Death by Cashmere (17 page)

Nell walked across the square, pausing at the gazebo where she half expected to see Pete Halloran sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons while he waited for Angie to take her break from work. His absence was more striking than his presence had been, a stark reminder of recent events.

Pete was still feeling the assault of being questioned by the police, Cass had told her last night. "It's churning around inside him like a storm," she had said. "It will spill out eventually."

The questioning in a stark room at a metal table had almost made that happen, Cass said. He'd been so angry. And it wasn't because of the questioning. It was because someone had murdered Angie, and no one seemed to know what to do about it.

Nell crossed the street and hurried up the steps to the Historical Society and adjacent museum. Hearing her name called, she turned and looked through her large round sunglasses into the eyes of Margarethe Framingham, dressed today in a knit suit and large hat to shield her face from the sun. The suit was knit of an expensive wool silk blend in a deep rose color. It reminded Nell of the balloon flowers that lined her neighbor's drive on Sandswept Lane. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch the finely knit garment. Small cables, barely visible, ran up and down the fitted skirt and were repeated in the shawl-collar jacket. She had seen Margarethe working on pieces of the suit at meetings, and the finished product was a work of art.

"Hello, Margarethe," Nell said. "You look wonderful. I'll be distracted through the whole meeting, trying to figure out how you managed to knit that gorgeous suit."

Margarethe smiled. "Izzy played detective to find me this yarn. I don't know how I survived before her shop opened." She touched the edge of her jacket. "Fine woven yarn is something to be cherished. It needs to be cared for like a fine piece of art."

Nell looked again at the fine stitches in the suit, even and not too tight. Margarethe attacked her knitting projects the same way she did civic causes. Sometimes Nell found her energy and purpose a bit obsessive and overwhelming, but she got things done. And if she herself needed to be obsessive to knit a suit as unique as Margarethe's, she just might consider it.

"I've missed a few meetings recently," Margarethe said, "but it's time to get back to my responsibilities. It's been a sad time for us, but our lives go on."

Nell nodded and followed Margarethe up the steps. Margarethe was right, she thought, but not completely. Moving on fully only came with answers; dust swept under a rug was bound to come out at a later date.

Although several men had joined the board in recent years, today's gathering was all women, and they gathered around the oval table in the board room where papers and pencils had been neatly spaced, right next to napkins and soup spoons. Beatrice Scaglia sat at one side and, noticing an empty chair next to her, Nell walked around the table and sat down.

The first half hour was routine, the reading of minutes and the treasurer's report, an update from Nancy Hughes, the director of the museum. It was only after those so inclined had filled their bowls a second time with clam chowder and a platter of lemon bars was passed around the table and emptied in record time that Nancy brought up new business.

Nell cleared her place of food remnants and took out her knitting, scooping up the long tail of her scarf and settling it into her lap. She reached for the second needle and then settled in to listen. The scarf was coming along nicely--nearly four feet of lovely knit sea yarn. A few more feet and she'd be able to wrap it around her neck, as Izzy suggested, and let it flow down across her dress.

"It's lovely," Beatrice whispered, pointing at the scarf.

"And I hear you are taking up knitting, too, Beatrice? It's wonderful therapy."

Beatrice smiled brightly. "Once I work some more hours into my days, I will consider it," Beatrice said.

"But you took Izzy's frogging class."

"Yes, I did," Beatrice said. Her tone of voice indicated that the topic was complete.

Nell tried a different one. "Beatrice," she began, her fingers working the yarn and her tone friendly and conversational, "did you and Sal know Angie Archer well?"

"Of course not," Beatrice said sharply.

Nancy tapped her water glass with a fork then, and Nell sat back in her chair. She looked sideways at Beatrice. She had slipped on her glasses and her serious-meeting look and was examining the agenda with exaggerated attention. Her voice had been sharp, indicating the discussion of both her knitting interests and Angie Archer were over. Finished.

Beatrice was a conundrum, she decided. For someone so organized, so involved, it seemed quite odd she'd devote time to a class on ripping out stitches before she'd learned to knit and purl. Perhaps it was the calisthenics Izzy had added to the class that intrigued Beatrice. As for Angie, maybe Beatrice didn't know her, but Sal was another story, and Nell wouldn't let that one go so easily.

Nancy began speaking and Nell pulled her thoughts back to the meeting.

"I'd like to suggest something today that we haven't done before, but it seems appropriate," Nancy said. "We would like to do something to recognize the dedicated work of the late Angie Archer." She looked up and down both sides of the table and rested her palms on the smooth surface, leaning slightly forward. "I think you all met Angie at one time or another--many of you knew her growing up. This is a terrible tragedy for her family and friends--and for us here at the museum. The staff and I thought a small gesture would be appropriate, if you all agree."

Nell paused in her knitting. "What a nice idea, Nancy," she said.

"It's well deserved, Nell. Angie worked hard."

The others at the table nodded.

Beside her, Beatrice Scaglia held her smile, but Nell thought her body stiffened slightly.

"Oh, yes. Angie worked hard and was so sweet," Lillian Ames, a museum volunteer and board member, said. "I would watch her at her computer, listening to her music through those earphones, and researching like a little beaver. I teased her that the earphones would make her go deaf--like me." Lillian laughed and pushed her thick brown-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of her nose. "But then she would show me all the things she was gathering up, the list of deeds and pictures and things for the exhibit."

Nell remembered the music that filled Angie's apartment the night she died. Music was a part of the Seaside Knitting Studio, and even though Angie's was sometimes too loud, it was at home there. Some people worked better to music, Izzy said, and her iPod and CD player were well used. And it sounded like Angie's were, too.

Nancy smiled. "Angie was unique, that's for sure. But a hard worker, and her efforts have left us with a better and more organized library than before she came, not to mention the work she did for the fall exhibit."

"What exactly was she working on?" Lucy Stevens, a neighbor of Nell's on Sandswept Lane, asked.

Nell listened for the answer carefully. She knew Angie was hired because of her research degree in library science, and that she was helping Nancy with a special exhibit.

"She was cataloging everything she could find on the stone quarries--stories, deeds, photographs," Nancy said. "Then pulling it all together for an exhibit we have planned for the fall."

"Was Angie going to help with the exhibit?" Nell asked.

"You know how we are around here, Nell. Everyone helps with everything."

"I heard that Angie might not be working here much longer," Nell began.

"Oh, no," Nancy said. "We were hoping Angie would stay a good long time."

"So she wasn't going to be losing her job?"

"Angie?" Nancy laughed. "Nell, you've seen us go through a lot of staff over the years. Part of that's the nonprofit handicap-- we can't always pay people what they're worth--and other times it's because we may hire unwisely. But Angie didn't seem concerned about the pay, and she was most definitely not an unwise hire. She was good at what she did. Hard working and conscientious. In fact, she went above and beyond the call of duty."

"And she seemed to like it here, what with the other young folks coming back to town," Lillian offered, wanting again to be helpful. She looked over at Margarethe and added, "I saw your handsome son come in here the other week to see Angie. They sat out back and talked so seriously, like they were sorting out the world's problems."

Nell saw a look of surprise pass over Margarethe's face. This was news to her as well.

But Nell remembered what Birdie had said. For some reason, Tony thought Angie was up to no good, that her time in Sea Harbor had more sinister motives than helping with a museum exhibit. Tony had even threatened Angie the night she was murdered, so whatever he thought she was doing was serious--at least to him.

"Tony and Angie grew up together," Margarethe said to Lillian. "They were probably catching up on news of old friends. You know how they do." She smiled and turned back to the group. "The idea of something to recognize Angie is a wonderful one. Let's do it."

The conversation shifted in an instant. Margarethe was a master at it, and Nell admired the gracious way she had of switching topics without Lillian being embarrassed for bringing up a personal subject at a board meeting. But the thought of Tony bothering Angie at work--if that's what he had done--stayed with Nell.

Margarethe went on. "I think we should buy that walnut display case that we've been wanting to exhibit our ship models. We will put a tasteful brass plaque on it that says it's in memory of Angelina Archer. And her mother will see it every time she comes into the museum."

"And it will bring her such joy," Lillian said, clapping her hands.

The Historical Society didn't have the money for the expensive case that Margarethe Framingham was talking about. Nell knew that from numerous budget discussions. But she didn't doubt for one single minute that the next time she came into the library for a board meeting, the case would be in the center hall, polished and oiled--and completely paid for by Margarethe Framingham. Fastened to the top would be a shiny brass plaque with Angie's name on it--a gesture that would, indeed, inject a moment of pleasure into Josie Archer's grief.

The board meeting ended by two. As the others filed out into the front hall, Nell followed Nancy into her office. She explained Josie's request.

"Of course, Nell," Nancy said. "And thank you. I've been meaning to call Josie and do it myself, but you know how that goes. The phone rings, someone comes in, and on and on."

Nell knew it to be true. Nancy Hughes was the best director they'd had since she'd been involved with the museum. She was sharp, energetic, and personable, and her instincts in museum direction had been right on target. Nell liked her very much. "Are you going to hire someone for Angie's position?" she asked.

Nancy took a key from her desk drawer and motioned for Nell to follow her to the back of the building. "I'm going to try, Nell, but she'll be difficult to replace. The project she had been working on, though, was nearly completed. I was starting to talk with Angie on what we should tackle next."

They walked through a wood-paneled library, open to the public like the museum in the east wing, and to a back room that housed the research staff.

"So Angie was ready to do another project for you?" Nell asked.

"Well, let's say I was ready for her to start a new project. Now that you've brought up the question of her time here, it makes me wonder."

"What do you mean, Nancy?"

"Well, I never questioned that she would stay on after the quarry project ended. We had just given her a raise, and I know she liked working here. But when I talked about a new project, she was evasive. Noncommittal. I didn't think much of it until you mentioned today that there was talk of her leaving."

"It was just talk, Nancy. Little things she said that made people think she wouldn't be around long." Nell stopped at a wooden desk that she knew to be Angie's. The top was littered with scattered yellow pads, a pencil holder, and a desk calendar. There were few personal things marking the area--a makeup case in a tote bag beneath the desk, but not much else. It wouldn't take long to pack this up, but there was something decidedly sad about a workspace that was nearly neutral.

"The police looked through it, hence the mess. They declared it 'inconsequential.' That made me sad, that they would cast it off as not important. It's a part of Angie. It's important."

Nell nodded. "I brought a couple sacks. And that's probably more than I need. It doesn't look like Angie had many personal things here."

Nancy didn't answer. She stood on the opposite side of the desk, her hands on her hips, frowning. "Something's missing, Nell."

"From the desk?"

"Her computer, that's it," Nancy said, snapping her fingers in the air. "It's not here." She pulled open the deep desk drawers, then checked the bookcases. "It's a small laptop. White, I think. She liked it better than our clunky old models."

"Maybe the police took it. That would make sense. There'd be e-mail, and maybe something of interest to them."

"No, I'm sure they didn't. I was back here with them. It wasn't here that day."

Nell looked around the room. Bookcases lined the inner wall, and windows looked out onto the small back parking lot. "I don't see a computer."

Nancy waved one hand through the air. "Of course it's not here. She always took it home. I forgot. I guess all this mess has me rattled."

But Nell knew the computer wasn't at the apartment. The police had looked, Izzy said.

Nell shook out the shopping bag and set it on the chair. "We all are a bit rattled, Nancy."

"Hopefully, it'll be behind us soon. Margarethe mentioned that the police think it was a random act. Awful, but random, someone seeing a beautiful young girl and trying to force her into something she didn't want to do. I guess Sea Harbor isn't immune from unsavory people passing through now and then."