A Fatal Fleece by Sally Goldenbaum Page A

the gravel.
    Then she stopped and stood still. Her words, carried on the night breeze, were spoken to the fisherman’s retreating back.
    “You’re a good person, Finnegan,” she said. “Thank you.”
    Finnegan didn’t turn around or break his stride, but his head lifted slightly and his shoulders straightened.
    And all of them knew he’d heard.

Chapter 6
    I t took Gabby Marietti one short week to wedge herself as tightly as a clam into the lives of Sea Harbor residents. With fresh bandages—colorful ones that Ella sent Harold out to buy—still crisscrossing her knees, the wild-haired girl tapped directly into the extraordinary empathy Sea Harbor residents were known for.
    And she—along with Cass’ fleece vest—gave Finnegan new life. The two were often seen strolling the harbor, the winsome young girl in the green beanie and the old fisherman in the bright yellow knit fleece. He’d brushed away moisture in his eye when Cass had given it to him—“Damn bug in my eye,” he’d said—and slipped it on immediately, right over his old denim shirt.
    And not a soul in town ever saw him without it again.
    “Gabby looks good on that old pink Schwinn of yours,” Cass said.
    “Doesn’t she, now? And she doesn’t seem to mind that it only has three gears. She and Harold spent an hour scrubbing and shining it up.” Birdie settled herself into a chair on the Artist’s Palate deck and pulled a half-finished floppy hat from her backpack.
    “The bruises don’t seem to have held her back,” Nell said.
    “That’s an understatement. I think Gabby knows more people in town than I do.”
    They all knew that to be a gross exaggeration. Birdie Favazza knew everyone in Sea Harbor. And if a few managed to brieflyescape her acquaintance, they knew who the gracious lady in the magnificent house on the hill was—and they knew how integral she was to the town.
    “Have you told Nick about Gabby’s tumble?” she asked.
    “Yes. He calls a couple times a day, wanting a complete report.”
    “So he calls you often?” Izzy said. Her brows lifted and a mischievous grin followed.
    Birdie leaned over and patted her hand. “Sweet Izzy, I think your dear Sam and married life have turned you into a hopeless romantic. I’m an antique, sweetie.”
    Izzy held up both hands. “What? What did I say? It’s nice he talks to you, that’s all. Besides, what does age have to do with anything? And you’re not an antique. You’ll never be old.”
    Birdie laughed. “I like Nick. I always have. Joseph used to tease me about him, wondering if I had married the wrong brother.”
    “Did you?” Cass asked.
    Birdie looked up, surprised at the abruptness of Cass’ question. Then she laughed. “Of course not. I probably shouldn’t have married anyone at that point in my life. It was full to the brim. But Joseph was convincing.”
    And he was very much in love with Birdie Favazza, according to all reports.
    Everyone in town knew about Birdie’s unexpected wedding to the dashing Italian businessman. He was absolutely smitten with her, people said. Devoted. And apparently didn’t mind living in the shadow of Sonny Favazza, the man who had stolen Birdie’s heart decades before and, even in death, still had possession of it.
    “What did Joseph do for a living?” Izzy asked. “You never talk about him. Was he retired?”
    Birdie waved one hand in the air. “Oh, it was such a long time ago.”
    “Not that long,” Nell said.
    “It seems like it sometimes. A lifetime. What did he do. . . . ?” Birdie wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Joseph and I had separate financial lives. It’s easier that way when you marry at our age. We both had more money than we knew what to do with and decidednot to mix it up. A prenuptial before it was in vogue, I guess you’d say. So we didn’t bother each other about our investments and business dealings. His was a family business—antique imports. Lovely pieces, I remember from the pictures he