Death By Cashmere

by Goldenbaum, Sally

“Did he know Angie?” Birdie had asked. Practically everyone in Sea Harbor knew everyone else, but that didn’t mean they had spoken or been friends. And Nell could think of nothing that would have put Sal and Angie in the same room at the same time.

  “I think Sal is a sensitive man,” Nell said. “Maybe he was just expressing the helplessness and dismay so many of us feel. And Beatrice would certainly have been dissecting the crime over breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  The explanation didn’t sit well with any of them, but it was enough to allow them to move on with their day.

  Ben had plans to help Ham and Jane work on an old Hinckley sailboat that they had invested in. And maybe they’d get in a quick sail. “I need to work off that sour cream Annabelle piles on top of her eggs,” he said.

  Nell agreed. She watched Ben’s diet carefully, but Sundays were not about cholesterol, and Nell turned the other way. Encouraging Ben to exercise made her feel better about it. Sailing was therapy for him—the ocean expanse, the breezes and salt air calmed Ben in remarkable ways when worry or concerns began to crowd his chest and mind. “It puts the world right,” he told Nell. “At least for a while.” Angie’s murder didn’t escape Ben’s thoughts easily, and a sailing trip with dear friends would be a welcome reprieve for a few hours.

  “And I’m sailing off to the Studio to get Izzy’s help on this scarf she started me on,” Nell told Ben.

  Nell considered herself a good knitter. Her stitches were steady and even, and her seams not too bulky. And she was fast, sometimes finishing a strawberry hat for a baby during the course of a single board meeting. But she still needed Izzy’s help sometimes. When it came to knitting, Izzy had that intuitive something, like a photographer who captures magic in a cloud shot, or who knows instinctively when the light is just right over the water. Izzy could look at a sweater or sock or hat, and in seconds, zero in on the problem—and fix it.

  And Nell needed Izzy’s help today or she’d never finish this scarf in time for the Framinghams’ benefit next week.

  But Nell had another reason for walking down to the village shops, one best kept from Ben. There were too many loose ends in this murder scenario to be comfortable.

  Just before he left, Ben had talked to the police chief again, and he told Ben they’d found nothing around the harbor except the sighting of two guys who’d been hanging around the yacht club. Some cars had been broken into, and several women had complained of being bothered on the beach. They’d given descriptions of the men and the reports had indicated they’d moved on to Rockport, Newburyport, up into New Hampshire. They were probably up in the wild woods of Maine by now, Jerry had told Ben. But they’d keep looking.

  Nell listened to Ben in silence. Angie’s murderer was not in Maine. He was probably right here in Sea Harbor. And the sooner they figured out who stole the key to the apartment—and the other inconsistencies of the last few days of Angie’s life—the better.

  Nell hoped Cass might be at the shop, too. She often spent Sundays around Harbor Road, drinking mochas at Coffee’s or sitting on the pier with a book. It was the one day she relaxed, and she certainly needed some of that. Between the lobster thefts and Angie’s death, Cass had not had a stellar week. Her talk of spending the night on the beach, trying to catch the poachers—with a murderer walking around—was disturbing to Nell. She hoped to talk to her about it.

  The sea yarn was still on display in Izzy’s window, and as Nell approached, she saw people lingering in front of it, lured like kids to cotton candy.

  Nell passed them by and went in the knitting shop door, held open today to catch the breeze.

  Although the Seaside Knitting Studio was open on Sundays during the summer season, Izzy never worked the floor herself. Instead, she left the front counter in the hands of Mae’s twin sixteen-year-old nieces, Rose and Jillian, whose giggles spilled over the skeins of yarn and who delighted customers with their teen talk and enthusiasm. Mae had taught them how to knit as soon as they were old enough to hold needles without poking out their eyes, and they were now a surprising resource for the summer people when they needed a project for their television-less cottages or long afternoons at the beach. And, Mae told Nell, it added some needed structure to their summer. She’d heard enough of Izzy’s wild stories of summer fun beyond her aunt and uncle’s watchful eyes to not be wary.

  Nell walked through the front door and smiled at Jillian, whose ears were plugged with tiny white circles connected to her iPod. She was bouncing behind the counter to sounds only she could hear, but managed a quick wave as her head moved back and forth to the music. Nell could see Rose in the baby room, helping a customer pick out pale pink fingering yarn for a newborn-size sweater. Skeins of cashmere in pink and lime green and buttery soft yellow were piled on the table like a rich ice cream sundae, and Nell resisted the urge to wander in and scoop them up.

  Izzy was in the back room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, poring over photographs spread out in front of her. The windows were wide open, and a breeze rustled the newspapers spread out on the couch. In the background, soft strains of an old Beatles CD played. And, to Nell’s delight, Cass was hunched down beside Izzy, her dark hair falling down over her face as she looked at the photographs.

  Izzy had on her dark-rimmed glasses, a sign that whatever she was looking at deserved her full attention. She nibbled on her bottom lip, her face pulled into a frown and her eyes following Cass’s pointing finger.

  “What’re you two up to?” Nell asked. She set her knitting bag on the floor beside the table and walked over to Purl. The kitten, now a comfortable and prized resident of the Seaside Knitting Studio, was curled up on the seat beneath the open window, her fur slightly ruffled by the breeze. “Hello there, sweet Purl,” she said, scratching the kitty behind its ears. “This is pretty close to heaven for you, isn’t it?” Balls of waste yarn in all colors of the rainbow dotted the cushion and floor.

  Purl rubbed her tiny head against the edge of Nell’s hand.

  “Nell, look at these,” Izzy said. She waved Nell over with her hand.

  Nell leaned over the top of Izzy’s head and looked down at a series of dark photos. She recognized water and lobster buoys— and darkness.

  Cass stood up and leaned back against the edge of the table. “I took these last night, Nell, down at the breakwater.”

  Nell froze. “You what?”

  “Don’t worry, Nell, no one attacked me. In fact no one even tried to pick me up.”

  “Cass, what were you thinking? There’s a murderer walking around this town and you’re spending the night on the beach?” Nell felt the color rise in her cheeks.

  “I was safe, Nell. Shush,” Cass said. “And I wasn’t alone. I planned to do it alone . . . well . . . before Angie was killed. But it’s different now. At least until they find the guy. A group of us who have traps in that area got together and we set up some cameras.”

  Cass pointed to a photograph in the middle of the group. “See?”

  “It’s a dark night picture,” Nell said.

  “Oh, look harder.” Cass shook her head in exasperation and leaned over Izzy, pointing to one of the pictures. “See that shadow on the left—over near the edge of the breakwater?”

  Nell shook her head. “Cass, the whole photo is a shadow. What should I be looking for?”

  “The poacher.”

  Nell frowned. “Someone saw him?”

  “We decided to foil the thief—hoist him by his own petard sort of thing.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “Safely, Nell. We waited for a while in the shadows, near the edge of the breakwater where no one could see us.”

  Nell could visualize that easily enough. The breakwater rose well over ten to fifteen feet up, depending on the tide, and along the base, at the water’s edge, there were slabs one could perch on and not be seen from the top—and maybe not from the shore. The top where Angie spent the last minutes of her life.

  Cass raked a hand
through her thick hair and continued. “We fastened the camera in a crevice between two slabs of granite and went home.”

  Nell released a small breath of relief.

  “I went back at dawn to pick up the camera before joggers or divers came out.”

  Nell pulled out her glasses and put them on. She looked closer at the photo. It looked like all the others—dark, with small shadowy glimpses of light on the water and reflecting off an occasional buoy. “I’m sorry, Cass, but I don’t see anything.” She lifted the photo closer and squinted at the dark image.

  “There’s a shadow, down near the middle of the breakwater, right at its base. I think that’s one of them. That’s probably where they slip into the water. He probably had a black wet suit on so it’s hard to see.”

  “Did you check your traps this morning?”

  Cass nodded that she had. “Not a lobster in sight. Roy Whit-ford said he got a few—but they were all eggers so he had to toss them back.”

  Nell looked at the photo again. The shadows took shape the longer she looked at them, but it would take considerable effort to form them into distinguishable humans. She imagined someone— the poacher—hidden down in the shadow of the wall, waiting to slip in.

  Cass lifted Purl to her chest, tucking her under her chin. “What are you thinking, Nell?”

  Nell rubbed her eyes. So many unknowns. “I’m thinking about your poacher, Cass. Maybe that’s him, right there in the photo. And above, on the top, that’s where two people stood together and talked the night Angie died. Had a drink. And then one of them fell noiselessly—or maybe with a splash?—into the water. Was that figure there that night? Could Cass’s poacher have seen what happened to Angie?”

  Izzy and Cass were still and only the sound of Purl’s purring stirred the air.

  Finally Cass spoke. “The poachers aren’t there every night, I don’t think,” she said, Nell’s hypothesis taking root in her mind. “But you’re right, Nell. If someone had been there that night, they could have seen something. They would have seen something.”

  “But surely they’d tell the police,” Izzy said.

  “Maybe they have. And maybe that’s why they’re concentrating on someone traveling through,” Cass said.

  “Well, I don’t think looking outside Sea Harbor is going to unearth anything but tourists visiting New Hampshire and Maine,” Nell said. She sat down next to Izzy at the table and took her needles out of her bag. “I rack my brain to come up with possible motives for killing Angie, and I can’t come up with anything. She irritated some people, but that’s certainly no motive. But there was something going on in her life that we didn’t know about, I’m convinced of that.”

  Cass scooped up the photos from the floor and pulled up a chair. Purl followed close behind, crawling up Cass’s pant leg and onto her lap.

  “Angie affected people in so many different ways,” Nell went on. She told Cass and Izzy about the odd encounter she’d had that morning at Annabelle’s with Sal Scaglia. “I didn’t even know Angie knew Sal, yet he was distressed about something,” Nell said. “It was strange, not quite right somehow. When Beatrice dragged him over to Angie’s apartment while we packed he seemed removed. But today he was emotional.”

  “Beatrice didn’t seem particularly distressed,” Izzy observed. “Her concern seemed more about preventing future murders on the breakwater. As if without her help, there’d be one a month.”

  “That’s what she does,” Nell said. “She plans for the future of Sea Harbor, so I guess it’s not so unusual she approached a murder that way.”

  “I wonder if the police have talked to the Scaglias,” Cass said.

  “What would they ask?” Nell wondered. Sal and Beatrice were probably like a lot of other people in Sea Harbor. Decent people who were curious, interested, and even sad about Angie’s death, but felt it in a removed way. A protective empathy. If I feel bad for Josie Archer, then it won’t happen to my family.

  Izzy got up from the table and returned almost immediately with a pitcher of ice tea and bowl of lemons. “Sun tea time—and maybe a brief respite from distressing thoughts.” She pulled Nell’s sea-yarn scarf from the bag and spread it across the table. Shades of greens and blues and tiny threads of gold ran together like a rippling stream lit with sunlight. “Aunt Nell, this scarf is beautiful.”

  “And very unfinished.” Nell sipped her tea and sat back, giving Izzy free rein.

  “What’s the problem?” Izzy looked more closely and touched the scarf with the tips of her fingers. “I knew this would be gorgeous. I want to use it as an example in my lace class.” She picked up the end of the long scarf, now nearly three feet long. “The colors are perfect for you. You’ll wear that sexy black dress with the scooped neckline, and wrap this airy piece around your neck. We’ll add long strands at the end to give it even more length.”

  “That’s just like you, Izzy. You’re seeing the beauty, not the flaws,” Nell said. “And that’s very nice. But look closely.” Nell held the end of the scarf up to the light. “The needle slipped out, and I lost three or four rows. With all those yarn overs, I can’t capture the stitches I’ve dropped. They disappear when I touch them.”

  Purl jumped up on the table and eyed the scarf. She reached one tiny paw out to survey the damage.

  “No, baby,” Izzy said, abruptly pulling her back. She slid the scarf from Purl’s reach and examined it carefully. Where there should have been a knitting needle, there was a row of scattered stitches and patches of airy space formed from the yarn overs.

  “How many rows did you drop?” Izzy pulled her glasses from the top of her head and slipped them back on. She sat down at the table, crisscrossing her legs beneath her like a five-year-old, and picked up the scarf, her fingertips studying the pattern as she surveyed the damage.

  She looks like she’s reading Braille, Nell thought, as she watched Izzy’s fingertips read the pattern and explore the mistakes.

  “Don’t watch her, Nell,” Cass said. “She says it makes her nervous, but I think it’s because she doesn’t want us to learn her secrets.”

  Izzy dipped into the basket in the center of the table and pulled out a long darning needle. “Secrets, my foot. I don’t want you to watch me because I make things up as I go—and I want you to think it’s all carefully planned.” She pushed a handful of hair back from her face. “I love the airiness of this, Nell. You’ll be the belle of the ball.” Her fingers worked quickly, first pulling out one more row of knitting, then carefully working the needle into each stitch and yarn over with the long spare needle.

  “You need to put a lifeline in here. It will save you a lot of grief.”

  Nell watched Izzy replace the narrow darning needle with her number six, then quickly purled a solid row. After that, she slipped a string of dental floss through the darning needle, and through each stitch in the row. A lifeline. How she wished Angie had had a simple lifeline.

  “There,” Izzy said, finishing the row and handed the needles and half-finished scarf back to Nell. “Good as new. Move the floss up every now and then, and at least you won’t lose much. This yarn is so silky—and with all the lacy spaces, it’s easy to lose your way.”

  Nell took the scarf back and surveyed Izzy’s repair. “You’re a miracle worker, sweetie. Thanks.”

  Cass watched the process from the window seat. Purl had rejoined her and purred contentedly on her lap. “Too complicated for me. I feel very secure in my garter scarf mode. Knit, purl, bind off.”

  “You better watch your back, Cass,” Izzy said. “Birdie is tired of watching you knit scarves. She’s threatening a makeover, I guess you’d say.”

  “Nope, not me. Knitting scarves lets me be here on Thursday nights. That’s all I care about. Friends and Nell’s amazing food. And I think there are still a few lobster buddies who haven’t been blessed with a scarf. I’ve a long way to go before I have to learn how to work thumbs and sleeves.”

  “Don’t count on it, is all I’m sayi
ng,” Izzy said.

  Nell folded the scarf and put it back in her bag. “How’s Pete doing since Friday night?”

  Cass shrugged. “He can hardly get his arms around the fact that Angie was murdered, Nell. It eats him up inside.”

  “He thinks he should have prevented it,” Nell said. “Even though that makes no sense.”

  Cass nodded. “But he went out fishing today, kind of a bus-man’s holiday for him, but I was glad he got away.”

  “By himself?”

  “No. He ran into Tony Framingham at the Gull a couple nights ago—I guess the night he drank too much. Tony suggested they go fishing. He has a fancy new boat.”

  “That’s odd,” Izzy said. “Somehow I can’t quite see Tony and Pete as fishing buddies.”

  Nell listened to the exchange and rubbed her bare arms against a sudden chill. The expresson she’d seen on Tony’s face just a few hours ago wasn’t the kind that spoke of a pleasant afternoon with a buddy. He was deep in thought, looking over the sea as if it would relieve him of a burden.

  “What would Pete and Tony have in common?” Izzy wondered out loud.

  Nell looked around for her purse, then walked over to give Purl a pat before she went to meet Ben for a Sunday fish fry at the Ocean’s Edge. She thought about Izzy’s question and the answer brought her no peace.

  What Pete and Tony had in common was as obvious to Nell as Cass’s concern for her brother. What Pete and Tony had in common was Angie Archer—and the fact that they were both with her the night she died.

  Chapter 14

  Nell slipped her knitting bag over one shoulder and left Izzy and Cass to help Mae’s nieces close up the shop. She had a half hour before meeting Ben. And that might be just enough time to say hello to Archie Brandley. She wondered if he remembered any more about the night Angie had sat in the loft, arguing with Tony.

  Nell paused at the bookstore’s open front door and peered into the cool interior. Several customers were standing in line at the checkout counter, and Nell could see several more sitting in the reading area and wandering around the display tables. It was almost closing time, and she could see it wouldn’t be a good time to chat—Archie would be busy winding things up for the day. Besides, Nell wasn’t at all sure what she’d say to the shop owner. Archie probably didn’t hear the whole conversation between Angie and Tony from the lower level, but he heard something, she knew that. And she and Archie had been friends for longer than Angie had lived. They could talk about most anything. Even the night that Angie had been killed.