A Fatal Fleece (13 page)

“They’ll figure it out,” Danny said, trying to move Cass away from the vivid memory.

“I didn’t see him until I was right up near the house. He warned me all the time not to wander around—too much junk. I could get hurt.
Always stay on the path
.”

Nell could imagine the old man swimming his way through the tall weeds, tripping, maybe, on the rusted trash that filled his land. Falling in the dark.

In the dark. Why was Finnegan prowling around in the dark on a stormy night?

“I think he was still alive when I found him,” Cass said. “I thought I felt a pulse, just a thread. I put my ear near his mouth and
I swear he said something to me.” She looked around, hoping for affirmation. “
Cassoulet
 . . . I think he said that . . . and
you’ll be fine
, maybe. But the ambulance guys weren’t sure. They thought I imagined it.”

A young voice came from the other side of the deck. “Finnegan wanted people to do what was right. He got real mad when they didn’t.”

They looked across the deck.

No one had noticed Gabby’s return. She was curled up in the big wicker rocker beneath the overhanging tree branch, her feet curled up beneath her and Nell’s old copy of
The Wizard of Oz
open in her lap.

“Gabrielle, we didn’t know you were out here,” Nick said.

Gabby closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “It’s okay, Uncle Nick. I can handle things.” She looked down at the old book and traced the figure of Dorothy, her finger moving around the blue-and-white-checked dress, the slippers, and the tiny dog at her feet.

Two strong little girls,
Nell thought. One not unlike the other, exploring a new land. Meeting a wizard . . .

Izzy began passing around a tray of collaches that Birdie had picked up on the way over. She wrapped one in a napkin and took it over to Gabby. “I loved that book, too,” she said. “I even had a dog named Toto when I was growing up.”

Gabby looked up and smiled, but they could see that her thoughts had drifted away from the land of Oz.

“His real name was Francis,” she said, looking up. “Francis Finnegan.”

Chapter 13

C
ass and Izzy picked up Nell on Monday morning an hour earlier than usual.

Nell rubbed the sleep from her eyes, pulled on a pair of jersey shorts and an old T-shirt, and found them in the kitchen, helping themselves to glasses of water.

“Why so early?” she asked, searching the kitchen counter for her cell phone. “You even beat the paper boy.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Izzy said. “Finally Sam nudged me out of bed and told me to go take a run. At least I think that’s what he said. And then he put a pillow over his head and went back to sleep.”

Cass leaned over and touched her toes, feigning a warm-up. “Renting Izzy’s old house definitely has its drawbacks.” She pushed away black strands of hair hanging over her face and looked up at Nell. “She thinks she still lives there sometimes; walks right in. No privacy. Can I fire my landlord?”

Having Cass move into Izzy’s house was a stroke of genius. It saved Izzy and Sam from having to make a decision about it for a while, and got Cass out of her two-room apartment. And moans or not, Cass loved the extra space and patch of green lawn.

Izzy ignored Cass’ comments. “This woman never sleeps. It’s supposed to be her day off and she’s already been out checking traps for Pete. Can you believe it?”

Nell could. Cass probably hadn’t wanted to run into any of the other fishermen whose traps were anchored in the coves. Old-timers
who would now know about Finnegan and want to talk about him. She suspected Cass needed to process his death in a more private way.

“Francis,” Cass said, shifting attention away from her work habits. “Can you believe that? I wonder if his mother called him Frank. Frank Finnegan. I had no idea. And that little scamp found it out, something we’ve speculated about for years.” She shook her head and laughed. “I wonder what other secrets he told her.”

Nell filled a water bottle, wondering the same thing.

Cass looked up at the clock. “Well, what are we waiting for? If we’re going to put our bodies through this excruciating torture, we might as well get it over with.” She headed for the back door.

Nell tied a light hoodie around her shoulders and followed the two younger women down the back deck steps and through the Endicott woods that led to the beach.

“We have it all to ourselves,” Izzy said, stretching her arms wide. She dropped her hands to the sand and stretched her calf muscles.

“Perfect running sand,” Cass said as they started out. “Not a single sand castle in sight.”

Only at that early hour would the sand be like glass, the receding tide stroking it with gentle laps, smoothing and caressing. They were silent for the first stretch, Nell concentrating on measured breaths and simply keeping up. She knew Cass and Izzy were slowing their pace for her, but even the slowdown was a challenge on some days. Today was one of them.

They ran along the edge of manicured yacht club beach, and then, without conscious thought, they circled back along the shoreline that bordered Canary Cove. Small paths led up from the sea to houses that dotted the rocky land. As they ran past one, Cass pointed up the slope. “That white one is the house Finn’s daughter is staying in,” she called out. “He and Moira lived there a long time ago and Finn never sold it.”

Nell looked up at the cozy home with flower boxes at each window. A small dock with washed-out letters spelling
FINNEGAN
was
attached to the shore. Rope, a bucket, and hose sat at the end next to shoes and a bottle of soap.

“Looks like a boat’s been moored here,” Cass said, curious, then continued on along the path. “A neighbor, maybe. They all share.”

The path grew narrow as they rounded the curve of land. Trees hugged one side and the rocky shore on the other. Soon they ran single file, with Izzy taking the lead.

“Look up ahead,” she said, slowing down and pointing.

Beverly Walden sat on the old dock beneath the Artist’s Palate parking lot. Her feet dangled over the side, and a small boat was tied to the dock.

The dock itself was small and rickety. Although the topic of fixing it up was a frequent one at Canary Cove Art Association meetings, it never seemed to change. One of the problems, Ham Brewster said, was that no one knew who really owned it. So all the artists continued to use it when they needed a break, to sunbathe, or to tie their boats to.

Standing just at the dock’s edge, leaning against one of the posts, was Davey Delaney. He was dressed for exercise, in shorts and a Tshirt, a pair of sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. His eyes were focused on Beverly.

Izzy slowed to a virtual stop. She turned around and said softly, “Should we go back?”

Then Beverly looked up. For a moment it appeared she might topple off the dock. Quickly, she steadied herself and managed a wave.

Nell waved back and they continued at a slower pace along the path.

Davey Delaney managed a clumsy hello. Then he muttered that he needed to get back up to the Palate’s deck. His coffee was getting cold. He turned and hurried up the steps.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” Nell said. She watched Davey’s back as it disappeared.

Beverly looked up at the joggers, her eyes adjusting. Her cheeks
were flushed, her eyes bright. She pulled her tank top down over her bare abdomen, then bent her legs and wrapped her arms around them. “No. I was just . . .”

She looked down at the boat. “I was just . . . I was just sitting here, easing into the day. I live near here.”

It was Finnegan’s boat bobbing at the side of the dock. His pride and joy, the only thing he’d ever splurged on since his wife died, or so his fishermen buddies said. It was a small boat, by some standards, but neat and freshly painted with a small cabin and the single word
MOIRA
carefully painted in deep purple letters across the white hull.

“We’re sorry about your father,” Nell said. “It’s difficult when someone in your life dies suddenly.”

Beverly seemed to be sorting through Nell’s words, analyzing them. She forked her fingers through her hair and looked up again. “He wasn’t in my life. He was an odd man. Lived by his own set of rules, I suppose you’d say. And he wanted everyone else to live by the same rules. Rigid ones.”

An awkward silence followed. Then Beverly said, “I moved back here thinking . . . well, I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe that we’d see each other differently than when I was a kid? But I’d been away more than half my life. What chance was there for that? Maybe I just came to shake him up. I never liked him. He only adopted me because he loved my mother so much. I was . . . what, how old? Hadn’t even hit puberty. I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

Adopted
. Birdie hadn’t mentioned that, and Cass would have been too young to care about such details. The thing the rumor mill picked up and perpetuated was that she’d run away. And that was the story Nell had always heard: Finnegan had a daughter but she didn’t even come back for her own mother’s funeral.

Beverly went on. “But I’m glad I came back. It’s brought me some unexpected happiness, and it’s about time. And all in spite of a man named Finnegan. I found I didn’t need him to be happy. He’s just a . . . just a man who lived with my mother.”

“Who loved your mother,” Nell added.

She shrugged.

Nell watched the expression that came across Beverly’s face as she talked. It wasn’t chitchat. Beverly Walden was happy, the kind that starts on the inside and takes over your being. Unabashedly happy.

The day after her father was found dead.

“He loved that boat,” Cass said suddenly, looking down at it.

The edge to her voice was noticeable, and there was a question lurking there, as if she wanted to say,
And what are you doing with it, with something he loved?

Beverly nodded.

“So, you’ve been to his place?” Cass went on, not accepting a nod for a response.

Beverly didn’t answer. Then she skirted the question and said, “It will take a few days before it’s officially mine. But Officer Porter was able to get the boat released for me. She was my mother, you know.” She shielded her eyes from the morning sun and looked up at them again, defying them to disagree.

“Of course she was,” Nell said.

The awkward silence returned.

“Well, if we can do anything . . .” Nell began.

“Thank you,” Beverly said. “I’m fine. It’s too bad we couldn’t reconcile before he died. But we didn’t. So that’s that. We’ll have a funeral. File the will.”

“Have you seen the will?”

“No. But the police assure me they will have it soon. And then those who liked him will have a chance to mourn, and the rest of us will be able to put it all behind us and move on.”

With nothing more to say, they left, Beverly’s odd words following them up the uneven granite steps to the Artist’s Palate parking lot.

“What’s wrong with that woman?” Cass asked as they walked across the parking lot to Canary Cove Road. “She’s awful. Finnegan loved that boat with his life. I wonder if she even knows that. Or if she cares.”

“She has the look of someone who hasn’t had it easy,” Nell said, trying to soften Beverly’s words.

“Sure. But some of that is a matter of choice,” Izzy said. “Why couldn’t they see beyond their differences?”

“It isn’t that Finn didn’t like kids. Look at his relationship with Gabby.” Cass kicked at a stone and watched it fly over the pathway.

“Maybe they tried. I suppose there will always be things we don’t know. Secrets Finnegan took with him.”

They slowed down when they reached the community garden, then stood side by side for a minute, breathing in the fragrance of fresh herbs and newly rained-on greens. The garden was responding to Saturday night’s rain, perking up and begging for admirers.

“Wait till you see our new window display at the shop,” Izzy said. “Mae’s nieces are doing it. It’ll make you want to come sit in the middle of a magical garden and knit.”

“Knitting in a comfortable chair with a glass of wine suits me fine,” Cass said, and wrinkled her nose at Izzy as they neared the fence that separated the garden from Finnegan’s land.

They moved along, slowing again as they came to Finnegan’s gate. The deep ruts from car tires formed an intricate design in the soppy soil.

The muddy road was more open now from the recent traffic, the house visible beyond the trees at the far end. It was a view Finnegan didn’t allow most of the public to see. But now it was open, exposed. Naked.
It’s what happens at death,
Nell thought. Suddenly one’s life was opened up for the curious to explore, to look into, to pick apart, and to judge.

Nell shivered as she looked down the curvy, weed-choked drive.

She hadn’t known the property to be any other way, but Birdie talked about years past when Finn’s property was neat and clean, with a gravel drive and parking places for the tenants who rented office space from him. And a solid dock in back to moor small fishing boats.

The sound of a car in the distance caused the women to step back, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong and
Finnegan himself would pop up in the middle of a bed of weeds to scold them.

Izzy checked her watch and suggested they pick up their speed. “The shop is going to begin its day without me,” she said. With Nell bringing up the rear, they started down the street toward Harbor Road and their homes. “I’m going at my own speed,” Nell called ahead. “You two go on.”

With that, Cass and Izzy flew down the road, their long legs carrying them like young deer, graceful and sleek. Nell smiled at their backs and decided she’d had enough jostling of her body parts for one morning. She slowed to a walk and breathed in the crisp, salty air.

Just beyond the edge of Finnegan’s land was a wide path to the water used by some old-timers to launch their motorboats for a day of fishing, or for kids to park their bikes and walk along the shore, dragging makeshift rafts or inner tubes. It separated Finnegan’s property from the nicely landscaped property and modern office of the Canary Cove Arts Association building. The two properties had once been twins, with neat matching buildings, but Finn had changed that. They were now as different as day and night.