A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Nell took a deep breath. “Did they know who it was?”

  “They didn’t get a good look. They were afraid if they got too close he’d see them and shoot them or something.” Rose helped herself to the last roll. She smothered it with butter, then licked her fingers clean.

  “Was he young?”

  “Oliver said old. Well, not old like Finnegan or the Old Man of the Sea, but old like . . .”

  “Like me?” Nell said.

  “Maybe. Maybe a little older,” Jillian said with great seriousness. “He had gray hair. But he wasn’t hunched over or anything.”

  “Then what happened?” Birdie asked, the words sticking uncomfortably in her throat.

  “Well, then Jason—I think it was Jason; maybe Oliver—snuck over to the fence to see where he went. The guy was moving fast and was, like, almost to the end of the drive before Jason got around the fence.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yep. He got into a blue car and drove away. That’s it. How’s that for weird?”

  Chapter 20

  Ben hadn’t heard about anyone who had gone onto Finn’s property and into his house. No, it hadn’t come up when he’d talked to Nick.

  Nell sat back against a post on the floor of the yacht club dock that held Sam and Ben’s still-unnamed sailboat. She bent her knees and wrapped her arms around them, the morning sun warm and soothing on her bare arms. The egg sandwiches she’d brought over to the two sailors had been most welcome, and the few remaining crumbs were welcomed by a pair of swooping gulls. The yacht club café wouldn’t be open for another hour, and Nell’s coffee had helped them all think more clearly.

  Ben took a drink, but Nell knew from the deep furrows between his eyes that he found the story disturbing. If the trespasser was, in fact, Nick Marietti, then he hadn’t been completely honest with Ben. If it wasn’t true, there was a completely unknown person trespassing on Finnegan’s property just two days after his death.

  “Someone wanted something from Finnegan. But desperately enough to kill for it?”

  “And you think that someone is Nicholas Marietti?” Sam reached for a bucket of water and a sponge.

  “It’s difficult for me to go there. I like him—but I don’t like what Nell’s saying.”

  “What the teenagers are saying,” Nell corrected. “Maybe it wasn’t Nick.”

  But it sounds like Nick.

  Ben handed his mug to Nell, then picked up a hose, adjusted the spray, and began hosing down the side of the boat. He and Sam had taken it out early, before the world was awake, to test a new computer they’d just installed. And Sam, as always, brought his camera to record the beauty of the sea or a whale’s nose or a gull doing ballet on a wave.

  It’s like a baby to them, Nell thought. This sleek, beautiful vessel, nurtured and lovingly cared for. Ben said being on the boat helped him think. Relax. Slow down. Be at one with the sea. And Nell knew it was a tonic that she’d never be able to find for him in the drugstore, so she embraced it, though she didn’t completely understand it. All around them were other yachts and sailboats, equally loved and pampered. A neighborhood of boats.

  She looked over at a sleek sailboat moored next to Ben and Sam’s.

  “Delaney’s,” Ben said, following her look. “She’s a beauty.”

  “D.J.? I didn’t know he was a sailor.”

  “No, the other family. D.J.’s son, Davey. The young kids are out here a lot, learning how to handle the sails, helping Davey’s wife, Kristen, spruce it up.”

  The wind tossed her hair as she admired the sailing vessel, the small dinghy hugging its side. She tamed the hair back with her hand, her thoughts boomeranging from beautiful boats to more troubling scenarios.

  “It’s difficult to appreciate beauty with everything that’s going on—this murder, the innuendos. Even teenagers are inventing their own versions of what might have happened.”

  “The trespassing story could be absolutely correct, and it still wouldn’t mean the guy—whoever he was—killed Finnegan,” Ben said.

  Sam agreed. “But it’s too closely connected to Finnegan to just dismiss it, I guess.”

  “According to Jillian and Rose, the boys went to the police yesterday. They didn’t go right away because they didn’t think too much of it at first. Some man sneaking into a dead man’s house didn’t seem like a terrible thing to them, I guess.”

  Sam squeezed the water from his sponge and dropped it into the bucket. “That’s because they were trespassing themselves.” He picked up his camera and began fiddling with the lens, then aimed and snapped a shot of Nell.

  Ben finished spraying the last section of the boat and turned off the hose. “I don’t know if the police will tie the story to Nick. We don’t even know for sure if it was Nick. But I’m going to tell him what the kids think they saw. And if there’s a connection, he can get to the police before they get to him.”

  Nell listened, trying to squeeze the pieces together in a way that would take Nick out of the picture.

  “I still can’t see Nick Marietti doing anything unsavory,” Ben said, helping Nell to her feet. “Maybe there’s something he’s not telling us, but I’d like to trust he has a good reason for it.”

  “How’s Birdie doing with all this?” Sam asked. He picked up wrappers from their sandwiches and shoved them in a plastic bag.

  “Birdie’s a rock. And nobody’s fool. But she feels just like Ben does—Nick is honorable—but might be holding something back.”

  “Not to change the subject, but I need to get showered and changed. Father Northcutt and I are meeting this morning to go over the documents again, and if the others have come, we’ll look at those, too.”

  “What do you expect to find?”

  “Not much. We’ll see. Maybe it will clarify the will a little. There’s more money there than we’d thought. We know that already.”

  “It’s amazing to me that news of the will hasn’t leaked out,” Nell said. “I’m happy Cass is getting a reprieve—time to get used to it—before she’s bombarded with looks and questions and offers.”

  “It won’t be for long. It’s hard to keep that kind of news quiet,” Sam said. He lifted his camera again and focused on the well-tended sandy beach in the distance. Rotating his body, he spanned the club’s pier with its offshoot slips, his lens capturing things Nell was sure she would never notice.

  Sam lowered the camera and pointed over to the next row of slips. “Looks like there’s another sea-loving soul up at this hour.” He waved to Sal Scaglia, who was climbing off his blue yacht.

  “We thought we were the only ones up this early,” Ben called out to him. “Beatrice with you?”

  Sal took off his sunglasses, replacing them with the dark-rimmed glasses he usually wore. He joined them on the pier. “No, not at this hour. In fact, not at any hour. Beatrice has a morning routine that’s pretty steadfast. Ironclad, I guess you’d say. Hot yoga. Steam bath. Breakfast. Work.” He pointed over to the yacht. “My boat is my yoga. Steam bath, too.”

  They laughed and looked over at his sleek sky blue boat, admiring the aft deck, the beautiful strip of chrome wrapping around it like a glove, the cabin tucked beneath, and the small matching dinghy at its side.

  “We sure understand that, Sal. She’s really a beauty. I noticed her the other night at your house.”

  “It’s nice to be able to go back and forth. That dock’s not really big enough, though, so I keep a slip here where I’ll winter her.”

  Ben looked off down the coast toward the neighborhood Sal lived in. “You don’t ever have to leave the water. A sailor’s dream.”

  Sal nodded. “Right. Down the inlet and around the bend, and I’m here.”

  “And around another bend, you’d be at Canary Cove.”

  “And the harbor,” Ben said.

  Sal nodded. “It’s nice. We can take the boat over to Gloucester for dinner, no car necessary.”

  “Good for you. I like that,” Ben said.
<
br />   Sam lifted his camera. “How about a couple shots?”

  Sal looked back at the boat, then stepped aside, a look of pride on his face. “That’d be really nice. Thanks. I’d love a copy, if it’s no trouble. I’ll put it on my desk and pretend I’m out here all day.”

  “Living the life,” Ben said with a laugh, and went off to get the car.

  Sam angled his camera and began snapping while Nell and Sal stood by, watching.

  “I hear things have been busy in your office lately,” Nell said, an attempt at conversation. Sal was sweet, but not the easiest man in the world to talk with.

  Sal adjusted his glasses, a wary look flickering behind the lenses. “The Finnegan land?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s what I mean. It’s on people’s minds.”

  She hadn’t really planned to question the shy man. It almost seemed unfair to ask Sal job-related questions without allowing him the protection of his solitary office, his computers, his wall of musty-smelling books. But, she told herself, deeds are public knowledge.

  “It’s like any other land. If people want to buy it or find out who used to own it, who sold it to whom, the deed gives them useful information.”

  “A friend of ours has expressed some interest in it.”

  “One of the developers?”

  “No. He doesn’t live here.”

  Sal frowned.

  “His name is Nicholas Marietti.”

  “Mr. Marietti is a friend of yours?” Sal was suddenly transformed into the man who managed the register of deeds annex—professional, serious.

  “We’ve only recently met, but, yes, he’s a friend.”

  Nell saw the hesitation on Sal’s face, and realized too late what she’d done. Even though deeds were open to the public, Sal felt those looking up things in his office deserved confidentiality. Perhaps it added a mystique to his work, a layer of respect for a job that had come his way through his wife’s connections. The Sea Harbor location was only an annex and Sal wasn’t elected. But his office was his haven. He took the job very seriously. Asking him about someone who visited the department was like asking Father Northcutt what someone said in the confessional. Before she could apologize, Sam offered a halfhearted answer.

  “Mr. Marietti was . . . yes, he was interested in the layout of that land. Some people are curious about those things. What buildings were there? Were they new? The original? The location. That sort of thing.” Sal looked down at his boat shoes, then over at his yacht, as if he wished he were on it, rather than standing there talking to Nell.

  Finally, he checked his watch.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Nell. I’m going to be late. I need to get home. Shower. Get to work . . .” He managed a smile, thanked Sam again for the photographs, and hurried off, disappearing around the corner of the club parking lot.

  Chapter 21

  The day had turned unexpectedly warm—warmer than usual for a June Sea Harbor day.

  By the time Nell had walked down to Harbor Road, tiny beads of perspiration dampened her neck. She checked her watch, then headed across the street to Coffee’s for a glass of iced passion fruit tea. The break would also give her time to answer a few text messages before meeting Birdie. The message from Birdie didn’t say much, just that she had a dozen errands before the day ended on the Endicott deck, but a light salad with Nell might add some order to her life. Nick might join them. The Ocean’s Edge at eleven?

  Nell carried her iced tea out to Coffee’s patio, hoping for a table or chair in the shade and wondering about Nick Marietti. Has Birdie confronted him? she wondered.

  Mary Pisano was on the patio beneath her usual tree, staring at her computer screen. She was definitely in “do not disturb” mode, but when Nell started to walk by, Mary reached out and touched her arm.

  “Just so you know, Nell, Nick Marietti is a gracious, lovely man, and no matter what rumors are swirling around, he’s innocent. And I will be sure others know it, as well.”

  “I agree with you, Mary.”

  “I know you do; I just needed to say it out loud. I understand people’s need to resolve this murder—each day seems like an eternity, like we’re being robbed of living in the moment because all we’re doing is wanting to race ahead and put someone in prison.”

  “And it’s frightening for people, the idea that whoever did this could still be wandering around Sea Harbor.”

  “Or not. He could be long gone, Nell. He could have been mad at Finnegan for breaking his nose, retaliated, and taken off for Portugal.”

  “Portugal?”

  “Or wherever.” Mary waved her hand in the air dismissively.

  Nell could see the earnest desire in Mary’s eyes. It was always like this with her, even about small things. Mary couldn’t—wouldn’t—subscribe to anyone they knew being guilty of a crime. Even though she knew very well that people close to them could be—and had been—guilty of some horrible things. She clearly had Nick Marietti’s back.

  Nell wondered if Nick knew how fortunate he was. Mary was a force to be reckoned with. “Nick is an easy target because most people don’t know him,” she said. “I suppose that’s at the root of this. But the thought of him killing anyone, much less someone he didn’t know well, doesn’t make sense. Did he ever mention anything to you about Finnegan?”

  Mary paused and stared at her computer for a moment, then finally looked back at Nell. “Yes. He asked me how to get to his place. And then he wondered if I’d ever been beyond the gate.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him where it was and that no one ever got beyond the gate, not for a long time. Except the Hallorans.”

  Nell sighed. She kept waiting for the story to be refuted, but it was seeming unlikely. Nick clearly had an interest in Finnegan. “Well, Nick knew Gabby was spending time with Finn. I’m sure that’s why he wanted to know where he lived.” She wasn’t sure at all anymore, but saying it out loud might add weight to the shopworn premise.

  Mary was silent.

  “What? It makes sense. Nick loves Gabby and he’s responsible for her right now.”

  Mary sighed. “Nick asked me about Finn’s place the night he came back from Italy. Before he went over to your place.”

  And before he’d even seen Gabby.

  Nick wouldn’t have known anything about the old man who had befriended his niece. Birdie had wisely decided that mentioning Gabby’s friendship with an old man Nick had never met while he was still over in Italy might have worried him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mary said quickly. “He’s still innocent.”

  “It does matter, but I still agree with you—Nick isn’t the murderer. We just need to find out who did kill Finnegan before we ruin the lives of innocent people.”

  Mary thought about that for a moment, wrinkled her forehead, and rubbed her cheek with two fingers, the way she did when imagining an “About Town” column. Then, without another word, she buried her head behind the lid of her laptop and began working the keyboard with her small fingers, as if life itself depended on it.

  She’d forgotten Nell was even there.

  Nick and Birdie were waiting on the covered porch of the restaurant when Nell arrived. From a spot near the back railing, diners could see the whole span of the harbor—the working boats on one side, pleasure on another. And in between, excursion boats took vacationers out to spot the whales or to try their hand at deep-sea fishing. Today the crew of a large schooner was ushering people aboard to attend a wedding at sea. In the background a string trio played “Through the Eyes of Love.”

  Life in Sea Harbor . . . as it should be. Nell followed Birdie and Nick to a table.

  At eleven in the morning they had the place almost to themselves. Nick seemed relaxed, and Birdie, too. Perhaps the confrontation was on the back burner.

  “You have quite a fan in Mary Pisano,” Nell said as Nick pulled back her chair.

  “She’s the consummate hostess,” Nick said. “I don’t know if yo
u’ll be able to pry me out of Ravenswood-by-the-Sea.”

  “Well, I, for one, am happy you’ll be here awhile longer, even though the reason for it isn’t exactly happy.”

  Nick turned serious. “Thank you, Nell. I don’t mean to sound like I’m not taking this whole thing seriously. I am. I believe in the system, though, and I know I am not guilty of anything more serious than imposing on my new friends.”

  “But there’s concern, Nick,” Birdie said. “Police don’t much believe in coincidences.”

  Nick listened with grave attention, his eyes on Birdie. His expression seemed to be one of regret. It was clear he didn’t enjoy putting Birdie through any of this, but he still refused to explain his actions in a way that made sense to them. What kind of a friend did that?

  “I understand, Birdie. All I ask is that you trust me—as difficult as that may be. They will find the person who did this horrible thing to Finnegan. And then it will all go away.”

  Nell’s phone vibrated. Ben’s name flashed on the screen. She frowned. Then excused herself and walked to the railing to take the call.

  She listened carefully, her eyes wandering across the water to the fishing pier as Ben talked. From where she stood, she could see the boats lashed to the wharves and rolling with the waves. The work yard, brawny fishermen unloading pots and refilling bait bags. Pete’s lanky form loomed tall, his sandy head towering over the traps and a bright yellow Fractured Fish band T-shirt singling him out. She squinted, looking for Cass, then spotted her bending over a pile of rope. Another dark head, with hair wilder than Cass’, was leaning down next to her, the bright green beanie giving her away, as well.

  “Yes, she’s on the dock. Gabby’s with her,” she said into her phone.

  Cass wasn’t answering her cell, Ben said. Would Nell mind walking down there and giving her the news?