A Holiday Yarn (9 page)

"What do you mean?"

"What's going to happen to the bed-and-breakfast? Henrietta O'Neal showed up at a council meeting and accused us of taking money to allow Mary to get the ordinances she needed to fix the place up. I thought she was going to poke a hole straight through me with that walking stick of hers. The accusations are ridiculous, of course. But Henrietta can cause trouble--she's richer than sin and one of the feistiest eighty-year-olds I've ever met."

Beatrice's face colored slightly as she talked. She tapped one skinny heel on the floor nervously. "Now she's saying the place is haunted. The devil at work. That's why Pamela Pisano was murdered. The devil did it."

"Henrietta lives alone," Nell said. "It probably frightens her, the thought of murder in her own neighborhood."

"It isn't pleasant for any of us," Birdie said. "But it will be solved soon."

Beatrice's face softened in relief. Somehow, if Birdie Favazza said it would be solved soon, it would be. She pulled her keys from her purse. "Yes," she said firmly, as if nailing the coffin shut. "It will be."

Nell watched the councilwoman walk off, a wicker basket filled with an assortment of cookies hanging from one arm and her knitting bag from the other. But the usual tilt to her head was missing, and she lacked the spring in her step.

Pamela Pisano's murder was taking its toll, even in the middle of a festive Sea Harbor cookie exchange.

Chapter 12

N
ell looked around the nearly empty room and pulled a broom out of Izzy's utility closet. She began sweeping up cookie crumbs and stray pieces of cut yarn.

Outside, the sky was darkening and a strong wind rattled the windows.

"I'm glad you didn't cancel the cookie exchange, Izzy, no matter what's going on around us. People enjoyed themselves, the cookies were fantastic, and Ben will be overjoyed when I walk in with twenty different kinds of sinful delights. I think he looks forward to this annual gathering more than I do. And having everyone knit a square was a perfect complement to the festivity."

Izzy began packing the finished squares into boxes. "You were right. It takes people's minds off the ugly things."

"Let's toast to that." Cass pulled several glasses from the cupboard and uncorked a bottle of red wine she'd taken from beneath the counter. "People had a good time, but I'm not sure they entirely forgot about the ugly. There was plenty of talk going on."

Nell had heard it, too, and not just Rebecca's story. With each comment, the portrait of Pamela Pisano, fashion editor, became more extravagant, with deep reds and purples covering over the classy, if a bit arrogant, woman that Nell suspected might be closer to the truth. The talk troubled her. There were pieces missing in the picture being painted about Pamela's murder, and once rumors took root, they could so easily mask truths.

"I suppose it's easier to accept murder if the person deserved it somehow," Birdie said. "But that's wrongheaded. No one deserves murder."

"But the truth is," Cass said, "Pamela Pisano could be mean. Even though she didn't live here year-round, she hurt people who do live here. People we care about. Even her own cousins, like Mary and Agnes."

"And don't forget Tommy Porter's older brother," Izzy said.

"Trotting Eddie all over town, all that public affection, then tossing him aside so publicly--that was cruel." Cass straddled a wooden chair, wrapping her arms around its back and sipping her wine. "I remember it well because it was the summer Pete and I officially started our business, and Eddie was helping us for a while. Four years ago or so."

"Well, the way it ended was better than if she'd married him and then ran off," Nell suggested.

"Tommy doesn't think Pamela had any intention of marrying him. Eddie Porter is great-looking. Fun. Pamela was here that whole summer, moving her mom into the nursing home. Bored. Tommy thinks Eddie simply helped her pass the days. She was playing with him, and Eddie pretty much knew it, but he was having fun, too. The odd part, as I remember it, was how she stopped so abruptly, then got really secretive. Rumors were she was having a 'secret' affair. But it wasn't her usual modus operandi. Her usual way was what she did with Eddie, playing with him for the world to see."

Playing with him.
"That's how Rebecca described Pamela's interaction with Troy DeLuca," Nell said. She dumped the crumbs into a wastebasket and put the broom away.

"The blond painter?" Cass asked. "How'd she know him?" She took a Christmas mint from the basket on Izzy's table and popped it into her mouth.

There were probably dozens of blond painters on Cape Ann. But everyone already knew that "the" blond painter referred to Beatrice Scaglia's relative.

"He's part of the crew working on the bed-and-breakfast," Nell said.

"He'd be hard to miss," Izzy said. "Maybe he made the Pisano family meeting more palatable for Pamela."

Nell repeated Rebecca's encounter with Troy and Pamela. "Who knows?"

"I wonder if the police have made a connection between Troy and Pamela. They'd want to talk to Troy, I'd think." Birdie picked up Purl and rubbed her cheeks.

"If they haven't, I suspect they will. They've already put sweet Kevin Sullivan on the hot seat," Izzy said.

"What?" Cass said, annoyance coloring her words. "Kevin couldn't hurt a fly."

"No, but he worked for Mary," Nell said. "They probably just wanted to make sure he hadn't seen something that might be important."

But Kevin wasn't there that night--even though Birdie had thought he would be, getting ready for breakfast the next day. Where was he? And where was everyone else? The emptiness of the house preyed on her, a house that just hours before had been bustling with people. The staff. Workmen. The Pisanos. Then no one.

Except for a lonely dog, cold and frightened, and a dead body in a snowbank.

And a murderer. Yes, there would have been a murderer there, too.

A familiar chill ran up and down her arms. She thought of Mary's distress and the look in Kevin's eyes. Mary needed resolution to this soon. They all did.

The rattling of the alley door caused them all to jump.

Darkness had snuck up on them. Outside a cold wind rattled windows, and crusts of snow blew up against the side of the old building. Izzy pulled the curtain back from the window in the door, frowned, then opened it. "Come in. Hurry."

Sam and Ben stepped in, along with a bone-chilling breeze.

Izzy quickly pushed the door shut behind them.

"We saw the lights," Sam explained. He kissed Izzy on the cheek. "Miss me?"

"We've been busy," she said, wiggling out of his embrace. She pushed strands of streaked honey blond hair from her eyes.

"Looks like it," Sam said, eyeing the wineglasses.

Nell watched the exchange. Poor Sam. Not much of a welcome home. She watched Izzy's face. A forced bright smile betrayed the message in her eyes. She looked so much like her mother, Caroline, at that instant--hiding every inch of vulnerability beneath a protective facade that dared anyone to broach it
. Stay away
, the look said.
Don't touch.

Nell's younger sister had perfected that look, and she threw it away only when she had her own three children and realized children didn't allow facades.

"Sam and I were thinking you gals might like to grab a burger down at the Gull," Ben said. "My treat."

"The Gull?" Nell hesitated. The Gull had decent bar food, but it also had packed crowds of noisy drinkers, screaming-loud music, and the distinctive smell of fishermen who, unlike Cass, didn't always shower after being out on the water.

"The Fractured Fish are playing," Sam said.

"That settles it, then," said Birdie, getting out of her chair. Purl jumped to the floor. "I haven't seen Peter Halloran play in weeks. Besides, we've finished this bottle of wine."

As expected, the Gull was packed, the bar two deep, the ledge and stools along the window filled shoulder to shoulder with hungry customers devouring baskets of calamari and fried oysters, burgers and sweet potato fries, and a rapidly accumulating line of empty beer bottles filling the countertop.

From his post behind the bar, Jake Risso spotted the group.

"Hey, you guys." He waved one hairy arm over the heads of customers and with the other motioned for a waiter to wipe off a messy table in the corner.

"Haven't seen you in here in forever. Welcome to my humble abode." He came around the bar, wiping his hand on a rag, his balding head shiny with perspiration.

"Jake, there was never anything humble about you," Nell said, laughing. "But thanks for getting us a table. Makes us feel like royalty."

Jake's raucous laugh made barely a dent in the noisy bar. He leaned into the middle of the group, talking loudly. "The kids are about to start their first set. Your brother's quite a singer, Cass. You enjoy. I'll send over some sustenance and libations."

Across the room on a small raised platform, Pete Halloran stood with one foot lifted onto a chair, tuning his guitar. Next to him, Merry Jackson flipped her long blond ponytail and waved at her husband, Hank. As co-owners of the Artist's Palate Bar & Grill in Canary Cove, Hank and Merry didn't spend much time in the Gull, but playing her keyboard with the Fractured Fish trumped nearly anything. Merry loved to be onstage, and her older husband loved watching her. Andy Risso, Jake's son, sat behind three drums, twirling a stick in his hand. His face was serious, his eyes on a list of songs scribbled on a piece of scrap paper, his long hair trailing down his back. And on each of their heads, attracting nearly as much attention as the Gull's famous calamari, was a garishly loud, beautifully knit fish hat.

Cass pointed and broke into laughter. "I told you they'd love them."

Dead fish hats
. Cass had found the pattern on
Knitty.com
. And before the first north wind had pushed summer into memory, the knitters had worked up four stylish hats. With face openings where fish mouths would be and bright colored gills flapping along the sides, the hats became the Fractured Fish's winter uniform.

Pete looked over at his friends and bowed dramatically. The fish on his head seemed to wink at them from round white eyes with an "X" in the middle.

In minutes the music had begun, and cover songs ranging from Beatles hits to John Mayer's latest album filled the room. Izzy and Cass had lured Danny Brandley away from the bar, and the mystery writer sat next to them, one arm looped around Cass' shoulders. Nell was squeezed between Sam and Ben, barely able to get her hands free to reach the basket of sweet potato fries. She turned toward Sam.

"How was your trip to Colorado?"

Sam kept his eyes on the band, his face neutral. He nodded, offered a slight smile.

"Good skiing?"

"No skiing. Family business. Had to check on some things."

Nell sipped her beer, protected by the noise and crowd. No chance for awkward silences. Sam was raised near the Colorado-Kansas border, but that's about all any of them knew about his foster family. Even Nell's sister and brother-in-law, who adored Sam and had practically adopted him once he started spending weeks each summer at their ranch, knew little. The fact that he was a great kid and kept Izzy's brother Jack out of trouble was enough for them. Caroline and Craig Chambers had met the couple who had raised Sam once--a nice older couple, Caroline told Nell. They had a farm not too far from the ranch. And they were fine with Sam spending most of his summers helping out on the Chambers' ranch, even when he was a kid of eleven or twelve.

"Did you see Izzy's parents while you were there?" Nell knew he hadn't. It was winter--her sister and Craig were at their home in Kansas City, where Nell and Caroline had been raised. But it was conversation. Perhaps it would lead somewhere.

"Nope," Sam answered, chewing on a piece of calamari. "It was a quick trip." He washed it down with a swig of beer.

On his other side, Birdie leaned into the conversation, her small body dwarfed by Sam's winter jacket. "Well, we're glad your trip was short," she said. "We're glad you're back, Sam."

Sam looked from one woman to the other, then allowed a crooked smile and spoke just loud enough for the two of them to hear. "You guys are like family. And you worry like family. But don't. No need for worry."

Later, when they drove Birdie home, Nell said Sam had added an "I hope" to the end of his sentence, but Birdie said she hadn't picked up on that.

In her own mind, Nell was positive that's what he'd said. "No need for worry,
I hope
."

But the barroom conversation was brought to an abrupt end after that, because while Sam pried himself out from between the two women to get another pitcher of beer, Pete Halloran and Merry, sounding a bit like Judy Garland, began belting out the Fractured Fish's rendition of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Catching the spirit, the crowd began singing along and looking for spare sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the tavern's ceiling. People hugged one another and swayed back and forth.

The words to the holiday song always brought tears to Nell's eyes. The refrain "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" wrapped around her like a knit shawl, hugging her tight, holding her, just like Ben did at that moment.

Nell leaned into his shoulder and softly hummed the melody as Merry Jackson poured her whole heart and soul into the words:

Let your hearts be light.

From now on, our troubles will be out of sight.

Ben slipped a loose strand of Nell's hair behind her ear. Then he whispered close, answering Nell's thoughts as if she'd shouted them from the stage. "Maybe they're not out of sight yet, but soon, dear Nellie. Soon."

Chapter 13

T
wo days later, the bells at Our Lady of the Seas tolled mournfully.

All through town, people paused in the middle of eating breakfast or watching the morning news. They pulled their eyes away from the morning paper or stood silent in the line at Coffee's, the only sound in the shop the hiss of the espresso machine.

It was instinctive, spontaneous, the reverence due to the dead.

Nell pulled her eyes away from the
Sea Harbor Gazette
and looked toward the window, as if she could see the bells in the hilltop steeple and the Pisano family, gathered together in the beautiful old church. "It's a shame they kept the funeral so private. People need closure," Nell said.

"It was for the mother," Ben said. "The family thought it would be best to have a small service, nothing afterward. The police haven't released Pamela's body yet, but Father Larry put together something meaningful, I'm sure. It makes sense."

"She's being cremated," Izzy piped up from her place beside the island. She sat on top of a kitchen stool pouring half-and-half into a large coffee mug.

Ben had heard that, too. He grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled a tray of blueberry scones from the oven.

"How was your run, Iz? Good?" Nell asked, shifting the conversation to a brighter note. Having Izzy sitting in their kitchen in the middle of the week, her cheeks pink from the wind and her eyes bright, was a welcome antidote to the funeral dirge being sung just a few blocks away.

"Good," Izzy answered, her eyes glued to the flaky scone Ben slipped onto a plate and pushed over to her. Her slender legs were wrapped in long, lined running pants, a yellow Lycra jacket still warming her arms.

"I don't know how you run along the ocean when it's this cold." Nell took off her reading glasses and pushed them to the top of her head. "It makes me cold to think about it."

"We ran up in Sam's neighborhood, not right on the beach. There are enough trees to block the wind."

Nell felt Ben's quick look.
No questions
, it said. Nell smiled at her husband and dutifully held back.

But she knew Ben held the same concerns, even if he expressed them differently. While driving home the night before, Ben admitted that Sam had been unusually quiet at the Gull. He and Izzy had left together, but there was tension between them. They'd all felt it.

Birdie had loudly declared the topic off-limits and shushed them into silence. Having buried several husbands, she felt she knew a little about lovers' secrets, she said.

But later, in the privacy of the Endicott bedroom, secrets of loved ones could be explored delicately.

"Why can't they just talk it out and move on?" Nell had whispered into the darkness.

Ben had laughed and turned on his side, his large arm pulling her into the curve of his body.

And then Nell laughed, too.

So easy to say. So difficult to do.

Nell had let it go--and allowed the warmth of Ben's body to lull her to sleep.

Things looked better that morning. Izzy seemed fine--even without the interference of her aunt. Perhaps Izzy and Sam had done exactly that--talked it out, whatever "it" was, and moved on. Maybe it wasn't so difficult after all.

"Listen to this," Izzy said, leaning over the newspaper. She read aloud:

ABOUT TOWN--SEA HARBOR, SAFE HARBOR

by Mary Pisano

The sadness of losing our beloved Pamela has been made bearable by you, the people of Sea Harbor, and for that we give great thanks. What was frightening and difficult has been eased by the comfort and loving goodwill of our friends and neighbors, and by the amazing Sea Harbor Police Department, ever vigilant, always professional.

We are comforted by the knowledge that the lost soul who brought this sadness into our lives has probably moved on, far away from Sea Harbor. A stranger who knew us not, but whose irrational act took a life.

We put our trust and our safety into our wonderful men in blue as we move forward with all of you into the joy of this holiday season, celebrating family and friends in this most amazing safe haven--our town--our sea. Our safe Sea Harbor.

"Mary's back," Nell said.

"Out of sight, out of mind--is that what she's saying?" Ben asked. "Surely she doesn't believe that someone wandered into the Pisano backyard, shot her cousin, then moved on."

"It's her way of trying to calm everyone's fears. She's removing the murder from Sea Harbor by putting a stranger 's face on the horrible act."

"And getting rid of the stranger," Izzy said.

"It's what Mary wishes were true."

Ben refilled mugs around the island. "Neat and tidy. Mary has a knack for that, but she's also a realist, and there's no way she believes it herself. I'll be interested to hear what Chief Thompson thinks about her theory."

Cell phone chimes joined the conversation. "That's probably Mae, trying to track you down," Nell said, rummaging through a stack of papers on the counter, looking for her phone.

"No. Mae officially barred me from the knitting studio on Wednesdays. At least occasionally. It's usually our slow day, and she's insisting I stay out of her hair unless I'm teaching a class. She can be a real bulldog."

"Good for Mae," Nell said. She glanced down at Birdie's number and pressed the talk button.

Birdie started talking before Nell could squeeze in more than a "Hi."

Izzy tried to catch the gist of the conversation, but the few words Nell was allowed to utter brought little explanation.

"The poor thing."

"She'll freeze to death. . . . "

And finally, "Of course. We'll be there right away, Birdie."

Nell and Izzy parked on the side of the driveway and walked through the snow toward the unlikely duo.

Birdie, bundled up in a heavy brown coat with a hood that covered everything but her eyes, her red nose, and her mouth, stood next to the Ravenswood-by-the-Sea sign.

Next to her, a round, determined body in a white snowsuit stood in a foot of snow holding a can of red spray paint, one finger resting on the nozzle, a walking stick in the other hand. Running across the sign was a crimson diagonal, the broad sweep of paint reaching from one corner to the other.

Henrietta O'Neal's face was frozen in a fierce look, determined to spray one more line to complete her "X."

"You could get arrested, Henrietta," Birdie was saying. "This is private property."

Henrietta would have none of it. "It used to be private property. Enzo Pisano's private property. Now it's a travesty to his name, a commercial den of iniquity. A death trap. A haven for murderers." She paused long enough to wave hello to Nell and Izzy, then continued. "The devil's hideaway, tainted by murder."

"Oh, hush, Henrietta," Birdie said, shivering.

Henrietta glared back at her. "So you called in reinforcements, did you? That's fine and dandy, but it won't get you anywhere, Bernadette Favazza."

"You're going to freeze to death out here," Nell said.

"Back at you, Nell," Henrietta scolded. Her voice was strong and fierce, belying her eighty years. "And you, Isabel Chambers, you should be at that shop of yours ordering the yarn for my new sweater, not tramping around in this snow. You'll catch your death of cold, sweetheart."

"Why are you ruining Mary's new sign?" Nell asked.

"Why do you think? To keep people away. To rid this place of evil spirits. Mary Pisano isn't in her right mind. We don't need this in the neighborhood. We don't want this. Strangers tromping around, doing lord knows what. It's shameful. Disgraceful. Enzo must be rolling over in his grave, God rest his soul."

Izzy eased the can of paint out of Henrietta's hand while Birdie and Nell each took one of her arms, guiding her away from the sign.

A car turned into the drive, slowed at the sight of the three women, and then came to a quick stop. Mary Pisano and Nancy Hughes tumbled out and hurried toward them.

"What are you doing here?" Mary asked. Her eyes moved to the sign and widened at the red paint.

"Your lovely sign," Nancy cried. "What's happened?"

"I did it." Henrietta planted her feet in the snow and pulled herself up to her nearly five feet. Her eyes flashed.

"Why?" Mary asked.

"You cannot open this bed-and-breakfast, Mary Pisano. I forbid it."

"Let's go inside and talk about it, get you out of the cold," Mary said reasonably. She began leading the group back to the driveway. Birdie cradled Henrietta's elbow in the palm of her hand.

Henrietta walked compliantly across the snowy yard until they reached the drive. Then, suddenly, she shook herself free of Birdie's hold, grabbed the can of red paint from Izzy, and stomped down the driveway toward the road, her short legs spinning and her elbows moving back and forth with unstoppable determination. She jabbed her walking stick into the crust of snow with each step.

"Will she be all right?" Nancy asked.

Birdie nodded. "Henrietta walks a couple miles a day, even in this crazy weather. She can't do stairs, but she could walk from here to California if she had a mind to. She'll be fine." She looked at Mary sadly. "But I'm afraid your sign won't."

"Troy can fix it." Mary watched Henrietta turn at the end of the drive and disappear up Ravenswood Road. "I just wonder what's next on her list of things to do to me." She picked up some protest posters that Henrietta had left behind and began to walk toward the house. "Nancy spotted her yesterday going up and down Harbor Road, handing these out to all the merchants."

"Which they will all ignore," Nell said. "Almost everyone is behind your project, Mary. Archie said it will bring new customers into the bookstore, and Harry and all the other shop and restaurant owners feel the same way. People will have a place for their relatives to stay. We've needed a small, lovely bed-and-breakfast here for a long time. Rockport is filled with charming places. We need some of our own."

Mary squeezed Nell's arm in a silent thank you. "Come," she said. "A cup of herbal tea will help shake off the bad spirits, imagined and otherwise." She rummaged through her purse for her key. "I don't think I'm thinking very clearly today."

"That's understandable," Nancy said. She pulled a key from her own bag and unlocked the door. They walked into the large entryway, welcomed by a leaping Georgia, who ran between Nancy and Mary, licking hands and happily wagging her tail.

It wasn't until they were settled into the comfortable chairs in the living room with teacups and a pot of cinnamon-orange tea nearby that Nell remembered where Mary had spent the morning. It wasn't just the ruined sign that had caused the sadness in her eyes. "Mary, I'd almost forgotten what you've already been through today. The funeral . . . "

Mary waved away Nell's words. "It's over. Father Northcutt did a lovely job of putting together a service without a body, and my aunt Dolores--Pamela's mother--handled it well, though I don't know how much she understood. It was short and sweet, what everyone wanted."

"So you can get back to leading your lives."

"I hope. There are still things to work out about Pamela's magazine."

"Rumor has it that Agnes is taking over," Birdie said.

Mary chuckled. "Rumors begun, no doubt, by Agnes. Agnes is smart enough--and she's begged for the opportunity to show what she can do. When we met last summer, she begged us to make a decision. She wanted it in writing somewhere that if Pamela stepped down, she would be the top contender for the job. Some of my sexist cousins think a fashion magazine editor needs to be beautiful and sexy, not exactly Agnes' profile. Anyway, it was an odd conversation because everyone knew Pamela would never have relinquished her hold on that magazine. But to get Agnes to stop talking about it, we agreed to what she asked."

"She seemed to be confident of her position at the Danverses' party," Izzy said.

"Can you believe her? Two days after Pamela died? The family was upset about that. It didn't seem respectful, I suppose." Mary sighed. "Selfishly, I'm more interested in Ravenswood-by-the-Sea than the magazine discussions. I'm determined to finish this wonderful place and have a glorious opening that you will all come to." She looked up at a portrait of Enzo Pisano that hung above the fireplace. "I want to do it for him. And thanks to Nancy, it might actually happen."

"We'll get it done," Nancy said, her voice lifting and a smile lighting her face. "It will take more than a little red paint to stop us."

"Not a pretty sight to come home to," Birdie said.

"She's a little frightening in her zeal," Nancy said. "Why is she so adamant about this? You could have her arrested, Mary."

Mary shrugged. "At first I thought it was just the neighborhood thing, that she thought a bed-and-breakfast was too commercial for this elegant neighborhood, but now I don't know. She puts up signs; she's staging war at city council meetings. She seems determined to stop me. She's capitalizing on Pamela's murder, which is pretty awful. She's using it to paint the house as haunted or some other god-awful thing. But frankly, I don't think she believes a word of what she's saying. Something else is going on in her head, and I wish I knew what it was."

"Henrietta has always liked causes--but usually good ones," Nell said. "Remember her door-to-door campaign for Obama? Maybe she sees this as a cause."

Birdie laughed at the memory of Henrietta renting an old Cape Anne school van and a driver to transport voters. "She would have driven them herself except no one would get in the van with her. The woman is a terrible driver. But this is strange behavior, even for her. She's always been a good neighbor, welcoming new people with elaborate baskets of goodies--and she's the first one to bring soup when someone's sick. When Enzo had that spell a few years back, she was more dutiful than Meals on Wheels. She brought soup, lasagna, pot roast--a true Florence Nightingale."