Willow unlocked the front door and the two of them walked into the familiar hallway.
“It’s a little bit like coming home,” Willow whispered. “That’s silly, isn’t it?”
Nell gave her a quick hug. “It’s not even the slightest bit silly.”
Nell didn’t think the time was right yet, but one of these days she’d try to explain to Willow that having her here right now cushioned the loss of their friend Aidan in unspoken ways. It didn’t lessen their sadness, but it filled in some of the hollow spots in a lovely way.
“I am thinking the den might be a good starting spot for me. Maybe while I scrounge around, you could water some of those thirsty-looking plants.”
Nell suspected that wandering around alone—but having someone nearby—was the best way for Willow to acclimate herself to the house her father had lived in. To smell its smells, listen to its silent voices.
She opened the desk drawers again, then rummaged through the wooden filing cabinet. The papers in both were largely inconsequential—old furniture orders, a cleaning bill, a repair bill for a washing machine, to-do lists. “Surely you can do better than this,” Aidan, she whispered.
After exhausting the folders, Nell sat back in the desk chair and looked over at the fisherman statue standing guard. “Please give me a hint, sir,” she said aloud, looking up into the carved, craggy features of his charming face.
Later she told Ben that she was sure he spoke to her. Right then and there.
Or maybe it was the memory of the will that the police had found in one of Aidan’s statues. Or the many times she’d watch admirers in the gallery open up the figures that Aidan carved, exclaiming with delight over the bookshelves behind a mermaid’s fins or the secret drawers that magically appeared when one tugged on a fisherman’s belt buckle.
This fisherman was special, Nell told Ben. It was the backs of his waders that opened wide, leaving enough room for a nice neat file drawer. Flat, unobtrusive. Hidden.
They decided Aidan wasn’t even trying to hide it—many of the papers were ordinary things: mortgage papers, car licensing records. It was probably Aidan’s everyday filing cabinet—safely ensconced behind a fisherman’s tush.
It only took Nell five minutes to find the reports she suspected she might find. And even at a glance, she knew the numbers would tell her an interesting story. An alarming story.
They made one more stop on the way back home, and Willow kept the car idling while Nell ran in to the small building that housed the Canary Cove arts association building. “Here, Esther,” she said to the volunteer at the desk. “Just thought I’d make a donation to the summer arts academy.”
“Well, bless you, Nell,” the volunteer reply. “We need these, you know. These aren’t the easiest of times.”
“When is the next council meeting?” Nell looked beyond the desk to the office in the back.
“I think Jane told me she wants one in a couple of weeks.” Esther looked down at a large daily calendar on the desktop. Nell leaned over and looked as well, then looked through the open door of the single office in the back that Aidan had once spent time in.
Esther followed her glance. “Nope, no one is here today. Jane was in yesterday, but that’s it. Lots of tourists, though. I’m almost out of brochures and maps.”
“And that’s a good thing for business,” Nell said, and waved good-bye. In minutes, she and Willow were back in the driveway at 22 Sandswept Lane.
Ben and Birdie were waiting.
Chapter 33
Nell dressed nervously. Behind her, Ben rubbed her neck and told her it would be okay. She nodded, running her hands down the sides of a summery sleeveless dress. Yes, it would be okay.
But how could they have been so mislead?
Cass and Izzy had come by earlier to help sort through it all. And everyone admitted they’d been toying with the same loose ends. Once they had it all out on the table, they poked fun at themselves. It seemed so clear. Every one of the facts sat in front of them. But they were so numerous that they crisscrossed over one another—like the lines in the sand when the tide goes out. A huge labyrinth that was finally beginning to make sense.
They’d taken the wrong fork in the road early on—and they had found something they weren’t even looking for.
If they were right, Birdie said solemnly, one path led to deception.
The other to murder.
Nell had suggested canceling the whole evening. She’d make up an excuse to Natalie. The puzzle wasn’t knit up as tightly as it needed to be. At least not all of it.
But Ben convinced her otherwise. There were gaps to fill in, sure. But the evening’s events might help do that very thing. Besides, Ben said, he wanted to see the paintings. In fact, they should all want to see them.
As they talked, Nell agreed. So far, some of their suppositions—and those of Birdie, Cass, and Izzy—were simply that. Thoughts. Guesses. Not much more. But Ben agreed to call Natalie ahead of time. If she wanted to call the gathering off, then they would help her do that.
But Natalie Sobel, as Ben and Nell suspected, would rather clean dirty ovens than call off a party. No matter what.
Nell asked Willow to ride to the Sobel house with them. They needed to talk to her about a couple of things, they said.
Willow agreed. Brendan would be helping Natalie anyway, she said—and frankly, he was a little cranky, having to lug everything around all day and manage Natalie’s many moods.
“I can see his point,” Nell had quietly.
In addition to the knitters, Natalie had extended the invitation to the artists in Canary Road who had expressed interest and neighbors and some friends. She’d even invited Jerry Thompson.
“I think she’s sweet on him,” Birdie said, chuckling. She was feeling a trifle stiff from pouring through the Endicott photo albums for two hours, but had neatly stacked up the ones they needed, priding herself on a job well done.
Ben had made another run to Ned’s Groceria in Gloucester and come home with a magnificent bread-and-cheese tray that needed no more than toothpicks and small knives to service it. He packed it carefully in the back of the car along with the wine Natalie had requested, and they headed down Sandswept Lane and into the night.
And on the way, they had talked to Willow about the James paintings, telling her what they knew. The book from Aidan’s—from her dad’s—had helped them understand the paintings better. And Robert James, as well. In fact, Aidan’s scribbles in the book had helped them understand, at last, why he and Billy Sobel were at odds with each other.
Izzy and Sam had picked up Cass and Birdie and pulled up just behind Ben’s SUV.
Natalie greeted them with a nervous hug and apologies for the cracked front step. “D. J. Delaney is going to be the death of me. The toilet’s broken. The awning fell off. My poor house is going to fall into the ocean. The step is crooked. Can’t you see that it’s crooked?” She pointed down to the concrete, then erased her frustration with a wide red hospitable smile. “Now come in, come in,” she urged.
Ellen and Rebecca arrived shortly afterward, and Jerry Thompson not long after that. When Natalie spotted Jerry, she hugged him so tightly, Nell thought he might choke. The police chief had done a good job of gaining Natalie’s confidence, Nell thought, and she wondered if others noticed the blush that crawled up the chief’s neck.
Ben had reached Jerry that afternoon, but they’d only had a minute to talk. They’d talk later, they both agreed.
Natalie had done a lovely job of fixing up the house, and soft guitar music played in the background. Candles were lit on low tables and an embroidered cloth covered the dining table, where they placed the cheese platters and wine. In spite of everything, Natalie Sobel was determined to have her party, and Nell gave her enormous credit for that. In the same circumstances—having just lost a husband and about to lose more—she wasn’t so sure she could hold up.
“Come, come,” Natalie commanded. “You must meet Billy’s cousin.�
�� Natalie ushered them into the kitchen, where a replica of Billy Sobel stood at the sink, drinking a scotch and soda and entertaining Doc Hamilton, who lived next door to Natalie, with great gestures and a booming laugh.
When Natalie called out his name, Jackie Sobel came at them with open arms as if greeting long-lost relatives, kissing Willow and Nell on both cheeks. As Nell pulled away, she noticed that the smiling Jackie had tears in his eyes.
“I loved my Billy boy, you know?” he said gruffly, and wiped the moisture away.
Ben and Sam walked up and joined the group, engaging Jackie in childhood tales of life with Billy. “And then he married that gorgeous woman over there and turned over a new leaf,” Jackie said, nodding toward the doorway, where Natalie stood beside Jerry Thompson. Jackie winked. “Well, not completely, Okay? I won’t lie to you. Billy still hit the tables with me now and then. Won some. Lost some. We were a formidable pair, Billy and me.”
Just then Ellen walked into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water, and Jackie’s attention shifted. His face lit up.
“Ellen, baby,” he called out to Billy’s friend, and stepped over to properly greet her. Kisses on both cheeks led to a bear hug, and it made Nell think of the many times she’d seen Billy do the same thing when he’d see a friend in the gallery or on the street. They had the same mannerisms, these cousins.
And then she frowned as she watched Ellen and Jackie engage in conversation—Ellen more subdued, but Jackie happy to see someone he knew.
Of course, she thought with a start. She shivered in the warm house, then walked out of the kitchen to find Ben.
He was in the living room, pouring wine for Ham and Jane. Standing next to Jane, Rebecca Marks looked weary. Not just bored, as Rebecca sometimes looked, but like she’d rather be anywhere but standing in Natalie Sobel’s living room. And she looked tired, as well. Nell wondered if she had had another bout of insomnia. She was all out of the Nembutal prescription, she’d said.
Nell pulled Ben aside and spoke softly to him, then went to make sure that Willow was doing all right and to touch base with Birdie, Cass, and Izzy.
Willow was in the kitchen with Izzy and Cass, filling pitchers of water. Brendan was nowhere to be seen. Jackie Sobel stood with Birdie near Jake’s case of beer.
“It’s good that you came, Jackie,” Nell said. “I know it meant a lot to Natalie. And to us, too. We were Billy’s friends.”
A mixture of beer and emotion had left Jackie vulnerable, and his eyes grew moist.
“He did right by people,” Jackie said. “They don’t make ’em like Billy anymore.”
“You’re right, Jackie. Without Billy’s help, some of the artists in this town would never have gotten the start they needed.”
Jackie nodded and took a swig of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know that to be true, I do. You know, people think he gambled too much. Natalie thought that, I know. And maybe he did. But I know for a fact that he also tried to help people get off gambling if he thought they were doing too much of it. Billy wasn’t an addict. And he wouldn’t let anyone else be, either.”
“And my guess is, if someone had a gambling debt, Billy would understand—and he’d try to help them.”
“Sure. Did it many times. He was the best.”
Natalie waved at Jackie then, and he excused himself to be introduced to her neighbors.
Nell looked around to make sure the food trays were filled. Natalie’s intimate gathering had grown to something more sizable, but people were not staying too long, Nell noticed. Just long enough to view the paintings and taste some of the exotic cheeses that Ben had bought that day. That and a nightcap, then home.
Natalie had put the paintings in Billy’s spacious den, and Nell helped her usher people in that direction.
Brendan stood just inside the den’s wide double doors, looking slightly uncomfortable as guests drifted in and out, drinks in hand. Archie Brandley walked in carrying a copy of his book on New England painters, ready to look up facts for anyone interested.
It reminded Nell that she had never dropped her copy off with Brendan as he’d asked. Aidan’s copy. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing as his eyes met hers, then quickly flitted away.
She walked into the kitchen and spotted Ben. He looked at her, his brows lifting and the understanding of more than thirty years of marriage speaking to her without words. It’s time to see the paintings, his look said. Nell nodded, and he walked across the room, touched her lightly in the small of her back and followed her into the den.
Most of the guests had already viewed the paintings and were back at the dining room table, where fresh cheese platters and open bottles of wine awaited them. Others had already headed on home.
Brendan greeted Nell cordially, but there was a new distance between them. An unease. When Ben walked in behind her with Birdie, Cass, and Izzy completing the group, Brendan’s stance was clearly uncomfortable.
They stood quietly in front of the paintings. They were lined up—five scenes done by the plein air artist, one next to the other: brilliant scenes of mountains and cloud covers and unusual views of ravines, all captured in colors that came alive in light and shadow beneath the artist’s masterful brushstrokes.
Ellen and Rebecca joined them, admiring the paintings that had been given such attention. Billy Sobel’s paintings.
Standing behind them, Brendan tried to detail the kinds of strokes that James perfected and the way he created light out of color. Nell had read similar reviews in the book she’d scoured just hours before.
“The color is richer and the strokes more defined in these paintings,” Brendan said, his voice gaining strength as he talked. “These paintings will take their place alongside the masterpieces.”
Nell looked at them with great familiarity and rubbed the goose bumps that rose up along her arms. She’d been there, seen that view, and Brendan was right: The scene had been captured beautifully.
Jackie Sobel stood near the door, unsure of the art discussed, but clearly interested in their value.
“They are beautiful,” Nell murmured. She turned around and looked at him. “These are lovely. Truly the work of a talented artist.”
Jane and Ham murmured their agreement. “There’s no question about that,” Jane said.
“But Robert James couldn’t possibly have painted them, could he?”
Brendan stared at Nell as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“Of course he could have. James was a master of plein air art. These paintings are worth a fortune.”
For a moment the silence in the room was deafening to Nell. It echoed wildly. Then Brendan spoke again, more softly this time, a kinder tone to his voice. “These may have been his final paintings before he died, which makes them even more valuable.”
“Apparently Aidan Peabody had met Robert James—did you know that?”
“He was a recluse—everyone in Maine knew that.”
“That’s right. And he usually only gave phone interviews. But as any of Aidan’s friends know, Aidan could talk anyone into anything.”
Soft laughter relieved the tension slightly.
“And he convinced Robert James to let him come up to meet him and talk with him.”
“He wrote an article about James after that,” Brendan said. “I remember reading it when I was in school.”
Nell noticed the slight sheen of perspiration on Brendan’s forehead, but she marveled at his tenacity. “But it’s what Aidan didn’t write in the article that’s of interest here. He didn’t write that Robert James suffered from a form of congenital paraplegia,” Nell said. “James didn’t want people to know that he could only get around on forearm crutches.”
“That’s interesting, Nell, but it doesn’t really relate to—”
“But it does relate to these paintings, Brendan. Because James was the consummate plein air artist, just as I believe you are. Because of his inability to climb or walk up inclines, all his sc
enes had to be painted at sea level. Robert James could never have climbed Old Bridal Path Trail, which is what you’d have to do to paint these scenes.”
“You may not believe us capable of it, Brendan,” Ben said, “but Nell and I hiked up to that very spot on our honeymoon. It’s fantastic. Birdie found some photos of it today that we brought along, just in case. But you know that, because you had to climb up there to paint these.” Ben shoved his hands in his pockets and looked again at the paintings.
Nell thought back to the maps in his home, the photos she looked at. The marked trail.
“That’s nuts. You’re all crazy,” Brendan began. But when he looked around at the circle of people standing in front of the paintings, his voice faltered.
And then he took a new stance and spoke more boldly. “These are amazing paintings. Billy Sobel thought they were James’ work. And anyone else he showed them to thought the same. Until Aidan Peabody with his friggin’ intellectual elitism told him otherwise. Aidan thought he knew everything. These are five brilliant works of art. Brilliant. No one knew the difference.”
The sound in Brendan’s voice was almost childlike, pleading for people to recognize what a fine artist he was. And then he stopped, suddenly. The group turned to look at him, and he realized where he was leading people. He stared back, then took a few steps toward the door.
Beyond the den, music played and scattered cocktail chatter grew dim.
But in Billy Sobel’s carefully decorated den, all was quiet.
It took one minute for Brendan to collect himself. He lashed out, his voice slicing through the silence. “No. Now you are crazy. It’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t kill Peabody. Or Billy. You’re crazy as fools if you think that.” He backed up to the den door opening as if to flee, leaving his paintings behind in a rush to freedom and away from accusing eyes. “No way did I kill those two guys.”
“No,” Nell said softly. “You didn’t kill them, Brendan. We know that, though for a long time, we were on a path that said you might have.”
Patterns in the Sand Page 27
