Murder in Merino (21 page)

B
en laughed when Nell told him about the debate being planned. “There’s not much Stan can do about it now, is there?”

“He told me he was cutting back on events like this. I wonder if Karen knows about it?”

Birdie stood nearby, half listening. Her hands were flat on the stone railing of the yacht club veranda. Her look traveled beyond the terraced lawns to the carefully groomed beach. It was nearly empty tonight, even of stalwart twilight swimmers. The water temperature had finally given in to autumn, and it would be months and a new year before towels and blankets and umbrellas dotted the wide expanse of sand. North of the beach, sailboats, anchored in their slips, rocked gently in the breeze. “It’s so peaceful,” Birdie murmured. “So deceptively peaceful.”

“The lull before the storm.” Ben excused himself to check on the others, who were watching the last inning of the Sox beating the Yankees on the wide-screen television in the bar.

“Ben looks tired,” Birdie said, watching him walk away.

The terrace was nearly empty, the breeze encouraging diners to eat inside. Nell pulled a pale blue shawl around her shoulders. “Some of it doesn’t deserve sympathy. He and Sam were sailing today and this wind created quite a challenge. But the other part is concern. He isn’t as convinced that Garrett Barros is entirely harmless. I think that’s one reason he insisted Jules come with us tonight. He wanted to talk to her about it.”

Coming to the club for dessert and drinks wasn’t something Ben and Nell usually did. But tonight the management had asked board members to come to encourage attendance at their chocolate dessert night, and Ben found it difficult to explain that he’d planned an evening at home in sweats watching the ball game. Sam, too, had been recruited and was equally at a loss for an excuse. Cass, on the other hand, wouldn’t pass up a chocolate dessert buffet if her life depended on it.

They’d found Danny in the bar alone, and he had joined them for dessert. He and Cass were cordial and friendly—and distant.

“What will Ben say to Jules? Beware of the neighbor?”

“I suppose something like that. He plans to ask Jerry about him at a meeting tomorrow.”

“Game is boring.” It was Izzy, coming up behind them.

Jules and Cass trailed a few steps behind, carrying on an animated conversation. Nell was pleased to see the ease with which Cass greeted her, and the easy conversations that flowed between them during the dessert buffet.

“Try banding lobster,” Cass was saying. “I always try to get the left-handed ones.”

“You’re talking Jules into banding lobsters?” Izzy said. “Don’t do it, Jules. I almost lost a finger the first time she and Pete took me out.”

Jules laughed. “No. Cass kept knocking into me during dessert. I thought she was still huffy with me, but it turns out she’s left-handed. Now she’s trying to convince me that some lobsters are left-handed, too, and I should go out on one of her boats and see for myself.”

“Honest,” Cass said, taking in their looks of disbelief. “Some lobsters are left-handed crushers. Like me.” She clenched her jaw and left hand fiercely.

They laughed at the sight of the lobsterwoman, dressed in a silk blouse and skinny jeans, forcing a Rosie the Riveter pose. It was a contradiction that Nell often marveled at. Although Cass did much of the office work now in managing the family lobster business, for years she was out on the boats hauling in traps, checking buoys, banding lobsters—and Nell could never quite reconcile that woman with the attractive one she saw every day. Even back when Birdie had to remind Cass to shower before showing up for knitting night and make her promise not to touch a single strand of yarn until she had. She obeyed Birdie’s dictate. But she was always Cass, always the intriguing, dark-haired woman who looked less like she could tend hundreds of lobster traps than the man in the moon.

The laughter traveled across the terrace.

Don Wooten, standing with his wife a few yards away, turned around at the sound. Nell caught his look and waved them over.

“I thought it was an all-woman’s enclave,” he joked.

“It is,” Cass said. “But you’re allowed.”

“Game’s over, Sox win another,” Sam announced. He and Ben walked up to the group. Ben carried a tray with glasses and a bottle of port, another of cognac. “Coffee and Baileys are on the way,” he said.

“They’ve hired you, Endicott?” Don said. “About time you got a real job.”

“He’s in training,” Sam said. “Be patient with him.”

The mood passed through the group, jovial and welcoming, and for a brief time they felt safe, cushioned by friends, the ocean breeze, and a sky littered with millions of stars.

How could evil exist in this place?
Nell wondered, her eyes examining the canopy above her. She looked over at Don Wooten. He looked tired, not entirely himself, but putting up a strong front. The kind that says everything is normal. Everything is good. But maybe it’s not.

When the group moved on to replaying Cass’s claim of left-handed lobsters, Nell pulled him aside. “About earlier today—”

“I’m sorry about that. Garrett was out of line.”

“I think he was trying to be helpful.”

“It’s not very helpful to spy on people. I talked to the police today. I’ve never had reason to not trust the guy, but everything needs to be checked out now. Even me.”

Nell looked at him, her brows lifting.

“You’re not surprised, Nell. You heard firsthand how Jeffrey and I got along. I know he was a tradition at the Edge, and he was loved by lots of people for good reason. But frankly, he wasn’t much of a businessman. He wasn’t a good owner. And he was a terrible partner.”

“Maybe it was just a matter of different methods, Don. Maeve said you wanted to buy him out. Is that true?”

He looked surprised. “Yes. I thought it was the only way to save the restaurant.”

“And he said no.”

“You know a lot about this, Nell.” His tone had changed, his words defensive.

Nell was quiet.

“Yes, you’re right. He said no. I think in time he’d have changed his mind.” He looked out over the sea, took a drink of the brandy Ben had handed him, and looked back at Nell. “Jeffrey and I did things differently. He changed when he became an owner. He thought he had to make strong decisions or he wasn’t carrying his weight. But his decisions were driving off some vendors and creating staff problems—and you can’t get away with that in a small town like this.”

“And he didn’t get away with it,” Nell said quietly.

Don clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath and leveled a look at her, his voice more weary now than defensive. “Nell, we’ve been friends for a long time. Do you think I could have killed Jeffrey Meara?”

Nell was saved from answering by a sudden gust of wind off the ocean, tossing napkins in the air, sending scarfs flying. “Saved by the wind,” was how she would later describe the awkward moment to the knitters.

Ben announced it was time to go, past his bedtime. An early morning was staring him in the face.

Don helped Nell untangle the shawl that had whipped around her neck. “Sorry,” he said.

Nell watched them walk away, not at all sure what her old friend was sorry for.

J
ane Brewster was dying to see Jules Ainsley’s painting. “Nell, I love you, but you don’t describe paintings well. I need to see it. And you mentioned there were others. I’d like to see those, too.”

Jane was with art the way Ben was with a new sailboat, or Cass with a new lobster buoy, or Izzy with a new knitting needle. Tools of their trade—or their passions, as the case may be. And they would drive across heaven or hell to take a peek.

“I don’t really know if it’s good. I just know I liked it very much. It was alive to me, and expressed something. As Jules said, ‘It’s a happy painting.’”

“Good. Don’t we all need a little bit of that? Wednesdays are slow days and Ham can handle things at the gallery without me for an hour or so just fine. Let me know what time is good.”

Nell hung up, checking her own calendar before going upstairs to shower.

Ben had left at the crack of dawn, or so it seemed to her. “This is retirement?” she had murmured that morning as he’d dropped kisses into her tousled hair.

They had both awakened early, reaching out for the other in the tangle of sheets. Nell wasn’t sure what woke them, whether it was the rattle of the shutters, the strong ocean breeze, or simply something more basic—a need to be together, their bodies pressed to each other. A need to be touched.

With great reluctance Ben had finally left their bed, promising he would cut back on retirement commitments the first chance he got.

But he wouldn’t do that. Of course he wouldn’t. Nell stepped into the bracing spray of the shower, smiling as the lovely morning wakeup played itself out again in the steam of the shower. He wouldn’t be Ben if he weren’t using the keen intellect she’d fallen in love with on a Harvard campus a million years ago. She’d often teased him that falling in love with him was all about the brain, the fact that he helped her through a dreadful symbolic logic course the semester they’d met. The intellect, the brain. And the kind, funny, gentle man who marched beside her in peace rallies and argued with her deep into the night about war and peace, good and evil, poverty and wealth. And the way he kissed her in the rain. Those things, too.

Wednesday was busy, but not too busy to find time for Jane. And she felt sure Jules would like the company. She had been staying close to home, Izzy told her, painting and polishing, planting flowers along the front walk. She’d joined Izzy for a few runs, but mostly in the early morning or in the evening. When beaches were empty. There were plenty of things to do getting the house up to par, but Nell knew there were other reasons, too. Not the least of which was avoiding the stares of people who were frightened of anyone whose name had been connected to a murder. Frightened, cautious, and sometimes mean. It wasn’t about fairness. It was about fear.

Birdie said she’d like to check in on Jules, too, as Nell thought she might. She had morning appointments but could be free by noon.

“Perfect.” Nell would pick up Birdie first, then a seafood salad at the Ocean’s Edge. That and a sack of sourdough rolls and they’d be set.

Besides, Nell had a question. And a stop at the Edge might satisfy more than their hunger.

The restaurant was already busy when Nell and Birdie walked in. Tyler Gibson spotted them from behind the bar. He held up a white sack with a handle.

“Our seafood salad?” Nell smiled.

“The best in the world,” Tyler said. “Shrimp, mussels, sea scallops—and not a drop of mayo in sight.” He came around the bar and gave each of them a one-armed hug. The blond bartender considered Birdie Favazza his guiding angel for reasons none of them could figure out, though Nell suspected Birdie had kept some of Tyler’s earlier indiscretions out of reach of his grandmother’s ears. For whatever reason, his loyalty knew no bounds. “I threw in some calamari, too,” he whispered to her now. He motioned for another bartender to take his place so he could talk to “two of my favorite women.”

“Thank you for not saying ‘young ladies,’ Ty,” Birdie said, her expression one of mock sternness. “I don’t despise many things in my very fine life, but that’s one of them. I am not young and don’t want to be.”

Ty laughed. “May I call you ageless? You’re definitely that.”

“That’s fine, dear. Now we need some information from you. Do you have a minute?”

“For you? Is the moon made of butter?”

Tyler’s malapropos remark was met with affectionate smiles—such remarks were one of the many things that endeared the lanky bartender to all of them. As his own grandmother often said, he wasn’t the brightest puppy in the litter, but definitely the most lovable. And certainly the best looking.

Nell scribbled down the date they were interested in on a piece of paper, and Birdie suggested to Ty where he might find the answer to their question. The young man dutifully went to the computer at the hostess station and began punching keys.

Nell could tell that the date hadn’t registered with Tyler. To him, it was a Friday. Any Friday, and that was fine. There was no need for Tyler to make inferences.

Schedule,
he typed in.
Garrett Barros.
He looked up at them while the computer was pulling up pages. “Garrett’s an okay guy. Don’t know him too well. He doesn’t hang with us. Mostly keeps to himself. But he’s cool.”

And he watches birds?
Nell wanted to ask, but instead she waited for the computer to answer their question.

“Do the owners put their schedules in the computer?” Birdie asked.

“Nah. No need. Jeffrey was always here, except when he wasn’t. And then he’d call out to someone where he was going, when he’d be back. And Don Wooten? I guess he probably put it in his own calendar—he’s really organized like that. Wants to be sure we know where he is if we need him. They both were like that in fact—made sure we could get ahold of them.”

He looked back to the computer. “Okay,” he said, pleased with himself. “I have it right here. It was Friday you wanted, right?”

Nell nodded.

“Yeah, I got it. Garrett was here that Friday morning helping to stock the meat delivery in the freezer—sometimes Jeffrey gave him crappo jobs like that, but Garrett seemed okay with it. Things like emptying garbage, cleaning out the ovens and wait stations. And it looks like he was on garbage detail after he finished with the meat.”

“And the afternoon?”

Tyler looked back at the computer. “Hmm. Looks like he left here about two. Odd time. That shift usually goes till four. But maybe Jeffrey let him go early. Sometimes he did that if we weren’t busy.”

Nell’s heart sank, and only then did she realize how much she wanted Garrett to have been safely collecting garbage or cleaning kitchen sinks or lugging beef carcasses into the freezer that whole long afternoon.

The afternoon Jeffrey Meara was killed.

•   •   •

A quick call to Izzy revealed that she was starving and would give away her very special Signature needles for a taste of the Edge’s seafood salad. Well, maybe not really. But would they please pick her up in five minutes?

Nell drove down Ridge Road and parked in front of Jules’s house. A minute later Jane Brewster pulled up behind her. They piled out of their cars and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking at the house.

“It looks different by day,” Nell said. “I swear, each time I see this house, it is more a home.”

“Where was Jules when I bought it?” Izzy wondered aloud. “I could have used her magic touch.”

A giant pot of autumn-colored mums graced the front stoop. The flagstone pathway that wound around the house had been swept clean, and debris around the Knock Out roses cleared away. Newly planted holly bushes replaced the dead evergreen shrubs and the garden was tilled with rich dark mulch.

The small mailbox was now painted a deep verdant green, matching a fresh coat on the front door and shutters. It was simple and clean and had the look an artist might bring to brightening up a home.

“I love what she’s done,” Izzy said. “Jules was right. It was an omen that she buy this house.”

Jules opened the front door. “Come in, come in, come in.” She stepped out and hugged them as they walked up the steps.

Nell and Birdie were surprised; spontaneous warmth wasn’t what they’d come to expect from Jules Ainsley. Something about this house was bringing out her softer side.

Instead of analyzing it, Jane Brewster and Izzy simply responded in kind, hugging her back. Jane looped one arm around Jules’s waist and walked into the house with her, a barrage of questions matching their footsteps.

Jane’s first request was a tour. “I’m the latecomer to all that you’ve done here. We had some great times in this house when Izzy and Cass took turns living in it,” she said, “but not since. I love getting to know people through their living spaces. Come, let me get to know you.”

Jules was only too happy to comply. She suggested they start outside and work their way in. She’d done some clearing in the back that the others hadn’t seen, either, opening the yard.

“Some clearing” proved to be a panorama. They stepped out the back door onto the porch, and looked out in amazement.

“Good grief,” Izzy said. “You must have had one powerful weed-whacker.”

“His name is Garrett, believe it or not.”

“Garrett Barros?” Nell asked. She forced a judgmental tone out of her voice. Right now, at this moment and until they knew more, Garrett Barros was the last person who should be spending time in Jules’s backyard.

Jules nodded. “He saw me out here trying to clear a view of the sea and he offered to do it for me. And voilà—isn’t it grand?”

It was grand, and then some. How he did it was a mystery, but trash trees had been pulled out, bushes pruned, the winding path that went down the hill defined and tended, roots dug out and discarded. The result was breathtaking. A million-dollar view.

The hill had just enough of a rise to provide a window to the sea. From her spot on the swing, Jules could watch sunrises and the darkening of the evening sky, the incoming tide and the rush of the water moving back out to sea.

“Stella told me the land wasn’t really a part of the property, but no one would care if I wanted to tame it.”

Izzy laughed. “For me, not owning it was a nice excuse not to spend time on it, unfortunately. I asked the city a couple times to clean it up, but they had more pressing things to spend money on, and so did I, opening up the new shop. But I never imagined how beautiful the view would be.”

“Garrett’s one strong brute of a guy and he seemed to know the land well. Where the path was, how to avoid the poison ivy.”

Nell listened carefully, but without the gratitude Jules was feeling. She looked over at Birdie and saw that she was storing the information away, hoping it meant absolutely nothing.

Jules was moving off the porch and along a stone path to the potting shed. The Knock Out roses and small shrubs hugging the sides of the building had been neatly trimmed but left in place, keeping the shed in the background.

“I haven’t done much in here,” Jules was saying, opening the door to the dank-smelling shed. “But someone used it a lot, apparently, and even put her own version of a skylight in.” They looked up to a crudely opened roof with a piece of scratched Plexiglas covering the hole. “But at least it brings in light.”

A workbench spanned one side with a pegboard above it. A smattering of garden tools hung from metal hooks and several more were scattered on the workbench. Stacks of seedling flats were piled against a wall and an old wheelbarrow and several hoses hung next to rakes and spades and shovels. There was a larger door on the other end, one big enough for a lawnmower. It hung slightly open on a broken hinge.

Izzy looked around. “The last renter left all her tools behind. She was in a hurry to get out before the rent came due.”

Nell remembered. It had been the last straw for Sam and Izzy. One too many renters skipping out on their rent and leaving a mess behind.

“Well, I’ll clean everything up and use the shed while I’m here. I love to plant.” She picked a trowel off the workbench and hung it on the pegboard.

Nell looked around. Ben had told her Jeffrey was killed inside the shed, then stumbled outside, where Jules found him. The inside area was small—a place to go for a private talk, she supposed, if that’s what Jeffrey was doing inside. It was hard to imagine any other reason, but all Jules had said was that he’d wanted to meet at the house. Why the potting shed? She looked over at the empty flats, at the tools and a garbage bin near the door. It didn’t make sense.

She turned around and watched Jules absently straightening things, piling small seed pots together and stacking several dirty gardening gloves.

Izzy looked over at the gloves. “Those orange ones were mine. They probably should be tossed.”

Jules held them up. Dried dirt fell out of the holes in the palms. “You’re right.” She dropped them in the trash bin. “That leaves three. Looks like one got lost, like socks.” She lined them up on the work surface. A pair of denim gloves and one striped one. They were all dirty, with mud and grass stuck to the cloth.

Jules shuddered.

Nell looked over. And then she remembered and knew what caused Jules to wrap her arms around herself and look away. The glove found in Jules’s car was a patterned glove, described in the article leaked to the press as a purple-and-orange-striped glove. Its mate now sat alone.

They all stared at the work top, imagining that inclement afternoon when the sky was dark with storm clouds, the makeshift skylight rattling.

The afternoon someone grabbed a glove and a garden knife from the workbench and stabbed Jeffrey Meara to death.

Jules walked quickly out of the shed and the others followed. They gathered on the porch, welcoming the cool breeze and fresh air.

Nell took a deep, cleansing breath and looked out over the sea, erasing the disturbing images. “Jules, I know remembering that day is awful for you, something you don’t want to do, but—”

“I think about it all the time, Nell. There’s only one way to get it out of my mind.”

Of course there was. Jules was right. Find the person who did this. And put them where they couldn’t hurt anyone else. It was the one thing the whole town agreed on.