The blood drained from Stella’s face. She sat down.
“It is okay, my sweet little Stella. You don’t a-worry. Everything is okay.”
And then he confessed. It was the reason he’d been drinking more than usual. The ugly beast, he called it—something he had learned at St. Frances Xavier Cabrini grade school in Italy. The ugly beast.
Guilt.
“I sold the Bianchi house before the poor guy died up there, Stell.”
She stared at him. Then she calmed down, realizing it must be the hangover talking. But when he shuffled some papers on his desk and handed them to her, she realized it was Uncle Mario talking. And telling the truth.
It was the day Spencer Paxton had walked in with a bottle of whiskey and engaged Uncle Mario in an endless conversation. Stella had left the office that day. What she didn’t know when she left Uncle Mario alone with him was that Spencer had come in holding a blank check in his hand.
“A blank check, cara mia!”
Spencer had heard talk of parties interested in the house, other buyers. He wanted to be sure he didn’t lose the house.
“Yes, but—” Stella started to say. But Mario shushed her.
“So I said sure. I knew you were going by the book, my Stell, getting rid of the squirrels, doing it all right, but the guy was getting antsy and becoming a pest—and he didn’t even care about seeing the place. Something about besting his old man, he said. Didn’t want to take a chance. Just wanted the house. And that was that.”
The two men had decided to keep it between them—their secret—let the house get repaired while they waited for the title to be filed and all the t’s crossed, and then he’d surprise Stella with the good news.
“The guy paid cash, cara mia,” Mario said again. “Who does that sort of thing these days?”
And then he bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. “May he rest in peace,” he murmured softly in an effort to temper his enthusiasm with a nod of respect for the dead. “House or no house, it was an awful thing that happened there in my friend Anthony’s house. That poor guy. Awful awful. He one-ups his old man, gets his dream house, and then, poof. Just like that, he’s knocked off.” He looked at his niece sadly and shook his head again. “Santi in cielo. Who does that sort of thing these days?”
* * *
Beatrice Scaglia showered and dried herself quickly in the chilly air, then wrapped a thick terry robe around her well-exercised body and sat at the vanity table, a mirror reflecting the dampness in her hair. Makeup was a ritual, one she liked and matched to the day’s activities. A slightly smoky mascara, a peach blush that highlighted her skin tone, and a swipe of creamy peach lipstick to her lips. She observed the result, deemed it perfect, and smiled, running her fingers through loose dark hair. She noticed a lightening at the roots and made a mental note to have her secretary make an appointment for color and highlights. But for today, a bun, she decided, and carefully sleeked back her hair, wrapping and binding it expertly with a thick band.
She walked to the closet and moved quickly through an array of color-arranged outfits, pulling out a sea-blue pencil-skirt suit, and slipped it on, smoothing down the sides and checking herself in the long mirror. It would work nicely for her morning interview on cable television when she would talk at length about her vision for Sea Harbor. An exciting vision, the interviewer would agree. Then on to meet with several council committee members and a talk to the museum volunteers. Spreading goodwill. And in between times, perhaps she would drop in at the yarn shop. It was always helpful to take the pulse of Izzy’s customers—to tune in to conversations that swirled around the room when needles were clicking and the outside world seemed far away.
The whistle on the teakettle called her to the kitchen, where she poured herself a cup, then sat alone at the table with her tea, a bowl of yogurt and granola, and the Sea Harbor Gazette.
She pressed the paper flat on the table, scanned the headline, and then put on her reading glasses and read the rest of the article, one manicured finger running beneath each word, each line, pulling her eye from word to word to word.
Finally, finished with the article and her breakfast, she carefully wiped a few drops of yogurt from the corner of her mouth. Then she checked in a mirror one more time, put on her pressed wool gray coat, and moved into her day.
Another rich, full day in the life of a mayor, a life she loved as much as life itself.
* * *
Josh Babson and Merry Jackson sat together on the picnic bench, close to one of the outdoor heaters Merry had installed on the deck of the Artist’s Palate. It gave her at least another two or three months of keeping the deck open. With some creative thinking, she might figure out how to keep her restaurant’s deck open all year, she said.
And if she did, they’d come—the revelers and friends and neighbors, those wanting a friendly place, a good beer, and Merry’s amazing burgers. And in the morning the artists would climb the deck steps, lured by the smell of her Colombian roast, homemade granola, and juices of unknown origin that Merry made fresh each day, an effort to keep her artists, as she called them, healthy and fit.
She’d given up on Josh, though, which she told him frequently. He was so skinny she couldn’t see him when he turned sideways. Not healthy, was Merry’s assessment.
Josh lived a block away, down one of the narrow Canary Cove alleyways and above a glassblower’s shop. He was putting together a studio of his own off the back.
That morning he had grabbed a neighbor’s paper and brought it with him to the deck, although Merry had one of her own, already spread out on the table. They were an odd pair of friends—the pretty and energetic young owner of the popular hangout and the tall, skinny artist with the shaggy blond hair. An artist with an attitude, some said, though those who knew him thought differently. It was all a cover for a guy who didn’t like crowds, wasn’t crazy about attention, and sure, had opinions, but along with a laugh the length of the Sea Harbor shoreline. He had kind, soulful eyes, and Merry trusted him beyond question.
He liked her, too. They had forged a firm friendship, which was what brought them together that morning, staring at the Sea Harbor Gazette, and then at each other.
“Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish, which is what Ham Brewster said to me this morning when he grabbed a cup of granola,” Merry said.
Josh nodded and took a long drink of Merry’s coffee, feeling its strength as it wound its way through him. “Geesh, what did you put in this?”
“A splash of Michter’s,” she said. “I figured you might need it.”
“Ha.”
“I heard the sirens,” Merry said.
“You were here?”
“No. We’re closed Sunday nights. You know that. Where were you? You look like you haven’t slept all night.”
Josh thrummed his paint-stained fingers on the table, looking around the deck vacantly. He didn’t answer. “Yeah,” he finally said, apropos of nothing. Beneath the table, one knee jiggled.
Merry pushed a bowl of yogurt in front of him. “Eat or you’ll die.”
Josh smiled. He took a large scoop of it and swallowed it down, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked at the bistro owner, his soulful eyes hard. “He was a sleazy guy, Merry,” he said. “I only met him that once, but I knew him. And I didn’t like him. He was bad. He didn’t belong around here. Maybe not anywhere.”
Merry was silent. She looked across the deck to the empty table near the railing where she had practically attacked Spencer Paxton less than a week ago. She took a deep breath and looked back at her friend.
“I know that, Josh. I didn’t like him either,” she said. “Not one single bit.”
* * *
Sitting at round tables in the basement of Father Lawrence Northcutt’s Our Lady of Safe Seas church, a group of men who called themselves the Men’s Association gathered with a dozen copies of the Sea Harbor Gazette spread out in front of them. The men met monthly, ostensibly to help Fathe
r Larry with the many church projects he had going, but it didn’t hurt that Mary Halloran, extraordinary church secretary and manager, had baked her renowned sausage-egg-cheese casserole and brought it hot to each meeting.
On this particular morning, some copies of the newspaper had coffee stains blotting out words or part of a photo. Other copies, those in front of the men who always poured ketchup on their egg casserole, bore red smudges, perhaps more suitable to the story the men were poring over.
Many members of the Men’s Association were retired, dressed today in jeans or old denim work pants, but some who still managed bars or restaurants or construction companies or hardware stores, wore slacks and button-downs, dressed to meet a customer or client. And some brought sons, exposing them to community volunteer work and Mary’s amazing casserole, with a desire to maintain the group’s longevity. Today, perhaps wondering if there’d be some news of the murder circulating among them, the place was full, the oldest members filling in the front tables and the newer generation opting for the back ones and the fast exit they provided if things got boring.
Father Northcutt, pastor of Our Lady of Safe Seas, sat at one of the front tables and looked around the room, pleased at the turnout. It was important for people to be together at times like these. He looked around the group. Gus McGlucken was there. Looking tired, older. But then, weren’t they all? Harry Garozzo sat next to Gus, leaving the deli in his wife’s capable hands for an hour. Good friends, Harry, Gus, and Mario.
Jake Risso, owner of the Gull Tavern, was talking quietly to some retired lobster fishermen, regulars in his bar where rumors, no doubt, had already taken hold. Even the stately Alphonso Santos, owner of the largest construction company in town, was there. Alphonso didn’t often come, though he donated heavily to all of Father Larry’s causes, which was an admirable excuse in the kindly priest’s opinion.
As he stood and quieted the crowd, Father Larry spotted a straggler. Old Mario Palazola was shuffling in the back door. That was good. He watched him make his way to an empty seat next to Gus and Harry. He still wasn’t used to seeing the three men without their fourth, the sadly departed Anthony Bianchi.
The priest pushed back the few white hairs that remained on his head and welcomed the group. Then he bowed his head, blessed the food, the day, and the men, and offered a brief prayer. When he sat back down, the men moved in their chairs to look at Archie Brandley, owner of the Sea Harbor Bookstore and this year’s Men’s Association president. Archie stood, a serious expression on his kind face. He took off his glasses.
“As you all know, this is a difficult time in Sea Harbor,” he began.
Around the tables, voices mumbled and heads nodded. “Our fine police department is already making progress in solving this case, keeping us safe, but in the meantime, in the midst of the horrible crime, we can’t forget that a man died, a man born right here in Sea Harbor Memorial Hospital, and we need to pay tribute to him. Some of you knew his folks, his family. Sea Harbor honors its own.”
More mumbles, more agreement. Heads bowed.
Archie crossed himself and then he said, “May you rest in eternal peace, Spencer Paxton the third.” At each table voices joined together and said as one: “May he rest in peace.”
And then, just one minute before they were released to dig into plates heaped high with egg casserole, a rogue voice from the back of the room followed up the RIP with an invocation of its own.
“And good riddance to you, sir,” it said.
Chapter 17
The fact that the murdered man hadn’t been back in town for very long changed the tenor of the conversation surrounding his death. Many people hadn’t become reacquainted with Spencer, except for a casual conversation here or there. He was, in that capacity, not really a Sea Harbor resident.
And as for the young Spencer Paxton and his early Sea Harbor years? He was reasonably smart, good-looking, and popular, according to a retired schoolteacher who had taught him history. And he was full of himself, she’d added, but aren’t all kids at that age?
According to the investigator, it seemed likely the perpetrator had known Spencer Paxton. Premeditated. A “focused crime,” he called it. So they could relax that there wasn’t a mass murderer in their midst. People needed to get on with their lives and keep things as normal as possible.
* * *
When Izzy walked into the yarn shop that next morning, Mae motioned with her head toward the yarn cubbies on the back wall.
Bree stood fingering a bright green nubby yarn, thick and fuzzy.
Izzy walked over. “Bree, you don’t need to be here.”
“Yes, I do,” Bree said, and offered Izzy a smile intended to make her understand.
Izzy only partially did, her thoughts on those she loved and the unbearable thought of losing any of them. The thought of being unable to move. Or breathe. Much less show up in a yarn shop to teach a class. But Bree’s situation was different, she knew. Another fact she only partially understood.
Bree held out the skein of yarn. “Just touch this, Iz.”
Izzy hesitated, then touched the fuzzy fibers.
“See? It’s good for the soul. I need to do what I do, not sit and wonder what’s happened, what’s ahead.”
Izzy nodded. It was something they all needed to do. Put the horrible week behind them. But it took longer than a day or two, even when the person wasn’t a part of your life.
The bell above the door rang, and Birdie walked in, with Rose Chopra a footstep behind. Rose had better color today, Izzy thought. A miracle after the amount of questioning she had been through the past couple days.
She was cradling Purl in her arms.
Bree looked over at the sound of Purl’s mewing and smiled when she saw Rose.
“Are you teaching a class?” Rose asked.
Bree nodded. “You should come sometime.”
They talked for a few minutes, Bree explaining the freedom in working with yarn as an art form, something to hang on a wall. “No patterns,” she said. “So no mistakes. And it’s wonderful for the spirit.”
Birdie and Izzy watched the perfectly normal conversation—between two people living in the middle of anything but normal circumstances.
Bree retreated to the back room to set up for her class, reminding Rose to stop by sometime.
It was so normal it was odd.
“Bree is a strong woman,” Izzy said.
Rose looked back toward the knitting room. She frowned. “Strong?”
Birdie realized at once why Rose looked confused. She hadn’t made the connection. “You wouldn’t have known, Rose,” she said. “Bree was married to Spencer Paxton.”
Rose’s mouth fell open, then shut abruptly. “I . . . no. I didn’t know that. Are you sure? I thought . . .” She stumbled with her words. She wasn’t sure at all what she thought. Except she liked Bree. She was kind and nice. Artistic. And somehow connecting her in any way to Spencer Paxton didn’t seem right.
“Her last name is different, that’s the confusion,” Izzy said.
“She kept her maiden name.”
But that wasn’t the confusion to Rose. The confusion was that Bree could never have been married to someone like Spencer Paxton.
“You must be right. I guess I was confused,” she said.
It pulled her down, somehow. The mix-up in names. The confusion. It led her to another place inside of her that wasn’t right.
She tried to shake it all away. She had planned to talk to Stella about her own name confusion the night of their celebratory dinner. But that was the night her world was shaken. The night she saw Spencer Paxton. And the night he was killed.
The conversation had been buried in the days that followed.
She looked at Birdie and Izzy. Her cheeks were burning and she knew she was babbling.
Birdie and Izzy waited.
“It’s nothing,” Rose went on. “I guess I’m getting people mixed up.”
That was the root of the emotion. Sudde
nly she felt attacked by mistaken identities. But it was her own that was crushing down on her. The confusion in a name, and what it can mean when life takes an unexpected turn. McIntosh and Paxton. Woodley and Chopra.
And these kind, wonderful people who had taken her into their lives. They were confused, too. They didn’t know who she was, not the whole of who she was. It hadn’t been an intended deception. She hadn’t lied. And it hadn’t really mattered.
But now it did. The things about her they didn’t know suddenly mattered a great deal.
It mattered because a man was dead.
She set Purl down on the floor and looked at Izzy and Birdie. “I know I’m sounding a little crazy. And I’ll explain it all to you. But I need to talk to Stella first.”
She headed for the door, but Birdie stopped her before she got there.
Birdie couldn’t explain later why she had imposed herself on Rose the way she had. It wasn’t like her. But she had sensed with some certainty that it was what she should do.
She took Rose’s arm and said gently, “I’ll go with you.”
* * *
Stella sat on a soft rug on the floor of the Palazola Realty office, trying to distract herself. She was surrounded by yearbooks, her thoughts on Rosie, mixed with a worry that hurt deep down inside of her. The yearbooks had provided a bigger distraction than even she had expected.
Boxes of dusty books had appeared in the office that day, brought in by Gus McGlucken, along with an announcement. “Sorry, Stell,” he said. “Like I told Mario, I need that old storeroom. Got a cousin coming in to stay in the apartment for a few months and he’ll need some storage room, so I have to get all this junk out of there. Mario told you about it, right?”
Stella had glanced at the boxes cluttering the room. No, Uncle Mario hadn’t told her.
In a few minutes Gus was back with more—boxes of Mario’s old files, a broken lamp and a couple chairs, a rusted filing cabinet Uncle Mario had stored in the small room. Gus seemed obsessed somehow with getting rid of everything. He’d bring the rest tomorrow, he said. Maybe Mario would give him a hand.
How to Knit a Murder Page 13