Patterns in the Sand (27 page)

Of course. Brendan might have gotten to know Natalie better than any of them, working in the shop and helping Billy with paintings and paperwork. And it was a good thing there’d be a strong young man for her to lean on.

 

 

Although gallery doors were open and people milled about in the cool interiors of the shops, Nell sensed the melancholy just below the surface. Canary Cove was sad. Tourists wouldn’t notice, but the artists and shop owners felt the burden of loss. It was palpable. Billy’s death and the awful circumstances surrounding it were beginning to penetrate the neighborhood.

 

 

Aidan’s shop was dark, the door locked, no lights peeking through the imaginative creatures in the display window. Nell and Willow walked past the shop and turned into the narrow lane beside it, walking back toward the garden and house beyond. Aidan’s small Jeep was pulled off the alley, hugging the side of the studio. A flagstone pathway connected the studio and shop to the garden, and beyond that, another pathway connected the garden to Aidan’s home.

 

 

Beside the home and on up the hill grew the thick stand of pines and oak trees that just a day before Billy and Ellen Marks—with Birdie close behind—had strolled through.

 

 

Willow checked a large round watch on her wrist. “Brendan should be here. . . .”

 

 

Nell and Willow looked down toward the Brewsters’ studio. There was traffic in and out the front door, but no sign of Brendan. Willow pulled out her cell and pressed in a number.

 

 

Nell took that moment to walk the pathway into the small garden, still lovely in spite of a lack of pruning and pinching. The recent rain had deepened the color of the burgundy knockout roses, and the white rose of Sharon blooms were brilliant against the deep mossy green of the small magnolias. A lone Japanese maple spread its branches over the stone bench where Aidan Peabody had taken his last breath.

 

 

“Brendan’s not coming,” Willow said, following Nell into the garden. “He’s over at the Sobel Gallery, trying to put things in order, I guess.”

 

 

Willow slipped her phone into the pocket of her cropped slacks and shrugged. “He wanted us to wait until he could come. Brendan thinks we can’t quite manage this by ourselves, silly man. I’ve been without a man in my life forever. And I manage just fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

Aidan’s home had been a vacation home before he bought the land years before. He’d immediately winterized and updated it, added skylights and fresh paint, and Nell loved the cozy, clean spaces he’d created. She’d been there a half dozen times, most often for pre- or post-exhibit gatherings when he’d open his doors and the guests would flow from home to garden to studio.

 

 

But today there was no music playing, no laughter and flow of food. No handsome Aidan Peabody greeting friends at the door.

 

 

Nell watched his daughter unlock the door to his home and, with a firm step, enter.

 

 

Nell followed just behind, taking her lead from Willow.

 

 

Willow paused on the hardwood floor and looked around. From this vantage point, you could see through the whole house—into a small neat bedroom on the east side of the house, a den just to the left, and the entire back of the house was the living and cooking area—wide-open with windows that opened up to the woods behind.

 

 

The house was simple and clean, with friends’ paintings hanging on the white walls; the kitchen shelves were open and filled with pottery plates, cups, pots, and pans. Nell recognized some of Jane’s pots, and a watercolor of Ham’s hanging above a small fireplace. And on a wall of shelves—with one standing boldly out in the open—were Aidan Peabody’s wooden creations, forbidding anyone to get very far into the room without smiling.

 

 

“I guess he couldn’t be all bad,” Willow said softly, walking up to a red-lipped sea nymph posing near the back windows.

 

 

Nell held her thoughts to herself.
No, he wasn’t all bad, Willow. Maybe he wasn’t bad at all.
And Nell hoped against hope that exploring his life through his home and his friends would teach her who her father truly was.

 

 

“I think I’ll just wander,” Willow said, and Nell agreed that that was a good plan. “There’s no hurry, dear,” she said. “We have tomorrow and the next day and more after that.”

 

 

In truth, she had no idea what Willow’s plans would be. There’d been no official report on Aidan’s murder, only a day’s worth of suppositions and assumptions pointing the finger at Billy Sobel. It made people more comfortable, Nell supposed. It was a neat package that they could get their arms around. Both deaths were accounted for. Life could go on.

 

 

But what about Natalie Sobel’s life?
Nell wondered, walking into the small den. What did she have left? Memories of Billy ruined by rumors. A gallery full of artists’ work that she probably cared little about. The James paintings, of course, would at least provide her with a financial cushion. But she suspected that what really mattered to Natalie Sobel was Billy. Her Billy was gone.

 

 

One wall in Aidan’s den was filled from floor to ceiling with books, and near the front windows was an old library desk. The one flat drawer was askew, a remnant of the police search, Nell supposed, although Tommy Porter prided himself on making sure nothing had been left a mess after a search. Nell walked behind the desk, where a small wooden filing cabinet stood unobtrusively, its two drawers also open a crack. Inside, papers were tossed around, files shoved back into place hastily, not what she would have imagined Aidan’s desk to look like.

 

 

She remembered the mention in Mary Pisano’s column of seeing someone around Aidan’s house. Billy? Would he have had reason to come in here? And what would he have been looking for? She renewed her intention to talk to Mary Pisano about that night—she could probably shed some light on it. She seemed to have a firm grasp on the goings on around Canary Cove.

 

 

A tall carved cabinet in the shape of a fisherman stood guard near an easy chair, and Nell could almost picture Aidan Peabody, his feet up on the leather footstool, reading through the many books on his shelf.

 

 

She scanned the titles, impressed with the breadth of subjects—from the history of watercolor to deep-sea fishing and sailing. He had books on Sea Harbor and the granite quarries. Books on American crafts, on framing art, and on notable artists. There were several books on his desk and she picked up the top one. She’d seen the same book in Archie’s bookstore window—a book on New England artists—but when she had gone to buy one, Archie was sold out.
People are more interested in James,
Archie explained,
now that we have paintings right here.

 

 

Nell opened the book and looked for familiar names, pleased to see a section on Ham’s watercolors and Jane’s amazing pottery. Sam Perry was mentioned in a section on photography, his arresting photos of the working fishermen of Gloucester filling several pages. The biggest section was on Robert James, the reclusive artist from Maine, his lovely watercolors of ocean scenes and Maine sun-sets now a collector’s boon. Aidan had been reading it, she could tell. They had the same habit of making notes in the columns, underlining things of particular interest, and taking a yellow marker to special sections.

 

 

Messing up the book, Ben would say.

 

 

Nell smiled and set the book on the corner of the desk, along with several others that she knew would interest Ben. They were Willow’s now, but she was sure she wouldn’t mind Nell and Ben borrowing them for a short while. She’d read the section on James and at least be more informed for the exhibit, if indeed there would still be one.

 

 

“His house is nice,” Willow said, wandering into the den from the family area. “It’s not what I expected.” She sat down in the leather chair delicately, as if it might protest if she were too rough. “I look around and I want to know what he thought while he lived in this house. Did he think of me? What did he know of me? Why didn’t he ever come back to find me?” Willow leaned her head back against the cushions and scanned the wall of books.

 

 

“Your dad was a scholar,” Nell said. “Did you know that? He knew more about art than anyone in Sea Harbor.”

 

 

Willow nodded. “My mom never went to college.”

 

 

“You mentioned that. But she lived in Madison when your dad was a student?”

 

 

“I always used to think she was the student—she told me as much. I guess she wanted me to think she was a coed, not a small-town runaway. And it worked—from the time I was little, I knew I would go there, too. But if you do the math, my mom was only seventeen when I was born. So sixteen when she got pregnant. Unless she was supersmart, she wasn’t a college student.”

 

 

“What do you think happened?”

 

 

“My grandparents wouldn’t talk about it much. But at Grams’ funeral, her friend told me that it broke Grams’ heart when my mom ran away. And they couldn’t find her for almost a year. Then someone saw her in a restaurant in Madison, where she had gotten a job, and called my grandparents.

 

 

“They got in the car and that’s where they found her—a pregnant waitress in a run-down fast-food place.”

 

 

“Did anyone try to contact your father?”

 

 

“The story always fell apart then. He was already gone, my mom said. Or leaving that day. And she’d cry, every time I asked, so I stopped asking. Grams would only say that he was no good. No decent man would get a young girl pregnant. He would burn in hell, she said. And if he came anywhere near them, they’d have the sheriff arrest him for rape.”

 

 

“Did he know about you?”

 

 

Willow shifted in the chair that held her father’s shape and smell and looked over at Nell. “I don’t know. I’m hoping he’ll tell me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24

 

I
t was dark when Nell and Willow got back home, and Nell still had to take food over to Natalie’s. Since no funeral service was planned, she was receiving guests at her house, Birdie had told Nell—and Birdie’s suspicion was that if there was going to be any food or drink to greet the guests, they were going to have to bring it.

 

 

Willow had headed immediately for the guest cottage, claiming tiredness and the need to be alone, but Nell knew from numerous phone calls to her cell phone that Brendan was concerned about her, and would probably be showing up in the drive any minute.

 

 

“I wasn’t sure if she had a family doctor,” Ben said when he and Nell discussed their plans for the evening. “Natalie hasn’t been here that long—so I sent Doc Hamilton over.”

 

 

Nell kissed him. “Leave it to you to think of that. She must be in shock.”

 

 

“What are the books?” Ben asked, nodding toward the stack on the kitchen island. He pulled out a box of foil and tore off a piece for the platter he’d picked up from Ned’s Groceria in Gloucester.

 

 

Nell eyed the array of parmigiano-reggiano, aged Gouda, chunks of fresh sausage, and imported mustards, and made a mental note to replenish her supply of cheese before next Friday’s supper. Ned’s was one of those stores she couldn’t drive past without stopping in to taste whatever new cheese was featured on the tasting tray. And though she went in for a taste, she always went home with a sack filled with sausage and cheese and fresh bread or crackers.

 

 

From all appearances, Ben had picked up her habits.

 

 

“The books?” Ben handed Nell her purse.

 

 

“Oh, yes, the books. I took those from Aidan’s library. They looked interesting—and there’s one on James’ life and paintings that I should probably read. I was never that crazy about his work, but maybe I just need to be more educated.”

 

 

Ben slipped on his glasses and surveyed the other titles, pulling out a coffee-table book of the world’s finest sailboats. “Good job, Nell—this is one I’ve been wanting to look at.” He held the cheese in one arm and shoved open the door to the garage for Nell to pass through.

 

 

They drove to the Sobel house in silence, each alone with their memories of the colorful art dealer. Billy was well liked, in spite of his sometimes colorful outbursts. And most agreed that since marrying Natalie, he had calmed down some. Natalie certainly seemed to be in love with him, in spite of the age difference. They were an odd couple, many thought. The Tony Soprano look-alike and the Atlantic City showgirl, or so the rumors went. But Nell suspected there was a bond there that they both cherished. And Natalie’s grief would be enormous.

 

 

“Izzy and Sam are here,” Ben said, pointing to the Jeep parked at the curb. There were only two other cars parked in front of the Sobels’ home, and Nell was relieved. They would have a chance to get the food arranged before the house filled with people.

 

 

Sam appeared at the door and nodded toward the living room, where Ellen and Rebecca Marks sat on either side of Natalie, each one holding a hand and taking turns murmuring their condolences.

 

 

Nell followed Sam into the well-equipped Sobel kitchen.

 

 

Birdie, Izzy, and Cass were already at work, opening cupboards in their search for napkins and plates, glasses and pitchers. Sam and Izzy had brought wine and bags of ice that Sam set in the sink while Izzy searched for ice containers and baskets for the rolls.

 

 

“You make a good kitchen crew.” Rebecca leaned against the doorframe, a glass of wine in her hand.

 

 

“Thanks,” Nell answered. “We’re a well-oiled machine.”