Death by Cashmere (24 page)

When Ben hadn't come back by the time dinner was announced, Nell gathered the others and suggested they go into the tent and find their table. Ham and Jane joined them, and Cass and Pete. Ben would be along soon, she said, and it would disrupt the schedule of events if diners dallied. But as she followed the others into the tent, she turned and scanned the nearly empty veranda. Ben was nowhere in sight, and a dollop of worry worked its way into her thoughts. If he had left, he would have told her, she thought. There was a large contingent of people who had come up from Boston for the arts benefit. He had probably run into an old friend and found a quiet place to talk. That, too, would be typical.

Once inside the cavernous tent, the evening's festive mood took over, and by the time the group found their engraved name cards and seated themselves at the round, white-clothed table, Nell's concern had slipped to a back corner of her mind and her attention drawn to the centerpieces. Each table featured a black-and-white photograph taken by Sam Perry--signed, matted, and set in a smooth and simple maple frame. Some were from his new book, others shots he'd taken on his travels--a child sitting by a stream in India, an old man walking across a New York street-- each an expression of life in the unique way that was making Sam Perry's work noticed by collectors and publishers.

"Sam, how wonderful," Nell said, looking closer at the photo. "Margarethe certainly twisted your arm."

"She's persuasive, I'll admit," Sam said. "But she took care of the hard part--the matting and framing. I was happy to provide the prints."

Two waiters circled the table, pouring champagne and placing crisp salads with chunks of lobster in a nest of romaine lettuce at each place.

"Tony Framingham is entertaining quite a group," said Birdie, lifting her flute by the slender stem.

Nell followed the nod of Birdie's head. Two tables away, Tony sat with a group of people his age, mostly unfamiliar faces-- probably friends from New York whom he had brought in for the evening gala. Tony's polished good looks seemed artificial to Nell tonight. Perhaps it was the tuxedo. But as Nell watched, he reminded her of an actor on a stage. Saying the right words. Smiling at the right time. But she sensed an underlying current beneath his words and his smile. And when the attention turned to others at the table and he wasn't in the spotlight, a somber look fell across his face--an expression that didn't match the lighthearted party mood surrounding him.
Full of sound and fury,
she thought. A dark cloud. But did it signify nothing, as in Shakespeare's play? Just then, Tony turned his head. Before Nell could look away, he caught her eye.

But the social, polite smile didn't return to his face, acknowledging Nell with a friendly nod. Instead, Tony looked back at her, long and hard, without a hint of welcome. It was Nell who finally turned away, uncomfortable.

The movement of the chair next to her brought her attention back to the table. "Ben, it's about time." Nell reached up and touched his hand, smiling. "Come, sit. Let me have the waiter bring your plate. Where've you been?"

"The waiter is already on it." Ben sat down and touched the fringe of her silky sea-yarn scarf. He looked around the table. "Sorry to be so late, folks. Sometimes cell phones are more a curse than anything else." He took a swallow of the scotch that the waiter had placed in front of him and forced a smile in place.

"Ben, what is it?" Nell asked.

Birdie, Izzy, and Ham caught Nell's question and looked at Ben. Jane and Sam stopped their conversation midstream. The table grew silent, an island in the middle of music and animated conversation and loud bursts of laughter.

"It's about the man who was killed last night," he said.

"The poacher?" Cass said.

Ben nodded. "It was George Gideon," he said solemnly.

"Gideon!" The word was a hushed chorus, eight voices colliding in the center of the elegantly decorated table.

The police chief had called him, Ben said, hoping he'd find Father Northcutt for them. They knew Margarethe had urged him to come to the party to give the blessing. The police said old Mrs. Gideon was in a horrible state and asking for the priest.

Ben found the good father just as he was about to be seated at the head table, and the older priest immediately excused himself to help out his parishioner. His job was not a nine-to-fiver, he politely told his hostess. Duty called.

"I don't know too much more," Ben said, "except that it didn't seem to be a one-time excursion for Gideon. He knew what he was doing."

"So he had been poaching all these weeks?" Cass said. "And smiling our way when he'd see us on the street."

Ben nodded.

"And he did it at night, while he was supposedly on duty, patrolling our shops," Izzy added.

"While all of you were
paying
him to patrol your shops," Jane said.

"Now we know what was in that backpack of his," Izzy said. "Probably his wet suit."

Ben took a swallow of scotch. "Probably so. The police talked to one of his buddies, who confirmed that Gideon seemed to be in the lobster trade of late--not getting rich off it, the guy said, but making enough to make it worth his while. But he didn't know much more. Oh, except one thing," Ben said, remembering the brief conversation he'd had. "The guy said that they were planning a farewell party at Gideon's tonight. He was planning to move away from Sea Harbor."

"He said as much to us, too, in an odd way," Nell said, remembering Gideon's talk about his ship coming in.

Around them people were finishing their meals, waiters and waitresses were scurrying around removing empty plates and pouring coffee, and when the band began to play, several couples moved onto the wooden dance floor.

"Ben, do you think Gideon's death was accidental?" Nell asked, moving closer to him so he could hear her above the music.

Ben shook his head. "I don't think a hit-and-run accident would have been so violent, Nell. It might have killed him, sure, but this collision left no doubt that the victim would end up dead. Someone had finally had it with this guy."

"Well, don't look at me," Cass said. "I had no idea who the poacher was, and even if I had, my murderous thoughts don't usually leave my head."

Nell smiled. The thought of Cass murdering anyone, despite her proclamations, was ludicrous. Especially the way she looked tonight, so elegant and lovely. A red sleeveless dress set off her deep tan, and her hair was loose, not gathered in the back with a rubber band like she usually wore it. Thick, shiny black waves hung loose to her shoulders, framing a lovely face. It was a far cry from the yellow slicker or jeans Cass usually wore as a part of her trade.

"We don't even know if that's why he was killed," Ben said to Cass. "Gideon was a shady guy, from what I've heard. He may have been into more than poaching. The police aren't saying it was intentional. They're considering a hit-and-run, though that doesn't make much sense to me."

By the time the dessert plates were removed from the tables, people were moving freely about the tent, greeting friends and chatting animatedly. Above them, wide paddle fans moved the air and cast shadows across the room.

Ben looked around at the flurry of activity. "Something tells me I wasn't the only one who got a phone call," he said.

Nell followed Ben's look and suddenly felt the buzz as the news traveled from table to table, from waiter to passing guest. The name "Gideon" could be seen on people's lips, then dropping off and eyes opening wide with surprise. And Nell knew that by the time the trays of brandy appeared, everyone at the party would know that the poacher now had a name. And a name they all knew.

But what Nell wasn't expecting was the news that greeted her as she and Ben left the others on the dance floor and walked back into the main house to place their bid on a piece of art work.

Birdie met them at the open French doors, a puzzled expression on her face. "It's amazing what one finds out in the ladies' room," she said.

"What's that, Birdie?" Nell said.

"Word has it that maybe Gideon killed Angie," Birdie said.

"What reason would he have had?" Nell asked. She had to admit that the rumor didn't completely surprise her. She'd had her own uncomfortable suspicions about Gideon. But a motive escaped her.

"Lust, or so spoke the sweet young thing handing me a towel in the restroom," Birdie said.

"I don't think so," said Ben. "Gideon was a cocky fellow, but murdering Angie? Why?"

Just then Margarethe Framingham walked through the French doors and onto the patio. She spotted the threesome and walked over immediately, her face grave. "I don't know whether to be relieved or horrified," she said.

"You heard about George Gideon?" Ben asked.

"Yes. Father Northcutt told me before he left."

"Esther Gideon must be devastated," Nell said. Another Sea Harbor mother left without her grown child in such a short period of time. And all George Gideon's faults wouldn't erase the pain of losing him.

Margarethe nodded. "She's a devout person, a good member of the parish, Father said. And she worried considerably about her son. But at least we can finally put all this behind us."

"Well, the lobstermen in the cove will be able to be about their business again," Ben said. "It has been a difficult few weeks for them."

Margarethe nodded, her fingers playing with the diamond bracelet on her wrist. "And that was the same cove where Angelina Archer was killed. There's a connection, I feel sure."

The group fell silent. It was a comfortable leap to make, to knit up the summer's tragedies in one neat package and move on. For that brief moment, Nell wanted terribly to believe that what Margarethe was suggesting was true, that in one blind moment, Gideon had committed a crime that he lived--and died--to regret. And as tragic as it all was, they could move on now into their summer, without worry and suspicions clouding their days and evenings.

"And there's one more thing," Margarethe said. "I don't know if you've heard, but Father Northcutt called me from Esther Gideon's."

"What's that?" Nell asked.

"They found those atrocious orange earphones that Angie wore in Gideon's backpack. And an iPod that had her name programmed into it. Gideon had them with him the night he died."

The group fell silent. Nell knew Ben and Birdie were sharing her thoughts. Their unspoken suspicions had been right--Gideon had torn apart Angie's apartment. But stealing a pair of earphones certainly didn't explain the damage that had been done. Gideon was looking for something other than Angie's earphones when he ravaged her apartment, of that she felt sure.

"Sam Perry will be signing his books in the library in a few minutes," Margarethe said, changing the subject and trying to push aside the somber mood. "Do stop by--and the art auction is going on inside as well."

"Of course we will," Nell said, aware of Margarethe's efforts to salvage the festive spirit around them. "It's a wonderful party, Margarethe--far too lovely to be tarnished by rumors."

"Nell's right," Ben said. "You've done a terrific thing tonight. People are having a good time. And I, for one, would like to check out Ham Brewster's painting of the Gloucester schooners. I think it's just what my den needs, or so Ham tells me."

Birdie laughed and rested one hand on Ben's tuxedoed arm. Diamonds sparkled from her fingers. "Come, Ben, let's just see how high we can raise the ante. You and I could do some serious damage, I daresay."

"I think you two need a chaperone," Nell said, as Margarethe waved them all off and turned her attention to a group waiting to speak to her and pour more effusive praise on the summer's grand event.

Birdie and Nell moved into the spacious dining room, where pieces of pottery, watercolors, matted photographs, and wooden sculptures were displayed. Pads of white paper at each piece held names and amounts and Birdie and Ben set to work, jotting down bids on their favorite pieces. As she watched them move around the room, Nell knew that the car would be a bit more crowded on the way home than it had been earlier in the evening as they drove out to the Framingham estate.

Across the wide entryway, Sam sat at an antique desk in the formal living room, a pile of his books in front of him and a line of people waiting for their special inscriptions. Nell watched him as he graciously looked up at each person, made a connection, asked about their lives.

Sam spotted her over the shoulder of a guest, managed a quick wave, then ducked his head and scribbled onto the front page of a book.

"There you are, Cass," Nell said, moving to a chatting group in the living room doorway. "Do you know where Izzy is?"

"I left her on the terrace," Cass said, carefully balancing a glass of wine in one hand and Sam's book in the other. "I think they were going down to the dock to check out the Framingham yacht collection. " Cass wrinkled her nose, indicating there wasn't a vessel in Sea Harbor that could hold a candle to her
Lady Lobster
.

Nell thanked her and walked through the house and onto the terrace. The air was brisk now, but Margarethe had thought of everything, and large heat lamps warmed the terrace. Beyond the terrace steps, well-tended pathways wound down toward the dock and boathouses. Over near the wide fan of steps leading down to the green lawns, Nell spotted a familiar couple. Beatrice Scaglia had a bright yellow gown on--a designer dress, Nell felt sure. And beside her, Salvatore Scaglia stood dressed in a black tuxedo, looking oddly out of place and uncomfortable. Nell walked over to say hello.

"You look lovely, Nell," Beatrice said. "That scarf is a work of art."

Nell thanked her and suggested that once she took another class at Izzy's, she'd be making scarves like this herself.

Beatrice laughed lightly and went on. "And this news tonight is music to our ears. We finally have closure. Sal and I were just saying that at long last Sea Harbor can feel safe again, weren't we, Sal dear?"