A Fatal Fleece by Sally Goldenbaum Page B

talked, and the smile coming from her eyes told Nell that whatever concerns about Nick that she might have had earlier in the day, she’d put them to rest. At least for now.
    They moved to the edge of the veranda, a reasonable distance from the beat of Andy’s drums, Pete’s guitar, and Merry’s keyboard, and looked out over the sweep of green lawn that sloped to the water’s edge.
    Tiny solar lights lit the pathway, and at its end, Sal Scaglia stood alone on the dock, a drink in his hand, looking out across the water through his horn-rimmed glasses. Escaping, Nell suspected. He was a dutiful husband, but one more comfortable managing the dusty, solitary Registrar of Deeds’ annex than hosting a cocktail party. He stood near his brand-new yacht, not large, but equipped with every gadget known to man, Beatrice had told her recently. And Nell knew, as they all did, that the yacht was a gift to Sal from his wife. A well-deserved gift, many thought to themselves, for his patience and loyalty and willingness to always take a backseat to the vivacious Beatrice.
    Chief Jerry Thompson and his date sauntered down to the dock, and Sal turned toward them, adjusting his glasses as he shifted into his role as Beatrice’s husband, smiling, welcoming, gracious. He motioned toward the new boat with the luminous blue sides, moored at the dock next to a small speedboat. And in the next frame, he was offering Sea Harbor’s well-loved police chief a quick spin around the cove.
    The sky was nearly dark now, and in the distance, just over a hill of granite and around a bend, the lights of Canary Cove Art Colony lit up the horizon. On the Scaglia veranda, the music picked up and the patio filled with moving bodies.
    Beatrice was everywhere, encouraging tours of her home, engaging in conversations with the mayor and council members, embracing guests before they walked to their cars. When she took off her shoes and joined the crowd on the dance floor, Ben suggested it might be a perfect time to slip out.
    “Need a ride?” he asked Birdie as they moved toward the foyer.
    “I do,” Birdie said, looking at Izzy and Sam out on the dance floor. “My chauffeurs are otherwise occupied.”
    Mary Pisano was standing near the door in the shadow of her husband, Max, a giant bear of a man who was digging into his pockets for car keys.
    “A wonderful party,” she said. “Have you ever seen a fisherman dance as well as my Max?”
    “Never,” Nell said.
    “And I’d guess a party like this one provides you with at least a week’s worth of ‘About Town’ columns,” Ben said.
    Big Max guffawed. “Make that a month’s worth. Mary doesn’t miss a thing.”
    Mary simply smiled and patted a giant purse that didn’t quite hide her yellow pad. “But where’s Nicholas? I thought you’d bring that handsome hunk along for everyone to admire. I might have gotten some juicy comments.”
    Birdie tsked away Mary’s comment, then gave the columnist-turned-innkeeper a quick hug. “He had plans tonight, dear, but I do want to thank you. Nick thinks the Ravenswood B and B is the finest in the land. I suspect it was your hospitality as much as anything that helped us convince him to spend a few more days here.”
    Mary looked puzzled. Then she broke into laughter. “Talk him into it? No way.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean that no one talked Nick Marietti into anything. He called me on his way back from Italy to see if I would hold a room for him. He said he’d be staying a few days, maybe as long as a week. Business and pleasure, he said—rather cryptically, I thought. That handsome Italian is playing games with you, Birdie.”

Chapter 11
    S undays were made for breakfasts at the Sweet Petunia, a tradition Ben Endicott held close to his heart. It was the one day Nell allowed whole eggs—and sometimes a sausage or two—to enter into her husband’s diet. A minor heart attack some years before had provided the couple both an excuse to cut