Nell admitted to Birdie later that the cockiness might have been colored by her own embarrassment at being caught staring at him.
"I've gained ten pounds just by walking into this room," Cass whispered beside her. "Check it out, Nell. Ben will be in hog heaven when you go home tonight. Danny wanted to come to knit, but I wouldn't let him. He'd eat too much."
A floor-to-ceiling bookcase ran along one wall in the back room of Izzy's shop. Normally it was littered with skeins of yarn and knitting gadgets, patterns, framed photographs, and CDs, but today the counter that separated the bookshelves from the cabinets below was filled from end to end with platters of homemade holiday cookies--from decorated Santas and buttery spritz blossoms, to chocolate peanut butter drops and cinnamon-sugar sticks. A linen-lined basket at the end was brimming with chocolate coin cookies for Hanukkah, each one wrapped in gold foil. Izzy had taken a few cookies from each plate and placed them on a tray for nibbling while knitting. Before leaving, they'd all walk the cookie-lined path and fill their take-home baskets with the rest.
"I'm always amazed and inspired at the creative things busy people come up with," Nell said, squeezing her own platter in between a plate of macaroons and frosted reindeer, complete with cherry noses.
"And even some not-so-creative people--but certainly enterprising--like me." Cass pointed to a plate of red lobster-shaped Christmas cookies. "Harry Garozzo made them for me," she whispered, then slipped away to help Izzy pass out scrap yarn for new squares.
Nell laughed and looked back at the array of sweets. How interesting, the abundant comfort that homemade cookies could bring to a room. Eggs, butter, flour--medicine of the gods. She looked around the room, at heads bowed sharing family news, fingers reverently touching soft yarn, smiles flittering across lined faces.
In the midst of it, Izzy moved from group to group, her long, lean body bending to offer praise for a newly finished square. Her fingers pointing out a fresh design. A pat on the shoulder. She offered warm cider or soft drinks, a glass of wine or cup of coffee. The perfect hostess. But it wasn't a role she played. It was simply Izzy.
"Our Izzy looks tired," Birdie said, coming up to Nell and motioning her over to the window seat where Purl was saving their places, the long tabby body stretching from one pillow onto the next.
Nell nodded. "Tired. Or concerned."
"Or both."
Birdie handed Nell a glass of hot cider, and the two settled down on plush pillows, their backs to the window framing the winter sea, with Purl now curled into a ball between them.
Birdie pulled her thick red sweater around her. "What's going on with Isabel?"
"It involves Sam, but I haven't been able to make sense of it. Three weeks ago Sam and Izzy both had that magical look of expectation, of wonder, or so it seemed to me. And I don't think it was from holiday decorations or the mayor lighting the Christmas tree, or the music. It was more than that, an intimate something that was hard to define. I truly half expected an announcement."
"And now?"
"I don't know. They seem to have issues."
"Of the heart." Birdie's small white head moved with her words, and her eyes sought out Izzy. "It's difficult when our emotions are being tugged in such disparate directions. Love. Murder. They simply don't fit well in the same house."
Birdie had intended to speak the words softly, but the hardness of "murder" carried the word far enough to pull Rebecca Early's attention away from her knit square.
The jewelry artist leaned over the arm of a leather chair, bringing her head close to Nell and Birdie. "I saw her the day she was killed. She was as close to me as the two of you."
Rebecca's silky blond hair fell over her shoulder, and her brows pulled together. "It's awful. No one deserves an end like that; I don't care who they are or what they've done."
"You saw Pamela that morning?"
"Yes,
"I've gained ten pounds just by walking into this room," Cass whispered beside her. "Check it out, Nell. Ben will be in hog heaven when you go home tonight. Danny wanted to come to knit, but I wouldn't let him. He'd eat too much."
A floor-to-ceiling bookcase ran along one wall in the back room of Izzy's shop. Normally it was littered with skeins of yarn and knitting gadgets, patterns, framed photographs, and CDs, but today the counter that separated the bookshelves from the cabinets below was filled from end to end with platters of homemade holiday cookies--from decorated Santas and buttery spritz blossoms, to chocolate peanut butter drops and cinnamon-sugar sticks. A linen-lined basket at the end was brimming with chocolate coin cookies for Hanukkah, each one wrapped in gold foil. Izzy had taken a few cookies from each plate and placed them on a tray for nibbling while knitting. Before leaving, they'd all walk the cookie-lined path and fill their take-home baskets with the rest.
"I'm always amazed and inspired at the creative things busy people come up with," Nell said, squeezing her own platter in between a plate of macaroons and frosted reindeer, complete with cherry noses.
"And even some not-so-creative people--but certainly enterprising--like me." Cass pointed to a plate of red lobster-shaped Christmas cookies. "Harry Garozzo made them for me," she whispered, then slipped away to help Izzy pass out scrap yarn for new squares.
Nell laughed and looked back at the array of sweets. How interesting, the abundant comfort that homemade cookies could bring to a room. Eggs, butter, flour--medicine of the gods. She looked around the room, at heads bowed sharing family news, fingers reverently touching soft yarn, smiles flittering across lined faces.
In the midst of it, Izzy moved from group to group, her long, lean body bending to offer praise for a newly finished square. Her fingers pointing out a fresh design. A pat on the shoulder. She offered warm cider or soft drinks, a glass of wine or cup of coffee. The perfect hostess. But it wasn't a role she played. It was simply Izzy.
"Our Izzy looks tired," Birdie said, coming up to Nell and motioning her over to the window seat where Purl was saving their places, the long tabby body stretching from one pillow onto the next.
Nell nodded. "Tired. Or concerned."
"Or both."
Birdie handed Nell a glass of hot cider, and the two settled down on plush pillows, their backs to the window framing the winter sea, with Purl now curled into a ball between them.
Birdie pulled her thick red sweater around her. "What's going on with Isabel?"
"It involves Sam, but I haven't been able to make sense of it. Three weeks ago Sam and Izzy both had that magical look of expectation, of wonder, or so it seemed to me. And I don't think it was from holiday decorations or the mayor lighting the Christmas tree, or the music. It was more than that, an intimate something that was hard to define. I truly half expected an announcement."
"And now?"
"I don't know. They seem to have issues."
"Of the heart." Birdie's small white head moved with her words, and her eyes sought out Izzy. "It's difficult when our emotions are being tugged in such disparate directions. Love. Murder. They simply don't fit well in the same house."
Birdie had intended to speak the words softly, but the hardness of "murder" carried the word far enough to pull Rebecca Early's attention away from her knit square.
The jewelry artist leaned over the arm of a leather chair, bringing her head close to Nell and Birdie. "I saw her the day she was killed. She was as close to me as the two of you."
Rebecca's silky blond hair fell over her shoulder, and her brows pulled together. "It's awful. No one deserves an end like that; I don't care who they are or what they've done."
"You saw Pamela that morning?"
"Yes,
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