Moon Spinners Page 13

  Nell played with her fork, lightly tracing a pattern in the tablecloth and listening.

  “We’ve tossed out ideas willy-nilly. Without clear design. We’d never knit a cable sweater that way. Or a pair of hiking socks. Not even a hat.”

  “So . . . ?” Cass said. They waited for Nell to continue.

  “So if we want to put an end to all this and get our summer back, we need to figure out what really happened that night. And I’d say we had better begin now.”

  “Today,” said Birdie.

  “Or sooner,” Izzy added.

  A shadow fell across the table and stilled their voices. They looked up into the perspiring face of Harry Garozzo. He’d come from the warm kitchen and smelled like garlic and onions.

  “All right, ladies. I admit you’re right—this is a sad time, not a happy time,” Harry said without preamble, as if he were simply continuing a conversation they’d all been a part of. “I just don’t like the fear and the uncertainty. It affects business, our life here. All the goings-on up and down Harbor Road. So when they say they have the person who did this awful thing, that’s good.”

  “If it’s the right person,” Izzy said.

  Harry went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “But I am always honest with my friends—” His large arms spread out as if to embrace them. “So I will tell you that I have my doubts, too. My Margaret—she’s as quiet as a church mouse and she minds her own business. But she hears things sometimes because people don’t even know she’s there, like a ghost. Sophia came in here after Mass sometimes with Ella Sampson. They were an odd couple,” Harry said, his eyes twinkling. “That beautiful Sophia and straight, simple Ella. But both nice ladies, sure. They stopped in after Mass on the Tuesday before Sophia died. Margaret remembered it because it was her week to arrange the altar flowers and Sophia and Ella told her how pretty her flowers were. Margaret uses the flowers from her own garden. She has a green thumb.”

  Harry looked over his shoulder to see if he was needed behind the counter, then turned back.

  “Sophia looked worried that morning, but she was always so beautiful that worry was hard to see on that face. Margaret put plates of mushroom brioche in front of them and poured their coffee without them even knowing she was there. They were quiet that Tuesday, not chattering in Spanish like they usually did. Just looking out the window and drinking their coffee.

  “When Margaret came back to the table to refill their coffee cups, Ella was gone to the ladies’ room and Sophia was turned away, still looking out at the ocean, concentrating something fierce. She was mumbling quietly, in Spanish at first. Margaret heard the word ‘marriage.’ Matrimonio. It’s like the Italian. No marriage, Sophia said. And then, just as Ella walked back from the ladies’ room, she said something in English, as if she’d just learned a new phrase or a saying and was trying it out. It sounded awkward, coming from her, Margaret said. ‘Over my dead body.’ That’s what Margaret thought she heard. ‘Over my dead body.’ ”

  Chapter 16

  Nell didn’t know if it was Margaret’s overheard conversation or simply the week’s events that were tiring her, but she might have canceled their plans for later that day if Ben and Sam hadn’t been sitting in the family room when she got home, drinking beer and listening to Pete tune his guitar.

  “You’re coming, right?” Pete looked up. His mouth curved in the grin that his mother said got him through Our Lady of the Seas grade school. “The good nuns couldn’t resist it,” Mary Halloran said. “They turned a blind eye to Peter’s mischief far more times than they should have.”

  Nell decided Pete’s grin had aged well, maintaining its effectiveness, even though the grin was going on thirty. “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  The farmer’s market stayed open until eight on summer Saturdays to showcase the town’s musical talent as well as vegetables, fruit, and flowers. Tonight was Pete’s band’s moment in the spotlight. And of course Nell wouldn’t miss it.

  Ben and Nell picked up Izzy and Sam at Izzy’s, a small white framed house just a few blocks from the Endicotts’, and drove the short distance to the pier. The market booths spilled out into the green area that sloped down to the water. A small platform stage was set up near a curved row of benches, where they could see the top of Pete’s head in the distance.

  Rain had threatened off and on in the late afternoon, but by seven o’clock the sky had turned to a dusty purple and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. “My guitar doesn’t do well in the rain,” Pete said, as they walked up. Willow and Cass held plugs and a maze of cables.

  “Sometimes your guitar doesn’t do well in sunshine,” Cass retorted, trying not to trip over a tangle of extension cords.

  “Peace, you two,” Willow scolded, waving to Merry Jackson as she carried her old Casio keyboard to the stage.

  “I’m hot tonight, Pete,” Merry called out. “We’re going to wow ’em.”

  Ben and Sam brought a cooler of water bottles from the car and set it down next to the speaker. They watched Merry flounce onto the platform, her bright blond ponytail flying over a bare shoulder.

  The co-owner of the Artist’s Palate Bar & Grill had more energy in her little finger than Nell had in her whole body. Tonight she’d be using it singing backup and playing the keys.

  Merry plugged in her keyboard and dragged one finger along it, causing the microphone to screech. “Oops,” she said and waved happily to the group.

  “How does Hank keep up with her?” Sam wondered aloud. Merry’s husband was nearly twenty years older than his irrepressible wife.

  “I don’t think he even tries,” Ben said.

  Andy Risso walked up next, dragging his drums on a dolly behind him. Andy’s scruffy beard and long brown hair were a bone of contention between him and his dad, Jake, and Nell wondered if that was the reason Jake hadn’t turned over the keys to the Gull to his son so he could spend his days fishing. But no matter how he looked, Andy was a gentle, nice person and, frankly, Nell thought he added a bit of civility to the Gull Tavern. His degree in English lit made him one of her favorite conversationalists.

  Andy doffed his floppy hat to the group and began setting up his equipment.

  “Isn’t it time you named this motley group?” Cass asked.

  “We have a name,” Pete said, feigning offense.

  “What is it?”

  “Merry, tell Cass our name,” Pete said. He strummed his guitar, then tightened a string.

  “Sure, we have a name, Cass. All bands have names,” Merry said.

  “So what is it?”

  “Andy, tell the fine folks our name.”

  Andy pulled his brows together and looked down at his drums in fierce concentration. Hair fell across his face, all the way down to his chin. Finally he lifted his head in an explosion of brown locks and shouted, “And henceforth thou shalt be called the Fractured Fish!”

  “Fractured Fish,” Pete and Merry echoed to a chorus of laughter.

  “We’ll be back, Fractured Fish,” Ben said. “If Nell doesn’t get her zucchini and corn before they run out, it won’t be a pretty sight.”

  Sam stayed behind to help the band set up, but Izzy followed Ben and Nell across the lawn to the crowds of people squeezing melons and smelling small pots of herbs. The line of booths stretched across the green area opposite the pier, almost all the way to the water.

  “I saw Chief Thompson for a while this afternoon,” Ben said in a low voice. “We talked about Alphonso—and I mentioned Liz. It seemed it was going to come up, so I might as well mention it—for whatever it’s worth.”

  Nell shivered. She wasn’t sure if it was from the wind that had picked up or the thought of Alphonso and Liz being implicated in a murder, but she slipped her arms through the sleeves of her sweater and pulled it close.

  “And?” Izzy prompted.

  “He had already talked to Alphonso, even before they’d arrested Julianne. An anonymous caller had had suggested they check into an af
fair.”

  “An anonymous caller?”

  “Esther took the call. She was pretty sure it was Ella Sampson.”

  Ella. That might explain her intense anger toward Alphonso a few nights ago. She suspected an affair. She’d have to remember to ask Birdie if she knew any more.

  “What did Alphonso say?” Nell stopped at a counter and began checking the silky ends of a cob of corn.

  “He became very angry and said that it was none of their business, that his personal life had nothing to do with his wife’s murder, and they should stop grasping at straws and find out who did it.”

  “That’s a little shortsighted. Of course his personal life is important to the case.”

  Ben agreed. “It was the first time Jerry had seen Alphonso uncomfortable. But he covered it up quickly with anger.”

  “I suppose the police talked to people at the club, waitstaff, security guards, bartenders?” Izzy asked.

  Ben nodded. “A lot of people wandered in and out during the dinner and dancing, but no one was seen in that dark corner of the lot where the car was parked. But Jerry says that tells them nothing—that corner was pretty well hidden. Alphonso went out for a cigar once or twice—but the security guard seemed to think he stuck close to the bar. Again, it’s hard to say.”

  “I suppose they talked to Liz, though I can’t see her puncturing brake lines in that elegant dress she had on,” Izzy said.

  “Liz attracts attention, whether she wants to or not. I don’t think a security guard would have missed seeing her walk all the way across the parking lot,” Ben said. “She had her finger on everything happening that night, according to her staff. It was her responsibility. They claimed they couldn’t sneak a smoke without Liz knowing they were gone. Apparently even Sophia went out a couple of times—for some fresh air, the bartender thought, though she ran into Davey Delaney outside the bar patio and it turned into a shouting match.”

  “Sophia was shouting?” Nell said.

  “Davey was shouting. Sophia was composed, as always. A security guy had to calm him down.”

  “Did they say what it was about?” Nell dropped the corn and zucchini into the bag and paid the merchant.

  “They said it was just Davey, the way he is. He can get in a snit at the drop of a hat, especially if anyone disparages the company—and apparently Sophia had done or said something he didn’t like.”

  Ben took Nell’s bag and he and Izzy started back toward the stage where Pete was standing front and center, strumming his guitar and singing about “times they are a-changing.”

  Nell felt a quick intake of breath next to her. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Maeve Delaney. The diminutive Delaney matriarch was looking up at Nell, her small frame seeking height.

  “Maeve, I’m so sorry,” Nell said. “I didn’t see you standing there.”

  Maeve’s small round face was clouded with concern. “They’ve arrested Julianne Santos.” Her tone was definitive. “It’s done.”

  Maeve pulled several bills from her wallet and handed them to the merchant. “I think the police know more than I do and more than you do. I trust they are doing their job, and I suggest that you do the same.”

  She started walking away from the market area, headed toward the parking lot. In the distance, standing in front of a large truck, Nell saw D.J. Delaney watching the two of them.

  Maeve saw him, too, and waved, then turned her back to him and spoke quietly to Nell. A cloud of worry fell over her face. “My son Davey sometimes speaks out of turn. He needs to rein in that temper. Sure, and he doesn’t like anyone coming up with a bad word about his father’s company. Act like a gentleman, I tell him. Be more like Joey, I say. But he’s a good man underneath it all.” She sighed. “You don’t ever stop worrying about them, though, no matter how big they get.” The last words were so soft, Nell could barely hear them.

  “Did Davey and Sophia dislike each other?” she asked gently.

  “Sophia upset all of us, but we don’t speak ill of the dead, God rest her soul.” She swatted the air as if dismissing a fly. When she looked at Nell again, the worry seemed to have been pushed back to some hidden place. In its place was a serious and stern expression, one she might have used to speak to a recalcitrant child.

  “It’s all over now, Nell. All of it. Let it go. We must bury the dead and get on with living.”

  She touched Nell’s arm then, a firm, pressured touch. Then dropped her hand. But the pressured feeling remained the whole while Nell watched the small Irish mother, her back as straight as an iron rod, walk up the hill to her waiting husband.

  Chapter 17

  Overnight the winds changed, coming in from the south and driving out the chill that had brought out sweaters the night before.

  On Sunday morning Nell walked over to her dressing table and picked up a brush. “I’m counting on a lazy, quiet hour, a creamy omelet, some knitting, and the Times. We both could use it.” She slipped on a light blue blouse. Black slacks, a wide leather belt, sandals, and Nell was ready.

  “Sounds fine to me. But it’ll never happen.” Ben followed her down the back stairs and into the kitchen. He took the car keys off a hook beside the phone and headed out to the garage.

  Nell followed close behind, pulling the door shut behind her. “What do you mean, it’ll never work?” She climbed into the CRV.

  “We’ve been having Sunday brunch at Annabelle’s Sweet Petunia for . . . how long? More years than I can count. And you’ve never made it through a breakfast without talking to at least a dozen people.”

  Nell ignored Ben’s teasing and looked out the window as they drove down Sandswept Road, down to the beginning of the Harbor Road shops, then turned and drove over the bridge to Canary Cove. The short strip of land, just before the galleries and boutiques began to crowd the windy road, was green and lush, a welcome emptiness in the middle of Sea Harbor. On either side of the road, the sea lapped gently against the scrubby terrain, and off in the distance, large whale-watching boats moved slowly out to sea, their passengers leaning on the railing and waving at anyone who would wave back. Sailboats puffed their sails and some die-hard fishing boats that didn’t know to take a day of rest headed out beyond the breakwater to find some giant cod before the waters got too warm.

  The galleries didn’t open until noon on Sunday, and the road was quiet as they passed the arts foundation building. Nell strained to see the new display of glass beads in Rebecca Marks’ blown-glass lamp gallery as they passed it and vowed to get back soon—without Ben. Better to browse. Across the road, Willow’s Fishtail Gallery was taking on a new, more feminine look and becoming her own. Several pieces of her fiber art added vibrant color to the window display. But outside the door, guarding the studio, was one of her father’s life-sized wooden mermaids. Nell imagined the spirit of Aidan Peabody somehow embodied inside the carved figure, protecting his daughter from harm.

  Ben turned left onto the narrow gravel road that took them up the wooded rise of land to Annabelle’s Sweet Petunia restaurant.

  “The lot is nearly full,” Ben said. He circled once, then found an open slot near the walled-in garbage area where most diners chose not to park. He pulled the car into the space and they headed toward the restaurant.

  “I think I spotted Birdie’s bike. This is quite a hike for her,” Nell said as they walked up the steps and into the shadowy interior of the homespun restaurant.

  Stella Palazola stood behind the podium, grinning at them and holding a stack of menus in her hand. “I’m just seeing you guys everywhere this week,” she said. “That’s cool.”

  “Stella, I swear, there’s not a person on this earth who works as hard as you do,” Nell said.

  “You tell that to my mom. My sister, Liz, is the one who usually wins that award, but I’ll catch up. Just watch me.” Her glasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them up with her index finger, then laughed and pulled them off entirely. She waved them in the air. “Guess what? These are soon
to be a part of my past. Forever.”

  Ben narrowed his eyes and framed her face with his fingers, seeming to survey the new look of Stella Palazola. “I have to say, you are gorgeous with or without glasses, Stella, my girl. But those brown eyes are amazing. You’ll knock ’em dead at Salem State.”

  Stella blushed.

  “You’re getting contacts? That’s wonderful.”

  “They’re all ordered and paid for, thanks to my guardian angel, Miz Birdie. My graduation present,” she said proudly. “And speaking of the queen, she’s waiting for you. We snagged a table big enough for whoever. You guys seem to collect people like flies.”

  Ben tossed Nell a knowing look that she easily ignored and followed Stella out to the deck.

  It was true that they never knew whom they’d find on the Sweet Petunia deck or who would stop by their table and stay awhile. But there had definitely been times when she and Ben had had a table alone, just the two of them, times when Ben got to read the whole Week in Review section of the paper without a single interruption. Not too many, maybe. But there had been times. Surely.

  Nell spotted Father Northcutt on the deck, sitting with Pete and Cass’ mother, Mary Halloran. Nell felt sure that Our Lady of the Seas would fall directly into the sea itself if it weren’t for Mary. She did everything from arranging altar committees to keeping Father Larry’s books. And at Ben’s suggestion, the good padre had actually made it a paying position recently. Mary was probably filling him in on everything he needed to do for the next week, chastising him for the things he neglected the week before, and, Nell noticed, she was forcing him to eat fruit and granola, something Father Larry would never, ever have chosen on his own.

  Alphonso Santos was there, too. He was sitting alone at the small corner table, more private than the others, reading the paper. He looked more relaxed than Nell had seen him for a while. His silk shirt was open at the collar, his slacks casual. Odd, she thought. His sister was in jail. His wife was dead. Was it a time to relax? And then she quickly brushed the thought away. Who was she to dictate how he handled the loss of his wife?