Birdie was out of the chair immediately. And after a quick, curious lift of her eyebrows to her friends, she followed Nicholas Marietti through the yacht club lounge and into the June night.
Chapter 3
The smell of loamy, composted soil rose from the tilled land, its odor heightened by the overnight rain and early-morning sunlight. Dew caught the day’s new light and blinked like diamonds on the nearby sea grasses.
“Clearly you have a future as a rototiller, Ham. Who knew?” Nell leaned against a signpost that announced the new Canary Cove Community Garden in bold, hand-fashioned letters. A red bandana held back her wavy, streaked hair, and with another she wiped the perspiration from her forehead.
“The view from behind him was something to behold,” Jane said, patting her husband on the behind. “Cute butt.” She handed him a cold drink. The property adjacent to Finnegan’s land on the east side was a decent-sized rectangle, running from the road back to the sea. A perfect size for the proposed garden. The city owned it and allowed the use, hoping that it would somehow convince Finnegan he didn’t want his property to stick out like the awful eyesore it was. In addition, the garden traffic just might be more than the reclusive landowner could tolerate.
Maybe he’d just pack up and move away, some thought.
Ham took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m sure I lost two pants sizes controlling this little beast.”
“Well worth it,” Cass said. “We’ll turn you into a sex symbol yet.”
Ham stroked his white beard and grinned.
“You’ve done a great job,” Willow Adams said.
Several other artists joined in with effusive approval. They’d come over early, before the boutiques and galleries opened, to help where needed.
“We’re planting sunflowers along Finnegan’s fence over there,” Jane Brewster said. “Beatrice Scaglia donated a pound of seeds and volunteered her husband, Sal, to plant them.”
“Plant something beautiful,” Councilwoman Scaglia had urged. “And tall. Very tall. Thick. Anything to block out the quack grass and junkyard lurking behind that ugly fence.”
Jane waved at Sal, dutifully obeying his wife’s orders in front of Finnegan’s fence. Beverly Walden and Rebecca Early were tilling the soil beside him, taking pity on the quiet man.
Nell laughed at the familiar story. Beatrice had her fingers in everything in town—anything that endeared her to voters—but it was often Sal Scaglia’s fingers that ended up doing the work.
“Beatrice is so hard on Finnegan,” Willow said. She pushed a strand of thick dark hair from her eyes.
“Because people take their complaints to her, I think. She tries to solve their problems.”
“I s’pose.” Willow looked over at the fence.
Suddenly a head popped out between two clumps of tall grass.
“Gotcha,” the gravelly voice said.
Willow jumped.
Finnegan was dressed in his usual attire—jeans and a torn T-shirt with a lobster on it, his denim shirt unbuttoned. The Sox hat was slightly crooked, shading a face darkened and fissured from years on the sea. He leaned on the fence. “Looks good, what you’re doing here.” A crooked finger pointed at the garden.
Ham’s square hands leaned on the tiller handle. “Okay, then, Finn. Get your butt over here. We could use your expertise.”
Finnegan’s laugh matched his voice, husky from a smoking habit he’d tossed aside in an instant when his wife got cancer. “And then you’d come help me, right? Help me mow all this here down. I got your number, Ham Brewsta. Weren’t born yesterday, you know.”
They all laughed, relieved by the friendly teasing that had been lacking in the city hall discussion the night before.
“Heck, it’s not a bad idea, Finn,” Cass said. She flapped one hand at the tangled overgrown grass. “Place is a mess.”
Of all of them, Cass was one of the few who easily passed back and forth through Finnegan’s gate and whose friendship allowed easy teasing. But all her comment brought today was a slight grin.
“Don’t think so, Cassoulet,” the old man said, using the nickname he’d pinned on Cass when she was a youngster playing on her dad’s lobster boat. “You know betta. I handle things my way. Wicked stubborn, that’s what my Moira always said.”
“An understatement. What if I helped?”
At that the old man allowed a gruff laugh. He shook his head. “But here’s something I wouldn’t turn away from, you know. I wouldn’t turn away some of your ma’s soda bread. That and a smile from you, missy, would make this old codger a happy man.”
A wave of emotion passed through Nell as she listened. There stood the fisherman, seaworn and bent. And the dark-haired lobsterwoman, taking on the same challenges, the same monstrous sea, just as her father and Finnegan had once done. Cass spent long days checking traps, repairing equipment, untangling warp on troublesome buoys. And then there was the constant competition, the barrage of fishing regulations, dealing with buyers. Not an easy life.
“He knows the way of the sea, can read it like the palm of his hand,” Cass had told her once about Finnegan. “He’s a decent man, no matter what his place looks like. No matter how he acts sometimes. No matter what they say.”
Finnegan leaned farther across the fence. “You keep your chin up, Cassoulet,” he said. His face grew serious. “Things’ll get better for you. That’s a promise from me to you.”
His words were intended to be private, softly spoken, but the wind whipped them up and passed them along to those standing nearby.
Cass hesitated for a moment, then reached through the fence and touched his arm. “Back at ya, Finn.”
He nodded gravely. And then with a nod to the others, he turned, and using his arms like a swimmer’s, parted the thick underbrush until he disappeared, swallowed up by waving grass.
Across Canary Cove Road, leaning against a shiny red Toyota truck with neatly painted letters on the side spelling out DELANEY & SONS, the son stood by himself, a baseball hat on his head, legs crossed at the ankles, and a slow smile creasing his suntanned face. He nodded a greeting to the gardeners patting the soil back in place around the bulbs they’d planted. Sal, Beverly Walden, and Rebecca Early sat back on their heels, surprised they were being watched, and nodded a hello.
But Davey’s eyes didn’t stay focused on the plants or on the gardeners mulching the flowers or on Ham, standing nearby, his fingers around the rototiller handle. Instead he focused on the slow-moving weeds that were swallowing up the fisherman, almost as if his look alone would make the old man disappear forever.
Izzy hugged her aunt Nell and relieved her of one of the white bags that held the knitters’ dinner. She breathed in the familiar odor of garlic and lemon. It was the Thursday-night ritual that Izzy cherished as much as a shipment of vicuña yarn.
“Am I the first one? I called Birdie to see if she needed a ride but didn’t get an answer. Have you heard from her?”
“Not a word, and it’s killing me.” Izzy pulled the top of the bag apart and looked inside. “Clams? Lobster?”
The banging of the front door interrupted, and Cass breezed in. She was across the room in seconds, taking the second bag from Nell. “I could smell it all the way down the street. It’s shrimp. Shrimp with wine, lemon, and garlic sauce.”
Nell laughed. “For someone whose primary cooking skill is heating up a can of beans, you have a remarkable ability to discern odors.”
“Thank you. And I’m right, right?”
“Of course you are,” Nell said, and turned toward the back-room steps.
Another banging of the door stopped her at the top step. Birdie. At last.
“Birdie, what . . .” But it wasn’t Birdie who stood in a patch of late-day sunlight crisscrossing the hardwood floor.
It was a young girl with the most amazing head of hair Nell had ever seen.
Izzy and Cass glanced at Nell. Who was she? Clearly they did
n’t know her, either, which meant she was probably a part of that first wave of vacationing families, those who came to Cape Ann when ocean waters were still too chilly for most, but the choices of cottages were greater and the beaches quieter.
“Hi,” Izzy said. “May I help you?”
The girl looked to be about nine or ten, with clear blue eyes and a broad smile. Her hair was blue-black, like a raven’s feathers, shoulder length, and wildly curly, blowing in a dozen directions. It was held in place—barely—by a crocheted green beanie with an enormous orange flower in the center of the brim. Long, skinny legs bore bruises of various colors and sizes, and hanging over one shoulder, held in place by a wide canvas strap, was the likely source of the injuries: a battered skateboard.
“This is the yarn shop, right?” she asked. She looked over at a basket piled high with yarn.
On top of it sat Purl, the shop’s calico cat. She looked at the young girl and purred a hello, then jumped from the pile to the floor and rubbed against her leg.
The youngster giggled, then leaned down and scooped Purl up into her arms, hugging the cat to her chest. She stood back up.
Izzy nodded. “Yes. This is the yarn shop. One of them, anyway.”
“But the only one in this town?”
“That would be true.”
Purl rubbed her head against the girl’s cheek.
“Whew. That’s good. I was supposed to meet her here and I promised I’d be on time.” She shifted Purl slightly and looked down at a large watch that was as big as her narrow wrist. “I’m early. That’s a first.”
The laugh that followed was childlike and infectious, big and generous and spontaneous. Her face lit up, showing off a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. “I’m never early, not usually. I’m not very dependable, Heather says. That’s my current stepmother. But my uncle says being dependable isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes you have to just be spontaneous.” She stroked Purl’s back with two fingers. “Do any of you guys work here?”
Her eyes went from one woman to the next, her look connecting with each of them. When she reached Cass, she paused, brows pulling together for a moment. Then she grinned again. “I know you. Oh, not really. Like, we haven’t met, but I saw you a little while ago when I was at the harbor, watching the boats come in. This man I know said you catch lobsters. Right? That’s so cool. He said he helped you paint your buoys and your boat.”
Cass frowned. Besides her brother, Pete—and he’d been with her all afternoon—there was only one person who had helped paint her boat. “You know Finnegan?” Cass asked. Her brows lifted in genuine surprise.
“Finnegan, yes. He said I can call him Finn if I want to. He knows everything about the harbor and the boats and the kind of fish around here. We watched you bring your boat in. Finn said maybe you’d take me out with you sometime. I’ve never in my whole life been on a lobster boat. Central Park doesn’t have lobsters.” Another laugh, then she shoved her hands into the pockets of cutoff jeans. “My name’s Gabby. Well, it’s actually Gabrielle, but you can call me Gabby. What’re your names?”
Nell looked at Cass who looked at Izzy, then back again, confused.
“Are you . . . are you a relative of Finn’s?” Nell asked. Her thoughts stumbled over the few facts she knew about Finnegan’s life. The daughter, Beverly. Could this beautiful child be Beverly’s daughter? Finn’s granddaughter? Something in her said no.
Gabby’s laughter came often and easily. She let the leather strap slip from her shoulder and the skateboard fell to the floor with a thud. “Nope. We’re not related. I guess you’d say I ran into him. He was leaning on the railing, his face all wrinkled up like the world was crashing down on him, and then it did. Or me, anyway. I crashed right into him on my board. And he didn’t cuss, not once. He just picked me up and wondered if I was okay.” She pointed to a Band-Aid on her knee.
“Ouch,” Izzy said.
“It’s not so bad. I’ve had a lot worse. Honest. So, is one of you Izzy? Finn said Izzy owns this shop. He even walked me down here to be sure I didn’t end up in a hardware or bookstore, but I told him I could probably tell yarn from nails and books.”
Izzy laughed. “I imagine you could. And I’m Izzy. These are my friends, Nell and Cass, but you already know Cass—at least by reputation.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She held Purl in the crook of her arm and shook their hands, then looked at Cass. “Finn calls you Cassoulet.”
Cass laughed. “He’s telling you all his secrets. He must like you.”
“Sophie—that’s our cook—taught me how to make cassoulet. I’m going to make Finn some if Nonna says it’s okay. I don’t think he eats enough. He’s pretty skinny. Don’t you think?” She looked around the shop for the first time. “Sophie taught me how to knit, too. And crochet.” She lifted her eyes as if looking to the top of her head, then pulled off the beanie. Hair flew.
“I made this.”
Izzy reached over and ran her fingers over the light cotton hat while Cass and Nell leaned in for a look. The weave was loose and carefree, the look quirky, matching their visitor perfectly.
“You did a great job. I love this hat. My younger customers would, too. Would you share your pattern with me?”
The girl tapped her head. “It’s all up here. But I’ll write it down for you. Sophie helped me with it. Sophie’d love it here so much. Look at all this yarn. I can tell the kitty loves it, too.”
“Thanks. That’s Purl. She lives here. Did you want to buy some yarn? Is that why you’re meeting your friend here?”
Gabby caught her bottom lip between straight white teeth, thinking, her eyes moving over the tables of soft yarn, the neat white cubbies packed full. “Actually, I don’t have money right now. But I’ll come back with money and my pattern. Or maybe when Nonna comes . . .” She frowned and the freckles across her cheeks danced. When she checked her watch again, Purl jumped to the floor but stayed close, rubbing again against her legs.
Nonna . . . Nana? Nell asked, “So you’re vacationing here with your grandmother?” Esther Gibson’s granddaughter, perhaps. She had so many that Nell never recognized them from one summer to the next.
“Yes. No. Well, sort of, I guess.” Another grin, followed by a shrug. “It’s very confusing, isn’t it?”
Izzy laughed. “So your grandmother is picking you up here?”
“Yes. At six thirty sharp. She wouldn’t let me leave the house unless I promised I’d be here, and she gave me exact instructions how to get here, but I told her I’m very good at directions.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket and beamed. “It has a GPS app. But anyway, I was given strict orders. Two hours to explore and I couldn’t leave Harbor Road. I had to be at this shop, in this very spot,” she looked down at her feet, “at six thirty.”
Gabby looked around the room again, then through the shop window that framed Harbor Road. A parade of cars and bikes. People strolling along the village street.
Her face lit up. “There she is. She’s here. I knew she wouldn’t forget me. Is that the hugest old car you’ve ever seen in your whole life?”
Nell, Cass, and Izzy stepped closer and followed her gaze. Gabby was absolutely right. It was the hugest old car they had ever seen. And one they knew well.
Birdie Favazza climbed out of the front seat of her Lincoln Town Car, spoke briefly to her driver, Harold, and then hurried toward the yarn studio’s front door as if it were dependent on her to put out the fire inside.
Chapter 4
“So you’ve all met,” Birdie said, closing the shop door softly. “I’m sorry to surprise all of you like this. It’s been a crazy day. I didn’t have a second to call, but I thought I’d get here before Gabrielle to explain . . .” She smiled at the young girl.
“Gabby. You can call me Gabby. Almost everyone does. Except for Heather. She thinks it’s too . . . too something. Too common, maybe?”
“Gabby. All right, then,” Birdie said. She looked around
at the others. They were standing side by side, patiently silent, but their eyes lit with curiosity.
“Gabby came up to Sea Harbor with her great-uncle Nick to meet me.”
The woman who got carsick, Nell thought. Oh, my, what a surprise.
“We’re on a road trip to Maine—to see beautiful things and hike, eat lobster, and do whatever we want. We might even see Stephen King. We’re free spirits, Uncle Nick says.” She grinned.
Birdie nodded. “And you still will do all those things, sweetie. But after a short break. In the meantime, you’ll be a lovely free spirit right here in Sea Harbor.”
Gabby nodded, seemingly undeterred by the change in plans. “It’s okay, Nonna. This is a great place. It has lobster boats. And you.”
Nonna. Nell watched a look of surprise fill Birdie’s face, followed by a look of confusion. She patted Gabby’s hand as she explained to her friends, “Nicholas got a call that his mother is very ill—”
Nell gathered the words, sorting through them and putting them in some kind of sensible order. Nicholas’ mother. Joseph Marietti’s mother. Birdie’s mother-in-law.
“She’s dying,” Gabby said softly, easing away Birdie’s attempt at subtlety. “She’s old. Older than sin—that’s what Sophie, our cook, would say. And she has more money than Donald Trump, Sophie said. She lives in Italy. Our families don’t talk to each other—my dad never even met his own nonna. Can you imagine that?” She wrinkled her forehead, as if remembering something, and then looked at Birdie with bright, excited eyes. “Me, either, but now I have.”
“That’s right, you have,” Birdie said, finding a brief lull in Gabby’s explanation. “So that’s where Nick is. Gabby’s uncle went to be with his mother.”
“But my passport is locked away somewhere, and we didn’t know where,” Gabby filled in, her hands moving along with her words. “So he couldn’t take me with him. But that’s okay. It’s a dysfunctional-family situation. I might not have been very welcome.”
A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 3
