How to Knit a Murder Read online

  Thursday night Sox games at the Gull Tavern were nearly as regular for Danny and Sam as their wives’ knitting night.

  Izzy looked down the street. Coming toward them on the opposite side of the street, in no obvious hurry, were the men in question, heads buried in conversation.

  “I see four bodies over there,” Izzy said. “Only two are ours. Who are the other guys?” She squinted through the darkness.

  Cass looked across the street just as the men walked beneath the lights in front of Scoopers Ice Cream shop. Danny and Sam were both six feet plus, but the dark-haired man with them was an inch or so taller. The fourth man was average size—short compared to the others—with a mop of black hair covering his eyes and round glasses filling a good part of his face. “The short one looks like Harry Potter. The tall guy is Spencer Paxton. Geesh, he seems to be everywhere these days.”

  “Oh,” Izzy said. But the oh wasn’t a happy one.

  “I agree. He always seemed too big for this town, even when he was a kid. I’m surprised he moved back.”

  Izzy looked over again. She hadn’t grown up in Sea Harbor like Cass, but she agreed that Spencer Paxton sometimes seemed too big for things. What was it Birdie always said, Too big for his britches? “He was in my Boston law firm for a while. Charmed plenty of our staff.”

  “Not a surprise.”

  “He might have made a decent lawyer—he was smart enough, anyway. But he figured he could make more money in the family development business. Or politics or whatever. Power seemed to be important to him, even as a newbie, just out of law school.”

  The truth was, Izzy hadn’t liked him at all. Maybe it was the stark ambition that had turned her off back then. She remembered feeling guilty, that maybe she was jealous of the younger law school grad who came in and seemed to take over the Elliot & Pagett firm. He knew everyone, or pretended to, anyway. She wondered if he had sensed her feelings back then. Probably not. She had an irritating tendency to go overboard with niceness in covering up ill feelings. He probably thought she had a crush on him.

  When she ran into him now in Sea Harbor, he acted like they were old friends. And she liked his wife, Bree. So that was one thing in his favor.

  Cass was watching the men across the street, their bodies shaking in laughter. “Do you think they’re going to stay over there telling bad jokes, or take us to the Artist’s Palate deck for a beer like they promised?”

  “I wonder if Spence is coming,” Izzy said. “He might not be all that welcome over on Canary Cove.”

  Cass agreed. “If Paxton Development thinks they can improve Canary Cove, they’re daft.” She dismissed the thought as ludicrous.

  Izzy shrugged off the concern. She watched Danny and Sam, laughing and talking. And Spencer Paxton, his tall body leaning in, listening. Just two nice guys being friendly.

  Cass put two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that sliced through the air like a well-thrown javelin.

  Heads jerked around their way.

  “So who won the game?” Izzy called out.

  Sam broke out in a bad rendition of “Sweet Caroline” and a victory sign. He led the trio across the street and stepped onto the curb, wrapping his wife in a hug.

  Danny stepped up beside Cass. “Not only did the Sox win, but we are rolling in the dough.” He pushed his glasses up with one finger and forked back a handful of hair, pulling some bills out of his jeans pocket and flapping them in the air. “You and I are riding high, m’love.”

  He nodded toward Spencer Paxton, standing slightly behind him. “Hey, Spence, you know these two gorgeous women, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Spencer said with a courtly bow.

  “Who’s the guy you left behind?” Cass asked, pointing across the street to the younger, shorter man. He was trundling off toward Gus McGlucken’s hardware store. As he passed beneath the streetlight, his round glasses lit up as if touched by a wizard’s magic.

  Danny followed her look. “You know him, Cass. Robbie McGlucken, Gus’s son.”

  “Of course I do. I just didn’t expect him to be with you guys.” Robbie was a kid, twentysomething, not to mention that anyone she used to babysit for would always be a kid to her.

  “Robbie works for me,” Spence explained. “He and I were having a beer and ran into these two guys.”

  “Robbie knew every Sox stat,” Sam said. “Put us all to shame.”

  Spence laughed. “Fantasy sports. All that sort of thing. He’s a computer genius. Amazing kid. He’s great.”

  This time it was Izzy who looked surprised. Robbie lived in an apartment above his dad’s hardware store and she saw him nearly every day, sometimes in his dad’s store, mostly just coming and going on his motorcycle. But Robbie didn’t talk much, and he always seemed happier if Izzy pretended she didn’t see him. He was a loner, and the image of him bonding with guys over a baseball game was incongruous. But sort of nice, she thought. He probably could use the company.

  Cass was watching Robbie, too. He was fumbling with a key, then shoved open the glass-fronted door that led to the offices and apartments above the shops. “Well, that’s good,” she said. “I’m sure his dad is happy he has a job. Robbie needs a break or two. Now what’s all this about a pot of money in our possession?” She looked at Danny, her thick dark brows lifting.

  Danny held up the fistful of bills again and Cass plucked them from his hand and glared at Spence. “So what’s this? Are you bringing sin to River City? Have you lured these once respectable men into gambling?”

  Spence laughed. His dark hair, about the same length as Danny’s mussed-up mop, didn’t seem to move, the swept-up wave held in place. “It was I, I confess. But they did well.”

  “Since we took all his money, we invited him for a beer,” Sam said.

  Izzy smiled brightly and tossed her car keys to Sam. “That’s fine. Let’s go then.”

  * * *

  The drive to the Canary Cove Art Colony, a narrow spit of land that housed dozens of galleries and cottages and several restaurants, was a short one and soon they were walking up the deck steps to the Artist’s Palate bistro, a haven not only for the dozens of artists who called Canary Cove home and averaged at least one meal a day at the place, but anyone who loved good burgers and beer. Hundreds of tiny white lights outlined the deck, waiters maneuvered their way around picnic tables, and people jostled for seats. Tom Petty’s mellow voice filled the air from well-placed speakers. It’d been over a year since the music artist’s death, but the restaurant’s owner still began and ended every evening on her deck with one of his songs, and then tossed some in between.

  When Danny Brandley teased her about it one night, wondering when she’d be adding vigil lights, the owner did the next best thing, adding battery-powered lights above the bar that flashed whenever a Tom Petty song was played.

  Tonight Merry Jackson stood beside the outdoor bar, standing on tiptoe and directing traffic. The owner spotted the newcomers and greeted them with a flying wave, then elbowed a tall, skinny man standing next to her, sending him to take her friends to an empty table near the back of the deck.

  The waiter grinned and waved the group across the deck to the table, meeting them with a pitcher of beer and basket of fried clams.

  Danny laughed when he recognized who it was. “Hey, man, what are you doing here? Merry has you working now? Are you paying for your breakfasts or did you do something bad?”

  Josh Babson laughed and put the tray down on the picnic table, a rivulet of beer sliding down the side of the pitcher. He wiped his damp hands on his apron and gave Izzy and Cass high fives, then reached across the table and greeted Sam. “Nah, well, maybe. The little boss lady was busy tonight, so I grabbed an apron from someone—probably that crazy cook she has back there—and pitched in. She’ll owe me big.” He counted the beer steins, then the group sitting down, and then forked his fingers through a messy flop of long blond hair and hooked it behind one ear.

  Izzy shook her head and hande
d him a scrunchie. “Here. You’re going to scare people away.”

  Josh laughed and wound it around a fistful of hair. “It’s good to see you guys. I’ve been seeing Izzy here now and then with this fiber art show coming up. Love your shop, Iz. Love this whole idea. The artists around here are all psyched. Yarn art. Who’d have thought?”

  “So when are we going to teach you to knit?” Izzy asked, her brows lifting. “Then you’ll get the whole experience.”

  “Hah, that’ll be the day. But I’m loving all that soft squishy yarn, and some of the designs I’ve seen are great. It’s really sensual, you know? Bree McIntosh’s work is amazing. And have you seen her paintings? It’s going to be quite a show. You fiber artists rock.”

  “Of course we do. And we knitters do, too. And your help is much appreciated. I have it on the Brewsters’ authority that you are at our beck and call.”

  Josh laughed. “Yeah Count on it. It pays to have the art colony founders on your side, right?”

  Izzy knew Josh meant more than that the Brewsters were good bosses. Jane and Ham not only founded the art colony, they practically saved Josh Babson, drawing him into the art community when he was unjustly fired from a teaching job at a private school a few years back.

  Sam looked over toward the railing, almost forgetting the extra man in the group.

  Spence was standing with his back to them, looking down the incline to the water, ten feet below.

  “Hey, Spence, you still with us?”

  Spencer turned back to the table. He spotted the newcomer and nodded a hello.

  “Bad manners,” Sam said. “Spence, have you met Josh Babson? Beneath that dirty apron and all that hair is a pretty talented artist.”

  “Very talented,” Izzy said, looking up into Josh’s face.

  “He’s a good guy, too, even though he sometimes looks like he needs a good meal,” Danny said.

  “I usually do need a good meal,” Josh said. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t get your name. Sam mumbles.” He held out his hand.

  “Spencer. Spencer Paxton.”

  Josh dropped his hand.

  “Bree’s husband,” Izzy prompted, seeing confusion on Josh’s face. She poked him playfully. “Say hello, Josh.”

  Instead, Josh took a step back and shook his head as if he’d been thinking of something else and was trying to clear his mind. He looked away from Spence and then at the others around the table. “Hey, are you guys okay here for the moment? There’s a pitcher—” Then he took a quick breath and looked across the room, pointing toward Merry. “Looks like my boss is calling me. Gotta go. Later.” The artist turned abruptly and walked away.

  Izzy watched him disappear. How odd. She wondered if things were okay with the art exhibit. They’d been asking a lot of Josh. She excused herself, then quickly followed him across the crowded deck.

  “Hey, Josh, what’s up?”

  He turned around and looked at her, his face unreadable. “You seem upset, Josh. I wanted to be sure we hadn’t done anything that caused it.” She forced a smile. “We were heading to give you a great tip. Hope you’ll be back.”

  Josh didn’t smile. He looked down at his paint-spattered sneakers for a minute as if exploring his options. Then he looked at Izzy again. “Just so you know, Iz, that Paxton dude at your table isn’t a good guy. I like all you guys a lot. And I don’t want you taken in by him. He’s bad. A bad, bad guy.”

  Before Izzy could hide her surprise or ask him what he was talking about, he turned and hurried over to the restaurant owner. Izzy watched him lean down to whisper in her ear. Then he ripped off the apron, handed it to her, and went down the deck steps two at a time.

  Chapter 5

  The weather had turned dreary and damp, as sometimes happens in Sea Harbor as one season tries to decide whether to stick around or to let the other one in.

  Birdie and Nell walked quickly up the entrance steps to the Sea Harbor Yacht Club, jackets zippered against the wind. A quiet and strangely subdued Rose Chopra walked between them.

  Rose’s demeanor gave Nell the fleeting sensation that they were leading a reluctant student to the principal’s office for some kind of punishment, rather than to a lovely lunch at the yacht club’s restaurant. The dining room had a spectacular view of the sea, one that they were sure Rose’s mother would have appreciated. Which made them think it was the perfect place to take Rose and officially welcome her to Sea Harbor.

  Rose didn’t seem to think so. She had resisted the invitation with a vehemence that surprised them. “It’s not necessary” was repeated multiple times, followed by several other excuses. But for two women who didn’t operate on what was necessary but rather on what was kind or good or enjoyable or simply a nice thing to do, Rose’s protestations didn’t make sense, nor did they listen to them.

  “When someone moves into a new place, one brings freshly baked bread to welcome them,” Birdie explained. “Nell and I don’t bake bread. We do lunch instead.”

  “But you’ve spent the past two hours helping me move into this amazing apartment,” she had said, a final excuse.

  And that they had done, keeping their promise to Izzy to make Rose’s move easy and pleasant—fresh cotton sheets on the bed, a refrigerator stocked with essentials, and a vase of sweet alyssum and honeysuckle warming the room with its scent.

  When they had finished, Rose had stood at the apartment door surveying the slipcovered sofa, the fireplace with a painting of the sea above it, and a bookshelf stocked with books. Her face flushed with happiness. “It’s absolutely beautiful. The flowers, the smells of the sea—everything.”

  Her emptied, battered suitcase and a backpack leaned against the wall next to a chair.

  “I travel light,” Rose had said, catching their looks. “I don’t have much more than this back home. A clean slate.”

  “Are there things you need, dear?” Birdie had asked.

  “No. My sister took a few of my mother’s things and the rest we gave away. I’m looking forward to starting fresh.”

  “I can relate to that,” Nell said. “Ben and I did much the same thing when we moved up here to retire. We brought little and took our time, gradually filling his parents’ long-time vacation home with art we loved, colors that warmed us, furniture that fit our bodies just right. A new chapter.”

  Birdie had nodded absently, a slight smile on her face, and Nell knew why: Her dear friend’s philosophy was the opposite of her own. The Favazza seven-bedroom estate on Ravenswood Road had been built by Sonny Favazza for his young bride—and Birdie would be living in it until they had to carry her body out in a box, as she often said. Sonny was the love of her life, and his memory was as alive in the house as her housekeeper Ella’s daily soup and sandwiches. The sweet cherry scent of Sonny’s pipe tobacco still warmed the den. His telescope and old English desk, his Winslow Homer seascapes and hand-carved ship collection were all in exactly the same spots as they were the day he died. That was exactly how Birdie wanted it. And that is how it would always be.

  “So,” she said now, smiling up at Rose, “Let’s stop the chatter. Your excuses to have lunch are falling on deaf ears, and I shall faint dead away if we don’t eat soon. And I don’t believe Izzy has the time today to scoop up an old lady from her building’s steps.”

  * * *

  Liz Santos, manager of the Sea Harbor Yacht Club, greeted Nell and Birdie as she always did, with hugs and a kiss on each cheek, a welcome that was nearly as comforting as the clam chowder she’d soon have delivered to their table.

  A few steps behind them, Rose managed to smile through the introductions.

  “Chopra,” the elegant manager repeated, smiling into Rose’s deep green eyes. “I don’t believe I know any Chopras. But I’m happy to meet one. Come. I saved a nice table for you. The clouds are gathering out there, but sometimes that’s the most majestic view of all.” She waved her menus toward the ocean side of the room, a peek of blue-green water and churning waves visible from where they stood.
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  They followed her across the cozy dining room, weaving between tables and carefully arranged plants. Paintings of the sea and sailboats added color to the walls, but as Liz had promised, the view took center stage.

  Halfway across the room, a wild wave brought a smile to Birdie’s small face. She stopped walking and waved back at Stella Palazola. The young Realtor was sitting at a corner table, an iPad in one hand and a young couple sitting directly across from her. Stella grinned again, then focused back on the couple, her iPad, and a scattering of papers and photographs in front of them.

  The club manager had seen the wave, too. “Stella brings clients in here to talk them into signing with Palazola Realty,” Liz explained. “It’s a smart move. Our clam chowder gets them every time.”

  Nell chuckled. “Your sister is born to this job. I see her FOR SALE signs everywhere. You must be proud of her.”

  “I absolutely am. Who would have ever guessed our Stella would become this real estate guru? She’s expanding the firm, adding services, like fixing up old places before she puts them on the market so houses get turned over fast. Who knew she would save crazy Uncle Mario from bankruptcy—or maybe prison? Mom was never sure which would come first. We’re all really proud of her, even though Stell was Mom’s last chance at having a nun in the family.”

  Birdie laughed. “I could have told Annabelle a long time ago that her youngest would do something like this, running a business. Stella’s a lot like your mom, Liz. Only putting her business sense into houses instead of a restaurant.”

  “With Ben Endicott’s help.” Liz looked at Nell. “Stell says he helps her understand all the contract mumbo jumbo and has tackled some of Uncle Mario’s messes, of which there are many.”

  Nell smiled. “He loves it. Stella keeps him on his toes. And in spite of Mario’s shenanigans, Ben likes the old guy, too.”

  Liz stopped at a table near the windows and pulled back three chairs. “Don’t leave without stopping by my office,” she said to Rose. She would give her the cook’s tour of the club, she promised.

  Birdie insisted Rose sit facing the view, then smiled a thank-you to the waitress as she set a small platter of tequila shrimp and crisp toast points in the center of the table.