Jane and Ham walked into the room, then, and Nell noticed Jerry Thompson was with them. It was late, and in the distance, she could hear Natalie saying good-by to departing guests.
Ellen had gotten up from the couch and whispered to Rebecca that it was getting late. They should be leaving soon, too.
Nell looked over at her sadly.
“Ellen, we found the papers in Aidan’s house. The ones you couldn’t find that night that you entered his house and searched for them. You must have taken a spare key Aidan gave Rebecca and then forgot to get back from her. But you looked in all the wrong places. Aidan had an unconventional filing system, you see . . .”
Ellen’s brows pulled together. “Papers?” she managed to say.
Rebecca looked up at Ellen, her mouth open, but no words came out.
“The art council reports that indicated you’d been slowly depleting the foundation’s money. The reports Aidan confronted you with the day before you killed him. It only took minutes to confirm what we all thought—that last summer’s fund-raising gala and other generous gifts to the foundation had made it flush. There was enough money there to run the arts academy for several years. And it’s nearly gone.”
“No, it’s not. You’re wrong. Ellen, please . . . tell them they’re wrong.” It was Rebecca’s choked voice, barely recognizable.
“It’ll be all right, Rebecca,” Ellen said softly. “Don’t worry.”
“Worry? Ellen, you stole from our friends? From the foundation that you cared about? That we both cared about?” Rebecca stood up and pressed her back against the wall, staring at the woman a foot away who had built a house for her, managed her career, her gallery, her life.
“Cared about? Rebecca, it was you I cared about, not a foundation or a job or a gallery. It was all about you.” Ellen’s tone was steady, but when she looked at Rebecca, her eyes were filled with such raw, naked emotion that Nell was forced to look away.
Ellen had done it all out of love. Every single bit of it. The foundation embezzlement to pay for the things Rebecca wanted—the house, the studio. The gambling to put money back into the foundation. A vicious, awful circle. And then murder, to release her from her final debt—to her friend, Billy Sobel.
“The money . . . it wouldn’t have mattered . . . ,” Rebecca began, but her voice failed her and she stopped.
“Of course it mattered, Rebecca,” Ellen said sadly. “You matter. You are the only thing in my whole life that ever mattered. But it was your money I lost, Rebecca—what you brought to our relationship. I knew you’d never forgive me if you knew what I’d done. And then one terrible thing led to another, and I was so desperately afraid I’d lose you.”
Rebecca slumped back down on the chair.
“Aidan knew everything,” Nell said. “He read the financial reports, knew the figures were skewed. And he knew that Ellen was the only person who had access to it.”
Ellen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I knew if you found out, Rebecca, you’d leave. So I went to Billy. And dear Billy—he understood. He’d bail me out. We’d fix the books, make it better. We’d paid Billy back once, we’d do it again. And our life would be good again.”
Nell knew that beneath the surface was the other thing that Ellen was counting on. If she could stall until Rebecca’s uncle died, there’d be more than enough money to make everything right. To cover her crimes. Aidan was gone. She had control over the books. No one would ever have to know.
Ellen could barely pull her eyes away from Rebecca. It was as if once she did, the connection would snap forever, and her life would crumble to the floor.
When she finally looked away, her voice switched to an eerie monotone, as if someone else had taken over for her, and she had simply disappeared.
Nell hoped that Doc Hamilton hadn’t left yet. He’d be needed to refill Rebecca’s Nembutal prescription—it had run out, she suspected, because Ellen had used it to make the Mickey Finn that she’d slipped into Aidan’s drink. And Ellen might need something as well.
Rebecca’s makeup was completely gone now, and sitting in the dark shadows of the room, she looked as vulnerable and defense-less as a sixteen-year-old. She covered her face with her hands, her grief swallowing her up.
Nell had to restrain herself from wrapping her up and taking her home.
Natalie had slipped into the back of the room as Ellen was talking. A look of total disbelief filled her face as she stared at the woman who had killed her husband. The outstanding debt, the $250,000. It was Billy’s gift to his friend Ellen. The gambling debt.
Ellen spotted her. “It’s you who is to blame for this, Natalie,” she said calmly. “Billy would never have made me pay him back. But you insisted. I begged him that night. I sat in the rain next to him and begged him to honor our friendship, to forgive the debt so I could make the foundation books balance before Jane got her hands on them.
“But he couldn’t, he said. Not without losing his wife. He would if he could, but his hands were tied—he couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving him. And then he finished off the bottle, and when he tried to stand, he slipped on the wet dock and tumbled off the end. I couldn’t pull him back, of course. He grabbed the rung, but I couldn’t do anything to help him. He was so much heavier than I am.”
So you stepped on his hands, and let him drown in the churning sea.
The words echoed silently in the sadness of the room.
An awful, eerie silence was broken only by the agonizing cry that escaped Natalie Sobel’s lips. In the next second, she fell into a dead faint, saved from the hard wooden floor by Chief Jerry Thompson’s strong arms.
Chapter 34
Many of the Canary Cove neighbors and artists pitched in to give the Peabody house and Fishtail Gallery a thorough cleaning, opening windows, scrubbing floors and kitchen cupboards.
But it was Nell, Cass, Izzy, and Birdie who stayed with Willow, going through bookcases and drawers, making beds with fresh-smelling cotton sheets, and filling her house with flowers from Aidan’s garden.
They talked as they worked, putting the last weeks of summer into their proper place.
Rebecca had decided to stay on in Sea Harbor, hiring a new manager for the shop and moving on with her life. She was brave, everyone said.
But when Izzy and Nell stopped in her gallery the day before, Rebecca had taken them into the private office, shut the door, and broken down in tears. All the secrets, living a pretend life, was painful for her, she said. Distasteful. But Ellen had insisted, knowing they risked losing the inheritance if they acted otherwise.
“Ellen was so afraid of losing you,” Nell said. That was what this was all about. “Losing the one person in her life who held her together.”
Rebecca’s sadness was profound. “I didn’t care about the money. I honestly didn’t. I only cared about Ellen. And I hated pretending to be something I wasn’t. I think that’s why I was so nasty to everyone,” she said. Her eyes, if not her words, asked them for forgiveness.
“I think Rebecca will be fine,” Birdie said. “But it will take a long time for everyone to heal.”
“She’s using her uncle’s money to replenish the foundation,” Nell said. “It’s a start. And a generous gesture. You’re right, Birdie. Rebecca will be fine, though Ellen’s crimes will be difficult for her to forget or forgive. This is certainly a start.”
“I feel sorry for Brendan,” Izzy said. “He was so obsessed with his own talent, so angry that people didn’t recognize it, that it ate him up.”
“I wonder if he would have eventually let it slip, just to let people know that he was as good as Robert James—at least in his mind. And he’d proven it by his deception, by others accepting his work as that of the master.”
“It may have come to that,” Nell said. “He wanted recognition so badly that he might have admitted his guilt on his own.”
“What will happen to him?” Willow asked.
Nell could see that she still carried a fondness for
the art teacher. But Willow was resilient. “As far as being prosecuted, probably nothing will happen. He didn’t forge James’ signature yet. And didn’t received any money for the paintings, though that was clearly his and Billy’s plan. Natalie discovered papers that offered half of the sale to Brendan, something that would have been mighty difficult to explain to her when the time came.”
“But he’s lost his job. Sea Harbor High has canceled his contract,” Birdie said. “It’s understandable, but a shame. Brendan was a talented artist and, if Stella Palazola speaks the truth, a fine teacher.”
“He’ll go back to Maine, maybe. I don’t think he would ever have been happy in New York.” Willow emptied a pail of water into the kitchen sink. “And then, hopefully, he’ll grow up.”
Birdie led the way into Aidan’s den and switched on a light. It was that magical time of evening when light played off the trees and filtered in through the curtains, casting shadows on the braided rug on the floor. Through the open windows the sweet smell of roses drifted in from Aidan’s garden.
They sat together on the floor, even Birdie crouching down beside Izzy, her short legs sticking straight out in front of her. A circle of unlikely friends.
Willow leafed through the stack of letters retrieved from a secret cubbyhole in the back of Aidan’s mermaid. Since they’d found them earlier that day, they hadn’t left Willow’s hands.
No one had found the stash, not in the police’s search of the house or the deep cleaning that Jane and Birdie gave to every inch of the family room. No one noticed the small latch in the mermaid’s elaborate fins that opened up to a hollowed-out space, not until Willow herself ran her hands over the finely crafted wood and felt the tiny protrusion. A little brass knob, nearly invisible in the carved fold of wood.
Nell wasn’t sure why Aidan had hidden the letters—though he was a private person and she supposed it was in character. Or maybe it was an effort to keep them safe under the mermaid’s watchful eye.
They had sat with Willow as she opened every single letter. Each one addressed to a post office box in Madison, Wisconsin, and returned, unopened. Occupant unknown. Aidan had made a deal with the post office to keep sending them back if they went unclaimed, even after the grace period ran out. It was a connection, he thought, and he paid the charge willingly.
Nell supposed he hoped that one day a letter would come back. And he’d go looking again. Or maybe get a call.
Each letter detailed a father’s search for a child. Although Aidan never knew with certainty that there was a child, his letters expressed a yearning and a connection. He felt the child’s presence, he had written in one of the letters.
And he thought of her always, another said.
It wasn’t clear why the baby became a she, but Aidan seemed to know. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. His little mermaid. In one letter he talked about a small mermaid he carved and kept on his desk to remind him of this little girl growing up. Somewhere. It was the little mermaid Ben had suggested buying. The one Aidan stalwartly refused to sell.
The letters were sporadic—more frequent in the beginning, but always at least once a year.
Willow stood and walked over to the desk. She slipped them into the drawer.
“You came here to meet your father,” Nell said. She pushed herself up off the floor and slipped onto a cushioned chair.
Willow looked over at Nell and nodded. She smiled slowly.
At least it was a beginning, Nell thought. And a strong one. The letters told her so many things, and Aidan’s home and art and studio would tell her more. Each day.
“Are you ready for your exhibit, young lady?” Birdie asked. “All the ladies from my tap-dancing class are coming.”
“We should have them do a number,” Willow teased.
“I’ve got Natalie Sobel going over there with me. She used to be a dancer, you know.”
“Birdie, no,” Izzy said, stifling a laugh.
“They love her. I must say it’s not the kind of tap we’re accustomed to, but it’s good to be open to new things. We now have some men joining the group.”
“So . . .” Cass paused dramatically. She stood and looked about the room.
They all looked up. “So?”
Cass’ gaze settled in on Willow, and the knitters knew what was coming. They could always count on Cass to pull out the questions lurking in their heads.
“So . . .” Willow looked confused.
“So, are you going home? Or are you staying? Let’s get it all out there.”
They all turned to look at Willow.
She forked her fingers through her short dark hair—a habit she’d developed since giving herself a new hairstyle. “So . . .” And then she laughed.
It was a joyful laugh. Light and airy, just like the last week had been. Perfect Sea Harbor summer days.
Willow stopped laughing and looked around the room.
“Jeez, you guys,” she said. “I am home.”
Chapter 35
It was a perfect summer night. The sky was as black as the bottom of the sea, and stars were scattered everywhere—as if a giant hand had flung them from above in a wild, joyful gesture. And the fireworks that exploded in the midsummer sky were not a surprise this night, but a promise made on the Art at Night posters. And a promise kept.
Art at Night, [the posters read]
A celebration of Canary Cove art.
A celebration of summer.
Fireworks, food, drink, and music.
And featuring the fiber art of Willow Adams.
“I knew you were hibernating this past week,” Izzy said, “but I had no idea that you’d managed to put together so many lovely pieces.”
“Only four,” Willow said. “But I love them. I started them the day I came. But they’ve been in my head forever.”
They stood in the outer room of the Brewster Gallery, where Jane had set up a reception table filled with flowers from Aidan’s garden. Willow’s artwork hung in the inner room, a clean white room with perfect lighting.
Jane and Ham had insisted that Willow’s first show be in their gallery, against a solid white wall with perfect lighting.
“Nell and Birdie are in charge of food,” Jane dictated, “Izzy the flowers. And Cass can be the cheerleader and put posters down on the dock.”
The Brewsters had wanted Willow’s opening to be on its own day, a special, grand affair—but Willow was stubborn. She wanted it to be a part of the Art at Night festivities instead.
“But having your own opening would place all the attention on your art,” Jane had argued. “You wouldn’t have to share the stage.”
Nell suspected that was part of Willow’s strategy. She’d had enough time in the spotlight in the past month to last a lifetime. She was ready to get off the stage and be normal again.
Her explanation to Jane was simple. “The first time I met some of you was at Art at Night,” she said. “And I know Aid . . . I know my dad loved that event. He had notes all over his office, most on how to showcase everyone else in this neighborhood except himself.”
And so all had agreed, but only if the flyers that were tacked to bulletin boards in Coffee’s, over at the city offices outside Rachel Wooten’s office, in Archie’s bookstore and Harry’s deli—and a huge poster in the window of the Seaside Knitting Studio—mentioned Willow’s exhibit at the Brewster Gallery.
“Shall we go in before others come?” Jane asked, her hands motioning toward the exhibit room.
They filed into the room—Ben and Sam, Birdie and Cass and Izzy. Nell followed Jane and Willow.
Ham was in the back of the room, adjusting the angle of the lights from a small panel in the wall.
“Jane, it’s perfect,” Nell said in a hushed voice.
And then she stood back with the others, a single line, looking up at a wall of amazing texture.
As the narrow beams of light focused on each individual work, Nell caught her breath, and for the first time the full impact of Willow’
s creations sunk in.
“Patterns in the Sand,” Willow called the series.
Four pieces, each one different. Each one born of sea and sand and the colors of nature blended together. Willow had used cashmere and sea silk, fine wool and tangled pieces of Izzy’s organic cotton. Strands of boucle yarn that were left over from Cass’ socks.
The first piece in the collection used shades of tan, smooth and chunky yarn tangled to simulate the rolling dunes of sand after a storm. She had created shadows and texture, twisting and smoothing strands of yarn into wavy shapes, then binding them together invisibly. And in the next two, sea glass and yarn that looked like clam shells and flat green seaweed appeared in the sand.
In the final piece, a strip of sea appeared at the top of the oblong creation, rippling waves of every color of blue, the yarn twisted and fashioned until the waves seemed to come right out of the wall and Nell could almost smell the ocean. Some strands of the sweater Nell had nearly finished for Willow appeared in the water.
Below the robust sea was a span of patterned sand, smooth and wavy to resemble the ripples in the sand left by the receding tide—a pattern as complex as life itself—hills and valley, rivers and small rolls of land intersecting one another, then narrowing into single steams.
Nell stepped back, alone, and feasted on Willow’s art. There was no question in her mind.
She knew before Ben Endicott uttered a single word whose home would welcome the final piece in the series.
And she knew exactly where she’d put it. Along the clean white wall in the family room, guarded by a carved wooden statue of a fisherman, his eyes gazing out to sea and an enigmatic smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
The Inside-Out Knit Chemo Cap
Knit Head Hugger
Designed by Joyce Forker, used with permission.
Materials:
#8 and #10 (US) knitting needles
One skein soft yarn of your choice (please see note below)
Patterns in the Sand Page 28
