“Are you sure?”
“How do you know?”
Finally, Birdie quieted everyone, walking around the group pouring wine and replacing empty beer bottles with full ones. “All right, now,” she said, sitting back down and pulling her knitting into her lap. “Please explain, Ben.”
Ben smiled. He nodded to Birdie. “That, I will. The rest of Finn’s documents came today. Although it had seemed rather perfunctory stuff to the Boston firm, they don’t live here in Sea Harbor and didn’t know that an adoption application, particularly one that had been denied, would be of interest.
“Finn had agreed to adopt Beverly, apparently because Moira wanted him to. Father Larry remembered that part of their story. What he didn’t know was what the application and accompanying letter revealed. Beverly’s biological father refused to sign over his rights.”
“Her father?” Izzy asked.
“A marine Moira had met in California. He and Moira never married, and he didn’t seem to have much interest in having a baby. So Moira moved back East and had the baby. But years later, after she and Finnegan married and he petitioned to adopt Beverly—she was around ten when the application was filed—the guy refused. Wouldn’t sign the papers. No one’s sure why. A power thing, maybe.”
“Did Beverly know that?”
“No. And we had to put Angus McPherran in the hot seat to find out why. Angus knew about the failed adoption, but the man is as closemouthed as they come. He said Moira had sworn Finnegan within an inch of his life never to tell Beverly. She wanted her to think she was Finnegan’s adopted daughter.”
Wanted her to feel wanted, Nell supposed.
“I don’t suppose Beverly had an easy life,” Izzy admitted.
“Probably not. But it wasn’t for want of trying. Finnegan and Moira did everything they could to give her a decent life, Father Larry said. She was a troubled kid. She probably blamed it on the two of them, but sometimes it runs deeper than that.”
Bad blood, perhaps, from a father she never knew.
“She started getting in trouble early, if memory serves me right,” Birdie said.
Ben nodded. “Moira thought Finn could straighten her out if he was legally her father. She probably thought Beverly might listen to a parent figure.”
Beverly had been so optimistic about meeting with the priest today. It would all be over, she’d have her money and. . . . run? No, not that, if she was looking at property around town. Nell looked at Ben. “Does Beverly know this? She said she was meeting with you today. Did you tell her?” But it was rhetorical. She knew from the weary look on his face that he had, and that it had been difficult.
“Her lawyer was there, too, to offer advice. We thought it was better that she hear the news from Father Larry and me, rather than in a court as she tried to lay claim to her father’s money. There was also a letter Finnegan had written to her, to be given to her when he died. She looked at it, but not really, then threw it on the table when she left.”
“What did it say?” Cass asked.
“It was formal, but kind. He explained about the failed adoption, about wanting her to have a good life, and regretted that it hadn’t been the kind of life her mother wanted for her. He also mentioned the will, and that she would understand why she wasn’t in it.”
“How did she react?”
“She’s a tough lady. It’s hard to know what she feels. She seems to have many different faces, but we saw a mean one today. She was determined there was a loophole somewhere. She didn’t care at all that she wasn’t Finn’s daughter, but she cared a hell of a lot about his money. I think when she left, she was still plotting a way to turn this around. She seems to think this money will get her something she desperately wants. She’s one determined lady. Frankly, I think she might be dangerous.”
The room was absolutely still, with thoughts of Beverly Walden sucking out the air.
“I’ve seen a soft side to her,” Nell finally ventured.
The others agreed. “Soft. Hard. Even sensual at times, like the night we saw her in Rockport,” Izzy said.
“I think above all her craziness, Beverly Walden is a very needy woman,” Birdie added.
Ben concurred with Birdie. “Desperately needy, I think. And to the point of doing almost anything she deems necessary to fill that need.”
The group that locked up the yarn shop and headed out into the June night a while later was a sober one, filled with emotions that ran the gamut.
Ben had called Danny Brandley and suggested he meet them at the yarn studio to give Cass a lift home.
Home, Nell knew, from the look of concern on Ben’s face, meant wherever the two of them landed together—his place or the little house Cass was renting from Izzy. Just not somewhere alone.
Danny agreed in a heartbeat.
Cass gave Ben a quick hug and whispered, “I’m learning. And he’s patient.”
The others pretended not to hear.
Nell and Ben had gone directly home from the shop, relishing the quiet embrace of the big old house on Sandswept Lane.
“Who knows if Beverly would actually hurt anyone?” Ben said to Nell. “But she wasn’t thinking clearly when she left, and Cass would be a good target for her anger. She said some things that didn’t make a lot of sense, muttering about some kind of celebration she planned. Said she’d have to switch gears now.”
“Do the police know about this?” Nell sat on the edge of the bed, watching Ben move back and forth from his closet to the bathroom to the dresser, dropping his keys and wallet beside his cell phone. A routine as old as their marriage, and one that brought great comfort to the night.
“Yes. Father Larry went by after we met today. Frankly, I don’t know what it all means, but I know Jerry will want to look into it further. He’ll probably want to talk to Beverly again. I suspect there’s a huge part of this picture that hasn’t come into focus yet, but maybe this will bring us a step closer.”
Nell nodded. She sat back against the white pillows and looked out into the darkness. The breeze lifted the filmy curtains, turning them into dancing shadows against the moonlight.
Somewhere out there, Beverly Walden was facing another bitter disappointment in her life. Altering her plans. She tried to imagine her as a ten-year-old child. But the image that pushed the young Beverly to the edges of her imagining was Gabrielle Marietti, a ten-year-old who grasped life, embraced it. It was difficult to imagine Beverly at that age, already wanting to take what was hers—even when it wasn’t. Had she changed in all these years?
Ben turned out the light and slipped in beside her. He pulled Nell to him, fitting her perfectly into the curve of his body, his arms wrapped around her, holding her safe.
“It’s going to be all right,” he whispered into her ear. “Soon . . .”
Nell nodded and closed her eyes, blocking out the night. Soon . . .
But lives could be altered in a heartbeat.
Soon needed to be now.
Chapter 31
Morning came too early, and the tangled sheets gave testimony to a restless night. Nell pulled on a pair of capris and a T-shirt, her thoughts tumbling on top of one another.
And that is the problem, she thought. They were tumbled thoughts, difficult to pull apart. A messy pile of yarn. And the only way to straighten it was to find one end at a time and trace it back, around and over and around again.
One strand at a time.
“I have a meeting with the mayor this morning,” Ben called up from the kitchen. “We’re getting some great PR on the community garden. Sam is going to provide some photos of it for a magazine article.”
A part of his Sea Harbor summer series. Then a second thought came to Nell, and she made a mental note to ask Sam for a preview of his summer project. One never knew what might be lurking in a photograph.
Perhaps one of those loose threads.
She headed down to the kitchen and a cup of coffee. Up with the sun, Ben eased Nell into her day with the smell of his robust bre
w dripping away in the pot. Her mind was moving ahead to a day filled with ordinary things: a morning meeting at the library, a stop at the market, finishing an article on fund-raising for the local paper.
But it was the in-between things that were filling her mind. She picked up the phone to call Birdie—maybe Gabby would like a trip to the fish market. But before she had a chance to dial, her cell phone buzzed.
Cass. Nell picked up the phone, but before she could say a word, Cass assured her that she was fine. Not to worry.
“Is my worry that obvious?” Nell said, slightly embarrassed.
“Absolutely. But I’d be offended if you didn’t worry about me. I’m fine, though. And Danny, too.” She paused and let her words sink in.
Nell laughed.
“And I’m not afraid of Beverly Walden. She’s not a foolish person, and doing anything to me would be foolish. It’s not like she’s next in line.”
Both those things were true. But it was Beverly’s mind that was beginning to worry Nell. How it worked, her sense of right and wrong. A mind that could lead to actions that didn’t always make sense. She’d been capable of doing things outside the norm since Archie Brandley caught her stealing from his bookstore when she was ten. What did that kind of a conscience mature into when one was nearly forty?
“Just be careful, Cass,” she said aloud.
“I’m always careful.” Then she added, “But if the truth be known, the only person who frightens me right now is Finnegan. If we don’t clear him of those rumors surrounding that grave, he’ll be rattling chains in my bedroom for the rest of my life. He’s starting to invade my dreams.”
It was true. Finnegan didn’t have relatives left to worry about his legacy. But he had friends. Friends who cared—and who wouldn’t rest until Finn’s life was free of innuendo and rumor. “We will,” she said softly into the phone. Silently she added to the vow, Nor will we rest until our dear friend Cass is free of the same.
“We will,” Cass repeated. “But for right this minute, I’m off to the sea. At least you can rest easy—Beverly can’t get me out there.”
It was past noon before Nell had another free moment. The library board meeting had gone longer than expected, and she was starving.
She walked out of the library, down the hill, and across Harbor Road to Harry Garozzo’s deli, hoping to catch a quiet moment, a glass of tea, and one of Harry’s famous prosciutto and pesto sandwiches. Time to sit in the quiet back booth at Harry’s and sort through her thoughts about Beverly Walden.
As she reached for the big silver handle on the deli door, it opened on its own and Beatrice Scaglia walked out, deep in thought. Oblivious to Nell’s presence, she stumbled on the doorstep, then jerked her head up.
Nell put out her hands to steady the councilwoman.
Beatrice’s hand shot to her mouth, embarrassed. “What a klutz I am. I wasn’t looking. I’m sorry, Nell.”
Nell looked at the frown that creased Beatrice’s usually smooth forehead. “You seem a million miles away. Is everything all right?”
“All right?” With one hand, Beatrice smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from her pencil-thin skirt and forced a smile to her face. “Of course. Things are busy. You know how that can be.”
“Especially with this ongoing investigation,” Nell added. “I’m sure it affects city business. People are worried—”
Beatrice nodded in a vague way that made Nell wonder if she’d heard a single word she’d said.
The buzz of Beatrice’s phone seemed to pull her to attention. She reached into her purse, removing it quickly. With a small, apologetic wave, she pressed the cell phone to her ear and walked quickly across the street. Nell watched her straight, determined back and wondered what was going on with the usually talkative politician. As she started to turn away, she noticed the small, crumpled piece of paper that fluttered in Beatrice’s wake, landing in the curb.
Nell picked it up and headed for a nearby trash can, then looked absently down at the words written on the paper scrap. She frowned. Smoothing it out on the top of the trash can, she read the words B. W. 22 Coastal Road.
“Cleaning up trash now, are we?” Harry Garozzo stepped outside his door, his white apron stretched tightly over his abundant middle. “Such a fine citizen. I’ve a mind to tell Mary Pisano about this—it would give her material for a column.”
Nell laughed. Mary had been known to applaud her neighbors in print for doing good deeds; not the kind of attention Nell coveted. She slipped the piece of paper into her purse. “Well, all this cleaning has made me very hungry, Harry. And I’m quite sure that nothing but a Garozzo prosciutto sandwich will satisfy it. Do you have any left to feed a hungry friend?”
“Make that four hungry friends.” Birdie walked up behind Nell. She gave her a quick hug, then looked at Harry. “And please make those to go, dear, along with a jug of your spectacular iced tea and some lovely lemon cakes.”
“Your wish is my command, fair Bernadette. Now, what’s this fine gossip I hear about the good-looking Italian?”
“Believe it, Harry. It’s all true. Every lascivious word of it.”
Harry’s hearty guffaw caused heads to turn, and Birdie shooed him on inside to prepare their lunch. Then she walked to the curb where Harold waited in the Lincoln Town Car, and shooed him off, as well.
“All right, now. That leaves you, me, and four pesto prosciutto sandwiches. Where are we going?” Nell waved to Harold as he disappeared down Harbor Road.
“A picnic,” she said. “In the cemetery.”
Nell drove while Birdie gave directions.
“I was hoping I’d find you,” Birdie said. “Harold drove them out here, but I thought it might be productive for you and me to pick them up.”
“Them?” Nell drove down Harbor Road, then north toward the outskirts of town.
“Gabby and Ella. It’s part of Gabby’s quest for family, I think.” She pointed to a narrow road that wound up a wooded hillside. “Apparently she and her father’s cook watched a show on grave rubbings and Gabby found it fascinating. She has visited nearly every cemetery within twenty miles of her home—Manhattan outlawed them in the mid–eighteen hundreds, Gabby informed me, so she and Sophie took field trips once they’d covered Manhattan. She was looking for the Marietti clan, but finally resorted to any marker that intrigued her.”
“There’s something quite touching about that.”
Birdie nodded. “Yes, there is. She wants what we all want: to belong. She’s a remarkable child.” Birdie sat up straight and watched for signposts. “Sometimes I get the feeling that child knows every single thing that’s going on around her. She quietly takes it all in, files it away.”
Birdie pointed to the next curve in the road. “The entrance Harold used is just around that bend. Some of the cemeteries around here prohibit rubbings, but I think we’re safe here at St. Mary’s. If not, we’ll call Father Larry to get us out of jail.”
“St. Mary’s. Good choice.”
“My suggestion,” Birdie said.
“Of course it was. Killing two birds with one stone. And in a cemetery, most appropriately.”
Nell parked near the cemetery office, a small stone building near the entrance. It was surrounded by flowering bushes and a small stand of pine trees. In the distance, over the tops of trees and houses, was the ocean, and everywhere else, up and down the gently rolling slopes of the grounds, were headstones and mounds, trees and flowering dogwoods, magnolias and small groves of pine and hawthorn trees. Bouquets of flower arrangements were planted in urns or simply laid gently on top of gentle rises in the earth.
“I think when the time comes, I could lay down here beneath one of these trees and be happy.”
Birdie agreed, though she said that her own plan was to have her ashes scattered into the ocean just beyond her and Sonny Favazza’s home. It’s where he was, and where she should be, too. “Frolicking in the deep blue,” she said, a twinkle lighting her eyes.
Birdie po
inted to an area just beyond a granite bench positioned in a small sitting area, a stone angel protecting it from behind. “There they are.”
Gabby Marietti and Ella knelt on the grass beside a flat gray headstone. Their bodies held great enthusiasm for the task at hand. Beside them, spilling from a cloth bag, were the tools of their trade: scissors, masking tape, paper, lumberman’s chalk that they’d picked up at McClucken’s, and a small spray bottle and brush for cleaning off dust before getting down to serious rubbing.
“We brought sandwiches,” Birdie said, walking slowly so as not to frighten them, though Gabby looked like cemeteries were the least likely place in which to be frightened.
And perhaps, Nell thought, she was right. The feeling that covered St. Mary’s Cemetery, its grass and flowers and grave markers, was one of total peace.
“Food!” Gabby sat back on her heels. “Cool. Ella and I are starving.”
Ella wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead. “She speaks the truth. But we are getting quite good at this rubbing business.”
“Show me,” Nell said, and leaned over the stone Gabby was working on. She had taped a thin sheet of paper over the surface, and was gently rubbing with a fat piece of chalk. Miraculously, words and a subtle design of an angel entwined with flowers rose to the surface.
“Grace was her name. She was only three,” Gabby said. She touched the paper with her finger. “They must have had a bad disease that year, because we found lots of kids’ graves. I think it was polio. There are amazing stories all over these stones. You just have to look for them.” She nodded to a stack of papers that already had rubbings on them. “Ella and I are giving them to the historical museum. Maybe I’ll write down the stories so people will remember.”
Birdie leafed through the rubbings while Nell unpacked the sandwiches.
“Wow,” Gabby said, moving from tombstone to bench in an instant. She looked hungrily at the baguettes stuffed with prosciutto, tomatoes, mozzarella, and Harry’s special walnut pesto sauce.
“Why don’t you two get started?” Birdie said. “Nell and I are going to stop by the office for a minute.”
A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 25
