All Murders Final! (8 page)

Chapter 11

After spending Wednesday morning with a potential spring garage sale client, I walked over to DiNapoli's for a late lunch. It had warmed back into the forties, and the snow had all melted. I'd slept amazingly well, considering the guys next door, or maybe because of them. Margaret's wake was tonight, and I wanted to hear the scuttlebutt before the big event. Rosalie stood behind the counter, which took up half the room. Behind her was the open kitchen. I could see Angelo cooking chicken on a broad grill. To my right was a mismatched assortment of tables and chairs. Most were full. All of it could be seen from the kitchen, not because Angelo wanted people to admire his skills as a chef—which were incredible—but so he could see and hear what was going on.

Rosalie studied me with her warm brown eyes. “You need to have the special today.”

I looked at the handwritten board but didn't see anything listed as a special.

“We don't have a special,” Angelo yelled from the back without turning around. I didn't know how he'd even heard what Rosalie said.

“It's Sarah, Angelo.”

Angelo whipped around, put his fingers to his lips, and kissed them.

Rosalie handed me a Coke. “Your special will be out in a few minutes.” I took my drink and turned.

The woman behind me said, “I'll have the special, too. What is it exactly?”

“I'm sorry, but we just ran out. Maybe next time. But the Greek salad with pita is excellent or the eggplant Parm sandwich.”

I suppressed a laugh and wondered what my special would be. But I assumed that whatever it was, it would be delicious. I sat down at the only empty table. I'd waited until 1:30 p.m. to eat because I was hoping the lunch crowd would have cleared out and Rosalie and Angelo would have time to talk. Rosalie brought over a large bowl of mussels in a garlicky broth, with a big basket of French bread for dipping. Since no one was waiting to order, she sat down with me.

I dug a mussel from its shell and dragged it through the broth. It was tender with just a bit of tang from the garlic. “What have you heard about Margaret? Any word about who might have done this?” I asked after I swallowed.

Rosalie shook her head, her brown hair fluffing around her face. “I haven't heard much talk at all.”

“Why?” I hadn't expected to hear that.

“We've been in Cambridge almost nonstop. Angelo's uncle Stefano's been sick. I just haven't had time to catch up on the news.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” I'd met Stefano last fall, when Carol was a murder suspect. “Who's been keeping the restaurant open?”

“Angelo's doing most of the cooking in advance. Lois and Ryan have been pitching in with everything else. They're a godsend.” Lois and Ryan were two longtime employees.

“Are you going to the wake tonight?” I asked, dipping bread in the broth.

“Yes. Angelo and I are closing early. Do you want to come with us?”

“That would be wonderful. I'll walk back over. What time?”

“We'll close at seven.” Someone walked in, so Rosalie patted my hand and went back to work.

I ate the rest of my meal and chatted with Lois and Ryan. Maybe I'd find something out tonight. The wake would surely be packed with people ready to talk about Margaret and how they knew her. If small towns had saints, Margaret would be the saint of Ellington.

* * *

At seven I walked over to DiNapoli's, dressed in my favorite black boots and a black, long-sleeved dress that fell just above the knee. Black tights helped keep my legs somewhat warm on my walk over, and my red coat added a splash of color. The DiNapolis were waiting inside, drinking a glass of wine. They offered me one, and we settled at one of the tables.

“So do you think the whole town will turn out?” I asked.

“More like half the state,” Angelo said. He ran a hand over the top of his balding head. A fringe of graying hair clung to the sides and the back. But he was still a handsome man, and I could see why Rosalie had fallen for him.

“Really? Why?” I asked.

“She came from a moneyed family with a compound on Nantucket,” Rosalie said.

“I read that online. So I guess she knows lots of people,” I mused.

“Martha's Vineyard wasn't good enough for the Mores,” Angelo said.

I looked back and forth between them. I'd been to Martha's Vineyard once, for a long weekend with CJ before the divorce. “What's the difference?”

Angelo leaned forward. “There's a saying that the millionaires live on the Vineyard, but the billionaires live on Nantucket. She acted like she was of the billionaire type.”

“She wasn't?” I asked.

“She had plenty of money,” Rosalie said. She patted Angelo's arm. “You shouldn't speak ill of the dead.”

“How'd the family end up out here, then?” I asked.

“It's more about why,” Angelo said. “Here they get to rule the roost. On Nantucket they were wealthy among the wealthy.”

“It seems like from the price and the size of houses, there's lots of wealth around here, too,” I said.

Angelo opened his mouth, but Rosalie jumped in. “There's plenty of money here. But look at the time. We need to go.”

* * *

Angelo managed to find a parking spot in the crowded lot of the funeral home when someone pulled out. The line for the viewing wended its way around the lobby before getting to the actual room where Margaret rested. I hoped it was a closed casket, but I could tell when we inched into the room that it wasn't. Voices were low, as were the lights, and people shuffled by in an orderly manner. Occasionally, some dignitary or other was escorted past the line and right up front. All of them would cross themselves, then turn to the long line of family members to shake hands and commiserate.

I recognized one senator and the mayor of Boston, but not the others. I could see some of the local town officials chafing as they had to wait with the rest of us. My heart pounded a little as we approached the casket. But Margaret looked way better than she had the last time I'd seen her in the car. Really, she looked like she could jump up at any minute and start organizing some event.

I started down the receiving line, following Rosalie and Angelo, who knew everyone. I shook hands and murmured my condolences until one woman pulled me into a big hug. She clasped me to her and whispered in my ear, “You have your nerve showing up here.” Then she released me and turned to the next person. It happened so quickly, I wondered if I'd heard her correctly as I continued down the line.

A guy about my age stood at the end of the line. “Join us at Gillganins. We'll continue to celebrate Margaret's life there.”

Some people milled around, chatting, but Angelo was ready to leave. A few minutes later I sank into the black leather seat of the DiNapoli's Escalade.

“Are you okay, Sarah?” Rosalie asked after we'd driven a couple of blocks down Great Road.

“Something odd happened. A woman hugged me, but she said I had my nerve showing up there.”

Angelo and Rosalie exchanged a glance so quickly, I almost missed it.

“I wouldn't worry about it. People get emotional at these things,” Angelo said.

I might have bought it if it hadn't been for the glance. I wondered what they knew that I didn't. “Are you two going to Gillganins?”

“We have to get up early to open the restaurant. What about you?” Angelo asked.

“I'm not sure.”

The DiNapolis dropped me off at my apartment. I waved good-bye and noticed that Stella's car was gone. Maybe she was at the wake. Even if she wasn't, if I wanted to find out more about Margaret and who might have killed her, this was my opportunity. I also wanted to talk to the woman who had said I had my nerve showing up at the viewing. What could that have been about?

Chapter 12

The parking lot at Gillganins was jammed. I didn't see Stella's car, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. I parked off to the side, near a Dumpster. As I walked into Gillganins, my phone chimed. It was a picture of my backside. The message said,
Sexy boots!
I didn't bother to turn to see who was behind me. I ran as fast as my sexy boots would take me. It was dark, and amazingly quiet out here. I trotted into the bar and ran into Kathy Brasheler, who was coming out. Her husband was retired air force, and they lived in Bedford.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She looked over my shoulder. “Did something scare you?”

“Fine. Just cold. How are you?” I asked. I jammed my hands into my coat pockets so she wouldn't see them shaking.

She said, “Good, except for a headache from the noise in there.” She pointed back toward the bar. It sounded like an Irish jig was playing. Hands clapped in time, and there was raucous laughter. “If I didn't have to volunteer tomorrow, I'd stay.”

“Are you still volunteering at Orchard House?” Louisa May Alcott wrote
Little Women
and many other books while living there.

“I am.” We heard another burst of laughter. “You'd think everyone thought Margaret could still do them a favor. Or maybe they're relieved because they don't owe her one.” Before I could ask her what she meant by that, a car horn tooted behind me. “There's my husband. Have fun.”

After hanging my coat up on a rack, I plunged into the crowd, edged around a group of people, and then made my way to the bar. It was five deep, but I managed to wiggle my way through and land right in front of a bartender.

“I'll have a gin and tonic, extra lime,” I said.

“Add her to my tab.”
Seth.
I turned, and he was right beside me, one elbow leaning on the bar, a cosmo set in front of him. His comment to the bartender was an exact repeat of the first words he'd said to me the night we met. I couldn't believe he remembered them and that he had that same cocky grin.

“It's an open bar,” the bartender said.

“It's not necessary. I can pay for my own drinks,” I told the bartender, saying the first words I'd ever spoken to Seth. I smiled in spite of myself and the scare I'd just had.

The bartender shook his head. “It's an
open bar
. No money required.” He made my gin and tonic and handed it to me. I took a healthy swig.

“What is someone like you doing alone in a place like this?” Seth asked. He managed to look sincere as he spoke, but a little gleam in his eye gave him away.

I turned to face him. His white dress shirt, open at the collar, strained across his muscular chest and forearms. It made me think of the other night, when I'd seen him without his shirt. Warmth spread through me. It wasn't because of the gin, but because Seth had remembered our conversation from the night we met. It didn't seem like something most men would do. Then again, Seth was no ordinary guy.

“Really? That's the best you can do?” I asked him. “That's your opening line?” I was amazed I remembered our conversation so clearly. But it had been a monumental evening for me, the first time I'd been out alone after CJ and I separated. Seth had been there celebrating his appointment to fill in for the ailing district attorney.

“You got something better?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, repeating our first conversation, too.

“So let's hear it.”

“What?” I took another sip of my drink to hide my smile.

“Your line. You said you had something better. I want to hear it.” He grinned again, which highlighted his sturdy jaw.

“What are you doing for Patriots' Day?” We smiled at each other. My heart felt like it was melting. CJ had been so distant lately, and Seth so lovely.
Why have I been having such a hard time deciding who I want to have a relationship with?
The choice seemed more obvious every minute.

Seth leaned in close. His spicy aftershave wafted off his warm skin. I breathed it in, thinking once again that every man in America should be mandated to wear this stuff. “You think that's a better line?” he asked.

I smiled. “And you shouldn't make assumptions that I'm alone. My friends might be in the back.” I waved a hand toward a corner of the bar.

Seth glanced over his shoulder. A bunch of pimpled adolescents were playing video games. The first time it had been bikers playing pool. “You're going with those guys are your friends?”

“They could be.” At this point on the first night we'd met, his buddies had come and pulled him away from me, but tonight would be different.

“Seth,” a pouty voice said. I turned to see a tall, slender woman dressed in a fitted black suit standing next to us. “Did you get my cosmo?”

That explained Seth's drink. I should have realized it wasn't for him. My melting heart shored up a bit. Of course he wasn't alone. Why would he be? And here I had thought my choice seemed so clear.

Seth handed her the drink, and she linked her arm through his. “This is Nichole More. Margaret's granddaughter.”

I said hello and realized I'd seen her in pictures with Seth over the past few months. I tried to remember what the society page had said about her. I think she was a lawyer, too, but unlike Seth, she was a defense attorney. They must have some interesting discussions. Her suit looked expensive, her hair glistened even in the dim light, and she stood about two inches taller than Seth. She looked like a model, even though I knew she wasn't one.

“You'll have to excuse us,” Nichole said to me. “Seth, my mom is insisting she needs to ask you something.” She tugged on his arm. Good heavens. Would he buy such a blatant made-up line?

“Okay,” he said.

Yup, I guess he would.

As he moved past, he whispered, “I'll be back. Wait for me.”

I wasn't the waiting kind of girl anymore, so as soon as they left, I took off in the other direction, trying to ignore the jealous thoughts darting around my head. I hoped to find the woman who'd told me I had my nerve attending the viewing, so I could ask someone who she was. But she was nowhere to be found. I chatted with a few people as I moved around the increasingly tipsy crowd. But there were a lot of people I didn't recognize, and they all looked wealthy. I headed for the door. Just before I opened it, a hand grabbed mine.
Seth.