A Holiday Yarn (4 page)

She tucked away a reminder to ask Ben whether he knew what was up with Sam Perry.

"Pamela Pisano was going to come to the party," Laura said. Her tone changed, her voice edged with disappointment. "I invited her weeks ago when I heard she'd be in town. She was looking forward to it and was bringing a photographer to take photos of the museum and the holiday dresses. It would make a good angle for a magazine story, Pamela told me. A small-town holiday party that highlights a community landmark."

A young woman wearing a skinny skirt and clunky shoes came up behind Laura and tapped her on the shoulder. "Time to rinse," she said with a cheery smile.

Laura turned to follow her, then looked back and said sadly, "She even told me what she was going to wear--a new Versace."

Nell watched the young woman walk back into the maze of hair dryers, mirrors, and rotating chairs.

Of course.
That was it--the cause for the regret and slight irritation she had heard in Laura's voice. She wasn't coldhearted. But it would have been an amazing coup for her party to be featured in Pamela's popular national magazine, not to mention the attention it would bring to the museum. It was a huge disappointment to Laura, even in light of the tragic circumstances that would prevent it from happening.

A waving hand called to her. M.J.'s assistant. Time to go.

Only later, during the gentle wash and neck massage that turned her body to liquid calm, did she replay Laura's conversation in her mind. But it wasn't the hostess' regret that pulled Nell out of her massage stupor.

It was Pamela's commitment to the holiday party. Her promises to Laura. Choosing a dress. She'd even talked about buying a condo.

Exactly how many commitments and plans did one make--how many slots on a social calendar fill--before taking one's own life?

Chapter 5

N
ell dressed warmly for Laura Danvers' party Saturday night. She liked the lovely feel of silky, sleeveless dresses, but she also liked to be warm. The silvery wool dress she took from her closet had long sleeves and a scoop neckline and flowed to her ankles, perfect for combating the drafts that old buildings were noted for.

Slipping into a long black coat, Nell wondered briefly whether the chill that permeated her bones was weather induced--or came from somewhere else. An hour with Mary Pisano at the small, unpretentious home she shared with Ed Ambrose, her fisherman husband, had revealed little news regarding Pamela's death. She'd been fine at the meeting that afternoon, Mary had said. Her usual argumentative self.

Try as she might, Nell couldn't extricate the image from her mind--the single trickle of blood warning onlookers that it wasn't sleep that held the beautiful woman immobile in the snow.

"Let it go, Nellie," Ben urged, holding open the door to his car. "Just for tonight." His lips touched her cheek as she slid onto the seat. A comforting kiss.

Nell nodded, smiled.
Let it go. Let it go
. The words swung back and forth, a pendulum in her head. She climbed into the car and turned on the radio, hoping for the sounds of a symphony or jazz, a trumpet solo to warm the chilly air.

But Nell knew deep down that it would take more than music or Ben's words to shake her free of the image of Pamela's cold body. And it wasn't just because of the obvious--finding a dead body. The whole experience had disoriented her. Confused her thinking. She wouldn't have been able to put words to the reason if Ben had asked her why, but she knew it to be true.

Ben turned a knob on the dashboard and warm air circled around her. But inside, Nell shivered.

As the poet said, there were miles to go before they slept.

The Sea Harbor Historical Museum was located in an old house just off Harbor Road and across the street from a small park. Four brick pathways crisscrossed the square, converging at a small gazebo at its center. As if dressed for a party, tree branches along the pathways were draped with thousands of tiny Christmas lights, and hundreds of luminaries lined the pathways, their flickering candlelight lighting partygoers' steps to the museum.

For the past few years, Laura and her banker husband had hosted the first big party of the season in their spacious home out on Sea Harbor Point, and each year Laura used the occasion to benefit a Sea Harbor need. This year Laura was determined to highlight the historical society building and to encourage residents to support needed repairs, staff hirings, and the acquisition of new exhibits and books.

"If anyone can bring attention to this old building, Laura Danvers can," Nell said as she and Ben walked across the street. Izzy and Birdie followed close behind.

The three-story structure shimmered like a winter jewel with two enormous wreaths on the double doors and electric candles in every window. A shutter that just last week had been hanging loose was fastened tightly, ready for a party.

Even though the roof needed repairs, and here and there paint flaked from the eaves, the building was beautiful--a New England Colonial built a century before as a vacation home for a wealthy Boston businessman and his large family. Over the years, the home had gone through additions and changes and had finally been added to the historic registry and turned into a museum. It now housed exhibits, an impressive library, staff offices, and a paneled hall for events--especially festive tonight for Laura and Elliott's party.

The double doors opened, and several teenage helpers dressed in holiday finery took their coats and pointed them toward the main hall.

Laura stood in the wide opening, composed, welcoming, and in a beautiful emerald green dress covered with tiny pearls.

She hugged Nell tightly. "Thanks for coming. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Of course not. And you haven't let us down, either. This is magnificent." She looked into the hall, brimming with guests and alive with color and lights.

At the far end, with faces bright and free of the world's worries, a choir of young boys and girls stood in a semicircle, their small bodies as straight as the candlesticks they clutched in their hands. Their sweet voices rose into the air as a single silvery sound, their mouths perfect ovals as they sang about coming home for Christmas and walking in a winter wonderland.

"A wonderland. That's what you've created, Laura. You've done yourself proud," Birdie said.

Alongside the singers, a tree nearly touched the high ceiling. It was covered with ornaments made and donated by Canary Cove artists. Each one reminded guests of their heritage--small wooden mermaids and lobster buoys, crocheted starfish and ceramic lobsters, and whales and sailboats. Tiny wreaths fashioned from yarn in Willow Adams' unique style. And all for sale, a tasteful lettered signed told them. Proceeds to benefit the Sea Harbor Historic Museum.

On another wall, leaping flames in a huge old fireplace cast warm shadows across the room and lit round, smiling faces as the choir finished a number and bowed in unison, beaming at the applause. Small hands waved vigorously to proud parents.

Waiters, balancing trays of champagne and wine, pastry-wrapped olives, and small seafood quiches, moved through the festive crowd.

"Sam left a message he'd meet us here," Izzy said, looking around the crowded room. She stood to the side, nervously fingering a lacy knit shawl around her bare shoulders. Beneath, a shimmering dress flowed over her narrow hips to the floor. Her eyes moved from group to group, looking for the sandy-haired photographer.

"If he said he'd be here, Izzy, he will be," Nell said.

Izzy didn't seem to hear her aunt's ready assurance. She stood apart, smiling politely at neighbors and friends, her mind clearly elsewhere.

Harry and Margaret Garozzo walked by, the ruddy-faced deli owner holding his wife's arm with unusual tenderness.

The season gets to all of us
, Nell thought,
even dear, gruff Harry.

As if reading her mind, Harry stopped and gave Nell a brief, awkward hug. His baker's arm was huge on her narrow shoulder. "Sad time for Mary," he said softly, nodding his large head. Harry's wide forehead was dotted with tiny drops of perspiration, as if he had just been toiling in his kitchen deli, baking his famous rustic Italian bread. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his dark suit. "We dropped off some platters today."

Nell nodded. Of course Harry would take food over--probably his specialty for unexpected gatherings--an enormous platter of prosciutto, plenty of imported cheeses, and his famous capicola--more food than the Pisanos would ever eat. Food said,
I care.

And blustery Harry Garozzo cared.

Ben handed glasses of champagne to Birdie, Nell, and Izzy. "To family, to friends," he said, lifting his glass. Then he waved toward the bar and added, "And to
more
friends."

Sam, Cass, and Danny Brandley waved back and immediately wove their way through the crowd to the small group. Sam moved directly to Izzy's side, cradling her waist with his arm and drawing her close. He whispered something in her ear.

Izzy smiled, a slow flush traveling up her cheeks.

Ben leaned his head toward Nell. "I can feel the relief traveling through your body like earthquake tremors when those two are in good spirits. You're hopeless."

Nell pressed closer. "You're right--I'm a hopeless, interfering aunt. It's in my genes, right there in that stringy little chromosome. And there's nothing you or I or the man in the moon can do about it." She touched one finger to his lips. "So there."

Ben took the hand that touched his lips and kissed her fingertips. "And I suppose it's one of the many things I love about you--sometimes, anyway."

Nell drew her hand away and urged him to mingle. She pointed toward Jerry Thompson standing across the room staring down a baron of beef. "Maybe the chief will have some news.... "

Nell wandered off to congratulate Nancy Hughes on how lovely the museum looked. Although cutbacks had slashed the former director's hours to just a few, Nell felt sure that Nancy was responsible for the museum's festive flair tonight--and had probably purchased half the decorations herself.

Nancy stood alone near the fireplace. She looked happy as she watched the sea of color and life move across the room.

"We all agree; it's beautiful." Nell walked up and stood beside her. "And I suspect you had a lot to do with this."

"It's lovely, isn't it?"

Nell touched the edge of the loose, wavy scarf looped around Nancy's neck. It moved in slow motion down the length of her simple red dress, the loops of the lace intricate and artful. Nancy certainly knew her way around a skein of cashmere. "You're amazing, Nancy. You do many good things. Knitting, organizing, and if I might venture a guess, you probably fixed those broken shutters yourself."

"It keeps me sane, Nell," Nancy said. "It fills a void. And anything I do at this museum is definitely a labor of love. I've loved working here." She rested one hand on a polished glass cabinet that held artifacts from an ancient shipwreck. "Dean loved the museum, too--he was proud of what we did here. He used to tease me when I'd bring my toolbox to work to mend a display case or fix a broken step or saw branches off the trees out back, but beneath the teasing was pride. I always knew that. "

Nell nodded and watched a familiar sadness fill Nancy's eyes. Dean Hughes had been a handsome, successful lawyer. Not only had his needless death a few years before cut a successful career short; it had left a bereft wife dealing with the worst kind of pain.

"If there are such things as saints, Nancy Hughes is certainly one of them," Birdie had declared not long ago. "Her job at the museum is diminished; then her husband leaves her in such an awful way--and how does she respond? She volunteers for every known cause in Sea Harbor. Given the same circumstances, I would shrivel up and turn into a prune."

Birdie, of course, would do nothing of the kind. Widowed herself in her late twenties, she had done more for the town of Sea Harbor than any one person alive. Although she'd married several more times after Sonny Favazza died, Birdie had kept his memory alive, and the Favazza wealth had been put to good use, never squandered.

But Nancy's generous spirit was certainly admirable. Suicide could destroy more lives than the deceased's. Somehow Nancy had risen from the ashes and devoted herself to others--and fortunately had the funds to support her efforts. Dean Hughes had made sure that with him or without him, she was well taken care of.

She thought of all the Pisanos dealing right now with the same painful emotions, a family member gone--by choice.

Nancy straightened a candle in a brass holder. "Laura's done a good thing here. She is so talented and energetic."

"Speaking of talent and energy, Mary says you're the reason Ravenswood-by-the-Sea is becoming a reality."

"Another labor of love. I love being in that grand house, bringing it to life. Mary's a gem to work with."

Nell watched Nancy's smile slip away. In the beauty and festive mood of their surroundings, it was easy to forget the sad occurrence just across town.

"It's been a dreadful week for Mary. One more day and that family of hers would have been gone. We could have gone back to our work without their constant interference. If only . . . If I hadn't kept Mary so long that night . . . "

Nell shushed her. "Tragedies always bring about a list of 'if only's.' You know that better than anyone. And you know what a waste of energy that kind of thinking is. No one could have done anything. If it hadn't happened that night, it might have been the next. Or next week. We can't control other people's lives or what they do with them. We just can't."

"You're right. It took me a long time to accept that. But what will be, will be, and sometimes there isn't anything you can do about it."

"There you are." Laura Danvers swept over to the two women, the elegant folds of her satin gown floating down to the floor. Emerald green earrings dangled nearly to her bare shoulders. She tucked her arm in Nancy's.

"I need to steal Nancy away, Nell. Father Northcutt has a question about a Winslow Homer painting, and Nancy knows far more than I do in that department. She's our resident expert tonight."

Nell watched them walk away, the elegant hostess and the quiet librarian, an unlikely pair, but both feeling equally maternal tonight toward the museum they'd festooned in holiday finery, bringing all its ancient artifacts to life.

Nell stayed by the fire a moment longer, enjoying the warmth. Standing in the shadow of the enormous tree, warmed by the fire, she felt nearly invisible. The museum ghost. The thought pleased her, and she sipped her glass of champagne, her eyes smiling as the evening unfolded around her.

The children, having finished their medley, had been bundled off to home and bed. In their place, a string combo sat on straight-backed chairs, filling the air with a perfect mixture of holiday music and classic jazz. Friends and neighbors greeted one another, their faces bright with expectation, holiday dresses sparkling and elegant. Laura had invited nearly half the town, it looked to Nell, and they'd brought with them the feeling of Christmas.

No matter what lay outside their doors or at the other end of town or was hidden for the night in police and coroner's reports, tonight was a festive night.

Conversations sometimes erupted in hoots of laughter, sometimes in soft smiles. And when tones lowered to a whisper and expressions grew serious, Nell knew they were acknowledging Pamela Pisano's suicide.
Tragic
. The word fell off lips.
So sad for her mother
, the older set acknowledged.

And the family. And what about the fate of her cousin Mary's bed-and-breakfast?

Why? How?

Guests would need to mention it, of course, in the way tragedies required. And then it would cease to be the elephant in the room and the guests could set it aside, move on to happier talk--Santa's arrival at the pier, the opening of the skating rink, the lighting of the town Christmas tree, and choir concerts scattered all around Cape Ann like glorious snowflakes, softening the night and brightening the season.