Murder in Merino (10 page)

“But why?” Nell asked.

“At first I thought it was because she was on a wild goose chase and didn’t see any reason for the whole town to know it.”

“And now?”

“I don’t pretend to understand Jules. But . . .”

“But?” Nell said.

Danny took a long swig of beer before he answered. “But now I think she’s afraid of what she might find.”

M
onday. That was the day that Ben predicted the rumor rock would start to roll down the mountain, gathering moss. The weekend was for absorbing the sad news that Jeffrey Meara was dead. The beginning of a new week would bring out other things.

And so it did—the harsh, relentless dissection of a crime that rocked a town, by folks desperate for it to be solved.

The first thing Monday’s
Sea Harbor Gazette
did was give the murderer a name:

POTTING SHED MURDERER LEAVES FEW CLUES

Nell folded the paper to the article and smoothed it out on the yacht club dining table.

“Potting shed murderer?” Nell said, looking up from the paper. She stared again at the headline. “That’s ridiculous.”

A couple sitting at the next table looked over, then quickly went back to their tuna salad.

“Read on,” Ben said. His voice was controlled, but the set to his jaw told Nell exactly how he felt about the press coverage so far.

It was the tagline that would give legs to a rash of rumors and that caused Ben to swear, something he rarely did in public.

UNREST AT THE OCEAN’S EDGE: FACT OR FICTION?

The article itself contained little that related to the tagline, except for innuendos, things culled from an ambitious young reporter’s interviews with a few friends who worked at the restaurant. Seeds that would soon grow wings.

“What does Jerry Thompson think about this?” Nell asked Ben. “He was at your meeting this morning, right?”

At first, Ben didn’t answer. He finished off his glass of iced tea and pushed away his plate, empty now except for a few remnants of lettuce. He looked out over the ocean, peaceful and calm, the waves lapping up on the club’s carefully tended beach. All around them, yacht club diners lunched on lobster rolls and salads, fish and chips, while waiters scurried about the flagstone patio refreshing drinks and pushing the dessert cart from table to table.

It was an idyllic setting, masking a cloud of fear.

“No,” Ben finally said. “He was invited, but brainstorming programs for Sea Harbor at-risk youth—as important as it is—was probably not high on his to-do list today. But Don Wooten was there. He asked if I’d have coffee with him afterward. He was upset.”

“Because of the article?”

Ben nodded. “But it was more than that. Even though the reporter did a mediocre reporting job, there’s some truth to it.”

“Unrest at Jeffrey and Don’s restaurant? What does that mean?” Birdie asked. She nibbled on a sliver of pretzel bread.

Nell’s thoughts turned to that recent Sunday night when an argument had trapped her in the restaurant’s back hallway.

“Partnerships can be tricky,” Ben said. “Even when you know your partner well.”

“But as you yourself said, tricky partnerships are a part of business. They don’t merit a tagline in an article about a murder investigation.” Birdie motioned to the waitress that they were ready for dessert. “I feel a need for sweetness,” she said.

Ben allowed a half smile and pointed to the fruit cup for himself. Birdie and Nell would split an enormous slice of lemon cake.

“They were friends,” Nell said.

Ben agreed. “But the previous owner of the Edge was an absent landlord for the most part. He lived in Boston and rarely came up here. He let Jeffrey pretty much run the show, making big decisions, signing supplier contracts, hiring people, the whole shebang. When he and Don bought the old man out, it changed things. They’re cut from different molds. Don, with his Harvard MBA and business successes, and Jeffrey, the longtime bartender who knows everyone and everything, and who pretty much considered the restaurant as his own. Don said they’ve had some heated exchanges about major things, like vendors and accounting practices.”

“But what difference does any of that make? It certainly doesn’t fit in an article about a murder,” Nell said.

“You’re right. It shouldn’t be there—at least not until there’s something concrete to say about it. But when there’s been a murder, everyone who has ever had anything to do with Jeffrey will be in the limelight. His partner would be among the first, I’d guess.”

“I suppose that makes sense, awful as it is,” Birdie said.

“The police are already exploring it. They told Don to come down to headquarters for questioning today. I tried to convince him that it’s routine, but it’s still damn unnerving. I think he just needed someone to talk to, to hear himself think it through.”

Nell knew that was an understatement. Ben Endicott had many friends, and the chief of police just happened to be one of them. It also didn’t hurt that he had both a law degree and a business degree and was fair and honest to the core. His strength was in his kindness, and he had helped many friends in matters from negotiating contracts and deeds and wills to listening to personal issues and offering wise moral support.

“Poor Rachel. How upsetting for her,” Birdie said. She moved her glass as the waitress brought dessert plates to the table.

“I don’t think he’s told her yet. He’ll get the questioning over with first. I told him I’d go over with him this afternoon.”

“Not much escapes her, working in City Hall,” Nell said. “She’ll know soon.” She cut into the rich lemon cake.

“Well, she’s a smart attorney. She’ll see it for what it is.” Ben speared a strawberry out of the parfait dish. “She’s known Jeffrey since childhood. His death will be hard for her.”

“It makes me wonder how many of our friends will be touched by this. Mourning Jeffrey or being suspects. It’s insidious,” Birdie said. “And entirely too close to home. A good friend, murdered. Our dear Izzy and Sam’s house sullied in such a terrible way. Don Wooten being called into the police station and questioned. And imagine what Jules and Stella are going through. Who is next?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Who would be affected next by this senseless crime? It was a question Birdie really didn’t want an answer to—unless that answer was no one.

It would all go away, and they’d wake up and have their ordinary lives back in place again.

T
he church service was set for Wednesday.

Maeve Meara wanted it to be held as soon as possible. There were no out-of-town relatives to wait for, and she wanted her Jeffrey’s spirit at peace, wanted the blessings Father Northcutt’s service would bring to his soul.

It would have to be a memorial service, the priest explained, because it would take a while to get the body released, and that was fine with Maeve.

So Mary Halloran, the parish secretary, managed to move schedules, contact florists, undertakers, and cemetery folks, and made sure the Altar Society ladies would have plenty of food at the church hall reception afterward. It would be something Jeffrey would have been proud was held in his memory. “You know my helper won’t settle for anything but the best,” Father Larry told Maeve, then added in a whisper, “Sometimes I think Mary Halloran only keeps me around for comic relief.” And then he kissed her gently on the top of her head.

They all knew it to be true. Cass’s ma was truly the power behind keeping Our Lady of Safe Seas functional and efficient, and she left no detail to chance for her friends Maeve and Jeffrey Meara.

Don Wooten had offered to have a reception after the memorial at the Ocean’s Edge, but Maeve thought that was an inappropriate venue, no matter how much her Jeffrey loved his bar, his beer, and his signature drinks. The church meant prayers and comfort. That was where it should be. That was where
he
should be, she’d added with some emphasis.

“This is Maeve’s big chance to get him into the church,” Father Northcutt said with a hint of a smile.

Wednesday dawned bright and glorious, a day that brought out nearly the whole town to listen to the priest’s kind words and humorous anecdotes. Close friends mixed with the curious, the well intentioned, and some who didn’t want to miss out on the bountiful reception in the basement of the church.

Father Larry closed his eulogy with words that Maeve herself had handed him that morning, handwritten on a piece of linen stationery. They were words that would serve the devout woman well in the days to come:

My dear Jeffrey loved life, loved all of you here today, and loved me with his whole heart. He lived a wonderful, full life, filled with good friends. He wanted for nothing. He did what he loved doing: watching the sun come up out of the ocean, making me popcorn and watching every single Star Trek movie six times, reading his favorite philosophers in front of a roaring fire. He enjoyed beating our police chief at poker and working at his bar, where he knew every single customer’s name. He did what he loved—all those things that filled his life with happiness.

How many people live much longer than my darling Jeffrey did and yet never experience that kind of love and joy? Jeffrey’s life was glorious—and for that we cannot be sad. We can only be grateful.

Thanks be to the good Lord.

With that Father Northcutt completed his prayers and walked with Jeffrey’s widow down the long aisle to the hall below.

As they inched their way down the crowded steps, Nell mentioned to Ben that she had spotted half the police force in attendance. He’d noticed the same thing, some in uniform but many in suits milling around at the back of the church and now headed downstairs.

They caught up with Jerry Thompson at the bottom of the steps to the parish hall. “Looks like your whole force is here,” Ben said.

“Almost.” Jerry nodded and moved over to the wall to let people pass. “The crowd had me worried,” he said. “The harsh fact is that there’s a murderer on the loose. Although nothing so far leads us to believe that this was a random killing, you can’t take anything for granted.”

Ben listened carefully, his brow creased. “I can’t imagine it was random—but I can’t imagine anyone intentionally killing Jeffrey Meara, either.” He looked around at the crowd, the faces, some chatting as if at a wedding reception, others with tears in their eyes. “I understand murderers often have a compulsion to show up at press conferences or funerals of victims.”

Jerry managed a laugh. “So you watch
CSI
, Ben? Who would have guessed? But yeah, it’s true. The guy could be in there eating Harriet Brandley’s potato salad or Gracie’s lobster rolls or Harry’s cold cuts. So all my crew are spies today. Maybe someone will hear or see something, catch a look or some movement, something that doesn’t quite fit in at a wake.” He shrugged. “We’re looking under every stone. We’ll solve this. Tommy Porter is my right-hand guy on it, and he’s definitely motivated. Jeffrey was a friend of his grandmother.”

Nell saw the fatigue and sadness on the police chief’s face. She and Ben had talked about it for a long time the night before, the difficulties built into his position. Senseless loss of life was an awful thing. And when it was a friend, a man who was a fixture in a small town, it was awful—and personal. Having Tommy, a young man they’d known almost since his birth, on the case was a good thing, too. Tommy and his girlfriend, Janie Levin, were special to all of them.

They left the chief and walked by some of the Ocean’s Edge staff making their way out of the church. Some were kids just out of college, looking to move on to better jobs but content to have one at the Edge in the meantime. Most had probably been hired by Jeffrey himself. And if rumor had it right, fired by him as well.

Inside the large hall, Maeve sat in a semicircle of chairs not far from the food buffet. The long folding tables nearly groaned beneath the weight of hams and seafood salads, platters of lobster and chips and dips, pies and cakes. The widow was composed and gracious, a small, peaceful woman who believed with all her heart that her Jeffrey hadn’t left her. Not really.

People circled around her, murmuring kind words, then moved on to let others take their place.

Ben and Nell stood in line with Izzy and Birdie, just in front of Stan and Karen Hanson. They exchanged a few words, but Stan was clearly not in the mood for small talk, and Karen, one hand on her husband’s arm, watched him closely, her face composed.

Nell thought about the conversation they’d had just days before. Stan and Jeffrey had been friends. And however long ago it was, it appeared fresh today in Stan’s face. Fresh and very sad.

The Three Musketeers, Karen had called them. The third in the trio hadn’t been mentioned by name. He was likely one of the Sea Harbor High graduates who didn’t come back after college and now lived in Boston or New York or someplace more exotic.

Maeve looked up as Nell and Ben approached. She smiled, her eyes focusing first on Nell. “Jeffrey loved you, you know,” she said to her. “You and that big Ben of yours. And sweet Izzy.” When she saw Birdie, her eyes filled, but she wiped away the gathering tears immediately. “And my dear Birdie.” She held out both hands.

Birdie leaned over and hugged her, a gentle embrace to a fragile form.

“Birdie was at our wedding. All those many years ago,” Maeve said.

“And you were at mine, Maeve.”

“All three of them, I believe,” Maeve said, chuckling.

Looking at the weaving line of people waiting behind them, Ben and Nell began to move on. Maeve stood briefly and moved close to Birdie, her hands on her friend’s shoulders, their eyes at the same level, one looking into the other’s. Two women small in stature and big in all the things that matter. “Come visit me,” she said. “We will talk.”

Birdie promised as much and moved away. They walked single file through the crowd, over to a small table where Cass, Sam, and the Brewsters sat together, drinking glasses of iced tea.

“She’s quite a lady, isn’t she?” Sam said.

“I wonder how much she’s really grasped of what’s happened,” Birdie said. “I got the feeling that maybe the way Jeffrey died has escaped her completely.”

“Which might be a good thing for now,” Nell said.

They looked back at Maeve. She greeted the mayor and his wife graciously, smiling. Karen sat down next to Maeve, taking her blue-veined hands in her own. She smiled, that sad way people did at funerals. Next to her, Stan stood silently, awkwardly, looking down at the two women. He appeared slightly rumpled today, a look out of place for the distinguished mayor.

Next in line was Beatrice Scaglia, her eyes scrutinizing the group in front of her. She watched each movement, each gesture, her own face still and in mourning mode.

“Beatrice wants to be sure she gets equal time,” Cass whispered. “There are lots of voters here.”

Birdie tsked at her, but with a half smile.

Cass feigned regret. “I shouldn’t be snarky at a funeral, should I?”

“But you’re right,” Izzy said. “Our Beatrice is a good politician. Funerals are fair game, I guess.”

Minutes later, their attention shifted back to Maeve. She moved forward on her chair, her hands grasping the edge, then slowly got up and stood in front of Stan Hanson. She tilted her head back, looking up into his face. She lifted one hand to his cheek and touched it gently, then spoke quiet words, as one might to comfort a child.

In the next minute, Stan Hanson, mayor of Sea Harbor and a man known for keeping his emotions in check, seemed to shrink in size. Maeve stood still, not moving away, her hands now resting on his arms.

Mayor Hanson lowered his head as unchecked tears rolled down his cheeks.

Karen rose from the chair immediately and gathered up her things. She offered her husband a tissue, and then she gently ushered him through the crowds of people and out of the crowded hall.

Ben suggested they leave shortly after the mayor and his wife. Birdie declined, saying she was going to stay on a while longer and make sure Maeve got home safely. “She’ll be here a couple more hours at least. I’ll stay with her.”

Ben gave her the look that questioned her mode of transportation and she assured him her driver, Harold, would be in charge of getting them both home. Ben’s personal mission to keep Birdie’s Lincoln Town Car in the capable hands of Harold Sampson, especially after she’d ruined several parking meters near the police station, would be honored. Birdie took Ben’s reminders in stride. Besides, the thought of marring her deceased Sonny’s cherished Town Car was nightmarish, and though she’d never tell Ben, that fact went much further than Ben’s concern in convincing her to let Harold take the reins.

Nell looked back at Maeve once more before following the group out of the hall. Beatrice had now claimed the widow and was sitting next to her in her tailored black suit, offering water and condolences.

“Stan Hanson was having a hard time. What was that about?” Cass took two steps at a time, up the basement steps and into the sunshine.

“I was surprised, too,” Ben said. “I’ve never seen him show much emotion, not even during the fiercest city council fight. That was the private side, I guess.”

Nell squinted in the brightness of day, then slipped on her sunglasses. “I think it was about a sweet man showing us that even real men cry,” she said.

Cass scoffed. “Real men do lots of things, some not so nice.”

Nell put an arm around her shoulder and they began walking together down the wide granite steps that fronted Our Lady of Safe Seas. “Speaking of real men, I didn’t see Danny.”

“He’s watching the bookstore,” Cass said. “His parents were good friends of the Mearas.”

“Of course,” Nell said. “See? Good men do nice things.”

Ham interrupted before Cass could manage a retort.

“We’re off to the gallery. No rest for the wicked,” he said, taking Jane’s arm and guiding her through a crowd gathered on the steps.

“And I need to get back to work, too,” Izzy echoed. “Mae’s nieces are minding the shop.” She looked over at Sam and Cass. “Anyone want to grab a coffee on the way?”

Sam was checking his messages but dutifully followed behind the two women.

Nell watched them walk off. It was the middle of the week, a Wednesday, but the weekday seemed out of place. It was a different kind of day, not one with a name like Wednesday. Nell felt unsettled. She looked up and down the street, as if something should be happening, a second act. As if something she couldn’t quite see would add some closure to the day. She looked at Ben and saw in his eyes that he sensed what she was feeling.

“It’s an uncomfortable feeling, isn’t it, Nellie? Funerals are so final. But nothing about this is final. We’re in a time warp, and we’re stuck here until the murderer is found.”

Nell let out the breath that had been trapped inside her chest and nodded, somehow knowing that Ben would manage to crawl inside her thoughts and make sense of them. She smiled and took his arm, her heart holding him there, next to her, forever.

They walked out of the long shadows of the church toward their car. Ben had parked just past the small corner park near the Sea Harbor Historical Museum.

Nell noticed Tyler Gibson, a bartender at the Ocean’s Edge, standing in the middle of a group near a small fountain that centered the park. Nell recognized several members of the restaurant’s waitstaff.

“Nice funeral,” Tyler said as they drew near. His cheeks reddened as he heard his own words. “Geesh, Nell, Ben. Sorry. That doesn’t sound right. What should you say?”

“It’s fine,” Nell said. “It
was
nice. Very personal, and that meant something to Maeve.”

“It’s nice that all of you came,” Ben said. “Jeffrey would have liked his staff being there.”

Ty smiled and shifted from one foot to the other, his blond hair flopping over his forehead. “Truth is, Ben, Wooten closed the restaurant until four today so we would all come, kind of like we should, you know?” Then he added quickly, “But we’d’ve come anyway—sure.”

Zack Levin, Janie’s younger brother, stood next to Tyler. He cleared his throat, then looked at his older friend and shrugged. “Speak for yourself, Gibson.”

Nell looked at Zack. Poor kid. She remembered seeing him the other night, trying to hold it together under Jeffrey’s anger when he caught him texting someone and neglecting a table littered with dirty dishes. Janie had told her later that Jeffrey had fired Zack that night.

“It’s nice of you to show up, Zack, considering everything. And if you need suggestions in your job search, Ben and I might be able to help.” Zack Levin was a nice kid—not completely responsible, but well intentioned. And they all adored his sister, Janie, the wonderful nurse who lived in the apartment above the yarn shop. Ben would surely be able to find someone to hire him.