Patterns in the Sand (7 page)

 

 

Jane stepped aside from the small group and greeted them, shaking Willow’s hand. “I noticed you around here yesterday, Willow, and have been wanting to meet you.”

 

 

Willow looked slightly embarrassed, as if she’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “I was just walking around the neighborhood for a little while. Exploring, I guess. It’s a . . . a nice place.”

 

 

Sensing the slight awkwardness, Nell pointed to a tall narrow pot standing near the wall. “That’s Jane’s work. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

 

 

Willow’s attention turned immediately to the piece of pottery and she walked over and touched the irregular ripples along the side. “This is beautiful,” she said in a hushed tone. “This whole shop is.”

 

 

“Some of the work is ours but we also exhibit others’ works. Ham and I get tired of looking at our own things all the time. Nell tells me you’re a fiber artist, Willow. I’d like to see your work sometime. Do you have any with you?”

 

 

“Just a couple pieces. But Izzy is giving me her customers’ scrap yarn—silk, wool, organic cotton. It’s amazing what people left behind. I feel like I’m in heaven in her knitting studio.”

 

 

Nell saw the excitement light up Willow’s face as she talked about the yarn. Her cheeks pinked and her dark eyes flashed in a pleasing way, pushing away the tension of minutes before. Jane had seen the discomfort, too, Nell could tell, but the look on her friend’s face indicated she might understand the reason for Willow’s earlier discomfort. She made a mental note to ask Jane about it later.

 

 

Nell turned away from the conversation briefly, pulling a tissue from her bag to blot the dampness collecting on the back of her neck from the night’s heat. The usual ocean breeze was absent tonight, and in its place a heavy blanket of still air pressed down on the crowds that worked their way in and out of Jane’s shop. In the distance, music filled the streets and Nell knew that even the sultry air wouldn’t suppress the spirit of the evening.

 

 

She waved at Ben across the room, then turned back toward Jane and Willow, but Willow was gone. Jane stood near an exhibit of ceramic vases, talking to a customer.

 

 

“Where’s Willow?”

 

 

“Beats me, Nell. She hurried out and asked me to tell you she’d meet up with you at the restaurant later.” Jane wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s hot, Nell. Where did this come from?”

 

 

Nell nodded. “It’s oppressive.”

 

 

A question from the customer drew Jane away and Nell gave a small wave, then slipped out the door to wait for Ben, hoping the air outdoors was less stagnant, with maybe a slight sea breeze to cool the back of her neck.

 

 

Izzy and Sam Perry were sitting on a small bench just outside the Brewster Gallery. “Nell, your face is as red as a lobster,” Izzy said, patting the open seat next to her on the bench.

 

 

Sam stood and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, Nell. We spotted you deep in conversation and didn’t want to interrupt.”

 

 

Nell hugged Sam. “You can interrupt me anytime. It’s good to have you back. Are you here for a while this time?”

 

 

“Probably most of the summer. I’ll be teaching another photography class at the kids’ art academy like I did last summer—the funds for the summer academy are a little low this summer and Aidan knew I was cheap.” Sam laughed. “Besides, Izzy missed me more than a lost shipment of organic cotton—or whatever it is she sells in that little shop.”

 

 

“In your dreams, Perry,” Izzy said, standing up and nudging Sam gently in the small of his back. “Believe it or not, Nell, Sam is looking for a place of his own in Sea Harbor.” She looked up into the face of the sandy-haired man who had been her renter for more than a year now—and a friend for nearly her whole life.

 

 

“You’re buying a house here?”

 

 

Sam nodded. “I’ve soaked up Izzy’s hospitality long enough. She needs to rent that apartment out permanently and not worry about me coming and going. I think that spot could use someone a little more dependable to keep an eye on things.”

 

 

“So you heard about Izzy’s late-night visitor.”

 

 

Sam nodded. “Sounds innocent enough, I guess,” he said. “But it could have just as easily been otherwise.”

 

 

“And what would you have done, had you been here?” Izzy asked, her brows lifting up into a mass of highlighted hair, damp with perspiration.

 

 

“You doubt that I could be your hero, Iz? Save the lady’s shop from looters and pillagers.”

 

 

“Like I have so many of those. Willow Adams couldn’t hurt a fly. She was just tired, that’s all.”

 

 

Nell could read Sam’s thoughts easily, and they weren’t that far from her own. Willow might be harmless—that was probably true enough. But just a year before someone had broken into the apartment above the shop and caused considerable damage. And what happened once could happen again—even in a peaceful town like Sea Harbor. Having someone in the shop apartment who actually lived and worked in the town might be a very good thing, indeed.

 

 

Ben walked out, then, a wrapped painting beneath his arm. He greeted Sam warmly. “I’m on my way to Peabody’s. He’s hanging on to a piece for me, and I want to make sure no one talks him out of it. Anyone want to come along?”

 

 

“His place is packed,” Izzy said. “Between the Fishtail and Rebecca Marks’ new collection of beads, the cove is rocking.”

 

 

“And hotter than hell,” Sam added. “Way too many bodies for me. Birdie’s holding down the fort at the Artist’s Palate. I think I’ll join the lady.”

 

 

“Keep an eye out for Willow,” Nell called after them as they disappeared into the crowd.

 

 

The black sky felt heavy to Nell as she and Ben wove their way through the crowds of people staving off heat with cold beers and icy fruit drinks. But Canary Cove was still a magical place, even with the humid salt air blanketing the shops and studios. People were everywhere, talking and laughing, energized by the art that surrounded them. Tiny white lights outlined trees along the road and the narrow lanes that wound back behind galleries to studios and small cottages. And beyond them, a perfect backdrop for the sea of art, was the real sea, its waves slapping against the shore.

 

 

As predicted, Aidan’s Fishtail Gallery was packed. Like most of the galleries along Canary Road, Aidan’s shop was small, but his property stretched back up beyond the studio and his small home, into a wooded area that filled the side of a steep hill. The extra land was the envy of the crowded colony. Aidan let it grow as it willed, with sea grass and wild roses surrounding his house and a thick copse of trees beyond. The only tended part was a small plot between the studio and the house, where Aidan had carved out a garden—a quiet, almost hidden retreat.

 

 

“Aidan needs more room in here,” Ben said. “This place is jammed.”

 

 

Nell nodded in agreement. She looked around at the jostling crowd and focused on a small group that surrounded a life-sized mermaid. She was carved from a single piece of pine and stood tall on her flayed fins. Her shape was exaggerated and fanciful, her full lips in a wide smile, and her wavy locks a brilliant cascade down over her breasts. A small discreet knob on the front opened the wooden sculpture to reveal a bookshelf and several small drawers—a perfect place for hidden treasures.

 

 

Nell felt the vibe of the admiring crowd and moved over to the side of the room, where Aidan stood, watching people’s reactions.

 

 

“Aidan, you’ve outdone yourself with the mermaid—they seem to be a specialty of yours. She’s gorgeous. But please, do not let Ben buy her. We’re going to have to build an addition to satisfy his addiction.”

 

 

Aidan looped an arm around Nell, his weight heavy on her shoulders and his voice deeper than usual. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she?”

 

 

Nell noticed the slight slur in Aidan’s voice. She looked into his face, wondering if perhaps he’d been drinking. The glass in his hand was nondescript, but nearly empty. “Are you all right, Aidan?”

 

 

“Damn heat, that’s all. Where did it come from?” He wiped his forehead and upper lip on the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. “But it isn’t keeping folks away. It’s a good night, Nell.” Aidan reached out and touched Nell’s arm, as if to steady himself. “This is what we need, these kinds of things. Not Sobel’s exhibit.”

 

 

He stopped talking then, as if he wasn’t sure of what he had said. His brows pulled together in an attempt to focus. Then he looked at Nell again. “Billy isn’t a bad guy. He’ll be okay.”

 

 

Nell touched Aidan’s arm and looked into his eyes. They seemed cloudy, unfocused. “Let’s go outside, Aidan. Get some air.”

 

 

“There you two are,” said Ben, walking up behind them. “Nell is probably paying you not to sell me anything.”

 

 

“Ben,” Aidan said, hanging on to Ben’s hand, “I need to talk to you. Tomorrow?” With his other hand, Aidan wiped the moisture from his forehead.

 

 

“Sure, Aidan. Name the time.”

 

 

“Put some things in order.”

 

 

Ben nodded, and Nell listened, concerned about the unsteadiness of her friend.

 

 

It didn’t surprise her that Aidan was asking for Ben’s help—that happened frequently, and Ben was always there to help. Ben’s business law degree and experience—not to mention his big heart—pulled him into more family affairs than Father Northcutt’s confessional.

 

 

But what surprised her was the urgency in Aidan’s voice, and the fact that his face had lost most of its color in the short time they had been standing together.

 

 

A discussion at the counter over the cost of a carved box forced Aidan’s attention away, and Nell watched him weave unsteadily through the crowds.

 

 

“I think he’s coming down with something,” she said half to herself, but Ben was already on the other side of the room, checking out a tall, wooden fisherman with a marlin standing beside him.

 

 

Nell shook her head. Where in heaven’s name would she fit a fisherman in their home? Probably beside the mermaid.

 

 

She wandered around the shop for a while, admiring a wall of intricately carved mirrors that Aidan had assembled. She often wondered if an imagination like his ever ran dry—or if there was always another sea urchin, another mermaid or fisherman waiting to be born of his knife and spirit.

 

 

The dampness on Nell’s neck was becoming uncomfortable, and beads of perspiration covered her upper lip. It was time for air.

 

 

She looked around the gallery for Ben. Because he was well over six feet, his slightly graying head was easy to spot in a crowd. He was standing in the far corner, his head bent low as he listened attentively to Annabelle Palazola. Annabelle was probably seeking advice on some paperwork for her restaurant—a conversation Nell knew would go longer than she could bear to be in the overheated gallery.

 

 

An open doorway near the back of the gallery offered Nell a getaway and she quickly slipped into the warm night and away from the press of people. A slight breeze lifted the hair from the back of her neck as she walked along the flagstone pathway into Aidan’s secluded garden.

 

 

“Ah,” she murmured into the breeze, enjoying the reprieve and the instant peace Aidan’s garden provided.

 

 

Low garden lights lit her path and cast shadows from pieces of art nearly hidden in the tall grasses or hanging from a small magnolia tree or Japanese maple—a playful ceramic owl, an old clay frog, a string of colorful elves. The cooler air was a welcome relief, and Nell stood still for a moment, adjusting to the darkness and fanning the air with her hand.

 

 

It was when Nell sat down on a teak chair near a small fountain that she realized she wasn’t alone. Stretched out on the stone bench opposite her, resting in the night’s solitude, was a long figure of a man, looking up at the black night.

 

 

It was Aidan—he’d escaped the crowd and the heat. A necessary reprieve.

 

 

Thank heavens, Nell thought. He had looked like he was going to collapse inside. She opened her mouth to speak, to greet her friend and apologize for invading his private moment, probably the only one he had had in hours.

 

 

And then, just as quickly, Nell’s mouth snapped closed. She was across the garden in an instant and slipped to her knees beside the still figure. With two fingers pressed against Aidan’s neck, she lowered her ear to his mouth.

 

 

But Nell knew before she ever touched him that his eyes weren’t seeing the night sky . . . nor was his skin cooled by the slight breeze.

 

 

Aidan Peabody was dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

 

I
t took less than two days for the autopsy results to be splashed across the front page of the
Sea Harbor Gazette
.

 

 

 

 

ARTIST’S DEATH RULED A HOMICIDE

 

A heart attack had been Nell’s first thought as she’d looked down on Aidan’s still body the night he died. And he’d been perspiring and unfocused when they had talked a short time before.

 

 

But it didn’t take Doc Russo long to discover a stomach filled with pentobarbital mixed with chloral hydrate. Something no sane person would have ingested intentionally. “Someone slipped him a Mickey Finn,” Doc said sadly. “Just like in the movies.”