toward the street, scattering leaves with the toe of her boot.
“Hey, where’re you going? I’m not ready to leave yet. Come on,” Spence said. He nodded toward the walkway circling the house. “Let’s look around back.”
“That’s trespassing.”
Spence laughed, and cupped her elbow roughly, prodding her along the flagstone path toward the back of the house.
Bree shook off his hand and put distance between them. She peered through the thick windows as they walked, but she saw nothing inside. Heavy black curtains held the dark tightly inside. Closed shutters protected smaller windows above.
When they reached the back of the house, a blast of damp ocean air lifted Bree’s platinum hair and whipped it across her cheeks, stinging her fair skin. She pulled it back with one hand, bunching it as she looked out at the ocean. The surf was just yards from where she stood, down a terraced lawn and a footpath to a sliver of beach. Dark waves leapt in the air, then crashed against a graveyard of granite boulders, foam spewing in all directions. A small boat, moored nearby, rolled with the motion, tossing and turning in the cold air.
She breathed it all in, the air cold and bracing, until she felt she would burst. The ocean was magnificent.
She felt Spence’s presence next to her, tall and dark and self-assured, his body shadowing her own. He had raised his binoculars and was scanning the horizon, as if waiting for a whale to perform, a fleet of schooners to parade past him in homage, or, Who knows, Bree thought, maybe to spot an island for sale? He lifted one hand and pointed south.
“You can see the Boston skyline from here,” he said. “It’s incredible.”
Bree had turned away and looked up at the mansion again, the glory of the ocean sucked out of her by the sight of the house. She walked back to the fan of steps leading to a stone patio that stretched the width of the mansion. Yellow, orange, and rose-colored leaves skittered across the stones. The veranda was wide and empty, save for groupings of chairs and tables covered in canvas—gray ghosts in the fading light.
Bree shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, wondering about the power this house seemed to have over her, blurring the grandeur of the ocean and filling her instead with uncomfortable prickly feelings.
It was just a house. A formidable one, and grand, too. She would give Spencer that. A majestic fortress, But it was still a house. Nothing else. She shook her head, only half believing her words. A house, she repeated.
“I’m going back around to the front,” she called out, her words tossed away by the wind.
Spence was halfway down the flat steps leading to the water.
It was a while later, after taking photos with his phone and walking the stone patio for dimensions and imagining the events he could host on the property, the people he could impress, that Spence walked back to the front of the estate. Bree was sitting on a low stone wall that bordered the property.
“Hey, what’s with you?”
“I’m tired and it’s freezing out here. It’s time to leave. I promised Izzy and Nell I’d stop by the yarn shop to help with a window design. They’ll be waiting for me.” And I like them, she said silently. I like their friendship and their yarn shop and the warm feeling I have when I sit in the back room and make magical things out of silk and cotton and bamboo.
She stood and looked once more at the house, as if it might have been a trick of her imagination. But it was still there. She stared at the curtained windows and the foreboding stillness within.
The windows stared back.
Spence forked his fingers through his hair. “You’re being weird tonight. Do you have PMS? Get a grip, Bree.”
Bree didn’t answer her husband. She took a deep breath and tried to shake the feeling that was chilling her bones. Slowly, she released it and braced herself, as if the house itself was about to reach out and grab her. Unconsciously she flexed the muscles in her arms, strong and toned and ready to ward off danger.
Spence looked over at her, then back at the house. “Do you want to look inside? Is that it?”
She looked at him. “Break in? Of course, the perfect way to endear you to Sea Harbor voters.”
Spencer laughed. “I’m serious. Not about the breaking in, but I could make it happen.”
Bree took a few steps away, then glanced at the house again as if it might follow her.
“Something’s going on here,” Spence said. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” But it isn’t nothing. It’s something. Or someone. Sometimes
feelings become tangled and complicated, the reasons for them blurred. But whatever is worming its way through me is real, a warning that things aren’t always what they seem to be.
Without waiting for another question or reply or subtle rebuke, she walked through the gate, out to the safety of the sidewalk and the narrow winding road that ran in front of the stately Sea Harbor Cliffside homes.
Spence caught up with her as they reached the car. He started to say something, then thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut, holding in his irritation, and walked around the car, sliding in behind the wheel. Bree stood on the passenger side, her fingers curled tightly on the door handle, her body still and her eyes peering through the towering trees, back to the house that stood at the top of the incline, proud and haughty. Sure of itself.
She stood there for several more minutes, until an irritated tap of the horn pulled her attention away. But the house wasn’t done with her and she looked back once more, meeting its glare, returning it with a silent vow:
I will never live in you, house. Never. Bad things will happen there.
Then she opened the door and climbed into the car, the engine already running and Spence’s long fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.
“It’s perfect,” he said to his wife, reaching over and patting her thigh. “Just perfect.”
Chapter 2
Rose Chopra stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to the life teeming around her. Her palms were damp, her stomach tight. Behind her, fishing boats were making their way to the docks, ropes were thrown, rough voices shouted, and crates and traps opened and emptied. Scolding and big laughter carried on the wind.
It had taken her by surprise, the sensation that snaked its way through her body. Her shoulders stooped automatically, years of yoga gone in an instant.
And for that one brief moment, Rose Chopra wanted to shrink to nothing.
She was eleven years old, sitting in the stern of a sailboat. Her chin lowered to her chest, her body folding in on itself, disappearing. She prayed for the ocean to open its mouth and swallow her.
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