He wiped his brow and looked at each of them. “You can’t.”
Nell watched the frustration on his face. Poor Jerry. He was doing Ben and Sam a favor, figuring a warning coming from him would bear more weight. She smiled at him and hoped it held a thank-you. Then she said, “You said there was more?”
“Yes. You’ll read about this, too.” He paused for longer than was comfortable, and Birdie finally cleared her throat, urging the police chief to speak.
“You all know old Horace Stevenson?”
“Of course,” Birdie said. “He’s older than I am. We oldies stick together.”
“Yes, well, you know he lives down there on Paley’s Cove. A small house, you’ve all seen it from the beach.”
They nodded. Everyone knew Horace. They all knew Red, too, and were strangely comforted that he and Horace had each other. The dog had even been known to pull a young child out of a strong current one summer. Nell thought of her conversation with him the day before—and his anger over a murder in Paley’s Cove. She wondered if that was what the chief was going to talk to them about. Perhaps Horace knew more than he had said yesterday
Izzy spoke up. “Horace and I are friends, and Sam, too.” She thought about Sam helping the old man, fixing a broken step. “We share a love of the cove, I guess. He told me that he used to walk that beach with his wife every single day, rain or snow or shine, and after he buried her at sea, he just kept doing it, and the sand became his mandala.”
Jerry looked at her. “What’s that?”
“A mandala—like the Tibetan monks build out of colored sand—intricate geometric patterns. When they’re all finished, they collect the sand and pour it into a river, sending it on its way to the ocean. Horace said it represents the transitory nature of life. He and Red create designs in the sand with their footprints—a mandala in his wife Ruth’s memory. And then the tide comes in and takes it away, out to the world—out to his Ruth, he says.”
They were silent for a few minutes, thinking about the old man and his dog. And of his wife, honored every day by Horace and Red.
“I knew the old man loved that cove and the beach. It was almost sacred to him. Now I know why,” Jerry said.
“You’re talking about him as if he’s not there anymore,” Nell said.
Jerry coughed once, then said, “Horace died last night—or early this morning. We’re not sure exactly when. Right outside his house, sitting on the porch in that old rocking chair.”
Izzy’s face fell.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Nell said. She looked over at Izzy.
Jerry followed her look. “Actually, Sam and Ben were the ones who found him.” He looked up, his bushy eyebrows lifting, as if that explained everything. “They noticed Red running in circles along the beach, howling something awful. They were looking for a good place to teach the Boys’ Club lifesaving class or some such thing—but I suppose you know that.”
Izzy and Nell nodded. Every summer Ben and Sam taught sailing to underprivileged kids. Lifesaving was the first step, and they needed just the right beach.
“Was it a heart attack?” Birdie asked. “Perhaps he just drifted off. That would be a lovely way to go—sitting on his porch, his faithful dog at his side. We should all be so fortunate.”
“We don’t know yet how he died. It may have been a heart attack. But a strange thing happened when the emergency medical fellows moved him—a key fell out of his pocket. We thought it was his house key at first, though everyone knew Harold never locked that place up, not ever.
“Then Sam thought he recognized it. It looked like the key Andy Risso used to lock up that supply shed where they’d stored the dive equipment that night.”
“And?” Cass asked.
“Yeah.” Jerry shook his head. “And that’s exactly what it was. The key fit.”
Chapter 18
A call to Ben’s cell phone on her way home confirmed for Nell and Izzy the basic facts of what had happened, but Ben said they’d talk more later. He and Sam had to make a few statements to the police and then deal with a pile of things they’d left undone on the boat. But they’d make sure they were finished in time for the concert and would meet them there.
Saturday night. The first Fractured Fish concert of the summer. They had almost forgotten about it as they’d struggled to make sense of what Chief Thompson said—or, as Birdie put it, “didn’t say.”
“The concert,” Nell said to Ben. “Of course.”
And Izzy agreed, though the thought of Paley’s Cove without its sentinel made her terribly sad. It would be good to be with friends and neighbors.
• • •
Cass and Danny arrived at the seaside park shortly before Nell and Izzy, and had already claimed a patch of grass not too far from the water, slightly removed from the open area where Frisbees would be flying and balloons twisted into animal shapes.
“Perfect,” Izzy said as she helped Cass spread out several old blankets.
Danny pulled over a cooler of beer and a stack of camp chairs. He opened one for Izzy. “Here, princess,” he said. “Take advantage of it. Once that baby comes, all the attention will be redirected.”
Izzy laughed and lowered herself into the chair.
Nell pointed over to where Franklin and Tamara Danvers sat on comfortable cushioned chairs. Izzy waved. Tamara looked unusually quiet, but Franklin doffed his straw hat back and smiled a hello.
“Nice that Franklin’s becoming more a part of the town,” Izzy murmured.
“Does Tamara look all right to you?” Nell asked. The two women shaded their eyes and tried to look over unobtrusively.
“I can’t tell. She’s probably tired. She’s still in that stage where it grabs you by the throat and won’t let go,” Izzy said.
“I wonder if they know about Horace. He walked in their backyard every day.”
“I’ve seen Tamara talking with him,” Izzy said. “And Franklin, too. He’d even walk along the beach with him now and then.”
Birdie made her way over a few minutes later. “I came with Ella and Harold,” she said. “Gabby absolutely insisted they come. She told them they needed to get out more or they’d atrophy. She has Harold wrapped around her little finger.”
“Of course she does,” Cass said. “Where are Ben and Sam?”
“Right here.” Their shadows fell over the blanket. Their faces were weary.
Danny grabbed cold beers and sodas for everyone. Ben hugged Nell and unfolded a chair next to her.
“Here’s what we know. Sam and I were scouting out beaches for lifesaving classes when we spotted Red in Paley’s Cove, literally running in circles. When he spotted us, he tore across the sand and sat in front of us until we stopped. Then he looked toward Horace’s house, got up and ran a little, sat again, and stared at us. And he kept doing this until we followed him. At which point he tore across the beach toward the house, stopping every now and then to make sure we were behind him.”
“He’s an amazing dog,” Sam said, popping the lid off his bottle.
“Horace was on the porch—like the chief told you. And that’s about all we know.” He lowered himself into the chair.
“We asked the chief about the key in old Horace’s pocket,” Cass said. “What did it mean? How was it important? But all we got was police talk that basically told us nothing.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have much to say about it,” Sam said. He took a long swig of beer.
“The implication is that Horace Stephenson had something to do with Justin Dorsey’s death.”
“That’s crazy,” Izzy said.
“Ridiculous,” Birdie added. “What would that old man know about murdering anyone?”
“Not to mention motive. Lots of people were furious with Justin, but I can’t imagine Horace would be,” Izzy said.
“Of course,” Nell said, sitting up straight in the chair. She knew for a fact that he was upset about Justin’s death. “He was angry about Justin’s death. He told u
s—” She repeated the conversation they’d had the day before in front of McClucken’s hardware store. “One thing he said that I hadn’t thought much about but that seems strange now, in retrospect, since no one has said for a fact that the equipment was tampered with while in the shed . . .”
“What’s that?” Ben leaned forward.
“He spoke as if it were a fact that someone had definitely gone into the shed during the night. There wasn’t any doubt in his words.”
“That was yesterday?” Ben asked. “The police need to hear that.”
Sam agreed. “Horace didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was never trivial, always interesting. He didn’t see much with those old eyes, but that didn’t keep him from knowing everything that went on around him.”
Izzy smiled sadly. “That’s for sure. One day I came up behind him and he greeted me by name without turning around. It was my perfume, he said. He used to buy L’Air du Temps for his wife. He said I was the only ‘regular’ on the beach who wore that kind, and he seemed happy about that. I think sweet Red taught him the fine art of seeing through scent.”
Sam’s head dropped as if Izzy’s words punched him into remembering something important. “Sweet Red,” he whispered to himself. He looked over at Izzy and covered her hand with his. His fingers wound around hers, holding them tight.
“Horace doesn’t have any family, Iz. None. Sweet Red, you said? Well, he is sweet. And he was upset, a mess. Imagine, being there all night or for however long, with his master still as stone, not responding to his nudging wet nose. . . .”
Nell leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Sam, you didn’t. . . .”
Everyone stared at Sam, then turned and looked at Izzy.
Izzy’s head spun around. She looked at Sam, her eyes locking into his.
“Hey, Iz,” Sam said, “I should have talked to you. . . .”
Izzy lifted one hand to his face, then caressed his cheek. She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips. Long and hard. When she finally pulled away, she said to anyone who was listening, her eyes never leaving Sam’s, “Do you know that Red once saved a little girl from drowning? I will buy him the softest dog bed I can find. Made of down feathers, if possible.”
Sam released the air trapped in his lungs and wrapped his arms around her tightly.
The vet was checking him out, he told her. They could pick him up early next week.
“So . . . ,” Ben said, showing some relief himself, having been complicit in the adoption decision. “Back to Horace. I agree, he’s an unlikely murderer. But the old man actually did know a lot about scuba equipment. He used to be a diver himself, years ago. Jerry said that’s why they lived in that little house near the water. And why he stayed. Reminded him of the old days. He loved to watch the divers. So as far as knowing how to mess up someone’s equipment goes, Horace could probably have done that with his eyes closed.”
“And in addition, there was a scuba equipment book on his kitchen table, Jerry said. He had turned down pages on descriptions of the cylinders and valves,” Sam added. “They took it in for evidence.”
“So, what,” Cass said, leaning close, “they think Horace killed Justin, then died of remorse?”
“Or just died,” Ben said. “He was old, maybe had a heart condition. They don’t know yet.”
“Well, we all know it would be a huge relief for the town if Horace Stevenson turns out to be the murderer,” Birdie said. “It would tie everything up very nicely, complete with bow.” But her voice expressed great certainty that this would not, indeed, be the case.
The whistling screech of the microphone being tested broke into the conversation, and Willow joined their blanket, the black-haired fiber artist folding herself down onto it with the agility of a gymnast. “The show’s about to begin,” she said, her back as straight as a ballerina’s and her eyes bright, focused on the man at the microphone who had become very important in her life over the past months.
The park area was filled with people. Kids and dogs ran freely and small boats dropped their anchors in the harbor to listen. Jane and Ham Brewster came over and sat next to Willow, taking beers from the cooler and chips from the basket Danny passed around.
Nell nudged Ben and pointed toward one of the park benches where Janie and Tommy Porter sat together, their bodies pressed close, their eyes on each other. “That’s good to see,” she whispered.
“Where’s Gabby?” Willow asked, scanning the crowd. “She usually comes into the gallery on Saturdays, but I haven’t seen her all day.”
Birdie was puzzled. “I assumed she was with you.”
Willow shook her head no. “But I know she’s met a bunch of kids her age over at the yacht club and at her knitting class. They all think Gabby is famous.”
“She is,” her grandmother said.
The boom of Pete’s voice came over the loudspeakers, quieting the crowd. He introduced Merry Jackson on the keyboard, who flipped her long blond braid in the air as the crowd cheered and whistled. The owner of the Artist’s Palate became transformed when she walked onstage, leaving her business persona behind. More shouts and claps greeted ponytailed Andy Risso’s drumroll. Songs for young and old, Pete promised, and they’d begin with a medley of old covers. Soon the gazebo and the green were rocking with “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “American Pie,” “I Love Rock and Roll,” and a whole collection of sixties and seventies music that had people swaying and Frisbees soaring across the grass.
The sky was nearly dark when Pete stood up at the microphone again and quieted the crowd. “Folks,” he said, “we’ll be taking a short break after the next number.” He held out his arms dramatically. “But wait—don’t move yet. Those Porta Potties can wait. We have something very special for you tonight. The Fractured Fish is proud to introduce to you a sensational new artist with a voice that will wrap around your souls.”
Andy began a low rumble on the drum, Merry trilled her fingers up and down the keyboard, and Pete grabbed his guitar and turned toward the steps of the gazebo. “Introducing. . . . our very own . . . Gabrielle Marietti!”
The crowd cheered as a grinning Gabby, a cowboy hat taming her wild black hair, ran up the gazebo steps. She grinned at Pete, then searched the crowd, finally finding Birdie. With a tip of her cowboy hat in her nonna’s direction, she began belting out the lyrics to “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys,” joined by Merry on the chorus, with Andy keeping the rhythm on his drums and Pete’s guitar filling in the rest. They were a dynamic quartet, pulling the crowd to their feet.
Gabby’s voice was rich and clear. Only the expression on her face and the gleeful young body were signs that the voice belonged to a ten-year-old.
Nell looked over at Birdie as Gabby sang.
Her complete surprise had given way to another, more intense emotion: her love for this child who had dropped into her life with the suddenness of spring rain. She wiped away a tear and sat as straight as her small decades-old body allowed.
A short distance from the gazebo, sitting on a bench, Harold and Ella Sampson reflected Birdie’s emotion, their faces beaming as if they had given birth to this child themselves. Ella clutched a tissue in her hand while her body swayed back and forth to the music.
The crowd began clapping along, which only added fuel to Gabby’s performance. When the song finally ended, she grabbed her hat and swooped it low, her body bending until her head nearly touched the floor. And then she finished her act in pure ten-year-old fashion by throwing her arms around Pete the guitarist until he nearly toppled over backward.
In the next minute Gabby flew off the gazebo, across the grass, and raced toward Birdie, her cowboy hat back on her head, her face alive with expectation.
“Well, Nonna? Whattaya think? How’d I do?”
Birdie’s voice was choked, her eyes moist, as she hugged her close.
“So, where did you learn to sing like that, young lady?” Ben asked.
Gabby pulled away from Birdie and giggle
d. Then she pointed to the band members, now chugging cold water beside the stage. “And Tyler helped, too.” She pointed over to Tyler Gibson and Kevin Sullivan, standing next to the gazebo, talking to the band members. “They both took off work tonight just to hear me sing. Here’s what happened. You know how I sing all the time? Well, the other day I was down at the harbor fishing with Tyler and Kevin and they heard me singing. They were egging me on, but it was fun. We didn’t catch anything that day, but they said they didn’t care because we had a great time and they loved my singing, especially the old Beatles songs, like ‘Yellow Submarine.’ And so Tyler told Pete about it, and Pete told Merry and Andy, and then they invited me to hang out with them while they practiced one day, and well . . . well, the rest is history!” She jumped up and waved wildly at Kevin and Tyler.
The two men worked their way through the patchwork of blankets and chairs to Gabby’s side. “Well, if it isn’t the amazing Ms. Marietti,” Tyler said, drawing more giggles from the freshly minted star as he and Kevin congratulated her with high fives.
“I hear you helped start Gabby on her road to stardom,” Birdie said to Tyler.
Tyler laughed. “This little gal did it all herself. Kevin and I just listened.”
Soon Gabby drifted off to enjoy her new fame, and Tyler crouched down on the blanket beside Birdie and Nell. “I heard about old man Stevenson. He was a friend of Grams and Gramps. She’s upset.” He nodded over at Ben and Sam, who were talking to some neighbors. “She said Sam and Ben found him.”
As dispatcher, Esther Gibson was always the first to get the calls. But she was also discreet in what was passed along. If she’d told her grandson, it meant the news of Horace’s death was general knowledge.
“Horace was a sweet man,” Birdie said.
“Yeah. I remember him from when I was a kid. He lived down there near Paley’s Cove, right?”
Nell nodded.
“Was it a heart attack?” Tyler asked.
Ben turned toward the conversation. “He was in his eighties. So that’s always the first consideration.”
Angora Alibi Page 15
