A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  A few bikes were parked on the gravel path, huddled together near the fence, and in the distance Nell spotted several teenagers jostling one another as they made their way down the path.

  She smiled at the Huck Finn scene, remembering when Izzy was a teenager and would join the Endicott family for a few weeks each summer. She and her friends walked this same path, down to the private rocky shore that most vacationers didn’t know about. They’d make their way along the rocks to one of the small docks that jutted out into the water behind Finnegan’s place or the rickety dock where Beverly Walden had parked Finn’s boat. Privacy. Away from summer kids, was how the kids saw it.

  Such wonderful summers. Nell took a drink from her water bottle, then slipped it back into the holder hanging from her waist. She glanced down toward the water once more.

  It was then that she noticed the dark blue Altima. It was farther along the gravel road, beyond the bikes, parked under a low-hanging tree that nearly hid it from view.

  Nell took a few steps toward it, then stopped when she spotted the rental sticker on the bumper. She looked around for the driver, but the only sound was that of the sea and the teenagers ahead, tossing teasing comments back and forth.

  Making her way to Finnegan’s fence, she leaned over and separated some weeds with her hands, peering off into the shadows. All was quiet.

  She looked down the road toward town and saw that traffic was picking up, with tourists headed out to Canary Cove. Shopkeepers going to work. The day was beginning.

  And so must hers. She glanced once more at the car, then walked back toward the road and headed home, using the time to convince herself there were plenty of blue Altimas in this world. And the fact that it was the make and color of the car Nicholas Marietti had rented at Logan Airport a couple of days before was surely a coincidence.

  Chapter 14

  In spite of the sadness surrounding Finnegan’s death—or maybe because of it—Izzy made sure that Gabby’s crocheted-hat class happened as scheduled. Gabby herself insisted on it. Finnegan loved her beanie, she’d added.

  Izzy asked Birdie and Nell to sit in as backup, just in case. One never knew what could happen with a room filled with preteens. It was the way Izzy did things: prepare for the unexpected. Nell decided it was a leftover from her days as a lawyer, when she always tried to cover her bases so the courtroom would hold no surprises. She watched her niece now, tapping two glass needles together for attention.

  Gabby came up to Nell and Birdie and dipped her head low so the top of it faced them, and showed off her hat. “I could make you each one. What do you think?” She lifted her head and waited expectantly.

  “Well, that’s a nice offer,” Birdie said. “But I’m not sure I have enough hair to hold it on.”

  Gabby touched the top of Birdie’s head lightly, a gentle pat, as one would give a kitten. “Of course you do, Nonna,” she said.

  They each put in an order for a beanie with a flower.

  Then Nell asked, “How are you doing, sweetie?”

  Gabby thought about the question, wrapping a strand of hair around one finger. “Finn, well, he’s my friend. He treats me like a kid, sure, but a kid he trusts, like I like and trust him—like a best friend, you know?”

  On the other side of the room, Izzy was urging the crowd to quiet down. She began handing out the hat pattern.

  Gabby looked up. “Oops, gotta go,” she said, planting a quick kiss on Birdie’s wrinkled cheek.

  She looked at Nell, as if she was sorry she hadn’t really answered her question. Her forehead wrinkled slightly, her eyes holding Nell’s. “Finn’s fine,” she said.

  Then in a flash she was off to the front of the room, where Izzy held the girls in rapt attention.

  “Present tense.” Birdie said, her fingers touching the warm spot left on her cheek.

  “I noticed. Finn is still with her.”

  They turned their attention to Izzy standing on a small wooden box, explaining the class structure to an attentive group. The girls, their faces bright, tan, and smiling, looked at her like a well-loved teacher.

  And she is that, Nell thought—well loved, and a born teacher. Personality. Intelligence. A great communicator. All the traits that had merited her an offer from a prestigious firm after law school. A career that made her father inordinately proud of her. A decent career, if not totally satisfying.

  Until that awful day that changed her life—the day she had won a difficult case, getting a young man off on a burglary charge. An ordinary-looking man with a playful smile who had hugged Izzy outside the courtroom, an image replayed endlessly on television the next day. The photo of a young man, free and innocent, who, on his way to the T that very day, held up a neighborhood grocery shop and shot the owner and his wife to death.

  Nell watched the pleasure that spread across Izzy’s face now as she worked with the young girls. She had found her niche, owning her own business, researching and working with amazing fibers, amazing people. And now married to an amazing man.

  When Izzy introduced Gabby, the crowd cheered. She’d become a pied piper, riding through town on Birdie’s pink bike, her beanie holding down that mass of hair. Young girls sought her out, inviting her to join them at the beach or Scoopers ice-cream shop. But mostly Gabby hung out with the adults, begging Cass for a ride on the Lady Lobster, sitting cross-legged in the knit shop with Purl on her lap, hanging out with Willow Adams at the Fishtail Gallery. And then there was Finn, her best friend.

  Nell watched her move through the gathering of girls, sitting on the floor or crowded around the table. She wore torn shorts and a T-shirt proclaiming her love for New York, along with the famous beanie—the loopy green crochet hat that hugged the crown of her head. Below it, hair flew out in all directions like an ocean spray.

  Finn is fine, she’d said. And with the kind of assurance that made Nell think Finn himself had told her so.

  “She’s captivating,” Nell whispered to Birdie.

  Birdie smiled in that way grandmothers did. Yes, she’s captivating. She’s lovely. She’s my granddaughter.

  Nell hadn’t mentioned seeing the blue car to Birdie. By the time she had moved into her day, it seemed foolish. A blue car parked on a road. She’d seen cars there before. The fact that it bordered Finnegan’s property would never occur to most people. Why should it? What did it matter?

  So she’d gone about the day, running errands, giving a fund-raising talk at the Arts Association, a quick stop at Coffee’s, where those who knew Finnegan spoke quietly of the old man who had died on his land that weekend.

  Nell heard the undertones, of course. The daughter would sell it and the land would be cleaned up. A new business built, perhaps? But there was still a sincere sadness that they had lost one of their own. A man who had lived in Sea Harbor nearly his whole life. A fixture.

  And they would mourn him appropriately in Our Lady of Safe Seas, the big church on the hill.

  Nell felt the familiar rub against her leg and absently picked up Purl, settling her between her and Birdie on the window seat. The room hummed with crochet activity interspersed with spurts of girlish giggles as crochet hooks caught threads of yarn. Izzy and Gabby moved through the group, demonstrating the foundation chain, checking the tension, fixing mishaps.

  Izzy had suggested a light cotton blend in happy summer colors for the hats—bright greens and oranges, tomato reds, cobalt blue. Colors as alive as the youthful bodies filling the room.

  Izzy stooped down to help a group of girls sitting on the floor, then walked over to Birdie and Nell. “You two must have better things to do, and I think Gabby has this under control.”

  “And she’s much better at crochet than I am, dear,” Birdie said, lifting herself from the window seat. “I completely agree—we are window dressing. You don’t need us.”

  “But I’ll see you later?”

  “Later?”

  “The Fractured Fish?” Izzy prompted.

  “I nearly forgot. The su
mmer series starts tonight.”

  “It’s old-time favorites, Pete says. Seventies covers. You’ll love it.”

  Birdie feigned displeasure. “I’ll have you know I just downloaded a Taylor Swift album.”

  They laughed and made their way toward the steps, carefully climbing over legs and feet. Purl trailed after them.

  “Taylor Swift?” Nell said. “Download?”

  Birdie looked smug. “Gabby likes her. She’s teaching me about her music.” Birdie fished around in her pocket and pulled out a small silver square. “She and Nick gave me this iPod and they’ve been filling it with all sorts of music. It’ll certainly pep up the tap dancing class I teach at the retirement center.”

  “Sometimes you amaze me, Birdie Favazza,” Nell said, waving to Mae Anderson, Izzy’s shop manager, and holding open the front door for her friend.

  Purl parted company with them at the door, jumping into the display window as if to wave good-bye.

  Just outside the door, a small group of women were looking into the window of the yarn shop. “What do you suppose Purl has done now?” Nell asked, looking around the women’s shoulders to the display window.

  “It’s amazing,” one of the women murmured.

  And it was.

  “How did we miss this on our way in?” Birdie asked. “It’s a masterpiece.”

  Purl was the one who had caught everyone’s interest, but it was her garden paradise that held that attention. She rolled over on a soft garden bed of taupe-colored cashmere that covered the floor of the display. Rising out of the cashmere ground cover was a tall stalk, green yarn wound high in every texture and hue. Along the sides and at the top, poking through the husks of yarn, were bright yellow yarn cobs. On another twisted green vine, tightly wound balls of tomato-red wool were waiting to be plucked. Slender knit beans dripped from another vine, and all around, lined up neatly in rows, were carrot tops, lime-colored leafy plants, strawberries, and cucumbers.

  It was a veritable garden of yarn—cotton and silk blends, summer wool, airy cashmere, and alpaca. In the corner was a small, neat sign: KNIT A GARDEN. PLANT A GARDEN. CELEBRATE A GARDEN.

  And below, the date and time of the community gathering that would be held in a couple of weeks to celebrate the community garden and the first fruits of everyone’s efforts. A great excuse for a party, Willow Adams had exclaimed, as she signed up all her friends for the planning committee.

  “Mae’s nieces are following in Willow’s footsteps. These are works of art.”

  As if reading their lips and affirming the twins’ artistry, Purl rubbed her small pink nose on the cashmere ground, back and forth. Then she nuzzled down in her luxurious bed and closed her eyes.

  “I need to talk to you two,” Beatrice Scaglia said, appearing beside them out of nowhere. Her voice was anxious. She touched Birdie on the arm, her red fingernails tapping it lightly.

  “Have you seen Izzy’s lovely window?” Birdie asked.

  “Everything Izzy does is wonderful.” Beatrice looked around, then nudged them down the sidewalk, away from the group admiring the yarn garden.

  “Is something wrong?” Nell asked to the councilwoman’s back as they followed her clicking heels along the sidewalk.

  “No,” she said, stopping at the alleyway that separated the yarn shop from Archie’s bookstore. She turned around and faced them, one hand smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in her dress. “We need to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Finnegan. He didn’t seem to hold you in obvious contempt like he did some of us.”

  “He didn’t hold you in contempt, Beatrice. He simply didn’t like other people trying to control his life—or his land.”

  Beatrice brushed off Birdie’s comment with a wave of her hand. “Do you know if there are relatives other than Beverly who might be in his will? Now that he’s dead, we need to take care of that land as quickly as possible. My constituents are demanding action, but no one seems to know what’s next, when the property will be sold. Has Ben mentioned anything? Sometimes he seems to know things before the mayor does.”

  Nell’s face mirrored the surprise that flitted across Birdie’s. “That’s not really our business, is it? The man isn’t even buried yet.”

  Beatrice seemed deaf to anything that didn’t satisfy her questions. She went on as if Nell hadn’t spoken a word. “His will is the main question. I assume the beneficiary is his daughter, but I’d like it confirmed. I had Sal check the deed at his office and all he could come up with is that Finnegan owned the land.” Displeasure in her husband’s failure to help was evident. “There isn’t anyone else named on the deed, Sal said. No one. Not even his wife.”

  “He owned that land long before he married Moira.” Birdie said.

  “That’s the peculiar thing. Finnegan has lived here forever. But what do we know about him? I never realized what a mystery he was until he left us.”

  Beatrice said the words left us as if Finnegan had intentionally gone off to some lovely place, leaving them the burden of figuring out his life—and his property.

  “We know a lot. We know he was a kind, generous man who helped many people, who patrolled Canary Cove, who painted Cass’ buoys when she needed help. Who let his daughter live in that sweet house he and Moira owned. Who . . .”

  “The daughter. Yes. I talked to her.”

  “You talked to her?” Nell’s brows lifted.

  “I was in Canary Cove today, so I stopped into that co-op gallery where she works and paints, introduced myself, and told her how sorry I was about her father. She seemed very uncomfortable—I suppose not too many people have stopped in. She’s not the friendliest person in town. I just mentioned the property in passing.”

  “In passing?” Birdie frowned at her.

  “I wondered if she had thought about it, assuming it would be hers, that’s all. I offered to help in any way I could. What does the poor girl know about developers and land value around Sea Harbor?

  “She mentioned it might be a nice place for additional galleries, kind of like an annex to Canary Cove. I thought that was an interesting idea and suggested luxury condos above the shops.”

  “Beatrice, her father just died. It seems a bit premature,” Nell said.

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t seem offended by my question, just nervous. But it was clear she’d been thinking about the land, too. But in the end, it doesn’t matter, because she’s never seen her father’s will. She knows she’s the probable heir, but she can’t do anything until the will is read.”

  Birdie and Nell exchanged looks, but Beatrice went on. “She did, however, indicate that she’d have a copy of the will soon.”

  “If Beverly is Finn’s only relative, I suspect you’re right. It will be hers.” Birdie said.

  “I hope so. So soon, hopefully, we can get a bulldozer out there and clean it up.”

  The creak of Archie Brandley’s bookstore door silenced Beatrice. They looked up to see Father Northcutt walking toward them.

  “A bulldozer, Beatrice?” he asked. Thin strands of gray hair fluttered in the breeze. “For what?”

  Father Larry’s face was generous and open and always held a smile. But reading his eyes, Nell could see he had caught more of the conversation than he acknowledged.

  “The Finnegan place, Father,” Beatrice said, quickly managing a smile. “We were just wondering what will happen to it and when it will be up for sale.”

  “For sale?”

  “It’s what everyone wants—the city, the neighbors, the artists, the developers, even his daughter. It’s what’s good for everyone. That’s all we want, Father—what’s best for Sea Harbor. We can’t afford another accident over there.”

  Nell held back a smile. Beatrice wasn’t a bad person—in fact, she liked her most of the time. She managed to do good things for the city, and people thanked her by voting for her. She was good at the political banter. But she was also good at manipulating situations to her best interests and to post
uring herself just right.

  Father Northcutt broke into a broad smile, folding his hands together over his ample girth. “Ah, Beatrice Scaglia, you are a wonder now. And I’d be wrong to think you didn’t want the best for Sea Harbor.”

  Then he looked at all three of the women, his Irish eyes smiling on each of them. “But first we need to bury our dear friend Finnegan, to mourn his loss, and to send his spirit off in peace.”

  He paused, his jowls still moving from his words. When he continued, his face had grown more serious and his voice held a note of premonition, something Nell thought odd. Elusive.

  “And once the dear man has been put to rest, then we shall accept what happens with that land along the harbor. Finnegan’s wishes, even if they hold some surprises, will prevail. Sometimes wisdom resides where we least expect it.”

  The smile returned, and with a friendly good-bye, the priest sauntered across the street to greet Gus McClucken, idling in front of his hardware store.

  Chapter 15

  “He knows something we don’t,” Nell told Ben later that evening. She sat beside him in the CRV, heading over to the Fractured Fish’s summer concert. Sam and Izzy listened from the backseat.

  Nell looked through the window as they neared Finnegan’s land, to the path that led to the water. There were bicycles roped together and hooked to Finnegan’s fence for safekeeping. A motorcycle farther down the alley. Probably concertgoers who didn’t want to get stuck in the Artist’s Palate parking lot after the performance.

  But no blue Altima.

  Foolish thoughts, she chided herself. Why was she seeing mysteries lurking everywhere?