Death by Cashmere (15 page)

Mary Halloran was a small woman, but her lively Irish eyes lit up rooms. Today she sat alone, and her smiling face was pinched, her eyes tired. A pineapple fritter and platter of eggs Benedict sat in front of her, untouched.

"Have you seen Pete or Catherine?" Mary asked before Nell had completely settled herself in the chair.

"Not today, Mary. But I got a message from Cass last night." She shook out her napkin and put it on her lap. How much Mary knew about Pete's troubles wasn't clear.

"So she told you that Pete may be in trouble," Mary said.

"They don't want me to know, of course. But how could I not know? I am Pete's mother. They made him come down to the police station, Nell. My sweet Pete, who wouldn't hurt a slug."

"Mary, they're talking to people who knew Angie, that's all," Nell said. "That's normal in a situation like this." Nell knew her words lacked conviction. She wished now that she had called Cass back, no matter what the hour. At least she would know firsthand what she was talking about.

Mary picked at her fritter with the tip of her fork. "You're right. And Pete doesn't have anything to do with Angie's death."

"Of course not, Mary. Pete is one of the gentlest, kindest young men I know." The thought of Pete doing anything with date-rape drugs was so ludicrous, Nell couldn't hang on to it for more than a second.

The waitress appeared and scribbled down Nell's request for the quesadilla Magnolia and a glass of ice tea. "Don't worry about Pete, Mary," she said as the young girl walked off. "He'll be fine. That's how you raised him."

"I know that. Deep down I know that. But it's disturbing, Nell. You have to know it is."

Nell nodded. It was disturbing to all of them. They needed closure to Angie's death. And that meant figuring out who murdered her. It was simple in its enormity. Just find out who did it. Until they knew that, the suspicions and innuendoes would creep into their lives and hurt people she cared about. And that simply wasn't acceptable.

"I didn't have anything against Angie Archer," Mary said. "Pete liked her. I know that. And how could she not love my Pete? But it wasn't a forever kind of thing, and Peter knew that. He knew her job wasn't going well, and he knew she'd soon be leaving here."

"I thought she was doing a good job at the Historical Society," Nell said.

"I don't know for a fact that she wasn't. But Angie told Pete she'd be leaving soon. She wanted him to know that." Mary took a bite of her eggs. "The girl was at least honest."

Nell was glad she had run into Mary like this. Mary clearly needed to talk. And she shouldn't be sitting here alone worrying about her son.

Mary swallowed her eggs, took a drink of coffee, and continued. "So I thought, Nell, that maybe Angie thought she was going to get fired."

Nell sat back in her chair while the waitress set down her quesadilla. It was a perfect golden tan, steamy and aromatic, with small pieces of green apple, red onion, and grapes swimming in melted Monterey Jack cheese. Enough, Nell thought, to see her though the day--and maybe evening, too.

"If that's true, Mary," Nell said, "it's the first I've heard of it."

But it wasn't the first time she heard rumors that Angie might be leaving town. Jane had mentioned it, and Birdie, of course, had always suspected Angie wasn't home to stay. But telling Pete that she'd be leaving soon somehow added a new dimension to the rumors. For all Cass's doubts, she was convinced Angie, at the least, considered Pete a close friend.

"Did Pete know where Angie was going?"

Mary shook her head. Her hoop earrings jingled with the movement. "But I suspect he was hoping she'd ask him to go with her. That wasn't going to happen. I knew that. Mothers just know."

"Pete wouldn't have left Cass in the lurch with the lobster business," Nell said. Though she wasn't entirely sure that was true. Pete's feelings for Angie were intense.

"Catherine certainly needs Pete now, especially with these awful poachers creating havoc. I have half a mind to try to catch them myself."

"Well, they aren't making Cass's life easy, that's for sure." Nell suspected that no one had dared mention to Mary that her daughter had spent late hours out on the breakwater trying to do that very thing. A wise decision not to tell her, she thought.

Nell worked her way through the quesadilla. She liked all of Sugar Magnolia's specials, but this was her favorite. And now Mary was eating, too. The pineapple fritter had disappeared, and the eggs Benedict were on their way.

Mary wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin and looked over at Nell. "Nell, darlin', you were just what I needed today. Your company and a pineapple fritter can make almost anything right."

"You have lovely grown children, Mary. Don't forget that for a single minute in the middle of this ugly mess."

Mary took the check from the waitress and put several bills on the table. "My treat. And in return, you will keep an eye on my darlings."

Nell got up and retrieved her purse and knitting bag from beneath her chair. "With pleasure. They both have your grit, Mary Halloran. Cass and Pete are going to be just fine."

"Sure and they will be," Mary said as they walked out the door together, then turned in separate directions toward their own cars. Nell had almost reached hers when she heard Mary calling her from down the street.

"And one more thing, darlin'," Mary called out. She stood beside her pale green Chevrolet, standing on tiptoe to peer at Nell over the roof. "If you know a nice young gentleman wanting to settle down, I think it might help Catherine forget about those nasty lobster thieves. I surely do."

Izzy's frogging class had already begun when Nell slipped through the archway of the Seaside Knitting Studio's back room. At first she thought she had made a wrong turn and ended up in a Pilates class at the Gloucester Y. The crowded room was noisy and upbeat. And rather than sitting on the couch and chairs with yarn in their laps, the women were standing all about the room--in front of the bookcase and the back door, over near the windows, and they all had their eyes on Izzy. Dressed in shorts and a T-shirt that sported a frog in sunglasses and a pair of knitting needles at his feet, Izzy stood with her back to the alley windows, moving her arms as if pulling air into her lungs. The rhythmic sounds of an old Marvin Gaye CD pumped music into the room.

Nell found a spot near the ocean windows. Curled up on the window seat showing total disinterest in the movement shaking the room, sat Purl. She meowed a greeting to Nell, then closed her eyes and blocked out the activity. "I'm with you, Purl," Nell whispered. She watched the women follow Izzy's movements-- sucking in huge gulps of air, then releasing the air slowly, while all the while their hands moved in and out, fingers curling and touching together in front of their chests, as if pulling taffy. In the front row, barely visible over the bobbing heads, was Birdie, her short-cropped silvery hair bobbing to the music.

Izzy waved at Nell without missing a beat. "Okay, friends," she shouted over the beat, "that's step number one to successful frogging. Breathe deeply, relax, get ready to join in the dance-- and laugh whenever the spirit moves you." With her hands pressing down in a graceful movement, she urged people to sit.

"The second step--and a very, very important one--is to be with friends." Izzy's wide smile blanketed the group and her voice softened. "And so we are."

Nell noticed how crowded the room was, as if people needed to be with people. The rainy day had lured Laura Danver off the beach. And Jane Brewster was there, too, her blouse smudged with signs of clay. She'd told Nell that the feel of the soft cushy yarn and brilliant colors in Izzy's shop were a tonic for her. Therapy, she called it.

Several of Izzy's friends, professional women taking a day off and young moms in tank tops and jeans, their lean bodies still moving to the beat of the music, lined up near Izzy. And around the back, Nell spotted Margarethe Framingham sitting next to Birdie, her lap filled with a crimson cashmere shawl she was knitting. There were new faces, too, that Nell didn't recognize. Probably people from the cottages north of town or bed-and-breakfasts that dotted the windy roads of the Cape. Cecelia Cascone, the tiny Italian grandmother who knit hundreds of hats for the Sea Harbor winter clothing drive, sat happily next to Mae's niece Jillian, sipping ice tea. Friends, vacationers, people who lived up the street or over in Gloucester or Rockport or Manchester-by-the-Sea. A community of knitters. Izzy's dream come true.

Nell noticed Beatrice Scaglia in the front row. Odd to see her in the shop again. Izzy had mentioned that she'd attended a class last weekend. She somehow didn't seem the knitting type, but then perhaps that was what was so wonderful about yarn and needles. It was everywoman's--or man's--craft. Seeing her made Nell think about Sal, who'd wandered in and out of her thoughts all day. He had clearly avoided talking with her when she spotted him yesterday. Yet hours before seemed to want desperately to say something. If she had a chance today, perhaps Beatrice would shed light on how well the Scaglias knew Angie.

"And the third step is to make frogging
fun,
" Izzy was saying from the other side of the room. "Do it with gusto. Have a glass of wine or ice tea--" She waved to the wide bookcase where a wooden tray was heavy with snacks, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of tea.

She pointed to the perky frog grinning out at the group from her T-shirt. "And what does our mascot say?" she asked.

"Rivit, rivit," Birdie obliged, knowing the routine.

"Which sounds like?" Izzy prompted.

"Rip it," Birdie said, and Izzy lifted a half-finished angora sweater sleeve from a chair at her side. With happy gusto and to the gasps of people in the front, she pulled out several rows of yarn, winding them steadily around her elbow and hand.

Izzy continued, explaining the fine points of pulling stitches and the do's and don'ts of repairing a single row, two rows, three, or even a dozen, without losing the bulk of a project and throwing it away in tears.

The hour passed in a flash, with Izzy weaving through the room, picking up unfinished shawls and sweaters, admiring the fine, lovely knitting and convincing each knitter that once she had that one dropped stitch or misplaced hole taken care of, all would be right with the world.

Nell sat on the sidelines, her own knitting in her lap, the rows lined up and mistakes finessed under Izzy's artful direction. She noticed Beatrice Scaglia moving about the room, talking to people, asking about sick relatives.
Always the politician,
Nell thought. But her hands were free of knitting.
Odd,
she thought. She leaned over and picked up a dropped ball of yarn, and when she looked back up, Beatrice was waving, smiling, and slipping out of the room. Nell frowned. Well, she'd catch Beatrice soon.

"And Wednesday," Izzy announced, as people began to pack up their knitting, filling tote bags and backpacks, "Margaret Elliot is coming over from Rockport for our summer intarsia class. Don't miss it--she's wonderful." She flopped down on the window seat next to Nell and Purl and kissed her aunt on the cheek.

"Izzy, have you talked to Cass?" Nell asked when things quieted down. She kept her voice low, not wanting to fuel the rumor mills.

Izzy smiled good-bye to a friend, her smile fading as she turned her attention back to Nell. But before she could answer, Birdie and Margarethe Framingham walked over from the other side of the room.

Birdie's usual smile held worry and disapproval.

"Margarethe told me the police questioned Pete yesterday," she said without greeting.

Margarethe sat down on the couch. "This is foolish and meaningless, Nell," she said. Her level eyes moved from Nell to Birdie to Izzy, and back to Nell.

"It's routine, of course," she continued, "but the police are grasping at straws. They need to move on to solving real town problems--like the poachers who are creating havoc in the north bay and the fishing regulations. Whoever did this random act is in Nova Scotia by now."

The use of a drug to paralyze someone didn't sound random to Nell. It sounded planned and calculated. And
real,
to use Margarethe's own terminology. But even in casual conversation, Margarethe's words came out as definitive. It was probably from years of being the town's matriarch, the imposing figure who led meetings and determined new directions for the city. Even the mayor deferred to Margarethe. Nell wondered if Margarethe would like to just let her hair down sometimes, sit and gossip and have a glass of wine. Perhaps they'd encourage her to drop in on their knitting group some Thursday night. With Birdie's Pinot, Izzy's upbeat music, and a platter of escargot, she'd have no choice but to let go of her school-marm demeanor. Aloud she said, "Why do you think it was a stranger, Margarethe?"

"Chief Thompson said as much. And it makes sense. Angie was out on that beach by herself. And she was so attractive. It fits. It all fits. But reports need to be written and loose ends tied up. And that's why they talked to Pete. Procedures."

Birdie wedged her small body down between Izzy and Nell, nodding. "That poor sweet Pete. No one can possibly believe he had anything to do with this."

Izzy fiddled with a stray piece of yarn left on the couch. "But he was with Angie that night. Questioning him makes sense."

Margarethe frowned. "Pete and Angie were together that night?"

Izzy nodded. "They had a date that night."

"Apparently Angie got a call on her cell while she was with Pete," Birdie said. "We don't know who called her--and of course the phone is gone. But it doesn't seem likely it was a stranger. Angie wouldn't have agreed to meet a stranger on the breakwater, leaving sweet Pete behind, now, would she?"

For a moment, Margarethe seemed uncharacteristically flustered. "Chief Thompson thinks it was a stranger. The phone call may have been inconsequential, not related at all to her going to the beach. Surely, the police have an explanation."