A Holiday Yarn (6 page)

Chapter 7

T
he reporter who stood behind Tommy was excused from the small group that had gathered in the museum's front office. Nancy Hughes unlocked its door and ushered them in, switching on lights and offering to have coffee sent in.

Jerry had suggested Ben join him. He mumbled something about legal things. But the real reason, they knew, was because Ben could handle people and the press with a finesse that bad news sometimes required. And in addition to the young local reporter standing behind Tommy Porter, there was one from Boston waiting in the wings.

When Ben returned to the party a short while later, the desserts were gone, but Ham Brewster had wisely filled a tray of brandy snifters and carried it over to the small gathering of friends.

"It wasn't a suicide?" Nell asked softly. "She didn't kill herself?"

"Not likely. Not that way, anyway," Ben said. "A left-handed person--especially one not used to shooting guns, which we don't think Pamela was--would have used their strongest hand. It doesn't make a lot of sense not to."

"How do reporters manage to find out things so quickly?" Cass asked. "I saw Ned Myers lurking in the shadows, looking like the cat that ate the canary."

"It's a good story for them," Danny Brandley said. He sat beside Cass, one hand resting on her knee. A former reporter, Danny spoke with authority. His research for a new mystery novel only added to his cache of information. "Pamela Pisano's name is newsworthy. The suicide angle in itself would sell newspapers. This is even bigger."

"Maybe it was an accident?" Nell asked.

"Even if it was, that opens up a whole lot of other questions--why was she out there with a gun, for starters?" Ham said.

Ben nodded. "The left-handed thing was noticed quickly in the morgue. And the entry angle of the bullet was wrong, even if she'd been right-handed."

"Murder," Nell said softly.

Such an ugly word. Not a holiday word, not an anytime-of-year word.

All around them, partygoers moved on and off the dance floor, to the bar, laughing and dancing and sharing the joy of the night.

"It wasn't completely a surprise. The suicide was too neat," Ben said. "Mary never believed it."

Too neat. Too convenient. But that meant someone had clearly intended to murder Pamela. And wanted people to think it was a suicide.

I'm sorry
, the words had read. Who was sorry? Nell wondered now. For what?

She looked around, suddenly aware that the group was smaller than usual. "Where's Izzy?"

Cass looked up. "Home."

"Sam?"

"He took her."

Nell looked hard at Cass. Words usually fell more readily from her mouth. "Why did she leave without telling us?"

Cass shrugged.

"She had a good reason, I'm sure," Birdie said. "Probably a busy day in the shop, and Sam looked tired, too. She didn't want to interrupt us with good-byes."

Nell was forced to drop the subject.

Feeling the weight of the evening's news, Ben suggested that he was winding down, too, and perhaps they'd want to follow Izzy's lead.

Laura Danvers was effusive in her good-byes and suggested they all reserve their copies of
Fashion Monthly
soon. "They'll fly off the shelves," she said, hugging Nell tightly.

No doubt. But it might not be because of Laura's Donna Karan dress or the Alberta Ferretti strapless gown that hugged Beatrice Scaglia. Or the pink peacock look that brought the photographer's attention to the mayor's wife.

It would be for a far less festive reason, as the next day's
Sea Harbor Gazette
would boldly detail.

It seemed like a lifetime later when Ben and Nell finally turned out the lights and settled beneath the down comforter. "What's going on in that head of yours?" Ben leaned up on one elbow.

A low light behind Nell outlined her shape beneath the blanket. "You," she said.

"An interesting place to be, inside your head." He ran one hand down the shape of her hip.

"Not so interesting. I'm just glad to have you here beside me."

Ben leaned one arm across Nell and switched off the light, then pulled her close. "This whole mess is awful, no matter how you cut it, but the contrast with all that happiness tonight, the music and food and laughter, is jarring, obscene in a way."

She nodded against his shoulder. "The holidays are a difficult time for some people, anyway. Even in the best of times. Now this, layered on top."

"Nell, you're a big stew of emotions tonight. They're written across you in neon letters."

Nell shifted slightly, resting her head on his shoulder. "I know. A part of me is so sad for the Pisano family. For Pamela. It's not fair she died like this. And a part of me is angry. It's not fair to Mary and what this will do to her, to the bed-and-breakfast."

"And beneath it all you're worried about Izzy. And she wasn't murdered or hurt. Her life here is a good one, intact, full of nice people."

Nell was quiet. She watched the shadows of moonlight fall across their bed and onto the wall, a hazy outline of snowy pine branches moving in slow motion. She thought about the way she and Ben crawled so easily inside each other's heads and hearts. It was decades in the making, but there it was. It made keeping secrets difficult.

Ben knew she was worried about Izzy; of course he did. They both loved Izzy like the daughter they never had, and were forever grateful to Caroline Chambers for sharing her daughter with them in a lifetime embrace.

"Izzy is a wise and amazing woman," Ben murmured beside her.

His breath was warm on her cheek. Nell closed her eyes.
Yes, she is
. And that would be enough for Ben, even if he sensed something not quite right. Izzy would handle it. It was a difference between them, a chasm that even all these years of marriage couldn't breach. A male-female difference, maybe. She would forever be the mother bear, ready to right all wrongs, to fight for her young--even those loaned to her by her sister.

Ben, on the other hand, would rationalize the situation, analyze it until he was comfortable that it would be handled wisely. And then he would let it go.

She rolled her head on the pillow until she was looking at the familiar profile of his face.

Ben's breathing slowed, then fell into the comforting rhythm of sleep. His chest rose and fell. His mouth fell open.

Next to him, Nell sighed. And then she began counting, and as the night slipped away, a whole farmyard of sheep moved before her closed eyelids.

Chapter 8

A
holiday cookie exchange was such a normal, sane thing to do that Izzy called Nell to see whether she should cancel Monday's gathering.

"The papers are filled with stories about Pamela Pisano. Not just the
Sea Harbor Gazette--
the
Globe
is all over it," Izzy said. "It's on everyone's minds. A cookie exchange seems so . . . I don't know, so frivolous."

"Maybe that's exactly why you shouldn't cancel it, Iz."

The knitting groups that Izzy's shop hosted loved the holiday season--the warmth and delicious colors of yarn piled high in baskets all over the store, Izzy's hot chocolate, the fire in the back room, and the festive gatherings of knitting, eating, chatting, and music. It was safe and happy. It was good.

The phone was silent for so long that Nell wondered whether Izzy had hung up on her.

"Iz?"

"I'm thinking."

"Would you like to think at Annabelle's? Ben and I were about to drive over for brunch. Birdie will probably be there. Mae can open up the studio for you today."

Again her words were met with heavy silence.
Disturbing
silence, Nell thought, but Ben would have countered her if she'd said that out loud.
You can't hear emotions in silence, Nellie
, he'd say.

But she could. Some silences were peaceful, like sitting in the family room with Ben at night, reading. Or on Birdie's deck during a snowfall, bundled up, just the two of them and two glasses of wine, the ocean stretched out in front of them and snow silencing the world. No words. Just peace.

Some were awful, like the silence after bad news falls from the sky. The silence when staring at a dead body in the snow.

And some were disturbing. Like the silence on Izzy's phone call.

"All right," Izzy said finally, and the click of the phone echoed in Nell's ear.

Nell half expected Sam to follow Izzy out of her tiny house when she and Ben drove up to the curb. He'd push a shaggy lock of hair back from his forehead as he greeted them, and his slow, lopsided smile would warm the cold air.

But Izzy was alone, her down jacket zipped up to her chin and a thick knit cap pulled down over her ears. Her multicolored hair fell from beneath the cap and around her shoulders like a cape.

"A goat-cheese frittata with spinach and roasted peppers--fresh basil sprinkled on top. Maybe some avocado slices and a dollop of sour cream on the side. That's what I want," she said, climbing into the backseat. "Oh, and fried potatoes, too."

Well, at least Izzy had an appetite. When Nell and Ben were negotiating their relationship--an odd word that strangely fit the process those many years ago--she sometimes found it difficult to eat. Her heart seemed to take over her whole body, leaving little room for anything else. She was head over heels in love--but determined that it be a fully responsible, equal relationship. Not that Ben would have settled for anything else himself. But it was the sixties, a turbulent, changing time, and if only for her own self-respect and that of women everywhere, she needed to make her points, be clear on her feelings about relationships, equality. Looking back, it all seemed unnecessary. But at the time it was critical.

Beside her Ben was laughing, his eyes meeting Izzy's in the rearview mirror. "Well, then, Izzy, you shall have it. Nothing is too extravagant for my favorite niece."

Izzy laughed, too, and the ride over the narrow road to Canary Cove and Annabelle's Sweet Petunia restaurant went by quickly--and happily.

In the winter, with summer people gone, Annabelle restricted her restaurant hours to just a couple of days a week. But Sunday mornings were sacred. And she risked a revolt from Sea Harbor residents should the Sweet Petunia not open its doors that day.

"It's not quite the same without our Stella at the desk," Nell said to Annabelle as the plump owner took their coats.

"She's my baby. And in college now, can you believe it?" Annabelle wore her well-deserved pride for her children on her sleeve. Starting her own business after her husband died at sea, being mother and father to four kids and putting them all through college, was not for the faint of heart. Annabelle grabbed three menus. "So, where's our Birdie?"

"She's not here?"

"I haven't seen hide nor hair of her. She's usually here before the blueberry scones are out of the oven. But the Favazza home is right over there near the Pisano place, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's it, then. All this terrible news about that place is disturbing people's routines. It's terrible."

Disturbing routines
. Murder had a way of doing that. Yes.

Nell followed Ben and Izzy as Annabelle led them over to a table near the windows.

"Maybe she overslept," Nell said, sitting down and turning over her coffee cup. She looked around the room, half expecting Birdie to be following them.

Sometimes Birdie woke up in the middle of the night, then slept later the next morning to make up for it. It was Sonny who did it, she claimed. Her long-deceased husband would nudge her from bed, and she'd retreat to his den at the top of the house. The small room that had been Sonny's sanctuary was still filled with his pipes and books and leather-topped desk. The smell of cherry tobacco rose from the leather chair when Birdie curled up in it and welcomed the familiar comfort of its creases. She'd breathe in the smell of him, and then she'd feel his arms around her, warming her.

A large brass telescope on a wooden stand was positioned in the middle of the mullioned windows, its scope aimed out toward the sea. It was always ready to take one beyond the harbor or across the town. Birdie claimed she never used it, but Nell knew differently. Twice the older woman had spotted fires in the middle of the night, and who knew how many teenage beach parties she'd discovered in the early-morning hours?

"We'll keep her coffee cup ready in case she joins us," Ben said, his hand on the back of the chair.

Father Northcutt was sitting with Beatrice and Sal Scaglia at a sunny corner table. He looked up and waved at Ben.

Ben waved back and said to Nell, "Seeing the good padre reminds me that I have a check for him. Back in a minute."

"Where's Sam?" Nell asked when Ben was out of earshot.

"Oh, you know Sam. Independent. He's off on an adventure." Izzy stirred an unusual amount of cream into her coffee, then looked up and offered Nell a smile.

But the smile came only from her lips. Her eyes were another matter.

"To take photographs?"

"No." Izzy pulled a piece of knitting from a large bag. It was a colorful square, a wooly stockinette weave of reds, yellows, and pale greens. A deep blue ribbing bordered the four sides. "It's the Knit-a-Square project," she said, holding it up. "Just needs the ends woven in. Next I start on a KasCuddle."

Nell smiled. They'd be doing more squares at the cookie exchange, sending them off to South Africa, where the KasCare volunteers at the church would work them up into blankets and sweaters for children with AIDS. Izzy had become inspired by photos of the amazing blankets produced for the needy families, and in months she had the whole town knitting squares for Aunt Ronda and her workers in South Africa.

"So Sam's gone somewhere mysterious, but not to take photographs," Nell said, reluctant to drop the subject. "Maybe he's Christmas shopping."

The suggestion wasn't lost on Izzy. She frowned at Nell. Then she set her square down on the table and looked intently at Nell.

"I know you're concerned--please don't be. It's just one of those things. Sam is acting strange. Maybe it's our relationship. Maybe we've gotten too close and he's scared. Like wondering what's next for us. I haven't put pressure on him--I'm not even sure that I want to talk about what's next. But Sam seems to be pulling away."

Izzy caught her bottom lip between her teeth the way Nell remembered her doing when she was young, spending summers with Ben and Nell on Cape Ann, and life wasn't going smoothly. The grown-up Izzy showed hurt in her eyes, as well.

She tried to mask it with a casual shrug of her shoulders.

Nell waited.

"Midlife crisis maybe? Who knows?" Izzy welcomed the distraction of Jenny, the waitress, wanting their order.

"He's only thirty-nine," Nell said softly, more to herself than to Izzy. She ordered for herself and Ben, and sat back, sipping her coffee and watching her niece while she ordered the special frittata.

There was an opinion, pushing against her lips, trying to get out, but she held it back. Izzy
was
ready to talk about the next step in her relationship, even if she didn't realize it herself. Nell could see it in Izzy's eyes when she looked at Sam. She could hear it in her voice when she held Liz Palazola-Santos' new baby boy in her arms or knit up a cuddle for the babies in Africa. She could even see it in the wistful look on her face when she unpacked a new load of fingerling yarn in soft greens and pinks and light blues.

And she had heard it loud and clear when Izzy had asked Nell on her wedding anniversary what being married to Ben Endicott meant to her after all these years.
Life
, she'd answered without thinking.
It meant life.

Sam was another story. Nell knew he loved Izzy. Everyone knew it. What began as a surprise encounter with his best friend's little sister had slowly evolved into something far more. And before long, the photographer had bought a house overlooking the ocean, traveled less, and had slipped into Izzy's life effortlessly, as if there had always been an Izzy and Sam.

Until now.

Nell wouldn't tell Izzy, but she'd noticed Sam's odd behavior herself. At the past Friday night supper at the Endicotts' he had seemed like a bystander, standing on the fringe and looking in. Most of the time, he was looking at Izzy, and his eyes held the same longing she'd seen there before. But there was something else there now, something--as hard as she tried--Nell couldn't put her finger on.

"When your uncle and I were processing our relationship, we had to make some compromises," she finally said. The words sounded hollow, meaningless when they left her lips.

"Processing?" Izzy drew her brows together. "Aunt Nell, processing is what you do with meat--in a plant."

Nell lifted one shoulder; a small smile lifted her lips. "I suppose. I only meant that important decisions sometimes take time and care and understanding. Sometimes patience, too."

Izzy sipped her coffee and looked out the windows at the ocean several blocks away. With the trees stripped of leaves, and the restaurant high on Canary Cove Hill, the ocean seemed close. A perfect backdrop for the sleepy art colony nestled in between.

"I don't know," she said finally, cupping her chin in her hand. "There's something going on. He went to Colorado this morning."

Nell frowned. "Colorado? Why?" Sam was raised in Colorado but spent much of his youth in Kansas, either in school or spending summers at Nell's sister's ranch. The whole family--except for the adolescent Izzy, who considered boys an odd species back then--loved Sam. And they more than made up for a family he didn't really have.

"I don't know why. He said he had to see a man about a horse. But not to worry. He said he'd be back."

"Of course he will."

"The thing is . . . "

Izzy looked directly at Nell, and her brown eyes revealed what the "thing" was before the words came.

"I love Sam Perry," Izzy said. "But he's closed off a part of himself from me. He loves me. I know that. But I don't know why he's doing this. And I don't know what to do about it. I've always known what to do in my life; you know that. College. Law school. Quitting a law practice. Opening a yarn store.

"But now I don't. And I have a shop to run, dozens of women wanting to make baby booties and sweaters and scarves. I have orders to fill and a roof to fix." She paused just long enough to blink away the tears gathering in her eyes. "It isn't right for him to shut me out like this," she said softly. "It isn't right."

Nell had no answer, and they fell silent, tucking away the moment as Jenny came back with heaping platters of Annabelle's special egg creations. She set the plates down in front of them just as Ben pulled out his chair and joined them.

Ben's eyes lit up. A ring of breakfast sausages surrounded Ben's cheesy eggs. Chunks of curry-spiced sweet potatoes poked out of the eggs from between thin slivers of fresh lemony chard. A layer of sour cream coated the top like new-fallen snow.

"I think I'm in love with Annabelle Palazola," Ben said. His smile was huge as he dropped his folded
New York Times
on the empty chair and happily dug into the creamy frittata.

Ben attacked food like he attacked life, Nell thought, watching the eggs disappear. With great pleasure and fine sensibilities. One of a myriad of reasons why she'd married him.

A vibration in her pocket pulled Nell's attention away from food. She looked down at the number. "It's Birdie," she said as she lifted the phone to her ear.

The conversation was brief. "Of course . . . Certainly . . . We'll be there soon."

She slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"Birdie is with Mary Pisano at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. She asked us to stop by when we're finished here."

"Problems?"

"She didn't say. But it wasn't really a request as much as a directive, not Birdie's usual way--although she did say we could finish breakfast first." Nell paused, thinking back over the conversation. "I thought Mary would be with the family today, considering everything, but it's just as well she's with Birdie."

"Father Northcutt said he was with the family late last night when they heard the news. They were pretty shook up. Suicide in a family is difficult. There's guilt. Confusion. A murder is a whole different story."

"I'm sure the police will want to talk to all of them."

Ben nodded. "Father Larry said the relatives had all come together surprisingly fast on who might want Pamela dead."

Nell and Izzy waited.