A Fatal Fleece (7 page)

He nodded as if affirming his own words, then turned around
and walked toward the gate that opened into his land. His head was low, his shoulders hunched.

In the distance, waving weeds were silhouetted against the lights of the art colony, and off to the right, the sea pounded a steady beat against the shore.

Birdie’s eyes trailed the lone figure as he made his way into the night. She took a step to follow him, her small sneakers crunching on the gravel.

Then she stopped and stood still. Her words, carried on the night breeze, were spoken to the fisherman’s retreating back.

“You’re a good person, Finnegan,” she said. “Thank you.”

Finnegan didn’t turn around or break his stride, but his head lifted slightly and his shoulders straightened.

And all of them knew he’d heard.

Chapter 6

I
t took Gabby Marietti one short week to wedge herself as tightly as a clam into the lives of Sea Harbor residents. With fresh bandages—colorful ones that Ella sent Harold out to buy—still crisscrossing her knees, the wild-haired girl tapped directly into the extraordinary empathy Sea Harbor residents were known for.

And she—along with Cass’ fleece vest—gave Finnegan new life. The two were often seen strolling the harbor, the winsome young girl in the green beanie and the old fisherman in the bright yellow knit fleece. He’d brushed away moisture in his eye when Cass had given it to him—“Damn bug in my eye,” he’d said—and slipped it on immediately, right over his old denim shirt.

And not a soul in town ever saw him without it again.

“Gabby looks good on that old pink Schwinn of yours,” Cass said.

“Doesn’t she, now? And she doesn’t seem to mind that it only has three gears. She and Harold spent an hour scrubbing and shining it up.” Birdie settled herself into a chair on the Artist’s Palate deck and pulled a half-finished floppy hat from her backpack.

“The bruises don’t seem to have held her back,” Nell said.

“That’s an understatement. I think Gabby knows more people in town than I do.”

They all knew that to be a gross exaggeration. Birdie Favazza knew everyone in Sea Harbor. And if a few managed to briefly
escape her acquaintance, they knew who the gracious lady in the magnificent house on the hill was—and they knew how integral she was to the town.

“Have you told Nick about Gabby’s tumble?” she asked.

“Yes. He calls a couple times a day, wanting a complete report.”

“So he calls you often?” Izzy said. Her brows lifted and a mischievous grin followed.

Birdie leaned over and patted her hand. “Sweet Izzy, I think your dear Sam and married life have turned you into a hopeless romantic. I’m an antique, sweetie.”

Izzy held up both hands. “What? What did I say? It’s nice he talks to you, that’s all. Besides, what does age have to do with anything? And you’re not an antique. You’ll never be old.”

Birdie laughed. “I like Nick. I always have. Joseph used to tease me about him, wondering if I had married the wrong brother.”

“Did you?” Cass asked.

Birdie looked up, surprised at the abruptness of Cass’ question. Then she laughed. “Of course not. I probably shouldn’t have married anyone at that point in my life. It was full to the brim. But Joseph was convincing.”

And he was very much in love with Birdie Favazza, according to all reports.

Everyone in town knew about Birdie’s unexpected wedding to the dashing Italian businessman. He was absolutely smitten with her, people said. Devoted. And apparently didn’t mind living in the shadow of Sonny Favazza, the man who had stolen Birdie’s heart decades before and, even in death, still had possession of it.

“What did Joseph do for a living?” Izzy asked. “You never talk about him. Was he retired?”

Birdie waved one hand in the air. “Oh, it was such a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Nell said.

“It seems like it sometimes. A lifetime. What did he do. . . . ?” Birdie wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Joseph and I had separate financial lives. It’s easier that way when you marry at our age. We both had more money than we knew what to do with and decided
not to mix it up. A prenuptial before it was in vogue, I guess you’d say. So we didn’t bother each other about our investments and business dealings. His was a family business—antique imports. Lovely pieces, I remember from the pictures he showed me. There was a warehouse in New York and one in Italy. Joseph did the paperwork and record keeping and that sort of thing, so he could be anywhere. He had a little office down on the water, which was all he needed.” She frowned, as if thinking back to that time, trying to clear her memory, to bring it back crisp and clear.

“Yes, that’s right. After we married, Joseph suggested once, just once, that he might use my den—Sonny’s den—for his business, but I rightly refused and he very nicely agreed, saying he’d probably be better in his own place anyway. So he found a nice little office down near the harbor.” Birdie smiled at the memory. “He loved the smell of the sea and the sounds of fishermen picking up their bait and taking their boats out to sea. He said he never had that kind of feeling in New York or back in Florence. He always felt hemmed in.”

“Is Nick his older brother?”

“No, younger,” Birdie said, her fingers automatically wrapping the yarn around her needle. “Nick came to our wedding—a small affair—but his life was in California. He didn’t seem to have any interest in the family business that Joseph was involved in. I don’t think Nicky got along with his mother very well. He came to the States to go to medical school and went back to Italy rarely, as far as I know.”

“Has he said when he’ll be coming back for Gabby?” Nell asked.

“As soon as he can. He feels terrible about abandoning her, but I’ve assured him that Sea Harbor is truly the kind of village that helps raise children. I’m already wondering what Harold and Ella will do when she leaves. They adore her.”

Emotion flitted across Birdie’s face. Harold and Ella weren’t the only ones who would miss Gabrielle Marietti.

“She’s a good kid. As Finn would say, she’s not half bad—the ultimate compliment.” Cass lifted one leg across the bench to sit down, then frowned at the wet edges of her jeans. “Damn. Occupational hazard,” she mumbled, a frown pulling her dark brows together.

“You’ve already been out on the
Lady Lobster
?” Nell asked. She looked down at the stain of seawater dampening the jeans’ cuff. Cass was rarely completely dry.

“I went out early to check the traps in the cove. I like it early—no one bothers me. It’s my time to meditate.”

Cass had probably been up at dawn, meditation or not. There was always work to do. And she’d be going out later, too, baiting and checking traps, just like her father before her.

“Gabby brought me her pattern for that crazy beanie,” Izzy said. She pulled a pink sock out of her bag and began turning a row. Socks were her travel projects, her half-finished hoodie left behind. “She’s going to help teach a kids’ class to make one. I think they’ll love having someone their own age involved. She’s also been scavenging through my bins of scrap yarn for a new project, she says. She won’t tell me what she’s making, though—says it will be the coolest surprise.”

“From what I’ve gathered, Sophie the cook is her best friend. Gabby loves her,” Birdie said.

“Finn is giving the cook serious competition. He’s crazy about Gabby,” Cass said. “I’ve never seen him so soft and mushy.”

Nell laughed. They were an odd couple, for sure. She’d spotted them on Monday, sitting on a bench across the street from Izzy’s shop, eating ice cream. The sparkle in Finnegan’s eye was a welcome change from the defensive look he’d been wearing at the city council meeting not too many days before. Maybe Gabby was their secret weapon to get him to clean up his yard.

“She seems to have gotten through to him in a way few of us have,” Birdie said. “Except maybe for you and your mom, Cass.”

“Gabby doesn’t want anything from him, that’s why.” Cass said. “Neither do we. Besides, he likes Ma’s Irish stew.”

That was true. So many people wanted a piece of Finnegan these days. They wanted him gone from a piece of land he loved. Maybe even gone from the town. Nell thought about the harsh tones the Delaneys and Beatrice Scaglia had used at the meeting.

All Gabby wanted from him was his company—and maybe the use of his fishing pole now and then.

“But even those of us who don’t want anything from him aren’t always made to feel welcome,” Birdie reminded Cass. “I’ve often wondered what that’s all about. It’s a mystery to me. I’ve known Finnegan forever. We’re friends, of a sort. But after Moira died, I’d try to take things over now and then—a pot roast, smoked salmon. He was getting so thin, it seemed to me. But I learned my lesson. I wasn’t welcome. Might hurt myself on all the clutter, and there was poison ivy everywhere, he said, but that was an excuse, I always thought. And shortly after that he built a giant mailbox near the gate and told me that he’d sure welcome Ella’s pot roast if I ever had a mind to give him some. I could just leave it in the box, he said.”

Nell laughed. “A recluse who likes pot roast.”

“It’s strange, but, then, so is Finn,” Cass said. “He lets me come to the house—if you can call it that—but that’s about it. I’ve often wanted to prowl around and see what else is there. It’s at least three acres. But I don’t. I blindly obey. I’ve just gotten used to it, I guess. The man has earned his idiosyncrasies, is how I think about it.”

“Ben’s mother used to talk about how lovely that strip of land used to be. I think their dentist had an office there. It was neatly kept.”

Cass nodded. “I remember it because my dad would pull up in his boat to buy bait. Moira would always have hot dogs ready for us. We loved it. Pete’d eat five dogs, and Finnegan would tease him something fierce. Told him he’d soon be barking.”

Birdie picked up her knitting and began doing yarn overs on the rim, looping the yarn from front to back, then knitting the next stitch. The yarn lay across her lap like silky seaweed. “It was a lovely structure back then. A twin building was just on the other side of that little access path where the Arts Association is now. Both buildings had a couple of offices and an apartment above. Joseph rented one of the offices—I’m not sure which. Finnegan was different back then. Moira grounded him. He was always intolerant of things he thought were unjust, but Moira tempered it, let him keep his values without hurting people in the process.”

Cass put her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. “After my dad died, Finn was always there, helping us with the traps,
painting buoys, fixing lines. He’d never take a penny. It’s a mystery to me—just like it is to everyone else—why he won’t clean up his yard, but it’s his own business.” Cass shifted over on the bench as Merry Jackson approached, balancing a round tray holding mugs and plates.

The bar owner squeezed her narrow hips between Cass and Izzy and set the tray on the table. “This is today’s special,” she said. “And probably tomorrow’s, too. My homemade granola. You’ll love it—I promise.” She set down four giant beer mugs filled with fruit, nuts, and fat grains, all topped off with yogurt. Next came a basket of warm elderberry muffins and a pot of whipped butter.

Izzy scooped up a dollop of yogurt with her finger and licked it clean. “Fantastic.”

“I especially like the beer mugs. Nice presentation, Merry.”

“Oh, shush.” Merry swatted Cass with a napkin. “I’m keeping my artists healthy,” she said. “Whether they like it or not.”

For as long as the Artist’s Palate had anchored the north end of Canary Cove, the Palate’s bill of fare had featured margaritas and thirty-plus kinds of beer served with fried everything—squid, clams, pickles, fish, asparagus. But once her ex-husband was no longer a part of the business, Merry changed things. In nice-weather months, she put out coffee pots and mugs and opened the gate to the deck early in the morning. Hot coffee and orange juice for the Canary Cove artists before they rolled back their awnings and opened their gallery doors. That was her goal. Until the day she saw Ham Brewster munching down potato chips with his hastily drunk coffee. The next morning she added whole-grain muffins and slapped Ham’s hand hard when he reached for a bag of bar chips.

“It just grew,” she said with a shrug when the
Sea Harbor Gazette
ran a feature article on her. Her homemade granola and fresh fruit were a hit. And the fact that it meant adding hours to her day didn’t seem to bother the diminutive bar owner.

“So I heard you talking about Finnegan.” Merry leaned in closer, her body as nimble as a ballet dancer’s. A long blond braid fell over one shoulder. “His daughter’s over there, so keep it low.”

She nodded toward Beverly Walden, sitting near the railing with several other Canary Cove artists.

She seemed oblivious to the group around her, her eyes focused beyond the trees at the sea and a small island out past the point. She looked peaceful somehow, happy, as if she were spinning a perfect life for herself out on that little piece of land, or maybe off on one of the luxury boats that sailed out of the harbor and into the sea.

Beverly was thirty-eight, according to the bio they’d seen at her art show. Not beautiful by Hollywood standards, she was, nevertheless, an interesting-looking woman with a curvy figure and a certain sensuousness about her. Streaked brown hair hung loose beyond her shoulders. She’d been back in Sea Harbor just a few months, but everyone knew who she was—Finnegan’s prodigal daughter, though rumor had it she hadn’t been as well received by her father as her biblical counterpart.

“See that look on her face?” Merry said. “I’m thinking she has a boyfriend. Man friend, I suppose you’d say. She’s been wearing makeup, edgier clothes.” Merry’s mouth lifted in a mysterious smile. “I know the look.”

“She’s nice-looking,” Birdie said, turning back to the table. “She looks like her mother, with that long nose and high cheekbones. Rather mysterious, I think. She certainly doesn’t look like Finnegan.”

She was standing now, leaning on the railing that overlooked the sea in one direction and the parking lot in the other. When she lifted her hand in a wave, Nell followed its direction. Davey Delaney stood below on the asphalt, next to a Delaney truck. His hands were on his hips, sunglasses cutting the glare, and he looked up at her, as if maybe he’d been there watching for a while, hoping she’d look down.