Murder in Merino (18 page)

“Maybe,” Izzy said.

“I hope all this blows over soon so she can get on with her life. Poor girl,” Rachel said. “But at least she has a place to stay while she’s here. She certainly doesn’t look like a murderer to me.”

As city attorney, Rachel Wooten saw all sides of Sea Harbor life—its beauty and its underbelly—and she probably knew as much of what was going on at police headquarters as anyone did. Nell was happy that Rachel wasn’t eager to condemn Jules. Her opinion was greatly respected in Sea Harbor.

“So, Don,” Ben said, looking at the less outgoing half of the couple, “you have a lot on your plate right now over at the Edge. How’s that going?”

Nell listened for his answer, wondering whether he remembered the last time they’d seen each other—in a dark hall, in the middle of a fierce argument between Don and his now deceased partner.

“We’re in a bit of an upheaval, as you’d imagine. It’s a sad time—Jeffrey had been a presence at the Edge for as long as some people can remember. People loved him. It’s difficult.”

“Maeve said he was getting a little cranky at work recently,” Birdie said. She followed her words with a smile. “That happens to the best of us sometimes.”

Don nodded. “He was a little frustrated, that’s true. His way of managing became a little stricter when he became owner. I suppose that’s true of all of us in one way or another. When responsibilities change, sometimes we do, too.”

“So maybe Jeffrey was happier as a bartender than as an owner with problems,” Ben said.

Don didn’t answer.

“Maeve said you knew Jeffrey in his youth, Rachel,” Birdie said.

Rachel smiled into the memory. “It’s true. Everyone liked Jeffo. He hung around Stan Hanson, I remember.” Her brows pulled together as she traveled back into memory, trying to remember something. “And Karen, too, maybe. We were in different crowds but sometimes met at parties—you know how that goes in high school. It’s all kind of a blur, a lifetime ago. Don here was never a Cool Cod. He went away to school. A fancy guy.” She nudged him in the side.

“But I came back for you,” Don said. “Surely that made me cool.” Then he placed one hand on Rachel’s back and suggested they leave these nice people to enjoy their breakfast before all those great omelets turned cold.

Nell watched them walk away, Don’s reticence to talk about Jeffrey trailing behind him.

“Don and Jeffrey weren’t getting along,” Nell said. “Don wanted to buy Jeffrey out.”

Sam looked over at Nell, then at the other women sitting around the table. “It sounds like you’ve been doing some sleuthing.”

“Just visiting grieving widows,” Birdie said. “One hears things, that’s all. Jeffrey said no to Don’s offer.”

An angry no
—and he’d hung up on his partner, who very much wanted the Ocean’s Edge to be under single management. But neither Nell nor Birdie said that out loud. It wouldn’t go down well with Ben’s remaining eggs.

Soon Birdie pushed out her chair and rummaged around for her bag. Cass, Izzy, and Nell followed. Cass’s mother was sitting in her usual spot across from Father Northcutt. And the Hansons were at the next table down. It was time to say hello—and time to remove themselves from the remaining cinnamon rolls sitting in the basket while the men settled up with Stella.

Ben scraped up the last traces of eggs with his fork and a piece of toast, watching the women walk down the row of tables. They were being sociable, friendly. That was who they were.

But no one knew better than Ben Endicott that being sociable often disguised their very adept manner of collecting information, of looking for innuendos, of exploring how and why people sometimes did evil things.

When he looked up, Stella had brought the check and Sam and Danny were digging in their pockets for bills.

“This isn’t a game,” he said to no one but himself. He looked over the edge of the deck, over the treetops to water so blue it melted in with the sky, one giant sea. Someone had been killed. Someone they knew, behind a house they also knew. It was too close—and too dangerous—in spite of the cloak of safety Sea Harbor tried so hard to wrap them all in.

Sam and Danny were standing, shoving receipts into their wallets, looking at Ben and reading his worry.

“They need to let this thing go, let
the police do their job,” Ben said.

But the only people around to hear were Danny and Sam. Ben was preaching to the choir.

B
en came in with the paper and slapped it down on the kitchen island.

“What’s wrong?” Nell rummaged around in her bag, looking for her cell phone.

“Jerry said he was keeping this quiet.”

Nell walked over and read the headline.

GLOVE MAY GIVE A HAND TO INVESTIGATION

Nell stared at it. “Ben, this is terrible. Everything about it is awful, even the silly pun.” She reached for her coffee cup and scanned the first paragraph. The reporter had some information, but not all of it. Enough to insinuate that the missing garden glove that was possibly used in the Bartender’s murder had been found. The reporter went on to say that although the police were not commenting, a reliable source said it was found beneath the seat in a car found at the scene of the crime.

Nell’s head shot up. “Beneath the seat? Ben, we didn’t even know that.”

Before he could answer, Izzy came in, a rolled-up paper in her hand. “Rebecca Early called me. She got a call from Jules and went right over.”

“Have they seen the paper?”

“Apparently Jules’s neighbor brought it over to her this morning. Rebecca wasn’t sure which bothered her most, seeing Garrett Barros at her front door, or the horrible headline.”

“Garrett Barros?” Ben asked.

Izzy nodded.

Nell looked at Ben.

“I’ll call the chief,” he said and walked into his den.

Nell explained her concern to Izzy. “We saw Garrett hiding behind a tree yesterday, keeping tabs on Jules. I think the chief needs to know about it.”

Ben was back in minutes. “Jerry is as furious as we are about the story. He’s calling a meeting this morning to see if there was some kind of leak in the department. He’s mystified. He has a select group working on this case—Tommy Porter and some others whom he considers the best, the brightest, and the most trustworthy. He can’t imagine that any of them would talk to the press.”

“If not the police, then who . . . ?”

Ben shook his head and reviewed the possibilities. Somehow it helped to repeat it out loud. “Who else knew about this? We did. The police, of course. But Jerry hadn’t told me where in the car the glove had been found. Purposely. He didn’t tell Jules, either.”

None of them would say the word. It simply hung out there in the middle of the Endicott kitchen.

The murderer knew.

When Rebecca had called Izzy earlier, she suggested they stop by Jules’s house later that day if they had time. She had to leave for the gallery and thought Jules would like the company. “She is as strong as they come, but it might be nice to see someone who didn’t look at her and imagine her standing in a potting shed wearing a bloody garden glove. Besides,” Rebecca added before hanging up, “the house looks terrific. I know she’d like to show it off to someone else who might care.”

The day was packed with work and meetings for all of them. But the evening looked better. Monday night was Ben’s chamber meeting night, and Sam was teaching a class in photography at the junior college. Cass offered to pick up a lasagna at Garozzo’s—Harry’s was the best in town. Birdie would bring wine, Izzy would bring Abby, and Nell would drive. They were set.

A quick call to Jules revealed she’d love the company. She hadn’t been up to facing folks at the Market Basket, so the salad and lasagna would be welcomed with eternal gratitude. She was starving.

As Nell drove up the shady street and turned onto Ridge Road, she mentioned to the others something Ben had said earlier that day. “He suggested we put our energy into helping Jules find her roots. A healthy quest. A safe one.”

“And of course dear Ben is right,” Birdie said. “I agree with him. I think we’re exactly the right people to help Jules put the puzzle pieces of her past together.”

Nell looked over at her.

“I do, Nell—I agree with your sweet husband. He wants us to be safe. He’s concerned that there’s a murderer out there on the streets, and he’s right. There is. And if the glove was planted in Jules’s car, this person is determined not to be found.

“And he’s also correct that we’re the people to help Jules find her past. I’ve been around forever; we are good at patterns and stitching things together. Geniuses, maybe.” She smiled, that sweet Birdie smile that carried such weight that nearly anyone in Sea Harbor would do her bidding simply because of that look. And, of course, because she was Birdie, always wise and fair and loving.

“But here is what I’m not sure of and neither are you. I’m just not sure one mystery precludes the other,” she said. “But we could be dead wrong.”

Nell pulled into the driveway and parked behind Jules’s car, Birdie’s words ringing in her ears.

She looked ahead, seeing only the battered fender on the old Volvo. She turned and looked at sweet Abby in the back, her car seat fastened securely between Izzy and Cass. Safe and sound.
May we all be,
she thought.

They sat in the car for a minute, silently mulling over Birdie’s observation.

Finally Nell said, “I agree with both you and Ben. When I think about someone walking around the town—someone who has ruthlessly taken another’s life—it pains me. And it frightens me. But the only way to get rid of that feeling is to find the person who did it. And yes, there’s a connection, if only in proximity. Jules was trying to find out who her father was. Jules was new in town. She met Jeffrey. And Jeffrey was murdered. Somehow it feels like there should be a connection. But the stitches don’t fit together—it’s like a ‘yarn over’ that shouldn’t be there. Maybe what’s important right now is helping Jules find her father—and hopefully bringing a small iota of comfort to her.”

Birdie reached over and touched her friend’s hand. Then she turned and smiled at Cass and Izzy and Abby. “All right, then. Shall we go in?”

“What do you think, Abby?” Izzy asked, looking over at the round pink cheeks of her golden-haired child.

“Goo,” Abby said.

Jules was waiting inside the front door. Soft jazz played in the background and the open windows welcomed the evening breeze. The house smelled of the sea and daisies and fresh linens.

“It’s just beautiful, Jules,” Izzy said. She looked around at the amazing transformation of a house that had looked ready for a wrecking ball not a month before.

“You have a knack for the beautiful, my dear,” Birdie said.

“What I’ve done is all pretty cosmetic,” Jules said, clearly pleased with the accolades. “Sam gave me some ideas for making the place a little more open, a wall or two that maybe could come down. But for now, I love it. And I love having its former owner and occupants be my first guests.” She looked at Cass and Izzy, the wide smile that had been absent in recent days easing its way back. “No matter what’s happened on this property, I feel safe here.”

Nell thought of the shadowy figure lurking around the pine trees and made a mental note to talk to her about Garrett Barros before leaving. For now she enjoyed Jules’s pride in the house and followed her through the cheerful living room to the kitchen, which ran along the back of the house. Izzy had added a wall of windows and a wide door to the backyard when she’d bought the house, and Nell had almost forgotten how they brought light and magic into the kitchen and eating area. Magic and the magnificent light of a darkening sky over the ocean.

“The backyard needs some pruning and fixing up, but come look at the porch. It’s my favorite part of the whole house.” She pushed open the kitchen door and stepped onto the open porch, which ran the length of the house. The roofline of the house covered it and pillars held it up, but the porch itself was open to the world. Its wooden floor and pillars were scrubbed clean, the wooden swing smelled of Murphy’s oil soap, and several Adirondack chairs were softened and made welcoming with bright pillows. A basket of knitting sat beside the swing and a pile of books anchored a small white table. Beyond the trees and hilly tangle of vines and bushes was the sea.

“You did all this in just a few days?” Cass asked. “Amazing. I lived here for two years and never got around to putting up curtains.”

“It’s how I handle stress—doing this and running are keeping me sane. Friends like the four of you. And Rebecca. She’s been a rock. A bonus I never expected when I came here.”

Cass went back inside and put the lasagna into the oven. Birdie followed, arranging a basket of rolls and a salad on the small kitchen table.

“This will be ready whenever we are,” Birdie called through the door. “But first we need to see every inch of what you’ve done. We are a very nosy group and make no apologies for it.”

“That will take all of three minutes.” Jules laughed. “But come. You’ve seen the living room. We’re off to the bedroom, the hidden bath behind the closet, and the den.” She led them into her bedroom, transformed now with a bright yellow duvet, gauzy curtains, and a dresser that Rebecca had brought over, its mirror distinctive, with several pieces of inlaid handblown glass.

The den was last on the list, a small corner room with windows on both sides, one that looked out over the patch of backyard and the sea below, and the other framing the side yard.

“I’m using that old desk you left here, Izzy, and Rebecca gave me a sofa she wasn’t using.” She pointed to the corner where a soft merino afghan was angled over the back of a buttery yellow sofa. “I love this room.”

Nell looked around at the finishing touches, a plant in the corner, a small throw rug. And then she looked at the wall. Jules had brightened the white space by placing a small painting above the couch, an impressionistic blend of soft greens and blues, a whitewashed porch, and a basket of hanging flowers that caught the sunlight and reflected the soft canary color of the couch. She walked over to get a closer look. And then she stared hard at the painting, one hand lifting to her mouth.

“How amazing. Jules, where did you find this? Did you paint it?”

She realized the answer before the question was out. It was an old painting. The frame was weathered and the painting inside slightly buckled from humidity. Some areas were darkened, probably brittle beneath the glass. But it wasn’t its age that kept Nell staring at it, and that drew the others in the room to her side; it was the subject of the painting.

It was an old painting of the house they were standing in.

“Oh, my,” Birdie said. “What a treasure. Wherever did you find this, Jules?”

There was no mistaking the view. It was painted from the side of the backyard and captured a glimpse of the sea and sky in the background. But mostly it featured the porch, the swing, a basket of yarn on the floor. A bright green shrub with soft edges caught the sunlight, much like the overgrown cypress that still hugged the railing of the porch. The artist had layered magenta, cyan, black, and yellow, creating a vibrant bush that reflected the light.

“It’s this house, this porch,” Izzy exclaimed. “Wow. And look—” She pointed to the background. “It was painted a long time ago, before the hill became dense with undergrowth and trees, so you can see the ocean clearly in the distance. It’s beautiful. Was it in that smelly old attic above the bedroom? Or did you find it in Canary Cove? I wonder who painted it.”

For a moment Jules just stood there, still looking at the painting as she soaked in their surprise and praise and wonder. Finally she turned around and smiled.

“My mother,” Jules said quietly. “My mother painted it.”