Murder in Merino (7 page)

B
en said they were all overreacting. “You’re forgetting that she’s a tourist. That’s what tourists do—look at things.” He put the morning paper aside and took off his glasses.

“Stare,” Izzy corrected around a mouthful of scone. “Definitely a stare.” She checked her watch.

“It was a bit unusual,” Birdie agreed. “And not to disparage Izzy’s old house, but that hill behind it isn’t very pretty. Jules could have found many more beautiful spots to admire if she was out seeing the sights.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Izzy agreed. “That back area is a mess. Sam kept thinking he’d do something about it—a person could die in that tangle of weeds and bushes and never be found. But in the end we decided to lower the price and leave the yard work for the next guy. That land is actually owned by the city, so it’s always iffy who should take care of it.”

She knelt down beside the stroller, her long legs bending like a ballet dancer’s. She touched Abby’s cheek, then looked up. “I need to get home, shower, and get to the shop. You’re sure you don’t mind keeping Abby today, Aunt Nell? The class I’m teaching should be over around four.”

Nell simply smiled.
Mind?
What a silly question. Mind watching this beautiful baby who had brought such joy into their lives? Her day with Abby, written on the calendar with a bright red marker, was the highlight of her week.

The day was planned. She’d take Birdie home, run errands, and then lunch with Ben at the yacht club, where they would show off Abby’s smile to the hostess, Liz, to the bartenders, the diners. Later she and Abby would head to the Sea Harbor Historical Museum for a short meeting in which Abby would be welcomed by the board members as warmly as an unexpected donation to fix the roof. Amazing the power babies had.

Izzy planted one last kiss on Abby’s plump cheek and was out the door, followed in minutes by Ben, off to a meeting at City Hall.

“It doesn’t happen often, but he’s wrong, you know.” Birdie looked at Ben’s departing back. She gathered up her sweater and backpack and headed toward the door.

Nell picked up the infant seat with its precious cargo and followed her to the car without answering. Birdie was absolutely right, of course.

Tourist or not, Julia Ainsley couldn’t possibly have been in awe of the tangled jungle that had once been the hill in Izzy’s backyard. Something else had stilled the lovely runner into that silent stare. In whatever form it had come—a sudden memory, a dream, a thought—Julia Ainsley had seen a ghost.

A ghost on Ridge Road.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when Nell and baby Abby finished their errands and parked near the museum. With both Beatrice Scaglia and Karen Hanson on the museum board, it was certain the premeeting chatter wouldn’t be about politics. Laura Danvers, chairwoman, ran a tight ship and avoided confrontations. A relief to Nell. Beatrice was everywhere these days, and the tension caused by a heated campaign was difficult to avoid in such a small town.

She carried the car seat with a sleepy Abby into the redbrick building that housed Sea Harbor’s past in glass cases and exhibits. Its viewing rooms were filled with models of fishing boats, photos of early settlers, maps, and exhibits of the once thriving granite industry. It never failed to make her proud of the place she and Ben had chosen to live after leaving busy corporate lives in Boston.

Laura Danvers was waiting at the door of the meeting room for a peek at baby Abby. “I just came from the yarn shop and Izzy mentioned Abby was joining us. I need my baby fix,” she said, bending down to meet Abby at eye level.

“The meeting will be short, I promise you, sweet Abby,” she whispered, then rose and, with a smile, promised Nell the same.

Nell slipped inside and took a chair close to the door, settling the car seat on the floor at her feet and nodding a greeting to other board members. Rachel Wooten sat down next to her. She leaned toward Nell. “Don mentioned you ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time the other day and were forced to hear an argument. He was so sorry. Those things can be messy.”

“It was nothing, really. Not even messy. Business dealings can be tense—it’s the nature of the beast.”

“‘Beast’ is a good word for it.”

“My bet is that whatever it was, it’s settled by now.”

Rachel smiled. “You’re probably right. Don says business arguments are easy to handle. It’s the personal ones he has trouble with.”

“Personal problems? Are you talking about Jeffrey?”

Rachel nodded. “He didn’t show up for work yesterday. I’ve known Jeffrey since I was a kid—it’s not the way he is. Don was worried enough about it that he stopped by his house.”

“Was Jeffrey okay?”

“He wasn’t there. Then today he missed a meeting with the accountants, but at least he called and made some excuse. So I presume he’s fine, though it’s odd. He loves the Ocean’s Edge. He’s never delinquent, never misses a meeting.”

“Maybe he was sick. There’s a stomach bug going around.”

Rachel agreed. “Or maybe he just needed a day off. Who doesn’t want to miss work now and then? That’s one of the reasons I’m on this board. It’s a fine board, but also a good reason to get out of the courthouse legal offices every few weeks.”

“Definitely true,” Nell agreed. Everyone needed a break. Even Jeffrey Meara, who never took one.

•   •   •

But later that afternoon, while pushing Abby’s stroller down Harbor Road, Nell wondered whether both she and Rachel had been too quick to fabricate excuses for Jeffrey Meara.

She had stopped on the harbor bridge to watch several stately sailboats making their way to inland waters. Leaning over the railing, she spotted Jeffrey sitting on a stone bench, hunched over, his elbows on his knees. The bench was below the bridge near the concrete pilings, not easily visible to people walking by.

Next to him, also leaning forward, was Stan Hanson. The two men were huddled together as if planning the next play in a tie Patriots game. Stan’s face was in profile, his chin set, his brows pulled together tightly.

Nell stood there a minute watching the muted conversation. The two men’s body language spoke of a somber conversation, with Jeffrey Meara doing most of the talking. Stan Hanson’s expression seemed to shift with Jeffrey’s words: surprise, dismay, a touch of anger. Sadness. Every now and then he’d take a deep breath, sit back on the bench in silence, and look out over the water. Then, when Jeffrey began to talk again, he’d resume his listening posture.

Nell pulled herself away. Even though she couldn’t hear a word they were saying, she felt like an eavesdropper. Abby’s soft gurgles were a welcome relief. Quickly she turned and pushed the stroller away from the bridge and down Harbor Road, toward friendly faces and conversations she was meant to be a part of.

“Nell, you’re just the person I want to see.” Mae Anderson rushed from behind the checkout counter as Nell pushed the stroller into Izzy’s yarn shop.

“You don’t fool me for a minute. It’s Abigail Kathleen you want. I am simply the means to your end.”

Mae laughed and leaned her needle-thin body down to peer into the stroller. Abby was fast asleep, but that didn’t stop Mae from carrying on a sweet and intimate conversation with the baby.

“Well, you truly
are
the person
I
want to see.” Beatrice Scaglia appeared from behind a display of merino yarn. The soft skeins were piled high in all the colors of autumn—burnished gold, honey maple, sage green, rich reds and oranges, several of which Beatrice held in her hand. Although Beatrice was rarely seen knitting, she was a devoted customer and often attended Izzy’s classes, disguising her true intent with a pile of yarn, bamboo knitting needles, and a stack of pattern books at her side while she listened to every conversation spinning around her.

“It helps her to know what people are saying and thinking about the town,” Izzy explained with a shrug.

Nell looked at the skeins of yarn in Beatrice’s hands. “Those are beautiful, Beatrice. You have good taste.”

“No, it’s Izzy with the taste,” Beatrice said. She motioned for Nell to follow her to the side of the room, out of traffic. “I tried to talk with you at the museum earlier today, but sometimes it’s hard to talk privately with Karen Hanson around.”

When she noticed Nell’s frown, her words came more quickly. “I’m sorry if I sound disrespectful, but for all her smiles, she has somehow managed to push me off the speaking platforms of nearly every social group in town by pulling her first-lady card and suggesting that she do it herself. I suppose growing up in the lap of luxury gives one that feeling of power. And somehow—though it seems inappropriate—being the mayor’s wife holds more weight than being a hardworking councilwoman.” Her voice trailed off.

“Beatrice, campaigns are difficult for sure. But Karen has done a lot of good in Sea Harbor during Stan’s tenure as mayor.”

“All calculated,” was Beatrice’s retort.

Nell looked around for an escape.

“I know I shouldn’t be venting to you, Nell,” Beatrice said, her voice softer, and one hand resting on Nell’s arm. “It’s not what I really wanted to talk to you about anyway. I want to help with your anniversary party.”

Nell sighed. Before long, the planning committee would include the whole town.

“I will give a toast, of course, but I could also serve as an unofficial emcee? Welcome people, make everyone feel comfortable. And my nephew has a band I will contact—he’s playing at all my political gatherings.”

Nell could imagine the scene—an American flag hanging in the background, Beatrice in a colorful suit at the microphone commanding attention, a band playing somewhere in the distance. A political rally in disguise. “Beatrice, you’re generous,” she said. “But we don’t need a thing. It’s going to be a casual gathering of friends and family. Hopefully something like lobster rolls and beer.”

Beatrice frowned and took a step back. “I heard that Mary Pisano is helping organize things.”

Of course,
Nell thought. And she probably knew that Karen was helping Mary. Nothing escaped Beatrice.

But this time Beatrice focused on a new target. “Mary told me the woman staying in her inn is offering suggestions. Surely you don’t want a stranger involved.”

This time Nell laughed. “Jules used to cater parties. Mary is simply asking her for ideas.”

But Beatrice wasn’t listening. “The woman is pleasant enough—but she seems a bit inappropriate, don’t you think? I’ve seen her jogging through town in those skimpy shorts. Asking questions, nosing around. I even saw her over at City Hall this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“In the records library. How many tourists do you see in the records office?”

Beatrice let her words hang in the air between them, casting them in an ominous light.

“I think she makes the most of places she visits, absorbing the town’s spirit and history, getting to know people. It’s a good idea, don’t you think?”

It was a thought that developed as she said it aloud, and hearing her own words, Nell decided there was probably truth in what she was saying—even though her intent was to keep Beatrice from imagining nefarious scenarios.

Beatrice didn’t answer, but her lack of a reply, brief good-bye, and quick exit told Nell what she thought of her opinion. And of Jules Ainsley. And definitely of Karen Hanson.

Nell watched her walk away. The councilwoman was unique, and in spite of her idiosyncrasies and sometimes irritating manner, Nell admired her. She’d undergone a tragedy in her own life when her then husband was found guilty of a murder in an attempt to cover up an affair. Somehow she had come out on top of it all, holding her head high and resuming her place in Sea Harbor’s political scene. Beatrice Scaglia was a survivor and Nell liked that about her.

Through the shop window she watched her climb into her white Mercedes, as immaculate as the first snow. She slipped on her sunglasses, then sat still for a few minutes, staring across the street. Finally she started the engine and pulled quickly away from the curb.

Curious, Nell looked across the street.

Gus was in his usual spot, standing on the sidewalk in front of his store.

Today he had company.

Late-afternoon sunlight fell across the sidewalk, stretching the two shadows onto the street. Julia Ainsley, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, stood next to the friendly hardware store owner.

Gus was listening intently to whatever Julia was saying. Finally he nodded, then took her by the arm and walked with her to a doorway between his store and Scooper’s Ice Cream Parlor. The door, nearly hidden in the shadows, opened to an inside staircase and a second floor of small offices, including that of Nell and Ben’s dentist. Did Jules need a dentist? Being in an unfamiliar town and needing medical care could be difficult.

When Nell looked out a few minutes later, Jules was still standing there, listening to Gus while she scribbled something on a piece of paper. Then she slipped the paper into her pocket, flashed Gus a brilliant smile, and sprinted down Harbor Road.

Whatever she was up to didn’t involve having a cavity filled after all.

Jules Ainsley looked more like a woman on a mission.

I
t was two days later when Nell discovered what Jules Ainsley had written on that sheet of paper. And it came to light only after a head-on collision with Karen Hanson.

She and Birdie were walking through Archie’s bookstore toward the exit, their arms filled with books and their heads bowed in conversation, catching up. Birdie had agreed that Jules Ainsley was an odd sort of tourist and her interest in the town did seem a bit peculiar, but there had been no recent sightings of her with Danny, and that pleased them both.

Outside the bookstore, Karen Hanson, herself distracted, pulled on the heavy glass door just as Birdie was about to do the same. The unexpected movement as the door opened wide caused the small, white- haired woman to lose her balance, sending several of Danny Brandley’s mysteries to the sidewalk. She tottered, regained her balance, and stepped quickly to the side with Nell close behind, closing the heavy door behind her.

Karen, muttering apologies, crouched down and scooped up the books. “So terribly clumsy of me,” she scolded herself. She looked up. “Are you all right, Birdie?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” Birdie held up Danny’s newest release, diverting attention from Karen’s embarrassment. But the absent look on Karen’s face stopped her short from expounding on the dramatic cover. “Karen? Are you all right?”

Her face was the color of Archie’s gray, sea-washed door.

“I should have been paying attention to where I was going. My mind was elsewhere.” She stood up and handed Birdie her books.

“Campaigns can be killers,” Birdie said. “We understand.”

“Yes.” The single word carried unusual force and brought some color to her face. “But Stan and I will get through this.” She paused, then said, with clear determination, light coming back into her eyes, “Stan will handle it. He will. He promised me —”

Nell wondered briefly whether Beatrice Scaglia had anything to do with Karen’s distress. It was out of proportion to a few dropped books. But before she could ask, a familiar voice shouted at them from across the street.

“Miz Favazza!”

It had come from Gus McClucken’s hardware store and was followed by a truck screeching to a stop as Stella Palazola, her hair flying behind her, raced in front of Shelby Picard’s tow truck. She sent an apologetic wave to the frustrated mechanic.

“Stella, you’re going to get yourself killed,” Birdie said as the Realtor leapt up on the curb and rushed across the sidewalk.

But Stella heard none of it. She wrapped her arms around Birdie and spun her in a circle, lifting her small feet clear off the sidewalk.

“Stella?” Birdie mumbled from the folds of the young woman’s sweater.

Finally Stella released her and took a step back. Her green eyes sparkled. “You’re like my guardian angel.” She turned toward Nell and gave her a quick hug. “You, too, Miz Endicott. Two guardian angels. Aren’t they the best, Miz Hanson? And that’s why I’m so lucky. Can you believe it?”

“Believe what?” Birdie asked. She had known Stella since she was born, and she also knew her enthusiasm could signal a range of things—from a lottery win to an invitation to a party, or the fact that she’d finally found her favorite shoes on sale. Patience would eventually be rewarded by clarification.

“It’s the house,” Stella said breathlessly. Her cheeks were bright pink. “Izzy’s house.
My
house. My first listing.”

“Izzy has a fine Realtor, that’s for sure. You’re going to do a great job,” Nell said.

“Izzy and Sam are selling their house?” Karen asked.

Stella turned toward the mayor’s wife and put on her more professional face for the city’s first lady. “Her old house, Mrs. Hanson. Not the one she and Sam and Abby live in. I’m selling it for her. You’re welcome to come to my open house tomorrow.”

When she turned back to Nell and Birdie, unbridled enthusiasm once again filled her voice.

“I’m almost ready for the open house. It’ll be so cool. It’s going to be at the cocktail hour—fancy, right? Sam said he’d go over there with me tonight to check last-minute things. Make sure all the lightbulbs work, toilets flush, that kind of thing.”

“That is smart, Stella,” Birdie said. “I knew you’d be good at this. Izzy mentioned the open house.”

“But wait—I haven’t told you the most amazing news. The
real
news. I already have someone who wants to buy it! Can you believe it?”

Nell took off her sunglasses and stared at Stella. “But it hasn’t even been advertised. There’s no ‘For Sale’ sign up, is there?”

“Nope. Not yet. I’ll put it up today. But people hear about things like that. You know how news travels in this town. Izzy has been talking about it and my mom tells people who come into the Sweet Petunia. And of course I’ve told anyone who looks at me.”

“So how did it happen?” Birdie asked.

“Well . . . when I got to the office today . . .” She grinned as she said the word “office,” and pointed across the street to the windows above Gus’s store, where a new sign read:
PALAZOLA REAL ESTATE.
“Uncle Mario said that getting a partner—that’s me—required a new sign. Anyway, when I got to work, there was someone in the hall right outside my office, just sitting there, waiting for
me
. Someone who wants to buy my very first listing. And here’s the kicker. They want the house without ever even stepping inside it!”

“That’s great, Stella,” Nell said. “But odd, don’t you think? I can’t imagine anyone making an offer on a house they haven’t seen.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. But here’s the thing—it’s really none of my business, as long as there’s legitimate financing, so if that’s how it goes, I’ll take the offer to Izzy. But here’s what I’m thinking—and this
is
my business,” Stella said, her brows shooting up into her bangs and her eyes growing larger behind her green-framed glasses. “If one person is that enthusiastic about the house without even seeing it, then maybe there are even more people who might want it. I’ve put an ad in the paper for the open house, so I can’t just pass this offer along—not until the open house. I can’t just cancel it, no matter what the offer is. But the real reason is that maybe we’ll have lots of people bidding on it.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Nell said slowly, trying not to put a damper on Stella’s enthusiasm. Izzy’s house was cute and cottagelike, but in need of repair, and the neighborhood wasn’t as kept up as it once was. A bidding war was probably wishful thinking on Stella’s part. On the other hand, the fact that someone had actually made an offer on the house without even seeing it was equally preposterous.

Karen Hanson listened, but with little interest, her mind elsewhere. Finally she checked her watch, and once again headed for the bookstore entrance.

“Who wants to buy it?” Birdie asked.

“You’ll never guess. That’s the weirdest thing of all,” Stella said.

The mystery in Stella’s voice stopped Karen at the door. She paused and looked back.

“Who?” Nell asked. It had to be a contractor—Davey Delaney would be her guess—someone planning on doing something to that small neighborhood, like buying up the small homes and turning them into condos. Davey had a keen eye for turning a profit.

“It’s that lady who runs every day, even when it’s raining.”

Nell’s brows lifted.

“Who?” Karen turned around. Her voice was tight.

Stella’s head bobbed with excitement.

“You know her. The runner—that’s what Pete Halloran and his buddies call her when she jogs by Coffee’s every morning. All the guys—the early-morning coffee drinkers—they all stand up and watch her fly by. It’s Jules Ainsley, that’s who. She’s fallen in love with Izzy’s old house, sight unseen.”