How to Knit a Murder
Book 2:
Seaside Knitters Society
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Synopsis
With her shy manner and baggy jeans, Rose Malone becomes an unlikely superhero the night she stumbles into Izzy Chambers' shop and inadvertently saves a shipment of yarn from water damage. When the Seaside Knitters help the enigmatic handywoman settle into town and find work at a popular real-estate company, Rose proves she can fix just about anything — until a potential homebuyer is killed, and she becomes entangled in murder....
The moment controversial entrepreneur Spencer Hamilton is found dead accusations fly at the last person on the property — Rose. But the Seaside Knitters have their doubts. After all, Spencer's political aspirations as well as his plans to pave over Sea Harbor's historic art district have earned him some very real enemies....
Now, Izzy, Birdie, Nell, and Cass must swap knitting for sleuthing. As tensions build in the sleepy New England community and Rose's secret past unravels, the ladies face an unsettling realization: True victims aren't always the ones buried six feet under....
Release date: November 27, 2018
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 272
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How to Knit a Murder
Sally Goldenbaum
“Great bones,” Spencer Paxton III said. “And look at these amazing grounds. We could have an extravaganza for two hundred here easily.”
Spencer didn’t look at his wife while he talked. Instead his deep-set eyes traveled over the wide lawns, the low winding wall that defined the property, a small guest cottage nestled in a clump of woods to the side. He looked at the sturdy stone foundation and sides of the mansion, the dozens of long mullioned windows. His eyes went back and forth, up and down, hungrily combing every inch.
One of Sea Harbor’s finest.
Bree leaned back and looked all the way to the top of the three-story seaside villa. The fading light of early evening fell on the gabled roof, throwing shadows across the lawn and the flagstone walkway. The ocean wasn’t visible from where they stood, but the sound of crashing waves behind the house and the feel of salty air heralded its presence. She pulled her hoodie tight.
“It’s enormous,” she said. “Twenty families could live in this house.” She thought of the three-bedroom house in which her parents had raised their family of six. She had loved every inch of it.
“Yeah. Huge is good. We’ll fill it.” Spence walked his fingers up and down her back. “Rugrats. Maybe we’ll get us some. Who knows? Things can change.”
Bree was silent. No, contrary to what her husband thought, some things wouldn’t change. Ever.
“I called a Realtor last week,” he said, still not looking at her. His eyes were checking out the visible details—quality of materials, walkways, the grounds.
“You called a Realtor?” She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
“That’s how you buy a house, babe. I went to school with this gal—way back when.” He laughed. “Stella Palazola. She was an upperclassman, but flirted with me like crazy. She had this big crush on me. I ran into her at the Gull one night. She fell all over herself wanting to help me out.” He stopped and pointed. “Look at that balcony up there, the wrought-iron work. Amazing.”
“The house we’re renting is fine, Spence. It has wonderful light. I’m comfortable there. You won’t be here forever.”
Now he looked directly at her, his gaze sharp. “In the middle of that old art colony? My dad would roll over in his grave. Shove my face in it. No more. Canary Cove is a place for hippies and starving artists. Those knitters you hang around with would fit in there. Not a Paxton.”
Bree smiled as his comment took form. Those knitters you hang around with—those plain people. Ordinary.
Wise, wonderful Birdie, who could buy and sell all the Paxtons without a blink of an eye. Elegant Nell, who’d once single-handedly run a large Boston nonprofit. Smart, gorgeous Izzy, with her law degree tucked away in some drawer of her successful yarn shop. And clever, dark-haired Cass, owner of a lobster company. Attractive, sassy, and exuberant.
Spencer had no idea of whom he spoke. And that was fine with Bree. Instead she said, “The home on Canary Cove is cozy. I like it.”
“Not for me, babe. Doesn’t fit the plan.”
The plan. She looked sideways and caught the familiar odd smile that lifted the edges of his mouth, the lift of one dark brow. The set of his strong chin and the face that her own mother had compared to her favorite soap opera star the first time she’d brought Spence home.
“My old man wanted to buy this house when I was a kid. Did I tell you that? He wasn’t fast enough, not savvy enough, and he lost out to an old Italian. Anthony Bianchi. It’s my turn, babe. And I’ll get it. They’re doing some work on it now, fixing a few things. And then it’ll be mine.”
And it would be his, Bree knew. What Spencer Paxton wanted, Spencer Paxton got. She started to turn back toward the street, scattering leaves with the toe of her boot.
“Hey, where’re you going? I’m not ready to leave yet. Come on,” Spence said. He nodded toward the walkway circling the house. “Let’s look around back.”
“That’s trespassing.”
Spence laughed, and cupped her elbow roughly, prodding her along the flagstone path toward the back of the house.
Bree shook off his hand and put distance between them. She peered through the thick windows as they walked, but she saw nothing inside. Heavy black curtains held the dark tightly inside. Closed shutters protected smaller windows above.
When they reached the back of the house, a blast of damp ocean air lifted Bree’s platinum hair and whipped it across her cheeks, stinging her fair skin. She pulled it back with one hand, bunching it as she looked out at the ocean. The surf was just yards from where she stood, down a terraced lawn and a footpath to a sliver of beach. Dark waves leapt in the air, then crashed against a graveyard of granite boulders, foam spewing in all directions. A small boat, moored nearby, rolled with the motion, tossing and turning in the cold air.
She breathed it all in, the air cold and bracing, until she felt she would burst. The ocean was magnificent.
She felt Spence’s presence next to her, tall and dark and self-assured, his body shadowing her own. He had raised his binoculars and was scanning the horizon, as if waiting for a whale to perform, a fleet of schooners to parade past him in homage, or, Who knows, Bree thought, maybe to spot an island for sale? He lifted one hand and pointed south.
“You can see the Boston skyline from here,” he said. “It’s incredible.”
Bree had turned away and looked up at the mansion again, the glory of the ocean sucked out of her by the sight of the house. She walked back to the fan of steps leading to a stone patio that stretched the width of the mansion. Yellow, orange, and rose-colored leaves skittered across the stones. The veranda was wide and empty, save for groupings of chairs and tables covered in canvas—gray ghosts in the fading light.
Bree shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, wondering about the power this house seemed to have over her, blurring the grandeur of the ocean and filling her instead with uncomfortable prickly feelings.
It was just a house. A formidable one, and grand, too. She would give Spencer that. A majestic fortress, But it was still a house. Nothing else. She shook her head, only half believing her words. A house, she repeated.
“I’m going back around to the front,” she called out, her words tossed away by the wind.
Spence was halfway down the flat steps leading to the water.
It was a while later, after taking photos with his phone and walking the stone patio for dimensions and imagining the events he could host on the property, the people he could impress, that Spence walked back to the front of the estate. Bree was sitting on a low stone wall that bordered the property.
“Hey, what’s with you?”
“I’m tired and it’s freezing out here. It’s time to leave. I promised Izzy and Nell I’d stop by the yarn shop to help with a window design. They’ll be waiting for me.” And I like them, she said silently. I like their friendship and their yarn shop and the warm feeling I have when I sit in the back room and make magical things out of silk and cotton and bamboo.
She stood and looked once more at the house, as if it might have been a trick of her imagination. But it was still there. She stared at the curtained windows and the foreboding stillness within.
The windows stared back.
Spence forked his fingers through his hair. “You’re being weird tonight. Do you have PMS? Get a grip, Bree.”
Bree didn’t answer her husband. She took a deep breath and tried to shake the feeling that was chilling her bones. Slowly, she released it and braced herself, as if the house itself was about to reach out and grab her. Unconsciously she flexed the muscles in her arms, strong and toned and ready to ward off danger.
Spence looked over at her, then back at the house. “Do you want to look inside? Is that it?”
She looked at him. “Break in? Of course, the perfect way to endear you to Sea Harbor voters.”
Spencer laughed. “I’m serious. Not about the breaking in, but I could make it happen.”
Bree took a few steps away, then glanced at the house again as if it might follow her.
“Something’s going on here,” Spence said. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” But it isn’t nothing. It’s something. Or someone. Sometimes feelings become tangled and complicated, the reasons for them blurred. But whatever is worming its way through me is real, a warning that things aren’t always what they seem to be.
Without waiting for another question or reply or subtle rebuke, she walked through the gate, out to the safety of the sidewalk and the narrow winding road that ran in front of the stately Sea Harbor Cliffside homes.
Spence caught up with her as they reached the car. He started to say something, then thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut, holding in his irritation, and walked around the car, sliding in behind the wheel. Bree stood on the passenger side, her fingers curled tightly on the door handle, her body still and her eyes peering through the towering trees, back to the house that stood at the top of the incline, proud and haughty. Sure of itself.
She stood there for several more minutes, until an irritated tap of the horn pulled her attention away. But the house wasn’t done with her and she looked back once more, meeting its glare, returning it with a silent vow:
I will never live in you, house. Never. Bad things will happen there.
Then she opened the door and climbed into the car, the engine already running and Spence’s long fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.
“It’s perfect,” he said to his wife, reaching over and patting her thigh. “Just perfect.”
Rose Chopra stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to the life teeming around her. Her palms were damp, her stomach tight. Behind her, fishing boats were making their way to the docks, ropes were thrown, rough voices shouted, and crates and traps opened and emptied. Scolding and big laughter carried on the wind.
It had taken her by surprise, the sensation that snaked its way through her body. Her shoulders stooped automatically, years of yoga gone in an instant.
And for that one brief moment, Rose Chopra wanted to shrink to nothing.
She was eleven years old, sitting in the stern of a sailboat. Her chin lowered to her chest, her body folding in on itself, disappearing. She prayed for the ocean to open its mouth and swallow her.
And then, as suddenly as the moment came, it passed. Gone. Poof. Disappeared. Pushed away in an instant.
Rose straightened up, shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Her shoulders shifted and fell into a comfortable place; her smile lifted to the sky. Head over heart. Namaste.
She took a step back from the curb as a freckled-faced boy flew by on a skateboard, his hair flying wildly and his grin proud and wide. Rose grinned back, feeling confidence fill her bones and her mind. She continued on down Harbor Road.
Parts of downtown Sea Harbor appeared untouched by the years. Sights and sounds were familiar: people heading home from work, fishmongers packaging up the day’s catch. And the incessant caw of the gulls and blasts of the lobster boats’ horns coming in after a long day. It was comfortable. Easy. Not foreboding.
She slowed as the familiar blend of garlic, olive oil, and tomato sauce assaulted her senses wondrously from Harry Garozzo’s deli. She stopped and looked through the window. It was still there, the ratty, slightly sun-bleached sign in the window. SEA HARBOR’S ONLY TRUE MUFFULETTA, it read. And the only one, people joked.
But what Rose remembered best was that Harry offered half muffulettas—for delicate appetites, he said—but Rose always got the whole roll, stuffed with briny, garlicky vegetables and every kind of salami and cheese known to man. Fat and thick and dripping with flavor. And she always finished it and it always made her happy, even when she went home with a button on her jeans loosened, her shirt pulled awkwardly over it. She pressed one hand on her abdomen, along with a grimace of shame. Even her dad only ordered the half.
Harry’s deli would be here forever, she thought. People like Harry Garozzo didn’t die. Without even looking, she could imagine the talkative Italian baker inside, his apron stained, his voice loud and welcoming as if he were standing in front of her, handing her the hefty sandwich.
The idea of coming back to Sea Harbor had rolled around in her mind for a long time, but always back in shadowy corners. Her mother talked about it, wished for it. Their reasons different, but both compelling and real. And necessary.
Rose would twist and turn the idea around until reasons for not returning had been smoothed away, erased completely, and revisiting the seaside town had been a given. Something she had to do.
It was true that she wanted to see the beauty of Sea Harbor through her mother’s eyes, to savor it in a way she never had. But the reason she needed to come back was to throw away fragments of the past that were no longer a part of Rose Woodley Chopra.
Her old therapist, and then friend, had weighed in heavily. Many times. “Do this,” Patti had intoned. “You’re one strong lady, Rose Chopra.”
Rose knew she was strong. Strong and mighty her dad used to say, his way of complimenting her height, the extra pounds she’d carried then, her strong face. But that same physique, when wrapped around a painfully shy preteen, was described differently by others.
She had stayed quiet and let Patti go on listing reasons why Rose needed some time near the sea, time to remember the places and pockets of the small seaside town that were truly magical. The place her mother loved so much she composed poems about walking by the sea.
The sea and me,
Its healing rush.
Infinity in its caress.
She had tuned back in to her therapist just as Patti finished her list.
You promised your mother you’d take her back to the sea. A promise that carried her through chemo and injections and excruciating days.
And you promised yourself, too. To do it for you, Rose. Patti’s soft voice was caring and loving, even when she asked, And what happened, Rosie? You waited too long. And she died.
Rose had felt the air being sucked out of the room.
And that’s when she packed her suitcase and headed to Massachusetts.
Rose realized she was now a block past Harry’s deli, standing still on the sidewalk again. Like a statue.
“What do you think?”
The voice wasn’t Patti’s and it was no longer inside her head. It came from near her elbow. Rose looked over.
The woman wasn’t looking at her, but at a shop window a yard or two in front of them. Her hands were on her hips, her head cocked to one side.
Rose was about to ask the woman what she was talking about. And then she stopped, her eyes concentrating on the stranger who had just spoken to her. The woman was about her own age, no, younger maybe, but that was where the similarities stopped. She was exquisite, that perfect beauty that stared out at you from the cover of magazines. Unnatural. Unreal. The woman’s looks made Rose feel naked—as if every one of her own imperfections was suddenly in bold relief as she stood near the stranger. She had an urge to turn and walk away.
It wasn’t until the woman’s expression turned to confusion that Rose realized she was staring at her.
“You don’t like the window display?” the woman asked. Then, as the woman brushed a strand of platinum hair over one shoulder, Rose realized her first impression was wrong. This wasn’t unnatural beauty. It was the opposite. Pure, natural. Unaffected. Not a spec of makeup. She wasn’t tall like a model, but small, delicate looking, but her tight jeans showed muscles beneath. And her Harvard sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, indicated the woman could probably hold her own. Rose wondered briefly if she even knew she was utterly stunning—or if she cared.
Rose pulled her eyes away and looked at the display window.
Her eyes widened. “Whoo,” she said, lifting one hand to her chest. The sound was more a breath than a word, like the sound one made when seeing a famous museum piece for the first time. She stepped closer.
On the other side of the window was a cave, a hollowed-out shape made of something Rose couldn’t identify. Papier-mâché, maybe? She had made some with her sister’s kids last Christmas. But this wasn’t a child’s molded rabbit or bird or a tree ornament.
The cavern-like structure was filled with gravity-defying formations—and they were all made from silky strands of fiber: icy gray and blue yarns. Stalagmites and stalactites knit into slender shapes, some that seemed to grow up from the floor, others hanging, shimmering from the ceiling of the cave. Tiny lights hidden in the crevices lit the cavern’s beauty.
Rose took off her sunglasses and looked more closely into the scene.
A movement on the floor of the display window pulled her eyes down to a calico cat, unfurling from a nap. It sat up and looked at Rose as if they’d met before.
Rose stared back. The cat tilted its head to one side, its green eyes keen and strangely insightful. So, it seemed to be saying, you’re here. Now what?
Rose shifted from one foot to the other. Finally she pulled away, embarrassed that she had almost answered the animal.
She turned to the woman, who was still standing next to her, waiting. “It’s amazing. What is this place? Heaven?”
“Sort of. Yes,” she said, a hint of a smile in her voice for the first time.
But her face was still, and Rose wondered if she was one of those models who was told not to smile, to keep the wrinkles away. Rose felt a reserve in the woman, or maybe, she supposed, it could be shyness, although why would someone who looked like she looked be shy?
The woman went on talking. “It’s a great yarn shop. I’m surprised there are still people in Sea Harbor who don’t know about it.” She paused, then looked directly at Rose as if assessing her. Finally she reached out her hand. “Hi. I’m Bree McIntosh.”
Rose took the outstretched hand, the woman’s friendly gesture a nice surprise, one that lessened the distance Rose had imposed between them. “I’m Rose Chopra. Did you create this window? These absolutely gorgeous pieces of art?”
“It’s nice you called it art. Some people might not see it that way. Yes, I helped. It’s a group effort,” she said. “I’m a disaster at knitting sweaters and mittens. But I love to turn yarn into art, twisting and turning, playing with colors. We’re having a fiber art show over in the Canary Cove Art Colony, and the display is partly to advertise that. I’m glad you like it. Be sure you come to the show.”
“I love it and I will if I’m still here. It’s amazing. And so is the cat. Did you knit it, too?”
Bree laughed. “That’s Purl. She’s a love. The yarn shop mascot.”
“So you work here?” Rose asked.
“I help out when they need me. I’m teaching a class for Izzy and doing some things over in the art colony, too. Art is my therapy. Well, therapy on top of therapy. I’ve had both.”
Rose looked at her, for a minute surprised. But she shouldn’t be. Therapy wasn’t her private domain. But, even after her own years of therapy, it still surprised her when someone who looked perfect needed therapy, too.
“You should come to a class, Rose. They’re fun.” Her voice was warmer now, as if somehow Rose had passed a test and they were connected.
“Maybe I will,” she said. “Is the shop new?”
“I don’t think so—but I’ve only been in town a few months, so what do I know? Someone said it used to be a bait shack. Kids would sneak cigarettes and smoke behind the garbage cans near the seawall.”
A bait shop. Rose remembered it now. An ugly, smelly place with cracked windows and peeling paint. Her mother had warned her never to go inside—the smell would never come out of her school clothes, not to mention the danger that might lurk behind the bins of unsavory wiggly things. And she remembered the boys in the back, too. The cool boys. Smoking and sometimes worse things.
She had heeded her mother’s advice about the shack and instead sought the safe and quiet sanctuary of the bookstore next door. Rose glanced over, pleased to see it hadn’t changed much at all. A new paint job, maybe, but the gold painted letters on the glass door were the same—SEA HARBOR BOOKSTORE—with its creaky hardwood floor and the nice couple who didn’t mind Rose curling up in a chair for hours, a stack of books at her side and her shirt smudged from the chocolate-covered peanuts she’d pulled from her backpack.
She had loved that store. And the owner’s son, too. Her first silly crush. Danny, the tall, lanky popular kid, lots older and wiser than Rose. One day when he was helping his dad he’d noticed her huddled over a book, and he’d glanced down and read the title out loud. She still remembered it—Dandelion Wine. “Hmm,” he’d said. And then he said that he liked Ray Bradbury, too. When he walked on, Rose wondered if he had heard the pounding of her heart or knew that his words alone had elevated Ray Bradbury to the status of genius.
Beside her, Bree McIntosh was saying something as cars rushed by, horns honked, and late afternoon shoppers moved in and out of shops. But for a brief moment Rose’s memory blocked out all the sounds.
Finally she shook it off and turned back to Bree, but the blonde woman had turned away and was moving off down the street.
A man, leaning against a fence just a short distance from the yarn shop, seemed to be watching her. She probably got that a lot, Rose thought.
She watched as the slender, gangly-looking man pushed off the fence as Bree drew close. He stood tall, his thick hair pulled back in a ponytail. Everything about the man looked rough and messy to Rose. Even the bright orange bicycle next to him. He lifted up his sunglasses and continued to watch the woman coming toward him, and for a brief moment, Rose wondered if Bree would be all right. Then she scolded herself. She was in Sea Harbor. Of course she’d be all right.
She shook away the thought and turned back to the yarn shop, surveying it more carefully. Fresh paint, a bright blue awning, windows that sparkled. Everything about it was welcoming, including the sign above the door. THE SEASIDE KNITTING STUDIO.
At that moment, the shop door opened and several women walked out, laughing and carrying canvas bags with identical yarn logos printed on the side. One of the women glanced over at Rose and smiled. About Rose’s height but slightly broader in girth, the woman wore a bright yellow blouse, tied neatly at the neck with a small bow. She paused, then cocked her head and opened her mouth as if to say something.
Rose shifted uncomfortably beneath the woman’s look. But then the woman closed her mouth and shook her head slightly, as if apologizing for her stare. She turned away, stepping off the curb and following her friends across the street, horns honking to hurry them along. Rose watched their reflections in the yarn shop window as they gathered on the opposite sidewalk, mouthing good-byes before scattering in different directions.
The woman in the yellow blouse pulled open a heavy glass door between McGlucken’s Hardware Store and an ice cream shop and walked inside. It was a door Rose knew well. It led to creaky wooden steps, a musty hallway above, and small offices huddled above the shops.
Rose remembered climbing those steps every week, heading up to her orthodontist’s office, where her mouth had been filled with wires. Unconscio. . .
Spencer didn’t look at his wife while he talked. Instead his deep-set eyes traveled over the wide lawns, the low winding wall that defined the property, a small guest cottage nestled in a clump of woods to the side. He looked at the sturdy stone foundation and sides of the mansion, the dozens of long mullioned windows. His eyes went back and forth, up and down, hungrily combing every inch.
One of Sea Harbor’s finest.
Bree leaned back and looked all the way to the top of the three-story seaside villa. The fading light of early evening fell on the gabled roof, throwing shadows across the lawn and the flagstone walkway. The ocean wasn’t visible from where they stood, but the sound of crashing waves behind the house and the feel of salty air heralded its presence. She pulled her hoodie tight.
“It’s enormous,” she said. “Twenty families could live in this house.” She thought of the three-bedroom house in which her parents had raised their family of six. She had loved every inch of it.
“Yeah. Huge is good. We’ll fill it.” Spence walked his fingers up and down her back. “Rugrats. Maybe we’ll get us some. Who knows? Things can change.”
Bree was silent. No, contrary to what her husband thought, some things wouldn’t change. Ever.
“I called a Realtor last week,” he said, still not looking at her. His eyes were checking out the visible details—quality of materials, walkways, the grounds.
“You called a Realtor?” She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
“That’s how you buy a house, babe. I went to school with this gal—way back when.” He laughed. “Stella Palazola. She was an upperclassman, but flirted with me like crazy. She had this big crush on me. I ran into her at the Gull one night. She fell all over herself wanting to help me out.” He stopped and pointed. “Look at that balcony up there, the wrought-iron work. Amazing.”
“The house we’re renting is fine, Spence. It has wonderful light. I’m comfortable there. You won’t be here forever.”
Now he looked directly at her, his gaze sharp. “In the middle of that old art colony? My dad would roll over in his grave. Shove my face in it. No more. Canary Cove is a place for hippies and starving artists. Those knitters you hang around with would fit in there. Not a Paxton.”
Bree smiled as his comment took form. Those knitters you hang around with—those plain people. Ordinary.
Wise, wonderful Birdie, who could buy and sell all the Paxtons without a blink of an eye. Elegant Nell, who’d once single-handedly run a large Boston nonprofit. Smart, gorgeous Izzy, with her law degree tucked away in some drawer of her successful yarn shop. And clever, dark-haired Cass, owner of a lobster company. Attractive, sassy, and exuberant.
Spencer had no idea of whom he spoke. And that was fine with Bree. Instead she said, “The home on Canary Cove is cozy. I like it.”
“Not for me, babe. Doesn’t fit the plan.”
The plan. She looked sideways and caught the familiar odd smile that lifted the edges of his mouth, the lift of one dark brow. The set of his strong chin and the face that her own mother had compared to her favorite soap opera star the first time she’d brought Spence home.
“My old man wanted to buy this house when I was a kid. Did I tell you that? He wasn’t fast enough, not savvy enough, and he lost out to an old Italian. Anthony Bianchi. It’s my turn, babe. And I’ll get it. They’re doing some work on it now, fixing a few things. And then it’ll be mine.”
And it would be his, Bree knew. What Spencer Paxton wanted, Spencer Paxton got. She started to turn back toward the street, scattering leaves with the toe of her boot.
“Hey, where’re you going? I’m not ready to leave yet. Come on,” Spence said. He nodded toward the walkway circling the house. “Let’s look around back.”
“That’s trespassing.”
Spence laughed, and cupped her elbow roughly, prodding her along the flagstone path toward the back of the house.
Bree shook off his hand and put distance between them. She peered through the thick windows as they walked, but she saw nothing inside. Heavy black curtains held the dark tightly inside. Closed shutters protected smaller windows above.
When they reached the back of the house, a blast of damp ocean air lifted Bree’s platinum hair and whipped it across her cheeks, stinging her fair skin. She pulled it back with one hand, bunching it as she looked out at the ocean. The surf was just yards from where she stood, down a terraced lawn and a footpath to a sliver of beach. Dark waves leapt in the air, then crashed against a graveyard of granite boulders, foam spewing in all directions. A small boat, moored nearby, rolled with the motion, tossing and turning in the cold air.
She breathed it all in, the air cold and bracing, until she felt she would burst. The ocean was magnificent.
She felt Spence’s presence next to her, tall and dark and self-assured, his body shadowing her own. He had raised his binoculars and was scanning the horizon, as if waiting for a whale to perform, a fleet of schooners to parade past him in homage, or, Who knows, Bree thought, maybe to spot an island for sale? He lifted one hand and pointed south.
“You can see the Boston skyline from here,” he said. “It’s incredible.”
Bree had turned away and looked up at the mansion again, the glory of the ocean sucked out of her by the sight of the house. She walked back to the fan of steps leading to a stone patio that stretched the width of the mansion. Yellow, orange, and rose-colored leaves skittered across the stones. The veranda was wide and empty, save for groupings of chairs and tables covered in canvas—gray ghosts in the fading light.
Bree shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, wondering about the power this house seemed to have over her, blurring the grandeur of the ocean and filling her instead with uncomfortable prickly feelings.
It was just a house. A formidable one, and grand, too. She would give Spencer that. A majestic fortress, But it was still a house. Nothing else. She shook her head, only half believing her words. A house, she repeated.
“I’m going back around to the front,” she called out, her words tossed away by the wind.
Spence was halfway down the flat steps leading to the water.
It was a while later, after taking photos with his phone and walking the stone patio for dimensions and imagining the events he could host on the property, the people he could impress, that Spence walked back to the front of the estate. Bree was sitting on a low stone wall that bordered the property.
“Hey, what’s with you?”
“I’m tired and it’s freezing out here. It’s time to leave. I promised Izzy and Nell I’d stop by the yarn shop to help with a window design. They’ll be waiting for me.” And I like them, she said silently. I like their friendship and their yarn shop and the warm feeling I have when I sit in the back room and make magical things out of silk and cotton and bamboo.
She stood and looked once more at the house, as if it might have been a trick of her imagination. But it was still there. She stared at the curtained windows and the foreboding stillness within.
The windows stared back.
Spence forked his fingers through his hair. “You’re being weird tonight. Do you have PMS? Get a grip, Bree.”
Bree didn’t answer her husband. She took a deep breath and tried to shake the feeling that was chilling her bones. Slowly, she released it and braced herself, as if the house itself was about to reach out and grab her. Unconsciously she flexed the muscles in her arms, strong and toned and ready to ward off danger.
Spence looked over at her, then back at the house. “Do you want to look inside? Is that it?”
She looked at him. “Break in? Of course, the perfect way to endear you to Sea Harbor voters.”
Spencer laughed. “I’m serious. Not about the breaking in, but I could make it happen.”
Bree took a few steps away, then glanced at the house again as if it might follow her.
“Something’s going on here,” Spence said. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” But it isn’t nothing. It’s something. Or someone. Sometimes feelings become tangled and complicated, the reasons for them blurred. But whatever is worming its way through me is real, a warning that things aren’t always what they seem to be.
Without waiting for another question or reply or subtle rebuke, she walked through the gate, out to the safety of the sidewalk and the narrow winding road that ran in front of the stately Sea Harbor Cliffside homes.
Spence caught up with her as they reached the car. He started to say something, then thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut, holding in his irritation, and walked around the car, sliding in behind the wheel. Bree stood on the passenger side, her fingers curled tightly on the door handle, her body still and her eyes peering through the towering trees, back to the house that stood at the top of the incline, proud and haughty. Sure of itself.
She stood there for several more minutes, until an irritated tap of the horn pulled her attention away. But the house wasn’t done with her and she looked back once more, meeting its glare, returning it with a silent vow:
I will never live in you, house. Never. Bad things will happen there.
Then she opened the door and climbed into the car, the engine already running and Spence’s long fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.
“It’s perfect,” he said to his wife, reaching over and patting her thigh. “Just perfect.”
Rose Chopra stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to the life teeming around her. Her palms were damp, her stomach tight. Behind her, fishing boats were making their way to the docks, ropes were thrown, rough voices shouted, and crates and traps opened and emptied. Scolding and big laughter carried on the wind.
It had taken her by surprise, the sensation that snaked its way through her body. Her shoulders stooped automatically, years of yoga gone in an instant.
And for that one brief moment, Rose Chopra wanted to shrink to nothing.
She was eleven years old, sitting in the stern of a sailboat. Her chin lowered to her chest, her body folding in on itself, disappearing. She prayed for the ocean to open its mouth and swallow her.
And then, as suddenly as the moment came, it passed. Gone. Poof. Disappeared. Pushed away in an instant.
Rose straightened up, shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Her shoulders shifted and fell into a comfortable place; her smile lifted to the sky. Head over heart. Namaste.
She took a step back from the curb as a freckled-faced boy flew by on a skateboard, his hair flying wildly and his grin proud and wide. Rose grinned back, feeling confidence fill her bones and her mind. She continued on down Harbor Road.
Parts of downtown Sea Harbor appeared untouched by the years. Sights and sounds were familiar: people heading home from work, fishmongers packaging up the day’s catch. And the incessant caw of the gulls and blasts of the lobster boats’ horns coming in after a long day. It was comfortable. Easy. Not foreboding.
She slowed as the familiar blend of garlic, olive oil, and tomato sauce assaulted her senses wondrously from Harry Garozzo’s deli. She stopped and looked through the window. It was still there, the ratty, slightly sun-bleached sign in the window. SEA HARBOR’S ONLY TRUE MUFFULETTA, it read. And the only one, people joked.
But what Rose remembered best was that Harry offered half muffulettas—for delicate appetites, he said—but Rose always got the whole roll, stuffed with briny, garlicky vegetables and every kind of salami and cheese known to man. Fat and thick and dripping with flavor. And she always finished it and it always made her happy, even when she went home with a button on her jeans loosened, her shirt pulled awkwardly over it. She pressed one hand on her abdomen, along with a grimace of shame. Even her dad only ordered the half.
Harry’s deli would be here forever, she thought. People like Harry Garozzo didn’t die. Without even looking, she could imagine the talkative Italian baker inside, his apron stained, his voice loud and welcoming as if he were standing in front of her, handing her the hefty sandwich.
The idea of coming back to Sea Harbor had rolled around in her mind for a long time, but always back in shadowy corners. Her mother talked about it, wished for it. Their reasons different, but both compelling and real. And necessary.
Rose would twist and turn the idea around until reasons for not returning had been smoothed away, erased completely, and revisiting the seaside town had been a given. Something she had to do.
It was true that she wanted to see the beauty of Sea Harbor through her mother’s eyes, to savor it in a way she never had. But the reason she needed to come back was to throw away fragments of the past that were no longer a part of Rose Woodley Chopra.
Her old therapist, and then friend, had weighed in heavily. Many times. “Do this,” Patti had intoned. “You’re one strong lady, Rose Chopra.”
Rose knew she was strong. Strong and mighty her dad used to say, his way of complimenting her height, the extra pounds she’d carried then, her strong face. But that same physique, when wrapped around a painfully shy preteen, was described differently by others.
She had stayed quiet and let Patti go on listing reasons why Rose needed some time near the sea, time to remember the places and pockets of the small seaside town that were truly magical. The place her mother loved so much she composed poems about walking by the sea.
The sea and me,
Its healing rush.
Infinity in its caress.
She had tuned back in to her therapist just as Patti finished her list.
You promised your mother you’d take her back to the sea. A promise that carried her through chemo and injections and excruciating days.
And you promised yourself, too. To do it for you, Rose. Patti’s soft voice was caring and loving, even when she asked, And what happened, Rosie? You waited too long. And she died.
Rose had felt the air being sucked out of the room.
And that’s when she packed her suitcase and headed to Massachusetts.
Rose realized she was now a block past Harry’s deli, standing still on the sidewalk again. Like a statue.
“What do you think?”
The voice wasn’t Patti’s and it was no longer inside her head. It came from near her elbow. Rose looked over.
The woman wasn’t looking at her, but at a shop window a yard or two in front of them. Her hands were on her hips, her head cocked to one side.
Rose was about to ask the woman what she was talking about. And then she stopped, her eyes concentrating on the stranger who had just spoken to her. The woman was about her own age, no, younger maybe, but that was where the similarities stopped. She was exquisite, that perfect beauty that stared out at you from the cover of magazines. Unnatural. Unreal. The woman’s looks made Rose feel naked—as if every one of her own imperfections was suddenly in bold relief as she stood near the stranger. She had an urge to turn and walk away.
It wasn’t until the woman’s expression turned to confusion that Rose realized she was staring at her.
“You don’t like the window display?” the woman asked. Then, as the woman brushed a strand of platinum hair over one shoulder, Rose realized her first impression was wrong. This wasn’t unnatural beauty. It was the opposite. Pure, natural. Unaffected. Not a spec of makeup. She wasn’t tall like a model, but small, delicate looking, but her tight jeans showed muscles beneath. And her Harvard sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, indicated the woman could probably hold her own. Rose wondered briefly if she even knew she was utterly stunning—or if she cared.
Rose pulled her eyes away and looked at the display window.
Her eyes widened. “Whoo,” she said, lifting one hand to her chest. The sound was more a breath than a word, like the sound one made when seeing a famous museum piece for the first time. She stepped closer.
On the other side of the window was a cave, a hollowed-out shape made of something Rose couldn’t identify. Papier-mâché, maybe? She had made some with her sister’s kids last Christmas. But this wasn’t a child’s molded rabbit or bird or a tree ornament.
The cavern-like structure was filled with gravity-defying formations—and they were all made from silky strands of fiber: icy gray and blue yarns. Stalagmites and stalactites knit into slender shapes, some that seemed to grow up from the floor, others hanging, shimmering from the ceiling of the cave. Tiny lights hidden in the crevices lit the cavern’s beauty.
Rose took off her sunglasses and looked more closely into the scene.
A movement on the floor of the display window pulled her eyes down to a calico cat, unfurling from a nap. It sat up and looked at Rose as if they’d met before.
Rose stared back. The cat tilted its head to one side, its green eyes keen and strangely insightful. So, it seemed to be saying, you’re here. Now what?
Rose shifted from one foot to the other. Finally she pulled away, embarrassed that she had almost answered the animal.
She turned to the woman, who was still standing next to her, waiting. “It’s amazing. What is this place? Heaven?”
“Sort of. Yes,” she said, a hint of a smile in her voice for the first time.
But her face was still, and Rose wondered if she was one of those models who was told not to smile, to keep the wrinkles away. Rose felt a reserve in the woman, or maybe, she supposed, it could be shyness, although why would someone who looked like she looked be shy?
The woman went on talking. “It’s a great yarn shop. I’m surprised there are still people in Sea Harbor who don’t know about it.” She paused, then looked directly at Rose as if assessing her. Finally she reached out her hand. “Hi. I’m Bree McIntosh.”
Rose took the outstretched hand, the woman’s friendly gesture a nice surprise, one that lessened the distance Rose had imposed between them. “I’m Rose Chopra. Did you create this window? These absolutely gorgeous pieces of art?”
“It’s nice you called it art. Some people might not see it that way. Yes, I helped. It’s a group effort,” she said. “I’m a disaster at knitting sweaters and mittens. But I love to turn yarn into art, twisting and turning, playing with colors. We’re having a fiber art show over in the Canary Cove Art Colony, and the display is partly to advertise that. I’m glad you like it. Be sure you come to the show.”
“I love it and I will if I’m still here. It’s amazing. And so is the cat. Did you knit it, too?”
Bree laughed. “That’s Purl. She’s a love. The yarn shop mascot.”
“So you work here?” Rose asked.
“I help out when they need me. I’m teaching a class for Izzy and doing some things over in the art colony, too. Art is my therapy. Well, therapy on top of therapy. I’ve had both.”
Rose looked at her, for a minute surprised. But she shouldn’t be. Therapy wasn’t her private domain. But, even after her own years of therapy, it still surprised her when someone who looked perfect needed therapy, too.
“You should come to a class, Rose. They’re fun.” Her voice was warmer now, as if somehow Rose had passed a test and they were connected.
“Maybe I will,” she said. “Is the shop new?”
“I don’t think so—but I’ve only been in town a few months, so what do I know? Someone said it used to be a bait shack. Kids would sneak cigarettes and smoke behind the garbage cans near the seawall.”
A bait shop. Rose remembered it now. An ugly, smelly place with cracked windows and peeling paint. Her mother had warned her never to go inside—the smell would never come out of her school clothes, not to mention the danger that might lurk behind the bins of unsavory wiggly things. And she remembered the boys in the back, too. The cool boys. Smoking and sometimes worse things.
She had heeded her mother’s advice about the shack and instead sought the safe and quiet sanctuary of the bookstore next door. Rose glanced over, pleased to see it hadn’t changed much at all. A new paint job, maybe, but the gold painted letters on the glass door were the same—SEA HARBOR BOOKSTORE—with its creaky hardwood floor and the nice couple who didn’t mind Rose curling up in a chair for hours, a stack of books at her side and her shirt smudged from the chocolate-covered peanuts she’d pulled from her backpack.
She had loved that store. And the owner’s son, too. Her first silly crush. Danny, the tall, lanky popular kid, lots older and wiser than Rose. One day when he was helping his dad he’d noticed her huddled over a book, and he’d glanced down and read the title out loud. She still remembered it—Dandelion Wine. “Hmm,” he’d said. And then he said that he liked Ray Bradbury, too. When he walked on, Rose wondered if he had heard the pounding of her heart or knew that his words alone had elevated Ray Bradbury to the status of genius.
Beside her, Bree McIntosh was saying something as cars rushed by, horns honked, and late afternoon shoppers moved in and out of shops. But for a brief moment Rose’s memory blocked out all the sounds.
Finally she shook it off and turned back to Bree, but the blonde woman had turned away and was moving off down the street.
A man, leaning against a fence just a short distance from the yarn shop, seemed to be watching her. She probably got that a lot, Rose thought.
She watched as the slender, gangly-looking man pushed off the fence as Bree drew close. He stood tall, his thick hair pulled back in a ponytail. Everything about the man looked rough and messy to Rose. Even the bright orange bicycle next to him. He lifted up his sunglasses and continued to watch the woman coming toward him, and for a brief moment, Rose wondered if Bree would be all right. Then she scolded herself. She was in Sea Harbor. Of course she’d be all right.
She shook away the thought and turned back to the yarn shop, surveying it more carefully. Fresh paint, a bright blue awning, windows that sparkled. Everything about it was welcoming, including the sign above the door. THE SEASIDE KNITTING STUDIO.
At that moment, the shop door opened and several women walked out, laughing and carrying canvas bags with identical yarn logos printed on the side. One of the women glanced over at Rose and smiled. About Rose’s height but slightly broader in girth, the woman wore a bright yellow blouse, tied neatly at the neck with a small bow. She paused, then cocked her head and opened her mouth as if to say something.
Rose shifted uncomfortably beneath the woman’s look. But then the woman closed her mouth and shook her head slightly, as if apologizing for her stare. She turned away, stepping off the curb and following her friends across the street, horns honking to hurry them along. Rose watched their reflections in the yarn shop window as they gathered on the opposite sidewalk, mouthing good-byes before scattering in different directions.
The woman in the yellow blouse pulled open a heavy glass door between McGlucken’s Hardware Store and an ice cream shop and walked inside. It was a door Rose knew well. It led to creaky wooden steps, a musty hallway above, and small offices huddled above the shops.
Rose remembered climbing those steps every week, heading up to her orthodontist’s office, where her mouth had been filled with wires. Unconscio. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
How to Knit a Murder
Sally Goldenbaum
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