The Wedding Shawl

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “An understatement, Claire. Nell has perfected that art.”

  Nell shushed him with a look. “It’s the circumstances that worried me. I didn’t know what to do to help.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Claire said. “But thank you for caring. I came back to Cape Ann to somehow make myself whole again, but I didn’t expect this. Tiffany’s death, having things brought up again. It’s thrown me a bit.”

  “That’s certainly understandable,” Ben said. “The timing is unfortunate. But the police would like to talk to you. They’re trying to cover all the bases, that’s all. Chief Thompson’s a good man. He’d avoid this if he could.”

  Claire nodded. “When I read the newspaper this morning, I could see that the investigation was taking a different direction. So I supposed this might happen. It would only take a few phone calls to find out that I had changed my name—and probably not long at all to find me.” She rolled the wine stem between long fingers. “But I wasn’t trying to hide from anyone. The name change, that was something . . . Well, it wasn’t to keep secrets.”

  “We have good men on the police force. It’s just routine,” Nell said. But she had no idea if it was routine—or what Jerry Thompson and his crew were thinking. Ben supposed it was the coincidence itself, and then the further coincidence of Claire being in town. They just want more information, he had assured Nell.

  “I haven’t spoken to Tiffany Ciccolo since before my daughter died. I don’t know what I could possibly say to them about her death. But I’ll go to the station anyway. And I’ll tell them anything I can.”

  “Did you know Tiffany well?”

  The question seemed to confuse Claire. She took another drink of wine before offering a guarded answer.

  “No. Not all that well. There was one time, when Harmony first met Tiffany, that I tried to teach them both to knit.” Her face softened with the memory. “We spent some time together then.”

  “But they were good friends?”

  Claire nodded. “Yes. I think it started when Tiffany didn’t have anyone to eat lunch with at school. She was shy. And Harmony—she was more of a free spirit. She was always rescuing birds and rabbits and little critters. I suppose it began like that. But a teenage friendship all those years ago . . . It seems to me that the police are grasping at straws.”

  “You’re convinced there’s no connection?” Ben asked.

  “What could it be? For a while—and I know it’s a terrible thought, but I was grasping at anything that might make sense of it all—I thought that somehow Tiffany might be connected to Harmony’s death. I don’t know how or why, but she never came to see me afterward, never offered me any comfort by telling me about Harmony’s last night. And I was desperate for information. Anything at all. Who did Harmony talk to at the party? Did she have a good time? Did she eat anything? Did she dance?

  “Tiffany and Andy Risso were the last people I know who saw my daughter alive, and neither of them ever came to me or told me any of the things I needed to know. I called Tiffany’s house once, but she told me she had to work and couldn’t talk to me. All I wanted was another glimpse of my daughter. Something beyond the look on her face when she left home that night.”

  “It was a graduation party at the school, I understand,” Nell said.

  Claire nodded. “When she left that night, Harmony hugged me so hard it almost hurt. She told me she loved me and that everything was going to be all right. Then she slipped out the kitchen door and walked off.”

  “Everything was going to be all right?”

  “I thought at first it was an odd thing to say, but I think she meant that she’d be sure her father wouldn’t find out she had gone to the party. That there wouldn’t be a horrible scene in the house. Her eyes were so bright when she looked at me—full of promise and life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so beautiful. There was a special look about her. And then she went off into the darkness.”

  “She went to the party alone?”

  “No. She had my car. She was picking Tiffany up and dropping her overnight bag there—they were going to spend the night together. Richard had forbidden her to go out that night, but she was desperate. She’d graduated with honors, and it seemed so unfair of him to forbid her to go. She wanted to go so badly and wouldn’t back down. She was going, ‘or else,’ she said. She was determined in a way I hadn’t seen her be before. She had missed so much over the years because of her father, but this night seemed especially important to her. Her father was unrelenting, so she begged me to make it happen.”

  Nell watched a shadow fall across Claire’s face as she reached back into her memory to that night. And in that moment, she knew what a horrible burden Claire had lived with all these years. She’d met the demon Claire had come home to exorcise.

  Claire finished her wine in a single swallow and set the glass down on the table. Her voice had flattened to a monotone.

  “You have to make it happen, Mom, she begged me. And so I did. I lied to her father. I made up a story about where she was going that night. A fake babysitting job. Then I bought her a new dress, although she asked me not to. And I sent her on her way. I made it all happen, just as she asked me to.

  “I made it possible for her to walk out of our house that night—to her death.

  “I’m her mother. And that’s what I did.”

  Chapter 18

  Nell’s morning meeting was at the Sea Harbor Historical Society, the monthly board meeting. A short meeting, she hoped.

  As she pulled out of the driveway, she noticed that Claire’s car was already gone. It didn’t surprise Nell. For all the secrets and pain she harbored inside herself, Claire Russell seemed honest, and Nell suspected she was already at the police station, just as she had said she’d be.

  They were all drained the night before, and Claire went out to the guest cottage soon after finishing her wine. She took some aspirin Nell offered her but said talking had helped, and she thought sleep might come more easily that night. She’d go to the police first thing in the morning, answer as many questions as they put before her, then go out to the nursery and pick up some root stimulator for the plants she planned to transfer.

  Don’t worry, she said as she headed toward the guesthouse. I’ll be fine. And the yard and gardens would be fine for Izzy’s wedding, too, she promised. No worries. None. But the tone in her voice reflected far less certainty than the words themselves.

  I certainly hope everything will be fine, Nell thought now as she pulled onto Harbor Road. She wasn’t worried about the yard—it was already perfect, in her mind—lush and green and beautiful. Anything more that Claire did would be icing on the cake.

  But the promise that everything else would be fine registered with a discomforting hollowness. A murder had occurred. And whether it was fair or not, Claire Russell’s history connected her to it.

  Nell stopped at a stop sign and waved at Merry Jackson as she jogged by, her small, shapely legs rotating faster than bicycle wheels, her ponytail flying behind her. Nell smiled at the fleeting figure, so compact and cheerful. She was an advertisement for positive thinking. A dose of Merry is a good thing for all of us, Nell thought.

  She pulled into the parking lot, a narrow gravel strip that ran alongside the historical museum. The redbrick building was on the historic registry, and over the years, the century-old ship captain’s home had been turned into a wonderful library and museum that showcased the town’s history. She hoped the meeting would be a short one and that the coffee would be strong.

  Birdie’s long Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb with Harold at the wheel when Nell reached the steps. She waved at Birdie’s groundsman and opened the door for Birdie.

  “Kismet,” Birdie said, slipping out of the car with the spryness of someone twenty years her junior. She waved Harold on and looped her arm through Nell’s. The top of her head barely reached Nell’s shoulder, and she tilted it to one side now, looking up at her friend.

  “I just ran int
o Jake Risso,” she said without preamble. “We shared a table at Coffee’s, not my usual way to start the day—nor his, I suspect. But there he was, looking a bit bedraggled, as if he’d had a night he wanted to forget. I hadn’t planned on stopping at Coffee’s, but I spotted him on the patio and his slumped shoulders beckoned to me.”

  Nell entertained the image in her mind. The gruff, unshaven bartender, sitting across from a neatly dressed Birdie Favazza, her large sunglasses nearly covering her face. An unlikely duo.

  “He hadn’t slept, he told me, so he might as well be drinking Coffee’s poison, as he calls it.”

  Nell followed Birdie up the steps and into the museum lobby. The meeting room, just to the left, was already buzzing with board members when they walked in. Birdie pulled Nell into a corner. “Jake said the police called Andy back in this morning, and Jake is ready to kill someone. It’s the same thing all over again. Just like fifteen years ago. Putting his boy on the hot seat because of some damn girl. Those were his words, not mine.”

  Birdie and Nell knew Jake Risso had a short fuse. They’d seen it firsthand when a homeowner had tried to keep him from taking his fishing boat down to the cove on their access road. He’d single-handedly—with the help of a backhoe—forcefully pulled out the cement barricade. Jake was not easily deterred.

  “It’s tough to see him reliving those days,” Birdie said.

  “I wonder what they think Andy might know.”

  “Jake says Tiffany was in the bar a lot when Andy was working. And he knew they were seeing each other. Once he called Andy’s place and she answered the phone. Jake thought she was a bit obsessive about the relationship—but then, he said he thought she’d always been kind of obsessed with Andy. Even back when they were teenagers. She was Harmony’s best friend, but Jake thought she also had a crush on Andy.”

  Nell lifted her eyebrows, but before she could pursue it further, Laura Danvers walked into the room with a platter of warm, cheesefilled Danish.

  “Straight out of the oven,” she announced. She set them on the side table next to a pot of fresh coffee, took out her notes, and began tapping on a water glass. “Let’s get started, ladies,” she urged.

  Nell sat down at the end of the table, and Birdie took the chair beside her. The meeting began, and Nell tried hard to focus, but the word “obsessed” crowded out the discussion on repairing the steps and funding new exhibits for the front hall. When she closed her eyes briefly, images of sweet Andy Risso filled her head. Tiffany was crazy about Andy; that was as clear to her as the Danish Birdie had just set in front of her. But obsessive? From all accounts, he’d reciprocated her affection, at least for a while.

  The meeting ended in record time, thanks to Laura’s expert handling of the issues. Nell marveled at the young woman’s ability to keep women twice her age in line and on target, and she told her so as the women packed up their things to leave.

  Laura accepted the compliment graciously. “I owe it all to Sea Harbor High.”

  “Class president would be my guess,” Birdie said.

  Laura laughed. “And we had lots of issues that year. So I learned how to keep people in line.”

  “Andy Risso was in your class, right?” Nell asked, though she knew it to be true. Laura. Tiffany. Harmony. Andy. Merry.

  “Sure. Andy was smart, kind of shy. We were in honors classes together. I didn’t know him well back then—he was a band kid, and I wasn’t very musical. But he was one of those kids that people liked. Sweet, I guess you’d say. Just like he is today. Andy’s great.”

  Laura smiled over at one of the museum guides who was waiting to talk to her. “Gotta go. But thanks for coming to the meeting. Sometimes in summer it’s hard to get people here.” She disappeared through the door, her shiny brown hair waving in the breeze.

  “Shall we?” Birdie began walking to the door, and Nell followed.

  Outside, Harold stood patiently at the side of the Lincoln, holding the back door open.

  “Harold, stop that,” Birdie scolded as she and Nell walked down the steps. She wagged a finger in the air. “People will think I have a chauffeur.”

  “You do, ma’am,” Harold said, his eyes twinkling.

  “Nonsense,” she said, and closed the door, then opened the front door and climbed inside. She rolled down the window and told Nell she would see her tonight. She’d already put the pinot in the wine cooler.

  Tonight. The thought sent Nell scurrying to her car. It was Thursday, knitting night. Good. Cooking always cleared her thoughts.

  Nell was the last to arrive that evening, but she knew they wouldn’t start without her. She had the food, after all.

  “Smells great,” Izzy said, holding open the shop door as Nell walked through with an armload of bulging bags.

  “Lord in heaven.” Mae stepped from behind the counter and took some of the load from Nell’s arms. “You cooking for an army tonight? Sometimes I wonder why every sweater you gals make doesn’t come with permanent food stains on it.”

  “We separate our passions, Mae,” Izzy said, taking the bags from Mae. “Eating, then knitting.”

  Mae laughed and stepped back behind the counter as a customer approached. She shifted into store-manager mode, smiling at the customer and approving her choice of yarn. “Well, go on, then,” she said to Nell and Izzy, peering at them over her rimless glasses as she tallied the purchase. “As long as you keep our gorgeous yarns pristine, I’m happy. And by the way, Izzy, I may be here a bit longer tonight, so don’t call the police if you hear noise. Got some new yarn books I want to check in.”

  “Thanks, Mae. Come back if you get hungry.” She followed Nell down the steps.

  Cass and Birdie were already deep in conversation near the fireplace. Purl had settled between the two of them, her soft tail moving rhythmically against Birdie’s thigh while Cass scratched her head.

  The windows were open wide, and Birdie’s wine was uncorked, with the glasses lined up, waiting. A pitcher of water was beside them. Beyond the windows, an orchestra of boat horns announced the end of a glorious day of sightseeing or whale watching, of sportfishing or filling a sturdy boat with lobster and crabs for area restaurants.

  They pulled themselves out of the conversation to greet the others. Some unwritten pact established in the early days of the Thursday night knitting group dictated pleasurable conversation before the foursome got down to the more serious issues of solving their friends’ and neighbors’ problems, or the difficulties in knitting an I-cord or picking up dropped stitches in a lace pattern.

  “The shawl?” Izzy asked, eyeing the large bag on the big library table in the middle of the room. She looked expectantly at Birdie.

  In the beginning they planned to surprise Izzy with the wedding shawl. But very quickly they decided that someone with Izzy’s taste would need to be in on the design. And so she had been. But Birdie, especially, was determined that Izzy could have weekly peeks—and even offer suggestions as the shawl took shape—but she would never see it completed until her wedding day.

  And Izzy had finally agreed.

  Birdie pushed herself up from the deep cushions and walked to the end of the table. “I’m turning the shawl over to Nell this week. She does such a fine job on the circle design. But it’s looking grand, Izzy dear. Suitable for a beautiful bride.” She opened the bag, tugged out a small sheet, and spread it across the end of the table. “Now we’re ready. Not that your table is dirty, but caution never hurts.” Then, carefully, with a kind of reverence, she pulled out the folds of exquisite cashmere, waves of knitted lace rippling across the fabric she set it on.

  They gathered close and looked down at the exquisitely detailed shawl. The shawl of friendship.

  Izzy stood in silence as she had each week when she was allowed her glimpse of the shawl. Nell saw her eyes mist over. A lump appeared in her own chest, just as it did each week.

  “That’s your treat for this week. A peek is all you get, Isabel,” Birdie said.

&nb
sp; Cass awkwardly wrapped an arm around Izzy. “It gives me goose bumps, Iz,” she said. “I think it’s all of us here together, watching it grow, the wedding coming closer, the whole kit and caboodle, as my mother says.”

  “Yes. It’s all a work in progress,” Birdie said. “Just like our friendship. Always meandering this way and that, whatever comes its way.” She folded the shawl as she spoke and slipped it back into the bag.

  Izzy handed the towel to Birdie. “Well, a glimpse is all I need to know that it couldn’t be more beautiful. It simply couldn’t.”

  “Oh, but it could,” Birdie said, pushing away the emotion and drawing smiles. “And it will, you’ll see. It’s not finished yet. Now, what’s for dinner?”

  Nell took out the plastic containers, then a wooden salad bowl. She pulled the foil off the bowl and stepped aside to make room for Cass, hovering at her elbow.

  Cass eyed the tossed watercress, walnut, and peach salad. Nell had made a vinaigrette dressing with a touch of crushed strawberry and added fresh croutons. She handed Izzy the salad tongs and moved over to the other container as Nell removed the top. A plume of odors rose over the table.

  Cass leaned into the smells and closed her eyes. “Hmm. Lemon zest. Wild mushrooms and roasted zucchini? A touch of sherry, I think. Some snips of dill? Ricotta cheese?”

  “You’re amazing, Cass.” Nell looked at her dubiously as she set down the lid. The long container was filled with warm, flaky galettes—each stuffed with a mixture of mushrooms, red peppers, and zucchini, tossed in a lemony ricotta and sherry mixture. “How in heaven’s name did you do that?”

  “She saw your scribbled recipe on the kitchen counter the other day,” Izzy said.

  Cass’ laugh was her confession. “But I’m getting better at it—I’ll soon be the most discerning gourmand fisherwoman on Cape Ann. Wait and see.”

  Cass not only loved food; she loved the thought of food, and ever since Nell had introduced the lobster fisherwoman to a world beyond canned beans and hot dogs, she was obsessed with new recipes, lured to them as greedily as her lobsters to salted mackerel. And after she clipped the recipes out of newspapers and magazines, she dutifully passed them over to Nell, “to a good home,” she’d say, hoping that the recipes would return to her someday in finished form.