A Finely Knit Murder

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Chapter 4

  I t was Thursday morning before Nell had a minute to devote to her sweet Abby.

  Wednesday had disappeared in the blink of an eye with a trip to the library to help with a grant and then a trip into Boston to meet with a friend. But Thursday was Abby’s, without a single meeting or appointment.

  “Don’t worry, darling,” she said to the curly blond toddler. Abby was sitting in her stroller, enjoying the sea breeze, as Nell pushed her stroller through the narrow streets of the Canary Cove Art Gallery. “This won’t happen again.”

  Seeing Abby every day wasn’t always possible, but Nell tried hard to make it happen. Sam and Izzy’s baby girl had added unforeseen riches to all their lives, and in Nell’s mind, being with Abby was the best possible way to make an off-kilter world balanced again.

  “So you need balance?” Ben had asked her earlier that morning. They were drinking coffee and sharing their plans for the day, hoping to meet for a quick glass of wine together later that day. A chance to catch up before Nell left for the night reserved for knitting.

  “Yes, a little balance would be good. It’s Birdie, I think, who has me on edge. She gets this feeling in her bones when things aren’t quite right, and it seems to slide inside me easily.”

  “It’s because of the board meeting, I’d guess.”

  “Probably. Dissension wears on me, especially when I know the people and some are hurt by it. It’s even harder on Birdie, now that Gabby is a student at the school.”

  Ben put down his coffee mug and gave Nell a kiss on the top of her head. “Our Abby will chase those feelings away. She always does.”

  Ben was right. Abby was the perfect antidote. Nell waved across the street to Rebecca Early, who was unlocking the door to her handblown-glass gallery. The beautiful jewelry born from Rebecca’s artistic hands caught stray rays of sunlight and sparkled in the window. Nell vowed to stop back. It was her favorite go-to shop for birthdays and gifts for friends.

  But today she was headed toward the Brewster Gallery. Jane and Ham needed a dose of Abby’s magic before they began their busy day.

  She walked down the street, enjoying the early-morning quiet, soon to be displaced as the area came alive with artists selling their art and preparing for shows. The Brewster Gallery was halfway down the block, right next to Willow Adam’s Fishtail Gallery. It was a deceptively narrow shop that fronted a long strip of land that moved inward, back into the hilly grounds behind it. From the street, the garden and cottage that Ham and Jane had lived in for thirty years were invisible, an enchanting surprise to those who made their way farther through the gallery.

  Nell pushed open the door, held it with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside and around the new display of Jane’s pottery. “Jane . . . ,” she started to call out, and then she stopped short.

  Jane was nowhere in sight. Instead a tall, thin man with heavy-lidded eyes stood behind the cash register. His long fingers were tapping the computer keys and organizing receipts. Blond straggly hair curled around the neckline of his T-shirt, and his paint-stained jeans seemed appropriate for the working gallery.

  “Hey,” he said, looking up. His smile was slight.

  “Is Jane here?” Nell asked.

  “She’s back there.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder to an adjacent room that Ham and Jane used as an office and sitting area, and then he went back to his work.

  The swish of Jane’s long skirt told Nell she had heard her name and recognized the voice. She hurried around the door and gave Nell the briefest of hugs, then crouched down to greet and touch baby Abby’s cheeks and chin and draw a smile from her favorite toddler. Abby responded immediately with a smile that filled her whole face.

  “No one is immune to Jane’s charms.” Nell laughed.

  The man behind the counter nodded. “Yeah. That’s a fact,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the receipts in his hand.

  Jane laughed and pulled Abby out of the stroller, then waltzed her around the room to an old Fleetwood Mac tune playing in the background. She finally circled back to the lean man at the cash register.

  He watched Jane with an amused look on his face.

  It was then that Nell noticed his eyes—green and deep and as disturbing as the ocean before a storm. Raw, piercing eyes.

  Jane looked at him, smiled, and held out the toddler. “This is our secret dose of sunshine. Meet Abigail Kathleen Perry. You’ll be happy you did.”

  The man looked at the child, and his face softened with a kindness that had been hidden a second before. He made a face and winked at Abby, causing an infectious giggle to stir the air.

  “I’m here, too,” Nell said to Jane. “I’m used to playing second fiddle to Abby. That’s okay, but I’d also like to meet this new person working in your gallery.”

  “Oh, good grief,” Jane said. She spun Abby around again, then settled her on her hip, wrapping her arms around a wriggling body. “I thought you knew everyone in town, Nell. Josh, meet my oldest and dearest Sea Harbor friend, Nell Endicott. Nell, Josh Babson.”

  Josh Babson.

  Nell covered her surprise with a smile and a greeting. Of course. Jane and Ham knew every New England artist from Gloucester’s Rocky Neck to Maine. Not only that but the founders of Canary Cove Art Colony had helped many of them get their careers off the ground. He was a teacher, but he was an artist, too. They would know Josh. And know what had happened to him, too. Sea Harbor was a small community, and Canary Cove—even smaller.

  “Ham has figured out a way to share our studio with Josh. In exchange, Josh is going to help out in the gallery. He’s a wonderful painter. Ben is going to want to start a new collection, trust me.” She pointed to a large seascape against a far wall, lit with a tiny spot. “Josh has a special love affair with the sea, and it shows brilliantly in his work.”

  The man behind the counter cast an unreadable look Nell’s way, but a softening in his face showed pleasure in Jane’s praise.

  He made no move to further the conversation—or officially meet her—so Nell took the initiative and reached over the counter to shake his hand. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of your work, Josh,” she said.

  A half smile appeared, along with a shrug and a reluctant handshake. “Sure. I’ve seen your husband a couple of times at art shows and around town. Not you, though. Nice to meet you in person.”

  In person. Josh knew of her, knew she was on the board, of course he did. And it was the board that had ripped away his steady, dependable job, the kind that puts food on the table.

  “I think I had your granddaughter in class.” He looked between Jane and Nell.

  “You must mean our friend Birdie Favazza.”

  “Her granddaughter, Gabby Marietti, goes to Sea Harbor Community,” Nell added.

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. She was in one of my classes. She was good, not great. She’ll never be a Winslow Homer, but she’s creative as hell with a personality to match. How it all works out for her will be interesting to watch.”

  “We’ve all adopted Gabby,” Jane said.

  Nell watched Josh as Jane went on about Gabby. His eyes shifted back and forth between the two women and then settled on the papers he’d been shuffling when they walked in. He was handsome in a New England cowboy kind of way—rough at the edges, arty, and not very sociable.

  And, according to Gabby and the yellow circles left on the school lawn, he had a temper. That or a strange sense of humor.

  But Josh Babson also seemed to be intuitive and caring about his students. And he was talented, according to Jane. So how had he incurred the wrath of Blythe Westerland that had caused him his job? And why?

  The question flitted in and out of Nell’s mind later that day as she and Abby made their way down the produce aisle at the grocery store and then walked over to the fish market on the harbor. But the thoughts didn
’t linger long. With Abby at her side and a meal to put together for Thursday night knitting, even Josh Babson was finally brushed aside completely, replaced by fresh crab, potatoes, and a hunk of ginger root.

  Chapter 5

  “S o, where’s Cass been?” Izzy took a bag from Nell’s arms, holding the yarn shop door open with her back. “Sam saw her at the Gull the other night. She doesn’t even like the Gull.”

  “Who was she with?” Nell followed Izzy through the archway to the back room, where the big wooden worktable was already cleared, plates and wineglasses at the ready.

  “A handsome dude. The same one we glimpsed Monday, unless Cass is suddenly seeking out men with facial hair. Sam was meeting a client for a beer, so they didn’t talk. But he wouldn’t have gone over to them anyway. You know Sam. He takes respecting others’ privacy to an absurd level.”

  Nell laughed and began filling a basket with sourdough rolls. “I suppose we should do the same. She’ll be here soon—”

  Of course she would. Thursday nights were the closest thing to sacred in the knitters’ lives. Other traditions could be shuffled around occasionally—even, on rare occasions, Friday night on the deck. But the place and day that had fostered the four-way friendship over the years was rarely upstaged. They couldn’t explain it easily to others. Was it the cozy knitting room with its casement windows that opened to the sea, the comfortable, worn seats around the fireplace? Or Nell’s fresh pasta dishes, Birdie’s fine pinot gris? The music, the yarn, the intricate patterns that engaged their minds and busied their fingers? All of that. But most of all, it was the friendship that deepened every single week over angora sweaters and finely knit baby hats.

  Birdie walked down the stairs, a cloth bag that held her wine looped over one arm, a knitting bag over the other. “Something is going on with our girl Catherine. I’ve noticed it for a while. I think she’s been lonely.”

  “Her own fault,” Izzy said, dipping a carrot stick into a pot of cilantro hummus. “There’s Danny waiting in the wings.”

  “He won’t wait forever,” Nell said. “Danny is forty. It’s not just women who become aware of some clock ticking away in the distance. The breakup with Cass was difficult. Danny sees things in an uncomplicated way—and realizing that the more Cass loved him, the more she felt she was losing something in herself was probably nearly impossible for him to understand.”

  “Of course it was,” Izzy said. “I don’t completely get it myself. I kind of do—Cass is complicated. But to push away someone who loves you—and someone you love right back—just because you might feel jealous sometimes or might miss him and need him—or all those other emotions that sometimes get mixed up in a relationship—that’s hard to understand.”

  “I think seeing her own mom be devastated when her father died at sea affected Cass greatly,” Birdie said. “It was an awful time for the whole family, and maybe Cass feels pushing Danny away will save her from ever going through that great hurt.”

  “But it won’t work,” Izzy said. “I’m sure of it. Cass loves Danny. She’ll come around.”

  Birdie agreed. “But let’s allow Cass her privacy, too. She’ll be here in a second—her truck pulled into the alley as Harold was dropping me off.”

  “So stop talking about me,” Cass said, her words tumbling down the three steps just seconds before she appeared in the arched opening. In one large leap she was at the bottom.

  “What makes you think you’re that special?” Izzy said, bringing her iPod to life and turning the music up a little louder than necessary. In seconds Laila Biali’s rich vocals filled the air and Izzy floated over to Cass, then twirled her around, joining her own voice to the artist’s as she sang out, “Let’s go down, down to the river to pray.”

  Cass laughed. “Now you want me to pray? You’re a crazy lady.”

  Izzy threw back her head and laughed, her thick, streaked hair floating in slow motion. Then she moved away and wrinkled her nose. “And you smell like fish. Were you out on the boats today?”

  “Briefly. Someone wanted to see our lobster operation, so I did a little tour thing for the guy.” Then her words sped up and she leaned over the table. “Hey, what’s in the magic bowl, Nell?”

  Before Nell could answer, Cass went on. “No, don’t tell me. Crab, a splash of wine, ginger, lemon butter, and . . . uh . . . pasta?”

  “Close. It’s scooped into potato nests. My mother used to make them. And in case you think we missed it, that was an excellent job of changing the subject.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Cass took the glass of wine Birdie offered her and, with the other hand, pushed a handful of hair behind one ear, a nervous gesture they all knew well. “It’s no big deal. We’re just getting to know each other. I don’t mean to seem mysterious.”

  Izzy set the butter dish down beside the rolls and began rolling the silverware inside napkins. Nell tossed the arugula pecan salad.

  Birdie filled the remaining glasses with wine.

  As routine and natural as breathing.

  In the background the jazz artist was singing an old song Birdie knew well, “The Best Is Yet to Come.”

  And they waited.

  “His name is Harry Winthrop.”

  “Okay, so, what happened when Harry met Cass . . . ?” Izzy lined the rolled napkins up next to the plates.

  “They drank beer,” Cass said, ignoring Izzy’s tease.

  “Another Harry?” Nell said. “We have so many Harrys in our lives.”

  “He’s not in our lives,” Cass reminded them, “unless you’ve been in the backseat and I missed seeing you. But he’s okay. Smart enough. Great-looking. And he took me to a good restaurant in Boston a couple days ago. Sometimes a change of place is good.”

  “Boston?”

  “He has a house there. It’s where he lives in real life.”

  “Winthrop . . . ,” Birdie said, drawing the word from her memory and searching for a connection.

  “He sounds rich,” Izzy said.

  Cass filled her plate and walked over to the fireplace. “He is. A Winthrop. And rich, too. He doesn’t seem to be concerned about money, anyway.”

  “His folks were summer people,” Birdie said. “Yes, now I remember.”

  Cass nodded and sank down beside Purl in the leather chair that had once been at home in Ben’s den. “I guess that’s what they were. He knows his way around Sea Harbor. I don’t remember seeing him before, but then, I probably didn’t run in the same circles. Most summers when I was young and free, I worked on my dad’s boat.”

  She bit off a piece of a crusty roll while the others filled their plates and made their way over to the fireplace.

  “I knew Margaret and James Winthrop socially. They owned a vacation house over near the lighthouse and had lovely Gatsby-like parties each summer,” Birdie said. “I think they were from Boston or New York.” She smiled, satisfied with herself for pulling up memories of people she hadn’t thought about in decades. “Margaret thought it set the Winthrops apart to buy vacation real estate on Cape Ann instead of the Hamptons.”

  “That’s them,” Cass said. “At least I think so. They’re long gone. The house hasn’t been taken care of in a long time. Harry said he’s been back now and then to check on it.”

  “It looks haunted,” Izzy said. “I can’t get Red to walk by it—and he’s an excellent judge of character.” She threw Cass a narrow look.

  “So Harry’s bad because Red is afraid of his house?” Cass frowned. “Come on, Iz.”

  “Sorry. I was out of line. It’s just that—”

  “I know,” Cass said quietly.

  And they all knew. It was just that they all loved Danny.

  “Is he moving to Sea Harbor?” Nell asked.

  “I doubt it. He said he had personal things to take care of here. I think he was trying to take care of one of those ‘pers
onal things’ the night I met him. He was sitting at the bar talking on his cell. I heard bits and pieces. It sounded like he was trying to ask someone out, saying he was back in town, wouldn’t it be nice to reconnect, that kind of thing. It was awkward because even though he talked low, I could hear him. Then he hung up, slammed one hand on the bar, and spilled his beer all over my napkin. Anyway, he apologized, mumbled something about an old girlfriend, and then changed the subject.”

  “So you were his second choice?” Izzy said.

  “I was no choice. I was just there—and we started talking. He was embarrassed that I had heard some of his conversation, so he started talking fast about other things—his family vacation house and how he had to fix it up or tear it down or something. He inherited it and had set aside some time to make decisions, come up and figure out what to do with it.”

  “His parents died some time ago, if I’m remembering right,” Birdie said.

  “And he waited until now to fix it up?” Nell asked.

  Cass shrugged, her mouth full of Nell’s savory crab. “Who knows why he waited? Or if it’s simply an excuse for him to come back to town and find an old girlfriend. He didn’t seem to want to talk about that. He said he had a few weeks in his schedule that he could commit to being away from Boston. He’s having his place in Boston renovated, so it’s not very livable. Not that the vacation home is, but at least it has heat, he said, and he needs to be here to hire workmen. So it all worked out.”

  “So those ‘personal’ reasons you mentioned? Doesn’t it bother you that he might have come to reconnect with an old girlfriend?” Izzy passed around a basket of rolls. “Even one who may have hung up on him?”

  “Nope. Not at all. I’m not looking for a husband, Iz.”

  “So he’s your date for Friday’s party?” Birdie asked.

  Cass scoffed. “No, not really a date. Actually he asked if he could come.”

  “What?” Izzy’s voice was incredulous, her feelings about fancy benefits coming to the surface.