Patterns in the Sand (18 page)

 

 

“But who is this source? You can’t see Aidan’s house unless you’re in that little alley beside the gallery or in the garden. Someone would have had to be snooping around himself to see anything suspicious.”

 

 

“I suppose it could have been Tommy. He might have felt he had to check again.”

 

 

“No, I don’t think so. Tommy told me he got off at midnight and was meeting someone for a drink at the Gull. I think Tommy has a girlfriend.”

 

 

“Well, good for Tommy. I was hoping he’d finally give up on Izzy.”

 

 

Cass laughed. “I guess fifteen years is long enough to hold a crush. Okay, if it wasn’t Tommy Porter, who was it?”

 

 

The last person Nell had seen snooping around Aidan’s was D. J. Delaney. But he snooped in broad daylight and didn’t seem to care a bit about who saw him. Unless . . . unless there was something in Aidan’s house that would help his cause. And breaking into someone’s house was a little different from invading private outdoor space, something better done under cover of darkness if one wanted to avoid jail time.

 

 

Nell took another sip of her coffee and looked through the fragrant steam at the steady line of people walking onto the patio, newspapers under one arm, balancing a coffee cup in another hand, ready to begin their Saturday with Coffee’s brew and a relaxed moment of time on the patio. She didn’t realize she was looking directly into the faces coming through the patio door until one of them spoke to her.

 

 

“Good morning to you, too, Nell.”

 

 

Rebecca Marks walked over to Cass and Nell and paused beside their table. She smiled politely at each of them. A white sundress hung from tiny straps over Rebecca’s bronze shoulders. It was simple and elegant, and showcased a perfect tan on a well-toned body. Her hair was pulled back into two long ponytails, which cascaded down her back like platinum question marks.

 

 

“I’m sorry, Rebecca. How rude of me to stare. I wasn’t really seeing anyone. My thoughts were far away.”

 

 

“At least as far as Canary Cove, I’d bet,” Rebecca said. “That seems to be on people’s minds these days.”

 

 

“I suppose it is,” Nell said.

 

 

“Would you like to sit? It looks like most of the other tables are filled,” Cass offered.

 

 

Nell watched Rebecca look around, unsure of the invitation and slightly uncomfortable, not a common look for the self-possessed woman. Rebecca was in her late thirties and possessed one of those fine-boned faces that would always resist aging. She’d look ten years younger than her peers as she approached each new decade. Her striking blond looks made the glamorous artist a well-known figure in Sea Harbor in the couple of years she and Ellen had lived there. Nell suspected half of the teenage boys in Sea Harbor had crushes on Rebecca.

 

 

But in addition to her looks, she had a talent—they all admitted that. Her designer jewelry beads and one-of-a-kind bowls and vases attracted visitors from all over the area.

 

 

Cass and Nell watched Rebecca’s green eyes survey the patio. She was looking for more interesting tablemates, Nell supposed. Finally, she shrugged and set her coffee cup down, then her large buckled purse, and finally swiveled her slender hips onto the chair.

 

 

“The cove must be feeling Aidan’s absence,” Cass said, attempting conversation.

 

 

Rebecca leveled a look at Cass, taking a drink of her coffee as if giving the statement serious thought. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. His death leaves an empty gallery on the street—that’s not a good thing—and some people will miss him, I suppose. I’m just not one of them. And I’m only telling you that because I am sure you know it already. I wasn’t crazy about Aidan. He was meddlesome and took his role as head of the arts council way too seriously. Just ask Billy Sobel. Willow may have done some of us a favor.”

 

 

“But you didn’t always feel that way.”

 

 

“That was a lifetime ago.”

 

 

“What makes you so sure Willow Adams killed Aidan?” Nell was gentle in her question, seeking a truthful answer. Rebecca’s rumors were harmful to Willow, and perhaps a frank conversation could temper them.

 

 

“How am I sure? It’s as clear as the nose on your face. It’s right out there for all to see. She had every reason to kill him. She hated him—I heard her say so myself just the day before she killed him.”

 

 

“You were in Aidan’s shop that day?”

 

 

“Yes. I had to talk to him about something. Willow was saying something to him that he seemed confused about. Shocked, I guess you’d say. And then the two of them went out into the garden. Jane came in right after that looking for Aidan. She heard it, too. Can you believe that he had a daughter and he didn’t tell any of us?”

 

 

“Maybe he didn’t know he had a daughter.” Or didn’t know how to find her. Nell felt sure now that Aidan would have been a presence in Willow’s life, had he been given the chance. The more she learned, the more she suspected it was the grandparents who had made sure that wouldn’t happen. She didn’t want to drown Willow in suppositions right now, but was hopeful that in the days to come, Willow would somehow discover that her father wasn’t the bad person she grew up believing him to be.

 

 

Rebecca’s brows lifted and her eyes flashed. “Aidan knew everything,” she said simply.

 

 

A shadow behind Rebecca fell over the table, blocking the morning sun, and Nell looked up into Ellen Marks’ narrow, pleasant face. Ellen was older than Rebecca by probably a half dozen years, Nell supposed, and a stark contrast to the striking Rebecca. She wore her usual outfit today, light slacks and a bright blouse. Her brown hair was styled attractively and practically, and she greeted the group with a smile.

 

 

Nell had worked with Ellen on a benefit for Father Northcutt’s children’s center and liked her generous spirit. She was tall and straight, and the only resemblance that Nell could find between the two sisters were their ocean-deep green eyes—sometimes unnerving in their challenging, steady gaze.

 

 

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Ellen said. “I spotted Rebecca as I walked by and had some gallery details to discuss with her.”

 

 

“You’ve developed quite a following at the gallery, Ellen. Sometimes it’s so busy, I can’t get in the door. You’re doing a great job.”

 

 

“That’s because of Rebecca,” Ellen said modestly. “We have a whole new display of her beads—she’s been literally working night and day to get them done. And she’s blown some paperweights, too. And lovely glass vases. You’ll have to stop in.”

 

 

“I will,” Nell said. “I hear your remodeling is nearly finished. Skylights, a new studio. Lots going on.”

 

 

A look passed between the two women, and then Ellen answered pleasantly, “Yes, it’s beautiful. Rebecca had the eye for it all.”

 

 

“And Ellen the purse strings,” Rebecca said with a short laugh. She slid back her chair and stuffed her paper napkin into the empty mug and stood. “Thanks for the chair and the company. I hope this sordid mess surrounding Aidan’s death can be cleared up soon, and we can go back to business as usual. This has been an interminable week.”

 

 

It sounded to Nell as if Rebecca were assigning them a task—
solve this soon or else
.

 

 

As if it were theirs to solve.

 

 

“Is there something new?” Ellen asked. “Chief Thompson told me it was all wrapped up.”

 

 

Rebecca tucked her arm in Ellen’s. “It is, El. No worries, dear. I guess they just need to discover a few more details about the Adams girl.” Her words trailed behind her as the pair walked out the patio gate and onto Harbor Road.

 

 

“So now it’s our job?” Cass said as the pair walked off. Her dark brows lifted.

 

 

“My thoughts exactly. Perhaps it’s because we’ve befriended Willow. If we don’t think she did it, then it’s our job to find out who did.”

 

 

“Rebecca seems pretty convinced that Willow is guilty.”

 

 

Nell nodded. Rebecca seemed
positive
that Willow had done it. And that was puzzling. Did Rebecca
want
Willow to be found guilty? Overhearing one conversation, especially when Rebecca herself had probably been heard hurling words at Aidan, didn’t seem solid enough somehow. Nell wedged a bill beneath the sugar bowl to tip the young teen cleaning the outdoor tables. For everyone’s attempts to make this a simple murder, it simply wasn’t turning out that way. Not at all.

 

 

 

 

 

Nell normally stayed away from the Seaside Knitting Studio on Saturday afternoons. Izzy, Mae, and Mae’s twin nieces, Rose and Jillian, had their hands full, especially during the summer months.

 

 

But this Saturday, Cass, Izzy, and Birdie all showed up to help Izzy with a head hugger class. A group of summer people from Rockport and some friends of Izzy’s from Beverly were joining locals to make Izzy’s head hugger project a huge success. Izzy had suggested that it would be a perfect summer project—knitting the caps for children or adults who had lost their hair. Izzy discounted the softest, finest yarn she could find, and by summer’s end they’d have enough caps to warm any head needing a soft, gentle caress and protection from winter chills. She’d planned it for the end of the day when the crowds were dwindling and even shop owners could sneak away and join the group.

 

 

On her way to the back knitting room, Nell passed the magic room and stepped in for a minute to greet Laura Danvers’ baby, Skye. The two-year-old’s blond curls bounced as she looked up at Nell and grinned. In her arms she cradled one of Izzy’s old dolls. Izzy had filled the room with toys and books and beanbag chairs, a haven for little ones when their mothers needed some minutes alone with needles and yarn and adult friends. Rose and Jillian, or Mae herself, kept careful watch and the room became a favorite hideaway. The magic room had been a stroke of genius—and Sea Harbor mothers agreed. Nell waved at Rose, her supple teenage body folded as easily on the floor as a three-year-old’s, and walked down the three steps into the back room.

 

 

The chatter of excited, happy women greeted her, some seated at the table, others in small groupings of chairs, and Birdie and Cass camped out on the window seat. Rachel Wooten had joined them, and Nell was happy to see Ellen Marks as well. Even Natalie Sobel was giving up a precious hour to lend to the cause, which was a surprise, since Nell somehow didn’t picture Natalie as the knitting type.

 

 

Nell gave Izzy a quick peck on the cheek, then settled onto one of Ben’s old leather sofas next to Ellen.

 

 

“I’m glad you could get away from the shop for this, Ellen.”

 

 

Ellen leaned in toward Nell and spoke above the chatter circulating the room as Izzy passed out yarn and patterns. “We hired some college art students to help Rebecca show off her beads. It gives me time to help with other things, like the arts council. Besides, I’m much more comfortable with office things, keeping books, that sort of thing—the less colorful jobs, I guess you’d say. Number crunching, my dad called it.” She laughed softly.

 

 

“Which you’re very good at, Jane tells me. Without you, she said, the Canary Cove arts council wouldn’t know what to do. Most artists aren’t very good at the money side of things.”

 

 

Ellen laughed. “That’s certainly true of Rebecca.”

 

 

“So you get your talent from your father. Does Rebecca get hers from your mother?”

 

 

Ellen was caught off-guard by the question. She thought about it for a moment and then said, “Mother, yes, I suppose that’s right.”

 

 

“Well, she is certainly talented.”

 

 

Ellie nodded, pride softening her angular face.

 

 

Nell looked down at the pile of yarn on Ellen’s lap. “I think of knitting as a kind of art form. At least it can be. And you seem to love it as much as I do, Ellen.”

 

 

Ellen picked up a ball of pink angora yarn, as soft and light as cotton candy, and cupped it in the palm of her hands. “Isn’t this amazing? Izzy carries the most wonderful yarn. And this hat project is so wonderful.”

 

 

Nell smiled at the respect Ellen afforded the luxury yarn. Izzy knew more about fibers than anyone she knew. She purchased it carefully, making sure of the integrity of the fiber, as well as knowing about the goats or sheep or alpacas from which it was harvested and where it was woven. It was nice when that knowledge was acknowledged. “Does Rebecca knit?”

 

 

Ellen laughed in a tone that clearly answered Nell’s question. “She has many talents, but knitting isn’t one of them.”

 

 

The tinkling of Izzy’s silver bell indicated quiet was expected, and a hush fell over the group. Nell watched her niece with pride as she held up Birdie’s multicolored cap and told them what a treat was in store for them. “For the newcomers today, you will find that these hats are great fun to knit—but the satisfaction that comes afterward is even better. Some of you who summer here but live elsewhere haven’t experienced winter on Cape Ann.”

 

 

Laughter and empathetic groans greeted the comment.

 

 

“So imagine facing it without the comfort and warmth of a head of hair.” Izzy talked a little more about knitters all around the country giving their time to supply hats and caps to friends and family, oncology centers, children’s hospitals—wherever warm, soft hats were needed to comfort bare heads.

 

 

The women took turns touching Birdie’s feathery cap and looked at pictures Izzy had downloaded from the Web—hats in vibrant colors and fanciful designs. “I think you’ve all picked your patterns and I’ve a boatload of yarn to pick from, and wonderful, experienced friends available.” She motioned toward the group near the fireplace and window. “We’re here to help you get started, pick up dropped stitches or for those of you vacationing here, simply to suggest good restaurants for dinner. Now let the good times begin.” Izzy smiled and stepped down from the small box she used when speaking to a crowded room. She walked over to Nell, a soft cotton skirt swirling about her long tan legs.