Seaside Knitters 01 - Death By Cashmere Read online

  But this evening, from the sounds of things a floor above, no one was—or would be—sleeping.

  “Good grief, Izzy—” Cass Halloran breezed into the room. “What’s Angie up to?” She pulled off her sunglasses and stared at the ceiling.

  “She’s energetic,” Izzy said.

  “Energetic like Muhammad Ali.” Cass’s thick black hair was shoved up beneath a Red Sox cap, but the damp strands that curled from beneath it announced that she had managed to squeak in a shower after a day of lobstering.

  Birdie nodded approvingly, having established the shower rule for Cass months ago. “You are lovely, Cass,” she had said. “But the smell of your lobsters should be left at the dock and not ruining Izzy’s fine yarns.”

  Cass lifted her backpack off one shoulder and set it down on the floor beside the fireplace. She walked over to the table where Nell had lined up four brown sacks and leaned toward the steam rising from one of them. “Ah, Nell, life is good.”

  “We needed a cobbler tonight. There’s a brisk wind picking up and something warm and sweet seemed right,” Nell said. She slipped off her suede jacket and hung it on a hook by the back door.

  Cass nodded. “Nasty winds and probably a little rain during the night.” The owner of over two hundred lobster traps, Cass knew the quirks of New England weather intimately. She glanced out the windows at the darkening sea. “It’s almost as if nature needs to show us who’s boss. Too many warm summer days need a comeuppance.” Cass eyed the food sacks on the table again and put one hand on her flat stomach. It growled beneath her touch.

  “Cass, you’d starve to death if it weren’t for Nell.” Izzy picked up a basket of yarn and needles and moved them to the coffee table.

  “Of course I would,” Cass said. “That’s why I joined this group, if you remember, Iz. I hate to tell you, but it wasn’t your cashmere yarn. When I spotted Nell walking in there that night, trailed by the most amazing food odors that ever met this nose, it changed my life forever. I swear it did.”

  Nell remembered the night well. One of those chance events when life’s forces line up exactly right.

  It happened by accident—Izzy kept the Seaside Studio open until seven on Thursday nights. And Nell often stopped by to bring her niece something to eat—lasagna, scallops and linguini, thin slices of fresh tuna—whatever she had made that day, or the night before.

  One Thursday night Cass Halloran wandered in to take a look at the new shop, and she’d smelled the garlic clam sauce hidden in Nell’s Tupperware container. Cass had looked at it so longingly that Nell went back home and brought the rest of the leftovers from her refrigerator. On impulse, she’d slipped a freshly baked pie into her sack.

  Birdie Favazza happened by that Thursday night, too, on her way home from the Cape Ann nursing home where she taught tap dancing steps to the residents. She spotted activity through the window and decided she needed a few new skeins of merino wool. Surely Izzy would let her in. Eyeing the clam sauce feast spread out on the table in the back room, Birdie suggested that a cold bottle of Pinot Grigio, which she happened to have in the backseat of her car, would complement the “snack” nicely.

  And so the Thursday-night knitting group was born.

  “Who knows, Nell,” Cass said, inching her way over to the food, “if it hadn’t been for your clam sauce that night, the world would be short the thirty-seven scarves I’ve worked up in this cozy room—and just imagine all the fishermen with cold necks who’d be wandering around Sea Harbor.” She lifted a plastic lid off one of the containers. The blended aroma of garlic, butter, and wine curled up into the room. “This is just what I needed tonight.”

  “Bad day, sweetie?” Nell asked.

  Cass nodded, her thoughts on sneaking a taste of the sauce without Birdie seeing her. “Someone was in my traps again. The ones over by the breakwater.”

  “You need to get the police on this, Catherine, ” Birdie said. “They won’t put up with poachers. They’ll hang them up by their toes.”

  “I’ve talked to them, Birdie. But poachers are hard to catch. I swear, they’re like snakes in those black wet suits, slipping into the water in the middle of the night or however they do it.” Cass began pulling plates from a cabinet beneath the bookcases and set them, a little too loudly, on the table. “I swear I’ll get them, one way or another.”

  Nell tugged open another sack. “If you need Ben’s help with this, Cass, let him know. He’d love to play sleuth—and I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

  “Now there’s a thought. There’s no one I’d rather sleuth with than Ben Endicott.” Cass eyed the round of Brie that Nell placed on a wooden platter. “I think if I could find me a Ben, Nell, I might consider getting married someday.”

  Nell laughed. “Well, that would certainly make your mother happy.”

  “But think of the loss in revenue to the Church,” Izzy said. “Mary Halloran keeps the priests in new albs with all the candles she lights during her ‘Please, God, let Cass get married and have seven children’ novenas.”

  Nell laughed and set a bowl of spinach on the counter, picked that day from the garden behind her house. She’d added sliced mango, a handful of sugared almonds, and sourdough croutons.

  Another thud shook the room, this one sounding like a boot hitting a wall.

  Birdie put her knitting down on the table and looked up. “Oh, lordy. I think Angelina has just nailed the lid in her coffin. I need to have a word with her.”

  “Oh, shush, Birdie,” Nell said. She sprinkled a balsamic dressing on the salad and tossed it lightly. Birdie would fight dragons for her friends—and win. But Angie didn’t quite fit into the dragon category—at least not yet.

  “Any idea what she’s doing up there?” Cass asked.

  Izzy pushed a hank of flyaway hair behind her ear. “She’s been preoccupied the past couple weeks—probably had a hard day. It happens to all of us. Now give it a rest—we’re here to knit, right?”

  Before anyone could agree or disagree, the upstairs door slammed shut, and footsteps clicked on the staircase along the outer wall of the shop.

  A second later, Angie opened the side door and stepped inside.

  “Hi,” she said, her carefully made-up eyes looking around the room. She was on stage, dressed for an audience, and all four women were momentarily speechless.

  Angie was nearly six feet tall, with thick red hair that framed her narrow face. Trim and fit, she was dressed tonight in a camisole, a gauzy see-through blouse, and a slim skirt that hugged her hips and stopped above her knees. An elegant cashmere sweater was tied around her shoulders, loose and lovely.

  Nell looked at the sweater. “Angie, that sweater looks beautiful on you. I volunteered to wear it, but for some crazy reason, Izzy didn’t think it’d get as much attention on me.”

  Angie touched the cashmere with her fingertips. “Not true, Nell, but while it’s on my watch, I’ll protect it with my life. I promise. And I’ll give it back soon. I just wanted to wear it one more time. It’s the most beautiful sweater I’ve ever seen.”

  “No rush, Ange,” Izzy said. “It’s a business deal—I get a real-live model for my sweater; you get some warmth.”

  Nell touched the edge of the kimono sweater. Izzy had worked it up in a saffron-colored cashmere yarn and knit cables along the front and back. It had a lacy, elegant touch, a unique one-of-a-kind sweater.

  When Angie had seen the sweater in Izzy’s shop, she’d fallen in love with it—and it took one effusive compliment for Izzy to loan it to her. “Just for a while,” she’d said. “It’s great advertising— people will ask where you got it, then come visit the Seaside Studio.”

  Angie dropped a set of keys down on the table. A knit square with a big A in the center—an old swatch from a wool sweater Izzy had knit for Nell—identified the apartment keys. “Here’s that extra set of apartment keys, Iz. I don’t need them.”

  “Thanks, Angie. I have a master key, too. But don’t worry. I certainly won’t go snooping around.”

  Angie’s voice was husky, a smoker’s voice, though she had assured Izzy that she’d quit. “Nothing to snoop for. My life’s an open book, Iz.”

  Nell watched Angie’s self-assured movements as she walked over to the sideboard and peeked beneath one of the lids. Then she turned on boot heels so skinny and tall that Nell wondered how she could possibly remain upright. One slight awkward movement, and she’d surely break a leg.

  But Nell noticed something else about Angie tonight—a serious look beneath the mascara and eye shadow. And her smile wasn’t right somehow. Angie’s smile was just like her mother, Josie’s. A full-lipped kind of smile that could turn heads if she chose to use it. It seemed forced tonight.

  “I love what you’ve done to this shop, Izzy,” Angie said. “It was a disaster before you bought it, a real pit.”

  “And you’ll take care not to ravage it?” Birdie asked, speaking up from her post near the fireplace. Her brows arched over clear eyes.

  Angie brushed off the comment with a wave of her hand. “Of course not, Birdie. I couldn’t get these on, is all.” She looked down at the tight leather boots hugging her legs. “It irritated me, and I guess I threw one. Frustrating,” she said, her voice dropping and her eyes looking at her boots as if they might have the answer to something she was seeking. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Boots can be frustrating.”

  “Hot date, Angie?” Cass had been standing apart from the group, looking out the back windows at the ocean, one knee up on the window seat. She turned now and looked at Angie, her voice flat.

  For a minute, Angie didn’t answer. When she spoke, her words were measured and neutral. “Don’t worry, Cass. I won’t eat him. Pete’s a good guy.”

  Before Cas
s could answer, the back door opened and Pete Halloran’s tall, lanky body filled the doorway. He stepped inside and pushed the door closed against the force of the wind. “Hi, ladies,” he said, looking around the room. “You, too, Cass.”

  Cass made a face at her younger brother.

  “What are you doing here, Pete? Taking up knitting?” Izzy asked.

  “I hear it has its rewards.” Pete eyed the food on the sideboard.

  “Not until you learn how to knit and purl, Peter.” Birdie looked up from the delicate dewdrop stitch she was working into her scarf. “It’s becoming quite popular with men, you know. They’re finally catching on. They will never be as accomplished, but they can certainly try.”

  “It’d be damn near worth it,” Pete said, still eyeing the fettuccine.

  “Not tonight, sweet Pete.” Angie came up behind him and looped one arm through his.

  At Angie’s touch, Pete’s face turned the color of her hair. He turned toward her with a slow smile creasing his tan skin.

  He’s crazy about her, Nell thought. And they certainly made a striking couple. Pete so tall and sandy-haired, and Angie just a few inches shorter, her cascade of red waves brushing against his shoulder.

  Nell had seen Pete outside the Sea Harbor Historical Museum a few days before. He was sitting on a bench in the square, just across the brick road from the library where Angie worked, tossing pieces of a sandwich to the gulls. But his mind was clearly not on birds, and Nell had wondered why he wasn’t out checking lobster traps with Cass, helping her with the day’s catch.

  Pete hadn’t noticed Nell, though she had waved as she walked past him on her way to a board meeting. Then Angie appeared, walking down the library steps in pencil-thin jeans and a bright green sweater, her hair flying in the breeze, her head held high. She still had on the earphones that she wore in the library sometimes— bright orange earphones that looked liked daisies and amused the older volunteers.

  The look on Pete’s face when he spotted Angie told Nell exactly why he was there.

  Seeing Pete sitting on the bench, Angie had slipped the earphones down around her neck, then walked across the street, her eyes holding Pete’s. She’d squeezed down beside him on the park bench, one hand reaching in his sack for a sandwich with a familiarity that spoke of more than a casual acquaintance.

  “Opposites attract,” Ben had said when she repeated the scene at supper that night. “Angie needs a nice guy like Pete in her life.”

  Nell had nodded, but she wondered if Angie could ever be in anyone’s life in the way that nice guys needed.

  Cass walked back to the sideboard, burying her nose in one of Nell’s thick sacks. Cass didn’t like conflict. And she didn’t like Angie. But she loved Nell’s cooking.

  And she fiercely loved her brother, Pete.

  Cass pulled the remaining Tupperware containers from the sack, lining them up on the countertop and immersing herself in the sensory experience of the food. Angie was instantly forgotten, replaced by spices and buttery hunks of lobster and scallops and big globs of sweet baked garlic.

  “Sorry we can’t stay,” Pete said. He looked longingly at the food. But one squeeze to his arm from Angie, and the roomful of women sensed that even Nell’s cooking could be upstaged if the hormones were lined up right.

  “Watch out for the weather,” Nell said. She bit back a warning to leave the cashmere sweater in Pete’s car if even one drop threatened to fall from the sky.

  Angie smiled at Nell, then glanced at Cass and hooked her arm through Pete’s. “Pete will keep me warm.”

  Cass kept her back to the couple, blocking out Angie’s words.

  Nell watched the two young people walk through the door and into the night. The look on Angie’s face earlier reminded Nell of a young Angie, upset with the world, determined to right its wrongs. Her shoulders held more than a skimpy blouse, a deep tan—a luxurious cashmere sweater.

  Chapter 2

  Two hours later, after Cass and Birdie had helped stash the left-overs in the refrigerator and gone on home, Nell and Izzy locked up the shop and walked out into the night.

  “What would we do without these Thursday nights?” Izzy mused.

  “Cass might starve to death,” Nell said. “And Birdie’s wine and wisdom would go to waste.”

  “And Ben would be huge if he were the only outlet for your cooking. And me? I’d be absolutely lost without you three.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Nell said, giving Izzy a quick hug.

  The summer sky was dark, with only a star or two breaking the heavy black clouds, and a gusty wind tossed loose scraps of paper along the windy road and rumpled the awnings over shop windows.

  Nell smoothed down her hair with the flat of her hand, pressing it against her head. At sixty-one, her dark hair was streaked with silver, but rather than clouding her hair, the wavy lines ran through it like carefully placed highlights.

  “Wikkid tiger stripes,” Ben called them, and he’d smooth them out with the blunt tip of his finger.

  “Are you going home, Izzy?” Nell asked, looking up at the sky. “The rain will be here before too long.”

  Izzy looked up at the sky. “Good. Rain is good for business. Perfect weather for sitting on the front porch with a ball of soft wool.” Izzy hooked her arm through Nell’s. “I’m meeting some friends over at the Ocean’s Edge for a drink before I head home, but I’ll walk you to your car first.”

  Harbor Road—called Seaside Village by the town brochures, and just plain “the village” by locals—was the hub of Sea Harbor. The narrow, curvy roads were lined with shops and small cafés, a couple of taverns, and a coffeehouse, all shoulder to shoulder and each unique as new generations of owners fixed up the buildings and made them new again. At midpoint, the shops gave way to an open area where Pelican Pier jutted out into the harbor. The long dock housed whale watching and pleasure boats and small commercial fishing vessels, all mixed together because a town the size of Sea Harbor was too small to segregate commercial from private vessels. On the shore, the Ocean’s Edge Restaurant and Lounge, lit up like a carousel, offered music, drinks, and late-night meals.

  “It looks like Archie still has customers,” Nell said as they paused in front of the Harbor Road bookstore, admiring a new display of local-author books in the window. The door was still propped open, and a stiff breeze ruffled the blinds on the door.

  Archie Brandley had store hours posted on the glass door of his bookstore just like the rest of the Sea Harbor merchants, but he never asked anyone to leave, no matter what the hour. Instead, Archie or his wife, Harriet, would balance the register receipts or shelve new books until the last guest, as Harriet called their customers, pried himself from a cracked leather chair and shuffled out the door. Sometimes the late-night guests didn’t buy books, but it didn’t bother Archie or Harriet. Reading was all that mattered, they’d say.

  The blustery wind whipped Izzy’s hair from the back of her neck. She made a face at her reflection in the bookstore window, the mass of thick wavy hair tangled and flying about her face. “The wicked witch of the north,” she said. She grabbed a fistful of hair and slipped an elastic band from her wrist to the bunched hair, fastening it at the base of her neck.

  Nell watched Izzy’s face in the window and remembered the gangly, pigtailed child with the scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that had characterized a young Izzy Chambers. Izzy had thought more about horses on her family’s Kansas ranch than how she looked back then. But she’d finally shed her pigtails, and she’d grown tall and graceful, heading back east to college, where people came to remember Isabel Chambers long after meeting her. They might not remember her name, but they remembered the enormous brown eyes that filled her face, the dimples that punctuated a wide smile in her fine-boned face, and the slender figure of a woman whose slightly irregular features fit together in an intriguing way.

  “Look, Nell.” Izzy pointed beyond her reflection to the small loft above the sales counter. Several chairs and crowded bookshelves filled the cozy space. “I’d know those boots anywhere.”

  Angie Archer sat on one of the chairs, her face partially hidden in shadow. The cashmere sweater was still around her neck, with one saffron edge draped over the arm of the chair.