A Finely Knit Murder (17 page)

N
ell felt his presence before he spoke.

“You recognized it.” Josh Babson stood near her, just a step behind, out of her vision.

It was clear, undisguised. Magnificent in the color and contrast. Of course she recognized it. It was the same spot that had been photographed and splashed around Sea Harbor for days, fuzzy newspaper photos, iPhone shots on social media sites. Live television shots.

But this painting was beautiful, mesmerizing.

“You’re talented,” Nell said. Her thoughts were muddled. Did he paint this last weekend? Before Blythe was barely a statistic? She wondered if he could read her thoughts and sense the emotion that caused her arms to chill beneath the cotton sweater.

“Jane chose this painting,” he said, but without the touch of apology Nell half expected. “She wanted it included in the exhibit.”

“You’ve put much feeling into your art,” Nell said.

“What was it Picasso said? ‘Art brushes away the soul’s dust.’”

Nell considered his words. “Is your soul dusty, Josh?” she asked. Their voices were low, almost intimate, and Nell kept her eyes on the painting as she talked and listened, waiting. Like a priest in a confessional, she thought. Protected in that dark private space, not seeing each other’s face, where honesty wasn’t as difficult as it was face-to-face. She could feel Josh’s smile and she heard his short, humorless laugh.

“I suppose we all have a bit of dust on us,” he said.

The crowd around them grew, and Nell stepped back to allow others to stand in her space. Josh was soon swallowed up by well-wishers and possible collectors, many asking when there’d be a bigger show.

Nell watched as the artist shoved his hands in his pockets, smiled politely, and as soon as he could, slipped into a quiet spot where he stood against a wall, watching reactions to his art silently, without the annoyance of chatter.

“What do you think?” Cass asked, coming up beside Ben.

“He’s talented. I like them.”

“Me, too. I’m buying the
Sea at Dawn
painting for Ma. She’ll see all sorts of spiritual things in the light, like the Mystical Body and all that. I’m not sure what she’ll do with the two fishermen on the side, but for sure one is my pa.”

Ben chuckled and looked over at the painting. “Good for Mary Halloran. She’s my choice for an art critic any day.”

“Harry, do you like art?” Nell asked the mustached man standing near Cass. He was positioned with his back to the exhibit, looking uncomfortable, moving from one foot to another.

Harry seemed to consider the question, then said, “No, not the way people who go to galleries like this do. I guess Babson’s paintings are good, at least from the look on people’s faces. But I can’t really tell the difference between them and something I’d buy at Target. They’re all pretty pictures.”

“He’s here under protest,” Cass said. “I couldn’t even get him to look at the paintings. He wanted to watch the game at the Gull. So we compromised. First the exhibit, then the last four innings of the Sox game.”

“How’s the house coming?” Ben asked.

“Okay, I guess. Lots of work. Lots of decisions. I hoped to hurry it up, but no luck. I’m stuck for a while.”

“Sea Harbor isn’t a bad place to be stranded,” Nell said.

“No, I suppose not.” He slipped an arm around Cass.

Cass looked surprised at the gesture, then glanced at her watch. “Time to go. We don’t want to miss the eighth-inning singing of ‘Sweet Caroline.’”

Nell watched them leave.

Ben saw her watching them through the gallery windows and came up beside her. “Ours is not to wonder why . . .”

“I guess not.” Nell continued to watch them walk down the road. “What do you think? Does Cass like him?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said Ben.

The gallery door opened again a minute later, and Barrett and Chelsey Mansfield walked through, Barrett in his three-piece suit and Chelsey in tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater. She looked relaxed and without the worried lines so noticeable when Nell had last seen her.

Jane had greeted the newcomers and Nell watched as they chatted pleasantly near the door about the weather, the exhibit, a new gallery opening up. Barrett, as was his way, stood at his wife’s side, unaware of any glances, any attention his formidable presence brought, simply being there for his wife. He looked content. Happy, even, without the no-nonsense business manner that was often evident at board meetings.

He was valuable to the board, often bringing astute business advice at needed moments, the same kind of expertise Nell presumed made him so successful in his businesses. It was simple and unpretentious, and always helpful. He was generous, too, a trait board members sometimes lacked. She suspected his donations were considerable, and he and Chelsey had brought a whole entourage to the school party.

Nell’s thoughts wandered back to that night, to watching Barrett graciously attend to their guests and the crowd and the introductions. Chelsey had been the quiet one that night, standing back, watching the crowd, but not joining it.

Until she collided with Blythe in the school hallway.

The scene came back to Nell with such force that it startled her.
It had been buried somewhere in the confusion of the days and the fear in the town as people looked over their shoulders, searching for someone, anyone, who looked or acted suspiciously. For a murderer walking among them.

The Chelsey she had listened to from behind the school’s lounge door that night was not the woman standing beside her husband in the Brewster Gallery. That Chelsey had been strident, her voice harsh and filled with anger. That Chelsey had hurtled a threat through the quiet hallway of Sea Harbor Community Day School—one aimed directly at Blythe Westerland.

The couple spotted Ben and Nell and walked over to them, greeting them cordially.

Nell took the glass of wine Ben handed her and concentrated on the amber liquid, as if hiding her thoughts from Chelsey Mansfield.

Tonight’s Chelsey was intelligent, pleasant, a good wife and nurturing mother. Not the woman who had threatened Blythe Westerland with words made of steel and coated in anger—and hatred.

“Have you seen Josh’s work before?” Ben asked.

“No,” Barrett admitted.

“We’re fans, though, sight unseen,” Chelsey said. “Our daughter likes Josh very much. He’s a good teacher, good to the children. I’m sure Anna wasn’t the only one that Josh bolstered up and made feel good about herself.”

Beside her, Barrett’s somber nods showed agreement. “He seemed to know, as we do, that Anna is an amazing child with unique needs,” he said.

Nell looked up at the emotion in his voice. A slight catch as he mentioned his daughter’s name.

“Maybe more rational decisions will be made going forth,” Chelsey said beside him. Her manner was gracious, but her message was clear. “Good teachers need to be valued, not cast aside for personal reasons.”

Barrett looked slightly uncomfortable with the conversation. He sipped his wine in silence, and seemed relieved when Ben switched the talk to more neutral topics—the upcoming concert at the school, a sailing class for adults at the yacht club that Chelsey wanted to take. Nell listened with half an ear, focusing on Barrett watching his wife. His look was guarded, but she saw something else in his deep, intelligent eyes. A look of devotion—a look of clear, unadulterated love for this woman and, she had no doubt, for his child. Having that child be played like a pawn—if Angelo was correct—would be an unbearable hurt.

Minutes later Barrett suggested they wander over to the exhibit. “We need to relieve Anna’s sitter soon, and we promised our daughter a full report on Josh’s paintings when we get home.”

Nell sipped her wine, watching them move across the room. From his shadowy post on the other side of the room, Josh spotted the couple, too, and came toward them. He greeted them with a handshake, a few words, and not much else. His usual way, Nell was beginning to realize, and she felt some relief that she wasn’t the only one who brought out the artist’s laconic nature.

“People are enjoying his work,” Ham said, coming up beside them. He gave Nell a bear hug.

She laughed. “Thanks, dear Ham. I needed that hug.”

“Anytime, no charge.” Ham Brewster was a teddy bear—big and sometimes boisterous, his gray-streaked beard bushy and his clothes usually smudged with some palette of whatever paint colors he was using. “An artist’s badge of honor,” he’d say.

Nell loved him dearly, paint smudges and all. “What’s your assessment?” she asked, nodding toward the exhibit.

Ham scratched his beard, looking from Nell to the paintings and back. “That depends, Nellie. Are you asking about the artist or the paintings?”

Ben laughed. “You know her well, Ham.”

Nell smiled. “Okay. Paintings first.”

“He’s good. I think most of those who came tonight think so, too.”

They all looked over, scanning the looks on people’s faces. The crowd had ebbed and flowed, but right now most people had moved to the refreshment table. Barrett and Chelsey stood side by side, not speaking, carefully taking in each painting. Now and then one would murmur a word or two to the other, then move on to the next.

Finally they stood as one in front of the large painting at the far end of the wall. Jane’s pick. The painting that had caused Nell to close her eyes, to catch her breath, and to come back to it more slowly.

She couldn’t see their faces, but she saw Barrett’s arm wrap slowly around Chelsey’s waist, his suit sleeve a dark band against the soft golden cashmere of her sweater.

Chelsey leaned slightly into her husband, her head inclined as if to view the painting from a different angle.

“Hey, you two, we’re coming to dinner Friday night,” Jane said, motioning to Ham to stay at the desk in case someone had questions.

Nell nodded, trying to pull her attention back to Jane. She glanced once more at the exhibit, but Chelsey and Barrett had turned away from the paintings and were walking over to Ham. She looked back at Jane and smiled brightly. “Of course you’re coming. Where else would you be on Friday night? Besides, you’ve nicely ignored us tonight and I need to catch up with my friend.”

Jane grew serious. “Me, too,” she said. “We need to help each other make sense of the world, dear Nell.”

If that was at all possible, Nell thought.

She looked at Chelsey Mansfield, standing at the door, waiting for her husband. Chelsey was looking around at the art displayed in the room—Jane’s beautiful ceramics and some of Ham’s watercolors. Her face expressed appreciation of what she saw.

She noticed Nell just as Barrett walked up to her. Waved, then tucked her arm in her husband’s. And then they were gone.

“Hey, good news,” Ham said as he and Ben walked toward them from the order desk.

He waved a check in his hand. “Who would have thought?” he said.

Nell glared at Ben. He put up two hands and proclaimed innocence. “Not me. I’m waiting for the bigger exhibit. Ham promised me my own preview.”

“So, if not you . . .” Jane moved toward her husband and the flapping check.

“Josh sold his first painting tonight. It will pay several months’ rent for the guy, maybe more. He’s a happy camper.”

“Which painting?” Jane asked.

But Nell knew which one before Ham confirmed it.

He handed the check to Jane. “The big one,” he said.

Nell looked over her shoulder at the check.

In the left-hand corner, just above the enormous sum, she read the address:

Chelsey and Barrett Mansfield

22 Seacliff Road

Sea Harbor, MA 01930

B
en called ahead from his cell, then double-parked in front of Harry Garozzo’s deli and ran in to pick up their order.

Nell rolled down the window to let in the evening breeze. Instead Tommy Porter leaned in, his forearms resting on the door. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

“Hi there. What’s up, Tommy?”

“Just wanted to say hello. I’ve seen Ben off and on this week but have had hardly a glimpse of you.”

Nell smiled. She had known the young policeman since he was a kid fishing off the pier. She had watched him grow from delivering papers to lawn jobs, including the Endicotts’. One of several children in a fishing family, Tommy had strayed off course by attending the police academy, and his family was inordinately proud of him. “A cop in the family can’t hurt,” his dad joked to anyone who asked, his chest puffing up.

“It’s good you’re getting a night off now and then,” Nell said.

Tommy glanced down at his jeans, and his smile melted away. “Nah, not really. None of us will really be off duty, ever, not until we catch this guy. We’re all on alert, always looking, all the time, no matter where we are. You can’t shake it, you know? You just never know, some overhead conversation in a bar or a stray piece of gossip—maybe it’ll lead somewhere. It’s hard on all of us, but especially on the chief. The guy isn’t sleeping much.”

“It hasn’t even been a week, Tom—” But Nell knew, just as they all did, that every day without new leads diminished the chance of catching him.

Tommy was quiet for a minute, as if he wanted to ask something, then thought better of it and held it back.

“Are there theories?”

Tommy nodded. “Yah. A couple.”

“And suspects?”

Tommy sighed. “Yah. And motive. Lots of people aren’t sad that Ms. Westerland’s not around. But . . . but the people the investigation keeps pointing at, well . . .” Again he looked as though he wanted to say something else, ask a question, but then fell silent, his head lowered and his eyes staring sadly down at nothing.

Nell tried to give the conversation a twist. “Blythe was never married, was she?”

He shook his head. “From what I hear, she wasn’t the marrying kind, even though men were attracted to her something crazy. You have to admit, she was quite the looker. One summer a couple years ago my older brother, Eddie, seemed to be the object of her affections. It didn’t last long. In a couple weeks she tossed him overboard like a bad fish. She liked conquests, Eddie said, and control. There was this guy, a friend of Eddie’s, whom she came on to. He went out with her a couple times, but he was kind of traditional, and was uncomfortable with all the flash. Eddie convinced him his days were probably numbered anyway, so he cut it off himself. That didn’t sit well with her. It was her job to conquer and discard, not his, I guess.”

“What happened?”

“The guy worked at the yacht club. Blythe had him fired.”

“What?”

“I know. She had this weird power. But I should zip it. I know it’s not good to speak ill of the dead and all that—my mom would be ashamed of me. But this woman has gotten in my head. I don’t like her there. But—”

“But until the murderer is caught . . . ?”

Tommy nodded. “Right. Until then, she’s going to be front and center—and giving me migraines.” He looked up as Ben walked around the car to the driver’s side. Tommy waved a hello. “Looks like a first-class feast,” he said, eyeing the white sack.

“Nothing but the best for my bride.” Ben smiled and waved good-bye as Tommy headed down the road.

Ben slid behind the wheel, bringing with him smells of garlic, ham, tomatoes, and cheese. And freshly baked bread. He handed Nell a bottle of wine to hold and started the engine.

“What if Elizabeth’s already eaten?” Nell asked, positioning the bag of sandwiches between her feet.

“Then I’ll eat the leftovers.” He shifted into drive and headed toward their neighborhood.

They pulled into Elizabeth’s drive. The house was dark.

“I wonder if we’re too late,” Nell said. “Maybe she’s gone to bed.”

“At seven thirty? It’s just beginning to get dark.” Ben got out and checked the front door, then peered in the front window and a small one in the garage. He got back into the car beside Nell. “Her car’s gone. Something must have come up.”

They both pulled out their phones and checked for messages. There were none.

“This isn’t like Elizabeth,” Ben said. “I wonder if something kept her at school.”

“It’s a nice night for a ride. Let’s drive over there. If she’s still working, we can at least give her something to eat—”

Unsaid was a sudden worry that worked its way inside Nell. Undefined, irrational. And real.

She looked at Ben. He felt it, too.

The school parking lot was lit with security lights and Ben drove around it, past several golf carts the maintenance staff used and a pickup truck near a storage shed. At the side closest to the school, they spotted Elizabeth’s small green Prius, parked near the lit walkway that wound around to the entrance.

Nell smiled in the dark car, relief settling in.

But when they reached the entrance, the door was locked. Ben took a few steps back and looked over to the windows that surrounded the headmistress’s office. Dark. The only lights visible anywhere were the security spots strategically placed around the building and yard. He walked around to the side, and only the corner security lights added light to the stone school.

Nell walked to the terrace, looking out toward the water. The boathouse was silhouetted against the darkening sky. “I know this is silly,” she said, “but let’s walk down to the dock. Just to make sure . . .”
Make sure of what?
Nell wasn’t sure. But somehow knowing that Elizabeth wasn’t alone, down near the rocky shore, seemed suddenly all-important.

Ben took Nell’s hand and squeezed it as they walked across the terrace and down the winding flagstone path. The hurricane lamps used for the party were gone, but small spots shone up into trees, and low solar lights were turning on as darkness set in, lighting the walkway. A light breeze lifted Nell’s hair from her neck. It could have been romantic, lovely, a peaceful walk at day’s end.

But Ben’s squeeze of her hand was hard—there was nothing romantic about it. And there was nothing romantic about the determination that propelled their footsteps across the yard to the ocean beyond.

They crossed the narrow beach road and approached the rocky shore, slowing down, as if intruding on a private space. The dock was old, but a good place to sit, to think. Something Elizabeth might be in need of.

But there was no one around, no fisherman out for a final catch, no strollers or joggers.

No Elizabeth Hartley.

They stood still, scanning the shore, then beyond the boulders, out toward the spit of land that housed Canary Cove. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was deafening, blocking out traffic and town noises, breathing and heartbeats.

It was Ben who finally looked over at the boathouse. Its angles were haunting in the diminishing light, the slight lean of the roof, the broken shingles along the side. Gone was the yellow tape, along with any sign of danger or crime or tragedy. As if the boathouse and majestic granite boulders that separated it from the sea were simply there for painters to capture in beautiful strokes on stretched canvas.

“She’s not here, Ben,” Nell whispered. Her voice wobbled uncertainly, and Ben didn’t answer. Instead he walked over to the boathouse.

The windows were dirty, but the small flashlight on Ben’s key chain showed the inside to be as empty as the beach.

“I think we need to call Jerry Thompson,” Ben said, pulling out his phone.

It was then that the sound of the waves diminished briefly, their punishing crash falling off in the distance, as if controlled by Sirens reclining on the rocky edifice.

Another sound took its place, making its way into the night.

Soft, like the mew of a kitten.

Nell looked around, then over to the boulders that separated the boathouse from the water.

Ben was a footstep behind her as they walked quickly toward the sound, the waves picking up again as the power of the wind pulled and tugged.

Elizabeth sat on a smooth outcropping of the largest boulder, nearly hidden from view by the closer pile of rocks. Her knees were pulled up to her chin, her face a shadow in the receding light.

“Elizabeth,” Ben said softly, not wanting to frighten her.

She turned slowly, the tears streaming down her face visible now.

Nell climbed over several boulders and sat near her, a crevice filled with seawater between them.

“We were concerned . . . ,” she began.

Elizabeth wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to
push a smile into place. She was still dressed for work, dark slacks, now damp and rumpled, and a silky blouse, its ends loosened from the waistband. “I’m so sorry. I lost track of time—” She turned toward Ben. “You were so kind—and look at me. A mess.”

“I hope we’re not intruding.” Nell looked off in the direction Elizabeth had been facing, seeing what she was seeing—endless ocean, and a sky beginning to come alive with stars. “I find strength and peace at the ocean’s edge,” she said.

Elizabeth nodded. “Maybe that’s what I thought I’d find here. I don’t know . . .” She pressed one hand against the cold rock. “I had hoped that coming down here, to this spot, might help me make sense of this nightmare. Maybe I could feel what had happened that night.”

She didn’t look at either of them as she talked, but rather at the boulders and the sea.

“This isn’t like me. I don’t do things like this. I’ve always been able to weather storms, keep calm, think rationally. My mother died when I was young and my father raised me to be strong and resilient. He loved me fiercely but always made me stand up to problems, solve them, move on. He taught me how to make thoughtful and wise decisions. But I’m floundering with all this. It’s a treacherous awful storm, and it’s pulling people I care about into its waters.”

“What decisions are you talking about, Elizabeth?” Ben asked. His voice was as soothing as a confessor’s.

“I’m deciding if I should resign from the school.”

It wasn’t what Nell was expecting, nor Ben from the look on his face. Elizabeth loved her job.

“We’ve had some parents pull their children out of school, and there are a dozen rumors going around. People like Angelo and Jerry—they’re forced into terrible positions trying to protect me. Angelo knows better than anyone what Blythe Westerland and I thought about each other. Jerry knew, too.”

She turned slightly, looking in the other direction across the wide lawn, toward the school, spread out over the land like a fortress.

“Many people knew Blythe wanted me fired—and a few knew that I wanted more than anything to stop her from doing it.”

“All of that could be true, but it doesn’t mean anything,” Ben said.

Elizabeth looked sadly at Ben. “I wish you were right, Ben. But right now it means that unless someone else steps forward and confesses to the crime, a good many people in Sea Harbor will be looking at me. I feel it. I’m sure Jerry feels it. The teachers are loyal—and most of the students, blessedly, have escaped some of the buzz. And people like you have been wonderful. But it’s there, a swarm of bees surrounding me, ready to sting.”

Nell watched her face closely and saw the hollows beneath her eyes. A look of utter weariness. “Did something happen today when you went to the police station? Something new in the case?”

Elizabeth looked at her, then Ben, then pushed herself off the rock and climbed over the boulders to solid ground. Nell followed.

“They found something back here.” She pointed back to the deep crevices in the rock formation. “It was a small piece of a scarf, ragged and torn, tangled in seaweed.”

“A scarf . . . ?”

“My scarf. Or at least one like mine.”

Ben and Nell were silent. Finally Nell asked, “Who found it?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Angelo,” she said.

*   *   *

Hours later, they wrapped up the remains of the sandwiches Ben had retrieved from the car and watched the dying embers in Elizabeth’s office fireplace. Ben had built the fire, not necessarily to ward off the early autumn chill, but to bring some kind of warmth into the sadness that was invading their lives.

Ben refilled their wineglasses and sat back down, thinking as he looked into the flickering logs.

Angelo wasn’t by himself when he’d found the scarf, Elizabeth said. “And that was fortunate. He might have been tempted to
destroy it if he remembered I had a similar scarf. He’s a sweet man, and has become a dear, loyal friend. It would have been awful for him to put himself at risk because of me.”

She’d asked Angelo to look at the boathouse, and he had taken several workmen with him, she explained. “We need to do something with the building, something to erase the image that is becoming embedded in people’s minds. They went down to take pictures and consider the feasibility of some of the teachers’ and students’ ideas. Angelo didn’t realize what the scarf was when he pulled it out of the crevice.”

“Did he show it to you?”

She nodded. “I knew immediately what it was. It was a small piece of a scarf, one that looked identical to the lacy scarf I wore the night of the party.”

Nell remembered it. Turquoise and elegant, knit from sea silk yarn. Chelsey Mansfield had knit it for her, she’d told Nell that night. A graduation gift when she finally received her PhD.

Nell didn’t want to ask, but a simple answer could clear it all up: the scarf was in her drawer, safe, sound, and in one piece. “Do you have your scarf?” she asked.

Elizabeth set her wineglass down on the table and stared into the fire. “I searched everywhere last night. I don’t know where it is. I never missed it. I was so tired that night, I could have dropped it anywhere—in my office or on the lawn. Or dropped it on a chair when I got home. I could have left it on the terrace when we were cleaning up. Police, ambulances—the shock of seeing Blythe Westerland dead. That’s what has taken over whatever memory I have left.”