Death by Cashmere (2 page)

"This shop could easily become my whole life," she had told Nell. "I need to build in distance." But she liked having
someone
live above the shop. And when Angie moved back to town and was looking for a place, it seemed a fine match.

Nell had agreed. Birdie was wrong this time. Sometimes she clung to old memories a tad too fiercely, Nell thought. She was remembering a young, wild Angie. But college and graduate school had intervened, Angie had mellowed, and in Nell's opinion, she was a fine tenant.

"Angie loves living here," Izzy said, rummaging around in a side drawer for a pair of scissors and some extra needles.

"And how could she not, sweetie?" Birdie said. "Your apartment is a bit of heaven."

Nell looked out the east windows, the same view Angie could see from the apartment above. A rectangle of mullioned windows framed the harbor and an expanse of endless ocean beyond--wild and churning one day, and a smooth silken blanket the next.

Nell thought the building was worth most anything for the view alone. She remembered standing in that same room the year before, Izzy at her side. The Realtor, brushing dust off her taupe suit, had stepped over broken boxes and bottles and motioned Izzy and Nell over to that same window, smudged and filthy, with a broken pane at the bottom and glass scattered on the floor.

Izzy had recently abandoned a boyfriend and a lucrative law career and was looking for the perfect place in which to sink her savings and begin a new life.

And to this day, Nell swore it was looking out that mullioned window that did it.

The Realtor had tugged and pushed at the latch until the windows opened wide, framing the sea and dozens of small boats moored in the Seaside harbor. She slipped into the background then, in that way that Realtors did, leaving Nell and Izzy standing side by side, seeing new beginnings carried in on the waves.

"See," the Realtor said with practiced excitement. "You can jump directly into the ocean from these windows."

Izzy and Nell had smiled. Neither had been inclined to take the plunge, but they were both lured by the sound of the waves against the stone wall below and the breeze that carried new dreams directly into the knitting room.

Not long after that day, Ben Endicott built a window seat directly below the windows, and Nell cushioned it with a thick blue tufted pad. It was a favorite spot for Izzy's customers and friends.

The back room, as it came to be called, was filled with personal things of Izzy's--Uncle Ben's old leather chair, a table that Nell had found at an estate sale over in Rockport, paintings Izzy had bought from local artists on Canary Cove or Rocky Neck in Gloucester. A bank of bookshelves held knitting books, some dogeared and smudged with coffee.

With Nell and Ben's help, the space had been transformed into a cozy, inviting knitting shop, stocked from floor to ceiling with fine hand-dyed yarns and skeins of bright cotton and wool. It drew in townsfolk and summer people alike--a place for friends and strangers to sit and talk and share their knitting passion.

The small rooms grew out of one another like the arms of an octopus. One was filled with patterns and soft old chairs to settle into while picking out the perfect hat or sweater. Another held small cubicles filled with baby-fine cottons and cashmere, and dozens of tiny knitted sweaters and pants to lure even the weekend knitter into a project. A side room--Izzy called it the magic room--housed tiny chairs, a soft rug, and baskets of Izzy's own childhood toys and books, a place for children to play while their moms got help finishing a sweater, picking up stitches, or figuring out the intricacies of knitting a Mobius cowl.

And everywhere, on walls and tables, there were wooden cubicles or large wicker baskets holding every imaginable kind of yarn--alpaca and cashmeres, wool and cotton, linen and silk and mohair.

The first time Nell had walked through Izzy's shop, once the paint had dried and cubes and shelves and baskets were filled with soft plush yarns, she had called it a "sensory overload."

Izzy loved the description. A rich, lovely, sensuous experience. That's what knitting was all about.

Birdie looked up from her yarn. "Having someone here is comforting, Izzy--and I know for sure it helps your aunt Nell sleep at night." She lifted her silvery brows and looked over the top of her glasses at Nell.

Nell knew there was an unspoken "but" at the end of Birdie's statement, but at least she understood the feelings that gave birth to the Seaside Knitting Studio--and her own feelings, too. Izzy was like a daughter to her. And though Nell didn't expect anyone to break into the shop--Sea Harbor wasn't a high-crime sort of town--it made her feel better knowing there was someone living there. And it
did
help Nell sleep better. Birdie was dead-on right about that.

But this evening, from the sounds of things a floor above, no one was--or would be--sleeping.

"Good grief, Izzy--" Cass Halloran breezed into the room. "What's Angie up to?" She pulled off her sunglasses and stared at the ceiling.

"She's energetic," Izzy said.

"Energetic like Muhammad Ali." Cass's thick black hair was shoved up beneath a Red Sox cap, but the damp strands that curled from beneath it announced that she had managed to squeak in a shower after a day of lobstering.

Birdie nodded approvingly, having established the shower rule for Cass months ago. "You are lovely, Cass," she had said. "But the smell of your lobsters should be left at the dock and not ruining Izzy's fine yarns."

Cass lifted her backpack off one shoulder and set it down on the floor beside the fireplace. She walked over to the table where Nell had lined up four brown sacks and leaned toward the steam rising from one of them. "Ah, Nell, life is good."

"We needed a cobbler tonight. There's a brisk wind picking up and something warm and sweet seemed right," Nell said. She slipped off her suede jacket and hung it on a hook by the back door.

Cass nodded. "Nasty winds and probably a little rain during the night." The owner of over two hundred lobster traps, Cass knew the quirks of New England weather intimately. She glanced out the windows at the darkening sea. "It's almost as if nature needs to show us who's boss. Too many warm summer days need a comeuppance." Cass eyed the food sacks on the table again and put one hand on her flat stomach. It growled beneath her touch.

"Cass, you'd starve to death if it weren't for Nell." Izzy picked up a basket of yarn and needles and moved them to the coffee table.

"Of course I would," Cass said. "That's why I joined this group, if you remember, Iz. I hate to tell you, but it wasn't your cashmere yarn. When I spotted Nell walking in there that night, trailed by the most amazing food odors that ever met this nose, it changed my life forever. I swear it did."

Nell remembered the night well. One of those chance events when life's forces line up exactly right.

It happened by accident--Izzy kept the Seaside Studio open until seven on Thursday nights. And Nell often stopped by to bring her niece something to eat--lasagna, scallops and linguini, thin slices of fresh tuna--whatever she had made that day, or the night before.

One Thursday night Cass Halloran wandered in to take a look at the new shop, and she'd smelled the garlic clam sauce hidden in Nell's Tupperware container. Cass had looked at it so longingly that Nell went back home and brought the rest of the leftovers from her refrigerator. On impulse, she'd slipped a freshly baked pie into her sack.

Birdie Favazza happened by that Thursday night, too, on her way home from the Cape Ann nursing home where she taught tap dancing steps to the residents. She spotted activity through the window and decided she needed a few new skeins of merino wool. Surely Izzy would let her in. Eyeing the clam sauce feast spread out on the table in the back room, Birdie suggested that a cold bottle of Pinot Grigio, which she happened to have in the backseat of her car, would complement the "snack" nicely.

And so the Thursday-night knitting group was born.

"Who knows, Nell," Cass said, inching her way over to the food, "if it hadn't been for your clam sauce that night, the world would be short the thirty-seven scarves I've worked up in this cozy room--and just imagine all the fishermen with cold necks who'd be wandering around Sea Harbor." She lifted a plastic lid off one of the containers. The blended aroma of garlic, butter, and wine curled up into the room. "This is just what I needed tonight."

"Bad day, sweetie?" Nell asked.

Cass nodded, her thoughts on sneaking a taste of the sauce without Birdie seeing her. "Someone was in my traps again. The ones over by the breakwater."

"You need to get the police on this, Catherine, " Birdie said. "They won't put up with poachers. They'll hang them up by their toes."

"I've talked to them, Birdie. But poachers are hard to catch. I swear, they're like snakes in those black wet suits, slipping into the water in the middle of the night or however they do it." Cass began pulling plates from a cabinet beneath the bookcases and set them, a little too loudly, on the table. "I swear I'll get them, one way or another."

Nell tugged open another sack. "If you need Ben's help with this, Cass, let him know. He'd love to play sleuth--and I don't want you putting yourself in danger."

"Now there's a thought. There's no one I'd rather sleuth with than Ben Endicott." Cass eyed the round of Brie that Nell placed on a wooden platter. "I think if I could find me a Ben, Nell, I might consider getting married someday."

Nell laughed. "Well, that would certainly make your mother happy."

"But think of the loss in revenue to the Church," Izzy said. "Mary Halloran keeps the priests in new albs with all the candles she lights during her 'Please, God, let Cass get married and have seven children' novenas."

Nell laughed and set a bowl of spinach on the counter, picked that day from the garden behind her house. She'd added sliced mango, a handful of sugared almonds, and sourdough croutons.

Another thud shook the room, this one sounding like a boot hitting a wall.

Birdie put her knitting down on the table and looked up. "Oh, lordy. I think Angelina has just nailed the lid in her coffin. I need to have a word with her."

"Oh, shush, Birdie," Nell said. She sprinkled a balsamic dressing on the salad and tossed it lightly. Birdie would fight dragons for her friends--and win. But Angie didn't quite fit into the dragon category--at least not yet.

"Any idea what she's doing up there?" Cass asked.

Izzy pushed a hank of flyaway hair behind her ear. "She's been preoccupied the past couple weeks--probably had a hard day. It happens to all of us. Now give it a rest--we're here to knit, right?"

Before anyone could agree or disagree, the upstairs door slammed shut, and footsteps clicked on the staircase along the outer wall of the shop.

A second later, Angie opened the side door and stepped inside.

"Hi," she said, her carefully made-up eyes looking around the room. She was on stage, dressed for an audience, and all four women were momentarily speechless.

Angie was nearly six feet tall, with thick red hair that framed her narrow face. Trim and fit, she was dressed tonight in a camisole, a gauzy see-through blouse, and a slim skirt that hugged her hips and stopped above her knees. An elegant cashmere sweater was tied around her shoulders, loose and lovely.

Nell looked at the sweater. "Angie, that sweater looks beautiful on you. I volunteered to wear it, but for some crazy reason, Izzy didn't think it'd get as much attention on me."

Angie touched the cashmere with her fingertips. "Not true, Nell, but while it's on my watch, I'll protect it with my life. I promise. And I'll give it back soon. I just wanted to wear it one more time. It's the most beautiful sweater I've ever seen."

"No rush, Ange," Izzy said. "It's a business deal--I get a real-live model for my sweater; you get some warmth."

Nell touched the edge of the kimono sweater. Izzy had worked it up in a saffron-colored cashmere yarn and knit cables along the front and back. It had a lacy, elegant touch, a unique one-of-a-kind sweater.

When Angie had seen the sweater in Izzy's shop, she'd fallen in love with it--and it took one effusive compliment for Izzy to loan it to her. "Just for a while," she'd said. "It's great advertising-- people will ask where you got it, then come visit the Seaside Studio."

Angie dropped a set of keys down on the table. A knit square with a big A in the center--an old swatch from a wool sweater Izzy had knit for Nell--identified the apartment keys. "Here's that extra set of apartment keys, Iz. I don't need them."

"Thanks, Angie. I have a master key, too. But don't worry. I certainly won't go snooping around."

Angie's voice was husky, a smoker's voice, though she had assured Izzy that she'd quit. "Nothing to snoop for. My life's an open book, Iz."

Nell watched Angie's self-assured movements as she walked over to the sideboard and peeked beneath one of the lids. Then she turned on boot heels so skinny and tall that Nell wondered how she could possibly remain upright. One slight awkward movement, and she'd surely break a leg.

But Nell noticed something else about Angie tonight--a serious look beneath the mascara and eye shadow. And her smile wasn't right somehow. Angie's smile was just like her mother, Josie's. A full-lipped kind of smile that could turn heads if she chose to use it. It seemed forced tonight.

"I love what you've done to this shop, Izzy," Angie said. "It was a disaster before you bought it, a real pit."

"And you'll take care not to ravage it?" Birdie asked, speaking up from her post near the fireplace. Her brows arched over clear eyes.

Angie brushed off the comment with a wave of her hand. "Of course not, Birdie. I couldn't get these on, is all." She looked down at the tight leather boots hugging her legs. "It irritated me, and I guess I threw one. Frustrating," she said, her voice dropping and her eyes looking at her boots as if they might have the answer to something she was seeking. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Boots can be frustrating."