Angora Alibi A Seaside Knitters Mystery - By Sally Goldenbaum Page 0,1
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 had asked with increasing frequency.
And then he’d answered his own question, knowing none would come from his wife. Hormones. He had read up on them. They happened to moms-to-be. Changes in the body’s chemistry could cause all sorts of things.
Izzy only half listened to him. Maybe it was hormones. The pile of books stacked beside her bed told her that 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 felt like 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 boats nearby, and strollers or joggers such as 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