Patterns in the Sand

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “I’m saying that someone else killed Aidan. And that Billy either accidentally fell off the end of that dock or . . .”

  She was relieved that Harriet persisted in her pursuit of needles and saved Nell from finishing the sentence. Or . . . or what, for heaven’s sake? What had she intended to say?

  Izzy appeared at her side and nudged her into the back room. “I don’t know if I can get away right now. Will you and Willow be okay?”

  A group of women was sitting around the table with coffee, yarn, and a dozen half-finished chemo hats in front of them and Izzy nodded in their direction.

  “I need to help a few of the beginning knitters.”

  Before going their separate ways early that morning, Willow had reminded Nell and Izzy that she had the keys to Aidan’s house.

  Standing beside her, Brendan had insisted he would go with her. She shouldn’t be facing this by herself.

  Nell and Izzy agreed that they would go, too, though Brendan made it clear they’d be fine with just the two of them. But Nell insisted. The flux of emotions that Willow was experiencing would only be intensified when she saw her father’s home for the fist time. And the more distractions, the better.

  “That’s fine. Brendan is going to go, too.”

  “He’s been a surprise light in all this. He seems to brighten Willow’s days.”

  Nell nodded. “I don’t know what we’ll do other than poke around a little. But at least Willow won’t be alone. The house is hers now, after all, and she needs to take this first step. And then, in time, discover there what she needs to discover.”

  Nell met Willow at a small tea shop that had recently opened on Canary Road. It had two tables inside and two out on the street. In the summer months people sipped iced tea at the small tables, and in colder weather, hot chowder would be served up with the tea to hungry artists and art lovers. Small teapots decorated the inside shelves and the tables were old, with small, uneven chairs. It reminded Nell of a dollhouse, and she decided the first time she saw it that it wasn’t a place for the Bens and Sams in her life—they would surely break something.

  But Polly Farrell, the new owner, brewed amazing tea, and the crumpets were moist and flavorful.

  When Nell walked up she saw Willow through the window, standing at the counter ordering fresh raspberry tea for the two of them.

  Outside, Rebecca Marks sat at a table by herself. Her elbows were on the tabletop and her head was balanced on her hands, as if the support were needed to hold it in place.

  “Hello, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca looked up, surprised, it seemed to Nell, to hear a voice.

  Nell smiled at the attractive woman in the bright turquoise sundress. Handblown beads, strung on a narrow cord, were looped around her neck and caught the fading sunlight. But her eyes, usually bright and lined like those of a model on a magazine cover, were half closed.

  “I don’t often see you here in Canary Cove at this time of day.”

  “I’m meeting someone.” Nell nodded toward the shop’s interior.

  From inside the store, Willow spotted Nell through the window and waved that she’d be out in a minute.

  “You’re meeting her,” Rebecca said, following the exchange with tired-looking eyes.

  “Willow,” Nell said.

  “Yes, Aidan’s forgotten daughter. It makes one wonder what else he forgot.”

  “Are you all right, Rebecca?”

  “I will be fine. I have the artists’ curse.”

  “Oh?”

  “Insomnia. But Ellen swears I do my best work at three a.m., so I guess it works out okay in the long run.”

  “But it must make the next day quite gruesome.”

  “Sometimes. Today’s not bad. Ellen is helping Jane out at the council, but we have plenty of help in the gallery, and I’m taking it easy. Doc Hamilton helps me out if I must get a full night’s sleep. A little bit of Nembutal does wonders when I need it.”

  Nell nodded.

  “I seem to have misplaced the magic pills, though—hence my sleepless night. But no matter. I’ll be fine. On to more interesting things. Where are you and Aidan’s daughter off to?” Rebecca’s tone was flat, clearly making small talk without much interest. “It still baffles my mind that she found him like she did.”

  “I know you didn’t like Aidan, Rebecca,” Nell said, not quite sure where the conversation was going, but uncomfortable with Rebecca’s tone. She hoped it was caused by the lack of sleep. “But I guess I’m not sure why.”

  Rebecca took the question and seemed to play with an answer before she spoke again. “I don’t like it when people try to control everything. Aidan did that with the arts council. He irritated everyone, always seeming to know the answers to things. Ellen, of course, had to go to the council meetings because she’s the only one around here with good business sense—myself included—and she helped with that side of things. I know sometimes Aidan put pressure on her, too, being rigid about reports and insisting that things be done his ways. It didn’t bother Ellen much, but that’s because she wouldn’t let it bother her—that’s just how she is. But Aidan irritated others, I know. And he had a fit when D. J. Delaney suggested an inn on some of that unkempt land Aidan owned. I think D.J. would have outright killed Aidan if he could have.”

  “But you and Aidan were close not so long ago.”

  Rebecca laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. She shrugged. “Aidan was too—I don’t know—too cerebral for me I guess. He wasn’t that much fun, not really. And he had secrets. Take this daughter for example . . .”

  “Whom he might not have known about.”

  Rebecca’s perfectly plucked eyebrows lifted over her tired eyes. “Oh, he knew about her. At least he suspected there might be a child, whatever sex it might be. He told me as much. I think he even tried to find her once.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rebecca blew off the question. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. He got drunk one night and talked a little about it. I was only half listening but I knew some girl had said he got her pregnant. That much I know I heard.

  “And my relationship with Aidan was complicated, if that’s what you’re interested in, just like he was complicated. But he couldn’t deal with it. So it ended. And once it was over I realized he hadn’t been a good choice from the beginning.”

  Good choice? An odd word to use, Nell thought, unless one was picking out fresh tuna from Hennessey’s seafood stand.

  She was relieved when Willow walked through the door, carefully balancing full cups of iced tea.

  Willow handed Nell a tall cup.

  Rebecca had gone back to reading a magazine, seemingly uninterested in further conversation, and didn’t look up when Nell and Willow greeted each other. They’d only gone a few feet when Nell realized there was a topic that she and Rebecca hadn’t addressed.

  “Rebecca,” she said, turning around and raising her voice above the whirr of a scooter racing by. “I’m so sorry about Billy Sobel. Another sad loss for Canary Cove.”

  Rebecca looked up. “I suppose Ellen is the one who needs your condolences on that front. She and Billy have known each other a long time. She’s quite upset. Me? I thought Billy was a poor excuse for an art dealer and should have stuck to gambling. He didn’t know fine art from a hole in the ground, in my opinion.” And with that, she lowered her head and continued to turn the pages of her magazine.

  “Interesting lady,” Willow murmured under her breath.

  Nell attempted a smile and an excuse. “Well, you know artists.”

  Willow looked down the street at the Fishtail Gallery. A carved wooden fish with an enormous tail hung from two iron chains above the locked door. It creaked slightly in the breeze.

  “I wish I did,” she said softly.

  Nell put her arm around Willow and felt a slight quiver pass through her body. “You’ll get to know him, Willow. And I suspect you’ll be enriched by what you learn.”

  Later, Nell wou
ld tell Ben about the conversation and confess that she had no idea why she had said those words. But as soon as she had, she believed them with a ferocity that defied contradiction.

  “Is Brendan coming?” Nell asked as they crossed the road.

  “He’ll meet us. He was going to sneak out early—he’s helping Jane and Ham today, then has to check in on Natalie. He kind of feels he needs to keep an eye on her.”

  Of course. Brendan might have gotten to know Natalie better than any of them, working in the shop and helping Billy with paintings and paperwork. And it was a good thing there’d be a strong young man for her to lean on.

  Although gallery doors were open and people milled about in the cool interiors of the shops, Nell sensed the melancholy just below the surface. Canary Cove was sad. Tourists wouldn’t notice, but the artists and shop owners felt the burden of loss. It was palpable. Billy’s death and the awful circumstances surrounding it were beginning to penetrate the neighborhood.

  Aidan’s shop was dark, the door locked, no lights peeking through the imaginative creatures in the display window. Nell and Willow walked past the shop and turned into the narrow lane beside it, walking back toward the garden and house beyond. Aidan’s small Jeep was pulled off the alley, hugging the side of the studio. A flagstone pathway connected the studio and shop to the garden, and beyond that, another pathway connected the garden to Aidan’s home.

  Beside the home and on up the hill grew the thick stand of pines and oak trees that just a day before Billy and Ellen Marks—with Birdie close behind—had strolled through.

  Willow checked a large round watch on her wrist. “Brendan should be here. . . .”

  Nell and Willow looked down toward the Brewsters’ studio. There was traffic in and out the front door, but no sign of Brendan. Willow pulled out her cell and pressed in a number.

  Nell took that moment to walk the pathway into the small garden, still lovely in spite of a lack of pruning and pinching. The recent rain had deepened the color of the burgundy knockout roses, and the white rose of Sharon blooms were brilliant against the deep mossy green of the small magnolias. A lone Japanese maple spread its branches over the stone bench where Aidan Peabody had taken his last breath.

  “Brendan’s not coming,” Willow said, following Nell into the garden. “He’s over at the Sobel Gallery, trying to put things in order, I guess.”

  Willow slipped her phone into the pocket of her cropped slacks and shrugged. “He wanted us to wait until he could come. Brendan thinks we can’t quite manage this by ourselves, silly man. I’ve been without a man in my life forever. And I manage just fine.”

  Aidan’s home had been a vacation home before he bought the land years before. He’d immediately winterized and updated it, added skylights and fresh paint, and Nell loved the cozy, clean spaces he’d created. She’d been there a half dozen times, most often for pre- or post-exhibit gatherings when he’d open his doors and the guests would flow from home to garden to studio.

  But today there was no music playing, no laughter and flow of food. No handsome Aidan Peabody greeting friends at the door.

  Nell watched his daughter unlock the door to his home and, with a firm step, enter.

  Nell followed just behind, taking her lead from Willow.

  Willow paused on the hardwood floor and looked around. From this vantage point, you could see through the whole house—into a small neat bedroom on the east side of the house, a den just to the left, and the entire back of the house was the living and cooking area—wide-open with windows that opened up to the woods behind.

  The house was simple and clean, with friends’ paintings hanging on the white walls; the kitchen shelves were open and filled with pottery plates, cups, pots, and pans. Nell recognized some of Jane’s pots, and a watercolor of Ham’s hanging above a small fireplace. And on a wall of shelves—with one standing boldly out in the open—were Aidan Peabody’s wooden creations, forbidding anyone to get very far into the room without smiling.

  “I guess he couldn’t be all bad,” Willow said softly, walking up to a red-lipped sea nymph posing near the back windows.

  Nell held her thoughts to herself. No, he wasn’t all bad, Willow. Maybe he wasn’t bad at all. And Nell hoped against hope that exploring his life through his home and his friends would teach her who her father truly was.

  “I think I’ll just wander,” Willow said, and Nell agreed that that was a good plan. “There’s no hurry, dear,” she said. “We have tomorrow and the next day and more after that.”

  In truth, she had no idea what Willow’s plans would be. There’d been no official report on Aidan’s murder, only a day’s worth of suppositions and assumptions pointing the finger at Billy Sobel. It made people more comfortable, Nell supposed. It was a neat package that they could get their arms around. Both deaths were accounted for. Life could go on.

  But what about Natalie Sobel’s life? Nell wondered, walking into the small den. What did she have left? Memories of Billy ruined by rumors. A gallery full of artists’ work that she probably cared little about. The James paintings, of course, would at least provide her with a financial cushion. But she suspected that what really mattered to Natalie Sobel was Billy. Her Billy was gone.

  One wall in Aidan’s den was filled from floor to ceiling with books, and near the front windows was an old library desk. The one flat drawer was askew, a remnant of the police search, Nell supposed, although Tommy Porter prided himself on making sure nothing had been left a mess after a search. Nell walked behind the desk, where a small wooden filing cabinet stood unobtrusively, its two drawers also open a crack. Inside, papers were tossed around, files shoved back into place hastily, not what she would have imagined Aidan’s desk to look like.

  She remembered the mention in Mary Pisano’s column of seeing someone around Aidan’s house. Billy? Would he have had reason to come in here? And what would he have been looking for? She renewed her intention to talk to Mary Pisano about that night—she could probably shed some light on it. She seemed to have a firm grasp on the goings on around Canary Cove.

  A tall carved cabinet in the shape of a fisherman stood guard near an easy chair, and Nell could almost picture Aidan Peabody, his feet up on the leather footstool, reading through the many books on his shelf.

  She scanned the titles, impressed with the breadth of subjects—from the history of watercolor to deep-sea fishing and sailing. He had books on Sea Harbor and the granite quarries. Books on American crafts, on framing art, and on notable artists. There were several books on his desk and she picked up the top one. She’d seen the same book in Archie’s bookstore window—a book on New England artists—but when she had gone to buy one, Archie was sold out. People are more interested in James, Archie explained, now that we have paintings right here.

  Nell opened the book and looked for familiar names, pleased to see a section on Ham’s watercolors and Jane’s amazing pottery. Sam Perry was mentioned in a section on photography, his arresting photos of the working fishermen of Gloucester filling several pages. The biggest section was on Robert James, the reclusive artist from Maine, his lovely watercolors of ocean scenes and Maine sun-sets now a collector’s boon. Aidan had been reading it, she could tell. They had the same habit of making notes in the columns, underlining things of particular interest, and taking a yellow marker to special sections.

  Messing up the book, Ben would say.

  Nell smiled and set the book on the corner of the desk, along with several others that she knew would interest Ben. They were Willow’s now, but she was sure she wouldn’t mind Nell and Ben borrowing them for a short while. She’d read the section on James and at least be more informed for the exhibit, if indeed there would still be one.

  “His house is nice,” Willow said, wandering into the den from the family area. “It’s not what I expected.” She sat down in the leather chair delicately, as if it might protest if she were too rough. “I look around and I want to know what he thought while he lived in this house. D
id he think of me? What did he know of me? Why didn’t he ever come back to find me?” Willow leaned her head back against the cushions and scanned the wall of books.

  “Your dad was a scholar,” Nell said. “Did you know that? He knew more about art than anyone in Sea Harbor.”

  Willow nodded. “My mom never went to college.”

  “You mentioned that. But she lived in Madison when your dad was a student?”

  “I always used to think she was the student—she told me as much. I guess she wanted me to think she was a coed, not a small-town runaway. And it worked—from the time I was little, I knew I would go there, too. But if you do the math, my mom was only seventeen when I was born. So sixteen when she got pregnant. Unless she was supersmart, she wasn’t a college student.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “My grandparents wouldn’t talk about it much. But at Grams’ funeral, her friend told me that it broke Grams’ heart when my mom ran away. And they couldn’t find her for almost a year. Then someone saw her in a restaurant in Madison, where she had gotten a job, and called my grandparents.

  “They got in the car and that’s where they found her—a pregnant waitress in a run-down fast-food place.”

  “Did anyone try to contact your father?”

  “The story always fell apart then. He was already gone, my mom said. Or leaving that day. And she’d cry, every time I asked, so I stopped asking. Grams would only say that he was no good. No decent man would get a young girl pregnant. He would burn in hell, she said. And if he came anywhere near them, they’d have the sheriff arrest him for rape.”

  “Did he know about you?”

  Willow shifted in the chair that held her father’s shape and smell and looked over at Nell. “I don’t know. I’m hoping he’ll tell me.”

  Chapter 24

  It was dark when Nell and Willow got back home, and Nell still had to take food over to Natalie’s. Since no funeral service was planned, she was receiving guests at her house, Birdie had told Nell—and Birdie’s suspicion was that if there was going to be any food or drink to greet the guests, they were going to have to bring it.