Advanced Search | Reviews Search

On Top Shelf

Terri Reed

Fresh Pick

A DARK PATH: AND OTHER KATE BURKHOLDER SHORT STORIES

Escape Into Adventure, Romance, Suspense, and Magic This July

Find Your Perfect July Escape

a great knitting cozy series

Seaside Knitters #7
NAL
May 2013
On Sale: May 7, 2013
Featuring: Izzy Chambers Perry
320 pages
ISBN: 0451415345
EAN: 9780451415349
Kindle: B00BYLQO54
Hardcover / e-Book
Add to Wish List

Amazon

Kindle

Read Kindle Preview

Sally Goldenbaum

Sally Goldenbaum
Author Book List

The sun is shining in Sea Harbor and a group of friends, the Seaside Knitters, are spending Thursday evenings knitting the sweetest of gifts—a baby blanket. But as the due date draws near, they find they must take time away from their needles and yarn to confront a murder and untangle a mystery before a certain baby is brought into the world....

It's an exciting time for yarn shop owner Izzy Chambers
Perry. She and her new husband are expecting a baby, and
all of Sea Harbor seems to be rejoicing with them. As a
mother–to–be, Izzy is having a heady
summer—full of bike rides, runs along the shore, and
time spent with her aunt Nell and the other Seaside
Knitters—until the day she spots an abandoned baby
car seat and hand–knit blanket on the beach. Izzy
immediately recognizes the blanket's material—a soft
yellow angora yarn she displayed in her shop window last
fall. Maybe it's the hormones, but Izzy has a terrible
premonition, and when she realizes no one is claiming the
car seat, she shoves it in her trunk. Soon it starts taking
over her thoughts and her dreams. What happened to the baby
who once sat inside it?

Unfortunately, Izzy's fear of something bad happening comes
true when a young man who did odd jobs at her doctor's
clinic is killed during a scuba dive. When Izzy discovers
the man was actually murdered and is connected to the
abandoned car seat, the crime becomes too close for comfort
and Izzy asks her aunt Nell and knitting pals to
investigate. It'll take the Seaside Knitters' careful
attention to patterns—and their fierce commitment to
bringing Izzy and Sam's baby into a peaceful town—to
knit this mystery together....

Excerpt

These are the glory days. A unique and special time in your life."

"You're glowing, Izzy."

"Radiant with life."

Izzy pulled the blue fleece tight across her heavy breasts
and jogged along the wet sand. She welcomed the salty spray
that slapped her cheeks like a reprimand, forcing her into
wakefulness.

Special.

Miraculous.

Joyful.

Everyone agreed.

And "everyone" was right. Of course they were right. That's
exactly how she had felt. For months and months.

Ever since the day that innocent-looking little stick had
turned pink and she and Sam, dizzy with thoughts of having a
baby, walked the beach for hours, hand in hand, wrapped in
dreams. When nightfall came, they wrapped themselves in a
Hudson's Bay blanket on the deck and watched the stars come
out, marking the day that began a new chapter in their
lives. The day their world changed and their hearts grew so
full they thought they might burst.

A heady, joyous time.

The joy was still there. But dim, restless. Fuzzy.

And Izzy had no concrete idea why.

As her body grew, so, too, did her visits to Dr. Lily
Virgilio, until lately she found herself in the clinic once
or twice a week, feeling a kinship with the doctor and with
the office staff. It was a place filled with people whose
only concern was for her and for the life growing within
her. That was how it had been.

No worry, Dr. Lily assured her, explaining her scheduling of
frequent visits. "The baby is fine. I just want to keep a
close watch on your blood pressure. And I want you to
relax." Her liquid voice and warm smile comforted Izzy as
the baby rolled from side to side inside her.

But Izzy wasn't really worried about the baby. She knew this
baby intimately. And she knew that he or she was strong and
safe and content in the warm cocoon of her womb,

It wasn't the baby who was playing with her blood pressure.

If not the baby, what? Sam asked with increasing frequency.

And then he answered his own question, knowing none would come from his wife. Hormones. He had read up on them. They happen to moms-to-be. Changes in the body's chemistry can cause all sorts of things.

Izzy only half listened to him. Maybe it was hormones. The
pile of books stacked beside her bed told that her pregnancy
was an emotional ride. Tension and anxiety came and went.
Moods came and went.

Running helped some. Working in her yarn shop was therapy,
too. And Thursday . . . Thursdays were a
cure-all. Knitting night with dear friends whose love alone
could surely ease the irrational emotions squeezing her heart.

And they would ease the feeling that something in the
universe—something "out there"—wasn't at all
right. A feeling. A premonition.

Izzy slowed her jog, then stopped along the edge of the
half-moon beach and sucked in huge gulps of air, her fingers
splaying around her ponderous belly. It was a natural
position these days—cupped hands embracing her unborn
baby.

Somersaults beneath a thin layer of polyester responded to
her embrace—a rippling wave that rolled from one side
of her belly to the other.

Izzy patted what appeared to be a tiny heel. She lowered her
head and whispered intimately, "Soon I'll give you a whole
world to move around in, my sweet baby. Be patient."

A peaceful, safe world.

But the world wasn't ready yet. She felt it in her bones.
Not ready to welcome this tiny babe with gentleness and peace.

At this far edge of the cove, the beach narrowed to a path,
then disappeared around a pile of boulders, where it
threaded its way up a hill to a neighborhood of elegant
homes hugging the sea cliffs. Most of the houses were old
estates, many renovated, with extra rooms and porches, guest
cottages, and boathouses making the already enormous spaces
even larger.

Izzy looked up at them for a few minutes, then turned away
and picked up her pace again, heading back in the direction
from which she'd come, her ponytail flying between her
shoulder blades, her head held high.

Step after step after step along the seaweed-laced sand.

She waved to another jogger, picked up speed, and didn't
slow down again until she reached the steps to the parking
strip that ran alongside the road. With one foot on the
bottom step, she breathed deeply again, her head low.

It wasn't until her heartbeat slowed that she forced herself
to look.

It was still there.

Sitting on the sand next to the low stone wall, as patiently
as a well-trained pup.

A baby car seat. With a corner of a yellow knit blanket
peeking over the side of the padded seat.

Yellow. Angora, Izzy suspected. A blend—the kind she sold every day to young moms and grandmothers wanting fuzzy hats and mittens for the cold Sea Harbor winters.

A baby car seat.

Without a baby in sight.

Izzy scanned the cove just as she had in the days before.
Some people called the cove the mothers' beach, a small
protected area that vacationers rarely visited. With low
waves and boulders at each end of the carved-out area, it
was an easy place to keep track of children as they skipped
in the waves and built sand castles during the day. But the
June weather had been too cold and the only people
frequenting the area were scuba divers in their wet suits,
some local fisherman who kept their boats nearby, and
strollers or joggers like herself.

No moms strolling the beach.

No party leftovers from college kids who took over the sandy
area at night.

No children.

No baby.

Old Horace Stevenson, as predictable as the sunrise, walked
near the water's edge with his golden retriever, Red, at his
side. Not a day or nighttime passed without the Paley's Cove
Sentinel, as the neighbors called the old man, walking the
beach, his bare feet and Red's paws making intricate
patterns in the sand. Every now and then Horace tossed a
piece of driftwood into the sea and Red dutifully waded into
the cold water to retrieve it for his master.

Horace's eyesight was failing with the years, but his other
senses, his hearing and smell and touch, were keen and
sharp, and he always knew when Izzy was jogging along the
beach. It was her scent, he told her once—and the
particular slap of her tennis shoes on the sand. Today as
always, he tipped the bill of his Sox cap in her direction,
then continued his slow walk down the beach. They were
friends, she and old Horace, bound together by their love of
this sandy cove.

Izzy turned again toward the car seat, staring hard, as if
the sheer power of her glare would make it get up and fasten
itself into the backseat of a car where it belonged. Welcome
a baby into its safe curve and keep it safe.

But the car seat didn't move.