A Finely Knit Murder (7 page)

On the other edge of the terrace, they could see the first course being placed on serving trays. Blythe Westerland was ordering people around, standing out from everyone else in a gorgeous shimmering dress. Gracie Santos stood guard, too, checking the miniature lobster rolls and making sure they were positioned on the plates in curved lines, sprigs of parsley separating one from another, and pots of sauce
placed in the center as they were delivered around the terrace, one to each table. “It looks like Gracie has donated the appetizers from the Lazy Lobster,” Cass said. “Her donation to her alma mater.”

“A very generous one.” Birdie waved at Gracie, and she waved back, then added one last sprig of parsley to a tray before heading their way. A breeze blew in from the water and lifted her blond hair from the back of her neck as she approached.

“This is so great,” she said. “This whole thing. It makes me want to be back in school again.”

“So . . . good memories?” Nell asked.

“Not in the beginning. I missed my Cass.” She threw her friend a lopsided grin. “But once I adjusted, I was fine.”

“Easy come, easy go,” Cass said.

Gracie laughed. “Yeah. Hey, where’s the guy?”

Izzy answered for her in a husky Cass voice, “He has a
name
, Gracie.
Harry
.”

Cass dismissed them all with a disdainful wave of her hand and started off in search of Ben and Sam. “At least the guys talk to me about sensible things.”

Gracie and Izzy followed her, leaving Nell and Birdie to find a quiet space on a stone bench, out of the mainstream.

People-watching,
Birdie said, as well as getting a grip on the lay of the land.

“It looks so different at night, all lit up like this,” Birdie said. “It’s certainly beautiful—” She shivered and rubbed her arms.

“You still have that feeling of something being off-kilter, don’t you?”

“Maybe I’m wrapping myself too tightly in first-time mother garb. Wondering about Gabby’s teachers, the homework, the friends she is making. Is she adjusted? Happy?” Birdie reached over and patted Nell’s hand. “Nell, dear—remind me every now and then that I am not young, not a mother, but am a woman ‘of a certain age’ with a million years of experience who knows better than to worry about those things.”

“And knows better than to imagine danger on a beautiful autumn night. Consider yourself reminded.”

“I suppose being here and reminded of the tensions that have filled this lovely place recently is having some effect.” She looked back at the lit school, at the lead glass windows and silhouettes of people as they went through the hallways, touring and chatting and drinking wine.

Fired teachers and disgruntled board members should be the furthest thing from their minds.

Except.

“Oh, good grief,” Birdie said. “Now, why would he be here?”

She pointed toward the flagpole, illuminated by several small spots, the three flags at the top waving in the evening breeze. It was not far from the spot that had so recently been mowed clean of its yellow circles.

Nell looked over.

Jane and Ham Brewster stood with a group of Canary Cove artists, soaking in the surroundings with their eyes, as if they all wanted to set up shop with brushes and easels and begin a session en plein air right there in the middle of the party.

Standing out in the group because he rose nearly a head taller than anyone else was Josh Babson.

He had forsaken the paint-stained jeans and torn T-shirt and looked presentable, his hair slicked back and clean jeans and a white shirt fitted over his tall, slender frame.

“He must have come with Jane and Ham,” Nell said. “They bought a table or two and probably invited any of the artists who wanted to come. They know most of the fledgling artists can’t afford it on their own—”

“Of course, that would be it,” Birdie said, but her voice didn’t completely disguise her surprise that a recently fired teacher would show up at a school function.

No matter, whatever the true circumstances of Josh’s dismissal,
both Birdie and Nell were happy he had found a job so quickly. “Jane has good judgment. She trusts him in her gallery,” Birdie said.

“I suppose. The curious part, though,” Nell said, watching as a hoot of laughter rose like a plume from the group, “is why he would
want
to come to a party at the school. Here, of all places . . .”

Birdie wondered the exact same thing.

Of course, they knew the food would be worth it.

They watched as the lanky artist looked around the grounds while the others were talking. Several students vied for his attention. He grinned and waved, but his look went over their heads as he searched the gathering crowd. He was looking for something, for
someone
, his expression intent as he stepped apart from the group, his head moving back and forth.

The friendly expression they’d noticed earlier was gone as he scanned the crowd, replaced by one you wouldn’t expect to bring to a party.

Josh Babson looked determined. And angry. It wasn’t the same man Nell had met the day before, someone who crouched down to say hello to a toddler and who had spoken with pleasure about his students. About Gabby.

This Josh Babson looked as if he’d like to kill someone.

Birdie wrapped her shawl around her shoulders tightly.

And this time when she shivered, Nell didn’t ask why.

B
irdie tucked her arm through Nell’s as they sat quietly, listening to a medley of old Gershwin tunes being played by the student jazz musicians.

But their thoughts remained on Josh Babson. He had abandoned the group of Canary Cove artists and now stood by himself near the musicians. They were clearly happy to see him. But his posture told Nell and Birdie he was still searching for something or someone.

“Tonight is supposed to be an evening of goodwill,” Birdie said. “Who’s to say Josh Babson isn’t capable of the same? That’s why he came. Somehow these kinds of messy things work themselves out and the bad feelings go out with the tide.”

Nell wasn’t so sure, especially since she implicitly respected Birdie’s penchant to portend ominous events. She would not describe the look on Josh’s face as he searched the crowd as one of forgiveness.

She looked over at Elizabeth Hartley standing on the terrace, greeting a group of guests. She wondered if Josh had spotted her yet. Was she who he was looking for?

Nell looked up at the moon, trying to scatter the disturbing thoughts. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. Elizabeth was fine. And certainly safe in the middle of hundreds of friends and parents and supporters.

And Birdie was right about it being a special night. So she pushed the uncomfortable emotion aside and reminded herself to live in the moment. It was all any of them had, after all.

The image of sweet Harriet and Archie Brandley, holding hands and strolling up from the shore as if they were young lovers, brought a smile and a wave and a settling of her thoughts. Yes, a night of goodwill.

When the Brandleys walked over to chat, Nell left Birdie in charge and excused herself for a quick trip to the ladies’ room.

“The teachers’ lounge is the one to use,” Birdie instructed, pointing toward a set of double doors. “Just go through the library and to your left.”

The teachers’ lounge was lovely, with desks, chairs, and chaises, places to prepare lesson plans or relax. Fresh flowers, probably for tonight’s occasion, graced the tables and soft music came through speakers near the ceiling. She could see Laura Danvers’s hand in the details. She had pulled out all the stops to make this evening special. Nell walked through the lounge to the restroom at the far end.

Even that room held flowers, small vases of late-blooming hibiscus and daisies, their reflections glowing in the wall of mirrors above the sinks. Nell leaned forward to pinch off a head, then took a brush from her bag and gave her hair a quick fix.

“You are as quiet as a cat.” She spoke to the mirror image of the woman who came up and stood next to her.

Blythe Westerland smiled a hello as she artfully applied a layer of lipstick.

“It’s a perfect evening, Blythe,” Nell said. “Even the lounge is lovely.”

“It’s perfect, I agree. And you are wonderful to say so. It’s been a labor of love.”

Blythe smiled again, then picked up her tiny gold purse and walked back into the lounge area.

Nell gave herself one final appraisal, smoothed down a wrinkle
in her black cocktail dress, and walked back through the lounge, greeting Esther Gibson, who was relaxing in one of the chairs, her cell phone to her ear. She put one hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Nell, “Just checking on my men,” then spoke back into the phone to some policeman giving her a report on department goings-on. Mostly likely the report centered on a chess tournament as the officers enjoyed a quiet Friday night at the precinct.

Nell put her hand on the doorknob, then stopped midtwist. The voices coming from the hallway were familiar, and at first listen, one was not cordial.

One voice she recognized instantly because she had just heard it—smooth and melodious. Blythe Westerland. It was the other voice that stopped her from opening the door. It was low and controlled, filled with anger.

“What is the matter with you?” Chelsey Mansfield said. “Barrett and I have done nothing to you. Anna is a child. Leave her alone. Leave
us
alone. And don’t you dare play with her life in an effort to punish us. Don’t you dare.”

There was a moment of silence and Nell could imagine Blythe’s expression. Her face would be calm and her smile—her all-purpose, ever-ready, unreadable smile—would accompany whatever came out of her mouth.

“Chelsey, dear”—the words were sweet—“I am encouraging Dr. Hartley to do what is best for this school. Your daughter needs to be somewhere else. It will be better for her, better for the other students, and better for my school.”

“The other students? Blythe, your thinking is terribly wrong. Have you ever had a child? Do you understand anything?”

“A child?” Blythe laughed. It had a bitter sound to it. “Of course not.” She started to walk away, then paused, just long enough to encourage Chelsey and her husband to enjoy the party.

Nell heard the echoing sound of Jimmy Choo heels fading as Blythe walked away from Chelsey Mansfield.

Chelsey seemed not to move, but her voice was audible, her
words clear and distinct, carrying all the way to where Nell stood behind the closed lounge door.

Her anger was palpable, her voice steely:

“You won’t get away with hurting people this way, Blythe. Trust me. You will be stopped.”

Nell took a deep breath and waited until she heard Chelsey’s footsteps as she walked away.

When she finally walked back outside, neither Chelsey nor Blythe was anywhere in sight. Nell was relieved. They surely would be able to tell from looking at her that she had just eavesdropped on their private conversation, something she didn’t make a habit of doing. It was a conversation she wished she hadn’t heard. Chelsey’s anger was meant to be heard by no one but Blythe.

Elizabeth walked toward her from across the terrace. A beautiful turquoise scarf floated behind her.

“Have you seen Blythe?” Her voice was businesslike and controlled.

Nell nodded. “We spoke in the lounge a few minutes ago. She headed back outside before I came out.”

Elizabeth’s look was pensive, as if Nell’s comment held more meaning than a woman leaving a restroom. Finally she said, “If you see her, would you please tell her I need to talk to her?” Elizabeth managed a smile. “It’s difficult to find anyone in this crowd. A nice problem to have, however.” She nodded to a teacher waving to her, thanked Nell, and hurried off.

In the distance Nell spotted Josh again, standing alone near a hedge, out of the way of the crowds, watching Elizabeth walk toward the steps. He looked at Nell briefly, then shifted attention back to Elizabeth.

He set his drink down on a tray and walked in her direction, his long strides catching up with her quickly and cutting her off before she was surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers.

Nell took a quick breath, checking around for security guards, for Ben, for anyone.

Josh had put his hand on Elizabeth’s arm, and she had turned toward him.

She looked up. Surprised.

A sliver of fear worked its way through Nell and she began to walk in their direction. Then stopped.

Elizabeth had turned, and Nell could see her face and the way she was looking at Josh. There were no traces of fear. She was listening closely, leaning in, nodding. Smiling.

She rested one hand briefly on Josh’s arm, looked into his face, and smiled. Then she turned and walked calmly away. She was still smiling as she greeted the next group of guests.

And Josh did the same, walking back to his spot near the hedge.

An evening of goodwill,
Nell thought
.
Maybe Birdie was right.

She made her way back to the bench where she’d left Birdie. She was standing at the stone railing, her blue-veined hands resting on the cool surface, enjoying the sight of so many people milling about the lawn. “It’s like Seurat’s La Grande Jatte,” Birdie said. “Except at night.”

“And wouldn’t you know who’d be right in the middle of it?” Nell said. She pointed toward Gabby and Daisy, out on the lawn, their arms free of programs as they lifted a brass candle lighter and tried to relight a flame. Gabby, standing on tiptoe, towered over her friend as she clutched the tall pole, all the while trying desperately to control her giggles.

“Oh, dear,” Birdie murmured. “Don’t burn yourself, dear . . .” She looked away and sat down on the beach.

“What were those words?” Nell asked. She sat down beside her friend, relieved to be thinking of Gabby and Daisy, two beautiful, innocent girls on the cusp of life. “What was it . . . ? Oh, yes. ‘You are a woman with a million years of experience who knows better than to worry about such things . . .’ ?”

Birdie sighed. It would take practice.

They looked up as Ben’s shadow fell across the railing. He
carried a tray of drinks and was followed by an entourage of friends—and one stranger.

Nell started to stand, but the mustached man with the thick dark hair walked over, his large hands motioning her down. “It’s okay. Don’t stand, please.” He nodded at each of them, a gracious gesture that brought a thick lock of hair tumbling across his forehead. “Cass pointed you both out. Birdie and Nell, right?”

“And you must be Harry Winthrop,” Birdie said, resting her hand in his large palm. “See there? We know each other without having met. If memory serves me, you resemble your father.”

Harry lifted one eyebrow. He tugged lightly on his beard.

“I knew him years ago, not well, but from their summers here,” she said. She watched as he touched his beard again. He was clearly not comfortable with it yet, and she remembered her Sonny doing the same when he had decided to sport a beard.

Harry looked a little surprised that anyone would remember his parents. “Yeah, they liked it up here.”

“Do you come back often? Your siblings?”

“No siblings—though I always wanted a dozen or so. And no, I don’t come back much. My folks had a lifetime membership in the yacht club and I’ve come up a couple times to sail.”

“They loved it here, as I remember. And the house has stayed in the family all this time, even with no one using it.” Birdie smiled.

Harry looked slightly nonplussed.

The Whitfield place had once been a cottage off the cover of
Coastal Living
magazine with sweeping ocean views, white clapboard siding, and an enviable ambience. Years of disuse had weathered the small home, and now peeling paint, a weedy yard, and crumbling drive were what people thought of when they mentioned the Winthrop place.

Birdie filled in the silence and touched his arm. “I didn’t mean that as an insult. The cottage is still one of the best locations in Sea
Harbor and I’m happy that you might bring it back to its healthier days.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It has good bones. I’ve never quite got my act together to make a decision about what to do with it but am determined to get that worked out while I’m here.” He looked away when he talked, not entirely comfortable. One finger rubbed his mustache. “I stayed in it for breaks when I was at BU, but then life happened.”

“Sea Harbor is a perfect escape from college stress,” Nell said. “Sometimes I think it’s a BU annex, at least if the T-shirts around town are any indication.”

“Hey, we Harvard grads spent time here, too,” Izzy said.

“And don’t forget Holy Cross.” Cass waved her hand in the air and began chanting her college fight song.

“I’m with you, Cass.” Angelo Garozzo walked up, his short, square frame dressed in a dark suit and tie that made him nearly unrecognizable. He pumped one fist in the air. “Go, Crusaders.”

Ben reached over and shook his hand. “Good to see you, Angelo. Great event. Great school. And I hear you have a lot to do with that.”

“I try, Ben.” He shook his head. “Some days are better than others.”

“You know everyone, right?” Ben took in the half circle of people with a wave of his hand.

Angelo looked around the group, his ruddy grin greeting each of them. His greeting stopped at Harry. He frowned and leaned his head to one side, scanning the newcomer’s face. Harry shifted from one foot to the other.

“Do I know you?” Angelo asked.

Harry shrugged. “Probably not. Unless from long-ago summers and a guy who sometimes got wild at beach parties. But I didn’t have all this hair in those days.” He stroked his beard.

“Nah, I don’t remember things like that. I’ll remember.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yah. Yacht club. Months ago. I was fixin’
something or other in one of the cabins. Yah. That’s it. No mustache, though, right?”

He frowned, tugging at the rest of the memory, then shook it off and turned away from Harry and moved on to another matter. He touched Nell’s and Birdie’s arms, planting his square body in front of them, motioning them away from the rest of the group.

Without preamble he started in, keeping his voice low and private. One finger stabbed the air while he talked. “Whatta we going to do with the board? Can you two help them get their act together? They’re crazy, you know that?” His face turned from a weathered tan to a sweaty red as he talked. He looped one finger into his starched shirt collar and tugged at it.

“Take a breath, Angelo. We don’t want anyone dying on us at this lovely party.” Birdie rested one veined hand on his forearm and silenced his moving finger. “It will work out.”

“It hurts Dr. Hartley, you know. She’s good folks, that one, and she’s doing a good job here. This place is as healthy as I’ve seen it in years—and it’s not only for the students, what she does. She’s doing good things for Sea Harbor. But—”

His words cut off as he looked off in the distance, his angry face landing on his prey.

Birdie and Nell followed the darts that seemed to visibly leave his eyes.

On the lawn a few steps below, Laura and Elliott Danvers stood with the mayor and a group of important-looking guests from out of town. In the middle of the group, her hair pulled back into a low, elegant bun and her shiny dress highlighting every curve of her body, Blythe Westerland held court. She held a champagne glass in one hand, and the other was tucked through the arm of a gentleman Nell recognized as owning a vacation home up on the cliff.