Murder in Merino: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Read online

  “She’s putting her heart and soul into beating Stan,” Karen said. “Although ‘heart’ may be a misnomer in this case.” Her jaw was set, her fingers wrapped tightly around a set of car keys.

  At that moment Beatrice lifted her head and, as if surprised to see her, greeted Nell with a broad smile and a friendly hello. She ignored Karen Hanson.

  Karen disregarded the snub and dropped a bag of lemons into her cart. Her understated slacks, silk blouse, and diamond stud earrings were the direct opposite of Beatrice’s attire, piece for piece. Karen’s appearance spoke of old money; Beatrice’s glittery earrings, expensive heels, and bright-colored attire called out for attention.

  “It goes with the territory, I suppose,” Nell said to Karen, slightly surprised at Beatrice’s behavior.

  But the look on Karen’s face showed little concern with Beatrice’s manners. Instead, the usually mild-mannered woman’s expression surprised Nell. The public smile was gone and in its place Nell saw a confident woman up for a fight—one she was sure she’d win.

  They watched Beatrice move down the grocery aisle, smiling at other shoppers along the way as she campaigned her way to the bakery department.

  “Beatrice can ignore me all she wants,” Karen muttered. “But a single word against Stan and she will be gone. I won’t stand for that.”

  “I don’t think she would do that,” Nell said. But her words were hollow, spoken more to soften Beatrice’s rudeness to Karen. Beatrice was ambitious—a fact everyone in Sea Harbor was aware of. She’d been on the city council forever and desperately wanted to put Stan Hanson out of office.

  What Beatrice would do to win an election was anyone’s guess.

  “On to more pleasant things,” Karen said. “I’ve been helping Mary Pisano liven up some rooms in her bed-and-breakfast—I noticed when we had guests stay there how shabby it was looking. I’m ordering some things that will help.”

  Karen Siegel Hanson’s grandfather had invested a fortune in high-end furniture stores that catered to the very wealthy—and had doubled the family fortune. As the only remaining heir, Karen dabbled in the business herself when the spirit moved her. “We’ll have it looking better in time for the party,” she said carefully.

  Nell laughed. “The anniversary party, I guess you mean. You know, she’s using you, Karen. Who would have more connections than the mayor’s wife to help her with the event? But you need to know it’s not exactly what Ben and I had planned.”

  “I know, I know.” Karen stopped Nell’s words with a shake of her head. “Mary sometimes inserts herself into things. But actually, she’s right, Nell. You shouldn’t have to plan your own anniversary party.”

  “It doesn’t seem I have a choice. But since you’ve been recruited to help, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mary listens to you. Please restrain her and keep this thing simple. Ben and I refuse to have a fancy, elegant party—it’s not who we are. It didn’t really need planning to start with.”

  “You have my word. I will keep her in check. It’s something I’m very good at. I practice on my husband daily.”

  They had neared the front of the store and looked up to see Beatrice handing a balloon to a little boy.

  Karen watched her husband’s competition in silence, her chin set and her eyes steely. Then she looked at Nell, lifted one brow, and whispered, “I don’t suppose I have control over the guest list for your party, do I? There are definitely some people I’d happily eliminate.”

  • • •

  The weatherman predicted an evening that would be almost sinfully beautiful, and Ben had gone all out with his fish for the Endicotts’ weekly dinner on the deck. The salmon he’d brought home was truly majestic. King salmon, Ben announced.

  “It might be our last fresh salmon before winter,” he said, pulling it out of the refrigerator.

  “It’s gorgeous, Ben—and there’s enough to feed at least half of Sea Harbor.” Nell absently whisked wine into the ginger and brown sugar marinade, mentally planning the salad she’d make with the leftovers the next day.

  “Any idea who’s coming?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, who knows? Izzy and Sam will be here—they know I need my daily Abigail fix. Cass said she would be here. She wasn’t sure about Danny. Birdie, of course. And I don’t think Jane and Ham have ever missed a Friday night since Ham talked you into doing it. Pete’s Fractured Fish band has a gig tonight, so he and Willow won’t be here.” Nell poured a thin stream of olive oil into the pan, mentally going through a list of friends and neighbors. “I don’t know about the Wootens.”

  Friday-night dinner at the Endicotts’ was an open invitation, with the regulars nearly always there and sometimes neighbors or friends Ben or Nell happened to run into that day. Come one, come all was the standing mantra.

  Ben took a drink of iced tea, then pulled his grilling tools from a lower cabinet. “Sam and I were washing down the boat this afternoon and Jules Ainsley jogged by. She’s a friendly gal, even offered to help us out. Before we knew it, she was checking the hull and engine cases and discovered some rust we’d missed. Impressive. She used to sail on Lake Michigan, she said. Anyway, we invited her to drop by tonight if she didn’t have plans. I told her Birdie lived right across from the B and B and she could hitch a ride with her if she wanted to. She was gracious but didn’t commit.”

  Julia Ainsley again. Nell’s mind went back to the scene at Coffee’s and the look on Cass Halloran’s face. She lifted the pot off the stove and set it on a hot pad. She knits, she’s smart, she’s beautiful . . . and she sails. Nell held her silence.

  “I think she’ll fit right in with our friends,” Ben said, talking over his shoulder as he moved to the liquor cabinet in the family room. The Endicotts’ kitchen and family room flowed together, making a comfortable, bright, and airy space. They’d done the remodeling when Ben inherited the house from his parents, and this area—the whole back section of the house—was a dream come true for Nell. Her ideal kitchen and family room, with space for friends to help cut and stir, gather in groups, play music, and sit around the stone fireplace on cold winter nights.

  Ben took the martini glasses from the cabinet and lined them up on a tray.

  “I don’t know her well,” Nell said. “But she seems to be everything you said—and attractive, for sure.”

  “A looker, as one of the kids down at the dock put it. He guessed her age at thirty—a decade off, she said.”

  The infectious sound of a baby’s laugh preceded Abigail Kathleen Perry into the room, stopping all talk.

  Sam swung Abby’s infant seat with one hand, and with each swing the baby’s high squeals filled the air.

  Nell wiped her hands on a dishcloth and hurried toward her grandniece, leaving all thoughts of Jules Ainsley behind.

  Izzy followed, carrying a basket with loaves of French bread peeking out from beneath a checkered cloth. Bringing up the rear was Red, Abigail’s constant companion and bodyguard. The golden retriever seemed to have recaptured his youth with the baby’s arrival. He left her side long enough to bound around the room, accepting everyone’s pats, then dutifully returned to Abby, now cuddled in Nell’s arms.

  Cass and Danny, carrying a covered pan, arrived next, with Jane and Ham Brewster following in Danny’s sweet-smelling trail.

  “What do I smell?” Jane asked, depositing a fresh salad on the island and sidling up to Danny. “My nose tells me it’s magnificent and will add an inch to my waistline.”

  “Apple crisp. I picked the apples over at Russell Orchards. You’ll love it, Janie.”

  He leaned over and gave the artist a hug, something people seemed to do automatically to Jane Brewster. She and Ham were onetime hippies who had come upon Sea Harbor by accident in the early seventies and never left. The Endicotts’ closest friends, the two artists had single-handedly founded Canary Cove, the art colony that hugged the shores of Sea Harbor, and their largesse had given many young artists their start.

  “Of course I’ll love it.” She looked around and spotted Nell. “And now it’s my turn with that baby, Nell.” Jane hugged Abby close to her pleasantly ample breasts, then danced the blue-eyed baby to the opposite end of the family room and the Bose dock, where in minutes she’d be twirling Abby to a Beatles or Billy Joel or Joni Mitchell tune.

  Nell looked around for Cass. She was out on the deck with Ben, sticking toothpicks into olives as Ben prepared a batch of his martinis. Nell watched them for a minute, the image pleasing her, as it always did. Cass found comfort in Ben’s presence, even when she wasn’t seeking advice for her lobster company or about an inheritance, or needing help towing a truck. Nell suspected Ben somehow filled a void in Cass, one created when her own fisherman father was killed at sea. She wondered absently whether Cass was seeking comfort now—or simply helping Ben make drinks for the group and poke coals to life.

  Danny walked up behind her. “Seen Cass?”

  Nell nodded toward the open doors to the deck.

  Danny looked outside. “She seems to disappear from my presence quickly these days. I think something’s on her mind.” The sandy-haired writer had finally resorted to wearing glasses, and he fiddled with the stem now, his eyes on Cass.

  The glasses only added to his looks, a fact not lost on a whole parade of Sea Harbor single women. Perhaps Jules Ainsley had also joined that club. But the good news was that it was clear to Nell that Danny had no idea why Cass was acting strange. And surely that signified a man without guilt. They sometimes joked about Danny’s being oblivious, his thoughts elsewhere—solving a murder or planting red herrings in his head, all fodder
for a future book. Even though he had certainly seen the seamy side of life when he was a prize-winning reporter, he approached people openly and kindly and with great interest. He had probably bumped into Jules Ainsley the same way Sam and Ben had at the yacht club. Or Harry Garozzo had in front of his deli. Or any of them, for that matter. Jules was friendly. They were making mountains out of molehills.

  At that moment the front screen door blew open and shut and Birdie breezed into the room, a gigantic bowl of a sweet-smelling quinoa salad in her arms. “From Ella, of course—not me. My dear housekeeper is going all healthy on me, insisting on things like kale and quinoa and what have you. You’ll love it, Nell. You, too, Isabel. And I will learn to like it.” She allowed Sam to take it from her. “Even our sweet angel Abby will love it, once it reaches her via her mom.”

  Nell half expected Jules to be following Birdie into the room. She released a sigh of relief that her friend was alone.

  Sam noticed, too, and asked whether Birdie had heard from her neighbor across the road. “Ben and I thought Jules Ainsley might be coming with you.”

  “Jules? Mary’s guest? Oh, dear. Was I supposed to invite her? I swear, this head of mine must be shrinking. It doesn’t hold as much—though you ask me what my Sonny and I did fifty years ago and I’ll be able to tell you down to the wine we drank.” Her tiny frame moved with laughter.

  While the others conjured up romantic images of a youthful Birdie and the love of her life, Sam explained, “You’re fine, Birdie. You didn’t forget anything. We figured Harold was driving you over, so we suggested she call you if she wanted a ride.”

  “No, she didn’t call. I saw her out running a little bit ago and she waved in that friendly way she has that makes me think we know each other better than we really do. She was heading toward the beach. It’s quite amazing the way she’s embraced this town—all of Cape Ann, in fact. She told me yesterday she’d discovered Gloucester’s backshore. ‘A runner’s dream,’ she called it. So I’m quite sure she could find Sandswept Lane if she had a mind to do it.”

  “How long is she going to be here?” Jane Brewster asked, coming in from the deck, where she had regretfully relinquished Abby to Ham’s waiting arms. “She came into the gallery last week. She’s not your ordinary tourist, is she? She seems more like someone checking us all out.”

  “Checking us out?” Nell asked.

  “Well, the town, I guess I mean. She asked a lot of questions about the area, its history, why people live here. She was interested in Canary Cove, too—how long it’s been here, that kind of thing. She likes art and asked if I’d look at a painting she brought with her.”

  “She paints? I can’t stand it. She knits like a pro, she runs like an Olympic athlete, she’s smart—and now she paints? Geesh.” Izzy took a piece of Brie from a wooden cheese plate and stared it down before putting it into her mouth. “And from the looks of her she doesn’t eat much—clearly not the kind of food that keeps me alive and Abby thriving.”

  Jane laughed. “I don’t know if she paints. She just thought I’d be able to tell her something about a painting she owns.”

  “That’s odd,” Birdie said.

  “What?”

  “That she’d bring a painting with her on vacation. Assuming she’s on vacation, that is.”

  They mulled over that fact for a minute before Cass interrupted, stepping through the French doors with a tray of Ben’s martinis, a Friday-night staple. “Drinks are ready,” she announced.

  She seemed more relaxed, Nell thought, and even responded with a smile to Danny’s large hand claiming the small of her back. Good. And as much as Nell loved welcoming people to their Friday dinners, she was relieved that Jules hadn’t shown up.

  In the distance, the sizzle of salmon on a hot grill filled the air with the smell of garlic, wine, and lemon.

  “Out, everyone,” Izzy urged. She handed Cass a basket of pita and followed her to the deck, carrying a round tray of small bowls filled with dips.

  Nell followed Birdie into the kitchen and in minutes they’d crisped the bread, checked the quinoa, and then joined the group on the deck. Ben stood at the grill, basting his masterpiece while the others relaxed in the comfortable porch chairs, sipping martinis.

  “I was in a meeting with Stan Hanson today,” Ben said, stepping away from the cloud of smoke. “I told him he and Karen should stop by if they were free.”

  “Let me guess,” Ham said. “They had yet another PTA or Rotary Club appearance to make.”

  Ben nodded. “You guessed it. It’s all because of Beatrice Scaglia, Karen says. She’s campaigning like a human dynamo—although Karen’s words were more pointed. She’s everywhere, and the Hansons have no choice but to do the same.”

  “And Beatrice has the energy edge—she’s ten years younger.” Birdie sat on the glider, gently rocking Abby in her arms.

  Sam moved opposite her and snapped a photo of the pure innocence of his baby girl, looking up into the lined face and wise eyes of the woman with whom she seemed to share the most basic secrets of life.

  “Such messy business, politics,” Jane said. She smothered a cracker with a fig and goat cheese spread and handed it to Ham. “It makes me wonder why Stan would even want another term. He’s, what—sixtyish? Why not relax and enjoy life. He’s certainly paid his dues.”

  “But Stan does good things. He’s probably done more for social services than anyone in the state,” Nell said. “He’s a fine mayor.”

  “He hasn’t done much about raising revenues for roads and playgrounds,” said Ben. “And Beatrice is beating him over the head with that.”

  “Well, we know he doesn’t do it for the money,” Ham said. Although the city council had recently raised the mayor’s salary—in spite of Stan’s own opposition to the proposal—everyone knew it wasn’t what he could have made working in his wife’s family’s businesses.

  “He and Karen live rather modestly, considering the wealth they’ve inherited,” Birdie said. “Their house is impeccably decorated, of course.” She handed the baby over to Izzy, who tucked her feet up beneath her and nursed Abby until her chubby body went slack and her curly blond head nodded in sleep.

  “Stan’s a modest guy,” Ben said. “Before Karen coerced him into running for mayor, he was perfectly content working at Father Northcutt’s shelter or running the Boy’s Club program. He still volunteers with the sailing classes Sam and I run for those kids.”

  “Good folks,” Jane said.

  “And now we have the happy excuse to abandon politics for food,” Ben said. “The salmon is ready, folks. Let’s move this party to the table.”

  The wooden dining table was Nell’s pride and joy. It sat beneath the shade of a maple tree, where it hosted gatherings from April to October and sometimes—with the help of a heater, jackets, and cooperating winds—into early winter. Nell had set it tonight with the earth-tone pottery Jane Brewster had made for them years before, each piece slightly different from the next. Flickering light from a line of hurricane lamps echoed the warmth of the day and in minutes they’d all gathered around, pulling back chairs with colorful cushions and settling down for a feast. Birdie lifted her glass in a toast to a beautiful night, to Ben’s special salmon, to family, and to friends.

  “Hear, hear,” they echoed as the gentle clinking of glasses filled the darkening sky.

  Bowls and platters were passed; wine was poured and a bowl of dog food set out for Red.

  “Those no-shows are going to rue the day they missed this meal. You’ve outdone yourself, Ben Endicott.” Ham breathed in the garlicky aroma of the salmon, patted his ample belly, and sighed.

  They all laughed. Ham was everyone’s most appreciative dinner guest.

  Izzy eyed the quinoa and took a generous helping, scooping up capers, snow peas, slices of red pepper, and chunks of feta cheese. “Birdie, let Ella know she can move into our spare room anytime she wants. This is fantastic.”