A Fatal Fleece (17 page)

“Oh, he nudged the best of them. Finnegan stuck his nose in everything, though you didn’t always know it. Just the other day he saw someone—probably the same nut who tried to barge into his house a few weeks back—hanging around Canary Cove, so he started patrolling the streets over there. He was determined the guy was stealing from the artists.”

Willow smiled, tracing a fancy pattern in the sand with a stick. “He checked my locks every night.” She laughed. “And sometimes he even got personal. One night when Pete was at my place late, Finn got on him, told him to mind his p’s and q’s’, treat me right and not go fooling around behind my back.”

Nell laughed. “The last person on earth who would need such advice.”

“I told him once he’d be a damn sight happier if he’d mind his own business and stop playing keeper of the commandments. It
must be a difficult way to live, to think you’re always right,” Angus said.

A simple man—one who in death was becoming very complicated.

“So we don’t have a clue who murdered him?” Izzy said.

“Wrong there, missy,” Angus said. “There’re lots of clues. They’re probably right there staring us in the face.”

“The police’ll probably start with the vagrant Finn messed up,” Willow said. “He’d be a likely suspect—”

“I suppose they will.” Angus pushed himself off the wall and reached for his walking stick. “Time for my morning constitutional,” he said with a nod to the path that ran above the rocky shore.

Izzy and Willow got up and brushed off their jeans. Nell gave Angus a hug.

“As for those likely suspects, sometimes
likely
isn’t the key word,” he said, looking off to sea as if there might be some kind of answer there. In the distance, Sunrise Island appeared, a curving piece of land on the sea’s horizon. “Finnegan left us with a pile of pieces. Someone just needs to put them together.”

They watched the old man walk slowly across the bumpy terrain. Nell hoped the walking stick would keep him safe.
A pile of pieces.
But when you worked a puzzle, the pieces were all laid out there in front of you, some with flat sides, some with irregular shapes. The pieces to Finnegan’s puzzle seemed to be scattered all across the town—with little or no shape.

And she suspected Angus knew it was going to take careful eyesight to find the shapes that mattered.

“I think he knows more than he’s saying,” Izzy said, climbing into the car beside Nell.

“Maybe he’s just trying to sort through things himself, things Finnegan said to him,” Willow said from the backseat.

Nell drove down the winding park road and headed toward Canary Cove. “Maybe it was the vagrant seeking revenge. Finnegan worked him over badly.”

“A vagrant who is probably halfway across the country by now.
Or Maine, where no one will ever find him.” Izzy nibbled on her bottom lip.

“I’m sure the police have it under control,” Nell said automatically. It was Ben talking through her, she realized with a start. And she wasn’t at all sure she agreed with him. She drove slowly, the car moving automatically toward Canary Cove and Willow’s gallery. Her thoughts were like raw fleece, unformed clumps and threads, drifting clouds across her mind—and they all carried images of Finnegan.

A sentimental Finnegan enjoying ice cream with a ten-year-old girl.

A sweet Finnegan watching the garden grow.

An angry Finnegan arguing with his daughter on the Palate’s deck.

And a fiercely defensive Finnegan facing off with Nicholas Marietti . . .

“Nell, stop!”

Nell’s foot went automatically to the brake.

Across Canary Cove Road, through the trees and brush and tangled weeds that guarded Finnegan’s land, a light spun around and moved slowly toward the gate.

When it cleared the trees, they saw a patrol car with Tommy Porter behind the wheel. Sitting next to him was Father Lawrence Northcutt.

Behind them, bumping along the rutted path, was an ambulance.

Nell and Willow rolled down their windows as they stared at the procession of vehicles pulling out of the gate and turning onto the road.

Father Larry spotted them from the passenger’s side of the car. He waved through the window but his expression didn’t invite conversation, nor did Tommy’s, his eyes on the road.

Instead, the young patrolman turned the car toward Harbor Road, not pausing long enough for their unspoken questions to find words—or to get answers.

But the ambulance drivers weren’t as discreet. Or perhaps they didn’t see the three women sitting inside the car idling on the easement.

The men brought the ambulance to a stop at the gate, checking for traffic.

And through the open windows, their careless words carried across the narrow road, loud and distinct.

“Can you believe it?” a beefy-looking man wearing a white shirt asked the driver. His voice was coated with incredulity, with a tinge of excitement.

“Who would’ve guessed the old coot had a body buried back there?”

Chapter 17

A
body
.

The three women parted reluctantly at Willow’s gallery, the disturbing thought that someone had been buried in Finnegan’s yard hanging heavy over them. Someone, not just Finnegan, had died there.

How? When? Why?

And who?

They carried the questions away with them, loud, banging noises in their heads, as they tried to resume the day’s ordinary responsibilities—a board meeting, a shop to manage, a gallery to run.

The old building in which the historical museum was housed always needed something: paint, a roof, new display cases. And Laura Danvers always managed to find the right people to donate at just the right time. She was the youngest board president they’d ever had, and, in Nell’s opinion, one of the best. She ran meetings efficiently and always tried to keep things on topic.

Nell had left messages for Ben, even though she knew he would still be out sailing. But after the sail, she told him, they were meeting at Birdie’s.
Cocktails and talk,
was all she said.

Talk to put some sense into what was going on in the quiet town they loved.

Laura was standing just inside the open front door, greeting people, when Nell walked up.

“Just the person I’m looking for,” Laura said. She pulled Nell over to the side of the foyer. “My husband just called. Have you heard anything? Was there a body buried in Finnegan’s yard?”

Before Nell could answer, Birdie walked through the door and hurried over.

“What’s happening to this town?” she asked, and it was clear that the news was already rolling down Harbor Road.
A tidal wave,
Birdie said.

“But they just . . .” Nell began, but realized immediately that news like this—coupled with talkative ambulance drivers—would take a nanosecond to travel through town. Dozens of people would have seen the ambulance going in and out of Finnegan’s gate. And Esther Gibson, though discreet when she needed to be, wouldn’t hesitate to pass along something that would surely be in the morning paper.

“Do you think Finnegan knew a body was buried there?” Laura asked.

They fell silent, and the next question went unspoken.
Do you think Finnegan put it there?

But Finnegan was dead. And perhaps he was the only one who knew the answers.

Laura checked her watch, then ushered Nell and Birdie into the boardroom. Buried bodies wouldn’t deter the Sea Harbor Historical Museum board from beginning their meeting on time, not on Laura Danvers’ watch.

But a man reported murdered one day, and the discovery of a body buried in his yard the next was too much even for Laura to control.

The room was a beehive, the buzzing so loud the words were ripped loose of sentences, colliding like fireworks in the heated air.

Body. Murder. Daughter. Land. Skeleton. Drifter.

With valiant effort and fierce pounding of her antique gavel, Laura finally brought quiet to the usually sedate group.

While talk then turned to housepainters and underwriters and fund-raisers, Nell sat back in her chair, pondering the ill-informed—but provocative—comments of well-intentioned women. They wanted what she wanted, what the whole town wanted: a return to the slow, easy summer that they had waited nine long months to enjoy.

After the meeting, Nell left another message for Ben, knowing it would sit in his voice mail until they had returned to shore, but somehow the connection seemed important—and comforting.

“Don’t forget—cocktails at Birdie’s when you bring Gabby home,” she said to the machine as she and Birdie walked down the steps.

“
Home
,” Birdie echoed as Nell hung up. “It’s becoming that—Gabby’s home. I see her everywhere—in the flowers she and Harold planted along the walkway, the orange hot pad she crocheted for Ella, scrunchies on the bathroom sink, and music everywhere.”

“Do you think Nick will reconsider and stay a few more days?”

“I don’t know. This murder business seems to have bothered him more than I’d have thought.”

“He probably wants to get Gabby away from it.”

“That’s it, I’m sure. But somehow, I don’t know, it seems more personal. The whole Finnegan thing. That land.” Birdie stopped.

Nell was quiet.

“I know what you’re thinking, Nell. We saw Nick arguing with Finnegan. But I asked him about it, and it was as we thought. He wanted to meet the man Gabby talked about and spent time with.”

Maybe.
They both wanted it to be true.

Nell took out her car keys and waved at Harold, patiently waiting at the curb in Birdie’s Lincoln. “It makes perfect sense—we would have done the same if we didn’t already know him. We’d have been staked out at his gate. But . . .”

Birdie waited.

“But Finn looked angry. Why? It doesn’t fit. He was a stickler for propriety and doing the right thing. You’d think he’d have welcomed Nick’s questions. Expected him to come calling.”

“That’s what you would have thought.”

“Birdie, there’s another thing. I think I saw Nick’s car parked on that dirt road alongside Finnegan’s property early yesterday morning.”

Birdie took in a full breath and released it slowly, her chest moving in and out. Her eyes asked Nell to tell her more, but her face said she didn’t want to hear.

“I didn’t see him. Only the car. So it might not have been his. But it was the same make—and a rental.”

“Monday morning . . .”

Mary’s words came back to them.
He was an early riser. He had a key.

“Finnegan was already dead on Monday. Why would Nick—”

Why?
But neither of them even knew how to articulate the whole question. Why did Nick go to see Finnegan? And why would he have gone over there after Finn died? Did he know about the body buried on the land? And why had he lied about not knowing the old fisherman?

Harold honked lightly and pointed to the
DO NOT PARK HERE
sign near the car.

Birdie gave Nell a quick hug and walked toward the car, her head turned toward Nell. “We’ll figure this out tonight over a glass of pinot gris, my friend,” she said softly. “Tomorrow’s supposed to be a sunny day. Let’s make it so.”

Cass was the first to arrive at Birdie’s, her truck huffing and chugging around the drive.

“You need a new muffler,” Harold hollered as Cass parked in the circle drive.

“I need a new life,” she shot back, and headed for the door.

“Where’s Danny?” Birdie asked, meeting her at the door. “We could use a good mystery writer.”

“I think he had another book signing in Boston.”

“You think? You don’t know?”

“What, am I his keeper now?” Cass asked, then immediately pulled back her words. “I’m sorry, Birdie. You don’t deserve that.” Her dark eyes grew moist.

“No, I don’t, dear. And Danny doesn’t, either, but it’s your worry talking, I expect, not my Catherine.” She gave her a quick hug. “That nasty loan?”

“What’s nasty is not paying it. I thought maybe Ben and I could talk for a minute.”

“You know, sweetie, that I am—”

Cass shushed her with another hug. “I know exactly what you are. A dear, wonderful, generous, sweet friend.” She pulled away and looked down the drive. “There’s Nell. Ben might be close behind.”

Birdie looked beyond her and waved as Nell pulled in beside Cass’ truck.

Izzy was with her, and a minute later, the blue Altima drove up with Gabby sitting tall in the passenger’s seat, her eyes filled with life. She jumped out before Nick had completely cut the engine and ran to Birdie and Cass. “I’m going to be sailor. We had a fab-u-lous time. The most fun I’ve ever had in my whole life. Sam taught me
everything
. I can heel and tack and . . .”

Laughing, Birdie hugged her granddaughter.

“Uncle Ben says I was born with seaweed in my blood.”

“Gabby has a new passion,” Nick said. “We may never get her back on a skateboard.”

“And look.” She held up a cloth sack, her eyes filling her face. “Sea glass!”

Nick explained. “Sam took us over to Sunrise Island for a walk on that little stretch of beach, and Gabby here spots sea glass like a pro.”

“That’s wonderful, Gabby. And where are the other two sailors?” Nell asked Nick.

“They’ll be along. Jerry Thompson was at the club, and Ben cornered him with some questions.” Chief Thompson. Good. Ben would find out what he could, and maybe be able to answer some of their questions.

Nick rested a hand on Gabby’s shoulder, listening to her spin her day in glorious detail for her nonna. He had gotten some sun himself, and his dark skin glowed with health. His knit shirt was open at the neck and his tan shorts comfortable, informal. For the first time since his return from Italy, he seemed more relaxed. And friendlier, as if some burden had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him free to concentrate on the people around him. Nell watched as he listened to his niece, his feelings filling clear blue eyes.

Nick Marietti didn’t look guilty of anything. Except maybe being overly protective of someone he loved, a crime of which they were all guilty as sin.