Free Patterns in the Sand by Sally Goldenbaum

sea-related things he carved. We all have at least one small carving—a mirror with an octopus’ arms around it or some fishy thing.”
     
     
“So what did Finnegan say?” Izzy prompted.
     
     
“He was over at the Gull last night and D.J. was practically salivating at the thought of getting his hands on this land. Aidan had three times as much land as he needed, he claimed, and it could serve others well. Like himself, for example.”
     
     
“He wants to build a set of condos or an inn or something that would put money in his pocket. That’s what he’s done with the old fish hatchery south of town,” Nell said. “Rachel Wooten told us he looked up deeds and city restrictions weeks ago.”
     
     
“He’d better be careful what he says,” Izzy said. “It sounds like a motive for murder, if you ask me.”
     
     
“Some of the gallery owners saw better uses for that land, too,” Birdie said. She pulled a pair of double-pointed needles from her backpack. A strand of bright pink yarn dangled from the cast-on row. “But Aidan liked having some green space and that lovely woods. Elbow room, as my sweet Sonny used to say. And that was certainly his choice. It’s his land.”
     
     
Birdie’s needles began clicking as she started to turn the heel on a half-finished pink-and-green-striped sock, deftly decreasing the stitches in the short row. Birdie’s portable knitting projects were predictable—socks for cafés like Coffee’s, sweaters for sitting in a friend’s home, scarves and mittens for the beach, a long walk, or a car trip. If a knitting project could not travel, she told her friends, the project would have to find other fingers to work it up.
     
     
Nell watched as Birdie purled two stitches together and turned the sock in the middle of the row. It was the part of knitting socks that initially scared some of them away, until Birdie made it look so easy that even Cass was thinking about trying a pair.
     
     
“Was,” Izzy said. The sadness in her voice reminded them all that beneath the gossip of neighbors, they had lost a good friend.
     
     
“The police chief thinks they’ll wind this up quickly,” Nell said. She wondered how many similar conversations were going on at other tables around the patio. Plenty, she guessed, from the hushed voices and coffee-stained newspapers sitting on tables.
     
     
“Ben talked to Jerry Thompson early this morning, and he seems confident that the town isn’t in any danger. The murder had the MO of a personal act—someone who clearly had an ax to grind with Aidan Peabody.”
     
     
Cass pushed a thick strand of hair behind her ears. “It seems that way, I guess. But I’m sure the Canary Cove artists will sleep better at night once the person is caught.”
     
     
A shadow fell across the table, blocking the sunlight, and Nell looked up into Brendan Slattery’s smile. “You’re up and about early this morning. Would you like to join us?”
     
     
Brendan raked one hand through his smooth, slightly long brown hair. “Thanks, Nell, but I’m headed over to the Sobel Gallery. Billy needs some help with the James paintings. I just wanted to ask Willow if she’s going running tomorrow.”
     
     
Nell looked from one to the other. “Do you two know each other?” She’d noticed the smile on Willow’s face when Brendan walked up.
     
     
“We met on the beach,” Willow said. “Brendan runs, too. And he’s an outsider like me.”
     
     
“Well, sort of,” Brendan said, looking apologetically at Nell as if the comment might offend her. “One year here doesn’t exactly make one a native.”
     
     
“No, I suppose not,” Birdie said, “though Sea Harbor is an open-arms kind of place, I’ve always thought.”
     
     
“I think it’s the circumstances,” Willow said. “It’s what’s happened this week that makes us not fit in. It’s a time for friends to be together, not strangers.”
     
     
Nell listened to the conversation and heard the uncomfortable edge to Willow’s voice. But she was right . She and