Murder in Merino (4 page)

While the others conjured up romantic images of a youthful Birdie and the love of her life, Sam explained, “You’re fine, Birdie. You didn’t forget anything. We figured Harold was driving you over, so we suggested she call you if she wanted a ride.”

“No, she didn’t call. I saw her out running a little bit ago and she waved in that friendly way she has that makes me think we know each other better than we really do. She was heading toward the beach. It’s quite amazing the way she’s embraced this town—all of Cape Ann, in fact. She told me yesterday she’d discovered Gloucester’s backshore. ‘A runner’s dream,’ she called it. So I’m quite sure she could find Sandswept Lane if she had a mind to do it.”

“How long is she going to be here?” Jane Brewster asked, coming in from the deck, where she had regretfully relinquished Abby to Ham’s waiting arms. “She came into the gallery last week. She’s not your ordinary tourist, is she? She seems more like someone checking us all out.”

“Checking us out?” Nell asked.

“Well, the town, I guess I mean. She asked a lot of questions about the area, its history, why people live here. She was interested in Canary Cove, too—how long it’s been here, that kind of thing. She likes art and asked if I’d look at a painting she brought with her.”

“She paints? I can’t stand it. She knits like a pro, she runs like an Olympic athlete, she’s smart—and now she paints? Geesh.” Izzy took a piece of Brie from a wooden cheese plate and stared it down before putting it into her mouth. “And from the looks of her she doesn’t eat much—clearly not the kind of food that keeps me alive and Abby thriving.”

Jane laughed. “I don’t know if she paints. She just thought I’d be able to tell her something about a painting she owns.”

“That’s odd,” Birdie said.

“What?”

“That she’d bring a painting with her on vacation. Assuming she’s on vacation, that is.”

They mulled over that fact for a minute before Cass interrupted, stepping through the French doors with a tray of Ben’s martinis, a Friday-night staple. “Drinks are ready,” she announced.

She seemed more relaxed, Nell thought, and even responded with a smile to Danny’s large hand claiming the small of her back.
Good
. And as much as Nell loved welcoming people to their Friday dinners, she was relieved that Jules hadn’t shown up.

In the distance, the sizzle of salmon on a hot grill filled the air with the smell of garlic, wine, and lemon.

“Out, everyone,” Izzy urged. She handed Cass a basket of pita and followed her to the deck, carrying a round tray of small bowls filled with dips.

Nell followed Birdie into the kitchen and in minutes they’d crisped the bread, checked the quinoa, and then joined the group on the deck. Ben stood at the grill, basting his masterpiece while the others relaxed in the comfortable porch chairs, sipping martinis.

“I was in a meeting with Stan Hanson today,” Ben said, stepping away from the cloud of smoke. “I told him he and Karen should stop by if they were free.”

“Let me guess,” Ham said. “They had yet another PTA or Rotary Club appearance to make.”

Ben nodded. “You guessed it. It’s all because of Beatrice Scaglia, Karen says. She’s campaigning like a human dynamo—although Karen’s words were more pointed. She’s everywhere, and the Hansons have no choice but to do the same.”

“And Beatrice has the energy edge—she’s ten years younger.” Birdie sat on the glider, gently rocking Abby in her arms.

Sam moved opposite her and snapped a photo of the pure innocence of his baby girl, looking up into the lined face and wise eyes of the woman with whom she seemed to share the most basic secrets of life.

“Such messy business, politics,” Jane said. She smothered a cracker with a fig and goat cheese spread and handed it to Ham. “It makes me wonder why Stan would even want another term. He’s, what—sixtyish? Why not relax and enjoy life. He’s certainly paid his dues.”

“But Stan does good things. He’s probably done more for social services than anyone in the state,” Nell said. “He’s a fine mayor.”

“He hasn’t done much about raising revenues for roads and playgrounds,” said Ben. “And Beatrice is beating him over the head with that.”

“Well, we know he doesn’t do it for the money,” Ham said. Although the city council had recently raised the mayor’s salary—in spite of Stan’s own opposition to the proposal—everyone knew it wasn’t what he could have made working in his wife’s family’s businesses.

“He and Karen live rather modestly, considering the wealth they’ve inherited,” Birdie said. “Their house is impeccably decorated, of course.” She handed the baby over to Izzy, who tucked her feet up beneath her and nursed Abby until her chubby body went slack and her curly blond head nodded in sleep.

“Stan’s a modest guy,” Ben said. “Before Karen coerced him into running for mayor, he was perfectly content working at Father Northcutt’s shelter or running the Boy’s Club program. He still volunteers with the sailing classes Sam and I run for those kids.”

“Good folks,” Jane said.

“And now we have the happy excuse to abandon politics for food,” Ben said. “The salmon is ready, folks. Let’s move this party to the table.”

The wooden dining table was Nell’s pride and joy. It sat beneath the shade of a maple tree, where it hosted gatherings from April to October and sometimes—with the help of a heater, jackets, and cooperating winds—into early winter. Nell had set it tonight with the earth-tone pottery Jane Brewster had made for them years before, each piece slightly different from the next. Flickering light from a line of hurricane lamps echoed the warmth of the day and in minutes they’d all gathered around, pulling back chairs with colorful cushions and settling down for a feast. Birdie lifted her glass in a toast to a beautiful night, to Ben’s special salmon, to family, and to friends.

“Hear, hear,” they echoed as the gentle clinking of glasses filled the darkening sky.

Bowls and platters were passed; wine was poured and a bowl of dog food set out for Red.

“Those no-shows are going to rue the day they missed this meal. You’ve outdone yourself, Ben Endicott.” Ham breathed in the garlicky aroma of the salmon, patted his ample belly, and sighed.

They all laughed. Ham was everyone’s most appreciative dinner guest.

Izzy eyed the quinoa and took a generous helping, scooping up capers, snow peas, slices of red pepper, and chunks of feta cheese. “Birdie, let Ella know she can move into our spare room anytime she wants. This is fantastic.”

“Speaking of spare room,” Sam said, “we’re almost ready to put Izzy’s old house on the market.”

“At last,” Birdie said. “That’s one distraction you don’t need in your lives right now. All attention should go to sweet Abby.” She glanced back at the baby, sound asleep in a small cradle with Red at her side.

Izzy raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard the complaints, haven’t you? Fess up, Birdie.”

The small cottage Izzy had lived in before marrying Sam had been rented on and off, but since Abigail’s birth it had stood vacant, something to which the neighbors on Ridge Road didn’t take kindly.

Birdie held her wineglass up for Ben to refill. “Perhaps a word here and there.” Birdie’s connection to Sea Harbor news and gossip came to her unbidden, a product of having lived in the town forever and knowing nearly all its residents. And having a large capacity to hold secrets close.

“The next-door neighbors have been a bit cranky,” Izzy said. “But probably with good reason.”

“The Barroses? They were grouches when I lived in your house, Iz,” Cass said. “I didn’t mow the lawn in the right direction or something equally ridiculous. They’re nosy as all get-out—and not only that, their son Garrett is a pill. He dropped out of junior college and I see him all over town looking as if he’s on some awful stuff. Always with those binoculars around his neck.”

Izzy laughed. “It was your truck the Barroses didn’t like, Cass, not you. For some reason a rusty pickup piled high with lobster traps didn’t fit the neighborhood décor.”

Sam took a drink of wine and declared that, whether they were nosy or not, he agreed with Izzy—the neighbors probably had grounds for complaint. “I haven’t done a great job of keeping the lawn mowed—and one kindly neighbor pointed out a couple beer cans under the bushes. Teenagers using the porch or shed out back, probably. They climb up that small hill from the beach, through that overgrown mess of weeds and trees. It’s time for someone to make it a home again.”

“So when does it go on the market?” Danny asked. “Need any help getting it ready?”

“Thanks. But I think we’re okay. We’ll use the weekend to get things out of there, and turn it over to Stella next week.”

“Stella Palazola? That’s wonderful,” Birdie said.

“Her Realtor’s license is hot off the press—she’s joining her uncle Mario’s company. I think we’ll be her first listing. She’s pretty psyched.”

“And I bet her mother is happy, too. The last of Annabelle’s children to graduate college and settle into a career. She has a right to be proud,” Nell said.

“Selling this house will be a challenge for Stella,” Sam said. “It’s small and needs some serious work. It will take a special buyer and someone who can see beyond the surface.”

“It will sell,” Birdie said. “It’s a sweet little place, and has a long history here in Gloucester. Someone will fall absolutely in love with it. I may tell Jeffrey Meara about it. He and Maeve have been talking about downsizing.”

“Jeffrey from the Ocean’s Edge?” Danny asked. “‘The Bartender,’ as Pete calls him, as if he’s the only one in town.”

Birdie nodded. “In fact, I probably know a number of people who might want to scale down their lives.” Birdie sweetly ignored the laughter that followed her comment. Her own eight-bedroom home was magnificent and could easily house a family of twelve. But it had been Sonny Favazza’s home—
their
home—and it would be her final resting place. And all who knew Birdie—including a couple of husbands and myriad developers who had tried to convince her otherwise—knew there was absolutely no way to change her mind.

“Big or small,” Ben said, “Stella’s enthusiasm will serve her well. I agree with Birdie—she’ll find a buyer.” He walked the salmon around the table and slid pieces onto Sam’s and Ham’s raised plates, then headed inside for more wine.

Conversation swirled around the table and it wasn’t until Nell noticed a few empty glasses that she realized Ben hadn’t returned with the wine. She looked across the deck toward the French doors and started to call out to him. But just then Ben pushed open the door and stepped outside.

“We have another friend joining us,” he said.

They all looked up. Just a foot or two behind Ben, framed like a painting in the door opening, stood Jules Ainsley.

H
er smile was open, if slightly embarrassed. She followed Ben, her sneakers silent on the deck floor.

“Excuse my looks,” she said, pulling off a baseball cap. She wore running shorts and a tee. Simple and jewelry free, except for large hoop earrings and a thin gold chain with a small locket attached that moved as she walked. Her forehead was damp and the stains on her shirt showed the exertion of her run.

Nell walked quickly across the deck. “No need to apologize, Jules. You found us after all. Come, sit. Let me fill you a plate. We always have extra.”

Ben handed her a glass of wine and Danny pulled a chair over to the table.

Jules’s ponytail moved with the shake of her head. “No, please. No matter what this looks like, I didn’t plan to barge in.” Her smile and large brown eyes took in everyone at the table. She fiddled with a chain around her neck, twisting it around a finger, a brief nod to nervousness. “I actually had an early dinner at the Ocean’s Edge with Mary Pisano and her husband. I swear I single-handedly ate an entire platter of calamari—the best I’ve ever had. Honest—I really didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

Izzy and Nell looked over at Cass at the same time. She was studying Jules, as if trying to figure out what was going on inside her head. Cass’s own thoughts were clear:
If not for food, why are you here?

Jules went on, speaking more to Nell than to the others. “I was running and remembered the directions Ben and Sam had given me to your home, so I thought I’d just try to find it. I’m always looking for new destinations, figuring out where things are. And then, well, I did. I found it. It’s so welcoming, and the front door was open. So I walked up, really just intending to peek inside.” She looked over at Ben and gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. “But Ben caught me in the act.”

“Not true. We invited you, though invitations aren’t really needed around here.”

“This is an amazing home . . .” She looked across the sloping backyard, the meandering flagstone walkway, the woods and the worn path that wound through the trees to the sea. “If there is a heaven, surely this is a piece of it.”

“It’s pretty close,” Ben agreed. “Come have a seat. Do you know everyone?”

Jules looked around the table again. Nodding. Smiling. “But please, everyone—eat. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“We’re almost finished. We’ll be ready for dessert soon,” Ben said. “And no one can say no to Danny Brandley’s apple crisp. It’s not allowed. No matter how many helpings of calamari you had.”

“Danny cooks?” Jules’s laugh was full and infectious. She walked over and sat down beside the author. “A mystery writer, an investigative journalist . . . and he cooks, too?”

Danny brushed the comments off with a wave of his hand.

Jane picked it up, a hint of teasing in her words. “Our Danny’s talents are boundless. He also knits—though he’s not very good at that.”

“That’s all you know, Jane Brewster,” Danny said. “Iz taught me how to purl the other day.”

“Yes, I did,” Izzy acknowledged. “I won’t vouch for how good he is, but he can indeed purl. His relatives and friends will be very happy this Christmas that he’s moved beyond garter stitch ties and scarves.”

“Enough,” Danny said, pushing out his chair and holding up his hands. “I’m going to dish up my dessert and he who speaks ill of the cook gets coal.”

Jules pushed out her chair. “I’ll help you.” Her words trailed off behind her as she followed him into the house.

Nell watched Izzy distracting Cass by placing a waking Abby in her lap. The others went on talking, moving from one topic to another, and finally settling on Ben and Nell’s anniversary and Mary Pisano’s insertion of herself into the planning.

“It will be a lovely gathering, no matter what,” Birdie declared, piling empty plates on the tray.

Izzy and Nell got up to help, filling trays and heading toward the kitchen.

Danny and Jules were at the kitchen island, the pan of apple crisp cooling on hot pads in front of them. They were so engrossed in conversation that they didn’t realize they weren’t alone in the kitchen.

“What about tomorrow?” Jules was saying.

“Tomorrow . . .” Danny scratched his head and pulled out his phone. He checked the calendar.

“Tomorrow. Okay. Maybe the Artist’s Palate deck?” He lifted his head and noticed Nell and Izzy. “Sorry. We got talking and I forgot what I was doing in here.”

“No problem,” Izzy said brightly. “We’ll keep you focused.” The smile she sent his way was on her lips but not in her eyes, and it came with a warning attached.
Don’t hurt my friend Cass,
it said . . .
Or else.

Danny Brandley was oblivious to the warning. Nor did there seem to be any guilt in his being caught planning a get-together with a beautiful woman—one who wasn’t Cass. Instead, he grinned back at Izzy and motioned toward a stack of plates. “Okay, Iz. Here’re the plates. Could someone grab the cinnamon ice cream in the freezer and a scoop? We’re minutes away from indulging in Granny Brandley’s fantastic apple crisp.”

“I’ll scoop,” Jules said, and went rummaging through a drawer in search of a utensil.

She was loving Sea Harbor, she told them as she dug into the cinnamon ice cream. She loved the sea. The boats. The food. It was a perfect getaway spot.

“Getaway?” Izzy asked.

“Oh, you know. Just an expression. My mother died recently after a long illness. I had quit my job in Chicago to take care of her, and after it was all over, I needed to get away. She’d left me a little money to travel or whatever.”

“How did you pick Sea Harbor?” Nell asked.

“That’s what a friend back home asked me.
See
what?
she asked. But it seemed as good a place as any to get away. So here I am.”

Though not a town you’d find on any list of top places to visit,
Nell thought. Jules was adept at not answering questions she clearly wanted to avoid.

Before the question was repeated, Jules changed the subject, telling them about running in Dog Town the day before. She’d met a group of runners who shared their favorite trails with her.

“Imagine, a place called Dog Town—and strangers who become your friends in the blink of an eye. Friends who’d invite me to a dinner like this. I could get used to this town.”

Nell looked at Izzy.

But please, don’t.
The words weren’t spoken aloud, but they were written all across Izzy’s face.

And the disconcerting part of it all was that Izzy liked Jules Ainsley. Nell did, too.

But they loved Cass.