Angora Alibi (11 page)

T
he news of J
ustin Dorsey’s death didn’t resound as robustly through the Sea Harbor community as
it might have because many of the residents didn’t know the young man personally.
There were some—like Archie Brandley and Mrs. Bridge—who knew him but didn’t like
him much, and their reaction to the news of his death was one of slight guilt, as
if their dislike had somehow played a role in his death.

Moreover, townsfolk wouldn’t even be able to learn more about him at a funeral because
he wouldn’t be buried in Sea Harbor.

All things being equal, the news might have fallen off people’s radar within a day
or two or three.

But all things were not equal.

•   •   •

The tide began to change late Tuesday afternoon.

Ben was at the yacht club when he got the call from Chief Thompson.

Nell was standing in front of a room of well-dressed women at a late-afternoon library
meeting, having finished a talk on writing grants, when she glanced down at her phone
and read Ben’s succinct text.

Birdie received Nell’s text while at the Ocean’s Edge Restaurant with a small group
of white-haired women having tea, although the term
tea
was a holdover from the days when the matriarchal group really did have tea, instead
of the afternoon sherry they were drinking today.

Janie Levin didn’t get a text. She was back at work at the clinic, comforted by Dr.
Lily and by the familiarity of the nursing job she loved. But she would receive the
news very quickly.

And Tommy Porter got word while on duty at Sea Harbor police headquarters. He was
surprised when the chief called a special meeting, but more surprised when he found
out why. He immediately called Izzy and Sam.

Could they go over to the clinic—be with Janie until he was able to leave?

•   •   •

Justin Dorsey was murdered.

He hadn’t been ill, he hadn’t been drunk, he hadn’t been any of the things that the
rumor mill had bandied about since news of his death traveled through town.

Justin Dorsey, age nineteen, had been killed.

The night passed in a blur. Izzy and Sam stopped by the Endicotts’ to report on Janie.
They had stayed with her until Tommy showed up. She had eaten a little, Izzy said,
but mostly sat in disbelief, her face chalky white and her hands shaking. Tommy told
them he would spend the night there. Janie shouldn’t be alone. And who knew what kind
of crazy person was out there? Who knew if he had further prey?

They were all grateful. Janie had taken the news hard. First not believing it. Then
trying to make sense of it. Which, of course, was impossible. One day she was arguing
with him, telling him she’d like him to fall off the face of the earth.

And the next day he did.

“I feel like there’s an awful cloud over my head,” Janie had said. “And it keeps getting
darker and heavier. If only the sun would come out, the blackness would all go away
and Justin would come back.”

Izzy and Sam had few reassuring words for her, and Tommy even fewer.

No matter if the sun came out or a nor’easter reared its head, someone in Sea Harbor
had wanted Justin Dorsey dead. And that was the awful truth of it.

•   •   •

The headline in the Wednesday morning
Sea Harbor Gazette
was intended to get readers’ attention. And it succeeded, though the facts were few.

SCUBA DIVER MURDERED AT SEA

It hadn’t taken the coroner or the diving equipment experts long to determine what
hadn’t killed Justin—or what had.

On first examination, he didn’t appear to have any health problems that would explain
a death, according to the coroner.

And it wasn’t an equipment defect, according to the mechanical experts who examined
the diving cylinders and other equipment, although these would be scrutinized further.

It was, in fact, a human deed—the clear manipulation of a piece of equipment that
had caused Justin Dorsey’s death, so read the
Sea Harbor Gazette.

“It makes me wonder about Izzy’s premonitions,” Nell said as Ben spread Wednesday’s
paper out on the island so they could see it together. “She’s been feeling that something
wasn’t right. And now this.”

The article was short, not more than a couple of inches of newsprint. No one knew
much about Justin or his family, just that he was distantly related to Janie Levin,
nurse at the Virgilio Family Clinic.

Specifics of the equipment problem hadn’t been spelled out, but the thought was that
someone had gotten a hold of Justin’s regulator and made sure it would get him down
to the bottom of the sea—and not up again.

And that was about it, except for a quote from Justin’s landlady, Mrs. Bridge, who
respectfully declined from saying anything other than that he had lived at her boardinghouse
for a time but had ceased his residency there on Saturday. She had added that she
never spoke ill of the dead, and the reporter had dutifully recorded it.

“It’s sad there isn’t more to say about his life,” Nell said.

“It’s sad that someone disliked a nineteen-year-old boy enough to kill him.”

“Dislike? Is that what you think killed him? Someone hated him?”

“Hate is a strong motive,” Ben said.

“But do you honestly think anyone in Sea Harbor knew Justin well enough to hate him?
Janie knew him best and—”

“And she said she hated him.”

There was silence for a few seconds while Nell processed the truth of Ben’s statement.
And then she punched at it.

“That’s silly, Ben. And you know it is. Janie is young and she was very angry with
him. But she wasn’t expressing the kind of hate that makes someone kill.”

Nell could feel her cheeks reddening as the emotion of her words took hold. Of course
Janie didn’t hate Justin. Not really. She was devastated by his death.

Ben turned from the paper, set both their coffee mugs on the island, and pulled Nell
to him, holding her close. His cheek pressed into her hair. “Of course she didn’t
hate him that way, Nellie. You and I know that. But her words will be dissected now,
pulled apart, and examined carefully. And anything anyone else said to Justin. Or
about him.”

Nell pressed closer to Ben, her heart sinking. He was right. It was the beginning
of all that. The questions, the fears, the looking over one’s shoulder.

And all this when preparing for the most joyous birth of a baby. She thought of Izzy’s
comment about her sixth sense.
“All’s not quite right in our universe,”
she’d said.
“And I don’t want my baby coming until it’s better.”

Noises at the door and the slap of flip-flops across the hardwood floor brought Gabby
Marietti into the kitchen. Birdie was close behind.

Gabby hugged them both. “Nonna said someone killed Janie’s friend,” Gabby said. Her
dark blue eyes filled her face. “It’s awful and so sad. Why would someone do that?
He was nice.”

Birdie wrapped an arm around her granddaughter’s waist. Over the winter Gabby had
grown taller, filling in the small difference in their heights, and now they were
eye to eye. Granddaughter and Nonna on an equal plane. Both questioning the irrational
and tragic happenings in life.

“Yes, indeed, sweetheart,” Birdie said. “Why?”

Harold had dropped her and Birdie off, Gabby said. And now they needed a ride to the
market. Wouldn’t Nell like to come?

“Ella needs a bunch of things and Nonna needs fresh air,” Gabby said.

And she did, too, Nell realized. The whole town did. Fresh air.

•   •   •

The day was bright and cool, a contrast to the heated news that was being discussed
up and down Harbor Road. The summer farmers’ market was set up near the Ocean’s Edge,
on the great green expanse of grass that ran from the parking lot down to the water’s
edge. It was already crowded, with people pulling out their cloth bags and filling
them with early summer produce—lettuce and spinach and arugula, slender stalks of
asparagus, carrots, and baby corn.

But in between the stands of vegetables and fruit, people huddled together as small
bits of information of a murder were passed along, inch by inch, like some insidious
weed. A mixture of emotions washed across people’s faces—disbelief, curiosity, fear—all
a sharp contrast to the fresh garden items around them.

Gabby led the way to a stand with an abundance of green and buttery lettuce. “It looks
like an oil painting,” Birdie said.

Nell looked around as Birdie and Gabby examined the lettuce heads. Not far from the
booth, on a slight rise of land, stood a white gazebo. Today it hosted a high school
band playing an assortment of old Woodstock songs.

Henrietta O’Neal stood in front of it, tapping her cane and singing along to an old
Joan Baez tune.

Farther down the greenway, apart from the market activity and closer to the water,
stood a tall, lone figure, looking out to sea. Nell pushed her sunglasses to the top
of her head, squinted, and recognized Martin Seltzer. A lumpy market bag hung from
one shoulder, and a bony hand grasped the back of a park bench.

Henrietta noticed him, too, and immediately stopped her tapping and headed his way,
her head leading her small round body as it bobbed across the grass.

Birdie looked over and laughed. “My tea ladies told me that Henrietta has been trying
to socialize Martin Seltzer. He’s her new project, they said. Do you think I should
warn him?”

“I suspect the man can hold his own,” Nell said, remembering the look he had given
Justin that day in the clinic. Daggers with very sharp points. “If Martin doesn’t
want company, I have a feeling Henrietta will know it very soon.”

Martin turned as Henrietta approached. But before he could speak, she raised herself
up on the toes of her sneakers and, waving one blunt finger in the air, let loose
with a string of words that startled a group of gulls into flight. The distance was
too great for Birdie and Nell to hear, but Martin clearly did. His head dropped at
the torrent of words, but before he could reply, Henrietta spun around and walked
back to the gazebo. In minutes she was mouthing along to an encore of “One Day at
a Time” in true Baez fashion.

“Hmm,” Birdie said. “So much for socializing the good doctor. I’ll have to see what
my tea ladies think about that.”

Nell watched Martin shift his market bag to the other shoulder, then walk slowly back
up to Harbor Road. A part of her wanted to catch up to him, to talk to him about Justin.
What would his thoughts be, now that the young man he had so clearly wanted out of
the clinic was dead?

“Life is interesting,” Birdie said, and turned back to see Gabby standing with Kevin
Sullivan. The bearded chef was dressed in old jeans and his head was bare, his hair
blowing in the breeze. He was holding up a bunch of arugula, explaining its merits
to Gabby.

“So this is why the Ocean Edge salads taste market fresh,” Nell said, eyeing the arugula.
“They
are
.”

Kevin grinned and nodded. But the smile gave way to concern as he stepped away from
Gabby and lowered his voice. “Hey, I heard the awful news about that kid. He was Janie’s
cousin, right?”

“Distant. But yes,” Nell said.

“That’s a tough one. Tyler said he was a good kid. A little goofy sometimes, but not,
like some are saying, a bad kid.”

Tyler turned at the sound of his name. He stood behind a nearby table heaped high
with everything from beets to cabbages to fresh herbs. The smell of basil filled the
booth.

He smiled over at the group and gave a wave. “Hey, Birdie, Nell. And if it isn’t Gabriella
Marietti!” Tyler rolled the
r
s in Gabby’s name, drawing giggles and a blush.

“Gabby and I are old buds,” he said to Birdie. “She helped me pick my gram’s garden
nearly clean the other day, didn’t you, gorgeous?”

“So that’s where all this came from.” Nell laughed as she eyed the produce. “Esther
Gibson’s plot in the community garden puts all the rest of ours to shame.”

“Yeah, so you’ve seen it? Every doggone thing she plants comes up like it’s going
to take over the earth. She gave a ton of this to Father Larry’s soup kitchen, but
it just keeps coming.”

“It’s like the loaves and fishes,” Gabby said. “That’s what Father Larry says—it keeps
on multiplying.” She picked up a bunch of green onions and some arugula and dropped
them in her basket while Birdie handed over a bill.

Then Gabby’s eyes narrowed, her eyebrows pulling together. “Hey, Tyler, remember that
day? Justin Dorsey came by to ask you to stop by the beach or something?” Her frown
deepened. “Justin . . . and now he’s dead.”

Tyler looked at her for a minute, as if doubting her recollection. Finally he nodded.
“Yeah, Gabby, I think you’re right—he came by and helped us. Jeez, it’s awful, what
happened. You don’t expect this kind of thing here in Sea Harbor.”

“You and Justin were friends?” Nell asked.

“Yeah, well, sort of. He was younger, but a friendly guy. He seemed to get around.”
He shifted from one foot to the other, then looked back at Gabby. “Hey, look at these
beets, Miss Italiano. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful in your whole life?”
He held up a bunch and raised his eyebrows, drawing a new round of giggles.

Gabby replaced her grin with a firm expression. She held out her hand, palm toward
him, pushing away his words. “Italians don’t eat beets.”

Tyler laughed and ruffled her dark mop of flyaway hair. Then he noticed a woman holding
a head of Esther’s cabbage, gently testing the end for moisture, then lifting it to
her nose and sniffing it.

“Oops, business calls.” Tyler gave them a wave, then turned this attention to the
woman, expounding on the merits of cabbage. A welcome escape.

“Justin seemed to know everyone,” Birdie observed.

“It’s like Tyler said, he was friendly. Kind of a wheeler-dealer, you know? Always
wanting to make a quick buck, especially if it didn’t take much work.” Kevin examined
some onions, then slipped the vendor a few bills and dropped them in his bag. “He’d
come into the Edge now and then when Tyler or some of the college kids were working,
just hanging out. Not drinking, though. Tyler’s good about carding kids. He knows
all the tricks since he tried most of them himself at that age.”