The Wedding Shawl Page 17

  “What did Andy do?”

  Merry shrugged. “At first, not much. She kept playing up the high school thing, but Andy said they only hung out back then because of Harmony. Tiffany was nice enough, but Harmony was the reason they even knew each other. I don’t remember much about that. Andy was in the band; I was a cheerleader. According to high school social rules, we didn’t mix much. They were kind of their own little clique, I guess. I didn’t really know Andy until we got the band together.” Her brow furrowed for a minute as if she was realizing something important for the first time. “What a shame. Maybe he could have been my boyfriend instead of that quarterback I dated. He would have been a better choice.”

  Cass laughed. “But you said Tiffany sometimes went out with you afterward, right?” She slathered another muffin with honey butter.

  “Sometimes. We’d go out after a gig just to unwind. And sometimes she’d just be there, where we were going, like the Gull or the Franklin. Like it was a coincidence. She’d act surprised to see us.”

  “Do you think she followed you?”

  “I don’t know. But it seemed odd, especially because she was usually alone. Would you do that, Cass? Go to a bar all alone?”

  “Guys do it all the time.”

  Merry fluttered a hand in her face to shush her. “The answer is, ‘No, you probably wouldn’t.’ Whether it’s fair or not, we just don’t usually do that. But shy Tiffany did. Anyway, if what she was after was Andy, it worked. After a while they’d actually make plans together, and he’d go off with her alone. But then, well, the last few weeks, I don’t know, Andy started to pull back. Didn’t go with us if she was there, always politely, but he told Pete he didn’t want Tiffany to get the wrong idea. He’d maybe given her conflicting messages. I think the poor guy felt a little smothered. She was too available; you know what I mean?”

  “Do you think Tiffany had built more into the relationship than was really there?” Nell asked.

  “I think so. At least that’s my take on it. But the more Andy pulled back, the more she seemed to press him. It was uncomfortable for Andy. Hank thinks I overreact. He says Tiffany was just a shy girl with a crush.”

  “You and Hank both talked to her that night the Fractured Fish played here at the Palate. Did she say what was wrong? She was distraught,” Birdie said.

  Merry’s eyes got big. “That was strange. She was upset; you’re right. I don’t know exactly what she said to Andy, but it made him mad—something he rarely got. When we got ready to play again, Pete and I could see how upset he was. He muttered something about underestimating Tiffany.”

  “Do you know what he meant?”

  “No. But he’s such a nice guy that I don’t think he realized Tiffany’s expectations. They were having a good time together; at least I think that was his take on it. Maybe, when she laid it on him, he realized that she saw it as a serious relationship.”

  “So what did Tiffany say to him to make him mad? She looked so sad.” Nell remembered the tears—and the look of yearning.

  “She didn’t tell me much, just that she knew Andy must have feelings for her and she didn’t understand his anger. They had a bond, she said, that no one else could possibly understand. A secret that they shared. And then she started to cry.”

  “And that’s it?” Birdie said.

  “Just about. Except for something Tanya told me—you know that gossipy girl from the salon? She told me later that night—I think maybe she’d had too much to drink—that she asked Tiffany why she left work early that day. Tanya was mad because it meant extra work for her. As she walked over, she saw Andy standing there, so she waited a minute for him to leave. She heard Tiffany say something about a secret, which I suppose made Tanya step closer. And then she heard the word ‘baby.’ That was enough for her, she said, so she took off.”

  “Baby . . .” Cass repeated the word slowly, as if it were about to explode. “Geesh.”

  Nell frowned, and Merry stepped in. “Like I said, Tanya was tipsy. And who knows what she really heard.”

  But it could certainly upset Andy. Nell pushed the thought away. Gossip like that could cause serious problems. But there would have been an autopsy report. . . . Her thoughts bounced around as she tried to find significance in Merry’s comment. She asked, “So you think Tiffany was simply sad that Andy was pulling away?”

  Merry thought about the question, then sat up straight, her small breasts straining against a well-fitted T-shirt. “You want my honest opinion? I think she was lovesick. Plain old lovesick. She wanted Andy, plain and simple. Wanted him to be her husband.”

  “What did Hank say?” Birdie asked. “He seemed to have calmed her down.”

  “Hank’s good at that. I give him lots of practice.” Merry laughed. “But that’s why I sent him over. I thought Tiffany would talk to him. He talked to her for a while, but when I asked him about it later, he said she was just PMSing or something. Emotional, he said. She needed someone to nod and tell her everything would be okay, so that’s what he did.”

  “I guess we all need a bit of that now and then,” Birdie said.

  “Well, I sure do,” Merry said with a grin. “And now I’d better get back to work before the handsome beast bellows at me.”

  “Excellent alliteration,” Birdie said as Merry sailed away.

  Beside her, Cass half stood, waving a muffin in the air at a tall figure coming their way. Danny Brandley walked up, his computer backpack slung over one shoulder, and a five o’clock shadow darkening his chin.

  “How’s the book coming?” Cass asked, then grimaced and ducked, waiting for Danny’s groan.

  “Not a good question to ask a writer pushing a deadline,” he explained to Nell and Birdie. “And the vixen knows it, which is why she asked.” He took the muffin from Cass’ fingers and bit into it. “This is good,” he said. He stared at it. “It’s not fried. Hank is losing his touch.”

  Nell laughed. “You and Ben. If it’s good for him, he’s always a tad suspicious.”

  “So what brings you amazing women to my turf?”

  “Last I heard, this was a public restaurant, Brandley,” Cass said.

  He took off her baseball hat and mussed her hair, then straddled the bench next to her. “I saw you talking to Merry. It looked too serious for the Palate deck, so I stayed away. What’s up?”

  “It’s Tiffany Ciccolo’s death,” Birdie said.

  Nell noticed how artfully they avoided the word “murder.” It was too heavy. Too awful when said aloud.

  “We’re just trying to make sense out of some things. Andy is on the hot seat, and we’d like to remove him from that uncomfortable position as soon as possible.” Cass leaned into his chest.

  “Yeah, it’s tough. Andy is a good guy.” Danny reached over and fingered the rich caramel-colored sweater Birdie was working on. It would be a thank-you to Mary Pisano for her kindnesses in taking care of the Chambers wedding party. “Soon as I master the purl stitch, will you show me how to make one of these, Birdie? I mean a little bigger maybe. Different style. But I’m ready to move on, I think.”

  Birdie laughed and gave his hand a pat. “That can be arranged.”

  A sudden thought came to Nell, far removed from sweaters and Danny’s challenge with the purl stitch. She dove in.

  “Danny, when you were preparing your talk for the knitting book club, did you come across any references to Harmony’s life, things other than the usual? Were there any ‘human interest’ kinds of stories that might shed some light on who she was and her connection to Andy and Tiffany?”

  “Before the talk, I just did a cursory scan of the articles. I wanted a framework of a cold case, that was all. But I went back to my notes after that article showed up about Harmony and Tiffany. Lots of teenagers were interviewed back then, and many of the comments were the same—‘I didn’t hang out with her,’ ‘didn’t know her,’ that sort of thing. But Tiffany was interviewed several times, as you’d suppose.

  “Harmony’s
mother wasn’t very accessible, I don’t think, and the father all but pulled out a shotgun when people tried to get close. His only comments seemed to be condemning the mother. It was all her fault, in his mind.”

  “She has her own demons to deal with,” Nell said. “She allowed Harmony to go to the party that night. It’s something she’s still dealing with, all these years later. But Harmony was her own agent. And you can’t stop a seventeen-year-old from living her life, no matter how hard her father tried to do that.”

  “At least Harmony had a mother who loved her dearly,” Birdie said. “And maybe her father did, too, in his own way. Tiffany’s home life was the opposite. She was pretty much on her own.”

  Danny leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Which may have explained her relationship with Harmony. It was probably the one solid thing in her life. And like I said, she was quoted a lot. One reporter, in particular, got to know her a little. He probably made Tiffany feel secure. When he asked her about her friendship with Harmony, she talked about it at length, about how inseparable they were. And then she said something I found a little curious.” Danny took a drink of Cass’ iced tea, then went on.

  “Tiffany said that she was the only person Harmony shared everything with. The way the reporter wrote it, she was saying it as a matter of great pride. She told the guy that she was the only one who really knew Harmony’s secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  Danny nodded. “And when the reporter asked her what the secrets were, that maybe it was something that would help people understand her friend’s tragic death, Tiffany was clear in her answer—and she said she’d tell the police the same thing if they asked.”

  “It sounds like a dramatic teenager getting attention she sorely lacked in her life,” Birdie said.

  “Could be,” Danny said.

  “What was it she said? What was her answer?” Cass asked with some impatience.

  “She said, ‘You’ll never know. I’ll take Harmony’s secret with me to my grave.’ ”

  Chapter 21

  They all left shortly after, Cass and Danny wandering down Canary Cove Road to look at Willow Adams’ new fiber arts display and perhaps come across the perfect wedding gift for Sam and Izzy. A formidable task, they both admitted.

  Nell and Birdie drove in the opposite direction, toward Harbor Road and their homes.

  They drove in silence for a while, each sifting and sorting through the conversations that had pummeled them in the past few days. When Nell finally spoke, it was with a heaviness that they’d both carried away from the Artist’s Palate.

  “So much of what we’ve heard lately paints Andy in a terrible light,” Nell said. “A part of me wants to put a halt to all conversation. And then have a nor’easter come and blow it all away.”

  Birdie agreed. “But the other part wants to talk to everyone who ever had any contact with Tiffany Ciccolo, so we can figure out what this woman was all about and why in heaven’s name anyone would want to put an end to her life.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what we need to do, Birdie. Sheila’s arrival last night cut our evening short. We need to gather up Cass and Izzy and peel apart the layers of Tiffany’s life. Surely we’ll find something there that will relieve Andy of this burden.”

  And Claire, too, Nell thought. Her distaste for Tiffany was controlled when she talked to Ben and Nell about her daughter’s best friend. And it had been with the police as well, she supposed.

  But the expression on her face when she saw Tiffany standing in Nell’s doorway the day before she was killed was not controlled in the slightest.

  Nell turned left onto Harbor Road and slowed just in time to avoid two teenagers in beach gear, cell phones pressed against their ears, walking slowly across the street.

  “Do you have a minute?” Nell asked, spotting a parking spot in front of McClucken’s Hardware Store. “I’d like to check in on M.J. and see how she’s doing.”

  Birdie gave a thumbs-up, and Nell backed into a spot between two small cars.

  “It’s odd that Tiffany didn’t have more friends here,” Nell said. She pulled the key out of the ignition and dropped it in her purse.

  “Some people do fine with just a friend or two. Look at my Ella and Harold.”

  That was true enough. As far as anyone knew, Birdie’s groundsman and housekeeper had Birdie as a friend. And that was it, except for a brief friendship Ella once had with a neighbor who had died. Their world was small, and they were utterly content to live within it. Perhaps that was Tiffany’s choice, too. But somehow it seemed a sad choice for a sweet young person.

  As usual on a Friday, M.J.’s salon was buzzing with activity. Animated chatter, bursts of laughter, and the soft hum of hair dryers filled the mint-scented air. Fit young bodies moved effortlessly, escorting clients from the waiting lounge to the softly lit hair-washing room, to the line of styling stations and swivel chairs.

  Nell and Birdie waved to Margaret Garozzo, her wet hair combed out and waiting for a trim. In the next chair, her teenage granddaughter sat patiently waiting for strands of long brown hair to be wrapped in foil.

  Tanya Gordon looked up from the desk. Her eyes widened in greeting. “Hey, you two. I mean, hello. Welcome. I bet you’re looking for the boss. One sec.” She disappeared down the back hallway and was back just as quickly. “M.J. said to go on back. She’s in her office.” Her smile was huge, and her step light.

  Nell found herself looking back at the young woman as she walked down the hall, wondering about the sudden change. The last time she had seen Tanya, she was glum and spiritless. Today she was filled with sunlight.

  They found M.J. at her desk and nearly hidden behind a pile of papers. A young man wearing a belt filled with carpenter tools stood nearby.

  She stood and hurried around the desk, thrusting a stack of paint samples into his hand, then turned toward Birdie and Nell. “I’m so glad to see you both. Sanity. That’s what you mean to me.” Her eyes were sad but her greeting gracious. “It’s been quite a week, you know?”

  Birdie gave the salon owner a quick hug. “We know.”

  “This is Tim.” She turned back to the young worker. “He works for D. J. Delaney’s construction company. They’re doing a little remodeling job for me. D. J. is even giving me a deal, if you can believe it.”

  “The basement,” Nell guessed.

  M.J. nodded. “An indoor staircase, for starters, paint, new walls.”

  Tim moved toward the door. “And I need to get back to it.”

  “Tanya will show you where everything is,” M.J. said.

  Tim tipped his ball cap toward them and disappeared.

  Birdie looked at M.J. with the look they all knew meant “Let me have my say,” and then said, “M.J., even if you’d had a staircase, this would have happened, dear. You cannot take the burden of this on yourself, none of it, not one iota.”

  M.J.’s semblance of a smile was appreciative. But whether she could believe in Birdie’s words just yet was doubtful. It was her salon. Her employee. Her basement. “A part of me knows that, Birdie. The other part . . .” “It will come, dear, once we find out who did this.”

  “A hair salon can be a hotbed for rumors,” M.J. said. “I ignore it most of the time, but with Tiffany’s death, any mention of her name puts me on alert. I keep thinking I’ll hear something worthwhile, something that will make me say, ‘Of course! That’s what happened.’”

  “And instead you’re probably hearing things that make you cringe.”

  “Yes. Lots of innocent people get caught up in these things. . . .” She hesitated for a minute, then went on. “I had coffee with Auggie McClucken this morning. He said he saw Claire Russell that night. She was walking down Harbor Road. Headed toward the salon.”

  Birdie and Nell looked at each other. They remembered that night with startling clarity. Claire, her head down, walking down Harbor Road.

  But she could have been going anywhere. To the Gull. Or the little café that s
tayed open late, which was what Nell had decided when she’d looked back on that evening with Ben. “She may have just been out for a walk,” Nell said quietly. “It was a nice night, if I remember correctly. Birdie and I were on Harbor Road that night, too. And lots of other people.”

  “Of course,” M.J. said. “But that’s what I mean, stories spinning out of control all over the place. You want to get out the broom and sweep it all away. Bring order back into our lives.”

  “Hopefully the sweeping will be done soon,” Birdie said. “But in the meantime, we wanted to check on you, dear. And to see if there’s anything we can do.”

  “You’re angels, both of you. It’s been hard, keeping the salon team on track. I had one young girl quit. Her mother was afraid for her safety, she said.”

  Nell frowned. “I’m so sorry. That’s silly, of course, but this whole thing has rekindled old fears, I think. Especially with the connection between Tiffany and Harmony.”

  M.J. nodded. “I know that rationally. And we’re doing our best. The young women who work here are wonderful for the most part, but they’ve gotten caught up in it, too. None of them were close friends of Tiffany’s, which in a way is bad. There’s no one to be loyal to her memory. So instead, they dissect it all with a kind of detachment, wondering who did it, who didn’t, but it seems disrespectful, somehow. They’ve pointed fingers all over the place—deliverymen, the Fractured Fish. . . . They’ve even accused Tanya.”

  “She wasn’t crazy about Tiffany; I remember that from the day Izzy and I were here—”

  “That’s right, I forgot. You saw Tanya with her claws out. But good grief, she’s not a murderer; she was simply jealous. Tiff had pulled her life together, gotten some sophistication, and Tanya was a ways off from that. But she’s really trying. She drives me crazy sometimes, but I think the girl has potential.”

  M.J. glanced down at a notepad on the table, then frowned. “Another thing I need to take care of. I talked to Tiffany’s sister yesterday. Have you met her?”