Angora Alibi (12 page)

“We saw Justin there last Saturday night,” Nell said.

“Yeah. I did, too. It was the night before he died, right? Eerie to think about it
now. I asked Tyler about him that night because I noticed Justin flashing a roll of
bills in the parking lot, like he’d won the lottery or something.”

Nell remembered Justin pulling something out of that fanny pack he wore. He’d put
it on the bar between him and Ty—a show-and-tell gesture. She supposed it could have
been bills.

“Who’d want to hurt a kid like Justin?” Kevin asked.

“That’s the question, I suppose,” Birdie said.

“The paper said he was from California. Maybe someone from there tracked him down
here, someone with an ax to grind.”

Nell half listened, knowing the stories were just beginning, all the possible things
that could have happened that fateful morning. Strangers, vagabonds. Sinister outsiders.
And even as people were clinging to those possibilities—to the assurance that Justin’s
death was a freakish deed committed by someone no one knew, someone who had immediately
left the area and would never come back—more rational minds were dismissing the tales
as unreliable and without merit, without rhyme or reason.

The more likely scenario, the one no one wanted to mention out loud, was that Justin
Dorsey was killed by a neighbor or an acquaintance or a friend, or someone who at
that very minute was wandering around the farmers’ market, looking for the perfect
cabbage or bunch of beets.

B
y Thursday, the news of Justin’s murder had created a rock-solid undercurrent of fear
and suspicion—one fueled by gossip, innuendo, and the bits of factual information
that made it onto the front page of the
Sea Harbor Gazette
.

Or inside the paper, in Mary Pisano’s “About Town” column.

“All right, Birdie, what does Mary have to say?” Nell stood at the old library table
in the yarn shop back room, tossing a handful of spicy pecans into a salad. They’d
all shown up early for Thursday’s knitting group, as if the week’s events had stretched
out the days interminably and they were desperate for the comfort of Izzy’s back room.
Although they talked and texted daily, nothing was as therapeutic as a lapful of yarn,
a calming sea breeze, and being with dear friends. It was a formula that defied failure,
and Nell’s seafood surprises and salads and pastas were icing on the cake.

Birdie sat in her usual place near the fireplace, her enormous knitting bag beside
her and an open bottle of chilled pinot gris on the coffee table in front of her.
She smoothed out the newspaper on her knees and read aloud from the column, entitled
“A Season of Hope.” After scanning the beginning she skipped to the last paragraph:

Our beloved town has been rocked mercilessly with this recent tragic happening. Justin
Dorsey was not a Sea Harbor native, but he was a Sea Harbor tragedy, and it is the
responsibility of each and every one of us who loves our town dearly to right this
awful wrong and bring the perpetrator to justice. We need to retrace our steps, to
plumb the recesses of our minds for any strangers who might have crossed our paths
in recent days or for any unusual happenings we may have overlooked, and report them
promptly to the authorities. We shall all be citizen deputies until this is put behind
us.

It is the
worst of times
, as the Great Writer wrote, and it is up to each one of us to help our stellar police
department bring back
the best of times
, and to make this summer
our season of hope
.

Birdie took off her glasses and looked up. “So . . . ,” she said.

“Mary’s gone literary on us.” Cass walked over to the table and tore off a piece of
sourdough bread. “Do you think she forgot Dickens’ name?”

“I think she just wants people to look it up on their own,” Nell laughed. “Mary fits
more facts into that almost preadolescent-sized frame of hers than Wikipedia.” She
walked over to the library table and began pulling food containers out of her oversized
bag.

Birdie agreed. “Mary is very perceptive, and her heart is always in the right place.
But I’m wondering how Chief Thompson feels about her plea to help the police department
do their job.”

“That poor guy,” Izzy said. She grabbed a handful of silverware and napkins. “Although
by now he’s probably used to it.”

“And who knows? Maybe Mary’s piece will actually draw some leads. Maybe someone saw
someone down there near the beach, or saw Justin talking to someone, and will think
twice about it,” Cass said.

Nell put two wide forks into a large pottery bowl and suggested they fill their plates.
She motioned for Birdie to take the first one.

Nell never called the Thursday-night libations a meal, although Cass claimed that
the leftovers kept her going for at least a few days. “Except those days may be disappearing,”
she grumped. “Now that Danny is hanging around so much, it’s sometimes gone before
it hits the refrigerator.”

Tonight’s shrimp and fresh pea salad, which Nell spiced up with pepperoncini, capers,
cilantro, and a light yogurt dressing, would be no exception.

Izzy heaped salad onto her plate, added a chunk of warm sourdough bread and pat of
sweet butter, and followed Birdie across the room. “Mae’s nieces were working here
today and talking nonstop about Justin’s murder. Jillian and Rose said lots of them
knew Justin, or at least who he was. Somehow the twins seem younger to me, but actually
there’s only a couple years between them. And Justin loved the boogie boards and all
their beach fun.”

“This must be difficult for them. Teenagers think themselves immortal,” Birdie said.
“And to have it be someone they knew is just all the more difficult.”

Izzy nodded and swallowed a bite of salad. “The kids liked Justin. He was a regular
guy, they said.”

“And just enough older to make him seem cool,” Cass said.

“Has anyone talked to Janie today?” Nell asked. “I wonder how she’s doing, poor thing.”

“She’s been working. Lily Virgilio has become her surrogate mom. She loves Janie and
feels so bad for her,” Izzy said.

“Janie knew Justin better than anyone,” Nell said. “The police will be questioning
her.”

“Tommy is pushing for some breathing room for her,” Izzy said. “She’s still in shock.”

Cass refilled her plate and returned to her chair. “I’m sure the whole awful mess
hasn’t sunk in for her yet.” She looked over at Birdie. “Justin was supposed to meet
with you Sunday, right? What was that about?”

“Now, that’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Birdie said. “I don’t have any idea. I didn’t know
him all that well, except for his connection to Janie, whom I love dearly.”

“But people like to talk to you, Birdie. You have that aura,” Izzy said. “Maybe he
wanted to talk to you about Janie.”

“Aura? Oh, sweet Izzy, I don’t have an aura. I have
years
. Lots of them. Sometimes that is comforting to people because they know that there’s
little that can surprise me.” Birdie gave a laugh, though it had a sad edge to it.
She pushed herself up straighter in the chair and wiped her hands on a napkin. “I’ve
been thinking about it, though. I have. It wasn’t a casual ‘let’s talk sometime’ invitation.
Justin had something specific he wanted to talk to me about. He called me late Saturday
afternoon—probably after he left here—and said it was important he see him. He sounded
anxious, so I suggested we meet right then, but he couldn’t. He was on his way to
‘an important business deal,’ he said. So we settled on Sunday morning.”

Nell frowned. “Business deal?”

“I think sometimes Justin was full of himself. He probably meant Lily was giving him
a paycheck.”

And before they saw him at the Ocean’s Edge. So a late-Saturday business meeting.
Nell stored away the information.

“So, why did he want to talk to Birdie? Any ideas?” Cass carried her empty plate to
the small galley kitchen and called back over her shoulder, “Maybe someone didn’t
want him talking to you?”

“I can’t imagine why. I thought he might be looking for another job. I have that big
place—maybe he thought Harold could use some help with the yard or driving the car—he
seemed to like driving the cars at the Community Center event.”

“That doesn’t seem to fall into an ‘important’ category, though,” Nell said.

“If you need money badly, maybe it does,” Birdie said.

While Izzy cleared the remaining plates and hands were washed, they tried to get their
arms around a crime that on the surface made no sense. A young life lost. And many
other lives affected.

“I don’t think it was for a job,” Izzy said. “Not the way he was acting.”

They settled back in their chairs and pulled out needles and yarn and half-finished
projects. Izzy traced the tiny shape of her latest pair of booties, no bigger than
a thumb, knit from a green-and-yellow-striped angora blend.

Between the four of them, baby Perry would have a knitting wardrobe to match any of
the Hollywood babies that filled the popular magazines. Nell reached over and touched
the tiny stocking.

“Why don’t you think he needed another job?” Birdie asked. She tightened the last
row of stitches on the tiny romper. With the legs finished, she was beginning the
main body—creamy soft and cuddly and ready to hold a tiny baby.

“He was considering buying that motorcycle, for starters. And he invited Janie to
Duckworth’s for dinner. He told Sam at the dive that things were picking up for him—‘big-time,’
he said. Maybe he’d saved a little money and was feeling more secure. Janie was in
the dark about where this sudden money came from. I think she was concerned about
the bike—and certainly that set of pottery.”

Nell brought up the roll of money he’d had on Saturday, which they all thought strange.

“Maybe he wanted investment advice,” Cass joked. She smoothed out the small sweater
she was knitting for the baby, a miniature fisherman’s sweater knit in a cotton so
soft the baby would feel as if he were on a cloud. “From his fisherman aunt,” Cass
had said when they questioned her choice of a cable sweater for one so tiny. “It’s
important he know from the start there will be lobsters in his life.”

“Whatever the reason, he knew you, Birdie—or about you, anyway,” Izzy said. “And Janie
clearly thinks you set the moon. He probably just wanted to talk to you about his
life, about Janie, jobs. Mistakes he’s made. We’ve all done that at one time or another.”

They pondered that possibility. Even Birdie had to admit it was possible. She was
like a confessor without the penance. No matter who it was, she always listened, always
cared, and was always fair and wise in her answer. Birdie never sugarcoated life’s
problems, but life, in her clear gray eyes—and in Mary Pisano’s and Dickens’ words—was
always a season of hope.

“I’m wondering if he was in trouble,” Nell said. She fingered the edge of the baby
blanket, her fingers rolling over the seed pearl stitches. It was the softest merino
blend she could find, a touch of silk on a baby’s pink cheeks.

Heavy footsteps pressed their thoughts into silence as someone walked up the outdoor
steps to Janie’s apartment.

As if choreographed, four pair of hands stopped moving, needles and yarn dropped to
laps. All eyes looked up at the ceiling, the room suddenly still.

Izzy leaned forward and started to push herself up from the chair. Then she stopped
and shook her head, murmuring more to herself than the others, “What am I doing? How
silly. It’s Janie’s apartment. She’s an adult. She can handle visitors.” But her voice
was tight.

No one spoke.

They waited. Minutes later the footsteps came back down the stairs, more slowly this
time, and then there was a knock at the door.

A quick knock, but urgent and insistent.

Cass got to the door first.

Tommy Porter stood on the doorstep, disheveled and alone. He looked as if he hadn’t
slept for days.

“Do you know where Janie is?” He was out of uniform, his shorts and shirt wrinkled.

“I thought she was working,” Izzy said.

He shook his head. “I went there first. Lily said she got a phone call about an hour
before closing time and seemed upset. Lily told her to go home. But she doesn’t answer
the door.”

Izzy frowned, looked around. “Purl,” she called out.

The cat didn’t respond.

“I don’t think I’ve seen Purl all night,” Birdie said. “That’s unusual. She’s always
here on Thursday night.”

Izzy nodded. “Purl loves Janie. And she seems to have this sense that tells her when
she’s needed. Since the cat isn’t here, she must be up there—with Janie.”

She grabbed a ring of keys from the bookshelf. “Come on, Tommy.”

They all got up and headed for the door.

No one spoke aloud the fear ringing in their heads. For some reason, harm coming to
someone else they knew was unthinkable, and so they pushed the thought as far away
as their fears allowed.

Janie should be answering her door. Everyone loved Janie—she’d handled her jobs, her
life, her friends with good common sense and great compassion. No one would ever dream
of hurting her. . . .

Izzy was the first one up the stairs with Tommy’s breath an inch from her neck. She
knocked lightly. “Janie, are you all right? I was wondering if Purl was up here with
you.”

At the sound of her name, the cat jumped to the windowsill and looked out at them,
her green eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Janie,” Tommy called out, louder, an urgent cry. “Are you in there?”

“If Purl is there, Janie’s home.” Izzy tried the doorknob. It opened easily. They
walked slowly and carefully, one by one, into the darkened room. In the small kitchen
alcove, the stove clock added an eerie light to the area.

Purl was off the sill in an instant and flew toward the bedroom, as if leading them
along.
Come, follow me
.

Janie was curled up on the bed, her hair a blaze of color spread out on the downy
white comforter.

She didn’t move.

Tommy hurried over to the bed. He shook her arm gently. “Janie?”

Janie pulled her eyes open slowly.

An audible wave of relief passed through the room.

She shifted on the bed, and a half-empty box of tissues fell to the floor. As her
eyes adjusted, she saw the circle of concerned faces just behind Tommy.

“I . . . I must have fallen asleep,” she said.

As soon as the words were out, the tears began again, running down her cheeks in rivers,
falling onto the bedclothes. Purl pressed herself against Janie’s chest as if to stop
the flood.

“But you’re okay?” Tommy’s words were barely audible.

Janie nodded and reached for another tissue.

Birdie took one of her hand and held it in her own.

“Janie, these are dark days, but they will get better and we’ll find out who did this.”

Janie’s head rolled back and forth on the pillow. “It’s a nightmare. I want to wake
up and have it all go away.” She tried to focus on Birdie’s face. “If I hadn’t thrown
him out like that. If I had helped him more, maybe—”

“Justin’s death had nothing to do with you, Janie,” Tommy said. His voice was firm.

Janie took a deep breath and pushed herself up in the bed, as if Tommy’s words had
turned a switch. She swung her feet over the side and forked her fingers through her
hair, pushing it back from her face. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the
back of her hand.