Blythe picked up her bag and slipped it over her shoulder. Finally, as if Elizabeth hadn’t spoken, she smiled and looked at her watch.
“I have a meeting with the women’s philanthropic league and a tennis lesson after that. A dinner date in Boston. I need to be on my way.” She glanced down at the Mansfield folder. “But please be aware that the Mansfield child does not belong in my—in this school. Keeping her here is terribly unfair to the other students. Not only that, you are doing the child and her parents a huge disservice.”
Before Elizabeth could respond, Blythe was gone, a cat in the darkening afternoon. She slowed down for a minute at Teresa Pisano’s desk, where she lightly touched the secretary’s shoulder and then disappeared through the main school doors.
Chapter 2
“S ea Harbor Community Day School has a fascinating history, my dear,” Birdie Favazza said. “And I have it on good authority that you are making it even more fascinating.”
Birdie and Gabby sat side by side on the dock just outside Gracie’s Lazy Lobster Café, their legs hanging over the edge, shoulders just touching. One body was so filled with youth that it electrified the air around her. The other—her face a deeply lined map of wisdom and grace and kindness—was filled with the vigor of a long life well lived.
Behind the unlikely pair, sitting on the café’s outdoor bench, Nell Endicott could feel the joy that filled her friend Birdie’s voice. The words were drowned out by the sounds of the harbor—fishing boats coming in for the day, pleasure boats making their way to freshly painted slips, shouts of fishermen and tourists.
“Nick Marietti was a wise man,” Ben said. He sat down next to his wife and stretched his legs out in front of him, tilting his head back to catch the day’s fading rays.
Nell agreed. Birdie’s brother-in-law was definitely that—and Ben was a mind reader, knowing exactly what she was thinking as she watched Birdie and Gabby. Nick Marietti was the mastermind behind the plan to bring Gabby to Sea Harbor to attend school while her father was away. A far better arrangement than living with a nanny and servants in Christopher Marietti’s New York penthouse. As Christopher himself admitted to his uncle, “Birdie Favazza will be the teacher. Gabby the winner.”
“What’s up?” Sam Perry strode down the pier pushing a stroller. He came to a stop in front of Ben and pressed one foot against the baby carriage lock.
Izzy walked around him and gave Nell and Ben hugs.
“We’re starving,” Sam said. “Isn’t that the plan here? What’s with the sunbathing?”
Gabby pivoted around at the sound of their voices. In the next instant she was off the dock floor and rushing toward the stroller. She crouched down and began coaxing contagious giggles out of a lively Abigail.
“Gee-Gee,” the baby cooed, and Gabby melted right there on the cement dock. Being one of Abby’s first words was a huge lottery win in Gabby’s eleven-year-old mind.
“They’re clearing us a table in the back,” Nell said.
As if on cue, Gracie Santos appeared at the door flapping menus in the air. “Your table is cleared and a basket of the world’s best calamari is waiting for you. Cass is already in there, so you better hurry if you want any food.”
The café owner helped Birdie to her feet before giving hugs all around. Then she held the door open and ushered them into the narrow restaurant.
“Gabby, I hear you’re going to my alma mater,” she said over her shoulder.
“It’s a great school, Gracie. Did you like it there?”
“No.” Gracie laughed. “It was too stuffy back then. I wanted to be in the public school with my friend Cass, but my uncle wouldn’t hear of it. Santos women went to Sea Harbor Community Day School, he said. So I did.”
“The real story, Gabby, is that Cass and Gracie were free spirits,” Izzy said. “Not easily controlled.”
Gracie laughed. “Well, yes, maybe. But I survived.”
“The school is changing. Its focus is different now,” Birdie said.
“That’s what I hear. I’m glad. Though many of the girls loved it. I was the odd man out.”
“The world changes,” Birdie said. “Sometimes institutions need to change, too.”
Gracie agreed and led them through the restaurant, manipulating the stroller as they made their way to the back of the narrow restaurant. They were all Lazy Lobster VIPs as far as Gracie was concerned and she insisted on treating them that way. If Nell, Birdie, Izzy, and Cass—and any men they could recruit into helping—hadn’t spent a large part of one summer painting and sanding and transforming the old fish shack into a clean, bright café, it wouldn’t have existed. Plain and simple.
Gracie’s place was small and comfortable, the interior filled with wooden tables and chairs, and softened by the woven fiber art of Willow Adams that hung above the fireplace. The seascape, created from knotted yarn in blues and greens and lavender, was made especially for the Lazy Lobster. It swooped and curved against the brick wall, a splash of ocean right there in the restaurant. But what set the small café apart from the T-shirt and bait shops nearby were the tantalizing odors of seafood, lemon butter, and fresh herbs that spilled out into the ocean air. And on Monday nights, especially, the place hummed with a generous cross section of Sea Harbor residents, young and old, all craving Gracie’s Monday night family special.
Cass Halloran was standing near a table, her cell phone pressed to one ear. She waved at them and mouthed a hello, then took a step away to finish her call.
Just beyond their table, double doors opened to a small deck that hung directly over the water—the spot where Pete Halloran, Merry Jackson, and drummer Andy Risso were warming up for their version of Monday night karaoke.
Ben pulled out chairs for Birdie and Nell and looked over their heads, waving at familiar faces, mouthing hellos. Nearly every table was full tonight, and Ben knew most of the diners. Practically everyone in Sea Harbor had depended on Ben Endicott for something, sometime, somewhere. Wills, estates, business negotiations. Folks teased him that his retirement to the seaside community had been a simple transition from wearing suits to shorts and tees—not much else changed.
He waved and nodded to a friend a few tables over and sat down next to Nell.
“It’s good to see the chief getting out some.”
Nell followed his look and smiled. “Well, now. That’s good to see.”
“You two kids,” Izzy teased. “Matchmakers.”
Nell laughed. “Sometimes the stars align themselves. Serendipity. We were helping Elizabeth move into that little house she bought on the end of our street a few weeks ago and decided to go to the yacht club for the buffet afterward. Jerry was there, so we invited him to sit with us. He’s alone too much—and he and Elizabeth seemed to find a million things in common. Jerry laughed a lot and seemed to enjoy himself enormously. Elizabeth told me later that she never dated much. She was always busy—studying, working on her doctorate, taking on extra jobs to make ends meet. And when she did go out, men didn’t seem terribly interested in her.”
“But Jerry thinks she’s fascinating, and the age difference doesn’t seem relevant at all,” Ben said. “I guess that’s one of those things you can’t explain.”
“They were completely comfortable together, that’s for sure,” Nell said.
“Jerry doesn’t always find himself at ease with women, maybe because he’s been fixed up relentlessly since his wife died. He resists it. This wasn’t like that. They were more like old friends, sharing lives.”
“Good for them, I say,” said Birdie. “Police chiefs need to relax as much as the next person.”
Izzy lifted Abby from her stroller and placed her in Nell’s outstretched arms. “So . . . are they, well, a couple?”
Sam pulled out a chair for his wife. “Does it matter? They’re enjoying each other.”
Gabby craned her neck to see
who they were talking about, her gaze settling in on her school’s headmistress. “You’re talking about Dr. Hartley and Chief Thompson.” The thought seemed to excite her. She set her lemonade down and, without waiting for an answer, said with some authority, “It’s an April-December romance.”
“What?” Birdie said.
“That’s what the kids call it, Nonna.”
“Well, those are both fine months.”
“The kids talk about the headmistress dating?” Izzy asked.
Gabby nodded and transferred a tower of calamari from the basket to her plate. She licked her fingers. “It’s okay, though. My friend Daisy says the rule of thumb is to never date anyone under half your age plus seven.”
“Whose thumb is that? I wonder,” Ben said.
“Maybe this is one of those things that doesn’t need rules,” Nell said. “Besides, no one in Sea Harbor would care if the rule was broken. Jerry is a remarkable man.”
Gabby agreed. “And she’s cool.”
Izzy remained quiet. Her advanced knitters class at the shop had brought up the subject of the chief and the headmistress last week. There had been way too much talk, such as, “What is the woman thinking? He could be her father.”
“But rule or no rule, it doesn’t matter,” Gabby continued, “because if there is a rule, it’s not broken. Daisy checked it out. Dr. Hartley is thirty-nine and Chief Thompson is sixty-two. So she’s safe, see? Barely, but it still counts.”
Cass walked back to the table and caught the end of the conversation. She pulled out a chair next to Gabby. “How do you know all that, hotshot? It makes me wonder what else you know.” She motioned for the calamari basket to be passed her way and lightly tugged on a single dark braid falling down between Gabby’s shoulders.
Gabby grinned. “I’ll never tell. But you better watch your back, Cass. Daisy Danvers can find anything on the Internet. Anything.”
Cass slipped off her Halloran Lobster Company cap. “Anything? Okay, consider me warned.”
“Like I bet if she were here right now she’d be able to find out who you were talking to on the phone.” Gabby lifted her eyebrows and grinned.
Izzy and Nell looked up. Gabby’s lack of restraint was refreshing sometimes—and often helpful when they didn’t want to ask the question themselves.
But Cass didn’t bite. She smiled mysteriously at Gabby. “That’s for me to know—and you and cybersleuth Daisy to find out.”
The waitress appeared with a pitcher of beer, a menu, and a warmed bottle for Abigail. Without glancing at the menu, Ben and Sam ordered up enough fish tacos, lobster rolls, and sweet potato fries to feed the whole restaurant.
Nell turned toward Birdie and nodded in the direction of the police chief. “Jerry might look relaxed, but Elizabeth looks like the weight of the world is on her shoulders.”
“It was a crazy day at school,” Gabby said.
Nell had forgotten the acute hearing of preadolescents. Gabby didn’t miss a thing.
Gabby continued, telling them about watching the art teacher from the shadows of the lower hall. “I’m pretty sure he came from Dr. Hartley’s office—and he wasn’t a happy dude.”
Birdie looked concerned but tried to cover it over. “Being a headmistress is a difficult job—”
A wave from across the room caught Gabby’s attention, and the incident was left lingering on the table as she excused herself and scooted off to greet a classmate.
Birdie waited a moment and then continued, bringing Ben into the conversation. “Something else happened at the school today.” She described the painted circles on the lawn that she and Harold, her driver, had spotted when they picked Gabby up that afternoon. “I phoned Angelo to see what he knew about it, but he wasn’t very forthcoming. ‘Just a prank,’ was how he put it. But there was something in his voice that said it was more than that.”
“Angelo is protective of the school. He probably didn’t want news of anything out of the ordinary leaving the school grounds,” Ben said.
“But it will,” Sam said. “News like that travels fast. I was doing a photo shoot down at the boulders and saw the paint, too. My first thought was some art students were painting outside and got carried away, but when I looked through the lens, it looked more like some crazy crop circles.”
“So you immediately went over to take pictures,” Izzy said, knowing how few things escaped her husband’s lens.
Sam laughed. “Okay, sure. I thought about it. But when I got a little closer I saw Elizabeth walking out and motioning to Ira Staab, the old lawn guy. She had her phone out and it looked like she was taking pictures of the paint job. She seemed to focus in on one of the circles. Then she stopped, said a few words to Ira—and in the next few minutes that stretch of lawn was getting a buzz cut like you wouldn’t believe.”
“It’s not wonderful timing, considering the fund-raising gala coming up this weekend,” Nell said. “But I suppose kids will be kids.”
“You think students did it?” Ben asked.
Nell thought about that for a minute. “I guess . . . I assumed . . .”
“Sure it was the kids,” Cass said. “Budding artists showing a little spunk. Sam’s first guess was probably what happened.”
Izzy looked at her sideways. “Don’t even start on Cass Halloran school pranks.”
“Well, whatever happened, no doubt we’ll hear about it at the board meeting tomorrow,” Birdie said.
“Especially if it reflects poorly on Elizabeth,” Nell added. “A few members seem to enjoy bringing things like that up. The meddling and criticism can’t be easy on her.”
“Nell and I are excluded from those who meddle, of course,” Birdie said.
“Of course.” Ben laughed.
“My money says you’re talking about Blythe Westerland,” Izzy said.
Nell nodded. She looked over toward the bar where Blythe stood, tall and elegant, talking with Don and Rachel Wooten.
“Do you know she’s five years older than I am?”
Sam looked at her. “Okay, Cass,” he said carefully. “That clearly requires a response, but I’m not sure what it should be.”
Cass slapped his hand and pulled the basket of calamari out of his reach. “She is well kept, as Gramma Halloran used to say. That’s all I’m saying. Perfect skin. Perfect figure. Perfect everything. Ageless. But I suppose you could comment on my natural, outdoorsy good looks, Sam? Far more appealing to the masses, right?”
“Far more,” Sam said dutifully.
“I get what Cass is saying. Her hair is never messed up,” Izzy said. “And she came into the shop the other day after a tennis lesson. A tennis lesson—the kind that leaves sweaty half-moons on my shirt and my hair a tangled mess. Not Blythe. She’s picture-perfect. White tennis outfit pressed and pristine.” Izzy pushed back in her chair as the waitress filled the table with platters of lobster rolls and fish tacos.
“It helps to live a pampered existence,” Cass said. “A quarterly visit to Canyon Ranch would take these wrinkles out of my face, too, I suppose.”
“Catherine, you’re beautiful,” Birdie said. “And if that delightful mop of yours was constrained and perfect, it wouldn’t have nearly the character it has.”
They all laughed. Cass was attractive. And outdoorsy. And even elegant, if she wanted to be, although it didn’t happen often. Running a lobster fishing business didn’t lend itself to designer clothes.
“Sorry for the attack. I simply don’t like the woman, and the fact that she’s perfect doesn’t help.”
And they all knew why. Although Blythe had been spending most of her time in Sea Harbor recently, she had come and gone over the years, usually leaving her mark. The summer Danny Brandley came back to town on an investigative reporting job, Blythe had targeted the unassuming then-journalist as an amusing diversion. Danny had never been forthcoming
about Blythe’s advances toward him, but his friends were less inclined to be quiet about it and they often teased about how the shy guy with the glasses and huge intellect was stalked by the most beautiful woman in town.
And completely ignored her.
“I had a job to do that summer,” was all he’d say. “She wasn’t it.”
It always brought a laugh, except to Cass. The talk diminished when Blythe began spending more time in Boston than the Sea Harbor, except for the many committees she seemed to frequent, most especially the board of her alma mater, Sea Harbor Community Day School.
But Blythe was now back.
“She’s been a regular in the shop. I think she’s settling in a bit,” Izzy said.
Cass lifted one eyebrow. “At least she has good taste.”
“In men?” Izzy asked.
“In yarn shops,” Cass said sharply.
“That she does. She loves beautiful yarns—sea silk, cashmere. The other day she stuck around and joined Laura Danvers and a couple of her friends who have kids at Sea Harbor Community Day.”
“That must have been an interesting conversation,” Birdie said. Her frown explained her words.
“You’re right. She listened quietly for a while to PTO talk, our knitting project at the school, various teachers—but before long she casually brought up her displeasure with some of the things happening under Dr. Hartley’s administration. It’s all said with great gentility, though. She criticizes people in the nicest way. Sometimes you’re not even sure it’s a jab until you think about it later.”
A Finely Knit Murder Page 3
