Murder in Merino (22 page)

“Here’s something that’s been bothering me . . .” Nell began. She hesitated for a minute, and then went on. “I know the police have asked you a zillion questions, but are you up for one more?”

“From you, yes. I’m not sure there are any new questions, but maybe you can find something in my answers that the police might have missed. I think . . . I think it’s difficult to interpret what I say without the glove in my car somehow creeping into the picture and coloring it shades of ‘she’s guilty.’ Tommy Porter tries to see beyond it, I can tell. Tries to listen. But even for him it’s difficult. That glove grows larger than life.”

Izzy frowned. “The glove. Wait a minute.” She was in and out of the shed in a split second, holding the striped glove in her hand. “This is the right-hand glove.”

For a second her comment fell on deaf ears. Then Jules raised her hand and stared at it. “I’m right-handed.”

Nell looked at Jules, then the glove in Izzy’s hand. “And whoever used the other glove probably wasn’t.”

Another thought followed immediately and Nell pushed it to the back of her mind, to a dark corner, along with the hope that she wouldn’t have to bring it out again.

Garrett Barros used only binoculars with a modified controller for lefties.

“The glove they found was dirty, messy. I suppose they could say a right-handed person could have grabbed it, forced it on.”

“But it wouldn’t give the person a good grip on a knife. It would have been clumsy,” Jane said. “The Kevlar gloves I use when firing in the raku kiln are larger than garden gloves, but even so I have to have them on the correct hand or my fingers would be twisted and I could drop a pot.”

Jules looked over at the glove, as if it were somehow her friend. “I don’t know if the police have thought about the glove thing—no one asked me if I was right- or left-handed. But it doesn’t matter—I know the truth. And I think the glove does, too.” She forced a smile. “Was that your question, Nell?”

“No, but I’d like to pass the glove along to the police. Maybe have Ben take it over.” She took it from Izzy and dropped it into her bag. “I think all these things will add up to a whole. And the whole will lead us to the right person.”

Birdie had been standing at the edge of the incline, listening and looking out over the sea. She turned and walked back to the edge of the porch. “Jules, I’m wondering about the phone call you got from Jeffrey that day. Did you talk about where you’d meet?”

Jules turned the question over in her mind. “I don’t think we were specific,” she said finally. “He knew I was going to an open house on Ridge Road, but didn’t even ask the address. He said he knew the house.”

“He knew this house?” Nell asked.

Jules nodded. “I didn’t think much about it at the time, but . . .”

“But . . . ?” Birdie said. “Did he say anything else?”

“Now that I think back over the conversation, he didn’t ‘know’ the house because he’d driven past it or anything like that. He made it sound more intimate. Like he knew the house well. I wonder if he ever lived here?”

Izzy looked around. “It’s possible. But I bought it from a young couple, not the Mearas.”

“Did Jeffrey say he’d meet you in the backyard?” Nell asked.

Jules frowned. “I think he just said ‘at the house.’ But the one thing we were very clear on was the time. Twenty minutes before the open house. I was adamant about it because I’d told Stella I’d be here as it started.” She looked slightly embarrassed. “I wanted to challenge any competition, I guess. I don’t know how, maybe point out the house’s failings, pretend I saw rats.” She laughed. “I was determined this house would be mine.”

“Why was that odd—about the time, I mean?” Izzy asked.

“He didn’t need much time, he said, but he wanted to get it off his mind. And it was something I should know. He could sneak away from work for twenty minutes, which was all he needed. So that was how I set the time. Twenty minutes before the open house.

“But then I decided I’d get here earlier and look around the house by myself, the back, the view of the water, the porch. I hadn’t had a chance to really get a good look, and I wanted some time alone before the open house. Strange, I know. But you can’t always explain emotion . . . and that’s what was driving me. So I got here a full half hour before Jeffrey was supposed to show up.”

“And he was already here,” Nell said.

“And already dead,” Birdie finished.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, and completely devoid of answers.

Finally Jane said, “I think we need something lovely to cleanse our palates.”

Jules brightened. “Like my mother’s painting.”

“Exactly.”

They went through the cheery kitchen and into the den, where Jules had done some more decorating. Cheerful geometric-patterned pillows filled the leather couch, and a new piece of furniture had been added. The chair, upholstered in a bright green, yellow, and rose print, filled a corner of the room. Beside it, a reading lamp and small table invited a cup of tea, a book, and a warm body.

Jane immediately went over to the painting. She got as close as she could, then stepped away, to take in the watery nuances, the play of light and shadow. “Your mother was talented,” she said softly. “This is lovely. Ham will want to see it, too—he’s the watercolor expert. But I know enough.” She looked back at the painting. “It was probably midday when she painted it, I think. And late summer, from the way she painted the light. You mentioned that you had others?”

“Two. I got them out when I knew you were coming, but I had forgotten the terrible shape they were in. My mother hadn’t framed them.” She untied a brown portfolio case leaning against the desk and pulled out two more paintings, the same size as the one on the wall, and placed them on the desk.

They all gathered around and peered at the hazy images that shined through decades of dust and grime.

“I think both paintings are of the house, but it’s hard to tell. I was afraid to touch them. I thought water would probably ruin them.”

Jane was quick to agree. “Absolutely don’t touch them. Ham can clean these. He’s magnificent at many things, and restoring old watercolor paintings is one of them.”

They looked carefully at both paintings. Glimpses of color came through, the same blues and greens.

Light came through.

Jules’s mother had been happy.

I
f she hadn’t run into Stella Palazola the next day, Nell might have completely forgotten about the odd comment Jeffrey Meara had made to Jules about her new house. And Izzy’s house. And Cass’s, too, for a while, anyway. A small home that melted into the Sea Harbor terrain as easily as sand castles.

A simple house that might have remained simple, if Jeffrey Meara hadn’t been murdered in its backyard.

A house,
Jeffrey had said,
that he knew well.

Seeing Stella brought Jeffrey’s comment to mind, and when Nell spotted her walking toward her office, she motioned for her to wait, then hurried across the street, narrowly avoiding Tommy Porter’s cruiser.

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

Stella’s smile was contagious, matched only by her renewed enthusiasm for her job. When she heard what Nell wanted to know, she nearly puffed up with pleasure. “Absolutely. I know exactly what to do. Sometimes the info is available online, but I might have to go to the courthouse—we learned all about it in school. I will find you everything you want to know, and maybe more. I’m on it.”

Nell had no doubt that she was.

She walked back across the street feeling somehow like she was the one who was doing the favor. She turned and watched Stella fairly bouncing through the door on her way up to the real estate office. Stella would soon be Sea Harbor’s top Realtor—there was no doubt about it. She was a young woman who knew her own mind. And she knew other people’s minds, too. That was her secret.

The class Izzy was teaching on finishing knitting projects had already begun when Nell walked in. She had promised to be there in case Izzy needed help in working with individuals, although help in finishing sweaters was not exactly her strong suit. She approached each finishing project with fear and determination. Sometimes the determination won.

There were about a dozen people in this class, small enough that Izzy didn’t really need her, but she liked being there, she enjoyed watching her niece teach, and she had carved out that hour, so she would stay.

She stood on the top step and looked around. It was a new crowd, new college graduates doing jobs they didn’t go to college for—people who worked shifts. Hospitals. Restaurants. Yacht clubs. Galleries. Earnest young people who would someday move on to other jobs, maybe even in their college majors. And in the meantime, they were learning in the trenches, as her mother used to say. And that wasn’t always a bad thing, in Nell’s opinion.

She noticed the pretty Ocean’s Edge hostess Jeffrey had hired that summer sitting with a woman who was now working with Rebecca Early at her Lampworks Gallery. And another who waitressed at Merry’s bar and grill. They had good role models, Nell thought. Tyler Gibson, Rebecca Early, and Merry Jackson. They would learn and achieve and move on to their chosen professions with tools they might not have gotten otherwise. Sometimes life worked out that way.

When the class came to an end, Izzy invited people to stay if they had questions or needed extra help. She gestured to where her aunt was standing and told people Aunt Nell would be happy to help, too.

As several people gathered around Izzy, the hostess from the Ocean’s Edge approached Nell, her almost finished sweater in her hands. “Mrs. Endicott?” she said.

Nell smiled and said, “Call me Nell.” She complimented her on the cable sweater, finished except for the side seams and a button panel.

“I’m Grace,” the young woman said. “I’ve seen you at the Edge.”

“Of course. Grace Danvers, right? I know your mother and your cousin Laura—and I know that Jeffrey Meara hired you. He introduced us once, and then bragged to me about you, saying that he had hired the best and the brightest.”

Grace blushed. “Mr. Meara was a good guy. He liked that I had a degree in philosophy. Sometimes on breaks we’d argue about Plato’s dialogues. He was really into the
Euthyphro
—that’s what we were pulling apart that week, that week when he died. Trying to figure out if
Euthyphro
should have done what he did, turning his dad in like that. Even though
Euthyphro
thought his father had done something bad, should he have let it slide for the sake of the relationship? he’d ask me. He liked all those ethical dilemmas. I did, too. The philosopher bartender, I teased him. He knew how to make the philosophers—like Plato—real. He would have been a great teacher.”

Nell took the sweater and spread it out on the table, showing her how to line up the seams. “I agree. Jeffrey was very smart. And nice. But not all the staff saw that side of him. If I remember correctly, you called some of them out the day of his funeral.”

Grace looked down at her sweater and smoothed down a cable. “You’re right. Some of the staff didn’t like him much. Jeffrey fired some guys, but it was because they were screwing around. Mr. Wooten hired them back—he just didn’t want the repercussions from the families around here, but he made them go through extra training. Probably a good thing.”

“Grace, were you working the day Jeffrey died?”

She nodded. “I remember it because we were really busy that day.”

“Why is that?”

“It was a Friday, and that day is always busy. Plus, the mayor was talking to the women’s guild in the private dining room. Also, we had to close the outdoor dining room because of the weather, so we were crowded and had to shove tables together to accommodate a couple large groups. The Ravenswood B and B staff was here, I remember—Mrs. Pisano treats them to lunch once a month. The gardeners, maids, decorators, painters—you name it, everyone. One time she had so many people we had to put them in the private dining room. She didn’t have that many the Friday we’re talking about, though—it was kind of a small group. Anyway, she’s another one of the good guys.”

Nell smiled. Young Grace was a fine judge of character. “But Jeffrey left that afternoon, even though you were busy?”

She nodded. “But he said it’d just be thirty minutes, max. When he found out his meeting was moved up, he was mad at first, but then decided it’d be okay—he’d be back in time for the dinner crowd.”

“His appointment was moved up?”

“Someone called the front desk and left a message for him. I gave it to him myself.”

“Do you know who called?”

“I assumed it was the woman he was meeting, Julia Ainsley—the one—” She stopped, then dropped her thought and said, “But I don’t know. Somebody else took the message and gave it to me.”

“Did Garrett take the message?”

“Garrett Barros? Oh, no, no.” She answered as if to say,
Of course not,
but was avoiding being rude. “It was another hostess, I think. She asked me to give it to Jeffrey. So I did. And then—I don’t know why I did it, but I stood there and I watched him leave that day. Watched him rush down the steps and off to his car. He turned back once, saw me watching him, and waved. And then he was gone.”

Her eyes fell to the sweater again, and she cleared her throat, then quickly wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. “I miss him, you know?”

•   •   •

They had already finished their Thursday-night meal at the yarn shop—lobster corn chowder with a generous splash of sherry added to the potatoes, vegetables, bacon, and chunks of fresh lobster.

Comfort food, Nell said.

Knitting needles filled the coffee table, along with carefully cleaned spaces to rest the sections of the anniversary afghan.

It was nearly finished.

“It’s beautiful,” Nell whispered. “Every inch of it, every single stitch.” She touched the zigzag cables on one of the pieces and thought of Ben, of their life. Walking together through all the curves and winding paths. Moving on. Together. Izzy had it all here in knits and purls, cables and lacy hearts. Their life together.

A loud rapping at the side door brought her out of her reverie and Izzy scrambled across the room.

Stella Palazola stood in the doorway. “Hi, guys,” she said. “I came out of my office and realized it was Thursday. Perfect, I said. They’ll all be over there in the back room knitting up a storm, and here you are.” She flapped several pieces of paper in the air.

“What’s up, Stella?” Izzy asked, her eyes on the moving pieces of paper.

“It’s for Nell.” She looked across the room and grinned. “Told you I’d get it all. And more.”

“Stella, you’re wonderful.” Nell walked over and gave her a hug. “Thank you.”

“And now I’m out of here. I have a big date. Ty Gibson. Who would have thought he’d ever look at me?” She laughed, completely unaware that over the years she had left the gawky teenager with braces behind and morphed into a lovely young woman. Stella was neither fat nor thin, neither ravishing nor unattractive. But her personality transformed the ordinariness into a presence that no one could overlook. Stella brightened up a room. As Harry Garozzo said recently, “From head to toe, our grown-up Stella is simply
bella
.”

“He’d be crazy not to look at Stella,” Cass said as the door slammed shut behind her. “She’s definitely a keeper. Now what did she bring you?”

They settled back into the chairs around the fireplace and Nell put on her reading glasses. “Jules told us that when Jeffrey called her that day, he didn’t need directions to the house. He knew it well, he said.”

“But in a personal way, right? Like maybe he had visited someone there?” Izzy said.

“Or even lived there himself maybe. That house is old,” Birdie said.

“Exactly. I don’t know how it all connects together, but there aren’t any real coincidences when you’re trying to find a murderer. So here we have these two things lining up beside each other: Jeffrey wanting to talk to Jules. Jules wanting to buy a house that Jeffrey knew well. So I asked Stella to put together a history of the house for me.”

She looked down and began reading the information on the top sheet. “And you’re right, Birdie. The house is old. Over a hundred years. I suppose we knew that when Izzy bought it, but I’d forgotten.”

“Although that’s not terribly unusual for this area,” Birdie added.

Nell scanned the sheet, her finger moving from line to line. “The little Ridge Road neighborhood was part of a fishing community. Not the fleet captains, but the crew. They couldn’t afford widow’s walks on their homes, so they built homes up on that hill, where they could look out to sea, waiting for the boats to come in.” She paused and skipped over some mundane facts. Stella had been quite complete in her task.

“It looks like houses changed hands every few decades, and then in the fifties Jules’s house, along with some others, were bought by families who modernized them and used them as vacation homes. Actually, it looks like a Sea Harbor family owned this house, but they had another house they lived in. The Brogans.” She looked up and took off her glasses. “Does that name sound familiar, Birdie?”

Birdie wrinkled her forehead. “Hmm. Yes. There was a Brogan family. I think it was
James
Brogan. He owned some companies in Boston, but he had a huge house over near Elliott Danvers on the Point. Quite enormous. No one knew them well because they spent most of their time in the city, although the mansion here was supposed to be their primary residence. They were an older couple.”

“Kids?” Cass asked.

“I think so. Raised here, probably by servants.”

Nell looked back at the sheet. “They owned the Ridge Road house from the fifties until . . .” She took off her glasses and looked up. “Until the year that Jules Ainsley was born.”

They sat quietly, processing the time frame in their heads.

Izzy spoke up, detailing the facts. “So the house was owned by the Brogans when Jules’s mother did the painting of the house. They owned the house when Penelope Ainsley got pregnant with Jules.”

“And they sold it the next year,” Nell said. “That’s interesting.”

“I don’t see Jeffrey’s name on the list of owners, so that rules out him having lived there—at least as an owner. After the Brogans sold it, a couple lived there until they moved into retirement. And then Izzy bought it.”

“This could mean something or nothing, but it would be helpful to find out more about the Brogans.”

“I can do that easily,” Birdie said. “Tomorrow afternoon is teatime with the old gals. Someone will have the scoop.”

That brought a chuckle. It was Birdie’s affectionate description of a group of mostly wealthy Sea Harbor residents of her own generation who, like Birdie, could buy and sell the town if they so chose. They met semiregularly, though “tea” was a misnomer, that having long ago been replaced by fine sherry.

“So do we think there is something about the house itself that got Jeffrey killed?” Cass asked.

“It’s the dead man who has the answers,” Birdie said. “We need to get to know Jeffrey even better. Figure out why he wanted to talk to Jules. And if that was the reason he was killed—or was it simply where he happened to be when the murderer acted?”

Nell repeated her conversation with Grace Danvers. “Someone had called and asked Jeffrey to come early that day, before Julia got there. Perhaps someone wanted to talk to him before he talked to Jules.”

“That means someone knew he was meeting her that day—and when,” Izzy said.

“Which could have been anyone at the Edge. Jeffrey always let people know where he was going,” Nell said. “Even customers could have overheard him. Jeffrey wasn’t the quietest man in the world.”

Customers.
Nell repeated Grace’s list of groups who ate there that Friday afternoon, including Mary Pisano’s group. Looks passed around the room as they silently thought about people who might have seen Jeffrey leave that day.

“There were people at the Edge who would have been thrilled if Jeffrey hadn’t returned. Pete hangs with some of the guys he fired,” Cass said. “They were furious, especially because jobs are hard to find.”

Nell thought about Zack Levin and Ryan Arcado. And about their parents. “We’re talking about good families here,” she said. “Good people with good habits and sound values that rule their lives.”

“People break rules all the time,” Cass said.

“Those boys had already lost their jobs when Jeffrey was killed. What would they have gained by killing him?” Birdie asked.