Angora Alibi (27 page)

A little farther down, standing alone in the shadow of the Artist’s Palate sign, was
Tyler Gibson, leaning against the wall as he watched Tamara Danvers—or perhaps the
woman with her—move up the steps.

The belt buckle
. Nell started to call to him. She’d never returned it. It was still heavy and cumbersome,
taking up too much room in her everyday bag. Which was sitting on her bed at home.
She lowered her hand.
Tomorrow or Monday
. She’d return it soon. And perhaps Tyler would know how it got mixed up in Justin’s
belonging. A loose end. A small frayed piece of yarn. Probably unimportant, something
that needed to be snipped off.

But maybe not.
Nell stared across the street, snippets of conversation racing through her head.
Tyler might just be more crucial than they’d given him credit for. Perhaps they’d
misread his role completely. The thought sent a chill racing through her.

At that moment, Tyler looked her way—gave a small wave, a nod of his head. Then he
disappeared up the stairs and into the press of bodies waiting for tables at the bar
and grill.

L
aura Danvers brought her oldest daughter, Sara, to Gabby’s Sunday-afternoon class.
Instead of the lightweight beanie pattern she had taught last summer, Gabby had talked
Izzy into an easy headband project. “But it will have my signature flower,” Gabby
proudly told the class, holding up a large crochet flower that would be attached to
the side of the finished band. “And the band will also keep your ears warm,” she said.

“Sara is now, at the age of eight, officially grown-up,” Laura said, standing in the
back of the room with Nell. Birdie was busy passing out patterns, following her granddaughter’s
directive. “Gabby’s class has become a rite of passage.”

Laura cradled a cup of hot tea in her hand. It was a gloomy June day, one that forgot
it was summer, and instead of the beach, vacationers walked up and down Harbor Road,
visited Canary Cove galleries, or hiked over in Ravenswood Park with fleeces and jeans
replacing swimsuits. A day for hot tea.

“It’s a good day for the kids to be in a knitting shop—safe and warm and cozy,” Nell
said.

Laura nodded. “Not a lot of that around here lately—safe and cozy. When will this
all end? The pointing of fingers, the rumors. Everything. Did you see that poor Tyler
Gibson last night? He was hanging outside the Palate like he’d lost his best friend.
And Janie and Dr. Lily. What a mess.”

Izzy joined them, telling them quietly that Gabby had everything under control, Mae
and her nieces were there to help, so why didn’t they all go down to Harry’s deli?
She was starving.

“Occupational hazard,” Laura teased, patting her stomach. Then she whispered to her
daughter that she’d be just down the street.

“How did your aunt do last night?” Izzy asked as they walked out onto the street.
“I barely got a chance to talk to her.”

“I think she enjoyed herself. She went out with some friends afterward, which surprised
me a little, but people deal with things differently. Maybe that’s her way, but . . .”

They waited, knowing there was more to Laura’s thought. She seemed to be working through
her understanding of her aunt as they talked.

“Tamara was happy about the pregnancy. Franklin, of course, was thrilled. But then
a few weeks ago—it was just a few days after the gala at the community center—there
was a shift, and she started to act jittery. I thought it was just morning sickness,
but now I don’t think so. Something was truly bothering her. I took her out to lunch,
tried to get her to talk about it, but she insisted things were okay. Janie was puzzled,
too, because Tamara’s checkups were fine. She didn’t even really need checkups, Janie
said, but Franklin insisted everything be watched carefully. He was always there with
her, right at her side.”

“What about Franklin?”

“I don’t think he noticed—except during that episode with Justin Dorsey. That upset
both of them.”

“And then she had a miscarriage,” Birdie said.

“Yes. She had just started to act like herself again when that happened. I tried to
help her that day, but she said she didn’t need any help, that she’d be fine. And
she seemed fine. Really fine, in fact.”

“Some people like to get through things alone, I guess,” Izzy said. “Me? I’d be the
opposite.”

Laura agreed. “I went through a kind of mourning after I had a miscarriage. I think
it was the process of letting go of a dream. But Tamara doesn’t seem to be going through
anything. In fact, she’s more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a while. Not so with her
husband. Uncle Franklin is having a hard time with it.”

“Sam took some photos at their house Friday,” Izzy said. “Nell and I tagged along.
She seemed fine that day, and happy to be showing us their home. It’s a beautiful
place.”

Laura nodded. “A beautiful museum. But Tamara loves all that.”

“Where is she from?” Izzy asked.

“Roxbury,” Laura said. “I wouldn’t even know that if she hadn’t had a friend visit
when Franklin was out of town. Tamara had insinuated she was from Brookline. But her
friend blew her cover. They both grew up in a neighborhood we wouldn’t want to walk
through alone, was how her friend described it. Marrying someone like Franklin and
leaving that behind was a dream Tamara had had since she was little. Her friend was
proud of her because she had finally done it. I don’t think Franklin knows where she
was raised, even now.”

“She doesn’t have family?”

“A mother and brother, but she doesn’t have anything to do with them.”

The rich tomato and garlic odors of Harry’s deli interrupted their thoughts and they
walked into the tiled entry. The noontime crowd had thinned out, leaving scattered
customers at the counter ordering fresh meats and cheeses. Harry waved over the counter
and told them to find themselves a booth.

Once they were settled in a back booth, Izzy picked up the conversation. Franklin
Danvers’ wife intrigued her. And puzzled all of them. “Was it a fairy-tale wedding?”

“No. They got married on the spur of the moment. We hadn’t even met Tamara, although
Uncle Franklin had us come to the courthouse that day to be witnesses. It was quick
and tidy, just like Uncle Franklin likes things.”

Harry walked over, wiping his hands on his apron. “Beautiful ladies, what can I get
for you today? Chicken cacciatore? Eggplant Parmesan? My magnifico stuffed pork chops?”

They held their stomachs as the list grew longer; then Izzy finally got a word in
to stop him. “Harry, stop. How about a plate of those little Italian sandwiches that
the summer people have talked you into making?”

He threw up his hands. “Such crazy ideas.
Small
plates, they call them.
Ridicolaggine
.”

They laughed. In Harry’s deli, plates were
huge
.

Harry planted his hands on the table. “So, how are you all coping with this mess?
Not a way we want to start our summer, is it?”

“No, it isn’t, Harry,” Birdie said. “Has it affected your business any?”

“We’re gonna be okay, but folks don’t like roaming around in a town that might have
a killer lurking behind a gaslight, you know? I think that Justin kid screwed up his
own murder, maybe on purpose, sent the police running in circles. He’s probably somewhere
up there laughing at all of us.”

They looked at him, curious.

“I mean the whole pot-selling thing—that’s what everyone’s so excited about. Who kills
for that? Nobody. Not like that. And not Horace, no matter what the old man saw or
thought he saw.”

“What did Horace see?” Nell asked. “I’m confused now, Harry.”

“Aw, who knows? Horace can’t see much, everyone knows that. But, swear on my mother’s
grave, he can tell when he walks in that door what kind of sauce I’m cooking. Knows
it right down to the flakes of basil.”

“I’ve never seen him in here,” Birdie said, surprised.

“Only on Fridays. Gus McClucken sometimes brought him in before driving him home with
his dog food. Kind of a treat for the old man—none of that small-plate stuff for those
two. Great old guy.”

“Was he in here last Friday?” Nell asked.

“Sure was. I made a special Bolognese that day. Old Horace knew what it was before
he stepped foot through the door.”

“And he told you he saw something?” Birdie asked.

“Saw, smell, whatever. He was kind of excited that day, like he had been trying to
figure something out for a while, and suddenly it made sense. The lightbulb went on.
You know that feeling? Sometimes when I get a sauce just right . . .”

“What made sense, Harry?” Birdie pulled him back to the topic.

“Now, that’s the question. I don’t know. Something about a channel.”

“Channel?”

Harry shrugged. He sliced his hand through the air. “Channel. Like taking your boat
through a channel?” He scratched his head. “He said now he knew what he saw. It made
sense, he said. The channel. Go figure.

“But whatever. What I’m really saying is this. Horace knew something. And maybe other
folks, too. But what is everyone talking about? Selling a little pot on a beach. No
one kills for that.”

They had no argument with the deli owner. It was almost as if Harry had heard them
talking and was echoing their words, forcing them to examine them again.
“We’re looking in all the wrong places,”
Birdie had said. Turning over the wrong stones. Nell was convinced of it, and she
knew Izzy, Birdie, and Cass were, too.

More now than ever. So what other stones were left to look under? Where were they?
And for heaven’s sake, what kind of channel did Horace see? One that got him killed?

When no one responded to Harry’s assessment, nor changed their orders, he threw his
hands in the air again and went to the kitchen to put together the ridiculously sized
sandwiches.

Laura checked her watch and said she was going to head back. “I ate lunch. I just
came with you for the company. I want to get back and watch Sara learn to knit.” Then
she added with motherly pride, “It’s a big deal. Rite of passage. Her first knitting
project.”

Izzy liked that. Rite of passage. A good name for her next teen knitting class.

“One more thing before you go,” Nell said, “and it’s probably none of my business—but
I’m curious.”

“My favorite kind of question,” Laura said.

“Tamara and Franklin got married about a year ago, right?”

“About that.”

“They got pregnant quickly.”

“I think it was part of the master plan,” Laura said. “Uncle Franklin never hid the
fact that he wanted an heir, so it was nice that it worked out so quickly. And then,
well, a big disappointment. But Tamara is confident the second time will be a charm.
Her words, not mine.” She grabbed her bag, slipped it over her shoulder, and was off.

Nell watched her walk away, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “Tamara was one of Lily’s
patients who occasionally talked with Dr. Seltzer. I wonder if Franklin went with
her. He seemed awfully sure Seltzer was the murderer. Why do you suppose he was so
sure?”

“Or did he
want
Martin Seltzer to be the murderer?” Birdie said. “He made it clear he didn’t like
Justin. Did he want to get himself out of the spotlight?” She remembered the look
Justin had leveled at Franklin that night at the Edge. It wasn’t mean, just curious,
she thought. A strange look. “I wonder if there was more of a connection between those
two than we thought.”

The sandwiches came, but they barely tasted them. Their thoughts rolled around the
Formica-topped table, bumping into each other, then rolling away until finally Nell
called a halt.

“We know where the answer is. It’s right there in Lily’s clinic. And we’ve plenty
of questions. We just need to find the right one. . . .”

The deli was almost empty now. An old Frank Sinatra song played in the distance, floating
on the garlic-scented air. Behind the front counter, Harry hummed along with Old Blue
Eyes, his eyes closed, his head back.
Call me . . . irresponsible. . . .

“That’s what Justin was. Irresponsible,” Nell said.

“Not a crime, not worth taking a life for,” Birdie said.

“Until it was. Until he tried to threaten someone who had too much to lose. And then
his irresponsibility was suddenly worth killing for.”

W
e’re looking
in all the wrong places. . . .

The words echoed in Izzy’s knitting room Monday morning as they sat around the library
table, trying to collect the random snatches of conversation and observations made
over the long weekend. They had arrived an hour before, brisk showers waking them
up, along with Nell’s directive that they be clearheaded, alert.

On the table were mugs of hot coffee and half-eaten cinnamon rolls.

None of them doubted that Martin Seltzer had motive and opportunity to kill Justin.
And they were just as convinced that he hadn’t done it.

And all of them knew that old Harry was right. Justin’s murder had nothing to do with
stealing pot from a small garden on the clinic roof.

Justin had bigger fish to fry.

“He found out something that no one else knew about. It was important enough that
someone would kill to keep him silent,” Izzy said. “If we can figure that out . . .”

“I think we will have the murderer,” Cass said.

The room fell silent.

A knock on the alley door broke into the silence, and Janie Levin opened it, peeking
in. “Hey, can I come in?”

Birdie poured her a cup of coffee and they pulled out a chair.

“I can’t stay. I want to get in early today to help Dr. Lily put out fires. It’s been
crazy.” She reached into her large tote and pulled out a beat-up fanny pack. “But
look what I found yesterday.”

“Where did you find it?” Izzy asked.

“I cleaned my car out, the first time since all this happened, and it was stuck down
between the seats. I think Justin probably stuck it there when he went to the dive
Sunday. And . . .”

And he never had the chance to retrieve it.

Nell unzipped it and pulled the canvas folds apart. Inside, she fingered dozens of
crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

Cass whistled.

Janie said, “I know. When I saw that money, I nearly fainted. I didn’t count it—but
there’s a lot.” She checked her watch. “I need to run, but, Nell, you had asked me
to keep an eye out for this—so here it is. I suppose the police or someone will want
a look at it—”

“I can take care of that for you, Janie. I’ll give it to Ben—or drop it off myself.”

Janie waved and was off, prepared for a busy day at the Virgilio Clinic.

“Well,” Birdie said, her hands flat on the table.

“This is what we saw at the Edge.”

“He was meeting someone that Saturday,” Izzy said. “This must have been why it was
so important.”

“So whoever he was blackmailing gave him money earlier in the week that he used to
buy some things—”

“And donate to the church’s fund,” Izzy added, wanting to soften the crime.

“And then handed this over on Saturday,” Nell said. “And probably realized by the
second time that there’d be a third, a fourth, and who knows how many requests?”

“So they killed him.”

Nell fingered the cables on her baby blanket. The facts were there, but still twisted,
just like the blanket. She looked again inside the fanny pack and pulled out the envelope,
smoothing it out on the table. She frowned.

“What is it?” Birdie asked.

“I’ve seen an envelope like this before. In fact, it was sitting on my counter and
I shoved it into a drawer just this morning.”

“It’s a dirty white envelope,” Cass said. “So what?”

“No, it’s not. It’s thicker than most—elegant parchment. Here, feel it. And if you
rub your fingers lightly over it, you can feel something.”

“Like a water seal?” Izzy asked.

“Maybe.” She took the envelope and slipped it back inside the fanny pack. “The one
I have is the one that Justin put Birdie’s neck- lace in. I don’t know why I didn’t
throw it out. But I didn’t, and I think I’ll have a second look at it.” She zipped
up the fanny pack and slipped it into her bag.

“There’s one more thing. After talking to Gus and Harry, I’m convinced Horace saw
the person who killed Justin. I think that’s what he was trying to say that day in
front of the hardware store. He was down there walking the beach that night and saw
someone enter the dive shack. But his eyes are so bad he wouldn’t have been able to
make out features. And he was probably confused. He didn’t connect the dots—or maybe
couldn’t quite process whom he saw—until later in the week. He said something to the
effect that it finally made sense.”

“So,” Cass said, “he was killed, not because he knew whatever it was Justin knew,
but because he knew who killed Justin.”

“I’m sure of it,” Nell said. “It feels right.” She looked down at the cable, as if
it somehow had the missing stitches, the pieces that would complete the picture, hidden
in its twisted shape.

“I have to go out on the
Lady Lobster
today,” Cass said. “But let’s meet back here later, or maybe I can make it back for
your appointment, Iz. I’d love to hear that little bruiser—as well as other things.”

Izzy nodded. She glanced down at a half-completed intarsia sweater lying on the table.
The loose ends, not yet woven in, stuck out from the sides randomly. “I think we’re
getting closer. But it’s still a little bit like this sweater. We need to weave the
ends in.”

“There’s one more thing,” Nell said. “I think it’s important.”

Cass was headed for the door. She stopped.

“It’s Tyler Gibson.”

They all looked at Nell.

“I’ve been piecing conversation snippets together, and Tyler has been a piece of this
puzzle from the beginning.”

“Because he got mixed up in Justin’s crazy scheme,” Cass said. “We know that, but
it didn’t have anything to do with Justin’s murder.”

“That’s right. But maybe something else did.”

Cass nodded, as if she had entertained similar thoughts but wasn’t sure how to fit
them into the puzzle. She walked back to the table and listened while Nell refreshed
their memories, lining up pieces of conversations they’d all been privy to over the
weeks. They lay there in front of them like pieces of yarn, ready to be stitched into
the whole.

For a minute no one said anything. All they could hear were silent chunks of a puzzle
falling into place.

Birdie broke their trance. She stood up briskly, wiping crumbs from the table with
a napkin. “Murder is awful, plain and simple. No matter who, no matter when or where.
But an unsolved murder, a murderer walking casually around our town, is worse. I think
we are about to stop the madness.”

She looked across the table. “Now, Izzy, we’ll pick you up for your appointment this
afternoon. Does that work?”

•   •   •

By the time Birdie and Nell left the yarn shop, Mae was unlocking doors and opening
windows, and Harbor Road was waking up to a sunny day. The two women turned south
and headed to Coffee’s. Although they had often tried to teach Izzy, she still made
abominable coffee.

“I need a dark roast,” Birdie said, and Nell agreed. In addition, Coffee’s was the
first place they needed to go to tie up a loose end.

Mary Pisano wasn’t on the patio with her computer yet, a good thing. The loose ends
that might target a murderer were still dangling too freely to be shared, too loose
to be believed. They walked into the coffee shop.

Tyler Gibson was two people in front of them in line, just as they hoped he would
be. Monday-morning regulars were just that. Tyler hadn’t failed them.

They watched him go to a table in the back, then picked up their own cups and followed
him.

Kevin was there, his cup half-empty.

The two men looked up, surprised to see they had company.

“May we sit down?” Birdie asked, then pulled out a chair and settled in it, her coffee
cup in front of her.

“What’s up?” Tyler asked.

“Tyler,” Birdie began, “did you kill Justin Dorsey?”

Tyler’s face went white. “No, no, I didn’t kill anybody. Ever.”

“Good, I didn’t think so. And see that you don’t.” She smiled at him.

Nell leaned forward on the table, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug. “Tyler,
you told us the other day—and, Kevin, I think you concurred—that you weren’t a close
friend of Justin’s. But you hung around on the beach, parties, that sort of thing.
And then there was the—how shall I say it?—‘transaction’ you had over that car seat.
Is that right?”

Tyler didn’t answer, but his expression had quickly gone from relieved to suspicious.

“What I’m wondering,” Nell said, pulling the monogrammed belt from her purse, “is
how this ended up at Mrs. Bridge’s boardinghouse in Justin’s room.” She stretched
it out on the table.

Tyler stared at the belt, and then hung his head. Finally he looked up. “Jeez, I’m
a screwup, aren’t I?”

“But a very sweet one,” Birdie said. She patted his hand.

Tyler fingered the monogrammed buckle. “I wondered where it went. It’s been missing
for a while.”

“A couple months is what we figured. Your early days back home.”

He nodded. “Sounds right. Like I said, Justin was a friendly guy, very accommodating.
But mostly he was interested in making a quick buck.”

“So he let people, as Mrs. Bridge put it, ‘use’ his room?” Nell said.

“I believe she called it a rendezvous,” Birdie said.

“Or, as your grandmother would say, a ‘dalliance.’”

Kevin got up and told Tyler to be on time for work. He was off to the Ocean’s Edge.
“No dallying for me,” he said, laughing again at his bartender’s foibles.

When he was gone, Tyler groaned. “Okay,” he said. “It wasn’t the greatest move I ever
made, but I didn’t know that till later. At the time, I thought it might be something
real—I hadn’t lived here for a few years and I didn’t know any of the new people.
Especially . . . well. Anyway, I was gullible, I guess. But it’s long over. So . . .
what do you need to know? I’ll come clean.”

And he did. Sometimes with more detail than they needed to know.

But as they walked out of the coffee shop, Nell and Birdie looked at each other without
saying a word. Tyler Gibson truly was one of the most naive young men they had ever
met.

As honest as he had been, it was clear to both of them that Tyler Gibson had no idea
at all what his dalliance had wrought.

•   •   •

By the time they had run a few errands and landed back at Nell’s, Birdie was starving.
She began pulling out Nell’s leftovers, wrapping two wedges of a wild mushroom torte
in foil and putting them in the toaster oven to heat.

Izzy showed up minutes later. “I couldn’t concentrate on work and Mae banished me.
She told me to take a nap. Not much chance of that.”

“This will take your mind off things,” Nell said. She motioned to a basket sitting
on the island. “Ben forgot about the basket of lotions when he delivered all the other
things to your house.”

Izzy fingered the fancy jars and wrapped bars of soap. Each person had brought her
own favorite scented lotion or soap and added a short note to the item. “It’s like
being in the room with all my friends.” She rummaged around and found a pot of ginger-scented
body lotion. “Here’s you, Aunt Nell. I will forever think of you when I smell this
wonderful ginger soufflé.”

“It was such a nice idea,” Birdie said. She took the torte from the oven and began
filling plates.

Izzy picked up a green bottle with a bow at the top and laughed. “This is from Esther
Gibson, has to be. Horace said he knew when she was half a block away because of her
perfume. Emeraude.”

“He’s right,” Birdie said. “Very . . . distinctive.”

They laughed and Izzy pulled out a few others, reading the notes. It was a momentary
distraction, a welcome bit of ordinariness in an unordinary day.

An elaborately wrapped package caught her eye and she pulled it out and read the card.
“May these begin and end your day with the same happiness as they do mine.”

Nell busied herself at the sink as Izzy tore off the wrappings.

“She outdid herself,” Izzy said. The box was elegant, the Chanel perfume and lotion
resting in satin.

Birdie and Nell walked over and looked at it.

And then they stared at the box again.

Horace was right. It all made sense.

Nell headed for the drawer beneath the microwave. Her junk drawer, she called it.
The envelope was still there, bumpy from the necklace it had held, and with one corner
torn from being shoved in Janie’s glove compartment.

Birdie pulled the other one out of the fanny pack, and Izzy cleared a place on the
island where they could smooth them out.

“They’re the same. And they both have the watermark—”

“Both envelopes probably had money in them. Two payments. He took the money out and
grabbed one to put the necklace in when he went to return it to Birdie.”

Nell took a pencil and a thin piece of paper from the drawer and carefully placed
the paper over the mark. She rubbed the lead back and forth, smoothly and evenly.

They stood back and stared.

“It’s probably time to call Ben,” Birdie said softly.

Yes, it was time. Nell stepped into the den and called him on his cell. He was going
to head down to the police station after a boring lunch with the yacht club’s investment
officer. He’d pick up the fanny pack on his way and talk to the chief.

“Are we crazy, Ben?” Nell asked.

“There might be some mental deficiencies involved in all this, Nellie,” he said, “but
they’re not yours. Not by a long shot.” He paused, his voice dropping the way it did
when he was about to say something intimate. “Nell?”

“Yes, my darling. I will be careful.”