A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Behind them, Sam and Izzy were wrapping up leftovers and piling them into the refrigerator, listening to the conversation at the sink.

  “Something that seems to be forgotten in everything else going on is the body they found on Finn’s property. What’s up with that?” Sam asked.

  Ben walked in, his arms full of napkins and silverware. “Jerry says they hope to know something soon. But it’s old enough that it’s difficult to know where to start. Dental records, but which dentist? Lots of folks around here go over to Gloucester, Danvers, even Boston. So it may take a while.”

  “Do they think . . .” Jane stopped and reshuffled her words. “Surely they don’t think Finnegan killed anyone,” she said. She dried her hands and looked around for her sweater and purse.

  “I think they’re more interested in who killed Finnegan right now.”

  The thought of Finnegan as a murderer was as difficult to fathom as Nick or Cass—or even the Delaneys—committing such a horrible crime.

  A round of good-byes followed Birdie and Nick, Sam and Willow, and the Brewsters as they headed through the family room and out into the night.

  As the dishwasher began to hum and lights dimmed, Nell looked around for Cass, hoping she hadn’t snuck out without a good-bye. She looked through the family room doors to the deck, lit now by a hazy half-moon. At first she thought the deck was empty, but a movement at the far edge, beneath the hanging branches of the maple tree, caught her eye. Two silhouettes, slightly apart, moved into the moonlight.

  Cass’ voice rose out of the silence. It was an unusual sound, with none of the bravado, the humor, or irreverence that usually resided there. Instead a husky, pleading voice was carried on the breeze through the open door.

  “How’d I get into this mess?” she asked, moving into Danny’s arms.

  He smoothed back her hair, her head tilted up toward his. “It’s that damn Irish soda bread,” he whispered.

  “I didn’t think I needed you, Brandley,” Cass said. “I thought I could do it all alone, just like my pa did. I can’t. I don’t want to. Will you . . . will you help me out of this?”

  Danny lowered his head until his lips touched hers, the shadow merging into one, his intentions clear.

  Chapter 23

  True to her word, the headline of Mary Pisano’s Saturday column spoke her mind:

  PROTECT THE INNOCENT IN OUR MIDST

  It was a call to action, told with a flourish.

  Our fine police force is doing an excellent job, she wrote, just as we’ve come to expect from our men in blue. And now it’s time for the rest of us to step up to the plate. We who feel the hum of our town as we walk through Canary Cove, who feel its heartbeat as we wander in and out of the Harbor Road shops, need to add our senses and our minds and our intuition to bringing the perpetrator of this crime to justice and to not cast suspicions at our innocent neighbors and friends and visiting relatives. Good deeds are not the sign of thieves and murderers. Good deeds, good neighbors are the fabric of which this town is made, and we can’t ever forget that.

  And in the final sentence, after expressing deep sadness for Finnegan’s demise, Mary managed to tell the whole town, in case they didn’t already know it, about Cass Halloran’s inheritance, along with her own bit of advice on what Cass might do with it. Nell read it aloud as Ben drained his coffee mug.

  Even in death, our dear Finnegan has come to the rescue of Sea Harbor. In bequeathing his land and his worldly goods to Catherine Halloran, he has made certain Sea Harbor will benefit from his largesse. Be it a park with a carousel, a sweet little dance studio, or perhaps a small children’s museum, the land will serve our city well once again.”

  Ben sighed. “At least it won’t leak out in small pieces. This is probably easier on Cass. It’s all out there now and by tomorrow it will be old news.”

  The ringing of the phone saved Nell from answering. He’s being generous, she thought. It might not be old news quite so quickly, especially if Beverly Walden contested it.

  It was the landline, which meant it was probably for Ben. He took it in the den while Nell emptied out their coffee mugs, then headed for her calendar.

  “Well, that was news,” Ben said, coming back into the kitchen.

  Nell turned around. “Good news, I hope.”

  “Looks like they’ve caught the guy. The drifter that Finn fought with. Broken nose and all. And the boot found near Finn’s house is a perfect fit.”

  By Monday everyone in Sea Harbor, even those who didn’t live there year-round, felt the sense of relief that poured like a soothing rain over the houses and streets of the town. “A Cinderella ending,” Mary Pisano called it in her “About Town” column the next day.

  An attorney was appointed and Ned Smith—that’s what the man said his name was—was forced to shower and then dress in gray cotton pants and a T-shirt and tell Jerry Thompson and his crew exactly what happened.

  He was innocent, he swore—though a record of thefts and fights a mile long were baggage he couldn’t deny. Ned Smith admitted to being on the property that night. All he’d meant to do was steal some cash and mess up the old man a bit. “He broke my nose, for chrissake,” the man said. “But kill him? No way.”

  His story was recorded dutifully, and took over the front page of the Sea Harbor Gazette for two days.

  He’d snuck onto the property by going down the dirt road and around the fence. He knew his way around and made his way into the unlocked building easily. Knew exactly what part of the rambling shack Finn lived in—upstairs above the two empty offices. But he couldn’t find the old man anywhere. So he decided to mess things up a little, break a few things. He found Finn’s wallet on a table and took it. A watch. Some other stuff that proved useless. Cheap.

  It started to rain then, and the wind picked up. He heard noises. Voices, maybe. He could handle the old man easily, punch out his lights, but not two people, so he grabbed what he could and took off, back around the fence. And hightailed it out of town in the middle of a wicked storm.

  Noises? The police asked. Coming from the road?

  No, Ned Smith said. Closer. Near the house.

  Then they’d returned him to his cell.

  A fine story, for sure. But his fingerprints were all over Finnegan’s place. He had motive. And he wasn’t a very nice guy, to boot.

  It created an uneasy truce. A lull before the storm is how Nell looked at it.

  And the town knew it, she suspected, but was unable to let go of it. Though Ned Smith’s ties to the murder might be weak, having a stranger to heap on the horror of Finnegan’s death was a relief.

  Nell sat in the back of the knitting shop, thinking of the twists and turns Finnegan’s murder had taken. It felt like a sweater poorly knit and unraveling before their eyes. Suspicions were thick, answers were few, and now a derelict was being held with frayed strands of yarn connecting him to the murder.

  She looked down at the comfort of the cotton yarn in her lap, a welcome diversion from the messiness of the week.

  Gabby’s purple sweater—a dahlia, that’s what it reminded Nell of, one of the gorgeous purple dahlias they’d grown for Izzy’s wedding last year. The scoop neck and soft drape would flow over her slender frame like a royal princess cape, not that Gabby would ever aspire to such a role.

  Izzy sat right beside her on the window seat, Purl happily settled between them. The breeze off the water was cool on their necks. She reached over and fingered the deep sleeve rib. “Gabby’ll love this,” Izzy said. “No question.”

  Laura Danvers and her cousin came down the steps, waving hello and settling at the table, a pile of yarn in front of them. The Tuesday knitting group was a small one and didn’t require much from Izzy—mostly her presence and a question here and there as a group of moms gathered to knit toddler sweaters and hats and warm hoodies for themselves. The Anderson twins provided child care in Izzy’s magic room, filled with toys from her own childhood as well as donations grateful moms brought
in—Cabbage Patch dolls, My Little Ponies, Legos, and Star Wars spaceships.

  It was usually a quiet morning, and Nell came down solely to keep Izzy company. And to talk. To see how she was. To check on Cass, on Birdie.

  In minutes the table across the room was full, and several others sat in the cozy sitting area around the fireplace. The room buzzed with chatter and laughter as an Adele CD played softly in the background. Nell was surprised to see Beatrice Scaglia join the group. She held her smile back when Beatrice produced two knitting needles and a ball of yarn. It was the same ball and the same empty knitting needles she had brought to the last knitting group she’d attended.

  Izzy got up and moved to her side, patiently helping her cast on a row for the beginnings of a scarf and encouraging her to actually knit. Izzy suggested she might want to contribute it to the group making comfort scarves. “It’s for women who’ve been abused. And this cashmere yarn you have would be perfect for it.”

  Nell listened with half an ear, watching the activity going on around her. They all knew why Beatrice was there and it wasn’t to knit, though Nell thought her reason wasn’t altogether foolish: she wanted to keep her finger on all segments of voters. The young-mom vote was important to her, and finding out what they cared about was crucial. Izzy nudged to make her visits altruistic, as well, with a worthwhile knitting project only added to it.

  “I was at a tea yesterday with some of my constituents,” Beatrice said to Izzy, then turned to include Nell. “There’s concern the police aren’t paying enough attention to the body they found on Finnegan’s land. Was it murdered? Was the body diseased? Pollution is an issue. Are there more bodies back there? As I told the mayor, we need more information.”

  “I don’t think they know yet,” Nell said. “It happened years ago.”

  Beatrice’s head was nodding, and by then several other knitters had leaned into the conversation, listening quietly, their needles clicking.

  Esther Gibson’s daughter-in-law said, “My mother thinks it’s her old dentist. He used to have an office on that property—and he simply stopped practicing one day, she said.”

  A neighbor of Birdie’s nodded. “My aunt went to him. Pulaski was his name. She thinks . . . she thinks Finnegan killed him.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” Nell asked.

  “Oh, there’s always talk,” Beatrice said.

  “I heard that Finnegan’s wife and the dentist may have been friendly . . .” one of Laura’s friends said.

  Nell watched the councilwoman sit back in her chair, letting the rumors swirl around her. She knew Beatrice was taking the conversation in, word for word, filing it away. Perhaps she thought she’d discover something in the discussion about Finn’s death or the unidentified body that would make transitioning that land over to the city easier. She’d made promises to neighbors in the area, and pulling it off would make her queen for a day, or, at the least, a councilwoman who earned her keep, and one they’d certainly vote for again.

  Laura Danvers walked over to the group, picking up on the topic. Her face registered displeasure. “That’s all gossip, and all of you know it. I think we should let Finnegan rest in peace.”

  That broke up the talk, and soon a crying baby who wanted her mother was brought in, and talk went back to more neutral things—breast-feeding, going back to work, toilet training, and running the next marathon.

  Nell got up to leave, with promises to call Izzy. She passed Laura Danvers on the way out and paused for a moment. Leaning down, she told her how proud her mother would be of her, the way she stood up to the group and shushed the gossip.

  Laura fanned away the praise. “Finn was a decent man. And it’s serious business, this murder.”

  “Which is why I wanted to ask you about something they said. I don’t want to put you on the spot, but what is this crazy talk about Finnegan and the dentist? Is this something the police need to know about?”

  Laura shook her head. “It’s absolutely crazy talk. Almost as crazy as questioning Cass, in my opinion. My mother went to that dentist. And so did I when I was little. He was a lonely man, kind of depressed, my mom always thought. I think that’s why she took us there—she felt sorry for him. He didn’t have any family. My mother said Finnegan’s wife, Moira, was nice to him. She gave him soup now and then—that kind of nice. And when he quit his practice suddenly, people talked. No one knew where he went. He just disappeared.”

  Nell was quiet, thinking about the innuendos in what Laura had said.

  Laura nodded. “Yes, isn’t that crazy? But back then, people didn’t think much of his disappearance. He had told my mom he hated the winters up here and might move to Florida, so she assumed that’s what he did.”

  “But now that there’s a body . . .”

  “Right. Now that there’s a body, some who remember back to Moira’s kindness to the man are saying, ‘Aha!’” Laura’s body language showed her lack of patience for the rumors. “A body. A missing dentist. Finnegan must have been jealous and killed the guy, then buried him in the yard.” She looked at Nell sadly. “It’s a crazy world.”

  “With some damn crazy people in it.” Ben’s feeling about the rumors matched Laura’s exactly. “Don’t people have better things to do?”

  It was a brief moment together before Ben was off to Boston for a couple of days.

  Nell watched him pack his suitcase, checking for reading glasses, his phone, something to read that night when the Endicott company board members finally called it a day. Ben didn’t like hotels, and the long, into-the-night meetings were not his favorites. For a short time after they moved to Sea Harbor, he and Nell kept their Beacon Hill townhouse in Boston. Once they moved permanently to Cape Ann, it became a place to stay when they went into the city for musical performances, dinners, or board meetings for the Endicott family business.

  But the upkeep and sporadic use finally convinced them to sell it, and now when family business called him into the city, Ben spent nights in a hotel. But he didn’t like it, nor did Nell. The bed in the home on Sandswept Lane seemed to triple in size and was always cold without Ben’s long body warming her own.

  “Don’t forget your phone charger,” she said, picking it up and dropping it in the bag.

  Ben leaned across the bed and kissed her. “I’ll be back late tomorrow,” he said. “Before you’ve even had a chance to miss me.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She folded a knit shirt and handed it to him. “By the way, did Father Northcutt ever get those remaining papers of Finnegan’s?”

  Ben tossed a paperback in his case. “I don’t think so. I’d almost forgotten about it with everything else going on. Maybe I’ll pick them up while I’m in the city. I don’t suppose they say much, though there was supposed to be a note in there for Beverly. Maybe Finn explained why he’d cut her out of his will.”

  “Don’t you suppose she knows?”

  “Apparently not. She’s quite serious about wrestling the inheritance away from Cass.”

  “More of a mess for Cass.”

  “That’s right. She’s got enough on her mind without having to go to court for a will.” Ben lifted his bag onto the floor. “Speaking of that, what did the yarn-shop gossipers say about the guy being held?”

  “Not much. People want him to be the murderer. What do the police think?”

  “They want the same thing as everyone else: for him to be the guy. But right now there’s not enough to pin it on him. There weren’t any fingerprints on Finn, for starters, yet there were plenty in the house. So why would he protect himself performing one crime and then rummage through the house as if he were a guest?”

  Nell thought about that. It didn’t make sense. “But that doesn’t really prove anything. He could have done it, even though it doesn’t make sense.”

  “The guy also said he hitchhiked out of town that night. A local guy was headed to the airport in Boston. He saw the fellow’s picture in the paper later and came into the station, verifyi
ng he’d picked the guy up, so that part of the story is true. He remembered him because the guy insisted on giving him a tip, not a common thing. It probably came from Finnegan’s wallet. But the most important thing might be that the hitchhiker was muddy and wet and had lost a boot—climbing over a fence, he told the driver. But there wasn’t a sign of blood on him anywhere, and the condition Finnegan was left in wouldn’t have allowed anyone to get away clean.”

  “How can they hold him, then?” Izzy asked.

  “They’re holding him on another charge. He stole from Finnegan. And from some of the shopkeepers, too. Gus McClucken says he’s the same guy who took off with a case of camcorders being delivered to the back of his store a couple weeks ago.”

  “So they’re holding him because he’s a thief. But they don’t think he murdered Finnegan?” Izzy said.

  “The chief won’t say that. They’re examining the guy with a fine-tooth comb—and in the meantime, his arrest has calmed down the town.”

  “But . . .” Nell said.

  Ben checked his watch, then snapped the case closed. He looked at Nell, a sudden seriousness shadowing his face, as if leaving her was a dangerous thing. “Lots of buts—I know. Jerry’s men will figure it all out, Nell. They’re doing a good job.”

  But it was his eyes that spoke the loudest.

  Don’t get involved, they said.

  Be safe.

  I love you.

  Chapter 24

  Aluncheon talk at the arts association kept Nell’s musings in check, but a quick drive to the post office brought her thoughts back to Cass. She looked thinner. Losing a friend and then shouldering the awful suspicion of his death would make anyone shrink. Cass was healthier, just as they all were, when she could do something about the unwanted things that messed with her life.

  They needed to put some order to things, to think logically about Finn’s murder. Perhaps together they’d catch something seemingly insignificant. Little details, conversations overheard. What was it Angus had said? There’re lots of clues. They’re right there staring us in the face.”