How to Knit a Murder Read online

  Also by Sally Goldenbaum

  Murder Wears Mittens

  How to Knit a Murder

  Sally Goldenbaum

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Slouchy Cardigan

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Sally Goldenbaum

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2018944167

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1105-2

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1107-6

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1107-6

  To Don, for nearly a half century of love, life, and friendship.

  Cast of Characters

  The Seaside Knitters

  Endicott, Nell: Retired nonprofit director; married to Ben

  Halloran, Cass (Catherine Mary Theresa): Co-owner of Halloran Lobster Company; married to Danny Brandley; mystery novelist

  Perry, Izzy: (Isabel Chambers Perry): Former attorney; owner of the Seaside Knitting Studio; Nell and Ben Endicott’s niece; married to Sam Perry; toddler daughter, Abby

  Favazza, Birdie (Bernadette): Sea Harbor’s wealthy, wise octogenarian

  The Men in Their Lives

  Brandley, Danny: Mystery novelist; son of Archie and Harriet Brandley; Cass’s husband

  Endicott, Ben: Nell’s husband; Izzy’s uncle

  Favazza, Sonny: Birdie’s [deceased] first husband

  Perry, Sam: Izzy’s husband; award-winning photographer

  Friends and Townsfolk

  Anderson, Mae: Yarn shop manager

  Babson, Josh: Artist in Canary Cove Art Colony

  Bianchi, Anthony: Recently deceased friend of several Sea Harbor old-timers

  Brandley, Archie and Harriet: Owners of the Sea Harbor Bookstore; Danny’s parents

  Brewster, Jane and Ham: Artists and cofounders of the Canary Cove Art Colony

  Chopra, Rose Woodley: Newcomer to Sea Harbor; works at Palazola Realty

  The Fractured Fish band: Andy Risso (drummer); Pete Halloran (guitarist, singer); Merry Jackson (keyboard, singer)

  Garozzo, Harry and Margaret: Owners of Garozzo’s Deli

  Gibson, Esther: Police dispatcher

  Halloran Family:

  Mary, Pete and Cass’s mother; secretary at Our Lady of Safe Seas Church;

  Pete, Cass’s brother; co-owner of the Halloran Lobster Company and singer in the Fractured Fish band;

  Sister Mary Fiona Halloran, Mary’s sister-in-law; Pete and Cass’s aunt

  Jackson, Merry: Owner of the Artist’s Palate Bar & Grill; singer in band

  McGlucken, Gus: Owner of McGlucken Hardware Store

  McGlucken, Robbie: Gus’s twenty-five-year-old son

  McIntosh, Bree: Artist; married to Spencer Paxton

  Northcutt, Father Lawrence: Pastor of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church

  Palazola, Annabelle: Owner of the Sweet Petunia Restaurant

  Palazola, Mario: Owner of Palazola Realty

  Palazola, Stella: Annabelle’s youngest daughter; Realtor

  Paxton, Spencer III: Owner of Paxton Development; married to Bree McIntosh

  Pisano, Mary: Newspaper columnist; owner of a B and B

  Porter, Tommy: Police detective

  Purl: The yarn shop’s calico cat

  Risso, Jake: Owner of the Gull Tavern

  Sampson, Ella and Harold: Birdie’s housekeeper and groundskeeper/driver

  Santos, Liz: Manager of Sea Harbor Yacht Club

  Stuber, Patricia: School principal

  Thompson, Jerry: Police chief

  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 nestled 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 d
egree 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.

  And then, as suddenly as the moment came, it passed. Gone. Poof. Disappeared. Pushed away in an instant.

  Rose straightened up, shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Her shoulders shifted and fell into a comfortable place; her smile lifted to the sky. Head over heart. Namaste.

  She took a step back from the curb as a freckled-faced boy flew by on a skateboard, his hair flying wildly and h
is grin proud and wide. Rose grinned back, feeling confidence fill her bones and her mind. She continued on down Harbor Road.

  Parts of downtown Sea Harbor appeared untouched by the years. Sights and sounds were familiar: people heading home from work, fishmongers packaging up the day’s catch. And the incessant caw of the gulls and blasts of the lobster boats’ horns coming in after a long day. It was comfortable. Easy. Not foreboding.

  She slowed as the familiar blend of garlic, olive oil, and tomato sauce assaulted her senses wondrously from Harry Garozzo’s deli. She stopped and looked through the window. It was still there, the ratty, slightly sun-bleached sign in the window. SEA HARBOR’S ONLY TRUE MUFFULETTA, it read. And the only one, people joked.

  But what Rose remembered best was that Harry offered half muffulettas—for delicate appetites, he said—but Rose always got the whole roll, stuffed with briny, garlicky vegetables and every kind of salami and cheese known to man. Fat and thick and dripping with flavor. And she always finished it and it always made her happy, even when she went home with a button on her jeans loosened, her shirt pulled awkwardly over it. She pressed one hand on her abdomen, along with a grimace of shame. Even her dad only ordered the half.

  Harry’s deli would be here forever, she thought. People like Harry Garozzo didn’t die. Without even looking, she could imagine the talkative Italian baker inside, his apron stained, his voice loud and welcoming as if he were standing in front of her, handing her the hefty sandwich.

  The idea of coming back to Sea Harbor had rolled around in her mind for a long time, but always back in shadowy corners. Her mother talked about it, wished for it. Their reasons different, but both compelling and real. And necessary.

  Rose would twist and turn the idea around until reasons for not returning had been smoothed away, erased completely, and revisiting the seaside town had been a given. Something she had to do.