Patterns in the Sand (37 page)

 

 

“No. There were no lights on around Aidan’s house or the woods. Pitch-black. I had a flashlight, but I didn’t want to turn it on. That might have gotten me in serious trouble. I don’t even know for sure if it was a man or a woman. Just that the person wasn’t hefty, was of medium build. And moved quickly, clearly not wanting to be seen. Whoever it was must have had a key. And apparently nothing seemed to be missing.”

 

 

Nell thought about the open drawers and the messy papers. Someone had been looking for something. And Mary’s description didn’t sound like Billy Sobel at all.

 

 

“What are you writing about today?” Nell asked. They’d asked enough questions. Any more and Mary might be writing about Birdie and Nell playing sleuth.

 

 

“Today I’m writing about the summer program for children at the art academy over on Canary Cove. I decided that they could use some positive press.”

 

 

“A wonderful idea.”

 

 

“I spoke with that charming Sam Perry, and he let me sit in on his photography class. It was wonderful. The kids love it. Sam says I should put a plea in my column for donations, too, to keep the academy going. And I shall do exactly that.”

 

 

Mary pushed back her chair and stood up. “And now, dear ladies, I am off to my computer. I’ve some serious writing to do.” She gave them each a quick hug, and disappeared through the gate and down the street, her bag swinging from her shoulder.

 

 

Birdie frowned. “That’s odd.”

 

 

Nell was having the same thoughts. “You mean about the funding for the academy—I thought so. Jane mentioned it to me in passing. I’m sure that Tony Framingham designated a large chunk of money to that foundation when his mother died. How could they be short?”

 

 

“Not to mention last summer’s huge benefit. Maybe there’s been a mistake in the numbers.”

 

 

“That must be it,” Nell agreed, and tucked the troubling thought in the back of her head. The work of the arts foundation was too important not to take this seriously—as soon as there was a minute, she’d talk to Jane about this more.

 

 

 

 

 

By the time they got back to Nell’s, it was almost noon. And Izzy and Cass were walking in the front door at 22 Sandswept Lane.

 

 

“We decided to spend our lunch break here,” Izzy said. “If you’re insisting we go to Natalie’s tonight, you can appease us with leftovers.”

 

 

Cass headed for the refrigerator.

 

 

In minutes the island was cluttered with a cheese tray and thick slices of bread. Izzy pointed to some sliced turkey and Cass found a bottle of homemade mayonnaise.

 

 

“Be careful not to get mayonnaise on that book,” Nell cautioned, pointing to the New England art book.

 

 

And I need to remember to take that book to Brendan,
Nell thought.

 

 

“Well, how odd,” Nell said out loud, answering her own thought.

 

 

“What? The book?” Izzy speared a thin piece of white cheddar to top off the turkey.

 

 

Nell frowned. “No. But Brendan wanted me to bring him this book—it’s Aidan’s copy. What’s odd is that I saw a copy in Brendan’s house the night of the clambake—so why is he so anxious to see this one?”

 

 

Izzy took the book from Nell’s hands and flipped through it. “Maybe here’s why,” she said, and pointed to a random page. “Aidan wrote in his book. Sometimes that’s where you get the really good information. And Aidan was such an art scholar that he probably had interesting things to say.”

 

 

Of course, that was it—Izzy was right. Nell remembered now. That was part of what had drawn her attention to the book in the first place: wanting to read what Aidan thought of Robert James. She guessed it made sense that Brendan would be interested in what he had to say as well.

 

 

Nell took the book back and leafed through a few pages. She frowned, then read a little more. Aidan had added his own touch to the book, underlining and using a bright yellow Magic Marker to highlight sections.

 

 

“Something we should know?” Birdie asked.

 

 

“I’m not sure. There’s an interesting section on Robert James’ life—and I suspect Aidan makes it even more interesting.” She set the book next to her purse, where she couldn’t forget it, and vowed to read more of what Aidan thought of Robert James. Perhaps the argument was as simple as Aidan thinking the man wasn’t really the master he was held up to be and Billy thought otherwise.

 

 

“What’s this, Nell?” Birdie held up the envelope Willow had left on the counter. A small pill cap had rolled out onto the surface.

 

 

Izzy picked it up. “Sleeping pill,” she said.

 

 

“Nembutal?” Birdie asked.

 

 

Nell nodded. There seemed to be a lot of insomnia going around lately, she thought.

 

 

“Are you planning on making a Mickey Finn?” Birdie joked. “This was big in Al Capone’s time. Archie and I were talking about it the other day. You mix a little of this and a little chloral hydrate in a drink, and you’ve got your man.”

 

 

“A Mickey Finn . . .”

 

 

Birdie and Nell thought of it at the same moment.
The Sea Harbor Gazette
had used the drink to get some mileage in a headline:
The Art of a Mickey Finn,
the reporter had written.

 

 

And the article was about Aidan’s murder—and the poison of choice.

 

 

Izzy wiped the mayo from the corners of her mouth and washed her hands in the sink. “What are you thinking, Nell?”

 

 

“I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing. But you know, no matter how we feel about going to Natalie’s tonight, it may bring us a giant step closer to getting our summer back. And here’s why.”

 

 

 

 

 

Izzy had to get back to the shop, and Cass had to meet her brother on lobster business, but both left the Endicott home with the hope that Nell was right and that the clouds over their little village were shifting. They didn’t have all the pieces in place—but the ones that were out on the table fit together so neatly it was frightening. They had headed in the wrong direction all along, but picked up some interesting information on the way.

 

 

“Birdie, I need a favor. Could you hunt through that stack of albums and find some of hiking trips Ben and I took thirty-five years ago?

 

 

Birdie laughed. But when she looked into her friend’s face and saw the expression in Nell’s eyes, she headed to the bookcase, where the Endicotts’ stored dozens of albums detailing lives well lived. And she knew exactly what hiking trip was on Nell’s mind.

 

 

Nell gave Birdie some details while she worked, and when Ben came home, Birdie and Nell filled him in. Ben listened attentively, then left Birdie to her work digging through picture albums while he left to check into some other records that might make interesting viewing. Benefit funds were public record. And Rachel Wooten could point him to the right file in minutes.

 

 

In the meantime, Nell sat at the island, her glasses on and Aidan Peabody’s annotated version of Robert James’ life in front of her.

 

 

James was a fascinating artist, Nell soon discovered. Many critics agreed that he was a master of plein air art—and he lived up to it precisely, never using photographs for his work, but painting in the air, as it were. Painting what he saw.

 

 

A section highlighted by Aidan’s yellow Magic Marker revealed to Nell that Robert James was a recluse. He lived in Maine in a Gothic-style house set back off the road. During his lifetime, he had given few interviews, preferring to live a life of relative obscurity and letting his beautiful paintings tell people who he was and how he saw life.

 

 

And then, finally, down in a corner of the page, in Aidan’s own writing, was one of the reasons that Robert James was a recluse.

 

 

It certainly explained some things.

 

 

But did it add up to murder?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 32

 

W
illow was pulling into Nell’s driveway on the old bike just as Nell walked out the front door.

 

 

“Willow, you’re just the person I was hoping to see. I’ve a favor to ask.”

 

 

Willow was fine with Nell’s request, as Nell knew she would be. And her plea to go along was not unexpected.

 

 

“I’m still not comfortable going into Aidan’s house alone,” Willow said, as they drove toward Canary. “But even so . . . Well, I want to be there, to spend time there.”

 

 

“You’ll feel more comfortable once we get this all solved, Willow. And hopefully that will be soon.”

 

 

“What are we looking for?”

 

 

“I’m not absolutely sure. Just suspicions. It’s a case of ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’ I think that someone was looking for something in your father’s house. And if we can find it, it might tell us a thing or two about Aidan’s death.”

 

 

Willow unlocked the front door and the two of them walked into the familiar hallway.

 

 

“It’s a little bit like coming home,” Willow whispered. “That’s silly, isn’t it?”

 

 

Nell gave her a quick hug. “It’s not even the slightest bit silly.”

 

 

Nell didn’t think the time was right yet, but one of these days she’d try to explain to Willow that having her here right now cushioned the loss of their friend Aidan in unspoken ways. It didn’t lessen their sadness, but it filled in some of the hollow spots in a lovely way.

 

 

“I am thinking the den might be a good starting spot for me. Maybe while I scrounge around, you could water some of those thirsty-looking plants.”

 

 

Nell suspected that wandering around alone—but having someone nearby—was the best way for Willow to acclimate herself to the house her father had lived in. To smell its smells, listen to its silent voices.

 

 

She opened the desk drawers again, then rummaged through the wooden filing cabinet. The papers in both were largely inconsequential—old furniture orders, a cleaning bill, a repair bill for a washing machine, to-do lists. “Surely you can do better than this,” Aidan, she whispered.

 

 

After exhausting the folders, Nell sat back in the desk chair and looked over at the fisherman statue standing guard. “Please give me a hint, sir,” she said aloud, looking up into the carved, craggy features of his charming face.

 

 

Later she told Ben that she was sure he spoke to her. Right then and there.

 

 

Or maybe it was the memory of the will that the police had found in one of Aidan’s statues. Or the many times she’d watch admirers in the gallery open up the figures that Aidan carved, exclaiming with delight over the bookshelves behind a mermaid’s fins or the secret drawers that magically appeared when one tugged on a fisherman’s belt buckle.

 

 

This fisherman was special, Nell told Ben. It was the backs of his waders that opened wide, leaving enough room for a nice neat file drawer. Flat, unobtrusive. Hidden.

 

 

They decided Aidan wasn’t even trying to hide it—many of the papers were ordinary things: mortgage papers, car licensing records. It was probably Aidan’s everyday filing cabinet—safely ensconced behind a fisherman’s tush.

 

 

It only took Nell five minutes to find the reports she suspected she might find. And even at a glance, she knew the numbers would tell her an interesting story. An alarming story.

 

 

They made one more stop on the way back home, and Willow kept the car idling while Nell ran in to the small building that housed the Canary Cove arts association building. “Here, Esther,” she said to the volunteer at the desk. “Just thought I’d make a donation to the summer arts academy.”

 

 

“Well, bless you, Nell,” the volunteer reply. “We need these, you know. These aren’t the easiest of times.”

 

 

“When is the next council meeting?” Nell looked beyond the desk to the office in the back.

 

 

“I think Jane told me she wants one in a couple of weeks.” Esther looked down at a large daily calendar on the desktop. Nell leaned over and looked as well, then looked through the open door of the single office in the back that Aidan had once spent time in.

 

 

Esther followed her glance. “Nope, no one is here today. Jane was in yesterday, but that’s it. Lots of tourists, though. I’m almost out of brochures and maps.”

 

 

“And that’s a good thing for business,” Nell said, and waved good-bye. In minutes, she and Willow were back in the driveway at 22 Sandswept Lane.

 

 

Ben and Birdie were waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 33

 

N
ell dressed nervously. Behind her, Ben rubbed her neck and told her it would be okay. She nodded, running her hands down the sides of a summery sleeveless dress. Yes, it would be okay.

 

 

But how could they have been so mislead?

 

 

Cass and Izzy had come by earlier to help sort through it all. And everyone admitted they’d been toying with the same loose ends. Once they had it all out on the table, they poked fun at themselves. It seemed so clear. Every one of the facts sat in front of them. But they were so numerous that they crisscrossed over one another—like the lines in the sand when the tide goes out. A huge labyrinth that was finally beginning to make sense.