Angora Alibi

Death by Cashmere

Patterns in the Sand

Moon Spinners

A Holiday Yarn

The Wedding Shawl

A Fatal Fleece

A SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERY

Sally Goldenbaum

AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Sally Goldenbaum, 2013

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Goldenbaum, Sally.

Angora alibi: a seaside knitters mystery/Sally Goldenbaum.

p. cm

ISBN 978-1-101-61376-4

1. Knitters (Persons)—Fiction. 2. Mystery fiction. I. Title.

PS3557.O35937A83 2013

813'.54—dc23 2013000646

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The recipe contained in this book is to be followed exactly as written. The publisher
is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical
supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes
contained in this book.

M
y special thanks to Dawn Slugg, owner of Ruhama’s Yarn and Needlepoint Shop in Milwaukee,
Wisconsin (www.ruhams.com). Dawn graciously designed the pattern for the baby blanket
Nell is knitting in
Angora Alibi
.

Thanks also to Nancy Pickard, who provided me with a shady deck, a duck pond, daily
encouragement, and a comfortable brown leather chair, all of which were instrumental
in writing
Angora Alibi
.

And thanks to family and friends from Minnesota to Kansas City who imagine my story
lines with me, explore the characters’ motivations, and help me keep the Seaside Knitters
fresh. Their suggestions and ideas send me off in welcome new directions.

THE SEASIDE KNITTERS

Nell Endicott:
Former Boston nonprofit director, semiretired and living in Sea Harbor with her husband

Izzy (Isabel Chambers Perry):
Boston attorney, now owner of the Seaside Knitting Studio; Nell and Ben Endicott’s
niece; married to Sam Perry

Cass (Catherine Mary Theresa Halloran):
A lobster fisherwoman, born and raised in Sea Harbor

Birdie (Bernadette Favazza):
Sea Harbor’s wealthy, wise, and generous silver-haired grande dame

THE MEN IN THEIR LIVES

Ben Endicott:
Nell’s husband

Sam Perry:
Award-winning photojournalist married to Izzy

Danny Brandley:
Mystery novelist and son of bookstore owners

Sonny Favazza and Joseph Marietti:
Two of Birdie’s deceased husbands

SUPPORTING CAST

Alphonso Santos:
Wealthy construction company owner; Gracie Santos’ uncle; now married to Liz Palazola

Andy Risso:
Drummer in Pete Halloran’s band; son of Jake Risso

Annabelle Palazola:
Owner of the Sweet Petunia Restaurant; Liz and Stella Palazola’s mother

Archie and Harriet Brandley:
Owners of the Sea Harbor Bookstore

August (Gus) McClucken:
Owner of McClucken’s Hardware and Dive Shop

Ella and Harold Sampson:
Birdie’s longtime housekeeper and groundsman

Esther Gibson:
Police dispatcher (and Mrs. Santa Claus in season)

Father Lawrence Northcutt:
Pastor of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church

Franklin Danvers:
Wealthy investor; Elliott Danvers’ uncle

Gabrielle (Gabby) Marietti:
Birdie’s ten-year-old granddaughter

Harry and Margaret Garozzo:
Owners of Garozzo’s Deli

Henrietta O’Neal:
Wealthy Irish widower

Horace Stevenson:
An old man who lives near Paley’s Cove

Jane and Ham Brewster:
Former Berkeley hippies; artists, and cofounders of the Canary Cove Art Colony

Jake Risso:
Owner of the Gull Tavern; father of Andy Risso

Janie Levin:
Nurse practitioner in the Virgilio Clinic; Tommy Porter’s girlfriend

Jerry Thompson:
Police chief

Justin Dorsey:
Eighteen-year-old distant cousin of Janie Levin’s

Kevin Sullivan:
Ocean’s Edge cook

Laura Danvers:
Young socialite and philanthropist; mother of three; married to banker Elliot Danvers

Lily Virgilio, M.D.:
Izzy’s obstetrician

Mae Anderson:
Izzy’s shop manager; twin teenage nieces, Jillian and Rose

Martin Seltzer, M.D.:
Works in Virgilio clinic

Mary Pisano:
Middle-aged newspaper columnist; owner of the Ravenswood B&B

Mary Halloran:
Pete and Cass’ mother; secretary of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church

Merry Jackson:
Owner of the Artist’s Palate Bar & Grill

Pete Halloran:
Cass’ younger brother and lead guitarist in the Fractured Fish band

Tamara Danvers:
Franklin Danvers’ wife

Tommy Porter:
Policeman

Tyler Gibson
: Esther Gibson’s grandson

Willow Adams:
Fiber artist and owner of the Fishtail Gallery

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would
be proud, if our faults whipt them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were
not cherish’d by our virtues.

—SHAKESPEARE

“T
hese are the glory days. A unique and special time in your life.”

“You’re glowing, Izzy.”

“Radiant with life.”

Izzy pulled the blue fleece tight across her heavy breasts and jogged along the wet
sand. She welcomed the salty spray that slapped her cheeks like a reprimand, forcing
her into wakefulness.

Special.

Miraculous.

Joyful.

Everyone agreed.

And everyone was right. Of course they were right. That’s exactly how she had felt.
For months and months.

Ever since the day that innocent-looking little stick had turned pink and she and
Sam, dizzy with thoughts of having a baby, walked the beach for hours, hand in hand,
wrapped in dreams. When nightfall came, they wrapped themselves in a Hudson’s Bay
blanket on the deck and watched the stars come out, marking the day that began a new
chapter in their lives. The day their world changed and their hearts grew so full
they thought they might burst.

A heady, joyous time.

The joy was still there. But dim, restless. Fuzzy.

And Izzy had no concrete idea why.

As her body grew, so, too, did the number of her visits to Dr. Lily Virgilio, until
lately she found herself in the clinic once or twice a week, feeling a kinship with
the doctor and with the office staff. It was a place filled with people whose only
concerns seemed to be for her and for the life growing within her. That was how it
had been.

“No worry,” Dr. Lily assured her, explaining her scheduling of frequent visits. “The
baby is fine. I just want to keep a close watch on your blood pressure. And I want
you to relax.” Her liquid voice and warm smile comforted Izzy as the baby rolled from
side to side inside her.

But Izzy wasn’t really worried about the baby. She knew this baby intimately. And
she knew that he or she was strong and safe and content in the warm cocoon of her
womb.

It wasn’t the baby who was playing with her blood pressure.

If not the baby, what? Sam had asked with increasing frequency.

And then he’d answered his own question, knowing none would come from his wife.
Hormones
. He had read up on them. They happened to moms-to-be. Changes in the body’s chemistry
could cause all sorts of things.

Izzy only half listened to him. Maybe it was hormones. The pile of books stacked beside
her bed told her that pregnancy was an emotional ride. Tension and anxiety came and
went. Moods came and went.

Running helped some. Working in her yarn shop was therapy, too. And Thursday . . .
Thursdays were a cure-all. Knitting night with dear friends whose love alone could
surely ease the irrational emotions squeezing her heart.

And they would ease the feeling that something in the universe—something
out there
—wasn’t at all right. A feeling. A premonition.

Izzy slowed her jog, then stopped along the edge of the half-moon beach and sucked
in huge gulps of air, her fingers splaying around her ponderous belly. It was a natural
position these days—cupped hands embracing her unborn baby.

Somersaults beneath a thin layer of polyester responded to her embrace—a rippling
wave that rolled from one side of her belly to the other.

Izzy patted what felt like a tiny heel. She lowered her head and whispered intimately,
“Soon I’ll give you a whole world to move around in, my sweet baby. Be patient.”

A peaceful, safe world.

But the world wasn’t ready yet. She felt it in her bones. Not ready to welcome this
tiny babe with gentleness and peace.

At this far edge of the cove, the beach narrowed to a path, then disappeared around
a pile of boulders, where it threaded its way up a hill to a neighborhood of elegant
homes hugging the sea cliffs. Most of the houses were old estates, many renovated,
with extra rooms and porches, guest cottages, and boathouses making the already enormous
spaces even larger.

Izzy looked up at them for a few minutes, then turned away and picked up her pace
again, heading back in the direction from which she’d come, her ponytail flying between
her shoulder blades, her head held high.

Step after step after step along the seaweed-laced sand.

She waved to another jogger, picked up speed, and didn’t slow down again until she
reached the steps to the parking strip that ran alongside the road. With one foot
on the bottom step, she breathed deeply again, her head low.

It wasn’t until her heartbeat slowed that she forced herself to look.

It was still there.

Sitting on the sand next to the low stone wall, as patiently as a well-trained pup.

A baby car seat. With a corner of a yellow knit blanket peeking over the side of the
padded seat.

Yellow. Angora, Izzy suspected. A blend—the kind she sold every day to young moms
and grandmothers wanting fuzzy hats and mittens for the cold Sea Harbor winters.

A baby car seat.

Without a baby in sight.

Izzy scanned the cove just as she had in the days before. Some people called the cove
the mothers’ beach, a small protected area that vacationers rarely visited. With low
waves and boulders at each end of the carved-out area, it was an easy place to keep
track of children as they skipped in the waves and built sand castles during the day.
But the June weather had been too cold and the only people frequenting the area were
scuba divers in their wet suits, some local fisherman who kept boats nearby, and strollers
or joggers such as herself.

No moms strolling the beach.

No party leftovers from college kids who took over the sandy area at night.

No children.

No baby.

Old Horace Stevenson, as predictable as the sunrise, walked near the water’s edge
with his golden retriever, Red, at his side. Not a day or nighttime passed without
the Paley’s Cove Sentinel, as the neighbors called the old man, walking the beach,
his bare feet and Red’s paws making intricate patterns in the sand. Every now and
then Horace tossed a piece of driftwood into the sea and Red dutifully waded into
the cold water to retrieve it for his master.

Horace’s eyesight was failing with the years, but his other senses, his hearing and
smell and touch, were keen and sharp, and he always knew when Izzy was jogging along
the beach. It was her scent, he told her once—and the particular slap of her tennis
shoes on the sand. Today, as always, he tipped the bill of his Sox cap in her direction,
then continued his slow walk down the beach. They were friends, she and old Horace,
bound together by their love of this sandy cove.

Izzy turned again toward the car seat, staring hard, as if the sheer power of her
glare would make it get up and fasten itself into the backseat of a car, where it
belonged. Welcome a baby into its safe curve and keep it safe.

But the car seat didn’t move.