Moon Spinners

by Sally Goldenbaum

  The Seaside Studio didn’t open until noon on Sundays, so they’d have a little quiet time before customers filled the shop. Nell walked into the cool, empty shop and was met with the soothing sounds of Chet Baker’s magnificent trumpet coming from Izzy’s iPod.

  She could hear Izzy and Cass chatting in the back and the sounds of coffee perking in the galley kitchen. She walked through the store to the sunny back room.

  “Birdie is on her way,” Izzy said in greeting. “She needs to knit, she said. ‘Desperately,’ was the word she used.”

  “Which means she didn’t sleep much either,” Nell said. But she wasn’t at all sure how much knitting they were going to get in today.

  Nell sat on the window seat in a puddle of sunlight. Purl stretched beside her, her tiny paws reaching into the warm air, her tummy waiting to be rubbed.

  “Purl, if only life were as simple as you make it look.” She pulled the back section of her Ravenscar cardigan from her bag and handed it to Izzy.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I think it’s too wide. I didn’t realize it was so full in the back.”

  In seconds Izzy took a pencil to the pattern and had lopped off a couple inches, showing Nell where to decrease additional stitches. “You might want to take two inches off the bottom, too.”

  “If only Sophia’s murder were as easy to solve.” Nell made a couple notes on her pattern and slipped it back in her bag. “Is that Gracie’s computer?” she asked, noticing the laptop sitting on the table.

  Izzy nodded. “She’s designing a Web site for the café and came by early this morning so we could look at some sites together, maybe get some ideas. But she got a call from a workman as soon as she got here and rushed off without it.” Izzy started to open the computer when footsteps announced Birdie’s arrival.

  “Harold’s bringing Ella home today,” Birdie announced.

  “At least that chapter seems to be coming to a close,” Nell said.

  “Thank heavens.” Birdie sat down and dropped her knitting bag beside the chair. “Her memory is clearing up. She said she called the Delaney number because she found it in Sophia’s journal. I mentioned that Davey said he didn’t call her back, and she was puzzled. She thought the caller said he was Davey, she said, but it could have been D.J.—or the mailman, for that matter. She wouldn’t have known the difference. He wanted to talk to her about Sophia and together maybe they could figure this thing out. He suggested they meet right away at that old fish shack out near the marshes. But halfway there, some bright lights coming from the other direction blinded her, and that’s when she went off the road. And we know what happened after that.”

  What had happened was nearly tragic. Again, Nell felt a tightness in her chest. She remembered Sophia’s often-used word those last days: urgente. Yes.

  Nell reached into her pocket and pulled out the key that she’d found the day before. She held it up.

  “Here’s the key you found at Gracie’s, Cass,” she said. “I don’t know if it means anything, but Ben says it’s a motorcycle key. An expensive motorcycle. Not the kind a vagrant would likely be riding.”

  They stared at the key, their unspoken thoughts colliding in the air.

  Nell put it back in her pocket. “But the bigger issues at hand, I think, are why Sophia went to Boston and why she cares about this consulting group. And I think there’s only one way to find out.”

  Nell hadn’t planned that they would all go, but no one was willing to stay behind. Izzy checked her watch. “Mae will be here in minutes to open the shop and Sundays are slow. So count me in.” Izzy jumped up, then noticed the laptop and quickly closed it, slipping it into a bottom drawer in the bookcase where it would be safe.

  “No way am I staying behind,” Cass said.

  “Besides, it’s Sunday—a lovely day for a ride, my Sonny always said.”

  The traffic was mostly going the other direction, toward the beaches, so the trip to Boston took little time, and before they had finished the sack of Dunkin’ Donuts Munchkins that Birdie had pulled out of her bag, they were winding their way through the tree-lined streets of Boston’s Beacon Hill neighborhood. Nell slowly maneuvered the car around jaywalking tourists as they admired the hand-carved doors and beautiful facades of the brownstone homes.

  “I think that’s the street the Santos townhome is on,” Nell said, pointing down one of the narrow roads.

  “It’s close to this place.” Izzy squinted out the window, checking addresses. “There,” she said, pointing to a beautiful converted brownstone with an awning that stretched over wide glass doors.

  Nell slowed down.

  “That’s odd,” Birdie said. “It doesn’t look like an office. And I don’t see a company sign.”

  “I have a feeling we’re not going to find a company,” Nell began.

  Just then a car pulled away from the curb, and Nell quickly claimed the space.

  They were out of the car in seconds, walking toward a slightly stooped man in a crisp navy blue uniform standing just outside the door of the building. A halo of snowy white hair circled his round freckled head. He smiled at them, clearly pleased to have company.

  Birdie leaned forward and read the engraved nameplate pinned to his jacket. “Elliott O’Day. Good day to you, Elliott O’Day. We need help and you seem to be the kind of gentleman who can give it to us—a font of wisdom.”

  “Well, now, I hope so,” he said, clearly taken by Birdie’s smile. He matched it with one of his own.

  “We’re looking for a business at this address,” Izzy said.

  Elliott frowned and shook his head. His shoulders hunched forward. “You won’t find a business here, missy. These are condominiums. Four of them. Fancy.” He stretched out the last word. “Used to be two brownstones and they zipped them together and came up with this grand residence.”

  “Condominiums,” Nell repeated.

  “The best that money can buy,” Elliott confirmed.

  Izzy held out the piece of paper with the address on it and showed it to Elliott. He held it up close to his eyes and squinted at it. Then nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the right address. That’s our penthouse condo. Very nice.”

  Nell looked up through the glass doors into a tasteful lobby, filled with fresh flowers and scattered Oriental rugs. Another uniformed man sat inside at a carved mahogany desk, reading a book. When the elevator opened, he quickly jumped up and held the front door open for a striking young woman, tan and toned, wearing a crimson running outfit. “You have a fine run, now, Miss Diana,” he said in polite tones, then closed the door behind her and went back to his book.

  An appropriate name, Nell thought, watching the well-heeled woman disappear down the street. She turned her attention back to Elliott, who was giving Cass, Izzy, and Birdie a history of the neighborhood, complete with directions to Senator John Kerry’s home a few blocks away.

  “But you don’t have a business called Sheridan Consulting located in the building?” Birdie asked.

  “Sheridan. Well, now, that’s a kicker, isn’t it? You’re the second ones to ask about Sheridan Consulting.”

  “Someone else was here?” Izzy asked.

  Elliott pulled his white brows together in thought. Finally a bent finger poked the air. “It was a couple weeks past. I’d seen her before because she used to walk past here sometimes, on her way to the park. A beautiful lady, just like the lot of you. Only she was Latin. Spoke in a wonderful accent as if she were from some exotic place.”

  “A Spanish accent?”

  “That’s right. She called me mi amigo. A classy lady. She came by a couple of times. First just looking around, asking questions, just like you ladies. Then she came back to talk with Miss Diana. I think she knew Miss Diana’s man friend because I heard her say she had seen them together, over in the Commons, one day.”

  “You mean the woman that just walked down the street? That Diana?”

  He nodded. “Funny coincidence. Because her name is D
iana Sheridan. When I told Harvey about it—he’s the inside man—he says sometimes mail comes in for Sheridan Consulting, but it’s all Miss Diana’s. Just one of those mistakes in a phone book or something, Harvey says. Or maybe the post office—no wonder they’re losing business, Harvey says.”

  “Does Diana Sheridan live alone?” Cass asked.

  “You mean does the dad live here? Nosirree, and it’s a darn shame if you ask me.”

  “Diana Sheridan’s father?” Birdie’s brows lifted.

  Elliott laughed and his chin wobbled with the cackle. “No. No. Little Miss Tasha’s dad. He comes by now and again. But still, the little girl should have a dad here all the time, don’t you think?”

  “Little girl?” Cass said. Her voice cracked.

  They all stood in silence, sharing Cass’ emotion as the saga of Sophia’s murderer poured from the lips of kind, innocent Elliott O’Day.

  “Sweetest little thing you ever saw,” Elliott said. “She turned three last month. Miss Diana’s fellow gave her an electric motorcycle that looked just like his—very fancy—and a helmet with her name on it.” His face pulled together until it resembled a prune. “He shoulda been giving her storybooks and pretty dresses and a puppy, not a goshdarn motorcycle.”

  It was closing time when they finally returned to the Seaside Knitting Studio. Mae stood at the computer, tallying receipts.

  “You’re finally back,” she said as they filed in. “Gracie came by for her computer. She was frantic.”

  Izzy frowned. “Why?”

  “Joey needs it for something or other. He didn’t know she’d taken it, she said.”

  “He needs it right now?”

  “That’s what she said. We couldn’t find it, so we figured you had it with you. She had to go back to the café to take care of yet another plumbing glitch—the second today. Joey was going to meet her there. She said to call the second you get in.”

  Izzy looked over at Nell. And then they all headed for the back room.

  Izzy pulled the computer out of the drawer, lifted the lid, and pressed a button. It hummed to life.

  The screen had one file on it—a list of Web sites Gracie was exploring for ideas. The finder indicated other folders and files that they scanned quickly. They looked like they were all Gracie’s things. Letters. Computer applications. Nothing that looked like it would be a pressing need of Joey’s.

  “What could be such an emergency? They must have a dozen computers out at the plant he could use.”

  Cass leaned over Izzy and clicked on the browser, then the word “history” at the top. The window rolled down and they read through the Internet searches Gracie had made recently: restaurant sites, cafés. Facebook. Cass clicked back through the days until she came to the week that Sophia Santos had died.

  And there they found what they were looking for. And what Joey was looking for. Ben and Sam’s arrival was timely.

  “We were worried,” Ben said. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

  Nell pointed to the computer, and in silence they looked through the list of sites that detailed anything anyone would want to know about brakes. How to fix them. Ferrari brakes.

  And they strongly suspected that the printouts found in Julianne’s trunk would find their match right here.

  They all sat down, and in starts and stops, they laid out the sad and sobering facts of Sophia Santos’ death.

  There was no doubt in their minds who had done it. And why.

  Chapter 36

  Ben said Chief Thompson would be expecting his call. He and Sam had talked to him that morning about their suspicions. Proof and motive, Jerry Thompson said. If only they had that.

  And now they did.

  They drove over to the café in two cars, a sober entourage, and parked near the entrance to the pier. They spotted Gracie’s car nearby. Next to it was a motorcycle.

  In minutes Chief Thompson arrived, along with Tommy Porter and several others. Together, they walked down the pier toward the café.

  The others followed, their hearts as heavy as the footsteps of the determined police.

  As they passed the window, Nell glanced inside. Joey and Gracie were sitting at a small table near the back doors, talking. Joey looked perturbed.

  Nell shivered. Ben wrapped her in the circle of his arms and pulled her close.

  Jerry motioned to his men, and they opened the door and walked with purpose into Gracie’s near-empty café.

  Gracie’s face widened in surprise.

  Joey stood up, knocking over his chair. He reached for Gracie’s upper arm, then dropped it immediately. His handsome smile returned, his composure back. “Hey, Chief, how’re things?”

  The police chief ignored his greeting. His voice was calm, professional. “Joey Delaney, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sophia Santos.”

  He looked over at Tommy, who calmly, without a single stutter, read Joey Delaney his rights.

  Joey looked around, his manner calm, assessing options. He looked toward the back deck, out toward the water. Then quickly turned back toward the front of the café and spotted more uniforms collecting in the doorway.

  He spoke to the police chief, his voice cold as steel. “You’ll be sorry for this, Chief Thompson. You’re making the mistake of your life. You’ll live to regret it, I promise you that.”

  Then, with a smile in place, Joey Delaney walked calmly over to the chief and suggested they leave without causing a scene. It would be the last night the chief would ever wear his badge, Joey told him, so he might as well make the most of it and do this with dignity.

  They sat out on the deck, on benches not yet attached to the floor, beneath a dark, velvety sky. Pete Halloran had come by with Willow after a gig at the Gull. They’d seen activity at the Lazy Lobster and thought they were missing a party, so Pete arrived with beer and wine. Sam and Ben convinced the cook at the Ocean’s Edge to send down a few of their homemade pizzas.

  Gracie was strangely collected. Her straight blond hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon, her blue eyes filled with immense sadness. Nell wanted to wrap her in an embrace, but it was clear that they had already done that by being there. All of them.

  “How was I so blind?” she said slowly. “I hated that he was gone so much, but I never thought it was to be with a high-priced mistress who benefited nicely from our wedding gifts.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t think of that. Who would?”

  “I guess when he went through all our money, his only choice was company funds.”

  Nell nodded. “He invented Sheridan Consulting and tacked it on to various projects, paying Diana Sheridan.”

  “For doing nothing,” Cass added.

  “When Nell and Birdie learned from Mandy that your mother had told her—and Joey—that you’d be wealthy soon,” Cass said, “things started to fall into place. He could delay the divorce, use your money to rectify the Delaney accounts, pad his pockets a bit more, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “And that’s when he started being so attentive,” Gracie said softly.

  “Scum. That’s what he is,” Willow said.

  Sam passed around the pizza and put another beer in Gracie’s hand. “Joey Delaney has real problems. The guy doesn’t have a conscience. No one is safe from that kind of person. If the accountants had discovered the bogus subcontractor before Joey could reconcile it, he had it set up so Davey—his own brother—would be the suspicious one.”

  “But Maeve may have suspected something of the sort,” Birdie said. “She was nervous when we talked to her. I don’t think she knew Joey killed Sophia, but she knew there was something not right going on within the company and she didn’t want anyone snooping around, revealing family secrets.”

  “So many things seem obvious now,” Nell said. “But until we had them all together, the picture was fuzzy. We finally realized Joey was the only one who knew where Julianne went when she left the club that night,” Nell said. “He knew she would go to Mandy’s b
ecause she always did. And he knew exactly where she lived.”

  Nell looked out over the water. Who would tell Gracie the most difficult part? It was all unraveling like a poorly knit sweater. You pull one thread and end up with a pile of yarn that only Purl would take delight in.

  “Gracie, there’s one more thing,” Cass said, as if reading Nell’s thoughts. She sat next to Gracie in a pool of moonlight. A breeze off the harbor ruffled her hair.

  “This woman and Joey had a baby.”

  “A baby.” The word slipped from Gracie’s lips and fell into a deafening silence.

  “At least it seems that way,” Ben said gently.

  Gracie didn’t blink. She bit down on her bottom lip, her gaze looking off into the harbor.

  “We all believed in Joey,” Nell said aloud, feeling Gracie’s pain. “He has problems, Sam’s right. I think your mother—with all this time to read psychology books—was figuring him out, too. And if she hadn’t been protected in the Sea Harbor jailhouse, I’m not so sure she wouldn’t have been hurt.”

  “Like Sam says, he doesn’t have a conscience, Gracie,” Birdie said softly. “He’s a charming sociopath who could hoodwink the best of us.”

  “How did Sophia know?” Gracie said. “How did she know . . . but I didn’t?”

  Nell had given that great thought. But when you start out not trusting someone and wanting your niece to be safe, you look for things. And so she did. Seeing Diana Sheridan and Joey together in the Boston Commons may have been an accident. But she was looking for it, and that made it easier to see.

  “Sophia probably never believed Joey’s business trips were real,” Birdie said. “She and Alphonso owned the same kind of business, and even in sales, the guys weren’t gone like Joey was.”

  “She pieced it together and became a little obsessed with it,” Nell said. “And when she finally was sure—had actually talked with Diana Sheridan herself—she made arrangements to tell you, Gracie. That Saturday. Privately. That must have been the urgent appointment she had set up. She didn’t want to tell you over the phone.” Nell’s voice grew soft. “You were more important to her than her coveted hair appointment.”