A Twisted Skein

Book 6: Seaside Knitters Society

by Sally Goldenbaum

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Like every coastal town, Sea Harbor needs tourists and their dollars. But there’s something special about that time of year when summer people return to their normal lives, and the wide sandy beaches welcome back locals with their dogs and strollers. And this year, even as the season cools down, Izzy Perry’s Sea Harbor Yarn Studio is heating up, thanks to an upcoming fashion benefit. The show will feature hand-knit garments, and enthusiastic knitters flock to the shop for supplies to create runway-worthy pieces. Yet Seaside Knitter Birdie is enjoying flocks of a different kind, thanks to a rekindled interest in birdwatching, a hobby she enjoyed with her late husband. Along with a small group of passionate birders, she often spends weekend mornings looking for warblers or keeping watch for gannets and grebes. The group members themselves are almost as fascinating as the birds. It’s a lovely, special time—until Birdie makes her way through a tangle of vines and stumbles upon a fellow birder’s body. At first, it appears to be an accidental fall, but an autopsy soon reveals that the victim died before hitting a granite boulder. When police discover a clue linking the victim to one of the Seaside Knitters, the web of suspicion grows. Before the woods are ablaze in autumn glory and the knitters have cast off the final rows on their runway projects, they’ll have to unravel secrets and ties strong enough to bind friends and neighbors together—and some that may press a killer to take another life.

Release date: November 28, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Rose Anderson sat at a picnic table on Merry Jackson’s restaurant deck, the smell of fall in the air. A light shower of leaves fell from the old oak tree that grew up through a round hole that covered the wooden slats of the floor.

The Artist’s Palate Bar & Grill, a popular hangout in the center of the Canary Cove Art Colony, was the perfect place to have it out with her sister. Not a formal setting, noisy enough to keep conversations private, and with the additional privacy of the table hidden partially behind the tree.

Another bonus was that both she and her sister, Jillian, had always loved the bar and grill. Between waitressing at the Artist’s Palate and working at Izzy Perry’s yarn shop, the twins had snared the choicest part-time jobs during their long-ago teen years.

But as the sky darkened and the young waiter stopped asking her if she’d like another glass of water, Rose knew in her bones what she’d probably known all along: Jillian wasn’t going to show.

Finally, sensing the waiter was now wondering what her intentions were and was starting to come on to her, she decided to call it a failed effort and head back to the small cottage behind Willow Adams’s Fishtail Gallery, where she was staying.

She pulled out a couple bills to reward the waiter’s attentiveness, then slipped her purse over her shoulder and started to stand. Before she was upright, a hand pressed lightly on her shoulder, and Rose sat back down. For a second, she thought she had misjudged her sister. Jillian had shown up, after all.

But it wasn’t Jillian. Instead, Rose looked up into the smiling face of Merry Jackson, the owner of the bar and grill. Merry leaned over and hugged Rose warmly.

“I’ve seen you a zillion times around town since you’ve been back,” she said, “but it seems one or both of us were always in a rush. Finally, I get to give you a belated welcome hug.”

Rose smiled broadly, delighted to see the woman who had been a role model for her when she was in high school. In addition to managing her bar, Merry, with her incredible Stevie Nicks voice, had turned the high school singing group into a top-notch choir.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Merry asked. “You look pensive.”

“No, nothing. Jillian was going to meet me here. I guess something came up. Anyway, it’s great to see you, Merry. Can you sit for a minute?”

“Absolutely.” Merry scanned the deck with an eye practiced in picking up staff needs, customers’ displeasures, and spilled beer. Then she gave a quick nod to the vigilant waiter standing by, who almost instantly reappeared with a bottle of wine and glasses.

“You looked more like a wine person tonight than beer,” Merry said, looping a leg over the bench opposite Rose. She poured them each a glass. “This is perfect timing. The lull before the storm that comes when galleries and studios lock up and night life begins. I was so happy to see you sitting over here.”

Merry put her elbows on the table, her face open and welcoming. Her clear brown eyes met Rose’s. “You and Jillian were always two of my favorite teenyboppers.” She laughed at herself. “Does anyone still use that term? Anyway, it’s so good to see you, Rosie. Now fill me in on the last half dozen or so years of your life in ten minutes, before someone breaks something behind the bar.”

Rose laughed. “Gads. Has it been that long?”

“Well, whenever it was, we were sad when you moved out of our slice of paradise. But here’s to your return, for however long it might be.” Merry held up her glass.

Rose looked at her wineglass. She rarely drank. A lime seltzer was much more to her liking. But rather than ruin the moment, she picked it up and tapped it to Merry’s, then took a sip. The warm feeling as it slid down her throat surprised and pleased her at once. Maybe it was her mood, but for whatever reason, being with Merry Jackson was warming her evening. She took a few more sips, listening as Merry filled her in on art colony talk.

“Willow Adams is thrilled you’ll be helping in her gallery and learning the ropes. Be careful, though. Willow knows talent when she sees it, and she may never let you go.”

Rose blushed, pleased with the compliments. “She’s great.” The tension in her shoulders began to ease.

She found herself answering Merry’s questions about her life at NYU and living in New York. The sadness over both her parents dying during her and her twin’s college years. She was talking more than usual, answering Merry’s questions, embellishing here and there. Her cheeks felt warm, and the conversation flowed like the wine as her body slipped into a warm and comfortable place. It felt good to share, even the difficult events of the past few years.

But coming back to Sea Harbor for a while, she told Merry, had been one of the better decisions she’d made.

“Of course it was. This will always be your home,” Merry said.

Rose nodded. “And a far better place to sort out the next step in our lives.”

The wine had definitely loosened her tongue, enough that this might be the perfect time to talk with Merry about Jillian. And the burden Elizabeth Anderson had laid on her daughter with deathbed wishes and secrets.

But before any words got out, a server beckoned to the restaurant’s owner that she was needed. The deck crowd was multiplying, a bartender hadn’t shown up, and the DJ was having trouble with the mic. Merry sighed as she jumped up, apologizing. She left Rose with a quick hug and a promise to have a long talk with her soon.

Rose watched her walk away, feeling unusually comfortable and good about herself. The wine had calmed that anxious part of her. She stared at the wine bottle, then filled her glass with the remainder and sipped it slowly, smiling and moving her shoulders to a Billie Eilish tune floating across the deck.

A crowd of artists and townspeople hugged greetings to one another as they mingled in the evening air, as if their presence outdoors on the deck would last forever, forestalling the colder days ahead. She lifted her head to catch the breeze and cool the flush on her cheeks. Reacquainting with Merry Jackson had somehow buoyed her resolve. She felt good. Strong. The Rose that knew her own mind.

Minutes later, she slipped some bills under the napkin holder, caught her balance as she stood too quickly, then made her way across the deck and down the steps, holding on to the railing tightly. She hesitated at the bottom, smiled at some strangers, and then began walking down Canary Cove Road, heading toward downtown Sea Harbor.

You surprise me, Rose Anderson, she whispered to herself. Let’s go find our Jilly. Have a sister-to-sister talk. You and me.

A few blocks away, before the road curved south toward Harbor Road’s town center, a familiar street wound off to the right. Rose stopped beneath a lamppost, leaned against it, and looked down the narrow street. A dead-end street that stopped not far from the water’s edge. What had started out as modest cottages years before had been renovated into family homes lining both sides of the road. Halfway down the block, a streetlight illuminated a blue and white WELCOME sign above NUMBER FIVE COTTAGE ROAD. Rose squinted to be sure it was her sign, the one she’d painted when she was nine. It marked the house she and Jillian had grown up in.

A foggy wave of melancholy carried her thoughts. In spite of everything, she had had a happy childhood, good times. A mother, a father, a sister. And lots of love circling the girls always.

She leaned for a moment against the streetlight; her thoughts were murky and muddled, but the unfamiliar feeling running through her wasn’t unpleasant. Whether it was from the memories or from the wine, she wasn’t sure, and she didn’t really care. A couple walked by, smiling at her, and then they turned and ambled down the old, narrow street toward the sea. Rose watched as they passed the Anderson home, and then she turned away. Enough with the memories, she thought, heading toward Harbor Road, only vaguely aware now of her plan.

In a few blocks the sidewalks widened, and Sea Harbor’s shopping and dining center lay just ahead. The road itself had been a surprise to Jillian and Rose when they returned to town this year. It had been turned into a one-way street during the Covid pandemic and then kept that way. A few more trees had been planted to shade the benches that the town had put in, some with memorial plaques. Vintage streetlights cast shadows across the familiar sidewalks, the shops and eateries and salons. Enormous cement planters held mums, flowering kale, and ornamental cabbage, happily announcing a new season.

Rose paused briefly in front of the window of Izzy’s yarn shop. She glimpsed light coming from the back of the store and could picture exactly what was going on in the knitting room: Four of her favorite people on earth were sitting near the fireplace, the fire lit, no matter the weather. Eating, drinking wine, and knitting amazing creations. A Thursday night ritual that had turned into a feast of friendship for the four women. Izzy, Nell, Birdie, and Cass. Women who had each made a positive difference in Rose’s life.

She walked on, past the Brandleys’ bookstore and a wine and cheese shop that had been a toy store during her growing-up years. The years away had changed some things, but Sea Harbor would always be home. It was where she was born, where she’d had her first crush. Her first heartbreak, her first nearly everything. The place her whole family loved.

But coming back this time, the family had shrunk. It was just her and Jillian.

She tried to pull her thoughts together, to focus. Why were there tears in her eyes?

Standing beneath a store awning, she fumbled while trying to pull her phone out of her back pocket, her thoughts ricocheting back and forth.

Jillian. That was who she was looking for. Her twin sister, Jillian. She clumsily typed a message into her cell phone.

Hey, you. Where are you! I’m here.

But for a brief minute, she wasn’t quite sure where “here” was.

And where was her younger sister? Although she was only fourteen minutes older than Jillian according to their birth certificates, she had been a pound bigger and had been born healthy, while Jillian had been sickly at birth and had spent weeks in the hospital. From then on, Rose’s role in life had been one of Jillian’s protector more than her fraternal twin. No matter that Jillian’s weak start in life had ended early on and she’d grown healthy and strong, taller than Rose and a champion swimmer. But their mother had never let go of her worry about Jillian’s health in body and soul. You’re the strong one, Rosie. Our rock, she’d say. Watch out for our Jilly.

High school graduation had taken the Anderson twins away from Sea Harbor to NYU; freedom was how both Rose and Jillian had viewed that time, as they’d stretched their wings and thrown themselves into challenging university programs. No motherly reminders of what to do, what not to do. They’d returned only for holidays—and for the two darkest days of Rose’s life.

“A sailing accident,” her mother had told them over the phone as the twins’ New York aunts rallied to get the weeping girls home to bury their father.

Rose only vaguely remembered the funeral.

What she remembered more was her mother calling a Realtor to sell the little house on Cottage Road and then leaving Sea Harbor herself. And seeming to do so with great relief.

She tried to shake off the memory, discomfort filling her woozy head. She looked down the street toward Jake’s Gull Tavern, then took a deep breath and walked in that direction, trying to step out of her memories and clear her cluttered mind. She frowned, collecting scattered thoughts. Jillian. Focus on Jillian.

Jake’s bar was crowded, with groups of people standing outside, waiting for space inside. Loud music poured onto the street each time the door opened.

Rose walked across the street and looked through the windows. On the other side, a tall countertop with stools ran the length of the window. She felt suddenly ashamed and wobbly, not sure at all why she was standing alone outside a bar, staring at a group of strangers on the other side of the window, with them staring back at her. She felt exposed, as if she were naked. She started to turn away, almost tripping on her own foot. But just then several of the group vacated their window stools, offering Rose a view farther into the bar. She placed a hand on the window, steadying herself, and spotted her sister sitting on a stool at the crowded bar. She was smiling at a woman next to her. Or maybe at old Jake, who was telling a joke as he pushed the handle of the bar coupler.

She tried to see who Jillian was with, squinting to see faces. A man a few barstools down stood and seemed to elbow his way over to where Jillian sat. A baseball hat was pulled low on his head. The figure blurred as the man placed a hand on Jillian’s shoulder, then whispered something in her ear.

Rose watched her sister look up, a full smile on her face, and slide off the stool.

Yes, Rose thought, her heart beating fast, as she stared at the figure, who turned sinister in her woozy mind.

That man, she thought, trying without success to pull his features into view.

One more wine, she thought, and perhaps she’d make her mother’s request come true.

“I believe they call me a ‘dude,’ ” Birdie said, wiping a dollop of cream from the corner of her mouth. “Have I told you that?”

“A what?” Cass hooted, splashing a drop of white wine into her own bowl of soup.

“Not that kind, Cass.” Birdie flapped away the image with her veined hand as she laughed along with her friends. “We birders have our own language, and while a few are called twitchers, I am considered a dude. I would prefer amateur or ornithophile, or simply a bird lover, but such words are not a part of my esteemed group’s birder parlance. Dude, apparently, means I am not quite as serious about bird-watching. I don’t write down every beautiful bird I see or even photograph it. Nor do I travel far and wide to spot a certain bird. But some of our small group are quite competitive and are known to have done that.”

The octogenarian set aside the empty bowl of Nell’s sweet corn ravioli. She sat back in the well-worn leather chair that was always reserved for her on knitting night in Izzy’s shop. The shop’s calico cat, Purl, was curled up beside her, sleeping soundly.

“Competitive?” Nell asked. “You hadn’t mentioned that when you first joined.”

“Well, you learn things as you go.”

“But that’s crazy, right?” Cass said. “My Halloran Lobster Co. crew sees billions of birds. My brother Pete’s boat has a pet gull that perches on the bow every day.”

Birdie laughed. “But the Halloran crew are looking for lobsters, not watching birds. There’s the difference.”

“The bird-watchers take notes on what they see?” Nell asked.

“Some do. And sometimes I wonder if the twitchers miss some of the astonishing beauty around them by pulling out cameras and notepads. But, no matter, each to her own.”

“So you like them?” Nell asked.

“They are all lovely folks, and they allow me great freedom, not thinking twice if I decide to wander off in the woods to look for a sweet singing bird on my own. I am loving it. The intoxicating scent of the pines, the colors and pounding of the sea, and sometimes seeing the miracle of a magnificent skein of geese flying in formation above me. Don’t you just wonder how they know where to go? Or where they should stop for lunch? It’s a miracle that makes me pause and puts me in my place. We humans aren’t quite as smart as we think we are sometimes.”

The group was quiet for a few minutes, taken with Birdie’s words and enjoying her obvious love for her recent hobby.

And trying to figure out how the birds actually did know where to stop for lunch.

Izzy refilled wineglasses. “So tell us about these bird-watching folks that you’re spending so much time with.”

“Well, you all know Polly Farrell, our trusty leader. I was having tea in her Canary Cove tea shop last summer, and she showed me some photos of where the group had gone. Polly is such a robust, wonderful soul, and she keeps the more serious in the group from killing one another. It’s an eclectic group. Some members come and go, depending on the day, the weather, the place. Even the kinds of birds we might see. All sorts of things. Richard Brooks always comes—he works at Picard’s Auto Repair Shop. And there are one or two whose names I can never remember, but when they hug me like an old friend, I hug them right back and tell them it’s great to see them, too. Although often I have no recollection of when we last met. Or even if.”

“Face it, Birdie,” Cass said. “You’ve met everyone in Sea Harbor.”

Birdie smiled.

“One of my customers recently joined your group,” Izzy said. “Harper Mancini. Do you know her? Young, pretty—”

Birdie laughed again. “Harper Mancini? Yes, I certainly do. She is a charming young woman, although I don’t think Harper would call herself a birder. Nor would anyone else call her that. She comes with her much older husband, Leon. I think she’s still living in that honeymoon stage and wants to be with him wherever he is, doing whatever he does.”

“She talks about the group when she’s in the here. She loves all of you. She said the group is funded somehow,” Izzy said. “Is that true?”

“Apparently, although that isn’t anything I’m interested in. But Polly says there’s a grant she applied for that covers bird-watching trips to other places. They use it for individuals . . . sort of a merit thing. You have to earn it somehow. One woman used the money to travel to some remote place to record a rare bird. She seems very wary of the other, more serious birders, especially Josh Elliott. She may be afraid she won’t win the next trip.” Birdie shook her head at what she thought was the silliness of it.

“Josh is a super guy,” Cass said. “He’s a friend of Lucky’s. Quiet, which makes him the perfect friend for Lucky, who never stops talking.”

“Yes, he’s quiet. Josh has an incredible knowledge of our feathered friends. Some of the more serious bird-watchers consider him competition, though I don’t think he has a bone of competition in his body. Oh, and there’s another fellow, an old friend of mine, who showed up one day, and I nearly fell over in surprise. Henry Staab, who’s even older than I, which he wears as a badge of honor.”

“Henry Staab?” Izzy asked.

“You know Henry, Izzy. We all do. He lives in that little stone house out at the cemetery that he’s managed for a thousand years. He’s a dutiful caretaker for his ‘family,’ as he calls those buried there.”

“Oh, of course,” Izzy said.

“I love that guy,” Cass said. “My lobster guys call him the Hermit.”

“That he is,” Nell said, smiling as if at something the others couldn’t see. She passed around a basket of sourdough rolls and looked at Birdie, the smile still in place. “Don’t I remember a rumor that Henry once proposed to you, Birdie?”

Birdie’s laugh was so contagious that Izzy and Cass joined in, not sure of what was so funny.

“Yes, indeedy, he did,” Birdie said, finally catching her breath. “He proposed right after I got engaged to my Sonny. He didn’t want me to make a mistake marrying the love of my life. Crazy old man. He’s always been old, I think. And always a little crazy.”

“Is he one of the serious birders?” Nell asked.

“Absolutely not. I think he likes the company. Henry marches to his own drummer—he comes and goes. I’m thinking of buying him a good, strong walking stick, though. He’s been known to fall once or twice.”

“Maybe he’s falling for you,” Cass said. “Do you suppose he thinks he might have a second chance . . . ?”

Birdie nearly choked on a bite of a warm roll. She took a quick drink of water. “What a thought,” she managed to say, subduing her laugh. “Actually, I think he fell for pretty Harper. One day he was lumbering along to catch up with her on a birder hike through Ravenswood Park when he tripped and sprained his ankle. Harper is one strong woman and picked him right up, helping him out of the woods. It wreaked a little havoc with his ankle. But, anyway, he’s a ‘dude’ like me. But he seems to have his ears tuned to all sorts of things and keeps tabs on the tenor of the group. Henry can be quite an interesting gossip. He says I wouldn’t believe the things he knows from his cemetery residents.”

“Well, it’s great you’re doing this, Birdie. You’re a trouper,” Izzy said.

“No, dear. That would be ‘dude.’”

“Dude Birdie,” Nell said. “It has a certain panache to it.” She leaned forward and refilled the wineglasses with Birdie’s pinot gris.

The wine was part of the Seaside Knitters’ Thursday night ritual: wine from Birdie, a fire laid by Izzy, no matter the time of year, a dessert bought or made by Cass’s nanny, and an amazing soup or salad or casserole brought by Nell. It was a sacrosanct night, a time for friend therapy or simply a time to be together to toast, to eat, and to knit with “friends like no other,” as Cass often described the group.

Izzy took a sip of her wine and then, as if having a sudden thought, got up and disappeared up the steps to the store’s main room. A minute later she returned, carrying a beautiful hand-knit dove. “I think she should be yours, Birdie.”

“She’s lovely, Izzy,” Birdie said. “The symbol of peace.”

Nell reached over, took the bird, and touched the soft, fine stitches. “This is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“The editor of Knitting in Style magazine gave it to me. She must have known this event she talked me into hosting would disrupt my life and my well-being in one fell swoop. Which, by the way, it is succeeding in doing in spades. I must have been crazy to agree to it.” She began clearing the plates from the table, far more noisily than required.

Birdie reached over and touched the soft knit feathers, then looked over at Izzy. “And you could never be crazy, my dear, fashion show or not.”

Izzy harrumphed and continued cleaning, pausing once to look around the table. “You’re supposed to be my friends. Why didn’t one, just one, of you stop me?” She swept one arm out, taking in the knitting room. “Just look at this holy mess.”

The room had been left in shambles from another day of customers designing and knitting, tinking and frogging and speculating on whose creation would be featured in the Knitting in Style–sponsored fashion show.

“Every day is like this,” Izzy added.

Cass leaned forward and refilled Izzy’s wineglass to the very top. “As a matter of fact, I did try to stop you, Iz,” she said.

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Izzy snapped.

Birdie pulled another piece of stray yarn off Izzy’s sweatshirt. “This will be a good thing. Mark my words. The fashion event has added a positive spirit to our autumn days. Even people who don’t care about knitting are looking forward to it. And don’t forget, my dear godson Lucky is going to build you a beautiful runway.”

At the mention of her friend, Cass looked up. “That’s great. If nothing else, Lucky Bianchi’s charm will inspire the entire town to support the event. That guy could make a blobfish smile.”

“I agree with Birdie. It’s a good idea, Iz,” Nell added. “These past few years have been difficult for the whole world. Celebrations and events like this are food for the spirit and help bring our little corner of the universe back together again.”

“And,” Birdie added, as if they had planned the little talk to buoy up Izzy’s sudden bad spirits, “it’s a tribute to you that the editors picked your shop, Izzy. There are plenty of fiber and knitting places up and down the North Shore, but Knitting in Style picked yours. It will all be quite wonderful.”

“Maybe so,” Izzy murmured half-heartedly. “The magazine sponsors are being hands off, for the most part, which is a good thing. And you’re right, Birdie. Lucky is a great asset. He’s already coerced a few others into building what we need—something suitable, down to earth, but innovative. The publishers made it clear that their goal is a seaside fashion show . . . with homegrown knit fashions. Not like those held in Paris and New York, but special in their own homegrown way. They want knitters themselves to walk the runway so the photographers and editors can get their photos and videos and story.” She stopped for a moment, frowned again, then added with a touch of defiance, “And then go away.”

Cass laughed. “That’s the spirit, Iz.”

“It will work out,” Nell said. “A messy yarn room for a few weeks is manageable.”

“And just imagine the masterpieces that will come out of it all. That’s often the way of art.” Birdie pointed . . .