Murder in Merino

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Did she say who?”

  She hadn’t. But intuition told Nell they should find out.

  Garrett. Don. Julia Ainsley, someone they had never heard of just a few weeks before, who now had a front-and-center role in their lives.

  Harbor Road was quiet when they finally cleaned up the last of the dishes and packed up their knitting, calling it a night.

  The room seemed crowded, somehow, with bits and pieces of their conversation strewn everywhere, vying with scissors, needles, and balls of yarn for space. In spite of the food and luscious yarn around them, the air was heavy and they all felt a need to walk outside and breathe in the chilly night air.

  “Sometimes things make more sense in the light of morning,” Nell said.

  “I think it will come together. We have the right ingredients. Now we need to figure out the pattern.”

  They waved good-bye to Izzy and walked toward Cass’s truck.

  “You’re quiet tonight, Cass,” Nell said.

  Cass shrugged. “Tired, maybe.”

  “A long week?”

  Cass looked over at a single stream of light on the side of Archie’s bookstore. It cast a narrow shadow onto the alley. It was coming from an upstairs window. She looked back at Nell and Birdie.

  “It’s hard,” she said.

  Birdie nodded. “Yes. You still love him, don’t you?”

  Cass didn’t have to answer. It was in her eyes, her face, and the sadness that drew her eyes back to the window in the cramped apartment where Danny probably sat, a laptop in front of him, a single bed up against the wall.

  “Love isn’t always the answer,” Cass said.

  “The answer to what?” Nell asked gently. The three women stood together, speaking into the space created by the circle of their bodies. Their voices were low and intimate.

  “To relationships. Ours hadn’t been tested much, but it was this time.”

  “Danny was true to you.”

  She nodded. “He was, and I love him even more for that. But what I didn’t like was me.”

  Birdie and Nell were quiet, not wanting to impose on Cass’s thoughts. Giving them time to breathe.

  She went on, sorting through her words and feelings until she thought she had them right. “Danny’s a great guy—and yes, he explained to us why he was with Jules. Even though he didn’t owe us an explanation, not really.”

  “No, dear, he did,” Birdie said, looking into the sadness filling Cass’s face. “Sometimes one needs to explain things that are out of the ordinary to people they care about. We’re human. And Jules aligning herself with Danny the way she did deserved an explanation.”

  Cass conceded. “But either way, the experience brought out some things in me that I didn’t much like. I felt so vulnerable that I wanted to curl up in a ball. I hated that. The whole thing made me feel weak. I hated that, too. And sure, for a while I even felt some jealousy. And that’s abominable to me. I didn’t like me. I didn’t like what loving Danny was doing to me.”

  “You should look in a mirror more often, Cass. Maybe you would see the many marvelous things loving Danny—and having Danny love you—has done for you,” Nell said. “Those of us who love you see them.”

  “You sound like your niece, Nell. Izzy says the same thing. But she doesn’t have to live with me. I do.”

  She turned toward the truck, then stopped and turned back. “I remember watching my ma after my dad died. I was just a little kid, but my ma seemed to shrink. She was so vulnerable—because she had loved him so much and then he died. And I wondered if it had all been worth it.”

  “Her love for your dad?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “Have you looked at your mother lately? She’s one of the strongest women I know. Being vulnerable didn’t destroy her. And the strength she developed? I suspect life with your dad had put that in some kind of reserve, should she ever need it.”

  Cass was quiet. She looked at her two friends. “Maybe I’m missing the gene.”

  “Which gene is that?” Birdie asked.

  “The one that makes loving someone a healthy thing. And doesn’t turn one of the parties involved into a screwup.” She looked at both of them and tried to smile as she began walking around the front of her truck. “In case you were wondering, that would be me—the screwup—not Danny.”

  In the next minute the truck roared to life and Birdie and Nell stood quietly, watching the taillights disappear down Harbor Road.

  Chapter 32

  Nell fidgeted around the kitchen the next morning, unable to settle in on her day. Images of people she knew—and liked—traveled across her consciousness, back and forth. They were missing something in their conjecturing, overlooking something right before their eyes. And somehow Nell couldn’t erase the thought that it had to do with the little house on Ridge Road. It was bursting with secrets, if only they could clear their vision and see them.

  When Izzy called to say she had packed up some duplicate wedding gifts that had been sitting in boxes for two years and was going to give them to Jules, Nell welcomed the chance to ride along. Ben suggested they add that small unused television set sitting in the garage.

  “Maybe it will help take her mind off things while she’s marooned here in Sea Harbor,” he said.

  A phone call confirmed that Jules would be home—she’d already gotten her morning run in—and she’d love company. She would be home all day, waiting for several repairmen to come by.

  An hour later, Izzy and Nell turned onto Ridge Road, a route that was fast becoming almost as familiar as it had been when Izzy lived in the house.

  “It looks like we’re not her only company,” Nell said, pulling up in front of the house.

  Mary Pisano waved as she emerged from Karen Hanson’s silver Audi.

  “We all had the same idea,” Karen said, closing the car door and calling back to Nell and Izzy. She took a package out of the backseat. “I am curious to see what she’s done with the house.”

  Mary held up another box. “Bathroom soaps and accessories.”

  “The best kind of happening. A housewarming party with no planning,” Izzy said.

  “I have the coffee and donuts,” Jules called from the doorway.

  Nell was surprised—but pleased—to see Karen Hanson. She had unconsciously pegged her as one who was suspicious of Jules Ainsley, not at all sure of her innocence. She had read her wrong.

  “Karen,” she said, stopping her at the steps as the others went on in. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something for days but keep forgetting.”

  “You’re worried about the party. Mary is under control as best I can tell.”

  “That’s good, thank you. But it’s not that. It’s about something you said to Jeffrey. Or maybe you said it to us and he was just there. It was at the Ocean’s Edge.”

  Karen looked confused. “Was it about one of those new drinks he was concocting? I didn’t know Jeffrey all that well.”

  “No, it was about Jeffrey and your husband.”

  “Jeffrey and Stan? Oh, I don’t think so . . .” She began to walk up the steps.

  “It was about their friendship.”

  Karen stopped and turned back to Nell. “They knew each other a long time ago. Another life.”

  “You mentioned there were three friends—the Three Musketeers, I think you said. Who was the third?”

  Karen’s brows drew together, her voice tight. “Yes, there were three of them who hung around together back when they were teenagers—childhood friends.” She paused, digging back in her memory. “Stan, Jeffrey, and . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It escapes me right now. It was such a long time ago.”

  “That’s all right. My memory is like a sieve sometimes. It always surprises me what stays in it and what falls through the holes.”

  “Are you
two coming?” Izzy called from the door.

  Nell nodded and dropped the conversation, hurrying up the steps and into the living room. Jules motioned them back to the kitchen, where a pot of coffee waited.

  Nell mentioned the television still in the car. “Don’t let me forget it when we leave.”

  Jules gave her a hug. “You’re wonderful. All of you. What thoughtful gifts.”

  “You’ve done nice things to this place,” Karen said. She looked around the kitchen and out the windows to the backyard. “You have an eye for color, Jules.”

  Izzy agreed. “It changes by the minute. I love it.”

  “It occupies my time, and that’s good,” Jules said.

  “What are the police saying?” Karen asked.

  “Not much. Except they’re closer, but that’s hearsay, and I don’t know if it means they are closer to me or closer to the person who really killed Jeffrey.” She stood at the sink, fiddling with the chain around her neck. Nell noticed the gesture seemed to happen when she needed extra support—or when she was uncomfortable with the conversation.

  Talk of the murder sobered the group and they all uttered meaningless but reassuring comments. Ben had told Nell that morning that Jerry Thompson said the police were looking into the last few days of Jeffrey’s life carefully—meetings he’d missed, arguments at work—not unlike what the knitting group had done the night before.

  Nell was relieved. She knew Birdie was right. Follow Jeffrey. He will tell us who did this. And why.

  “Karen, how are things on the campaign trail?” Nell asked, attempting to change the conversation.

  But the question caused Karen’s face to tighten. She took the mug of coffee that Jules handed her. “Stan has canceled a few engagements—and that’s not a wise thing to do when you’re campaigning. The president of the Rotary Club called Beatrice Scaglia to fill in when Stan canceled.” She sat still on the kitchen chair, composed, but clearly upset at Stan’s uncharacteristic actions.

  “And of course she went?” Izzy said.

  Karen nodded. “Of course.”

  “Well, the debate is coming up,” Mary said. “Stan will shine.”

  “Beatrice scheduled that without asking either of us. She checked with Stan’s secretary to be sure he’d be free but never asked him.”

  “He’ll do a great job. Stan is impressive,” Nell said.

  “Yes, he is. Stan could have been governor if he had put his mind to it. As for the debate, I told him he has to do it. He thought holding a public forum right now wasn’t the right thing to do because of Jeffrey Meara’s death. But the election is still going to be held, and Sea Harbor still needs a mayor. And Stan is the only person for the job. Sometimes things happen in life that we can’t control. We must go on.”

  Karen stood and forced a smile to her face, then excused herself to use the restroom.

  Jules started to get up to show her the way, but Karen was already gone.

  “Stan is stressed,” Mary said when Karen was out of earshot. “This is such a hard time for him, trying to calm people down, keep his town safe.”

  Perhaps it was the image of Stan Hanson carrying the weight of Sea Harbor on his shoulders that cleared Nell’s memory, but in that moment she remembered the unlikely spot where she had seen Jeffrey Meara shortly before he died.

  She and baby Abby.

  He was sitting under the shadow of the harbor bridge in an intense conversation with his high school friend Stan Hanson.

  Chapter 33

  When Karen returned to the kitchen, Jules refreshed her coffee and passed around the plate of donuts.

  “I’m getting the days mixed up,” Nell said. “What happened when. But I finally remembered where I had seen Jeffrey that week he died. It was like seeing a teacher out of school. Instead of being behind his bar, he was sitting on a bench near the harbor bridge in the middle of the day.” She looked at Karen. “Stan was there with him. And the conversation looked serious. Did Stan mention it?” Nell hesitated to say more, feeling a bit like she was revealing a private conversation she had no right to talk about.

  Karen answered quickly. “I think maybe you’re mistaken, Nell. But if it was Jeffrey and Stan, Stan was probably asking Jeffrey for his support in the campaign. Or maybe he was confirming a speaking engagement at the Edge.”

  In an out-of-the-way place, and with intense concentration that didn’t speak to luncheons or election promises? Nell nodded as Karen talked, but she knew instinctively Karen was the one who was mistaken. Jeffrey and Stan were talking about something personal and important. She was certain of it.

  Mary was up and carrying her coffee cup to the sink. “This house looks like you, Jules,” she said. “It’s how I imagined it would look. You have a fine touch.”

  Karen agreed, following Mary across the kitchen and signaling with her car keys that she needed to leave. “I’m speaking to a neighborhood women’s group on education issues,” she said. “They’d much prefer my husband. But I will do in a pinch.”

  Jules stood on the steps and waved off Mary and Karen while Izzy and Nell gathered their bags.

  “We’re off, too, Jules,” Nell said, following Izzy to the door.

  She paused at the bottom step, looking back. It wasn’t only her days that were getting mixed up. Her thoughts, too, were piling on top of one another, coming in starts and stops. Pieces of a puzzle falling from the sky and landing topsy-turvy.

  “Jules, you mentioned once that Jeffrey thought he had met you before. That he somehow knew you?”

  She nodded. “It happened a couple times. He was trying hard to place me, but we had never met before. I’m sure of that.”

  “But he wasn’t the only one in Sea Harbor. Didn’t you say there was someone else who had said the same thing?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It was soon after I arrived here, over at the bed-and-breakfast. And once again, it was someone I know I had never met before. And it hasn’t come up again. Weird . . .”

  “Who was it?”

  When Nell heard the name, it was almost as if she had expected it. It was a piece still searching for its place in the puzzle—but an important place. And an impromptu morning coffee had oddly confirmed it.

  • • •

  Nell’s phone pinged as she headed toward Harbor Road. Izzy dug the phone out of her aunt’s purse and read the message out loud.

  “‘Nell, give me a call.’

  “It’s from Jane Brewster,” Izzy said. “Should I call her back?”

  Nell nodded. Her mind was still mulling over the image of Stan and Jeffrey huddled on the bench at the water’s edge. What were they talking about?

  “It’s not an emergency,” Izzy said a minute later, slipping the phone back into Nell’s bag. “Ham finished cleaning the years of dust and grime off the Penelope Ainsley paintings. They are lovely, Jane says. She talked to Jules, who told her she couldn’t leave the house today because of the repair guys she was waiting for. But she suggested that Jane call you—that you were anxious to see the paintings and maybe you could pick them up for her if you were in the area.”

  Izzy was up for the detour. Mae had things under control at the shop and she didn’t have a class to teach for a couple of hours.

  They drove along the narrow road to Canary Cove, alone with their thoughts and the quiet of the September day. It was that special time of year when Sea Harbor residents didn’t have to share their town with crowds of strangers and could relish its beauty all by themselves. The lull between summer vacationers and autumn’s leaf watchers.

  Jane and Ham’s gallery was near the end of Canary Cove Road, on the same property they’d purchased nearly thirty years before, when they had fallen in love with this small town on the edge of the sea. Like Willow’s Fishtail Gallery next door, the Brewster property had the shop and studio in front, a small garden behind, and a h
ouse beyond that, where they’d lived happily, building Canary Cove into an artists’ colony, the little sister of the historic Rocky Neck Art Colony, not far away in Gloucester.

  Jane waved as they walked in the side door. “Back here,” she said, and headed into Ham’s workroom.

  He looked up from the workbench, his white beard flecked with donut crumbs. “Howdy, ladies. Have a seat.” He wiped off his hands on a damp rag and pulled over a stiff portfolio.

  “These are very nice paintings,” he said, taking one out of the brown container. “I wish there were more. Penelope Ainsley could have made a fine career of her art.”

  Coming from Ham, the words were more than a polite acknowledgment that someone’s relative did a nice job on a painting. Jules’s mother had been talented.

  Ham handed the first one to Nell. He had placed it in a protective plastic sleeve. “I’d love to frame these for Jules when she’s ready. The paper is in remarkable condition, the deckled edge still intact.”

  Nell took the painting over to the window and sat down with Izzy at her elbow. It was similar to the painting that now hung in Jules’s den—a view of the porch and swing, an enormous spray of bright red roses in the corner, and the bright green bush that reflected the light. The porch swing held a wash of color in the pillows, with a small kitten curled up next to one.

  A happy painting.

  “My guess of its age would match what Jane told me,” Ham said. “We’re thinking it was done about forty years ago.”

  “You’ve done an amazing job with it.”