A Finely Knit Murder Read online

  Chelsey responded with a half smile.

  “Is there something else Blythe tried to destroy?” Nell asked gently.

  Chelsey breathed deeply, her face weary. She nodded.

  “My marriage,” she said.

  Chapter 28

  “I t happened before Elizabeth was even a candidate for the headmistress position,” Nell told Ben later that day.

  Once the words were out of her mouth, Chelsey had sat back down at the table and ordered a glass of wine. And then she had peeled away another layer of Blythe Westerland for them, although one that fit into the pattern without even adding extra stitches.

  Nell took a package of cod from the refrigerator and handed it to her grill chef. She glanced at the clock. Friday night—deck night—and running late. Fortunately they never had much of a schedule for these nights. Late meant more cheese and crackers and sipping martinis more slowly. More time to talk. No one would complain.

  “Why do you think Chelsey talked to you about all this?” Ben asked, unwrapping the fish and placing each fillet in a pan. He sprinkled each piece with Cajun seasoning.

  “Izzy wondered that, too. I think she just needed support, needed to talk with someone—and we were there.”

  “Do the police know?”

  “That’s the thing. Yes. They brought it up while questioning Barrett this morning. I think that’s why Chelsey needed to talk. Her private life was being picked apart in a way that both she and Barrett find extremely difficult.”

  “How did they find out?”

  “Barrett had rented one of the yacht club’s guesthouses while their house here was being readied. It was several years ago. He wanted to be able to come and go when he could get away from work to supervise the remodeling. On weekends, he’d bring Chelsey and Anna up.”

  “I remember that,” Ben said. “Barrett bought a small Sunfish so he could introduce Anna to the water. He’s usually a serious fellow, but get him out of that suit and on a boat and he’s a different man. So that’s when it happened?”

  Nell nodded and reached for the cheese slicer. “The police naturally questioned people at the club since Blythe spent a lot of time there. I suppose they were looking for odd behavior, people she talked to, met with. Anything that might help the investigation. There’s been a lot of staff turnover through the years, as you’d expect, but a couple old-timers remembered some things from a few years ago and mentioned Barrett’s name. Details were kind of sketchy except that Blythe had seemed interested in making the handsome businessman feel at home in his little guesthouse.”

  “Knowing Barrett, I’d guess it didn’t amount to much.” Ben took a bottle of olives from the refrigerator.

  “You’re right. Barrett said it was nothing, which was essentially what the bartender had said, although he added that Blythe didn’t take no lightly and it wasn’t a one-time-only brush-off. She was persistent. Barrett didn’t even tell Chelsey about it until today—and only then because he was concerned the story might end up in a rumor mill and he didn’t want her reading about it in the paper.”

  “Did it bother her that he hadn’t told her?”

  “I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem to worry about Barrett in that way.”

  “What was her main concern today?”

  “That Barrett might become a more viable suspect. At least that’s what Izzy and I surmised.”

  But somehow they both suspected there might have been more to the story. Probably something Chelsey herself wasn’t even aware of. But they knew someone who might be able to help.

  Only it would have to wait.

  Before she could say anything else, there was a banging of the front door and a parade of footsteps. The Perry clan appeared in the family room. Sam was carrying a sleeping baby Abby and motioned silently that he was taking her up to her Endicott crib. Red, their aging golden retriever, followed Sam dutifully up the back stairs.

  “Red guards over Abby like he’s her very own angel,” Izzy said.

  “We all need a Red.” Nell watched his waving tail disappearing around the stairs.

  “You two look serious,” Izzy said. She carried an arugula and pecan salad over to the island. “Aunt Nell must be telling you about our talk with Chelsey.”

  Ben nodded. But before he could speak, Birdie came in with Cass right behind her, carrying a bag of French bread and a bowl of fruit.

  “No Harry?” Izzy asked. She took the bags from Cass.

  “He mentioned checking on his Boston place. Or getting a beer with someone. Or something. I can’t remember.” She looked over at Ben. “You and Sam have done some damage with that guy. He’s talking sailboats nonstop.”

  “Oh?” Ben looked over from his martini making.

  “He liked being on the boat—he used to sail with friends.”

  Nell was silent, listening more carefully than she usually did to sailboat banter. Mostly she was trying to figure out Harry Winthrop. He was an enigma. And she wasn’t sure enigmas made good boyfriends. The protective bear in Nell was working its way to the surface.

  She buried her thoughts and concentrated instead on finding a basket for the bread.

  “He talked about that, said he’d always wanted a boat,” Ben said. “He’s a little rusty at the helm, but it always comes back, like riding a bike.”

  “He says sailing always helped him clear his head.”

  “Not a bad way to clear the head,” Sam said, coming down the stairs with a soiled diaper in hand. “That’s why mine is empty most of the time.”

  “So that’s what does it,” Izzy said. She laughed and tugged at a loose lock of his sandy hair. “You need a haircut, unless it’s your attempt to cover up the empty head.”

  “Hey, photographers are artists. Straggly hair, Birkenstocks.” He lifted one foot. “It’s all part of our mystique.”

  The Brewsters and Danny arrived in time to look at the bottom of Sam’s sandals and claim the last three martinis.

  Danny balanced his and Jane’s glasses between his fingers while Jane carried her cheese pâté out to the deck.

  “Anyone else coming that you know of?” Nell asked Ben.

  “I invited Bob Chadwick—he came back to town this morning. But he declined. Some business he had to take care of, he said. Meeting someone. He sounded preoccupied and I got the feeling he wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. He planned to take care of whatever it was, down a beer and burger, and hit the sack. He has plenty on his plate tomorrow.”

  “Not a bad plan,” Nell said. “The beds at the Ravenswood are the best medicine in the world. It’s been a long week for him. Sometimes I forget that.” She turned up the music, picked up a pitcher of iced tea, and joined the crowd on the deck.

  The mood was light. A pleasant change from the week’s heaviness. It was a feeling they all wanted to bottle up and bring out at will. In the background, Nikki Yanofsky was belting out “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

  Nell wondered if the song was a good omen. She was certainly ready to cross to that side. She felt more optimistic somehow. The pieces were piling up. Finding the pattern in their angles was the challenge that lay ahead.

  Pete surprised them as Ben took the lemony cod off the grill. He walked up the back deck steps with Willow at his side. “My gig was canceled for tonight,” he said. “Can you imagine anyone canceling the Fractured Fish? Wicked, evil folks.”

  Willow, who even in her highest boots didn’t reach Pete’s shoulder, punched him playfully, then explained the canceled gig to the rest of them. “They were supposed to play for a rehearsal dinner over in Rockport,” she explained. “The bride changed her mind and didn’t show up. The best man suggested they party anyway, but no one seemed to be in the mood.”

  Pete rubbed his arm with a touch of drama. “People are nuts sometimes.”

  “So, what’s new out here?”
Willow asked, giving Nell a hug. “Are there any developments on the Westerland case?”

  “Blythe’s will arrived today,” Ben said. “Much to his surprise, Father Northcutt is stated in the will as the executor. He’s asked me to sit in to explain some of the jargon and procedures, though he’s done this before.”

  Of course, they all remembered it. It was Finnegan’s will. The old Sea Harbor fisherman had fully entrusted the priest to his soul, his Irish whiskey, and to handling his estate. And then handling the biggest surprise of all—notifying Cass Halloran that Finnegan had left his entire estate to her, saving a struggling Halloran Lobster Company from closing its doors.

  “I saw Blythe with Father Larry several times at the yacht club,” Nell said. “They seemed to have a nice relationship.”

  “Blythe told Father Larry once that making her go to church was the only good thing her father ever did for her,” Ben said. “She found peace there, along with some powerful women, albeit dead ones. She was especially fond of Mary Magdalene, he said.”

  Birdie smiled. “Well, now. Who would have guessed?”

  “Has Father Larry read the will?” Izzy asked.

  Ben nodded. “There were only four beneficiaries. Blythe’s cousin Bob, whom you’ve all met by now. She gave him all her property—the townhome in Boston and her property here. There are also some real estate investments that go to him. In addition, she left sizable sums to a church she sometimes attended in Boston and a hefty bequest to Our Lady of Safe Seas.”

  Ben paused to take a forkful of cod while Nell refilled water glasses. Sam came back from checking on Abby and refreshed everyone’s wine. It had been a rather haphazard meal, people helping themselves to fish and salad, rolls and Jane’s pâté, crackers, and cheese, in any order they chose. It seemed to reflect the turmoil in their town, Nell thought. But at least no one had begun with the rhubarb pie she’d picked up at the bakery.

  She looked over at Ben. “Didn’t you say four beneficiaries? That’s only three—”

  “Ah, yes,” Ben said. “And here’s where this gets interesting. Ironic is a better word.”

  Izzy stopped collecting empty plates. The others looked at Ben.

  “Blythe’s will stipulates that the rest of her very sizable estate will go to her alma mater, the Sea Harbor Community Day School—though the name in the will is, as you might expect, the old one, the Country Day School.”

  There was silence.

  Then Birdie’s small face broke into a wide smile. “Oh, my. What a lovely, lovely gift. Elizabeth will put it to very good use. Everyone will benefit, I suspect the whole town in one way or another.”

  “The interesting thing is that Blythe didn’t intend to die when she did. I’m sure she thought Elizabeth would be long gone by the time her money went to the school,” Ben said.

  Birdie only smiled wider. “Perhaps there’s a bit of justice or retribution or some such thing inherent in all this. Maybe Blythe herself is smiling at the twist, wherever she might be.”

  Izzy continued clearing plates and Ben lit logs in the stone fire pit while thoughts of Blythe Westerland glowed with the embers. The irony was somehow a pleasing epilogue to what had been a tragic week.

  Nell maneuvered a tray of pie slices onto the low round table and passed out napkins and forks. “From the market to the bakery to your mouths,” she said, and settled down beside Ben.

  Ben looped one arm around her shoulder, pulling her into the warmth of his side.

  “Bob Chadwick was saddened by the will. Two churches, a school, and himself. No children, no great friends or people who had touched her life. It painted a solitary existence. And it didn’t have to be that way, he said. It might have been different.”

  “Different?” Izzy asked.

  “It was rather cryptic, the way he said it—something about a decision she’d made not too long ago. So maybe he meant nothing more than she could have lived her life differently, no matter how it started out.”

  Danny had talked with Bob that morning, he said, and came away thinking Blythe’s death had affected him in ways he never anticipated.

  “Basically he said her death was a damn shame. He blamed it partly on a family of powerful men. They certainly had a hand in her death, he said.”

  Something everyone on the deck would agree to.

  But her family was gone.

  And the person who picked up a rock and ended her life wasn’t.

  * * *

  Nell waited until Ben had brushed his teeth and crawled into bed beside her. The window was open and cool, almost cold air ruffled the curtains. Nell pulled the down comforter up to her chin, welcoming its warmth.

  And then she turned to Ben.

  “Ben, about the will . . .”

  Ben rolled onto his side, one arm curved behind his head on the pillow. As happened so often, he knew what was coming before Nell spoke.

  Nell touched his chest and looked into his eyes. “Elizabeth Hartley didn’t know about the will, did she? Please tell me she didn’t.”

  Chapter 29

  B irdie and Cass were in the kitchen with Ben when Nell came down the next morning. Izzy would meet them at the outdoor market on Harbor Road a little later, Cass said. The season was coming to an end and none of them wanted to miss the last of the tomatoes and spinach and squash.

  Birdie had walked in with the same question about the will, and Ben was answering it patiently. They had nearly forgotten about Teresa Pisano’s rants. Once the will was revealed, it was remembered with startling clarity. “She just wants the money,” the school secretary had told the police and anyone else who would listen to her. But few did. Mary Pisano had tossed it aside as meaningless, that Teresa probably thought Elizabeth was dipping into the foundation moneys or some such ridiculous thing.

  But it all came down to a will.

  “As a beneficiary of the will, Elizabeth was given a copy the other day. But she had heard about it before, and had no hesitation in telling the police yesterday when they asked. Apparently Blythe had shared the information with Teresa, just another way to gain her confidence so she would keep Blythe apprised of school business. She probably hadn’t counted on Teresa becoming angry at Elizabeth one day and screaming at her that Blythe loved the school so much she was leaving it most of her money.”

  Elizabeth hadn’t given it another thought. Teresa said many things to her that went in one ear and out the other and carried little truth. That was one of the many.

  “So Elizabeth now has yet another motive for killing Blythe Westerland,” Birdie said, shaking her head.

  “The worst part of it is that the focus will be more on the will, and less on finding the real murderer,” Nell said.

  “Maybe it’s the police focus,” Birdie said. “But that’s not our focus.”

  Ben looked up.

  “Don’t worry, dear Ben.” Birdie patted his hand. “The police have to do what they have to do, but they’re walking down the wrong road.”

  Ben left soon after. He was meeting with Bob Chadwick, Father Northcutt, and the amiable priest’s right-hand person, Cass’s mother, Mary Halloran, who kept the whole parish on an even keel. Mary and Father Larry had called the meeting to plan a memorial Mass for Blythe. Bob thought it was a good idea, even if he was the only one who might attend.

  * * *

  Izzy was waiting at the entrance to the market. Esther Gibson’s husband stood at the back of his pickup truck, twisting balloons into lobsters and dogs and kittens, and Abby’s giggles were helping him attract a crowd.

  Birdie, Nell, and Cass surrounded the stroller, and with Cass at the helm and two lobster balloons bobbing above the stroller, they pushed their way down the narrow paths, filling their bags with produce along the way. At the opposite end of the market, the harbor came into full view, sunlight reflecting off the water in glorious streams. Pete, Merry,
and Andy Risso had set up in the small gazebo and were playing catchy tunes to a gathering crowd of kids. Gabby and Daisy were in the center, twirling in circles and bellowing out the lyrics to “It’s Going to be a Great Day.”

  The women dropped their bags on a picnic table and sat far enough away from the gazebo to hear each other, close enough to feel the positive vibe the young bodies gave off. And each of them knew that, although the produce was a draw, the real need that morning was to figure out a murder before an innocent woman lost her spirit, her livelihood—and anything else she held dear.

  “The murder doesn’t have a thing to do with the will or money or maybe even the school,” Izzy began. “I thought about it all night and we were almost on the right road before we started to get distracted with things like wills and a ranting Teresa Pisano.” She reached down and handed Abby a slice of apple.

  “Money has a way of doing that.”

  Birdie put on her glasses as if they were needed not only to read, but to think. “Izzy’s right. We need to turn all our attention back to Blythe. We need to listen to her and let her guide us.”

  A shadow fell across the table and they looked up into Danny Brandley’s dark-rimmed glasses. He carried a cup of coffee in one hand and a white Dunkin’ Donuts bag in the other. His ever-present computer backpack was slung over one shoulder. “Is this a closed group?” he asked. “I think I know what you’re talking about—it’s on my mind, too. I’d like to join you.”

  Cass tilted her head to one side, looking him over. “You have donut holes?” Her dark eyebrows lifted and her gaze zeroed in on the white bag with telltale stains on the side.

  He nodded once, holding the bag closer to his side, his face deadpan.

  “Glazed?”

  “What? I need to bribe my way onto this bench? You’re going to take away my donut holes?”

  Cass nodded, reached up, and took the bag away, pulling open the top. The first one went to Abby and the rest were quickly passed around the table.