A Holiday Yarn (5 page)

In one corner of the room, a photo and book exhibit detailing the birth and growth of Sea Harbor in the late 1700s drew a crowd. Nell watched her friend Archie Brandley wander over, then saw his eyes dance with delight as he saw donated books from his own bookstore acknowledged and handsomely displayed.

Archie's forty-year-old son Danny had recently moved back to Sea Harbor to work on a book of his own. "My son the novelist," Archie proudly whispered to customers in his store. Nell spotted Danny, dancing with Cass Halloran near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Cass dancing. She smiled. The tomboy fisherman turned elegant. And elegant she was, her slinky black dress matching the mass of hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Who knew? Danny Brandley's return to town had added a new dimension to Cass' life.

Izzy and Sam hovered near the doors to the library, their heads leaning in toward each other, their world reduced to just the two of them. Their faces were serious, deliberate, as if the problems of the world were being solved right there in the Sea Harbor Historical Museum.

A few steps away, Ben and Birdie stood in front of a table that groaned with spinach crepes and smoked ham, thin slices of cheese and turkey and pasta dishes, a baron of beef. They were talking with Ham and Jane Brewster. Nell noticed that Ben's plate was piled high with carpaccio, hunks of French bread, and chunks of Brie. Not his daily fare, but a holiday indulgence, Nell reminded herself. Let him enjoy it--his heart would be fine.

Looking at her husband from a distance, Nell's heart still reacted. It wasn't with that wild rush that ran straight through every inch of her body when she'd see the tall, gangly graduate student coming toward her across Harvard Yard. But a quieter rush, like fresh springwater, coursing through her body, waking her spirit and her senses. It was a softer flow of desire, but one enriched by nearly forty years of sharing life's moments and intimacies.

"You think you're invisible, but you're not." Jane Brewster gave Nell a warm hug. "From that sexy smile lighting your eyes, I dare not offer money for your thoughts."

Nell chuckled.

"This is a great spot for people watching." Jane settled in beside her, her back against the wall. The giant Christmas tree and mantel on either side shadowed the two friends. "Maybe people will think we're ornaments."

A minute later Birdie joined them. "A lovely party. But I need a slight break from being charming. Do you have room for one more in your little cave?"

"You can be an old grouch with us," Jane said. "Problem is, I don't think you know how."

Birdie laughed and looked over the crowd. "People are having fun, don't you think? We all needed something like this to end this week."

A waitress walked by, and Jane stopped her with a wide smile, lifted martinis from the tray, and passed them around. "And something like this." She slipped a lock of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear and peered into the delicate glass. "Not Ben's, for sure, but it will do."

Jane Brewster and her husband, Ham, had been friends of the Endicotts for longer than either couple could remember. The Brewsters had come upon Sea Harbor by accident in the late sixties, looking for Woodstock-type action and instead finding a sleepy harbor town perfect for growing an artists' colony. And so they had, buying a small patch of land and opening a gallery that featured not only Jane's ceramics and Ham's paintings, but also the work of other artists they had lured to the area. Years later, the area was thriving, encouraged and supported by not only townsfolk, but artists from the notable Rocky Neck colony over in Gloucester. "Artists help one another," Ham explained. And it had certainly been true in growing Canary Cove into a Sea Harbor tourist attraction.

"I stopped over at Mary and Ed's today," Jane began. She paused and took a sip of her martini. "They were alone--I don't know what happened to the rest of the Pisanos--but Mary seemed grateful they weren't there."

"It's a sad time for that whole family. They may not have all gotten along, but having Pamela die so young and so unexpectedly is a tragedy--and I know they're feeling it deeply."

They stood quietly, sipping their martinis in the comfortable way old friendships allowed, their thoughts moving from a body in the snow, to the diminutive newspaper columnist, to the festive party playing out around them.

People moved about the room as if performing in an extravagantly choreographed movie. Elegantly dressed guests moved past them; couples drifted over to a small dance floor. And everywhere people chatted and drank and ate, happy to be in a warm, lovely place, happy to be alive.

"Pamela had planned on coming tonight," Nell said, admiring a parade of designer gowns moving across the room on toned bodies. "She was bringing one of her magazine's photographers from New York. Laura was thrilled about the possibility of being in
Fashion Monthly
."

"It would have been a nice thing for the museum," Birdie said. "And a generous gesture on Pamela's part. I'm sure she had invitations to dozens of holiday parties all around New York and Boston."

"And now a holiday party is the last thing any of the Pisanos will be thinking of."

"Pamela is being cremated. A private service, Mary said," Birdie told them.

"Everyone in town knew who Pamela was. She was in and out of here often enough, and she often left things in her wake--like crushed relationships. But I don't think she had many friends, at least not here."

They all knew that was an understatement, but they let it rest. Everyone knew
of
Pamela because she was a "personality." An editor people found difficult to work for, or so said the rumor mill. And a beautiful woman who loved men.

Jane set down her glass and folded her arms around a silky blue stole. Hand-painted flowers in golds and greens detailed the ends of the fabric, and Nell knew without asking that Jane had made it herself and painted the tiny images with great care and talent. "Mary doesn't think Pamela's death was a suicide," Jane said.

Nell and Birdie were silent, playing with the thought that had finally been voiced. Pamela's dying was so neat. The words in the snow. Even the place. A snowbank and a back porch didn't seem a likely place for Pamela to end her life.

Pamela had seemed happy in Polly's Tea Shoppe, not distressed or depressed.

Nell had mentioned it to Ben as they'd dressed for the party.

"Sometimes people about to commit suicide are happy," he'd reminded her. "Their pain--or whatever is driving them to it--is about to end."

But Pamela hadn't seemed happy in
that
way, though Nell couldn't articulate it to Ben. No. It didn't fit--none of it.

So Ben had tried being circumspect, the practical one. "Let's wait until Jerry releases his report," he had said. Chief Jerry Thompson was good at his job, he reminded Nell pointedly. He was the expert.

"I don't think anyone wants to take that thinking to the next step," Birdie finally said. "That's the thing. We want to be singing of white Christmases and decorating trees. We don't want to be thinking 'What if Pamela didn't commit suicide?' "

"But what if?" Jane urged.

The words fell to the floor, untouched. No one wanted to push this further; Birdie was right. And there was no reason to do so. At least not tonight.

Nell watched Ben off in the corner, talking to Jerry Thompson. She wondered whether they were talking about Pamela. She had been surprised earlier to see the police chief there, but then realized that was silly. A death didn't require round-the-clock duty.

Their heads were bent, two tall, graying men, their conversation protected by the huddle of their bodies.

"What's going on?" Birdie set her martini glass down on a small table and pointed toward the dance floor. Her thin white brows were pulled together.

A tall, skinny man whom Nell didn't recognize was setting up a portable spotlight, plugging an extension cord into its base. A young woman stood nearby, holding a pad of paper. Nearby, Laura Danvers, her face flushed, stood with her husband, her arms linked around his waist. Her beautiful Donna Karan gown flowed to the floor.

The photographer pointed to a spot on the floor, and Laura and Elliott Danvers moved to it, positioning themselves. The flash of a bulb captured the moment, and Nell looked again at the photographer. It wasn't anyone local; she was sure of that. And the equipment was elaborate, not the usual
Sea Harbor Gazette
digital one-shot.

"Look," Birdie said, her voice so low, Nell could barely hear her.

She followed the point of Birdie's finger.

On the other side of the lighting equipment, a woman gave instructions to the photographer, then to the couple in the spotlight, then to the assistant taking notes. Even from a distance, her movements were authoritative, precise.

She was a tall, big-boned woman, with her hair pulled back and fastened tightly at the base of her neck. A glitter of diamonds surrounded the bun, and a sequined dress fell from her square shoulders, moving uncomfortably over her hips to the floor.

Although she wasn't overweight, everything about the woman was long and strong--her body, her nose, her cheeks, her chin. The elegant dress looked strangely out of place, as if it had been made for a model but purchased by someone unfamiliar with the art of dressing glamorously.

The woman turned slightly, and Nell's eyes widened in surprise.

Pamela's unkind words in the tea shop crept, unbidden, into Nell's mind.

A face like a horse
, she had said.

Defying her dead cousin's unfair words, Agnes Pisano stood tall and proud next to the photographer, oblivious to onlookers. Her fingers clutched a large leather notebook with the words
Fashion Monthly
flowing across the front in gold script, and
Editor in Chief
printed beneath.

Chapter 6

T
hey stood in the shadow of the Christmas tree, watching the unusual vignette play out in front of them.

Laura Danvers was the talent scout, pointing out women in designer dresses, men in Armani, couples and people with ties to the museum. Agnes was the producer, nodding and pointing and speaking to the young woman beside her, who dutifully recorded names and notes. Beside them, the skinny photographer checked the lighting and exposure with each new shot.

Laura waved Nancy Hughes over to the group, and a shot was snapped of Laura and a reluctant Nancy. Then one of Agnes herself, standing between the Danverses, her arm around Laura's waist, Elliott Danvers looking handsome and accustomed to having his photo taken. Next the mayor and his wife were ushered over, the details of her Vera Wang dress pointed out, and more photos taken of an array of beautiful gowns and equally beautiful women.

"Interesting," Birdie said.

"Birdie, you can say more in one word than anyone I know."

Birdie laughed. She picked up her small evening bag and looped the gold chain over her arm. "What do you make of it? Agnes seems to be picking up where Pamela left off and not letting any dust gather in the process."

Agnes was one of the few Pisanos who lived in Sea Harbor full-time. A writer, she worked remotely, contributing to several of the Pisano periodicals. She lived alone in a lovely home near the sea, and those who knew her thought her to be pleasant, plain, and intelligent. The Agnes before them was a different person entirely.

"Perhaps we're misjudging," Nell said. "Since Pamela had committed to attending the party, Laura may have asked Agnes to fill in for her, though I admit, it would be an odd request to impose on a grieving family member."

But Agnes Pisano didn't appear to be grieving. Her face was flushed and her eyes alive with the air of someone who was exactly where she wanted to be.

"The three muses," Ben said, coming up beside the women.

Ham Brewster and Jerry Thompson, Sea Harbor's chief of police, were behind him.

"You three should be in line over there," Ham said. He looked across the room. "Why are you hiding?"

Jane silenced him with a nudge to his side. "What do you suppose Agnes is doing here?" Jane asked.

"It looks like she's organizing some photos for her deceased cousin's magazine," Jerry Thompson said.

The chief's voice revealed nothing, but Nell noticed the deep furrow in his brow. His eyes remained fixed on the photo shoot.

"But . . . well, why?" Jane asked.

"I imagine a lot of people are asking that," Nell murmured.

Ben nodded. "Her timing's not great."

Nell shook off a feeling of discomfort. She looked over at Agnes, but the image was blurred. What Nell saw instead was the image that had stayed with her day and night.

Pamela Pisano--still and lifeless in a white bed of snow.

Her palms faced the sky, and the fingers of one hand wrapped around the black grip of a pistol, its sight pointed to the right, to the words in the snow.

I'm sorry.

Nell squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.

The image was still there.

A feeling of foreboding wrapped around her. She shivered.

"Cold?" Standing behind her, Ben spoke quietly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

"Low blood sugar." Nell forced a smile to her face.

"Easy solution for that. How about a piece of lemon and amaretto cheesecake?" His voice took on a dramatic flow. "Dribbled with melted Belgian chocolate and brandy, dusted with powdered sugar and toasted walnuts?" His brows lifted enticingly.

Birdie laughed. "If you ever tire of being the unofficial business and legal consultant for the entire town," she said, "I would suggest you try the Food Network. They might have a spot for someone like you."

Ben laughed and pointed toward a tray of desserts sitting on a glass-topped coffee table ringed with comfortable chairs. He began leading the group toward it.

Nell fell in step beside Jerry Thompson. "I'm glad you were able to come tonight, Jerry. These are tough days. A dose of good food and friends can be a good thing."

"You're right about the friends and food. And about the tough days. But it'll come together."

At five foot eight, Nell didn't usually have to look too far up to face male companions, but the chief of police, a basketball player in college, towered over her. Behind his height and strong frame, though, he was a gentle soul. Tonight he seemed relieved to be ordinary, to be himself--a gentle man.

"I hope so," Nell said.

"Not a good time of year for this sort of thing."

The way he said "this sort of thing" made Nell look up again, but Jerry's eyes were unreadable. Again, the uncomfortable feeling passed through her.

It was then, when Nell pulled her gaze away from the pensive look in Jerry's eyes, that she spotted Tommy Porter, his policeman's uniform a contrast to the glittering jewels and long satin gowns around him. He stood just inside the door, scanning the crowd.

"I think your quiet evening may be coming to an end," Nell said to Jerry, nodding toward the young policeman.

At the same time, Tommy spotted his boss and lifted one hand in the air.

Nell looked at Tommy, and as if he had answers written across his face, she knew what had been bothering her for the past twenty-four hours.

A collision of images came together in a split second, wound up as neatly as a ball of yarn.

She and Birdie, standing over Pamela's frozen body.

Pamela's hand reaching out, as if to grab the railing, an escape.

And in her other hand, a revolver pointing to the right, to the words written in the snow.

I'm sorry.

And playing beneath the clean white images of her mind were the words of Mae Anderson.
She was appalled that we didn't offer a special class for lefties
.

Pamela Pisano--like her cousin Mary and her grandfather Enzo, like Ben Endicott and Julia Roberts, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama, and a tenth of the population--was left-handed. If she had wanted to kill herself, she would surely have used the hand most likely to accomplish the task. Her left hand.