As Nell took a step closer, a shadow fell across the table, a chair pulled out. A tall man--dressed for the weather with a thick wool hat pulled down to his ears--sat down, his back to Nell. He leaned across the table in a familiar way and kissed Agnes lightly on the cheek. A chaste kiss, but one that seemed borne of familiarity--and one that sent a blush traveling up Agnes Pisano's neck. The man peeled off his gloves and set them on the table. A gold bracelet dangled from his wrist.
Nell hurried on to her own table, knowing instinctively that her presence would disturb Agnes' moment. She slid into the booth, her view of the table now blocked by waiters and plants and a large Christmas tree in the center of the restaurant.
It wasn't until Ben had paid the bill and Nell followed the two men through the restaurant that Nell had a chance to look over at Agnes once more.
The blush was still in place, the smile and daffodil dress stripping years off Agnes' life.
Across from her, his paint-stained hands flat on the table, Troy DeLuca smiled back.
Chapter 16
S
am was gone again.
"Boston, he said," Izzy explained.
"Well, that's not unusual. Everyone goes to Boston. There are a million things that would take Sam to Boston, including his job, Izzy."
Izzy scooped up a handful of stray knitting needles and dropped them into a basket on the table. Several skeins of red cashmere yarn were piled in another basket alongside a finished cashmere sweater, tiny and perfect, designed for a newborn. Izzy absently picked up the sweater, pressing its softness to her cheek.
Then she sat down and looked up at her aunt. "Sure, I know there are reasons for him to drive into Boston. I just don't know what they are, and I used to, because he used to tell me what he was doing. Sam doesn't say much these days, Aunt Nell. He's . . . he's like a swing, back and forth. He goes from being distant, to hugging me close as if I'm the only person in his world. Here one day, gone the next. I don't like it. I want my old Sam back."
Nell set her oval baking dish on a hot pad and sat down next to Izzy. She held her silence, not an easy task. Izzy was overreacting; at least that was what she hoped. But no matter; her sadness was real. Sam was quieter than usual these past days, true. But maybe both she and Izzy read too much into quiet spells. Quiet could be good.
"I don't know what's going on in his head. And he doesn't seem to want to tell me." Izzy traced the tiny roses crocheted onto the baby sweater, her eyes not meeting Nell's.
"Will he be back tonight?"
"No. Tomorrow. He's probably meeting with a gallery owner, someone who wants to exhibit his photographs; you're right. So why am I worried? Am I going crazy? We've always respected each other's need for space. But that space is widening. Some days I feel like I'm going to fall headfirst into the chasm. I'll reach out for him, and he won't be there. Or maybe it's me that won't be there."
Izzy's brown eyes begged Nell for an answer to the unspoken question.
Nell wrapped her in a hug. "Sometimes the closer you get to someone, the more difficult it is to understand their thoughts. But you and Sam have a foundation, Izzy. A history. It will carry you through this, whatever it is."
The jingling of bells on the front door announced Birdie's and Cass' arrival. Birdie held a bottle of Cabernet in her hands. Her cheeks were pink with cold. She unwound a wavy orange scarf from around her neck and slipped out of her coat. "I predict snow next week. I can feel it. We need a fresh dusting to cover up the gray."
"Yes," Izzy agreed. "Too much gray around here. Maybe it'll bring a little holiday spirit with it."
"I'm not sure it will do that, but it certainly will make things prettier." Birdie walked over and gave Izzy a quick hug. "That other thing will have to come from in here, dear Izzy," she said softly, patting her heart. "But it will. Mark my words."
Cass dropped a bag of sourdough rolls on the table. "Fresh from Harry's oven. He added a small antipasto platter for good measure. Amazing what power a plaintive look has over that man."
"He's a teddy bear," Izzy said, shaking off her mood and getting up to help Birdie with her coat.
"How did he know we were having pasta tonight?"
"He's a mind reader." Cass slipped out of her jacket and hung it on a coat tree near the alley door, then headed toward Nell's casserole.
She lifted the glass top off the casserole dish, releasing the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic, butter and wine and sweet cream.
"Roasted veggies. Shrimp. Pine nuts. I'm in heaven," Cass said. She lifted a soup plate from the stack Izzy had set out and filled it with linguini, then ladled the vegetables, shrimp, and sauce on top and handed it to Birdie. Three more bowls followed, along with the still-warm sourdough rolls and sweet butter.
Nell carried Harry's antipasto platter over to the coffee table, and in minutes they were gathered around the fire, a ritual woven as tightly into their lives as their hats and sweaters and knit squares.
"To friends," Birdie said, lifting her wineglass.
"To the return of a peaceful season," Nell added.
Heads nodded--the small white cap that was Birdie's, Cass' mass of thick black hair, Izzy's multicolored tangle of waves.
Their nods held a promise.
The peace of the season would return, and quickly.
No matter what it took.
Izzy stoked the coals to life and put on a holiday CD, then sat down beside Birdie on the couch.
Once a few spoonfuls of linguini had taken the edge off appetites, Nell plunged in, the day's events weighing heavily on her mind. "We've all got a pile of things on our plates right now, but we need to help Mary out of this mess. It's suffocating her, and robbing the whole town of something that is uniquely ours. But especially Mary."
"And Kevin. And his mother. And the list goes on," Birdie said.
"That's what Father Larry said. It's like dominos. As awful as it is for her family, Pamela Pisano's murder is stealing something from all of us, and we won't get it back until her murderer is found."
"The merchants are trying to ignore it by playing their Christmas music louder, putting up more decorations, as if it will go away on its own if we just crowd it out of our lives," Izzy said.
"It's the elephant in the room." Birdie picked Purl up from the rug and put her on her lap. She scratched the cat's head thoughtfully. "So, ladies, that's the situation. What do we do about it?"
Cass coaxed a strand of linguini back into her mouth. In minutes, her heaping helping of linguini and shrimp had been reduced to a small puddle of wine sauce in the bottom of the bowl. "We talk about the painter for starters," she said. "There's something about that blond bomber that doesn't sit right. And he bothers you, too, Nell; I see it in your eyes."
Before Nell could reply, Cass went on. "Harry Garozzo isn't exactly a gossip, but when I picked up the rolls today, he managed to lean over the counter and whisper in my ear. He wanted me to check out the corner table. And sure enough, Troy DeLuca was sitting there, as big as life, showing off some fancy duds and making out--Harry's words--with the new weatherperson the station just hired. Harry said the guy pulled out a wad of bills that would choke a whale to impress his companion."
Birdie used a piece of roll to soak up the last bit of sauce. She chewed it thoughtfully. "Are the police looking at him? Is he a suspect?"
"Ben said the police have talked to Troy." Nell pulled her nearly finished blanket from her bag, settling it across her knees. Folds of blue, gold, and green circles fell to the floor in a brilliant puddle. "Troy is showy, so he's a natural suspect, I suppose. But according to Jerry Thompson . . . " Nell paused.
" 'According to Jerry Thompson' . . . what?" Cass asked.
Nell held back. She was fine repeating things Ben told her that would make it into the paper in a day or so, but she wasn't sure this was one of them.
"You know we won't push you, Nell, if this is something Ben told you in confidence," Birdie said.
"But if it will help shed light on why they're talking to Kevin, I would like a chance to refute it," Cass said. "We're only trying to help, and you know this room is safe. Things stay here."
Nell nodded. Cass was right. It might not be public knowledge, but it might help bring them closer to figuring out the mess Mary was finding herself in. "Apparently the police have found no useful footprints, no fingerprints on the gun, nothing. The only thing the police have found so far that links anyone to Pamela's murder is her wallet, stuffed with money, found in Kevin's locker."
The room was silent.
Finally Cass set her wineglass down on the table, sloshing a few drops over the rim. "Well, that's ridiculous," she said.
"Okay, why?" Izzy said. "I'll play devil's advocate here."
"Why? Because Kevin couldn't have done it; that's why. What possible reason would he have? She came on to him; he pushed her away. Pamela may have had reasons to kill Kevin for rejecting her, but not the other way around."
Izzy picked up a skein of soft red cashmere and wound her fingers through the soft loops of yarn. She folded her legs up beneath her and nibbled on her bottom lip. "Troy mentioned that Kevin knew something."
"Or had a secret," Nell said. "I think Kevin is wonderful, but regardless of how the wallet got in his locker, I think he's holding something back. Mary, too."
They nodded.
"Okay, so we don't think Kevin did it, but he's still a suspect until we have factual reasons for him not to be," Birdie said, emphasizing the word "factual" and attempting to apply order to their musings. She leaned forward and picked up the bottle of wine. "If we keep our eyes and ears open, we should be able to clear him quickly. His mother is suffering from all this, and that's not right."
"Kevin didn't deny it when Troy accused him of having a secret," Izzy said.
"A secret Troy knew about," Birdie mused.
"That's what it sounded like," Nell said, thinking back to the overheard conversation in Mary's kitchen. "Now, why would Troy know a secret of Kevin's--one Mary wouldn't tell us about?"
"I think we need to find that out," Birdie said.
"Do we know any more about Troy?" Izzy asked.
"He's ambitious--and a little full of himself. And he has motive." Nell repeated the story Rebecca Early had told them at the cookie exchange. Pamela's cold words were not taken lightly, according to Rebecca. "Troy was furious. And he has a temper--he smashed a photographer's camera when he lost a job in Boston. Pamela not only insulted what seems to be dearest to him--his looks--but she rejected him for her magazine, suggested others would do the same, and then laughed about it. He must have hated her for that."
"That must have been awful for him," Birdie said. "His profession jerked right out from underneath him."
"Not to mention his self-image. So Troy DeLuca is on the list," Izzy said. She wrinkled her forehead. "So why is it so clear to us, but not to the police?"
They all laughed.
"They deal with concrete facts, not feelings. And protocols. Their mistake, clearly." Cass pulled a bright green square for the KasCare project out of her bag and began working a row, her fingers moving quickly as her excitement grew. "That's one of the things that's so great about us." Her dark eyes flashed. "We don't have to follow the rules."
"Feelings and instinct matter," Izzy said, a tiny cherry-colored hat taking shape beneath her quick fingers. She smoothed out the yarn.
"Who is that for?" Nell asked, reaching over and touching the fluffy piece.
"Maybe Liz Santos' baby? I'm not sure," Izzy said. She looked at the hat again and smiled.
Nell watched a play of emotion flit across Izzy's face. She was imagining the sweet hat on a baby's head, the flaps covering pink ears and tied with the softest of yarns beneath a plump chin. Something moved inside Nell, a twinge, a memory of her own yearning. It hadn't worked out for Ben and her to have children, but it would for Izzy. Somehow she knew deep down inside her that Izzy would be an amazing mother someday.
"We're being too scattered about this," Birdie said, scolding everyone to attention. "Let's concentrate again on Troy DeLuca, just for a minute. He had motive, we've decided."
"And he has suddenly come into some money, it seems." Nell told them about the gifts Troy was buying for the Scaglias. "Beatrice was surprised at how quickly he'd managed to become solvent."
"That's odd," Birdie said. "Mary is paying him fairly, but not extravagantly."
"And there's another thing." Nell told them about seeing Troy in the Edge with Agnes Pisano. "They were friendly," she said.
"Agnes?" Cass' and Izzy's voices collided.
"Dining with two women in one day. Troy seems to be on a roll," Birdie said.
"What if Troy knew Agnes was next in line? He was working at the bed-and-breakfast during the family meeting days--he could have heard something to that effect," Izzy said.
"Agnes seemed comfortable with him," Nell said. "His chances of charming her into a modeling job are certainly better than they were with Pamela."
"Which brings us to Agnes. Shouldn't she be a suspect? She benefited--maybe more than anyone--from Pamela's death. Pamela's death gave her a job she'd wanted for years." Birdie took a sip of wine.
They fell silent, jarred by the thought of one cousin murdering another--for a job. But Agnes Pisano had changed almost overnight from a quiet, plain woman to an assertive, take-charge editor, and assumed the outer trappings to match the position. The caterpillar just waiting in the wings to fly into a glamorous new life.
"Agnes. Troy," Birdie said, as if scribbling them on an unseen dry-erase board.
"And Kevin," Izzy said reluctantly.
"Kevin," Birdie repeated.
"What about Henrietta O'Neal?" Izzy asked. "An unlikely suspect, true, but who knows?"
"She's causing a minor revolt over on Ravenswood Road, all intended to bring the bed-and-breakfast's opening to a dead end," Birdie said.
"And she's using Pamela's death as a reason that it be closed, insisting there is an evil spell around the house."
"Which is silly. Henrietta doesn't believe what she's saying." Nell thought about the woman, a generous, loving neighbor one minute, a destructive crusader the next. It didn't make sense.
"I suppose her name should be up there, as silly as it is," Birdie said.
"What else do we know?" Nell asked. "No fingerprints, for one. And Pamela must have known the person."
Cass smoothed out her finished eight-inch square, a bright green block with flecks of gold scattered throughout. Irish gold, Cass had called it, and decided she'd add more squares to make a boxy sweater for a teenager, a pattern she'd found on the Kas Web site. She was on a roll, she'd said. She set the square aside. "Why do you think she knew the person?"
"Because there was no sign of a struggle. Birdie and I could see that. The scene was almost gentle--like a child falling into the snow, looking up at the sky. Neat letters printed in the snow, no skirmish. Nothing."