Birdie said. She picked up her knit square.
"Maybe he thought he could still convince her, using a different approach. They left together, even after she'd insulted him right to his face."
In front of the room, Izzy was holding up more squares. Rebecca turned back to listen and watch.
"Pamela probably met Troy at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea," Birdie said. "The crew has been there every day."
"I wonder how well she knew him."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"You're talking about Troy."
Nell looked up.
Beatrice Scaglia was standing near a coat tree, her knitting bag hanging from her shoulder. She was pulling on a pair of leather gloves. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I heard 'blond ponytail,' and since one is living in my house, I picked up on it." Beatrice managed a smile. "What's he done?"
"Nothing, Beatrice, nothing," Nell said. She hadn't the faintest idea what Troy had done or not done, but Beatrice seemed to need an answer. "It seems your houseguest is sociable; that's all. For being a newcomer, he's meeting people just fine."
"Sociable? He's that, yes." Beatrice slipped her purse over her shoulder. "He's the youngest in his family. Spoiled rotten, if you ask me. He's gotten by so far on his looks--lots of modeling jobs when he was younger. But at thirty-five, he's getting rejected for jobs. And his temper doesn't help him through such things easily. He's a hothead. He told off a Boston agency and smashed a camera to emphasize his point. Sal and I are suggesting to him that there might be other ways to get through life, rather than relying on one's body tone and looks. Something more lasting, perhaps?"
Birdie chuckled. "That sounds like good advice. It's nice of you and Sal to help him out."
"It looks like he's lined up some jobs," Nell said. "I saw him at the old Pisano place a couple times."
Beatrice sighed. "Mary was nice to hire him. I think Sal and I are beginning to impose too heavily on our friends and neighbors--they're starting to walk the other way when they see us coming. But Mary says he's a decent painter, so I guess that's working out. But who knows what will happen now?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's going to happen to the bed-and-breakfast? Henrietta O'Neal showed up at a council meeting and accused us of taking money to allow Mary to get the ordinances she needed to fix the place up. I thought she was going to poke a hole straight through me with that walking stick of hers. The accusations are ridiculous, of course. But Henrietta can cause trouble--she's richer than sin and one of the feistiest eighty-year-olds I've ever met."
Beatrice's face colored slightly as she talked. She tapped one skinny heel on the floor nervously. "Now she's saying the place is haunted. The devil at work. That's why Pamela Pisano was murdered. The devil did it."
"Henrietta lives alone," Nell said. "It probably frightens her, the thought of murder in her own neighborhood."
"It isn't pleasant for any of us," Birdie said. "But it will be solved soon."
Beatrice's face softened in relief. Somehow, if Birdie Favazza said it would be solved soon, it would be. She pulled her keys from her purse. "Yes," she said firmly, as if nailing the coffin shut. "It will be."
Nell watched the councilwoman walk off, a wicker basket filled with an assortment of cookies hanging from one arm and her knitting bag from the other. But the usual tilt to her head was missing, and she lacked the spring in her step.
Pamela Pisano's murder was taking its toll, even in the middle of a festive Sea Harbor cookie exchange.
Chapter 12
N ell looked around the nearly empty room and pulled a broom out of Izzy's utility closet. She began sweeping up cookie crumbs and stray pieces of cut yarn.
Outside, the sky was darkening and a strong wind rattled the windows.
"I'm glad you didn't cancel the cookie exchange, Izzy, no matter what's going on around us. People enjoyed themselves, the cookies were fantastic, and Ben will be overjoyed when I walk in with
"Maybe he thought he could still convince her, using a different approach. They left together, even after she'd insulted him right to his face."
In front of the room, Izzy was holding up more squares. Rebecca turned back to listen and watch.
"Pamela probably met Troy at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea," Birdie said. "The crew has been there every day."
"I wonder how well she knew him."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"You're talking about Troy."
Nell looked up.
Beatrice Scaglia was standing near a coat tree, her knitting bag hanging from her shoulder. She was pulling on a pair of leather gloves. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I heard 'blond ponytail,' and since one is living in my house, I picked up on it." Beatrice managed a smile. "What's he done?"
"Nothing, Beatrice, nothing," Nell said. She hadn't the faintest idea what Troy had done or not done, but Beatrice seemed to need an answer. "It seems your houseguest is sociable; that's all. For being a newcomer, he's meeting people just fine."
"Sociable? He's that, yes." Beatrice slipped her purse over her shoulder. "He's the youngest in his family. Spoiled rotten, if you ask me. He's gotten by so far on his looks--lots of modeling jobs when he was younger. But at thirty-five, he's getting rejected for jobs. And his temper doesn't help him through such things easily. He's a hothead. He told off a Boston agency and smashed a camera to emphasize his point. Sal and I are suggesting to him that there might be other ways to get through life, rather than relying on one's body tone and looks. Something more lasting, perhaps?"
Birdie chuckled. "That sounds like good advice. It's nice of you and Sal to help him out."
"It looks like he's lined up some jobs," Nell said. "I saw him at the old Pisano place a couple times."
Beatrice sighed. "Mary was nice to hire him. I think Sal and I are beginning to impose too heavily on our friends and neighbors--they're starting to walk the other way when they see us coming. But Mary says he's a decent painter, so I guess that's working out. But who knows what will happen now?"
"What do you mean?"
"What's going to happen to the bed-and-breakfast? Henrietta O'Neal showed up at a council meeting and accused us of taking money to allow Mary to get the ordinances she needed to fix the place up. I thought she was going to poke a hole straight through me with that walking stick of hers. The accusations are ridiculous, of course. But Henrietta can cause trouble--she's richer than sin and one of the feistiest eighty-year-olds I've ever met."
Beatrice's face colored slightly as she talked. She tapped one skinny heel on the floor nervously. "Now she's saying the place is haunted. The devil at work. That's why Pamela Pisano was murdered. The devil did it."
"Henrietta lives alone," Nell said. "It probably frightens her, the thought of murder in her own neighborhood."
"It isn't pleasant for any of us," Birdie said. "But it will be solved soon."
Beatrice's face softened in relief. Somehow, if Birdie Favazza said it would be solved soon, it would be. She pulled her keys from her purse. "Yes," she said firmly, as if nailing the coffin shut. "It will be."
Nell watched the councilwoman walk off, a wicker basket filled with an assortment of cookies hanging from one arm and her knitting bag from the other. But the usual tilt to her head was missing, and she lacked the spring in her step.
Pamela Pisano's murder was taking its toll, even in the middle of a festive Sea Harbor cookie exchange.
Chapter 12
N ell looked around the nearly empty room and pulled a broom out of Izzy's utility closet. She began sweeping up cookie crumbs and stray pieces of cut yarn.
Outside, the sky was darkening and a strong wind rattled the windows.
"I'm glad you didn't cancel the cookie exchange, Izzy, no matter what's going on around us. People enjoyed themselves, the cookies were fantastic, and Ben will be overjoyed when I walk in with
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