Murder in Merino (20 page)

Mary stopped, but only because she needed to breathe. Her cheeks were red and the vehemence of her belief was spread out over the Ocean’s Edge lounge. Several people looked their way. Beyond the bar, Nell spotted Don Wooten, his forehead creased as he watched the heated exchange. Normally at this time of day, his lounge was quiet with people drinking Chablis and sherry and not looking for a fight.

“I think you said it very nicely—and you’re right,” Birdie said. “Finding the glove in Jules’s car was to be kept confidential. The information didn’t come from the police.”

Birdie tapped her pencil on the yellow pad. “We have three weeks.”

“To get ready for the party?” Karen said. “That’s more than enough time.”

Mary stared at her. “Three weeks to find a murderer. I refuse to have the Endicott anniversary party clouded by a murderer on the loose.”

•   •   •

They left the lounge a short time later, judging the cucumber fizz a must for the anniversary party—as long as they had plenty of beer, wine, and coffee. They filed back through the restaurant, which was now filling up with early diners.

As they passed the swinging doors to the kitchen, Garrett Barros walked out, a white apron tied around his waist. He walked immediately their way, as if he’d been looking through the small window in the kitchen door, waiting for them. He stood directly in front of them, blocking them from moving forward.

“Hello, Garrett,” Nell said.

“Miz Endicott, Miz Favazza,” he said. His eyes flitted over Karen, then moved on to Cass. He frowned. “I remember you. You used to live next door to me.” He paused, then said, “I’m glad you don’t live in that house anymore.”

“Me, too, Garrett. Your binoculars got the better of me.”

“Binoculars?” Karen asked, trying hard to follow the conversation.

Garrett glared at Cass. “You should be nice like your ma. I watch birds.”

“That’s wonderful, Garrett.” Nell’s voice was kind. “That’s a noble pastime. But watching people in their houses or yards with binoculars isn’t noble.”

Garrett jerked his head around and looked at Nell, his face clouded. “I don’t do that. Sometimes people get in the way of my birds.”

Don Wooten walked over, but Garrett held his ground. “Jules is a nice girl. I don’t watch her.”

“What’s going on, Garrett?” Don asked. His voice was even, but his frown caused Garrett to shift from one foot to the other before answering.

“Nothing, Mr. Wooten. We were talking about my neighbor. Her name is Julia.”

Don nodded. “Julia,” he said. “Julia Ainsley?”

Garrett nodded.

Don looked at Nell. “Is there a new development? Has she been arrested?”

The wording offended Nell, and then she realized that it was what the town was thinking—that Jules Ainsley was quite possibly a murderer. They wanted more information. They especially wanted her to be in jail. Many people didn’t know Jules, at least not beyond her name and face, and what they read in the paper or heard on Coffee’s patio, the Gull Tavern, or at the Ocean’s Edge bar was what they knew to be true. Jules wasn’t “one of them,” after all. Nell shouldn’t blame Don for being on alert, just like the rest of the town.

Ben called it unintentional viciousness. The longer that the rumors churned and gained weight and substance, the more difficult life was going to be for Jules. And that thought was awful.

Don Wooten took Garrett aside and talked to him briefly, then watched him while he walked back into the kitchen. Then Don turned back to the group of women. “What’s going on?”

The kitchen door opened again almost immediately and Garrett came out. “I know Julia didn’t murder Jeffrey Meara,” he said, his words clear and his expression one of absolute certainty.

He spoke as if he knew Jules didn’t murder the Bartender—because he knew who did.

B
efore anyone could utter a word, Garrett turned around and walked back into the kitchen.

Don looked at the swinging door, then back to the women. “I’m sorry if there’s been a problem out here. I’ll talk to Garrett.”

“There isn’t any problem, Don,” Nell said. “You don’t need to talk to him.”

“Except for the binoculars,” Mary Pisano said, standing as tall as her wedge sandals allowed. “What was that about, Nell?”

“He uses binoculars to spy?” Karen said, her voice laced with concern.

Don asked, “What binoculars?”

Mary looked at Cass. “You lived next to him for a while. What do you think?”

Cass shrugged. “Garrett likes to use binoculars. I’d see him outside all the time, night and day. Looking at birds, he’d tell me, though it struck me as odd that he’d be out there at midnight. Don’t birds sleep at night?”

“A Peeping Tom,” Karen said.

Don stared at the kitchen door. “Binoculars?” he repeated, as if unsure of the word.

Nell spoke up. She wasn’t sure what was motivating her—maybe that Don Wooten seemed to think there was something menacing about Garrett Barros having a pair of binoculars. Without his being there to defend himself, it seemed unfair to him. He had struck a surprising chord in her today, especially since just two days before the same man had frightened her as he stood behind the bank of pine trees with binoculars in his hand—and with Rebecca Early and Jules just a few yards away.

Today was different and she had no earthly idea why. But somehow, for some reason, she believed him.

She looked at Don. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Jules isn’t worried about Garrett.”

“But he’s watching her house with binoculars?” Karen asked. She looked at Cass. “He’s been doing this for a long time?”

“We don’t know that,” Nell answered. “Maybe he simply likes to keep an eye on what’s going on in his neighborhood, along with the birds, and in a good way. Not to hurt anyone. Jules is probably safer being next door to him than anywhere else in town right now.”

With that, Nell reminded Birdie and Cass that she needed to stop by Izzy’s shop before the store closed. A new shipment of wool had come in. Perfect for winter projects.

•   •   •

“I’m not sure what to make of all that,” Birdie said, climbing into the front seat. “But I think a talk with Garrett Barros outside his place of employment might be worthwhile. He’s an interesting young man, not what I expected. But then, I’ve never spoken with him before.”

Birdie thought about what she had said. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? To form an opinion of someone without really knowing who they are, except for the way they smile or the way they walk or their mannerisms. Without letting them reveal themselves.”

Nell started the car, Birdie’s words hanging there in front of the steering wheel. Yes, it was a shame, and she’d done the same thing—how many times?—without even being conscious of it.

“Do you think the police have talked to Garrett?” Cass asked from the backseat. “Could he have been home the day Jeffrey was killed? He seemed pretty sure Jules didn’t do it.”

“They must have talked to all the neighbors,” Nell said. “But I’m not sure he would have mentioned bird-watching in a police interview. Or even his binoculars. We could easily find out if he was working that day.”

“And what we’re assuming is that he might have seen something, not that he might have done something . . .” Cass’s words lingered there, syphoned out of everyone’s thoughts.

Nell thought back to the Ocean’s Edge staff that had stood outside the church that day. According to one of the hostesses, some of the staff had snuck out of the funeral service as soon as they could. Maybe just stayed inside the church until their boss noticed their presence. Garrett was there. Was he one of those who had fled? More important, probably, was whether he was one of those who had been fired and carried a grudge against Jeffrey Meara.

“Doesn’t your Ella bird-watch?” she asked Birdie. Birdie’s housekeeper had some interesting hobbies and, if Nell remembered correctly, bird-watching was one of them. “Maybe she knows Garrett.”

Don Wooten sounded skeptical about the bird-watching explanation. Karen Hanson didn’t buy it, either. Were they being naive?

“I was thinking the same thing, Nell. If he is in any way serious about getting to know our fine feathered friends—which, by the way, is the name of Ella’s bird-watching club—Ella will know it.”

The image of the tall, narrow housekeeper in bird-watching gear, a safari hat shielding her from the sun, lightened the mood.

Cass leaned forward in her seat.

“Garrett Barros moves to the beat of his own drum, my ma always said. Pete thought I was too hard on him.”

“Pete knows Garrett?”

“Oh, you know, everyone around here knows everyone. He and Garrett were in some youth explorers group once upon a time.”

“He’s Pete’s age,” Nell mused. “Somehow I thought he was in his early twenties.”

“No, closer to thirty,” Cass said. “He just looks young.”

“Did you get to know him at all when you stayed in Izzy’s house?” Birdie asked.

“No, not really—I wasn’t around much. That was during the time the lobster business was in turmoil. But I admit he gave me the willies sometimes. I’d see him out in the potting shed, fiddling around, or standing on the rocks out in the back with those binoculars. One time I asked to look through them, but he refused. He said he had to get a specially made pair, and he was the only one who could see through them.”

“Why was that?”

“He’s left-handed, he said, and had to get a specially modified something or other. Controllers, I think. He was very protective of them.”

It sounded like an excuse, Nell thought. “So he knew that backyard well,” she said.

“Sure. He had easy access, just like the Seroogys next door to you and anyone else who uses your backyard shortcut,” Cass said.

Of course. That’s what neighborhoods in small towns fostered: sharing. The winding trail in her backyard was worn smooth by neighbors making their way to the beach. It was what one did.

Cass continued. “If Garrett was home the day Jeffrey was killed and saw him walk around the house—and Garrett doesn’t miss much—it would have been simple for him to meet Jeffery back there.”

“And he could have left the funeral early and rummaged through Maeve’s den, I suppose,” Nell said, though her voice lacked conviction.

“So we need to find out how Garrett felt about his boss,” Birdie said. “At least for starters.”

Cass sat back in the seat, looking out the window, quiet and thinking. Though as Nell caught a glimpse of Cass’s expression in the rearview mirror, she wasn’t sure she was thinking about Garrett Barros.

When they pulled up in front of the yarn shop, Cass got out, looked over at the bookstore for a long moment, then followed Nell and Birdie past Izzy’s colorful window, filled with yarn and matching autumn leaves.

Fall. A time of change.

It was near closing time and the shop was nearly empty. Mae stood behind the checkout counter, talking with Laura Danvers as she scanned several skeins of soft yellow and deep blue merino yarn into the computer. They looked up as the bell chimed over the door.

“You look like a posse,” Laura said with a grin. “Red Ranger rides again.”

Nell looked at the stack of yarn Mae was loading into Laura’s bag. “And you look like you are outfitting the Sea Harbor fishing fleet. I hope you saved some for us.”

Laura laughed. “I can’t resist. Besides, like everyone else around here, we’re spending more time at home these days and knitting is a great escape. Usually in the fall my girls love to hike over in Ravenswood Park—even Elliott—but it’s just too forbidding right now. The girls sense it, though we try not to talk about it in front of them.”

Birdie nodded. “This, too, shall pass,” she said, touching Laura’s arm lightly with her hand. “It will.”

Nell watched Laura’s eyes, the eyes of a mother bear protecting her cubs. And hating the atmosphere wrapping her family in fear.

The bell above the door rang again and attention turned to Beatrice Scaglia, carrying a large Italian leather briefcase, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

“I’m not too late. Good,” she said.

Mae looked at her over half-moon glasses. “What are you not too late for? We’re just about to close—you know that.” In spite of her tone, Izzy’s store manager liked the brassy councilwoman in the ridiculous—in Mae’s opinion—heels. She found it amusing that Beatrice hadn’t completed a single knitting project in five years—and was probably less adept than Danny Brandley in mastering the stockinette stitch—but she was a store regular.

As Mae often told Izzy, “She’s probably our best customer—she has more yarn stashed in her house than we have in the stockroom. If this place ever burns down we’ll set up shop in her basement.”

Beatrice bought yarn, but it was the conversations she overheard in the back room of Izzy’s shop that she stored away in her razor-sharp mind and memory—and that led to her claim that she was Sea Harbor’s most well-informed council member on women’s issues.

And no one doubted that she was.

“Oh, Mae. You’re so . . . so Mae.” Beatrice laughed, a well-controlled and lilting laugh that served her well on the campaign trail. “I’m here to give you some flyers and posters. You’ll thank me. You’re the first to know.” She looked around at the others. “All of you. I couldn’t have asked for a better crew to distribute these.”

Laura frowned. “Distribute flyers?”

“Flyers? What for?” Izzy walked up from the knitting room carrying a box of yarn.

“Izzy, sweetie, come here,” Beatrice said, gesturing to the round oak table centering the room. She pushed aside a basket of yarn and replaced it with her large leather briefcase. Pulling out a stack of colorful flyers, she handed each of them a pile, then pulled out a large poster and handed it to Izzy. “For your window,” she said.

Izzy scanned the poster. “A debate?” The headline was bold:

SEA HARBOR’S DEBATE OF THE CENTURY

Mae looked at the matching flyer, then pushed her glasses into her thinning hair. “This sounds formidable, Scaglia. What century are you talking about exactly?”

Beatrice ignored Mae and looked at the others. “It’s a wonderful idea, don’t you think? I’ve reserved the community center. Everyone will come and decide for themselves whom they want as their next mayor. But I need to get the word out. It’s scheduled for next week.”

“Well,” Birdie said, the single word seeming to take up an inordinate amount of time. Her eyes scanned the flyer. “I think this will be an interesting evening, Beatrice. How nice that you and Stan have agreed to have a public conversation.”

Beatrice looked down at her bright red shoes. Then she lifted her head and smiled at the circle of women looking at her, the same smile she used when trying to convince the council of some unpopular project. “I haven’t talked to Stan about it yet. But he is such a broad-minded, intelligent man, how could he say no?”