A Fatal Fleece (11 page)

“Yep, gorgeous.” Sam hugged them both. “My two gorgeous women,” he said. “How did I get so lucky? Every man in the room is looking at me right now with pure, unadulterated envy.”

“True,” Izzy said. “You’re a lucky man, Perry. And don’t ever forget it.” Two fingers crawled up his chest.

“Can’t you two keep your hands off each other?” Esther Gibson came up behind them and followed her words with a resounding chuckle.

“Not working today, Esther?” Nell asked the gray-haired police dispatcher.

“I told the chief I’d do the night shift tonight, so I’ll go in late. It’s such a lovely place to knit, and I sometimes get more sleep there than I do at home—my dear hubby’s snoring has gotten pretty bad.”

“Things are quiet at the police station? That’s a good thing.” Sam lifted several wineglasses off a passing tray and passed them around.

“That’s what I told Chief Thompson. ‘It’s going to be a calm summer,’ I told him. I feel it in my bones.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Nell lifted her glass and touched it to Esther’s. “Quiet is good.”

“Except for Finnegan, of course. He hasn’t been very quiet lately. Now he wants a restraining order.”

“Finnegan? Against whom?” Ben walked up behind Nell.

Esther chuckled again, a delightful rolling sound that made all those around her smile, too. “Oh, everyone in general. Certain people in particular. Developers, council members—particularly our Beatrice—and even her poor husband, Sal. Can you imagine? Shy Sal. And his wife couldn’t hurt a fly. I told Finnegan as much.”

“He’s just trying to make a point,” Ben said. “Beatrice got his goat at the city council meeting. But I saw him help her into her car the other day. Not a bad bone in the man’s body, though he likes to cause a stir.”

“Of course you’re right,” Esther said, waving the air. “I just don’t like to see him getting ornery. It’s bad for his blood pressure. He doesn’t look all that healthy to me.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “He wants the police to keep his daughter away, too,” she said. “And that does bother me a bit. It doesn’t seem a good way to live, separated from family like that.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Nell said. And it didn’t sound like the Finnegan she knew. Whatever bad blood existed between him and his daughter, this was a drastic step.

Esther smiled warmly as Cass and Danny joined the group. She put one hand on Cass’ arm. “But no matter how many people Finnegan shoos away, he specifically mentioned that Cass can come on his property anytime.”

“Along with her mother’s cooking,” Izzy laughed.

Cass agreed. “And with a boatload of warnings. ‘Walk here.’ ‘Don’t walk there.’ It’s crazy what I have to go through to give him a pot of stew.”

Danny stood on the outside of the group, quiet, his eyes on Cass.

Nell watched him watching her. And then, with a start, she touched her forehead, a light going on.
Why, he’s in love with her. Danny Brandley loves Cass.
It was suddenly as clear as day. Although they’d been spending plenty of time together, Cass had insisted—especially in recent weeks—that they were good friends.
That’s all,
she said in a voice that forbade argument.

But the look in Danny’s eyes tonight spoke of something far deeper than friendship. Nell glanced at Cass as she took a sip of wine. Did she love him in return? Months ago Nell would have said yes. But tonight she wasn’t sure. Cass was difficult to read these days.

She moved closer to him as the others discussed Finnegan’s strange directives.

“You okay, Danny? I hear the tour was a success.”

“Tour? Oh, the book.” He shoved his fingers through his thick blond hair. “Yeah, it was fine.”

“But?”

He looked over at Cass. She was talking to Ben, her face unreadable. “Sometimes I can’t figure her out.”

“She’s very independent. But you know that, I suspect.”

“I like that about her. But she has a loan coming due soon. It’s killing her. It’d be so easy for me to help now that I have some extra money, but she insists she doesn’t need my help. It’ll work out, she says.”

Nell had no answer for him. Sometimes she wanted to shake Cass, too, to tell her that accepting help didn’t have a thing to do with being independent or less strong. But she suspected that when it came to accepting help from a man who clearly loved you, it added a new dimension to the situation, especially if you hadn’t sorted through your own feelings yet.

“And the other love of that man’s life these days seems to be little Gabby,” Esther was saying to the group. She lifted a tiny crab cake from a tray and looked at it with great delight. “I suspect if she asked Finnegan for his whole raggedy piece of land, he’d give it to her, no questions asked. That sweet girl has brought a liveliness to the old man I haven’t seen since his Moira died.”

With a wave good-bye, the dispatcher shuffled off to the other side of the room to monitor the appetizers her husband was piling on a small paper plate.

Nell spotted Birdie talking with Ham and Jane Brewster just outside the veranda doors. She headed that way. Ben followed. “No Nick?” he asked to Nell’s back.

Birdie heard the question. “No,” she said, rising on tiptoe to kiss Ben’s cheek. “He and Gabby had a date for dinner at Duckworth’s in Gloucester. Gabby suggested they invite Ella and Harold, too. They were thrilled, of course. Ella went out and bought a new dress.”

Birdie’s face lit up as she talked, and the smile coming from her eyes told Nell that whatever concerns about Nick that she might have had earlier in the day, she’d put them to rest. At least for now.

They moved to the edge of the veranda, a reasonable distance from the beat of Andy’s drums, Pete’s guitar, and Merry’s keyboard, and looked out over the sweep of green lawn that sloped to the water’s edge.

Tiny solar lights lit the pathway, and at its end, Sal Scaglia stood alone on the dock, a drink in his hand, looking out across the water through his horn-rimmed glasses. Escaping, Nell suspected. He was a dutiful husband, but one more comfortable managing the dusty, solitary Registrar of Deeds’ annex than hosting a cocktail party. He stood near his brand-new yacht, not large, but equipped with every gadget known to man, Beatrice had told her recently. And Nell knew, as they all did, that the yacht was a gift to Sal from his wife. A well-deserved gift, many thought to themselves, for his patience and loyalty and willingness to always take a backseat to the vivacious Beatrice.

Chief Jerry Thompson and his date sauntered down to the dock, and Sal turned toward them, adjusting his glasses as he shifted into his role as Beatrice’s husband, smiling, welcoming, gracious. He motioned toward the new boat with the luminous blue sides, moored at the dock next to a small speedboat. And in the next frame, he was offering Sea Harbor’s well-loved police chief a quick spin around the cove.

The sky was nearly dark now, and in the distance, just over a hill of granite and around a bend, the lights of Canary Cove Art Colony lit up the horizon. On the Scaglia veranda, the music picked up and the patio filled with moving bodies.

Beatrice was everywhere, encouraging tours of her home, engaging in conversations with the mayor and council members, embracing guests before they walked to their cars. When she took off her shoes and joined the crowd on the dance floor, Ben suggested it might be a perfect time to slip out.

“Need a ride?” he asked Birdie as they moved toward the foyer.

“I do,” Birdie said, looking at Izzy and Sam out on the dance floor. “My chauffeurs are otherwise occupied.”

Mary Pisano was standing near the door in the shadow of her husband, Max, a giant bear of a man who was digging into his pockets for car keys.

“A wonderful party,” she said. “Have you ever seen a fisherman dance as well as my Max?”

“Never,” Nell said.

“And I’d guess a party like this one provides you with at least a week’s worth of ‘About Town’ columns,” Ben said.

Big Max guffawed. “Make that a month’s worth. Mary doesn’t miss a thing.”

Mary simply smiled and patted a giant purse that didn’t quite hide her yellow pad. “But where’s Nicholas? I thought you’d bring that handsome hunk along for everyone to admire. I might have gotten some juicy comments.”

Birdie tsked away Mary’s comment, then gave the columnist-turned-innkeeper a quick hug. “He had plans tonight, dear, but I do want to thank you. Nick thinks the Ravenswood B and B is the finest in the land. I suspect it was your hospitality as much as anything that helped us convince him to spend a few more days here.”

Mary looked puzzled. Then she broke into laughter. “Talk him into it? No way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that no one talked Nick Marietti into anything. He called me on his way back from Italy to see if I would hold a room for him. He said he’d be staying a few days, maybe as long as a week. Business and pleasure, he said—rather cryptically, I thought. That handsome Italian is playing games with you, Birdie.”

Chapter 11

S
undays were made for breakfasts at the Sweet Petunia, a tradition Ben Endicott held close to his heart. It was the one day Nell allowed whole eggs—and sometimes a sausage or two—to enter into her husband’s diet. A minor heart attack some years before had provided the couple both an excuse to cut back on their work in Boston—Ben as an executive in the family-owned business, and Nell, a director of an arts nonprofit—and the impetus to make the Endicott Sea Harbor vacation home a permanent address. And so they had, along with adding changes in diet and a routine that included walks and slow runs and trips to the new gym that had recently opened in town.

But never on Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings were reserved for Annabelle Palazola’s creamy egg dishes, spicy sausages or crisp slices of bacon, and fresh fruit compotes. Dark-roasted coffee with sweet cream curls on top. In good weather, it was served on the rustic deck overlooking the Canary Cove Art Colony and the ocean beyond.

Nell smiled her thanks as a waitress poured coffee and set glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of them. They were early today—the usual Sunday-morning crowd was still in bed or perhaps crowded into the pews of Our Lady of Safe Seas Church, listening to Father Northcutt’s homily.

“The quiet is nice,” she murmured, pulling needles and a skein of soft purple yarn from her bag.

“The quiet after the storm.”

The storm had waited, as Ben had predicted, until well after Beatrice’s party had ended. It had rolled down the coast from New Hampshire, soaking Sea Harbor with a vengeance. Then moved out to sea just as quickly as it came, leaving gardens and lawns refreshed and the streets washed clean.

“Noisy . . . but nice.” Nell allowed a smile, knowing Ben was thinking of those moments after they both awoke to the crashing sound of the storm meeting the sea, when he’d held her close, and then allowed his sure hands to gently convince her that the storm was merely a backdrop for far more magical things.

The moment was broken by Izzy’s appearing at the table and pulling out a chair next to Nell. Sam was close behind.

“Wasn’t that a great storm last night?” she greeted them. “Sam and I ran by the garden this morning—the rain turned it into a blanket of sprouts. It’ll be in great shape for the garden party in a couple weeks. Even the flowers in front of Finnegan’s fence have grown.”

Sam leaned over Izzy, dropped a kiss on Nell’s cheek, then sat down next to Ben. “Great run. Great storm. Nice party, too.”

“Beatrice does it right.” Izzy fingered the purple yarn in Nell’s lap. “Gabby will love this sweater. You’re the best, Aunt Nell.” She gave her a quick hug.

“You’re chipper today.” Ben tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing his niece’s expression.

“I am?” Izzy feigned surprise. Then she lifted one shoulder in a shrug and looked across the table at Sam. “It’s him. That guy. I like living with him. I wake up every day to great coffee.”

Sam just smiled, but the look in his eyes when he gazed at Izzy had nothing to do with his prowess as a barista.

“Where’re Birdie and her newfound family?” Sam asked.

“Dining at the Ravenswood. Mary Pisano puts on a brunch spread for guests, and Nick invited Birdie and Gabby to join him. But Cass is coming after running a quick errand for her mother.”

“I’m glad Nick is staying around for a while.” Izzy took a still-warm miniature cinnamon roll from the basket.

“It looks like a few days, at least.” Or so he’d told Mary Pisano. Birdie hadn’t wanted to discuss Mary’s comment on the ride home. If Nick had planned ahead of time to stay on a few days but wanted it to follow an invitation, perhaps that was simply a gallant gesture. Enough said.

“Good,” Izzy said. “Because Gabby is helping me with a class tomorrow. A dozen kids have signed up to make that crazy crochet hat she wears—the one with the huge orange flower in front.”

“A trendsetter at age ten. She reminds me of you at that age, Izzy, always doing your own thing.” Nell slipped her yarn back into the bag as plates of frittata magically appeared in front of them—without a single order having been placed. She smiled up at the waitress. “This looks perfect.”

“Annabelle said you’d love it. It’s Tuscan something-or-other.”

A puddle of tomato sauce and melted cheese and slivers of basil colored the perfectly browned center of Annabelle’s masterpiece.

Ben sighed with happiness and picked up his fork.

“So, when is Cass coming?” Izzy said.

Nell checked her watch. She frowned. “She said she’d be ten minutes or less. But that was a while ago.”

“Oh, you know Cass. Her concept of time isn’t always the same as ours.”

Not always. But when it came to food, Cass was rarely late. And she’d been quite adamant on the phone that she was starving and would be there soon. Danny might come, too. “Have the food waiting,” she’d said.

The sound of sirens broke through the Sunday-morning quiet, and heads turned automatically toward the sound, looking over the treetops, down toward the water.

“An awful sound,” Nell said. She shivered.

“Maybe it’s an ambulance going to help someone,” Izzy suggested around a mouthful of egg. “That would make it a good sound, right?”