Death by Cashmere

Table of Contents

Obsidian
Published by New American Library,
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2008

Copyright (c) Sally Goldenbaum, 2008

All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Goldenbaum, Sally.
Death by cashmere: a seaside knitters mystery / Sally Goldenbaum.
p. cm. -- (An Obsidian mystery)

eISBN : 978-1-436-23532-7

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Acknowledgments

The seaside knitters (and the author) would like to acknowledge those who have helped bring the knitters' story to life. My sincere thanks to:

Cindy and the entire staff of The Studio Knitting & Needlepoint in Kansas City, and especially Sarah Kraly, who showed me what life in a knitting shop is all about--lovely yarns, generous help, friendship and laughter, and a cozy place to be on a cold winter day.

Kristen Weber, for gracious, smart, and generous editing; Andrea Cirillo (for
years
of encouragement); and Kelly Harms (whose passion for knitting and life fueled the Sea Harbor women every step of the way).

My dear porch-writing friend Nancy Pickard, who understands it all.

And to my amazing family, the Cape Ann McElhennys: Aria, John, and Luke, who sent books on lobstering and quarry history, walked with me on breakwaters, through museums and seaside towns, and who shared with me their love of the sea. And the KC Goldenbaums: Todd, Danny, and Claudia, who are ever-present, fixing broken computers, building Web sites, and salving the spirit. And a special thanks to Don, for thirty-eight years of reasons.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Izzy Chambers stood with her hands on her hips, staring hard at the ceiling. Crashing thumps from the floor above sent tiny flecks of paint floating to the floor. The music was loud, too-- screeching, unrecognizable words and a freight train-loud bass that Izzy could feel in the pit of her stomach.

Behind her, Nell Endicott, thirty years Izzy's senior, felt the same vibrations, but perhaps with more weight. Had she been back in Kansas, there'd be no doubt in Nell's mind that a tornado was pummeling down to crush her niece Izzy's small knitting shop.

But neither she nor Izzy was in Kansas. They were in Sea Harbor, Massachusetts, and tornadoes were rarely spotted in the sleepy oceanside town.

"Maybe she's Rollerblading," Izzy said. She grimaced at the continuing noise.

"Rollerblading is a lot better than some of the thoughts that passed through my head."

"Oh, phooey. Let's not worry about it," Izzy said, spinning around on her newly knitted socks and facing her aunt. "Angie's rambunctious, that's all. She's usually not so noisy."

A new sound--a series of heavy clunks--caused the track lighting to quiver and brought Mae Anderson rushing in from the front of the knitting store.

Izzy held up her hands to shush her sales manager before she could say anything. "Mae, it's just a little music."

"The
little
music, Izzy, made Laura Danver's baby cry--that's how loud it is up at the cash register. And Laura left without buying the yarn she'd been waiting weeks for."

Izzy sighed. "I'll drop Laura's yarn by her house later, Mae."

Nell could feel Izzy's frustration--the young mom wasn't Izzy's most patient customer, but she was certainly one of Izzy's best, and Izzy couldn't afford to offend her.

The bell above the front door jingled, and Mae hurried off to help a new customer, but her eyes told Izzy that she needed to do something--and soon. Priding herself on her senior status, Mae didn't hesitate to tell her young boss how things should be done.

Nell looked up at the ceiling again. The music was softer now, but heavy shoes--boots, maybe--clunked back and forth across the floor above.

"Thicker carpet," Izzy said, half to herself.

"No, sweetie," a lilting voice from the doorway chimed. "Thicker skin. That's what you need. Angie Archer needs to move on."

Birdie Favazza, the oldest member of the Thursday-night knitting group, stood in the doorway. A diminutive woman of nearly eighty, Birdie stood straight, her chin lifted and her eyes bright. A short cap of silver hair outlined her small, fine-boned face. "Landlords need to be tough, darlin'," she said, and walked on into the room.

"She's a good tenant, Birdie. She's probably just had a rough day at work." Izzy scooped up stray pins and measuring tapes and tossed them into a wicker basket on the table.

Birdie shook her head in clear disagreement and walked briskly across the room to a worn leather couch. Her bulky backpack landed on the floor. A bottle of wine protruded from the top of the pack and Birdie pulled it out, putting it on the coffee table in front of her. "I'm here to knit and snack and share a glass of this very fine Muscadet, Izzy. Not to judge you, dear. But--"

"--you told me not to rent the apartment to Angie."

"And you're not quite ready to admit I'm right," Birdie said in a distinct accent that blended fine breeding with a salty touch inherited from a sea captain grandfather. She tugged her bright yellow cable-knit sweater closer around her diminutive frame and tenderly pulled a ball of qiviut yarn from her bag. She fingered its softness with still-nimble fingers and pondered aloud whether to make a shawl or a scarf out of the luxurious wild-berry yarn.

"A shawl," Nell suggested. She looked around the studio. Nell knew exactly why Izzy liked having Angie living above the knitting shop. When they had turned the broken-down bait shop into the Seaside Knitting Studio the winter before, Izzy had decided to move into a cozy New England cottage a short bike ride away, leaving the apartment space above her shop empty.