A Holiday Yarn (17 page)

Chapter 20

N
ell walked into the Seaside Knitting Studio carrying a thermos of coffee, her knitting bag slung over one shoulder.

Mae Anderson laughed when she spotted the thermos. "As talented as our missy is, her coffee is god-awful." She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Hope you have enough in there for me."

"As always, Mae." Nell chuckled and glanced toward the back room. "It's noisy for this early hour."

"Packed. It's not even an official class. Just folks stuck in the middle of making Christmas gifts. They need Izzy's surgical expertise. And yours, I presume. Izzy said she was calling in reinforcements."

"The text message just said, 'S.O.S. Come quick.' "

Nell looked into the room. Mae wasn't exaggerating. It was crowded, with coffee mugs littering tables, a box of Dunkin' Donuts on the sideboard, and balls of brightly colored yarn everywhere. Needles clicked; knit sleeves and toes and thumbs were held up in the air to get Izzy's attention; voices filled the air.

Nell spotted Mary Pisano sitting near the fireplace, her laptop on her knees. Next to her, Birdie was admiring Nancy Hughes' cowl-necked sweater. It was nearly finished, knit in a luxurious beige and deep pink cashmere. Birdie was touching it lightly with her fingertips the way knitters did, resisting the urge to press it to her cheek.

Even Agnes Pisano was there, tucked away in the corner behind her cousin Mary, working on a lacy purple shawl. Nancy Hughes was beside her. Therapy, Nell thought. Everyone needs a touch of normal. The sweetness of living in the present.

Someone had brought a platter of Santa-shaped cookies, which were being handed from one group to the next and quickly disappearing. Nell waved at Izzy, grabbed a few paper cups from the bookcase, and headed over to the fireplace.

"It's good to see you doing something other than worrying, Mary," she said.

"Nancy's idea. She insisted we needed a break."

Hearing her name, Nancy leaned into the conversation. "Not
we
.
You
, Mary." Nancy pointed to the laptop and looked up at Nell. "But look at her idea of a break. Writing her column."

"Which I love to do. So it is a break. It's hard these days, though. I keep wanting to write an open letter to the person responsible for Pamela's death, begging them to own up to it, to clear their conscience. To give us back what's been taken away."

Nancy just shook her head and got up to refill her coffee cup and offer Beatrice Scaglia a hand with a lazy scarf that had just fallen off her needle.

"Have you heard anything new?" Agnes asked Nell. "Ben sometimes has an inside track--"

Nell shook her head. "I think it's confusing to the police. Maybe we need to broaden our thinking. Back away from the trees."

"What do you mean?" Agnes stopped counting stitches, and her hands went still.

"Pamela came to Sea Harbor often, not just that trip a couple weeks ago. But we're only looking at her activities during that short period of time. What about the bigger circle of Pamela's Sea Harbor life?"

"Her childhood?" Mary asked.

"I was thinking more of relationships she might have had here the last few years. Relationships with men who lived here, perhaps."

Agnes scooted her chair forward to hear better. "That's interesting. Pamela didn't confide much in me, probably not you, either, Mary. But when she was stuck in Sea Harbor, as she used to think about it, she survived by finding men to entertain her--we knew that. Even our grandfather worried about it. Sometimes it turned messy. Sometimes it was just casual."

"Like with Troy DeLuca--a good-looking body that was handy," Mary said.

Agnes nodded. "Troy was just a toy to her. She used him, and then she insulted him. There would have been a better way to handle not hiring him."

"Which you are doing?" Birdie asked.

"I know people think I'm simply flattered by his attention. That's ridiculous. I'm not a fool.
Fashion Monthly
has a shoot planned for men's fashion, and there's no reason not to throw him this small carrot. It might make up a little for Pamela's insults. I have no intention of making him a fixture at the magazine. Frankly, I don't totally trust him. He has loose lips, if you know what I mean, and I don't like that in a person."

"Loose lips?" Birdie frowned.

"Spreading tales. He told me last night that the police had found Pamela's wallet in Kevin Sullivan's belongings. Now, I've known Kevin since he was a kid delivering my newspapers. And he was honest to a fault. So Troy is stirring things up, telling tales; that's what I mean."

Birdie and Nell looked at each other. Mary's face was expressionless. Agnes wasn't asking them to confirm or deny Troy's assertion, which was a good thing. She clearly didn't believe it, and there was no reason to tell her otherwise. But how did Troy know about the wallet?

Agnes went on. "I also know it seems I moved very quickly into taking over this magazine, that I was just waiting for my chance, that I benefited from my own cousin's murder, a very suspicious and horrible thing to do. A motive for murder, for sure."

"That is how it looked," Birdie admitted. She followed up her bluntness with a laugh. "It was unlike you, Agnes, dear."

"Thank you, but it wasn't entirely unlike me. There's some truth to it. I was ready. I've wanted this position ever since Pamela sweet-talked Grandfather into giving it to her instead of me because I wasn't pretty enough. So I waited; I bided my time. I knew someday Pamela would get tired of it or move on to greener pastures, and when she did, I'd be ready. I got better at writing and editing. I took courses on magazine production and design. If I had wanted to oust Pamela sooner, I could have."

"How?" Mary asked.

"I could have told Grandfather that she was the one who crashed his prized Austin-Healey that summer we were all together for their anniversary. He'd have yanked the magazine from her in a New York minute if he'd known. But I had promised her I wouldn't tell, so I didn't. If I didn't get rid of her in that surefire bloodless way, I certainly wouldn't have killed her to get the job."

"Pamela smashed that car?" Mary said, her eyes filling her face. "Good grief."

"A couple too many beers at the club, a wild drive along a bumpy dirt road, and a tree that got in her way."

Mary held back a laugh.

Agnes' honesty was refreshing. Maybe they had all misjudged her. The tone in her voice was firm and intelligent. Matter-of-fact. Nell smiled. "Something tells me you'll bring new, exciting ideas to the magazine."

"I second that," Birdie said. "Put me on your subscription list."

Agnes shrugged, and a sly smile tugged at her lips. "All this proves one thing, I suppose. You can't judge a book by its cover."

They laughed, and Birdie patted her knee. "You look every bit the editor, my dear. Even without wearing Prada."

"Maybe giving Troy this opportunity will help him get his act together," Mary said.

"Speaking of Troy, did he know before Pamela died that you were in line to take over
Fashion Monthly
?" Nell asked. It might not have been a murder motive for Agnes, but Troy was another matter.

Agnes and Mary looked at each other, considering the question. Then Agnes' frown lifted. "No, he couldn't have. The only real discussion about that occurred last summer--though I'm sure he eavesdropped every chance he got on our meetings. That's the kind of guy he is, in my opinion." She paused, then added in a softer voice, "But he's not to be tossed out like dirty bathwater, either. No one deserves that."

A sudden noise from the front of the store broke into the conversation. A loud tapping on the hardwood floor followed. Seconds later Henrietta O'Neal appeared in the arch, filling it with her square body. Her face was bright red, contrasting vividly with her white snow pants, a puffy white jacket, and a knit hat.

A fleeting image of a snowman flashed across Nell's mind, and then someone walked up behind Henrietta, changing the image entirely. She glanced over at Birdie.

Towering over Henrietta--tall, thin, and his face as white as Henrietta's jacket--stood Harold Sampson, Birdie's driver and groundskeeper.

The room hushed. People stopped knitting. Mary pushed her laptop aside.

"What in heaven's name are you doing here, Harold?" Birdie was up in a flash, her knitting falling to the floor. "Is Ella all right?"

Before he could answer, Henrietta spotted Izzy and waved her walking stick in the air. "I'm sorry to interrupt your little session, sweetheart, but it's important."

Izzy motioned that it was fine, then waited, puzzled.

"Are you all right?" Mary stood and stared at Henrietta.

Henrietta seemed confused at Mary's question but happy to have found her.

Behind the short woman, Harold shook his head.
Henrietta is not all right
, the movement said.

Nell moved next to Mary, feeling the need to steady the small woman. The incongruity of the scene in front of her portended something comical--or something terribly tragic. She looked into Harold's eyes.

They weren't laughing.

"Henrietta?" Mary said again.

Henrietta grew serious, focusing her full attention on Mary. Her voice was earnest, her message matter-of-fact.

"It's you I'm looking for, Mary Pisano. It's about that painter you hired," she said simply. "He's dead. Plumb dead."

Chapter 21

I
t was a sorry-looking group that crowded into Birdie's Lincoln Town Car and traveled along Harbor Road, up to the Ravenswood neighborhood.

Henrietta explained Harold's involvement right away. She had seen him coming out of Birdie's drive and flagged him down.

"I was going to the post office, Miz Birdie," Harold said.

She told him she needed a ride immediately. It was a matter of life and death, she said, though she supposed now that wasn't entirely true, since the painter was already dead.

But it was an emergency, nevertheless.

When she had called 911 to report the accident and get an ambulance, Esther, the dispatcher, told her exactly where Mary would be.

"Bless Esther for taking such care of us," Birdie murmured, sitting next to Harold in the front seat. Nell and Mary sat in the back on either side of Henrietta, listening intently as she related the morning's events.

"I was out for my morning constitutional when I saw a car in the Pisano driveway. I thought Mary and sweet Georgia were there," Henrietta said. "I wanted to take Georgia for a walk. She needs more exercise than Mary is giving her, poor thing." Henrietta reached over and patted Mary's hand. "It isn't your fault, sweetheart. It's all this trouble you're having."

Mary, her face as pale as snow, said nothing.

Nell held her silence, too, but with difficulty. It wasn't the time to remind Henrietta that she was the source of many of Mary's problems, at least the accumulating small ones.

"When no one answered the front door, I went around to the kitchen door," Henrietta continued.

"It was locked, Henrietta," Mary said quietly.

"Yes. I had a key." Henrietta pulled a key from the pocket of her jacket.

Mary stared at it.

"But when I went around back, I saw him right away, clear as day. He'd fallen off the ladder onto those granite rocks. There was paint everywhere, on the ground, the snow, his jacket." Henrietta's voice broke slightly as she remembered the scene. She paused for a minute and then continued. "His body was twisted like a pretzel, and he wasn't moving, but I walked over and checked his pulse. He was cold. I knew he was dead. I knew it. One just knows. . . . " Her voice trailed off.

"How awful for you." Nell thought back to finding Pamela in the snow, her body still and lifeless. The image was difficult to erase. Henrietta would now have a similar burden, and Nell wished there was a way she could relieve her of it.

Henrietta rested her head back against the seat as if telling the story had robbed her of that day's energy.

Harold made a right turn and drove slowly up the drive to Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. The ambulance was already gone, but two police cars were parked in the brick parking area. Chief Jerry Thompson stood at the edge of the drive. Tommy Porter was there, and Father Northcutt stood between the two men. Their heads were lowered, their shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in pockets.

At the sound of the car, they stopped talking and squinted against the sunlight. Harold pulled up next to the police car, and spotting Mary, Father Northcutt walked over and opened the door.

"Mary, Mary," he said, the thickness in his voice giving away his feelings. "You didn't need this now, did you, my dear."

Mary's small body was swallowed up in the older priest's embrace.

She pulled away and looked at the police chief. "He was painting the eaves, Jerry." And then she added, almost as if it had just occurred to her. "Yesterday."

They nodded. Body temperature had told them as much. Troy had died more than sixteen hours ago.

"And no one was at the place since yesterday afternoon?"

Mary shook her head. "It's probably the first day in weeks that there hasn't been traffic at one time or another. I left early yesterday. Ed's boat was in--and Nancy had invited us to dinner. On Fridays the workers always leave early. Kevin went into Boston."

"I walk by here every single day," Henrietta chimed in. "That's what I was doing this morning. I walk early, Jerry; you know that." Henrietta tapped her walking stick on the driveway with a rhythm that escalated with excitement.

Birdie spoke up. "I came by last night. Harold and I drove in to check on things because I knew Mary wasn't here." Birdie apparently felt no need to explain that she was checking up on Henrietta to be sure she didn't deface the place. "That fancy Q or Z or whatever it is--the silver car--was here." She looked over at the car that had almost knocked her over just a few nights before. "It was about seven or seven thirty," she added.

"Did you look around the grounds?" Tommy asked.

They hadn't gotten out of the car, Birdie said. It was cold and she was late for dinner at Nell's. "The security lights were on, and Mary's lovely Christmas lights lit the yard and twinkled around the porch. I knew Troy was finishing up some painting and was probably cleaning up. Nothing seemed unusual."

Nell stood a few steps behind the others, looking up at the beautiful old house. It was Christmas perfect. Magnificent. A Norman Rockwell painting.

And the scene of two tragic deaths.

"Well, we've got to check the grounds, Mary; you understand," Chief Thompson was saying.

"Do you think the wind pushed the ladder over?" Nell asked. She could see the ladder in her mind's eye, propped up against the house's overhang, reaching nearly to the sky.

Mary must be feeling the awful truth. She and Nancy had insisted Troy do this, climb the ladder and paint the eaves. It wasn't an unusual request, of course. It was what painters did. But this time the consequences were awful enough to nurture unforgettable regrets.

"The ladder didn't fall," Jerry Thompson said.

"Troy just fell off?" Nancy said.

"Had he been drinking?" Mary asked. "I told Nancy that was a worry--"

"There was a bottle of whiskey in the storage shed. He'd had a few drinks but wasn't drunk." A look passed between Chief Thompson and Father Northcutt. Then the chief looked back at the women. "The two rungs near the top--the ones Troy would have had to stand on to reach the eaves--were broken."

"Broken? What do you mean? The ladder was fine. We used it just days ago to fix some Christmas lights. It was fine." Mary's voice was high, unnatural.

"I mean that the top rungs were weakened so that if anyone weighing more than fifty pounds or so stepped on them, they'd split in half instantly. Fall apart, essentially. The sides of the ladder were greasy, so grabbing on would be futile--and the eaves happened to be directly over that pile of landscape rocks--exactly where the body would land."

"Someone wanted him to fall off that ladder," Tommy added.

The only sound was the flapping of gulls overhead and the tapping of Henrietta's walking stick on the brick drive.

Faster and faster.

Nell looked over at Mary. Her face was pale, her body seeming to shrink with the news.

Birdie moved closer to her and put one arm around her shoulders.

"It's cold," she said simply. "I'm taking Mary inside," and everyone began to move.

Henrietta insisted on walking home, but Harold drove Nell back to her own car, parked across the street from Izzy's shop.

She turned the key in the ignition and then sat there, unmoving, her hands on the wheel. Up and down the street shoppers moved quickly, their heads tucked low, their arms filled with packages. Across the way, a steady stream of customers moved in and out of Izzy's store. She'd called Izzy from Mary's to fill her in, but Mae said she was busy with a baby-sweater class. The earlier group had dispersed soon after Henrietta's news was assimilated, and by now, Mae supposed, the whole town knew that another tragedy had occurred in Mary's backyard.

"And Nancy?" Nell asked Mae. "Is she there?" She realized they'd nearly forgotten her in the rush to get Mary back to the bed-and-breakfast earlier. Yet she was the one other person who would be feeling this tragedy terribly. They'd insisted the painting be done this week. Next week, Troy would have been gone. Perhaps the outcome would have been different.

Cass had offered to take her home, Mae said, but she'd said no. She needed to walk, to process what had happened. It was how she handled things, she told them. Walking kept her sane.

Nell slowly pulled into traffic and headed east. The walk home would have given Nancy time alone, Nell reasoned. Now she well may need a shoulder to lean on.

She drove toward Canary Cove, then turned left just before the art colony began. The road wound up behind the artists' galleries to a neighborhood that looked out over the sea--comfortable old homes that now anchored some of the most desirable real estate on Cape Ann.

A million-dollar view, the Realtors advertised, and Nell agreed.

She pulled into a driveway at the end of the winding street, driving beneath a canopy of snow-covered trees. Set in the middle of the wedge-shaped property was Dean and Nancy Hughes' spacious gray-shingled home. And beyond it, the endless sea.

Nell loved the Hughes home. When Nancy was director of the historical museum, she entertained the board lavishly once a year, a luncheon Nell marked early on her calendar so she wouldn't miss it. Nancy Hughes knew how to entertain. Her husband often said that's what earned him his partnership in a prestigious law firm--Nancy's spiced rum and memorable dinner parties. Not only that, Dean boasted; she could carry on conversations about art, politics, and Cape Ann history with the stodgiest Boston client that he'd bring into their home.

She parked in the circle drive and walked up the steps.

Nancy answered on the second knock, a teabag in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She accepted the hug Nell offered her and ushered her in out of the cold, surprised at the visit.

"I wanted to be sure you were all right. This is all so awful," Nell began.

Nancy stopped her. "It's Mary we need to think about. I talked to her," she said, leading Nell into the family room. "But please tell me how she really is--she isn't always honest with me, and I know this is hard for her." She looked down at the tea bag dangling from her fingers. "I'll get us some tea; then we'll talk."

Nell watched Nancy disappear down the hall. It was typical of her to assume that Nell had come to report on Mary--not to be sure Nancy herself was doing all right. It was Nancy's way.

Nell wandered around the familiar room, waiting for Nancy's return. Beautiful pine beams traversed the ceiling, and floor-to-ceiling windows pulled the sea directly into the room. It was soothing and breathtaking at once. Nell walked over to a collection of framed photos on the mantel.

There were shots of Nancy and Dean on trips, at museum and gallery events, drinking martinis on the deck of a yacht and at their cottage in Maine. A picture of Dean and Nancy in front of a plane. In the center was a photo of Nancy and Dean on the elaborate altar of Our Lady of the Seas. Nancy's wedding dress was elegant, her face bright with promise.

It was a promise dashed ten years later when Dean's life ended so abruptly, unnecessarily. It was the worst kind of abandonment, in Nell's mind, and she wondered how Nancy dealt with it. How anyone would deal with it. Anger, guilt, loss. Such a mixture of emotions. One way Nancy handled it was clear--she plunged in headfirst when anyone needed her skills, her expertise, or simply a friend. She filled her days with great purpose. And she carried the love of her deceased husband like an Olympic flame.

"You've found my rogues' gallery," Nancy said, coming into the room. She set a tray of crackers and cheese and two cups of tea on a glass-topped coffee table.

"I remember good times in this room. Dean was a fine man."

"It's a quieter house now, without him." She pointed to French doors that opened into the den. "That was his favorite room."

Nell glanced into the small paneled room where she and Nancy had often discussed museum business. But it was clearly Dean's room. Trophies spoke of his love for the outdoors--biking, sailing, skiing. Another wall was devoted to his passion for hunting.

"I've kept everything exactly the way he loved it. But it doesn't bring him back."

Nell felt the absence of Dean, too. The house was somber, in spite of the wintry sunshine flooding the room and warming the pine floors.

"You've had your share of things to deal with, Nancy."

"Everyone has things." Nancy sat on the love seat and poured them each a cup of tea. "Look at what Mary is dealing with."

Nell sat across from her. "Of course. But you've been drawn into it, too, and it's not your mess. It doesn't seem fair."

Nancy sipped her tea, her gaze wandering to the den, then to the sea beyond the windows. Her face was sad. She turned back to Nell. "If Mary and I hadn't insisted Troy paint those eaves, this might not have happened."

"We all do things like that, at times--make decisions we regret, take a wrong turn, say something--things that inadvertently have a bad outcome. It's not intentional. It's life."

"Or death." Nancy bit down on her bottom lip. "But you're right. It wasn't anyone's fault. Bad things happen."

"And if someone truly wanted to get Troy, it would have happened anywhere."

"Yes," Nancy said. She played with a napkin, her fingers folding back each corner neatly. "There's no need to worry, Nell. I'm resilient. I'll make it through this all right. You know that. And I'll help Mary through it. She's a good person."

Her words were decisive, the way she was when the museum had faced a crisis or the board wavered on something Nancy thought important. She was a strong woman. Ben had said as much when Nell had called him earlier to tell him what was happening. Nancy would be fine, he said--she would not let guilt eat away at her. And Mary would be fine, too.

"Nancy, how many people knew Troy was going to be painting yesterday?"

"Probably dozens. The work crew. Anyone who was in and out of the bed-and-breakfast. Kevin, of course. Mary. Me. The Scaglias. Maybe Agnes? She had drinks with Troy at the Gull the other night. And I'm sure he had complained loudly about it in the bar the night before. Even Henrietta O'Neal probably knew. She was here so often, she knew as much as anyone what was going on. So many people knew."