A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 9

  Chief Jerry Thompson and his date sauntered down to the dock, and Sal turned toward them, adjusting his glasses as he shifted into his role as Beatrice’s husband, smiling, welcoming, gracious. He motioned toward the new boat with the luminous blue sides, moored at the dock next to a small speedboat. And in the next frame, he was offering Sea Harbor’s well-loved police chief a quick spin around the cove.

  The sky was nearly dark now, and in the distance, just over a hill of granite and around a bend, the lights of Canary Cove Art Colony lit up the horizon. On the Scaglia veranda, the music picked up and the patio filled with moving bodies.

  Beatrice was everywhere, encouraging tours of her home, engaging in conversations with the mayor and council members, embracing guests before they walked to their cars. When she took off her shoes and joined the crowd on the dance floor, Ben suggested it might be a perfect time to slip out.

  “Need a ride?” he asked Birdie as they moved toward the foyer.

  “I do,” Birdie said, looking at Izzy and Sam out on the dance floor. “My chauffeurs are otherwise occupied.”

  Mary Pisano was standing near the door in the shadow of her husband, Max, a giant bear of a man who was digging into his pockets for car keys.

  “A wonderful party,” she said. “Have you ever seen a fisherman dance as well as my Max?”

  “Never,” Nell said.

  “And I’d guess a party like this one provides you with at least a week’s worth of ‘About Town’ columns,” Ben said.

  Big Max guffawed. “Make that a month’s worth. Mary doesn’t miss a thing.”

  Mary simply smiled and patted a giant purse that didn’t quite hide her yellow pad. “But where’s Nicholas? I thought you’d bring that handsome hunk along for everyone to admire. I might have gotten some juicy comments.”

  Birdie tsked away Mary’s comment, then gave the columnist-turned-innkeeper a quick hug. “He had plans tonight, dear, but I do want to thank you. Nick thinks the Ravenswood B and B is the finest in the land. I suspect it was your hospitality as much as anything that helped us convince him to spend a few more days here.”

  Mary looked puzzled. Then she broke into laughter. “Talk him into it? No way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that no one talked Nick Marietti into anything. He called me on his way back from Italy to see if I would hold a room for him. He said he’d be staying a few days, maybe as long as a week. Business and pleasure, he said—rather cryptically, I thought. That handsome Italian is playing games with you, Birdie.”

  Chapter 11

  Sundays were made for breakfasts at the Sweet Petunia, a tradition Ben Endicott held close to his heart. It was the one day Nell allowed whole eggs—and sometimes a sausage or two—to enter into her husband’s diet. A minor heart attack some years before had provided the couple both an excuse to cut back on their work in Boston—Ben as an executive in the family-owned business, and Nell, a director of an arts nonprofit—and the impetus to make the Endicott Sea Harbor vacation home a permanent address. And so they had, along with adding changes in diet and a routine that included walks and slow runs and trips to the new gym that had recently opened in town.

  But never on Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings were reserved for Annabelle Palazola’s creamy egg dishes, spicy sausages or crisp slices of bacon, and fresh fruit compotes. Dark-roasted coffee with sweet cream curls on top. In good weather, it was served on the rustic deck overlooking the Canary Cove Art Colony and the ocean beyond.

  Nell smiled her thanks as a waitress poured coffee and set glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of them. They were early today—the usual Sunday-morning crowd was still in bed or perhaps crowded into the pews of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church, listening to Father Northcutt’s homily.

  “The quiet is nice,” she murmured, pulling needles and a skein of soft purple yarn from her bag.

  “The quiet after the storm.”

  The storm had waited, as Ben had predicted, until well after Beatrice’s party had ended. It had rolled down the coast from New Hampshire, soaking Sea Harbor with a vengeance. Then moved out to sea just as quickly as it came, leaving gardens and lawns refreshed and the streets washed clean.

  “Noisy . . . but nice.” Nell allowed a smile, knowing Ben was thinking of those moments after they both awoke to the crashing sound of the storm meeting the sea, when he’d held her close, and then allowed his sure hands to gently convince her that the storm was merely a backdrop for far more magical things.

  The moment was broken by Izzy’s appearing at the table and pulling out a chair next to Nell. Sam was close behind.

  “Wasn’t that a great storm last night?” she greeted them. “Sam and I ran by the garden this morning—the rain turned it into a blanket of sprouts. It’ll be in great shape for the garden party in a couple weeks. Even the flowers in front of Finnegan’s fence have grown.”

  Sam leaned over Izzy, dropped a kiss on Nell’s cheek, then sat down next to Ben. “Great run. Great storm. Nice party, too.”

  “Beatrice does it right.” Izzy fingered the purple yarn in Nell’s lap. “Gabby will love this sweater. You’re the best, Aunt Nell.” She gave her a quick hug.

  “You’re chipper today.” Ben tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing his niece’s expression.

  “I am?” Izzy feigned surprise. Then she lifted one shoulder in a shrug and looked across the table at Sam. “It’s him. That guy. I like living with him. I wake up every day to great coffee.”

  Sam just smiled, but the look in his eyes when he gazed at Izzy had nothing to do with his prowess as a barista.

  “Where’re Birdie and her newfound family?” Sam asked.

  “Dining at the Ravenswood. Mary Pisano puts on a brunch spread for guests, and Nick invited Birdie and Gabby to join him. But Cass is coming after running a quick errand for her mother.”

  “I’m glad Nick is staying around for a while.” Izzy took a still-warm miniature cinnamon roll from the basket.

  “It looks like a few days, at least.” Or so he’d told Mary Pisano. Birdie hadn’t wanted to discuss Mary’s comment on the ride home. If Nick had planned ahead of time to stay on a few days but wanted it to follow an invitation, perhaps that was simply a gallant gesture. Enough said.

  “Good,” Izzy said. “Because Gabby is helping me with a class tomorrow. A dozen kids have signed up to make that crazy crochet hat she wears—the one with the huge orange flower in front.”

  “A trendsetter at age ten. She reminds me of you at that age, Izzy, always doing your own thing.” Nell slipped her yarn back into the bag as plates of frittata magically appeared in front of them—without a single order having been placed. She smiled up at the waitress. “This looks perfect.”

  “Annabelle said you’d love it. It’s Tuscan something-or-other.”

  A puddle of tomato sauce and melted cheese and slivers of basil colored the perfectly browned center of Annabelle’s masterpiece.

  Ben sighed with happiness and picked up his fork.

  “So, when is Cass coming?” Izzy said.

  Nell checked her watch. She frowned. “She said she’d be ten minutes or less. But that was a while ago.”

  “Oh, you know Cass. Her concept of time isn’t always the same as ours.”

  Not always. But when it came to food, Cass was rarely late. And she’d been quite adamant on the phone that she was starving and would be there soon. Danny might come, too. “Have the food waiting,” she’d said.

  The sound of sirens broke through the Sunday-morning quiet, and heads turned automatically toward the sound, looking over the treetops, down toward the water.

  “An awful sound,” Nell said. She shivered.

  “Maybe it’s an ambulance going to help someone,” Izzy suggested around a mouthful of egg. “That would make it a good sound, right?”

  Nell smiled and sipped her coffee. But she couldn’t shake the anxious feeling she always got when the pleasant sounds of summer were broke
n by the unnatural screech of an alarm. A fishing accident. A car gone off the road. Sirens did not herald good things, no matter how Izzy tried to position it.

  “It looks like it’s over near Canary Cove Road,” Ben said, lifting himself slightly from the chair seat and looking down over the trees. “That bend in the road needs a warning sign. There’ve been too many bike accidents down there.”

  That’s what it must be. A cyclist gone off the road. On a quiet Sunday, that would be enough to bring out any emergency-vehicle drivers resting on their laurels. Hopefully the injury would be minor and not require a cast—a definite burden when vacationing at the beach.

  When Nell’s phone rang, she checked the name and relief flooded over her. It was Cass.

  Only then did Nell realize the siren, as they always did, had caused her to take silent inventory of those closest to her. She knew where Birdie was, but Cass, who should have been sitting at the table, shoveling down eggs, was missing. But now she was in touch to tell Nell she was late but would be there in two seconds.

  Nell pressed the phone to her ear, and a relieved smile lifted her lips as she said hello.

  In the next instant, the smile dropped away.

  “No.” Nell’s single word was firm, a command to change what was happening. To block it out. She slipped the phone back into her pocket and looked at the others.

  “There’s been an accident,” she said. “We need to go.”

  Chapter 12

  It wasn’t Cass, Nell assured them as they abandoned their eggs and hurried from the restaurant. Cass was fine.

  “Well, not fine, not really. I couldn’t understand most of what she was saying, except that she needed us and there’d been a terrible accident.”

  A police car and ambulance had taken up much of the gravel easement along Finnegan’s fence by the time they arrived, and Nell noticed vaguely that the sunflowers they’d planted were flattened beneath the wheels of the emergency medical van. Cass’ truck was pulled over near the community garden, the door open, and folded up on the seat, weeping softly, was Cass. Next to the door, Danny Brandley stood, one palm flat against the side of the car, a helpless look in his eyes.

  They were out of the car in an instant.

  “It’s Finnegan . . .” Danny began as Izzy and Sam drew close. Ben and Nell were a footstep behind.

  Cass pulled herself up in the seat, her hands grasping the steering wheel. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and a lost look dulled her eyes. “Finnegan,” she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Nell stepped up next to Izzy. She leaned down, her face close to Cass’. “Where is Finnegan, Cass?”

  Cass could be tough as nails, a fisherman from her toes to the very top of her black hair, but this bright Sunday morning, with the sun soaking up last night’s rain and the toll of church bells rolling down the hill and waking the sleepy town, she was a rag doll. Nell resisted the urge to wrap her tight in her arms, something Cass would not appreciate—not with the medical personnel so close.

  Ben touched Nell’s shoulder and nodded toward the police car.

  Tommy Porter, a young patrolman who not too many years ago mowed the Endicott lawn, was putting the police monitor back into his squad car. He closed the door and walked toward Cass’ truck, his head low.

  “Tommy, what’s going on?” Ben asked. “Cass mentioned an accident.”

  “Ch . . . Chief Thompson i-is o-on his way,” Tommy answered, the tension bringing back, but only for few moments, the stuttering he’d been burdened with during younger years. He walked closer to the truck, talking to Ben, but his eyes were on Cass. “It’s o-old man Finn-egan. Cass— She . . . He . . .”

  Cass climbed out of the truck, and Tommy stopped talking. Danny steadied her, his hand on the small of her back, and this time she didn’t pull away. She looked around at her circle of friends and then her eyes sought Tommy’s.

  Her face was drained of color and her eyes locked into Tommy’s.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he, Tommy? Finnegan is dead. . . .”

  News of old Finnegan’s death spread slowly through town, casting a pall over the sleepy summer Sunday.

  At the same time, vacationers, oblivious of the news, moved happily through the streets. Colorful beach bags swung from tan shoulders, and the sweet fragrance of coconut oil filled Harbor Road and Archie’s bookstore.

  A normal Sunday in the beach town that was suddenly not normal at all to those who lived there.

  After the ambulance had taken Finnegan away and Cass had talked to Chief Thompson, they retreated to Ben and Nell’s, where Nell quickly tossed together a plate of eggs, thick pieces of French toast dusted with cinnamon sugar, and a bowl of fresh fruit. Not up to Annabelle’s standards, she told them, but enough to fill empty stomachs.

  As she carried the tray of food out to the deck, Nell’s cell phone rang. She handed the tray to Izzy and stepped back inside the family room.

  Before Nell could say hello, Birdie began talking. “Esther Gibson called me,” she said. “She didn’t know much, but she said there’d been an accident.”

  Nell filled her in on the scant details that she knew. “Last night’s storm made it difficult to know exactly what happened. It was muddy, as you can imagine.”

  “And Cass? Esther said she was there. Poor Cass. Oh, Nell, we know how awful such a thing is. . . .”

  Nell nodded, remembering the terrible nightmares that plagued her a couple of years before, when she and Birdie had come upon someone they knew lying motionless—and very dead—in a snowy bank. “Yes. She was on her way to meet us for breakfast but stopped to deliver some food to Finnegan. It was awful for her, but she’s here now—and she insists she’s fine.”

  Nell looked across the deck while she talked. Cass was sitting next to Ben, with Danny hovering close, while Izzy and Sam set out plates, mugs, and a carafe of coffee. When they had arrived home, Cass had gone upstairs to Ben and Nell’s bathroom and thrown water on her face. Some color had crept back into her face, but her eyes still held the horror of what she’d seen.

  “Fine, nonsense,” Birdie was saying into her ear. “She just stumbled upon a dead body. How could she be fine?” She told Nell she’d be over as soon as she and Nick were finished talking with Gabby about the accident. “Finnegan was her friend,” she reminded Nell.

  When Birdie showed up a short while later, she wasn’t alone.

  A pale-faced Gabby walked in ahead of Birdie and Nick. She smiled and went readily into the hug Nell offered.

  “She wanted to come,” Birdie said as Gabby walked on ahead, passing through the family room and out to the deck. “She’s sad, but children have a way of funneling grief to a place where they can deal with it.” She shook her head slowly. “It’s an amazing gift.”

  “She hangs on to people she’s lost, so they’re never really far from her,” Nick said. “A favorite teacher died last year, and Gabby is always telling me about conversations the two of them have. Things she learns from Miss Leah. Advice she gives. Her dad says there’s a whole litany of people who live in her spirit world.”

  “Perhaps there’s something there to learn,” Birdie said.

  Nick was quiet, his eyes following Gabby as she walked over to Cass and sat down next to her, not saying a word but resting one hand on Cass’ knee.

  “It’s as if she’s known you all her life,” he said.

  “We love her. She reminds me of what Birdie must have been like at that age.”

  “If Gabby grows up to be half the woman her grandmother is, she’ll be a great lady,” Nick said.

  “Birdie is embracing this new role. You’ve given her a gift, bringing Gabby here.”

  “As we were driving into town that day, I realized that Birdie could turn us away. Close the door in our faces. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, and then to drop this bombshell on her—it was a risk. My brother was wrong, maybe, to keep the fact that he had a son from her. But he knew how weak his heart was by then, that the writing
was on the wall. I think he didn’t want her to have to deal with his mistakes.”

  “Gabby came from that mistake, so it ended up being a blessing. But maybe it was a good thing not to tell Birdie. What could she have done?”

  “That’s the crux of it. Nothing. Sometimes it is far better not to know some things that you can’t do anything about, things that might hurt you needlessly.” He spoke with unusual passion and looked at Nell as if wanting her to listen carefully and to take his words and stash them away.

  Then his voice returned to normal and he continued, talking about his brother. “Joseph had me put money into a trust for his son—more than Christopher would ever spend in a lifetime. Too much, maybe. But, nevertheless, he was taken care of, and so is Gabby. My brother was a secretive guy—he had his problems—but he never shirked his responsibilities.”

  “And you arranged for the amazing gift that came out of all that history to meet her grandmother. All’s right with the world.”

  His eyes lingered on his niece. “This place is about as different from her Manhattan penthouse life as it can be, but she can’t stop talking about her friends, the town, the lobsters. She loves it all.”

  “Finnegan seemed to be one of her favorites. Did you have the chance to know him?”

  “No.” The answer came quickly, definitively. “Gabby talked about him. He was teaching her how to fish somewhere down near Canary Cove, she said.”

  Yes, somewhere down where you had an argument with that very man whom you don’t know. Less than a day ago. Nell’s brows pulled together. She took a deep breath, then released it, along with the uncomfortable image of Finnegan spewing his anger on Nick Marietti. She wanted the thoughts gone, out of her head. Nick Marietti had done a wonderful thing bringing Gabby here. He was gracious and kind. And there was something about him that elicited trust and welcomed friendship. She liked him.