artist. I knew that from the start, which is why I helped push your license through for this shop. And I found your class so interesting last week that I may actually take up knitting. The new yoga, my friends call it. So therapeutic, they say." Beatrice's red lips formed a perfect smile.
She probably will be mayor someday, Nell thought, listening to the exchange. According to Ben, that was Beatrice's goal. The diminutive powerhouse already drove nearly every council meeting and knew every newborn, every aging Sea Harbor resident by name. Watching her in action, Nell understood completely why her sweet husband, Salvatore, never said a word.
"Are you moving?" Beatrice asked suddenly, looking at the stack of boxes.
"No," Nell said. "We're cleaning out Angie Archer's apartment. "
Beatrice looked up at the ceiling. "Why?" she asked. A strange look crossed her face. "Now?"
"Yes," Izzy said. "But I think Mae has a few skeins of the yarn left if you'd like some."
Nell thought Beatrice looked slightly pale. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. "Are you all right, Beatrice?"
Beatrice pushed a smile into place. "Of course I'm all right. But you can't do it alone. I'll help." She leaned over to pick up one of the boxes.
"No, Beatrice," Izzy said.
"Yes," Beatrice answered, and without another word, she walked to the back door and up the back steps.
Chapter 12
It was a strange little cleaning quintet, Nell told Ben as they drove over to Sweet Petunia's the next morning. But having Beatrice there certainly kept cleaning out Angie's things from being the emotional task it might otherwise have been.
Beatrice talked nonstop, Nell said, demanding that she sweep, then dust, then clean out drawers. Midstream, without the others hearing, she had stepped outside and called her husband, Sal, insisting he bring over a bottle of chilled white wine to refresh them. Sal arrived at the door looking sheepish, his thick dark hair mussed and his face quiet and serious as it always was. It was clear to Nell he wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of five women cleaning a murdered woman's apartment. He was embarrassed doing far simpler things, like lighting candles for the Christmas pageant or passing the basket for offerings at church--all tasks, Nell suspected, Beatrice dictated he do. It must have been almost painful for him--Beatrice insisting he come in and help. And Nell understood in a fresh way why Sal Scaglia liked his job at the county offices so much--the paper shuffling and filing required must have provided a pleasant haven for him.
By the time Angie's clothes and books, and a few other personal things--her orange earphones, an iPod, and some photos-- were packed and stacked neatly in the closet, Beatrice's pink suit was smudged, one heel broken, and poor Sal had finished off the wine, sitting alone on the back step.
"A Scaglia moment," Ben said, amused at the story. "Beatrice is a character. So the boxes are still up there?"
"Yes. Josie wasn't home, so we'll just wait until there's a good moment."
Ben pulled into Annabelle's parking lot and found a spot at the edge of the lot.
Even though the talk would be of Angie's murder, Ben wouldn't be robbed of breakfast at Sweet Petunia's. Sunday mornings were for Annabelle's, the New York Times, and Nell's knitting. They couldn't control gossip about the latest developments in the murder case, he admitted, but they could still enjoy a moist frittata.
Set back from the main road of the Canary Cove art colony, up a short gravel drive and tucked into a grove of pine trees, the small restaurant lured more residents than tourists, and that suited the Endicotts just fine. It was always good to be among friends and neighbors, but especially now.
Annabelle's teenage daughter, Stella, met them at the door, which was propped open and held in place by a stone pelican with a fish in its mouth. Annabelle had tied a daisy-print ribbon around its neck. Over Stella's shoulder, Nell could
She probably will be mayor someday, Nell thought, listening to the exchange. According to Ben, that was Beatrice's goal. The diminutive powerhouse already drove nearly every council meeting and knew every newborn, every aging Sea Harbor resident by name. Watching her in action, Nell understood completely why her sweet husband, Salvatore, never said a word.
"Are you moving?" Beatrice asked suddenly, looking at the stack of boxes.
"No," Nell said. "We're cleaning out Angie Archer's apartment. "
Beatrice looked up at the ceiling. "Why?" she asked. A strange look crossed her face. "Now?"
"Yes," Izzy said. "But I think Mae has a few skeins of the yarn left if you'd like some."
Nell thought Beatrice looked slightly pale. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. "Are you all right, Beatrice?"
Beatrice pushed a smile into place. "Of course I'm all right. But you can't do it alone. I'll help." She leaned over to pick up one of the boxes.
"No, Beatrice," Izzy said.
"Yes," Beatrice answered, and without another word, she walked to the back door and up the back steps.
Chapter 12
It was a strange little cleaning quintet, Nell told Ben as they drove over to Sweet Petunia's the next morning. But having Beatrice there certainly kept cleaning out Angie's things from being the emotional task it might otherwise have been.
Beatrice talked nonstop, Nell said, demanding that she sweep, then dust, then clean out drawers. Midstream, without the others hearing, she had stepped outside and called her husband, Sal, insisting he bring over a bottle of chilled white wine to refresh them. Sal arrived at the door looking sheepish, his thick dark hair mussed and his face quiet and serious as it always was. It was clear to Nell he wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of five women cleaning a murdered woman's apartment. He was embarrassed doing far simpler things, like lighting candles for the Christmas pageant or passing the basket for offerings at church--all tasks, Nell suspected, Beatrice dictated he do. It must have been almost painful for him--Beatrice insisting he come in and help. And Nell understood in a fresh way why Sal Scaglia liked his job at the county offices so much--the paper shuffling and filing required must have provided a pleasant haven for him.
By the time Angie's clothes and books, and a few other personal things--her orange earphones, an iPod, and some photos-- were packed and stacked neatly in the closet, Beatrice's pink suit was smudged, one heel broken, and poor Sal had finished off the wine, sitting alone on the back step.
"A Scaglia moment," Ben said, amused at the story. "Beatrice is a character. So the boxes are still up there?"
"Yes. Josie wasn't home, so we'll just wait until there's a good moment."
Ben pulled into Annabelle's parking lot and found a spot at the edge of the lot.
Even though the talk would be of Angie's murder, Ben wouldn't be robbed of breakfast at Sweet Petunia's. Sunday mornings were for Annabelle's, the New York Times, and Nell's knitting. They couldn't control gossip about the latest developments in the murder case, he admitted, but they could still enjoy a moist frittata.
Set back from the main road of the Canary Cove art colony, up a short gravel drive and tucked into a grove of pine trees, the small restaurant lured more residents than tourists, and that suited the Endicotts just fine. It was always good to be among friends and neighbors, but especially now.
Annabelle's teenage daughter, Stella, met them at the door, which was propped open and held in place by a stone pelican with a fish in its mouth. Annabelle had tied a daisy-print ribbon around its neck. Over Stella's shoulder, Nell could
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