Moon Spinners Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  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

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Fish Hats

  About the Designer

  OTHER SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERIES

  BY SALLY GOLDENBAUM

  Death by Cashmere

  Patterns in the Sand

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2010

  Copyright © Sally Goldenbaum, 2010

  All rights reserved

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

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Goldenbaum, Sally.

  Moon spinners: a seaside knitters mystery/Sally Goldenbaum.

  p. cm.

  “An Obsidian mystery.”

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18707-4

  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

  This book is dedicated to my sisters and brother—

  Jane Pitz, Bob Pitz, and Mary Sue Sheridan.

  And to Sister Rosemary Flanigan,

  for years and years of friendship and support.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a knitting village to write a knitting mystery, and I’d like to acknowledge and thank my village:

  • The people who maintain the many Web sites and blogs that provide ready resources for knitting, yarn, facts about fiber, and knitting tips. To mention one is to miss hundreds, but a special thanks to knitty.com, Knitting Daily, and the energetic Ravelry community.

  • Joey Ciaramitaro and his Good Morning Gloucester blog (http://goodmorninggloucester.wordpress.com/), a daily feed that provides grist for my writing mill and keeps me in touch with life on Cape Ann, with the world of fishing and living by the sea, and with the fascinating people who live next door to the Seaside Knitters.

  • John McElhenny for his gentle editing tips on what works and doesn’t work for Cape Ann life and lingo, and the Cape Ann Historical Association, Rocky Neck Art Colony, Rockport’s Bear-skin Neck businesses and many other real places on Cape Ann that have provided a model and inspiration for the fictitious town of Sea Harbor.

  • The many readers whose supportive notes and comments keep me honest—and writing.

  And a special acknowledgment to Sandy Harding, who has enriched the Seaside Knitters (and their author) with her wisdom, skill, and attention.

  Chapter 1

  It was worse than canceling Christmas.

  At least that was Izzy Chambers’ first thought when she got Nell Endicott’s phone call. Friday night on the Endicott deck with her uncle Ben’s martinis, grilled halibut, and dear friends was sacred. What was her aunt thinking?

  “Now, Izzy, that’s not you talking,” Mae Anderson said. The yarn shop manager had listened to her young boss grumble her way through sorting an entire shipment of bamboo yarn. “It’s that awful diet soda you drink, missy.”

  But it wasn’t the diet soda that bothered Izzy. It was the lost shipment of walnut knitting needles that the carrier couldn’t trace. It was the leak in the shop’s roof, and the injured bird that had flown into the display window, cracking both the glass and its poor wing. It was the influx of summer people before she was quite ready for them.

  And suddenly it all crashed down on her, and Izzy felt a need as intense as needing water in a desert to spend Friday evening with friends and family on the Endicott deck. It was tradition, after all.

  But this Friday night it was not to be. This week, Nell said, they’d all be at the Sea Harbor Yacht Club, enjoying Laura Danvers’ wonderfully planned charity event.

  Cass Halloran took the news even harder. After putting in ten-hour days checking and baiting traps, banding lobsters, throwing back those that were too big or too small or pregnant, and repairing a nasty gash on the Lady Lobster’s helm, Cass needed the Endicott deck in a most serious way. She was ornery and she was tired the night she got Nell’s message, a volatile combination.

  But, as Nell knew would happen, Izzy would come. And so would Cass.

  “Bring Gracie Santos along, too,” Nell had added. “She could use a break from working on her new café, and I need one more person to fill the table.”

  Birdie Favazza hadn’t offered an opinion, something that caused Nell far more concern than the others’ dramatic complaints. Birdie always had an opinion, but in recent days she had been unusually preoccupied. Even Izzy had notic
ed, and wondered aloud if there was a counterpart to PMS that afflicted eighty-year-olds. Birdie was rarely cranky and always dependable, but for the first time since Nell could remember, she had missed their Thursday-night knitting session the night before.

  “Laura Danvers is adamant that all the tables be filled for this event,” Nell told each of them. “I think there will be some press attention, and she wants it to look good.”

  And then she had added the clincher: “But the real reason you should come is because it’s for a wonderful cause—the community center at Anja Angelina Park. Part of it will be used as an activity center for kids—a place for them to go after school if there isn’t a parent at home.”

  “Only my mother can use guilt more skillfully than you,” Izzy said before hanging up.

  Nell smiled without comment. Her sister, Caroline Chambers, was a hundred times more accomplished in that arena. Nell didn’t like to play the guilt game. Unless, like tonight, it was for a good cause.

  Nell slipped into a sea-green summery dress. It felt good against her bare legs. Storing away woolen sweaters and slacks in the cedar closet was a pleasurable task, and she welcomed the lightness of summer clothes. She slipped a filmy lace shawl over her shoulders and walked across the carpet to the bedroom windows. A breeze came in off the sea, soft and caressing, like a lover’s touch.

  The Endicotts’ master bedroom was in the back of the spacious, airy house, and from the window Nell could see the moon reflected in the blackness of the night sea. It was an extraordinary view, day or night, and tonight, for reasons unclear, it seemed especially vivid. The enormous full moon hung just above the treetops, nearly brushing the branches. It was a mysterious moon—a white, shimmering globe, its light blinding against the blackness of night.

  It was a night for the Moon Spinners to begin their task. Nell stood in silence, imagining the women of the ancient Celtic myth pulling the silvery strands of light from the sky and winding it on distaffs, until weeks later the waning moon would disappear completely, leaving the world wrapped in a blanket of darkness, the tides quieter, creatures safe from the hunter.

  She wondered who else was standing at a window at this exact moment, or walking through the darkening shadows of the beach, or relaxing on a deck, transfixed by the sight above them.

  “Hmmm,” Ben said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. He looked out the window, following her gaze. “It’s extraordinary,” he whispered into the curve of her neck.

  Nell nodded against his chest, her body welcoming the support.

  “Some think a full moon has magical powers.” Ben spoke against her hair, his eyes on the moon. He stood there for a minute longer, then stepped away and walked over to the mirror to knot his tie.

  Nell wouldn’t know later what it was—the strain of staring at the bright light or the anticipation of the party? But the moon seemed to grow larger beneath her stare, a moon lacking the comforting, gentle smile of her childhood when she’d lie flat in a Kansas field and look up at it, making wishes, telling secrets.

  Tonight it wasn’t a smile that passed down over those thousands and thousands of miles. The moon’s light and shadow had mixed in an ominous way. Nell felt a foreboding—like the green sky before a tornado rolled across the Kansas plains or the unsettling quiet before a nor’easter surged down on Sea Harbor.

  Instinctively, she took a step back and looked away, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering slightly.

  Ben caught her reflection in the mirror. “Nell?”

  Nell diminished the slice of fear with a slow smile directed at her husband. She walked over and touched his cheek.

  “You’re looking quite handsome tonight,” she said with a catch in her voice. “Come—we’ve a party to attend.”

  Chapter 2

  The Sea Harbor Yacht Club was casual as yacht clubs go, but tonight it was elegant, bathed in rich golden hues. Flickering candlelight, small pots of tiny yellow roses, and delicate amber bowls filled with chunks of lobster swimming in a saffron wine broth had transformed the casual club into an elegant summer party.

  “The dinner was amazing,” Izzy conceded. She dropped her napkin beside her plate and sat back in her chair. “Sorry I was such a pill about coming, Aunt Nell.”

  “No apologies necessary. I know the yarn shop was hectic this week.”

  “I shouldn’t be complaining, should I? Business is great. Knitting is fantastic therapy for people. I think that’s why we’re so busy. Tommy Porter came in yesterday, proudly decked out in his policeman’s uniform, and asked me if I’d start a class for men only—he thinks it would help the police force in times of stress. And yesterday I had twenty-five customers knitting lace without a single moan or thrown needle.” Izzy lifted a corner of the filmy shawl that covered her bare shoulders. “Like it?”

  The shawl was as light as a feather. It draped over Izzy’s shoulders and arms like an intricate spider’s web, the ends collecting on her lap in a silky puddle the color of the sea. Nell had seen Izzy pull out the silk- and-merino yarn two weeks ago at their Thursday-night knitting group. She needed to make a sample for her lace class, she’d said.

  She must have elves that finish things while she sleeps. A mere mortal could not whip together such a lovely piece so quickly. Izzy wore it with a simple dress with spaghetti straps. Her niece looked beautiful and elegant—and she didn’t have a clue that heads had turned when she’d walked around the room looking for the Endicott table. But Nell knew that now that people had seen Izzy in the spidery shawl, she’d have a waiting list for the next lace class. And they would all want to look exactly like Izzy. Unassuming. And beautiful.

  “Izzy’s right,” Cass said. “If we had to be anywhere other than your deck tonight, this will pass. Sorry I grumped. Handling two hundred and fifty lobster traps is getting to be a burden. And now Pete wants to add fifty more.” Cass sat back in her chair and picked up her slender martini glass. A lone olive sat on the bottom. She rolled the stem between the pads of her fingers and looked at it accusingly. “But I did tell the bartender that he needs martini lessons from Ben. This is most definitely not an Endicott martini. No thin icy layer on top. Too much vermouth. No anchovy in the olive.”

  “I’m sure you endeared yourself to him.” Birdie Favazza patted Cass’ hand.

  “I agree with Cass on the martini front,” Ham Brewster said. “But I suppose one Friday won’t kill us.” Ham didn’t forgo his Friday martinis lightly. He and his wife, Jane, worked hard all week, not just creating their own art, but making sure Sea Harbor’s Canary Cove art colony was running smoothly. And they depended on their longtime friends’ deck to keep them sane and happy.

  “Kill who, Mr. Brewster?” Stella Palazola appeared at the artist’s elbow. She was balancing several plates of strawberry meringue pie drizzled with dark chocolate fudge sauce. She grinned familiarly at the group and set one plate down in front of Ham’s wife, Jane, then another in front of Gracie Santos, Cass’ childhood friend.

  “Figure of speech, beautiful,” Ham said. He smiled up at the young waitress. “Tell me, Stella, how did they manage to get the finest waitress in Sea Harbor to work this party? Rumor has it you were giving up waitressing for the summer?” He eyed the tray of pies.

  Stella grinned at Ham and then across the table at Birdie Favazza. “Miz Birdie sprung me for the night. You know my sister, Liz? Of course you do. Well, she, like, manages these fancy affairs, and they needed an extra waitress.” Stella nodded toward the woman standing over near the main doors of the dining room. Liz Palazola looked like the loveliest guest at the party—her short dress showing off an enviable figure. But her watchful gaze and alert demeanor hinted at the management skills that earned her rave reviews from yacht club members. “She’ll run the whole damn town someday,” was Ben’s assessment after a recent board meeting.

  “It’s a well-deserved break, dear,” Birdie said to Stella. “Liz was very smart to ask you.”

  “Not tha
t I need a break, Miz Birdie. You pay me way too much for hanging out with your housekeeper and that husband of hers. Ella and Harold don’t even need me half the time. It takes more than a broken ankle to keep Harold down, that’s for sure. He hobbled down those carriage house steps today and I swear he’d’ve taken off in your Lincoln if I hadn’t been out there. He looked like there was a fire and he had the only hose in town. Turns out he woke up from a nap and he was missing Ella, as if his wife can’t go off on her own.” Stella dropped the tray to her side and put one fist on her hip. She looked sternly at the older woman. “You need to talk to him about women’s rights, Miz Birdie. He’s, like, a little behind the times.”

  Birdie held back an answer, and Nell tried to read her thoughts. She and Birdie had been friends for years, and despite the nearly twenty-year difference in their ages, they often stepped into each other’s thoughts. But tonight Birdie’s expression was puzzling, her thoughts about her caretaker and housekeeper hidden in the lines of her face. But she was worried about something, that much Nell could tell.

  “Well, Stella,” Birdie said, “I hope that proves that I need you. Harold Sampson can be stubborn as an ox, and we need that broken ankle healed—he isn’t a spring chicken, you know. It was a complicated break, the doctor said, and it’s been only a couple months. He won’t be pulling any more mud and pine needles out of my eaves, that much is for sure. I know your mother misses you at her restaurant, but I selfishly think I need you more.”

  Ben and Nell both suspected that Birdie hired Stella as a way of padding the young woman’s freshman-year college fund. Stella was taking all the jobs she could get to make sure she could afford Salem State in the fall. And her mother would be grateful for Birdie’s help.

  After Stella’s father died, Annabelle Palazola demonstrated the grit fishermen’s wives were made of and opened a restaurant to give Joe Palazola’s children the college dreams their father had spun for them. The Sweet Petunia was a hometown success, but Annabelle had four children whose dreams demanded attention.