“Father Larry is well connected,” Ben was saying beside her. “Maybe he does. I don’t think Finnegan was a big churchgoer, but I often saw him with the padre, sitting down at the dock, philosophizing about life. People trust him.”
“So you don’t think it’s mysterious?” Nell turned away from the window.
“Well, I do,” Izzy spoke up from the backseat. “I think he was telling you something without actually saying it.”
“I think he was telling Beatrice in a nice way to mind her own business,” Sam said.
Izzy tapped his knee and he caught her fingers, wrapping them tightly in his own.
Nell looked back and nodded to Sam. “There was definitely some of that. Finnegan died less than two days ago. He was urging her to back off a bit. But there was something more, something he wasn’t saying.” Somehow Nell felt sure of that, but explaining it was another matter.
Ben slowed down as they passed by Finnegan’s gate. “Are you folks up for a short walk? How about we park at the community garden and check out the plants? It’ll give me a quick getaway, too. I’ve been trapped in that restaurant parking lot one too many times.” He pulled off the road and angled the car along the easement that ran in front of Finnegan’s property and the garden next to it.
“The walk may work out the kinks,” Sam said. “I spent my day being a fly on the harbor pier, sitting in a cramped fold-up chair, snapping photos. People don’t see me after a while, and it’s amazing what the camera captures.”
“A peeping Tom, that’s what my Sam has become.” Izzy climbed out of the car. “Who would have thought?”
Sam’s long legs followed her. “Yep. I’ll know everyone’s secrets. Better behave yourself, Izzy.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.
“It’ll be a great series, Sam,” Ben said. He clicked the lock button on his key chain and followed Nell over to the raised garden beds.
The perimeter of the garden area was lit with solar lights that Ham and Jane had donated, and in the dim light, they saw several other plot tenders walking the narrow paths, pinching off tomato suckers and checking the soil in their raised beds.
At the back edge of the garden, Nell spotted Beverly Walden, standing alone near the storage shed. The long skirt of her pale blue sundress blew slightly in the wind, and light from the harbor boats shone through it. She wore a wide sisal hat with an elegantly flowing brim, a ribbon tied around the band. It was a completely unexpected look, and in that moment, she reminded Nell of a painting she’d seen of a woman looking off to sea, yearning for the return of her sailor.
Nell waved, but Beverly’s attention was somewhere else. In the next minute she slipped off into the tree shadows near the shoreline. Nell watched for a moment longer, but she was gone. Somewhere. Perhaps walking along the narrow sea path that wound behind all the galleries, all the way to the Artist Palate dock and beyond. A quick walk to the deck where the band was already filling the air with music.
“It looks good,” Izzy said, crouching down over a row of carrot tops. “Look at all those tiny plants peeking out of the soil. They look so happy.”
Ben laughed as Sam crouched down beside her. “Happy plants, we’re leaving you now,” he said in a low, husky voice, then lifted Izzy back up with him.
“The Fractured Fish are calling us,” Nell said.
The foursome walked down the street to the beat of Andy Risso’s drums and joined the parade of concertgoers, some singing along with the music, the old gaslights of Canary Cove lighting the way. It was a happy vibe—just like Izzy’s carrot tops—and filled with the hope of summer. As it should be.
Ben looped an arm across her shoulders and massaged lightly. “Let it go, Nellie,” he whispered, and beneath his sure fingers, the tightness in her back loosened, her spirit lightened.
The deck at the Artist’s Palate was crowded with villagers and vacationers, families and couples. Whole families filled picnic tables, and off toward one corner, Nell waved at the Delaney clan, kids and all, enjoying themselves. Maeve waved Nell and Izzy over to introduce her grandchildren. “Their first Fractured Fish concert,” she laughed, showing off their T-shirts.
“Beautiful kids, Kristen,” Izzy said to their mom. “You should send Sasha over to our kids’ beanie class.”
While Izzy gave class dates and times to Kristen, Nell noticed that Davey had escaped the table. She watched him move through the crowd, patting folks on the back, laughing at comments. Soon he was swallowed up by the crowd near the back steps.
“Davey isn’t crazy about crowds—he needs his breathing room,” D.J. said, following Nell’s look.
“I understand. It can get crazy here.”
They made more small talk, and as Nell followed Izzy through the crowd, she wondered why D.J. felt compelled to explain Davey’s behavior to her. She glanced back at the table. Davey still hadn’t returned.
The college-student staff Merry had hired raced to keep up with orders, piling trays with calamari and shrimp pizzas, burgers and fried clams, and plates of fish and chips, while their boss entertained from the outdoor stage. All across the deck, feet stomped and hands clapped as Andy beat on his drums, his long blond hair flying, and Merry and Pete filled the summer air with “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”
Cass and the Brewsters waved from a table near the deck railing. “I think it’s the last table,” Cass said. “Sit.”
Birdie and Nick were already there, and in between them sat Gabby, her bright green hat in place and a smile lifting her whole face.
“Gabby promised Pete she’d come to hear the band. So here we are,” Birdie said. “Ready to rock.”
Nick was quiet and preoccupied. But when Ben asked about his day, he responded with the gallantry they’d come to expect. Soon, with genuine interest, he was talking to Sam and Ben about their sailboat.
“The whole town must be here.” Izzy leaned in to be heard over the music. She pointed to the table next to them. “Even the city council.”
Nell looked over. There was Beatrice, her makeup perfectly applied and wearing a skirt and jacket. The mayor and his wife sat across from her, along with a business owner the city was trying to lure to Sea Harbor. Laura and Elliott Danvers were there, too, and Nell couldn’t help but feel sorry for the high-profile couple, knowing they’d rather be with Sam and Izzy and their other friends, relaxing, clapping, having fun. They were often called in to help extol the merits of Sea Harbor businesses, and Laura, like her mother before her, always complied. Beatrice sat next to Laura, looking slightly out of place in the halter-and-sandals crowd, but she proved herself a good sport, clapping and mouthing the song lyrics.
“Now, that’s the part of Beatrice that’s endearing,” Nell said to Ben.
“And then there’s Sal,” Birdie said, nodding toward the quiet man as he slipped away from the table and headed for the bar. “The poor man can’t escape Beatrice’s political schmoozing even at a Fractured Fish concert. He’d probably rather be off in that fancy yacht Beatrice bought him.”
“That’s a beast,” Sam said. “He was cutting some mighty waves the other day over near the island.”
“You two should talk,” Izzy said to Sam and Ben. “How many times have Aunt Nell and I played second fiddle to your sailboat?”
Nell laughed. The handsome Hinckley Sou’wester that Sam and Ben had invested in was truly a cherished possession. Sam’s other wife, Izzy called it sometimes.
Beatrice looked over and lifted a glass of wine in greeting, a gracious smile in place. The earlier conversation was forgotten, a part of the day’s business, was how Nell imagined she thought about it. If you don’t know the answer to a question, you go to the source. And for some reason, Beatrice thought she and Birdie might be a source. At least once Beverly Walden failed to answer all her questions.
Nell thought of the quiet woman being subjected to Beatrice’s storm of personal questions. Being nervous was probably an understatement.
A while later, after the second pitcher of
beer was emptied, a basket of fried calamari devoured, and a medley of old Beatles tunes played to a rousing crowd, Ben announced that the Endicott shuttle would soon be shuttling along home.
Izzy and Sam were out on the dance floor, with Gabby between them, her body wild and whirling to Pete’s rendition of “Twist and Shout.”
“She’s having the time of her life,” Birdie said.
“She doesn’t do much of this in New York,” Nick said, his eyes following Gabby’s gyrations.
“Then we shall stay longer,” Birdie said. “You two go along. We’ll make sure everyone has a ride.”
Nell slid her arm through Ben’s. “Does this mean we’re old fuddy-duddies?” she asked as they walked slowly back down Canary Cove Road to the car. “Even Birdie is outlasting us.”
“Nope. Not in a million years,” Ben whispered into her hair. “It simply means there are lots of ways to liven up an evening . . .”
The easement along the garden site was now packed with cars, all the way down to Finnegan’s fence. They walked to the end of the row and Ben unlocked the CRV.
Nell stopped, her hand on the door. And then she frowned and took a few steps toward Finnegan’s fence, straining to hear.
“Nellie, you’re dreaming up mysteries again,” Ben said, watching his wife from behind the wheel. “Hop in.”
He leaned across the front seat and pushed open the door.
“I thought I saw lights.” She climbed into the car.
“Harbor lights, probably,” Ben said. “Or moonlight, maybe, reflecting off a piece of metal.”
Nell nodded, settling back into the seat. She slipped out of her heeled sandals.
But minutes later, when Ben backed out and turned the car toward home, it wasn’t harbor lights they saw.
Chief Jerry Thompson’s patrol car was parked at the drive leading to Finnegan’s property. A spotlight affixed to the side lit up the entrance to the property. The chief stood beside the car, one hand directing the beam.
And lit up like an actor on a stage was Tommy Porter, attaching a band of yellow police tape to the fence and beyond, wrapping Finnegan’s land in the awful sign of crime.
Ben pulled over to the side of the road. Chief Thompson looked up, saw them, and walked slowly across the street. His shoulders were stooped, an invisible burden weighing them down. He leaned into the driver’s window, his forearms resting on the edge.
“Ben. Nell.” He tipped his head slightly.
“What’s up, Jerry? The autopsy is back?”
Jerry nodded. “It was like we thought: he fell on the metal spike from a rusty tractor. But he didn’t fall because of the rain or the dark night or anything like that. He fell because someone slashed his face—and his carotid—with a knife. Someone wanted Finnegan dead.”
Chapter 16
Although the news had come in late Monday night, the Sea Harbor Gazette managed to get enough of the facts down to write a headline that sent the town spinning.
MAN’S DEATH RULED A HOMICIDE.
A homicide. Jerry had told them Finnegan died quickly, maybe even before he was stabbed by a piece of his own trash. His face was a mess, the chief said. Cass probably didn’t notice it because there was so much blood, and debris from the storm covered his face, masking it. It also made fingerprinting nearly impossible.
Those facts were kept from the reporter, so instead he detailed the city hall confrontation just days before Finnegan’s death and the efforts all across the peaceful town to wrest Finnegan’s property from him. And without naming names, the reporter made it clear that the list of those who wouldn’t be sad to have the land finally free of Finnegan was very long, indeed.
A small box at the end of the article urged readers to call or e-mail anything that might lead to the arrest of the individual or individuals involved in the crime.
“Why did he bring up all that city hall gossip?” Mary Pisano stomped across Coffee’s patio and pulled out a chair across from Nell. She sat down as hard as her four-foot-eleven-inch frame could manage, and slapped the morning paper down on the table. One of her short legs swung into the table leg and she winced, rubbing the injured spot. “And since when did being an old crank merit being murdered? I’m so mad, I could spit nails.”
“Mad might be the easiest emotion right now.” Nell had carried several coffees outside. She thought Izzy might run by before the store opened. Maybe Cass and Birdie, too. The news the night before had instigated a flurry of text messages, but that didn’t replace seeing one another. The Seaside Knitters hugged easily when times were tough.
“This is nuts,” Mary said. Her laptop was tucked away in the backpack she’d set down on the flagstone patio. Nell knew she’d pull it out shortly, move over to the table beneath the old maple tree in the corner and pound out her opinion about Finnegan’s death, which would become tomorrow’s “About Town” column. But right now Mary was agitated and needed to vent.
“How could this happen in Sea Harbor?” she asked rhetorically. Her small fingers tapped out her frustration on the tabletop.
Nell poured a tiny container of cream into her coffee and stirred it until the strong brew turned the color of alpaca yarn. The thought had plagued her for hours. It wasn’t that Finnegan didn’t stir up controversy, but murder was something else entirely. “Maybe it was an argument gone sour,” she offered, but without conviction.
But that was unlikely. Someone had taken a knife to Finnegan’s face. It might not have been planned, but it was what it was—a vicious act of violence against one of the most nonviolent men they knew.
“How could Finnegan make anyone angry enough to kill him? Beneath his crusty facade, he was a peaceful man. The man nursed birds with broken wings back to health, for heaven’s sake.”
Nell was still.
“Maybe it was someone who didn’t know him. A drifter, maybe. Remember last winter when Finn didn’t have heat and stayed with Angus McPherran for a while? Some vagrants moved in and tried to light a fire to stay warm. Maybe one came back and Finnegan surprised him. Or the one he fought with not long ago.”
The vagrant theory was a favorite of Mary’s. It meant someone they didn’t know, would never know, and would never return to Sea Harbor, was responsible for the awful deed. It meant that everything would be okay, the bad person was far away and could no longer cause discomfort or fear in their fair town.
But Nell knew that was rarely the case. Whoever did this awful thing may well have been someone they knew. Someone who lived down the street or shopped at Shaw’s or was sitting right here on Coffee’s patio, listening to the buzz all around him about the awful thing that had happened to Finnegan.
“Finn came around the B and B sometimes just to see if I needed help with peeling paint or broken locks.”
“Speaking of your bed-and-breakfast, I hear you’re treating Nicholas Marietti well.”
“How could anyone not be nice to that charming man? My big hunk of a husband is a tad jealous, I think. Nick is the perfect guest. Truth be told, I don’t see much of him.”
“I thought he was working in your den?”
“Sometimes. He likes those old history books my grandfather collected. But he’s gone a lot. A man about town. Sherry—she does the night shift—says he takes a key so he can come and go and doesn’t disturb her if he gets in late.”
“He’s out late?”
“Oh, you know. Mostly he gets up early and goes out, I think. Henrietta O’Neal down the street is like that. Grabs her walking stick and off she goes before the sun is up. Those two have probably run into each other.”
They both smiled at the thought of the rotund eighty-year-old ambling through the predawn streets of Sea Harbor with Nick Marietti. But her smile faded when she remembered seeing Nick early one morning. And he hadn’t been walking with Henrietta O’Neal.
A shadow fell over the table as Cass and Birdie appeared, greeting Mary and pulling out chairs.
Cass wrapped Nell in a hug that lasted longer
than usual. “It just plain sucks,” she murmured into Nell’s ear.
She settled her backpack on the floor and sat down. “Having Finn gone was bad enough. But happening this way?” She shook her head.
“And it’s so close to us,” Mary said. “Canary Cove. How many times a week do each of us pass Finn’s place?”
“Gabby hung around there nearly every day.” Birdie’s voice was quiet and held a tone none of them were used to hearing there: fear.
Nell pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. “Not in the middle of the night.” But she knew her words didn’t matter. Having a child in one’s life brought worry one couldn’t anticipate. And Birdie now had a child in her life.
“Did the chief give you any more details?” Cass asked.
“They know the knife was a rigging knife.”
“That narrows it down to every boat owner in Sea Harbor, which is almost everyone, including me.” Cass said. “You don’t go out on a boat without a knife.”
“I have a garage filled with those things,” Mary said. “Max throws the old rusty ones in a box, then trots down to McClucken’s to buy new ones.”
Sam and Ben had them, too. “Ben said the police will go through the property carefully today. He was sure the case would be solved quickly.”
“Jerry wants this town safe more than any of us,” Mary said. “Or at least as much. He will turn over all stones.”
“Where’s Gabby today?” Cass asked.
“Sam took her sailing. I think it was spur-of-the-moment, and more than likely Ben has been recruited.”
Nell glanced down and checked her messages. “You’re right.”
“Sam thought it’d be good to get out on the water. It’s a great pacifier.”
“And a great excuse,” Nell said. “Nothing would please those two more than if Gabby wanted to go out every day.”
“And Nick?” Cass asked.
“He went, too. We talked to Gabby this morning. It’s not easy to tell a ten-year-old that someone she cared about was killed. Here she is, a New Yorker, and she comes to quiet Sea Harbor to meet murder face-to-face.”
A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 12
