Patterns in the Sand

by Sally Goldenbaum

  The toasts continued as the evening sky turned dark. Glasses were raised again and again, and Nell listened with half an ear, observing the crowd as people came and went.

  Billy was quiet tonight, Nell noticed, but his bride, Natalie, dressed in a short fitted skirt and a gauzy blouse with a scalloped collar that curled around her neck, stood at the microphone and gushed about their friend Aidan—a surprising toast since Natalie had been in Sea Harbor less than a year. Nell watched Billy as Billy watched his wife. But his thoughts seemed elsewhere and his round face was a blend of emotions Nell couldn’t quite read. She hoped whatever bone he and Aidan had picked recently was forgotten now. He kept his eyes focused on his wife, his head inclined slightly, and his fingers fiddling with a thick gold chain around his neck.

  “Did you get enough to eat?” Hank Jackson asked the group a while later, pulling a chair up to the table and squeezing in between Birdie and Nell. “Y’know even this menu has Aidan written all over it. Fresh shrimp. Calamari and oysters, brats and beer. Aidan could never decide if he was a New Englander or a cheese-head.”

  “Cheesehead?”

  “Yeah—remember? He went to Madison, studied all that history stuff about art. He used to show off, sitting here with a beer, challenging the other guys on all the fine points, like who painted what, and what style, and when and all that crap. Guy was brilliant.”

  Ham laughed at the memories. “You’re right. He was a bit of a show-off, but he knew his art.”

  “But old mother ocean lured him back here as soon as he had that degree in hand. He had sea fever, he used to say. Born of the sea.”

  Birdie put her napkin on the table. “We are all stuffed to the gills, Hank. You throw a very nice funeral.” She patted his hand. “Aidan would have loved this party.”

  Hank nodded in agreement. “Say, where’s the ‘willow-the-wisp’ who landed in your window, Iz? I haven’t met her yet, though Merry pointed her out to me yesterday when we were over at the beach. She was running as fast as a deer, her little legs pumping like I don’t know what. Made you wonder what she was running from.” He looked over at Nell. “My fleeting glimpse made me think she had spirit.”

  “I think she probably does. She’s an artist. Fiber art,” Nell said.

  “So why isn’t she here with all the artists? She hung around the cove this past weekend, Merry said, poring over that little tourist map we have, asking people questions, wandering all over the place. If she’s an artist, maybe she was looking for a gallery?”

  “You mean to exhibit her work?”

  Hank shrugged. “What do I know? I’m not an artist. I just keep them fat and happy.” He laughed at himself and then looked out over the crowd to make sure no one was waving down a waiter or had an empty pitcher on his table. “But Merry says she checked out every nook and cranny in the cove.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but who knows? I’ll ask her. I’m sure we could find someone interested in showing her work in the cove.”

  Izzy leaned into the conversation, propping an elbow on the table. “It’s a good idea, but I don’t think it’ll happen. Willow made it pretty clear she wasn’t going to hang around long. It’s funny, though, because I think she loves the ocean. She talks about it as if . . . I don’t know, as if this is what she’s been looking for.” She shook her head and frowned. “I’m not making much sense, am I? She told us why she came, and that was just to visit the shop. And then move on.”

  “She came all this way just to talk at the Seaside Studio?” Cass asked. “Weird. Not that the Studio isn’t worth it—” She lifted one dark brow until she drew a smile from Izzy.

  “She’s just young and carefree,” Birdie said. “She wants to see the world. A free spirit, like our Sam here.” Birdie patted Sam’s tan arm. Sam’s camera and photo shoots took him across the globe, but in recent months he’d come back to Sea Harbor more and more frequently. “He’s become a homing pigeon,” Birdie had suggested to Nell. “And maybe home means being where Izzy is?” The thought was not an unfavorable one, not to Ben or Nell or the knitting group who worked diligently at planning one another’s lives.

  “Young and carefree?” Sam laughed. “Not so much, Birdie. And I’m actually about to become a homeowner for the first time in my forty years. How’s that for trashing your young and fly-by-night theory?”

  “You found a place?” Nell said. “Wonderful, Sam.”

  “Yes, it’s that,” Sam said, wrapping an arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “Izzy here helped me. She found it entertaining to find a place I couldn’t resist or afford.”

  “Just like my Merry over there,” Hank said, inclining his head toward his young wife. Merry stood near the outside bar, her blond ponytail waving as she greeted guests and bid others good night. Merry was a lovable live wire who loved the good life—and was determined to make Hank provide it for her.

  “A Realtor friend found the place,” Izzy said. “You’ll love it. It’s set back a little from the beach, but not much, and it’s perfect for Sam. Airy, open, simple.”

  “I won’t even touch why open, airy, and simple are perfect for me,” Sam said. “But in spite of Izzy’s description, it’s nice. Spacious, a room I can use for a studio. Skylights. And a deck big enough for all of us to watch the sunset with a Ben Endicott martini in hand. I’ll let you know when Izzy says I’m settled. Right now a couple of Adirondack chairs and a mattress mark the spot.”

  “There’s Ben,” Birdie said, breaking in. She pointed toward the staircase and frowned. “And he’s not alone.”

  Nell peered over the tops of heads to the deck steps. “Who’s with him?”

  “The world. He’s carrying it on his shoulders.”

  Nell stood and saw then what Birdie saw: the lean to Ben’s broad shoulders, the slow stride, and the incline of his head. He looked weary. Shopworn, as Birdie would say.

  Over here, Nell said silently.

  And as if she’d shouted the words across the sea, Ben spotted her and made his way around a milling group of people, thinning now as some folks headed to their cars or bicycles, making their way back home.

  Ben still wore a jacket and tie, signs of his late-afternoon meeting. He sat down and shrugged out of the jacket, slipping it over the back of the chair. He tugged on his tie until the knot loosened, then looked around the table, offering a tired smile. “It’s been a day,” he said.

  Sam pushed a scotch and water in front of him. “Looks like this might suit you better. You okay, Ben?”

  Ben nodded. “Sure, Sam, thanks. Life is never simple, you know? Even in death.”

  “Your meeting was about Aidan?”

  “Yes. I had asked the police about a will because Aidan had asked me the other night to meet him to go over it. They found one at his place, and the chief wanted to talk to me about it. It’s a murder case, even though we don’t want to think about that part of it. But wills are important in investigations. ”

  “And?” Nell searched Ben’s still-handsome face. The shadow of a day-old beard darkened his chin and his chestnut brown eyes held concern, though Nell couldn’t intuit the source, not like she sometimes could.

  “It’s not a secret,” Ben said. “A reporter got ahold of it, too. You’ll read about it in the paper soon, I’m sure.”

  Sam leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. “Aidan owned the gallery,” Sam said. “But I never got the feeling there was much more.”

  “The land is worth a lot, Sam, as well as the two buildings. And Aidan was frugal. I don’t think he ever spent a dime except on his beloved Hinckley. He was a smart investor, too. There’s a sizable estate.”

  “But that isn’t what’s causing the furrow in your forehead.” Nell looked at Ben in a way she had that prevented him from looking away.

  He wrapped an arm around the back of her chair, his hand dropping to her shoulder and his thumb gently rubbing the back of her neck. “No,” he said. “Frankly, I’m not sure how worried to be.”

 
; “Whom did Aidan leave it to?” Izzy asked. “He’s had lots of relationships, so I don’t think there’d be an inheritance heading in that direction.”

  “Maybe the Arts Foundation?” Cass wrapped her hands around a frosty mug of beer. “I could see him doing that. He loved this place and the Foundation does good things.”

  “Or Father Northcutt’s causes,” Birdie suggested.

  Ben shook his head. “No, none of the above.”

  He shifted in his chair and took a long swallow of scotch, then set the squat glass down in front of him and stared at it as if it were a crystal ball.

  “Here’s the scoop,” he said, lifting his eyes to his circle of friends. “Aidan Peabody left every last dime—his studio, his gallery, his sailboat, his art collection. The cove land, and that noisy old Jeep he drove around town. He left every inch of it to Izzy’s trespasser, to our houseguest. He left it all to Willow Adams.”

  Chapter 9

  “Willow!”

  The single word rose up into the warm evening sky, propelled by an orchestra of voices. It was followed almost immediately by a barrage of questions, most of which Ben had no answer for, especially the biggest question of all—Why Willow?

  “We aren’t sure why, and we called around, but didn’t find Willow, so we couldn’t get any clarification from her. She told someone she was going running with Brendan, so I drove along the beach, but it’s pitch-black tonight, and I couldn’t see much of anything. It’s hot enough to fry eggs on the sand, so I presumed they gave up and went off to drink beer or something.”

  “Did you check the guesthouse?” Nell asked quietly. Willow surely wouldn’t leave, not without a good-bye. But suddenly the ominous thought caused Nell’s heart to skip a beat.

  “We think alike, m’love. Her things are still here.”

  Nell breathed normally again. “There is probably an easy explanation for this, a mistake, most likely. Willow didn’t even know Aidan. She said as much when I suggested she come with us tonight. ‘Why should I celebrate the life of a stranger?’ were her words. I’m sure it’s a mistake.”

  “Maybe.” Ben swallowed the rest of the scotch and water in a single gulp and set the glass down on the table. The ice clanked against the sides. “Maybe not.”

  They all knew that Ben’s friend Chief Jerry Thompson was anxious to put an end to this investigation. And the whole force was hungry for a solid lead. They would jump on this, surely.

  “Well, there’s an explanation,” Birdie said. “There always is. Willow will fill us in, I’m sure.”

  “When we find her,” Ben said.

  “She isn’t lost, Ben. She went running, that’s all. And then, just as you said, they probably got a drink or a sandwich.”

  Nell’s words were slightly clipped. The tone in Ben’s voice bothered her, as if Willow had done something wrong by being the recipient of someone’s will. “Why is there any concern, supposing this inheritance is legitimate? Aidan always has supported new artists, just like you two do.” She looked over at Jane and Ham. “Maybe he saw Willow’s work and liked it—Aidan did random things all the time.”

  “You’re right,” Ham said. “Aidan has helped other young people. But . . .”

  Izzy jumped in. “This could be a wonderful thing for Willow.”

  “Yes, one could think that,” Ben said.

  “But,” Izzy said. “Uncle Ben, I can read you like a book. There’s a huge but at the end of that sentence. And I don’t like it a single bit.”

  “I want to talk to her, that’s all. Before . . . well, soon.”

  “Before what, Ben?”

  “Before the police do. I’m all for Willow inheriting money. She looks like she doesn’t have much. But when an unexpected person inherits this much money, people wonder. Especially the police. We all have to face it. Someone killed Aidan Peabody.”

  Ben paused and looked around the table at each of them, and then he went on. “The suspicion and rumors percolating over this murder are bad for every aspect of life in Sea Harbor—business and beach living, and most certainly selling art in Canary Cove. This all means the police are very anxious to find out who killed Aidan so the town can be relieved of this burden and move on. And whether you like it or not, whether you agree with the police or not, inheriting every last dime Aidan Peabody had is certainly a motive for murder that they can’t ignore.”

  The group fell silent. From the corners of the deck, large industrial fans hummed into the silence and pushed warm air across the grim faces. In the distance, waves lapped languorously against the rocks and the sound of late-night vessels pierced through the hot, muggy air.

  Nell peeled her knit top from her damp skin. “So the police think Willow killed Aidan Peabody?” Nell said. Her voice was flat. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  “They think it’s a possibility, and they’re anxious to talk to her,” Ben said.

  “Well, good. Hopefully they’ll talk to Willow, realize she had no earthly reason for killing a man she didn’t know, that the will was some kind of a mistake, and that she’s here to talk about yarn art. And that will be that.”

  Jane started to speak up. “I think Willow knew him,” she began.

  But the blinking of lights brought their attention away from the conversation, and they looked up to see Hank waving at them from behind the deck bar, a dishrag in his hands. “Sorry, folks. Time for this body to close up shop and hit the hay.”

  “Thanks, Hank.” Ben, Ham, and Sam pulled bills from their pockets and stuck them under the salt and pepper shakers as the others pushed out chairs and picked up purses. Sam gathered the remaining glasses and carried them over to the bar.

  “No problem,” Hank said. “You folks are my favorites, and I’d let the whole bunch of you stay till breakfast if you were enjoying yourselves. But Merry is nudging me from inside. And when the wife is anxious to head home, well, you know how it is.”

  Nell laughed. “You go on home, Hank. We’re as good as gone. We didn’t realize we were closing the place down.”

  “Sounds like you were having a heated discussion?”

  “Anything would seem heated tonight,” Nell said, sidestepping Hank’s question.

  But as they said their good-byes in the parking lot and went off into the night, it wasn’t the heat that pressed down on the group of friends. It was the plethora of questions about a young woman barely large enough to shoulder them.

  Chapter 10

  Nell found sleep difficult.

  Beside her, Ben tossed and turned until the white sheets became tangled around both their limbs and the night air dampened their bodies and bedsheets. Finally, when Ben’s breathing slowed, Nell slipped out of bed and down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  Warm milk never soothed her during restless nights like this, but a cup of lemon balm tea and a few minutes on the deck often brought the sleep that was just beyond her grasp.

  An unexpected northern breeze whistled softly through the pine trees and Nell looked up, watching the slow-motion movement of the heavy branches. Thursday would not be so hot, Nell thought. And that was a good thing. But the day was sure to bring things more difficult to deal with than weather. She slipped down onto a chaise and sipped the tea, willing her mind to settle down.

  There was nothing more to say or do tonight, as Birdie had wisely reminded them. It was late, tomorrow was another day, and by the time the morrow ended, Willow might have straightened out the whole thing.

  Or not.

  The disjointed thoughts—none of which had resolution—became jumbled in Nell’s mind and she willed them to stop. She wanted to sleep. After all, she barely knew this young woman. But they had all somehow connected to Willow in a visceral kind of way. Birdie, Izzy, and Cass had felt it, too. And with a certainty that defied reason, Nell knew that Willow had not murdered their friend.

  She looked down through the trees at the quiet cottage. The lights were out, the blinds pulled. Willow was probably asleep. Nell hoped she ha
d known to push the windows up to cool the small bedroom.

  It was odd. She didn’t know where Willow came from or even why she had hitchhiked to Cape Ann, other than to visit the Seaside Knitting Studio to talk about her art. And now that seemed a frivolous reason—one that wouldn’t bear the weight of what had happened since she arrived.

  All she knew was that Willow was an artist—a talented one—and that she had enormous eyes that looked carefully into your own when you talked to her. That was it. And yet the protective instinct had grabbed all four knitters, and Nell suspected Willow would not walk out of their lives quite as quietly as she had come in—asleep in a storefront window.

  The lemon tea slid down her throat easily, and the stillness of the night seeped into her body, easing away the turmoil of the day. In the near distance, waves lapped against the smooth shore of Sandpiper Beach. Night sounds run deepest, she thought, sinking into the blackness around her.

  A sudden sound startled Nell from her musings, and she pressed against the back of the chair, peering into the darkness. A twig, probably, broken by the breeze. Or, more likely, some broken branches that she and Ben had yet to clean out had fallen from the giant pines.

  Nell took a sip of tea and settled back into the chair. One thing Nell rarely felt in Sea Harbor was fear. She might be anxious if Izzy had a problem with the store, or worried before Ben went in for a doctor’s appointment. She’d be concerned if a neighbor or friend was having personal problems, and she experienced joy and delight and happiness of some sort most of the time. But she was almost never afraid.