"It makes no sense," Nell said as they parked and walked up the steps.
The front door was unlocked, and Nell and Birdie walked into the soft crooning of Bing Crosby, still dreaming about a white Christmas. A tall secretary stood in the spacious front hall. It was new since their last visit, perhaps pulled from one of the bedrooms upstairs. A tiny bell sat on the top, next to a white poinsettia. All looked ready for the first guest to come in, tired and hungry and in need of a comfortable room and a hot toddy. Just across the hall, a fire danced in the fireplace and tiny lights blinked on the tall Frasier fir--the perfect place to rest after a journey.
"How absolutely lovely," Nell said. She tapped the bell.
Mary appeared as if by magic. "I suppose I need a better system to announce people's arrival--something that rings as they walk in the door. But for now, that old bell I found in the attic works just fine."
"It looks like you're expecting your first guest."
She sighed. "Not quite. It's my practice run--wishful thinking, maybe. If I put everything on hold until this mess is cleared up, I'll feel like I've given in. And that's something I refuse to do. So I'm moving ahead, getting things ready, making beds, plumping pillows."
She pointed to a small computer sitting on the secretary. "I even had the computer hooked up today. It's my concession to modernity. Nancy thought I should have a gold-edged book with a ribbon marking the page for guests to sign, but I thought, enough is enough, and bought the computer."
"Do you have any idea when you'll actually open?"
Mary shrugged. "I still don't know. We still have some paint touch-ups to do. Nancy is making sure that gets done before this storm hits. But that's not the big thing. The main thing is shaking free of the bad vibes about this house, squelching the rumors. And I don't think that will happen until Pamela's murderer is found."
"And if they don't find him?" Nell asked. Ben had told her that there'd been talk of that. The police had only feeble circumstantial evidence, such as Pamela's wallet among Kevin's things and an argument someone heard Pamela having with her cousin Agnes. The police didn't take Henrietta seriously, Ben had said, and even though the knitting group was coming up with its own list of possible suspects, a list based on intuition and feelings wouldn't carry much weight with the force. "Frankly," Ben had said, "there's a push to close the case. They feel sure it was a directed murder, not a random, drive-by killing. So it isn't as if other people are in danger. People don't want the intrusion of an investigation interfering in their holidays. They want it over."
"If they don't find the murderer, I don't know what will happen," Mary said. "That's not an option for me. This heavy black shroud has to disappear. Did I tell you my manager--that nice Halley Stanley--resigned before she even started? She was here for a week, learning how I wanted things handled, and then, all of a sudden, she up and left. I think Henrietta scared her off. In addition to everything else, I'm about to strangle that woman."
"Georgia seems to like her," Birdie offered.
"Yes, she loves Henrietta. I don't get it, but Henrietta is very kind to Georgia. She'd beat me with her walking stick if she had half a chance, but she couldn't be nicer to Georgia. But enough about my little neighborhood nemesis; let me show you the upstairs. It will keep me from feeling sorry for myself."
Mary led the way up the wide, winding staircase. Halfway up, an upholstered window seat invited guests to sit and look out the round window at the snowy pathways crisscrossing the back of the estate. Or to snuggle up with a book. On the second floor, Mary had turned several small sitting rooms into bathrooms so that each bedroom suite was complete in itself with a modern bath, wide beds, Egyptian cotton linens, and comfortable seating and balcony areas.
Birdie and Nell followed her from room to room, admiring familiar art, pottery, and paintings from Ham and Jane Brewster's studio, carved wooden fishermen and fiber art from Willow Adams' Fishtail Gallery. And imagining the Seaside Knitters' soft throws gracing each bed.
"You need to invite the whole town to your grand opening. Once people see what you've done, you'll be booked for years. I can't wait to put Izzy's parents up here the next time they come. Caroline will fall in love with the place."
"I hope so," Mary said, but her words were flat, without that split second of joy they'd seen in her eyes when they had walked through the front door earlier, just as her first guests would do.
They followed her back to the center staircase that continued up to the third level. "This is where Grandfather Enzo stayed, even after Grandmother died. Can you believe that he stayed on the third floor? He put in that chair lift"--she pointed to an electric chair fastened to the wall on one side of the stairs--"but never used it, as far as I know."
On the third floor, at the top of the stairs, love seats and a desk filled a cozy sitting area. On either side a carved double door opened into a bedroom.
"That room was Grandmother Helen's," Mary said, pointing to one side. "It's dainty and feminine, just like she was. They each liked privacy, but my grandfather was quick to tell me they'd meet on each other's turf when it pleased them--which was often, he'd say. Then I'd change the subject fast, not sure how far he'd go in detailing his love life."
She led them into the other room, an area as spacious as a small apartment. "And here's the royal boudoir."
Casement windows filled the far wall, a fireplace, leather chair, and bookcase another. But gracing the third wall was the piece de resistance, the massive bed, carved from thick, dark walnut with fleur-de-lis gold plume finials. It was the largest bed Nell had ever seen.
"Amazing." She walked over to the elaborate headboard and ran her fingers over the carved swirls, loops, and intricate ropes.
"It makes you want to meet the artist."
"We know one of them," Mary said. She walked over and guided Nell's fingers to a spot just at the edge of the headboard, moving her fingers around a less polished carving.
"It's a heart," Nell said. She put on her glasses and looked more closely. Then she laughed. "Enzo Pisano was a romantic."
"An understatement," Mary said.
Birdie leaned in. She chuckled. In the center of the roughly carved heart, her fingers traced the letters. "E.P." and "H." "Enzo and Helen. And Helen's period is a tiny 'O.' Or maybe it's another heart, a heart within a heart. Fancy."
"As was she--fancy, I mean," Mary said. "Grandmother Helen knew antiques, and when I found this carving after Grandfather died, I was amazed that she'd let him carve in this gorgeous wood. She wouldn't let him sign Christmas cards--he was too sloppy."
"Love," Birdie said. "It allows many things."
"Grandfather brought this bed over from Italy for her. It's priceless. Nancy researched it for me--Italian Renaissance style, she said. We think the craftsman put it together right here in this room."
"This explains why Enzo didn't move down a flight or two as he got older," Birdie said. "How could you leave this amazing bed?"
"And you'd never get it down the stairs without dismantling it," Mary said.
Nell looked around at the rest of the room. A watercolor of the harbor hung over the fireplace, and framed photos of Enzo deep-sea fishing hung along a narrow stretch of wall.
She walked over to the window and looked out, then backed up quickly. "Oh, my." Nell took a deep breath.
"Are you all right?"
"A touch of vertigo. I forgot how high up we were. "
"It's the tall ceilings and the deep slope in the back. It's probably more like a fourth or fifth story." Mary pointed to a door near the windows. It opened to a balcony, just big enough for two chairs and a table. "It didn't bother Grandfather. He loved sitting out there."
"A martini deck," Birdie said. "Sonny insisted we have one off our bedroom."
"Did you ever have a martini on it?" Nell asked.
Birdie's white brows lifted playfully. "We had lots of things on it."
A loud noise from below the windows brought them all to the window. Kevin Sullivan, wearing heavy gloves, was dragging a ladder into the backyard.
"We need to paint the eaves before it snows again," Mary explained. "The paint has peeled away, and Nancy is afraid the wood will rot." She pointed toward the roof overhang along the back of the house.
"Someone's going to climb all the way up here?" Nell asked.
"Clearly not you, Nell," Mary teased.
"I'm a sensible sissy--who prefers keeping her feet on the ground."
Birdie watched Kevin lay the ladder alongside the back porch. "He's a hardworking fellow, isn't he?"
"The best," Mary said. "I need to catch him before he leaves. Are we through here?"
Reluctantly they left the grandeur of the Enzo Pisano suite, as it would be called, and followed Mary down a flight of back stairs that went all the way down to the kitchen. "There's coffee brewing," she said over her shoulder.
Kevin stood at the kitchen door on a black rubber mat, stomping the snow off his boots. "Coffee's still hot," he said.
Beneath the smile he looked older than he had just days ago. Or weary, perhaps. "You're not getting up there, are you, Kevin?" Nell asked.
Kevin shook his head. "I'm not much of a painter, I'm afraid." He looked over at Mary. "Nancy was having a fit about the painting. She was in a stew today but said Troy'll be here to finish the painting midafternoon. Who knows if he'll show? Rumor has it he had a wild night last night, but Nancy said he'd show or else."
"Which reminds me--where's that metal ladder the construction crew used?"
"The construction guys took it away. Too bad; this damn thing weighs a ton. But it should work."
She frowned. "Are you and Nancy getting along all right?"
Kevin laughed. "Don't you have enough on your mind without worrying if your staff gets along? Yah, we're fine. She's a hard worker. Sometimes a tough taskmaster and kinda rigid and bossy for my taste. That's okay, though. But DeLuca? Not so much."
Mary began pouring coffee while Kevin grabbed his car keys from the desk and pulled his hat back on.
"How's your mother?" Nell asked him. "I saw her group singing in the square the other day."
"She's fine, thanks. She loves all that, the Altar Society. Helping Father Northcutt with his projects. Directing those old ladies in song. It's pretty much her life. And keeps her away from my pa. Not a bad thing."
"She's a good woman."
They all understood the meaning behind Birdie's words. Stories of Kevin's rough, hard-drinking father had circulated for years. A nice man in the morning, a mean one when he hit the taverns at night. The contrast with his sweet wife and fine son was startling.
"So I'm outta here. Going to Boston for the night. But DeLuca has a key if he needs anything. The fire's out in the fireplace, and I checked all the doors. I'm working at the Edge Saturday night, but Nancy says the carriage house is move-in ready if you say it's okay--maybe Sunday?"
"Absolutely," Mary waved him out the door. "Go. Have fun."
His tall shadow moved passed the kitchen windows as he headed down the steps to the parking area. A familiar path. The snow was entirely cleared away now, the porch so clean it didn't seem to belong to the rest of the snowy landscape. No snow. No blood. No reminders, except the images imprinted in their memories.
Nell shivered, wrapping her fingers tight around the coffee mug. "Mary, the person who did this--do you think they walked around the house to get to the porch or came through the backyard? The garage?"
"None of the above. The police said unless the person had wings, there was no way he or she came from the far backyard without leaving prints. The only steps around the side of the house since it was shoveled earlier that day were yours. Pamela would have gone out the den door--that's the one guests use. But I think the person who killed her went right out this door. The kitchen door. And that's how Georgia got outside."
"Couldn't Georgia have gone out with Pamela?"
"No. Pamela didn't like Georgia, and the feeling was quite mutual. I think that's one of the reasons my grandfather couldn't quite warm up to Pamela. Georgia was his love. Pamela would have had to offer the sweet thing a steak to lure her outside, and I'm not sure even that would have done it."
They looked through the windows, challenging the porch to tell them something, to relinquish its secrets. At that moment, Georgia bounded up the steps and to the kitchen door, her large paw knocking to get in.
Mary let her in, and she made the rounds, insisting on head scratches from each of them before settling down in her bed beneath Kevin's desk.
"I've gone over that day a million times," Mary said. "The police think it happened about six thirty that evening. Usually at that time of day there would still have been people milling around, my family, the workmen, deliveries. But the family had agreed to meet at the Gull to unwind. The construction guys finished early that day. And I left to pick up some candles Nancy wanted for the dining room, and then on to meet her for a dinner meeting. I left Georgia here because I knew I was coming back that night to meet the two of you."
"And Pamela?"
"She never intended to go to the Gull. Her excuse was vague, but we all figured she was meeting someone, probably in the carriage house. Troy, maybe? He came around looking for her, and they talked during a break, maybe making plans."
"For that night?"
"Apparently. Troy told the police she had blown him off. Who knows if that's true or not."
"Was there anyone else she was seeing while she was here?"
"You mean a man?"
Nell nodded. "Tommy Porter said she was involved with some man a few summers ago--in addition to his brother Eddie.
Mary nodded. "It was a few years ago, the summer she moved Aunt Dolores into the nursing home. I remember because she was here most of the summer, taking care of the house and Aunt Dolores' things. The thing with Eddie Porter was unfortunate--the way they were all over town together. Agnes and I knew it was doomed, that Pamela was just bored. But you don't tell a guy that."