Patterns in the Sand (16 page)

 

 

“I’m not so sure it was her mother’s doing,” Nell said. “The grandparents seemed to be a strong force in her life, from the little she’s said.”

 

 

“Jane, there’s a lot of talk around town. People seem to be targeting Willow, convinced that she is guilty of murdering her father,” Birdie said.

 

 

“Almost wanting her to be guilty,” Nell added. “She’s a stranger here. If Willow did this awful thing, it could be tied up neatly and we could go on with our lives. But I don’t think Willow is guilty. Rebecca Marks is in the camp that thinks she did it, and according to Harry, she’s using you as an ally in convicting Willow. Do you know something that we don’t?”

 

 

Jane turned to see who else was in the shop. A few customers, Ham, and Brendan. All involved in asking questions about art or listening to informed explanations of the intricacies of watercolor and pottery, plein air art or bronze sculpture. Jane moved a little closer to Birdie and Nell.

 

 

“Once Aidan moved on, Rebecca turned on him. Being dropped was bad for her ego, I guess. But anyway, she happened to be in our shop when I was talking to the police—they questioned all of us, of course. We were talking quietly in the back room, but Rebecca must have overheard the conversation.”

 

 

“I don’t want to put you on the spot. But if Rebecca is spreading rumors, I want to stop them. Would you mind telling us what you said?”

 

 

Jane looked down at the floor for a minute, as if collecting her thoughts. Then she looked back at Nell. “I would trust you and Birdie with my life. I’m not sure what Rebecca is throwing out there, but here’s what happened. And what I reluctantly told the police.

 

 

“I went into the Fishtail Gallery the day before Aidan died—last Saturday, I guess, though it seems a lifetime ago. I was borrowing some display fixtures from him for Sunday’s Art at Night. People were hovering around Aidan’s wooden pieces, like they always do, opening them up, looking for the secret drawers and compartments. But I didn’t see Aidan, so I headed for the back door, thinking maybe he’d taken a break in the garden. He did that sometimes—he loved that garden. He told me once it was his meditation spot.

 

 

“So I walked out the door and discovered I was right—I heard Aidan’s voice right away. It was . . . I don’t know . . . kind of emotional. Stirring, almost. And then I heard another voice and glimpsed the back of a young woman with dark hair. Her voice was loud—angry and emotional, all at the same time.”

 

 

“And you think it was Willow?”

 

 

“At that moment I didn’t know who it was—I hadn’t met Willow yet. But I recognized her later and the backpack she carries around was distinctive. I started to back away because it was clearly a personal conversation. I turned back into the shadows of the shop, but I was an instant too late.”

 

 

“Too late for what?” Birdie asked.

 

 

“To avoid hearing the woman yell at Aidan. But even then, I thought it was just a disagreement. Maybe an old girlfriend, someone with a bone to pick. Even what she said didn’t seem that awful. Although once Aidan was murdered, the words took on new meaning.”

 

 

“What did she say?” Nell ran her fingers through her hair, lifting it from her neck, an unconscious gesture when she needed to know something—but didn’t want to hear it. She looked at Jane and felt suddenly sad about what her friend would say.

 

 

Jane paused for just a moment, then looked at Nell and Birdie. Her face mirrored Nell’s sadness. “Her voice was choked but her words were crystal clear. She said, ‘I wish you were dead.’ ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

N
ell was hoping that Willow would show up for Friday night supper. She’d left a note taped to the guesthouse door, assuring Willow that the gathering was casual and relaxing. Brendan could attest to that, too, Nell said in her note—an unspoken invitation to bring him along.

 

 

Nell was sure that if Jane spent more time with Willow, she’d see immediately what she herself knew to be true—that Willow’s remarks to Aidan Peabody were uttered out of twenty-two years of pent-up emotion and were certainly not a murderous threat. She was a hurt young woman whose life had been shaped somehow by an absent father. And she needed to vent those feelings to plan the rest of her life. That was what this was all about. It was certainly not about murder.

 

 

 

 

 

“Nell, don’t worry about what I think,” Jane said later that evening. She stood at Nell’s wide butcher-block island, rinsing a handful of lettuce in the island sink. The kitchen windows were wide-open, the white shutters folded back, and the fading light of day filled the airy space.

 

 

Nell pulled a knife from the drawer and put it on a chopping block. Overhead, a round rack anchored to the ceiling held copper and stainless-steel pots and pans in every shape and size, and glass cupboard doors displayed Nell’s collection of plates and glasses. It was her dream kitchen: a wide-open space where friends gathered and chopped and diced—and drank in the pleasure of being together. At the other end of the room, a smooth stone fireplace rose from floor to ceiling. The cherry floors were covered with sisal rugs and the light neutral palette of the sofas and chairs—soft greens and tans and whites—gave full play to the sky and pine trees, the sloping green lawn, and the ocean beyond, a piece of it visible from every window along the back of the house. It was a lived-in room, a room that welcomed people, invited them to sit down, to be safe and comfortable—exactly what Nell had envisioned when she and Ben added it onto his family’s vacation home and made the house their own.

 

 

“I know you had to tell the police about the conversation, Jane. I would have done the same thing.” Nell washed off a bunch of green onions and began chopping them into tiny pieces. “I was asking how
you
feel about Willow.”

 

 

“The bigger concern is what the police think,” Ben interjected. He stood with Ham and Sam Perry at a built-in bar in the living area, pulling bottles from beneath the cabinet and placing them on the polished top. “They aren’t going to care who likes or doesn’t like Willow. They want a strong motive and a way to wrap this up as quickly as possible. And unfortunately Willow is falling right into that category.”

 

 

Nell scooped up a handful of the onions and tossed them into a wooden bowl. She had rubbed the inside of the bowl with garlic, mint, and lemon juice, and the pleasant combination of odors circulated around the cooking area. “But the police have absolutely nothing to connect her to Aidan’s murder. It’s all circumstantial.”

 

 

“Sometimes circumstantial can be a powerful thing,” Sam said.

 

 

“Especially when the police don’t have anywhere else to turn.” Birdie walked over to the bar and set down a bowl of stuffed martini olives.

 

 

“I didn’t tell the police about Willow and Aidan’s conversation to hurt Willow or to add to any kind of evidence.” Jane chopped a fresh tomato from Nell’s garden as she talked. The knife clicked rhythmically against the bamboo cutting board. She pulled her brows together and her fine-boned face registered distress. “Nor do I think that poor little thing killed her father. But I had to answer their questions. Besides, there were others around that day and I know they heard some of it—or at least they knew that someone was arguing with Aidan. But they were farther away than I was, and who knows how they would have repeated the conversation? Rebecca’s dramatic flair could have blown the story clear across the Cape. It could have been even worse for Willow—distorted and incriminating.”

 

 

Nell held her silence, not mentioning that it was, indeed, Rebecca Marks who had passed the story along and embellished it here and there.

 

 

“What it really comes down to,” Ben said from across the room, “is that wishing someone was dead is not the same thing as murdering him. And that’s all that Willow’s words really indicate.”

 

 

“Darn right,” Cass said, coming in from the pantry and handing Nell a fresh bottle of sesame oil. Cass never pretended to be a cook, but she had finessed the role of chef’s helper, and could sometimes anticipate Nell’s needs before Nell herself did.

 

 

“Is Willow coming tonight?” Birdie asked. She held the deck door open for Ben as he carried a platter of tuna out to the grill. Sam and Ham followed, carrying spices and grilling tools.

 

 

“She knows she’s welcome. I haven’t seen her all day.”

 

 

“She was in the shop for a while,” Izzy said. “She keeps the conversation neutral—doesn’t really tell me what’s going on inside her head. I think she thinks she poured out too much to us the other night and has pulled all of us into this awful web. She doesn’t want to make it worse for us.” Izzy plucked a bread stick from the basket and broke off a piece.

 

 

“She’s sad. This whole thing about finding her father, then the murder—her emotions must be tangled and frayed. She doesn’t want me to set anything up with my customers. Not now, she said. I think she’s afraid people would come to stare at her, and I can’t say I blame her. But she’s been told she can’t leave town. The days must be horribly long for her. We’re encouraging her to concentrate on her art—I’m collecting all the leftover yarn people leave around the shop and passing it along. . . .”

 

 

“Of course,” Jane broke in. She brightened up considerably. “That’s the perfect medicine for an artist—to create beauty. And after all this is over, we’ll have an exhibit of her work.”

 

 

Nell smiled. Jane had jumped right on their idea, just as she knew she would.

 

 

“Ham and I will host it at our place,” Jane went on. “We will make it wonderful, I promise.”

 

 

“That’s a generous offer, Jane. We’ll put a positive spin on all this. It will remind Willow of who she truly is: an artist, not someone under house arrest.”

 

 

Underneath it all, Nell knew Jane’s offer was a way to make up for what she had had to tell the police—something beyond her control, but contributing, nevertheless, to Willow’s situation. But it didn’t matter. It was what it was—a gift to Willow. The Brewster Gallery hosted lovely exhibits and would draw a crowd. And by the time the exhibit was ready, Willow’s name would be cleared, and it would be a positive beginning to the next chapter in her life, whatever that might be.

 

 

“Are things clearing up with the paperwork, Jane? If the foundation needs donations, be sure to let me know. I can write a grant or two.”

 

 

“I think we’ll figure it out. I asked Ellen to dig a little, and she’s been great. She said she’d take care of it. Her head for numbers is as great as her sister’s art talent. But on to more pleasant things. Do you think Willow could have enough pieces by the next Art at Night?”

 

 

The planning for Willow’s art exhibit would have continued—well into the mushroom appetizers, beyond the juicy grilled tuna coated with pecans, even to the cranberry pie that Birdie had brought from her housekeeper Ella’s oven. It certainly would have gone longer than the firing of the coals on Ben’s grill.

 

 

Except that at that exact moment—the same moment the inviting, sizzling sound of the match hitting the coals rose up on the deck—the Endicott doorbell rang, an unfamiliar sound.

 

 

People usually opened the front door and called out their arrival, or just walked in, as was Izzy, Birdie, and Cass’ custom. But rarely, other than when someone was soliciting donations for the firemen’s picnic or selling Girl Scout cookies did anyone actually ring Ben and Nell’s doorbell.

 

 

Ben looked back into the house from the darkening deck. “You want me to get it, Nell?”

 

 

“I’ve got it.” Nell frowned, then wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked toward the front door.

 

 

Tommy Porter stood on the wide step. His powder blue police shirt was buttoned from top to bottom and the creases ironed in crisp, straight lines.

 

 

Beside him, on either side, silent and displeased, stood Brendan Slattery and Willow Adams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16

 

T
he odd threesome was silent for one moment. And then they all spoke at once.

 

 

“I d-don’t know what’s going on, Ms. Endicott, but—”

 

 

“It wasn’t Willow’s idea,” Brendan interrupted.

 

 

“I’m so sorry about this, Nell.” Willow’s tone was earnest, but with an edge of irritation. “But this fellow is way too diligent.”

 

 

The mix of voices brought Izzy, Birdie, and Cass to the door.

 

 

“What’s going on?” they asked in a jumble of words.

 

 

The light outside the front door shined down on the group like a spotlight, encircling them.

 

 

“Come inside,” Nell said. “All of you. I don’t want the neighbors talking. And, Tommy, I hope for heaven’s sake you didn’t have your light circling when you drove up. People will think someone died.”

 

 

“No one did, right?” Cass asked. “Die, I mean. We’ve had enough of that.”

 

 

“No, no, no, ma’am.” Tommy looked down at his shiny black shoes. “No spinning light. No one died.”

 

 

Cass, Izzy, and Birdie stepped aside as Nell led the three visitors into the family room.

 

 

“What gives?” Ben asked, coming in from the deck. “Ah, more diners. That’s great. Welcome. We always have plenty.”

 

 

“No, s-sir, Mr. Endicott,” said Tommy.