A Finely Knit Murder (16 page)

Bob stood, shook his head in surprise, then man-hugged Harry like an old friend.

T
hey’d left the Artist’s Palate a short while after, intending to say hello to Pete and his friends, but the men were nowhere in sight.

When they met the next day to teach knitting to a group of exuberant girls, Cass filled them in.

“They decided to show Bob the town. Pete says he’s a nice guy.”

“And what did Harry say?” Izzy asked.

“He doesn’t say much. Maybe that’s why I like him.”

“Why was he with them?”

“He wasn’t. He stopped in to get a beer. He didn’t see us sitting at the side or he’d have come over. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. Like I said, he doesn’t like to talk much.”

“It looked like he knew Bob,” Nell prompted. She dug into a box and pulled out a supply of wooden knitting needles. They were on the school’s veranda, grateful for the mild day, and pulling chairs and tables together before the girls arrived.

“I asked him. He was kind of noncommittal, but he did offer that they belonged to the same tennis club in the Back Bay for a while. He didn’t stick around. He drank his beer and went back to his place to do some painting.”

“Did Bob talk about his cousin?” Birdie asked.

“Not much. The guys let him take the lead and he didn’t seem to want to go there. He seemed sad, Pete said. Blythe had been dealt a rough hand in life. She had a heap of neuroses generously given to
her and nurtured by being raised a Westerland. In Bob’s mind, that excused a lot of her behavior toward people.”

How little they knew about this woman. There were probably layers and layers to peel off before the Blythe they had known—and the things she had done—would make sense.

And only then would they know why someone killed her.

Izzy put out several baskets of yarn on the supply table, along with the needles and a pile of printed patterns. Each of the knitters had knit up a sample—Cass, a winter hat that she had perfected over the years. She knit one for not only every member of the Halloran lobster fleet, but any fishermen she spotted around town who had a bare head in cold weather. Birdie knit a top-down poncho in soft wool that required no seaming, and Nell and Izzy were adding a collection of dramatic scarves that would make the girls feel like accomplished knitters in no time. And to go along with the scarves, a pattern for fingerless gloves.

“You’re here!” Gabby came out a side door and flew across the veranda, her pleated uniform skirt flapping in the breeze. Daisy was in close pursuit, her shorter legs working overtime to keep up with Gabby.

“Of course we are.” Birdie beamed, embracing her granddaughter.

“Daisy, this will be old hat to you,” Izzy said. “I remember when you took your first knitting class at the shop.”

“It was a cool class,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “My mom says I can knit as well as she does because I had such a great teacher.” She grinned.

“Well, that expertise makes you and Gabby our helpers today. And I promise some time for your own project.”

The two friends had already picked out what they wanted to knit—fingerless gloves for Daisy, and a fringed poncho that Gabby would wear with great flair.

Elizabeth Hartley was the next to arrive. She carried a class list and handed it over to Izzy while Daisy and Gabby took over arranging the supplies.

“A couple of students won’t be here, so the class today will be smaller,” Elizabeth said.

“Just for today?” Birdie asked.

“No, permanently. They’re leaving.”

“The school?” Nell asked. The concerned tone in Elizabeth’s voice was telling.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, then forced a smile to her face and added, “The good news is we have a waiting list for this class, so we’ll fill the spots by next week’s class. It will make a couple of girls very happy. You’re in demand.” Her smile attempted to cover up concern, but her brown eyes betrayed her, even when she slipped on her glasses to read the agenda items Izzy had printed out.

Nell looked over at Birdie. Parents were taking their children out of the school.

Birdie’s concerned expression mirrored her own.

But Nell tried—as Ben often urged—to put a stop on her emotions until she knew all the facts. Often things weren’t as they seemed. Families moved away sometimes. Circumstances changed—Gabby herself was proof of that, starting school a bit after the semester began. But from the look on Elizabeth’s face, it wasn’t as simple as that.

Elizabeth looked at her watch. “I have an appointment downtown shortly. But Mandy White is in her office and can help with anything you need.” She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for something unpleasant, then turned and disappeared into the cavernous school.

A dentist appointment might explain the headmistress’s expression, Nell thought. But Elizabeth didn’t seem like the kind of person to schedule dentist or doctor appointments during a busy school day. An appointment downtown at one in the afternoon could mean only one thing.

Elizabeth was going to be questioned by the police—again.

*   *   *

The class sped by, a roller-coaster ride with energetic fingers tangling and untangling yarn, pulling out stitches, laughing and giggling
and gossiping, girls seemingly untouched by the more serious events going on around them.

“It’s refreshing,” Nell said to Izzy as they watched the girls from a few feet away. “A brief interlude.”

“I heard two of the girls talking about their parents’ new house rules, and the fact that they can barely step out the door without armed guards—I guess those are parents—a few feet behind them.”

“Ten- and eleven-year-olds think they’re invincible,” Birdie said.

Cass walked over. “The kids are stoked about that fall music event. The school must be playing it up. Gabby says they might even let Pete and the Fractured Fish open for them.”

They laughed. It was a lovely diversion, something to look forward to, which most certainly was why the administrators had come up with it. Lighten the mood, bring families together under the magical spell of music.

And by then, absolutely by then, there’d be a murderer behind bars.

Cass walked back to several girls needing help with pulling out stitches. “My specialty,” she claimed.

Nell spotted Angelo Garozzo at the far end of the terrace, talking with some teachers. He saw the knitters and walked in their direction, his gait slow.

“Ladies,” he said, lifting a hand in greeting.

“Your step is heavy, my friend,” Birdie said, walking over.

“And I have a heart to match.”

“It must be difficult for you to be watching this play out,” Nell said.

“Worse.”

“Has something happened?”

Angelo looked off toward the sea. He shrugged. “I spent three hours today down at the police station, surrounded by guys I’ve known my whole life. Or their whole lives, I s’pose, since some are like that Tommy Porter, just young whippersnappers. But they’re
good guys, fair men. And they’re trying every blasted angle they can think of, mapping out that school party like I don’t know what.”

“Mapping it?”

“Drawing lines on a huge blackboard. Who was where when, who talked to whom. It’s a tangled mess. We were all there, and plenty of us had the evil eye for Blythe Westerland that night. Plenty of us.”

“Angelo,” Birdie said quietly, holding his gaze. “I have two questions for you.”

Angelo nodded. He wasn’t the only man in town to stand up straight when confronted by Birdie Favazza. Nor was he the only man who would protect the small silver-haired octogenarian with his life. He leaned in slightly, listening carefully, his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants.

“First, why did you dislike Blythe?”

They all listened carefully for his answer. Although they hadn’t talked about it, Angelo’s feelings toward the woman seemed excessive sometimes, propelled by something they couldn’t quite put their finger on.

At first Angelo didn’t answer. They watched a range of expressions flash across his face as he pondered the question. It was almost as if they could read his thoughts as emotion lit his eyes and clenched his round jaw.

“Okay, you’re right. I never liked her, even before Elizabeth. She needed a life, is how I see it. She was livin’ her life to prove to a bunch of dead men that she was a woman, she was beautiful, and she was every damn bit as powerful as they ever were. Sometimes I’d see her looking up at old Elijah Westerland’s portrait in the school as if to say, ‘See? Who’s the best of them now?’

“Anyway, right or wrong, that’s how I see it. But why did I dislike her? I don’t have nothin’ against powerful women. My wife Hildie’s one of ’em.

“What got my undies in a bunch was the way she treated other people. And especially someone like Elizabeth Hartley, who was
spending her life doing good things for the school and this town. Trying to get her fired. Saying bad things about her.”

Nell listened. They all knew that, board members, even townspeople. “Who else didn’t she like?”

“Is that the second question?”

Birdie smiled sweetly. “No. Nell asked that one, not me. I’m still holding on to mine.”

“There was Anna Mansfield,” he said slowly. The crevice in his forehead deepened, as if he was unsure of how far to go with his own opinion.

“Anna,” Izzy said. “She’s a child. How could she dislike Anna?”

“Right,” Angelo said. “Maybe she didn’t dislike her personally—though I don’t think she liked kids much. I asked her once if she wanted any kids and she looked at me like I’d asked her to eat rotten meat.”

“But Anna . . . ?” Nell asked, pulling him back.

“Blythe wanted the school to be perfect. She didn’t think Anna was perfect. It wasn’t so blunt. She just didn’t think the school should have to spend time on kids who weren’t status quo and smart. But between you and me and the bedpost, I think . . . I don’t think that’s what’s going on here at all . . .”

He looked up, the frown disappearing as if the real answer had come to him as he talked. “I think it was Anna’s father she disliked—and targeting Anna was the best way to get to him. It wasn’t Anna at all.”

The thought settled in with a thud.

Izzy looked over at the girls, worried that one of them might have heard. But they were happily knitting and purling with determination in their fingers and sitting as straight as only ten-year-olds can sit. Izzy walked back to them, a shepherd protecting her flock from all cruel thoughts—and from grown-ups who do cruel things.

“Just my opinion, you know,” Angelo said, watching her walk away.

Several of the girls now looked as though they could use an accomplished knitter nearby and Cass followed Izzy, knowing “accomplished knitter” was a relative term when coming from a ten-year-old.

“I need to move along, too,” Angelo said. “You nice ladies are going to get me fired for all this lollygagging.” He turned to leave.

“There’s still that last question, Angelo,” Birdie said, pulling him back.

“One more. Okay. One. Throw it at me, Birdie.”

“Why do you think Blythe Westerland was killed?”

Angelo stared at Birdie as if she’d asked him if he loved his wife. Or his job. Or Sea Harbor. It was as clear to him as the sun or moon or the stars he and Hildie watched through his telescope. Finally he answered, “Blythe hurt lots of people. But that night, the night of that party, she must have caused in someone a pain so awful that it killed something in that person. A pain so great, it drove that person to retaliate. To take a life.

“Hers.”

I
t was the only free night they had all week, Ben was quick to remind her. And he needed some fresh air. Art, fresh air. Who could say no to that?

Nell was tired, bone-weary. Maybe it was trying to keep up with the frenetic energy of young girls in the knitting class. Or maybe the strain of the worrisome days. Her head was full of frizzled, dried-out thoughts.

What she wanted to do was curl up on the couch with Ben’s comforting arm around her, a glass of wine nearby. And let the quiet of their home seep in and soothe her body and spirit.

But mostly she wanted to be with Ben. So she said, “Sure. Fresh air is good,” and slipped on a sweater to ward off the evening chill. “I’ve been wanting to see Jane anyway.”

“But not Josh Babson,” Ben said, grabbing his keys.

Nell smiled, following him out to the car. “Oh, sure. Why not?”

Ben backed out of the drive and they headed down Sandswept Lane. “I left Elizabeth Hartley a message early this afternoon saying we’d stop by later tonight with sandwiches. She texted back, saying she’d be home. This couldn’t have been a good day for her.”

Nell was silent, feeling a wave of guilt. Between the knitting class, the girls, and the uncomfortable talk she had had with Angelo, she hadn’t given Elizabeth another thought. Until now.

Elizabeth had left school in the middle of the afternoon. Off to
an appointment, she had told them. And they all knew—or thought they knew—with whom she was meeting. Of course she hadn’t had a good day. How could being questioned by the police be good?

“Did she say how she was doing . . . ?” Nell began.

Ben was quick to answer and change the conversation. He’d only be guessing, he said. “Let’s wait and see for ourselves.”

They drove in silence for a block or two, trying to do as Ben suggested. Wait and see.

Finally Nell said, “Have you had any luck finding Blythe’s will?” Facts, mundane tasks, were easier to deal with than emotions and a woman’s spirit being slowly eroded.

Ben nodded that he had. “Bob looked through her things and found the lawyer she used. Apparently she switched her entire inheritance away from the Westerland financial advisers just as soon as she could. I talked to someone in one of the Boston firms that represented the family. He said that before the dirt had settled on her father’s grave, she effectively took every cent, every investment, and moved it as far away from Westerland lawyers as possible.”

“Was she the only heir?”

“There were a couple families that broke away a long time ago and never lived up here. But Blythe is the only one from the Boston branch. The rich branch, as one of the lawyers so delicately put it. She was the only woman and the sole heir, something the lawyers thought would turn old Elijah and his progeny over in their graves.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t like women, except to cook and bear children, preferably male ones.”

“How awful.”

Ben agreed. “The man I talked to was new enough with the Westerlands’ firm that he didn’t know any of the Westerlands, but their reputation echoed in the hallowed halls, he said. The Westerland men ruled everything and anyone they could get their hands on. One banker compared them to the Koch brothers—those guys in Kansas. Rich and powerful and controlling.”

“But how does that explain Blythe?”

Ben glanced over, then back to the road. “What do you mean?”

“She’s a puzzle, a contradiction. You’re insinuating that she wanted to separate herself from the Westerlands, which—if her cousin’s account is correct—is understandable. But sometimes she seemed proud to be a Westerland. And she loved the building that her great-grandfather once raised a family in and then turned into a legendary school. She loved it; I honestly believe that. And I think she was sincere in her efforts—as ill-founded as they were—to restore it to the way it was twenty-five or thirty years ago: a pristine institution for young women of means.”

Ben listened, nodded slowly. “You’re right. It’s difficult to figure out how—in that bundle of contradictions—anyone will be able to pull out a reason why someone might want to kill her.”

They played with the jumbled, confusing facts as they knew them, the complicated woman they knew—and didn’t know—finding little in them that brought logic or sense to her murder.

Then Nell remembered her original question. “So, where is her will?”

“It’s with the firm she transferred her affairs to. We’ll get it in the next day or two.”

“Has Bob seen it?”

“He will. He’s coming back up tomorrow or Friday. We’ll set up some meetings. Jerry needs to talk to him again. More questions, along with the hope that some answers he gives might lead somewhere. Father Northcutt talked to him today before he left. He suggested they put together some kind of memorial for her. Bob thought that was a good idea. They’re going to finalize those details when he comes back.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I like him.” Ben brought the car to a stop, allowing several joggers to cross the road. “At first I was put off a little. Maybe it’s because I expected to see more sadness in him.”

Yes, there was that. “Izzy mentioned that, too. He was friendly, but she couldn’t figure out what was beneath that top layer.”

“Izzy is very observant when she gets in her lawyer mode.” Ben pulled into the parking lot at the edge of the artists’ colony. “Some people don’t wear their emotions on their sleeves, and I think he’s one of those people. And Blythe was complicated. By the end of our meeting, I figured he cared. And he’s a sailor. If there’s time, Sam and I will take him out. He’d love to meet the Hinckley, he said. That’s in his favor, too.”

They walked together beneath the clear sky, lamplight guiding their way down Canary Cove Road to the Brewster Gallery. The pleasant weather had brought out more people than usual on a Wednesday night. Maybe they weren’t the only ones who heeded the e-mail about Josh’s paintings and decided to take a peek before the weekend traffic.

Or maybe they were all trying to act as if things were normal in Sea Harbor. It was a safe seaside town. And whoever had ended Blythe Westerland’s life in such a tragic way was long gone from the town and, hopefully, even the earth. Nell waved at Don and Rachel Wooten, walking across the street to the gallery.

They could hope.

Josh didn’t have enough paintings yet to have an official show, Jane had said, but she wanted people to get a taste of what he could do, so she was highlighting a few oil paintings in the small room off the main gallery area. Whet people’s appetites, she said.

Nell knew Jane well. She was always thinking of the artists’ colony she and Ham had founded all those years ago, but even more, she was thinking of the artists who lived and worked there. Another motivation in staging a middle-of-the week invitation would be to help the other galleries, to fill them with visitors if she could, to help the artists now, before the long months when winter closed the galleries weeknights—and some during the day.

They spotted Cass a block ahead, heading in the same
direction. Beside her, Harry Winthrop lowered his head, leaning in to catch whatever Cass was saying.

“Looks like we won’t be the only ones there,” Ben said.

“Mary Halloran’s birthday is coming up. Cass wanted to get her mother a painting of a fisherman.”

Ben laughed. “Mary has even more of those than I do.” He took Nell’s hand, wrapped it in his larger one. “So, what do we think of this Harry fellow?”

Nell could see Cass’s hands moving as she talked, explaining, directing. “I don’t know. He’s handsome. He takes Cass to nice restaurants. His place in Boston has a plumbing problem or something, so he’s stuck here for a while. And none of us can get a good reading on him from Cass. Her feelings are safely hidden beneath that stubborn Irish facade of hers.”

Ben listened, more amused than concerned.

Ham Brewster met them at the gallery door, a cup of coffee cradled in his large hands. He clapped Ben on the back. “Glad you’re here. I think you’ll like this guy’s work.”

“He can’t like it too much, Ham,” Nell warned.

“You can always build an addition.” Ham lifted one bushy eyebrow and stroked his beard.

Nell glowered at the gallery owner, then followed it up with a hug. “Let’s go see what I’ve heard Jane rave about.”

They walked toward the adjoining room, its center wall displaying several paintings, all by Josh Babson. Small strategically placed lamps highlighted each painting.

Several people were grouped around them, quietly admiring the new artist in town.

Nell looked around. Harry and Cass were standing near a refreshment table talking to Jane. Others milled around the gallery, in and out of the three rooms, admiring the eclectic art Jane and Ham represented. The Brewsters’ own paintings and pottery were in their usual niches and cubbyholes, always changing and always coveted and quickly purchased.

“Where’s the artist?” Nell asked Ham.

“He’ll be back. He went out to grab a sandwich. Josh isn’t the most sociable artist in the Cove, but he promised to show up.”

“But you like him?” she asked quietly.

“Well, look for yourself.” He pointed toward the exhibit.

It wasn’t what Nell was asking, and both she and Ham knew it. But it was a better answer for now. She moved through the wide archway into the space that had been arranged for Josh’s paintings.

The space in front of the paintings had cleared, and Ben and Nell stood several feet apart looking at a series of small seascapes, all oil paintings, and all showing a breadth of color and light and unexpected emotion. From painting to painting, the vibrant sea changed in personality, from a golden, pink-streaked dawn with the silhouettes of two fishermen on the side; to another focusing on a still sailboat, the light seeming to come from the sails themselves; to dark, foreboding swirls at night, softened only so slightly by a sliver of moonlight.

Nell looked at Ben. He was concentrating on the smaller paintings with a familiar glint in his eye. He was becoming immersed in the sea he loved. It was the look that most often led to having to clear space on an Endicott wall.

Nell sighed and moved a few steps over to a larger painting at the end of the row, framed simply in a polished maple frame.

It was stunning. A majestic, fierce sea with a brilliant burst of light above the swells, so bright it caused one to squint or blink, blurring the images around it.

Nell took a step back and looked again, her eyes adjusting to the light. The images at the edge of the sea slowly came into focus: a mound of gray, rugged rocks—romantic and sinister at once.

Familiar boulders, familiar angles, flat and sharp, with just a faint shadow of an old boathouse at the edge of the painting.

A scene that she knew only too well. One she might not have recognized, had it not so recently turned her dreams into terror.