“The wine was laced with enough phenobarbital to kill a horse,” Tommy told Izzy as they waited in line together at Coffee’s. “The chief said it was an amateur job, if someone was trying to make it look like a suicide. As if we wouldn’t find the poison. And it gets worse,” Tommy said. “They found things over on the island indicating someone else had climbed onto the boat when it was anchored. The body itself had bruises, probably from getting pushed over the edge—and a weight was tied to one ankle.
“It looked desperate, the chief said. Definitely not done by a pro.”
“I suppose there’s some relief in that,” Nell said. They were in their favorite back booth at Harry Garozzo’s deli, hoping Harry would be too busy on a Saturday to join in the conversation. He was a veritable font of rumor, and they had had their fill of that.
“Tommy was pretty sure Beverly had killed Finn,” Izzy added. “This sets them back.”
“I knew it wasn’t suicide,” Cass said. “Beverly wanted something desperately, but it wasn’t death.”
“Two murders . . .” Birdie said. “They have to be related, of course.”
“The police think so.”
“It’s difficult to put them together,” Cass said. “I’m not proud of this, but I think I wanted Beverly to be responsible for Finn’s death, maybe to justify the way I felt about her,” Cass said.
“You don’t need her to be a murderer to justify your feelings, Cass. You didn’t like Beverly because of the way she treated the man she thought was her father, a man you loved and respected. The way she acted was shameful,” Birdie said.
They all agreed. And the fact that anyone would cast even an iota of suspicion on Cass, who truly loved Finnegan, made it all the worse. But those suspicions were out there. And they would stay out there until the real murderer was behind bars.
“I don’t think any of us thought Beverly killed him. Not really,” Izzy said.
Nell agreed. “Finnegan was killed because he knew something that someone didn’t want him to know. It’s simple. Revealing what he knew—whatever it was—would hurt that person. So he or she killed Finnegan.”
“Beverly must have known the same thing that Finnegan knew,” Izzy said.
“Or caused it, perhaps? Been involved in it? Remember, he was furious with her,” Birdie said.
“That’s right,” Nell added. “So Finnegan knew whatever it was and was going to do something about it. He was murdered to stop him. For some reason, Beverly wasn’t a threat to the murderer at first. Then maybe . . . maybe when it became known she didn’t have any money, she wasn’t needed, either?”
“But to kill someone because they lost an inheritance? There has to be more to it,” Cass said.
They fell silent, sipping iced tea and trying to capture random thoughts, forcing order or sense into them, while the background din of Harry’s deli offered a comforting, familiar grounding.
“Let’s go back to Finn again,” Izzy said. “We know Finn was upset with Beverly, something she was doing. But she wasn’t afraid of Finn. And his threats didn’t seem to deter her.”
Izzy’s analysis seemed to fit the conversation Merry overheard. And also the one Gabby heard between Finn and Beverly. “So if Beverly wasn’t threatened by Finn, who would be?” Nell asked. “Who was threatened enough by Finn to kill him?”
Margaret Garozzo appeared with four grilled tomato and mozzarella paninis, each with a cup of cold cucumber soup on the side. The smell of fresh grilled tomatoes and basil filled the small booth.
“You’re keeping Harry away, aren’t you?” Birdie smiled.
Margaret just chuckled and walked away to refill iced-tea glasses at a nearby table.
Izzy picked up the conversation. “Okay. Beverly and Finn argued. What was it Merry heard him say? She was ruining someone’s life?”
“But she was such a loner. Whose life could she possibly have been ruining?”
“And why? I didn’t like her, but I didn’t think she was malicious. If she were, she would have done more to me. Don’t you think?”
Birdie nodded agreement.
“Willow said Finn was their self-appointed night watchman,” Nell said. “When he couldn’t sleep, he patrolled Canary Cove.”
“He also went out in the Moira when he couldn’t sleep. He told me once he’d cruise around the cove and look up at the stars, and Moira would talk to him. His midnight love, he called her. So he could have picked up on any late-night trysts. I bet he knew plenty that was going on.”
“And since Beverly was Moira’s daughter, he would have latched on to her behavior aggressively, wanting to be sure it honored her mother, not disgraced her,” Izzy said. “Her indiscretions would have been way more personal than those of the old mayor he threatened.” She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Tiny flecks of basil floated onto her plate.
“Even if it was none of his business,” Birdie added.
“That’s right,” Nell said. “Angus said it was a horrible habit Finn had, minding other people’s business.”
“Infidelity, in Finn’s religion, was one of the deadly sins.”
“Do you suppose anyone else around Canary Cove noticed anything? Ham and Jane haven’t said much, but what about the neighbor, the one who saw Beverly leave in the boat?”
Cass put her sandwich down. “That’s Jake Risso’s aunt June. Pete and Andy used to mow her lawn. She’s kind of a shut-in, Andy says.”
“Shut-ins need visitors.” Izzy’s brows lifted with suggestion.
Cass looked around the table. “Okay. I’ll go talk to her if one of you comes with me. Sometimes I can be . . . how should I say . . . indelicate?”
They all laughed, and Cass laughed, too.
Then Nell grew serious. “I sound like Ben, but we need to remember that we’re talking about a murderer. Someone who took two people’s lives. No one should go anywhere alone.”
The thought that two of them could defend themselves when one couldn’t wasn’t entirely reasonable, and they all knew it, but it didn’t matter. There was comfort and security, if not real safety, in one another’s company.
Nell took another bite out of her sandwich and looked around the restaurant. It was rare to have this kind of privacy during lunch—especially with the news buzz blanketing Sea Harbor like a nor’easter. She was sure that in quiet corners and not-so-quiet patios, all talk focused on the artist from Canary Cove who had been swept onto the shore last night. Finn’s almost-adopted daughter. Murdered.
Somehow the relationship between the two would bring a certain comfort to people, Nell suspected. It was a family affair. Those outside the family were safe. Not many people knew Beverly Walden, and although everyone knew Finnegan, few called him a close friend. So the crime could be removed, set apart, and talked about from a comfortable distance.
“Look,” Cass said, chewing a mouthful of sandwich and pointing across the restaurant to a table near the window.
Beatrice and Sal Scaglia were deep in conversation. Beatrice talking; Sal listening.
“I ran into Beatrice here yesterday,” Nell said. “Outside. She was tense about something. When her cell rang, she jumped on it as if it were a lifeline, or a line to pull her away from me, anyway.”
She looked over at the table again. “She left in a hurry and dropped a piece of paper in the street. I’d forgotten about it until this minute.” She searched in her purse and pulled out the crumpled scrap of paper, then smoothed it out on the table.
B. W. 22 Coastal Road.
“That’s Beverly Walden’s address. Why would Beatrice have that?” Izzy asked.
Cass looked at the paper scrap. “It kind of makes sense,” she said, lowering her voice. “She’s always had her own set of plans for Finn’s land. When she thought Beverly was going to inherit it, she probably paid her a visit, getting her name in early.”
Nell shook her head. “She did that the day after Finn died. But she visited her at the gallery, not her house.”
�
��A follow-up visit? Beatrice is persistent,” Izzy suggested.
They looked at the paper scrap again. Nell slipped it back into her purse. “It could be anything or nothing, I suppose. A name to add to her campaign list, maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” Cass said.
“I don’t know. It’s logical, but . . .” Nell took another bite of the warm panini and looked over at Beatrice and Sal. “No, you’re right. It must be that,” she said finally.
“Do you suppose Beatrice will come after me for the property now?” Cass asked, wiping a trace of sauce from her mouth.
“No doubt,” Izzy said. “And for all your talk, Cass Halloran, you’ll listen. And you’ll probably end up doing something nice for the city, and Beatrice will be your new best friend.”
With all the turmoil, no one had talked about Finn’s land or Cass’ inheritance. But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Cass would honor Finn and do exactly, as he had wisely said, what was right.
“Hello, ladies.” A familiar voice filled the booth. Harry pressed his palms flat on the table and leaned in, bringing the smell of basil and garlic with him. He cast a quick look over his shoulder, then focused back on his captive audience. “What are you hearing about that girl? Dead. Murdered, they tell me.”
“That’s right, Harry. It’s not a good thing,” Birdie said.
“Folks are talking. Said she was out to get Finn’s money to buy her a husband.”
Izzy smiled sweetly. “Harry, did you say that about me before I got married?”
Harry guffawed. “But here’s the thing: she came in here lots these past few weeks, but always alone. Like she didn’t have any friends. But she was a nice-looking gal—I told her so myself. And these past couple weeks, a sexy one, too.”
“Harry, Harry,” Cass said.
“It’s the gospel truth. Low-cut dresses. Streaks in her hair and falling all loose like they do. Makeup. Not trashy, but out to please someone, for sure. She was feeling it, believe me. You can tell those things when you’ve been around the block a few times, like I have.”
So even Harry thought Beverly was in love, or wanting to be in love. Or needed by someone in a way that brought joy to her life.
“But like I said,” Harry continued, “she was always alone. Never with a guy—or girl. Whatever. She’d buy sandwiches and antipasto, eggplant parmigiana, and she loved my pasta primavera something fierce. I teased her the other day about how often she got takeout, but she told me she never had anyone to teach her to cook and she didn’t know diddly-squat about turning on a stove. So it’d be our little secret that she hadn’t made the food herself.”
“So you think she was entertaining someone?”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. And passing off Harry’s fine food as her own, that’s what she was doing. Hell, I was flattered. It was fine with me as long as she paid for it.”
Margaret walked over and touched Harry on the arm, whispering that his pot was boiling over. “Come, my dear,” she said sweetly. “Let the ladies talk.” And Harry, looking back over his shoulder with eyes rolling, followed her.
Izzy looked at her watch, shoved a handful of bills beneath her bowl, and slid out of the booth. “Gabby and I have a class this afternoon.” She looked at Birdie. “Can you believe she’s filled our town with crocheted beanies? It’s the in thing. One of the Rockport boutiques wants to sell them.”
“Imagine that,” Birdie said, her smile dripping with pride. “You be off, Izzy dear.”
She looked at Cass and Nell as they pulled bills from purses and gathered their things. “And the three of us?” she asked expectantly.
“I believe it’s a perfect day to visit a shut-in,” Nell replied.
Nell drove toward Canary Cove, then up the hill to Coastal Road, a dead-end street that anchored a block of small houses backing up to the sea. Modest homes with million-dollar views.
Number 22 was at the end of the street. Cass pointed to the house next door. “Aunt June,” she said.
A gray-haired lady with glasses was standing on tiptoe, picking weeds out of a window box.
JUNE RISSO was printed on the mailbox.
Aunt June was delighted to have company. In minutes she had settled her visitors on the back patio and insisted they try her lemon cake and mint tea. And then she proceeded to tell them everything she knew about the house next door.
“I loved it when Moira and Finn lived there, but the house became sad when they moved out. So I was happy to have Beverly move in. Noise, laughter—that’s what I was wanting.”
“So you became friends?” Nell asked.
“Well, no. Not like I’d hoped. She was very busy with her painting and all. She kept to herself until recently.”
“Recently?” Cass helped herself to another lemon cake.
June beamed, then continued. “She started going out at night, later than the usual date. My bedroom’s right there.” She pointed to the back windows next to the patio. “I go to bed early these days. One gets tired, you know.”
“You could hear things from the street all the way back here?” Cass asked.
“Oh, no, no, dear.” June’s round face smiled at Cass. “Beverly came and went this way, back here.” She pointed to the steps that led down to the water. “By boat. Most of us along Coastal Road have little boats that can take us into the harbor in no time at all, or to the club, to the beach. It’s lovely. Like living in Venice, I suppose, although I’ve never traveled abroad.”
“But she didn’t have a boat until a few days ago.”
June frowned. “Well, now, that’s true, dear.” She pushed her index finger into her cheek to help her remember. “That’s it, of course. She was picked up—that’s what happened. I would hear the motor go putt, putt, putt, the way they do. The dinghy would slow down at the dock. And off they’d go, into the night. It was quite romantic.”
“Did you ever see the boat?”
June blushed, as if ashamed to be watching her neighbor’s comings and goings with such diligence. “To be truthful, yes, I got up once or twice, wanting to be sure no one was breaking in. I’m single, you know. And there she’d be, usually carrying a bottle of wine and a picnic basket, walking down the hill to the dock, trying not to disturb me. I was happy she was having a good time.”
“Did she ever have friends come to the house?”
June thought about that while she sipped her tea. “No, I don’t believe so. She must have loved boats. That’s the way she liked to travel. Lots of people do. Of course, you can’t take a boat to the malls.”
“But they’re good for getting around Cape Ann,” Nell agreed.
June nodded, brushing flakes of cake off her lap. “The girl wasn’t one to invite conversation. She never talked to me about her work or her beau, just a quick hello or good-bye. And as for the back-door gentleman—that’s the name I gave him—I never got a good look at him. Sunglasses can change a whole face, and the distance, the light—they all play havoc with this vision of mine.” She touched the rim of the thick glasses that magnified her brown eyes.
When the cakes were finished, their glasses emptied, and June began talking about a nap, they took their leave.
“You have quite a green thumb,” Nell said, looking at the crimson-colored geraniums filling the flower box just outside the front door. “What gorgeous flowers.”
June looked at Nell as if she had said something extraordinary. “Flowers, of course! How could I forget?” June laughed at herself. “Someone sent flowers to Beverly—more than once. Gorgeous bouquets. One time Beverly wasn’t home, and the delivery boy left them with me. They filled my whole house with the loveliest fragrance.”
“Do you know who they were from?”
June frowned at Cass. “Of course I don’t. How would I know that?”
“Cass meant which florist,” Nell said quickly. It wasn’t what Cass meant at all, but Nell knew June would never confess to reading someone else’s card.
“The flo
rist. Oh, of course.” The smile came back. “I walk down there myself sometimes. It’s that lovely little shop on Canary Cove Road. Such beautiful arrangements—and all with a touch of art.”
“She was seeing someone who owned a boat,” Nell said, driving slowly down the curvy Coastal Road.
“So that’s everyone we know,” Cass said, “or just about. Danny doesn’t have one yet, so we can drop him from the list.”
That was true. Everyone had a boat. But not everyone who had a boat sent flowers to Beverly Walden.
The flower shop was nearly empty when they walked in, and Birdie immediately spotted a small Christmas cactus and held it up, admiring it.
Nell and Cass walked over to examine a display of ceramic vases, and gave Birdie space to work her magic with the shop clerk.
It took little time, and they soon left the shop with three Christmas cacti, a bouquet of roses for Ella, and a slip of paper.
Nell stared at the name Birdie scribbled on the paper.
Birdie sighed.
“Well, he has a boat,” Cass said.
Chapter 35
“What’s wrong, Nell?”
It was Sam, not Ben, who sat in Nell’s kitchen, a beer in his hand and his laptop open on the island.
Nell dropped her purse on the side table and walked over to the island. “Nothing. Everything. I need a distraction to clear my head, Sam.”
“How about some Sea Harbor portraits? My little love affair with this town.” The project had occupied Sam for a month, while he captured with his camera the magnificent faces of fishermen and sunbathers, the flowers and clouds and beaches of the town he’d adopted as his own.
Izzy and Ben came in from the deck. Izzy wrapped her arms around Nell and looked intently at her face. “Aunt Nell, what’s that look?”
“A long day. I’ll tell you about it. What are you up to?”
“Just spending time with my favorite uncle while my favorite husband borrows your laptop before we head out to meet friends for dinner. Sam’s computer is in the geek shop.”
Nell checked her watch. Dinnertime already? After dropping off Cass and Birdie, she had gone over to the community garden again. It brought a kind of peace to her, the neat rows, the fresh green plants. She had walked down to the shore and looked over at Finnegan’s old pier, imagining his boat tied to the side. Finnegan teaching Gabby to fish. Teenagers casting their lines.
A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery Page 28
