A Finely Knit Murder Page 22

  “Where’s Cass?” Nell asked. Although it was rare that one of the foursome was missing on Thursday night, Nell wanted to be sure.

  “She’s on her way.” Izzy turned up the iPod and began swaying to the smoky voice of Madeleine Peyroux singing an old Ray Charles song.

  A horn blasting in the alley announced that Izzy was right.

  Nell emptied her bags on the old library table and began tossing the seafood salad, spooning up the dressing that had collected at the bottom. Birdie warmed the rolls in the shop’s small oven, and Cass breezed through the side door.

  She took the opener from the counter and began uncorking Birdie’s wine.

  “Long day?” Birdie asked, handing Cass a fat slice of aged cheddar cheese.

  Cass nodded. “But it’s over. So let’s eat and drink and be merry.”

  “Be merry. A large order,” Nell said.

  “We can do it,” Cass said.

  The routine on Thursday nights was so ingrained in each of them that words weren’t needed to start the dance. Once the food was ready, they filled their plates with Nell’s grilled shrimp salad and added slices of cheese, gherkins, and olives to the side. The basket of rolls and the butter plate went on the low coffee table, and in minutes they were cozily settled around the idle fireplace, the harbor lights slanting in through the open casement windows, warming the hardwood floor.

  Cass poured four glasses of wine before flopping down in the old leather chair taken from Ben’s den years before. Cass claimed it still smelled of his Old Spice aftershave and it brought her great comfort, she said. Purl waited until Cass tucked one leg up beneath her before jumping off the chair arm and taking her place beside her.

  The knitting would wait until plates were empty and hands clean, but conversation would start before the last person sat down.

  “Is Harry around?” Nell asked. She’d struggled with what to say or ask or bring up with Cass, unsure if her conversation with him had been a private one, though usually things discussed at Gus McClucken’s checkout counter didn’t fall into that category. She was still baffled by the unexpected emotion Harry had shown.

  “Around?” Cass asked innocently, biting into a warm roll. “Like ‘around tonight’?”

  “I guess that’s as good a place as any to start,” Izzy said. She stabbed a shrimp with her fork.

  “He’s around. He doesn’t understand routines—or knitting—so he actually thought I might be free for a beer tonight. ‘Thursdays?’ I asked him. ‘Are you insane?’ I think he’s going to grab a bite at the yacht club, drool over a few boats, and go back to work on the cottage. It’s looking good.”

  “I ran into him at McClucken’s getting some paint.” Nell paused, waiting for Cass to fill in the silence. Had Harry told her he saw her? Replayed the conversation?

  But Cass had moved on to another forkful of salad. She bit into a shrimp and closed her eyes. “Nell, whatever you marinated this shrimp in is amazing.”

  Nell smiled and passed around the basket of rolls. “I had lunch with Danny today,” she said.

  Cass looked over at Nell, then into her glass of wine. She swirled it slowly. “You know, whatever you think, I do miss Danny,” she said. “He’s . . . he’s a great guy.”

  Nell nodded and Birdie smiled. They didn’t push, just kept their thoughts quiet and tried hard not to let their feelings spread across their faces. They knew Cass well, and knew that getting too close would shut her down. So they took what she offered, held their silence, and moved on.

  “Elizabeth Hartley came into the shop late today,” Izzy said, sensing it was time to change the topic. “She’s aged ten years in this horrible week. Frankly if the murderer isn’t found soon I worry that we’re going to lose an outstanding headmistress. It’s like her spirit is slowly eroding. She puts on a good front, but it’s clear what this is doing to her. And it’s simply not fair.”

  It was clear where Izzy was coming from. In her former lawyer life, she had seen innocent people destroyed, proven innocent or not. The longer that cases went unsolved or the longer trials dragged on, the more severe the damage to innocent people.

  “The more I talk with her, the more I like her,” she went on. “And she’s a very fine knitter, on top of it all.”

  The latter was attempted to lighten the mood, but Izzy’s message echoed in the cozy room. They all liked Elizabeth. And they all hated to see people they cared about suffer, whatever the reason.

  “Jerry Thompson isn’t in such great shape, either,” Nell said. She bit into a warm roll, then wiped a trace of butter from the corner of her mouth. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to be so close to an investigation that keeps digging up things incriminating someone close to you.”

  “What kind of incriminating things?” Cass refilled her plate and walked back to her chair.

  Nell filled them in on what had happened the evening before: finding Elizabeth down near the boathouse, and then learning that a scrap of scarf, similar to the one Elizabeth had worn the night of the party, was now in the hands of the police.

  Izzy was crestfallen. “That was a gorgeous scarf. Unique and so finely knit—tiny little stiches for the main section, and the romantic, lacy edge. Chelsey Mansfield told me she knit it for Elizabeth when she got her doctorate.”

  “She knew Elizabeth before moving here?” Cass asked.

  Birdie nodded. “I think so. Back in Boston.”

  “Are the police sure the scarf was hers? After a week tangled in water and seaweed, it would be difficult to tell,” Cass said.

  “Elizabeth is sure. She can’t find her own—and she identified the scrap, regardless of the wear and tear. But she has absolutely no idea how it ended up in the sea and then caught in the boulders.”

  “She may not, but I think I have an idea,” Birdie said suddenly. She pushed aside her plate and sat up on the couch, her back as straight as a bamboo knitting needle.

  “Clearly we need to pull some things together here,” she said. “If we were able to figure out that complicated anniversary shawl with all those panels and stitches that we made for you and Ben, Nell, then surely we can figure out this mess. Or at least come up with feasible possibilities to hasten this awful plodding investigation.”

  The fact that it had been only a week didn’t escape any of them, but in light of the lives it was affecting, it had been an interminable week.

  Birdie went on. “We are expert at ripping things apart and putting them back together. We are expert at knitting fine things. No matter how finely knit this murder is, surely we can help figure it out. So let’s do it.”

  They were all sitting up straighter now, except for Izzy, who had cleared all their dishes while Birdie talked, scooped the warmed apple cobbler onto plates, put on a pot of coffee, and returned to the group with a tray of dessert plates. She passed them out without fanfare and sat down next to Birdie.

  “Birdie, you said you had an idea about what happened to the scarf.” It was Cass, feeling that somehow she had missed something. “What was it?”

  “It was last Saturday, the day after the murder.” They all knew about Teresa’s explosion at the Tea Shoppe, but Nell and Birdie hadn’t talked about the rest of it—the possibility that someone might have gone into Elizabeth’s house while she wasn’t there that morning.

  “She said she had forgotten to lock the door. That was probably true. There were no signs of someone breaking in. She also didn’t find anything missing. But she looked around all of two minutes. Would she really have noticed if the scarf was missing? She hadn’t slept. Someone could easily have gone in the side door, looked around for something of hers, and taken it.”

  “To incriminate her,” Cass said.

  “Only one person would have reason to do that,” Birdie said.

  “The real murderer . . . ,” Izzy said. Then she pushed the thought furt
her. “Or Teresa Pisano. Sam and Ben said she’s at the police station constantly, giving them reasons to arrest Elizabeth. She is convinced Elizabeth killed Blythe. Maybe she was trying to nail the coffin shut.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Nell said. “Except for one thing.”

  Birdie nodded, reading Nell’s thought. “Teresa was at the Tea Shoppe while we were there with Elizabeth. And when she left, Mary was right on her tail.”

  “So if Mary stayed with her for at least the next hour, it couldn’t have been Teresa,” Nell finished.

  “An easy thing to check,” Birdie said, mentally planning a meeting with Mary Pisano.

  Nell fell silent. Listening to the conversation, reliving the day, the walk, and trying to tug something to the forefront that she was missing. She half listened as the others continued the discussion, pushing her memory. She was missing something. And it was refusing to reveal itself.

  “So that takes us back to the murderer,” Cass said. “Elizabeth—no matter how sure we are that she couldn’t have done it, she had plenty of motive. And she had opportunity. She needs to be considered.”

  “Cass is right,” Izzy said reluctantly. “But as Birdie said, we need to explore everyone we know who might have wanted Blythe gone . . . or dead.”

  “Josh Babson.” Nell spoke quietly, still wondering about her own feelings about the artist. He managed to pull her emotions one way and then the other with a sleight of hand.

  They talked about the painting exhibited at the Brewster Gallery. “It was the scene of the crime—the same boulders, a tiny slice of the boathouse.”

  Cass was surprised. “I looked at it, too, but I didn’t even make the connection. There are so many spots on Cape Ann that are similar.”

  “But without an old boathouse,” Nell said.

  “Sure. Okay, but more than that, it wasn’t a painting that spoke to murder in any way. It was a beautiful oil painting. Kind of romantic.”

  Nell agreed. “And that was strange, I thought. That he’d romanticize a murder scene.”

  “But back to his motivation. He was angry at Blythe. He knew she was behind the firing,” Nell said. She explained the photo they had seen on Elizabeth’s phone. The giant circle with a line slashed through Blythe’s initials.

  “Do the police have the photo?” Izzy asked.

  “Yes. Ben talked to Elizabeth about it, and she agreed to give it to them—reluctantly. She was worried about incriminating Josh. I think she figured he’d been through enough—and some of what he’d been through she felt responsible for.”

  “Eat,” Birdie said, reminding them all that research showed food was good for creative thinking.

  No one dared to mention that copious amounts of sugar might not be what the studies had in mind. Instead they happily dug into Ella’s sweet, addictive apple cobbler, the fresh apples offering a welcome burst of energy.

  “I think there’s more to Josh’s role in this than the fact that he was fired,” Nell said.

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s just something about him that makes me think there’s more to the story. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy who would let being fired devastate him. Or even make him that angry. Unless . . .”

  “You mean maybe there’s more to why he was fired?” Cass asked.

  “Maybe. Why did Blythe want him fired? The things she brought up to the board didn’t always add up. Josh was a good teacher, apparently, and I think Elizabeth was against the firing.”

  “Barrett Mansfield had reservations, too,” Birdie said. “That’s an interesting point.”

  “Speaking of Barrett, both he and Chelsey had problems with Blythe.” Nell repeated the exchange she’d overheard between Chelsey and Blythe the night of the party. “Chelsey came close to threatening her if she didn’t stop trying to get Elizabeth fired.”

  “Chelsey admires Elizabeth. She thinks she is a wonderful headmistress,” Izzy said. “She talked about it in the shop with other moms, praising the way she treated individual kids.”

  Nell was quiet, wondering again if she tended to read too much into things. But if she was doing that, the best people to call her on it were sitting right here in front of her.

  “Chelsey was buying yarn tonight when I walked in the shop,” she began.

  And then she repeated the strange conversation. “Mae didn’t think it was strange. She thought Chelsey was simply dramatic.”

  “Chelsey Mansfield isn’t dramatic,” Izzy said. “She was an amazing lawyer, confident, calm, logical . . .” Not dramatic.

  “Basically she said she was relieved that Blythe was murdered,” Cass said. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

  “That’s awful,” Izzy murmured.

  “But honest, I guess.” Cass scooped up the last bite of apple cobbler, then got up and began collecting the bowls. “People often sanctify even bad people when they die. Chelsey was calling a spade a spade—at least in her opinion, anyway.”

  Nell nodded. “Yes—and there are probably others who share that opinion. And being relieved isn’t exactly the same as being glad. But you’re right, it’s certainly honest. And it tells the world what she thought of Blythe. Combine that with the conversation I overheard—that Blythe would be stopped in her efforts to fire Elizabeth. It was close to a threat.”

  “And once again, they both had opportunity.” Izzy wiped her hands on a napkin and pulled the beginnings of a sweater out of her knitting bag. It was a simple shrug in bright colors that two of the girls in the school class wanted to make—a simple knit that started at one cuff, then worked all the way across to the other. Her sample, she hoped, would help keep the newbie knitters from getting lost along the way. She stroked the soft crimson yarn. “But no matter what she said, I can’t imagine my former instructor killing anyone. I just can’t.”

  Birdie had begun knitting Gabby a pair of fingerless mittens. She checked the cable row and said quietly, “I can’t imagine anyone killing anyone. But they do.”

  They fingered their knitting and counted stitches, thoughts floating along on Madeleine Peyroux singing the slow lyrics of “Don’t Take Too Long.”

  And they all hoped that would be true.

  Nell finally pulled out the sweater she was knitting for Ben. The thick cotton would keep him warm when the wind and the Dream Weaver sailboat beckoned to him and Sam on cold fall days. Cass took out wool skeins in red and navy and began casting on for her specialty—warm winter hats, this one with stripes in the New England Patriots colors.

  “Another hat?” Izzy said. For whom? hung in the air, unasked.

  “For whomever,” Cass said, reading her friend’s face. “This soft wool makes me feel loved.”

  “Hmm,” Izzy said, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Well, now we know that. When Cass is friendless, give her wool.”

  Birdie shushed her with a wave of her hand. “My dear Angelo is next on our list,” she said. It was the first name on the mental list that everyone in the room would like to immediately scratch off. “He was there, he found the scarf, he wanted desperately to protect his boss’s job.”

  “His brother was worried about his zeal,” Nell added. She told them about her and Danny’s conversation with Margaret earlier that day.

  They were silent, knowing Birdie was right to keep him on the list. Angelo was devoted to the school, to the students, and to Elizabeth Hartley. And his recent tirades indicated he’d do anything to stop Blythe Westerland from damaging the people and things he cared about.

  Their knitting needles clicked away while four minds used to solving complicated knitting patterns tried to work their magic on a different kind of pattern. Pulling apart one that didn’t make sense so they could put it back together in a way that did.

  A terrible kind of pattern. The complicated pattern of murder.

  Final
ly Izzy said, “The thing that keeps us from stitching any of this together is that we’re still trying to figure out who Blythe Westerland was. Birdie, what is it you said about finding the person who commits a crime? You have to ask the victim. She’s the only one who can tell us.”

  Nell took a sip of wine. “We know some things. We’re learning, I think. And we’ve seen Blythe in action.”

  “But what really made her tick? Why was she so nasty to some people—like Josh Babson?” Izzy asked.

  And other people, too. Nell remembered the conversation she’d had with Tommy Porter—his brother who had been thrown overboard by Blythe. She repeated the story aloud.

  “Poor Eddie,” Cass said. “He always went for the glam. And it never worked for him. He finally realized that if he forgot about the glitz, he might find someone he could make happy—and who would love him, too.”

  They laughed. Eddie had finally settled down with a waitress from the Sweet Petunia, had three little kids—boom, boom, boom. And was one of the happiest guys on the Halloran Lobster Company payroll.

  “Tommy mentioned another guy his brother knew—good-looking but really quiet, easy prey—who hung out with Blythe for a short while,” Nell said. “The fellow finally broke it off himself.”

  “Good for him. What happened?” Izzy asked.

  “Blythe had him fired from his job.”

  “Geesh,” Cass said. “I’m glad she didn’t come on to me.”

  “Maybe it was the loss of power that pushed her to action. Eddie wasn’t punished, but he didn’t end the relationship. Blythe did. Breaking up seemed to be exclusively her prerogative.”

  “I’m glad Danny had the sense not to get involved,” Cass said.

  Izzy thought about the picture emerging about Blythe and relationships. “When you’re as beautiful as Blythe, it’s probably not difficult to get men to respond to you.”

  “And Blythe enjoyed men, we know that. Ben said she liked being on boards that were mostly men.”

  “Maybe it was to show them up,” Cass said.