A Fatal Fleece (9 page)

Ben added, “Folks are insisting she do something about it. Davey Delaney is fueling their fury. The Delaneys are drooling to get their hands on that land. It’s the last waterfront property available near town.”

Cass set a covered platter on the counter. “But it’s not available. It’s Finn’s.”

“Cass is right,” Izzy said. “Congresswoman Scaglia is just looking for a cause.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ben said. “Beatrice has pretty high aspirations, and it all begins here in Sea Harbor. State representative? Who knows? But that means pleasing voters. This is serious business for her.”

“She’s a tough nut,” Danny said. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and took a beer from the refrigerator. “I was writing on the Palate’s deck yesterday, and she was canvassing the place for support. Getting people’s take on things. Stirring them up, it looked to me. She even had Finnegan’s daughter agreeing with her.”

“Beverly?”

“Yeah. She and Davey Delaney were there, talking over in the corner, and Beatrice wandered over and left a flyer behind.”

“It wouldn’t take much to convince Beverly,” Cass said. She peeled the foil wrap off a tray of lobster rangoon.

Izzy leaned over her shoulder, eyeing the crisp appetizers. “Good grief, is this my old friend Cass? What’s happened to you? Has Danny turned you into a domestic diva?”

Cass shoved Izzy’s hand away from the plate. “Brandley made these. I catch lobsters. I don’t cook them.”

Cass didn’t eat them, either, which they teased her mercilessly about—the lobster fisherwoman who shuns her catch. “I’m just too close to them,” was her traditional response. But tonight she didn’t joke back. Nell watched her brisk response. Cass was usually the first to laugh at herself, but Izzy’s comment seemed to have struck a chord. Something was on Cass’ mind, and Nell didn’t think it was lobster rangoon.

“So you think Beatrice’s political aspirations are pushing her efforts?” Birdie looked at Ben.

“Probably. She needs the voters on her side, and Finnegan is a thorn in her efforts.”

“I saw the two get into it in Archie’s bookstore the other night,” Izzy said. “Beatrice looked like she’d like to kill him. Poor Sal stood quietly by, two steps behind her, just like in the royal family.”

Sal was shy, but he was his wife’s biggest supporter. Some thought it a perfect match. He was good-looking, in a subdued, Clark Kent kind of way. He cleaned up nicely, as Birdie would say. And he was content to live in the shadow of the ambitious Beatrice—and in the comfort of her family fortune.

The slamming of the front screen door, the slap of Birkenstocks on the floor, and swish of a long peasant skirt announced the arrival of Ham and Jane Brewster. “Where’s our new friend Gabby?” Jane asked, checking out the group.

“She went to a movie at the mall with Harold and Ella. I don’t think they’ve been to a movie in twenty years. Gabby talked them into it.”

Nell checked her pasta, turned off the stove, and shooed them all outside, urging Ben to mix his martinis. “And take Danny’s amazing appetizer with you, or I’ll eat every single one.”

Izzy put her iPod into the Bose sound dock, and in minutes laughter mingled with Giovanna Bersola’s energetic voice belting out “The Rhythm of the Night.” And by the time Pete and Willow arrived and Ben took the scallop kebabs off the grill, villagers’ feuds, unkempt property, and a wild-haired ten-year-old taking hold of their hearts were put aside. Bodies moved as one to the long table beneath the spreading branches of the old maple tree. Candles were lit, wine and water poured, and baskets of warm rolls placed at either end.

“Friday night on the Endicott deck. Our refuge. Our haven,” Birdie said, lifting her glass. Her white head nodded slightly to each of those gathered around the table, the anchors in her life. “To friends,” she said in a hushed voice.

“To friends!” Voices collided in the delicious-smelling air as plates were passed, wineglasses refilled, and Ben’s scallop kebabs greedily devoured. Nell passed around the bowl of fresh pasta and vegetables and reminded them all, as she did every Friday night, “MIK”—more in kitchen, and there always was.

At first no one heard the ringing of the front doorbell.

But when the laughter died down, the ringing found a lull in the conversation and made itself heard. Izzy suggested they ignore it.

“No one we know uses your doorbell,” she said, passing the bowl of pasta to Sam. “It’s probably UPS or someone selling tickets to the Fourth of July picnic.”

“Probably,” Ben said. “But I’m one of those guys who absolutely cannot let a ringing phone or doorbell go unanswered. Not like some of you.” He lifted his thick brows at Izzy and Cass as he pushed back his chair and stood up.

Izzy laughed. And then she looked beyond Ben to a figure standing in the doorway. She looked up at Ben. “It looks like you won’t have to answer it after all.”

They all looked toward the doorway and the figure outlined against the family-room light.

But it was Birdie who pushed out her chair and stood, her napkin fluttering to the floor.

“Nicholas,” she said, her voice lifting in surprise. “Where did you come from?”

Chapter 8

N
ick Marietti smiled and stepped out onto the deck.

Birdie moved to his side and accepted his kiss on each cheek.

“I came from Logan. Before that, Florence. I got in town an hour ago. And I’m sorry to barge in like this. I leave all of you so suddenly, then appear again like a ghost. No warning, no call. What must you think of me?”

“That you need to come and sit with us,” Birdie said. She took his arm and led him over to the table.

Ben pulled over another chair, and before Nick was completely settled, Sam had put a glass of Scotch in his hands. “You look like you could use this,” he said.

Nick’s laugh was more a sigh. “How did you know?”

There was a moment of silence as they all focused on Nick Marietti, wondering how many questions it was polite to ask before he’d had a chance to eat—or, at the least, had a drink of Scotch.

Finally, Birdie said, “Have you seen Gabby yet?” As the words registered, a sudden shadow fell across her face.

Izzy, Nell, and Cass read her expression.
If Nicholas is here, Gabby will be leaving.

“No, there wasn’t anyone at your house. I thought she’d be here with you.”

Birdie checked her watch. “Harold and Ella took Gabby to the movies tonight. They probably aren’t back yet. How did you think to come here?”

“The innkeeper, Mary Pisano. I checked into a room there, and she said you’d be here. She thought Gabby’d be with you.” He rolled the drink glass between his palms, ice cubes clinking against the side.

“The benefits of small-town living,” Ben said. “Everyone knows where we’ll be on Friday nights.”

Nick nodded. “Seems so.”

“Well, she was right to send you over.” Nell set a full plate in front of him. “You’re just in time for Ben’s amazing scallops. The tomato and dill relish is wonderful.”

“You are wonderful people. I barge into your gathering, and I’m treated like a king.”

Ham stroked his graying beard. “You’ll drop that king idea when we lead you to the dishwasher later.”

“Oh, shush,” Jane said to her husband. “We’ll excuse him for tonight.” She looked at Nick. “But only once.”

Nick finally allowed a laugh and his shoulders relaxed. He slipped out of his sports jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. “Birdie says you’ve all had a hand in making my niece comfortable here. Thank you.”

“Gabby doesn’t need help to fit in,” Izzy said. “She’s pretty self-reliant.”

“An only child?” Jane asked.

Nick nodded. “In a fancy penthouse on the Upper East Side. She considers Central Park her backyard. A definite worry for overprotective uncles like me.”

“What about her father?” Nell began, but she let the words drop off. It wasn’t her business, not really.

“Christopher’s a nice guy. He loves his daughter, even when she baffles him. But he’s not very savvy when it comes to picking wives. Too much money, too young, maybe.” He looked at Birdie as if he were going to say something, then thought better of it, turned away, and spoke to them all. “Gabby’s mother died when she was born, and there’ve been a string of stepmothers in and out of her life.”

They listened to Nick’s story about Christopher Marietti’s failed
marriages—the most recent one resulting in a trip to India for marital counseling from his new wife’s current shaman. As they listened, they tried unsuccessfully to fit Gabby Marietti into the picture he painted.

Birdie brought them back to reality. “I suppose you’ve come to continue your trip with Gabby. Your mother . . . she must be better?”

Nick seemed surprised at the question. And then his expression cleared and he shook his head. “No, she isn’t better. But she rallied while I was there. That’s how she is: a will of steel. If she wasn’t ready to die last week, to hell with the grim reaper; she wouldn’t die. One day she was an old woman, shriveled in a bed that was way to big for her body. Then suddenly, as if she’d been given a magic tonic, she perked up. Called for lawyers. Family members. It was the old Francesca Marietti, ruling the world as if she were seventy again, instead of nearly one hundred. She was that way for three days, talking to each of her children, extracting promises from us about everything from the flowers for her funeral to the distribution of her estate and messes to clean up. And then, just as suddenly, she said to leave her alone, that she was tired, and she shriveled up again. The doctors aren’t sure what’s next, but they don’t think it’ll be long.”

Birdie looked at him, her eyes judgmental. “Shouldn’t you have stayed there with your mother? Gabby is fine with us.”

Nick took a slow drink of Scotch, then set the glass down on the table and sat back in his chair. His shoulders sagged. “No, dear Birdie, I shouldn’t be with my mother.” His smile was enigmatic—not happy or sad, but puzzling. Then he rested one arm on the back of Birdie’s chair and his whole body seemed to relax. “I left under orders.”

Chapter 9

L
ater, when they looked back on that weekend, they couldn’t be sure who had made the decision to stay longer, Gabby or Nicholas. Or Birdie herself, suggesting Gabby needed a few more days in Sea Harbor. After all, she had a class to teach for Izzy.

But as Birdie told them the next morning, however it happened, Nick and Gabrielle were going to spend a few more days in town before continuing their trip up the coast.

Birdie sat back on the garden bench and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. They had come together at the community garden to water and weed. But mostly they were there to find out what had happened when Nicholas and Birdie left the Endicott deck the night before.

Birdie took the glass of iced tea that Izzy handed her. “Gabby was still up when we got home, playing hearts with Ella and Harold on the veranda. She was thrilled to see her uncle. Clearly the child loves that man. But the hug was quickly replaced by a sad face.”

“She didn’t want to leave?” Nell said.

“It was more definite than that. She
couldn’t
leave, she said. It was absolutely impossible.”

Cass sat back on her bare legs and tossed some weeds in a bag. “Why’s that?”

“Because she had a knitting class to teach, a game to teach Harold, a fishing date with Finnegan, and she and Willow were working
on a project. These were serious promises, she told her uncle, that simply couldn’t be broken.”

Nell laughed.

“There was much talk, voices going every which way. Harold and Ella being quite vocal in having Gabby stay longer. Nick—who looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days—seemed content to let it swirl around him, his hands folded across his chest. And then he said he needed some sleep. Sure, they could stay a few more days. He had some work to do, and he could do it from here.”

“From your house?”

“He’s staying at the Ravenswood B and B.”

“With all the rooms you have in your house?” Cass asked.

“It’s fine. I invited him, but his things were already over there and it’s just across the street.”

“Gabby?” Izzy asked.

“She’ll stay put. Harold and Ella insisted, and Nick was fine with it. She loves that little corner bedroom in my house—the one with the window seat and view of the sea. Or maybe it’s Sonny’s den down the hall from it that she loves the most. I find her in there often, looking through the telescope, curling up in his big leather chair, reading a book.” Birdie smiled. “It’s nice seeing her there.”

Sonny Favazza’s den was Birdie’s special haven, and the fact that she shared it so freely with Gabby spoke louder than words. “You wear your new role nicely.”

“Life is full of unexpected turns,” she said.

“Where is Gabby today?”

“At Willow’s. She loves the Fishtail Gallery and all the wooden mermaids that Willow’s father created. She’s helping Willow out, she says. Some mysterious project that she wouldn’t tell me about.”

“And Nick?” Izzy got up from the ground, one fluid movement that defied gravity. She brushed the dirt from her knees.

“He seemed in better spirits this morning. The visit with his mother took a toll on him, I think. He’s spending the morning working.”

“Sam texted me that he ran into him at the courthouse. He was
dressed too nicely for Sea Harbor, Sam said. He suggested you get him some shorts and T-shirts.”

“Why was he at the courthouse?” Birdie asked.

Izzy laughed. “Now, if it’d been me—brash and bold as I am—I might have asked, but my sweet husband is more discreet. He snapped Nick’s picture, though. He calls his summer project ‘A Portrait of the Sea . . . and the People Who Come to It’—or something like that. Be careful to brush your hair if you go out.”

Birdie laughed. “Sam’s photos tell stories. He’s an amazing man.”

“Yes, he is.” Izzy grinned. “But one who doesn’t ask the right questions.”

“I was curious—that’s all. I thought he was working at the B and B. Mary had offered him that beautiful den to use while he’s here.”