Chapter 10
Izzy emerged from the Endicott woods and ran along the back pathway to the house, her running shoes sound and swift on the flagstone path.
Nell heard her before she saw her, and then a blur of long, lean body flew up the deck steps and into the house.
Nell sat at the kitchen island in a pair of capris and a loose cotton blouse. The Sea Harbor paper was spread out in front of her. Cups of cold coffee sat abandoned at the sink.
Izzy eyed the cups. “Three cups. Who beat me here?” She wiped her damp forehead with a wristband and peeled her tank top loose from her damp skin, then let it settle back in a slow bubble against her freckled chest.
“Birdie has come and gone. She stopped at Coffee’s on her way and brought some gossip tidbits, then headed off to teach her dance class.”
“What are people saying?”
“Birdie said most of the talk was about tighter security on Harbor Road. More security guards, brighter lights, that sort of thing. And there was some unfair criticism of M.J. for not building an inside access to her basement. That bulkhead ‘was just begging a burglar to stop in and say hello,’ Beatrice Scaglia said.”
“I’d think a window would provide easier access for a burglar,” Izzy said. “And there were plenty of those.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Nell. “Is Ben off with Sam?”
“Yes. Another sailing class for the kids.”
“They’re obsessed with the kids winning the regatta again. I saw Ham peddling over from Canary Cove on his bike, headed toward the club.”
“Keep the day as normal as you can. That’s Ben’s motto. I suppose it’s a good one.”
They had all waited for Nell to come home the night before. They’d cleaned the grill and washed up the dishes, but saved dessert.
As Nell had predicted, it hadn’t taken long at the station. Unfortunately, they didn’t have much to say to Jerry Thompson. Nothing very helpful. So after going over the story twice, Chief Thompson had called it a night and told Tommy to drive them home.
“I can’t get my arms around this. And you, Aunt Nell—you were right there in the salon.”
“Not when she was killed. They think it was the night before.”
“While we were knitting in my shop?” Izzy said. “We’re just down the street. Geesh.”
“Maybe it was later. Around eleven or so.”
“How could this have happened? Why Tiffany Ciccolo? She’s such a quiet kind of person. Who would have anything against her?”
Chief Thompson had avoided that question the night before, dancing around it, but now Nell pointed at the paper. Izzy read the large headline out loud.
ROBBERY GONE BAD. YOUNG STYLIST KILLED.
“A robbery?” Izzy’s voice was coated in disbelief. “What would a thief possibly steal from M.J.’s? Hair color? Scissors? Combs and brushes? That’s odd.”
“The police found some things missing. A laptop computer that Tiffany used, for one. There was a small office down there that she used for her event planning. Her cell phone. But Ben thinks it’s being reported as a robbery for now to stop wild rumors from circulating. Maybe it was a robbery—but maybe it wasn’t. They’ll know soon.”
Izzy put her hands on her hips and stared at the paper. “Well, I for one don’t believe it was a robbery.”
“But the alternative is equally hard to believe. Who would want to kill sweet Tiffany Ciccolo?”
Izzy nodded. Her bare shoulders and legs were glistening from her run along the beach, but Nell suspected the flush on her cheeks was as much from confusion as from exertion. It didn’t make sense to Nell, either, though she had no grounds for her disbelief. Just common sense, she supposed. There were plenty of shops along Harbor Road that would have provided more of a cache.
Murdering someone for a laptop and a few dollars?
Izzy looked over at the clock on the stove, then back to Nell. “I need to go.” She slipped off the stool and grabbed her cell phone from the counter. “Mae’s nieces filled the store window with the most gorgeous butter-soft summer yarn you’ve ever seen in your entire life. I suspect the shop will be packed today. Summer projects.” She took a few steps, then stopped short and looked back. “I almost forgot. I ran into Pete at the beach. He said he found Andy last night after he left here.”
“Where?”
“He was sitting at the end of the pier, over near Gracie Santos’ lobster shack, a bottle of whiskey beside him.”
Nell frowned. That was unlike Andy. He was often teased because his family owned a bar—and he disliked the taste of alcohol. A beer every now and then seemed to be Andy’s sole indulgence.
“He wasn’t wrecked, Pete said, but had had a few. Pete assumed he knew about Tiffany, but he didn’t; at least that was Pete’s impression. And when Pete told him what had happened, Andy reacted strangely. Not at all what Pete expected—though he admitted he wasn’t sure what to expect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Andy looked at him and said, ‘Harmony’s dead?’ ”
“Harmony?”
“Well, Pete thought that’s what he said, but he wasn’t sure. Harmony, like in their music. Merry and Pete had been having some trouble harmonizing on some new lyrics, and Andy had teased them about it last week. At first Pete thought Andy was making another joke about it. Then he just sat still for a few minutes, staring at nothing and kind of rocking back and forth, looking sad. After a while he held up the bottle and offered Pete a drink. ‘To old times,’ he said.”
“And that was it?”
“Then Pete took him home. They drove by Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee on the way. He said Andy was quiet. A sad kind of quiet, like he was thinking about Tiffany—about her death. Pete offered to stay a while, to talk about things, but Andy brushed him off. Said it was late, that he was tired.”
Izzy checked her watch again. “And speaking of late . . .” She walked over and planted a kiss on Nell’s cheek.
“I love you,” she murmured, more to herself than to her aunt.
But it didn’t escape Nell’s ears, and she watched through the open doors as Izzy sailed down the flagstone path and into the back woods, disappearing as quickly as she’d come, a lovely blur against the summer day.
When Ben returned home much later that day, he found Nell not far from where he had left her, sitting at the kitchen island. But the kitchen was cleaned up, the house smelled fresh, and the newspaper had been replaced by her laptop. She proudly announced that not only had she updated Izzy’s wedding to-do list and returned a dozen phone calls, but she had taken a shower, been to the post office and the market, and written two proposals for the arts commission that had been hanging over her head. The day was disappearing—but it had been a full one.
The commitments Nell made because of her inability to say no in her retirement, Ben often said, rivaled the time she used to put in as a full-time director of the Boston nonprofit.
“You smell like the sea,” Nell observed, taking off her glasses. “Nice.”
“Which is why I’m off to take a shower before the Brewsters show up.”
Nell raised her eyebrows.
“Movie night, remember? That new theater in Gloucester?”
She hadn’t remembered.
“No problem. You’ve a lot going on. But eating might help your memory—here’s a snack, if you skipped lunch. Leftovers. We took the boys over to Harry’s after sailing.” Ben dropped a bag of Harry Garozzo’s Saturday hoagie specials on the counter. He took one out and peeled off the white paper, then set it on a plate. “A thing of beauty. Enjoy, my love.”
The kiss he planted on Nell’s lips was salty and delicious. She considered a second shower, then reluctantly turned her attention back to sending two final e-mails. Finally, satisfied her sent box was healthy and happy, she closed her laptop and turned her full attention to Harry’s hoagie. It wasn’t really a late-afternoon snack—it was a feast.
The crisp, homemade bun was
so stuffed, she wondered how anyone could get a mouth around it. Layers of provolone, roasted peppers, purple eggplant, sweet gherkins, thinly sliced tomato, and sautéed onion were piled high and topped with Harry’s thick pink sauce, which dribbled down the sides. Nell caught it with her fingertip and licked it clean. She cut the sandwich into small wedges.
Ben’s gesture was sweet, especially since he was right. She’d become immersed in getting things done and had only snacked lightly. She walked over to the sink and stood there for a minute, absently washing her hands, her eyes scanning the yard.
Her favorite view. The yard painted in a dozen shades of green, the sea just barely visible though the tops of leafy trees, the sun casting long shadows across the yard as it made its way down the western horizon.
She had loved this yard from the first time Ben brought her to his family’s vacation home. It was filled with memories—noisy picnics in the back with his brothers and various girlfriends, volleyball games. Clambakes and lazy afternoons in the rope hammock. Madeline and Jim Endicott made everyone feel at home at 22 Sandswept Lane, and Nell felt a certain pride in knowing she and Ben had carried on his parents’ legacy.
Today the lawn looked especially welcoming. Was the grass greener since Claire came into its life? The flowers brighter? A movement out of the corner of her eye shifted her attention to the guesthouse, nearly hidden behind a thick row of rugosa roses. Claire was walking around the side of the cottage. She picked up a hose coiled near the corner of the house, turned on the faucet knob, and began spraying the roses.
Nell had almost forgotten that Claire had moved into the guesthouse. Ben had been more hospitable than she. Before leaving that morning, he’d gone down with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, which Claire had gratefully accepted. She was still in a robe, Ben said, and looked like she’d just gotten up, so he left her alone to begin her day in peace and quiet.
Nell watched for a minute, then, feeling like a voyeur, turned from the window. She found Claire fascinating. She was beautiful in a classic kind of way—long face and nose, high, round cheekbones. But her face held a kind of mystery, too, and had lines that Nell suspected had stories behind them. She often felt Claire’s reticence to talk about herself when they worked together in the garden, though she asked dozens of questions about the town, about Izzy’s wedding. It was like a dance. Some days Nell would feel she was on the cusp of getting to know what Claire was all about, and then there’d be graceful—but definite—steps back.
She looked at the sandwich wedges on the counter. Then she impulsively slipped them onto a plate with some raw veggies, grabbed napkins and two bottles of water, and headed toward the back of the yard.
Claire spun around at the sound of her footsteps. The hose flew up in the air, the arc of the water creating a rainbow in the sunshine.
“Nell, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“You were deep in thought.”
“Deep in watering, anyway.” Claire got the hose under control and continued her watering, moving from the roses to a border of hostas, then on to the thirsty hydrangea bushes. Water beaded up on the deep green leaves.
“I don’t know if I’ve even thanked you, Nell,” Claire began, her eyes on the watering. “Your guesthouse is wonderful. I’m surprised you can pry people out of it once they spend one night in that magnificent bed—that and the sea air coming in the window. It’s quite amazing. It clears your head.”
“It’s magic. The magic of the sea. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” Nell put the plate down on a low wrought-iron table and motioned for Claire to join her. “Watering can wait, but this snack can’t. A taste of Italy, compliments of Ben—and our friend Harry Garozzo.” She sat on the curved garden bench. “Or save it for dinner, if you’d like. But, anyway, taking a break to admire your amazing green thumb is always a good thing.”
Claire hesitated, but only for a moment. She turned off the faucet and took the plate Nell handed her. “Room and board, too. I am one lucky woman.”
Nell laughed. “How is the painting coming on your apartment?”
“Fine. A week or two, they said.” She chewed a bite of sandwich, then set it back on her plate. “But . . . well, I’m rethinking my plans.”
“You’ve found something you like better?”
Claire looked over toward the gerbera daisies, brilliant splashes of pink, coral, and peach. She concentrated on them as if offering them a say in the conversation. Finally she turned back. “I don’t know if I’ll be here long.”
Nell stopped in midbite. “You’re welcome to stay, Claire—”
“No, I don’t mean here, Nell. I mean in Sea Harbor. I thought it would be good to come back east, good for me . . . but I may have made a mistake. I have a sister in Texas, and she’s always asking me to come down there.”
“Texas . . .”
She nodded. “She has a place in the foothills. Plenty of room. And they always need gardeners down there.”
“Not as much as we need them here.”
“You’re sweet. And you and Ben have been so gracious, quite wonderful, really. Opening your home this way. Working on the yard for Izzy has been the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I’d always dreamed of preparing for a wedding this way.”
“And you’ve done a wonderful job, but—”
Claire spoke in a rush. “Don’t think for one minute I’d leave in the middle of this, Nell. I’d never do that. I’ll make sure everything is perfect for the wedding.”
“I’m not concerned about that. I’m just surprised. I thought you were settling in and liking it here. And selfishly speaking, I’m enjoying getting to know you. And I had hoped that would continue.”
Claire was quiet for a minute, her eyes taking in the yard, the plants, the wooded path that led to the sea. She took a drink of water. “I meant it when I said you and Ben have been a bright light in my life. Probably the brightest in years, if truth be told. But you don’t know me, Nell, not really. My life’s been different, not a straight, nice road at all. It’s been—”
Her words dropped off, interrupted by a sound coming from the deck. The two women looked up and saw Ham Brewster and Ben moving two Adirondack chairs into the shade. They settled down in the chairs, each holding a glass of Scotch in his hand. A minute later, Jane joined them and sat on a chaise.
Ben held up his glass and called down to them, “It’s relaxing time. Join us?”
Nell looked at Claire, but she was already shaking her head and rising from the bench. “I have some things I want to do out here before it gets too dark,” she said to Nell. She motioned toward a newly mulched area, filled now with snowy white impatiens. “And later, there’s a stack of books waiting for me inside.” A slight smile lifted her lips as if to reassure Nell that she was fine. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s my favorite way to spend a summer night,” she said. Then she moved away and turned the faucet until the spray came out full and strong, and she aimed it at the thick stand of roses along the side of the guest cottage.
Nell covered the plate of food with a napkin, reminded Claire that it was there for her, and walked slowly toward the deck. She looked back at the slender woman, now moving in and around the planted beds as if she were among friends. Curious, she thought. She wondered briefly if the plants in her garden knew more about Claire Russell than she did. She suspected they did.
Claire turned around then, almost as if she knew Nell would be standing there, watching her.
Their eyes met, and Claire waved, a graceful, slow-motion movement in the darkening sky.
A sudden, discomforting feeling passed through Nell. Finally, she lifted her hand and waved back.
And she hoped it didn’t mean good-bye.
Chapter 11
First she had forgotten the movie date with Ham and Jane.
The next day, Nell stood in front of the kitchen calendar, fresh from her shower, frowning. It had happened again—this time she’d almost forgotten an even
t that had been on her calendar for weeks.
She knew what the distraction was—it was Tiffany Ciccolo’s death, of course. It was finding her body on the cold floor of M.J.’s cellar. Her heart mourned for the young girl, and her heart yearned for normalcy. The robbery and death had thrown the town into disarray. Things weren’t normal, weren’t what they should be.
That was what was causing Nell to go to the store twice in a day for milk and to leave her debit card in the machine’s slot.
But today’s forgetfulness bothered Nell exceedingly.
She had almost forgotten about the Danvers’ party for Izzy and Sam, scheduled for that night. But there it was on the calendar, as big as life, printed in oversized letters. She stared at the calendar, scolding herself out loud.
“But you didn’t forget,” Ben said, coming up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her.
“Almost.”
“Not even almost. It wouldn’t have happened. That’s why we put things on calendars. What you’re upset about is that there’s a shadow over everything right now. A young girl is dead. We’re not sure why. People are concerned, worried. And you want it all to go away.”
Nell nodded, still looking at the calendar.
“But we won’t let any of this overshadow Izzy and Sam’s time. We won’t. It’s just too fresh right now. Just a few days.”
Nell knew Ben was right. It was all too recent. Too fresh.
Ben nuzzled her neck. “You smell good. And so does the coffee. And that’s all we need to remember right now.”
Nell turned and leaned into his body. Together they walked over to the island to coffee and juice and the comfort of each other.
Ben was right. They wouldn’t have forgotten the party, and it was just what they all needed. And for all Izzy’s protestations, the party would be a good thing for everyone.
Izzy had told them all months ago that she didn’t want a bridal shower. They’d be living in Sam’s place, which was small, and they didn’t need much anyway, she insisted. Each of them had had their own place for a long time, complete with toasters and microwaves. Their wants were few.
The Wedding Shawl Page 8
