Death by Cashmere (11 page)

"Old ladies, my foot," Izzy said. "You will never be old, Birdie."

"That's true," Birdie said. She brushed a shock of white hair back from her forehead, where age spots and freckles blended together. A maze of tiny lines, like a well-drawn road map, spread out from the corners of her eyes, which lit up her wise, lined face. "But I'm not here to talk about age, sweet pea. I presume these boxes are for Angelina's things and there isn't much else I can do for poor Josie. So let me help."

"Me, too," said Cass, coming in from the front of the store. "Mae said you were all back here. I don't need yarn, but I sure need all of you."

"Well, then, grab a box," Izzy said.

"Izzy Chambers, are you back here?"

"One more minute and we would have missed her," Cass mumbled under her breath.

Beatrice Scaglia swept into the room. Even on Saturdays Beatrice was dressed for a power meeting or luncheon. Her pink summery suit, a size four at the most, Nell guessed, matched her two-inch heels perfectly, and as always, every hair was in place.

"It's that gorgeous yarn, Izzy," Beatrice said, smiling at the circle of women. "I must have it."

"The sea yarn?" Izzy asked. "Mae would be glad to help--"

"Izzy dear, Mae Anderson is a charming woman. You"-- Beatrice pointed a long red fingernail at Izzy--"are a fiber artist. I knew that from the start, which is why I helped push your license through for this shop. And I found your class so interesting last week that I may actually take up knitting. The new yoga, my friends call it. So therapeutic, they say." Beatrice's red lips formed a perfect smile.

She probably will be mayor someday,
Nell thought, listening to the exchange. According to Ben, that was Beatrice's goal. The diminutive powerhouse already drove nearly every council meeting and knew every newborn, every aging Sea Harbor resident by name. Watching her in action, Nell understood completely why her sweet husband, Salvatore, never said a word.

"Are you moving?" Beatrice asked suddenly, looking at the stack of boxes.

"No," Nell said. "We're cleaning out Angie Archer's apartment. "

Beatrice looked up at the ceiling. "Why?" she asked. A strange look crossed her face. "Now?"

"Yes," Izzy said. "But I think Mae has a few skeins of the yarn left if you'd like some."

Nell thought Beatrice looked slightly pale. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. "Are you all right, Beatrice?"

Beatrice pushed a smile into place. "Of course I'm all right. But you can't do it alone. I'll help." She leaned over to pick up one of the boxes.

"No, Beatrice," Izzy said.

"Yes," Beatrice answered, and without another word, she walked to the back door and up the back steps.

Chapter 12

It was a strange little cleaning quintet, Nell told Ben as they drove over to Sweet Petunia's the next morning. But having Beatrice there certainly kept cleaning out Angie's things from being the emotional task it might otherwise have been.

Beatrice talked nonstop, Nell said, demanding that she sweep, then dust, then clean out drawers. Midstream, without the others hearing, she had stepped outside and called her husband, Sal, insisting he bring over a bottle of chilled white wine to refresh them. Sal arrived at the door looking sheepish, his thick dark hair mussed and his face quiet and serious as it always was. It was clear to Nell he wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of five women cleaning a murdered woman's apartment. He was embarrassed doing far simpler things, like lighting candles for the Christmas pageant or passing the basket for offerings at church--all tasks, Nell suspected, Beatrice dictated he do. It must have been almost painful for him--Beatrice insisting he come in and help. And Nell understood in a fresh way why Sal Scaglia liked his job at the county offices so much--the paper shuffling and filing required must have provided a pleasant haven for him.

By the time Angie's clothes and books, and a few other personal things--her orange earphones, an iPod, and some photos-- were packed and stacked neatly in the closet, Beatrice's pink suit was smudged, one heel broken, and poor Sal had finished off the wine, sitting alone on the back step.

"A Scaglia moment," Ben said, amused at the story. "Beatrice is a character. So the boxes are still up there?"

"Yes. Josie wasn't home, so we'll just wait until there's a good moment."

Ben pulled into Annabelle's parking lot and found a spot at the edge of the lot.

Even though the talk would be of Angie's murder, Ben wouldn't be robbed of breakfast at Sweet Petunia's. Sunday mornings were for Annabelle's, the
New York Times,
and Nell's knitting. They couldn't control gossip about the latest developments in the murder case, he admitted, but they could still enjoy a moist frittata.

Set back from the main road of the Canary Cove art colony, up a short gravel drive and tucked into a grove of pine trees, the small restaurant lured more residents than tourists, and that suited the Endicotts just fine. It was always good to be among friends and neighbors, but especially now.

Annabelle's teenage daughter, Stella, met them at the door, which was propped open and held in place by a stone pelican with a fish in its mouth. Annabelle had tied a daisy-print ribbon around its neck. Over Stella's shoulder, Nell could see that the restaurant was nearly full.

"Like who would have thought this'd ever happen in Sea Harbor?" Stella asked, her green eyes huge behind blue-rimmed glasses. "It's like
CSI
--but better. My mom says I can't talk about it to customers, but, like, you guys are friends." She grabbed two menus from the hostess stand and ushered Ben and Nell through the restaurant and out to the small weathered deck that ran along its side and looked out over the sea. "I'll give you a table out here, where you can talk and knit better."

"It's awful news, Stella," Nell said, sitting down at a small table next to the railing and settling her large knitting bag at her feet. It held the new sea-yarn scarf she had started and hoped to finish this week. She looked up at Stella. "But there's not much to say, is there?"

Stella frowned and bit down on her bottom lip. Her plucked eyebrows arched as she looked back toward the screen door that separated the porch from the inside of the cafe. Then she leaned toward Nell, her head lowered and her large tinted glasses so close that Nell could see herself in the lenses. "Now, here's what I know," Stella whispered. "Angie was with a guy, like, having a drink. Then
plop,
the little pill went into the glass. And when he pushed her off, it was all over. She had a way of making men mad, you know?"

"No, I don't know that," Nell said. "And you don't either, Stella."

Ben, not willing to engage in Stella's gossip, walked over to the sideboard, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee. He returned carrying a steaming silver pot and filled Nell's mug.

Stella slapped her hand over her mouth. "Sorry, Mr. Endicott. That's my job."

Ben sat down next to Nell. "No problem, Stella. I was a pretty accomplished waiter in my college days." He smiled up at her, then pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and unfolded the
Times
.

Nell poured cream into her mug and watched Stella's head swing around again, this time aimed at the red-checked curtain of the kitchen window, hoping her mother was busy over a hot stove and not looking out.

She looked back at Nell. "There's more here than meets the eye, Mrs. Endicott," Stella said in an official
CSI
way. Her brows lifted again and she held her head high, as if balancing a secret that might slide off her head if she moved too fast. She pushed her glasses back into place and pulled a small tablet out of her pocket. Then, her mind switching to other things, she turned and walked back inside the restaurant.

Ben looked up from the paper. "Did she take our order?" he asked.

"No." Nell watched the screen door to the restaurant swing shut behind the teenager. "I don't imagine life at the Palazolas' is ever dull, especially with Stella around." Nell stirred her coffee and thought about the courage of the Annabelles of the world-- single moms raising kids, holding down jobs. Annabelle's husband, Joe, had been a successful swordfish captain until the day his boat and crew were swept out to sea in the middle of a sudden summer storm, leaving his wife with four small children to raise. In the blink of an eye, Annabelle's life was shattered into a million pieces. "I needed to do a one eighty," she had told Nell during those days of shock and forced decision. "The kids had such great needs. And Joe had plans for each one of them--plans that needed money."

So Annabelle buried her grief and took action to honor her husband's dreams. She decided the one thing she did especially well was talk to people and cook eggs. And so Sweet Petunia's was born. Using her family's old Sicilian recipes and ones she made up on the spot, Annabelle and her restaurant became instant Cape Ann favorites, and Nell and Ben found that going more than a week without one of Annabelle's frittatas wasn't a good thing.

"People rebuild their lives in ways we couldn't imagine," Ben said, stepping into her thoughts. "It's what the human spirit is about."

Nell nodded. "It's what Josie is already beginning to do." She looked up and smiled at the Seroogys, neighbors from Sandswept Lane, as they headed for a table at the back of the deck. Her gaze traveled to the table next to them, where Angus McPherron sat alone, as always. His long white hair curled over the edge of a rust-colored V-neck sweater that looked familiar to Nell. It was slightly out of place on the unkempt man whose usual attire was an old army jacket or torn T-shirt. She stared at the sweater from across the deck, bringing the style and stitches into focus. And then she knew where she had seen it. In Birdie's capable hands on several Thursday nights the past spring. In her mind's eye, she could see Birdie working out the pattern and selecting just the right yarn that would be good for chilly mornings. It was a lovely cotton, slightly nubby to the touch but lightweight for the summer. Nell assumed back then that Birdie was knitting it for a nephew or one of her other relatives. But she had guessed wrong. Her diminutive friend was full of surprises--and apparently keeping Angus McPherron warm on chilly mornings was one of them.

Parishioners were starting to stream into Sweet Petunia's from the ten o'clock Mass and Angus was momentarily lost to her view. Nell spotted Father Northcutt sitting down for his usual heaping breakfast of fried oysters and eggs. Nell had talked to him recently about cholesterol, but he had assured her his good cholesterol took care of his bad. "Just like in the celestial realm," he'd said with a wink, and Nell had taken the gentle hint to mind her own business.

Father Northcutt usually ate alone at Sweet Petunia's, too, smiling briefly at passersby but avoiding the eye contact that would welcome conversation. Instead, he focused intently on Annabelle's food, spiced up exactly the way he liked it. But today, absent his usual smile, the good father sat with Margarethe and Tony Framingham. And Nell knew without hearing their words that they were talking about Angie Archer and the horrible way her life had ended. Margarethe was probably offering to help Josie however she could. Tony, across from her, sat still, his head lowered, as the conversation continued between his mother and the priest. Watching him, Nell wished she could read his thoughts. He had been one of the last people to see Angie. Their conversationhadn't been a happy one--and then, just hours later, she'd been murdered.

Beyond the deck, sailboats began weaving their way out of the harbor. The gulls' shrill cries mixed with the sound of motors as two whale-watching boats, packed with people, set out to sea. It was a typical Sea Harbor Sunday, but not typical at all.

Stella emerged through the kitchen door, balancing two heaping platters of herbed spinach frittata in her hands. "Sorry, it got, like, crazy in there. Tommy Porter is here and he's like a rock star, people asking him all sorts of questions about, well, you know, Angie. This is what you ordered, right?" She set the plates down on the table and wiped her hands on a skimpy apron that hung like a hammock from her narrow waist.

Ben looked down at the creamy mountain of eggs on his plate. Thin flakes of parmesan cheese rested on top, and a pile of fresh strawberries, peaches, and mangoes were piled artfully on the side. A thick slice of English muffin with butter dripping off the toasted edges finished off Annabelle's fine presentation. The aroma of cumin and coriander wafted up from the eggs, and Ben assured Stella that yes, indeed, she'd gotten his order just right. Wikked right, he said, using his favorite New England slang.

"There you two are." Birdie came through the swinging screen door and smiled up at Stella. "You look very pretty today, Stella. I think maybe you've added a few pounds to that frame of yours, and it's a good thing. You were too bony, sweetheart. Not a good look." Birdie's words were carried on uneven breaths.

Stella looked at Birdie, unsure whether to thank her or stomp off. Finally she offered a lopsided smile and said, "You sit right there before you fall down, Miss Birdie. You don't look so good. I'll get you some water."

Nell looked up as Stella scurried off. She saw that Birdie was flushed. Her short white crop of hair was damp, as if a fine spray of seawater had cooled her off, and when she brushed her white bangs aside with the back of her hand, Nell could see tiny drops of perspiration above her clear gray eyes.

Birdie poured herself a mug of coffee and pulled out a chair across from Nell.

"You look like you've run a race, Birdie," Nell said, frowning. "Here, have my water." Nell pushed her glass across the table.

"I rode my bike over. And that tiny hill seems to have gotten a tad steeper in recent days." She picked up the glass and took a long swallow.

Nell was relieved to hear that Birdie was riding her bike. Her heart was healthy and strong, according to the doctor, and bicycle riding was just fine. But Birdie's driving didn't merit quite the same report. Even cocky teenagers hugged the inner edge of the street when Birdie drove down Harbor Road in her 1981 Lincoln Town Car. Neighbors stayed out of her way and dogs and cats seemed to flee when the familiar engine revved up and barreled down the hill. But no amount of talking could convince the strong-headed woman to buy herself a small, more manageable car. Ben had tried without success to sell her on the merits of a Corolla or Camry or maybe one of the new hybrids.