Murder in Merino Read online

  When Nell looked up, her eyes were moist, but Birdie was disallowing emotion. “You may be teary when we present it to you and Ben, if you like. But not before.” She hugged her friend lightly, picked up her needles, and in the next breath moved everyone’s attention back to a topic that was less emotional: Jules Ainsley.

  “One thing that puzzles me is why and how Julia even knew to ask about Izzy’s house,” Birdie said. “No one—including Mary Pisano, who knows everything—mentioned before yesterday that Jules was looking for a house. Yet suddenly here she is, wanting to buy a house.”

  “And it’s not just any house she wants,” Nell said. “It’s Izzy’s house on Ridge Road.”

  “You’re right,” Izzy said. “Stella hasn’t advertised it, not really, so she wouldn’t have seen a ‘For Sale’ sign. And it’s not a neighborhood she’d run in anyway. So how?”

  In the next second it dawned on Nell, Birdie, and Izzy, all at the same time.

  “She saw it from the beach that day!”

  “We thought she was looking up at the woods behind the Ridge Road houses,” Nell said.

  “But it wasn’t that at all. She was looking at the house.”

  Birdie explained to a confused Cass how they’d seen Jules running on the beach that morning. And then spotted her again, a short while later, staring up at the house.

  “It was as if she’d seen a vision. Like a ghost or something,” Izzy said. “It was weird.”

  They remembered the look on her face. She’d been mesmerized.

  “That was Tuesday morning. Beatrice saw her in City Hall after that—maybe she was finding out more information about the house,” Izzy said, putting her deductive skills to work.

  That would make sense. A map would help her find the neighborhood and information on the house as well. And if Jules had asked, lots of people who worked there would have told her it was empty and going on the market sometime soon.

  “But then there’s the bigger mystery. She could barely see the house from where she was standing—the edge of the potting shed with that little overhang that I painted yellow, the porch, maybe the old swing, but not much else. Not much of the house, really,” Izzy said.

  The room fell silent, with only the click of knitting needles filling the night air.

  Finally Cass broke the silence.

  She looked around at her circle of friends. “That’s the point exactly. Why would anyone in her right mind make an offer on a house she’d never seen? She wouldn’t.” Her last words attacked the air as if it were a punching bag. “Julia Ainsley is a certifiable nutcase. It’s what I’ve been saying all along. Now let’s get back to things that matter, like Ben and Nell’s incredible, amazing, and soon-to-be-finished anniversary throw.”

  She lowered her head and vigorously ripped out the last row of her knitting, blaming every single missed stitch on a crazy Julia Ainsley.

  Chapter 10

  Dinner on the deck was not promising to be wrapped up in a warm Indian summer evening, maybe for reasons other than the weather.

  The day itself had begun with a vengeance—a north wind carrying wet air that chilled all the way to the soul.

  But it took more than weather to deter Ben and Nell’s friends from planning their Friday evening around Ben’s grilled trout or cod or salmon and Nell’s special sauces. Not to mention the friendships that seemed to be the perfect antidote to a long week. No matter what the week had wrought, people would come, and it was helpful to have food when they did.

  Birdie and Cass had insisted on helping Nell with the shopping. Birdie had nothing on her calendar for the day except for the delicious meal at Ben and Nell’s that night, and Cass was giving herself a day off. “To clear my head of fuzzy things,” she told Nell. Spending the afternoon tagging along with her and Birdie was a good enough way to do it.

  They headed over to the fish market in Gloucester and found several pieces of fresh haddock, the skin translucent and perfect. Ben would be pleased. After a quick stop at Savour Wine and Cheese for hunks of Gouda and Stilton, they headed home, stopping at a vegetable stand along the road for spinach and kale.

  “I read that you’re supposed to massage the kale,” Birdie said, climbing back into the car. “Imagine, massaging your vegetables.”

  “I’d like someone to massage me,” Cass said.

  Birdie laughed. “I know a nice mystery writer that might be perfect for the job.”

  “Speaking of mystery writers, Jules called the one I know this morning while he and I were sitting out on the back deck having coffee and actually enjoying each other. After our talk at knitting last night I decided to simply let things be. Danny said there was nothing going on, so who was I to say there was? She simply wanted his help doing some research. ‘Research?’ I asked. He just shrugged. So that was that. But it was okay. I was going to be cool with it. But when she called, my stomach knotted into a ball. I hated that feeling. Hated it. I don’t like myself at all when I’m like this, worrying about who he sees or doesn’t see, worrying about my feelings. Crap. That’s not who I want to be. Maybe I’m not cut out for a relationship.”

  Birdie and Nell were silent. Cass was fiercely independent, and having her emotions dependent on another person was bound to be difficult for her. But it certainly didn’t mean she wasn’t cut out for a relationship. It meant she was human.

  They had all rejoiced when she had finally let the low-key Danny Brandley into her life. And if they had anything to say about it, they’d make sure he stayed there.

  But the truth was, they didn’t have anything to say about it.

  Cass looked up into the driver’s mirror. “She told Danny that you invited her to dinner.”

  Nell nodded. “I was about to mention it.” She turned onto Harbor Road and headed toward Birdie’s house.

  “Is she coming?” Cass asked.

  “Yes. Stella’s open house is late afternoon, so she’ll come over after that, she said.”

  “It will be fine, Cass,” Birdie said.

  But Cass had rolled down the window, and Birdie’s words were pulled out to sea, carried on a rush of wild, wet wind.

  • • •

  “Inside or out?” Ben picked up the grill lighter and opened the French doors to the deck.

  Nell walked out behind him and looked up at the threatening sky. The air was damp, but it was the wind, whipping in from the ocean, that was menacing. Branches of the old maple tree that shaded the deck danced wildly. “Let’s not set the table out here. We’ll keep things on the kitchen island and we can do potluck.”

  “I hope the weather doesn’t mess up Stella’s open house.” Ben began igniting the burners on his oversized grill. He’d start with a batch of fresh vegetables, then free it up for the haddock later, once the appetizers, martinis, and being in the company of old friends had done their magic, softening the week’s tensions.

  Noise from the kitchen drew Nell back inside, where Red, Izzy and Sam’s adopted golden retriever, was sitting calmly beside a smiling Abby. Nearby Izzy was tossing lettuce in a giant wooden bowl.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” Nell said.

  “Probably because of the commotion outside,” Sam answered from the family room. He was pulling a diaper out of a polka dot bag. He walked over and gave Nell a hug.

  “Commotion?” Nell asked, but before Sam could answer, the intrusive honking of emergency vehicles pummeled the air. Sirens followed, swooping high and low like diving birds, then settling into a shrill refrain.

  Ben walked in. “What’s going on?”

  Izzy walked over and hugged him hello. “We don’t know. We were halfway here, coming down the old beach road, when all hell seemed to break loose. Chief Thompson was leading a string of police cars, headed north. I didn’t know we had that many police cars.”

  “An accident?” Nell asked, memories of a horri
ble wreck a few years before filling her head. Sophia Santos, the construction magnate’s wife, had driven off the side of a hill, directly into the ocean. And the sound that had followed was the same: soul-shattering sirens and cars moving too quickly along quiet streets.

  The sounds of danger, of lives being altered in minutes, seconds.

  She rubbed her arms briskly, fighting away the goose bumps that rose instinctively to the surface.

  Ben noticed her discomfort and walked over. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his voice low. “It’s probably nothing, Nellie. A cat in a tree. A boat pulled away from its moorings. Remember when the Seroogys’ boat dock pulled loose last year and crashed into the neighbors’? It was a domino effect. This wind is wicked strong.”

  Nell forced a smile, knowing her worry was often a false alarm. It came too fast, unwarranted. Irrational. And Ben was always there to tamp it down and put it in its place.

  Jane and Ham walked in carrying several ceramic pots. “My Janie made these,” Ham said, handing Nell the pots. They were molded and fired into the shape of wrinkled paper bags and each held a fat candle.

  “They’re for your deck or whatever. Just in case we lose electricity,” Jane said. “It’s a crazy night out there.”

  “These are beautiful,” Izzy said, fingering the delicate folds. “You’re brilliant, Jane Brewster. Oh, and you, too, Ham.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so, Iz.” His blue eyes laughed above a bushy white beard. “But what’s even more brilliant is the sky. Not only is there some lightning over Canary Cove, spinning red lights are headed toward the north beach.”

  “So we hear. Do you know where they’re going?”

  “Dunno, but maybe Cass and Danny followed them. They picked up Birdie and were behind us on Harbor Road for a bit, before Tommy Porter nearly cut us off in his police cruiser. And the next time I looked in the mirror, they had disappeared.”

  Nell placed hunks of cheese on a platter and filled a basket with pita chips. “If it’s near the water, it probably has something to do with a fire or fallen tree or some such thing. It wasn’t a good day to be on the beach or the water.” Fallen trees, empty boats, cats in trees—those were all things Nell could deal with.

  The sound of the front door scattered her thoughts and she welcomed Cass, Danny, and Birdie into the mix, each one carrying something—wine, a bag of fresh rolls, a tin of buttermilk brownies. Birdie’s cropped hair was windblown and glistened with raindrops.

  “We look like something the cat dragged in, don’t we?” she said, handing Ben the brownies and suggesting a martini wouldn’t be ignored.

  Danny relieved Cass of the wine and took everything into the kitchen. He grabbed several dish towels and handed one to Cass. She took it, then moved across the room to where Ben was mixing drinks.

  “Ham thought you might have gone ambulance chasing so you could bring us the scoop.” He poured the liquid into several glasses.

  She shook her head and took the glass Ben offered her. “Someone probably skidded off the road. It’s getting nasty out there.”

  “There was a lot of noise for a simple car mishap,” Izzy said. She scooped up Abby and danced her way across the room, plugging her iPhone into the amplifier and turning on a music track. Soon Norah Jones’s husky voice traveled across the room.

  “Tommy told me things are pretty dull at the station,” Cass said. “Once the tourists leave town there’s no one left but law-abiding citizens. Boring, he said. Maybe that’s why so many cars responded to whatever the call was—they needed something to do.”

  Soon the smell of grilled haddock filled the air and Nell checked her watch. She looked around the room and asked no one in particular, “Is there anyone we should wait for? Pete had another gig tonight. Anyone else?”

  Cass looked over at Danny. “Danny?”

  Danny looked back at her. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind and simply shook his head. He looked worn-out, Nell thought, and strongly suspected Cass had done the wearing out.

  “Well, then,” Nell said, walking over to the counter, where her chimichurri sauce was awaiting a final stir.

  Cass was at her elbow in a minute. She took the fork from Nell and began stirring sauce, muttering an apology. “I will brighten up, I promise. Is it possible for a nearly forty-year-old woman to not know herself? To not know why she feels the way she does? What she wants to be when she grows up?”

  Nell gave her a quick hug. “It’s possible for a sixty-year-old to question life’s mysteries, sweetie. Just be sure you don’t confuse what you’re questioning.”

  Cass looked over at Danny. He was holding Abby now, standing at the windows that looked out over the deck. He rocked her gently back and forth, humming softly.

  Nell followed her look. Her heart swelled at the image of the gentle, sandy-haired man cradling the baby girl. Sometimes things seem so simple. But for Cass, that time wasn’t today.

  Sam held open the door for Ben and he came inside, along with a mighty gust of wind, carrying a platter of fresh grilled haddock. The mild fish rested on a bed of thick grilled tomatoes, topped with an herb and fresh bread-crumb mixture. The fragrance of lemon and garlic, rosemary and thyme floated up in the air and stopped conversations around the room as Ben invited the crowd to satisfy their growling appetites. In minutes white plates were piled high with grilled fish and vegetables that Nell topped with her own version of chimichurri sauce. Izzy’s toasted pecan and pear salad was on the narrow table against the wall, along with carafes of wine, water, and iced tea and a basket of crusty Italian rolls.

  Ben left the doors open a crack to bring in night sounds and the smell of rain on freshly mowed grass. Soon the sounds of forks and conversation mingled with cool jazz as they put the week to rest. “All’s well,” Birdie said, holding up her wineglass.

  It wasn’t until Danny and Nell began spooning up the bread pudding an hour later that Birdie’s comment was shattered.

  The call came to Sam’s phone. It was from Stella Palazola.

  “Please come over to your house,” she begged. “Bring Ben.”

  Stella didn’t say much more, but the choking plea in her voice was enough for Sam to promise that he and Ben would be there in minutes.

  “Maybe a pipe burst in the middle of her open house,” Sam said as he grabbed his keys. “Stella and I didn’t check the ones in the basement.” But his words were hollow. A broken pipe would be a blessing.

  “A possibility,” Izzy said. She got up and hugged Sam tighter than usual, then pushed him toward the door.

  “We’ll let you know what’s going on,” Ben said over his shoulder, grabbing his rain gear and following Sam to the car.

  The Ridge Road house was filled with lights when Ben and Sam arrived. There were several police cars double-parked in front of Izzy’s old house, just behind a Toyota Camry. Up and down the row of houses, residents stood out on their front steps holding umbrellas, watching the commotion, and texting to friends whatever they supposed was happening. In front of Izzy’s old house, two policemen kept people at bay.

  But the activity wasn’t inside the well-lit house. Flashlights, voices, and a young policeman directed Sam and Ben around the side of the house to the small backyard.

  Chief Jerry Thompson met the men at the corner of the house. In the distance, just at the edge of the potting shed, a figure lay still on the sodden ground. Several police officers and the county coroner hovered over the form.

  “It’s Jeffrey Meara,” Jerry said quietly. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 11

  It was midnight when Sam and Ben returned to Sandswept Lane. The bread pudding was gone, but the Friday-night group was still there, and except for Abby, who was sleeping soundly in the guest bedroom, they were all wide-awake. Nell had put on a pot of coffee; Ham had found Ben’s cognac and had glasses waiting.

  The
story they brought back to the group was simple—and horrifying.

  Ben had found Jules and Stella on the back porch, sitting on the swing. They were talking to Tommy Porter, the young policeman who’d been a part of the Endicotts’ life since he mowed Ben’s parents’ lawn years before. In his usual efficient way, Tommy carefully recorded everything the women said.

  Stella’s face was streaked with tears, her hands knotted in her lap, Ben said. Jules sat expressionless, her face impassive except to offer brief answers to questions. She’d heard nothing. Seen nothing. Until the moment she walked over to the potting shed and stumbled upon a pool of blood—and Jeffrey Meara lying in it. His hand-knit sweater was matted, the soft merino wool soaking up the blood like a sponge.

  When Stella arrived shortly after, she had found Jules leaning over the body, futilely pressing a scarf to the wound. A serrated garden knife lay on the dirt beside the body.

  Stella leapt from the swing when she saw Ben. She melted into his arms, tears flowing freely, along with choked and needless apologies to Sam that she had screwed up the open house.

  Jules had been strangely calm, the two men said. Her only visible emotion—and that wasn’t much—had come later when she thanked them for driving her back to the Ravenswood B&B, where Mary Pisano was waiting for her. Esther Gibson had been on duty at the police station and alerted Mary, thinking Jules might need someone to be with her.

  The group sat in silence for a while, each nursing private thoughts of a friendly bartender who made the Ocean’s Edge a little bit like Boston’s Cheers, a place where Jeffrey, at least, knew everybody’s name.

  “Dear Jeffrey,” Nell whispered softly. “Everyone loved Jeffrey.”

  It was a refrain that would be echoed from Coffee’s patio to the Ocean’s Edge, from Gloucester to Rockport, one that would roll down the streets of Sea Harbor, gathering momentum and passion in the days and weeks to come.