Patterns in the Sand (19 page)

 

 

“Great crowd, Aunt Nell.”

 

 

“Great instructor,” Nell said back.

 

 

“I invited Willow—she’s nearly half done with the hat she started Thursday.”

 

 

“She turned you down?”

 

 

Izzy nodded. “Brendan was taking her sailing. I think she’s hiding out, frankly.”

 

 

“Can you blame her?” Cass said, handing the needles back to a first-time knitter whom she had just helped. With Cass’ help the older woman had successfully cast on the first row and was proudly showing it to everyone around her.

 

 

“People are pretty insensitive sometimes.”

 

 

Natalie Sobel, sitting nearby, looked up. Her penciled eyebrows lifted inquisitively. “Insensitive how?”

 

 

“Well, Mary Pisano’s column, for starters. I don’t think she meant harm, but she puts in little things that incriminate Willow. Then people repeat them.”

 

 

“And Willow can’t be immune to the talk, certainly,” Birdie said. She eyed the first two rows of Harriet Brandley’s celery green hat, then helped her loop in a second color.

 

 

“Well, I heard from my Billy that she certainly was the perpetrator,” Natalie said, the “r” falling away from her words and betraying her Bronx childhood.

 

 

“And Bill knows because?” Cass said.

 

 

Natalie shrugged. “Billy knows a lotta things.” She slipped a folded piece of gum into her mouth and went back to her knitting.

 

 

“When do you think the James paintings will be ready to see?” Nell asked, diverting the conversation from potential conflict.

 

 

Natalie perked up. “Maybe this week. Monday, maybe. Brendan is helping, working hard. Cleaning the gallery, getting the best lighting. They’re glorious, you know. But with all this Aidan Peabody business, Billy was dragging his feet, thinking it didn’t seem right to have a festive occasion. But I told Billy that his friend Aidan wouldn’t want him to do that. He would want Billy to have a reception so people could see the beautiful paintings and to have much success.”

 

 

Nell listened politely. Nothing she’d heard in the last couple weeks indicated Aidan was thrilled about the exhibit. She wondered, briefly, if Aidan had known that it would take attention away from the other artists, maybe create an atmosphere counter to the usual laid-back summers on Canary Cove.

 

 

“Aidan and Billy argued, sure,” Natalie was saying, her needles clicking erratically. “But that’s because they were like brothers.”

 

 

Nell bit back a smile at the brothers analogy.

 

 

“Well, if you have something,” Ellen said, “be sure to include all of us, Natalie.”

 

 

Nell noticed the upward tilt of Natalie’s chin as Ellen spoke. “Of course,” she said stiffly. “Of course. Everyone will know.”

 

 

Ellen didn’t seem to notice Natalie’s body language. “We can help, too, if you need anything. Just let us know.”

 

 

“We are managing just fine, Ellen. There is a lot to do, but we can do it.”

 

 

Natalie’s words were pointed, as if delivering a message to each of them. But one, Nell suspected from the looks on people’s faces, no one understood. Natalie folded up her knitting and stuffed it into a designer bag at her side. Nell noticed that the stitches slipped off the needles, but it was clearly not the time to mention dropped stitches. Natalie was leaving.

 

 

“Isabel, thank you for doing this wonderful thing with the hats,” she said to Izzy. Then she turned to the small window group and nodded, avoiding Ellen Marks and directing her smile to Nell and Birdie. “I will see you ladies at the Sobel Gallery. You will be most welcome. Good-bye.”

 

 

Natalie’s departure would have been speedy and quick, if Purl hadn’t taken that opportunity to jump off the window seat and land directly in front of Natalie Sobel’s high-heeled sandals.

 

 

Nell was up in an instant but not in time to prevent Natalie from tumbling forward toward the archway and steps leading to the rest of the store. With a scream, Natalie dropped her heavy purse and fell to the floor, her tight red skirt hiking up and the contents of her purse spilling across the bottom step and floor below.

 

 

“Natalie, I’m sorry,” Izzy murmured, bending over and checking Natalie’s face.

 

 

Cass turned the music up a decibel to defray attention from the embarrassed woman, and Birdie stood between Natalie and group, providing some privacy as they helped her to her feet. “I’m fine, just fine,” she insisted as Izzy urged her to sit down.

 

 

“Let me help,” Nell said, scooping up the contents of Natalie’s purse. She picked up several lipsticks, a small wallet, a compact, the knitting needles, loose yarn, car keys, and a hairbrush. A diamond bracelet had landed beneath a chair; several sparkly rings rolled within Nell’s grasp. And then her eyes fell on several glass items that had rolled beneath a chair. She looked at them, and then, as quickly as she could, she shoved the four tiny airplane bottles of vodka into Natalie’s purse.

 

 

The exhibit festivities were starting a little sooner than expected, she thought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18

 

T
hey hadn’t planned a women’s night out, but after Natalie’s embarrassing fall and the completion of the hat class, something was clearly needed. Mae and her nieces had nicely cleaned and closed up the shop—all the toys were on shelves in the magic room, the computer shut down, and the display of plush organic baby alpaca yarn was straightened and piled high on the round table near the checkout desk.

 

 

Izzy turned on the outer spotlights and the security system that Willow’s arrival had reminded her was needed. She held her keys in her hand.

 

 

“Looks like time to call it a day.”

 

 

“Ben is sailing with friends,” Nell said. “Anyone free for dinner? It’s either that or we sit down right here and regroup. There are enough rumors and innuendos going around right now to kill a moose.”

 

 

“If we can do this with food, my brain cells will work much better. But I’m not cooking,” Cass said.

 

 

Birdie laughed and patted Cass’ hand. “We second that, dear. You’re
not
cooking. And I agree, Nell. The police aren’t an inch closer, and each day Willow’s reputation sinks a little deeper into the swamp.”

 

 

Izzy walked back from the corner of the room and snapped her cell phone shut. “Sam, it seems, is in the fishing and sailing group. We had tentative plans for tonight, but I’ve been upstaged by a halibut or cod or something. They are having way too good a time with their smelly fish to come home, so I’m a free woman. How about you, Birdie?”

 

 

“My plans for tonight included watching
Ocean’s Eleven
and eating a BLT, wild thing that I am.”

 

 

“Okay, then, where shall we go? A place where we can hear one another is my only criterion.”

 

 

“And preferably a place with a fine wine list,” Birdie said.

 

 

“Sam had a table reserved at Ocean’s Edge for the two of us. We can talk there—and they have decent wine. Let’s see if they can add two chairs to the saved table.” Izzy slipped her purse over her shoulder and dialed the restaurant while the group headed for the front door.

 

 

They drove together, all four of them, in Izzy’s well-used Jetta—the little car she’d bought when she traded in her law-practice BMW two years before. She named the car Greta and loved it dearly, though a hybrid lurked on the edges of her mind.

 

 

The Ocean’s Edge was a big white restaurant with enough windows to keep Shawn Lanigan, Sea Harbor’s top window washer, busy all year long. It clung to the rocky shore right in the middle of the village and was surrounded by grassy lawns that sloped down to the harbor and hosted picnics, fireworks, clambakes, and a gazebo, where local entertainers performed and young lovers met on warm summer nights. Nearby, Pelican Pier, dotted with gulls, fishermen, and strollers, jutted out into the water.

 

 

The Edge had good food, a spacious porch that swung around the octagonal-shaped restaurant, and a waitstaff that had grown up in Sea Harbor and came back every summer to carry steamed clams and oysters on the half shell to eager customers.

 

 

“Thanks, sweetie,” Nell said as Gracie Santos, a childhood friend of Cass’, greeted them warmly and led them to a table on the deck. Though the restaurant was always busy on Saturday nights, Gracie found them a table on the porch slightly separated from the others by a large fern and colorful pots of daisies, argeratum, and zinnias. Tiny Christmas lights circled the deck, hanging from pillar to pillar and swaying slightly in the breeze coming in off the ocean.

 

 

Gracie wrote down the wine Birdie selected, and Cass added a platter of calamari to the list. Gracie chuckled at her friend’s weakness for anything fried. “For you, Cass,” she said, “I’ll bring the extra large platter.”

 

 

Once Gracie disappeared, Nell wasted no time. “It’s only been a week since Aidan died, but it’s been an eternity in Willow’s life. She needs to be able to mourn her father—no matter how she feels now.”

 

 

“She certainly can’t do that with the police breathing down her neck.” Cass sat back in her chair.

 

 

“None of us can mourn him properly,” Birdie added. “Aidan was our friend. This awful shadow is hanging over all of us. We need to bring resolution to it all. Walking around the cove is not the pleasurable stroll it used to be.”

 

 

“Not to mention that someone did murder Aidan. And that someone may very well be walking down Harbor Road every day, right past the Seaside Knitting Studio. Sitting at a table next to us at Coffee’s—”

 

 

Izzy ran her hands up and down her bare arms. “It gives me the chills.”

 

 

“So what do we have so far?” Birdie asked. “I think better when I can see thoughts written out on paper.” She took a blank tablet from her purse pushed it in front of Izzy. “The light out here is lovely but not conducive to eighty-year-old eyes.”

 

 

“Eighty?” Cass lifted one eyebrow.

 

 

“Hush, Cass, dear.” Birdie paused to sip from the wineglass Gracie held in front of her. “Lovely,” she approved and turned back to the group while Gracie filled their glasses.

 

 

“To our well-knit friendship,” Birdie said, holding her glass in the air.

 

 

“To friends,” the other women chorused.

 

 

The crisp calamari appeared in the next minute, served with a tangy Thai lime dipping sauce. “Try it,” Gracie urged. “You’ll love it.”

 

 

And they did, sticking the slivers of fried squid into the cilantro, basil, and mint sauce. Sips of wine soothed the spicy after-taste, and after ordering dinner, Nell brought the group down to business once again.

 

 

She tapped her finger on the table. “We need to step back. We’re in the middle of the forest and not seeing the trees,” she said. “I think that there’s something going on over at the cove that is flying right by us.”

 

 

“The key is to find others who might have wanted Aidan dead,” said Izzy, looking down at the yellow pad. “D. J. Delaney for sure. Frankly, he bothers me. A lot of people are having trouble with him. Natalie Sobel said the house he built for them is a mess.”

 

 

“His motive is strong—he’s been hungry for that land as long as I’ve known him and was mad as a hatter when Aidan bought it up right in front of him those years ago. He didn’t have the money then to buy it himself, but he never got over it. And never had nice things to say about Aidan because of it. I think he’s always resented him.”

 

 

“Not to mention that the Delaney company is having trouble right now,” Cass added. She looked around to see if Gracie was within earshot. Married to D.J.’s son, Joe, Gracie often shared Delaney family gossip with Cass. “Gracie says he’s not a bad guy—but when push comes to shove, his company and pocketbook come first. I’ve heard lots of stories from my fishermen buddies about D.J. trying to turn a piece of land into something that will pad the pocket. And he’s not above cutting corners where it suits him. Rachel Wooten has seen a lot of complaints come into the city offices. He’s always looking for new places to develop.” Cass piled more calamari on her plate and then licked off her fingers.

 

 

“And it’s often at the expense of a beautiful park or playground or preserve. I think that’s why Aidan clung to his land so tightly. It afforded Canary Cove a bit of green space.”

 

 

“So D.J. has motive. Could he have actually done it?” Izzy doodled around the words on her pad of paper.

 

 

“I think that’s what makes this so hard for the police,” Nell said. “Ben talked to Chief Thompson, and he said anyone could have put the poison in the drink. Canary Cove was crawling with tourists, vacationers, and residents that night. And Aidan’s gallery was packed, just as it always is. It was hot, and everyone had a glass or bottle of water or beer or wine in hand. Aidan had been working a couple of hours before we saw him. I suspect that the drug was dropped early in the evening because by the time we saw him, he was feeling terrible—we just didn’t know how terrible.”

 

 

“And then there’s Rebecca,” Cass said. “I think she knows more than she’s saying. There was something off about her today when we talked at Coffee’s.”

 

 

“She seems so absolutely sure that Willow did it—that’s what’s odd to me,” Nell added. “She doesn’t add anything to what we know—that Aidan was Willow’s father, and Willow yelled at him that day, but there’s a certainty in the way she talks.”