Patterns in the Sand (20 page)

 

 

“What about Ellen?”

 

 

Izzy chewed a piece of calamari thoughtfully. “Ellen comes into the shop often—she’s a great knitter. And sometimes we get a chance to talk briefly. She was in a couple weeks ago, right after Aidan and Rebecca broke up, and her reaction to the breakup was odd. I don’t think she cared much that Rebecca and Aidan weren’t a couple any longer. And she indicated Rebecca didn’t care much either. ‘She can have anyone she wants,’ was her take on Rebecca and men. That’s probably true.”

 

 

“Killing someone for breaking your sister’s heart may have been a motive in early historical romances, but it seems a rather unlikely motive now,” Birdie said.

 

 

They laughed.

 

 

“True,” Nell said. “I think Ellen, like a lot of the others, thought Aidan was a little too pushy when it came to the council meetings. Jane said that some years, depending on who was leading the committee, the meetings were pretty tame. But somehow Aidan managed to inject a little spice into things. But that was Aidan. If he was going to do the job, he’d do it right, even though I suspect he didn’t even like being head of the group. He just figured it was his turn and he was paying his dues.”

 

 

“I never thought of Aidan as pushy or dictatorial.” Birdie looked up and smiled as Gracie appeared again, this time carrying a broiled seafood platter, mounded with stuffed shrimp and oysters, chunks of fresh lobster, and the Edge’s special crab cakes. Grilled corn on the cob lined the platter. A fellow server removed the appetizers and set a clean plate in front of each of them.

 

 

“Enjoy, ladies,” Gracie urged, positioning the platter in the center of the table.

 

 

Birdie refilled wineglasses as Gracie disappeared inside. “So what were the complaints about Aidan?”

 

 

“Like Nell said, he took the job seriously,” Cass said. “We had a drink together one night at the Gull and he told me that everyone had a different agenda. Rebecca and Ellen—and Bill Sobel, too—wanted out-of-town advertising, that sort of thing, which would bring in more tourists. Sherrie Steuben, who owns that new handmade paper shop, couldn’t begin to pay for advertising in the
Globe
or
Times
. Aidan understood that and sided with the artists who weren’t as interested in reaching the whole world. He thought their dues would be better spent on things like fixing up that old dock so no one would break their neck on it.”

 

 

“A good idea,” Nell said. “Ben and Sam docked there one day to catch a bite at the Palate and nearly fell off the end. It’s rocky and very deep out there. Falling through rotted wood wouldn’t be a good thing.”

 

 

Izzy looked up from her scribbling on the pad. “So Rebecca? Does she make the list or not?”

 

 

“I suppose,” Birdie said. “At least until we have a chance to gather information that says otherwise. Though I still say being dumped is a weak excuse for murder.”

 

 

“But I think that Rebecca knows more than she’s saying.”

 

 

“I agree. And don’t forget Mary Pisano’s column—someone was in Aidan’s house snooping around last night. I bet it was Rebecca. And she probably had a key since they were an item for a while.” Cass picked up a crunchy cob of corn.

 

 

“But what would she have wanted from Aidan’s house?”

 

 

The group had no answer.

 

 

“Maybe a talk with Mary Pisano should be on our to-do list,” Nell suggested.

 

 

They were all silent for a bit, knowing that if the leaps they took were too wide, they could fall into the chasm.

 

 

“Rebecca was in the shop the day Willow was there. She said she was there because she needed to talk to Aidan about something. I wonder what that was about.”

 

 

“I’ll ask Ellen,” Izzy said. “She comes in the shop a lot.”

 

 

“Should Billy Sobel be a suspect?” Izzy asked.

 

 

Nell had been wondering the same thing. She remembered the look on Billy’s face at the funeral. Sad. Distraught. Maybe even a touch of guilt. And Aidan had given him a hard time about his exhibits, apparently, making him jump through hoops. Sometimes it even seemed a little unfair to Nell. And it certainly must have seemed that way to Billy and Natalie.

 

 

“The police have talked to him, according to Hank,” Birdie said. “Not a lot goes on over there that the Jacksons don’t see or hear from the Palate deck. Merry saw the police go into the Sobel Gallery and promptly took herself over there to check out a new Rhodes photograph he’d gotten in.”

 

 

“And to eavesdrop.”

 

 

“Well, mostly that, yes.”

 

 

“Billy was upset, Merry said. And extremely nervous. He stumbled over his words, gave silly answers, admitted that he and some others didn’t like the way Aidan Peabody was dictating to the artists and dealers in the cove.”

 

 

“Dictating?” Nell broke in. “That’s silly.”

 

 

“Billy started out calm, Merry said, but the more he talked, the redder his face got and he kept fiddling with those gold chains around his neck. He was perspiring like crazy, she said. Well, she didn’t actually say ‘like crazy.’ Merry is a bit more colorful in her descriptives.”

 

 

“Well, frankly, if Billy was going to kill anyone, I think it’d be his wife,” Cass said lightly.

 

 

“Catherine, shame on you,” Birdie chastised. “But Natalie can be difficult, can’t she? Colorful, to say the least, though I like her. She adds a bit of color to the cove.”

 

 

“She just signed on with a decorator from Beacon Hill to redo the whole gallery,” Izzy said. “She asked me for names. I guess she thought because I lived there once, I’d know all the decorators.”

 

 

Nell held back a smile as memories of Izzy’s Beacon Hill apartment popped into her head. A kitchen table, a bed, and a couple of chairs from the Beacon Hill home she and Ben once lived in—that was about it. But Izzy was not into decorating at that time in her life—she was into keeping up as a fledgling lawyer in a powerful law firm.

 

 

“That’s interesting,” Birdie said. “Billy had a slight cash-flow problem as of late, I thought. I wonder who’s paying for the decorator.”

 

 

“Maybe this exhibit will take care of that. And maybe that’s why he was so mad that Aidan was slowing things down.”

 

 

“Do you suppose Aidan objected to the remodeling plans for Sobel Gallery? The artist committee may need to approve that, especially if it involved outdoor changes. And knowing Natalie, the changes could be . . . well, perhaps a bit showy?” Birdie took a drink of her wine and motioned to a waiter to please bring another bottle.

 

 

“Something doesn’t seem quite right with Billy, now that we’re talking about it,” Izzy said, drawing doodles around the “B” of his name. “He’s been kind of . . . well, skittish. Sam and I saw him that night Aidan died—we went into his studio because Sam wanted to see if the James paintings were there. Billy kind of barked at us when we asked, like he was fed up with people asking.”

 

 

Gracie had placed warm sourdough rolls on each of their plates, along with cubes of sweet butter, and was now uncorking the fresh bottle of wine and asking if anyone needed anything else.

 

 

“Goodness,” Birdie said, “we’re closing you down.”

 

 

“Not quite, Ms. Birdie. I still have a few tables out here and some inside. And the bar is plenty full. Crazy in there tonight. But I saved you all some key lime pie. It’s on its way.”

 

 

Between bites of the Ocean’s Edge’s sweet pie and sips of lattes, the knitters’ to-do list grew more organized. Besides the logical people to talk to, they would keep their eyes and ears open and remain tuned in to their suspicions as they went about their days. And in a town the size of Sea Harbor, that just might be enough to turn some of the murky gray areas into vivid Technicolor.

 

 

Or Dolby sound.

 

 

The shattering of glass broke into the soft music coming from the porch speakers. It was followed instantly by shouting from the bar and drew the knitters’ attention toward the open bar area at the front of the restaurant.

 

 

“That’s a familiar voice,” Nell said.

 

 

With that, the four women left their signed credit card receipts, leaving extravagant tips for Gracie, and gathered up purses and sweaters before heading across the porch, up to the open bar area.

 

 

A young waiter, his stance uncomfortable and his eyes focused on the sea of broken glass littering the floor, stood beside the tall bar table with a broom in his hand.

 

 

Sitting precariously on the stool, his arms spread haphazardly in the spill of scotch across the table, his eyes as red as the blood on his cut hand, sat Billy Sobel.

 

 

“Bill, are you all right?” Nell stood close to him on his other side, bending low so he could hear her.

 

 

With great effort, Bill lifted his head and turned toward the familiar voice, trying to focus on Nell’s face.

 

 

The smile that followed was weak and disconcerting. A smile that wasn’t a smile at all. A smile that held sadness.

 

 

“Nell,” he said, his voice barely audible above the music from the bar. He paused for a moment, as if struggling to collect his thoughts. Finally his vision seemed to clear and he looked as steadily as he could at Nell.

 

 

“I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

 

 

His voice was slurred with alcohol and anguish. “Life’s a wicked mess right now. I shouldna done it. None of it.”

 

 

And with that, his heavy head dropped unceremoniously to the table, his eyelids closed, and Billy Sobel gave in to the comfort of inebriated stupor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

“H
ow much of what a drunk man says can he be held accountable for?” Nell asked, a question that she had reworded a dozen different ways, hoping that one of them would bring an answer. She took the Sunday
New York Times
from the backseat of the car and walked beside Ben across the gravel parking lot to the restaurant.

 

 

Though they didn’t make it every Sunday, breakfast at the Sweet Petunia was a treat Ben Endicott didn’t forgo lightly. Nell’s anxiousness over the episode with Billy Sobel didn’t come near to being a valid reason to give up Annabelle’s egg special of the day.

 

 

“We’ll talk about it there,” Ben had assured her. “After one cup of Annabelle’s Colombian brew, we’ll be much better equipped to figure it all out.”

 

 

None of the knitters had slept well, Nell knew. Birdie had called at seven, and Izzy had stopped by on her way to meet Sam for a run not long after.

 

 

With the help of several young waiters, they had folded Billy into the backseat of Izzy’s Jetta. Cass and Nell had generously agreed to take the other two seats in the back, and as Cass said later, if it hadn’t been so sad and so smelly, it would have been quite hilarious. They kept the windows open and drove the short distance to the Sobel home, located in a lovely neighborhood on the north shore just a short distance from Birdie’s estate. The front of the house was well lit when they pulled into the circle drive and at the sound of the car, Natalie appeared, a robe wrapped tightly around her waist and her face, without makeup, looking young and vulnerable.

 

 

Without words, they pried Billy out of the car, maneuvered him through the front hall, and, following the point of Natalie’s red fingernail, into a den at the rear of the recently finished house. There they eased him down onto the cushions of a leather couch. He began snoring immediately.

 

 

Only when they headed back toward the front door did Natalie speak. “He’s a good man, you know. I’ve known lots of men. My Billy is the best—he never cheats on me. He never hits me. He treats me like a queen.”

 

 

Nell looked at Natalie and attempted a smile.

 

 

“Billy is under a lot of pressure. He just isn’t himself these days.”

 

 

For a brief moment, Nell was tempted to embrace Natalie Sobel. She hardly knew the woman—Billy had brought her back to Sea Harbor last Thanksgiving, like a prize, some thought. He announced they had gotten married in Atlantic City, and then threw an extravagant party in Sea Harbor to celebrate his much-younger wife. Not too many people had gotten to know Natalie. She helped in Billy’s gallery sometimes, but her favorite pastime seemed to be shopping. Nell often saw her browsing in the stores along Main Street in Gloucester, the antique shops in Rockport, or out at the mall, which she seemed to love. But last night, as she stood beneath her porch light, it was clear to Nell that what Natalie loved most was Billy Sobel.

 

 

“Looks like Annabelle has quite a crowd today,” Ben said, looking through the door into the cheery restaurant.

 

 

“Ben, you say that every Sunday.”

 

 

“And it’s always true. It’s so nice to be able to be right at least once a week.” He smiled a satisfied smile and wrapped an arm around Nell as they walked into the cool interior of the restaurant.

 

 

A wave of enticing smells—bacon, eggs, coffee, fresh fruit, and warm maple syrup—met them at the door. And Stella Palazola, Annabelle’s teenage daughter, was there to meet them as well.

 

 

“I’ve got a table for you,” she announced cheerily. “You’re outside today because it’s so nice and sunny.”

 

 

“Well, thanks, Stella. That’s mighty nice of you,” Ben said.

 

 

Nell followed, finding herself basking in the familiarity of it. Stella said the same thing every summer Sunday, too—and Nell suspected she’d say the same thing even if they were having terrible weather and it was pouring rain.