Trimmed With Murder (2 page)

The driver still stood on the other side of the car. Tommy looked back at him. “There's a big event at our community center. Most everyone's there. What do you guys need? Who are you looking for?”

It was the woman who spoke up. “Esther Gibson.”

Tommy's eyebrows lifted. He looked more closely at her. She was attractive in a rough-around-the-edges way, maybe a little too skinny. “Esther?” He'd worked with the longtime police dispatcher since joining the force as a rookie ten years before—and he knew Esther's granddaughter. Nieces. This woman wasn't any of them.

“She'd be at the party.” He pointed a finger toward the far end of Harbor Road, where signs pointed out to a spit of forested land that held the center, a park, hiking trails, and picnic spots along the shore.

“Party?” Amber said.

“Yeah. It marks the beginning of the holiday season. Everyone's there, out at the community center.”

“Is that where the free clinic is?” Charlie asked.

Tommy nodded. “Yep. Why? Are you sick?”
Silly question. The dude's driving a BMW and looks healthy as a horse.

“No. Just wondering.”

“The community center sits at the edge of a park—close to the water. They have all kinds of programs out there, parties, a great place for cross-country skiers to get warm. But the big to-do tonight is to make money for the free health clinic. It's a great program Doc Virgilio brought to town. I guess you've heard of it?”

Tommy nodded.
Dr. Virgilio
. That was Charlie's contact, the doctor who had spoken to his nursing school class and passed out her card. She could always use volunteers for her free clinic, she'd said. The clinic was in Massachusetts, a little town right on the water.
Sea Harbor
. That was when he had raised his head that day—at the words
Sea Harbor
.

So Charlie had taken a card when she passed them out and stuck it in his wallet. He looked out toward the water, remembering. But right now, at this very moment, he had no idea why he'd finally pulled out the card when he did all those months later. And even less why he had given the doctor a call. He must have been crazy.

He shook away the thoughts and concentrated on the man standing on the curb. The cop had answered one question anyway. He wouldn't be able to reach the doc tonight even if he wanted to. She'd most certainly be at the benefit. “So, is there a motel around here?” he asked. He glanced over at Amber. She had pulled her backpack out of the car and was standing on the sidewalk, taking in the gaslights along the street, the sheets of rain changing the glow into panels of light. He wondered what her plans were. She seemed unconcerned about where she would be spending the night.

“Yes and no,” Tommy said. “There's a great B and B not far from here. Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. But it's booked solid, probably until after the New Year. There're some places in Rockport and Gloucester, but my bet is they're filled, too—there is some convention going on over in Gloucester, plus, people came in for our benefit here.”

Charlie looked up and down the street, thinking. It wouldn't be the first time he had spent the night in a car. Maybe not in this weather, but it wouldn't kill him. He'd find a parking lot somewhere, pull out the blanket in the backseat that his dog used to use.

“Hop back in your car and follow me,” Tommy said. “The community center has a few cabins that might not be full—they're rustic, bare-bones, but they have heat and beat the sidewalk or beach. Or I can find someone at the party who can put you up. Not usually a problem.”

Amber shrugged, but Charlie didn't move. “Yeah, well, thanks, but there's no need for that,” he said. “Maybe you can take the girl there to find Eloise or whoever she's looking for. I'll be fine—”

“Call me Tommy,” he said, “and let's go. Neither of you should be wandering around in this weather. Besides, you were driving too fast and it's my bet you don't have a clue where you're going.”

Before Charlie could argue, Tommy turned and headed over to a police car parked in a narrow drive beside the bar. In the next minute he had backed out, and was waiting in the middle of the empty street for Charlie to follow.

Charlie glanced inside the car, then looked over the roof to the curb.

Amber was gone.

A
mber Harper stood against the side of McClucken's hardware store in the narrow alley that ran alongside the stone building. It wasn't more than a slice of gravel, wide enough for a Dumpster, leaving just enough room for a skinny kid or two to hide with a pack of stolen cigarettes.

A skinny kid with wild hair who didn't quite fit in Sea Harbor.

Amber's thoughts slid uneasily back to those years of feeling lost and angry. A gangly teenager, mad at the world. Her once-edgy hormones were more level now, her mind clear, her anger under control. And she didn't smoke any longer; she'd grown up. But the feelings seemed to lurk in the shadows, sneaking up on her and reminding her that it's difficult to revisit one's past. And maybe not even a good thing.

She rummaged through her pockets for gloves but came up empty.
The car
, she remembered now. She had pulled them off to warm her hands on the car vent.
Good gloves, too.

She stepped out from behind the metal refuse can, rubbed her hands together, and looked through the sleet and wind, watching the taillights of the police car and BMW driving away from where she stood. The cop drove slowly, carefully, probably looking for her, until both cars finally disappeared around the bend in the road.

She wasn't sure why she'd walked away. The cop was friendly enough and wanting to help. But facing a mass of people celebrating good cheer in a community center that hadn't existed in her other life wasn't where she wanted to be tonight. Not to mention the possibility of seeing people she had worked at avoiding nearly her whole life, even when she lived under their roofs. Tonight was definitely not the night to break her pattern.

She needed time to adjust, to figure out why she'd even come.

She shivered, hunched her shoulders up to her ears, and walked into the wind, her backpack moving slightly back and forth.

Harbor Road was the same—but different, she thought.

The old bookstore across the street was still there. Her gray eyes lingered on the familiar sign and took her back to the hours and hours that she had spent sitting on the floor on the store's upper level, her legs folded like a pretzel. She'd lose herself in Nancy Drew,
Anne of Green Gables
,
A Secret Garden
, and every Judy Blume she could get her hands on.

There were new stores, too—a yarn shop across the street where a beat-up bait shop once stood. Amber stared at it, thinking about Esther Gibson and her piles of yarn, the fat needles she'd used to teach Amber to knit as they sat side by side in the nursing home.

Amber shook off the memory and concentrated instead on a brightly decorated sign with a giant scooper. It was outlined in lights—an ice-cream shop.
SCOOPERS
, it read. Nice. And it didn't close for the winter as some on Cape Ann did. That was nice, too. A coffee shop with a patio was nearby. Apparently life hadn't stood still since the night that she packed the North Face backpack Esther Gibson had given her and hitchhiked her way out of Sea Harbor and into a new life.

Her hometown had grown up some.

Amber pulled up her hood and tucked a handful of wet hair beneath it, then shoved her hands into her pockets and began walking again, down Harbor Road toward the Gull Tavern. It would be warm at least. And unlike the many times she'd snuck up to the bar's rooftop patio, this time she'd be legit. Photo ID and all. Not that anyone would card check an almost thirty-year-old who looked every bit her age and then some.

Maybe she should have gotten back into the car with the Charlie guy. He was nice enough, even in the face of her rude behavior. Lack of sleep had a habit of bringing out the worst in her. At first she hadn't been able to gauge his age easily—something she was usually good at. The few freckles sprinkled across his nose didn't fit well with the worried look in his blue eyes or the concerned wrinkle in his forehead. So she'd flipped open his wallet when he was concentrating on the highway signs. Half a dozen years older than she was, if she'd read it right.

The cop reminded her of some of the nice people she'd known in Sea Harbor. He'd have found Esther for her, probably, and Esther would have hugged her close against her big ample breasts, the light flowery scent of her lavender lotion bringing a strange comfort. She would have insisted on giving her the wide bed in the back of the house—and probably a glass of warm milk.

It was an easy answer to the freezing rain and no place to sleep.

But she'd be fine, she'd find a place to sleep somewhere. And she would stay in town long enough to do what she had to do—to meet with the lawyer Esther had mentioned in the e-mail, and the priest her grandmother prayed with and confessed to, and all those other things church people did.

Father Northcutt.
His name came to her suddenly. He was the only person in Amber's recollection that Lydia Cummings ever deferred to. And he was probably the reason Amber hadn't ended up in an orphanage.

So she'd see them, sign some papers, collect whatever it was that her grandmother had left her—a toothbrush, maybe, if she was lucky.

But mostly she'd say a final good-bye to her mother.

And then she'd be on her way.

The door to the Gull Tavern opened and a noisy group of kids younger than she exited into the night. Amber slipped in as the door closed behind them, cutting off the harsh wind.

She paused just inside the door, sinking back against the wall as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Small groups sat around the tall round tables scattered throughout the room. The long shelf that ran along the window wall was partly full, couples passing baskets of calamari and fried clams between them and washing it down with beer. Others stood or sat at the bar, elbows rubbing against elbows as they drank beer and screamed at a football game playing out on the big-screen TV above the bar. The smell of grilled burgers and fried onions filled the air.

Some were college kids home for the winter break, feeling their oats with the relief of finished exams behind them, Amber guessed. The older guys in slickers had probably come right off the lobster, cod, and tuna boats, now moored in the choppy waters near the harbor. It was a good crowd—one that wouldn't have any idea who she was: the college kids would be too young, the fishermen too old and unconcerned.

She made her way to the bar and ordered a beer.

But Amber hadn't considered the person behind the bar. A sudden jolt shot through her and she held back a gasp. The bartender's shoulders bent forward as he pulled down on the tap handle, filling a mug with beer. His hair was white, thin, and straggly, his profile etched with age. He turned around slowly and set the beer in front of her, its froth curling over the mug and running down the sides.

Amber waited for him to look up.

Finally he did, his eyes scanning her face, his large nose filling a ruddy, weathered face. He kept his head still and then his eyes locked in to hers, holding her there as his face softened in recognition. His lips pulled up into a wry, lopsided smile, deep wrinkles spreading out in all directions. His voice was raspy, more weary than Amber remembered.

“So,” he finally said, “you still trying to sneak your way into my bar, you skinny rascal? Got your ID ready?”

In the next breath he leaned over the sticky bar, pushed the beer and a bucket of peanuts to the side, and wrapped Amber in a hug.

Jake Risso never forgot a face.

N
o matter that winds howled through the pine trees and freezing rain continued to pelt Sea Harbor, inside the lodgelike community center, a winter fairyland warmed the welcoming lobby.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful,” sang Birdie Favazza, her small, veined hands keeping rhythm with the band playing in the distance. She smiled up at Ben Endicott and coaxed him into joining her as she wound her way through the crowd, a slight jig shaking her body.

“Holiday fever or holiday punch?” Ben said, his words warm with affection for the woman at his side, her white cap of hair barely reaching his shoulder.

“Maybe a bit of each, Ben, dear.” She moved toward an elaborate display a few feet in front of them. “How could you not feel good holiday vibes looking at this magical sight?”

A low round platform was set up in the middle of the foyer. But looking at it, one didn't see a platform; instead a magical scene hovered directly above the wooden floor. It was a replica of the parklike space near the town pier—the Harbor Green, as locals called it. But tonight the miniature scene wasn't green, it was wintry white, created from soft yards of snowy fleece. A gazebo stood in the center, its gables bright with tiny lights. Doll-sized park benches and picnic tables sat in the snowy folds, and narrow pathways meandered through the park, lit by black lampposts casting shadows across the snow. The entire scene evoked memories from every single person who had ever walked the Harbor Green, the well-loved wide-open space that hosted Fourth of July fireworks, summer picnics, seafood fests, open markets, and winter carnivals. It was where children would gather in a few weeks to cheer Santa on as he approached Sea Harbor in a lobster boat filled with cheery elves. Scattered throughout the snowy park, around the gazebo and among the benches and tables, were miniature Christmas trees, no more than ten inches high. They mirrored the recently planted trees down on the harbor, waiting to enter into the field of battle—waiting to be trimmed. A small white card rested at the base of each miniature tree, bearing names of the decorating teams.

Magical. Sea Harbor. Christmas.

“Well, what do you think?” Laura Danvers walked up to Ben and Birdie just as Sam Perry and Nell inched their way in to see the display. “The Canary Cove artists built the whole thing. It's amazing. And thanks to Cummings Northshore Nurseries, each of those tiny trees has a real counterpart planted over at the harbor.” She stopped for a breath, her excitement coloring her cheeks, and looked at the faces of the crowd as people gathered for a glimpse of the scene.

“It's beautiful,” Nell Endicott said. “You have such a gift for tugging on people's memories, their emotions, and their purse strings, all at the same time—and you do it in such a charming way, Laura.”

Laura laughed, pleased. She worked ferociously hard on events like these, pulling in family and friends and anyone else who might make the events more successful. The young mother and civic leader was the consummate fund-raiser. She pointed across the crowded lobby to where Janie Levin was directing people to the coatroom and passed the accolade along. Janie's red curls bounced as she greeted group after group. “Janie gets tons of credit for this. She was a huge help. She even talked her brother into helping.”

“Janie's a gem,” Lily Virgilio said, leaning into the conversation. “The best nurse I ever had. You two are a dynamic duo, Laura, but I forbid you to steal her away from me.”

Laura brushed off the compliments. “The free clinic is essential to this town.” She looked over at a group standing near the bar and nodded their way. “I think having civic leaders like Alphonso Santos and Stuart Cummings come on board so quickly is proof of how highly people regard it.”

It was especially generous of Stuart, Nell thought. In spite of his jovial, good-fellow manner, there was a sadness on his face that reflected the family's recent loss. Lydia Cummings's death had been expected, following a lingering illness, but nevertheless the family matriarch's passing had been a blow to her two grown children and to the entire north shore.

“I hesitated to approach Stuart so soon after his mother's death,” Laura said, “but then he approached me and insisted Cummings Nurseries support it. He said his mother was completely behind the free clinic and she'd want her family involved.”

“That's true,” Birdie said. “Lydia was nothing if not generous with her money.” She waved Laura off as she was called to another group.

“Where's Iz?” Sam asked, looking over the heads of the women. “She was with me a minute ago. Then she disappeared.”

“She's probably in the ladies' room or caught up with friends,” Nell said. “If you can't find her, come back and help Ben and me ‘work the crowd,' as Laura put it. A handsome man on each arm makes it ever so much easier.”

•   •   •

Izzy Perry stood at the edge of the crowd, far enough away to be swallowed up in the groups of people swarming about the lobby. She saw Sam looking for her and ducked around the corner, her cell phone in her hand.

“Our daughter is fine,”
Sam had insisted a few minutes earlier.
“She's in good hands. Trust me. Trust the sitter. Relax and enjoy yourself, m'love.”

He was right. Of course he was right. But between the community center and her home on the other side of town, a storm raged. And suddenly that placed a whole menacing world between her and her small daughter.

She cupped a hand over one ear and pressed her cell phone against the other, listening carefully to what she knew she'd hear when the ringing stopped and Stella Palazola picked up the phone. And it was exactly what she heard.

She ended the conversation and slipped the phone back into her purse. Abby was fine, ate a whole bowl of Izzy's homemade brown rice with carrots, and Stella was in heaven playing blocks with the toddler.

Why was she being such a worrywart? It was the weather, she told herself. The rain was turning to sleet and the sound of pellets beating against the large windows was disconcerting. Each time the door opened to welcome more guests, the sleet pounded louder, more persistent. Determined to be heard.

She stepped into the crowded lobby and looked around for her aunt and uncle, but it was Sam she spotted first, his sandy hair still wet and glistening. He must have gone briefly outside, wondering if that was where she was. She felt a twinge of guilt, but he was happily listening to something her aunt Nell was saying now, his head held low and his warm brown eyes looking up every now and then, scanning the tops of heads.

Sam. Her Sam.

Sam Perry had been in and out of Izzy's life for as long as she could remember—a friend of her older brother, Jack, he'd spent many summers with the Chambers family. An only child adopted by an older couple, Sam loved the chaotic family life of the Chambers brood. He was the one who sometimes stood up for her when her older and younger brothers teased her mercilessly. Sometimes he teased her right back. But he was always there, it seemed. Always a part of the pack.

But back then he was inconsequential to her life. And when she had headed east to college and law school—and finally abandoned her law practice for a new life in Sea Harbor—he was removed from it almost completely, except for a few random encounters over the years and mentions now and then from her mother or her brother Jack. And then, even those mentions became fewer.

Inconsequential
. That was what he had been. Until that summer day when he'd come to Sea Harbor as a guest of the Canary Cove Art Colony. He'd been invited to be a guest lecturer for a photography class—and he had never left.

Izzy took a deep breath as the memories swirled around her. And then the door to the community center opened again, people hurried in, and the frigid night air gusted into the room, pressing against her heart and pushing her memories back into their pockets.

More people joined Sam and the others now as the crowd swelled, with Birdie waving to friends and neighbors she'd known for decades, making people feel at home, talking up the benefit as they praised Lily Virgilio's free health clinic.

Holiday cheer
—they were scattering it everywhere, like rose petals at a wedding.

Izzy waited for it to touch her, to wrap her up in its warmth. Instead she felt the cold, the freezing rain.

And she wasn't sure why.

“Come on, Scrooge,” Cass Halloran whispered near her shoulder. “Let's party.” She wrapped one arm around Izzy's waist and spun her around. “Who can resist dancing to ‘Frosty the Snowman'?”

Izzy laughed in spite of herself. Cass knew her inside and out. She knew not to pry, not to scold.
It's just an Izzy mood,
she'd be telling herself and anyone else who might ask. She'd shake it off soon.

And Cass also knew that sometimes, every now and then, Izzy's mood portended something unexpected. Sometimes something good, sometimes not so good.

“So, did you see our Seaside Knitters' name on one of those miniature trees? The real ones are going to be more of a challenge to decorate.”

“Yep,” Cass said. She grabbed two glasses of punch from a passing waiter and handed one to Izzy. “But I'm going to be between the devil and the raging sea on this one. Some of the Halloran crew members have bought a tree and they're threatening to win the whole competition.”

“Pete and that motley crew of fishermen? Decorating a tree? Nah, not a chance. It'll be trimmed with clumps of seaweed.” Izzy spotted Pete Halloran across the way, his blond head thrown back and laughing heartily at something tiny Willow Adams had said.
Oh, my
. She hadn't considered Willow. The artist had Pete wrapped around her little finger, and as different as the two were, they were madly in love with each other, as least as far as anyone could tell. “Argh,” Izzy said. “I forgot those lugs have partners and friends and wives in their life who might actually be creative. Like Willow. Surely it's not fair to let artists into this competition, is it?”

“Absolutely fair,” Laura Danvers said, passing by. The event coordinator was waving her hands in the air, encouraging the crowd to move into the wooden-beamed room off the lobby. “All's fair in love and war and winning our first annual tree decorating contest,” she said with a grin.

In minutes Laura had all but a few groups of stragglers crowding into the large room, its floor-to-ceiling windows aglow with hanging stars and snowflakes. Ropes of greenery hung from one beam to the next, and candles in thick-glassed lanterns decorated the tables and seating areas scattered across the room.

Laura climbed the steps to a narrow stage at one end of the room and tapped on the microphone to quiet everyone.

Cass and Izzy made their way through the wide doors, trailing after the others. Sam took a step back and pulled Izzy into a hug, then leaned low and whispered in her ear, “So . . . how's the sitter? Has the house burned down? Has our toddler whipped Stella at poker again?”

Izzy wrinkled her nose at him. Was she that transparent that she couldn't make a phone call without Sam knowing it? “Shush,” she said, pointing to the other side of the room, where Laura was introducing Dr. Lily Virgilio and explaining the tree decorating project that was going to bring in sleighs full of money for the clinic. Laura's excitement was contagious and the crowd cheered wildly as each team was announced—from the Altar Society ladies at Our Lady of Safe Seas Church to the Portuguese fishermen poker club to a local running club—and everything in between. The competition grew more boisterous and voices traveled all the way up to the high ceilings as burly fishermen and tiny white-haired women and a well-conditioned running club stood and waved and urged people to pledge to their team—the
winning
team.

Finally Laura tapped on the microphone and hushed everyone to silence again so she could introduce and thank the people behind the holiday competition—the Sea Harbor Chamber of Commerce, cochaired by Alphonso Santos and Stuart Cummings.

“Two generous men who have thrown themselves into this project wholeheartedly and completely,” Laura said in her polished voice.

The crowd cheered as the two men took the stage, the distinguished heads of Santos Construction Company and Cummings Northshore Nurseries.

Alphonso took the microphone first. “You've all seen the Cummings guys at work along the Harbor Green these past couple weeks? Not an easy task with this weather. They've been mulching and feeding and whatever else you do to the dozens of young trees that have been planted over there. If you haven't seen them, they'll be ready to admire in a week or so. So come on down, then, bring the kids. The Cummingses not only planted each of those trees; they donated every last one.” He paused for the applause, then continued.

“We'll have name cards ready next week, a fine weatherproof holder for them in front of each tree. You'll have a chance to pick your tree, and that's the tree you'll turn into a work of art. The chamber challenges each of you to make your tree the best lit, the best decorated—and, of course, the best funded—” He looked out over the audience, his eyebrows lifting. “Stu and I are thinking every last one of you can't wait to scribble your name on a team's pledge card, right?” He waited for the cheering to die down and handed the phone over to Stuart Cummings, who along with his wife and sister, Barbara, owned a fleet of successful nurseries up and down the north shore.

“We only have a few weeks, my friends,” Stuart intoned, his voice too loud for a microphone and his belly nearly touching the stand. “We're keeping the rules simple. Those trees we planted down at the harbor are young and small—so treat them with care. No real lobster traps on these trees—that'll have to wait till next year. But pick a theme and go with it.” He peered around the group, his eyebrows pulled together in fake severity. Finally he settled on a burly fisherman known to everyone in town as Cod and said with a scolding grin, “But we'll keep it all in wicked good taste, you got that, Cod?”