Patterns in the Sand (36 page)

 

 

Hearing Ben speak so frankly and clearly brought such relief to Nell that she broke out in a huge smile, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek.

 

 

“What’s that for?” Ben asked.

 

 

“Just for doing that thing you do. Sorting through things so clearly. I think you’d be a great knitter, Ben. You can certainly get rid of straggly ends.”

 

 

Izzy agreed. “It’s huge, Uncle Ben. Like finishing that first cleansing edit of a law school paper.”

 

 

“Come on, you two, this is going to go to my head.”

 

 

“But the hard part is ahead of us,” Nell said. “So who’s left? D.J. is still out there with motive and opportunity.”

 

 

They all nodded.

 

 

Ben shook his head. “He’s almost too obvious. Jerry told me D.J. is clean when it comes to following the law. Just barely, but he manages to walk the line. Not even a parking ticket. He knows the law well enough to stay just this side of it. I don’t think he fits the profile. He’s talked people out of property for years and probably has had a fair number of lawsuits brought against him, but he’s never murdered anyone for land. So why now?” Ben paused and took a drink of coffee, thinking through what he’d just said.

 

 

Then he went on. “But I’d be the first to admit that that isn’t proof. It’s a gut feeling with a few facts tossed in. And you’re probably right to keep him on the list. Jerry Thompson is probably doing the same. Profiles don’t always prove true.”

 

 

“My instincts are with Ben’s,” Nell said to Willow and Izzy. “I think we need to look at the original problem between Aidan and Billy. That’s where we’ve messed up. We stumble over it every time we talk about this. So what are we missing?”

 

 

“We know that Aidan wouldn’t have objected to something that would have helped Billy succeed. He was all about helping the other artists and gallery owners. So their little feud—if that’s what it was—didn’t make sense. So we need to focus on that, and try to make it
make
sense.”

 

 

“Well, on that topic, Brendan says the paintings are amazing,” Willow said. “He says it’s the best work James has ever done.”

 

 

“These paintings have been hovering over these murders somehow, and none of us has seen them. Odd, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to stopping by today. Is everyone going?”

 

 

“I’d like to see them,” Willow said immediately. “Definitely. Brendan showed me a glimpse of one. It’s really kind of a mess over there, so don’t expect a grand showing. A lot of the work has fallen on Brendan. It’s making him cranky, but it’ll soon be over.”

 

 

“I imagine he’s a big help to her. And he knows a lot about the paintings, being an art teacher and an artist himself.”

 

 

Willow nodded. “Brendan talks about the paintings a lot. He will be a good docent to have. And speaking of paintings,” she said, looking over the island at Nell, “Brendan and I stopped by Aidan’s—he wanted to look something up in that book on New England artists that Aidan had. I told him you borrowed it, and he was kind of anxious to borrow it back.”

 

 

“Of course,” Nell said, and made a mental note to pass the book along after she’d had a chance to read the chapter on the James paintings. “I’ll look at it this morning and bring it to the gallery. Will that work?”

 

 

“That’s good enough for me. I won’t see him before then, anyway.”

 

 

“What was the painting like?” Izzy asked.

 

 

Nell was wondering the same thing. She’d seen a dozen photographs of paintings James had done and some in a small museum in New Hampshire. But the lost paintings had an aura of mystery about them.

 

 

“It was spectacular, though I must admit, my judgment was colored by Brendan standing at my shoulder, telling me how fantastic it was. I brushed him away. I like to make up my own mind about art.

 

 

“But it was very cool. The scene was a valley with a stream flowing through it, and a haze—like clouds—hovering over the ridge. It was so dramatic. And at first I wasn’t sure why. But then I realized the artist had painted it from above, looking down on the ridge from an even higher point, and I don’t think I’ve seen a lot of watercolors like that. At least not by plein air artists.”

 

 

“Sounds like something that will be worth seeing. You could be an art critic, Willow,” Ben said. “Fine job. So . . . are we set then for the ‘showing’? I’d like to take a look, too. Willow has piqued my interest.”

 

 

“I’m in.” Izzy’s hand shot up. “It’d be a shame to let them slip through our hands and not at least get a look at them. We’ll probably be reading about them in the
New York Times
when some art dealer pays a zillion dollars for them. And we’ll be able to say we were there when they were just little paintings in a crate.”

 

 

Ben laughed. “My sentiments exactly.”

 

 

“Maybe seeing the paintings will help us all get our thinking straight. Seeing the paintings is important. It’s what this is all about after all—or might be, anyway.”

 

 

“Okay, so it’s a date?”

 

 

They all signed on, with promises to call around to see who else might want to see the impromptu exhibit, and while Ben cleaned up the coffee cups and Izzy and Willow went off to shower, Nell called Natalie to tell her she just might have a crowd.

 

 

But the word “crowd” set Natalie in high gear. Her voice lifted in sheer joy. Of course. She’d have her reception after all.

 

 

Six thirty. The Sobel residence.

 

 

“It will be small and intimate,” she told Nell. “Just our friends.

 

 

“And, dear Nell,” Natalie had added before hanging up, her mind already on to the flowers she’d need to order, “would you be so kind as to bring wine and hors d’œuvres?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 31

 

N
ell wasn’t sure how it happened. It just did. And Natalie wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

 

But one by one everyone tried to tell Nell why it was a horrible idea. Seeing the paintings was great. But a festive affair—not so great.

 

 

Jane and Ham couldn’t believe that Nell would cancel Friday night dinner—this Friday of all Fridays, when they needed her cooking, their good friends, and Ben’s martinis, almost more than life itself.

 

 

Izzy was about to rebel. “Not another evening over there,” she moaned. “Haven’t we paid our dues?”

 

 

Sam was more circumspect. “Hey, the lady’s lonely. It’ll be one hour out of our lives.”

 

 

“Sometimes I hate you, Sam Perry,” Izzy had retorted. “This is no time for good sense and compassion.”

 

 

But Nell would take
no
from none of them. They would all go. It was important that they be there. But at that exact moment—if they had asked her why—her answer would have been ill formed. A feeling. A deep, strong feeling that she couldn’t shake.

 

 

Even Willow expressed some regret over the evening’s plans. She showed up on the deck, after coming up from the guesthouse, and plopped dejectedly on a chair while Nell finished a phone call. “What is it?” she asked, snapping the phone closed.

 

 

“Brendan is furious.”

 

 

“Why?” And then Nell thought better of the question. Of course he’d be furious. Someone had to move those paintings. And move them with great care. And that someone, of course, would be Brendan. “I wonder if Natalie considered how much work this would be for Brendan.”

 

 

“I don’t think so. And Brendan sees no reason for it. A quick pass through at the gallery would be plenty for everyone.”

 

 

“If truth be known, he’s probably right.”

 

 

“I’m going over there now. I told him I’d bring him coffee and one of Harry’s cannolis.”

 

 

“A perfect mood-altering treat.”

 

 

“I hope so. Natalie is working him too hard. He’ll be glad when this is all over. He’s been a little tense these past couple days.”

 

 

After Willow left, Nell finally made her way upstairs to the shower. Her thoughts were heavy as she stepped into the bracing pelt of warm water. She lifted her face to the spray and welcomed the cleansing wash. She needed to jar herself, to shake the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn’t seeing something that was right smack in front of her nose, begging her to look at it.

 

 

It was a niggling thought—something that was stuck in the back of her mind. That pesky fly that wouldn’t give up.

 

 

Ben had shared a similar feeling with her before he went off to help Sam work on the dock in front of his new home. “But I feel we’re close, Nell,” he’d said. “I’m going to call Jerry when I get to Sam’s and see what’s new on his end.” He promised he’d pick up some cheese and be home early.

 

 

Nell had barely dried her hair and slipped into cotton slacks and a loose scooped-neck top when Birdie appeared in the kitchen, a frown as deep as a Cape Ann quarry creasing her forehead.

 

 

She set an empty cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee on the counter, then pulled herself up on a stool.

 

 

“Did you ride your bike holding that coffee?” Nell asked.

 

 

“No. Cup holders. Just like on baby strollers. My bike may be old but its accoutrements are up-to-date. Nevertheless, I spilled most of it.”

 

 

“Does that frown say you’re not pleased about Natalie’s art gathering, as she is calling it?”

 

 

“No, I want to go see the paintings, so I’ll go. The frown is frustration. This whole thing is frustrating, but seeing those darn paintings may be the best thing to do. They may stand up and tell us who did it. It’s one of the few stones we haven’t turned over.”

 

 

“My thoughts exactly.” They’d talked about the paintings for weeks—the source of the animosity between Aidan and Billy. And not one of them—except Willow—had even glimpsed them. Nell hoped they would speak to them, even if what they said wasn’t what she and the others would want to hear.

 

 

Birdie shook her head as if she could clear it all away. She took a drink of her now-cold coffee and set it down again. “So maybe tonight will be worth it. Maybe when we see the paintings, something will connect.”

 

 

Nell nodded. She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even nine, but she felt like she’d put in a whole day.

 

 

“Birdie, are you up for some coffee? Ben’s is hours old and I am in need of a good strong cup.”

 

 

 

 

 

The crowd at Coffee’s had thinned as people left for jobs. Nell and Birdie had their choice of tables outside, and they picked one right beneath a small red maple. Mary Pisano sat nearby, her ever-present pad and paper on the table in front of her. She waved at Birdie and Nell and urged them to join her.

 

 

Nell and Birdie both found Mary delightful. Her husband had been a working fisherman for nearly twenty-five years, and Mary filled her many hours of alone time by recording just about everything that went on in Sea Harbor.

 

 

“I’m just sitting here watching the world go by,” she said cheerfully, her dyed-brown curls bobbing as she talked. Large round sunglasses shielded her eyes from the glare.

 

 

“And writing it all down to put into that column of yours,” Birdie said, pulling out a chair. “Just be sure you say I looked youthful and spirited as always.”

 

 

“And you certainly do, Birdie. Now both of you sit and tell me what is up that I don’t already know about.”

 

 

Nell laughed. “That would be a short list. As a matter of fact, I need to ask you something.”

 

 

Mary leaned forward, interested and her fine brows lifted.

 

 

“That column you wrote after Aidan died . . .”

 

 

“The night someone broke into his house. Yes, I remember. The same night Tommy found Willow Adams and Brendan Slattery rummaging through the Aidan’s gallery.”

 

 

“Willow’s gallery,” Birdie corrected.

 

 

“Yes, I suppose. That will take some getting used to.”

 

 

“Mary, who saw someone that night?” Nell asked. “How did you know about it?”

 

 

Mary looked around to see if anyone was listening; then she looked back at Nell. “Nell, you know I can’t reveal my sources.”

 

 

“Of course not. I just thought that, well, it’s over now, so maybe it wouldn’t matter.”

 

 

Mary’s cheeks turned pink. “Well, it was me. Ed was gone that whole week, and I thought that things were about to pop in Canary Cove, so I strolled on over there.”

 

 

“It was late.”

 

 

“I keep my mace and whistle at hand. I’m nobody’s fool.”

 

 

“Of course not.”

 

 

“And what did you see?” Birdie prompted.

 

 

“I saw a beam of light in Aidan’s house—the room right in the front of the house, just inside the front door. And then the light went out and someone slipped out the door—I was in the garden, so I was close enough to hear the door click and lock shut.”

 

 

“So it wasn’t a break-in.”

 

 

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think so. The person was medium tall, and headed up through the woods, along that path that Aidan tended. Then disappeared. I thought it had to have been Willow—except then I saw her the next day. She’s a little thing. And the person I saw was much taller.”

 

 

“You don’t know who it was?”