Death by Cashmere (34 page)

Nell looked at the newspaper clippings again. "Maybe Angie was putting the pieces of Angus's life together for him because it was hard for him to do that himself. She was reminding him of this beautiful woman who loved him." Nell looked again at the photograph of Angus and his bride, unable to let go of the sweet young couple sitting at their wedding table.

"Yes," Izzy said, excited. "That's it, Nell! Angie was putting together the pieces of his life. But there's one piece missing."

"Did Anja have other family?" Cass asked.

"No. Her mother died in childbirth," Birdie said. "That's probably why she was so close to her father. He lived for Anja, I've heard people say."

"So Anja and Angus would get everything when Anja's father died?" Nell asked.

Izzy looked up from a forkful of pasta. She frowned, reading Nell's mind. "But Anja died, too. So Angus would have been the only remaining relative."

The room grew quiet as they thought about the deeds and marriage license and the tragedy that separated this couple so early in their life journey.

Nell placed the contents of the envelopes on the table and put the envelopes to the side.
1/3, 2/3
. An old deed. Newspaper clippings. A marriage certificate. She thought of the conversation she and Izzy had had with Angus on the beach.
Indeed,
Angie had said to him, he'd told them.
She would send mail, indeed
. A deed. Angie had told him she'd send him a deed.

"A will," Izzy said suddenly. "We're missing a will. And another deed? The license tells us that Anja and Angus were married. The deed tells us about Angus's property. But--"

"The father's will--or Anja's--would tell the rest," Cass finished.

Birdie pushed back her chair and her hands flew up. "And I think I know exactly where it is," she said. She looked at Nell. "The nurse at the hospital--"

"The coat pocket of Angus's jacket. The envelope that gave the hospital staff your address. Angus had it with him when he was admitted."

"Let's hope it's still there."

Birdie got up and picked up her purse, rummaging around inside. "Drats. No car. Izzy or Cass, I need a driver."

"Why don't you both go?" Nell suggested. "Just in case--"
In case of what?
Nell wasn't sure. But she didn't want Birdie to make the trip alone.

"Good idea. And I need to stop by and check on Purl on our way," Izzy added. "Sam had to go into Boston for a meeting and she's all alone."

"I'll wait for Ben," Nell said. It wouldn't take four of them to retrieve an envelope, she thought. And she might be far more useful tying up a few loose strands of yarn right here.

After the others drove off, Nell cleaned up the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and sat back down at the kitchen table, staring at her laptop. Outside a breeze slapped the top of a pine tree against the side of the house.

Nell pressed a key and brought the computer to life, its familiarhumming filling the kitchen. And seconds later, Sam's photographs filled the screen, and Nell clicked through them absently while her mind played with the scattered pieces of Angus's life.

And then she saw it. The intriguing shot of the quarry that had caught her attention earlier. She zoomed in, saw the flash of sunlight on glass captured by Sam's camera. And the amazing, crystal-clear quarry--with the old truck, so close to the granite edge that a nor'easter could topple it into the water with a mighty blast. She zoomed in again and she could see the front windshield, a maze of tiny cracks that caught the light like a prism. And the broken bumper, hanging on by a thread. It was incongruous--and oddly beautiful. The still, perfect quarry opening up the woods, the sunlight, and the old, rusted truck. Nell stared at it. And then her breathing quickened and she put on her glasses and looked again.

The photograph filled the small screen, and Nell's mind cleared. And she knew that if the resolution of the photograph were higher, if she could get just a millimeter closer, she would find blood and tissue coating the rusted bumper of the old truck.

Nell pressed the print button and the photos slid out of the printer on the nearby desk. She folded them and shoved them in her purse. No one would be back for a little bit--the drive to the hospital and checking on Purl would take at least an hour or more.

She had just enough time for one quick trip. And if she was right, there'd be one more piece to add to the puzzle.

Nell checked her watch as she drove toward Canary Cove. After years of pleading, Annabelle had finally given in to the artists' pleas and kept Sweet Petunia's open until eight o'clock one night a week--but only on Tuesdays--the one night she didn't play bunco or have restaurant paperwork to do, or a television show she couldn't miss. She kept the same breakfast and lunch menu, but no one seemed to mind, and eggs for supper on Tuesdays became a standard among the Canary Cove artists and others privy to Annabelle's schedule, which was never advertised.

Though it was already after eight, Nell knew it took a while to wash down the kitchen and empty the trash. And often diners stayed on, gossiping and catching up on news. She and Izzy had spent many Tuesday evenings at Annabelle's while planning the Seaside Knitting Studio, knitting and talking and filling the small shop with Izzy's dreams, and the friendly owner never urged them to leave. She always had something to do, she said.

Nell turned onto the small gravel road that led up to the restaurant. The parking lot lights were on, and the restaurant was still well lit. She spotted several cars parked in the lot--an old Corolla that Annabelle had let Stella use when she'd turned sixteen. Annabelle's car was there, too, and a few late diners, their cars parked on the other side of the lot. Nell pulled up close to the kitchen door, debating whether to go in or stay put, waiting untilall the diners were gone. Just then, she spotted Stella Palazola walking out the kitchen door, dragging two sacks of scraps for Annabelle's compost pile.

Nell dropped her car keys and purse on the front seat and jumped out of the car, hurrying to catch up to the young waitress.

"Stella," she said, stopping the young waitress just as she reached the compost pile behind the restaurant.

Stella spun around, dropping one of the sacks. "Miz Endicott, you scared me."

"I'm sorry, Stella." Nell leaned over and gathered up the sack. "I need to talk to you. Please, just for a minute?"

Stella looked back at the restaurant and Nell kept her eyes on Stella, hoping she wouldn't flee again.

Stella's eyes darted back and forth--to Nell, the kitchen door, then over to the parking lot where the last diners were finally leaving, going out to their cars. In the distance, Nell could hear their footsteps, car doors slamming, distant chatter, and then the sound of cars leaving the parking lot.

Nell held Stella with her eyes.

"What?" Stella asked.

Stella looked defeated, Nell thought, as if she had known Nell would come back. She had become Stella's bad penny. "It's about that cashmere sweater, Stella--"

"I told you, I'm sorry I tried it on. I'll never do it again. Does it matter so much? Who cares about a stupid old sweater?"

"I do, Stella. I care very much. And I promise you that I will never do anything to get you in trouble. But you need to tell me about that sweater."

Stella took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

"I know this all seems silly to you."

Stella picked up a sack filled with coffee grounds and dumped it into the compost pile. She wiped her hands on her apron.

"Miz Endicott--" she began.

"You can trust me, Stella. I promise you. But I need to know the truth."

Stella nodded. She picked up her last bag and dumped it into the pile.

And then she turned back to Nell, and she told her the truth.

It was late when Nell finally returned home, her mind numb and her heart heavy. Stella had said what she knew she would say. The truth had been there, hovering at the corners of Nell's mind for days now, but she wouldn't allow the suspicions to become fact. She didn't want them to be fact.

Ben was waiting at home, worried. "Don't do this to me, Nell," he said.

"Ben, you're not the worrier. I am."

"You're right, I'm not. So don't turn me into one." He was sitting at the island, drinking a cup of tea and he forced a lightness into his voice. Nell walked over to him and dropped her purse on the floor. She rubbed his neck.

"Birdie, Cass, and Izzy came by."

"And they brought the envelope?"

Ben nodded. He picked it up from the island. "They filled me in about the other documents. I've checked them over."

"And the third envelope?" Nell asked. But she knew before Ben answered what was in it. Izzy had been right. It contained a will. A deed. A fortune. Angus's fortune.

Nell told Ben about talking to Stella. And about the photos she had printed off from Sam's shoot at the quarry. The photograph that held the key to Angus's life--and Angie's death.

Nell reached for her purse, digging inside for the printouts she'd made.

"That's odd," she said. "I slipped the pictures in my purse. I'm not even sure why now. Habit, I guess. But they're not here." She rummaged through it again, but the large bag held her wallet and cosmetic case. Her cell phone and pens, a pad of paper and tissues. But the printed photos she had tucked into the bag were gone.

She mentally retraced her trip to Annabelle's. She'd left her purse sitting on the car seat with the windows wide open while she talked to Stella. Her purse and her keys. She frowned, remembering the voices and click of heels behind her as the last diners left the restaurant. She remembered the sound of footsteps that had come close to where she and Stella were standing, and then faded away. Car doors slammed; then the vehicles drove off until they couldn't be heard anymore.

"Someone took the photos from my purse," Nell said. "And I think I know who." She checked her watch. It was too late to call Annabelle, and she didn't want to explain it all. But she suspected she knew at least one of the diners who had enjoyed Annabelle's Tuesday-evening eggs a few hours before.

Ben and Nell drank hot tea, talking quietly, and finally went up to bed.

"It's too late tonight to do anything," Ben said. "And to what good end? No one is running away. Let people sleep. Tomorrow will come soon enough."

They would call the police in the morning and deliver the deeds and the wedding license and the photos. Angie's hard work to make things right, all tied up neatly in a rubber band.

The phone call from Birdie came early, just before the sun slipped up out of the ocean.

Birdie had been unable to sleep, she said, so she got up and sat at the windows in Sonny Favazza's den, a place she always found comfort. She could see the burst of color from the windows, but the telescope took her even closer. At first the light was small--a flash of light against the black sky. And then it grew larger.

Birdie called 911, then dialed Nell and Ben.

"We're on our way," Ben said, and Birdie assured him that the fire trucks were, too.

Ben drove as fast as he could along the narrow Framingham Road, lit by a lingering moon that seemed reluctant to give way to dawn. Nell's heart was wedged tightly in her throat, not wanting to see what she knew they would find at the end of the road.

They arrived before the fire trucks and police, before Cass and Pete, who had gotten up early to prepare their traps and had seen the fire from their boat. Before Izzy, unable to sleep, who was on her way to the point.

Margarethe Framingham stood at the edge of the drive, dressed incongruously in a suit and heels, as if she were going to a board meeting at the museum. She stood calmly, watching the enormous house that had been the love of her life light up the night. The crackling flames traveled from one room to the next, lighting up from the inside as if a party were about to begin. The old walls created a furnace, sucking in the air, fueling the dancing flames as they played with curtains, crackled exquisite chandeliers, and melted fine books into black lumps of coal.

"Margarethe," Nell called out to her. "Don't."

But the woman put up her hands and took a step closer to the burning house. "Don't come near me," she called out. "If I can't have this house, no one will."

"Why, Margarethe?"

"I tried to talk to that girl, but she wouldn't listen to me," she said. "She wanted to take it all back and give it to an old man who didn't care, didn't need this, didn't want it. This is mine," she said, her voice turning steely. "I worked for it. I became someone because of it. I am important--and you want to take it away. You will never have it. Never. None of you ungrateful people."

In the background, faint and still at a distance, the sounds of cars, sirens, and fire trucks racing over the granite ground toward Framingham Point marred the silent beauty of dawn.

"Margarethe, the land didn't belong to the Framinghams. Not ever. And now two people are dead."

"She didn't have to die. I gave her choices. Life is all about choices. I was worth nothing and made the choice to marry into this family and control it. Angie made the wrong choice. I made the right one. She used her research skills on the wrong thing. Just to settle a silly score."

"I don't think she would consider her father's death a silly grievance, Margarethe."

"He drank himself to death. And being fired from our company was incidental. But no matter, Angie Archer should never have pursued this--she was not hired to dig into the Framinghams' past. This town would be nothing without me."

Without me
. The steely arrogance in Margarethe's voice startled Nell. This was not the person she sat with on boards, the generous woman who spearheaded Sea Harbor causes. It was a power-hungry woman who came from nothing--and would never go back to that.