Cass was silent. She took a deep breath and straightened up her shoulders. “You’re right. I want to see him, to tell him what’s going on.”
Nell walked her to the door and hugged her tight. “This is a good thing, Cass. Finn loved you. We all do. He wanted to make your life easier.”
“Then why do I feel as if I’ve robbed someone’s grave?”
“Because you have such a difficult time accepting things from people who love you. You haven’t robbed anyone, dear. Other people don’t factor into this right now. Accept that, and rejoice that Finn loved you.”
Nell watched her walk toward the truck, her dark hair tangled in the wind. She’d pulled herself up, straightened her back, and climbed into the truck with resolve.
What Finnegan had done was a good thing. Deep down Cass must know that and be relieved at what it could mean to the Hallorans. A dream come true for most people. And it wasn’t the old man’s fault that the dream was coated with enough complications to make the wonderful part almost invisible. It was someone else’s. Someone who had ended Finn’s life tragically. Someone Nell felt desperate to find.
Chapter 19
Nell waited until a decent hour to call Birdie. She hadn’t heard a thing from her the night before and realized, suddenly, that there was no update on when Nick and Gabby were leaving Sea Harbor. Surely Birdie would insist they have time to plan a suitable farewell. Nick wouldn’t—couldn’t—just disappear with her into the night.
When Birdie’s voice mail clicked in, Nell left a message to call her back. “Soon, please,” she added before hanging up. She checked her calendar for the day, scribbled some notes on a to-do pad, and then walked around the kitchen, undirected. Where was her focus?
There were too many uncertainties in their lives. Perhaps that accounted for the restless night and tangled sheets.
She moved to the kitchen table, a breakfast nook that jutted out on the back of the house with windows on three sides. The tree house, Ben called it, and a perfect spot to begin a day. It was a sunny day, just as predicted. Early-morning rays filtered through the trees, falling on the small guesthouse tucked in the far corner, partially hidden now by the thick hedge of rugosa roses they’d planted for Izzy’s wedding the year before. The winding path through the woods was already trampled in place by neighborhood children taking a shortcut to the beach. The pathway to heaven, Izzy used to call it.
The beauty just outside the breakfast windows sometimes gripped Nell so tightly that she found it difficult to breathe. And it almost always helped her put things into perspective.
Today, the magic tonic eluded her. She felt discombobulated, muddled in thoughts that didn’t link together easily.
At first she thought the noise was from the backyard, a new group of giggling swimmers off for a day at the beach.
But the rattling of the front door said differently.
“The door was stuck,” Birdie said, walking across the family room. “For a minute I thought you had locked it, and then I would truly have worried.” She took a mug from the shelf and poured herself coffee, then walked to the kitchen table, her step missing its usual bounce.
Nell frowned, sensing her slowness. Her heart sank. “Gabby and Nick have left, haven’t they?”
“No. And they’re not going anywhere. Not for a while, anyway.”
“That makes you sad?” Nell got up and put two slices of bread in the toaster, then sat across from Birdie. “Tell me.”
“The police have labeled Nick a person of interest in Finnegan’s murder.”
Nell was silent.
“They’ve picked up things here and there, enough connections between the two men to want to talk to him. Sal Scaglia—probably trying to take the spotlight off his wife—mentioned that Nick had been in his office, looking for information on Finnegan’s land.”
Nell frowned, then remembered. Although just a few days ago, it seemed somehow longer, something she had to dig out of the shadows of her memory. Nick had just come back from Italy. Birdie had thought he was working at the B and B that morning, but someone had seen him going up the courthouse steps. That must have been where he was going.
“So the police went to the courthouse, and sure enough, there was his name, signed in to look at deeds. And to make it worse, Nick had talked to people at Coffee’s that day, asking about the land, questions about the owner, the building on the land, the offices people rented—those sorts of things.”
“But that’s not a crime.”
“No. But there was more, some of which we’d seen ourselves. We weren’t the only ones who saw him arguing with Finn. It was broad daylight. There was traffic on Canary Cove Road and lots of people around. There’s a reward out for information leading to Finn’s murderer, and you know how that can bring people out of the woodwork. I don’t think anyone in Canary Cove who’s met Nick would think him guilty of anything other than gallantry and loving his niece, but when asked whom they saw going in and out of Finnegan’s place, they would tell the truth. So would you or I. We would presume Nick had a good reason to be where he was, so in the long run it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“So did he? Have a good reason, I mean?”
Birdie paused for a moment. “He told the police what he told us. He wanted to meet the man who had taken his niece fishing.”
“The arguing?”
“Finnegan was simply cantankerous that day, he told the police. The old man didn’t want to be bothered with a stranger questioning what he did or didn’t do. He wanted to see the property, to see where Gabby fished, and Finn refused.”
Before Nell could say anything, Birdie answered her look. “No, I don’t buy it, either. Finn was often grouchy, but the dear man always had a reason—maybe not one you or I would have, but in his mind he had a legitimate right to be angry. And he’d never be mad about a caring uncle doing his job.”
“What about the looking up the deed?”
“Lots of people had done that and it didn’t mean much. It was a flimsy way to tie someone to a murder. People wanted to buy Finn’s valuable land, plain and simple. Nick said he was curious about it. That was all.”
Nell got up and emptied her cold coffee into the sink. She poured a fresh one and brought it back with toast, butter, and a pot of fresh blueberry jam. “How is Nick handling all this?”
“He’s remarkably calm. After spending a considerable amount of time at the police station, he came by the house and took Gabby for a walk, filling her in. Then he came inside and told me the whole story. He was clearly sorry to be dragging Gabby and me through this mess. But, as he said, there was definitely a bright side to the whole thing. The police had ‘suggested’ he not leave the area for a few days. So he and Gabby would be staying in Sea Harbor longer. And that news, he said, thrilled his niece far more than the fancy skateboard he’d sent her last Christmas.”
“It’s strange, maybe, but hearing his reaction somehow rids me of worry. Nick is innocent—I feel sure of it.”
Nell’s response drew a smile from Birdie. “Of course he is. He’s lied to both of us—we can’t forget that—but he didn’t have anything to do with Finn’s murder. And that’s what matters now.” Birdie slipped off the bench and walked around the table. She gave Nell a sudden hug.
“That’s for being you, my dear Nell. And as for the lie, we’ll certainly get to the bottom of that now, won’t we?”
And then she was gone. Birdie’s pain-free good-byes, they called them. No awkward time spent chatting at the door, no need for reasons; just a quick hug and the small woman with the white cap of hair was across the room and out the door, disappearing into her day.
But this one had been so quick, she hadn’t had time to talk to her about yesterday’s reading of Finn’s will. She checked her watch. Not enough time to catch her, and she knew Birdie’s Thursdays were full. But she’d see her tonight, and they would lay everything out on the table right along with their knitting needles and yarn. Things always made more sens
e with Purl on one’s lap, knitting nearby, and a glass of Birdie’s pinot gris in hand.
It seemed like a lifetime ago since they’d gathered in Izzy’s shop for a Thursday-night knitting session. “The week that was,” Birdie said, sitting next to Cass in the yarn studio’s back room. She patted her on the knee.
Cass had given Birdie a ride to the shop, and used the drive time to fill her in on the latest events that had turned her life on its head.
“But it could be the best thing for this sweet head,” Birdie had told her, tapping the top of Cass’ Sox hat. “Finnegan was wiser than we knew. Money can destroy people or it can improve many lives. You will make sure it does the latter, and he knew that, my dear.”
Then Birdie gave an abbreviated account of the Mariettis’ day, although much of the story had already begun drifting down the windy roads and beaches of the town. “Nick can’t leave town. He’s telling Gabby everything—except, of course, what he hasn’t told us.”
“Meaning?” Izzy was puzzled.
“What he really argued with Finn about and what his interest is in that land. It didn’t lead him to murder Finn, but he isn’t telling the whole truth.” The resolve in Birdie’s voice was steely.
Izzy pulled open the casement windows and a cool evening breeze swept through the room. “Well, he’s done one good thing that excuses a lot: he’s brought Gabby into our lives.”
“And given her an amazing grandmother,” Cass added.
“Well, thank you, Catherine.”
No matter that it wasn’t a result of shared blood or genes, Gabby was Birdie’s granddaughter, and the tie was already as tight as if she’d given birth to her herself.
“Gabby will handle this fine. It’s the rest of us I’m worried about.” Nell took the wrap off a basket of warm goat cheese croutons and set it beside the soup spoons, then began ladling a cool, summery squash soup into bowls.
“Mint,” Cass said.
“Garlic,” Izzy said.
“Fine wine.”
Nell smiled at the weekly ritual of guessing ingredients. “Soupe au pistou. And you’re all correct.”
Nell spooned a dollop of the mint and garlic pistou on top of each serving, then swirled it into the soup. “Amazing, Aunt Nell.” Izzy looped one arm around her aunt’s waist and savored the smell. “Mint. It’s perfect for tonight. Fresh and green. Something to clear our heads.”
Next came a helping of sautéed shrimp atop each bowl. “It’s ready to go, but don’t touch this container,” Nell warned, snapping a lid on a smaller bowl. She looked at Cass with a knowing smile. “Mae and her nieces are out front, stocking cubbies. This is for them.”
Cass laughed. “Me, steal food from hungry teens? Never.” She took a hunk of warm bread from a basket.
“I wonder how Nick will spend this time,” Izzy said.
“His detainment?” Birdie laughed. “I don’t think he’ll have a problem. He loves Sea Harbor.” She wiped the corner of her mouth.
“He met with Ben this afternoon,” Nell said. “They were in the den when I got home.”
“He needed to talk through this mess with someone, and Ben is a good listener. A good listener with a law degree is even better, considering the circumstances.”
“What’s the scuttlebutt in the shop?” Cass asked Izzy.
“People are obsessed with the idea that someone was buried on Finnegan’s land. The younger kids—Jillian and Rose’s friends—have dramatized it into an episode of True Blood, vampires and all. There’re all sorts of guessing games going on about who it might be. Was it a guy who disappeared twenty years ago? Or the result of a lovers’ quarrel? Kids trespassed on that land all the time. Was it some runaway teen who accidentally died there? Danny would have a field day following some of the story lines.”
“But there’s more serious talk, and that’s what’s awful. People wondering how someone ended up in a grave, dead,” Cass said. “Did Finnegan kill the person?”
Nell confirmed she had heard the same rumor in the checkout line at Shaw’s.
“As if that old man could kill anyone. He was so righteous, he drove people crazy,” Izzy said.
“It’s interesting that it’s the grave—and not Finnegan’s murder—that people are talking about,” Nell said.
“People are connecting the two. Someone came back to seek revenge on what Finn did a long time ago. Maybe it was a guy he killed, and the wife has come back to get revenge. It’s made-for-TV fare,” Izzy said.
“I don’t think most people believe it. It’s flimsy,” Nell said.
Birdie agreed.
“I heard some moms say they won’t let their kids go over to Canary Cove until the person is caught,” Izzy said. “People are frightened.”
“That’s not a good thing for Canary Cove business,” Birdie said. “And not a logical reaction, really. Whoever killed him is probably not spending time around Canary Cove.”
“Probably not, but I understand the fear. We know so little about what happened.” Nell put her empty bowl on the tray, wiped her hands, and took out Gabby’s sweater.
“Have you heard any names thrown out there of who might have done it?” Cass asked.
Izzy refilled wineglasses and collected the empty bowls. “In spite of the gossip, people are being cautious, I think. They don’t want to be disrespectful. Finn hasn’t even been buried yet. And even though there were a lot of people upset over his property—and many others wanting to get their hands on it—there are also people like us. People who liked Finnegan and liked what he added to our town. He’s left a void. People are genuinely sad about his death.”
“Murder,” Cass corrected.
“Homicide.” Izzy, the lawyer, shot back.
“Whatever. Someone cut him with a knife. Someone wanted to hurt him—badly.”
“So who? Who would possibly dislike Finnegan enough to harm him?” Birdie asked.
Cass walked over for a second bowl of soup. “What would they gain from it?”
Did Cass really not discern what could be gained by killing Finnegan? For those who looked at facts and not emotions—people like the police investigating the case—what people could gain from killing Finnegan was simple. Money.
The most common motive in the world.
And right now, for all Finnegan’s wonderful intentions, he had hoisted Cass Halloran to the top of that list.
The clunk of sandals on the steps announced Jillian and Rose Anderson. “Food? Aunt Mae said you were sharing, Mrs. Endicott.” Jillian, the more talkative twin bounded over to the table with Rose close behind.
Nell laughed. The teenagers added a whole new population to the shop in summer months, and certainly increased the decibel level with their music, giggles, and friends who stopped in many times a day when their friends were working.
“You’re, like, the best cook I know,” Rose said. “Everyone says so.”
“So can you guys believe all this stuff going on around town?” Jillian asked. “Our mom is freaked. She doesn’t even want us to go out at night, but she does, because it would be pretty awful for her if we were at home all the time.” She laughed. “She’d go, like, crazy.”
“We’re super careful, though,” Rose assured them.
“Some of our friends got a look at the guy.” Jillian peeled the top off the food bowl.
“What do you mean? What guy?” Cass asked.
“The murderer,” Rose said solemnly, dipping a spoon into the soup. She bit into a piece of shrimp, closing her eyes. “This is incredible,” she murmured.
“You know, Finnegan’s murderer.” Jillian stepped in, her eyes bright with excitement. “It was a few days ago, not the day it happened, but it must have been the same guy. Had to have been.”
“What happened?” Izzy tried to pull the twins’ talk into logical order. Or at least something they could understand. “Someone saw something—or someone—who might have murdered Finnegan? Where? And who?”
Rose pulled out a chair at t
he long table and was content to enjoy her soup, but Jillian jumped into the discussion fully.
“See, it was these guys we hang out with, friends from school. You know Oliver Porter—he’s Officer Porter’s cousin, and—”
Rose looked up. “Jason McClucken.”
“Oh yeah, and Camden Gibson. Those three. They’re always together.”
“Where were they?”
“Down near the Canary Cove shore. They go fishing off the old docks down there sometimes.”
“They’re not supposed to,” Rose said wisely, pausing with a spoonful of soup in midair. “Those docks are old and rickety, and besides that, it’s private property.”
Jillian’s ponytail flew as she turned to look at her sister. “But lots of kids do it—you know they do, Rose.”
“What did they see?” Suddenly the picture of three boys going fishing was playing out in front of Nell too clearly, with too much familiarity. Déjà vu in 3-D.
“They go down that old access road,” Jillian said, “the one between the Arts Association office and Finnegan’s. Once they’re at the water’s edge, they can scoot around the fence and along the shore—go all the way around Canary Cove, if they want to.”
“But they don’t go that far,” Rose said. “And the other day they just went down to the end of the road, around the fence, and over to the dock.”
“Finnegan’s dock?”
Rose nodded. “They figured they could do it, you know, now that he wasn’t there to chase them off with his BB gun.”
“But while they were sitting out there”—Jillian was reaching the climax of the story now, and her words took on the tone of an actress on a stage—“they spotted a man going through the bushes. He hadn’t seen them because he was farther in, behind a bunch of trees and shrubs. So they decided to spy on him. It was a great game, Oliver said. They watched him go into the house—that place Finnegan lived. They heard noises coming from inside and could see a flashlight every now and then, flashing in the windows. A while later the guy came back out. Oliver thought he was carrying something. Anyway, he went back through the bushes and around the end of the fence. I guess it was how he got in, just like the guys.”
A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 16
