Patterns in the Sand

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Rebecca and Ellen had remodeled their shop to look more like an elegant living room, filled with beautiful art, than a shop or gallery. She motioned to two chairs near the side window, separated by a small table. “I can spare a minute.”

  Nell had planned the visit to slip in the door just before closing. She suspected, as was the case, there would be few customers to vie for attention.

  Nell set her bag on the floor and crossed her legs, leaning forward slightly. “Rebecca, I think there are things you aren’t telling us—things that might help us find out who killed Aidan . . . and Billy.”

  “I think we know that. Billy killed Aidan.”

  Nell frowned, wondering at her unfortunate choice of words, but Rebecca quickly went on.

  “Billy was fed up with Aidan. He was making it hard for him to run his business. And we all know that Billy Sobel could be a hothead when he wanted to be.”

  “Yes, I heard that, too. It’s flimsy, unless there is more to that story than we know.”

  “Ellen thinks there may be. She said Billy was distraught the day he died. Brendan may have some ideas, too. He was privy to both places—Aidan’s and Billy’s. And Billy seemed to trust him, though he seemed a little milquetoast to me. Followed Billy around too much.”

  Nell wasn’t interested in Rebecca’s opinion of everyone who worked in Canary Cove, but she had to admit she hadn’t thought about talking to Brendan. And Rebecca was right—he’d somehow been taken into the Sobels’ confidence. She made a mental note to talk with him—and to thank him. He’d been a wonderful help to Natalie.

  “And what about Billy?” Nell asked.

  “Probably some crime-world character. Billy had a colorful past.”

  “I can’t quite get my arms around a stranger coming to Sea Harbor on a terrible, stormy night and killing him. Besides, Archie Brandley tells me that a gun would have been far more typical and efficient if that were the case. Archie has studied more crimes in novels than the Sea Harbor police have solved.”

  “So if not a mobster or ‘unsavory business associate,’ as the Sea Harbor newspaper calls him, then who? And why?”

  “You weren’t terribly fond of Billy, I hear.”

  “Me? You think I killed Billy Sobel? That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.” Rebecca’s laugh echoed in the empty shop.

  Nell was beginning to think it was, too, but she felt certain that Rebecca was holding back with some information.

  “Besides,” Rebecca went on, “if you must know—though I personally think you should let the police do their work and leave this alone—Billy Sobel saved our hides. If it weren’t for him, Ellen and I might be in jail right now.”

  “In jail?”

  “Well, debtors’ prison or some such silly thing. I was never crazy about Billy because he nosed around in my business and I hate that. He didn’t respect people’s privacy. He didn’t. And just for the record, Aidan Peabody wasn’t much better.”

  “How did Billy help you?”

  “We overspent a little on fixing up the shop and remodeling our house. D. J. Delaney would have sent vicious dogs after us, but Billy felt sorry for us, probably because he and Ellen were old friends, and he helped us out. It was a while ago, before he married that intolerable woman.”

  “So you owe Natalie money now?”

  “We paid that debt back the first year we were here. Ellen is a stickler for that. She didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that Billy was a friend of hers.”

  Rebecca began shifting in the chair as if she’d been sitting too long or had more important things to do than chat.

  Nell decided to beat her to the punch. She looked at her watch. “I need to get ready for my knitting group,” she said. “And I have the feeling I may have kept you too long.”

  “Well, yes,” Rebecca answered. “But I’m glad you came by. It was good we could clear these things up.” She stood and held the door open, her back straight and her guarded smile in place. Then, before Nell had a chance to step away from the door, she heard the click of the lock and watched Rebecca walk back into the interior of the glass studio.

  Nell looked down at the Sobel Gallery. She wondered if Brendan was still there. Natalie had mentioned that he had pretty much taken over things for her. She walked briskly to the front door of the gallery and peered inside. There was a light on in the back room, where Billy had fixed up a small office and workroom for his framing equipment. She could hear footsteps, and knocked loudly on the door.

  She waited, then knocked again. Nell stood there for a minute longer, then checked her watch and turned to walk away.

  She glanced back, more out of habit than anything else, and saw a long shadow fall across the back doorway. She frowned, but before she could take a step back toward the shop, the shadow disappeared. All was quiet within the shop.

  Chapter 29

  The sky was darkening when Nell walked into the near-empty knitting studio.

  Mae was on the phone with a customer and immediately hung up when she saw Nell. “Lordy, you’re going to throw out your back,” she scolded, taking the large tureen out of Nell’s arms.

  “Thanks, Mae. Busy day?”

  “You can’t imagine. Wicked busy. And it’s only Thursday. Izzy had another hat class—she must have a trunk load by now. We get the craziest people in here for that. It’s kind of touching. Birdie brought a carload over from that retirement home where she teaches tap dancing. Some vacationers stopped in. And some of my nieces’ friends came, too. Oh, and Natalie Sobel, can you believe it? She wanted to think of someone besides herself, she said, and sat right down in the middle of the teenagers. She sat next to Mary Pisano who had her notepad out the whole time, hoping to gather tidbits for her column, would be my guess. And I would guess Natalie gave her a few.”

  Nell smiled at the thought of Natalie Sobel sitting in the middle of a group of teenagers with tiny Mary Pisano at her elbow, probably recording every word that came out of Natalie’s mouth. And many of the comments would likely make it into her “About Town” column. And Natalie, Nell suspected, would have enjoyed every bit of it. People handled their grief in different ways.

  Izzy was busy picking out a Nora Jones CD and Willow and Birdie sat on the window seat, admiring Willow’s smooth edge on a pale blue cashmere hat.

  “Ah, soup’s on,” Izzy said when Nell and Mae walked down the steps. “I smelled you coming.” She took the tureen from Mae and set it down on a large hot pad on the table.

  “Mae, take some of this before you lock up and leave tonight,” Nell said. “I always bring enough for an army.”

  “Where’s Catherine?” Birdie spoke up from the couch.

  At the sound of her name, Cass came in from the front of the store. “Sorry I’m late. I got your stern e-mail, Iz, but I wanted to pick up this cobbler from Harry’s before he closed up.”

  “Perfect,” Izzy said. “Here’s tonight’s agenda. Eat and talk. Wash hands. Knit and talk.”

  “You’re getting awfully bossy, Ms. Chambers.” Cass put her cobbler down on the table.

  Izzy didn’t smile back. Instead, she picked up a white sack sitting on a chair and slipped out a large piece of drawing paper. “Here’s why.”

  She unfolded the large sheet of paper and set it down on the table. “This somehow made it into my store. It actually has Nell’s name on the top.”

  Beneath Nell’s name, were the words, printed in neat, exact letters:

  Choose one:1. MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

  2. KNIT ONE, PURL TWO, KILL THREE?

  “Izzy!” Nell’s hand flew to her mouth. “How? Where did you find this?” A slice of fear as wide as the ocean cut through her.

  “It was in one of our own bags—of which there are a million others. It’s plain and white with little handles. It was sitting on the floor near the computer. There were a jillion people in here today, and identical sacks like this were coming and going. So it didn’t stand out in any way. We almost threw it away because
it was slightly torn on the edge.”

  “I wonder if whoever did it knew we’d all be here tonight.”

  “Maybe. And that’s half the town.”

  “But it had to be someone who came in the store,” Cass said. “That narrows it a little.”

  “Not necessarily. It could have been left outside and the mail-man brought it in. Or someone handed it to someone coming in. It could even have hung on the doorknob and someone brought it in,” Birdie said.

  “Birdie’s right. When we’re busy, we don’t know who’s coming or going.”

  “But it tells us one thing, and that’s that the murderer is still out there. The police can say what they want to say, but our intuition is right.” Nell started dipping the ladle into the tureen and filling the bowls that Izzy had set out. She would be much better if her hands were kept busy. The sight of the threat was searing and awful.

  Willow sat still as a statue on the couch, her face pale. “This is awful. If I hadn’t come here . . . ,” she began.

  “Then there’d only be four of us trying to figure this mess out.” Cass filled a platter with the cheese and bread. “Don’t talk nonsense, Willow. You didn’t do this.”

  “I think we will spill this amazing chowder if we don’t gather around the table,” Birdie said, trying to lighten the mood. “And maybe it will help us think better, kind of like being in school. This is a whole new development, Isabel, and a frightening one.” She turned and looked at Willow. “And Cass is absolutely right. Regrets and self-recriminations are not helpful. Save your energy for better things. Now come eat.”

  They all agreed to Birdie’s directive, and while Izzy gathered up the knitting sundries and set them on the bookcase, the others pulled out chairs, grabbed napkins and spoons, and settled in.

  “I say we start with a hypothesis until we have facts that invalidate it,” Nell said.

  The others nodded, content to be silent and savor the creamy deliciousness of Nell’s clam chowder.

  “And what’s the hypothesis?” Cass managed between spoonfuls.

  “That the same person killed Aidan and Billy would be one,” Nell said.

  “Fair enough,” Birdie spoke for the others.

  “I know our hearts have gone out to Natalie Sobel, but I don’t think we can discount her. She didn’t like Aidan one bit because he was making it difficult for Billy to have his exhibit. She wanted the money those paintings would bring. Money is quite important to Natalie.”

  “But Billy? I think Natalie really loved him,” Willow said. “She wouldn’t kill him, I don’t think.”

  “Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. I agree with you emotionally, but for the sake of exploring all possibilities, consider that Natalie has moved on pretty quickly, even taking a knitting class today, according to Mae. She’s been to the beauty parlor, is making plans—she even got highlights in her hair. And she’s anxious to get the studio cleaned out. She’s ready to move on. All that, and Billy has only been dead four days. She told me herself that Billy didn’t always agree with her on how she wanted to spend money. With Billy gone, the money is hers. And the spending of it is hers, too.”

  “That’s logical,” Izzy said. She picked up a cracker and a slice of smoky Spanish cheese. “But the fact that Natalie was with us the night Billy died gives her an alibi.”

  “At least a ‘maybe’ alibi, anyway,” Birdie said. “I can’t imagine that distraught woman going out again after we left her that night.”

  They sat in silence, nibbling on bread and savoring the chowder, trying to put the puzzle pieces together in their minds.

  Nell put her spoon down and sat back in the chair. “I still think D. J. Delaney has strong motives. He wanted Aidan’s property and wasn’t going to get it from him—that was clear. Someone inheriting it—whoever that might have been—was a much better bet.”

  “Especially if the heir could be convicted of the murder and sent off to prison for the rest of her life.” It was Willow, speaking softly but clearly.

  The thought of someone framing Willow for the murder hadn’t occurred to Nell, but she thought about it now. And if not D. J. Delaney, whoever committed the crime might want to do the exact same thing.

  “Billy had filed a suit against D.J. for the faulty construction on his house—not to mention that Billy and Natalie badmouthed him to anyone who came within listening distance, certainly not a good thing for business.” Cass helped herself to another piece of the warm herb bread and smeared softened honey butter over the surface. “Pete says Billy expounded regularly in the Gull about D.J.—and Jake had to stop more than one fight over it.”

  “Natalie let him have it at Annabelle’s in front of the whole world. I’m sure D. J. hated Billy. He probably thought that without Billy around, Natalie wouldn’t go through with the lawsuit—and in the best of all worlds, would leave town.” Izzy poured herself a glass of water.

  “Ellen and Rebecca?” Nell proposed. She repeated the talk she had had with Rebecca.

  “Billy told me he loaned them money to get started, but that was a while ago—when they first opened the shop,” Birdie said.

  “Besides, they’ve paid it back. And if Natalie has her story straight, Rebecca and Ellen will soon be getting a sizable inheritance.” She repeated the story of the dying uncle that Natalie told them the night before.

  “It’s a small world—that’s for sure,” Cass said. “You never know who will know your family secrets.”

  “I have this feeling that there’s something right there in front of us, something we’re not seeing.” Nell felt like she was surrounded by annoying gnats. And she couldn’t swat them away—little tidbits of disjointed facts that didn’t add up to murder. Artists feuding, Billy’s gambling days, unhappy construction workers, and an exhibit of paintings that might never happen.

  Izzy began cleaning away the bowls, while the others cleaned up the crumbs and washed their hands, moving from table to more comfortable seating and knitting bags.

  “Nell is absolutely right. We’re missing something important here. It’s being lost in this clutter of facts, things we’ve repeated dozens of times over the past days.” Birdie pulled out her knitting. She’d finished her socks and had begun a bright red zippered hoodie for her housekeeper, Ella. Izzy had ordered the perfect yarn for it, a blend of soft wool and angora, guaranteed to help keep Ella’s arthritis at bay during harsh winter days.

  “What we’re missing is the link. Something that would give one person the same strong reason to kill both Aidan and Billy. Aidan was killed because of X. And Billy knew about it. So whoever else knew of X, or wanted X, or didn’t want anyone else to know about X—that is our murderer.”

  “I can’t think in Xs, Birdie. You’re giving me a headache.” Cass wrinkled her forehead in mock protest.

  “I don’t think the money Billy lent the Markses is a motive, especially since we know it was paid back. And even if it hadn’t been, it would have been excused.” Nell repeated the odd provision to Billy’s will.

  “What a sweet man. My Sonny did the same thing. Maybe it’s some kind of custom.”

  “Billy lent money to plenty of people. But Natalie says there’s only one big loan that wasn’t paid back before he died. And now it will never be.”

  They all fell silent, their needles matching the rhythm of their thoughts.

  Nell lifted Willow’s sweater from her bag. She had enough worked to appreciate the diamond and zigzag patterns that would adorn the soft cardigan. Once again, Izzy had picked the perfect yarn for the perfect design.

  Across from her, Willow reached out and ran one finger over the intricate design. “I won’t ever take this sweater off.” The smile that reached Nell was completely without reserve. Warm and gracious and familiar.

  Birdie had completed the cast-on row for Ella’s sweater and begun the knit-one-purl-one ribbing. “Sometimes it’s right in front of you. And that’s why you can’t see it. It’s like a dropped stitch. As long as the knittin
g is bunched up on your lap, you’ll never see it.”

  “When I was talking to Aidan that night, the night he died, he brought up Billy’s name. . . .” Nell paused to pull up the memory. It seemed so long ago now. “It was in reference to the James exhibit, I think, though I couldn’t understand him very well. He was sluggish and difficult to understand. But there’s a connection there that we’re missing, I think.”

  Izzy nodded in agreement. “Me, too. We always gloss over it because the edges are too rough.”

  “We know Aidan had a problem with Billy showing them—but I feel we’ve been over that a dozen times.”

  “And then Aidan died. And Billy was going to show the paintings, but then he died.”

  Again, their fingers worked rapidly, looping yarn, knitting and purling.

  Cass stood and walked over to the window. She looked out at the harbor lights. “Who else cared about that exhibit?” she asked.

  “I guess we all cared, in a way. It would have been nice for the artist community.”

  “And Aidan was all about what was good for the community. So . . .”

  So why not this exhibit? Their thoughts played with the puzzle, mentally shuffling pieces around in the warm night. Nell had been puzzled by it for days. She knew Aidan well. And this was not like him. When she’d talked it over with Jane and Ham, they were equally perplexed.

  “Brendan cared about the exhibit,” Willow offered. “He was helping Billy every chance he got.”

  “Rebecca said the same thing. She reminded me that Brendan was in both shops for weeks now—helping Aidan when he was busy and spending lots of time in the Sobel gallery. He’s worked in Jane and Ham’s gallery, too.”

  “He’s a quiet fellow,” Birdie said. “Smart, but quiet. Maybe that’s why we haven’t thought to ask him. But sometimes still waters run deep. Brendan just may have heard something he doesn’t even know is important.”

  Nell made a mental note to talk with him. Birdie was right. Overhearing scattered conversations, little bits here and there, might help them join some of these strands together.