Josie nodded. “And that was the problem that night. Tony Framingham. At first Angie refused to be in the picture, but they made her—told her it would look strange in the yearbook if she wasn’t in it. What would they say in the caption?”
Nell looked at Tony’s broad smile and black hair. “Tony was a problem? Was he Angie’s boyfriend?”
Josie laughed, but without humor. “Oh, no. Tony was not her boyfriend. Sometimes I think Tony was why Angie left Sea Harbor.”
“I don’t understand, Josie.”
“Nell, my daughter hated Tony Framingham with a terrible fury. Sometimes it swallowed her up. Having to stand that close to him in a picture ruined the whole night for her.”
Nell frowned, staring at the picture. “Why?”
“Angelina was convinced that Tony Framingham’s family killed her father. That’s why. She hated Tony Framingham in a way no person should hate another human being.”
Chapter 28
After leaving Josie Archer’s house, Nell stopped at the Historical Museum on her way home, knowing Nancy would still be working, even though public hours ended at four on Sundays. Nancy used that time, she’d told Nell, to ready herself for the busy week ahead.
“Nell, what’s up? You look surprised. Agood surprise, I hope.” Nancy welcomed Nell into her office and pulled out a chair.
Nell forced a smile to her face. “Surprise” didn’t begin to describe how she felt about Josie’s revelations. The different pieces to the conversation had spun around in her head all the way to the museum. She tried to make sense out of them, order them. Angie’s dislike—hatred, Josie had said—of Tony Framingham was too strong to have come from Angie, even though Pete had claimed she’d said as much. Coming from Pete, a jealous boyfriend, it didn’t have the same substance. But what surprised Nell more than the fact, was the reason.
It was a giant jigsaw puzzle, waiting for someone’s keen eye to put the pieces in the right place. But Nell felt quite certain that there were pieces of the puzzle still missing. “I need a clear mind, Nancy,” she said. “Someone to help me sort this out. This horrible happening with George Gideon, and occurring so soon after Angie’s death, has me wondering how many other things have gone on in our safe little town without us noticing.”
Nancy sat behind her desk, her elbows bent and her chin resting on her hands. “You don’t think it was a hit-and-run?”
“No.” It wasn’t until she said the word that Nell knew what she thought. Gideon was killed. And before he died, he had ransacked Angie Archer’s apartment. For what? And did he die because of it? “I think someone killed Gideon.”
Nancy frowned. “The police don’t.”
“No. They’re under so much pressure to put this to rest. But I think someone killed him, Nancy, and I think it’s connected to Angie’s death.”
“Do you think it’s connected to her work here?”
“I don’t know.” Nell told Nancy about her conversation with Sal Scaglia, leaving out Rachel’s observations. “Did Angie ever talk about Sal, Nancy?”
Nancy thought for a moment, and then she remembered something that happened the week before Angie died.
“Sal called here,” Nancy said. “Angie was out to lunch. He said to tell her that he had some more information for the project and she should pick it up. When I told Angie, she got a strange look on her face, and she let me know quite clearly that she had all she needed from the Registrar of Deeds. That was it. And I don’t think she went back.”
Nell listened and tucked away the information. It was making more and more sense. “I also wanted to tell you I talked to Josie Archer. She told me Angie said she was hired for a limited project, and she’d be moving back to Boston next week. She had a job at the college. Why would she tell her mother something totally different than what she told you?”
Nancy looked down at her desk, pondering the question. “I don’t know, Nell. But it explains why she was evasive whenever I’d try to set up a time for us to talk. Why she took the job in the first place, knowing from the get-go that she wasn’t going to stay long, is the real question.”
“But she worked hard while she was here, right?”
“Absolutely. Angie did everything we asked of her and more. Actually, now that I think about it, there was only one thing that Angie refused to do for me the whole time she was here, and that was to give a report to our board about the quarry exhibit she was working on. Absolutely refused. It struck me as odd, because she was so articulate. I thought she’d enjoy the opportunity to speak in front of all of you.”
“You would think so. I always thought that Angie had some theater in her blood.” Nell pushed back her chair and stood up. “And there’re some powerful people on that board—good connections, if Angie cared about that.”
Nancy looked at her watch. “Speaking of the board, I’m meeting Margarethe at the Edge to finalize the display case plaque for Angie. I can’t believe she’s making time the day after that amazing party—but she is adamant that we do this soon, so we’re meeting for a sandwich to work out the details. At least this is something positive we can do—a bright spot in these uncertain days.”
Nell left the library not feeling any bright spots at all. Instead, the afternoon weighed heavily on her shoulders. She felt burdened, as if she were wearing a heavy metal jacket and couldn’t figure out how to take it off. Her head ached from trying to pull together the scattered pieces of Angie’s life. And her heart ached for the lovely woman who had a lost a daughter far too early.
Nancy’s mention of Margarethe made her remember something she’d meant to do since Saturday night: call her and ask about the sweater. Maybe Margarethe had seen who was wearing the cashmere wrap. She wouldn’t go into the fact that Angie had it on that night—there was no reason to spread more gossip.
Nell took her cell phone from her bag and dialed. Almost immediately Margarethe’s gracious recorded voice came on. Nell left a message—a thank-you for hosting the grand arts benefit and a question at the end about the beautiful sweater she’d spotted in the bedroom. Just a casual inquiry about the gorgeous knit garment. She didn’t mention Stella, of course. The teenager was right—Margarethe probably wouldn’t invite her back if she knew she’d tried on the guests’ coats.
When her cell phone rang as she crossed the small square to her parked car, she looked down at the caller’s name. It wasn’t Margarethe, but an even more welcome caller. Someone to listen, to help sort out the puzzle. And Birdie was one of the best puzzle solvers she knew.
Nell sat down on one of the benches, and for the next half hour, poured out her scattered thoughts, the random facts, her unformed suspicions—relying on her friend to help pull it all together. Or to tell her to go fly a kite.
But Birdie did none of that. Instead she called Cass and Izzy and said to be at her house at seven sharp. “New developments,’’ she told them, in her new Sherlock Holmes manner. Nell was bringing enough of her creamy crab soup to go around. And she’d already put the Pinot on ice.
“And don’t forget to bring your knitting,” she said before hanging up each call. “It helps us think.”
Nell picked up Izzy, then Cass, and they drove down Harbor Road, past the shops now closed for the night. Summer visitors strolled the village area, looking in store windows, and stopping in the coffee shop or bars that dotted the harbor, while they waited for their dinner reservations at Ocean’s Edge.
As they drove up the hill that wound through Birdie’s neighborhood, Cass pointed out the window. “Isn’t that the old man of the sea?”
They looked over to the side of the road and spotted the hunched figure headed toward town, his head bowed, and a bright red knit scarf around his neck.
Izzy laughed. “That’s sweet. He’s wearing one of Birdie’s knit scarves. She knit a big fancy A and M on the ends.”
“But it’s summer,” Cass said, and they all laughed. Angus did as he pleased. Seasons didn’t really matter much.
“I wonder where he’s
going,” Izzy said.
“It’s Sunday,” Nell said. “He’s probably headed for the Ocean’s Edge.”
Cass turned and watched him disappear around the bend. “But where’s he coming from?”
“You never know with Angus,” Izzy said. “He seems to be everywhere.”
“He seems sad these days,” Nell said. “He misses Angie, I think.”
“A strange relationship, though, don’t you think?” Cass said. “He was obsessed with Angie.”
Izzy shifted against her seat belt and looked back at Cass. “I think that sometimes, too, Cass. He followed her home one night and sat out on the ledge behind the shop for a long time. Archie saw him out there and gave him some coffee, then told him to go home. But other times I think they were genuinely friends. He liked having someone listen to him. Angie listened.”
“And why, exactly, did she do that?” Cass asked. “I mean, we all listen to Angus when we have the time, but Angie listened beyond the call of duty.”
“Maybe she just had a soft spot for him,” Izzy said. “He’s a sweet man.”
“But I wonder how Angus interpreted it. Could he have thought Angie liked him? I mean romantically?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” Nell said. But as soon as the words left her lips, she wondered what right she had to speak so forcefully about Angus McPherron’s feelings. He was sweet and odd at once, a harmless nice person with a sad past, she’d always thought. He’d wandered the harbor for years and never caused anyone a bit of trouble. And yet—
“Sometimes he’s charming. A gentle man,” Izzy said. “He comes into the shop sometimes because Mae gives him slices of her banana bread, and he’s the only person on earth who likes my coffee. But one day after Angie died he came in demanding to see her apartment. He said there were things there that belonged to him.”
“Izzy, you didn’t tell me that,” Nell said. She frowned and turned into Birdie’s drive.
“I guess I forgot. I remember it, though, because we were really busy that day. Sydney Hill had come up from Boston to teach her Snow Socks class. Margarethe was in the studio buying a stash of silk mohair in this fantastic bubblegum color—she wasn’t sure what she wanted it for, but she had to have it, she said.”
“A woman after my own heart—Ben is threatening to have a yarn garage sale.” Nell pulled around the circle drive and parked the car. “So Angus made a scene?”
Izzy nodded. “But it wasn’t bad. Mae was busy, so Margarethe went over and coaxed him outside. Mae saw her giving him a wad of bills and then she sent him over to Harry’s Deli for some food.”
“Margarethe can convince anyone of anything,” Nell said. She opened the door and walked around the car to take the soup tureen from Izzy’s lap.
Birdie met them at the door. “Come, come.” She waved them in. “For a minute I thought you were going to spend the evening sitting in your car. Did I miss anything important?”
“We were talking about Angus,” Nell said. “We saw him walking down your hill.”
Ella Sampson stood just behind Birdie, smiling at the guests. She took the soup from Izzy and disappeared.
“Angus goes down to the Edge every Sunday like clockwork,” Birdie said.
Nell smiled. “Yes. I see him eating on the patio sometimes. Charlie—that nice young chef—makes sure he gets his fresh vegetables. ”
“Why was he coming from this direction?” Cass asked. She followed Birdie up the wide windy steps.
“He stays here sometimes,” Birdie said simply.
“What?” Nell stopped at the top of the steps and stared at Birdie.
Birdie pushed away Nell’s surprise. “Well, not all the time. But that carriage house has two apartments, and Ella and Harold didn’t mind a neighbor. He comes and goes—and this gives him a place to get his mail and keep the few things he owns. That little cabin he had on the way to Rockport had frozen pipes and God knows what else. Probably all sorts of vermin. No heat. So when it got too cold last winter, I told him he could use the carriage house. He’s not here much, Ella says. Especially not in the summer.”
“Birdie, I have known you almost thirty years, and you still pull out a surprise now and then.”
“Keeps you young, Nell. Surprises are good for the soul.”
Not all surprises, Nell thought. There’d been a few these past weeks that were doing anything but keeping her young.
They all followed Birdie down the hallway to a room that Nell loved—a cozy den filled with books and a curved wall of leaded windows that overlooked the entire harbor and beyond. Sonny Favazza—Birdie’s greatest love—had added the room on as a wedding gift for Birdie, so they could sit there together at night and watch the world settle down. And it was Birdie’s favorite place to knit, to listen to music, and to be with her friends—but only very special ones.
Nell sat on a leather love seat facing the windows and watched a long line of pleasure boats coming in for the night. Lights in the restaurants blinked a welcome to diners, and in the distance, protruding out into the ocean, the fat thumb of land that was the Framingham estate was still lit up like an enormous Christmas tree farm. From here, the main house rose tall and stately on the rise of land. Even though it was miles away, from Birdie’s den it looked close enough to toss a Frisbee across the water and have it land safely on the front lawn.
“The party seems eons ago,” Izzy said, following Nell’s glance.
Nell nodded. In some ways it seemed like a long, long time ago, but in other ways, she felt like she was still out there on Framingham Point, watching Stella Palazola twirl in front of the mirror, her arms wrapped in Izzy’s cashmere sweater.
Birdie settled on another love seat across from Nell, her knitting basket at her side, and Izzy and Cass curled up in large overstuffed chairs. Between them was a low wooden coffee table on which Ella had piled napkins and spoons, a bucket holding a chilled bottle of wine, and a platter of warm bruschetta and spiced nuts.
“Birdie, how did you put this together so quickly?” Nell asked.
Birdie flapped her hand in the air. “Magic. It’s all smoke and mirrors,” she said. Then she nodded toward the hallway and added, “And Magic’s first name is Ella.”
“Cass, how are you doing on your mom’s shawl?” Izzy asked, and pulled out her own half-finished sweater from the bag. It was a floppy, loose cardigan with a hood, a perfect hanging-around-the-house or -studio sweater that she knew she’d wear until it fell off her body. The soft, cushy mohair came in a pistachio green, a bilberry shade, and a deep blue-black that reminded Izzy of a stormy sea. She had immediately slipped several of the pistachio skeins behind the counter for herself.
“Amazing color,” Birdie said, reaching over and touching the cloud-soft fiber.
Izzy smiled. “I love it. Come in tomorrow and I’ll find some for you, Birdie. A soft winter hat to pull over your ears.” She lifted her brows into slivers of bangs that spiked across her forehead. “Or perhaps for Angus?”
Birdie laughed and leaned forward to pour wine all around. “Now, about Mary’s shawl?” She looked over the top of her glasses at Cass.
Cass took a swallow of wine and set her glass down, pulling her backpack out from behind the chair. “I brought it, Birdie, so don’t panic. But before you all start offering me advice on the neckline or lace edging or how to finish the seams, let’s talk business. ”
Nell pulled out her needles and a ball of camel-colored alpaca and began to cast on for a throw. She had made the same pattern at least a half-dozen times—but it was a perfect project when she didn’t want to count and worry about dropped stitches. And a perfect elegant gift for anyone who lived through cold New England winters. “Cass is right,” she said. “We’ve got catching up to do, a puzzle to solve.”
“Murders,” Izzy corrected. The harsh word hung out there in the middle of the room, quieting the group for a moment.
Murder.
“The police are pretty much through with it,” Cass said, breaking t
he quiet. “Tommy Porter told Pete it was all wrapped up—George Gideon killed Angie. And Gideon was killed by a hit-and-run. And the town’s safe again at last.”
“Does Pete believe that?”
“None of it. But he’s so relieved they’re leaving him alone that he doesn’t say much. And I think he’s finally starting to come back to life.”
“Time will help,” Birdie said.
“Time and Angie’s mother.”
“Josie?” said Nell.
Cass took a bite of bruschetta and chewed it slowly. “That sweet woman—in the middle of all her grief—she called Pete and thanked him for making Angie happy the last few weeks of her life. Angie told her wonderful things about Pete, she said. I think it was the best present anyone could have given him. With all the rumors floating around that Angie was using him, or playing with his emotions, or that she was seeing other guys on the side, he was beginning to wilt away. He needed his good memories of Angie back to help him deal with her death, but people were trying to rip them to shreds.” Cass paused. She pushed her hair back from her face and fastened it with a band. Her cheeks were flushed with emotion and her dark eyes were sad. She looked around at the group. “But, you know, he really cared about her. And I think she cared about him, too. No matter what I may have said in the past, I’m happy about that.”
“Bless Josie,” Nell said.
Cass nodded. “Right.”
“That rumor of her dating Tony is definitely an urban legend. Tony was never a threat to Pete.”
“People saw them together,” Birdie said.
“Yes, but it wasn’t for pleasure.” Nell repeated the conversation she’d had that afternoon.
“Hate is a pretty strong word,” Izzy said. “Angie hated Tony?”
Nell nodded. “Reading between the lines, I think Ted Archer had no use for the whole Framingham family, and Angie adored her dad. What he thought, she thought. Josie was far more forgiving. ”
“I remember when Ted Archer lost his job,” Birdie said. “It was sad. The company needed to save some money, and they did it ruthlessly. The Archers had been a part of the Framingham company forever—Ted’s grandfather and dad worked in the quarries—and when the quarries closed and they opened their plant, Ted stayed with them. He’d been there so long that he was paid more than the other managers, so it made good financial sense to let him go. They used his absence as an excuse.”
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