Patterns in the Sand (22 page)

 

 

“Aidan Peabody deserves a certificate of appreciation for his largesse,” Mary had written. “When the mile-long path through the Peabody woods became overgrown and hikers had difficulty traversing the rise, Peabody hacked away roots and vines, added small granite slabs in the roughest spots and marked the beginning of the trail with one of his fanciful wooden sea urchins. A true citizen.”

 

 

Nell smiled at the memory. They had teased Aidan about it, accused him of running for city council, but it didn’t surprise any of his friends, not really. He did what he thought was right for the people of Sea Harbor—and stubbornly stood up for what he deemed wrong or inappropriate. A trait that had earned him dear friends. And enemies.

 

 

Nell watched the hikers without much thought and saw them pause in a small clearing, just visible from Nell’s vantage point. One of the figures waved an arm in the air as if to make a point, an animated gesture that could have indicated pleasure—or anger. The sun, falling on the tiny open space like a spotlight on a stage, caught the glint of a familiar gold chain. Billy’s beefy arm was dark with hair, his head nearly bald. In the patch of sunlight, it was clear that it was the owner of the Sobel Gallery.

 

 

And beside him, her hands at her side, stood the slender figure of Ellen Marks.

 

 

“An interesting friendship,” Nell murmured, more to herself than aloud, but Izzy heard and followed Nell’s gaze beyond the railing and through the woods.

 

 

“Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Are Billy and Ellen friends?”

 

 

Nell sat back so Izzy could see better. But Billy and Ellen had begun walking again and soon disappeared in the trees as the path rose up the hill.

 

 

Nell nodded. “Rebecca’s not crazy about Billy, but I think he finds Ellen levelheaded and a nice person to talk to—and Billy helped them out when they opened their shop, just like he helped a lot of other people.”

 

 

“I wonder where Natalie is. I can’t quite imagine her traipsing through the woods.”

 

 

Nell laughed, thinking of the many pairs of stiletto heels she had seen Natalie wear around town. “No, she doesn’t seem the woodsy type.” She looked back toward the woods.

 

 

“I’m surprised to see Billy this morning at all, much less hiking up a hill. He must be feeling horrible.”

 

 

“One would certainly think so. He must have a cast-iron constitution.”

 

 

“Did you tell Ben about last night?”

 

 

Nell nodded. “He plans to talk to Billy later today. There were too many other people in that bar who could misinterpret what he said. Better Billy and Ben talk to the chief before someone else does.”

 

 

“I’m sure he’ll explain it away in two sentences.” Izzy leaned back and craned her neck to see if anything more was happening. “Jeez. Aunt Nell, look.”

 

 

Nell turned on her chair and looked down through the trees at more movement on the trail.

 

 

Her hands were wrapped around a walking stick nearly twice as tall as her five-foot frame, but it didn’t slow the determined walk. Dressed in long shorts, a red sweater wrapped around her shoulders, and her cap of snow-white hair gleaming in the sunlight, Birdie resolutely and steadily made her way up the path, her eyes glued to the figures a short distance ahead.

 

 

“What is she doing?” Izzy said in hushed tones, hoping the Sunday
Times
had enough news to hold Sam’s and Ben’s interest.

 

 

“She was having breakfast with Jane and Ham down at their place earlier today. She must have spotted Billy. Maybe she wanted to make sure he was okay.”

 

 

“Or wondered why he was walking up behind Aidan’s house, is more like it. Sometimes you’re just too nice, Nell.”

 

 

Ben looked up from the paper. He’d pulled out the sports section and given it to Sam. He looked from Nell to Izzy and back again.

 

 

“You two look like you’re up to no good.”

 

 

Izzy and Nell started eating their eggs.

 

 

“I mean it, Nell. I can see the wheels turning in your head.”

 

 

“Ben, you know that the wheels turn slowly in Sea Harbor sometimes. Maybe it’s not a bad thing we’re turning our own.”

 

 

“They may turn slowly, but they turn, Nell. Jerry Thompson is on this one.”

 

 

“Nothing’s happening, Uncle Ben. Nothing at all.” Izzy ran her fingers through her hair.

 

 

“We need to do something. And talking to Billy Sobel is right up there on the list. We need to know what he was talking about last night.”

 

 

Ben pushed his chair back and stretched his legs. “Here’s what I think you need to do. I think you need to cool your heels. And that goes for Cass and Birdie, too. This isn’t a game of Clue, Nell. Someone murdered Aidan Peabody. Intentionally.”

 

 

Sam folded up the paper and set it aside. “So are you thinking Bill Sobel is involved in this?”

 

 

Ben scratched his head. “Well, at the last there are some questions that need to be asked.”

 

 

“He’s a nice guy. He’s handled some of my photographs for me. Did a great job with the last exhibit. But I guess none of us knows what another guy—”

 

 

“Or gal,” Izzy dropped in.

 

 

“Okay—or gal”—Sam offered Izzy a grin—“will do when pushed too far.”

 

 

“That’s right,” Ben said. “And unless a stranger came into town, murdered Aidan, and then disappeared, that someone—that murderer—is probably someone we know.”

 

 

“And maybe even someone we like,” Nell added.

 

 

The thought sobered the group and they sat in silence for a minute.

 

 

Nell turned away, her gaze drifting over the treetops. The murderer could be an acquaintance, someone she rubbed shoulders with at the market, or had coffee with, or was on a committee with. An awful thought, not easy to digest. Leave it to Ben to sprinkle them with a little bit of realism on a sunny Sunday morning. But she knew exactly what he was doing—building a case for caution. Protecting those he loved. And even when she found it irritating, she loved him dearly for it.

 

 

“Take Willow, for example,” Ben went on, his voice low and even. “We’re so quick to defend her—and count me in there among the best of the defenders. I happen to think the lovely young woman couldn’t kill a slug. But it’s because we like her, and we somehow feel responsible for her. If we’re really being objective—and I’m not saying we should be—but the real facts are that we don’t know much about her and what she might have done or not done. We don’t know what went on between her and Aidan. And she doesn’t talk much to us. Willow is still a mystery.”

 

 

The shadow that fell over the table wasn’t carrying a tray or pot of coffee, and Nell knew instinctively, even before looking up into those familiar dark eyes, whom she’d see standing at the table’s edge.

 

 

Willow Adams was alone, her dark hair pushed back haphazardly behind her ears, and her black eyes troubled. She seemed even smaller, Nell thought, than the sleeping, tired girl they had found in Izzy’s window all those days ago.

 

 

“I shouldn’t have been listening,” Willow said. “I just came over to say hello.”

 

 

“Willow, you need to understand the context,” Nell began.

 

 

Willow held up one hand to stop her explanation. “No, you’re right. All of you. I know your words aren’t meant to be hurtful. You’ve been nicer to me than anyone in my whole life. But you don’t know much about me—that’s true.” A wry smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “The truth is, there isn’t very much to know. I am what I am. But you need to know this much—and I swear on my mother’s grave that it’s the truth—I didn’t kill my father.”

 

 

Willow sucked in a lungful of air, as if the last statement had depleted her supply. She rested her palms on the table, and then she continued, her voice strong and in charge. “But you need more from me than that.”

 

 

“No, Willow. That’s enough. We believe you.” Nell reached over and put her hand on top of Willow’s.

 

 

Willow shook her head, her hair moving in slow motion, back and forth across her shoulders. The black in her eyes deepened and looked into Nell’s.

 

 

“No, it’s not enough. What I need to do is help you find the person who killed Aidan Peabody. I owe you that.”

 

 

Ben had started to rise as soon as Willow approached the table. This time he made it all the way up.

 

 

Nell couldn’t tell who made the first move, Willow or Ben, but in the next minute his arms were wrapped around Willow tight, and Willow hugged him right back.

 

 

A ruckus down the deck drew them apart, and Ben looked over the top of Willow’s head to a table a short way away.

 

 

D. J. Delaney sat with a huge plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, and directly across the table were two of his foremen, eating oversized portions of Annabelle’s Sunday special.

 

 

“They wanted double orders,” Stella whispered, coming up to their table. “Can you believe anyone could eat that much?”

 

 

But it wasn’t the food that had the other outdoor diners staring at the table.

 

 

It was Natalie Sobel, dressed in a pink lace blouse and standing tall on matching heels. She looked at the construction workers as if she were going to kill them.

 

 

“Our house is sinking,” she screamed at D.J.

 

 

D.J. continued to chew on a bite of English muffin, his fork shoveling into a mound of eggs. His brows lifted and he smiled quizzically at the two men across from him.

 

 

“Don’t you look away from me, D. J. Delaney,” Natalie screamed. “And wipe that smirk off your face. We know what you are. You are a crook. A crook,” she yelled.

 

 

And then she took a deep breath of air, calmed herself, and dug into a shiny black purse hanging from a gold chain across her shoulder.

 

 

“It’s done. We’ve just finished the paperwork,” she said.

 

 

“For what?” D.J. asked, finally looking at Natalie.

 

 

“For suing the pants off you, you poor excuse for a human being.”

 

 

And with that, she slapped an envelope right in the middle of his eggs and stomped out of the restaurant, her fine skinny heels tapping across the room.

 

 

The front door slammed shut and several cups rattled on a tray.

 

 

Stella pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “Sundays at Annabelle’s,” she said, half to herself. Then she pushed a pencil behind her ear, shrugged, and walked off to fill some empty water glasses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 20

 

I
zzy walked across the back room of the knitting studio. Outside, the sky was overcast, casting dark shadows across the room.

 

 

“Birdie, you can’t be doing things like that,” she scolded, her flip-flops slapping the floor more soundly than usual. “You’re seventy-, eightysomething—you shouldn’t be following people up hills, pretending you’re Kinsey Millhone or Jessica Fletcher.”

 

 

“Izzy, my dear, when will you begin to understand that age doesn’t dictate actions. What is that saying Hallmark is so fond of—it’s not how old you are but how . . . Oh, dear, I never get it right. But what matters isn’t how old you are but what you do with those years. And if I chose to live them proving that a sweet young girl is innocent, then I shall jolly well do so.” Birdie’s voice was unusually caustic.

 

 

“Calm down, Ms. Favazza. I’d say you live your years mighty well. Just don’t go getting yourself killed in the process.” Cass walked across the room with a bottle of water in one hand and a lumpy knitting bag in the other.

 

 

Cass had pulled her thick hair back and tied it at the base of her neck with what looked to Nell like a piece of thin rope. Probably something from
The Lady Lobster
, she thought, amused.

 

 

The late-Sunday-afternoon gathering was impromptu. It was Nell’s idea, stimulated by spotting Birdie in the woods, Izzy’s new quota to have a dozen chemo caps a week, and the emotion lacing Willow’s voice that morning, yearning for an end to the horrible mess that had put her life on hold.

 

 

Knit caps. Regroup. Cocktail hour,
the text message read. It still mystified Nell how Izzy sent lightning-fast messages with her thumbs. Her own were limited to single words, and she’d only recently learned to add periods.

 

 

“This mess just has me seeing red,” Birdie said. “What are we missing here? People are starting to lock their doors in Sea Harbor. We’ve got to put an end to it.”

 

 

She sank back into the sofa, her red tennis shoes barely touching the floor.

 

 

Nell pulled her sweater from her bag. More head hugger hats were the goal, but she could easily knit up several of those at meetings she had scheduled this week. Willow’s sea sweater—as she had begun to think about it—was less portable as it grew. And besides, if truth be known, the intriguing, intricate designs that magically appeared as she worked the cable stitches running from the top of the sweater to the bottom had become something that she couldn’t put aside for long. And the texture of the yarn brought comfort to her fingers and her spirit.

 

 

“What were you going to do if Billy or Ellen turned around and saw you?” Izzy stopped straightening up the stray scissors, yarn markers, and measuring tapes on the worktable and looked over at Birdie.