Set back from the main road of the Canary Cove art colony, up a short gravel drive and tucked into a grove of pine trees, the small restaurant lured more residents than tourists, and that suited the Endicotts just fine. It was always good to be among friends and neighbors, but especially now.
Annabelle’s teenage daughter, Stella, met them at the door, which was propped open and held in place by a stone pelican with a fish in its mouth. Annabelle had tied a daisy-print ribbon around its neck. Over Stella’s shoulder, Nell could see that the restaurant was nearly full.
“Like who would have thought this’d ever happen in Sea Harbor?” Stella asked, her green eyes huge behind blue-rimmed glasses. “It’s like CSI—but better. My mom says I can’t talk about it to customers, but, like, you guys are friends.” She grabbed two menus from the hostess stand and ushered Ben and Nell through the restaurant and out to the small weathered deck that ran along its side and looked out over the sea. “I’ll give you a table out here, where you can talk and knit better.”
“It’s awful news, Stella,” Nell said, sitting down at a small table next to the railing and settling her large knitting bag at her feet. It held the new sea-yarn scarf she had started and hoped to finish this week. She looked up at Stella. “But there’s not much to say, is there?”
Stella frowned and bit down on her bottom lip. Her plucked eyebrows arched as she looked back toward the screen door that separated the porch from the inside of the café. Then she leaned toward Nell, her head lowered and her large tinted glasses so close that Nell could see herself in the lenses. “Now, here’s what I know,” Stella whispered. “Angie was with a guy, like, having a drink. Then plop, the little pill went into the glass. And when he pushed her off, it was all over. She had a way of making men mad, you know?”
“No, I don’t know that,” Nell said. “And you don’t either, Stella.”
Ben, not willing to engage in Stella’s gossip, walked over to the sideboard, drawn by the smell of fresh coffee. He returned carrying a steaming silver pot and filled Nell’s mug.
Stella slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Mr. Endicott. That’s my job.”
Ben sat down next to Nell. “No problem, Stella. I was a pretty accomplished waiter in my college days.” He smiled up at her, then pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and unfolded the Times.
Nell poured cream into her mug and watched Stella’s head swing around again, this time aimed at the red-checked curtain of the kitchen window, hoping her mother was busy over a hot stove and not looking out.
She looked back at Nell. “There’s more here than meets the eye, Mrs. Endicott,” Stella said in an official CSI way. Her brows lifted again and she held her head high, as if balancing a secret that might slide off her head if she moved too fast. She pushed her glasses back into place and pulled a small tablet out of her pocket. Then, her mind switching to other things, she turned and walked back inside the restaurant.
Ben looked up from the paper. “Did she take our order?” he asked.
“No.” Nell watched the screen door to the restaurant swing shut behind the teenager. “I don’t imagine life at the Palazolas’ is ever dull, especially with Stella around.” Nell stirred her coffee and thought about the courage of the Annabelles of the world— single moms raising kids, holding down jobs. Annabelle’s husband, Joe, had been a successful swordfish captain until the day his boat and crew were swept out to sea in the middle of a sudden summer storm, leaving his wife with four small children to raise. In the blink of an eye, Annabelle’s life was shattered into a million pieces. “I needed to do a one eighty,” she had told Nell during those days of shock and forced decision. “The kids had such great needs. And Joe had plans for each one of them—plans that needed money.”
So Annabelle buried her grief and took action to honor her husband’s dreams. She decided the one thing she did especially well was talk to people and cook eggs. And so Sweet Petunia’s was born. Using her family’s old Sicilian recipes and ones she made up on the spot, Annabelle and her restaurant became instant Cape Ann favorites, and Nell and Ben found that going more than a week without one of Annabelle’s frittatas wasn’t a good thing.
“People rebuild their lives in ways we couldn’t imagine,” Ben said, stepping into her thoughts. “It’s what the human spirit is about.”
Nell nodded. “It’s what Josie is already beginning to do.” She looked up and smiled at the Seroogys, neighbors from Sandswept Lane, as they headed for a table at the back of the deck. Her gaze traveled to the table next to them, where Angus McPherron sat alone, as always. His long white hair curled over the edge of a rust-colored V-neck sweater that looked familiar to Nell. It was slightly out of place on the unkempt man whose usual attire was an old army jacket or torn T-shirt. She stared at the sweater from across the deck, bringing the style and stitches into focus. And then she knew where she had seen it. In Birdie’s capable hands on several Thursday nights the past spring. In her mind’s eye, she could see Birdie working out the pattern and selecting just the right yarn that would be good for chilly mornings. It was a lovely cotton, slightly nubby to the touch but lightweight for the summer. Nell assumed back then that Birdie was knitting it for a nephew or one of her other relatives. But she had guessed wrong. Her diminutive friend was full of surprises—and apparently keeping Angus McPherron warm on chilly mornings was one of them.
Parishioners were starting to stream into Sweet Petunia’s from the ten o’clock Mass and Angus was momentarily lost to her view. Nell spotted Father Northcutt sitting down for his usual heaping breakfast of fried oysters and eggs. Nell had talked to him recently about cholesterol, but he had assured her his good cholesterol took care of his bad. “Just like in the celestial realm,” he’d said with a wink, and Nell had taken the gentle hint to mind her own business.
Father Northcutt usually ate alone at Sweet Petunia’s, too, smiling briefly at passersby but avoiding the eye contact that would welcome conversation. Instead, he focused intently on Annabelle’s food, spiced up exactly the way he liked it. But today, absent his usual smile, the good father sat with Margarethe and Tony Framingham. And Nell knew without hearing their words that they were talking about Angie Archer and the horrible way her life had ended. Margarethe was probably offering to help Josie however she could. Tony, across from her, sat still, his head lowered, as the conversation continued between his mother and the priest. Watching him, Nell wished she could read his thoughts. He had been one of the last people to see Angie. Their conversationhadn’t been a happy one—and then, just hours later, she’d been murdered.
Beyond the deck, sailboats began weaving their way out of the harbor. The gulls’ shrill cries mixed with the sound of motors as two whale-watching boats, packed with people, set out to sea. It was a typical Sea Harbor Sunday, but not typical at all.
Stella emerged through the kitchen door, balancing two heaping platters of herbed spinach frittata in her hands. “Sorry, it got, like, crazy in there. Tommy Porter is here and he’s like a rock star, people asking him all sorts of questions about, well, you know, Angie. This is what you ordered, right?” She set the plates down on the table and wiped her hands on a skimpy apron that hung like a hammock from her narrow waist.
Ben looked down at the creamy mountain of eggs on his plate. Thin flakes of parmesan cheese rested on top, and a pile of fresh strawberries, peaches, and mangoes were piled artfully on the side. A thick slice of English muffin with butter dripping off the toasted edges finished off Annabelle’s fine presentation. The aroma of cumin and coriander wafted up from the eggs, and Ben assured Stella that yes, indeed, she’d gotten his order just right. Wikked right, he said, using his favorite New England slang.
“There you two are.” Birdie came through the swinging screen door and smiled up at Stella. “You look very pretty today, Stella. I think maybe you’ve added a few pounds to that frame of yours, and it’s a good thing. You were too bony, sweetheart. Not a good look.” Birdie’s words were carried on une
ven breaths.
Stella looked at Birdie, unsure whether to thank her or stomp off. Finally she offered a lopsided smile and said, “You sit right there before you fall down, Miss Birdie. You don’t look so good. I’ll get you some water.”
Nell looked up as Stella scurried off. She saw that Birdie was flushed. Her short white crop of hair was damp, as if a fine spray of seawater had cooled her off, and when she brushed her white bangs aside with the back of her hand, Nell could see tiny drops of perspiration above her clear gray eyes.
Birdie poured herself a mug of coffee and pulled out a chair across from Nell.
“You look like you’ve run a race, Birdie,” Nell said, frowning. “Here, have my water.” Nell pushed her glass across the table.
“I rode my bike over. And that tiny hill seems to have gotten a tad steeper in recent days.” She picked up the glass and took a long swallow.
Nell was relieved to hear that Birdie was riding her bike. Her heart was healthy and strong, according to the doctor, and bicycle riding was just fine. But Birdie’s driving didn’t merit quite the same report. Even cocky teenagers hugged the inner edge of the street when Birdie drove down Harbor Road in her 1981 Lincoln Town Car. Neighbors stayed out of her way and dogs and cats seemed to flee when the familiar engine revved up and barreled down the hill. But no amount of talking could convince the strong-headed woman to buy herself a small, more manageable car. Ben had tried without success to sell her on the merits of a Corolla or Camry or maybe one of the new hybrids.
Birdie loved her Town Car. It had belonged to Victor Morino, her second husband, and the fragrant, woody aroma of his pipe tobacco still lingered in the leather seat. “Oh, my, if this car could talk, I would be in trouble,” she had teased the knitters one Thursday night, her eyes twinkling with mischievous secrets. So Birdie continued to drive all eighteen-plus feet of the long elegant car around the hilly environs of Sea Harbor, and Nell recited a daily prayer that they wouldn’t someday regret not taking charge of the situation more forcefully.
Birdie set the water glass down and eyed Nell’s eggs. “Annabelle is trying something new, I see.”
“It’s good, Birdie. Want a taste?”
Birdie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t need new and different. In fact, what I want is the old and familiar. And that means a peaceful Sea Harbor summer. Angelina’s murder is changing the texture of the town. It creeps into everything, making people look at one another suspiciously. I know you thought there was something fishy from the beginning, Nell, but I don’t like this kind of awfulness in our town.”
“None of us do, Birdie,” Ben said. “But it will go away. People will move on.”
Birdie’s smile had disappeared and she waved one pointed finger at Ben, then Nell. “I know one thing for sure. People in Sea Harbor are good people. Angie should never have come here; that’s as clear as the nose on your face. She needed a bigger world than this.”
“Birdie, how can you say that? This was Angie’s town, too. And Josie loved having her daughter back, that much I know for sure.”
“You’re right, I guess. I just want so badly for it all to go away. And no matter what you say about Angie enjoying her job and liking it here—she never seemed settled to me. Look at her apartment. Was that settled? It looked like she was ready to flee in the middle of the night—just as I predicted. And now this. None of it makes any sense, not the official patched-together scene of what happened that night or anything else.”
Nell was silent.
“Well,” Birdie said brightly, forking her fingers through her hair, “I think we need to get a little more organized, Nell.”
Ben looked up from his paper and frowned. “You’re going to let the police do their job, Birdie. This is murder we’re talking about, not poachers or lost pets.”
“Ben Endicott,” Birdie said, her hands flying in the air and her face breaking out in delight. “Are you suddenly becoming a fuddy-duddy? Since when do you have to protect us?”
Stella brought a platter of eggs—over easy—and set it down in front of Birdie, then scurried off.
“Now, if this isn’t telepathic service, I don’t know what is,” Birdie said, smothering her English muffin with butter and strawberry jam. “What if I ever decided to order something different?”
“Annabelle would know,” Nell said. “I think she knows all things.”
“And that one probably does, too, the way she listens to each table.” She nodded toward Stella, who was now filling Tony Framingham’s coffee cup, her head leaning just close enough to hear the flow of conversation.
“I guess it’s natural to be curious,” Nell said.
“It’s more than that,” Birdie said. “Look at her sweet face. Love-struck. She thinks Tony Framingham hung the moon.”
Nell looked over and saw that Birdie was absolutely right. Stella’s smile wasn’t about her mother’s amazing spinach frittatas or the table conversation. It was all about Tony.
And Tony was oblivious. His head was turned toward the water, and he seemed to be looking beyond the white sails and the sleek double-deck whale-watching boats headed out to the open sea. He was oblivious to his mother’s conversation with Father Northcutt, and for certain he was unaware that Stella hovered longingly at his elbow.
Nell wondered again what was going through Tony’s head. From what Archie Brandley said that night, Tony had been harsh with Angie. And where had he taken off to in that big orange car of his?
“I wonder what the good father is talking so animatedly about,” Birdie said, swallowing a forkful of eggs.
“Maybe they’re discussing some kind of memorial fund for Angie,” Nell said. “That might help ease Josie’s grief.”
“And make Father Northcutt feel better, too.”
“You should talk, Birdie Favazza,” Nell said. “You’ve paid for more pews in that church than you’d have time to occupy in two lifetimes.”
“Time or whatever,” Birdie said. “We all get spiritual in our own way, that’s what I say. But he who asks shall receive. And the padre does a nice job of asking.”
“And receiving,” Ben said. “But he’s a good man. It’s part of his job.”
“That’s right, Ben,” Birdie agreed. “And I see it as a part of my job, too, to fill the coffers.”
“You’re a good person, Birdie—in spite of yourself.” Ben said.
“Sometimes,” Birdie said, a twinkle in her eye. “Sometimes not.”
When they got up to leave a short while later, Father Northcutt was still engaged in conversation with Margarethe. Tony had quit pretending he was a part of the conversation and stood alone at the railing a short distance away, his attention elsewhere.
A short distance from Tony’s elbow, Sal and Beatrice Scaglia sat with the Brandleys, platters of frittata and cups of steaming coffee in front of them. Beatrice’s small hands played with her pearls as her voice rose and fell in animated cadence. She’s probably telling them how she single-handedly cleaned out Angie’s apartment for Josie, Nell thought. She looked over at Sal—dressed today in a khaki suit and pink-striped tie. Beatrice picked out his clothes, Nell suspected. Somehow Sal didn’t seem to be the pink-striped type. He was good-looking in an ordinary sort of way and probably interesting, too. But as usual, he sat quietly next to his wife, allowing her the full stage. He looked sad today, she thought. Sad and a little anxious.
Their eyes met as Nell walked by, and she smiled at him.
But instead of returning her smile, Sal Scaglia put his napkin down, pushed his chair back, and followed Nell to the restaurant deck door.
“Angie Archer’s murder . . .” he whispered into Nell’s back. She stopped and turned around.
“Yes, Sal?” she said, waiting for the familiar expression of dismay at a beautiful young woman’s tragic and cruel death.
But instead of words, Sal Scaglia’s long, quiet face was filled with a terrible kind of angst Nell wouldn’t have thought him capable of. He opened his mouth to speak.
At that precise moment, Stella Palazola, carrying a glass of juice in one hand and a platter of eggs in the other, hurried through the screen door. The heel of her clunky sandal caught slightly against the doorsill, and before Nell or Sal could move aside, the tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice tipped from the tray and poured like spring rain down Sal Scaglia’s pink-striped tie.
Chapter 13
Nell slipped out of her skirt and pulled on a pair of cotton capris and a sleeveless blouse. Her friends joked that surely she’d done something to remove that flap of extra skin that seemed to appear by magic on upper arms when one turned sixty. Nell had her mother to thank, she supposed, for her tight bone structure, prominent cheekbones, and firm upper arms. But she suspected she’d wear what she wanted to, no matter how many flaps of skin waved when she walked. Comfort was usually the determining factor in Nell’s wardrobe.
Downstairs in the airy kitchen, all was quiet save for the bugling of the herring gulls on the beach across the back road. Nell straightened up the family room, folding the scattered pages of newspaper and piling them on the coffee table. Ben was a news junky, and the Sea Harbor Gazette wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy his lust—the Globe and New York Times cluttered their drive with such regularity that Nell knew Johnny the paper boy’s birthday and favorite CDs. She collected her knitting from the couch and slipped it into a large roomy bag.
After the bountiful breakfast at Annabelle’s and peculiar encounter with Sal Scaglia, Ben and Nell had left the restaurant, insisting they give Birdie and her bike a ride home. The three spent the ten-minute drive exploring the possibilities of what Sal had meant to say—but the quiet man’s motivation escaped them.
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