A Fatal Fleece (36 page)

“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 florist. 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

“W
hat’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.

She looked up, startled at a sudden thought. “Someone could have accessed Finn’s land by boat, couldn’t they? Come up quietly without being seen by anyone.”

“Possible. Sure,” Izzy said.

“All day today, boats kept coming into the picture. But as Cass said, nearly everyone around here owns a boat.”

“But not everyone uses them for daily transportation.”

“Or to sneak onto someone’s land and kill them,” Sam added.

“So maybe . . . maybe the person who killed Finnegan planned it and got there by boat,” Izzy said. She leaned against a stool.

“Coming in from the waterside, they were assured of cover. No patrol cars or late-night revelers would have seen them,” Ben said. “No car tracks.”

Nell told them about the visit to June Risso. “A sweet lady who minds her neighbors’ business quite nicely. The person Beverly was seeing was coming to her by boat—then later, after Tommy gave her the
Moira
, she was going out to meet him by boat.”

“Boats. Everywhere,” Izzy said. “And boat knives.”

Ben took out a bottle of wine. “It seems clear that if we could find the person Beverly was meeting, we’d be closer to finding out the truth about Finnegan’s death. And maybe Beverly’s, as well. He had to know something of what was going on.”

And then Nell dropped her bombshell news and told them about the flowers.

“Davey Delaney!” Izzy’s voice filled the room.

“Yes,” Nell said.
Davey Delaney was sending Beverly flowers.

The name hung above the island, a dark cloud.

“Davey . . .” Izzy repeated. “But . . .”

Nell knew what she was thinking.
But his wife is my friend. I know his kids. I’d know if their father could do something so awful.
It was one thing to sit in the back room of the yarn shop and add people’s name to a list of possible suspects, but a different one entirely to think they actually murdered someone. Davey Delaney could be rude, but a murderer?

Finally, Ben said, “Sending someone flowers doesn’t mean he killed someone.” He handed Nell a glass of wine.

“Flowers from that shop cost a fortune,” Izzy said. “Why would he do that if he didn’t care about her?”

“They’ve been together. We saw them at the dock that day—”

“And Davey looked guilty as sin,” Izzy added. “He couldn’t wait to get away from us.”

“He has a bruiser of a boat,” Sam said.

They tried to force the image. Davey . . . Beverly Walden . . .

But the puzzle pieces didn’t move smoothly.

“His wife was out of town the night of Finn’s murder. He could have taken a dinghy and gone over there after the party. No one would have missed him at home.”

“But Davey,” Sam said, shaking his head. “He’s a strange guy, but I can’t see him romancing Beverly Walden.”