A Fatal Fleece (37 page)

“But think about it, Sam,” Izzy said. “He wanted that land, and Beverly would have been a sure way to get it. . . . until she wasn’t.”

“So you think he’d give up Kristen and the kids for that land?” Sam argued. “I think he wanted the land to please his dad. But getting it by having an affair would certainly not be the way to please D. J. and Maeve Delaney.”

Izzy glared at Sam. “I hate it when you make so much sense, Perry.”

Sam swallowed the last of his beer and grinned.

But Nell wasn’t so easily convinced. “Still, the flowers, the fact that we saw them together, that he had opportunity the night Finn died . . .” Nell looked off, listening to her own words as they circled back to her.

But where was the proof?

She rubbed her arms and reached for her wineglass.

Sam had gone back to fiddling with the computer and announced that the show was ready to start. The conversation needed a pause, he said, but more important, he needed some critical feedback.

He pressed a slide show into action while they crowded behind him to watch.

They watched in rapt attention as the images moved from dribbles
of ice cream sliding down little boys’ faces to fisherman sitting along the pier, dominoes lined up and with legs hanging over the edge and brown, weathered faces lifted to the breeze. And there were plenty of Gabby, her hair flying as she stooped down toward the sand, her fingers finding a piece of smooth sea glass, or as she sat playing chess with Harold, the two heads leaning forward, eyeing the small ivory pieces on the board as if life itself depended on the next move. Sam had been everywhere—the harbor, the beaches, the backyards filled with kids, and the raised garden beds where artists planted seeds.

The next photo took them to the yacht club and a shot of Nell leaning against a post, her arms wrapped around her legs. He’d pulled the lens in close and captured her intelligent eyes—slightly perplexed, thoughtful. High cheekbones, brush stroked by sun and wind. A fan of tiny lines spreading out from her eyes like a silky spiderweb. Her shoulder-length hair mussed, a streak of gray here, a dark column there.

“Next photo,” Nell insisted, embarrassed at how intimately Sam had caught her thoughts.

The new series was of boats and piers and the yacht club sand raked clean of debris and patterned by the early morning tide.

“There,” Ben said.

Sam paused on the photo.

“That’s the Delaneys’ boat.”

Sam clicked through a few more that showed off the clean lines of the boat.

“These next ones I took of Sal’s boat. I promised to blow one up for him.”

It was a portrait in luxury, the icy blue streak along the yacht’s side catching sunlight and glowing like a comet, the cushioned deck benches soft and inviting, wineglasses ready on the teak table.

Another group of photos took them to the Artist’s Palate’s deck, with the Fractured Fish in high gear. The crowd was animated, the faces, one after another, reflecting the joy of the evening.

And then a close-up of a face not hearing the music but filled with its own joy.

Beverly Walden, standing off to the side, away from the band and the crowd, behind the shadow of the bar, where back steps led down to the water. Her hair was loose, her cheeks flushed, and a silky dress caressed her body. Sam had taken it from a stool at the bar, a quick shot without thought or planning—or Beverly’s knowledge. She wore the elegant, wide-brimmed hat that Nell had seen before. The whole ensemble was elegant—and very sensual.

Beverly’s eyes were focused on something the camera couldn’t see, something in the darkness on the other side of the rail. Only a man’s hand was visible, and in the unfocused part of the photo, it seemed to touch Beverly’s where it lay on the wood. An intimate gesture.

“Can you bring it in closer?” Nell asked.

Sam focused on the two hands, just barely touching. One, a woman’s hand, resting on the rail. And the other, a shadowy outline of blunt fingers. And the glint of a plain gold wedding ring.

Chapter 36

A
fter Sam and Izzy left, Ben told Nell that Birdie had called earlier.

“They’re coming over. She—or maybe Nick—needs to talk to us. It seemed urgent.”

Nell frowned. She told Ben about their visit to Finn’s place and discovering Joseph Marietti’s office and the photo of Birdie on the desk.

And the open file cabinet.

They arrived in Nick’s car. The bright blue Altima that Nell wanted to drive off the end of Pelican Pier.

Birdie handed Ben a bottle of wine and suggested he open it immediately.

Nell encouraged everyone to sit. Something told her they’d be there a while.

As soon as she was settled on the couch, Birdie began. “I’m not sure why Nick is bringing you two into this, but he seems to think he can bare his soul better to me in your company. So here we are, and here’s what I know.” She cleared her throat, her face filled with worry.

“As Nell may have told you, Ben, we discovered today that someone had recently taken files from Joseph’s old office—files, I must admit, I didn’t know were there. I never gave his office a second thought after he died—his last attack was sudden. And even if I had thought of closing his office, I probably would have gone to the
wrong place.” She took a sip of the wine. “It was a month-to-month rental and Joseph kept little there.”

Nick sat next to her, his expression unreadable.

“Some teenagers saw a man go into Finn’s house—they saw the flashlight through the windows.” She looked at Nick. “It was you, Nick.” Her voice was tender and angry and sad, all at once.

Nick nodded, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

“All right then,” Birdie said, regaining her composure. “We assumed you were going through Finn’s things. Until we found out the light they saw was behind the first-floor windows. Not Finn’s place at all.”

They were all looking at Nick now.

“That was a relief to me. I didn’t want you messed up with Finnegan’s murder in any way.” She managed a slight smile. “But you’re still lying to me. To my dear friends.” She looked at Ben and Nell. “And we need to know why. What are you hiding from me, Nick? And why did you require an audience to tell me?”

Nick was quiet for a few moments. Finally, he began, and soon the Marietti story was lying naked on the coffee table.

“My mother is a dictator of sorts and not the honest, upstanding woman one would hope for in a mother. Once we grew up, Joseph was the only one of us who still deferred to her, afraid to say no. So when she started the antique-import business, it was Joe she turned to. Sweet, smart, never-say-no Joseph. Except the business she pulled Joseph into was—how shall I say it?—an illegal one.”

Birdie listened carefully as the story of her husband’s involvement in managing his mother’s antiques—stolen, imported, and sold—was detailed by a brother who didn’t give a hoot about saving the family name.

“I would have walked out of her bedroom that day and never looked back,” he said. He looked at Birdie. “But I didn’t want innocent people hurt.

“My mother had only recently learned that Joseph’s records had never been returned—or destroyed. She’d long ago settled things with the Italian police. Paid them off, closed the business. But the
files would stir things up, and she wanted it all cleaned up so she could die in peace. So I was sent to do it. And I only agreed because I thought I could protect you, Birdie, and perhaps Gabby and her father, from the embarrassment of a Marietti family crime.”

“So, you went to his office—”

“And I found them, every last one, in that old file cabinet.”

“And you destroyed them?”

Nick paused, looked down at his hands, then went on.

“That was the plan, but, no, I didn’t. I didn’t want the police here to know about it—I was afraid it would be embarrassing for you. But I met with the proper authorities last week in New York and turned everything over. There’s no one left to prosecute. Joseph is dead. And my mother won’t live much longer. But I thought maybe some of the antiques could be found and returned.”

He looked at Ben and Nell. “I didn’t intend for Birdie to ever know about it. I wanted to keep Joseph’s memory intact. But stubborn as she is, she forced the issue. So I wanted you two to hear, too. Just in case . . . well, in case there’s any backlash at all. It can never hurt to have good friends—and a lawyer besides—at your side.”

He sat back and looked at Birdie. “Maybe it was foolish not to tell you. But I was ashamed of my family, and I didn’t want you to carry that same shame. Why should you?”

Birdie was silent for so long that not even Nell could read what was going on behind her clear blue eyes. And then she began to laugh, a lovely, lilting sound that blew away the tension in the room.

“My Joseph was a crook?” she said, and her laughter grew more and more robust, until Nell couldn’t help herself and began laughing, too.

Nick and Ben watched the two women quizzically. And finally, though they weren’t sure why, they began to laugh.

“Oh, my dear Nick,” Birdie said, her laughter refusing to stop. She grabbed a tissue and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “A lovely skeleton to tuck away in my family closet. Our first crook, I do believe.”

She leaned over and hugged him tight. “You are a dear, sweet man. And don’t you ever, ever lie to me again.”

Chapter 37

I
t was Izzy’s idea to go out to the park. Gabby had never seen it, and it was a beautiful Sunday.

A girl’s outing, Gabby had called it.

So they’d left the men behind, enjoying coffee on Annabelle’s Sweet Petunia deck, boxed up a spinach and sausage frittata for Angus, and headed out to the rocky tip of land and Anja Angelina Park.

Cass was unusually quiet on the way out, and Izzy nudged her as they neared the visitors’ parking lot. “What’s up, girlfriend?” she said quietly.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“Okay. Something. It was just weird, out checking the traps today.”

“Weird how?” Nell asked as she pulled into a parking spot. Gabby tumbled out of the car and ran around to the other side, waiting for Birdie.

“I’m more thin-skinned than I used to be, that’s all. The guys on the boats can be rough kidders. We care about each other. But the kidding is hard to take sometimes.”

Izzy and Nell knew that was not only true, but also an understatement. How Cass put up with it was a mystery. “It goes with the territory,” was her standard reason.

“About the inheritance?”

Cass unlatched her seat belt and got out of the car. Izzy followed, waiting for her friend’s answer.

“No. About how I
got
the inheritance.”

“Oh, Cass. They don’t think you had anything to do with his d—”

“No, they don’t. But the money is more than any of them will make in two lifetimes. So they handle their envy by teasing that I hastened it up a bit. If I . . . if I hadn’t cared about the old guy so much, I suppose the jokes would be easier to take.”

Nell had seen Cass cry only once. And she wasn’t crying today, but her eyes held enormous sadness.

Izzy wrapped her arms around Cass, and the three of them followed Birdie and Gabby over to Angus’ cottage.

Nell looked at Izzy, who was looking at her. Their eyes sealed their resolution. Finding Finn’s murderer as soon as possible wasn’t just something the law required. It was something their lives required.

They walked around the cottage to the side that faced the sea and found Angus sitting in a rocking chair on a small porch.

He welcomed them with a smile, as if he’d been expecting them.

“You can see forever from here,” Gabby said, then fit her small hand into Angus’. “I’m Gabby. And this is a great place.”

Angus tilted his head to one side as he scrutinized the newcomer. “Birdie’s granddaughter, I suspect.”

“Yes,” Gabby answered. “I call her Nonna. It’s Italian.”

“Humph,” Angus said. “Italians.”

Birdie had gone inside and helped herself to a fork and plate. She put the frittata down in front of Angus. “Annabelle sends her love.”

“How did she know I was waiting for breakfast?” Angus laughed and stuffed a napkin in the neck of his T-shirt. He balanced the plate on his legs and dug into the creamy egg dish. “Want some?” he asked Gabby.

She shook her head. “Stuffed to the gills. But did you know I sailed out there with Ben and Sam?” She pointed to the island. “It looks different from here.”

Angus looked out at the island as if Gabby had said something of great import. “That’s a popular place to go these days, wee one,” he said. “What did you find there?”

“Sea glass. Tons of it. Huge.” Her arms shot out in a half circle.

“Sea glass,” Angus said, mulling it over. “What kind?”

She dug in the pocket of her white shorts and brought out a flat, smooth piece of kelly green glass. “I found this one. Look.”

She put it in Angus’ large, wrinkled hand.

“Feel it. This is a common color for sea glass—but I think it’s beautiful. Just like my beanie.” She took off her hat and held it next to the stone.

Angus looked at it carefully. “Common can be beautiful.”

“Sure,” Gabby agreed. “See how the water tumbled all the sharp edges away?”

“Like life. Washing away the sharp edges.”

Gabby looked at the stone, then the old man. “Yes.”

“Maybe your sea glass will tell you a story,” he said. “You might find some pieces that aren’t the real McCoy. But even those can tell a story. Don’t miss anything, darlin’.”

“I won’t,” Gabby answered, their eyes meeting as if sharing a secret code. She looked at his eggs. “You better eat. They’re getting cold.”

Gabby scampered down the incline toward a bank of boulders begging to be climbed.

“You done good, getting that one, Birdie,” he said.

Birdie smiled.

“Have you heard about Beverly Walden?” Nell asked.

Angus nodded. “Sad story, all sides of it.” He watched Gabby climbing up a large boulder.

“Did you know her?”

He shook his head. “Only what Finn told me about her. Like I said, it was sad.”