Death by Cashmere (8 page)

"We'll call her Purl," Birdie said. "With a U, of course."

"I like it," Izzy said.

"To Purl," Nell said, lifting her wineglass.

"To Purl," Birdie, Cass, and Izzy repeated, glasses lifted toward the purring kitten rubbing up against Nell's leg.

Izzy leaned over and planted a kiss on Birdie's lined cheek. "It's a perfect name for her, Birdie."

A rapping on the back door startled the group into silence.

All heads turned toward the sound.

"Visitors?" Birdie asked.

"Sometimes my UPS man comes late," Izzy said, brushing away the anxiousness the noise had stirred up in the room. She pushed her knitting to the side and walked over to the door.

On the alley step stood two policemen.

"Hi, Tommy," Izzy said to the awkward young man whose hand was still raised in the air, ready to knock again. She smiled and nodded to his partner, a tall skinny man named Rob who rarely spoke but wore his uniform proudly.

"What are you two doing here?" Nell asked, thinking that the Sea Harbor police were perhaps more efficient than she'd sometimes given them credit for. Perhaps they'd seen the lights, wanted to be sure everything was all right.

"Could we . . . c-come in?" Tommy asked. His cheeks were flushed, and he shifted from one foot to another.

Tommy Porter's discomfort reminded Nell briefly of the summers when he had been unabashedly in love with Izzy. The two had been in the same sailing class one summer, and she remembered Tommy's painful stutter when he'd try to talk to Izzy and the teasing he got from the others in the class. Tommy went on to win every race, shine in every regatta, but he never overcame his awkwardness in Izzy's presence.

"Of course. You, too, Rob," Nell said. "We're just about to eat and knit--two things we do very well."

Izzy smiled at Tommy and tried to ease his discomfort. "How are things for you, Tommy?"

Tommy shifted from one foot to the other. A small sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

Birdie stood and walked over to the two men. She stood as tall as her frame allowed and looked up into Tommy's somber face. "You look very nice in your uniform, Tommy. Your mother must be proud of you." She reached up and touched his shoulder, her voice almost a whisper. "But you might want to stand up a tad straighter."

Tommy immediately pulled his shoulders back, sucked in his abdomen, and took a deep breath. "Miz Favazza," he began, looking down at Birdie. He paused, and then stepped farther into the room. The movement seemed to bring him confidence. He kept his eyes on Birdie, which oddly allowed him to speak clearly and evenly. "We're here because of Angie Archer."

"Her drowning?" Nell said, encouraging him to continue.

Tommy shook his head. "She didn't drown, Miz Favazza," he said, still looking at Birdie.

Rob stepped up beside Tommy and spoke for the first time. "Well, the thing is, she
did
drown," he said. He cleared his throat and looked down at his large black shoes.

Nell followed his eyes. His shoes must be specially made, she thought. They were bigger than Ben's size thirteens. She wanted to talk about Rob's shoes, where he got them, were they specially ordered? Shoes were easy to talk about, and no matter how Rob got his shoes or didn't get his shoes, it wouldn't interfere with the lives of those she loved. But his words, Nell suspected, would do exactly that.

Rob cleared his throat and continued. "She drowned because someone put a drug in her drink and the drug paralyzed her. When she fell into the ocean, she couldn't swim or move a muscle to save herself.

"Angie Archer was murdered."

Chapter 9

The news of Angie Archer 's cruel murder spread through the Sea Harbor community with the force of a nor'easter. According to the autopsy report, she hadn't gone swimming or strolling or jogging along a breakwater on a bad night, a scenario most of the town had tried to cling to. Angie Archer had been murdered, and in an awful way.

The
Sea Harbor Gazette,
with a headline bigger than the Sox beating the Yankees, called it a result of a "date rape drug." Although Angie hadn't been molested, the reporter wrote, a drug common in crimes intended to render a person helpless was found in her body. No matter how skilled a swimmer Angie'd been, she wouldn't have been able to move a muscle once the flunitrazepam was dropped in her drink.

Tommy and Rob had told the knitters the apartment would have to be off-limits for a day or two, though they didn't expect to find much up there. The forensics guys would want to do a check, though, Tommy had said. "And, Izzy," he promised her, "I . . . I'll be s-sure they're quick."

And Tommy had kept his promise, Izzy told Nell the next day, though the racket they made that morning was unsettling to customers. "They were noisier than Angie," she said with a sad smile.

Ben and Nell had kidnapped Izzy from the knitting shop Friday, insisting she take a lunch break and have a sandwich with them at Harry's Deli.

"Is there a lot of talk of the murder in the shop, Iz?" Nell said. Her uneaten pastrami sat in front of her. Nell's phone had rung all morning long, friends and neighbors, Father Northcutt updating her on Josie, board members from the Historical Museum. Everyone was concerned; everyone felt awful; and nearly everyone was sure it was a stranger, an awful person who had committed a terrible, random act of violence.

Izzy nodded and picked at her mushroom sandwich. "The rumors are starting, as you'd expect. Mostly people are talking about Angie's love life. Wondering if there's a connection there. I guess it's the date-rape drug angle."

"As far as I know, Angie didn't have much of a love life, except for Pete."

"And Pete wouldn't hurt a fly," Izzy said.

"Not only that, but he's so crushed at all this bad news that he can barely function, Cass says," Nell added. But he had been Angie's date that night, Nell thought. And she knew that fact would not escape anyone looking into Angie's murder.

"I think mostly people who've come into the shop want so badly to move on that they're calling Angie's murder a random act, a beach bum who's long gone."

Ben took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "It makes it all easier, I suppose. If the murderer has moved on, things can go back to normal more quickly. The gossip is exciting for a while. But it's short-lived. Then people want it over, want the beaches safe. Want their summer back."

" 'Murders don't happen in Sea Harbor,' that's what people are saying," Izzy said. "They happen in Boston and New York and Los Angeles, but not here. Never here."

"Except one did," Nell said.

"What did they do in the apartment?" Ben asked.

"Not too much. They looked through everything, but Tommy was with them, and he said he made sure that anything they didn't need to take they put back neatly."

Nell smiled. "He's trying to protect you, Iz."

"I guess it can't hurt to have a sweet guy on the force watching out for my interests. The police mentioned what we noticed, Nell--that it didn't look like Angie really lived there. She hadn't made it her own. They were hoping to find something like a cell phone or a computer, Tommy said."

"Her cell phone was with her, we know that. It was like another appendage--she never went anywhere without it. It's probably rusting and useless at the bottom of the cove," Ben said. "What about her computer?"

"She had a laptop," Izzy said. "But it wasn't in the apartment, Tommy said."

"Maybe at her office at the museum," Nell said. "I'm sure they'll check there."

"Tommy said they'd be through by this afternoon. I guess I can go up this weekend and gather up the rest of Angie's things."

"Not alone," Nell said.

Izzy agreed. "You're right, Aunt Nell. We'll do this together for Josie."

A shadow fell over the table, and they looked up into the ample, perspiring face of Harry Garozzo. He leaned over the table, his waist buckling beneath the bend and his large baker's hands flat on the pocked wood surface. "Damn shame," he said. His voice was gruff with emotion. "Who would do such a horrible thing like this? Not anyone in Sea Harbor."

"That seems to be the sentiment, Harry. Or at least the wish," Ben said.

Harry pulled an empty chair over from another table and sat down. He wiped his hands on his stained bib apron. "I dunno what to think. Angie was a good girl." Harry scratched his bald head. He looked at their plates and frowned. "What, the food's bad? You're not eating? You donna like it?"

Izzy, Nell, and Ben picked up pieces of their sandwiches.

Harry nodded. Then he looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice so the customers lining up to buy roast beef and turkey, chunks of Vermont white cheddar, or his famous sourdough rolls couldn't hear him.

"The thing is," he said in low tones, "Angie came in here a lot. I liked her. She didn't cook much, that one. But, oh my, she liked to eat." His round face broke into a smile. "And she couldn't get enough of my smoked turkey. I'd pile thin slices high on a sourdough roll, then a fat slab of Swiss, smother it with my Russian dressing. She ate those sandwiches like there was no tomorrow."

"And?" Nell prompted, suspecting Harry had more on his mind than Angie's favorite food.

Harry leaned closer. His bushy brows lifted up into his forehead. "Well, here's the thing. I didn't think much of it at the time because it was her business, you know? Not mine. I leave my customers alone with their privacy. But the other day Angie was eating in the back booth like she did. Just enjoying my turkey. And she gets a call on her cell. Her voice got louder than usual, and when I walked by on the way to the kitchen, I could see the look on her face. She wasn't happy, I'll tell you that much. And she told the caller never ever to bother her again. It was only business, she said. I thought that was strange, but that's what she said. 'It was only business.' And she told him she wouldn't be back, that he had the wrong idea. And then she said, and I remember it because her voice got stern, but it was shaking a little, too. She said if he ever bothered her again, she'd tell someone. 'I swear, I'll tell,' she said. 'And then where will you be?' "

Harry looked up and frowned at a waiter neglecting an empty water glass.

"Tell who?" Nell asked.

"Harry, tell
who
?" Izzy insisted, drawing Harry back to the conversation. "You said that Angie was going to tell someone. Who was it?"

Harry paused for effect; then he looked from side to side, checking to see that all his customers were enjoying their sandwiches and the wicker baskets on the tables were filled with bread sticks. He looked over at the deli counter and nodded, pleased that the line was moving quickly and no one had to wait too long.

"Harry!" Izzy said, slapping the tabletop. "Who, Harry?"

Harry looked back at Nell, Ben, and Izzy. He leaned in a little closer. "Angie said, and I heard it as clearly as I hear the dishes rattling in the kitchen . . ." Harry paused to wipe the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Here's what she said, and she said it clearly and sternly and with a voice part frightened and part mad. She said, 'You back off, you leave me alone, or I swear I will tell your . . . your
wife
!' "

Harry stood back up, straight and tall, and pleased with his performance, smiled at Ben, Nell, and Izzy, and lumbered off to his post behind the deli counter.

Chapter 10

Nell and Izzy pondered Harry's startling story as they moved into their afternoon. If Harry had heard right, someone was harassing Angie, or at the least, bothering her. It was another chink in the random crime theory, they agreed. Another reason to find out what had been going on in Angie's life those last days, right beneath their eyes, their shop, and their knitting projects. Another piece to the puzzle that was Angie.

Nell considered canceling Friday supper. Angie's murder hung over the town like a heavy cloud and didn't lend itself to friends gathering on the deck on a beautiful summer night.

But Ben thought otherwise. "People might want to be together, " Ben said. "Let's light the coals, chill the martinis, and we'll be here if anyone comes."

Ham and Jane Brewster arrived at precisely seven o'clock.

Jane walked into the kitchen and hugged Nell. "That poor Angie Archer," she said. "I can't think of anything else, Nell. Ham and I found ourselves wandering around the studios today, being sad, then mad, then sad again. So we decided we'd come by and if the door was open, that would be good. If not, we'd go back to the studio and wander some more."

"We've brought a friend," Ham said, walking across the Endicotts' kitchen and setting a bottle of wine down on the butcher-block island. A tall, sandy-haired man with a familiar smile followed him across the kitchen. Sam Perry was teaching a photography class at the summer arts academy, Ham explained.

Ben shook his hand. "It's not our most festive Friday night, Sam, but we're glad to have you anyway."

"This town holds its own close," Sam said. "I can see that. A murder is a lot to handle."

Ben held open the French doors leading to the deck, and invited the small group outside. "Sea Harbor is a great place," he said, "but it's hard right now to get past the bad things happening. "

"You don't expect things like murder in this calm and peaceful place," Nell said."But we've weathered lots of storms up here. We'll get through this, Sam." She passed him a martini Ben had just mixed.

The bang of the front screen door announced that Ham and Jane weren't the only ones needing company tonight. Birdie and Izzy walked through the family room and out to the deck, carrying more wine and a sack of Harry's sourdough rolls.

Nell noticed the quieter mood that accompanied people's steps--Izzy usually flew through the house. And Birdie's step was light like the bounce of a ball. But tonight things were heavier, slower, touched with sadness and concern.