Nell was already to the garage and opening the side door. Her heart was beating fast and she dreaded looking around, no matter what Birdie said. Windows lit the area with morning sunshine. Nell looked around at the neat workbench in the back area, the small practical chairs next to it. Sonny had even installed a refrigerator for cold drinks in case someone got thirsty working back there on one of his cars, shining his wheel caps, or . . .
The small, practical Corolla that rarely got driven sat polished in its place. Nell frowned, then took a step back. Her breath caught in her chest. She stepped out of the doorway and looked back at Birdie and Harold.
“Birdie, where’s the Town Car?”
“It’s right there in front of you,” Birdie said, her voice lifting in an effort to make Nell’s question a silly one, and she began walking toward the door, her pace turning into a hustle. Of course the car would be right there. Right where it always was.
She stopped at the door, her heart wedged tightly in her chest, and her small voice filled with fear. “But Ella doesn’t drive.”
Before Nell could get her phone out of her pocket to call Chief Thompson, Birdie’s cell phone rang.
Nell waited, watching Birdie’s face. What she wanted the caller to say was that Ella was in jail. Driving without a license. Or was found sleeping in a park. Or, perhaps, had gotten herself a fine room at the Emerson Inn and then had no money to pay for it.
“Birdie, dear,” Esther Gibson began . . .
They took Nell’s car to the hospital in Gloucester, speeding along the narrow roads, and made it in record time. Harold sat in front with Nell, his face gray and his long narrow hands knotted in fists. Birdie sat in back, and Stella followed in her own car.
“Her vital signs are good,” the doctor told them. “She’s had a concussion and is still unconscious, but we expect her to come out of it anytime. This isn’t unusual, though we don’t want it to go on too long. She is lucky, frankly, to be with us. Amazingly lucky. She’s certainly a tough lady.”
“What happened?” Nell asked.
That was the great unanswered question. The police knew the basics, that Ella had been driving the Lincoln along a narrow road Wednesday night, over near a quarry. Driving fast for someone who didn’t know how to drive, Tommy Porter observed. She’d swerved to avoid something—maybe a deer, Tommy thought. There were plenty in that area.
The car went off the road, and crashed into a tree.
But that wasn’t the bad part, Tommy said—except, of course, for a major dent in the Favazzas’ Lincoln Town Car. The bad part happened when a dazed Ella got out of the car and stumbled into the road.
“That’s when she was hit. It was a pickup, we think, judging from the tire tracks. It hit her, then seemed to swerve and scraped some bark off a tree.”
“So the driver knew he’d hit someone?”
Tommy couldn’t say for sure. It was dark, a narrow road, and Ella was probably weaving along the side—her head was bruised from the first impact. The area was deserted—no house or street-lights to speak of. If the driver felt a bump, he might have thought it was a deer or a raccoon. “But he still shoulda stopped, for sure,” Tommy said. “She could have died.”
“Like I told you,” the doctor repeated, “it’s kind of a miracle. That lady must have something good to live for.”
Nell looked at Harold as the doctor spoke and saw his eyes grow watery. He rubbed the back of his weathered hand across them.
“She’s going to be fine—her arm is broken, but it’s not too bad. We’ll keep a close eye on her because of the concussion, but she’s going to come through this fine.”
The relief allowed free rein to the questions. Where was Ella Sampson going? And why?
Ella didn’t have her seat belt on, according to the report, and upon impact, she flew hard into the windshield, which must have dazed her badly. It was an out-of-the-way road that circled around the marshes and she may have gotten lost. When the car hit her, she landed near a tree, partly covered by brush and undergrowth.
No one saw her until early morning when a young man, out for a run, spotted the car first, and then Ella, unconscious.
By late afternoon the doctor suggested everyone leave. They were moving Ella into a private room, but it was small, and they didn’t want it crowded. They would set her arm in the morning when the swelling went down. The rest of her injuries were superficial bruises on her face and shoulders. A lucky lady, they said again.
Harold, as everyone expected, refused to leave Ella’s side. He needed to be there when she awoke, he said. She’d be scared if she was alone.
Birdie didn’t want to leave either, but Harold insisted. And when Stella volunteered to stay a while longer, promising to get Harold a meat loaf dinner from the cafeteria and make sure he settled down, Birdie knew it would be all right.
She would call the instant Ella woke up, Stella promised, though the doctor said it might not be for a while.
Birdie hugged Stella tightly, and Nell suspected that Stella’s college fund for Salem State was now secure. And she’d more than earned it.
The meal for the Thursday-night knitting group would have to be simple, but Nell knew she could have brought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and no one would have minded. What mattered to all four of them was being together, and that they would be.
Ben, bless him, had stopped at the market on his way home and picked up some fresh Buffalo mozzarella cheese and plump tomatoes. Along with tortillas, basil from her garden, and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, she was able to put together summer-fresh pizzas that everyone would like. An apricot torte from her freezer finished off her offerings, and she was ready to go.
Nell pulled into the alley between the Sea Harbor Bookstore and Izzy’s shop. She climbed out of the car and came face-to-face with Father Northcutt.
“Good evening, Nell. May I be of service?” the priest asked. “I was just welcoming little Danny Brandley back to town. He’s all folded up in one of Archie’s chairs, pounding on a laptop like fury.”
“Father Larry, Dan Brandley is anything but little.”
“But he used to be. Little towhead. He was always such a nice little kid.”
“They grow up.”
“You seem a slight bit bristly, Nell.”
“Sorry, Father,” Nell said quickly. There was no reason to share her feelings about Danny Brandley with the priest.
But he did need to know about Ella Sampson’s accident and condition.
Father Larry’s smile fell away as Nell explained what had happened. “What a terrible thing. Ella is a fine woman.” He tugged on a fob and looked down at his round pocket watch. “I’ll be up to see her shortly. She has had a hard time with Sophia Santos’ murder. Now this . . .”
“You knew Sophia well, Father?”
“I suppose I did. Sophia wasn’t an easy woman to know, but I probably understood her as well as anyone. She was a good person. She knew right from wrong and lived by it. Had she lived during the Reformation, she would probably have been a martyr. Sophia didn’t back down.”
“Don’t you think, Father, that sometimes gray has a place in our lives? I don’t mean to criticize Sophia. Nor disrespect the Commandments. But sometimes you have to weigh situations and even act from your heart now and then.” She thought about Sophia’s tough love approach to Julianne and convincing Alphonso to cut off her allowance. And she wondered about the staunch stand she’d taken, blocking the neighbors’ access to the beach.
Father Northcutt looked at Nell solemnly. “Yes, Nell. But your heart and Sophia’s heart are different. She did what was right for her.”
Nell leaned over and lifted out the box containing the foil-wrapped pizzas. She turned back toward the priest.
“Do you think Julianne Santos murdered Sophia?”
To Nell’s great surprise, there was no pause before the padre replied. He looked directly at Nell, his clear eyes unblinking.
“No,” he said. “Julianne is a los
t soul who couldn’t kill anyone, not if her own life depended on it. But I believe we will find out who did this terrible thing very soon.”
Chapter 26
Nell was surprised. Not by Father Northcutt’s answer. She suspected there was little that went on in Sea Harbor the priest didn’t stay attuned to. She was surprised that the answer had come out so quickly and definitively. There was no question in his mind that Julianne Santos was innocent. For reasons Nell couldn’t quite explain to herself, having the priest confirm what the knitters thought added a bit of divine credence to it.
Mae was closing down the receipts when Nell walked into the yarn shop. Father Northcutt’s words were spinning around in her head, crowding her thoughts.
“Nell, are you okay?” Mae asked. “You look like you’re miles away.”
“Not that far, Mae.” She looked through the front display window and watched Father Northcutt walk into Scoopers Ice Cream Shop.
Nell shifted her attention to Mae. “I was talking to Father Larry a minute ago, and every now and then he makes me think about things in a new way—or brings to light old truths. Not that I always agree with him, but at least he makes me think.”
“Then I suppose he’s doing his job, isn’t he? He gave a nice homily Sunday. He talked about walking in other people’s shoes before we judge them. He quoted Atticus Finch.”
“To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“That’s the one. He said Atticus had the right idea. You can’t really understand a person unless you crawl inside her skin and walk around in it—or something like that. It made me think of my daughter Jackie, the one who joined a commune in Idaho.”
“What did you think?”
“That I love her to death. But I don’t think I’d crawl inside her skin for a million dollars.”
Nell laughed and moved on. Cass and Birdie were already putting out plates and a basket of calamari when Nell walked down the steps to the back room.
“I had a craving for something fried,” Cass explained. “I think it’s how I handle stress.” She dipped a crunchy strip of squid into the spicy red sauce. “Birdie filled us in on Ella. How dare someone leave the scene like that.”
“Bring the calamari and pizza over here and let’s talk,” Birdie said from her perch near the fireplace. “I’ve poured wine.”
“Have you heard anything more?” Nell asked. “Ben will check on Harold tonight, although it appears Stella has claimed him as her responsibility.”
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, Ella disappearing like that,” Cass said. “That nice woman barely spoke a few months ago—and now she’s taking off in cars she can’t drive and crusading for Lord knows what.”
“And nearly getting herself killed,” Nell said.
“She wouldn’t have done that without a terribly important reason,” Birdie said adamantly. “I’ve known Ella Sampson for forty-five years, and I am absolutely sure of that.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Izzy said, eyeing the calamari. She put a few pieces on a small plate and settled back in the chair. “Who could she have been going to see?”
“I don’t know, but it’s connected to Sophia Santos’ murder.”
Cass, Nell, and Izzy looked at her.
“Saying it out loud makes me sure of it.”
“But how?” Nell took a drink of wine, her mind trying to connect Ella’s escapade—and its awful consequences—to the murder of Sophia Santos.
“Because Ella is shy and sweet, just like Cass said. And in my opinion, though Harold might disagree, she hasn’t really changed. She found a soul mate in Sophia Santos, however odd a pairing it was. It was probably the one important female friendship she’s had in her whole life. She misses that woman terribly, just as each of you would miss me or I would miss you if one of us were no longer here. It would be like a part of each of us was gone. And tell me, truthfully, what would you do if someone murdered me?”
The outrageousness of Birdie’s question stunned them for a minute.
Then Cass said, “We’d track the person down and string him up by his toes.”
“We wouldn’t stop until we found the person,” Izzy agreed. “We’d do anything we had to do, move mountains, sacrifice jobs, nothing would stop us.”
“Including not knowing how to drive,” Birdie said.
Birdie was absolutely right. Ella was out to find her friend’s murderer.
“She talked on the phone before leaving,” Birdie said. “Either someone was telling her something and she felt she needed to check on it. Or maybe the person on the phone wanted to see her, to give her some information.”
“Or it was one and the same.”
“A lot of that will be cleared up as soon as we can talk to her,” Cass said.
They nodded. She was bound to be terribly uncomfortable and in pain from the break and bruises when she woke up, but hopefully she’d be able to fill in some of the holes that seemed to be widening each day.
Cass headed to the table to unwrap the mozzarella-basil pizzas. At the last minute Nell had added a layer of thinly sliced chicken-and-spinach sausages. The tortilla rounds were still hot and crisp, and Cass carried them back to the coffee table, passing them around. “This is perfect for tonight, Nell. Comfort food.”
Nell took a drink of wine and settled back into the chair. “Birdie’s way of figuring out what Ella might do or not do is interesting,” she said. She repeated her conversation with Father Northcutt and Atticus Finch’s dictum to walk in another’s shoes. “Maybe that’s the key. We’re trying to figure out motives and actions from our point of view. But it might be entirely different from what the other person would think or do.”
“Or feel compelled to do if threatened,” Izzy said. She finished off her pizza and returned her plate to the counter.
“If Sophia thought someone was doing something wrong—morally, ethically, or for whatever reason—she would move to stop it, even if it wasn’t her business,” Birdie said. She lifted skeins of azure blue and lavender yarn—sea and sky—from her pack and then pulled out the beginnings of her swingy cardigan. The pattern promised it would be perfect for spring and summer and easy to layer in the winter. Soothing colors . . . a perfect antidote for the cloud that hung over them.
“Exactly. That’s what she did with Julianne. She convinced Alphonso that giving her money was enabling her and he needed to stop doing it.” Nell pulled a wipe from the pop-up container and rubbed her hands, thinking of Sophia and what it would be like to truly see the world in black and white. It was a skin that was difficult to wear. “I have no reason to doubt her intentions. I am sure that she thought that was absolutely the right thing to do.”
“Feeling so right must be a burden at times,” Birdie said softly.
Nell silently agreed. But it was who Sophia was—and she had to be true to that person.
“Davey Delaney said Sophia was spying on their company,” Izzy said. “That’s hard to imagine.”
“Maybe she thought the Delaneys were doing something wrong and felt compelled to do something about it.”
“So we need to find out what that was. Davey was vague,” Nell said. “But that doesn’t make sense to me. If she thought they were doing something corrupt or breaking laws, why not just call the police?”
The rhythmic clicking of knitting needles filled in the silence.
“Unless she wanted that information for another reason,” Izzy said.
“Blackmail?” Cass tossed out.
No, they all agreed blackmail definitely didn’t fit the profile they’d worked up for Sophia Santos.
Cass pulled out a knit hat and laid it on her lap, unfinished. She looked down at it and smiled. It was a colorful combination of brilliant wool yarns.
Nell looked over. “Cass, what is that?”
“It’s the fish hat I told you about. I found it on knitty.com. I love it.” The mouth of the fish had a bright red border, a hole where someone’s face would eventually go. On the sides, fins
flapped out in bright green and yellow yarn.
Izzy laughed. “Great hat, Cass. We need to put one in the shop.”
“I was going to give them to the guys Pete and I fish with—the ones who have traps near ours. But I had a genius thought the other night. I’ll make three fish hats and give them to the Fractured Fish. And then we’ll force the trio to put on a winter concert at which, of course, they will wear them. Won’t Pete look great in this?”
They all laughed, welcoming the diversion, not to mention the entertaining image of Pete Halloran, Merry Jackson, and Andy Risso playing “Jingle Bells” onstage, their faces ringed with the mouths of their fish hats.
“Time for tart,” Nell said, and quickly slipped the slender slices on plates. She talked while she passed them around, picking up the discussion about Sophia.
“There’s one thing Sophia did that we’ve never paid any attention to, and maybe we should. Remember the night of the yacht club party when she came over to our table to insist that Gracie talk to her the next day? Even at the time it seemed a little odd to me. It was like an order, and Sophia was usually so gracious that it seemed an un-Sophia-like thing to do.”
“Gracie thought it was very weird.”
“Did she say why?”
“I guess Sophia got her hair done at M.J.’s every single Saturday morning, without fail. She’d once canceled a trip to Argentina when she realized the departure was on her hair day. For her to cancel that appointment just to talk to Gracie simply wouldn’t happen.”
“But it did—or was supposed to. Which must mean it was very important to Sophia.”
“Urgent.”
“I wonder if Gracie can shed any light on it. Now, I mean,” Nell said. “Looking back.”
“She probably forgot it ever happened. But I’ll see her later tonight. I’ll ask. I wonder if Alphonso knew why Sophia wanted to see his niece that morning.”
“Another thing Sophia did that still doesn’t sit right with me,” Birdie said. “Blocking the beach access. She went to considerable expense and effort to do that, and she infuriated the neighbors. Was that a whim? Why would she anger them like that for something that didn’t seem so important? I never thought of Sophia as a cruel person—or someone who would want to alienate people.”
Moon Spinners Page 20
