How to Knit a Murder Read online

  “She was right. I’d ask you to knit one for me if it wouldn’t make me look like a ball of yarn that hadn’t yet been worked into a sweater. Purl would have a grand old time trying to unravel me.”

  They chuckled but no one denied it. The coat needed Izzy’s tall, willowy figure to pull it off. Nell looked at the two empty places at the table. “Where are Cass and Danny?” She moved aside as the waitress poured champagne into the flutes.

  “Right here,” Cass said. She gave Nell a hug. “You know Danny. Had to get that last chapter written.”

  “So she says,” Danny said, taking Cass’s coat. “Crazy woman. She insisted we stop by the pier to check on some new lobster traps.”

  The evening had been planned for several weeks. Although dinners together didn’t require reasons, this one was Ben and Nell’s idea: a thank-you for no reason. Their treat, they had said. A thank-you for . . . Just fill in the blanks, Nell had said. Gratitude feeds the soul.

  The fact that it had been exactly ten years since Ben Endicott’s life-altering heart attack—ten years since the couple upended their too-stressful life on Beacon Hill, retired, and moved to Sea Harbor—hadn’t been mentioned anywhere in the invitation. But the fact that the six people gathered around the table had been integral to building their new lives in Sea Harbor—as close and as loving as family could be—rested silently in their hearts. Something to celebrate. Certainly something to be thankful for.

  A shadow fell across the table and they looked up into the eyes of Chief Jerry Thompson, dressed in a suit and tie. People did a double take when running into Jerry out of his police chief’s uniform, the shiny brass badge catching light. It was like seeing a teacher out of school, buying cabbage in the grocery store. It didn’t always compute.

  “Just on my way out but wanted to say hello to my good friends,” Jerry said. “Also to let you know, Ben, that we’re making progress on figuring out where that online piece of crap about the mayor came from.”

  Ben nodded. He and Jerry had met with Beatrice earlier that day, and in spite of Beatrice’s strong and loud assertion that Spencer Paxton III was behind it and that he was trying ruin her life and take her job, there didn’t seem to be any proof. But no one denied that someone had it in for her.

  “Is there a chance he really does want her job?” Danny asked.

  Jerry shrugged. “Rumors. We’ve all heard them. But as far as I know, there’s been nothing official.”

  “This is so difficult for Beatrice,” Nell said. “I guess I’d be upset, too, if someone were digging up the most painful moments of my life and reminding people of them. I wonder if that’s what this meeting is that she practically demanded we all attend tomorrow night.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Jerry said. “She insisted I be there, too, probably wanting me to arrest some hidden blogger who maybe lives in India.”

  They laughed.

  “Maybe she just wants our support,” Birdie said. “And I for one am happy to give it to her.”

  They all agreed.

  Ben suggested that most of the newsletters probably went into people’s spam folders anyway.

  “Maybe” Jerry said. “But some folks at the station were saying that once the rumors started, people went back and dug them out of the trash to see what all the fuss was about. Social media can be a nefarious, pretty awful thing if you don’t use it right.”

  “True. People forward things like that,” said Sam. “It’s the innuendoes that hurt. Why would anyone want to hurt Beatrice? It makes you wonder what’s next.”

  They all resisted the term fake news, though that’s what many of the links below the photo were. Misconstrued comments the mayor had made, twisted facts that made her look bad.

  “Beatrice seems so certain that Spence is involved. She probably overheard something around city hall,” Ben said.

  “She said as much to me,” Jerry said. “And she’s usually right about things. Beatrice doesn’t lie; she doesn’t make up things and not much gets past her. She could be absolutely right, but so far there’s nothing that corroborates it.”

  “If she’s right, it explains the way she acted the other day at the club,” Nell said.

  “But Spence seemed sincere that day, surprised, all those things, right?” Izzy said.

  The story had been spun around and around during the weekend, but in every version, Spencer Paxton had come out of it as an unsuspecting innocent.

  Izzy went on. “I mentioned the online posts to Bree yesterday and she was genuinely surprised. She hadn’t seen any of them. She doesn’t do social media, she said. She did mention that Spence isn’t savvy with things like that, either. Paxton Development had people who did that sort of thing. Spencer mostly just used his phone for texting.”

  “What did she say about the confrontation between Spencer and Beatrice?” Danny asked.

  Izzy shook her head, her smiling brown eyes reflecting the candlelight. “She didn’t know. Can you believe that?” She tilted her head toward Sam. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to listen to every thought in my head, but Spence hadn’t said a word to Bree about it. Nothing.”

  “What did she say when you told her?” Nell asked.

  “Not much. Well, she said one thing. She said sometimes Spencer had that effect on people.”

  “That’s a little strange,” Cass said. “I’m surprised, though, that she didn’t know about it.”

  “Bree doesn’t seem to be in the mainstream,” Nell said, “which is probably much nicer for her. Away from rumors. A safer place for sure, especially if your husband happens to be in the middle of the gossip.”

  “She’s an interesting person,” Izzy said. “She knows what makes her happy—art and people who just let her be and don’t impose on her. Money and looks are definitely not important to her. She’s a genuinely nice person. And I think she’d be miserable if she thought her husband was involved in hurting someone like Beatrice.”

  The police chief stood quietly near Ben’s chair, taking in the conversation, looking as if he were trying to sort out some thoughts of his own.

  “I’m glad she’s escaping the rumors. We should all be so lucky. Unfortunately rumors feed on rumors,” Ben said. “People here are good folks, but no one wants to be left out if there’s something spinning around at Coffee’s or in Jake’s bar. But people also want to protect Beatrice. If Paxton is behind this effort to make Beatrice look bad because he wants her job, I think he’s already lost.”

  That sobered everyone, not because this was the end of the world, but because someone they had known for a long time was hurting. And jumping to conclusions either way wasn’t going to help.

  “It’s a muddle, but it will be sorted out,” Birdie said. Her eyes, however, looked worried.

  Jerry smiled at Birdie with a nod and an understanding smile. “We’ll figure it out, Birdie. You’re right. We take care of our friends.”

  When Jerry’s cell phone rang, conversation stopped.

  He took a step back and pulled it from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. A police chief’s bane, they all knew. Never really off duty. Not even when your dinner companion was waiting across the room, chatting with a group of friends but looking forward to a quiet after-dinner evening with her date.

  Jerry finished reading the text, then looked around the table, not with a smile or frown, not good news or bad. But with a look of slight surprise. “That was Esther Gibson, who has absolutely convinced me that police dispatchers—at least this one—know everything first. I swear, Esther has a magical power. Here’s proof: She has it on reliable sources, she said, that Spencer Paxton III filled out papers to run for mayor of Sea Harbor. They’ll be filed tomorrow.”

  He shook his head and allowed a small smile. “Do you think I should fire Esther? Paxton got the papers on Friday afternoon and our ever-vigilant police dispatcher didn’t find out until today—a forty-eight-hour lapse. She’s clearly losing her investigative edge.”

  Then Jerry
was gone, shaking his graying head at the strange turn of events as he wove his way through the dining crowd, waving here and there to those who recognized the imposing chief no matter what he was wearing.

  Ben looked around the table, his brows arched. “Well,” he said.

  “Well, indeed,” Birdie said.

  “Sometimes competition can be energizing,” Nell said in an attempt to disguise her surprise. “But it doesn’t really matter, it’s a small-town election, a job. It’s not the end of the world.”

  But it was the end of Beatrice’s world if she lost, or so she had insinuated on the steps of the Sea Harbor Yacht Club.

  Chapter 11

  It seemed to Rose that the elevator was moving in slow motion, its cables resisting the man inside the box.

  Rose stood still, listening to the sounds, her eyes held fast on the elevator doors. She practiced her breathing, and then she begged her mother, wherever she was, to stand steadfast by her side.

  And Christopher Robin, too.

  She needed them to be with her. To send good vibes. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, smarter than you think . . .

  The mantra hummed in her head, once, twice, and again, even as the elevator sounds grew louder.

  Stand firm and tall, Rosie Woodley, she murmured to herself. No fainting. No second thoughts. It was why she had come, after all. Finally.

  A sense of relief swept through her, as bracing as a shower—and every bit as cleansing.

  The cables lurched as the locks engaged. A shudder. Then silence.

  And then the doors slid open.

  The man was startled at first when he stepped off the elevator and stared directly into the eyes of a woman just a few yards away, facing him. A stranger in jeans and a messy T-shirt, a tight ponytail and a calm oval face. Neither beautiful nor ugly. Plain. Forgettable.

  Immediately the muscles in his face tightened. He flicked a spec of elevator dust off his jacket and stared at her. “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing here?” His voice was demanding. Harsh. “This is private property. I’ll call the police.” His hand went to his pocket, then stopped.

  Rose said nothing, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. For him to say something to her? To recognize her? To apologize?

  Finally, she looked directly into his eyes, locking him to her. Forcing him to look at her. And look and look.

  “Do you remember me?” she finally asked.

  He leaned his head to one side, then back. Looking. He took a step closer, stopping a foot or two away from her, his eyes hard. He scanned every inch of her with cold eyes, up and down and up again, finally settling soundly on her unremarkable face. There was no flicker of recognition as he continued to stare.

  Rose felt assaulted, but she held firm.

  Finally, after the silence was almost more than Rose could bear, the man broke into it with a harsh laugh. “Okay, lady. I give. Tell me why I would ever remember someone like you.”

  His tone spoke to all the reasons why he wouldn’t remember someone like her. Rose breathed in, then out. And then she told him why he should remember her.

  When her voice reached her ears, she was amazed at how remarkably steady and calm it was, as if she were telling a story to a class of youngsters, an interesting tale with a beginning, a middle, and an end. And with each chapter in her story, Rose grew more distant from it, released from its power.

  She told Spencer Paxton III that he should remember her because, after all, she had provided him with days of fun and laughter when she was a shy and chubby kid in Sea Harbor. When her well-intentioned mother, anxious for her beloved daughter to have friends, had signed her up for swimming and sailing classes at the yacht club each summer, the last place on earth Rose wanted to be. Those years when girls like her were quiet and hesitant—and unnoticed if they were lucky. When she was fragile, unsure of herself and where she fit into life.

  And then she carefully explained to Spencer what his role was in that life, a role he played out magnificently.

  “You stepped in and took it upon yourself to help me out, to mold that image I was forming of myself.” He—the tall, handsome, entitled kid who captained the sailing team, threw a football like Tom Brady, who managed to manipulate a win in every class election.

  Spencer started to say something, then stood back, his arms crossed, his stance relaxed, as if enjoying some kind of play.

  “You were the one who teased and taunted me in order to entertain your friends, to make them laugh and to puff yourself up, the coward’s way to feeling important.

  “You were that young, privileged boy who thought bullying was your birthright and a solid part of that privilege.” Rose paused, her look unwavering.

  And then she said, “You were wrong.”

  Spencer stood still as she talked, a slight frown creasing his tan forehead, as if curious what would come next—and with another part of his brain, trying to place this deranged woman in his life.

  Rose went on, reminding him of how he had noticed her in his summer sailing class, the girl who disguised her chubby-sized suit with a towel, the towel he had pulled off her like a magician would do and joked about her stomach rolling like the waves during a nor’easter.

  About how he had directed her to the starboard side of the boat while moving the rest of the sailing class to port, insisting it was the only way to balance it. And how he had waited far too long to let someone throw a tube to her when she fell over the side one day. But those were only the tip of the iceberg, Rose said.

  And she reminded him how he had gathered his friends outside the school to poke fun at the tall, overweight girl who was out of breath from doing calisthenics with the other girls, who couldn’t climb the rope ladder and had trouble manipulating the climbing wall.

  Suddenly, when Rose paused briefly, an odd look came into his eyes. He held up one hand, as if he’d finally finished a difficult puzzle, the last piece falling into place with a clunk that startled him.

  The first words out of his mouth were loud and profane, and the next ones a surprise to Rose.

  “Math Olympiad,” he said, nearly spitting the words out. His eyes narrowed with scorn, and then turned to anger as his memory cleared.

  Rose stared back, startled and confused. And then a light turned on in her own eyes and she remembered, too. Math Olympiad.

  She forced calmness into her voice, a new understanding washing over her. “Good grief. Yes. I remember now. Math Olympiad. I. Won. Two of us won. Another girl and I won. We beat you,” she said, her voice lifting. “You lost that day, Spencer Paxton—in front of the entire school.”

  “You’re a liar, you stupid broad. You both lied. Everyone knew it. Everyone talked about it. The medal was mine.”

  Rose had almost forgotten about the math program, about winning the competition. How easy it was to remember with such precision the damage that had been done to her by this man. But the awards—the happy times in her life back then—were so easily pushed to the shadowy part of her mind.

  But now, with Spencer as the catalyst, it all came back to her. It was May, the end of the school year.

  Everyone—students, faculty, and family members—had gathered in the school auditorium that day to support the Math Olympiad contestants and cheer the winners. High school students, and one student from the middle school, from the gifted math class. Rose Woodley.

  The whole crowd had watched with interest as three students made it to the final grueling round: two quiet, plain girls—one the youngest in the competition—and another, a tall, self-assured boy who grinned at his friends as he walked out on the stage, waved to his parents, and gave the entire audience a thumbs-up sign.

  And that’s when it all went down. In less time than Rose could remember, the two girls soundly and convincingly defeated Spencer Paxton III—becoming the contest’s first dual champions. First female champions. Rose remembered it all now, a blush coloring her cheeks.

  And then it had hap
pened. Spencer’s classmates in the audience had giggled, the sound rippling through the audience. And then others joined in and it got louder and louder until finally Mr. Pritchard, the moderator, stood up and waved the air down with his palms, quieting the noise, his face beet red as he proclaimed the day a success, and weren’t the kids all wonderful? All thirty of them. Champions for sure.

  Every single one.

  Rose’s mouth dropped open, putting it all together in her head.

  That’s when it had all begun in earnest, she realized now. She hadn’t been the only one Spencer and his friends picked on when they would see her around town and at the beach, and on the middle- and high school campuses. But with her victory that day, it had accelerated into a thunderstorm of shaming and embarrassment that went on that whole summer. And that awful, terrible freshman year when the bullying got worse. The year she wanted to hurt herself, to erase the image that others saw. The image she came to hate, and the one that had taken years and heartache and hard work, meditation and yoga and therapy, to repair and wash it all away.

  But now, on this day, it was finally over.

  * * *

  No sooner had the police chief left Ben and Nell’s table at the Ocean’s Edge, than a pleasant waitress approached with an hors d’oeuvre tray filled with the Ocean Edge’s specialties, including roasted figs with prosciutto, salmon and crème fraîche blini, arancini with almond pesto. Danny and Sam raised crooked brows at the fancy fare, claiming they never ate food whose names they couldn’t pronounce. Instead they greedily scooped up several deviled eggs with salmon, and the basket of calamari.

  “We’re simple men,” Danny explained and offered Cass a bite of his egg. “I grew up on pigs in a blanket. Amazing.”

  Soon the delicate flavors of the appetizers had shuffled the talk of politics to the side, and the dining group turned to more pleasant things, laughing and toasting and reveling in the news that Izzy and Sam’s little Abby was learning her letters, and Birdie’s granddaughter was earning more ice-skating medals than she could fit on her backpack, that next week would be perfect for apple picking, and that the Fractured Fish were playing for a party on the Harriet Webster Pier at the Maritime Gloucester museum.