Patterns in the Sand (12 page)

 

 

Nor, Willow said, did she murder the man. A ridiculous suggestion, she had told the chief in very clear, somewhat colorful terms.

 

 

But in spite of her bluster, Ben thought he saw a dampness in the corner of her eyes. And he had no idea what that was about.

 

 

The interview, Ben said, had left Jerry Thompson frustrated. But it had brought color back to Willow’s cheeks, lit her eyes with fire, and by the time she set off on the bike, she had enough energy in her small body to ride from Massachusetts to Michigan or Wisconsin or wherever the hell she was from.

 

 

 

Grilled shrimp satay with a light, tangy peanut sauce, toasted pearl couscous with lemon basil, tomatoes, and chunks of fresh mozzarella cheese from Harry Garozzo’s deli. That should do it, Nell thought. Birdie would arrive with chilled wine, and Cass had already put the pistachio ice cream from Scoopers into the freezer.

 

 

The food wouldn’t lessen the drama of the day, Nell knew, but it would definitely help. And Thursday night knitting without food and drink simply wasn’t Thursday night knitting.

 

 

Nell walked over to the wall of windows at the back end of the studio’s knitting room and looked out over the harbor and the sea beyond. This view from Izzy’s shop usually brought her peace on hectic days. From here she could see all the way to the breakwater and protected beach of the yacht club at the northern edge of the town. A tentacle of land below it jutted out into the sea and held a park that was special to the whole town, Anja Angelina Park—or Angus’ Place, as the locals called it.

 

 

And a little closer in, the shore swung around like a jump rope and embraced Canary Cove, its narrow roads dotted with the studios and galleries. She could see the old rickety dock below the Artist’s Palate. It looked empty today, though from this distance, Nell couldn’t really tell. Several small motorboats, probably belonging to artists from the cove, were moored to the side of the dock closest to her and bobbed in the water. For a minute, she imagined Aidan sitting at the end of it with Jane and Ham, their legs hanging over the edge, cold beers in hand as they mused about life, art, and love—and funerals.

 

 

Had Aidan thought of his will while sitting out there with his good friends? Had he entertained the thought of leaving everything he owned and had worked a lifetime for to a strange young woman named Willow? Maybe she had come into his studio that day as she wandered around Canary Cove. Maybe he’d looked at her with those deep, penetrating eyes—and he saw in the young woman the seeds of a talented artist, one without obvious means—and on a whim, he wrote her into his will. It was not a gesture most people she knew would make—but Aidan marched to a different drummer. There was no telling what Aidan Peabody would do.

 

 

Nell sat down next to Purl on the padded seat below two open windows. The cat was curled up tight and looked like a ball of calico yarn. Absently, she scratched Purl behind her ears, thinking about Willow and half listening to Izzy and Cass in the next room—the cotton room, Izzy called it, because three walls were filled from floor to ceiling with white cubbies crammed full of soft and nubby, bright and muted skeins of cotton yarn. A new shipment of a cotton-silk blend had arrived today—an event not unlike Christmas morning for Izzy—and the two women were emptying the packing crates and filling the cubes, but not without touching and smelling and rubbing the fibers against their cheeks.

 

 

It was an addiction,
Nell thought with some pleasure. There was far more to knitting and purling than making a sweater or scarf or pair of socks. Far more.

 

 

“There you are.” Izzy came into the room, taking the three steps beneath the archway as one. Her arms were filled with twisted skeins of yarn, rich blends of cotton and silk in shades of peridot, cornflower, and all the colors of a summer rose garden. Cass followed close behind and immediately headed over to the table, where Nell had set out a basket of pita chips and a round of creamy Camembert.

 

 

“Oh, my,” Nell breathed, taking in the beautiful colors of the yarn. She got up and walked over to touch the vibrant yarn.

 

 

“I know, Aunt Nell. Aren’t they beautiful?” Izzy dropped the yarn on the coffee table, then sat down onto the couch and began lining up the skeins. “They’re all hand-dyed. It’s so scrumptious you won’t be able to keep your hands off it. The colors are unbelievable. I brought an assortment for you to see, but it’s the peridot-and-cobalt blend that I think you should use for your next project.”

 

 

“Use?” Nell had more unfinished projects than she could count—a knitter’s badge of honor, Izzy told her—but she was trying very hard to finish the blue cashmere scarf for Ben and a wool shawl for Birdie’s birthday. The shawl would give Birdie some warmth during the long Sea Harbor winter—something to wrap around her shoulders as she curled up in Sonny Favazza’s den, Birdie’s favorite room in the seaside estate Sonny left her. And then there was the sweater she wanted to make for Izzy. “What am I going to use it for?” She braced herself for Izzy’s answer, suspecting strongly another project was less than a few inches away from her.

 

 

“I think it’ll be perfect to use for Willow’s sweater. It will be all the colors of the sea blended together. This will be perfect, and I know she will love it.”

 

 

“Willow?”

 

 

“Don’t you think so? We can take turns working on it if you’re too busy—our stitch tension is about the same. It’ll be a nice reminder of Sea Harbor—and a thank-you for sharing her art with us.”

 

 

“She’s still willing to talk to your customers?”

 

 

“Well, I’m not sure, actually. We were going to meet today, but she never showed up. I guess maybe she won’t want to, with all this craziness going on in her life. But Sam saw her today—she was over at Brendan Slattery’s house. It’s right near Sam’s new place—he was having it inspected and ran into her and Brendan bringing in some groceries. Anyway, she told Sam she might join us tonight.”

 

 

“So she stayed with Brendan all day,” Nell mused, half to herself. She had walked down to the guesthouse several times, worried about Willow after the morning’s trauma, though Ben had assured her that the Willow who drove off on the bike looked like she could handle just about anything that came her way. A beach house was probably a good place for her, Nell thought, away from the speculations that had already begun to spread around the town.

 

 

Cass looked over from the table, where she was cutting a fat wedge of Camembert. “So another mouth for our knitting feast?” She raised a questioning brow.

 

 

“Nell always brings too much food—you know that, Cass. Name the Thursday we didn’t have leftovers.”

 

 

“But the leftovers are the best part of it,” Cass grumped. “They’re my Friday lunch and dinner.”

 

 

Nell laughed at Cass’ feeble protest. For all her complaints, she’d be the first to invite someone to join them if there was a need. Though Izzy, Cass, Birdie, and Nell had met in the back room of Izzy’s studio almost from the shop’s beginning and
were
the Thursday Night Knitting Club, they never turned anyone away who needed company or a brief hiatus from their life. And they hadn’t yet been short on food, even when Cass went back for her usual seconds and sometimes thirds.

 

 

The group itself had formed by serendipity—a chance meeting on a lovely summer night of four women who shared a passion for knitting.

 

 

Well, that wasn’t exactly true, Nell thought. Cass had clearly come in that night because she smelled the lemon seafood pasta. Nell had brought it in for Izzy, who was working late. Cass’ own cupboard held a scanty collection of canned soup and ramen noodles, and the Thursday night feast had changed her life forever, she claimed. And even her knitting had changed—after a few seasons of knitting scarves and hats for nearly every fisherman in Sea Harbor and one wrap for her mother, Cass was hooked—and maybe ready to move on to socks, though the thought of turning heels still caused a slight tremor in the lobsterwoman’s hands.

 

 

Cass carried the plate of cheese over to the table and sat down in one of the leather chairs—one of Ben Endicott’s contributions to the backroom after Nell redid his den. “Actually, I hope she comes. We need to get the scoop on what’s going on.”

 

 

“Scoop?” Birdie Favazza walked down the three steps into the knitting room. “You must be talking about dear little Willow. Even the retirement home folks are talking about Aidan’s will. Goodness.” Birdie shook her head sadly. “It certainly gives Willow a motive for his murder, though I don’t think that little thing could hurt a fly.”

 

 

Birdie moved over to the fireplace and set her knitting bag in front of it. She pulled two bottles of chilled pinot grigio out of her backpack and displayed them on the square table in the middle of the sitting area.

 

 

“Light lemony-citrus flavor. Refreshing,” she said, giving her weekly wine review. “My Sonny used to order this from Italy by the case.” Though Sonny Favazza had died years before, he had been—and would always be—the light of Birdie’s life. Her true and forever love, she said. All subsequent husbands knew the rules of courtship and marriage early on—they could live in the three-story Favazza home—a grand stone structure that commanded a sweeping view of the sea and town of Sea Harbor. And Birdie would keep the name Favazza. All or nothing was Birdie’s credo.

 

 

“When is Willow coming?” Birdie continued. “I see our Cass is on her way to devouring the Camembert.” She leaned down and pulled a half-finished cap from her knitting bag.

 

 

“There’s another in the fridge,” Cass said, glowering at Birdie.

 

 

“I’m just teasing you. A sign of great affection.” Birdie held the soft cap up. It was a grassy green head-hugging hat, worked in soft cashmere with accents of fleecy eyelash yarn. It was bright and eye-catching, and as silky as a newly sprouted lawn.

 

 

“Birdie, that’s just wonderful.” Izzy leaned over and touched the soft fly-away yarn. “It will be our demo for my next cap class. You’re the best.”

 

 

“It’s cheery,” Nell said. “It’s perfect.”

 

 

“I already have a dozen people signed up for the next head-hugging class. I think we’ll have enough caps to fill the whole oncology center by summer’s end.”

 

 

Nell fingered the cap and thought about the good things Izzy’s shop had provided for Sea Harbor residents in the scant year and a half it’d been open. A place to be together and share one another’s burdens, to exercise that instinctive need to help someone else.

 

 

When Harriet Brandley, wife of the bookstore owner next door to Izzy’s shop, was being treated for breast cancer and lost her hair in the dead of a Sea Harbor winter, the Seaside knitters kept her comfortable and her head warm with a collection of brightly colored knit hats—some for bedtime, others for home wear and about town, and even a fancy golden cap for the annual Christmas party.

 

 

Seeing the caps lying around the back room, customers signed up by the dozens to help. And the cap class became a regular event in the Seaside Studio backroom. They’d explored other groups online, collected patterns, and instantly felt connected to women all over the country keeping bare heads warm.

 

 

“So you’ll do the sweater?” Izzy asked, her non sequitur going unchallenged. “Here’s a pattern I thought that would be perfect. It’s a fisherman knit—kind of—but more delicate and slouchy because of the fleecy blend. I think it will be absolutely perfect. And maybe you can do a hat if there’s any left over.”

 

 

Izzy handed it all over to Nell—needles and all—ready to go.

 

 

Nell looked at the picture and read through the pattern. She looked up. “It’s wonderful. You’re absolutely right. It will be the perfect gift to remind her of the good parts of her stay in Sea Harbor.” The sweater was a little longer than usual, and would be soft and comfortable to wrap up in on cold winter days. The broad waistband was worked up in a rickrack pattern for definition, and the main body design was a combination of cables—sand pattern, horseshoe, and shadow—with stockinette stitch in between. But it was the yarn itself that sold Nell. It would not only look amazing on Willow with her dark, thick hair and eyes; it would be a joy to knit. She let it slip through her fingers, the silky soft blend bringing with it a kind of comfort. This yarn and the lovely pattern it would grow into were about as far away from thoughts of murder as Nell could possibly imagine. Izzy was right. It was the perfect project—and Ben’s scarf and Birdie’s shawl would get done, too—all in good time. Nell measured out a stretch of yarn and began casting on for her gauge.