Patterns in the Sand (17 page)

 

 

Nell felt sudden pity for the young man. She’d watched Tommy Porter grow up, knew how hard he had worked in school and how diligently he tried to control his stammering as he trained at the police academy. Tommy was the only member of the Porter family not in the fishing business, and Nell knew it had taken a very supportive mother and father to allow him this shift. It had been Tommy’s dream to be a policeman—and he’d accomplished it.

 

 

“So, Tommy, what happened?” The look Nell passed to Willow and Brendan strongly suggested they let Tommy have his say.

 

 

“I was . . . over there at Canary Cove, checking out the activity at the Artist’s Palate. It gets . . . it gets wicked wild sometimes on Fridays. And I saw the light in Aidan’s place.”

 

 

“The Fishtail Gallery?” Ham came up behind Ben, a martini in hand.

 

 

Tommy nodded. “So, well, it’s not open, y’know, because of, well, Aidan.”

 

 

Because Aidan is dead,
Nell finished silently. She wondered briefly if being a policeman was the best career for Tommy after all.

 

 

“So you investigated, Tommy. Good for you,” Birdie encouraged.

 

 

Tommy smiled at Birdie. She seemed to bring him focus, and he went on more robustly. “And I found these two in there, going through things. Shuffling things around. Doing things they shouldn’t have been doing. The Fishtail is off-limits. Everybody knows that.”

 

 

“You were good to check,” Nell said.

 

 

“The police tape was down,” Willow said. “They’re through with that part of things.” She held up a set of keys and dangled them in the air. “And I have keys.”

 

 

Tommy frowned. “Where did you get those?”

 

 

Izzy stepped forward, touching Tommy lightly on the arm.

 

 

He smiled at her.

 

 

“Tommy, Willow owns the Fishtail Gallery.”

 

 

Tommy was silent, trying to process Izzy’s words.

 

 

Nell was glad Izzy had spoken up. Tommy would listen to her carefully. But she also realized he was in a terribly awkward position, surrounded by all of them. A deer in the headlights.

 

 

“Ben,” she said out loud, “how about tea or martinis or Diet Cokes for all? Whatever’s your pleasure. Tommy. You will love these crab-stuffed mushrooms I made. We got the fresh crab today from your uncle Duane’s market.”

 

 

Immediately bodies moved, some to the deck, Jane to the kitchen to retrieve a platter of stuffed mushrooms, Sam to help Ben rekindle the coals, and Ham on a convenience store run for more ice.

 

 

“It’s okay,” Nell said gently, “you were doing your job. That’s an admirable thing.”

 

 

Tommy looked at Willow and Brendan. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. He was killed, and then you were in there.”

 

 

Brendan spoke for the first time. “Hey, it’s okay, Tom. You did as we asked and you brought us here, not to the station, so we could clear it up. That was cool.”

 

 

Willow sat on the edge of a wide chair arm, listening to the conversation going on around her.

 

 

Nell sensed the unrest in her—Willow was not the most patient of people. But she also sensed a sadness in her—that enormous mix of emotions they had talked about earlier. When she looked into her dark eyes, she saw the puffiness of tears shed, then wiped away.

 

 

Tommy accepted the Diet Coke but only in a can so he could take it with him—he was still on duty, he said, and you just never knew what kind of ruckus might erupt on a Friday night in Sea Harbor. He’d heard rumors of some young kids having a bonfire out near the breakwater, and it just might need his attention. And then he’d be off duty and would meet some friends for a beer.

 

 

Nell waved him off, and Tommy drove out of the driveway and down the street with a speed that would garner him a ticket were he not the only policeman in sight.

 

 

She turned back to Willow and Brendan, now sitting next to each other on the couch, drinking cold beers that Cass had slipped into their hands.

 

 

“So,” Nell began.

 

 

“It was a bad idea.” Brendan spoke first. “And it was my fault. I’m ten years older than Willow—been around the block a few times. I should have known better.”

 

 

Willow looked at Brendan. Nell saw the softness in her eyes.

 

 

“It’s okay,” Willow said. “And no one has to accept fault because we didn’t do anything wrong.” She looked over at Nell and Birdie, sitting next to each other on the opposite couch. Izzy and Cass hovered nearby. “I told you I didn’t want anything that was his. And I meant it. But when Brendan suggested we go over there—that he’d be right there with me—it seemed like a good idea, like something I had to do. We just went into the studio, not the house or anything. I . . . I wanted to see it, you know?”

 

 

The tears that Nell had seen earlier started to return but Willow held them at bay. “I have his genes. There’s . . . that biological connection. And my mother loved him, at least for a while. Somehow I just wanted to see a part of his life, to maybe understand.”

 

 

“Did the police give you the keys?”

 

 

Willow shook her head no.

 

 

Brendan looked uncomfortable. Finally he met Nell’s eyes. “I gave her the keys. I closed up for Aidan sometimes, just like I do for the Brewsters. And Billy Sobel. They all gave me keys.”

 

 

Nell frowned. Brendan had clearly overstepped his bounds. He should have turned the keys over to the police last week. But she could certainly understand Willow’s need to see her father’s art. And she could even understand why someone who cared about her, as Brendan seemed to, would want to help. And then there was that ambiguous line they were all walking—it was, after all, Willow’s property, or at least it would be, once the estate was settled. The will, Ben had said, was indisputable. Simple. And would take care of Willow the rest of her life.

 

 

“I know, Nell. A stupid thing to do,” Brendan went on. “But it hasn’t been the easiest week for Willow.”

 

 

“Nor any of us,” Birdie said.

 

 

The group fell still, the only sound coming from sizzling tuna on the grill and John Mayer in the background, singing about being a bad boy.
Appropriate,
Nell thought.

 

 

“You two are staying for dinner,” she said then, feeling the need for a change in topic. “Ben has already added the extra steaks. And Jane has something she needs to talk to you about, Willow.”

 

 

“Thanks. That’d be great.” Brendan stood and made his way to the deck, his offer to help Ben with the grilling traveling ahead of him.

 

 

Cass and Birdie followed, lured by the gentle sounds of Ben’s martini shaker.

 

 

Willow looked from Izzy to Nell. And then the held-back tears surfaced. “He was my father, you know?”

 

 

“And you have every right to look at his things. They’re
your
things now, or at least will be soon. But . . .”

 

 

“But you need to be smart about it,” Izzy said abruptly.

 

 

“The thing is,” Nell said, “though it may go against your grain, you need to be aware that people are watching you. And the way they interpret your actions matters—whether it should or not. It simply does. Especially now . . .”

 

 

“Especially now that people think I killed my father.”

 

 

“I don’t know who thinks what. But the police need to look into anyone with a motive. So they’ll be looking at you. And others, too.”

 

 

“It’s just the way people are, Willow. We know you didn’t kill your father. And Ben and Nell—all of us—are going to do everything we can to help you.” Izzy leaned forward, balancing her chin on her hands. Her brown tank top matched the deep chocolate of her eyes, and she looked at Willow with a look that refused to release its target.

 

 

“Does that make sense, sweetie?” Nell asked. “People—even good people—will talk and interpret things you might say or do. Like going into Aidan’s place so soon after the police took the tape down. They may think you were looking for something—”

 

 

“I was,” Willow said softly, and a lone tear rolled down her cheek until it dropped from the tip of her chin. “I was looking for my father.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17

 

S
aturday mornings at Coffee’s was a favorite destination for Nell when Ben was off for an early-morning fishing expedition or sail with a friend. She always had a knitting project tucked into the outer pocket of her large bag, and sometimes she’d bring her laptop, too, and work on a talk or a grant she was writing for an arts group or children’s center. Ben teased her that morning that she’d be perfectly entertained for at least a month, should she and her bag ever get marooned on a desert island.

 

 

And he was right,
Nell thought as she walked down her shady street toward Coffee’s. She didn’t have her computer today, but she’d tucked a skein of baby-soft cotton yarn in her bag, along with circular bamboo needles, to work up another cap for Izzy’s project. This one would be for a little girl—a bright blend of pink and green, yellow and purple, with tiny soft white roses, curled from tightly knit yarn, placed around the cap like a crown. It would be soft and warm and beautiful, a soft touch of comfort for a sweet young child who had lost her hair.

 

 

Even at this early hour, several outdoor tables on Coffee’s patio were already occupied. Nell looked around and spotted a familiar face immediately, partially hidden behind the morning
Sea Harbor Gazette
.

 

 

Cass was camped out at a round table, her feet propped up on an adjacent chair. Her head was buried in the newspaper held up in front of her.

 

 

“Cass, I think you might need glasses. You’re holding that paper way too close to your eyes.” Nell pulled out the opposite chair and sat down.

 

 

Cass looked up and smiled. “I was thinking you might pop on down here. Ben mentioned he had a predawn fishing date with Don Wooten and Sam.” She slipped her feet off the chair and put the newspaper down on the table.

 

 

“You’re looking nice today. Special occasion?”

 

 

Cass wore Bermuda-length red shorts and a crisp white T-shirt with a photo of the
Lady Lobster
printed on the front. “Like my new tee?”

 

 

Cass stuck out her chest in an exaggerated fashion and Nell laughed.

 

 

“It’s lovely.”

 

 

“Sam took this photo of my boat, and Izzy had some shirts made up. I love it. It’d dress anyone up, is the way I look at it. My
Lady
is irresistible.” Cass pulled her hair back as she talked and slipped a bright red scrunchie from her wrist and wrapped it around the thick mass of wavy flyaway hair.

 

 

The morning sun behind Cass’ head created a halo effect and Nell held back a smile. An angel, Cass had never been. But she won high votes on lots of other personality fronts. “No lobster gear today?”

 

 

“The
Lady
is in Pete’s hands today. He better take good care of her.”

 

 

“Pete gave you a day off? That’s awfully nice of him.”

 

 

Cass grinned and her eyes sparkled. “Not so nice. He owes me. I set him up with the gal who works in the stationery store down the street. She’s hot, he says.”

 

 

Nell laughed. She looked down at the newspaper. “So what’s new?”

 

 

“All kinds of things. Read this.” Cass pointed to the right side of page two, where Mary Pisano’s “About Town” column always appeared—a chatty piece that complimented citizens doing good deeds, sometimes chastised others, announced events of interest, and afforded Mary a place to get things off her mind.

 

 

Nell slipped on her glasses and lifted the paper, reading around the brown rim left from Cass’ coffee cup.

 

 

NEW DEVELOPMENTS ON THE COVE?

 

With police working around the clock to solve the Aidan Peabody case and bring peace of mind to our lovely community, cove residents are being ever vigilant in watching out for one another. Our thanks to young Tommy Porter for discovering intruders in the Fishtail Gallery early last evening. All ended well, Tommy reported to this columnist.

 

 

But who was responsible for the intrusion into the Peabody home in the middle of the night? One source tells us that a figure was seen departing the cottage well after the Palate had closed for the night. The figure, our source reports, disappeared into the woods behind the house once lights were shined in that direction.

 

 

If only those lovely wooden figures of Aidan’s could talk.

 

 

“So Mary Pisano has turned sleuth,” Nell said. She set the paper down and pushed her glasses up into her hair. “This is odd, though—at least if Mary’s deep-throat source was telling the truth. Who would have been snooping around Aidan’s in the middle of the night? I’m sure it wasn’t Willow. She was exhausted last night. I took an extra blanket down to the guesthouse after everyone left, and she was already in bed, nearly asleep. I’m certain she didn’t go back to Aidan’s place.”

 

 

Around them, the patio tables began to fill up as the more leisurely Saturday crowd wandered out onto the patio.

 

 

Cass leaned toward Nell to keep their conversation private. “Besides, Willow didn’t have a key to Aidan’s house, only the gallery.”

 

 

“Although we both know that doesn’t necessarily stop Willow from getting in places.”