“Harry!” Izzy said, slapping the tabletop. “Who, Harry?”
Harry looked back at Nell, Ben, and Izzy. He leaned in a little closer. “Angie said, and I heard it as clearly as I hear the dishes rattling in the kitchen . . .” Harry paused to wipe the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Here’s what she said, and she said it clearly and sternly and with a voice part frightened and part mad. She said, ‘You back off, you leave me alone, or I swear I will tell your . . . your wife!’ ”
Harry stood back up, straight and tall, and pleased with his performance, smiled at Ben, Nell, and Izzy, and lumbered off to his post behind the deli counter.
Chapter 10
Nell and Izzy pondered Harry’s startling story as they moved into their afternoon. If Harry had heard right, someone was harassing Angie, or at the least, bothering her. It was another chink in the random crime theory, they agreed. Another reason to find out what had been going on in Angie’s life those last days, right beneath their eyes, their shop, and their knitting projects. Another piece to the puzzle that was Angie.
Nell considered canceling Friday supper. Angie’s murder hung over the town like a heavy cloud and didn’t lend itself to friends gathering on the deck on a beautiful summer night.
But Ben thought otherwise. “People might want to be together, ” Ben said. “Let’s light the coals, chill the martinis, and we’ll be here if anyone comes.”
Ham and Jane Brewster arrived at precisely seven o’clock.
Jane walked into the kitchen and hugged Nell. “That poor Angie Archer,” she said. “I can’t think of anything else, Nell. Ham and I found ourselves wandering around the studios today, being sad, then mad, then sad again. So we decided we’d come by and if the door was open, that would be good. If not, we’d go back to the studio and wander some more.”
“We’ve brought a friend,” Ham said, walking across the Endicotts’ kitchen and setting a bottle of wine down on the butcher-block island. A tall, sandy-haired man with a familiar smile followed him across the kitchen. Sam Perry was teaching a photography class at the summer arts academy, Ham explained.
Ben shook his hand. “It’s not our most festive Friday night, Sam, but we’re glad to have you anyway.”
“This town holds its own close,” Sam said. “I can see that. A murder is a lot to handle.”
Ben held open the French doors leading to the deck, and invited the small group outside. “Sea Harbor is a great place,” he said, “but it’s hard right now to get past the bad things happening. ”
“You don’t expect things like murder in this calm and peaceful place,” Nell said.”But we’ve weathered lots of storms up here. We’ll get through this, Sam.” She passed him a martini Ben had just mixed.
The bang of the front screen door announced that Ham and Jane weren’t the only ones needing company tonight. Birdie and Izzy walked through the family room and out to the deck, carrying more wine and a sack of Harry’s sourdough rolls.
Nell noticed the quieter mood that accompanied people’s steps—Izzy usually flew through the house. And Birdie’s step was light like the bounce of a ball. But tonight things were heavier, slower, touched with sadness and concern.
Izzy greeted Ham and Jane, gave Nell and Ben quick hugs, then turned toward the man sitting off to the side, one of Ben’s martinis in his large hand.
For one second, Izzy stood still, and Nell wondered briefly if she was ill.
Then her mouth dropped open, her eyes as round as Purl’s, and she stared openly at Sam Perry.
“Izzy?” Nell said. “Are you all right?”
Sam had gotten out of the chair, his hand extended. Then it fell to his side and a slow smile spread across his face. “Izzy Chambers,” he said, “are you stalking me?”
“In your dreams,” Izzy said. And then she allowed a small release of air. “It’s Sam,” she said softly, as if to explain her reaction. She moved toward him then and wrapped the man twice her size in a hug. Finally she pulled away and looked at Ben.
“Uncle Ben, I need a martini.”
“I’m taking a wild stab at this,” Ben said. “You two have met.” He handed Izzy a cocktail glass.
Izzy wrapped her fingers around the narrow stem and took a sip. “I’ve known Sam almost my whole life—he was my oldest brother’s best friend. And for most of that time, I didn’t like him much. But tonight”—she looked over at Sam—“tonight I really needed a hug. And I remembered that you were okay at that.”
The teasing disappeared from Sam’s eyes.
“Angie Archer lived above Izzy’s knitting studio,” Nell explained. “We all knew her—this murder is very close to home. Too close.”
“Knitting studio?” Sam said.
“I bought a little place on Harbor Road, Sam. Nell and Ben helped me fix it up—and I love it. I love helping people create beautiful things in a world that isn’t always so beautiful. That’s what I do, Sam.”
“The law firm?”
“No more law firm,” she said.
“Good,” Sam said. “You should never have given in to your dad and gone into law in the first place. You were always smart and strong-willed as a mule, probably great lawyer traits, but I never could see you defending bad guys, and from what I hear, you can’t always just pick the good ones.”
“No, you can’t,” Izzy said. Her answer was spoken softly and addressed more to herself than Sam. She picked a slice of Brie from the tray and followed Nell into the kitchen to get the pasta ready. Birdie was sitting at the island with Cass, her hair damp from a recent shower, their voices quiet.
“We knew all along she hadn’t just fallen off the breakwater,” Cass said. “So it’s not a complete surprise, right? Why does the official murder news churn my insides this way?”
“The police and television are already spreading the word that the murderer is most likely long gone. If I hear the word ‘random’ one more time I am going to choke a reporter,” Birdie said.
Nell busied herself at the sink, filling a large pot with water. “It wasn’t random,” she said. “Anyone who knew Angie like we did knows that couldn’t have been the case.”
“She would never have gone out on the breakwater alone for no reason,” Birdie said.
“And the whole evening before she died was filled with question marks,” Izzy said. “Starting out with Pete on her arm, then seeing her in the bookstore with Tony, arguing. It was too odd to not be significant. She got a phone call, Pete said. Right there in Jake’s. She looked resigned, like it was something she had to do. She told Pete she’d make it up to him. They argued, she left.”
“It was Tony?”
“Pete doesn’t think so,” Cass said.
Nell turned on the burner. “Archie said Tony was leaving the bookstore when Angie walked by. It seemed like a chance meeting, from what Archie could see. Tony stopped Angie in front of the store and said he needed to talk to her. Just for a few minutes, Archie heard him say,” Nell reported. “Angie said she had exactly that—a few minutes—and he better make it quick.”
“And we know they argued in those minutes,” Izzy said.
“So Tony could have followed her to the breakwater,” Birdie said.
“But why?” Nell said. “Tony would have no reason to hurt Angie.” Nell turned away from the stove and faced the others. “All these incongruities. And they all involve people we’ve lived with, people we know and care about.”
Izzy went on and repeated the lunch conversation at Harry’s, filling Birdie and Cass in on the overheard phone call. “Nothing of this reeks of randomness,” Izzy said. She set down her martini. “I don’t think so.”
“Angie’s awful death is a cloud over our town, our knitting group, our lives,” Birdie said.
And it was. Nell could feel it. Angie’s murder was wrapping itself around them like a tight ball of yarn. “It’s the not knowing that makes it impossible to go back to the way it was before. Until we find out who’s
responsible, that cloud will hang there, sucking life out of the summer.”
“The only way to put things back in place,” Birdie said, slapping her tiny hand down on the island, “is to figure it out. Who did it? And why did they do it? Angelina Archer’s death is holding us back from living the days as they were intended to be lived. And if the police want to concentrate on some stranger who has headed north to Bar Harbor or Nova Scotia or the Arctic, that’s dandy for them. They’ll write it up that way, close their report, and file it on a dusty shelf. And we—ladies—will concentrate on Harbor Road.”
The thought was sobering to the knitters. And challenging. And it was the truth.
The strange phone call Angie had gotten in Harry’s Deli. The kitten found in the apartment. The way she’d treated Pete the night she died. Harbor Road. Their home.
Nell looked at Birdie and saw that she was watching her, reading her mind. Birdie held up a glass, nodded, and smiled.
“What are we toasting?” Ben asking, walking into the kitchen for a fresh platter of cheese. Sam followed close behind him.
“To better days,” Birdie said.
“I’ll go for that,” Ben said.
Cass looked up and spotted the unfamiliar face. “And who are you?” she asked Sam Perry. Before he could answer, Cass slipped off her stool and looked at him again, her brows lifting in recognition. “I know who you are. You’re the guy who was taking photographs down on the breakwater. And Archie Brandley has a book of your photographs in his store window. I looked at it. It’s not bad.”
Sam grinned at her bluntness. “And I remember seeing you at the breakwater, too—in the Lady Lobster, right? I have some shots of you. Great boat, by the way.”
Cass nibbled on a piece of Brie, her cheeks showing pleasure at the compliment. Nothing was closer to Cass’s heart than the Lady Lobster, and a nice comment about her prized possession went a long way.
“Maybe you accidentally caught a poacher in one of your photos,” Izzy said. “We’re having a terrible problem with poachers down there, Sam. And Cass’s traps are among the targets.”
“I heard talk of that,” Sam said. “Sorry, Cass. It’s way too beautiful a spot for bad things like that to go on.”
Nell listened peripherally, her mind spinning out in other directions. She thought of the nightly pilfering of the traps—and of the night Angie Archer died. Where were the poachers that night? Stealing lobsters when they could have saved a young girl’s life, pulled her drugged body from the water until it could work again?
A brief surge of anger heated Nell’s chest and she pressed it away with the palm of her hand. Anger wouldn’t bring peace back to Sea Harbor. But answers would.
Nell refreshed the cheese platter and carried fresh salsa and chips to the deck. The others soon followed.
Izzy sat on the deck glider next to Nell and rested her head on her shoulder. “It’s good to be here, Aunt Nell. I didn’t want to go home tonight, but I didn’t want to stay at the studio or hang out with friends and listen to a dozen scenarios of how and why Angie died. Mostly, I guess, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with friends and those I love.”
Nell nodded. The unease was all around them. And no matter how the town or the police wanted to push the murder off on a random, crazed person passing through town, none of them would rest easy until they knew the answers. Until they knew the who. The why. Only the where was all too familiar.
Ben used a long fork to place the pork chops on the grill and in minutes the smell of sweet and pungent barbecue filled the air, clinging to the overhanging trees, rising to a sliver of moon above them. Conversation was muted and comfortable, friends among friends among tragedy.
“I used this brown sugar and ginger marinade especially for Pete,” Nell said to Cass. “It’s one of his favorites. Do you know when he’ll get here?”
“After we brought the Lady in, he was going to shower and then stop at the Gull for a quick beer. I figured he needed to be with his buddies. But he said he’d come by shortly after that.”
“Was he okay?” Nell asked.
“As okay as he can be.” Cass cut into her plump pork chop. “I think he figured being with his buddies might make him forget what was going on. Those guys talk about the Sox, the Pats, and fishing—easier topics to deal with. Pete can barely talk about the murder. He won’t turn on the television or read a paper. But maybe that’s good. No reason to go over the gruesome details endlessly.”
Nell nodded. That was wise. It had been only twenty-four hours since the autopsy report came back, and the local television channel and radio stations had saturated the airwaves with the news. And even the announcers had adopted the spin of so many merchants and friends and neighbors. “A stranger in our midst?” the noon reporter had crooned. And gone on to talk about the difficulty in finding a murderer who could now be worlds away. A needle in a haystack, she said.
Nell had slipped some Segovia CDs in the player. Soon soft, easy strains of classical guitar music drifted out over the speakers and into the night air. Jane and Birdie passed around salad, rolls, and grilled sweet potatoes to fill their plates.
“I don’t suppose anyone in Sea Harbor ever needs a therapist, ” Sam said, not resisting the second chop Ben slid onto his plate. “Come sit on the Endicotts’ deck, listen to Segovia, and let the sea air clean out your head. Magical.” He sat back in his chair and stretched out his long legs in front of him. “Has anyone told Dr. Phil about this?”
“It’s our secret,” Nell said. “Therapy by the light of the moon. And tonight we need it most of all.”
Dessert was passed around a short while later—New York- style cheesecake, the lemony sides straight and tall, with plump strawberries from the market sliced along the top.
“Sam, when do your classes begin?” Nell asked as Ben poured coffee and brought out glasses of water and brandy.
“In a week or so. Jane and Ham suggested I come up early to get the lay of the land.”
“Margarethe wanted him here for the art academy benefit next week,” Jane said. “She wants to introduce Sam to the benefactors and show them we’re serious about this project of giving all kids a chance to do art.”
“I met Mrs. Framingham today at the yacht club,” Sam said. “She was playing tennis with a much younger woman—in the noon heat, no less—and winning.”
“That’s no surprise,” Ben said. “She’s has the best backhand in Sea Harbor. Strong as an ox.”
“Her benefit will add some balance to the awful things going on around us,” Nell said. “I’m glad you’ll be here, Sam. We’ll be there.”
“How about you, Izzy?” Sam asked. He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup.
Izzy shrugged. “I’ll have to see, Sam. If next week brings as many surprises as this one has, I don’t know where I’ll be on Saturday night.”
“It must be hard to get your arms around all this,” Sam said, watching the emotions pass across Izzy’s face. “Hard to digest.”
“Digest. Believe. Accept,” Izzy said. “Move on. They’re all hard.”
Cass nodded agreement. “The week that was.” Her hand slipped into the pocket of her jeans to silence the buzz of her cell phone. She pulled it out and checked the number. Then frowned and stepped inside the French doors.
Nell was in the kitchen, wrapping up three pork chops. She spotted Cass speaking on the phone and walked toward the deck door, carrying the foil-wrapped package in her hands.
Cass folded her phone and slipped it into her pocket.
“Cass, I’m keeping these chops warm for Pete. Even though it’s late, he may still be hungry,” she said.
Cass looked up at Nell, her tan face filled with weariness and worry. She sighed. “There’s only one way to find out, Nell. Let’s take them down to the jail and see if he’s hungry.”
Chapter 11
Sam’s battered Volvo—too many camping trips in the mountains, he told Nell—was parked behind Ben’s car, so he off
ered to drive Ben and Cass down to the station.
Cass insisted no one else come. “Pete won’t want a circus,” she had said.
Pete’s voice had been slurred on the phone, and Cass knew he’d had more than one drink at the Gull. But that was about all she knew. “There’s a part of me,” Cass said, “that’s tempted to leave him there. I’m just glad he didn’t call my mother.”
Cass didn’t mean it; of course, she’d been worried about Pete, just as they all had been. Nell hugged Cass tightly and sent her off with Ben and Sam, knowing they’d take care of her. If anyone could handle the Sea Harbor police, it was Ben. He’d spearheaded a recent campaign to replace the crumbling old station down near the bridge, and he’d known Chief Jerry Thompson since his teenage summers on the Cape when Jerry befriended him and pulled him into the coveted group of townies.
And Sam Perry? Nell wasn’t sure how he fit into the fray, but he seemed comfortable being in the middle of it. And helpful. And without rhyme or reason backing her up, Nell trusted him.
The others had stayed behind, helping Nell clean up. Izzy commandeered the dishwasher while Ham made sure the coals were covered with sand and the garbage taken out. Birdie and Jane found the drying towels and parked themselves near Nell at the sink.
“Do you think this arrest has anything to do with Angie’s murder?” Jane asked, drying one of Ben’s martini glasses. “Pete Halloran is such a sweetheart. He couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with her murder.”
But the others were quiet. They were all crazy about Cass’s six-foot-three little brother. Pete was such a softy that he had trouble banding the claws of the lobsters he and Cass caught. But those things didn’t matter anymore. Angie had been murdered. Drugged—and murdered. And Pete was one of the last people to see her before it happened.
Nell shivered at the sink and pressed her hands to the bottom of the sudsy stainless-steel basin, staring out the window into the black night. Pete couldn’t have killed Angie. Not any more than she or Izzy or Cass or Birdie could have killed her. But he most certainly would be a suspect, along with other people dear to her.
Death By Cashmere Page 7