Read Online A Fatal Fleece by Sally Goldenbaum - Free Book Online
Authors: Sally Goldenbaum
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a piece of land he loved. Maybe even gone from the town. Nell thought about the harsh tones the Delaneys and Beatrice Scaglia had used at the meeting.
All Gabby wanted from him was his company—and maybe the use of his fishing pole now and then.
“But even those of us who don’t want anything from him aren’t always made to feel welcome,” Birdie reminded Cass. “I’ve often wondered what that’s all about. It’s a mystery to me. I’ve known Finnegan forever. We’re friends, of a sort. But after Moira died, I’d try to take things over now and then—a pot roast, smoked salmon. He was getting so thin, it seemed to me. But I learned my lesson. I wasn’t welcome. Might hurt myself on all the clutter, and there was poison ivy everywhere, he said, but that was an excuse, I always thought. And shortly after that he built a giant mailbox near the gate and told me that he’d sure welcome Ella’s pot roast if I ever had a mind to give him some. I could just leave it in the box, he said.”
Nell laughed. “A recluse who likes pot roast.”
“It’s strange, but, then, so is Finn,” Cass said. “He lets me come to the house—if you can call it that—but that’s about it. I’ve often wanted to prowl around and see what else is there. It’s at least three acres. But I don’t. I blindly obey. I’ve just gotten used to it, I guess. The man has earned his idiosyncrasies, is how I think about it.”
“Ben’s mother used to talk about how lovely that strip of land used to be. I think their dentist had an office there. It was neatly kept.”
Cass nodded. “I remember it because my dad would pull up in his boat to buy bait. Moira would always have hot dogs ready for us. We loved it. Pete’d eat five dogs, and Finnegan would tease him something fierce. Told him he’d soon be barking.”
Birdie picked up her knitting and began doing yarn overs on the rim, looping the yarn from front to back, then knitting the next stitch. The yarn lay across her lap like silky seaweed. “It was a lovely structure back then. A twin building was just on the other side of that little access path where the Arts Association is now. Both buildings had a couple of offices and an apartment above. Joseph rented one of the offices—I’m not sure which. Finnegan was different back then. Moira grounded him. He was always intolerant of things he thought were unjust, but Moira tempered it, let him keep his values without hurting people in the process.”
Cass put her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. “After my dad died, Finn was always there, helping us with the traps,painting buoys, fixing lines. He’d never take a penny. It’s a mystery to me—just like it is to everyone else—why he won’t clean up his yard, but it’s his own business.” Cass shifted over on the bench as Merry Jackson approached, balancing a round tray holding mugs and plates.
The bar owner squeezed her narrow hips between Cass and Izzy and set the tray on the table. “This is today’s special,” she said. “And probably tomorrow’s, too. My homemade granola. You’ll love it—I promise.” She set down four giant beer mugs filled with fruit, nuts, and fat grains, all topped off with yogurt. Next came a basket of warm elderberry muffins and a pot of whipped butter.
Izzy scooped up a dollop of yogurt with her finger and licked it clean. “Fantastic.”
“I especially like the beer mugs. Nice presentation, Merry.”
“Oh, shush.” Merry swatted Cass with a napkin. “I’m keeping my artists healthy,” she said. “Whether they like it or not.”
For as long as the Artist’s Palate had anchored the north end of Canary Cove, the Palate’s bill of fare had featured margaritas and thirty-plus kinds of beer served with fried everything—squid, clams, pickles, fish, asparagus. But once her ex-husband was no longer a part of the business, Merry changed things. In nice-weather months, she put out coffee pots and mugs and opened
All Gabby wanted from him was his company—and maybe the use of his fishing pole now and then.
“But even those of us who don’t want anything from him aren’t always made to feel welcome,” Birdie reminded Cass. “I’ve often wondered what that’s all about. It’s a mystery to me. I’ve known Finnegan forever. We’re friends, of a sort. But after Moira died, I’d try to take things over now and then—a pot roast, smoked salmon. He was getting so thin, it seemed to me. But I learned my lesson. I wasn’t welcome. Might hurt myself on all the clutter, and there was poison ivy everywhere, he said, but that was an excuse, I always thought. And shortly after that he built a giant mailbox near the gate and told me that he’d sure welcome Ella’s pot roast if I ever had a mind to give him some. I could just leave it in the box, he said.”
Nell laughed. “A recluse who likes pot roast.”
“It’s strange, but, then, so is Finn,” Cass said. “He lets me come to the house—if you can call it that—but that’s about it. I’ve often wanted to prowl around and see what else is there. It’s at least three acres. But I don’t. I blindly obey. I’ve just gotten used to it, I guess. The man has earned his idiosyncrasies, is how I think about it.”
“Ben’s mother used to talk about how lovely that strip of land used to be. I think their dentist had an office there. It was neatly kept.”
Cass nodded. “I remember it because my dad would pull up in his boat to buy bait. Moira would always have hot dogs ready for us. We loved it. Pete’d eat five dogs, and Finnegan would tease him something fierce. Told him he’d soon be barking.”
Birdie picked up her knitting and began doing yarn overs on the rim, looping the yarn from front to back, then knitting the next stitch. The yarn lay across her lap like silky seaweed. “It was a lovely structure back then. A twin building was just on the other side of that little access path where the Arts Association is now. Both buildings had a couple of offices and an apartment above. Joseph rented one of the offices—I’m not sure which. Finnegan was different back then. Moira grounded him. He was always intolerant of things he thought were unjust, but Moira tempered it, let him keep his values without hurting people in the process.”
Cass put her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. “After my dad died, Finn was always there, helping us with the traps,painting buoys, fixing lines. He’d never take a penny. It’s a mystery to me—just like it is to everyone else—why he won’t clean up his yard, but it’s his own business.” Cass shifted over on the bench as Merry Jackson approached, balancing a round tray holding mugs and plates.
The bar owner squeezed her narrow hips between Cass and Izzy and set the tray on the table. “This is today’s special,” she said. “And probably tomorrow’s, too. My homemade granola. You’ll love it—I promise.” She set down four giant beer mugs filled with fruit, nuts, and fat grains, all topped off with yogurt. Next came a basket of warm elderberry muffins and a pot of whipped butter.
Izzy scooped up a dollop of yogurt with her finger and licked it clean. “Fantastic.”
“I especially like the beer mugs. Nice presentation, Merry.”
“Oh, shush.” Merry swatted Cass with a napkin. “I’m keeping my artists healthy,” she said. “Whether they like it or not.”
For as long as the Artist’s Palate had anchored the north end of Canary Cove, the Palate’s bill of fare had featured margaritas and thirty-plus kinds of beer served with fried everything—squid, clams, pickles, fish, asparagus. But once her ex-husband was no longer a part of the business, Merry changed things. In nice-weather months, she put out coffee pots and mugs and opened
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