A Fatal Fleece: A Seaside Knitters Mystery

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “I need a new life,” she shot back, and headed for the door.

  “Where’s Danny?” Birdie asked, meeting her at the door. “We could use a good mystery writer.”

  “I think he had another book signing in Boston.”

  “You think? You don’t know?”

  “What, am I his keeper now?” Cass asked, then immediately pulled back her words. “I’m sorry, Birdie. You don’t deserve that.” Her dark eyes grew moist.

  “No, I don’t, dear. And Danny doesn’t, either, but it’s your worry talking, I expect, not my Catherine.” She gave her a quick hug. “That nasty loan?”

  “What’s nasty is not paying it. I thought maybe Ben and I could talk for a minute.”

  “You know, sweetie, that I am—”

  Cass shushed her with another hug. “I know exactly what you are. A dear, wonderful, generous, sweet friend.” She pulled away and looked down the drive. “There’s Nell. Ben might be close behind.”

  Birdie looked beyond her and waved as Nell pulled in beside Cass’ truck.

  Izzy was with her, and a minute later, the blue Altima drove up with Gabby sitting tall in the passenger’s seat, her eyes filled with life. She jumped out before Nick had completely cut the engine and ran to Birdie and Cass. “I’m going to be sailor. We had a fab-u-lous time. The most fun I’ve ever had in my whole life. Sam taught me everything. I can heel and tack and . . .”

  Laughing, Birdie hugged her granddaughter.

  “Uncle Ben says I was born with seaweed in my blood.”

  “Gabby has a new passion,” Nick said. “We may never get her back on a skateboard.”

  “And look.” She held up a cloth sack, her eyes filling her face. “Sea glass!”

  Nick explained. “Sam took us over to Sunrise Island for a walk on that little stretch of beach, and Gabby here spots sea glass like a pro.”

  “That’s wonderful, Gabby. And where are the other two sailors?” Nell asked Nick.

  “They’ll be along. Jerry Thompson was at the club, and Ben cornered him with some questions.” Chief Thompson. Good. Ben would find out what he could, and maybe be able to answer some of their questions.

  Nick rested a hand on Gabby’s shoulder, listening to her spin her day in glorious detail for her nonna. He had gotten some sun himself, and his dark skin glowed with health. His knit shirt was open at the neck and his tan shorts comfortable, informal. For the first time since his return from Italy, he seemed more relaxed. And friendlier, as if some burden had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him free to concentrate on the people around him. Nell watched as he listened to his niece, his feelings filling clear blue eyes.

  Nick Marietti didn’t look guilty of anything. Except maybe being overly protective of someone he loved, a crime of which they were all guilty as sin.

  It was thirty minutes before Sam and Ben appeared.

  Birdie began peppering them with questions as soon as they appeared in the doorway. “How could there be a body buried out there? Wouldn’t Finnegan have known about it? Who is it, Ben?”

  They’d gathered on the stone patio that fanned out from the harbor side of the house, high above the water. Soft gaslights cast early-evening shadows across the granite floor. Cass and Izzy had claimed their favorite seats—two original ocean-liner chairs, refurbished and polished until the teak arms were slippery beneath their touch. The others moved to cushioned teak couches and chairs, while Gabby rushed off to the kitchen to talk to Ella.

  “You’d think he’d have known, sure,” Ben said quietly, accepting the glass of Scotch Nick handed him. He sat down near Nell.

  The thought hung there for a moment. In the distance, the sounds of boats coming in for the night and cars pulling into restaurants and bars along Harbor Road were all that reminded them they were close to civilization—and to a crime so close to home.

  “You can almost see Finnegan’s place from here,” Sam said, looking across the water. It jutted out, the rocky shore that ended up at Canary Cove. Beyond it, as the shoreline roped around and moved farther out into the ocean, was Anja Angelina Park. And Sunrise Island a dot in the distance.

  “What do they know about the body?” Nell asked.

  “Not much. The coroner said it’d take a while. It was buried in an old wooden box and had been there for years.”

  “How did they find it? I never saw signs of a grave,” Cass said.

  “You wouldn’t have. The grave was well hidden in a far corner of the property, Jerry said. Close to the shore. There were lots of bushes around it, a tangle of weeds. No headstone. No one, not even Finnegan, would have any reason to go back there. The police were searching for some sign of the drifter who’d been giving Finnegan trouble when they found the grave.”

  “So Finnegan may not have known it was there?” Birdie asked.

  “It’s possible, but not likely. Birdie, you have acres of woods around your house, but I’d bet you’d know if someone buried a body on them.”

  Of course. And Finnegan wandered around his place all the time. He would have known.

  “Well, Finnegan could be a grouch, but never a killer,” Izzy said.

  “Of course he didn’t kill anyone,” Birdie said softly.

  “We know that because we liked the guy,” Sam said. “The police will work from facts and theories.”

  “What’s the theory?” Nell asked.

  “That Finnegan could have killed someone years ago. And last weekend someone came back for revenge and killed him,” Ben said. “Simple as that. Revenge.”

  “But all these years later?” Cass said.

  “That’s a problem, sure. And when you’re dealing with something that happened so long ago, it’s difficult to find enough facts to verify or prove anything. Once they find out how long the body’s been there, they’ll look for a disappearance, a crime, something that happened back then.”

  “So it adds a new suspect to the list—someone completely unknown,” Sam added. “But it’s something they’ll have to investigate.”

  “In the meantime, the possibility of Finnegan being a murderer is out there and talked about?” Cass’ words came out angry and defensive.

  “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Birdie said. “First the poor man is murdered. And then his memory is sullied with accusations. Let the poor man rest.”

  There were murmurs of agreement around the patio.

  “Are there any other leads?” Nell asked.

  “They found an old shoe or boot, not Finnegan’s size, near the house. Finn lived in the apartment upstairs. The downstairs area—the part that he used to rent out, was still filled with junk. It looked as though the tenants were evicted all those years ago and Finnegan didn’t let them back in. There were metal boxes full of things, a dental chair in one. Filing cabinets. Pretty much untouched. Finn’s apartment, on the other hand, was ransacked. His wallet was gone, a television taken. It was hard to tell what else, Jerry said, because no one knew what Finnegan had up there.

  “The rain made a mess of things, too, but as best they can figure out, the only tracks going from the gate inward are yours, Cass. But there’re signs of tracks going the other way.”

  “Toward the water?” Cass leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “That’s odd.”

  “Well, there’s that path back there, the one that goes all around Canary Cove,” Sam reminded her.

  “And the water,” Izzy said.

  “So it looks like revenge?” Nell asked. “Or a robbery gone bad . . . ?”

  But no one answered because they were all thinking the same thing. A thief could have picked a much better target to rob than Francis Finnegan.

  The patter of flip-flops announced Gabby’s entrance, followed by Ella’s quiet step. A quick shower had left Gabby’s hair damp and even more voluminous. It flew around her head in a dark, curly swirl, the fading light creating a fuzzy halo behind her. She carried a giant tray filled with lobster rolls, Chinese cabbage salad, and baskets of warmed rosemary
bread and pita triangles. A bowl of Ella’s homemade hummus sat in the center.

  “I tasted every single thing. Ella is amazing.” She looked up at the thin woman standing behind her, then added dramatically, “Magnifico.”

  Ella blushed, set another tray down on a wrought-iron table, and relieved Gabby of hers, placing it on a sideboard.

  “You are both magnifico,” Birdie corrected.

  “I was so starving that we ate in the kitchen. I stuffed myself. Three lobster rolls! I ate so much, Harold thinks I’ll be woozy and he’ll beat me at chess.” Gabby’s laughter at such a thing happening floated behind her as she plucked an olive from the patio bar and followed Ella into the house.

  Without waiting on ceremony, they all dug in, piling their plates full, and, for a time, allowing the food, the wine, and the hazy moon to block out the matters pressing heavily on their minds. Talk turned to gardening, sailing, and a new restaurant opening up near the Gloucester Harbor.

  Ella reappeared a while later with lemon bars, coffee, a tray of cordials, and a report on the chess game.

  “Harold’s queen is about to have a stroke,” the tall, thin woman said, smiling. She collected the empty plates and disappeared.

  “I think she was humming,” Izzy said.

  Birdie laughed.

  Across the table, Ben was filling brandy snifters and Cass was suggesting they talk turkey.

  “Unfortunately, there’s not much more to tell. Jerry said the body is throwing a wrench in things. But they’re still focusing on the drifter Finn caught stealing from him a few weeks ago. The fact that things were stolen this time adds some credibility to that theory, along with the fact that Finnegan broke the guy’s nose. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill Finn. Maybe he came back to steal something, and they fought. But like Jerry said, they’ll look deeper, examine other motives, talk to people who’ve had recent altercations with Finn. The Delaneys. Council members. Beatrice Scaglia was incensed at first, but then I think she rather enjoyed the attention.”

  They laughed at the thought of the councilwoman submitting to questioning. Beatrice was usually the one doing that. And no matter how assertive she could be, the idea of Beatrice killing anyone was hard to imagine—voters wouldn’t stand for it, and Beatrice stood for voters.

  “Who else?” Nell asked.

  “He didn’t say. But he did say finding the will is important.”

  “I guess it would be,” Izzy said. “Inheriting that land would be a prime motive for murder. Somehow, taking Finnegan’s wallet and an old television doesn’t make as much sense.”

  Ben nodded.

  “So Beverly could be a primary suspect.” Nell thought of the quiet woman sitting on the dock with Finnegan’s boat moored nearby. She didn’t like her father—and inheriting his property would make her wealthy. But murder?

  “They’ll be looking at anyone who had a grudge against the man or something to gain. Anyone who’d been in his face.”

  In Finn’s face. She might not have described it quite that way, but that’s where Nick Marietti had been the day before Finn died. Was he on the list? Nell glanced over at him. He sat comfortably beside Birdie, an interested expression on his face. Calm, relaxed.

  “So, your trip with Gabby,” Birdie said, as if reading Nell’s glance. “Next stop, Maine?”

  Nick nodded. “I suggested to Gabby that she wind things down tomorrow and then we should get on the road in the next day or two.”

  They all fell silent, waiting for Birdie to take the lead.

  But she simply smiled sadly. Her thoughts about Gabby staying longer had probably come full circle. She was thinking of the best place for Gabby to be right now. As a grandmother would do. And no matter what she herself wanted, that place was probably not here, where she was gallivanting around a town involved in a murder investigation.

  Birdie could use some time alone with Nick, Nell suspected. Time to work it all out. She stood and held her keys out to Ben. “It’s time,” she said.

  A shuffling of bodies followed, and soon everyone was reaching for keys, sweaters, purses, reluctant to leave but feeling the weariness of the night press down on them.

  A ringing cell phone caused several hands to reach into pockets.

  “Mine,” Ben said, and looked down at the name.

  He stepped to the edge of the patio, the phone to one ear and a hand covering the other.

  Nell watched from a distance. She could almost always discern the caller by Ben’s tone and choice of words. But he wasn’t saying much. Just listening attentively.

  He hung up and walked back to the group slowly.

  “Strangest thing,” he said.

  “Who was it?”

  “Father Northcutt. They’ve found Finnegan’s will. It seems the good padre is executor.” Ben slipped the phone into his pocket.

  “He wants to meet with me tomorrow to go over it together.”

  Nell looked at Ben as the light from the moon played across his face. She tried to read the expression that had settled in the lines and planes, the features she knew as well as her own heart.

  Ben felt her concern and pushed a smile in place as he wrapped an arm around her and looked at the others.

  They were all still there, waiting with keys in hand and sweaters looped over arms, wondering whether there was another shoe that would drop.

  And there was, but it was a little plop instead of a thud.

  Ben shrugged. “The will’s a little surprising, Larry said. It’s not what people might be expecting.”

  Chapter 18

  Ben’s parting comment the night before had been an understatement, one even he hadn’t been fully prepared for.

  Nell, Ben, and Father Larry sat in Ben’s den, trying to get their arms around Finnegan’s will and the mind of a man who had, even in death, shocked them.

  Several copies of the will had been delivered to Father Larry from a law firm in Boston, one happy to pass along the documents and get on to more important clients. They promised to pull together the rest of the Finnegan file as soon as some assistant could get to it, but everything needed for the processing of the will was in this delivery.

  Father Northcutt had dropped off a copy of it with Chief Thompson, at his request, and the other copies sat in front of them on Ben’s desk.

  Ben looked again at the piece of paper that topped the pile and read it out loud, as if the sound of his voice would make it more real.

  Last Will & Testament of Francis Finnegan

  I, Francis Finnegan, declare that this is my last will and testament. . . .

  Ben skipped over the next bit of legalese about revoking all prior wills and codicils and other formalities. He began reading again when he came to the paragraph listing specific bequests.

  I give my entire interest in my real properties,

  possessions, bank accounts, and trusts

  to my loyal friend . . .

  Catherine Mary Elizabeth Halloran.

  Ben looked up. “He even has all the names in the right order, spelled correctly—Catherine Mary Elizabeth Halloran.”

  Nell sat on the leather love seat in stunned silence. Only her fingers moved, the stitches on Gabby’s cardigan keeping her breathing even.

  “Cass,” she said finally. But the word came out in a whisper.

  She looked up from the sweater, her mind still not grasping what they’d just learned. Finnegan had left his valuable land to Cass. She said it again inside her head, weighing each word.

  It would be an amazing thing for the Halloran family. A savior for the family business. An answer to Mary Halloran’s prayers. Next to finding Cass a husband and having grandchildren, ensuring that her children were financially solvent, without the worries Mary had grown up with, was near the top of her novena list.

  But somehow the joy that should be filling the room was tentative and shaky.

  Father Larry nodded, shuffling a pile of papers. “The whole estate, lock, stock, and barrel. His land, that boat he
loved, the small house that Beverly lives in, all his possessions, bank accounts. It will take a while to get a complete list. There’s a note here for Cass from Finn. Maybe he’ll explain the questions Cass will surely have.”

  Ben sat behind the old desk that had once belonged to his father and his father before him. The wisdom of his forefathers. His fingers rubbed the leather inlays as if trying to absorb that wisdom through his skin. “Well, one thing is for certain: this inheritance will be the answer to Cass’ financial problems.”

  They nodded solemnly. Nell thought back to the day they had found Finnegan’s body. What was it Cass had said? Finnegan told her things would be all right—no, they’d be better—for her. Cassoulet, he’d called her that morning. Somehow, he had planned for Cass—for the Halloran company—to be taken care of.

  “Father, is there something about Finnegan you’re not telling us? He said something to Cass shortly before he died that sounded like he anticipated something might happen to him. But he couldn’t possibly have known he’d be murdered. . . .”

  Father Northcutt was silent, his balding head bent low for a moment, as if he were saying a prayer. Finally he looked up. “Yes, there is something else. He’d asked me to keep it private, but it will come out. It’s not important to keep it a secret any longer. Here’s the thing. Our dear Finn thought himself invincible—and he wanted everyone else to think of him that way, too. But he wasn’t. Several months ago, he came to me and asked me to pray for him.”

  Father Larry chuckled, remembering. “You’re talking prayer with me? I said to him. Well, that calls for a drink. So I got out a pint of Irish whiskey, and the two of us sat on the rectory porch for a long time, talking about life, pulling up memories of his lovely Moira, things he held close to his heart. Not so much about prayer, though, so I was beginning to think it was the whiskey he wanted.

  “But finally he came out with it, and he told me he had cancer. A bad kind. He’d decided not to fool around with the hospitals and mess of medicine they offered. All poison, he said. He’d joked that he’d just live his life, then go out in his boat one day when it was time, and that’d be it. Like some Native Americans did, he said. Only they went into the forest and found a good final resting bed of pine needles to cushion them. For a fisherman, though, didn’t I agree that a boat would be best? Just to drift off into the great blue beyond?