Murder in Merino Page 4

  “At last,” Birdie said. “That’s one distraction you don’t need in your lives right now. All attention should go to sweet Abby.” She glanced back at the baby, sound asleep in a small cradle with Red at her side.

  Izzy raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard the complaints, haven’t you? Fess up, Birdie.”

  The small cottage Izzy had lived in before marrying Sam had been rented on and off, but since Abigail’s birth it had stood vacant, something to which the neighbors on Ridge Road didn’t take kindly.

  Birdie held her wineglass up for Ben to refill. “Perhaps a word here and there.” Birdie’s connection to Sea Harbor news and gossip came to her unbidden, a product of having lived in the town forever and knowing nearly all its residents. And having a large capacity to hold secrets close.

  “The next-door neighbors have been a bit cranky,” Izzy said. “But probably with good reason.”

  “The Barroses? They were grouches when I lived in your house, Iz,” Cass said. “I didn’t mow the lawn in the right direction or something equally ridiculous. They’re nosy as all get-out—and not only that, their son Garrett is a pill. He dropped out of junior college and I see him all over town looking as if he’s on some awful stuff. Always with those binoculars around his neck.”

  Izzy laughed. “It was your truck the Barroses didn’t like, Cass, not you. For some reason a rusty pickup piled high with lobster traps didn’t fit the neighborhood décor.”

  Sam took a drink of wine and declared that, whether they were nosy or not, he agreed with Izzy—the neighbors probably had grounds for complaint. “I haven’t done a great job of keeping the lawn mowed—and one kindly neighbor pointed out a couple beer cans under the bushes. Teenagers using the porch or shed out back, probably. They climb up that small hill from the beach, through that overgrown mess of weeds and trees. It’s time for someone to make it a home again.”

  “So when does it go on the market?” Danny asked. “Need any help getting it ready?”

  “Thanks. But I think we’re okay. We’ll use the weekend to get things out of there, and turn it over to Stella next week.”

  “Stella Palazola? That’s wonderful,” Birdie said.

  “Her Realtor’s license is hot off the press—she’s joining her uncle Mario’s company. I think we’ll be her first listing. She’s pretty psyched.”

  “And I bet her mother is happy, too. The last of Annabelle’s children to graduate college and settle into a career. She has a right to be proud,” Nell said.

  “Selling this house will be a challenge for Stella,” Sam said. “It’s small and needs some serious work. It will take a special buyer and someone who can see beyond the surface.”

  “It will sell,” Birdie said. “It’s a sweet little place, and has a long history here in Gloucester. Someone will fall absolutely in love with it. I may tell Jeffrey Meara about it. He and Maeve have been talking about downsizing.”

  “Jeffrey from the Ocean’s Edge?” Danny asked. “‘The Bartender,’ as Pete calls him, as if he’s the only one in town.”

  Birdie nodded. “In fact, I probably know a number of people who might want to scale down their lives.” Birdie sweetly ignored the laughter that followed her comment. Her own eight-bedroom home was magnificent and could easily house a family of twelve. But it had been Sonny Favazza’s home—their home—and it would be her final resting place. And all who knew Birdie—including a couple of husbands and myriad developers who had tried to convince her otherwise—knew there was absolutely no way to change her mind.

  “Big or small,” Ben said, “Stella’s enthusiasm will serve her well. I agree with Birdie—she’ll find a buyer.” He walked the salmon around the table and slid pieces onto Sam’s and Ham’s raised plates, then headed inside for more wine.

  Conversation swirled around the table and it wasn’t until Nell noticed a few empty glasses that she realized Ben hadn’t returned with the wine. She looked across the deck toward the French doors and started to call out to him. But just then Ben pushed open the door and stepped outside.

  “We have another friend joining us,” he said.

  They all looked up. Just a foot or two behind Ben, framed like a painting in the door opening, stood Jules Ainsley.

  Chapter 4

  Her smile was open, if slightly embarrassed. She followed Ben, her sneakers silent on the deck floor.

  “Excuse my looks,” she said, pulling off a baseball cap. She wore running shorts and a tee. Simple and jewelry free, except for large hoop earrings and a thin gold chain with a small locket attached that moved as she walked. Her forehead was damp and the stains on her shirt showed the exertion of her run.

  Nell walked quickly across the deck. “No need to apologize, Jules. You found us after all. Come, sit. Let me fill you a plate. We always have extra.”

  Ben handed her a glass of wine and Danny pulled a chair over to the table.

  Jules’s ponytail moved with the shake of her head. “No, please. No matter what this looks like, I didn’t plan to barge in.” Her smile and large brown eyes took in everyone at the table. She fiddled with a chain around her neck, twisting it around a finger, a brief nod to nervousness. “I actually had an early dinner at the Ocean’s Edge with Mary Pisano and her husband. I swear I single-handedly ate an entire platter of calamari—the best I’ve ever had. Honest—I really didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

  Izzy and Nell looked over at Cass at the same time. She was studying Jules, as if trying to figure out what was going on inside her head. Cass’s own thoughts were clear: If not for food, why are you here?

  Jules went on, speaking more to Nell than to the others. “I was running and remembered the directions Ben and Sam had given me to your home, so I thought I’d just try to find it. I’m always looking for new destinations, figuring out where things are. And then, well, I did. I found it. It’s so welcoming, and the front door was open. So I walked up, really just intending to peek inside.” She looked over at Ben and gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. “But Ben caught me in the act.”

  “Not true. We invited you, though invitations aren’t really needed around here.”

  “This is an amazing home . . .” She looked across the sloping backyard, the meandering flagstone walkway, the woods and the worn path that wound through the trees to the sea. “If there is a heaven, surely this is a piece of it.”

  “It’s pretty close,” Ben agreed. “Come have a seat. Do you know everyone?”

  Jules looked around the table again. Nodding. Smiling. “But please, everyone—eat. Don’t let me interrupt.”

  “We’re almost finished. We’ll be ready for dessert soon,” Ben said. “And no one can say no to Danny Brandley’s apple crisp. It’s not allowed. No matter how many helpings of calamari you had.”

  “Danny cooks?” Jules’s laugh was full and infectious. She walked over and sat down beside the author. “A mystery writer, an investigative journalist . . . and he cooks, too?”

  Danny brushed the comments off with a wave of his hand.

  Jane picked it up, a hint of teasing in her words. “Our Danny’s talents are boundless. He also knits—though he’s not very good at that.”

  “That’s all you know, Jane Brewster,” Danny said. “Iz taught me how to purl the other day.”

  “Yes, I did,” Izzy acknowledged. “I won’t vouch for how good he is, but he can indeed purl. His relatives and friends will be very happy this Christmas that he’s moved beyond garter stitch ties and scarves.”

  “Enough,” Danny said, pushing out his chair and holding up his hands. “I’m going to dish up my dessert and he who speaks ill of the cook gets coal.”

  Jules pushed out her chair. “I’ll help you.” Her words trailed off behind her as she followed him into the house.

  Nell watched Izzy distracting Cass by placing a waking Abby in her lap. The others went on talking, movin
g from one topic to another, and finally settling on Ben and Nell’s anniversary and Mary Pisano’s insertion of herself into the planning.

  “It will be a lovely gathering, no matter what,” Birdie declared, piling empty plates on the tray.

  Izzy and Nell got up to help, filling trays and heading toward the kitchen.

  Danny and Jules were at the kitchen island, the pan of apple crisp cooling on hot pads in front of them. They were so engrossed in conversation that they didn’t realize they weren’t alone in the kitchen.

  “What about tomorrow?” Jules was saying.

  “Tomorrow . . .” Danny scratched his head and pulled out his phone. He checked the calendar.

  “Tomorrow. Okay. Maybe the Artist’s Palate deck?” He lifted his head and noticed Nell and Izzy. “Sorry. We got talking and I forgot what I was doing in here.”

  “No problem,” Izzy said brightly. “We’ll keep you focused.” The smile she sent his way was on her lips but not in her eyes, and it came with a warning attached. Don’t hurt my friend Cass, it said . . . Or else.

  Danny Brandley was oblivious to the warning. Nor did there seem to be any guilt in his being caught planning a get-together with a beautiful woman—one who wasn’t Cass. Instead, he grinned back at Izzy and motioned toward a stack of plates. “Okay, Iz. Here’re the plates. Could someone grab the cinnamon ice cream in the freezer and a scoop? We’re minutes away from indulging in Granny Brandley’s fantastic apple crisp.”

  “I’ll scoop,” Jules said, and went rummaging through a drawer in search of a utensil.

  She was loving Sea Harbor, she told them as she dug into the cinnamon ice cream. She loved the sea. The boats. The food. It was a perfect getaway spot.

  “Getaway?” Izzy asked.

  “Oh, you know. Just an expression. My mother died recently after a long illness. I had quit my job in Chicago to take care of her, and after it was all over, I needed to get away. She’d left me a little money to travel or whatever.”

  “How did you pick Sea Harbor?” Nell asked.

  “That’s what a friend back home asked me. See what? she asked. But it seemed as good a place as any to get away. So here I am.”

  Though not a town you’d find on any list of top places to visit, Nell thought. Jules was adept at not answering questions she clearly wanted to avoid.

  Before the question was repeated, Jules changed the subject, telling them about running in Dog Town the day before. She’d met a group of runners who shared their favorite trails with her.

  “Imagine, a place called Dog Town—and strangers who become your friends in the blink of an eye. Friends who’d invite me to a dinner like this. I could get used to this town.”

  Nell looked at Izzy.

  But please, don’t. The words weren’t spoken aloud, but they were written all across Izzy’s face.

  And the disconcerting part of it all was that Izzy liked Jules Ainsley. Nell did, too.

  But they loved Cass.

  Chapter 5

  It was a weekend that began and ended with Jules Ainsley. Friday night, then Sunday. Like bookends. Or at least that was what stayed in Izzy’s and Nell’s memory when they tried to make sense of everything later.

  Ben and Sam had arranged the evening—a treat for their wives, they’d said. Reservations for four at the Ocean’s Edge.

  A double date, Sam called it, and he refused to let Izzy say no.

  Cass had been begging for a night with Abigail. She wanted the baby all to herself, and she agreed with Sam that he and Izzy needed a night away.

  Izzy didn’t think she needed any such thing, but she was overruled.

  And they were probably right, she confessed to Nell as they walked up the steps to the restaurant. As much as she hated leaving Abby, it was nice to put on a new silky dress, to brush her hair, to feel sexy. Yes, to be on a date with Sam.

  As always, the seaside restaurant was packed inside and out. A large covered deck and outdoor bar wrapped around three sides and hung out over the water, inviting waves and horn blasts from passing boats. A narrow flight of stairs led down to a dock for the water taxi that brought people over from Rockport, Annisquam, and other parts of Gloucester. The driver, amiable and flexible, was willing to go anywhere his boat could get to.

  The restaurant’s interior was slightly more formal, the large, angular space filled with comfortable leather booths and white-clothed tables, with a wall-to-ceiling stone fireplace in the center, maritime sculptures, and tall, leafy plants that made the spacious room seem private and intimate.

  Jeffrey Meara was at his customary post at the end of the bar, directing waiters, greeting newcomers, and shaking a blunt finger at one of the busboys. Jeffrey always dressed for the job, a bow tie and crisp white shirt. But his signature pieces were the knit vests he wore nearly every day, all knit by the woman in his life, his wife, Maeve. Today it was a soft merino vest the color of butter.

  Nell waved but the bartender didn’t see her. His brows were pulled together, his eyes glaring at a busboy texting on his cell phone.

  “Whasmattayou?” he mouthed at the young man, then pointed to a table near the bar, empty of people but crowded with dirty plates, scrunched-up napkins, and a tablecloth stained with wine and coffee. Jeffrey jabbed the air with his index finger, as if the busboy were right in front of him and he was poking him severely in the chest. Then he pointed to the table again.

  Nell could read his lips, hear the words inside her head, ones that sent the man backing up against the wall. She imagined the busboy now shaking as he sought release from Jeffrey’s stare, wondering how long he’d be employed.

  When people talked about “the Bartender” at the Edge, everyone knew they meant Jeffrey Meara, even though Jeffrey had become one of the restaurant’s owners and there were plenty of other bartenders on staff. According to those in the know, he was the one who kept the restaurant on the Best North Shore Restaurants list. Co-owner. Bartender. Manager. But his favorite spot would always be behind the well-polished walnut bar, greeting his regulars. Seeing him in this other, more recent role of owner always surprised Nell, and didn’t fit in comfortably with the Jeffrey she knew.

  He turned away from the offending busboy and noticed Nell and Izzy watching him. The glower disappeared immediately, the wide smile returned, and he walked over, greeting each of them effusively.

  Izzy touched the vest gently with the tips of her fingers. “The finest merino your money can buy, Jeffrey. Maeve knit this in my shop’s back room and we all lusted after it.”

  Jeffrey’s smile grew soft. “That’s my Maeve.” Then he looked around and motioned with a wave of his hand. “Can you believe this place tonight? Too many things going on. I need four of me.” He laughed, then grew serious. “Here’s the thing—here’s what I need to say to you. There’s a small glitch in your reservations.” His perfect Cape Ann accent gave the words an interesting twist as the r’s disappeared. “But because you both are so beautiful—and because your table isn’t ready yet—I have a special deal for you. My unique, irresistible Cape Ann autumn cocktail is being prepared for you as we speak—and for the gentlemen, too—compliments of Jeffrey.” He patted his chest and lifted his bushy brows in his best Danny DeVito style as he looked from one woman to the other.

  “There’s no need for that, Jeffrey.”

  “Of course there is, Nell,” he said, stopping her words with his raised hands. “And you will love it. It will bring the blush of summer back to those amazing cheekbones. I call it the Forbidden Apple. Hand-pressed apple cider from Russell Orchards, fresh lemon juice, the finest Macallan oak whiskey, and a couple other things I’ll take with me to my grave.” A blunt finger went to his lips.

  Sam walked up at the mention of Macallan’s. “Count me in, whatever it is you’re talking about. And no need to hurry with the table.” He grinned, shaking Jeffrey’s hand and straddling a
barstool. He looked closer at the bartender. “Hey, what gives? You look tired, Jeffrey. Not an attractive look for you. Summer’s gone; fall is the easy time. Lighten up, buddy.”

  Jeffrey guffawed. “That’s all you know, Perry. Spend a day walking in these shoes.” But the photographer had drawn a smile from the older man and his shoulders lost their rigid stance.

  Ben walked in, the mayor and his wife right behind him. “What’s this I hear? A special Meara drink? I’m in.”

  The mayor glanced over at Jeffrey. He nodded a greeting. “Jeffo,” he said.

  Jeffrey answered with the same slight nod. “Sage,” he said.

  Nell looked from the mayor to the bartender. “Sage? Jeffo? It sounds a little vaudevillian.”

  Karen offered the explanation. “Those are nicknames from a long, long time ago—in a galaxy far away.” She looked at Stan, then back to the others. “I think they started in high school.”

  “High school? Where?” Sam asked.

  “Our own Sea Harbor High, home of the Cool Cods,” Karen said.

  “Cool Cods, that’s great,” Sam said.

  “I sometimes forget that people were actually born here,” Izzy said.

  “Still are,” Ben said. “Abigail Kathleen Perry being one of those very special folks.”

  Izzy laughed. “You got me there.”

  “There are lots of us,” Karen said.

  “Yeah,” Jeffrey said. “Some of us stayed. Some—like old Sage here—went away to Yale, got himself a law degree.”

  “But then he came back,” Karen reminded him.

  Nell looked up at the hint of criticism in Karen’s voice, but it was quickly replaced with a smile. Karen was always diplomatic. The perfect political wife.

  Stan stood back as he often did in social settings, watching from the sidelines as Karen took over. He was alone with his thoughts, his face showing little emotion. Ben said he had perfected a politician’s best weapon: hiding thoughts and emotions from crowds that were ready to pounce on them, the media eager to interpret and analyze them. Stan Hanson was difficult to read and it served him well.