The Wedding Shawl Page 11

  “If anyone can calm Beatrice, it’s Izzy,” Cass said. “Frankly, Beatrice drives me bananas. So dramatic.”

  “Speaking of drama,” Merry said, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening. She looked back and leaned in. “A reporter came by the Palate last night.”

  “To drink?”

  “Nope. Asking questions about Tiffany Ciccolo. Hank said I shouldn’t talk to him, shouldn’t encourage that kind of thing. Let Chief Thompson take care of it, he said.”

  “Hank’s a wise man,” Nell said.

  “Well, he knew I wasn’t liking the guy being there. I don’t mind talking to reporters when it will bring business to the bar and grill or promote the Fractured Fish, but not when he wanted to talk about someone who was dead. Besides which, I was trying to write up the menus for the week.”

  “What did he think you’d be able to tell him?” Cass asked.

  “Well, that’s the curious thing. I didn’t know Tiffany well. She’d been hanging out with us some because of Andy and was always around the band. She was sweet, I guess. But that’s about what I know. Knew. I didn’t even know her from the salon. I usually take care of my own hair, as you can probably tell.” She flipped a long platinum ponytail over one shoulder. “But here’s the thing. The guy didn’t seem interested in her work at the salon, only in what she was like in high school. In high school; can you believe that? High school was fifteen years ago—that’s almost half my life ago. Besides, no one should be held accountable for what they were like in high school—and that’s exactly what I told him.”

  “I almost forgot that you went to high school with Tiffany.”

  Merry nodded. “A long time ago. And I can barely remember what she looked like back then, though I think she had lost weight recently. We didn’t hang out. Can you remember people from your high school? It’s, like . . . like, a lifetime ago. And why does anyone care about high school, anyway? They should be caring about the here and now. And what’s going on now is that poor Tiffany is dead. And that’s what he should be asking about. Who broke into M.J.’s salon? Who killed her?”

  Merry shifted her bag on her shoulder. “But I think that’s the end of it. The guy finally apologized for bothering me. He said I was right. He didn’t care much about high school, either. He gulped down a beer Hank offered him and then left. Hardly took any notes at all. Poor guy—no inches for him in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Chapter 14

  But Merry Jackson couldn’t have been more wrong. It had taken the reporter two days, though—not one—to collect his information. By Wednesday morning, he had plenty of inches on the front page of the Sea Harbor Gazette.

  TWO FRIENDS—TWO DEATHS—TWO TRAGEDIES

  “So much for ignoring coincidences,” Nell murmured.

  “I guess Chief Thompson had a change of mind,” Birdie said.

  “Maybe not. This might be that young reporter’s attempt to sell newspapers and make a name for himself.”

  Below the headline were two photographs, side by side, from a high school yearbook. The pictures were familiar in the way of high school photos—the freshness of youth, hair brushed and shining, smiles intact. One of the girls wore glasses. She had brown hair and a slightly self-conscious smile. The other photograph held a quiet loveliness that came through the photographer’s lens and onto the page. The girl’s hair was a deep blond, long and wavy, with a natural glean. Harmony, with a name that fit the face, the straight nose and interesting eyes, lips that were slightly asymmetrical, yet all fitting together perfectly to form a lovely whole. A harmonious whole.

  Harmony Farrow—and her best friend, Tiffany Ciccolo.

  It was the first time Nell had seen a photo of Harmony. She wasn’t smiling in the typical yearbook way. Instead, there was a gentle lift to her lips. But there was something arresting about her, too, that made Nell want to look beyond the photo, to see other photos. To sit down and have a conversation with Harmony Farrow. She looked like someone Nell would like to know.

  In a box off to the side, the reporter recapped Harmony’s death fifteen years before. It was a sketchy story, worn with age, even though the writer had tried to bring new life to it. Not much more detail than had been reported at the book club when Danny Brandley spoke. Graduation night. A party. Harmony left early. And then she wasn’t seen again until a delicate, leafy knit shawl—clinging to a branch that jutted from the side of a quarry—urged someone to look for her there. To pull her from her watery grave.

  “Best Friends Forever,” the subhead read.

  The reporter went on to talk about the two young women and how they were inseparable in high school.

  “Those words sound like they came directly out of Jake Risso’s mouth. I wonder if he talked to the reporter,” Nell said.

  Birdie frowned and took off her glasses. “I hope not. Harmony’s death was hard on that family. I knew Jake’s wife, Marie. After fifteen years, I’d nearly forgotten about it. But now that it’s all come to light again, I remember how much Marie liked that young girl—almost like a daughter, Esther said. And then when the rumors started—” Birdie paused, then took a sudden breath and put her glasses back on in a rush. She ran one crooked finger beneath the lines of type, line after line, scanning the columns. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, her words dripping in displeasure.

  Nell followed the point of her finger.

  The reporter may not have gotten much from Merry Jackson, but someone had been more than willing to talk about a young Andy Risso, who was “a drummer in the high school band, class of 1996, and now a popular member of Sea Harbor’s own Fractured Fish band.” It went on to talk about the coincidence—how Andy was friends with both of the young women whose lives had ended so abruptly.

  There were two smaller photos, one faded and barely distinguishable, a newspaper shot of a long-haired guy and a young girl who had both won academic scholarships to Boston University. They each had on a gray T-shirt with BOSTON UNIVERSITY printed across the front in tall crimson letters. The other photo was more recent, a clear, digital shot. It was taken after a recent Fractured Fish performance, shot down at the pier just three weeks before. It was unposed, a snapshot of band members eating hot dogs and laughing, and standing close beside the band’s drummer, her eyes focused on his face, was Tiffany Ciccolo.

  “Awful, just awful. Well, at least Marie isn’t here to be hurt by this all over again.”

  “What do you mean? It’s just a photo.”

  “I ran into Esther Gibson yesterday and she revisited all of this with me. She reminded me that when Harmony died, they questioned everyone that had been seen with her that night, as you’d expect. She’d been at the graduation party for a while, with Andy, people reported. So the poor kid was questioned over and over by some overly diligent young policeman. It nearly broke Marie’s heart. And shortly after that she got sick. So Andy gave up his scholarship and stayed around here, doing odd jobs and going to a community college so he could help take care of his mother. I think he partly blamed the rumors and stress of it all for making her sick, probably blamed himself, too, is what I think. Of course it wasn’t him at all. It was the cancer. But it was a hard time.”

  “Well, Jerry won’t let an overzealous reporter dictate his investigation,” Ben said, walking into the last part of the conversation. He grabbed a sports jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged into it, making sure his shirt collar was straight. “I’ll be seeing the chief shortly at a city planning meeting. He’s showing up to give us some information on crime areas. Maybe I’ll find out what’s behind this.”

  He kissed Nell on the cheek, gave Birdie a hug, and headed toward the door.

  “Ben,” Nell called after him. “Do you have the morning paper? This is Birdie’s. I thought I’d take it down to Claire with some coffee.”

  Ben turned back with a smile in his eyes. “I know you, Nell. You want to indoctrinate her into the fine living available here in Sea Harbor. I beat you to it. I left it on th
e cottage steps with coffee and a copy of a book I picked up at Archie’s store—Beautiful New England.”

  Of course he did. Nell smiled to herself. He understood that a place like Sea Harbor was a good place to find oneself, if that was Claire’s goal. He liked her, too.

  Birdie continued reading through the article. “Well, this doesn’t really say much,” she said. “But you can bet it’ll generate talk. Poor Andy.”

  Nell picked up the coffeepot to refill their mugs, but Birdie waved her off. “I’ve got a list of things a mile long to do today, including working on Izzy’s wedding shawl. I picked it up from Cass. I guess I felt the need to bury my fingers in that lovely cashmere yarn and think of what an extraordinary bride she will be. It calms me down. Puts things into perspective and rids my palate of less-pleasing tastes.”

  Nell knew exactly what she meant. But before she could share her agreement, Birdie was gone, her exit an art she had mastered fully. No lingering good-byes, no standing at the doorway in awkward half silences. When it was time to leave, Birdie left.

  Nell poured herself another cup of coffee, then picked up Birdie’s newspaper and wandered out to the deck. She slipped on her glasses and looked down the front page again. It was a hodgepodge of comments and a rehashing of events. There was nothing new regarding Tiffany’s death or why someone would have chosen that particular shop to vandalize.

  Nell set the paper in her lap and thought about the shop, the robbery. With her brows pulled together in deep concentration, she tried to slide the pieces in place.

  The basement of the salon hadn’t been vandalized, not really, at least not what she had seen. Wouldn’t a robber have looked for more equipment or valuables? Even Tiffany’s office, M.J. said, with files and bookcases and desk drawers, was neat and clean. A light had been left on near her desk, but nothing seemed amiss. A Bose player was still there, and it was still on when the police checked the room. An iPod and speakers were in full sight. A flat-screen television and DVD player that M.J. had used for training classes. The laptop Tiffany used was gone, M.J. had said. And no one could find her cell phone.

  Nell thought about that now. The cell phone would have told them whom she had talked to that day. Her murderer, perhaps? The thought sent a cold shiver of fear up her back.

  She read through the reporter’s description of the crime scene. It was short, fairly accurate, revealing nothing new. It was clear that the facts of the case didn’t interest the writer. He was far more interested in exploring Tiffany’s childhood, just as Merry had said. And he seemed to be trying to make a sensation out of best friends dying in tragic ways, fifteen years apart.

  A story made for a Hollywood movie.

  Nell leaned her head back against the chair and looked out over the woods, the newspaper flapping in the breeze on her knees. Such a peaceful day to be reading about such dire happenings.

  The breeze coming up off the ocean intensified, rustling treetops and slicing through branches, scattering the morning quiet. In the distance, gulls cried out. Their noisy cawing grew louder as the wind lifted them in flight. Nell closed her eyes, the sounds melding together into a plaintive cry of nature.

  And then the wind died down again, the sun warmed her face, and her body began to sink into the soft cushions of the chaise.

  But the plaintive wail continued.

  Nell’s eyes flew open. She stood and looked down toward the woods. An injured animal? A fox, maybe. Ben had spotted one recently near the new community center.

  She stood still, her palms flat on the deck railing, listening.

  The sound, mixed with the wind and incoming tide, continued. An agonizing sound.

  Nell rubbed her arms against a sudden chill that traveled through her. She walked down the steps toward the woods, tentative at first, then more hurried.

  As she neared the guesthouse, she stopped.

  The cry was louder now, a keening that pierced the air and sliced through Nell.

  She walked around the side of the cottage. The door facing the woods was open, the coffee carafe Ben had brought down earlier untouched on the step.

  Sitting on the floor just inside the door, her head in her hands and her anguished cry filling the small room, was Claire Russell.

  She was dressed in cotton pajamas, and spread out in front of her, rumpled and darkened with tears, was the morning Sea Harbor Gazette.

  Chapter 15

  Nell fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around Claire’s shaking body.

  They stayed that way, the two women, rocking back and forth on the braided rug.

  Finally the rocking movement slowed, and the keening softened to a moan.

  Nell shifted on her knees but stayed beside Claire, her body offering support.

  Claire didn’t look up, nor did she resist Nell’s presence or her touch. Her eyes stayed glued to the soggy newsprint.

  “She was my daughter,” she said finally.

  Nell forced herself to breathe evenly, in and out, listening.

  “Harmony. Harmony Grace.”

  With one hand, Nell reached up and lifted a box of tissues from an end table. She pulled one out and pressed it into Claire’s hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire managed to say. “I don’t . . . I don’t lose control of myself. At least not in front of anyone.”

  “You haven’t lost control, Claire. You’re grieving—all over again.” Nell wasn’t sure if Claire heard her, but it didn’t matter. Her grief was ripe and filled the room.

  “Sweet Ben’s been bringing me coffee, leaving it on the step.” Her voice was strained as she sought control. “Today the paper was with it. I opened it, and there she was, my beautiful girl, looking at me.”

  “Ben didn’t know. . . . We . . . we had no idea.”

  Claire blew her nose, her head moving from side to side. “No, of course you didn’t. And it shouldn’t have been a shock to me. When that girl . . . When I read that the Ciccolo girl had been killed, I knew it was just a matter of time before someone pieced this together. No reporter could pass it up. The coincidence. Tiffany was Harmony’s best friend. It was bound to get dragged through the papers again, through the town. All of it, all the heartbreaking horror.” She reached for another tissue and took a deep breath. Finally, she looked at Nell, her face a study in sadness. “I wasn’t prepared, though, even though I should have been. Even after all these years have gone by, the wound can be ripped open in an instant, as raw and bleeding as the first time.”

  “Is that why you are thinking of leaving? Because Tiffany’s death will bring up Harmony’s again? People will be talking about it?”

  Claire wiped the tears from her cheek. “Yes. Somehow, somehow I thought that enough time had gone by. And I needed to come back here. After Harmony . . . after she died, things were awful between my husband and me, even worse than before, and he left me. He didn’t even want me keeping his name. That was fine with me—except that it was Harmony’s name. But I did as he asked. I became Claire Russell again, and I left Cape Ann. I couldn’t live here. I couldn’t live with myself. So I went away and became someone else in whose body I could exist. I was a nomad. Living in communes with strangers. Finding some solace in working the earth. But I was always running. Finally I had to stop. I thought I was ready to come back to Cape Ann and face that awful chapter in my life. I wanted to put my demons to rest once and for all.

  “When Harmony died, I died, too. But I couldn’t just go to sleep, forever, like she did. I had to wake up every day. I had to get up and shower, make my coffee and sit at a table by myself. I had to walk through the day, step after step after step. Day after day. I had to pretend to people that I was alive. That I was a normal person.” Claire’s fingers played with the tissue in her lap.

  “I thought if I came back here to face the reality of her death, and somehow, I don’t know, somehow release her spirit, let it fill me, I might find peace again—I might feel Harmony close to me. And for a few weeks, I thought I had made a good decis
ion. Your garden, the beauty here on Cape Ann—it was good.”

  Claire got up from the floor and moved over to a small table near an open window. The breeze moved the gauzy curtains, and sunlight rippled through, painting wavy stripes across the surface.

  Nell pulled out the other chair and sat down.

  “And then one night . . .”

  Nell knew what Claire was going to say next. Of course. “You were at the bookstore that night, and you heard the cold-case discussion.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t go there for that. I was browsing for books, but I lost track of time, and suddenly people were talking out in the open area. I stayed in the back because I didn’t want to walk in front of everyone.”

  “It must have been painful for you.”

  “No one intended it to be. No one even knew I was there.”

  Nell heard her cell phone ring but pressed it to OFF. Across from her, Claire traced a band of sunlight along the tabletop with her fingertip.

  Nell got up and came back with two glasses of water. “What happened to Harmony’s father? Were he and Harmony close?”

  The silence that followed was so long that Nell regretted asking the question. Finally Claire began talking again.

  “Richard Farrow—Harmony’s father—was very strict with her. She was a wonderful, amazing daughter, so smart and so beautiful. She was . . . she was perfect. But it never seemed enough. Richard wanted more . . . more piety, I’d guess you’d say. More devotion. He wanted church to be more important in her life.”

  “Father Northcutt’s church?”

  The tears had stopped, and while the pain was still deeply visible in the lines of Claire’s face and the inordinate sadness in her eyes, she seemed to want to talk. “No. Shortly after Harmony was born, Richard ‘found religion,’ as he put it. Some little group up in Maine, near his parents’ home. He had gone on a retreat up there and drank a kind of destructive Kool-Aid. At least destructive to our family. He wasn’t the same after that. When we moved to Cape Ann, he started his own little group, following the same strict principles. No dating, no parties. No drinking—or music or books that weren’t religious. No boys. Women shouldn’t cut their hair or dress a certain way. Somehow he allowed me my transgressions, but not Harmony. He wanted to raise her to be one of them, he said. He wanted her to go to a small church college instead of using her BU scholarship. He wanted so many things. . . .”