Murder in Merino (5 page)

I
t was a weekend that began and ended with Jules Ainsley. Friday night, then Sunday. Like bookends. Or at least that was what stayed in Izzy’s and Nell’s memory when they tried to make sense of everything later.

Ben and Sam had arranged the evening—a treat for their wives, they’d said. Reservations for four at the Ocean’s Edge.

A double date, Sam called it, and he refused to let Izzy say no.

Cass had been begging for a night with Abigail. She wanted the baby all to herself, and she agreed with Sam that he and Izzy needed a night away.

Izzy didn’t think she needed any such thing, but she was overruled.

And they were probably right, she confessed to Nell as they walked up the steps to the restaurant. As much as she hated leaving Abby, it was nice to put on a new silky dress, to brush her hair, to feel sexy. Yes, to be on a date with Sam.

As always, the seaside restaurant was packed inside and out. A large covered deck and outdoor bar wrapped around three sides and hung out over the water, inviting waves and horn blasts from passing boats. A narrow flight of stairs led down to a dock for the water taxi that brought people over from Rockport, Annisquam, and other parts of Gloucester. The driver, amiable and flexible, was willing to go anywhere his boat could get to.

The restaurant’s interior was slightly more formal, the large, angular space filled with comfortable leather booths and white-clothed tables, with a wall-to-ceiling stone fireplace in the center, maritime sculptures, and tall, leafy plants that made the spacious room seem private and intimate.

Jeffrey Meara was at his customary post at the end of the bar, directing waiters, greeting newcomers, and shaking a blunt finger at one of the busboys. Jeffrey always dressed for the job, a bow tie and crisp white shirt. But his signature pieces were the knit vests he wore nearly every day, all knit by the woman in his life, his wife, Maeve. Today it was a soft merino vest the color of butter.

Nell waved but the bartender didn’t see her. His brows were pulled together, his eyes glaring at a busboy texting on his cell phone.

“Whasmattayou?” he mouthed at the young man, then pointed to a table near the bar, empty of people but crowded with dirty plates, scrunched-up napkins, and a tablecloth stained with wine and coffee. Jeffrey jabbed the air with his index finger, as if the busboy were right in front of him and he was poking him severely in the chest. Then he pointed to the table again.

Nell could read his lips, hear the words inside her head, ones that sent the man backing up against the wall. She imagined the busboy now shaking as he sought release from Jeffrey’s stare, wondering how long he’d be employed.

When people talked about “the Bartender” at the Edge, everyone knew they meant Jeffrey Meara, even though Jeffrey had become one of the restaurant’s owners and there were plenty of other bartenders on staff. According to those in the know, he was the one who kept the restaurant on the Best North Shore Restaurants list. Co-owner. Bartender. Manager. But his favorite spot would always be behind the well-polished walnut bar, greeting his regulars. Seeing him in this other, more recent role of owner always surprised Nell, and didn’t fit in comfortably with the Jeffrey she knew.

He turned away from the offending busboy and noticed Nell and Izzy watching him. The glower disappeared immediately, the wide smile returned, and he walked over, greeting each of them effusively.

Izzy touched the vest gently with the tips of her fingers. “The finest merino your money can buy, Jeffrey. Maeve knit this in my shop’s back room and we all lusted after it.”

Jeffrey’s smile grew soft. “That’s my Maeve.” Then he looked around and motioned with a wave of his hand. “Can you believe this place tonight? Too many things going on. I need four of me.” He laughed, then grew serious. “Here’s the thing—here’s what I need to say to you. There’s a small glitch in your reservations.” His perfect Cape Ann accent gave the words an interesting twist as the
r
’s disappeared. “But because you both are so beautiful—and because your table isn’t ready yet—I have a special deal for you. My unique, irresistible Cape Ann autumn cocktail is being prepared for you as we speak—and for the gentlemen, too—compliments of Jeffrey.” He patted his chest and lifted his bushy brows in his best Danny DeVito style as he looked from one woman to the other.

“There’s no need for that, Jeffrey.”

“Of course there is, Nell,” he said, stopping her words with his raised hands. “And you will love it. It will bring the blush of summer back to those amazing cheekbones. I call it the Forbidden Apple. Hand-pressed apple cider from Russell Orchards, fresh lemon juice, the finest Macallan oak whiskey, and a couple other things I’ll take with me to my grave.” A blunt finger went to his lips.

Sam walked up at the mention of Macallan’s. “Count me in, whatever it is you’re talking about. And no need to hurry with the table.” He grinned, shaking Jeffrey’s hand and straddling a barstool. He looked closer at the bartender. “Hey, what gives? You look tired, Jeffrey. Not an attractive look for you. Summer’s gone; fall is the easy time. Lighten up, buddy.”

Jeffrey guffawed. “That’s all you know, Perry. Spend a day walking in these shoes.” But the photographer had drawn a smile from the older man and his shoulders lost their rigid stance.

Ben walked in, the mayor and his wife right behind him. “What’s this I hear? A special Meara drink? I’m in.”

The mayor glanced over at Jeffrey. He nodded a greeting. “Jeffo,” he said.

Jeffrey answered with the same slight nod. “Sage,” he said.

Nell looked from the mayor to the bartender. “Sage? Jeffo? It sounds a little vaudevillian.”

Karen offered the explanation. “Those are nicknames from a long, long time ago—in a galaxy far away.” She looked at Stan, then back to the others. “I think they started in high school.”

“High school? Where?” Sam asked.

“Our own Sea Harbor High, home of the Cool Cods,” Karen said.

“Cool Cods, that’s great,” Sam said.

“I sometimes forget that people were actually born here,” Izzy said.

“Still are,” Ben said. “Abigail Kathleen Perry being one of those very special folks.”

Izzy laughed. “You got me there.”

“There are lots of us,” Karen said.

“Yeah,” Jeffrey said. “Some of us stayed. Some—like old Sage here—went away to Yale, got himself a law degree.”

“But then he came back,” Karen reminded him.

Nell looked up at the hint of criticism in Karen’s voice, but it was quickly replaced with a smile. Karen was always diplomatic. The perfect political wife.

Stan stood back as he often did in social settings, watching from the sidelines as Karen took over. He was alone with his thoughts, his face showing little emotion. Ben said he had perfected a politician’s best weapon: hiding thoughts and emotions from crowds that were ready to pounce on them, the media eager to interpret and analyze them. Stan Hanson was difficult to read and it served him well.

Karen served him well, too. She was a plain woman, a contrast to her handsome, silver-haired husband, but always perfectly attired. Tonight the simple black dress, pendant, and diamond stud earrings she always wore blended perfectly with Stan’s more relaxed slacks and jacket. She had emerged, some said, from a quiet, mousy woman to one who used the power her money brought to propel her husband into the political arena.

“Jeffrey almost went to Yale, too,” she said. “They were all very intelligent. The brainy Three Musketeers, we called them.”

The bartender frowned in displeasure at the talk of his teen- age past and concentrated on wiping an imaginary water spot from the bar.

“So tell us about this drink,” Ben said, easing into a topic Jeffrey might be more comfortable with.

Appreciative, the bartender launched into the origin of the Forbidden Apple, expounding on the health benefits of apples.

“So you’re saying it’s a health-food drink?” Sam laughed.

Jeffrey leaned in and lowered his voice. “It convinces some of the older crowd. No matter that the whiskey will curl the hair on their chests.”

Nell half listened as the drinks were passed around. She watched the homebred bartender. The lines on his forehead relaxed as he talked about the special drinks he concocted for his customers, clearly more comfortable in his present than in his past.

But it was his past that intrigued her. He turned down Yale?

She was as guilty as Izzy of sometimes forgetting that—because she and Ben, Izzy and Sam, the Brewsters, and other friends weren’t Cape Ann natives—there were those who had lived their entire lives on the rocky cape that jutted out into the Atlantic. Some went away for school or training, and then returned to live out their lives on the shore, just as their parents and grandparents and sometimes great-grandparents had done before them.

Cass and her family, the Garozzos and Wootens, the Brandleys and Palazolas, Stan and Karen Hanson, and so many others.

People were born here. People lived their whole lives here. And people died here.

She looked over at Stan, polished and handsome, his silvery hair thick and smooth. And across the bar from him, Jeffrey Meara, short and slightly overweight, with tufts of what little hair he had left sticking out at odd angles. One man with a Yale law degree, an accomplished civic leader. The other, a bartender his entire life. The smartest student in the high school class, if Karen was correct.

She looked back and forth between the two men. She knew Stan from social and civic events. Ben considered him a friend. And everyone knew Jeffrey. But she knew little about either man’s past. Had they been high school friends? Nell couldn’t tell. Stan’s face revealed little, and Jeffrey had clearly skirted the conversation. Nor had their nickname greeting to each other seemed overly friendly.

Finally Jeffrey eased away from his guests, sliding a bowl of peanuts and a basket of mozzarella sticks their way. With stubby fingers he straightened his bow tie and moved into the entry, greeting incoming diners, all the while keeping his eye on the kitchen door, the waiters, the busboys, the bartenders.

He did everything at the same time, like the conductor of a well-rehearsed symphony orchestra.

But from the look on his face, the expected harmony and the seamless service weren’t pleasing him tonight. Worry lines—angry ones?—once again marred the forehead of the usually mild-mannered man.

The hostess moved over to the group, interrupting Nell’s thoughts. The young woman apologized for the wait, then led them across the room and around a corner to a table for four, elegantly set near the wide glass doors that opened to the outdoor dining area. A slight breeze ruffled the edges of the white tablecloth and the salty tang of the sea mixed with the enticing aromas of seafood and garlicky vegetables.

Stan and Karen waved as they walked by, following the hostess to an intimate table on the other side of the fireplace.

“It’s nice those two manage to find alone time,” Ben said. “A political campaign can’t be easy on a marriage.”

“If a baby makes spending time with your woman so difficult, imagine what a political campaign would do,” Sam said. He wrapped an arm around Izzy’s shoulder, edged her closer, and kissed her lightly.

“Your
woman
?” Izzy wrinkled her nose and pulled away. Then she moved in and kissed him back. “Okay, Perry. You were right. We needed a night out.” She sighed and looked down the front of her dress. “This is nice—and so far no leaky milk stains.”

“And so is this,” Ben said, nodding with pleasure at the platter of calamari, shrimp, and chunks of sweet lobster that the waitress was setting down in front of them. Crocks of spicy red sauce and lemon butter were next.

Somewhere in the distance, a band began to play. Not Pete Halloran’s band, but a nice jazz combo, filling the ocean air with horns and percussion, the mellow sounds of a piano keeping the rhythm of old familiar pieces. The drinks, the music, and the taste of perfectly prepared seafood quieted the conversation into a comfortable lull, with the pleasure of each other’s company, the breeze from the sea, and friendship wrapping around them like a soft merino blanket.

They were nearly finished with the chef’s special—crispy sautéed cod with a bright green chimichurri sauce—when Izzy declared her legs in need of stretching. She pushed back her chair.

Sam looked at his wife, one brow lifted. “Izzy, Cass will handle things just fine.”

“Shush, Sam,” Nell said, slipping off her chair. “I’ll go with you, Izzy. I’m a bit stiff, too.”

Izzy had her phone out before they reached the restaurant lobby. “Cass is wonderful with Abby. I know she is, Aunt Nell. It’s just—”

“Izzy, just call. Cass will wonder about your mothering skills if you don’t. I’m off to the ladies’ room. I’ll meet you here in a few minutes.” Nell walked down a narrow hallway opposite the bar, passed the partially opened door to the restaurant offices, and retreated to the restrooms beyond.

A few minutes later she emerged to the sound of angry voices. Suddenly the hallway seemed smaller, narrower, but there was no one in sight.

“You’re a crazy man, Meara!” The voice, coming from the office suites, was low and threatening. “I warned you about this one. It’s going to have consequences. Fogarty was a decent supplier and he’s furious—he’d like to kill you, given a chance, not to mention the two guys you fired this week. You’re going to regret this—mark my words. You’ll run us into the ground, you damn fool, and I won’t stand for it.”

The voice was familiar, but one that at that moment Nell had no desire to connect to a person. She hurried down the hallway, eager to pass the office suites before anyone came out.

But she was three steps too late. A tall shadow backed into the hallway, blocking her way.

Nell stopped short. She took a step backward.

The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a sprinkling of gray hair mixed into the brown. The stance and head of hair were both familiar.

Don Wooten turned and stared at her, as if she had somehow dropped from the sky. Quickly he regained his composure. “Hi, Nell. Good to see you.”