Patterns in the Sand (28 page)

 

 

“Do you do funerals often?” She picked an olive off the relish tray and popped it into her mouth.

 

 

“Whenever necessary,” Cass said. “Better watch your step. Ellen may be hiring us next.”

 

 

Rebecca smiled and took another olive.

 

 

The sound of new voices in the front room drifted back to the kitchen, and it was evident that more visitors were filing through the front door. Nell was pleased. Natalie didn’t know that many people, but Billy had known everyone, and it was important for Natalie that people come.

 

 

She saw Harriet and Archie Brandley, and Harry Garozzo and his sweet wife, Margaret. Harry stuck his head in the kitchen and held up a sack with five loaves of Italian bread sticking out the top.

 

 

“I knew where to find my ladies,” he said, and walked over to kiss Nell on the cheek. “Sad day. Poor Billy.”

 

 

“No more death, I say. Enough already.” It was Hank Jackson, looking as if he were somehow responsible for Billy’s drowning. He set a case of beer down on the counter, then rummaged around for an opener and snapped the tops off several bottles. He picked one up, took a long swig, and then looked around the kitchen sadly. “We saw him that night, Merry and me. We talked to him in the rain. We shoulda made him stay inside until it stopped.”

 

 

“Hank, we were there, too, remember? Sometimes things are going to happen no matter what we do.” Nell rested a hand on the restaurant owner’s arm. She had entertained the same thought several times that day. If they had gotten out of the car, would they have seen Billy’s bike? Would they have spotted a sad, hunched-over body down on the dock?

 

 

Ben had been quick to jump in and squash the thoughts.
Of course not
.
The rain was coming down in sheets. There was no electricity. How could anyone have seen anything? And who in their right mind would have thought of looking down the path to the dock on such a miserable night?

 

 

Survivor’s remorse, Nell knew, was alive and strong. But given time, the reality of situations usually became clear.

 

 

“My sweet darlings,” Natalie Sobel said, walking into the kitchen and embracing Nell and Birdie, then Cass and Izzy, in giant, perfume-scented hugs.

 

 

Her makeup stayed in place tonight, though the tears still came in small trickles, wandering down her cheeks. Nell could see that Natalie had worked hard to put her face on and to pull herself together for guests. It was also clear—bless Ben Endicott—that she was under Doc Hamilton’s care and medication. There were times not to feel things. And tonight was one of them.

 

 

The evening passed in a blur for Nell. They had planned to set up the food they’d brought, to offer their condolences, and to leave early, but it was clear there was no one in charge, no relatives of Natalie’s. No one to make sure that Natalie was all right and the food got served, the paper plates thrown away, and the ice refreshed.

 

 

Birdie looked at Nell and Ben, and in turned, they looked at Sam, Izzy, and Cass. Sam shrugged and dug into the bag to fill a bucket with fresh ice. “I’d say we’re here for the long haul,” he said. “Cold drink, anyone?”

 

 

A while later, as the crowd began to thin, Nell found herself alone in the den with Ellen Marks. “I’m so sorry about Billy, Ellen,” she said. “I know you were good friends.”

 

 

Ellen’s tears were fresh, and she pulled a tissue from the box on the desk and nodded. “Billy was good to us when we opened Lampworks—he helped me figure things out, helped me . . . helped me handle Rebecca—you know how she can be sometimes—and personal things. I could confide in Billy. We understood each other. We were alike in some ways.”

 

 

Nell nodded, although she didn’t quite understood what Ellen was getting at. “Birdie mentioned she saw you and Billy walking in Aidan’s woods yesterday. She could see that you were a comfort to each other.”

 

 

“A comfort?”

 

 

“About Aidan, she thought.”

 

 

Ellen was silent.

 

 

Nell continued. “I know Billy was angry with Aidan. Do you know why?”

 

 

Ellen took a breath as if she were about to say something, then thought better of it.

 

 

“Aidan and Billy were having troubles, it seemed,” Nell prompted.

 

 

“Aidan sometimes interfered too much. At least Billy thought so. He could be that way, I guess.”

 

 

“You’ve been on the arts council for a while now. So you’ve seen those two go at each other. What was the problem there?”

 

 

“I guess they did have problems with each other. Sometimes. Billy had a temper.”

 

 

“Do you think he could have killed Aidan?”

 

 

Ellen looked down. For a long time she didn’t say anything. She clasped her hands tight. When she looked up again, her eyes were sad. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I just don’t know. What I do know is that Billy was troubled when I saw him yesterday. He should have been happy about things: Natalie, the exhibit. But he was distracted. Upset. Like he regretted something he’d done. He wasn’t himself—that much I know.”

 

 

The ringing of the doorbell disrupted the conversation, and Nell excused herself and headed to the hallway.

 

 

Ben was already at the door when Nell got there.

 

 

Jerry Thompson stood on the step, a relieved look on his face at the sight of Ben.

 

 

“Come on in, Jerry,” Ben said, holding open the screen door. “Mighty nice of you to come. I know Natalie will appreciate it.”

 

 

“Do you have a minute to talk, Ben?” the chief asked. “Before I see Mrs. Sobel, I mean?” He nodded a greeting to Nell.

 

 

“Sure thing. How about the den?”

 

 

Jerry and Ben retreated to the den, and Nell walked into the kitchen and picked up a dish towel. Birdie handed her a washed platter. “What’s the chief doing here?” she whispered.

 

 

“Maybe he’s just paying a condolence call,” Izzy said. “He’s a pretty nice guy—and he knew Billy.”

 

 

“Sure he knew him. Billy was a suspect in a homicide.” Cass spoke up from her post at the dishwasher.

 

 

“Jerry was brought up right,” Birdie said. “I knew his mother well. He would come to pay his respects.”

 

 

“Maybe,” Nell said.

 

 

But it came as no surprise to her when Ben emerged from the den a short while later and asked where Natalie was. In the next minute he was leading her, one arm around her shoulders, into Billy’s den. He closed the door behind her softly, the way one did in a hospital or library, and returned to the kitchen.

 

 

Birdie turned off the water in the sink. Sam put down the garbage bag, and Cass, Izzy, and Nell stood still, looking at Ben intently.

 

 

Speak,
their silence said.

 

 

“The police think . . . ,” Ben began. “They think Billy had help drowning.”

 

 

“But how . . . ?” Nell began.

 

 

“Billy couldn’t swim. That was one factor. And he could have fallen off the end of the dock, just as we thought. But Jerry doesn’t think it was unintentional. And it looks like he tried to save himself, tried to grab on to one of the metal bar that the kids used to use as steps to hoist themselves back onto the dock when they’d been swimming.”

 

 

Nell remembered the steps. When Izzy was a teenager and vacationed each summer with Ben and Nell, she and her friends would often go down to the artists’ dock, as they called it, to swim. It had a vague, slightly dangerous appeal, Nell supposed, though she much preferred they swim at the beach. She remembered going down with Ben one rainy day when she knew the kids wouldn’t be there, just to check it out, to be sure it was safe. Back then the dock was healthier—the wood sturdy and the metal rungs held firmly in place and formed a ladder to get out of the water below. The small roofed area was solid, too, and provided a place to get out of the sun.

 

 

“And then?” Nell asked.

 

 

But before Ben answered, she knew what the answer would be.

 

 

Merry had seen someone with Billy. She had told them as much—she was sure there was someone else standing in the parking lot with Billy Sobel.

 

 

“Jerry said it looked like he grabbed that pipe and held on firmly. With both hands, Jerry said.”

 

 

“But . . . ,” Birdie prompted.

 

 

“But his hands were badly bruised. Stepped on. Until he finally let go.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 25

 

“T
hey always look to the wife first,” Archie Brandley said, handing Nell her sack of books.

 

 

Archie read nearly every mystery novel that came through his bookstore, and offering advice on how to solve crimes needed little encouragement.

 

 

Nell nodded. “They need to look at everyone, yes. But Natalie Sobel was in my car that night, Archie. We were out in a bad storm looking for her husband. And she has five of us to back her up.”

 

 

“But you weren’t with her all night, right?” Archie looked at Nell intently through dark-rimmed glasses.

 

 

“No, but she was in no condition to go out again on her own, believe me.”

 

 

“But she
could
have. So she’s still on the list.”

 

 

“And what possible reason would she have?”

 

 

Archie coughed suggestively into his hand, peering at Nell over the cup of his hand. His brows lifted high and created a wrinkled forehead full of possibilities.

 

 

Nell knew Archie was simply playing devil’s advocate. He didn’t know Natalie well, and it was almost easier to think of her as the murderer, rather than suggesting that a longtime Sea Harbor resident had done this terrible crime. But Natalie gave no impression that she was leaving the house that night. And they’d seen the television screen flash on before they were out of the driveway. Natalie seemed to have been settling in to weather the storm—whatever that storm would bring.

 

 

“So what’ll happen with the exhibit, do you suppose?”

 

 

“It probably won’t happen. I can’t see Natalie wanting to go through all of that.” It was too bad, but she certainly understood. The paintings would probably be turned over to Sotheby’s or some other auction house and someone would buy them up, one by one, and they’d disappear into homes galleries.

 

 

Nell picked up her sack and walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight. Natalie had had to be sedated the night before. Doc Hamilton had come back, and a neighbor had volunteered to spend the night.

 

 

But the early edition of the
Sea Harbor Gazette
wasn’t cutting anyone any slack. One murder, one possible murder, two weeks apart was enough to raise flags all over Cape Ann. People were scared.

 

 

The police, the paper reported, were under enormous pressure to put it all to rest.

 

 

And pressure, to Nell, was worrisome. She and Ben had sat for an hour that morning, cold coffee sitting on the small deck table between them, pondering this latest, awful event. The pressure could lead to mistakes. To mistaken arrests.

 

 

“They’re thinking the two murders must be connected,” Ben said.

 

 

“Which leaves Willow in the clear, hopefully. She was with me all that Sunday evening. And that little thing couldn’t kill a Billy Sobel if her life depended on it.”

 

 

“I agree that Willow didn’t do it. But that little thing has the strength of an ox. Don’t sell her short. I think she must have been pulling calves in Wisconsin before she landed here.”

 

 

Nell laughed and didn’t disagree. The waiflike image Willow had projected that first night was long gone. Her body might be small, but she could swim in the ocean against tough waves, and the running—whether it was done for therapy or exercise—certainly kept her trim.

 

 

A buzz from her cell phone caused Nell to step back from the curb, just in time to avoid the flurry of sand and stones spun up from the wheels of Merry Jackson’s new Miata. Merry whizzed by, waving gaily at Nell. She picked up speed just beyond Izzy’s shop, hugging the curve like a race driver.

 

 

Not for the first time did Nell utter her gratitude that Merry had married Hank Jackson. Hank had sense, and with his help his young wife might actually live beyond her thirty-fifth birthday.

 

 

Nell might have forgotten the phone, except another beep caused her to pull it from the pocket of her jeans and look down. A text message from Cass. She frowned. She’d still prefer voices.

 

 

Lottsa lobsters,
the note read. And Cass had used all the correct letters.
Laudable,
Nell thought. She’d get this texting down if it killed her.

 

 

She pressed Cass’ number, wondering as she often did, how many cell phones Cass had gone through—and how many littered the bottom of the sea, scattered among her traps. A great many, Nell suspected. In his latest quest for techie gadgets, Ben went through many phones, also. And each castoff was sent Cass’ way and accepted with profound gratitude.

 

 

Cass answered on the first ring, her voice loud over the sound of wind blowing across the water. She had more lobsters than she needed today—could Nell believe it?—and she’d promised Sam she’d give him a bunch for that clambake he kept talking about. She’d barter for the clams, too. Could Nell call everyone and spread the word?