A Fatal Fleece (16 page)

Chapter 16

A
lthough the news had come in late Monday night, the
Sea Harbor Gazette
managed to get enough of the facts down to write a headline that sent the town spinning.

MAN’S DEATH RULED A HOMICIDE.

A homicide
. Jerry had told them Finnegan died quickly, maybe even before he was stabbed by a piece of his own trash. His face was a mess, the chief said. Cass probably didn’t notice it because there was so much blood, and debris from the storm covered his face, masking it. It also made fingerprinting nearly impossible.

Those facts were kept from the reporter, so instead he detailed the city hall confrontation just days before Finnegan’s death and the efforts all across the peaceful town to wrest Finnegan’s property from him. And without naming names, the reporter made it clear that the list of those who wouldn’t be sad to have the land finally free of Finnegan was very long, indeed.

A small box at the end of the article urged readers to call or e-mail anything that might lead to the arrest of the individual or individuals involved in the crime.

“Why did he bring up all that city hall gossip?” Mary Pisano stomped across Coffee’s patio and pulled out a chair across from Nell. She sat down as hard as her four-foot-eleven-inch frame could manage, and slapped the morning paper down on the table. One of her short legs swung into the table leg and she winced, rubbing the
injured spot. “And since when did being an old crank merit being murdered? I’m so mad, I could spit nails.”

“Mad might be the easiest emotion right now.” Nell had carried several coffees outside. She thought Izzy might run by before the store opened. Maybe Cass and Birdie, too. The news the night before had instigated a flurry of text messages, but that didn’t replace seeing one another. The Seaside Knitters hugged easily when times were tough.

“This is nuts,” Mary said. Her laptop was tucked away in the backpack she’d set down on the flagstone patio. Nell knew she’d pull it out shortly, move over to the table beneath the old maple tree in the corner and pound out her opinion about Finnegan’s death, which would become tomorrow’s “About Town” column. But right now Mary was agitated and needed to vent.

“How could this happen in Sea Harbor?” she asked rhetorically. Her small fingers tapped out her frustration on the tabletop.

Nell poured a tiny container of cream into her coffee and stirred it until the strong brew turned the color of alpaca yarn. The thought had plagued her for hours. It wasn’t that Finnegan didn’t stir up controversy, but murder was something else entirely. “Maybe it was an argument gone sour,” she offered, but without conviction.

But that was unlikely. Someone had taken a knife to Finnegan’s face. It might not have been planned, but it was what it was—a vicious act of violence against one of the most nonviolent men they knew.

“How could Finnegan make anyone angry enough to kill him? Beneath his crusty facade, he was a peaceful man. The man nursed birds with broken wings back to health, for heaven’s sake.”

Nell was still.

“Maybe it was someone who didn’t know him. A drifter, maybe. Remember last winter when Finn didn’t have heat and stayed with Angus McPherran for a while? Some vagrants moved in and tried to light a fire to stay warm. Maybe one came back and Finnegan surprised him. Or the one he fought with not long ago.”

The vagrant theory was a favorite of Mary’s. It meant someone they didn’t know, would never know, and would never return to Sea Harbor, was responsible for the awful deed. It meant that everything would be okay, the bad person was far away and could no longer cause discomfort or fear in their fair town.

But Nell knew that was rarely the case. Whoever did this awful thing may well have been someone they knew. Someone who lived down the street or shopped at Shaw’s or was sitting right here on Coffee’s patio, listening to the buzz all around him about the awful thing that had happened to Finnegan.

“Finn came around the B and B sometimes just to see if I needed help with peeling paint or broken locks.”

“Speaking of your bed-and-breakfast, I hear you’re treating Nicholas Marietti well.”

“How could anyone not be nice to that charming man? My big hunk of a husband is a tad jealous, I think. Nick is the perfect guest. Truth be told, I don’t see much of him.”

“I thought he was working in your den?”

“Sometimes. He likes those old history books my grandfather collected. But he’s gone a lot. A man about town. Sherry—she does the night shift—says he takes a key so he can come and go and doesn’t disturb her if he gets in late.”

“He’s out late?”

“Oh, you know. Mostly he gets up early and goes out, I think. Henrietta O’Neal down the street is like that. Grabs her walking stick and off she goes before the sun is up. Those two have probably run into each other.”

They both smiled at the thought of the rotund eighty-year-old ambling through the predawn streets of Sea Harbor with Nick Marietti. But her smile faded when she remembered seeing Nick early one morning. And he hadn’t been walking with Henrietta O’Neal.

A shadow fell over the table as Cass and Birdie appeared, greeting Mary and pulling out chairs.

Cass wrapped Nell in a hug that lasted longer than usual. “It just plain sucks,” she murmured into Nell’s ear.

She settled her backpack on the floor and sat down. “Having Finn gone was bad enough. But happening this way?” She shook her head.

“And it’s so close to us,” Mary said. “Canary Cove. How many times a week do each of us pass Finn’s place?”

“Gabby hung around there nearly every day.” Birdie’s voice was quiet and held a tone none of them were used to hearing there:
fear
.

Nell pushed a cup of coffee in front of her. “Not in the middle of the night.” But she knew her words didn’t matter. Having a child in one’s life brought worry one couldn’t anticipate. And Birdie now had a child in her life.

“Did the chief give you any more details?” Cass asked.

“They know the knife was a rigging knife.”

“That narrows it down to every boat owner in Sea Harbor, which is almost everyone, including me.” Cass said. “You don’t go out on a boat without a knife.”

“I have a garage filled with those things,” Mary said. “Max throws the old rusty ones in a box, then trots down to McClucken’s to buy new ones.”

Sam and Ben had them, too. “Ben said the police will go through the property carefully today. He was sure the case would be solved quickly.”

“Jerry wants this town safe more than any of us,” Mary said. “Or at least as much. He will turn over all stones.”

“Where’s Gabby today?” Cass asked.

“Sam took her sailing. I think it was spur-of-the-moment, and more than likely Ben has been recruited.”

Nell glanced down and checked her messages. “You’re right.”

“Sam thought it’d be good to get out on the water. It’s a great pacifier.”

“And a great excuse,” Nell said. “Nothing would please those two more than if Gabby wanted to go out every day.”

“And Nick?” Cass asked.

“He went, too. We talked to Gabby this morning. It’s not easy to tell a ten-year-old that someone she cared about was killed. Here she is,
a New Yorker, and she comes to quiet Sea Harbor to meet murder face-to-face.”

“Nick is great with that little girl,” Mary said. “I watch them sometimes, wandering around the B and B’s back trails. They have a lovely kinship. With you and Nick beside her, Birdie, she’ll be fine.”

Birdie forced a smile. “Well, it will be up to Nick to be beside her, I’m afraid. He thinks it’s time to take her to Maine—their original destination. I suppose he wants to get her out of all this mess. Perhaps it’s best.”

Nell sat quietly, listening, wondering at Nick’s sudden move. He was thinking he’d be there a week, he had told Mary.

Cass put down her coffee mug with such force, it sloshed across the table. With a swipe of her napkin, she soaked up the liquid. “No,” she said. “It’s not best she leave now.” She looked at Birdie and Nell. “You know I’m right, both of you. I haven’t taken her out on the
Lady Lobster
yet. And we haven’t looked for mussels or had a clambake. There’s another beanie class scheduled, and the garden party is coming up.”

She looked from one to the other, seeking agreement.

But there was no argument, of course. Cass was right. They weren’t ready for Gabby to walk out of their lives. But their world had changed.

Murder did that.

A while later, Nell stopped by the yarn shop, hoping to see Izzy, if just for a moment. Mae was at the counter,
her glasses slipping down her nose, trying to deal with a return. Her nieces, Jillian and Rose, moved in and out of the Magic Room—Izzy’s name for the children’s playroom—calming preschoolers, answering customers’ questions, and helping someone find the perfect lightweight cotton blend for a summer sweater.

Izzy?
Nell mouthed to Mae over a customer’s head.

“She took a break,” Mae said loudly. Then motioned Nell to the desk. She continued to punch the computer keys while she talked, her glasses slipping perilously close to the end of her long nose. “Willow called. She thought someone should go out to see Angus McPherran and talk to him about Finn. I told her she was a gem and it was a good idea. Those two were buddies, Angus and Finnegan. I saw them often, drinking beer at the end of the pier and talking about the good old days. She was looking for you, too, wondering if maybe you would want to go along.”

Leave it to Willow and Izzy to think of the Old Man of the Sea. He was the one who had stood up for Finnegan at the city council meeting. And who gave Finn a warm bed when the nor’easters came and Finn had forgotten to pay his light bill. If he hadn’t already heard the latest news, it would be kinder to hear it from two friends and not from a newspaper report written by someone who might be more motivated by additional inches on the front page than by facts.

“She just left, not two minutes ago. You could catch up with her at Willow’s gallery.”

Nell checked her watch. She had a couple of hours before a board meeting at the Sea Harbor Historical Museum. Willow and Izzy didn’t really need her, but she was very fond of Angus.

Besides, she wanted to see Izzy and Willow. Bad news did that. And good news. It brought them together for comfort or for celebration.

Angus was sitting on a stone wall above the rocky coast, looking out to sea. His cabin, a neat two-bedroom home that smelled of pine and fresh air, was a few yards away. Window boxes overflowed with marigolds and geraniums, neatly planted and well cared for. The small house was all that he’d asked of the city when he donated the acres of land to them, the land that had become Anja Angelina Park, named after his cherished wife and Angie Archer, a young girl he had befriended. They were both gone now, but the park was a reminder of the beauty and love each of them had brought into old Angus’ life. And now it was there for the whole community to enjoy, complete with hiking trails and a community center that fit right
into the woods, where Willow Adams and others taught art and music and cooking.

The old man looked up as the three women approached, his weathered skin wrinkling into a sad smile. The old floppy hat that covered a meager head of thin white hair came off and he stood and bowed slightly. He was stooped these days, his white beard seeming to pull his shoulders forward, his body bending toward the earth.

“It’s a sad day,” he said. He motioned for them to join him on the wall, and eased himself back down. Nell sat down beside him, while Willow and Izzy sat cross-legged on the ground.

For a while they sat in silence, the pounding of the waves against the rocks and the wind whistling through the towering pines providing background for their thoughts.

“There goes the Hinckley.” Angus pointed to a white sail sloping toward the sea near Sunrise Island.

“Our Hinckley?” Nell said. She and Izzy squinted against the glare. But what they saw was a dot of a sailboat.

“Yep. I know ’em all. That’s Sam and Ben. See the way she heels?”

He fell silent again, and the others did, as well. The boat disappeared and they watched the parade of new ones—lobster boats off to work, whale-watching boats looking for a show. Yachts and sailboats, speedboats and small fishing vessels. The world Finn had left behind.

Willow cupped one hand over her eyes against the sun’s glare and looked up at Angus. “He was a good man.”

“Yep. And a good friend,” Angus said. “At least as much as he could be. He spent time with me in the winter when his heat went off. Crazy fool.”

“I guess if he had sold the land, he could have had a decent place to live.”

“I suppose.” Angus looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he turned his body sideways and looked out at the sea. “Finnegan had reasons for the things he did. Good reasons, I suspect.”

“Do you have any idea who did this to him, Angus?” Nell asked.

Angus was silent for so long that Nell thought she might have offended him, although she wasn’t sure how.

Finally, he answered. “He made a lot of people mad. Especially when he got his righteous hackles up. Finnegan was a black-and-white fellow—though you’d never know it for the ruckus he made when they took his driver’s license away.” Angus shook his head and chuckled at the memory. “He was one furious fellow that day, even though he knew as well as anybody that it was the right thing to do. Elsewise, sure and he’d be killing someone with the way he drove that truck. The truck had stopped obeying him, he said. I guess it had.

“But he wouldn’t have taken the license back if they’d offered it to him. He knew it was time; he just had to put on a show.

“But when people connived or lied or messed up other people’s lives, that’s what he couldn’t tolerate, even if it was none of his damn business. He’d take himself off to the newspaper or city hall or anyone who’d listen. Confront the people himself. Remember when that old mayor, dead now, cheated on his wife? Finnegan let him know it’d be all over Mary Pisano’s column if he didn’t shape up.