Seaside Knitters 05 - The Wedding Shawl 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

  Izzy’s Wedding Shawl

  Nell and Ben’s Grilled Lobster Tails with Orange Butter Sauce

  OTHER SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERIES BY SALLY GOLDENBAUM

  Death by Cashmere

  Patterns in the Sand

  Moon Spinners

  A Holiday Yarn

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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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

  Copyright © Sally Goldenbaum, 2011 All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Goldenbaum, Sally.

  The wedding shawl/Sally Goldenbaum.

  p. cm.—(A seaside knitters mystery)

  “An Obsidian mystery.”

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51491-7

  1. Knitters (Persons)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.O35937W43 2011

  813’. 54—dc22

  2010053462

  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

  In memory of Polly Egan Arango

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, enormous and heartfelt thanks to my Kansas City friends and family, who have supported book signings, provided moral support, and tolerated my deadlines with such good humor.

  To Bethany Kok, the very talented designer of the shawl that inspired Izzy’s wedding shawl—and who generously gave permission for its reprint.

  To Mary Bednarowski—for support and friendship, without which this book, in this year, might not have been finished.

  To Joey Ciaramitaro and his Good Morning Gloucester blog, Amy Pierson of the Toad Hall Bookstore in Rockport, Massachusetts, and the staff of I Love a Mystery in Kansas City—for their wonderful support.

  To the savvy Gloucester moms—Aria, Muffy, Jenn, Kate, Sarah, and Lucy—who have generously offered support and ideas (and celebrations!).

  To Cecelia and Doug McNair for turnkey Gloucester research tips.

  To Mary Jane Van de Castle and the Bijin Salon & Spa team for giving me a behind-the-scenes look at the workings of a successful salon and the intricacies of turning hair pink.

  And to Aria and John McElhenny, whose own wedding inspired Izzy’s garden ceremony.

  Chapter 1

  I would be a night of murder, they’d been told. And there’d be lemon squares, too.

  The group, mostly women, gathered in a half circle, some in the old leather chairs that book browsers coveted and others in the folding chairs the bookstore owner, Archie Brandley, had set up for the special event. At the other end of the cozy loft, narrow aisles separated wooden bookcases that rose nearly to the ceiling. One section was crammed with mysteries, the spines straight and proud—a perfect background for the night of crime.

  Danny Brandley sat in the center of the open area, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his sea blue eyes greeting acquaintances and strangers as they claimed their chairs. A wrinkled denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showed off an early-summer tan. On the floor, near scuffed boat shoes, a few notes on scattered yellow sheets indicated that Danny wasn’t much for formal talks. Izzy had called it a “discussion,” and he’d taken his friend at her word.

  The loft in Archie and Harriet Brandley’s bookstore was packed with a larger-than-usual group. People chatted familiarly, helping themselves to iced tea or wine, and cookies or smooth, luscious lemon bars from a large red platter. They shuffled chairs and pulled needles and yarn from fat cloth bags.

  Henrietta O’Neal, balancing her squat body with one hand wrapped around a cane, told Danny that she’d read every mystery known to man and she was ready for a new author. “And that would be you,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. “It’s nice to have a homegrown boy who understands the fine art of murder.”

  Her full-blown laugh caused Nell Endicott to look up from a second-row seat and laugh along with her. Sea Harbor’s self-proclaimed eighty-plus-year-old suffragette was in fine form.

  “It looks like the whole town is here,” Nell said to Cass Halloran. She waved to M. J. Arcado, owner of M.J.’s Hair Salon, who was finding a seat on the opposite side of the half circle. Several of her young stylists were with her. “It must be Danny’s mystery-author mystique.”

  “Not to mention his sex appeal,” Cass whispered back.

  “Well, that, too. Izzy was sm
art to invite him.”

  The knitting book club was a product of Izzy’s customers’ demands. It’d be perfect, they’d assured the store owner, and with Sea Harbor Bookstore just a narrow alley away from Izzy’s yarn shop, it made even more sense. Knitting, lemon bars, and mysteries. Heaven didn’t get much better.

  So Izzy agreed and the idea became a reality that filled Archie’s loft every third Tuesday. Tonight was Danny’s night. Instead of discussing a mystery novel, the group had invited a writer of one—himself a knitter, which only increased his attraction—to discuss the mysterywriting process.

  “Be sure to talk about where you get your ideas,” Izzy had directed. “Everyone always wants to know that.”

  Danny complied. When everyone quieted down, he started right in.

  “People watching,” he said. “You know, like Mary Pisano does—sitting out there on Coffee’s patio every day watching the world go by.” He doffed an imaginary hat to Mary, the newspaper’s “About Town” columnist, and the group laughed, knowing that plenty of Mary’s chatty columns did, indeed, come from watching customers go in and out of the coffee shop—not to mention conversations overheard at the bed-and-breakfast she owned over on Ravenswood Road.

  “When you’re a fiction writer, eavesdropping becomes research,” he said, and another chuckle rippled around the half circle.

  “So ideas come from life, I guess you would say. Life fuels the imagination, and next thing you know, a story unfolds.”

  He took a drink from a water bottle and then went on. “For mystery writers, a good source of ideas can come from reading up on cold cases, like on the TV show.” He looked around at the half-moon of expectant faces. “An example? Okay, here’s what I mean… .”

  Then the writer dropped his voice ominously and continued as if telling a ghost story.

  Knitting needles paused in midair while people scooched forward on their chairs to listen.

  “Here’s a cold case some of you may remember. It happened some fifteen years ago, right here on Cape Ann, at a quarry. It was the night of high school graduation, and teenagers were out celebrating, as kids do. But before the night was over, a tragedy occurred that changed lives forever and tore families apart.”

  Brows lifted and silence as thick as harbor fog fell across the room.

  “It had been one of those perfect Sea Harbor days, people said. A golden day with the hot sun refreshed by salty breezes. That night, a full moon reflected off the springwater that filled the old Markham Quarry. Its reflection was so precise and perfect that a person standing on the edge of the quarry couldn’t be sure which was real—the moon above or the perfect white circle in the still water below.”

  “The Markham Quarry,” Laura Danvers said softly, her brows pulling together as if remembering something. Nearby, Cass Halloran nodded, too, as if they both knew where Danny was headed.

  “That much we know for sure. And we also know that on that night, Harmony Farrow, who had just graduated from Sea Harbor High—with honors, they say—went out to the quarry in her mother’s car. And sometime that evening, we don’t know exactly when, Harmony’s young body was swallowed up by the deep quarry water. It brought an end to a life that was just beginning.”

  A sigh escaped Laura’s lips. “I remember her. We just didn’t notice her; you know how that is? I didn’t talk to her much. Not in four years of high school …” Her voice dropped off.

  A hand flapped in the air, waving away Laura’s sad confession. Beatrice Scaglia, a city councilwoman, spoke up. “I remember it well. It frightened parents half to death that such a thing could happen right here on Cape Ann. A few days after the girl disappeared, a hiker—my neighbor’s cousin—spotted a lacy shawl stuck on a conifer growing out of the quarry’s wall. It was a privately owned quarry back then—trespassers were not treated kindly—but sometimes some brave soul wandered in.”

  Danny nodded. “So they brought in divers. And hours later they pulled her body out of its watery grave. It had been caught beneath the surface, tangled in a tough vine. Trapped.”

  Archie Brandley, who was Danny’s father, had come up the stairs and sidled up to the group. A scattering of customers, lured by the story and the tangible excitement spreading through the room, left the book aisles in the back of the loft and filled in beside him.

  Archie nodded his head gravely and spoke. “The girl’s folks lived over near the highway, just on the edge of town. The girl had gotten a scholarship—people said she held lots of promise. An awful thing.”

  Harmony hadn’t been alone on the quarry’s edge, Danny told the group. But no one came forward with more information. None of her friends. Nobody. As silent as clams. She just disappeared into the night air and the quarry water.

  A few days later the autopsy revealed that the death was suspicious. There wasn’t much, but she had bruises on her fingers and arms, as if she’d tried to grab on to someone or something before losing her grip. But although they were sure from the muddied footprints that she hadn’t been alone—and the man who lived across the road had heard two voices going down the path—there wasn’t any real proof that someone had pushed her.

  “No one was ever arrested,” added Esther Gibson, Sea Harbor’s longtime police dispatcher. “The poor family received no closure. The parents split up, as often happens. Moved away.”

  “And the tragedy was shelved as a cold case,” Danny concluded.

  Some of the older knitters who followed such things remembered that other teens were mentioned as people of interest.

  “I remember now,” Margaret Garozzo, the deli owner’s wife, said, searching back through the years. “The whole affair was hard on families.”

  Archie nodded. “They were good kids, the whole bunch of them. It was a shame, a real shame when they had to be questioning innocent kids and messing with their families like that.”

  “But they were only doing their job, Archie,” Beatrice Scaglia, stepping into her city-councilwoman mode, reminded him. “That’s why we have a police force. That’s why we pay taxes.”

  Nell hadn’t remembered any of that. Weekenders—which was what she and Ben were back then—weren’t privy to such gossip. But she knew, as Archie stated, that families could be torn apart by tragedy. What an awful ordeal it must have been—for Harmony’s parents, especially, but also for her friends. And even for kids in the school who weren’t her friends, such as Laura, who knew of Harmony but didn’t really know her at all.

  “Harmony was pretty,” Merry Jackson said. The co-owner of the Artist’s Palate Bar & Grill tugged on a strand of platinum hair that had escaped her ponytail. “I was in that class, too. She was really smart. I think she played on our basketball team at the community center. That and studying seemed to be all she did. We didn’t know much about her … not until after. And then people remembered all sorts of things, and who knew if they were true or not.”

  Her voice fell off as if the conversation was getting too personal, too close to home.

  There was a shifting of bodies on chairs, and shoulders rose and fell with a certain uncomfortableness. It was one thing to talk about a cold case, but bringing up people who might be very much alive was another matter.

  Esther Gibson sat straight up in her chair and said with her usual frankness, “As the police report clearly stated, no one they questioned was guilty of anything. The rumors put one of the families through a terrible time, as rumors often do.” The older woman’s voice was unusually stern. She picked up her fat knitting needles and resumed work on a pale peach throw, as soft as a feather and perfect for a cool night sitting on the deck. Enough talk about our neighbors, our friends, her silence said.

  Nell looked over at Izzy, who had also sensed the tension in the room.

  The yarn shop owner stood up now, her voice traveling over the tops of heads to Danny. “Okay, Danny, so when you’re coming up with ideas, how does a cold case really help?”

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Merry Jackson said,
her silky ponytail moving between shapely bare shoulders. “You don’t want to write about real people, so what’s next? You take a case like that and then you make up what could have happened?”

  Danny nodded. “Something like that. Cold cases can provide springboards. You keep some facts if you want, triangulate them. Anything goes. You end up not writing about the actual people or event, like you said, Merry, but instead what your imagination has done with it. It’s fiction.”

  Nell half listened as the group pitched in with dozens of different roads the story line could travel, taking it from the neighborhood tragedy to one that could have happened anywhere, and involved a cast of characters pulled from imaginations that ran wild.

  But Nell’s imagination was tied to the piece of land that she loved—Cape Ann—and her mind toyed with the tragedy of the young girl who had died that night. It wasn’t fiction for her family—but a horrible happening that must have changed their lives forever. She could only begin to imagine their pain.

  Nell looked over at her niece. Izzy was nearly as close to Nell as any daughter could be. Nell loved her fiercely and could only imagine the pain that Harmony’s parents must have experienced.

  She pulled a ball of bright green cotton from her bag and pushed aside the disturbing thoughts. One more sleeve to the cropped sweater she was making for her sister Caroline’s birthday and she’d be done.

  Hopefully in time for the wedding.

  Izzy’s wedding.

  Izzy and Sam’s wedding.

  Tiny goose bumps rose on Nell’s arms, and she rubbed them briskly, her heart expanding as it did so easily these days. A smile lifted her lips and her eyes grew moist. Ben teased her about wearing her emotions on her sleeve. But he felt it, too. It was a special time in Izzy’s life, the beginning of a new chapter, and the joy that surrounded it was almost palpable—and certainly better to think about than cold cases.