Patterns in the Sand (33 page)

 

 

“It’s not me, is it? It’s all about the chowder.”

 

 

Ben nuzzled her neck. “Absolutely.”

 

 

Nell managed to press an elbow into his chest.

 

 

She put the wooden spoon on a dish and stepped to the side.

 

 

Ben stepped around her, his eyes on the aromatic steaming pot. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the liquid. “Money is one of the primary motives for murder.” He tasted the thick soup. “Amazing. I may take up knitting.”

 

 

“You’ll get some. You always do. Well, what do we do with this information?”

 

 

“First, we probably should consider the source: a distraught widow speaking out of her grief.”

 

 

“But you agree it’s a motive for murder.”

 

 

“Sure. And so are a lot of things. Could there have been other debts? Maybe tied to a casino? Not one, but maybe several? So do we suspect all of those people? Or just the ones we know . . . and that’s
if
we know them. These folks could all be wearing visors, smoking cigars, and gambling their life away at some casino.”

 

 

Nell thought about that for a minute. “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t want to think anybody did this—even the ones I don’t know about.”

 

 

“Here’s another consideration. It’s less than a week since Billy died. Maybe we need to keep our ears open and let things be for a few days. See what develops. This is serious stuff, and we can’t accuse everyone we come up with who might have a motive. And in the end, there’s always the possibility that Billy smashed that hand another way, like Natalie said. Maybe he slipped on something. It’s rocky as hell down there. It all could have been an awful accident. ”

 

 

“Of course,” Nell said.

 

 

But Nell knew that they couldn’t let it drop, not even for a few days. But there was something missing from the whole picture. And she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Not to mention the fact that if her suspicions were right and this was a homespun crime, they might all be in danger. Waiting for something to happen simply wasn’t an option, especially considering what that something just might be.

 

 

 

 

 

As so often happened, the knitters were all thinking on the same wavelength, and when Izzy’s e-mail went out that afternoon insisting that they all be on time, Nell wasn’t surprised. Her e-mail read:

 

 

We have two critically important things to do
:

 

 

1. Finish four more caps.

 

 

2. Figure out why our friends died—before we end up with a third funeral shaking up our lives. Willow needs closure. We need our summer back.

 

 

Nell thought the mention of a third funeral was a little dramatic, but perhaps these times called for drama.

 

 

And it surely put a more definite face on the fear that she herself was beginning to feel.

 

 

Nell was pleased that Willow wanted to come, too. She had been spending more time in the guesthouse working on her fiber pieces, she told Nell. It kept her sane. But she needed an outlet. She needed friends.

 

 

Friends,
Nell thought. That was nice. Seven sharp, Nell told her.

 

 

She put the soup in the refrigerator, all ready to heat up and simmer the clams and tomatoes at the last minute, a bunch of fresh tarragon to sprinkle on top. Ben had become addicted to Ned’s Groceria, he told her, and stopped by on the way back from Boston with a sack filled with imported cheeses, olives, and tiny pickles. A loaf of herb bread. That would hold them for the evening. Certainly plenty of food for thought.

 

 

But between now and seven o’clock sharp, Nell had things to do.
Homework,
was the way she thought about it.

 

 

 

Rebecca was standing near a display of her lampwork beads when Nell walked in. She looked up and smiled, though her smile, as always, was slightly reserved. “Hi, Nell. May I help you?”

 

 

Nell walked over and fingered one of the beads hanging from a black cord—a large glass round with shards of purple, green, and bright gold shooting through it. “This looks like a tiny lotus paper-weight. I don’t know how you get such amazing detail.”

 

 

Rebecca picked up a second bead and held it at eye level, dangling it from the cord. “This is my current favorite. It’s a little like looking through a kaleidoscope, don’t you think?”

 

 

Nell turned it with her fingers. Blue and purple and green waves swirled from the inside out in a graceful pattern. “Amazing. I could look at these all day.”

 

 

“So you came to look?”

 

 

“No, I came to talk.”

 

 

“To Ellen? She’ll be back in town tomorrow.”

 

 

“Actually it’s you I wanted to talk to.”

 

 

Rebecca’s face showed little emotion. Not surprise nor curiosity. “Well, then, shall we sit?”

 

 

Rebecca and Ellen had remodeled their shop to look more like an elegant living room, filled with beautiful art, than a shop or gallery. She motioned to two chairs near the side window, separated by a small table. “I can spare a minute.”

 

 

Nell had planned the visit to slip in the door just before closing. She suspected, as was the case, there would be few customers to vie for attention.

 

 

Nell set her bag on the floor and crossed her legs, leaning forward slightly. “Rebecca, I think there are things you aren’t telling us—things that might help us find out who killed Aidan . . . and Billy.”

 

 

“I think we know that. Billy killed Aidan.”

 

 

Nell frowned, wondering at her unfortunate choice of words, but Rebecca quickly went on.

 

 

“Billy was fed up with Aidan. He was making it hard for him to run his business. And we all know that Billy Sobel could be a hothead when he wanted to be.”

 

 

“Yes, I heard that, too. It’s flimsy, unless there is more to that story than we know.”

 

 

“Ellen thinks there may be. She said Billy was distraught the day he died. Brendan may have some ideas, too. He was privy to both places—Aidan’s and Billy’s. And Billy seemed to trust him, though he seemed a little milquetoast to me. Followed Billy around too much.”

 

 

Nell wasn’t interested in Rebecca’s opinion of everyone who worked in Canary Cove, but she had to admit she hadn’t thought about talking to Brendan. And Rebecca was right—he’d somehow been taken into the Sobels’ confidence. She made a mental note to talk with him—and to thank him. He’d been a wonderful help to Natalie.

 

 

“And what about Billy?” Nell asked.

 

 

“Probably some crime-world character. Billy had a colorful past.”

 

 

“I can’t quite get my arms around a stranger coming to Sea Harbor on a terrible, stormy night and killing him. Besides, Archie Brandley tells me that a gun would have been far more typical and efficient if that were the case. Archie has studied more crimes in novels than the Sea Harbor police have solved.”

 

 

“So if not a mobster or ‘unsavory business associate,’ as the Sea Harbor newspaper calls him, then who? And why?”

 

 

“You weren’t terribly fond of Billy, I hear.”

 

 

“Me? You think I killed Billy Sobel? That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.” Rebecca’s laugh echoed in the empty shop.

 

 

Nell was beginning to think it was, too, but she felt certain that Rebecca was holding back with some information.

 

 

“Besides,” Rebecca went on, “if you must know—though I personally think you should let the police do their work and leave this alone—Billy Sobel saved our hides. If it weren’t for him, Ellen and I might be in jail right now.”

 

 

“In jail?”

 

 

“Well, debtors’ prison or some such silly thing. I was never crazy about Billy because he nosed around in my business and I hate that. He didn’t respect people’s privacy. He didn’t. And just for the record, Aidan Peabody wasn’t much better.”

 

 

“How did Billy help you?”

 

 

“We overspent a little on fixing up the shop and remodeling our house. D. J. Delaney would have sent vicious dogs after us, but Billy felt sorry for us, probably because he and Ellen were old friends, and he helped us out. It was a while ago, before he married that intolerable woman.”

 

 

“So you owe Natalie money now?”

 

 

“We paid that debt back the first year we were here. Ellen is a stickler for that. She didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that Billy was a friend of hers.”

 

 

Rebecca began shifting in the chair as if she’d been sitting too long or had more important things to do than chat.

 

 

Nell decided to beat her to the punch. She looked at her watch. “I need to get ready for my knitting group,” she said. “And I have the feeling I may have kept you too long.”

 

 

“Well, yes,” Rebecca answered. “But I’m glad you came by. It was good we could clear these things up.” She stood and held the door open, her back straight and her guarded smile in place. Then, before Nell had a chance to step away from the door, she heard the click of the lock and watched Rebecca walk back into the interior of the glass studio.

 

 

Nell looked down at the Sobel Gallery. She wondered if Brendan was still there. Natalie had mentioned that he had pretty much taken over things for her. She walked briskly to the front door of the gallery and peered inside. There was a light on in the back room, where Billy had fixed up a small office and workroom for his framing equipment. She could hear footsteps, and knocked loudly on the door.

 

 

She waited, then knocked again. Nell stood there for a minute longer, then checked her watch and turned to walk away.

 

 

She glanced back, more out of habit than anything else, and saw a long shadow fall across the back doorway. She frowned, but before she could take a step back toward the shop, the shadow disappeared. All was quiet within the shop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29

 

T
he sky was darkening when Nell walked into the near-empty knitting studio.

 

 

Mae was on the phone with a customer and immediately hung up when she saw Nell. “Lordy, you’re going to throw out your back,” she scolded, taking the large tureen out of Nell’s arms.

 

 

“Thanks, Mae. Busy day?”

 

 

“You can’t imagine. Wicked busy. And it’s only Thursday. Izzy had another hat class—she must have a trunk load by now. We get the craziest people in here for that. It’s kind of touching. Birdie brought a carload over from that retirement home where she teaches tap dancing. Some vacationers stopped in. And some of my nieces’ friends came, too. Oh, and Natalie Sobel, can you believe it? She wanted to think of someone besides herself, she said, and sat right down in the middle of the teenagers. She sat next to Mary Pisano who had her notepad out the whole time, hoping to gather tidbits for her column, would be my guess. And I would guess Natalie gave her a few.”

 

 

Nell smiled at the thought of Natalie Sobel sitting in the middle of a group of teenagers with tiny Mary Pisano at her elbow, probably recording every word that came out of Natalie’s mouth. And many of the comments would likely make it into her “About Town” column. And Natalie, Nell suspected, would have enjoyed every bit of it. People handled their grief in different ways.

 

 

Izzy was busy picking out a Nora Jones CD and Willow and Birdie sat on the window seat, admiring Willow’s smooth edge on a pale blue cashmere hat.

 

 

“Ah, soup’s on,” Izzy said when Nell and Mae walked down the steps. “I smelled you coming.” She took the tureen from Mae and set it down on a large hot pad on the table.

 

 

“Mae, take some of this before you lock up and leave tonight,” Nell said. “I always bring enough for an army.”

 

 

“Where’s Catherine?” Birdie spoke up from the couch.

 

 

At the sound of her name, Cass came in from the front of the store. “Sorry I’m late. I got your stern e-mail, Iz, but I wanted to pick up this cobbler from Harry’s before he closed up.”

 

 

“Perfect,” Izzy said. “Here’s tonight’s agenda. Eat and talk. Wash hands. Knit and talk.”

 

 

“You’re getting awfully bossy, Ms. Chambers.” Cass put her cobbler down on the table.

 

 

Izzy didn’t smile back. Instead, she picked up a white sack sitting on a chair and slipped out a large piece of drawing paper. “Here’s why.”