A Fatal Fleece (15 page)

“Beatrice, her father just died. It seems a bit premature,” Nell said.

“I don’t think so. She didn’t seem offended by my question, just nervous. But it was clear she’d been thinking about the land, too. But in the end, it doesn’t matter, because she’s never seen her father’s will. She knows she’s the probable heir, but she can’t do anything until the will is read.”

Birdie and Nell exchanged looks, but Beatrice went on. “She did, however, indicate that she’d have a copy of the will soon.”

“If Beverly is Finn’s only relative, I suspect you’re right. It will be hers.” Birdie said.

“I hope so. So soon, hopefully, we can get a bulldozer out there and clean it up.”

The creak of Archie Brandley’s bookstore door silenced Beatrice. They looked up to see Father Northcutt walking toward them.

“A bulldozer, Beatrice?” he asked. Thin strands of gray hair fluttered in the breeze. “For what?”

Father Larry’s face was generous and open and always held a smile.
But reading his eyes, Nell could see he had caught more of the conversation than he acknowledged.

“The Finnegan place, Father,” Beatrice said, quickly managing a smile. “We were just wondering what will happen to it and when it will be up for sale.”

“For sale?”

“It’s what everyone wants—the city, the neighbors, the artists, the developers, even his daughter. It’s what’s good for everyone. That’s all we want, Father—what’s best for Sea Harbor. We can’t afford another accident over there.”

Nell held back a smile. Beatrice wasn’t a bad person—in fact, she liked her most of the time. She managed to do good things for the city, and people thanked her by voting for her. She was good at the political banter. But she was also good at manipulating situations to her best interests and to posturing herself just right.

Father Northcutt broke into a broad smile, folding his hands together over his ample girth. “Ah, Beatrice Scaglia, you are a wonder now. And I’d be wrong to think you didn’t want the best for Sea Harbor.”

Then he looked at all three of the women, his Irish eyes smiling on each of them. “But first we need to bury our dear friend Finnegan, to mourn his loss, and to send his spirit off in peace.”

He paused, his jowls still moving from his words. When he continued, his face had grown more serious and his voice held a note of premonition, something Nell thought odd. Elusive.

“And once the dear man has been put to rest, then we shall accept what happens with that land along the harbor. Finnegan’s wishes, even if they hold some surprises, will prevail. Sometimes wisdom resides where we least expect it.”

The smile returned, and with a friendly good-bye, the priest sauntered across the street to greet Gus McClucken, idling in front of his hardware store.

Chapter 15

“H
e knows something we don’t,” Nell told Ben later that evening. She sat beside him in the CRV, heading over to the Fractured Fish’s summer concert. Sam and Izzy listened from the backseat.

Nell looked through the window as they neared Finnegan’s land, to the path that led to the water. There were bicycles roped together and hooked to Finnegan’s fence for safekeeping. A motorcycle farther down the alley. Probably concertgoers who didn’t want to get stuck in the Artist’s Palate parking lot after the performance.

But no blue Altima.

Foolish thoughts,
she chided herself. Why was she seeing mysteries lurking everywhere?

“Father Larry is well connected,” Ben was saying beside her. “Maybe he does. I don’t think Finnegan was a big churchgoer, but I often saw him with the padre, sitting down at the dock, philosophizing about life. People trust him.”

“So you don’t think it’s mysterious?” Nell turned away from the window.

“Well, I do,” Izzy spoke up from the backseat. “I think he was telling you something without actually saying it.”

“I think he was telling Beatrice in a nice way to mind her own business,” Sam said.

Izzy tapped his knee and he caught her fingers, wrapping them tightly in his own.

Nell looked back and nodded to Sam. “There was definitely
some of that. Finnegan died less than two days ago. He was urging her to back off a bit. But there was something more, something he wasn’t saying.” Somehow Nell felt sure of that, but explaining it was another matter.

Ben slowed down as they passed by Finnegan’s gate. “Are you folks up for a short walk? How about we park at the community garden and check out the plants? It’ll give me a quick getaway, too. I’ve been trapped in that restaurant parking lot one too many times.” He pulled off the road and angled the car along the easement that ran in front of Finnegan’s property and the garden next to it.

“The walk may work out the kinks,” Sam said. “I spent my day being a fly on the harbor pier, sitting in a cramped fold-up chair, snapping photos. People don’t see me after a while, and it’s amazing what the camera captures.”

“A peeping Tom, that’s what my Sam has become.” Izzy climbed out of the car. “Who would have thought?”

Sam’s long legs followed her. “Yep. I’ll know everyone’s secrets. Better behave yourself, Izzy.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

“It’ll be a great series, Sam,” Ben said. He clicked the lock button on his key chain and followed Nell over to the raised garden beds.

The perimeter of the garden area was lit with solar lights that Ham and Jane had donated, and in the dim light, they saw several other plot tenders walking the narrow paths, pinching off tomato suckers and checking the soil in their raised beds.

At the back edge of the garden, Nell spotted Beverly Walden, standing alone near the storage shed. The long skirt of her pale blue sundress blew slightly in the wind, and light from the harbor boats shone through it. She wore a wide sisal hat with an elegantly flowing brim, a ribbon tied around the band. It was a completely unexpected look, and in that moment, she reminded Nell of a painting she’d seen of a woman looking off to sea, yearning for the return of her sailor.

Nell waved, but Beverly’s attention was somewhere else. In the next minute she slipped off into the tree shadows near the shoreline.
Nell watched for a moment longer, but she was gone. Somewhere. Perhaps walking along the narrow sea path that wound behind all the galleries, all the way to the Artist Palate dock and beyond. A quick walk to the deck where the band was already filling the air with music.

“It looks good,” Izzy said, crouching down over a row of carrot tops. “Look at all those tiny plants peeking out of the soil. They look so happy.”

Ben laughed as Sam crouched down beside her. “Happy plants, we’re leaving you now,” he said in a low, husky voice, then lifted Izzy back up with him.

“The Fractured Fish are calling us,” Nell said.

The foursome walked down the street to the beat of Andy Risso’s drums and joined the parade of concertgoers, some singing along with the music, the old gaslights of Canary Cove lighting the way. It was a happy vibe—just like Izzy’s carrot tops—and filled with the hope of summer. As it should be.

Ben looped an arm across her shoulders and massaged lightly. “Let it go, Nellie,” he whispered, and beneath his sure fingers, the tightness in her back loosened, her spirit lightened.

The deck at the Artist’s Palate was crowded with villagers and vacationers, families and couples. Whole families filled picnic tables, and off toward one corner, Nell waved at the Delaney clan, kids and all, enjoying themselves. Maeve waved Nell and Izzy over to introduce her grandchildren. “Their first Fractured Fish concert,” she laughed, showing off their T-shirts.

“Beautiful kids, Kristen,” Izzy said to their mom. “You should send Sasha over to our kids’ beanie class.”

While Izzy gave class dates and times to Kristen, Nell noticed that Davey had escaped the table. She watched him move through the crowd, patting folks on the back, laughing at comments. Soon he was swallowed up by the crowd near the back steps.

“Davey isn’t crazy about crowds—he needs his breathing room,” D.J. said, following Nell’s look.

“I understand. It can get crazy here.”

They made more small talk, and as Nell followed Izzy through the crowd, she wondered why D.J. felt compelled to explain Davey’s behavior to her. She glanced back at the table. Davey still hadn’t returned.

The college-student staff Merry had hired raced to keep up with orders, piling trays with calamari and shrimp pizzas, burgers and fried clams, and plates of fish and chips, while their boss entertained from the outdoor stage. All across the deck, feet stomped and hands clapped as Andy beat on his drums, his long blond hair flying, and Merry and Pete filled the summer air with “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”

Cass and the Brewsters waved from a table near the deck railing. “I think it’s the last table,” Cass said. “Sit.”

Birdie and Nick were already there, and in between them sat Gabby, her bright green hat in place and a smile lifting her whole face.

“Gabby promised Pete she’d come to hear the band. So here we are,” Birdie said. “Ready to rock.”

Nick was quiet and preoccupied. But when Ben asked about his day, he responded with the gallantry they’d come to expect. Soon, with genuine interest, he was talking to Sam and Ben about their sailboat.

“The whole town must be here.” Izzy leaned in to be heard over the music. She pointed to the table next to them. “Even the city council.”

Nell looked over. There was Beatrice, her makeup perfectly applied and wearing a skirt and jacket. The mayor and his wife sat across from her, along with a business owner the city was trying to lure to Sea Harbor. Laura and Elliott Danvers were there, too, and Nell couldn’t help but feel sorry for the high-profile couple, knowing they’d rather be with Sam and Izzy and their other friends, relaxing, clapping, having fun. They were often called in to help extol the merits of Sea Harbor businesses, and Laura, like her mother before her, always complied. Beatrice sat next to Laura, looking slightly out
of place in the halter-and-sandals crowd, but she proved herself a good sport, clapping and mouthing the song lyrics.

“Now, that’s the part of Beatrice that’s endearing,” Nell said to Ben.

“And then there’s Sal,” Birdie said, nodding toward the quiet man as he slipped away from the table and headed for the bar. “The poor man can’t escape Beatrice’s political schmoozing even at a Fractured Fish concert. He’d probably rather be off in that fancy yacht Beatrice bought him.”

“That’s a beast,” Sam said. “He was cutting some mighty waves the other day over near the island.”

“You two should talk,” Izzy said to Sam and Ben. “How many times have Aunt Nell and I played second fiddle to your sailboat?”

Nell laughed. The handsome Hinckley Sou’wester that Sam and Ben had invested in was truly a cherished possession. Sam’s other wife, Izzy called it sometimes.

Beatrice looked over and lifted a glass of wine in greeting, a gracious smile in place. The earlier conversation was forgotten, a part of the day’s business, was how Nell imagined she thought about it. If you don’t know the answer to a question, you go to the source. And for some reason, Beatrice thought she and Birdie might be a source. At least once Beverly Walden failed to answer all her questions.

Nell thought of the quiet woman being subjected to Beatrice’s storm of personal questions. Being nervous was probably an understatement.

A while later, after the second pitcher of beer was emptied, a basket of fried calamari devoured, and a medley of old Beatles tunes played to a rousing crowd, Ben announced that the Endicott shuttle would soon be shuttling along home.

Izzy and Sam were out on the dance floor, with Gabby between them, her body wild and whirling to Pete’s rendition of “Twist and Shout.”

“She’s having the time of her life,” Birdie said.

“She doesn’t do much of this in New York,” Nick said, his eyes following Gabby’s gyrations.

“Then we shall stay longer,” Birdie said. “You two go along. We’ll make sure everyone has a ride.”

Nell slid her arm through Ben’s. “Does this mean we’re old fuddy-duddies?” she asked as they walked slowly back down Canary Cove Road to the car. “Even Birdie is outlasting us.”

“Nope. Not in a million years,” Ben whispered into her hair. “It simply means there are lots of ways to liven up an evening . . .”

The easement along the garden site was now packed with cars, all the way down to Finnegan’s fence. They walked to the end of the row and Ben unlocked the CRV.

Nell stopped, her hand on the door. And then she frowned and took a few steps toward Finnegan’s fence, straining to hear.

“Nellie, you’re dreaming up mysteries again,” Ben said, watching his wife from behind the wheel. “Hop in.”

He leaned across the front seat and pushed open the door.

“I thought I saw lights.” She climbed into the car.

“Harbor lights, probably,” Ben said. “Or moonlight, maybe, reflecting off a piece of metal.”

Nell nodded, settling back into the seat. She slipped out of her heeled sandals.

But minutes later, when Ben backed out and turned the car toward home, it wasn’t harbor lights they saw.

Chief Jerry Thompson’s patrol car was parked at the drive leading to Finnegan’s property. A spotlight affixed to the side lit up the entrance to the property. The chief stood beside the car, one hand directing the beam.

And lit up like an actor on a stage was Tommy Porter, attaching a band of yellow police tape to the fence and beyond, wrapping Finnegan’s land in the awful sign of crime.

Ben pulled over to the side of the road. Chief Thompson looked up, saw them, and walked slowly across the street. His shoulders were stooped, an invisible burden weighing them down. He leaned into the driver’s window, his forearms resting on the edge.

“Ben. Nell.” He tipped his head slightly.

“What’s up, Jerry? The autopsy is back?”

Jerry nodded. “It was like we thought: he fell on the metal spike from a rusty tractor. But he didn’t fall because of the rain or the dark night or anything like that. He fell because someone slashed his face—and his carotid—with a knife. Someone wanted Finnegan dead.”