Trimmed With Murder (14 page)

“Anyway, Stu brought his baby brother in one night to celebrate Patrick's twenty-first birthday. Everyone was in love with Ellie—Stu, too. But when Patrick laid eyes on her that night, you could almost hear fireworks.”

“Stu knew Ellie?” Birdie said.

Esther nodded. “Sure did. All Jake's customers did. And like I said, she was sweet to everyone, no matter who it was.”

So Patrick, at least, had a brother he could confide in. Someone who knew the woman he loved. But she was saddened by the thoughts, too, wondering why Stu didn't go against his mother's wishes and create a better home life for Ellie's daughter.

“Like I said about Jake—he loved Ellie—and then her daughter, too. They'd take Amber out on that old boat of his and he'd tell her stories about her mom, what a good waitress she was. That crusty old galoot has a good soul.”

Nell could imagine Amber out in the boat with Jake, listening to his tales. Then she frowned, replaying Esther's words, and was about to ask her to clarify when Birdie asked a question.

“Why didn't Amber come back for the funeral?” she asked.

“That was another regret of mine—and Amber's, too,” Esther said. “I wasn't able to reach her in time. She had taken a temporary job on some cruise ship off the Florida coast and it wasn't until she got back to shore that she found my message.”

“Ellie's death was sudden?” Nell was surprised. She followed the whistle of the teapot in the kitchen, brought it back, and filled the three dainty cups. Birdie unwrapped the basket of scones they'd brought and passed them around. “I thought Ellie had been in the nursing home for years.”

“Unexpected is a better word, I guess, because, yes, she'd been a patient there for a long time. But she had been stable, her vital signs strong. Then one night she just up and died.”

“What was the cause of death?” Nell asked.

“Most people with her condition die of a pulmonary infection or some other kind—and most die sooner than she did. Ellie was in good shape. The doc said her death was unexpected in that sense. But sometimes patients like Ellie die of no known cause. She had just turned fifty. It was a lonely death.”

Lonely. And a death that caused barely a stir in the small town, Nell thought. Mother-and-daughter tragedies. One whose death went unnoticed by most of the world—and one whose death would not go gently into the night.

“Who was her doctor?” Birdie asked.

“Yours. Mine. Lydia's. Half of Sea Harbor. Our good friend, Alan Hamilton. He told me Ellie was as strong as he was. But sometimes that's how PVS patients die. It happens.”

“Alan is a good doctor,” Birdie said.

“That he is. And he had a wonderful bedside manner with Ellie. He'd sit and talk to her about politics, music, his dog.”

“Did she ever respond?”

“Who knows? I asked him that often. He'd say, ‘Are you asking the medical me or the other me?' The doctor in Alan said she didn't understand or hear anything. Yet she slept, woke. Yawned. She could swallow. And she'd blink now and again in a way that was unnerving—she couldn't have known me, but sometimes her eyes seemed to say something different. I got one of those looks the day she died. A light in her eye when I mentioned Amber. I swear it. Most of the medical folks said I imagined it.”

But it was a happy memory. Nell was pleased Esther had one in her collection.

“Did you visit often?” Nell asked.

“Oh, I'm not sure what ‘often' means. After Amber left, I went when I could. I felt I was going in Lydia's place, filling in. I liked Ellie. I swear she worked every shift, and she was always friendly and polite. Not exactly like Amber, but Amber might have been like Ellie if she had had her around to teach her. Anyway, after the accident, after it all happened, I'd visit Ellie, try to make her room a little brighter.” She looked down at the embroidered napkin in her hand and held it up. Tiny flowers highlighted each corner. “I even made her a soft pillow and embroidered some flowers on the slip. Something to make her bed a little special, not so hospital-like.” She fingered the roses on the napkin.

“When Amber was old enough, I'd take her with me—she was always with a nanny those days, before Lydia arranged for boarding school. We'd sit and read books at her mother's bedside.”

Esther had leaned her head back against the high-backed sofa and partially closed her eyes. “I can't get my arms around anyone hurting Amber. It doesn't make sense to me. Oh, she was a rascal, that one. No innocence there. But she'd been gone from here for so long. So why? Why here? Richard and I were up all night trying to make sense of it.”

“Jerry said he'd know more today, after he'd spent some time with the autopsy report,” Nell said. “But no matter what they find, you're right, Esther. The death of such a vital young woman doesn't make sense.”

Esther's voice grew stronger as she pulled out a reason that she could understand, no matter how painful. “It had to have been a drunken bum from the party—or someone who just wandered in and came upon her in those trees. Maybe a stranger doing something they shouldn't be doing, and Amber surprised him. Or someone robbing her. A tragic accident . . .”

Nell looked over at Birdie. Amber had told Birdie she had to meet someone that night. She tuned back in to Esther, who was trying to retrace Amber's steps, to find something to help her through her grief.

“Amber'd have fought back, though, wouldn't she? She'd never let anyone take advantage of her. She's a fighter. She'd have fought back.”

And maybe she did. But she lost.
Nell pushed against the image of Charlie's injured hand until it disappeared.

“Was Amber in touch with any old friends while she was here?” Nell asked. The image of Amber waving to the cyclist when they were leaving the cemetery flitted across her mind. Was that an old friend? Or perhaps she was simply waving to a stranger, the way one sometimes did when seeing a friendly face.

“Old friends?” Esther smiled sadly. “Amber didn't have any old friends. Boarding school was not a good match for her; she disliked it—and she didn't much care for the wealthy girls who went there. They had nothing in common, she told me once. I asked her what she meant and she just looked at me, that small face so like her mother's. Then she said with a sigh, ‘I meant that they all had pets. I always wanted a dog that I could hug.'” Esther shook her head, the irony of Amber's words deepening the wrinkles in her kind face. “Imagine that,” she murmured.

Birdie stirred a sugar cube into her tea. “So there were no phone calls for her here?”

“Calls?” Esther's frown lightened, as if Birdie had triggered a thought. “Yes. There was a call. But it wasn't for Amber, at least not directly. Last week Priscilla Stangel called me at the police station when I was working. You know her, Birdie. She manages Ocean View. Or at least she used to. She was calling from there.”

“Of course I know Priscilla,” Birdie said. “She's in my group—the Ladies' Classics and Tea Club.”

Even Esther smiled at that. Most people in Sea Harbor knew or had heard about the infamous Sunday tea group, the “women of a certain age”—Sea Harbor's collection of grande dames—who met at the Ocean's Edge regularly. The group was decades old, as were its members, and at one time actually did meet over tea and crumpets and a discussion of the Great Books. But as the years went by the members unanimously agreed to replace the tea with sherry or Chablis, the crumpets with calamari. And the Great Books with gossip and “sharing wisdom,” as one of their members put it. The staff at Ocean's Edge accommodated “their” ladies, still putting out the finest silver, the Spode china, and filling their Baccarat crystal wineglasses with the finest wine.

“I believe Priscilla primarily has social duties at Ocean View now,” Birdie said. “Greeting people. She has a lovely handshake. Why did she call?”

“She thought she saw someone sitting in the room that had been Ellie Harper's for all those years.”

“Is that unusual? Surely they haven't kept the room empty?” Nell asked.

“No, no, they haven't. But it happens it's vacant now because it's being refreshed or remodeled or something.”

“Why was that information worth a phone call, and why you?” Birdie asked.

“Priscilla swore the woman looked just like Ellie. At first she thought she saw a ghost, she said, and then someone told her that Ellie's daughter was in town. So she decided it must have been her. She told me guests needed to know someone there to be admitted. Did I know why Amber was sitting in her dead mother's room?”

Birdie chuckled. “It sounds like Priscilla's cataract surgery wasn't entirely successful.”

“Well, that's what I thought, too, but of course I couldn't say as much to her. You know how she is. So I listened politely and told her she must have been mistaken and then I reminded her how excellent the security at Ocean View is and that no one could get in without a visitor's pass, everyone knew that. And I complimented her on what a wonderful asset she is to Ocean View. She called once more a day or so later, when I was at work, and left a message saying essentially the same thing—that she had spotted Amber again and that she was bothering the staff and I should do something about it—but I never followed up. I think she was still seeing ghosts and I didn't want to deal with it.”

“You are the epitome of diplomacy, Esther, dear,” Birdie said.

“Was that the end of it?” Nell asked.

“Yes. Amber had been to Ellie's grave; someone probably saw her there and Priscilla was confused. I thought about mentioning it to Amber, but when I saw her a day or two later, I decided not to bother her with something that didn't affect her, but might bring up sad memories. And good grief, the poor woman had had her share of those.”

“That sounds like a good decision, Esther.” Birdie patted her knee.

“I suppose,” Esther said, although she didn't sound completely convinced that she'd done the right thing. Or if she had even remembered the phone call clearly.

“But as far as you and Richard were aware, Amber didn't reconnect with people while she was here?”

Esther shook her head. “I don't think she had any intention of doing that. She seemed focused on meeting with the people involved in why she'd come—Rachel, Father Larry. And of course she saw all of you. Jake. And the Cummingses.”

“Maybe the one who actually got closest to her and knew the Amber who came back after all those years away—”

Birdie and Nell realized where Esther was going before she got there.

“Well, it was your nephew, Charlie, Nell. He was the one Amber seemed to want to see. The one who picked her up and dropped her off. I think—though of course we didn't talk about it—I think that maybe Amber was beginning to care for him, at least as much as Amber could care for anyone.”

Birdie gathered up her purse as Nell cleared the table, taking the cups into the kitchen and thinking of Esther's words.

Charlie. The one who picked her up and dropped her off.

She retrieved their coats from the hall closet and when she returned to the family room to say good-bye, Esther was standing, leaning on her cane and smiling. She was somehow warmed by the company, or maybe her thoughts of Charlie and Amber. The comforting thought that maybe Amber had cared for someone. And that someone might have cared for her.

But instead of the sweet emotion on Esther's face at the thought of Charlie and Amber together, something else—a cold fear—wormed its way inside Nell. She was nearly thrown off balance by it. A feeling so strong she had to wrap her arms around herself to keep from shaking.

Charlie was the closest to Amber, not a husband, of course, but the one person she had let into her life. And in murder cases, who was it they looked at first?

T
hey headed next to Coffee's, where Cass said she'd be waiting in the booth in the far back section of the shop. The Monday ritual on the lobster company owner's day off. Strong coffee. Good friends.

“Izzy!” Nell said, surprised to see her niece sitting next to Cass. Four of Coffee's oversize mugs sat on the table, steam curling up from the cream-laden brew.

Nell rubbed her cheekbone, a nervous habit, wondering what would have brought Izzy from her shop on a busy Monday when the back room would be filled with college students learning frantically how to knit holiday hats and sweaters.

“Mae has the shop under control. Sam called.” She pushed two of the mugs across the table.

Nell slipped into the booth beside Birdie. Her words were clipped. “Is Abby okay?”

Izzy nodded, then gave Nell part of a smile. “I love that your first thoughts are of her, Aunt Nell. I love that you love her so much.”

“I love her, too,” Cass said stoutly. “I'm her godmother, don't forget.”

The gentle talk about a well-loved toddler was welcome—and a stark contrast to whatever message Sam had relayed to Izzy, the one that had brought her to Coffee's with a troubled look on her face.

“Sam was with Ben this morning,” Izzy said. “Some planning meeting about the summer sailing club. They got a call from Jerry asking them to come to the station when they had a chance.”

“Why?”

“A couple of things. The news somehow leaked out about how Amber was killed. It was awful.” Izzy traced the pockmarks in the table with her fingertip, then looked up and got the words out quickly. “She was stabbed.”

Cass took over when Izzy's voice choked up. “Someone stabbed her with one of those heavy iron gizmos that were staked in front of the Christmas trees.”

“The name placeholders,” Birdie said softly. “Oh, my—”

The image settled in with a thud, vivid and awful. It would have been as lethal as a blunt knife.

“Jerry wanted Cass and Danny and the rest of us to know before the news started spreading. And there's something else.” Izzy took a stabilizing breath and expelled it slowly. When she began talking again, her voice was businesslike, methodical. Izzy the attorney, needing to get the information out efficiently.

“It's no surprise that the police are wanting to talk to anyone who was connected to Amber. People she talked to casually that night, as well as people more closely connected to her—the Cummingses, Rachel Wooten, even Father Northcutt. Esther and Richard. And all of us. The police are thorough and won't give anyone an easy out. But they found a couple texts on Amber's phone that concerned Jerry.”

“Texts?” Nell said.

“They were from Charlie. He sent them Saturday night.”

Nell's face fell, though she realized she shouldn't have been surprised. He didn't know where she'd gone that night. He would have tried to reach her, to find her. To get her home safely.

“He was agitated—or drunk—when he sent them, at least as much as you can tell from texts. They rambled. But he said angry things. He said he was hurt, used. Jerry is concerned about it. It puts Charlie in kind of a bad place.”

For a long minute they were all silent, each interpreting the news in her own way. Finally Birdie said, “Well, Charlie Chambers didn't kill anyone. We all know that. He will explain the texts and that will be that.”

Birdie's tone of voice had difficulty matching her optimistic words, but they all nodded. That would be that. Of course it would.

“Charlie brought Amber to the park that night,” Cass said. “They seemed fine. He was in a good mood when I saw him early on.”

“Yes, he was,” Birdie said. “But Amber was clearly distracted about something or other. I don't think it had anything to do with Charlie.”

She repeated the conversation she'd had with Amber to Izzy and Cass. They all grew somber at the thought that Birdie was probably among the last to talk with Amber before she was killed—for sure the last among the knitters.

“She was sad and angry all at once,” Birdie said. “I think she was trying to figure out what to do, some kind of dilemma in her head. Perhaps she thought talking it out with someone might help her clarify the issue.” She paused, her voice sad as the conversation replayed itself. “We were to talk Sunday.” Her words were soft with the irony and sadness of it.

“It's not surprising she wanted to talk to you,” Cass said. “People are drawn to you, Birdie, even people you don't know very well. Strangers off the street. You better watch that. There's no telling who you could get mixed up with.”

Nell smiled, but it was true. They were all drawn to Birdie's wisdom and fairness and compassion. It wasn't what she did; it was who she was. And the fact that Amber Harper had intuited as much made Nell silently appreciate Charlie's friend's sensitivity.

“You don't think she wanted to talk about Charlie?” Izzy asked.

Birdie looked off into the coffee-scented air and revisited the conversation in her head. “No, I don't think so,” she said. “In fact, the way she treated Charlie that night makes me think she wanted to disconnect from him a bit, to maybe protect him from whatever was bothering her. I think she understood the feelings they shared for each other might not make him the most objective listener. She didn't really say as much, but it's what I thought.”

“She was clearly preoccupied,” Nell said. And then she fell silent, remembering Charlie's tension when he had stood beside her that night, remembering the fistful of anger she had sensed in her nephew.

“Charlie and I went looking for her a short while after that. We finally found her over near the gazebo.” Nell paused, but just for a minute. “She was wrapped in Andy Risso's arms.”