Chapter 18
N
ell sat across the kitchen island from Ben, watching him slather a thick slice of toast with raspberry jam. Her elbows rested on the butcher-block surface, her chin cupped in her hands. She resisted catching the dollop of jam that dripped onto the countertop.
Thick. Sticky.
It was how she felt. Even a long shower hadn't washed away the uncomfortable debris of her dreams. Instead, her thoughts glommed together, an amorphous mass that she couldn't pry apart into discernable thoughts. Thoughts with meaning attached--if only she could figure out what the meaning was.
"Snow's in the forecast for the weekend. Maybe tonight or tomorrow, they're saying." Ben looked over his reading glasses at Nell.
"Good. We need a fresh coat to pretty things up. It's awfully gray out there."
"I think it will take more than snow." Ben took a drink of coffee, his eyes lingering on Nell's face. "You moved a lot in your sleep. Like you were trying to get away from something."
"I suppose I could have been. I don't remember."
It took two more cups of coffee, but slowly and deliberately, Nell repeated the knitting night conversation, throwing in the episode with Tommy Porter at the end.
"Maybe you were running from the runaway Z. Crazy guy, to drive like that on a snowy road."
"We were fine. Tommy and Janie were very helpful."
"This Troy guy bothers me," Ben said when Nell finished talking.
"He bothers me, too." She got up and poured fresh granola into a bowl. Sharing the rough puzzle pieces with Ben was comforting. As if in the simple telling, the edges would become smooth.
"I think Troy and Pamela were having an affair. I keep thinking back to the night of the murder and the moving curtain in the carriage house. I think it was him."
"Why?"
Nell sighed. "I wish I knew why. I just think it."
Ben walked around the island and ran a finger up and down her back. "I don't discount your intuition, Nell. Never have."
Nell rubbed her head against his shoulder. "I know. That's why I married you."
"But if it was Troy behind the curtain, that means he knew Pamela was dead."
"Maybe. Although it was dark and one of the lights on the porch was burned out. He might not have seen her body from that window. Maybe he just saw us." But she didn't believe that, and she knew Ben didn't, either. If he was there, he saw.
"Or maybe he was the one who killed her, and then went up to the carriage house for whatever reason--maybe to get rid of evidence linking them together? And then saw you and Birdie out there."
"Lots of people knew those two were spending time together. Mary suspected it. Kevin knew. Lord knows who else-- probably the whole work crew. So I'm not sure why he'd care about getting rid of evidence that linked them together."
"And there's always the last 'maybe.' Maybe Troy was somewhere far away, like he told the police. He was at a movie out at the mall. Alone. Just wanted to get out of the Scaglias' house. Maybe the curtain never moved at all."
A perfectly reasonable thing to say. But the curtain did move. In hindsight, and for no good reason, Nell was sure of it.
Nell walked across Harbor Road, headed for the historical museum and a board meeting she had almost forgotten about. She walked quickly along the path and looked up just in time to see a small bustling figure with an armload of white paper tucked under her arm heading toward her.
A walking stick clicked along the shoveled sidewalk as she walked.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Nell stared at it.
"Nell, sweetheart, what are you looking at?" Henrietta O'Neal stopped, cocked her round head, and stared at Nell. "You look like you've seen the ghost of Christmas past."
Nell shook away her thoughts and looked at the woman standing directly in front of her, shadowing the sidewalk with her stocky figure. "Henrietta, I'm sorry. That was rude of me. I was looking at your walking stick."
Henrietta lifted the stick into the icy air and smiled at the hand-carved piece of walnut. Her face glowed. "It was a gift. It's very lovely, isn't it?"
Nell nodded. It
was
lovely. Absolutely. Henrietta's gnarled fingers wrapped around the carved handle as if it had been molded just for them. Tiny lines of gold were pressed into the carved handle, spreading out like the wings of a butterfly, graceful and delicate. The cane itself was rubbed to a high sheen, the walnut velvety smooth, all the way down to the narrow bottom and the rubber tip adhered to the end. A work of art.
It was a perfect walking stick for helping someone remain steady on forested pathways and slippery, snowy sidewalks.
A suitable stick for tracing straight, neat letters in a snowbank.
"Someday I might tell you the story of my walking stick, Nell. It's a wonderful story. But not today. Today I am busy."
Nell took a deep breath. "Busy?"
"I am taking the mayor to lunch to see if the yacht club's famous chowder and a martini might coax some sense into him."
Nell glanced at the posters under Henrietta's arm. She knew what they said. She could easily guess, too, what favor Henrietta was going to force upon Mayor Hanson.
It was a difficult position to put Stan Hanson in, since Henrietta's family foundation contributed to nearly every major civic cause. And it was very uncharacteristic of Henrietta to use her wealth to garner favors.
"Henrietta, Mary has enough on her plate, don't you think?"
"And I am trying to relieve her of some of that. A bed-and-breakfast, to be specific. Someday she will thank me."
With that, Henrietta made her way around Nell and proceeded down the pathway to Harbor Road, her stick tapping out a defiant rhythm that startled Nell with its intensity.
She watched her for a minute, then crossed the street and walked up the museum steps.
"We're about ready to start," Laura Danvers said, meeting Nell at the door and nodding toward the small conference room. "It will be a quick meeting. Everyone's busy."
That was music to Nell's ears. She had plenty on her plate, not the least of which was to check on Izzy. She'd never call it that, of course. Izzy would cringe at the thought of someone checking up on her. She would remind Nell she had once been a part of a thriving law practice in Boston, had worked with her share of unsavory characters, had walked home alone at night. Why would she need someone checking up on her?
And she would hide matters of the heart behind her enormous brown eyes.
Off-limits
, her smile would say.
But in that silent language that she and her niece shared, it would be clear to Nell that Izzy was grateful to have her there, even at arm's length.
Nell was greeted by a festive table. At each place Laura had placed a tiny Christmas cactus and small wrapped package. Platters of Christmas cookies lined the table, and hot mulled cider simmered on a gas burner, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon and cloves.
"The present is to thank you for your hard work this year," the board chair said.
Oohs and aahs greeted the unwrapping of small silver replicas of a schooner, which celebrated its birthplace on Cape Ann.
Laura rapped on the table for attention and announced that the sterling-silver charms were Nancy Hughes' thoughtful and generous contribution.
Of course
, Nell thought. Nancy, more than anyone, understood the hours volunteers put in to keep the museum operating. And Nancy would think to express thanks with an appropriate memento.
Cups of cider were passed around as people thanked Nancy for the gift, sampled Laura's wonderful cookies, and chatted about tree lightings and parties.
There was hope, Nell thought, listening to the chatter. Perhaps they'd find a way around Pamela Pisano's tragic death, even with the threads dangling loose and threatening. But as she watched people's faces and listened to the ebb and flow of the conversation, she heard it. Beneath the gaiety ran the tense underpinnings of fear. Sometimes what wasn't said screamed louder than actual words.
Sitting next to her, Harriet Brandley leaned over and touched her sleeve. "Nell, I was wondering, well, how is our dear Sam doing?" she asked.
"Sam?" Nell asked, surprised at the question. "Sam Perry?"
Harriet nodded, a look of concern on her face. Spending most of her waking hours in the Sea Harbor bookshop right next door to Izzy's knitting studio, Harriet kept up on everyone's lives--and her caring about them was always genuine.
"Sam's just fine, Harriet. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I just thought . . . well, no reason. Of course he's fine. Silly of me."
Nell tried to read the expression on her friend's face. Harriet wasn't a gossip. A breast cancer survivor, she knew the importance of others' concern. "Do you think there's something wrong?"
"No, of course not. Archie took me into Boston yesterday--to the hospital--for my checkup. And I saw Sam. He was probably visiting someone, that's all. It's the mother in me." She laughed lightly. "We sometimes find worry in places it doesn't belong."
Laura tapped her glass with a spoon, voices hushed, and heads turned in her direction.
Nell pushed Harriet's words to a corner of her mind. Harriet was right--it was easy to fabricate useless concern. She knew Sam had spent the night in Boston. And that was his business, not hers. Not even Izzy's, as Ben had so astutely pointed out. We all needed space.
Laura announced the agenda. "First, a little housekeeping. We need a painter to do some touch-ups here at the museum before the harsh weather destroys the wood. Someone very good, not too expensive, and willing to get up on a ladder in this weather. Any suggestions?"
"Beatrice Scaglia's houseguest is a painter," Nell said. "He's done a good job at the bed-and-breakfast--right, Nancy?" No matter what her feelings about Troy, there was no reason to keep him from working. "I think he's leaving soon--but he might be able to do it before he leaves."
Nancy Hughes' smile fell away. "No, I don't think we should use him here, Laura."
"But I thought . . . " Nell began.
Nancy continued, her head shaking with emphasis. "He wouldn't be the best choice. He can be sloppy--and we can't have that at the museum. We'll find someone better, Laura. I'll take care of it."
Nell frowned. Hadn't Mary said Troy was a good painter, and that's why they kept him on--in spite of his rudeness?
She wondered briefly whether Nancy was holding something back. Did she know more about Troy DeLuca than she was letting on? The museum was very special to her. Perhaps she wanted to protect it from Troy's antics.
She glanced at Nancy.
She was sitting still, listening to Laura as she moved on to the next item on the agenda, avoiding Nell's eyes.
But when the meeting came to a close, Nancy grabbed her coat and hurried after Nell, catching up with her at the door.
"He's not a good painter, Nell," she said in hushed tones, as if sharing a secret. "And I'm sure he's leaving soon. I don't think we'd want him here. You can understand that. I don't know what it is, but there are bad vibes around that fellow."
The next minute, Nancy was gone, down the steps and across the street to her car, leaving Nell standing alone at the door.
Nell had a list of things to do. It was Friday, and though Ben would be the one bundling up to grill the trout on the snowy deck--she had promised to stop by the market to pick up odds and ends. They never knew exactly who would show up for Friday night dinner--but Nell suspected there'd be a demand for Ben's martinis this week--it had been a rough one.
She also wanted to stop by the bed-and-breakfast. Although Nell had toured the first two floors, she had never seen the master bedroom suite on the third floor. Mary said the wooden bed was a masterpiece, and since that's where Nell's knit afghan, with its bold design and soft chunky yarn, would lay, she wanted to make sure it was perfect before finishing it up.
"Come see," Mary had urged.
Birdie called as Nell was walking toward her car.
Nell explained her errand, and that she wanted to check the room's colors.
"That's nonsense," Birdie had replied. "You simply want to snoop around that gorgeous house."
Birdie was right. She wanted to snoop.
In the next breath, Birdie volunteered to go along, just as Nell expected her to.
They passed Henrietta O'Neal as they drove into the driveway of Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. She was offering snacks to Georgia, who had come out to the edge of the property to meet her. She waved gaily at them as they drove by.
"I hope those kibbles aren't poison," Birdie said, frowning. "For the life of me, I don't know what's gotten into that woman. Some of the neighbors think she's a bit daft, but I think she's sharp as a tack. She knows exactly what she's doing."
"The problem is the rest of us don't know what she's doing." Nell told Birdie about her encounter with Henrietta earlier that day. "I've gotten used to the posters--I don't even see them anymore. It was Henrietta's walking stick that bothered me."
Birdie listened carefully.
"I've watched Henrietta walk along Ravenswood Road with that walking stick in hand for so many years, I don't even see it anymore. You're thinking a walking stick could possibly print letters in snow? An interesting thought." She looked back out the window at the dog sitting happily at Henrietta's feet, the walking stick wedged beneath her arm as she tossed treats to her.
Nell nodded, reading her thoughts. "Yes, and Georgia likes Henrietta."
"And might easily have followed Henrietta out on the porch that night. She would have been comfortable being outside with her."
"Yes. But Henrietta O'Neal couldn't have killed Pamela Pisano. . . . " Nell struggled with the image. It refused to find a comfortable place in her head, regardless of the walking stick and Georgia's affection. "She'd have no real reason, for starters. If she thought murdering someone might prevent the B and B from opening, she would have killed Mary, not Pamela."
They looked back at the dog and the woman. Friends. Happily communicating at the end of the snowy drive. A woman determined to close down Mary's bed-and-breakfast, no matter what it took.