A Finely Knit Murder (10 page)

B
en didn’t mean it of course, not literally. But as Jerry Thompson put it, each one of the guests and staff who attended the amazing party that Friday night could have, might have, seen something that might help them figure out how—and why—Blythe Westerland’s life ended in such an inglorious and tragic way.

Far more sobering was the thought that the person responsible for the tragedy could have been strolling around on the lawn under that perfect moon, drinking champagne, eating Gracie’s lobster rolls, laughing, and having a good time.

“But it could have been someone who came along the shore, not a guest at all,” said Ben. “People climb on those boulders all the time—and the boathouse shielded the spot from people on the lawn.”

“So it could have been anyone. Anyone in the whole universe,” Izzy said. Her voice was edged with fear and anger that her baby daughter could be exposed to horrible things, no matter how hard she tried to protect her and hold her close.

She stood and picked up Abby, whose face was covered with cream cheese. She pressed her sweet face into her blouse, ignoring the white smudges that would still be there when she put her down. “I have to get to the yarn shop. Mae’s nieces are helping out today, but it’ll be crazy.”

“Do you want me to keep Abby?” Nell asked.

Izzy shook her head. She wanted Abby with her. Nell understood. And Abby loved the commotion and attention the shop provided, especially the Magic Room, a small room in the shop that Izzy had filled with toys for children whose mothers were shopping. Today Izzy needed her close, around the corner hugging a rag doll or knocking over blocks.

“One thing, though—” Izzy looked at her aunt. She paused, but only for a minute.

“I’m thinking dinner together would be nice. Is seven okay? Your house?”

Nell smiled. Of course it was okay. And the thought had already taken root before Izzy ever mentioned it. They had missed their Friday on the deck, after all.

Dinner would be better than okay.

*   *   *

After the others left, Birdie and Nell rinsed the coffee cups and put them in the dishwasher. They were quiet, their thoughts fragmented, unable to find a focus.

Finally Birdie said, “It’s Gabby’s school. That makes it seem so close, so personal.” Her voice was soft, her eyes on the towel she was using to wipe out a cup. “A woman . . . was murdered there. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Nell nodded. And she knew there wasn’t anything Birdie could do with it. Not today. Not yet. And maybe not at all. Gabby wasn’t in danger. She’d be safer now than ever before with the eyes of Sea Harbor on the community day school. Any other alternative didn’t make sense.

She hung the towel on a rack and reached for a sweater. “Let’s check on Elizabeth. Imagine what her thoughts must be.”

“This is an awful thing, no matter the circumstances,” Nell said as they walked up the shady street to Elizabeth’s bungalow just a few houses up. “No one deserves to die in such a horrible way and we all feel sadness over her death. But there’s an extra layer of
emotion, I think, when the person was someone you might have disagreed with.”

“You feel even worse?”

“Maybe. A friend in college had a horrible fight with her boyfriend just an hour before he stopped at a QuikTrip for gas. He was killed there in a random accident. We all felt awful about his death. But Charlotte was inconsolable, as if somehow the breakup was the cause for his death. If only she had done this or that.”

“So Elizabeth may feel worse because . . . because of what?”

Nell was quiet. It was a fair question. Where was her thought going with all this?
Because of what?

“I know what you’re thinking, Nell, but I think you’re imposing our feelings on Elizabeth. We didn’t like the way Blythe treated her. We didn’t appreciate the things she said at the board meeting. But we don’t know how Elizabeth feels or how she was handling it. Maybe it was just a little problem along with many others that you deal with when you’re the administrator of a school. It’s business. Who knows, maybe she had no feelings about Blythe whatsoever. Neutral. We all know someone we feel that way about, especially when it relates to business—which is what her relationship with Blythe was—board business, school business.”

It was business . . . until it was murder.

But Birdie was right. Elizabeth guarded her feelings closely. Except that night at the Lazy Lobster. She looked whipped that night. And although Nell didn’t know it for a fact, she strongly suspected it was Blythe who had contributed to the whipping. They had seen it in action at the board meeting.

They walked up the short walkway to the plain bungalow that Elizabeth had turned into a bright harbinger of autumn. Huge pots of mums and Gerbera daisies welcomed them, and turned the plain gray-shingled home into a reflection of autumn.

Before they had a chance to ring the bell, Elizabeth opened the door.

It was the first time Nell had seen Elizabeth dressed so casually.
It startled her for a moment—the Harvard T-shirt and jeans stripped the headmistress of her usual formality. With her face free of makeup and her hair slightly disheveled, she looked even younger than her almost forty years. And vulnerable.

“We came by to make sure you’re all right. It’s been a terrible few hours for you. What can we do? Do you need anything?”

“I don’t think so.” Elizabeth took a deep breath and released it slowly, then pushed a stray curl behind her ear and admitted ruefully, “Actually I’ve been standing in the middle of my kitchen for fifteen minutes, debating about getting coffee somewhere—I’m completely out. Jerry told me not to go over to the school today, which is what I usually do on Saturdays.

“So I considered getting out in the fresh air to get a cup of coffee. It seemed like a good idea. I thought it might clear the fuzziness from my head. But seeing people—students, parents, maybe—kept me from going very far.”

“Coffee and nourishment,” Birdie said briskly. “That’s an excellent idea and one we can help you with very nicely. If you’d like company, we’ll walk with you. It’ll be good for all of us. Come—let’s go.” Birdie’s arm motioned toward the door.

The tension in Elizabeth’s face lessened a little as Birdie took charge. She needed a minute to get her purse, she said, then reappeared from the side door and met them on the sidewalk.

“A good idea, yes?” Birdie said, and without waiting for an answer, began walking briskly down Sandswept Lane.

Nell waved at several neighbors raking leaves and some bikers heading toward the beach. As they neared Harbor Road, Birdie suggested a change in direction. “I think we should head to Canary Cove instead of the Harbor Road haunts. There’s a wonderful little place there—Polly Farrell’s Tea Shoppe. Polly makes the best soup on the East Coast. And she has great coffee, too, in spite of the name. It’s just a slight detour, but it might cure all our ills.”

Birdie’s reasoning was crystal clear to Nell—and wise. Canary Cove was a longer walk but a way to avoid the more crowded lunch
places on Harbor Road. Crowds were something Elizabeth didn’t need to tackle today. Whether or not Birdie was right about it curing all their ills was a little optimistic. Nell suspected it was going to take more than soup and coffee to do that.

They moved close to the side of the road as a biker headed their way. Then they smiled and waved as they recognized Harry Winthrop, helmet in place. He waved back, slowed slightly, then stopped, balancing the bike with one foot and taking off his helmet. “Found this old thing in the garage,” he said to Nell and Birdie. Then he turned to Elizabeth, assessing her for a minute. He nodded slightly as if surprised to see her, then slipped his helmet back on, waved a good-bye. In the next minute he picked up speed and disappeared around a curve in the road.

“Who was that?” Elizabeth asked. “He looks familiar.”

“I’m sorry—I should have refreshed your memory,” Birdie said. “You met him at the party—he was a guest at our table.”

“I’m afraid it’s all a blur,” Elizabeth said. “But I vaguely remember meeting him or someone pointing him out.” She turned around to look again, but both the bike and rider had disappeared from sight. “The more I try to bring clarity to last night, the more the evening escapes me, turning into a hazy surreal event.”

Nell nodded. “I think we all suffer from some of that. A beautiful evening with such a tragic ending—it’s difficult to separate it all out.”

They crossed the street and walked briskly along the narrow road toward the art colony, talking about mundane things like the weather and the increasing number of sea lions basking on the harbor rocks. It would be easier to talk at Polly’s place—and the soup and sandwiches might bring the color back into Elizabeth’s face.

The two tables out in front of the Tea Shoppe were empty, and Nell suggested Birdie and Elizabeth grab one while she went inside and ordered.

Polly waved to Nell and mouthed that she’d be with her in a minute, giving Nell time to read the blackboard menu, even though
in the end, she would order whatever Polly told her to order. She loved the tiny restaurant, from the hand-painted teapots lining the shelf on the wall, to the old, uneven tables and chairs that often tipped to one side or another. She never brought Ben here, fearful a chair might collapse beneath his over six-foot heft. But take-home soup was always greeted with delight.

There was a scattering of people at the half dozen tables inside. She waved at Margaret Garozzo and Harriet Brandley, two Sea Harbor natives who had known each other for fifty-plus years and never run out of things to talk about together. Their heads nearly touched as they chatted and gossiped. The cheerful expressions on their faces indicated they hadn’t heard the news of the murder yet. A cherished state, Nell thought. Harriet and Margaret were still living in a town that felt safe and relaxed. They were probably talking about a trip north to catch the early leaves, or Harriet’s son’s new book, or Izzy’s latest shipment of merino wool.

But not murder. Not yet.

A few artists Nell knew slightly looked up, waved, then went back to bowls of Polly’s cucumber dill soup and flaky rolls.

At a window table she spotted Mary Pisano and started over to say hello. Then she stopped abruptly. Mary was sitting with her cousin Teresa, whose eyes were damp, her expression distraught.

The realization hit Nell when she noticed the tears: Teresa worked at Sea Harbor Community Day School. She tried to remember her position. She wasn’t a teacher—maybe a librarian? Or an administrative assistant? She knew she’d gotten e-mail notices about board business from her occasionally.

Her oblong, frowning face—so opposite her lively cousin Mary’s round, always expressive, one—was drawn and immeasurably sad. She was younger than Mary by at least a dozen years, probably close to Izzy’s age—but her face today looked prematurely aged, as if the tragedy at the boathouse was a personal one. Her unnaturally blond hair was drab, a few strands clinging to her
damp cheeks. Across from her, Mary listened, nodded, and occasionally gave her cousin’s hand a sympathetic pat.

It would be a difficult day for anyone connected to the school. Blythe was well known to the teachers and staff. And probably some of the students, too, since she seemed to be more involved there than most of the board members. And she was a colorful figure, a beautiful woman, not someone you met and forgot easily. Teresa would surely know her.

Nell turned away just as Polly called out to her from the counter—three bowls of today’s soup were ready to go. She motioned for Nell to get the door for her and she carried the tray of soup and warm rolls to the table.

Nell introduced Polly to Elizabeth. Polly wiped her hands on her apron, then shook Elizabeth’s hand. “My niece Karina is a student at your school. Look her up. Karina Farrell. She’s a wonderful girl, smart as the dickens, and she loves school. Loves it. Every single minute of it.” She spotted a customer walking through the door and flapped her hands in the air. “No rest for the wicked, now, is there?” She smiled broadly and hurried back inside.

“This place is a hidden gem,” Birdie said. “Lots of folks think it’s just a place to get tea and crumpets and we don’t tell them anything different.”

The soup was creamy, spicy, and delicious, the coffee strong and fragrant, and the conversation purposefully mellow. In a short time, the combination had brought color to Elizabeth’s cheeks and a wakefulness to her eyes.

“You two are just what I needed today. I know Jerry wants to be a help to me—but he can’t right now. It’s . . . it’s so complicated with his job, and my role at the school. The whole thing is a nightmare.”

“But Jerry is a wonderful man,” Nell said. “He’ll make this go away—for all of us.” The words were hopeful, but held little meaning.

Elizabeth breathed deeply. “I hope so, Nell. I don’t even know
which way to turn or how to prioritize. I have to make some decisions—how to deal with the staff and the students, not to mention the board members. Jerry wants to separate the . . . the murder . . . from the school as much as we can. It was something that happened down at the shore. Not in the school. Not even on the terraces or the lawn. Take it away from the students and their learning here at the school as much as possible.”

It made sense, but it would be difficult to do. They knew that. Blythe was closely connected to the school. It had happened during a school event. The deceased was at the party.

And quite likely the murderer was, too.

The look in Elizabeth’s eyes told them that no matter how wise the plan was, she was more than acutely aware of the difficulty of the task.

Nell pushed back her chair and began reaching for her purse as Birdie and Elizabeth gathered napkins into a pile.

It was when Nell stood up that she noticed the man watching them from across the street, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Josh Babson leaned lazily against the Brewster Gallery. His tall figure, nearly reaching the top of the window frame, was clearly identifiable. His eyes were focused intently on the diners in front of the teashop.