A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery
A Fatal Fleece
OTHER SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERIES
BY SALLY GOLDENBAUM
Death by Cashmere
Patterns in the Sand
Moon Spinners
A Holiday Yarn
The Wedding Shawl
A Fatal Fleece
A SEASIDE KNITTERS MYSTERY
Sally Goldenbaum
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
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Copyright © Sally Goldenbaum, 2012
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OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Goldenbaum, Sally.
A fatal fleece: a seaside knitters mystery/Sally Goldenbaum.
p. cm.
“An Obsidian mystery.”
ISBN: 978-1-101-58537-5
1. Knitters (Persons)—Fiction. 2. Recluses—Fiction. 3. Right of property—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. City and town life—Massachusetts—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.O35937F38 2012
813’.54—dc22 2011049867
Set in Palatino • Designed by Elke Sigal
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To Luke, Atti, Ruby, and Jules—
the dazzling lights in my life
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Gabby’s Purple Cardigan
Acknowledgments
First, grateful thanks to Cheryl Erlandson, a talented designer and owner of In the Loop yarn shop in Norfolk, Massachusetts, who designed Gabby’s purple sweater in A Fatal Fleece. Along with Gabby (and Birdie, Nell, Izzy, and Cass), I thank her for sharing her artistry with all of us. Visit the In the Loop shop Web site: keepyourneedles happy.com/shop/. A special thanks to Mary Bednarowski, Nancy Pickard, and Sr. Rosemary Flanigan, who spent lots of time with me and with Finnegan, the old fisherman in A Fatal Fleece, exploring his life and his relationships and helping me figure out what he was all about. As always, thanks to my supportive, wise, and intuitive anchors—Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe—and to the wonderful Sandy Harding, whose magical spin brings the best out of my words. Thanks to my friends and to my family—Todd and Laila, Aria and John, Danny and Claud—and always, always, to Don. They truly make this whole business a family affair.
Cast of Characters
THE SEASIDE KNITTERS
Nell Endicott: Former Boston nonprofit director, semiretired and living in Sea Harbor with her husband
Izzy (Isabel Chambers Perry): Boston attorney, now owner of the Seaside Knitting Studio; Nell and Ben Endicott’s niece; recently married to Sam Perry
Cass (Catherine Mary Elizabeth Halloran): A lobster fisherwoman, born and raised in Sea Harbor
Birdie (Bernadette Favazza): Sea Harbor’s wealthy, wise, and generous silver-haired grande dame
THE MEN IN THEIR LIVES
Ben Endicott: Nell’s husband
Sam Perry: Award-winning photojournalist married to Izzy
Danny Brandley: Mystery novelist and son of bookstore owners
Sonny Favazza and Joseph Marietti: Two of Birdie’s deceased husbands
SUPPORTING CAST
Alphonso Santos: Wealthy construction company owner; once married to Sophia Santos, then Liz Palazola; Gracie Santos’ uncle
Andy Risso: Drummer in Pete Halloran’s band; son of Jake Risso
Annabelle Palazola: Owner of the Sweet Petunia restaurant; Liz and Sheila Palazola’s mother
Angus McPherran: Enigmatic old man called the Old Man of the Sea by the locals
Archie and Harriet Brandley: Owners of the Sea Harbor Bookstore
August (Gus) McClucken: Owner of McClucken’s Hardware on Harbor Road
Beatrice and Sal Scaglia: Councilwoman and her husband, manager of the town’s deeds annex
Beverly Walden: Artist; Moira Finnegan’s daughter
D. J. Delaney: Owner of Delaney & Sons Construction; wife, Maeve; son, Davey
Ella and Harold Sampson: Birdie’s longtime housekeeper and groundsman
Esther Gibson: Police dispatcher (and Mrs. Santa Claus during holiday season)
Father Lawrence Northcutt: Pastor of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church
Finnegan: An old fisherman and longtime resident
Gabrielle Marietti: Birdie’s ten-year-old granddaughter
Harry and Margaret Garozzo: Owners of Garozzo’s Deli
Jane and Ham Brewster: Former Berkeley hippies, artists, and cof
ounders of the Canary Cove Art Colony
Jake Risso: Owner of the Gull Tavern
Jerry Thompson: Police chief
Laura Danvers: Young socialite and philanthropist, mother of three, married to banker Elliot Danvers
Mae Anderson: Izzy’s shop manager; twin teenage nieces, Jillian and Rose
Mary Pisano: Middle-aged newspaper columnist; owner of the Ravenswood B and B
Mary Halloran: Pete and Cass’ mother; secretary of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church
Merry Jackson: Owner of the Artist’s Palate Bar & Grill
M. J. Arcado: Owner of M.J.’s Salon
Nick Marietti: Birdie’s brother-in-law
Pete Halloran: Cass’ younger brother and lead guitarist in the Fractured Fish band
Rebecca (Marks) Early: Lampwork artist in Canary Cove
Tommy Porter: Young policeman
Willow Adams: Fiber artist and owner of the Fishtail Gallery
Chapter 1
In Birdie Favazza’s mind, city council meetings were about as bland as white bread. But tonight’s meeting, from which she was mysteriously absent, would surely make her eat her words.
“He’s gone loony tunes, that’s what. The old codger has a screw loose.” D. J. Delaney’s booming voice echoed off the walls of the city hall meeting room.
Finnegan’s land was the last item on the night’s short docket, and most people had stayed to hear what the council would decide to do about it. Or perhaps that’s why they’d come in the first place.
“It’s such a small stretch of land,” Nell Endicott had said to her husband as they drove the short distance from their house to city hall.
“But positioned perfectly between Canary Cove Road and the sea,” Ben replied. “A diamond in the rough. Everyone wants a piece of it.”
The energetic crowd of Sea Harbor residents had concurred as they sat shoulder to shoulder in the heated room, many with their own imagined plans for how it would be used—once they wrested it away from the crazy old man who lived there, that was.
A developer’s dream.
Revenue for the town.
A fancy strip of shops? A small inn, perhaps?
Expensive summer condos.
Or a park with play equipment, a wading pool, and a skating rink in winter.
“I’ve offered the guy everything but my firstborn,” D.J. continued, his eyes blazing. The developer sat near the front of the crowd, his wife, Maeve, at his side. “He won’t listen to reason. People would kill for that land.”
“Well, let’s hope not,” Ben Endicott said. His voice was a fan cooling the room’s heated air. The voice of reason in the tempest the land debate had churned up.
“I say we concentrate on the new community garden,” Ben continued. “Get everyone involved. Make it spectacular. It will butt right up to Finnegan’s place, and once he sees those juicy Big Boys bending the vines, he’ll come around and clean up his place—I’ll bet on it. After all, that’s what we all really want. Right?”
Nell held back a smile. No, that wasn’t what they really wanted, and Ben knew it as well as anyone. No one would object to the unsightly acres being cleaned up, true. But what many really wanted was what they saw when they looked at the land: dollar signs. Lots of them.
“Maybe Finnegan would help with the garden,” Willow Adams said hopefully. The young fiber artist liked the old man, and the complaints against him offended her. But even Willow had to admit that the land was an eyesore.
Next to her, Beverly Walden was still. Although the artist kept her opinions to herself, her face was as graphic as her contemporary paintings: bright, bold, and expressive. And from what Nell Endicott could tell from across the room, her expression confirmed the rumors that rumbled up and down the winding, narrow streets of Canary Cove: Beverly Walden didn’t like Finnegan. And from all reports, the feeling was mutual.
A possible Greek tragedy in the making, because Beverly Walden was Finnegan and his late wife, Moira’s, only child.
“I know the land’s a problem,” the police chief, Jerry Thompson, said from his chair near the front of the room. His calm voice brought everyone to attention. “It’s not looking so great, sure, but Finn will come around.”
“That land used to be so fine, just like the other places down there—neat little offices with flower boxes in front,” Archie Brandley, the Sea Harbor Bookstore owner, said, rising from his chair. His head nodded with each word, and he looked down at his wife, Harriet. “Remember? Finn had that little bait shop, and Moira handed out hot dogs to fishermen, right along with the worms. She never took a dime for the dogs, only the bait.”
Murmurs of agreement mixed with some chuckles rippled through the crowd from those who remembered the days when life moved a little slower—and later ones, too, when it was cheaper to buy bait from the bigger places in town and Finnegan finally closed the shop and decided to fish full-time. But Moira declared that very spot her favorite place on God’s earth. So Finnegan renovated the building. He fixed up the first floor with a couple of offices for rent, and moved Moira from a small cottage above the Canary Cove Art Colony to the spacious top floor with the million-dollar view. Nothing but miles of blue and squabbles of gulls overhead. Fishing boats moving back and forth. And around the building, lots of green space and rosebushes, which Moira tended.
“It was after his Moira died that things got bad,” Harry Garozzo, owner of the deli on Harbor Road, said. “Damn cancer took her and might as well have taken Finn, too—for a while, anyway.”
Nell remembered hearing the stories. Moira’s death was the beginning. And soon the land became a jungle of sea grass and broken bottles—a place for kids to hide a six-pack late at night or drifters to seek shelter, until driven away by Finnegan’s BB gun. Eventually ocean winds ripped the paint from the cottage by the sea, and it decayed into a shack where drifters sometimes slept when the ocean’s freezing gusts drove them inside and the owner was absent.
And old man Finnegan refused to clean it up.
He also refused to give it up, though the offers to buy the land would have made him a rich man.
Instead, he put up a wire fence that held in the weeds, trash trees, and tall, wavy grass. At the gate he fastened a NO TRESPASSING sign. Outside the fence, passersby—joggers and strollers, vacationers headed toward the Canary Cove art galleries—caught glimpses of Finnegan fiddling with rusted boat parts and lobster pots and bales of old fishing rope. Sometimes he’d be whistling, sometimes muttering to himself.
But no one ever saw him mowing the waist-high grass that offered him the privacy he coveted.
Sometimes at night, folks dining at the Ocean’s Edge harbor restaurant would look out over the water and see him silhouetted against the lights, a bent black shape sitting on the end of his weather-beaten dock, scanning the sky with an old pair of binoculars, searching the sky for new planets.
Or maybe for his Moira.
“Finnegan can be downright nasty,” Beatrice Scaglia said, not buying the love story that may have informed his land. She sat at the curved table in the front of the room, her red fingernails tapping on the wooden surface near the microphone. The councilwoman was impeccably dressed in a white linen suit, though the other council members sported knit shirts and khakis or cotton skirts and blouses. “We’ve had dozens of complaints and so have the police. And when Sergeant Tommy Porter, dressed in full uniform, stopped by to discuss them politely with him, he practically forced Tommy off his land.” Her hand flapped through the air in the direction of the young policeman.
“I wonda what he’s hiding out there.” This came from the owner of a pizzeria on the edge of town, who’d been trying to get a place near the water for years. “Maybe he’s, well, you know, growing somethin’. Maybe those weeds are hiding more than old lobsta traps. . . .” His words hung suggestively over the crowd.
What nonsense, Nell thought. She removed a nearly finished lace scarf from the bag at her feet. Knitting brought a calmness to her spirit
, and all this negative talk about a decent man who liked his privacy was beginning to rile her up.
Beatrice Scaglia pulled the microphone closer but waited for a few moments, allowing the pizzeria owner’s words to settle on anyone who might need further convincing that someone, somehow, needed to persuade Finnegan to vacate his land and allow it to be used sensibly. Finally she said, “I think we may need to impose serious fines on Finnegan, ones that will convince him to sell the property and move on with his life.”
In the front row, an old man pushed himself up to a standing position, his white beard creating the illusion of Santa Claus himself. He leaned on a carved walking stick to keep his balance. Angus McPherran rarely showed up at public functions, and his presence caused a hush to fall over the room.
“Finn’s mad because the police took away his driver’s license,” Angus said. “Had to be done, but it made him wicked mad. So he doesn’t want any patrolman knocking on his door. He wonders what you’re gonna take away next.
“And then there’s the rest of you, pushing your way onto his property, trying to buy it out from under him to make yourselves rich. Shame on you.” He threw a pointed look at D. J. Delaney, the developer, then went on. “So he doesn’t want to pretty up the place. So what? That’s his God-given right. It’s his land, for chrissake.”
Those gathered in the council meeting room nodded at the mention of Finnegan’s driver’s license. Everyone had heard about the day Chief Jerry Thompson said, “That’s it, Finn,” and took his license away forever. The bent lamppost in front of Harry Garozzo’s deli was just a small reminder of Finnegan’s slow responses and careless driving, not to mention the fear that rippled up and down Harbor Road when he’d come around the corner in his beat-up Chevy pickup. The chief had bought him a ten-speed bicycle with his own money to soften the blow, but Finn would often sit up in the cab of his truck, now a fixture on the weed-encrusted land, as if it somehow gave him back his freedom.
“Just leave the old coot be,” Angus said. He gave another withering look toward D.J., then lowered his body back down onto the chair.