Patterns in the Sand

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “That’s good enough for me. I won’t see him before then, anyway.”

  “What was the painting like?” Izzy asked.

  Nell was wondering the same thing. She’d seen a dozen photographs of paintings James had done and some in a small museum in New Hampshire. But the lost paintings had an aura of mystery about them.

  “It was spectacular, though I must admit, my judgment was colored by Brendan standing at my shoulder, telling me how fantastic it was. I brushed him away. I like to make up my own mind about art.

  “But it was very cool. The scene was a valley with a stream flowing through it, and a haze—like clouds—hovering over the ridge. It was so dramatic. And at first I wasn’t sure why. But then I realized the artist had painted it from above, looking down on the ridge from an even higher point, and I don’t think I’ve seen a lot of watercolors like that. At least not by plein air artists.”

  “Sounds like something that will be worth seeing. You could be an art critic, Willow,” Ben said. “Fine job. So . . . are we set then for the ‘showing’? I’d like to take a look, too. Willow has piqued my interest.”

  “I’m in.” Izzy’s hand shot up. “It’d be a shame to let them slip through our hands and not at least get a look at them. We’ll probably be reading about them in the New York Times when some art dealer pays a zillion dollars for them. And we’ll be able to say we were there when they were just little paintings in a crate.”

  Ben laughed. “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Maybe seeing the paintings will help us all get our thinking straight. Seeing the paintings is important. It’s what this is all about after all—or might be, anyway.”

  “Okay, so it’s a date?”

  They all signed on, with promises to call around to see who else might want to see the impromptu exhibit, and while Ben cleaned up the coffee cups and Izzy and Willow went off to shower, Nell called Natalie to tell her she just might have a crowd.

  But the word “crowd” set Natalie in high gear. Her voice lifted in sheer joy. Of course. She’d have her reception after all.

  Six thirty. The Sobel residence.

  “It will be small and intimate,” she told Nell. “Just our friends.

  “And, dear Nell,” Natalie had added before hanging up, her mind already on to the flowers she’d need to order, “would you be so kind as to bring wine and hors d’œuvres?”

  Chapter 31

  Nell wasn’t sure how it happened. It just did. And Natalie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  But one by one everyone tried to tell Nell why it was a horrible idea. Seeing the paintings was great. But a festive affair—not so great.

  Jane and Ham couldn’t believe that Nell would cancel Friday night dinner—this Friday of all Fridays, when they needed her cooking, their good friends, and Ben’s martinis, almost more than life itself.

  Izzy was about to rebel. “Not another evening over there,” she moaned. “Haven’t we paid our dues?”

  Sam was more circumspect. “Hey, the lady’s lonely. It’ll be one hour out of our lives.”

  “Sometimes I hate you, Sam Perry,” Izzy had retorted. “This is no time for good sense and compassion.”

  But Nell would take no from none of them. They would all go. It was important that they be there. But at that exact moment—if they had asked her why—her answer would have been ill formed. A feeling. A deep, strong feeling that she couldn’t shake.

  Even Willow expressed some regret over the evening’s plans. She showed up on the deck, after coming up from the guesthouse, and plopped dejectedly on a chair while Nell finished a phone call. “What is it?” she asked, snapping the phone closed.

  “Brendan is furious.”

  “Why?” And then Nell thought better of the question. Of course he’d be furious. Someone had to move those paintings. And move them with great care. And that someone, of course, would be Brendan. “I wonder if Natalie considered how much work this would be for Brendan.”

  “I don’t think so. And Brendan sees no reason for it. A quick pass through at the gallery would be plenty for everyone.”

  “If truth be known, he’s probably right.”

  “I’m going over there now. I told him I’d bring him coffee and one of Harry’s cannolis.”

  “A perfect mood-altering treat.”

  “I hope so. Natalie is working him too hard. He’ll be glad when this is all over. He’s been a little tense these past couple days.”

  After Willow left, Nell finally made her way upstairs to the shower. Her thoughts were heavy as she stepped into the bracing pelt of warm water. She lifted her face to the spray and welcomed the cleansing wash. She needed to jar herself, to shake the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t seeing something that was right smack in front of her nose, begging her to look at it.

  It was a niggling thought—something that was stuck in the back of her mind. That pesky fly that wouldn’t give up.

  Ben had shared a similar feeling with her before he went off to help Sam work on the dock in front of his new home. “But I feel we’re close, Nell,” he’d said. “I’m going to call Jerry when I get to Sam’s and see what’s new on his end.” He promised he’d pick up some cheese and be home early.

  Nell had barely dried her hair and slipped into cotton slacks and a loose scooped-neck top when Birdie appeared in the kitchen, a frown as deep as a Cape Ann quarry creasing her forehead.

  She set an empty cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee on the counter, then pulled herself up on a stool.

  “Did you ride your bike holding that coffee?” Nell asked.

  “No. Cup holders. Just like on baby strollers. My bike may be old but its accoutrements are up-to-date. Nevertheless, I spilled most of it.”

  “Does that frown say you’re not pleased about Natalie’s art gathering, as she is calling it?”

  “No, I want to go see the paintings, so I’ll go. The frown is frustration. This whole thing is frustrating, but seeing those darn paintings may be the best thing to do. They may stand up and tell us who did it. It’s one of the few stones we haven’t turned over.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” They’d talked about the paintings for weeks—the source of the animosity between Aidan and Billy. And not one of them—except Willow—had even glimpsed them. Nell hoped they would speak to them, even if what they said wasn’t what she and the others would want to hear.

  Birdie shook her head as if she could clear it all away. She took a drink of her now-cold coffee and set it down again. “So maybe tonight will be worth it. Maybe when we see the paintings, something will connect.”

  Nell nodded. She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even nine, but she felt like she’d put in a whole day.

  “Birdie, are you up for some coffee? Ben’s is hours old and I am in need of a good strong cup.”

  The crowd at Coffee’s had thinned as people left for jobs. Nell and Birdie had their choice of tables outside, and they picked one right beneath a small red maple. Mary Pisano sat nearby, her ever-present pad and paper on the table in front of her. She waved at Birdie and Nell and urged them to join her.

  Nell and Birdie both found Mary delightful. Her husband had been a working fisherman for nearly twenty-five years, and Mary filled her many hours of alone time by recording just about everything that went on in Sea Harbor.

  “I’m just sitting here watching the world go by,” she said cheerfully, her dyed-brown curls bobbing as she talked. Large round sunglasses shielded her eyes from the glare.

  “And writing it all down to put into that column of yours,” Birdie said, pulling out a chair. “Just be sure you say I looked youthful and spirited as always.”

  “And you certainly do, Birdie. Now both of you sit and tell me what is up that I don’t already know about.”

  Nell laughed. “That would be a short list. As a matter of fact, I need to ask you something.”

  Mary leaned forward, interested and her fine brows lifted.

  “That column you wrote after
Aidan died . . .”

  “The night someone broke into his house. Yes, I remember. The same night Tommy found Willow Adams and Brendan Slattery rummaging through the Aidan’s gallery.”

  “Willow’s gallery,” Birdie corrected.

  “Yes, I suppose. That will take some getting used to.”

  “Mary, who saw someone that night?” Nell asked. “How did you know about it?”

  Mary looked around to see if anyone was listening; then she looked back at Nell. “Nell, you know I can’t reveal my sources.”

  “Of course not. I just thought that, well, it’s over now, so maybe it wouldn’t matter.”

  Mary’s cheeks turned pink. “Well, it was me. Ed was gone that whole week, and I thought that things were about to pop in Canary Cove, so I strolled on over there.”

  “It was late.”

  “I keep my mace and whistle at hand. I’m nobody’s fool.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And what did you see?” Birdie prompted.

  “I saw a beam of light in Aidan’s house—the room right in the front of the house, just inside the front door. And then the light went out and someone slipped out the door—I was in the garden, so I was close enough to hear the door click and lock shut.”

  “So it wasn’t a break-in.”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t think so. The person was medium tall, and headed up through the woods, along that path that Aidan tended. Then disappeared. I thought it had to have been Willow—except then I saw her the next day. She’s a little thing. And the person I saw was much taller.”

  “You don’t know who it was?”

  “No. There were no lights on around Aidan’s house or the woods. Pitch-black. I had a flashlight, but I didn’t want to turn it on. That might have gotten me in serious trouble. I don’t even know for sure if it was a man or a woman. Just that the person wasn’t hefty, was of medium build. And moved quickly, clearly not wanting to be seen. Whoever it was must have had a key. And apparently nothing seemed to be missing.”

  Nell thought about the open drawers and the messy papers. Someone had been looking for something. And Mary’s description didn’t sound like Billy Sobel at all.

  “What are you writing about today?” Nell asked. They’d asked enough questions. Any more and Mary might be writing about Birdie and Nell playing sleuth.

  “Today I’m writing about the summer program for children at the art academy over on Canary Cove. I decided that they could use some positive press.”

  “A wonderful idea.”

  “I spoke with that charming Sam Perry, and he let me sit in on his photography class. It was wonderful. The kids love it. Sam says I should put a plea in my column for donations, too, to keep the academy going. And I shall do exactly that.”

  Mary pushed back her chair and stood up. “And now, dear ladies, I am off to my computer. I’ve some serious writing to do.” She gave them each a quick hug, and disappeared through the gate and down the street, her bag swinging from her shoulder.

  Birdie frowned. “That’s odd.”

  Nell was having the same thoughts. “You mean about the funding for the academy—I thought so. Jane mentioned it to me in passing. I’m sure that Tony Framingham designated a large chunk of money to that foundation when his mother died. How could they be short?”

  “Not to mention last summer’s huge benefit. Maybe there’s been a mistake in the numbers.”

  “That must be it,” Nell agreed, and tucked the troubling thought in the back of her head. The work of the arts foundation was too important not to take this seriously—as soon as there was a minute, she’d talk to Jane about this more.

  By the time they got back to Nell’s, it was almost noon. And Izzy and Cass were walking in the front door at 22 Sandswept Lane.

  “We decided to spend our lunch break here,” Izzy said. “If you’re insisting we go to Natalie’s tonight, you can appease us with leftovers.”

  Cass headed for the refrigerator.

  In minutes the island was cluttered with a cheese tray and thick slices of bread. Izzy pointed to some sliced turkey and Cass found a bottle of homemade mayonnaise.

  “Be careful not to get mayonnaise on that book,” Nell cautioned, pointing to the New England art book.

  And I need to remember to take that book to Brendan, Nell thought.

  “Well, how odd,” Nell said out loud, answering her own thought.

  “What? The book?” Izzy speared a thin piece of white cheddar to top off the turkey.

  Nell frowned. “No. But Brendan wanted me to bring him this book—it’s Aidan’s copy. What’s odd is that I saw a copy in Brendan’s house the night of the clambake—so why is he so anxious to see this one?”

  Izzy took the book from Nell’s hands and flipped through it. “Maybe here’s why,” she said, and pointed to a random page. “Aidan wrote in his book. Sometimes that’s where you get the really good information. And Aidan was such an art scholar that he probably had interesting things to say.”

  Of course, that was it—Izzy was right. Nell remembered now. That was part of what had drawn her attention to the book in the first place: wanting to read what Aidan thought of Robert James. She guessed it made sense that Brendan would be interested in what he had to say as well.

  Nell took the book back and leafed through a few pages. She frowned, then read a little more. Aidan had added his own touch to the book, underlining and using a bright yellow Magic Marker to highlight sections.

  “Something we should know?” Birdie asked.

  “I’m not sure. There’s an interesting section on Robert James’ life—and I suspect Aidan makes it even more interesting.” She set the book next to her purse, where she couldn’t forget it, and vowed to read more of what Aidan thought of Robert James. Perhaps the argument was as simple as Aidan thinking the man wasn’t really the master he was held up to be and Billy thought otherwise.

  “What’s this, Nell?” Birdie held up the envelope Willow had left on the counter. A small pill cap had rolled out onto the surface.

  Izzy picked it up. “Sleeping pill,” she said.

  “Nembutal?” Birdie asked.

  Nell nodded. There seemed to be a lot of insomnia going around lately, she thought.

  “Are you planning on making a Mickey Finn?” Birdie joked. “This was big in Al Capone’s time. Archie and I were talking about it the other day. You mix a little of this and a little chloral hydrate in a drink, and you’ve got your man.”

  “A Mickey Finn . . .”

  Birdie and Nell thought of it at the same moment. The Sea Harbor Gazette had used the drink to get some mileage in a headline: The Art of a Mickey Finn, the reporter had written.

  And the article was about Aidan’s murder—and the poison of choice.

  Izzy wiped the mayo from the corners of her mouth and washed her hands in the sink. “What are you thinking, Nell?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing. But you know, no matter how we feel about going to Natalie’s tonight, it may bring us a giant step closer to getting our summer back. And here’s why.”

  Izzy had to get back to the shop, and Cass had to meet her brother on lobster business, but both left the Endicott home with the hope that Nell was right and that the clouds over their little village were shifting. They didn’t have all the pieces in place—but the ones that were out on the table fit together so neatly it was frightening. They had headed in the wrong direction all along, but picked up some interesting information on the way.

  “Birdie, I need a favor. Could you hunt through that stack of albums and find some of hiking trips Ben and I took thirty-five years ago?

  Birdie laughed. But when she looked into her friend’s face and saw the expression in Nell’s eyes, she headed to the bookcase, where the Endicotts’ stored dozens of albums detailing lives well lived. And she knew exactly what hiking trip was on Nell’s mind.

  Nell gave Birdie some details while she worked, and when Ben came home, Birdie and
Nell filled him in. Ben listened attentively, then left Birdie to her work digging through picture albums while he left to check into some other records that might make interesting viewing. Benefit funds were public record. And Rachel Wooten could point him to the right file in minutes.

  In the meantime, Nell sat at the island, her glasses on and Aidan Peabody’s annotated version of Robert James’ life in front of her.

  James was a fascinating artist, Nell soon discovered. Many critics agreed that he was a master of plein air art—and he lived up to it precisely, never using photographs for his work, but painting in the air, as it were. Painting what he saw.

  A section highlighted by Aidan’s yellow Magic Marker revealed to Nell that Robert James was a recluse. He lived in Maine in a Gothic-style house set back off the road. During his lifetime, he had given few interviews, preferring to live a life of relative obscurity and letting his beautiful paintings tell people who he was and how he saw life.

  And then, finally, down in a corner of the page, in Aidan’s own writing, was one of the reasons that Robert James was a recluse.

  It certainly explained some things.

  But did it add up to murder?

  Chapter 32

  Willow was pulling into Nell’s driveway on the old bike just as Nell walked out the front door.

  “Willow, you’re just the person I was hoping to see. I’ve a favor to ask.”

  Willow was fine with Nell’s request, as Nell knew she would be. And her plea to go along was not unexpected.

  “I’m still not comfortable going into Aidan’s house alone,” Willow said, as they drove toward Canary. “But even so . . . Well, I want to be there, to spend time there.”

  “You’ll feel more comfortable once we get this all solved, Willow. And hopefully that will be soon.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure. Just suspicions. It’s a case of ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’ I think that someone was looking for something in your father’s house. And if we can find it, it might tell us a thing or two about Aidan’s death.”