“A penny for your thoughts,” Birdie said, coming up beside her.
“Birdie,” Nell said, startled for a moment, “you could be a cat burglar.”
“Certainly an option. But I already have far more money than I need, so it wouldn’t be a sensible choice. Now why are you standing here daydreaming?”
“I have a head stuffed full of puzzles, I guess.” Nell shifted the large bag hanging for her shoulder and hugged Natalie, who came in on Birdie’s heels. She motioned toward two empty couches along the side of the shop. “Shall we?”
It was quiet and almost empty in the tea shop now—but it wouldn’t be the case when the lunch crowd drifted in. This was a good time to have come, and their tea order and a plate of cinnamon bread appeared almost instantly.
Nell settled into the couch across from Birdie and Natalie.
Natalie’s eyes were still slightly swollen from crying, but her makeup was perfect. She wore a pink silk blouse and white slacks, pressed and fluid. The diamond necklace that Billy had given her for their eight-month anniversary circled her neck—and her hair was perfect, cut and styled and teased into place. The color was deeper than usual, and Nell noticed several highlights that ran from her hairline to the tips.
Most of us, Nell supposed, felt better when we looked better. Perhaps that was Natalie’s beauty-day motivation.
Billy’s cousin had come to be with her, Natalie was telling Birdie. He was close to Billy, even in recent days. Not always such a good influence on each other, in Natalie’s opinion, but he was family. “My days are filled right now—lawyers and phone calls. That sweet Brendan Slattery is a godsend.”
“Is there any more information on the circumstances surrounding Billy’s death?”
“Just what you know. What the papers say. Someone from Jersey.” Her hands flew in the air and the light bounced off her diamond rings. “But no one in Jersey would kill Billy. It makes no sense to me. I don’t think it even makes sense to the police. So Billy gambled a little? Had some business dealings with people the police like to pick on? That doesn’t mean one of them killed him. They liked Billy. And you know what else makes no sense? Why Billy would talk to anyone on that dilapidated old dock.”
“I suppose it was out of the way—private. A lot of places had closed because of the storm and those that were open, like the Gull, wouldn’t have been very private.”
“And it had that little overhang where they could talk out of the rain,” Birdie added practically. She picked up a strand of pink yarn and began a new row.
“If private is what Billy was looking for,” Natalie said, a trifle too loud, “he has a beautiful den at home that I decorated myself just for himself.” Natalie twisted a white lace handkerchief that she’d pulled from her bag.
“I suppose Billy took his cell phone with him,” Nell said, more to herself than out loud. The second phone caller would certainly be of interest.
“It’s swimming with the cod,” Natalie said.
“Do you have any ideas, Natalie? I suppose the police have asked you all this.”
Natalie shook her head slowly. “At first I tried to think of someone. I thought and thought. But I’ve decided it musta been an accident. I think maybe he just drank too much. And then he fell off the end of that rotted old dock. No one would ever hurt him.”
“Yes,” Birdie assured her.
Nell understood why Natalie had come around to the accident thesis. It made sense in a way—Billy was drunk. And he couldn’t swim. And an accident—as tragic as it was—was easier to live with than murder.
But an accident didn’t explain Billy’s bruised hands, which had been perfectly normal an hour before. Ben had wondered if he had fallen on his motorcycle; maybe doing so had crushed a hand. But the police said Billy’s Harley was in pristine condition. An accident also didn’t explain the fact that someone was most probably with him—and could have rescued him if he’d accidentally fallen off the end of the old dock.
“Did anything unusual happen last week?”
“Billy was upset, sure. First the problems with the exhibit, getting the paintings cleaned and ready. And Aidan’s murder. Billy and Aidan didn’t see things eye to eye, but he didn’t want Aidan Peabody dead, no matter what anyone says. Billy didn’t hurt people. And he was a little mad at me, too, I must confess.” Natalie lowered her head, regret showing on her face.
“How so, dear?” Birdie reached over and patted her knee.
Natalie looked up and flapped her hand in the air. “Because I insisted that I be in charge of the bank accounts. But Billy wasn’t doing a good job, and someone needed to step in and put her foot down. Besides, I had ways of getting him to not be so mad.” She smiled coyly.
Nell listened, her mind going in different directions—from Aidan to Billy, from arguments, as best she could tell, that couldn’t hold the weight of murder. She took a bite out of the cinnamon bread and realized suddenly that breakfast had been only coffee, not nearly enough to hold her through the morning. She smiled at the sweet girl behind the counter and suggested they might like a plate of scones as well.
“What about Rebecca?” Birdie asked, twisting on the couch to look into Natalie’s face. Her almost-finished sock lay on her lap.
The mention of Rebecca brought a smile to Natalie Sobel’s sad face. “Rebecca? She’s one for the books, isn’t she? She’s a pretty woman—I will grant you that—but she doesn’t know how to dress. Do you think? Billy knew Rebecca’s uncle from Jersey—a rich old codger. He’s on his deathbed, Billy said. And Rebecca, fair-haired child that she is, is set to inherit a boatload of money if he ever dies. That’s what matters to Rebecca, if you ask me. Money. She was crazy to be spending old man Early’s money before he even died—signing on with D.J. for a fancy house. But she likes nice things, Rebecca does.”
Nell held back a smile. Those were the exact same things Natalie had done—but the similarities seemed to have escaped her. She wondered, briefly, if Natalie knew that before she entered Billy’s life, he had helped the very woman she was chastising. Without Billy’s help a couple years ago, the Lampworks Gallery might still be a glint in Rebecca’s or Ellen’s eye.
“Those things cost money, you know,” Natalie went on, sealing her opinion of Rebecca.
“Maybe they can do those things because the gallery is doing well,” Birdie suggested, her voice low. She hoped Natalie would follow her example. Natalie was being far noisier than the three little boys playing with trucks at the end of the long room.
“Ellen hadn’t ever mentioned an uncle to me,” Nell said. Not that she would have, but a pending inheritance was something that might have found its way into conversation. “I didn’t know they were going to inherit money.”
Natalie shook her head. “Not Ellen. Rebecca. The uncle is an old rich guy, almost dead, Billy said. Very, very set in his ways. Not such a nice man, I gather, but he has more money than Fort Knox. But then, sometimes money comes with strings, and that’s the worst kind. Billy always used to say that.”
“So the uncle was—”
“Is. The old man isn’t dead yet. And Billy told me just last week that the uncle had been sitting up, talking. You just never know, do you? Healthy people fall over dead. Dying people sit up and talk. But should Mr. Early pass, Rebecca will be sitting pretty. Billy’s cousin Jackie will know more. Jackie knows everyone. You’ll meet him.”
“So only Rebecca will inherit his money?”
Nell thought the look Natalie gave her and Birdie held a clear message: It was taking these two bright women way too long to understand the situation.
“Yes, Rebecca will get his money. That’s why they moved up here, to stay out of the way, you know.”
But Nell didn’t know. And she suspected Natalie didn’t know either. Clearly, she was speaking from the medication Doc Hamilton had provided for these stressful days.
“So when did all this happen? This rich uncle . . . ?” Birdie asked.
“When did it happ
en? He was her uncle always, I suppose.” Natalie frowned.
“No, I mean, Billy’s involvement, knowing about this inheritance, all of that.”
“Billy found out about it by accident. He’s known Rebecca since she and Ellen opened their shop. But the name had changed, you know. Ellen was the one who told him about the inheritance, not Rebecca. And then Billy put it together, that August Early was Rebecca’s uncle.” Natalie held out the palm of each hand as she said the names: “Rebecca Early. August Early.
“Ellen and Billy were friends. And when Rebecca started spending money she didn’t have—like that house they were building north of town last year? Well, D.J.—the crook—started demanding payment. Things were tough.”
“Well, your Billy did have a big heart—we all know that.” Birdie smoothed out her sock with her fingertips.
“Way too big sometimes, in my humble opinion.”
“Do you think so, Natalie? I imagine that Billy got pleasure from helping others out.”
“But not so much pleasure when we needed the money ourselves. Do you know how much money he gave away? How much do you think? Guess.”
Nell wasn’t sure that was any of her business, but Natalie continued. “Thousands and thousands and thousands. I found the sheet listing the amounts, the dates.”
“And to people you didn’t know?”
Natalie shrugged. “Who knows if I knew them? Billy wouldn’t tell me names—he said that would invade their privacy. Their confidentiality. I said, ‘what are you now, a priest?’
“He would only tell me why they needed it, for this or that—all great reasons, in Billy’s mind. I insisted he write it all down: the dates, the amounts, and what it was for. And when I got the list, we sat down and we had a very serious talk. Every single one of those people was going to pay Billy back—and soon. I demanded he do that. And if he didn’t do as I asked, I told him, I would leave him. Right then and there. No discussion.”
Natalie’s voice cracked slightly, but she continued, finishing her thought. “So Billy did it—for me, because he loved me. He swore on his mother’s grave that he had contacted every single person—and they were all paying him back. The money was already in the bank—he showed me the statements. People weren’t liking the pressure—it wasn’t Billy’s way to be so strong with them—but it had to be done. Billy wasn’t Santa Claus, after all. And we had our own bills to pay.”
“So everyone paid him back?”
“Everyone but one. A big one, I am very sad to say.”
Nell took a sip of her tea. Billy must have hated pressuring people to pay him back. But Natalie had a point. A loan was a loan, after all. She wondered if any of those debts were paid by his old gambling buddies. It would fit into the police’s hypothesis that it might have been someone from out of town who paid a visit that night.
The waitress slid a plate of scones onto the table along with a stack of napkins and three plates. Nell mouthed her thanks and immediately slipped a scone onto her plate.
“So now you have the distasteful task of collecting the last one.” Nell broke off a corner of the scone with her fork.
Natalie’s face fell. “No. My dear Billy didn’t want to leave that task to me.” But the comment wasn’t one said out of gratefulness. “There won’t be any more collecting. And the $250,000 that hasn’t come in—yes, you heard me, $250,000—will never grace our bank account.”
“What do you mean? You’re Billy’s beneficiary. That includes what people owe him.”
Natalie’s head moved back and forth again. Slowly. Dramatically. One manicured finger lifted in the air and wagged slightly. “No. But that’s what you would think, wouldn’t you? That a man’s wife would be able to get what is due to her?”
“Well, yes.” Nell wouldn’t have worded it quite like that, but that was the gist of it.
“You’re wrong. And this is why you’re wrong. Billy Sobel wrote it into his will that all debts were excused upon his death. Every single solitary one. He showed it to me the day he wrote his new will—right after our wedding. He said it with pleasure, like I would be proud of his generosity. I saw it in black-and-white with my own two eyes. Now what do you think of that?”
Chapter 28
It was a whole day before Birdie and Nell had a chance to talk about what they thought of that.
But when Nell had a chance to talk it over with Ben, she shared it with him in detail. And his first thoughts were close to her own: Someone somewhere owed Billy Sobel a boatload of money.
And once Billy was dead, they owed him nothing.
“And if that isn’t a motive for murder, what is?” Ben was intrigued, but said the words slowly, thinking through the suppositions as he talked.
“It doesn’t connect Aidan’s and Billy’s deaths, though, at least as far as I can figure out.” And for reasons she couldn’t articulate, she felt there had to be a connection.
Ben walked over to the stove where Nell was stirring flour into wine and butter for her own special version of clam chowder. It was a special request from Cass. Before Cass became a Thursday night regular, she thought all soup came in a small square package or a can that you added water to, and Nell’s chowder continued to delight her, like a child with a new toy.
Ben rubbed her neck lightly with his thumb and finger and leaned into the steamy smell of garlic and butter, a hearty splash of white wine, and a hint of fresh tarragon.
Nell poured a quart of half and half into the mixture and continued to stir.
“It’s not me, is it? It’s all about the chowder.”
Ben nuzzled her neck. “Absolutely.”
Nell managed to press an elbow into his chest.
She put the wooden spoon on a dish and stepped to the side.
Ben stepped around her, his eyes on the aromatic steaming pot. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the liquid. “Money is one of the primary motives for murder.” He tasted the thick soup. “Amazing. I may take up knitting.”
“You’ll get some. You always do. Well, what do we do with this information?”
“First, we probably should consider the source: a distraught widow speaking out of her grief.”
“But you agree it’s a motive for murder.”
“Sure. And so are a lot of things. Could there have been other debts? Maybe tied to a casino? Not one, but maybe several? So do we suspect all of those people? Or just the ones we know . . . and that’s if we know them. These folks could all be wearing visors, smoking cigars, and gambling their life away at some casino.”
Nell thought about that for a minute. “I don’t know, Ben. I don’t want to think anybody did this—even the ones I don’t know about.”
“Here’s another consideration. It’s less than a week since Billy died. Maybe we need to keep our ears open and let things be for a few days. See what develops. This is serious stuff, and we can’t accuse everyone we come up with who might have a motive. And in the end, there’s always the possibility that Billy smashed that hand another way, like Natalie said. Maybe he slipped on something. It’s rocky as hell down there. It all could have been an awful accident. ”
“Of course,” Nell said.
But Nell knew that they couldn’t let it drop, not even for a few days. But there was something missing from the whole picture. And she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Not to mention the fact that if her suspicions were right and this was a homespun crime, they might all be in danger. Waiting for something to happen simply wasn’t an option, especially considering what that something just might be.
As so often happened, the knitters were all thinking on the same wavelength, and when Izzy’s e-mail went out that afternoon insisting that they all be on time, Nell wasn’t surprised. Her e-mail read:
We have two critically important things to do:1. Finish four more caps.
2. Figure out why our friends died—before we end up with a third funeral shaking up our lives. Willow needs closure. We need our summer back.
N
ell thought the mention of a third funeral was a little dramatic, but perhaps these times called for drama.
And it surely put a more definite face on the fear that she herself was beginning to feel.
Nell was pleased that Willow wanted to come, too. She had been spending more time in the guesthouse working on her fiber pieces, she told Nell. It kept her sane. But she needed an outlet. She needed friends.
Friends, Nell thought. That was nice. Seven sharp, Nell told her.
She put the soup in the refrigerator, all ready to heat up and simmer the clams and tomatoes at the last minute, a bunch of fresh tarragon to sprinkle on top. Ben had become addicted to Ned’s Groceria, he told her, and stopped by on the way back from Boston with a sack filled with imported cheeses, olives, and tiny pickles. A loaf of herb bread. That would hold them for the evening. Certainly plenty of food for thought.
But between now and seven o’clock sharp, Nell had things to do. Homework, was the way she thought about it.
Rebecca was standing near a display of her lampwork beads when Nell walked in. She looked up and smiled, though her smile, as always, was slightly reserved. “Hi, Nell. May I help you?”
Nell walked over and fingered one of the beads hanging from a black cord—a large glass round with shards of purple, green, and bright gold shooting through it. “This looks like a tiny lotus paper-weight. I don’t know how you get such amazing detail.”
Rebecca picked up a second bead and held it at eye level, dangling it from the cord. “This is my current favorite. It’s a little like looking through a kaleidoscope, don’t you think?”
Nell turned it with her fingers. Blue and purple and green waves swirled from the inside out in a graceful pattern. “Amazing. I could look at these all day.”
“So you came to look?”
“No, I came to talk.”
“To Ellen? She’ll be back in town tomorrow.”
“Actually it’s you I wanted to talk to.”
Rebecca’s face showed little emotion. Not surprise nor curiosity. “Well, then, shall we sit?”
Patterns in the Sand Page 23
