A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 22

  “Anyone else?”

  “Well, now that you ask, there was one customer that tickled the life out of me when she came in asking for one of these rigging knives. It was just as the weather was turning nice. She wanted the best, she insisted, and I teased her about it until she blushed, told her they could be dangerous.

  “It doesn’t quite fit your fine image, now, does it councilwoman? I said.”

  He handed Nell her credit card and bag.

  A customer with a question about fishing lines came up, and Nell turned away, his words sinking in as she walked toward the door. Behind her, Gus’ robust voice expounded on the unique qualities of superline, fluorocarbon, monofilament, and trawling lines. “All depending on what kind of fish you’re after,” he said.

  Birdie was already at the garden, her floppy hat finished and shielding her face from the bright sunlight.

  “Your hat looks great, Birdie.”

  “I look quite au courant. Don’t you suppose?” She straightened up from the small kneeling pad and struck a pose.

  Gabby ran over from parking her bike in the rack, her laughter preceding her. “You’re très chic, Nonna.”

  “And you, sweet Gabby, have started a trend. I spotted a gal on the beach the other day with one of your beach beanies on. Soon they’ll be everywhere,” Nell said.

  Gabby grinned. “Next step, NYC Fashion Week.” Another laugh, bright and light. She plopped herself down between Birdie and Nell, her legs folding into a pretzel. “It’s looking ugly,” she said, pointing to a scattering of weeds peeping through the tomato plants and a row of arugula.

  “Our work’s cut out for us,” Birdie agreed, tugging out a handful and piling them beside her.

  “I miss Finnegan,” Gabby said suddenly. She looked up at the two women. “It’s like he’s gone, but everyone goes on with their days, just like before.”

  “But it’s not just like before. Is it?”

  “Exactly. It’s different.” She looked over at the fence that held in the weeds and trash trees. “He’s still there, but life is different.”

  “You should know something about Finnegan, Gabby. He didn’t allow many people into his life in recent years. But he let you in. He liked you very much,” Nell said.

  Gabby forked her fingers through a tangle of hair, trying to force it into submission. “But he didn’t hate anyone, no matter what people think. He just got crazy mad at things they did.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Things like . . .” Gabby looked off in the direction of his land. She wrinkled her forehead. “You know. Things. He didn’t like it when people lied or cheated or hurt other people. That’s when he got goofy.”

  “Did you ever see him angry?” Nell asked. She pulled on her new gardening gloves and began pulling weeds from around a tomato plant. “Finn always seemed happy around you.”

  “I could see sometimes that he wanted to, but he’d hold back because I was there. Like once when we were eating ice cream, we saw a guy on a bike scratch the side of that councilwoman’s fancy convertible. He looked around and then just took off. He didn’t leave his number or anything, only a gash as long as a baseball bat. Finn got all red in the face and wanted to barrel down the street after him. But he didn’t.

  “Oh, and there was another time when he got mad right in front of me,” Gabby said, picking up steam. “But I think he was sorry later. That time it was Beverly that set him off. I thought he was going to fling her right off into the water, clothes and all.”

  Nell looked at Birdie over the top of Gabby’s beanie.

  “But even her—he still liked her. But I think he hated that she wasn’t like Moira, that she didn’t act like her mother acted. Beverly’s mother was quite a lady, Finn said. He talked about her a lot.” Gabby stood up, a sudden springy movement that lifted her off the ground like a wind-tossed leaf.

  Birdie watched her weightless rise and murmured, “You’re going to have to teach me that move, dear.”

  Gabby giggled and stepped over Nell to grab a water bottle sitting on the ledge of the raised plot. She took a drink and looked back over the rows. “The Garden Celebration is just days away. Will we have anything by then?”

  “For sure we’ll have arugula and spinach and lots of herbs. The basil is up; the parsley and dill,” Birdie said.

  Nell could read the thought that coated Birdie’s words. We’ll have herbs and vegetables, but will we still have you, sweet Gabrielle? Would they be off in a heartbeat once Nick was given the word that he could leave the area?

  “So we’ll smell good, at least, right?” Gabby pulled off a long stem of rosemary, closed her eyes, and breathed in the smell. “Sophie says rosemary is for remembrance.” She looked over at the rusty fence.

  Nell cut off a sprig of lavender and handed it to Gabby for her growing herb bouquet. “When did Finnegan get angry with Beverly?”

  “That day we were fishing, when I broke my skateboard and you came and found me. She came while I was there.”

  “To Finn’s house?”

  Gabby nodded. “She came in the back way—back there, behind the garden where that path goes along the shore. She came around the edge of the fence. She didn’t see us sitting on the dock. Finn told me to shush up, so I did. Sat as still as I could, even though there was a fish tugging on my line.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She started climbing up the steps as if she was going to sneak into his house, or maybe she was going to knock, but he yelled out her name and she stopped like she’d been struck dead. He scared her awful. Then he told her to come down where he was sitting on the dock.

  “When she saw me, she looked at me funny, like, What are you doing there? But I didn’t say anything.”

  “Did she talk to Finn?”

  “She tried. She said she was thinking about her mother and just wanted to come over to see where she lived.”

  “She was sneaking into Finn’s house. That doesn’t sound wise, even if she was thinking about her mother.”

  Gabby nodded. “I know. Dumb was what I was thinking. And I’m not sure she was telling the truth, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  Gabby shrugged. “I could just tell. Finn told her she was a little late to be thinking about her mother. And he looked really sad when he said it. He loved Moira sooo much.”

  “You’re right about that, sweetie,” Birdie said.

  “He said that her mother would be ashamed of her. That if Moira hadn’t already died, Beverly would be killing her right then. Then he got up and walked her over to the fence, the way she’d come in. He told me to stay on the dock or the fish would get away, but really he just didn’t want me to hear. But I still could, a little, because Finn couldn’t always hear so well—that sometimes happens when people get old—and he talked louder than he needed to. I know she said something about money, or about his land, because he said if she didn’t act like a decent, honest person like her mother always did, he’d take her out of his will. And then where’d she be?”

  Gabby took another drink of water and sighed. “He could get mad, that’s for sure. He told me it was because he was Irish. I told him Italians didn’t get so mad.”

  Birdie chuckled.

  “So, I guess Beverly left then?”

  “Almost. First she got mad right back at Finn. She must have forgotten I was there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she stood up on the path and glared at him like it was just the two of them alone in the whole world. And then she said that he should have died instead of Moira. She called her Moira, not Mom, and she didn’t say the word very nicely. And then she started to leave. I was glad, but she turned around again, right on the edge of the path, and told Finn that she would get what was hers no matter what.

  “And then she turned quickly to really leave, but she slipped on the rocky path and got her shoe all wet, which made her even madder still. But, finally, she was gone.”

  In the next moment, G
abby was off, an actress leaving a stage, her performance finished. She held a pair of clippers in one hand and headed for a bed of daylilies blooming along Finnegan’s fence.

  “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for Finn,” Birdie said, watching her granddaughter bend over the flowers.

  “For Beverly, too, I suppose,” Nell said. But her words were hollow. It was Finnegan they cared about. And he was dead.

  Nell stood up, brushed off her pants, and looked around at other gardeners a few rows down, doing the same thing. She’d been so engrossed in Gabby’s story that she hadn’t noticed they had company. The garden had come alive and active. Willow Adams, with her iPod, was working in the artists’ garden along with Rebecca Early, and soon music filled the area as the soil was tended, more seeds planted, and weeds attacked to the singing of Katy Perry.

  “It’s a lively place—exactly what we’d hoped for.” Nell turned on the hose and began spraying the tomato plants.

  Birdie pulled herself up. “It’s a community.” She looked around, then frowned. “Where’s Gabby?”

  “She was over there a minute ago, cutting flowers.”

  “Her bike is still here; she can’t be far,” Birdie said. “I’m trying not to worry about her. Nick says she’s street-smart. Living in Manhattan has made her savvy and wise beyond her years. I have orders not to hover.”

  Nell laughed. “For someone who didn’t have nine months to prepare for being a grandmother, you’re doing a great job. But I suspect Nick’s right: Gabby doesn’t need hovering. She’ll be fine.”

  “But I won’t be unless I have a cup of Polly’s tea soon. I’m as dry as a cracker.”

  She brushed off her pants, picked up her bag, and in minutes she and Nell were headed down the road.

  Polly Farrell’s Tea Shoppe was on Canary Cove Road, two doors down from Rebecca Early’s lampwork-bead gallery. And at this hour of the morning, they had a good chance of snagging a table.

  A large stone teacup held the door open and allowed a light breeze to circulate air in the small space. Polly stood behind the counter, her smile as broad as her round face, waving them in. The tiny shop held but four tables, and today only one was taken.

  Beverly Walden sat at the window table. She was dressed in a sundress, a lovely jade necklace circling her neck. Her hair was pulled back, held in place with a wide clip.

  But more than the lovely dress, it was her face that held Nell’s attention. She was looking out the window and smiling, her eyes bright, as if seeing something deep inside her head or heart and not the routine goings-on along Canary Cove Road. Her cheeks were flushed, as if from a heart pumping just beneath the surface. She was oblivious to Nell and Birdie’s presence—and probably anyone else in the shop.

  Nell watched her for a moment, wondering if the ride in the boat last night had given rise to the look about her. Or was it excitement over the documents she’d signed, the ones that could lead to considerable wealth from a father she didn’t like?

  No, it wasn’t anything so pragmatic, Nell decided. At least not that alone.

  She thought about the feud that Gabby had described between Beverly and her father, and tried to put that person with this one. Beverly looked soft, almost sensual today.

  Polly appeared around the counter with a tray of iced tea and blueberry scones, and led them to a table next to the wall.

  It was when Polly moved on to Beverly’s table, refilling her glass, that Finn’s daughter noticed the two women sitting a few feet away.

  She murmured something to Polly. And then, unable to avoid Nell’s and Birdie’s eyes, she nodded a brief hello before pouring all her attention into a half-eaten bowl of fruit sitting on the table in front of her.

  Finally Birdie leaned over. “Beverly, we didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable last night. It was nice to see you enjoying yourself, that’s all. Especially with the turmoil that’s been filling all our days of late.”

  Beverly managed a small smile. “I was surprised to see you. We—I—hadn’t planned to stop in Rockport. It was last-minute, so I was in a hurry. I apologize if I seemed rude.”

  “Not so,” Birdie said. “We don’t always allow people the privacy they rightly deserve. It’s a trait of small-town folks, I suppose. But we also don’t allow them to carry burdens alone—unless, of course, they want to.”

  Nell watched Beverly’s expression, wondering if Birdie’s message registered at all.

  She speared a square of cantaloupe with her fork and moved it around the plate. The bag at her feet read CHEESE CLOSET in colorful letters.

  Nell smiled and pointed to it. “I see you’ve been back. Ben says we’re making sure they stay in business forever, but I see you’re doing your part, too.” The bag had pulled apart at the top and Nell could see a bottle of champagne, hunks of cheese, and a container of cashews. “The perfect ingredients for a happy time.”

  Beverly looked down at the bag as if it were revealing secrets. She closed the top flaps, then picked up the bag and slipped the rope handle over her arm. “A happy time,” she murmured, more to herself than the two ladies sitting nearby.

  She looked down at a large watch circling her wrist and pushed back her chair. “I’ve been daydreaming. Time flies . . .”

  She stood and slipped a purse over her other shoulder. “Yes,” Beverly said simply. “Perhaps a celebration. One never knows.”

  Nell and Birdie watched as she walked through the door and into the sunshine, her smile opening up, as if the happy day was beginning right then. She paused just a moment, then turned and walked past the tea-shop window with a lightness to her step, the kind that caused a passerby to pause and look at her twice—then smile as he continued on his way.

  Chapter 27

  Nell and Birdie walked back down the street to Nell’s car. On the way, Nell told her about her trip to the hardware store.

  It was Beatrice’s purchase more than Beverly’s that caused a reaction in Birdie. Artists, after all, used plenty of odd tools in their galleries, she said. A knife was probably quite useful. But Beatrice . . .

  “It’s odd,” she said.

  “She wanted the best the store carried, according to Gus.”

  “Beatrice doesn’t like fishing. She doesn’t like boats. I’ve never even seen her near the beach. Sometimes I think she is biding her time here in Sea Harbor, until she can run for some district and move to the State House. I don’t suppose that’s an unusual thing to do, but . . .”

  But you don’t need knives to get ahead in politics.

  Not a sharp carbon-blade knife, a perfect knife for gutting fish and cutting lines.

  The kind of knife that had killed a fisherman they knew well.

  Nell stopped at her car and rummaged in her purse for the keys.

  “I’m glad they’ve taken that yellow tape down,” Birdie said, looking over to Finnegan’s property. She walked to the gate. It was closed, discouraging curiosity seekers, but when Birdie touched it lightly, it swung open.

  She looked back at Nell and smiled. “I do believe it’s inviting us in.”

  Nell dropped her keys back in her purse and followed Birdie through the gate. They looked down the rutted drive that led to Finnegan’s house.

  Birdie looped her arm through Nell’s as they walked. On both sides were overgrown trees reaching up for sunlight. “None of this even looks familiar. It’s a jungle.”

  “A private jungle that didn’t allow visitors. And yet he was so present in the town, down at the harbor, patrolling Canary Cove. Finnegan was not an antisocial person.”

  “His haven, I suppose. Perhaps we all need one.”

  “Though maybe not to this extreme.” Nell looked off to the sides where a rusted lawn mower stood beside a few garbage cans tipped on their sides. At the end of the drive was the low-slung, two-story building, its shingles hanging loose from years of weather and neglect.

  A weathered sign hung crookedly over a window: TIMOTHY PULASKI, DDS.

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sp; Birdie looked at the dentist’s sign, then looked intently at the window behind it. Through the dirty glass, an old dental chair was visible. She took a few steps back and took in the rest of the building.

  “Finnegan lived on the second floor?” Nell asked.

  Birdie nodded. “He spared no expense when he fixed it up for Moira. She loved it there, Finn said.” They looked up at the green patches of moss clinging to the roof, a chimney visible at one end.

  Birdie walked the length of the building, then back to Nell’s side.

  “I’m remembering when Joseph had his office down here.” She pointed west, beyond the rubbish and trees and fence, to the nicely kept property on the other side that now housed the Arts Association office. “That building matched this one. Twins. There was even a small path of green between them with picnic tables. I suppose the tenants all knew each other.”

  “Did you visit him down here?”

  “Only a time or two. His office came furnished. We’d laugh about it, that if I aimed my telescope just right, I might be able to check up on him from across the water.” She smiled at the old memory. “But, no, I wasn’t the kind of wife who brought lunch to her husband in a nice little black box. Joseph would not have liked that—nor would I. That was how we handled our life together: he had his little office; I had my den. We came together in other places.”

  Birdie looked again at the dentist’s sign. “Joseph mentioned Dr. Pulaski once or twice. He was a funny little man, quite odd-looking. He was . . .”

  The crackling sound of dry wood startled away the rest of her sentence, and both women automatically took a step toward each other. Birdie clutched her chest.

  Gabby Marietti appeared in the clearing, small twigs and leaves stuck to her green crocheted beanie. “Hi,” she said.

  “Gabby, sweetheart, you scared the life out of me.”

  Gabby skipped over the distance between them. “Don’t you love it here? Look.” She pointed to the water, where the rickety dock protruded like a bruised thumb. “It’s so . . . so amazing here. So beautiful.”