A Holiday Yarn (21 page)

"We saw the heart he carved for you on that lovely old bed.
E.P. loves H.O
. Henrietta O'Neal."

Henrietta rubbed away the tears that sprang to her eyes. She looked at the women who hovered around her, and the old Henrietta rose from the ashes.

She sat up straight.

"We loved each other," she said simply and firmly.

"Mary never knew," Birdie said. "Why didn't you tell her, Henrietta?"

"Tell his granddaughter? His flesh and blood? Sweetheart, how could I do that? We were--how would you say it, Cass? Shacking up? Oh, my. I couldn't tell anyone. What would my parents think?"

"Dear heart," Birdie said gently, "your parents have been dead for thirty years."

"And rolling over in their graves for some of them, don't you know." Henrietta shook her curls again. "The respectful thing to do was to keep it private. And don't forget--Enzo was Italian. Italian! I can hear my father bellowing in shame, 'An Italian, Henrietta? Italian!' And what would the others say--my grandchildren? My great-grandchildren? Great-Nana Henny is . . . oh, for the sake of the good lord."

A noise from the hallway stopped Henrietta's lamenting short. She looked at the doorway.

"Henrietta, I had no idea." Mary stood still. She nodded her head toward the door. "It was open. I came over to see if you were all right. I saw you out there, and it was so cold. . . . "

A deep red blush worked its way into Henrietta's cheeks.

"What a lovely gift you gave each other," Mary said, her eyes moist. "Thank you, Henrietta."

Henrietta slowly released the air held tightly in her ample chest.

"Your grandfather was a lovely man, romantic and charming."

Mary smiled. "I knew something special was happening to him those last years. I could hear it in his voice, but I didn't imagine that he was in love. I should have known."

Henrietta seemed to puff up before their eyes. Her eyes sparkled. "One day the mailman told me he had the flu. That's how it all started. So I brought him chicken soup. Who wouldn't?"

She looked around at all of them for confirmation, her head nodding.

"One thing led to another; well, you know how that can be." She paused, collecting her memories, sorting through them in her mind, and then went on.

"When you haven't been touched by someone for a while, it's quite a lovely thing. A hug, a touch, your skin warmed by another. It brings fire into your soul. You come alive.

"And then one night Enzo asked me to spend the whole night with him, to be with him. But I couldn't, you see. I couldn't make it up those foolhardy stairs. Not in a million years. So slick and steep. And so very many of them."

"So he installed the electric chair for you," Mary said.

Henrietta nodded. "It was at Christmastime. A perfect gift to give one another, he said. And that darling man would walk up next to me, making sure I didn't fall off, humming little tunes, all the way to the top. All the way to that magnificent bed."

"With the stepping stool that matches your walking stick," Nell said.

She beamed. "He had them both made for me. Georgia liked the stepstool, too. She'd climb up and sleep there in the bed, keeping our feet as warm as toast. Sweet pup. She still sneaks over to see me now and then."

Henrietta sighed and settled back in the chair. "It's all I have left; don't you see? Those memories. I couldn't bear the thought of strangers in
our
bed. Strangers who aren't even family. Enzo would have hated that. I had to stop you from doing that, Mary. You understand, sweetheart."

"Of course," Mary murmured, more to herself than to the others. She stepped from the room for a moment, rummaging in her pocket for a tissue.

When she returned, the others were gathering coats and boots, and Henrietta was ambling off to the kitchen to slip a frozen pizza in the oven and fix herself a Scotch and soda.

"Now, shoo, all of you," she said. "It's been a long, long day, and this is our cocktail hour. I have some things I need to discuss with Enzo."

Mary gave her a kiss on her wrinkled cheek and whispered, "Me, too, Henrietta."

Chapter 25

"
O
ne mystery solved. It gives me hope that the solution to the next one is just around the corner." Birdie slipped out of the car, then looked back at Nell. "I can't help but think it's similar to this--it's right there in front of us."

Nell nodded. So close they could touch it. Maybe Henrietta and Enzo's sweet story would spur them on.

The drive back to Izzy's shop was quiet, Henrietta's story replaying in their heads. Each of them absorbing it in a personal way.

Enzo loves Henrietta
.

And so he had.

Nell idled in front of the shop, and Izzy got out with a promise to call later.

"Where are you headed, Cass?" Nell asked her remaining passenger.

"A stop at the bank. Then home. And I'd love a ride if you're offering one."

"Of course I am." Nell drove the short two blocks down Harbor Road, pulling up in front of the bank while Cass ran inside. She kept the engine running, the heater blowing warm air around her legs and feet.

Up and down Harbor Road people went about their Monday business, bustling to keep the cold at bay. Shoppers were out in full force. College students home for the holidays, hugging old friends on the street. On the outside, so normal.

Nell wanted to hold on to the magic of Henrietta's lovely story. But it kept slipping away, blurred by the cold reality that in that same home--a home in which two people had loved so deeply--another two people had been coldly murdered.

A tap on the window pulled her free of her thoughts, and she looked up into the face of Tommy Porter. He leaned close, straddling the seat of his motorcycle, his gloved hands gripping the bars. He had changed into his uniform, a heavy blue jacket and hat with thick earflaps keeping him warm.

Nell rolled down the window.

"You going to be here long, Nell? It's a loading zone." He pointed to the sign.

"Just for a minute, Tommy. I'm waiting for Cass."

"Well, that's a kind of loading, I guess." He grinned and revved the engine.

Nell started to roll up the window, then stopped halfway and motioned Tommy closer. "Tommy, I know I've been asking you a lot of questions lately, but there's something you said to me the other day that doesn't make sense."

"Not the first time that's happened." Tommy laughed.

"Why was the police department so interested in Pamela's affair that summer? Not with Eddie, with the other man. Was it just gossip in the break room? Why did they even care?"

Tommy thought back over the years. His eyebrows came together intently. "I was brand-new on the force back then. Not really in on things. But I kept my ears open like you do when you're the new kid on the block." His frown disappeared as his memory cleared. "Oh, yeah. I remember now. It was police business; that's why they talked about it."

"How so?"

"Pamela Pisano had filed a restraining order to keep the guy away from her--it was all very hush-hush."

Nell frowned. "So you know who the man was?"

Tommy rubbed his cheek with a gloved finger. "Dunno. It seems the record of it disappeared. Weird, huh?"

He looked over at a group of youngsters walking by, their eyes bright as they passed the Village Toy Store, then turned back to Nell. "But why dredge up all that old stuff? We gotta think about the present, about the holidays coming. Right? And that means that Santa Claus comes in Wednesday on the boat. See you there?"

With that he gave a nod of his furry hat, revved his engine, and drove on down the street.

Izzy had texted everyone Monday night.

She didn't have any morning classes and the knitting room was free, so how about they meet for coffee and something from the new bakery over on Central?

No one had to ask why. The loose yarns were tangling up their lives. And knitters didn't suffer loose yarns gladly. Sleep was interrupted, parties had been canceled, and the beds in Ravenswood-by-the-Sea needed warm bodies sleeping in them.

Nell picked up Birdie at nine on the dot. "What's the racket over at Mary's bed-and-breakfast?" she asked as Birdie climbed in the car.

"Racket? It can't be Henrietta. . . . "

"No, she's basking in the pleasure of coming clean and having her memories shared. It looks like Mary's work crew."

"Mary said there were still some things that needed attention."

"A drive-through can't hurt," Nell said, heading back out Birdie's driveway to the street. "Be sure Mary's okay."

But they both knew it was more than that. Too much was still unresolved at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea to let even ordinary sounds go unchecked.

Nell turned into the drive and drove toward the house. Several men stood near the garage, dragging equipment out of the storage area. A truck was parked beside Mary's small car.

Birdie opened her window. "You young men have done a tremendous job over here."

One of the men doffed his hat, and Nell recognized the crew's foreman, Tom Asner, a broad, muscular man with a boxer's nose and a gentle smile.

Just then Mary came down the back porch steps. She wrapped her wool sweater around her and walked toward them, calling to the men. "Guys, Kevin just took some rolls from the oven and there's plenty of hot coffee. Help yourself."

"Final repairs?" Nell said.

Foreman Tom answered. "Oh, there're some of them, too, but today's more for takin' things apart, right, Mary?"

"It's the bed," Mary said to Nell and Izzy, as if that explained everything. Her eyes sparkled like they did after publishing an especially heartwarming "About Town" column.

"The bed?" Nell looked at Birdie, and in the next second it dawned on them both what was being dismantled.

Enzo Pisano's walnut bed.

"It's going to Henrietta's," Birdie guessed.

"Yes. Where it belongs. And these fine gentlemen are going to carefully take it apart, piece by piece. . . . "

"Just like Humpty-Dumpty," Tom said. "Only this time it'll be put back together just fine. Best-made piece of furniture I've ever seen. A privilege to work on it. We're bringing in a guy from Boston--restoration expert--who'll give us a hand over at the other house. Some Christmas present, wouldn't you say?"

Nell smiled. An amazing Christmas present. "Does Henrietta know?"

Mary nodded. "Kevin made Irish breakfast scones and picked up some Italian pastries at Harry's. We had a nice blending of cultures this morning, pastries, a few mimosas, and a pre-house warming for her new furniture."

Birdie pressed a hand to her chest. Good news was delicious.

The men gathered up the toolboxes.

"Do the workmen keep their equipment here?" Nell asked.

"Usually, until they're done."

Tom called Mary over with a question, and Birdie and Nell watched as the men piled up large felt mats that would protect the pieces. Some of the long pieces wouldn't make it around the circular staircase, one of the men explained, so they'd wrap them and lower them through the windows.

Two men walked back to the truck and began unstrapping a ladder.

"There's the metal ladder," Birdie said, looking at Nell. She called out through the open window. "Why do you drag that monster back and forth? Wouldn't it be easier to leave it here until you're done?"

The man shrugged, chewed on his tobacco. "Sure, easier. We left it here for a while, but last week they said to take it away. Needed the room. Something about kitchen equipment--a new table, appliances being delivered."

"Kitchen equipment?"

"Yeah--they're getting some new stuff. Heavy-duty. So Kevin said to take our big things away, including the ladder."

Nell saw Mary look over, listening to the conversation.

"Coffee'll get cold, guys," she called out. "Kitchen door is open."

The men lumbered off, and Mary waved to Birdie and Nell from the steps. "Close your window. It's cold out," she yelled, then disappeared around the corner of the house.

"If the ladder had stayed . . . " The thought caused Nell and Birdie both to take a deep breath.
Kevin sent the ladder back. Why?

"Well, the ladder didn't stay. For whatever reason. And let's only hope that no one feels guilty about it. Living with those deadly 'if only's' is destructive," Birdie said.

But when they arrived at Izzy's shop, a box of
koloches
in hand, the feeling lingered. Nell felt she was drowning in "if only's." And what did it matter in the long run? If someone was going to murder a person, would any of that matter? Would they simply find another way, another time, another circumstance?

Mae was just opening the shop, turning the computer on and checking the cash drawer. She wore a cluster of holly in her salt-and-pepper hair, and the nose of her snowman lapel pin blinked every few seconds.

"Be prepared," she greeted Birdie and Nell.

"Like a Boy Scout?"

"It couldn't hurt." Mae gave them an unreadable look and went back to her cash box.

They spotted Cass' boots at the steps near the curved opening to the back room, and they heard the familiar voices of NPR anchors, pulling them into the day with news and radio interviews.

What they weren't prepared for was the square body sitting in the big leather chair by the fireplace. Henrietta O'Neal sat with Purl curled up in her ample lap, her face glowing. She looked twenty years younger than she had a scant twenty-four hours before.

"What's going on?" Nell asked, looking around for Izzy.

As if on cue, Izzy appeared through the alley door, carrying a brown cardboard container of Coffee's strong brew. She looked at Nell and Birdie, lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. Her eyes told them she had no idea why Henrietta was sitting in her knitting room like a queen holding court.

"I'm here to help find the murderer," Henrietta said, without preamble. "Mary Pisano needs to open that beautiful home to guests; she needs to get on with her life and with writing that sweet column of hers. I may have . . . slowed it down some. Now I need to help."

"You're sweet to offer," Nell began. She gathered up the mugs and held each one while Izzy pressed the spigot. "But you've plenty going on at your own house, with that beautiful bed coming your way."

"I certainly do." Her eyes teared up, but she blinked the tears away and continued. "But I want to help with this. I'm fond of our fine police force, but sometimes they're held back by their own fussy rules. We don't have to put up with that rubbish."

Nell held back a smile. That certainly described the way Henrietta operated. She handed her a coffee mug and set the platter of filled pastries on the table.

"Who do you think did it?" Cass asked. She sat cross-legged on the couch, a pile of colorful knit squares at her side. She bit into a poppy-seed
koloche
.

"Well, I'll tell you what I think, and then I'll be off. It was someone who hated Pamela Pisano." She poked her finger in the air. "Troy DeLuca simply got in the way. He made the mistake of attaching himself to Pamela. He was sneaky. He wanted something."

But not what he got
, Nell thought. No matter how sneaky he was, he didn't deserve that.

"Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I'd walk down Ravenswood Road, just like Enzo and I used to do. And I'd see him sneaking up those steps to the carriage house. Sometimes he'd be doing it in the middle of the day while the other workmen were pounding away."

"And after Pamela died?"

"I'd see him then, too. I would have fired him, but Nancy said they'd paid him to paint. And he had to finish it."

Henrietta scootched to the edge of the chair. "I'm a good snoop. And I'm even better when I'm motivated. I'll be back. But one thing--Enzo worried about Pamela. About the way she played with men. He said it would get her killed one day."

She was gone before they had a chance to comment. Her stocky figure moving from side to side, the walking stick tapping its way through the knitting store.

"Confirmation," Birdie said.

"Trouble with men. But who could have hated her enough to kill her?

"Troy must have seen something, just as Nell suspected from the beginning. We know they were having an affair and he knew his way to the carriage house. He was there, waiting for her, probably to try to convince her of his worth as a model."

"He saw the murder," Izzy said. She wiped bits of fruit filling from the corner of her mouth.

"And he was blackmailing the murderer, not a wise thing to do, but it fits what we know of Troy," Birdie said. "He was broke and not very smart."

"The murderer had money." Nell thought of the fancy car that nearly ran them down. And the show of cash at the Edge. Troy got plenty of money from someone. "Or at least a way to get it easily."

"Maybe he asked for more and more, and pushed the person too hard."

"The murderer needed a way to get in the house and into the kitchen to wait for her that night. All the Pisanos had keys, and it probably wouldn't have been hard to get one, especially with all the deliveries, the equipment, the workmen in and out." Cass grabbed another pastry.

"Someone who knew Pamela was going to be there alone that night," Nell said.

They were silent for a moment, devouring the
koloches
. Drinking coffee. Following strands of yarn and thinking back to that night. Thinking of the people who knew schedules and traffic patterns.

Thinking of someone who actually worked there?
But no one would say Kevin's name out loud.

Nice people didn't kill.

"The murderer had to have had access to the ladder to fiddle with it," Cass said.

"And it seems too coincidental that the steel ladder that had been there all along was missing that night." Izzy rolled a needle between her hands, her brows pulled together tightly.

"They needed the room in the garage," Nell said, with more conviction than she felt. It was logical, she tried to convince herself.

Birdie began casting on stitches. Another soft square in a lavender wool. A soothing color. But her thoughts--lined up alongside Nell's--were anything but soothing.