A Finely Knit Murder (4 page)

Elizabeth managed a smile. “Thank you, Rachel.”

Her voice was steady, but her hands, holding a brown notebook, were shaking slightly and the tension that had entered the room with the headmistress now hovered over the library table.

Blythe was still standing, her eyes on Elizabeth and her expression unreadable.

“Blythe?” Rachel said.

Nell looked over at Birdie. They read the tone in Rachel’s voice instantly, the same authoritative one that made her a successful attorney and advocate of the city. Her diplomacy was masterful and the tone that coated her single word was urging Blythe Westerland to sit down.

But it was Esther Gibson who saved the moment. The ageless police dispatcher put her ever-present knitting down, pushed her ample frame to a standing position, and suggested that Rachel fill them in on details of the weekend gala for the foundation before discussing anything else. She was on the night shift, she said, and might have to leave early if tonight’s meeting went too long. She smiled broadly, and the lines fanning out from her clear blue eyes deepened. “Frankly, it’s the only thing on the agenda that interests me tonight.”

She nodded sweetly to Blythe and then sat back down, folding her hands on the table and waiting for her wish to be granted.

Relief spread across Rachel’s face as she thanked Esther for the suggestion, shuffled the papers in front of her, then looked again at Blythe. “It looks like this keeps you standing, Blythe. As the board liaison for the event, you’ll want to relate the memo I received today from the organizer, I presume.”

Blythe took the sheet Rachel handed her, scanned the report, dropped it on the table, and took in her audience. “Laura Danvers”—she nodded at Laura’s husband, Elliott—“has done an excellent job of putting the evening together. It’s been my pleasure to help her at every turn.” She went on to detail the festivities, music by a student jazz band, and tours of the school and property. But the pièce de résistance of the evening would be the multiple small courses served to the guests, all created by Sea Harbor’s finest chefs and accompanied by champagne and fine wine. She added her expectation that each board member take it upon him- or herself to mingle
and greet and direct interested donors to one of the foundation’s funds. “Laura and I promise the evening will not only be thoroughly entertaining but, most important, will fill the foundation’s coffers nicely. Music to all our ears and especially to yours,” she said, looking at the headmistress. “Would you like to add anything, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth didn’t meet the look thrown at her, the friendly tone as if she and Blythe were close confidantes, good friends. Instead she spoke to the rest of the board. “It’ll be a wonderful evening, and I’m grateful to Laura for the time she has given to this. The whole town seems to have an investment in Sea Harbor Community Day School, wanting it to thrive. And that’s quite wonderful.”

Birdie sat straight and smiled at the administrator. “You’ve done a great deal to foster that, Elizabeth. Using foundation money to connect with the community and help other groups has gone a long way in generating the goodwill. You are putting this grand institution back on the map but in a new and interesting way.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Barrett Mansfield said, his baritone voice filling the room.

Blythe stared at him again, a frown threatening to mar her smooth forehead, then disappearing as she sat back down and picked up the agenda sheet.

There was a shuffling of papers and murmurs of approval as coffee cups were refilled. Rachel glanced at the agenda sheet once more, then began passing out the treasurer’s report, ignoring the lead item on the agenda.

Nell felt the emotion before she looked up and saw the clouds gathering in Blythe Westerland’s face. Without looking across the table, she could feel Blythe’s displeasure. She was being overlooked, her voice silenced, something that she wouldn’t accept easily.

Before Nell could get Rachel’s attention, Blythe pushed back her chair and stood again, her hands flat on the varnished table and her eyes moving deliberately from one person to the next until the murmurs fell away and a heavy silence filled the library.

“Thank you for your attention,” she said. “I have a few things we need to address and I’d like to do it now before anyone else has to leave.”

The single agenda item hung in the air.
Staff.
Nell had the peculiar sensation that if she looked up, she’d see the word blinking in neon lights. She looked across the table at Elizabeth. Her face was expressionless. She turned her head and looked at Blythe, waiting, almost as if she knew what was about to occur.

“As most of you know, Josh Babson was fired Monday,” Blythe began, then paused for effect as she looked around the table again. “A move
most
of us recommended to Dr. Hartley.”

The group was silent, waiting. Esther Gibson thrummed her plump fingers on the table. Birdie took off her glasses and rubbed imaginary smudges from them with the sleeve of her sweater.

Anticipation. Where was Blythe going with this?

They all knew Josh was going to be fired, because Blythe had filled the library table the month before with reason after reason for his dismissal. But it shouldn’t be news tonight. Except for the announcement, perhaps, that the artist had, in fact, been fired. An action a few on the board thought unfounded and a few others, those who often missed meetings, didn’t know enough about to have an opinion on. But Blythe had a powerful voice. And name.

Blythe took a drink of water, then continued with a dramatic description of the art instructor’s dismissal, something she hadn’t personally been privy to, but somehow knew several details that made Elizabeth cringe.

She went on to say that proof of the inept firing was in the actions taken by the art teacher after Elizabeth had “let him go.” An action she categorized as an act of “violence,” obviously motivated by the way the firing was handled.

The last words were said with such vitriol that Elizabeth winced. Members of the board stared at Blythe, some leaning forward in their chairs, waiting for the worst-case scenario: had the firing so badly destroyed Josh Babson that he had hurt himself? Or worse?

“With wanton abandon,” Blythe went on, “Mr. Babson sprayed the school’s lawn vividly with yellow paint, showing his anguish for the whole town to see.” She elaborated on the color, the swirls, and the deadly look Josh had thrown up at Dr. Hartley’s office where Elizabeth had been standing in the window. A look she herself had witnessed, she added.

There was a collective sigh of relief. Josh Babson was alive.

Blythe then once again boiled the entire episode down to Dr. Hartley’s inefficient handling of the termination, just one of many examples of her inability to be headmistress of the Sea Harbor school.

“I am sorry to discuss this in front of you, Elizabeth,” she said in the same gracious tone she might have used to compliment the headmistress on her dress. “But it needs to be said. I had hoped to do it before you arrived, but that didn’t happen.”

Elizabeth was silent. The message she had received from her secretary was now clear to all of them. Blythe had arranged it.

“My daughter liked Babson,” Barrett Mansfield said. “And frankly, if I had my way, he wouldn’t have been fired in the first place. So be it. But you can’t expect the man to jump up and down with joy at losing his job no matter how it was done. Maybe his reaction was childish, but after all, he was an artist—using paint to show his displeasure might have been better than other options. Clever, actually.” He followed his words with a slight smile, an attempt to make a point and lighten the mood at the same time.

“You’re missing the point,” Blythe said. “We need to pay attention to how the situation was handled. It was handled terribly, which was why the teacher reacted so badly. And it’s simply another instance in a long list of things that need to be corrected. We need an administrator here who knows who to hire and how to treat staff once they are hired. We need someone at the helm who isn’t pouring money into scholarships for kids who shouldn’t be at this school anyway. We need a headmistress who maintains the integrity of not only the school but the home my great-grandfather raised his family in. We need to clean house.”

It was the first time Nell had seen Blythe Westerland visibly emotional. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had contentious discussions at board meetings, but Blythe always managed to hold her emotions intact, arguing calmly—almost too calmly, Birdie had once observed. But not tonight.

Rachel stood and looked at Blythe, then the rest of the board. “This meeting is over,” she said. She spoke in the same controlled voice she had probably used in countless court battles. “Please review the treasurer’s report, and the last item about repairs to the old boathouse will be discussed at the next meeting. Your concerns will all be considered, Blythe, and discussed once we have something to discuss. Good night, everyone.” She managed a smile and began placing her papers in a leather attaché case.

Several others stood and began to gather up the empty cups, relieved to be going home early. Low conversations here and there attempted to cover the unpleasant and awkward silence.

Birdie walked over to Elizabeth. She complimented her on a new social services project Gabby was involved in. “You are teaching students to be kind to others. The greatest learning of all.”

Around the table chairs squeaked on the hardwood floor, keys rattled, and good-byes floated on the library air.

Blythe Westerland remained at her place, her bag in her hand. Her composure had returned and she smiled at several people around her, wishing them a good night and a safe drive home.

Finally she walked around the table, toward the spot where Birdie and Elizabeth stood.

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but Blythe walked by as if she hadn’t seen her. Instead she followed Barrett Mansfield toward the door, passed him, then spun around, blocking him in his tracks.

The tall business owner was digging in his pocket for car keys with one hand, holding his cell phone to his ear with the other. He looked at her, puzzled. Then he pulled his eyebrows together and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Blythe, if you’ve a beef with me
because of that . . . incident . . . don’t take it out on the board or Elizabeth or anyone else. What are you trying to do here?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Blythe’s voice was controlled, clear and concise—and audible in the now quiet library. She continued. “This is your fault. You hired her for your own selfish reasons.” It was the voice one used to explain an obvious fact to someone who didn’t quite understand, a child perhaps. “It’s not a kind thing you did in pushing the board to hire her. Not for anyone, and especially not for your daughter. She has learning and social problems, and she should be in a place that specializes in that, not here in my school. You’ve taken advantage of me, Barrett. People need to know that. You’ll regret this, mark my words.”

Without allowing time for a response, Blythe turned and walked away from the formidable board member. Her pace was steady and her form graceful, and she never looked back, not once, missing the flush of anger that moved up Barrett Mansfield’s neck until it covered his whole face. A vein pulsed in his temple.

Only the three women standing back at the board table—Birdie, Nell, and Elizabeth Hartley—saw his clenched fist. It was squeezed so tightly around a set of car keys that they were sure to leave a permanent imprint in his palm. The anger in his narrowed eyes spoke louder than words.

Blythe is wrong,
his eyes said. He wasn’t the one who would regret this encounter.

I
t was Thursday morning before Nell had a minute to devote to her sweet Abby.

Wednesday had disappeared in the blink of an eye with a trip to the library to help with a grant and then a trip into Boston to meet with a friend. But Thursday was Abby’s, without a single meeting or appointment.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she said to the curly blond toddler. Abby was sitting in her stroller, enjoying the sea breeze, as Nell pushed her stroller through the narrow streets of the Canary Cove Art Gallery. “This won’t happen again.”

Seeing Abby every day wasn’t always possible, but Nell tried hard to make it happen. Sam and Izzy’s baby girl had added unforeseen riches to all their lives, and in Nell’s mind, being with Abby was the best possible way to make an off-kilter world balanced again.

“So you need balance?” Ben had asked her earlier that morning. They were drinking coffee and sharing their plans for the day, hoping to meet for a quick glass of wine together later that day. A chance to catch up before Nell left for the night reserved for knitting.

“Yes, a little balance would be good. It’s Birdie, I think, who has me on edge. She gets this feeling in her bones when things aren’t quite right, and it seems to slide inside me easily.”

“It’s because of the board meeting, I’d guess.”

“Probably. Dissension wears on me, especially when I know the people and some are hurt by it. It’s even harder on Birdie, now that Gabby is a student at the school.”

Ben put down his coffee mug and gave Nell a kiss on the top of her head. “Our Abby will chase those feelings away. She always does.”

Ben was right. Abby was the perfect antidote. Nell waved across the street to Rebecca Early, who was unlocking the door to her handblown-glass gallery. The beautiful jewelry born from Rebecca’s artistic hands caught stray rays of sunlight and sparkled in the window. Nell vowed to stop back. It was her favorite go-to shop for birthdays and gifts for friends.

But today she was headed toward the Brewster Gallery. Jane and Ham needed a dose of Abby’s magic before they began their busy day.

She walked down the street, enjoying the early-morning quiet, soon to be displaced as the area came alive with artists selling their art and preparing for shows. The Brewster Gallery was halfway down the block, right next to Willow Adam’s Fishtail Gallery. It was a deceptively narrow shop that fronted a long strip of land that moved inward, back into the hilly grounds behind it. From the street, the garden and cottage that Ham and Jane had lived in for thirty years were invisible, an enchanting surprise to those who made their way farther through the gallery.

Nell pushed open the door, held it with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside and around the new display of Jane’s pottery. “Jane . . . ,” she started to call out, and then she stopped short.

Jane was nowhere in sight. Instead a tall, thin man with heavy-lidded eyes stood behind the cash register. His long fingers were tapping the computer keys and organizing receipts. Blond straggly hair curled around the neckline of his T-shirt, and his paint-stained jeans seemed appropriate for the working gallery.

“Hey,” he said, looking up. His smile was slight.

“Is Jane here?” Nell asked.

“She’s back there.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder to an adjacent room that Ham and Jane used as an office and sitting area, and then he went back to his work.

The swish of Jane’s long skirt told Nell she had heard her name and recognized the voice. She hurried around the door and gave Nell the briefest of hugs, then crouched down to greet and touch baby Abby’s cheeks and chin and draw a smile from her favorite toddler. Abby responded immediately with a smile that filled her whole face.

“No one is immune to Jane’s charms.” Nell laughed.

The man behind the counter nodded. “Yeah. That’s a fact,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the receipts in his hand.

Jane laughed and pulled Abby out of the stroller, then waltzed her around the room to an old Fleetwood Mac tune playing in the background. She finally circled back to the lean man at the cash register.

He watched Jane with an amused look on his face.

It was then that Nell noticed his eyes—green and deep and as disturbing as the ocean before a storm. Raw, piercing eyes.

Jane looked at him, smiled, and held out the toddler. “This is our secret dose of sunshine. Meet Abigail Kathleen Perry. You’ll be happy you did.”

The man looked at the child, and his face softened with a kindness that had been hidden a second before. He made a face and winked at Abby, causing an infectious giggle to stir the air.

“I’m here, too,” Nell said to Jane. “I’m used to playing second fiddle to Abby. That’s okay, but I’d also like to meet this new person working in your gallery.”

“Oh, good grief,” Jane said. She spun Abby around again, then settled her on her hip, wrapping her arms around a wriggling body. “I thought you knew everyone in town, Nell. Josh, meet my oldest and dearest Sea Harbor friend, Nell Endicott. Nell, Josh Babson.”

Josh Babson.

Nell covered her surprise with a smile and a greeting. Of course.
Jane and Ham knew every New England artist from Gloucester’s Rocky Neck to Maine. Not only that but the founders of Canary Cove Art Colony had helped many of them get their careers off the ground. He was a teacher, but he was an artist, too. They would know Josh. And know what had happened to him, too. Sea Harbor was a small community, and Canary Cove—even smaller.

“Ham has figured out a way to share our studio with Josh. In exchange, Josh is going to help out in the gallery. He’s a wonderful painter. Ben is going to want to start a new collection, trust me.” She pointed to a large seascape against a far wall, lit with a tiny spot. “Josh has a special love affair with the sea, and it shows brilliantly in his work.”

The man behind the counter cast an unreadable look Nell’s way, but a softening in his face showed pleasure in Jane’s praise.

He made no move to further the conversation—or officially meet her—so Nell took the initiative and reached over the counter to shake his hand. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of your work, Josh,” she said.

A half smile appeared, along with a shrug and a reluctant handshake. “Sure. I’ve seen your husband a couple of times at art shows and around town. Not you, though. Nice to meet you in person.”

In person.
Josh knew
of
her, knew she was on the board, of course he did. And it was the board that had ripped away his steady, dependable job, the kind that puts food on the table.

“I think I had your granddaughter in class.” He looked between Jane and Nell.

“You must mean our friend Birdie Favazza.”

“Her granddaughter, Gabby Marietti, goes to Sea Harbor Community,” Nell added.

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. She was in one of my classes. She was good, not great. She’ll never be a Winslow Homer, but she’s creative as hell with a personality to match. How it all works out for her will be interesting to watch.”

“We’ve all adopted Gabby,” Jane said.

Nell watched Josh as Jane went on about Gabby. His eyes shifted back and forth between the two women and then settled on the papers he’d been shuffling when they walked in. He was handsome in a New England cowboy kind of way—rough at the edges, arty, and not very sociable.

And, according to Gabby and the yellow circles left on the school lawn, he had a temper. That or a strange sense of humor.

But Josh Babson also seemed to be intuitive and caring about his students. And he was talented, according to Jane. So how had he incurred the wrath of Blythe Westerland that had caused him his job? And why?

The question flitted in and out of Nell’s mind later that day as she and Abby made their way down the produce aisle at the grocery store and then walked over to the fish market on the harbor. But the thoughts didn’t linger long. With Abby at her side and a meal to put together for Thursday night knitting, even Josh Babson was finally brushed aside completely, replaced by fresh crab, potatoes, and a hunk of ginger root.