Murder in Merino: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 2

  In her head, all was silent.

  Chapter 2

  The week before

  One week before their September would turn foul and troublesome, a shiver had passed through Nell Endicott. It began in her chest and spiraled out, traveling down her arms to the tips of her fingers and defying the warm, sunny Friday. She pulled her sweater tight, then wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Chilly?” Birdie quickened her step, trying to match Nell’s long-legged stride.

  Before Nell could answer, Birdie shivered, too. “It must be catching,” she said.

  “A storm, maybe?” Nell looked east, beyond the old pier and parade of pleasure boats heading out to sea. Past Gracie’s Lazy Lobster Café and a fleet of lobster boats being repaired in their slips.

  The sky was flawless—pristine, perfect. No storm was predicted, and the windless day and glassy sea spoke of a lovely Indian sum- mer day.

  But sometimes Nell felt things before they actually happened—like unexpected weather or a phone call bringing sudden news—a trait for which her mother took full credit.

  “It’s genetic, my darlings,” Abigail Hunter would tell Nell and her younger sister, Caroline. “A sixth sense. Treat it lovingly and wisely.”

  Nell’s father’s reaction was deep laughter and a bear hug for his girls, pulling them close and tousling their hair. Then he’d open his arms and pull their mother into the circle, and tell all of them what a lucky man he was to have such magical ladies in his life.

  Nell shifted the bag of knitting hanging from her shoulder, her eyes still looking at the sky.

  Birdie looked up, too. “No, it’s not a storm,” she said. She moved to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid being felled by a redheaded skateboarder racing down Sea Harbor’s main street. Large black earphones covered the boy’s head, his lips moving to the music pumping into his ears.

  “Freddie Wooten, be careful you don’t kill yourself,” Birdie called out to the skinny young boy’s back.

  Nell paused at the curb to let the traffic pass. “Are you as curious as I am about why Mary Pisano wants to have coffee with us at this ungodly hour?”

  “Not exactly wants. She pretty much demanded it. I suspect she’s working on some intriguing story for her column and is hoping to pump juicy gossip out of us to flavor it. Perhaps that’s what’s making us shiver.”

  Nell laughed and turned her head to wave to Harry Garozzo. The deli owner was standing in front of his store, his white apron already smudged with an orange-colored sauce.

  “Pork and porcini mushrooms with Bolognese sauce,” Birdie said. “I can smell it. No doubt Harry has been simmering it since dawn.”

  At that moment a woman in shorts and a T-shirt, a baseball cap barely controlling a mass of flying hair, approached Harry from the opposite direction.

  Nell and Birdie watched the deli owner’s face open wide as he wrapped Julia Ainsley in a greeting.

  Her arms were slender and firm, her legs long and strong like a runner’s, her eyes wide and expressive. With a single smile she fastened Harry to the spot as if she’d poured cement beneath his sneakers.

  Harry was in heaven.

  “A breath of fresh air, that’s what he calls her,” Birdie said. The octogenarian took Nell’s arm and stepped off the curb.

  Nell glanced back and laughed. “Harry’s always been susceptible to a beautiful woman’s charms.”

  “That woman is odd in that way,” Birdie said. “There’s a definite magnetism about her. But she doesn’t throw it out there to impress anyone. It’s simply there.”

  Before Nell could respond, she heard their names being called and she looked over at the waving arms of Mary Pisano. She was standing just inside Coffee’s patio gate, lifting herself on tiptoe in an attempt to increase her less-than-five-foot stature an inch or two.

  Patrick O’Malley’s café, Coffee’s, was nearly always crowded and today was no exception, which was why Mary Pisano was guarding the wrought-iron table ferociously. She pushed open the gate and ushered them in, pointing to the coffee mugs and plate of chocolate éclairs she had used to mark the table as her own.

  “I saw you watching Jules come down the street,” Mary said, sitting back down and passing napkins to each of them. “She’s hard to miss, isn’t she? Such a bundle of energy. She’s been here just a short time and she already knows that Harry makes the best Bolognese sauce on Cape Ann. She’ll probably be the first in history to wrangle his grandmother’s recipe out of him.”

  “She’s interesting,” Birdie said in her declarative way. “I like her.”

  “Of course you do. She’s talented and smart.” Mary passed around the plate of éclairs. “She’s the ideal bed-and-breakfast guest—full of life, friendly to the other guests.”

  Nell looked back across the street. Harry’s group had grown. Julia was still there, listening intently to whatever Harry was saying, her hands on her hips, her cap off now and the morning sunlight painting streaks in her dark hair. Karen Hanson, the mayor’s wife, and Izzy’s friend Laura Danvers had joined in the conversation.

  “Attracts people like bees to honey,” Mary said around a bite of éclair.

  “She’s friendly,” Nell said.

  “Yes. And beautiful. And did I mention how talented she is?”

  “You did,” Nell said. “Izzy has said as much. She’s doing a beautiful job on a cable sweater.”

  “She’s quite a runner. I see her everywhere—the harbor, the backshore. When does the woman have time to knit?” Birdie asked.

  Mary wiped the crumbs from the corners of her mouth, her head nodding agreement.

  “You’re enjoying having her around, I gather.” Nell’s words were spoken in a tentative way, wondering where Mary was going with the conversation. The text she’d sent the night before had been brief. Please meet with me on Coffee’s patio in the morning. There’s something I want to talk to you about.

  Birdie had received the same invitation.

  A meeting at Coffee’s to talk about Julia Ainsley’s fine attributes?

  “How long is she vacationing here?” Birdie asked, picking up on Nell’s thought, a trick she and Nell had mastered years before.

  “Well, now, I don’t know exactly. She’s a bit mysterious when it comes to planning for the future. And about her past, too, for that matter. I’ve asked all my usual questions, but I’ve learned little. I know she’ll be here at least a few more weeks.” Mary looked at each of them in turn, her eyebrows lifting.

  An odd way of wording it, Nell thought.

  Mary went on. “But there is something important I’ve learned about her: Julia Ainsley knows food.” Her words were firm, as if her companions might disagree.

  “Well, that’s good,” Birdie said. “So do we. And we’ve plenty of good restaurants to suggest. I wonder if she’s tried Gracie’s Lazy Lobster Café yet? It sometimes gets overlooked once the tourists leave.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” Mary looked at Nell. “She has a knack for presenting things. So I may urge her to stay on long enough, just to get her ideas.”

  “Long enough for what?” Birdie asked. Perhaps they were finally getting to the reason for the meeting.

  “For the anniversary party.” She smiled at Nell. “Yours.”

  Nell put down her coffee cup. “Mary, what are you talking about? Ben and I are planning a casual early-evening event at our house. Appetizers and drinks. No muss, no fuss.”

  “Nonsense, Nell. No couple plans their own fortieth anniversary celebration. It will be at Ravenswood by the Sea. I’ve already asked Jules for ideas. And Karen is helping, too.”

  “Karen?”

  “Karen Hanson. Our first lady, that Karen. She’s redesigning some rooms in the bed-and-breakfast. She’s an excellent designer, you know—her family owned all those high-end stores. And she’s good
at knowing what people want, which is partly why her husband has been mayor for the last two decades.”

  Nell looked relieved at the change in conversation, so Birdie picked it up. “But maybe not for long. I hear Beatrice Scaglia is planning to give him a run for his money,” she said.

  Mary laughed. “Beatrice will keep moving up the political ladder until she’s pope, if you ask me, though I’m not sure anyone can beat Stan. He’s a good man. But no matter—you’re changing the subject on me. We’re here to talk about your anniversary party, not politics.”

  “Mary, I don’t think—” Nell began.

  “Shush. We’ve already talked about it.”

  Mary continued, her voice tamping down Nell’s attempt to intervene. She clearly wanted to get her thoughts out on the table without interruption. “Jeffrey Meara from the Ocean’s Edge can manage bar duties; maybe Liz Santos from the yacht club will provide staff—”

  “Staff?” Nell’s summer tan began to disappear.

  Mary’s small hands waved her into silence. “It will be lovely. A fortieth wedding anniversary should be a time of joy and celebration without any concerns on the honorees’ part. That’s just the way it is.”

  The look Birdie passed over Mary’s lowered head said it all. Let it go, my friend. You have absolutely no choice here.

  How true. Once Mary Pisano settled on an idea, she was a dog with a bone, and there wasn’t any way they would be able to wrest the anniversary planning away from her, at least not without being bitten.

  Nell sighed, then covered her resignation with a smile, wondering how she’d explain to Ben that their laid-back anniversary plans were now in Mary Pisano’s hands. “Laid-back” wasn’t a word with which Mary easily identified. The talky columnist and owner of Sea Harbor’s elegant bed-and-breakfast was not only involved in every inch of Sea Harbor life, she was as resolute and stubborn as a fisherman’s wife, which she also was.

  “So it’s decided, then? Good.” Mary took a last drink of coffee, wiped the corners of her satisfied mouth, and pushed out her chair.

  “What’s decided?” Cass Halloran walked over to the table, balancing a mug of dark roast in one hand and a blueberry scone in the other. She looked tired, even before she pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, revealing red-rimmed eyes.

  Birdie frowned. “Are you all right, Catherine?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.” Cass set her things on the table, then leaned down and gave Birdie and Nell quick hugs. “I need coffee.”

  “And I need to write my column,” Mary said, standing up and hoisting her backpack between narrow shoulders. She looked over at Cass. “I could use some juicy tidbits. Any gossip heard on the Lady Lobster?”

  Cass shot Mary a frown. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because my husband is a fisherman just like you and your brother, and I know what goes on out there on the water. Lots of cussing. Some feuding. Nasty tricks now and then. But always plenty of talk.”

  Cass swallowed a drink of coffee. “Now that we’ve added more boats and a ton more traps, I’m in the office managing things more often than out on the water. But there’s no new gossip that I know of. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Mary patted her hand. “As it should be, Cass.” She wiggled her fingers in a makeshift wave to Birdie and Nell and headed across the patio to the small round table beneath the maple tree, a table for one, reserved for the “About Town” columnist. In minutes, Mary had opened her laptop and settled in, beginning to compose the day’s chatty newspaper column. A dearth of gossip was not much of a challenge for Mary—she’d dig something up or applaud someone’s good deeds or expound on a favorite cause or pet peeve. The column would be written no matter how little news was circulating around the seaside town—and it would be read by nearly everyone in town.

  “So,” Birdie said, the soft word drawn out slowly to relax the lines on Cass’s face.

  Cass managed a smile. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.” She held her cell phone in her hand and glanced down at a message that pinged into view.

  “Cass, it’s morning. Early morning.” Nell looked down to see Danny Brandley’s name being dismissed. She was fond of Cass’s significant other and had to tamp down the urge to suggest Cass answer it.

  “Morning. Night. Just busy. What was Mary in such a heat about?”

  Birdie filled her in on Mary’s plans for Ben and Nell’s anniversary celebration. “And apparently she’s recruiting others to help as well.”

  Cass glanced over at Nell and spoke around a bite of scone. “Oh, jeez, Nell. I’m sorry—”

  “It’ll be fine. You know Mary.”

  “She claims it will be simple,” Birdie said. “She’s already recruiting help, even trying to get a guest to give her ideas.”

  “Guest?”

  “Julia Ainsley.”

  Cass’s head shot up, sending crumbs and blueberries floating through the holes in the wrought-iron table. “What about her?”

  “Mary is looking for excuses to keep her around longer. She’s asking her for ideas for Nell and Ben’s anniversary party.”

  Cass stopped chewing and stared at Birdie. “Why would she do that?”

  Nell answered. “Mary probably thought she was doing us a favor by taking over planning duties.” She paused, confused at the look of disapproval on Cass’s face. “Cass, it’ll be okay.”

  “No, I mean Jules Ainsley. Izzy says that’s what she wants to be called—Jules. She’s just here on vacation, passing through, right? Why is she getting involved in our . . . our lives?”

  “She and Mary have become friends. And we all know it’s hard to say no to Mary.”

  Cass washed down her scone with coffee, her silence heavy and uncomfortable.

  Cass guarded her feelings closely, but she was as unable as a child to hide emotion in her face. Deep lines formed just above her dark eyebrows, creasing her forehead. And her eyes—a color matching the deepest part of the sea—lacked the clarity and curiosity usually found there. Instead they were filled with emotion, her attractive face a study in frustration. “You’re upset,” Nell said.

  Cass turned her head away from the two older friends who were usually like warm blankets to her, always there, always comforting. Always able to lighten her load when the family lobster business became too heavy a weight on her shoulders.

  Cass sat still as a granite rock, staring across the street at Harry Garozzo’s deli.

  Nell and Birdie turned their heads and followed her look. Harry had gone inside, and Laura and Rachel Wooten were nowhere to be seen. Standing just beyond Harry’s wide front window were two familiar figures: Danny Brandley and Julia Ainsley, their heads bowed until they almost touched, their conversation shielded in the cave of their nearly joined bodies.

  Chapter 3

  Nell carried the image of Danny and Julia Ainsley with her to the market. She picked through the beans, wondering about the conversation. The two figures, standing there, their bodies leaning in toward each other. They had looked like old friends—the sandy-haired mystery writer and the long-legged runner—sharing something important. Something intimate.

  Cass had been upset, that was clear. She and Danny were close—closer than Cass had allowed herself to be with any man. Her independent streak had been remarkably softened by the mystery writer, causing Cass’s Irish mother to light even more vigil lights at Our Lady of Safe Seas in her relentless pursuit of grandchildren.

  Nell pushed her cart down the produce aisle in the busy store, trying to imagine Ben in an intimate conversation with a beautiful woman, someone she didn’t know well, maybe not at all. She dropped several tomatoes and peppers into the cart and moved slowly down toward the lettuce, the odd scenario playing out in her mind like a movie.

  And then she stopped short, her hands tight on the handle rung. What was she
thinking? She and Ben were about to celebrate forty years of marriage, but for that split second Nell had felt an uncomfortable pang. An emotion that made her want to confront the imaginary woman, made her want to look her squarely in the eyes and tell her that Ben—her Ben—was her best friend, her lover, her husband of decades. She wanted to tell her to go away.

  So silly! she thought, and held back an embarrassed half smile at the crazy sensation that had taken hold of her, then left just as quickly. Yes, silly for her, but maybe not so silly for Cass, who had only recently been open about her feelings for Danny and was suddenly faced with Julia Ainsley—bright and beautiful and with that confident glow that many women around forty exhibited. No matter how innocent the encounter on Harbor Road had been, it was not something Cass would take lightly.

  “The asparagus is great today. The manager is buying from a local farm over near Rockport.”

  Nell pulled herself from her thoughts and smiled into the face of Karen Hanson. She was holding up a bundle of slender green asparagus.

  “You caught me daydreaming, Karen—sorry.” She pushed away the curious sensation that her thoughts might have spilled directly out of her head and were hanging there, right in front of the lettuce and tomatoes, for everyone to see. Including the mayor’s wife.

  “Don’t apologize for daydreaming. I do it frequently.”

  “You probably have it down to a fine art. I would if I had to attend all the dinners and events you and Stan get invited to.”

  “Yes, there’s that—lots of fried-chicken dinners in campaigning, at least in this campaign.” She glanced over Nell’s shoulder, then took a step closer and lowered her voice. “I believe in the democratic process, but campaigns were easier when Stan was only running against himself. Madame Scaglia is a challenge.”

  The edge to her voice caused Nell to turn and look across the aisle. Beatrice Scaglia, dressed in heels and a fitted orange-and-pink dress and jacket, stood nearby. Her eyes were focused on bins of lettuce and fennel and ripe tomatoes, but her body language seemed more tuned in to picking up conversations around her, particularly Karen and Nell’s.