A Finely Knit Murder Page 8

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “But you know Blythe, maybe better than we do,” Nell persisted.

  “I know her mostly from the yacht club board. She’s a woman of her convictions, opinionated. You have to give her that. And she clearly enjoys being on a board with mostly men, one-upping them when she can. Except—” Ben frowned, remembering something.

  “Except?”

  “Oh, nothing important. We’re on a membership committee for the sailing club. It’s more a formality than anything else—if anyone wants to join, great. We welcome them. Add their name. Take their dues.” Ben put on his blinker, then turned toward the beach road and the route along the water to the school.

  “Your thought seems unfinished,” Nell said. She looked at Ben’s profile. His window was half-open and a breeze ruffled his hair, blending a few silver strands in with the brown.

  “Nope. Not really. I was just remembering that Blythe doesn’t always agree with our open-door policy. It makes me wonder if she brings that exclusiveness to the school board.”

  Nell thought about the words she had hurled at Barrett Mansfield after the meeting. “I suppose she does in a way. I don’t know. She’s hard to read sometimes.”

  “Maybe she’s just opinionated. That’s not always bad. Hey, look up ahead.” Ben pulled the wheel to the left and rounded Paley’s Cove, bringing the school on the hill into view. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was the Fourth of July.”

  To the left, up the gently rising hill, the columned patios, lawn, and lead glass windows of the school glowed against the black sky, shimmering and blinking with hundreds of tiny lights. Lanterns outlined the stone terraces, candles flickered on round white-clothed tables, and soft music floated down the hill, across the winding pathways, all the way down to the edge of the sea. Even the old boathouse was included in the splendid scene, a tiny rope of lights outlining the slanting roof.

  Birdie looked over toward the water and laughed. “One might think that old shack was actually attractive.”

  “Laura Danvers has outdone herself. She’s turned this whole place into an extravagant movie set.” Nell took it all in as Ben drove slowly up the drive. She waved to several couples walking across the flagstone pathways that crisscrossed the sloping lawn.

  “I’d guess some of these folks have never seen the school up close before. It’s a smart thing to do, to welcome the town in like this,” Ben said.

  “Very smart,” Birdie agreed. “It’s certainly intentional. Elizabeth wants the town to use the facilities when that’s appropriate—like the auditorium for community theater productions. She’s even thinking of turning the old boathouse into a small theater that groups could use.”

  “Wise lady,” Ben said. He pulled his CRV into a parking place at the end of the row. “She’s a capable woman. I like her.”

  “And Jerry?” Nell lifted her eyebrows.

  “I like him, too.” Ben laughed.

  Nell nudged him in the side until he offered a slight grimace.

  “Okay, my romantic wife. Sure. Jerry likes her, too. But you knew that.”

  Birdie had already gotten out of the car, and Ben leaned over and gave Nell a quick kiss, then reached beyond her and pushed open her door.

  Blythe Westerland’s yellow Jaguar was parked across from them, the top up tonight. It was shiny and spotless, as perfect as the woman who had almost clipped Elizabeth Hartley the night before. Ben listened to the anecdote, then brushed it off. “Anyone who owns a car like that is very careful not to hit anyone or anything.”

  They walked on, down the row of cars, and spotted Izzy and Sam waiting at the edge of the parking lot.

  Birdie quickened her short-legged pace to keep up with Ben as he headed their way. But Nell pulled back, enjoying the lovely sight of her niece and Sam, and allowing her imagination to add its own flourishes: the glowing school in the background, a cascade of brilliant lights outlining the property, and shafts of moonlight falling down on Izzy and Sam as if it had suddenly discovered this extraordinary couple and wanted to spotlight their presence.

  It was an amazing sight, even if she were the only one seeing it in quite this dramatic way.

  Izzy’s silky blue dress flowed over her body like ocean water. And although Nell couldn’t imagine walking upright in the spike heels she wore, she loved the look—with Izzy’s long, well-toned legs seemingly endless. Just then a rogue breeze lifted the lacy shawl that covered Izzy’s shoulders. It was the shawl Izzy had knit for herself to celebrate the one-year anniversary of the yarn shop. Beautiful hand-dyed sea silk yarn. Designed by Izzy. Knit by Izzy. And now casually thrown across her shoulders with the ease of a model but the abandon of someone who has no idea how lovely she is.

  A stirring inside Nell quickened her pace. Gratefulness. It hit her at odd times, sometimes unexpected, like this one. The children she’d always dreamed of having hadn’t happened for Nell and Ben. But family had happened, and in a bountiful way. Izzy. Then Izzy and Sam. And now baby Abigail. And friends. Rich layers of friends.

  “What’s that look?” Birdie took her arm and smiled up into her face.

  Nell smiled back.

  Birdie knew.

  Ben and Sam left the women standing on the edge of the terrace talking to Father Northcutt, pastor of Our Lady of Safe Seas.

  “You’re here to give the blessing?” Nell asked, knowing the kindly priest would be the last one to miss a good party, blessing or not.

  Father Larry laughed, his chins moving as he tossed his head back. “I’m here to taste that fine Irish whiskey Laura Danvers promised me she’d be pouring.” His smile lit up and added dozens of creases to his round face. Thin strands of white hair fell haphazardly across his freckled forehead. “But the blessing, Nell, my darlin’. Sure ’n I’ll be doing that, too.”

  He moved away then to greet Barrett and Chelsey Mansfield. Since the Mansfields had forsaken Boston and moved into their spacious home down the road from Birdie a couple of years before, Our Lady of Safe Seas’ annex had been given new air-conditioning and a shiny new kitchen. “A good man,” was the priest’s grateful assessment. “A blessing.”

  Nell watched the Mansfields greet the priest, then introduce him to a group of well-dressed guests they had brought to the party. It was a distinguished-looking group who probably had deep pockets when it came to good causes—and the Mansfield daughter’s school would fit the category. If he played his cards right, the kindly priest’s charity ventures might benefit as well.

  “That man has sex appeal,” Izzy whispered, following Nell’s look.

  Nell startled. “Father Northcutt?”

  Izzy laughed. “Barrett Mansfield. He’s often a hot topic in the shop. He’s quite the dude.”

  It was Nell’s turn to laugh. It was nice to know a man could still be a hunk in his mid-fifties. She looked over at Barrett and focused on what Izzy saw. He was handsome—and happily married. Had Blythe noticed his looks? She didn’t seem especially fond of the man, at least not recently.

  “Chelsey enjoys the attention in her quiet way,” Izzy said. “She knows the man adores her and somehow doesn’t even seem to notice the attention he draws. He used to pick her up after her classes in law school and students would practically attack him. Chelsey found it amusing.” Izzy looked over Nell’s shoulder. “Oh, look—there’s Tommy Porter and Janie.” She waved at one of Sea Harbor’s most popular policemen and the nurse they were all pushing him to propose to.

  “All of Sea Harbor turned up tonight,” Nell said. Everywhere she looked, she spotted friends and neighbors, fellow board members, students, and parents. She waved to Elizabeth Hartley, walking up from the shore. She looked every bit the headmistress in a tasteful fitted dress. But tonight she’d added a touch of romance—a lacy scarf the color of the sea that was wrapped around her neck, floating in the breeze. The other touch of rom
ance was less visible—a hand tucked securely into that of the chief of police. For reasons that carried little logic, the sight pleased Nell inordinately.

  Gabby raced over with Daisy close behind, both carrying a stack of programs in their arms. She hugged Birdie with her free arm, beaming with a pride that said the entire evening was her doing. “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, Nonna? Daisy and I helped Angelo light the lanterns.” She pointed to the brass poles planted in the ground. They wound all the way down to the boathouse, each topped with a faceted lamp, the wick inside burning brightly.

  “It’s beautiful. Amazing,” Nell said, looking at the two girls. “As are both of you.”

  Gabby blushed and tossed her head, sending her blue-black hair flying. Daisy pushed her glasses up her nose.

  Gabby turned to Birdie. “Remember I’m spending the night at Daisy’s, cool?”

  “Very cool.” Birdie smiled at Daisy and said, “Your mother said she has a ride to take you both home at nine? If not, I can call my Harold.”

  The two girls reluctantly said yes, they had a ride. They’d stay until the very end if they could, but the headmistress had decided the students should leave at nine. From then on it was an adult party.

  “But,” Daisy said with determination, “we have plenty of responsibilities between then and now, so I guess we better get with it.” Gabby nodded and the two girls turned, as if on cue, and disappeared into the crowd, pleased with themselves and with life in general as they helped people find their reserved tables—a place to drop shawls or purses—and then directed them to “wander all over the place.”

  Birdie’s eyes followed the sway of the lanterns that were planted in the ground, all the way down to the small dock. “There was a time when that dock was three times as large. In the early days of the school, some of the students who lived in the large sea cliff houses or down the shore would come over in boats. Yachts, actually. A parade of them, with young girls in somber uniforms escorted off their boats for a day of learning. The boathouse was a busy place back in those days—and there was more of a beach. Wind and water have taken that away.”

  “Did Blythe live in one of those houses?”

  Birdie nodded. “I imagine so. The captain had managed to build a whole enclave around here, the school being the largest of his homes. They were passed along to his kin, except for this one.”

  “A different kind of life, for sure,” Izzy said. Then added, “I’d never let Abby take a boat to school.” She spotted Cass standing on the lawn near a circle of chairs. She was listening to the student musicians. Izzy waved until she got her attention and motioned her up to the terrace.

  “Did you hear them?” Cass asked as she approached. “Those kids are amazing. That’s Gracie’s cousin on the bass. I used to change her diapers.”

  “You’re alone,” Izzy said. “Where’s the guy?”

  “The guy’s name is Harry, Iz. Harry.”

  “Ah, Harry. Got it. As in Harry Houdini. Invisible.”

  Cass ignored her and spoke to Birdie and Nell. “I had to drop some things off at my ma’s, so he drove over by himself. He’s here somewhere, swallowed up in the crowd. I swear there are a thousand people here—Harry’s probably running into someone he knows from his summers here.”

  “So he knows his way around,” Nell said. “Well, that’s good. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Students are conducting tours of the grounds and the school. He may have joined one of the groups,” Birdie said. The school loomed large and glorious against the sky, its lead glass windows lit from within.

  Nell looked down at the program. The evening was planned in an unusual way, designed to keep people moving, talking, enjoying the grounds, the food, and the school. Instead of a regular sit-down dinner, there would be a series of different small courses with a school bell indicating when new plates arrived at the tables, luring people back to their chairs. Then off again to mingle or visit the bar or stroll down to the water.

  On the other edge of the terrace, they could see the first course being placed on serving trays. Blythe Westerland was ordering people around, standing out from everyone else in a gorgeous shimmering dress. Gracie Santos stood guard, too, checking the miniature lobster rolls and making sure they were positioned on the plates in curved lines, sprigs of parsley separating one from another, and pots of sauce placed in the center as they were delivered around the terrace, one to each table. “It looks like Gracie has donated the appetizers from the Lazy Lobster,” Cass said. “Her donation to her alma mater.”

  “A very generous one.” Birdie waved at Gracie, and she waved back, then added one last sprig of parsley to a tray before heading their way. A breeze blew in from the water and lifted her blond hair from the back of her neck as she approached.

  “This is so great,” she said. “This whole thing. It makes me want to be back in school again.”

  “So . . . good memories?” Nell asked.

  “Not in the beginning. I missed my Cass.” She threw her friend a lopsided grin. “But once I adjusted, I was fine.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” Cass said.

  Gracie laughed. “Yeah. Hey, where’s the guy?”

  Izzy answered for her in a husky Cass voice, “He has a name, Gracie. Harry.”

  Cass dismissed them all with a disdainful wave of her hand and started off in search of Ben and Sam. “At least the guys talk to me about sensible things.”

  Gracie and Izzy followed her, leaving Nell and Birdie to find a quiet space on a stone bench, out of the mainstream.

  People-watching, Birdie said, as well as getting a grip on the lay of the land.

  “It looks so different at night, all lit up like this,” Birdie said. “It’s certainly beautiful—” She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “You still have that feeling of something being off-kilter, don’t you?”

  “Maybe I’m wrapping myself too tightly in first-time mother garb. Wondering about Gabby’s teachers, the homework, the friends she is making. Is she adjusted? Happy?” Birdie reached over and patted Nell’s hand. “Nell, dear—remind me every now and then that I am not young, not a mother, but am a woman ‘of a certain age’ with a million years of experience who knows better than to worry about those things.”

  “And knows better than to imagine danger on a beautiful autumn night. Consider yourself reminded.”

  “I suppose being here and reminded of the tensions that have filled this lovely place recently is having some effect.” She looked back at the lit school, at the lead glass windows and silhouettes of people as they went through the hallways, touring and chatting and drinking wine.

  Fired teachers and disgruntled board members should be the furthest thing from their minds.

  Except.

  “Oh, good grief,” Birdie said. “Now, why would he be here?”

  She pointed toward the flagpole, illuminated by several small spots, the three flags at the top waving in the evening breeze. It was not far from the spot that had so recently been mowed clean of its yellow circles.

  Nell looked over.

  Jane and Ham Brewster stood with a group of Canary Cove artists, soaking in the surroundings with their eyes, as if they all wanted to set up shop with brushes and easels and begin a session en plein air right there in the middle of the party.

  Standing out in the group because he rose nearly a head taller than anyone else was Josh Babson.

  He had forsaken the paint-stained jeans and torn T-shirt and looked presentable, his hair slicked back and clean jeans and a white shirt fitted over his tall, slender frame.

  “He must have come with Jane and Ham,” Nell said. “They bought a table or two and probably invited any of the artists who wanted to come. They know most of the fledgling artists can’t afford it on their own—”

  “Of course, that would be
it,” Birdie said, but her voice didn’t completely disguise her surprise that a recently fired teacher would show up at a school function.

  No matter, whatever the true circumstances of Josh’s dismissal, both Birdie and Nell were happy he had found a job so quickly. “Jane has good judgment. She trusts him in her gallery,” Birdie said.

  “I suppose. The curious part, though,” Nell said, watching as a hoot of laughter rose like a plume from the group, “is why he would want to come to a party at the school. Here, of all places . . .”

  Birdie wondered the exact same thing.

  Of course, they knew the food would be worth it.

  They watched as the lanky artist looked around the grounds while the others were talking. Several students vied for his attention. He grinned and waved, but his look went over their heads as he searched the gathering crowd. He was looking for something, for someone, his expression intent as he stepped apart from the group, his head moving back and forth.

  The friendly expression they’d noticed earlier was gone as he scanned the crowd, replaced by one you wouldn’t expect to bring to a party.

  Josh Babson looked determined. And angry. It wasn’t the same man Nell had met the day before, someone who crouched down to say hello to a toddler and who had spoken with pleasure about his students. About Gabby.

  This Josh Babson looked as if he’d like to kill someone.

  Birdie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders tightly.

  And this time when she shivered, Nell didn’t ask why.

  Chapter 7

  B irdie tucked her arm through Nell’s as they sat quietly, listening to a medley of old Gershwin tunes being played by the student jazz musicians.

  But their thoughts remained on Josh Babson. He had abandoned the group of Canary Cove artists and now stood by himself near the musicians. They were clearly happy to see him. But his posture told Nell and Birdie he was still searching for something or someone.

  “Tonight is supposed to be an evening of goodwill,” Birdie said. “Who’s to say Josh Babson isn’t capable of the same? That’s why he came. Somehow these kinds of messy things work themselves out and the bad feelings go out with the tide.”