Patterns in the Sand (8 page)

 

 

 

 

 

“I can’t believe Aidan is dead,” Cass murmured, her eyes reflecting the group’s sadness.

 

 

Nell, Izzy, Birdie, and Cass sat together on Coffee’s patio, leaning over the paper as if the words would suddenly focus into copy that made sense. Not an awful, illogical tale of a friend’s murder.

 

 

“We went out a couple times,” Cass went on. “It didn’t sit well with my mom—she thought Aidan was too old for me. I think she worried about the number of progeny such a match would bear.”

 

 

The group mustered smiles at Mary Halloran’s continuous attempts to have grandchildren.

 

 

“There weren’t any fireworks between us, but we sure liked each other as friends,” Cass said. “He was a good guy. I just can’t get my arms around this.”

 

 

“I can’t either.” A shiver passed through Nell, and she pulled a half-finished scarf from her bag. Touching the deep blue cashmere yarn and slipping it onto her needle, one stitch after another, somehow brought comfort to Nell, just as the cabled scarf would bring comfort to Ben on a cold Sea Harbor morning.

 

 

Even though Aidan didn’t let anyone get too close to him, he and Ben had sailed together and Nell was always pleased when he showed up for Friday suppers. His knowledge of art was extraordinary, and Nell loved talking to him. He was a friend, plain and simple—and his loss was keenly felt.

 

 

She and Ben had relived Sunday night in their minds and conversation over and over. But it had happened so fast that Nell could barely remember the order of events. They had talked to Aidan not a half hour before she found his body in the garden.

 

 

And in that short span of time, a man’s life had ended.

 

 

Immediately after she discovered Aidan’s body, Ben had appeared in the garden, looking for her. He made a call and in minutes the emergency ambulance drove into the narrow alley beside the gallery. Together Ben and Nell filled in the necessary information, and the ambulance, slipping in and out of Canary Cove as surreptitiously as possible, took Aidan away.

 

 

Outside the Fishtail Gallery, Pete Halloran’s band had switched to hard rock and filled the night air with a pulsing beat. Art was admired and sold, and when the shop doors closed, fireworks exploded off Canary Cove and filled the simmering black sky. People danced and drank frosty beers. Gossip was shared. Lovers wandered down to the ocean’s rocky edge, bodies entwined.

 

 

Life went on.

 

 

And in a hospital morgue just a few miles away, quietly, without fireworks or fanfare, Aidan Peabody was pronounced dead.

 

 

“Aidan has no family we know of,” Nell said. “In the years I’ve known him, he’s never spoken of anyone.”

 

 

The sadness blanketed them, and around Coffee’s patio, hushed voices said that others were experiencing Aidan’s loss as well.

 

 

“So what will happen to his wonderful gallery and studio? That land that Aidan loved and protected,” Birdie said. “There’ll be more than a vulture or two picking away at it, I suspect.”

 

 

“Ben says there’s a will. They’re checking.”

 

 

“Sam talked to Aidan briefly Sunday afternoon,” Izzy said. “He stopped in to say hello since he hadn’t seen him for a while and knew he’d be too busy to talk that night. Aidan was in the back, going over a bunch of paperwork and seemed really distracted, but happy in an odd way, Sam thought.”

 

 

“Did Sam know why?”

 

 

Izzy shook her head. “He said something kind of cryptic—though at the time Sam just thought he was distracted because of the evening affair. But when Sam asked him how things were going in his life, he said they’d never been better. And he smiled at Sam in a way that made him think maybe there was someone new in his life—someone special. So Sam said, ‘What’s her name?’ Aidan just laughed and said Sam’d find out soon enough. Odd, huh?”

 

 

“Well, maybe not so odd,” Birdie said. “Women have always gravitated to Aidan, and once Rebecca Marks disappeared from the picture, I’m sure there were others waiting in line.”

 

 

“But Aidan wasn’t like that,” Nell said. “He seemed to move slowly when it came to allowing women into his life. Oh, sure, he’d talk to them, but he certainly didn’t jump into relationships. I think the only reason he paired up with Rebecca was because Rebecca insisted.”

 

 

Cass laughed. “And what Rebecca Marks wants, she usually gets.”

 

 

“Well, at least for a while,” Nell said. “But I wonder if Aidan could have meant something else when he talked to Sam.” But even Nell was at a loss as to what that something else could be.

 

 

A flash of red distracted Nell, and she looked over Izzy’s shoulder, toward the patio entrance.

 

 

“Look—there’s Willow. Poor thing, we’ve nearly abandoned her with all the happenings.” Nell stood and waved for her to join them.

 

 

At first Willow didn’t see them. She stood in the entrance of the coffee shop’s patio, nearly lost in the movement of people balancing trays of takeout coffee cups and pastries on both sides of her. She wore a pair of cutoff jeans, a red tank top, and her dark hair puffed out beneath a flowered headband that ran across her forehead and around her head like a crown. Her feet were slightly apart, her stance strong, as if to ward off any danger. But when Nell looked up into her eyes, she saw little bravado.

 

 

Willow finally spotted Nell’s waving hand and wound her way to their table, one hand gripping the familiar backpack and the other a cup of coffee.

 

 

“I saw Sam outside your shop, Izzy. He said you’d all probably be here.”

 

 

“And Sam was right. He knows all our bad habits.”

 

 

“Come, sit.” Cass patted a chair that she’d pulled over from another table.

 

 

“Things have been a little nuts, Willow. I’m sorry I haven’t scheduled something at the knitting shop for you. Does later this week sound good?”

 

 

Willow hesitated. She looked down into her coffee cup, then finally met Izzy’s eyes. “I don’t know, Izzy. I think all of you are great—I really do. You’ve been terrific to me—but this just doesn’t seem like a good time around here. I’m thinking of moving on, maybe heading back to Wisconsin.”

 

 

“No, Willow, you’re wrong about it not being a good time. You’ve come all this way, and my customers will love learning about your art. It’s the
best
time.”

 

 

“Izzy’s absolutely right,” Nell agreed. “This is a sad time because the artist who died was our friend. But having something beautiful to look forward to is a good thing at times like this.”

 

 

“And besides, dear, we simply won’t let you leave Sea Harbor on the cusp of such sadness. Our town is really a lovely place.”

 

 

The others reinforced Birdie’s sentiment, and Willow finally shrugged, but the shift of her narrow shoulders didn’t indicate a promise either way.

 

 

“I came down to the guesthouse yesterday,” Nell said. “You’d already gone out. I wanted to explain what was going on, though you can’t help but be aware of it.”

 

 

“I went running on the beach.”

 

 

Willow looked at Nell and smiled. “I really love it down there. I walk through your little bit of woods, smelling those giant pine trees, and then it all opens up and there’s the sea, right smack in front of me. It’s like everything I imagined it would be. And running on the sand like that clears my head.”

 

 

“Of course it does. It must be a bit disconcerting to have a murder occur almost before your eyes,” Birdie said.

 

 

“My eyes?” Willow looked at Birdie in surprise.

 

 

“Figuratively speaking. We were all right there, milling around Canary Cove and having a grand time. And at the same time, Aidan Peabody was dying. It’s quite awful.” Birdie pulled a section off her cinnamon roll and began to chew it slowly.

 

 

“I know people are sad about his death.”

 

 

“He was a lovely, talented man. His art is enchanting,” Nell said. “Did you meet him Saturday when you were wandering around the studios?”

 

 

“Meet him?” Willow seemed startled by the question. She took a drink of coffee, her eyes seeming to focus on Birdie’s cinnamon roll.

 

 

“Well, if you didn’t, it’s a shame. You would have liked him. Aidan was as unexpected and irreverent as his art,” Birdie said. “He made me laugh, a wonderful trait to have. I will miss him.”

 

 

“We’ll miss him. And his huge art following will miss him. But, unfortunately, there are some people who won’t,” Cass said. “Word on the water yesterday was that D. J. Delaney is moving ahead full force to get Aidan’s land.”

 

 

“You gossip while you’re pulling traps, Catherine?” Birdie looked up from her coffee.

 

 

“Old Finnegan’s traps were empty so he served up some gossip instead. Slow mornings seem to bring that out of him. Besides, the guys were all bummed. They liked Pea
buddy
, as they called him. He was definitely the fishermen’s artist, with all those sea-related things he carved. We all have at least one small carving—a mirror with an octopus’ arms around it or some fishy thing.”

 

 

“So what did Finnegan say?” Izzy prompted.

 

 

“He was over at the Gull last night and D.J. was practically salivating at the thought of getting his hands on this land. Aidan had three times as much land as he needed, he claimed, and it could serve others well. Like himself, for example.”

 

 

“He wants to build a set of condos or an inn or something that would put money in his pocket. That’s what he’s done with the old fish hatchery south of town,” Nell said. “Rachel Wooten told us he looked up deeds and city restrictions weeks ago.”

 

 

“He’d better be careful what he says,” Izzy said. “It sounds like a motive for murder, if you ask me.”

 

 

“Some of the gallery owners saw better uses for that land, too,” Birdie said. She pulled a pair of double-pointed needles from her backpack. A strand of bright pink yarn dangled from the cast-on row. “But Aidan liked having some green space and that lovely woods. Elbow room, as my sweet Sonny used to say. And that was certainly his choice. It’s his land.”

 

 

Birdie’s needles began clicking as she started to turn the heel on a half-finished pink-and-green-striped sock, deftly decreasing the stitches in the short row. Birdie’s portable knitting projects were predictable—socks for cafés like Coffee’s, sweaters for sitting in a friend’s home, scarves and mittens for the beach, a long walk, or a car trip. If a knitting project could not travel, she told her friends, the project would have to find other fingers to work it up.

 

 

Nell watched as Birdie purled two stitches together and turned the sock in the middle of the row. It was the part of knitting socks that initially scared some of them away, until Birdie made it look so easy that even Cass was thinking about trying a pair.

 

 

“Was,”
Izzy said. The sadness in her voice reminded them all that beneath the gossip of neighbors, they had lost a good friend.

 

 

“The police chief thinks they’ll wind this up quickly,” Nell said. She wondered how many similar conversations were going on at other tables around the patio. Plenty, she guessed, from the hushed voices and coffee-stained newspapers sitting on tables.

 

 

“Ben talked to Jerry Thompson early this morning, and he seems confident that the town isn’t in any danger. The murder had the MO of a personal act—someone who clearly had an ax to grind with Aidan Peabody.”

 

 

Cass pushed a thick strand of hair behind her ears. “It seems that way, I guess. But I’m sure the Canary Cove artists will sleep better at night once the person is caught.”

 

 

A shadow fell across the table, blocking the sunlight, and Nell looked up into Brendan Slattery’s smile. “You’re up and about early this morning. Would you like to join us?”

 

 

Brendan raked one hand through his smooth, slightly long brown hair. “Thanks, Nell, but I’m headed over to the Sobel Gallery. Billy needs some help with the James paintings. I just wanted to ask Willow if she’s going running tomorrow.”

 

 

Nell looked from one to the other. “Do you two know each other?” She’d noticed the smile on Willow’s face when Brendan walked up.

 

 

“We met on the beach,” Willow said. “Brendan runs, too. And he’s an outsider like me.”

 

 

“Well, sort of,” Brendan said, looking apologetically at Nell as if the comment might offend her. “One year here doesn’t exactly make one a native.”

 

 

“No, I suppose not,” Birdie said, “though Sea Harbor is an open-arms kind of place, I’ve always thought.”

 

 

“I think it’s the circumstances,” Willow said. “It’s what’s happened this week that makes us not fit in. It’s a time for friends to be together, not strangers.”

 

 

Nell listened to the conversation and heard the uncomfortable edge to Willow’s voice.
But she was right
. She and Brendan didn’t fit in—but especially Willow. She was a young woman passing through town who had fallen into a town’s personal tragedy, without understanding or intent. And if she wanted to pack up her few belongings and leave that very day, Nell would completely understand.

 

 

But instinct told her that was not going to happen. Willow Adams was not going to leave Sea Harbor soon.

 

 

Even if she wanted to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8