A Finely Knit Murder (2 page)

“Gabrielle, where is the fire?” Teresa leaned over the tall counter and peered at the student, her long face somber.

“Delivering papers to Dr. Hartley.”

“I’ll take them,” Teresa said, reaching out her hand.

Gabby stared at her arm. It was thin, with knobs at her wrist. The kids talked about the secretary sometimes, but Gabby worried about her. She was so skinny, and had recently done something terrible to her light brown hair. It was a dull blond color and seemed to
move in odd directions. Maybe it was just a wig, Gabby thought, somehow relieved at the idea.

“It’s okay, I told Angelo I’d deliver them—”

“And so you have. To me. You’re two seconds too late to see Dr. Hartley. An important board member beat you to it.” Teresa reached across the counter and took the papers from Gabby’s hand. “Now, off with you, back to class, missy,” she said, and motioned toward the door.

Gabby turned back just once. Just long enough to see the back of a woman with platinum hair, standing perfectly still on the other side of the headmistress’s glass door.

Teresa had turned and was looking at her, too, in an admiring way as if she wished her bleached blond hair didn’t frizzle around her face, but floated back smooth and perfect, every hair in place.

For a second Gabby thought the woman beyond the door was a mannequin, but just then Teresa Pisano turned back in her direction, and her glare prevented Gabby from finding out. She hurried down the hallway to learn more about the founding fathers.

*   *   *

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice came from behind her, scattering Elizabeth Hartley’s thoughts. She hadn’t heard the door open. For a brief moment her heart skipped a beat.

How long had she been standing there, watching her from the back, reading her thoughts?

Blythe Westerland never made a sound when she entered a room—and she rarely knocked. “It’s a finishing school walk,” Birdie Favazza said after a recent board meeting. “One can imagine her with a book on her head, gliding effortlessly and silently on those long, well-exercised legs.”

Elizabeth turned toward the familiar voice. It matched Blythe’s hair and body perfectly—liquid and smooth. The board member was beautiful in that perfect way magazines managed to
accomplish with Photoshop techniques, but in her case, it was real, at least mostly. A few years older than Elizabeth, Blythe always managed to dredge up the same insecurities she had spent her teenage years running from—those years when she watched from the sidelines as others were caught up in social whirlwinds and laughter and fun. The years when she was praised by her teachers for being bright and articulate, when she’d won one academic award after another—but spent most weekends alone in her room with her books and her dog.

But it was different now, she reminded herself. She’d accomplished much since those painful teenage years; even allowing the memory back embarrassed her. It had no place in this office.

She took a deep breath and met Blythe’s eyes. “Have I forgotten a meeting with you?”

Beneath the open windows a riding mower started up, pushing the sounds of the sea into the background.

Blythe didn’t answer. Instead she walked over and stood next to Elizabeth, resting her long fingers on the sill. Her chest rose as she breathed in the air. “It’s truly an incredible view. I never tire of it.”

Elizabeth nodded, waiting.

“We used to have our May Day dance right over there, in the middle of that lawn,” Blythe said.

Elizabeth watched the memories play across Blythe’s face as she looked through the window. The board member was being transported back to a sunny day when the Sea Harbor school was truly a country day school, catering to old New England families. Days when the school’s greenhouse was a stable with horses bridled and ready, when limousines climbed the long, hilly drive at the end of a school day to pick up their charges.

May Day
. Elizabeth had seen the photographs, some of them framed in the library and in the glass cases outside the auditorium. The Maypole strung with colorful silken ribbons, the girls in white dresses, each one clutching the end of a streamer as she whirled and twirled around on the pole. The beautiful young women
surrounding the queen. And surely Blythe would have been one of those queens.

Over the years the May Day practice had become frayed around the edges, just like the school. Other private New England schools had eclipsed Sea Harbor in desirability for the wealthy, and May Day seemed to have diminished in stature, too. It seemed less appropriate, less an event, until Elizabeth had stopped it completely her first year as headmistress. The move didn’t settle easily with some of the parents and board members. But in light of declining enrollment and the expense of the ritual, it seemed out of place, elitist, even in its pared-down state. Elizabeth knew the money would be better spent on scholarships and to repair the roof and choir risers. It no longer fit into her vision of Sea Harbor Community Day School.

Today, along with the nation’s flag, colorful flaps of sailcloth hung from the top of the metal pole—one a school banner that an art student had designed; another, a Boston Strong flag the students themselves had made in memory of that April marathon day they would never forget.

“Who is that?” Blythe said, pointing to a figure moving across the bucolic scene.

Elizabeth looked down at the flagstone path. It circled the mansion and then serpentined down the lawn toward the flagpole.

The question was rhetorical. Blythe was aware of who it was—and why the man was moving resolutely across the grass, his head held high, tousled hair flying every which way and a lumpy backpack strapped between his shoulders. And she probably knew how angry he was, too. Her voice had been the strongest in determining the teacher’s fate. Her determination to have him fired was unusually intense.

Elizabeth watched him casually at first, wondering if someone was taking over his class. Then she looked more closely. Something wasn’t normal about the way he was walking. She pressed her palms down on the window frame and leaned forward, shading
her eyes. The man’s left arm was picking up speed, moving wildly, rotating like a Gloucester wind turbine. At first Elizabeth thought he was waving to someone she couldn’t see, perhaps the old man on the lawn mower.

And then the surface of the lawn around him began to change, like a black-and-white film gradually taking on a wash of bright color.

Slowly, deliberately, the well-tended grass became a painting in progress as angry swaths of reckless, canary yellow circles appeared across the grass.

The color of crime scene tape—ugly and intrusive and announcing something evil.

Elizabeth’s breath balled up in her chest as she watched the drama unfolding on the lawn. It wasn’t so terrible, what he was doing. He was angry, that was all.

What was terrible was having Blythe Westerland standing next to her, watching it.

Then suddenly, as if the music had stopped, the man turned slowly and looked up at the two women, as if he knew they were standing at the windows watching him.

Elizabeth watched carefully, feeling no anger or fear; all she felt was sadness at disrupting a life. She forced a neutral look to her face and started to raise her hand. To do what? To wave at him? To invite him back?

The tall man continued to look, to stare at them, his body perfectly still. She moved slightly, the shadow of the blinds partially blocking her. She watched him with a strange sense of unrest, as if she were listening in on a private conversation. She looked away, concentrating on a spray of paint soaking into the grass.

And then she stared at it again, the random wash of color suddenly transforming into something else. There, in the middle of one of the fuzzy yellow circles, was a stick drawing of a woman, a triangle skirt giving nod to her sex. Slashing through the figure was a
straight line—a street sign:
NO LEFT TURN. NO TRUCKS ALLOWED.
No women . . . No woman . . .

Elizabeth looked at Blythe. Her profile was calm, and little emotion marred her perfect skin. The same half smile, lips just slightly parted, was set in place.

Finally the artist waved, as if happily leaving a festive event. In the next minute he turned and walked resolutely across the lawn toward the old boathouse.

“That’s unfortunate,” Blythe said quietly.

Elizabeth turned away and walked back to her desk. “Dismissing staff is always unfortunate.”

“The dismissal was necessary. I meant his reaction to it.”

Elizabeth knew what she meant. She meant the dismissal must have been handled poorly to generate such a reaction. It meant Elizabeth had failed.

“It’s unfortunate he was hired in the first place, Elizabeth.”

That was the rationale Blythe had brought to the board. He was clearly unsuitable. One had to be careful when hiring artists.

And having a beer down by the dock while he helped Ira Staab paint the school’s old boathouse didn’t help his case. It didn’t matter that it was after the students had gone home. He was on the payroll, Blythe said.

He’d left work early several times, she’d noted. And had spent way too much time at the Artist’s Palate Bar over near Canary Cove, no matter that it was on his own time, his own dollar.

Elizabeth knew those things. She had talked with the teacher about mannerisms, school rules, the importance of schedules. She’d been making progress, she thought.

Until she wasn’t, because the board had decided differently.

“And also unfortunate that the way he was fired somehow stripped him of his dignity. That’s a shame.”

Elizabeth chose not to answer. Instead she glanced at the grandfather clock and sat down behind her desk. “I don’t mean to rush
you, Blythe, but I have an appointment shortly. Is there something you wanted?”

“You’re meeting with Chelsey Mansfield.”

It wasn’t a question.

Elizabeth frowned, wondering when her calendar had become public knowledge. She glanced through the door at Teresa Pisano. Recently the school secretary had become friendly with Blythe Westerland. It was an odd kind of friendship, more an admiration on Teresa’s part. Someone had brought it to Elizabeth’s attention that Teresa had recently bleached her brown hair and begun straightening it into what vaguely resembled Blythe’s perfect bob.

Blythe seemed to like the admiration, even bringing the secretary flowers one day.

Elizabeth pushed away the thoughts that began to crowd her judgment. She put her glasses back on and picked up the Mansfield file. It was a simple progress report on the student, Anna Mansfield, a ten-year-old whom Elizabeth had known for a long time. It was a
good
report. Diagnosed with sensory processing disorder, Anna was sometimes challenged by school and the social world that came with it. But Elizabeth knew that in the right environment and with teachers to help, the student would thrive. And that’s exactly what was happening, as slowly but surely Anna was meeting all the goals her teachers had set for her. She was also proving what Elizabeth suspected to be true, that Anna was probably more intellectually gifted than many of her peers. She just needed a little extra help sorting through the stimuli that made up life. And the other students in the school would only benefit from learning that they weren’t all cut from the same mold.

That was exactly the kind of environment Elizabeth Hartley was creating. And meeting with the child’s mother was the kind of meeting she’d like to have every day—a good student report handed over to a very interested, loving parent.

But of what interest was the meeting to Blythe?

Before she could ask, Blythe stood and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from her white skirt.

“Actually I came in today to give you support when you met with Josh Babson. To make sure the firing went smoothly.”

Elizabeth frowned. If she hadn’t changed the time of the appointment at the last minute, moving it up an hour, Blythe would have arrived at her door at the same moment Josh did.

“It seems I was too late,” Blythe continued. She offered a sad smile and added, “That’s a shame, but what’s done is done.”

Elizabeth looked down at her desk, collecting herself and holding back words that she knew she would regret if they escaped. She would be gracious. Blythe was a board member, a school benefactor—and related to the man who had donated the building and grounds. Finally Elizabeth looked up. “While I appreciate your offer to help, the board hired me to run this school. It’s what I am trained to do. And for better or worse, I cherish this job,
all
of it, even the difficult parts. You and the other board members are wonderfully supportive. But I know you can appreciate that some of the responsibilities are ones I need to handle alone. Especially ones like this. My faculty deserves that kind of respect and privacy.”

Blythe picked up her bag and slipped it over her shoulder. Finally, as if Elizabeth hadn’t spoken, she smiled and looked at her watch.

“I have a meeting with the women’s philanthropic league and a tennis lesson after that. A dinner date in Boston. I need to be on my way.” She glanced down at the Mansfield folder. “But please be aware that the Mansfield child does not belong in my—in this school. Keeping her here is terribly unfair to the other students. Not only that, you are doing the child and her parents a huge disservice.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, Blythe was gone, a cat in the darkening afternoon. She slowed down for a minute at Teresa Pisano’s desk, where she lightly touched the secretary’s shoulder and then disappeared through the main school doors.

“S
ea Harbor Community Day School has a fascinating history, my dear,” Birdie Favazza said. “And I have it on good authority that you are making it even more fascinating.”

Birdie and Gabby sat side by side on the dock just outside Gracie’s Lazy Lobster Café, their legs hanging over the edge, shoulders just touching. One body was so filled with youth that it electrified the air around her. The other—her face a deeply lined map of wisdom and grace and kindness—was filled with the vigor of a long life well lived.

Behind the unlikely pair, sitting on the café’s outdoor bench, Nell Endicott could feel the joy that filled her friend Birdie’s voice. The words were drowned out by the sounds of the harbor—fishing boats coming in for the day, pleasure boats making their way to freshly painted slips, shouts of fishermen and tourists.

“Nick Marietti was a wise man,” Ben said. He sat down next to his wife and stretched his legs out in front of him, tilting his head back to catch the day’s fading rays.

Nell agreed. Birdie’s brother-in-law was definitely that—and Ben was a mind reader, knowing exactly what she was thinking as she watched Birdie and Gabby. Nick Marietti was the mastermind behind the plan to bring Gabby to Sea Harbor to attend school while her father was away. A far better arrangement than living with a nanny and servants in Christopher Marietti’s New York
penthouse. As Christopher himself admitted to his uncle, “Birdie Favazza will be the teacher. Gabby the winner.”

“What’s up?” Sam Perry strode down the pier pushing a stroller. He came to a stop in front of Ben and pressed one foot against the baby carriage lock.

Izzy walked around him and gave Nell and Ben hugs.

“We’re starving,” Sam said. “Isn’t that the plan here? What’s with the sunbathing?”

Gabby pivoted around at the sound of their voices. In the next instant she was off the dock floor and rushing toward the stroller. She crouched down and began coaxing contagious giggles out of a lively Abigail.

“Gee-Gee,” the baby cooed, and Gabby melted right there on the cement dock. Being one of Abby’s first words was a huge lottery win in Gabby’s eleven-year-old mind.

“They’re clearing us a table in the back,” Nell said.

As if on cue, Gracie Santos appeared at the door flapping menus in the air. “Your table is cleared and a basket of the world’s best calamari is waiting for you. Cass is already in there, so you better hurry if you want any food.”

The café owner helped Birdie to her feet before giving hugs all around. Then she held the door open and ushered them into the narrow restaurant.

“Gabby, I hear you’re going to my alma mater,” she said over her shoulder.

“It’s a great school, Gracie. Did you like it there?”

“No.” Gracie laughed. “It was too stuffy back then. I wanted to be in the public school with my friend Cass, but my uncle wouldn’t hear of it. Santos women went to Sea Harbor Community Day School, he said. So I did.”

“The real story, Gabby, is that Cass and Gracie were free spirits,” Izzy said. “Not easily controlled.”

Gracie laughed. “Well, yes, maybe. But I survived.”

“The school is changing. Its focus is different now,” Birdie said.

“That’s what I hear. I’m glad. Though many of the girls loved it. I was the odd man out.”

“The world changes,” Birdie said. “Sometimes institutions need to change, too.”

Gracie agreed and led them through the restaurant, manipulating the stroller as they made their way to the back of the narrow restaurant. They were all Lazy Lobster VIPs as far as Gracie was concerned and she insisted on treating them that way. If Nell, Birdie, Izzy, and Cass—and any men they could recruit into helping—hadn’t spent a large part of one summer painting and sanding and transforming the old fish shack into a clean, bright café, it wouldn’t have existed. Plain and simple.

Gracie’s place was small and comfortable, the interior filled with wooden tables and chairs, and softened by the woven fiber art of Willow Adams that hung above the fireplace. The seascape, created from knotted yarn in blues and greens and lavender, was made especially for the Lazy Lobster. It swooped and curved against the brick wall, a splash of ocean right there in the restaurant. But what set the small café apart from the T-shirt and bait shops nearby were the tantalizing odors of seafood, lemon butter, and fresh herbs that spilled out into the ocean air. And on Monday nights, especially, the place hummed with a generous cross section of Sea Harbor residents, young and old, all craving Gracie’s Monday night family special.

Cass Halloran was standing near a table, her cell phone pressed to one ear. She waved at them and mouthed a hello, then took a step away to finish her call.

Just beyond their table, double doors opened to a small deck that hung directly over the water—the spot where Pete Halloran, Merry Jackson, and drummer Andy Risso were warming up for their version of Monday night karaoke.

Ben pulled out chairs for Birdie and Nell and looked over their heads, waving at familiar faces, mouthing hellos. Nearly every table was full tonight, and Ben knew most of the diners. Practically
everyone in Sea Harbor had depended on Ben Endicott for something, sometime, somewhere. Wills, estates, business negotiations. Folks teased him that his retirement to the seaside community had been a simple transition from wearing suits to shorts and tees—not much else changed.

He waved and nodded to a friend a few tables over and sat down next to Nell.

“It’s good to see the chief getting out some.”

Nell followed his look and smiled. “Well, now. That’s good to see.”

“You two kids,” Izzy teased. “Matchmakers.”

Nell laughed. “Sometimes the stars align themselves. Serendipity. We were helping Elizabeth move into that little house she bought on the end of our street a few weeks ago and decided to go to the yacht club for the buffet afterward. Jerry was there, so we invited him to sit with us. He’s alone too much—and he and Elizabeth seemed to find a million things in common. Jerry laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy himself enormously. Elizabeth told me later that she never dated much. She was always busy—studying, working on her doctorate, taking on extra jobs to make ends meet. And when she did go out, men didn’t seem terribly interested in her.”

“But Jerry thinks she’s fascinating, and the age difference doesn’t seem relevant at all,” Ben said. “I guess that’s one of those things you can’t explain.”

“They were completely comfortable together, that’s for sure,” Nell said.

“Jerry doesn’t always find himself at ease with women, maybe because he’s been fixed up relentlessly since his wife died. He resists it. This wasn’t like that. They were more like old friends, sharing lives.”

“Good for them, I say,” said Birdie. “Police chiefs need to relax as much as the next person.”

Izzy lifted Abby from her stroller and placed her in Nell’s outstretched arms. “So . . . are they, well, a couple?”

Sam pulled out a chair for his wife. “Does it matter? They’re enjoying each other.”

Gabby craned her neck to see who they were talking about, her gaze settling in on her school’s headmistress. “You’re talking about Dr. Hartley and Chief Thompson.” The thought seemed to excite her. She set her lemonade down and, without waiting for an answer, said with some authority, “It’s an April-December romance.”

“What?” Birdie said.

“That’s what the kids call it, Nonna.”

“Well, those are both fine months.”

“The kids talk about the headmistress dating?” Izzy asked.

Gabby nodded and transferred a tower of calamari from the basket to her plate. She licked her fingers. “It’s okay, though. My friend Daisy says the rule of thumb is to never date anyone under half your age plus seven.”

“Whose thumb is that? I wonder,” Ben said.

“Maybe this is one of those things that doesn’t need rules,” Nell said. “Besides, no one in Sea Harbor would care if the rule was broken. Jerry is a remarkable man.”

Gabby agreed. “And she’s cool.”

Izzy remained quiet. Her advanced knitters class at the shop had brought up the subject of the chief and the headmistress last week. There had been way too much talk, such as, “What is the woman thinking? He could be her father.”

“But rule or no rule, it doesn’t matter,” Gabby continued, “because if there is a rule, it’s not broken. Daisy checked it out. Dr. Hartley is thirty-nine and Chief Thompson is sixty-two. So she’s safe, see? Barely, but it still counts.”

Cass walked back to the table and caught the end of the conversation. She pulled out a chair next to Gabby. “How do you know all that, hotshot? It makes me wonder what else you know.” She motioned for the calamari basket to be passed her way and lightly tugged on a single dark braid falling down between Gabby’s shoulders.

Gabby grinned. “I’ll never tell. But you better watch your back, Cass. Daisy Danvers can find anything on the Internet. Anything.”

Cass slipped off her Halloran Lobster Company cap. “Anything? Okay, consider me warned.”

“Like I bet if she were here right now she’d be able to find out who you were talking to on the phone.” Gabby lifted her eyebrows and grinned.

Izzy and Nell looked up. Gabby’s lack of restraint was refreshing sometimes—and often helpful when they didn’t want to ask the question themselves.

But Cass didn’t bite. She smiled mysteriously at Gabby. “That’s for me to know—and you and cybersleuth Daisy to find out.”

The waitress appeared with a pitcher of beer, a menu, and a warmed bottle for Abigail. Without glancing at the menu, Ben and Sam ordered up enough fish tacos, lobster rolls, and sweet potato fries to feed the whole restaurant.

Nell turned toward Birdie and nodded in the direction of the police chief. “Jerry might look relaxed, but Elizabeth looks like the weight of the world is on her shoulders.”

“It was a crazy day at school,” Gabby said.

Nell had forgotten the acute hearing of preadolescents. Gabby didn’t miss a thing.

Gabby continued, telling them about watching the art teacher from the shadows of the lower hall. “I’m pretty sure he came from Dr. Hartley’s office—and he wasn’t a happy dude.”

Birdie looked concerned but tried to cover it over. “Being a headmistress is a difficult job—”

A wave from across the room caught Gabby’s attention, and the incident was left lingering on the table as she excused herself and scooted off to greet a classmate.

Birdie waited a moment and then continued, bringing Ben into the conversation. “Something else happened at the school today.” She described the painted circles on the lawn that she and Harold, her driver, had spotted when they picked Gabby up that afternoon.
“I phoned Angelo to see what he knew about it, but he wasn’t very forthcoming. ‘Just a prank,’ was how he put it. But there was something in his voice that said it was more than that.”

“Angelo is protective of the school. He probably didn’t want news of anything out of the ordinary leaving the school grounds,” Ben said.

“But it will,” Sam said. “News like that travels fast. I was doing a photo shoot down at the boulders and saw the paint, too. My first thought was some art students were painting outside and got carried away, but when I looked through the lens, it looked more like some crazy crop circles.”

“So you immediately went over to take pictures,” Izzy said, knowing how few things escaped her husband’s lens.

Sam laughed. “Okay, sure. I thought about it. But when I got a little closer I saw Elizabeth walking out and motioning to Ira Staab, the old lawn guy. She had her phone out and it looked like she was taking pictures of the paint job. She seemed to focus in on one of the circles. Then she stopped, said a few words to Ira—and in the next few minutes that stretch of lawn was getting a buzz cut like you wouldn’t believe.”

“It’s not wonderful timing, considering the fund-raising gala coming up this weekend,” Nell said. “But I suppose kids will be kids.”

“You think students did it?” Ben asked.

Nell thought about that for a minute. “I guess . . . I assumed . . .”

“Sure it was the kids,” Cass said. “Budding artists showing a little spunk. Sam’s first guess was probably what happened.”

Izzy looked at her sideways. “Don’t even start on Cass Halloran school pranks.”

“Well, whatever happened, no doubt we’ll hear about it at the board meeting tomorrow,” Birdie said.

“Especially if it reflects poorly on Elizabeth,” Nell added. “A few members seem to enjoy bringing things like that up. The meddling and criticism can’t be easy on her.”

“Nell and I are excluded from those who meddle, of course,” Birdie said.

“Of course.” Ben laughed.

“My money says you’re talking about Blythe Westerland,” Izzy said.

Nell nodded. She looked over toward the bar where Blythe stood, tall and elegant, talking with Don and Rachel Wooten.

“Do you know she’s five years older than I am?”

Sam looked at her. “Okay, Cass,” he said carefully. “That clearly requires a response, but I’m not sure what it should be.”

Cass slapped his hand and pulled the basket of calamari out of his reach. “She is well kept, as Gramma Halloran used to say. That’s all I’m saying. Perfect skin. Perfect figure. Perfect everything. Ageless. But I suppose you could comment on my natural, outdoorsy good looks, Sam? Far more appealing to the masses, right?”

“Far more,” Sam said dutifully.

“I get what Cass is saying. Her hair is never messed up,” Izzy said. “And she came into the shop the other day after a tennis lesson. A tennis lesson—the kind that leaves sweaty half-moons on my shirt and my hair a tangled mess. Not Blythe. She’s picture-perfect. White tennis outfit pressed and pristine.” Izzy pushed back in her chair as the waitress filled the table with platters of lobster rolls and fish tacos.

“It helps to live a pampered existence,” Cass said. “A quarterly visit to Canyon Ranch would take these wrinkles out of my face, too, I suppose.”

“Catherine, you’re beautiful,” Birdie said. “And if that delightful mop of yours was constrained and perfect, it wouldn’t have nearly the character it has.”

They all laughed. Cass
was
attractive. And outdoorsy. And even elegant, if she wanted to be, although it didn’t happen often. Running a lobster fishing business didn’t lend itself to designer clothes.