The Wedding Shawl Page 19

  Izzy nodded toward the stove. “How about you give that a stir, Aunt Nell. It’s an experiment. Inspired by you.”

  Nell looked into a pot of simmering chunks of pineapple and cilantro. She took a wooden spoon from a jug and stirred, inhaling the sweet fragrance. “Smells great, Iz.”

  “Sauce for the fish.”

  Cass came in then and ordered them all out of the kitchen. “Sam says this is his party and he doesn’t want you messing in his kitchen. Out on the deck. All of you. Now.”

  Izzy rolled her eyes. “The man is a tyrant.” But she happily turned off the burners and followed the others through the family room to the deck.

  Sam was busy outside, muddling the mint leaves and sugar as he made up a pitcher of mojitos. He set it down next to a platter of cheese and crackers and a container of iced tea. “Help yourself, ladies.”

  The deck stretched across the back of the house, corner to corner, with a few wide steps leading down to a narrow patch of yard. Beyond the open green space was a meandering path that led down through white pine and mountain laurel to the beach.

  It was the deck, Sam had told Nell, that sold him on the house, though Izzy was quick to extol its other virtues—the nice neighborhood, the clean white walls for his photographs, the windows and wood in the living area, the efficient kitchen. But the deck was nirvana to Sam, and he’d lined it with Adirondack chairs, a low table here and there, and a monster grill. He’d bring out his telescope on a clear night and visit Mars and Jupiter and the Big Dipper. Or settle down to watch a family of whales after a long day of photography. Birdie had generously given him a stack of Hudson’s Bay blankets to extend the season, their wooly warmth an invitation to hunker down beneath a crisp fall sky.

  Nell settled into a chair slightly apart from the others and leaned her head back, the chatter and light laughter around her as comforting as James Taylor singing in the distance about the moon. She felt suspended, the worries of the week relegated to some other life, some other planet. She sipped the mojito slowly, savoring the soothing scent of the mint, and watched the faint outline of the moon define the night.

  Voices from inside announced the Brewsters’ arrival, but Nell barely moved. She wondered if she’d ever move again.

  Izzy walked by, patted her aunt’s shoulder, then wandered over to the steps where Andy sat. He was leaning against the post, his long legs extending down to the bottom step. She sat beside him, bending her own legs, balancing her elbows on her knees. Loose golden and brown strands of hair fell over her face as she talked, and in minutes her husky laugh had coaxed a smile to his face. He leaned his head to one side, listening, nodding.

  Andy was a nice-looking man, his slender body leaning slightly as he listened to Izzy. He looked like his mother, Birdie had told her—with prominent cheekbones and a strong chin. But it was his eyes that attracted Nell, and in them she read his keen intelligence and the thoughtful bent that had always drawn her to the tavern owner’s son. He complemented his father’s robust roughness with his own gentle strength. But it was that thoughtful bent that must be making his life hell right now. An evening with friends would be a good thing.

  Willow was out in the yard, wandering around by herself, her small frame belying the strength that had helped her through hurdles in her life. Nell suspected her keen eye was examining the wildflowers that grew around the pathway and figuring out how to reflect the colors in a new piece of fiber art. Willow had made good use of the environment in which she now lived, pulling the sea and the sand and the flora, shellfish, and coastal colors into her amazing creations.

  “Hey,” Nell heard her call out now. One arm shot up in the air and waved down to a couple on the beach. She twisted around and looked up at Sam. “Got extra food, Sam? I see the Jacksons down there.”

  “Sure,” Sam called back. “I’ve been trained by the master.” He grinned at Nell.

  Willow tore down the path, the wind whipping through her black hair, until she reached the couple at the bottom. They were walking along the sand carrying their shoes.

  Willow chatted and pointed to the deck. In the next moment the couple happily followed her up the path.

  “We are actually free of bar duty tonight, a Friday night. Can you believe it?” Merry said. “A new manager is finally getting up to speed, and I convinced the old man here to let him prove his mettle without Hank hovering over his shoulder.”

  Hank shook his head, but laugh lines deepened around his eyes. “What can I say? It’s hard to give up control.”

  “But good in the long run,” Birdie said, welcoming them each with a tall chilled mojito. “Balance. We all need balance.”

  Merry looked up at Hank. “See, that’s what I told you. Wipe that stress and worry off your face.”

  Sam crouched down beside Nell’s chair as the others moved in and out, filling drinks, and admiring the gallery of Sam’s black-and-white photos.

  Izzy had done it as a Christmas gift, knowing Sam would never do it himself. She’d picked her favorites and had Jane Brewster mat and frame them in simple black frames. They were beautiful, and as embarrassed as it made Sam to have people circling his house looking at his work, Izzy was adamant and gently reminded him that it was her house now, too. Or would be as soon as she could get her name on the mortgage papers.

  “So, Nell, how are you doing?” Sam said quietly.

  “I’m fine. A bit worried, perhaps. So many things going on.”

  He nodded. “Me, too. I worry about Izzy. She doesn’t say much, but this mess is eating away at her. She likes Andy a lot. He’s such a good kid.”

  Nell looked over at Izzy and Andy. Their heads leaned in toward each other in private conversation.

  “But even more, maybe, I worry about the danger. No one talks much about the fact that a murderer may still be around here, roaming these streets. It happened so close to Izzy’s shop. And at night—she’s often there late.”

  “But they think it’s an intentional murder, Sam. Someone wanted to kill Tiffany. So it really doesn’t put those who might be in close proximity to that spot in danger.”

  “Maybe not. But what if the person thinks someone saw something or knows something? If you’ve murdered once, it seems to me it wouldn’t be so hard to do it again.”

  “You’re too serious, Sam,” Pete said, leaning into the conversation. “But I’m with you on this one. Everyone’s freaked. They may not be talking about it out loud, but it’s there, that fear.” He glanced over at Andy.

  Sam followed his look.

  Nell looked down. They were all thinking the same thing. Andy could not have murdered Tiffany Ciccolo. Not in a million years.

  It didn’t matter that he was seen arguing with her, that she seemed to be obsessed with him and wouldn’t leave him alone. That someone heard them talking about a baby. And that he was the last person seen with her best friend before she suspiciously died in a quarry fifteen years before.

  They knew Andy.

  But buried deep down beneath their utter belief in their friend was a tiny, never-articulated thought: What if he did?

  Sam insisted that since this might be his last party as a bachelor, he was going to put the men to work and give the women a break, logic that didn’t entirely make sense to the women, but not one of them argued. The pine table inside was soon filled with plates and salads, a basket of foil-wrapped baked potatoes. Butter, bacon, and a pot of sour cream, along with Sam’s token nonfat yogurt, waited nearby.

  Outside, the grill was sizzling with fresh haddock fillets, dribbled with lime juice and basted with Izzy’s pineapple and cilantro sauce.

  “I think we have competition,” Nell said to Ben as he and Izzy helped Sam slide the fish onto a platter. “This looks fantastic, Sam.”

  Sam thumped his chest. “Me do anything for my woman.”

  Izzy leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “As it should be.”

  Sam grinned at her, then held up his grilling fork. “So, my friends, shall we e
at? Never again will I be able to have such command in this house.” He put down the fork and pulled Izzy close to him, kissing the top of her head. His eyes told those close enough to see that losing command might be the nicest thing that ever happened to him.

  “Come,” Sam said gruffly, a sudden catch in his voice, and ushered them all inside to fill their plates.

  By the time the sky had darkened to black and everyone had taken a turn at Sam’s prized Celestron telescope, the pie plates were put out and filled with huge pieces of Margaret Garozzo’s gooseberry pie. When it was gone, the plates licked clean, Sam ordered the men into the kitchen.

  “Cleanup time,” he said.

  “I could get used to this,” Merry said, her head leaning back as she looked up at the star-studded sky. “If you change your mind, Izzy, let me know. I’ll marry him.”

  Izzy laughed. “I’m sure Sam has pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch to soften the blow in there. Check it out.”

  Nell leaned forward and looked through the open door, past the living area and into the kitchen. The dishes were piled in the sink, and the men stood in a huddle, holding flared-lip glasses and listening to Sam as if the most important play of the game were being called. “They look like they’re up to no good.”

  “It’s possible,” Cass said, lifting herself out of the chair to peer inside.

  “But we have these delicious moments alone with the stars,” Birdie said. “Let them be.”

  They settled back beneath the blanket of stars, darkness folding in around them. Bodies disappeared in the night, and only the sound of their voices brought life to the peaceful deck.

  Merry was the first to speak. “Sheila Ciccolo was over in the Cove today, walking around with Mary Pisano.”

  “Mary has been very hospitable to her,” Nell said. “She’s in good hands.”

  “They stopped by the Palate for a cold drink. She wanted to meet people who knew her sister, she said. So Hank and I sat with her a while. She wanted to know about the band, about that night, the night that she came to see Andy play.” Merry looked back into the house where the men were still huddled, then back. “She says the police are paying more attention to a connection between Harmony’s death and her sister’s. And she feels sure, she said, that it somehow hinges on Andy Risso and for the life of her she doesn’t know why he isn’t behind bars.”

  “That’s crazy. It isn’t Andy’s fault that Tiffany was infatuated with him,” Cass said.

  Nell listened, forcing her feelings to overpower logic. It seemed clear now that Andy had had a relationship with Tiffany. And he’d been angry with her the night of the concert. But Andy was a sweet, nonviolent man. . . .

  “Hank says we need to stop messing with this, talking about it, let the police do their thing,” Merry said. “He says someone could get hurt.”

  “Sam says the same,” Izzy said. “But it’s hard not to try to sort it out when things seem to be moving so slowly.”

  “It hasn’t been very long,” Birdie reminded them. “It only seems that way. The police haven’t even released Tiffany’s body yet.”

  Tiffany’s body. Of course. Pregnancy test or not, the police would know if Tiffany had been pregnant.

  Nell tucked the thought away and said aloud, “But it’s been fifteen years since Harmony died. Maybe that’s what has brought all of this into such a time warp. Each day seems like a year.”

  “And sometimes the opposite. Sometimes it seems that Hank and I opened up the Artist’s Palate just yesterday.” Merry looked into the house, and her eyes settled on Hank, standing at the kitchen door, his cell phone to his ear.

  “I can remember coming up on weekends while you were working on it,” Nell said. “Hank was so determined. It always impressed me. He wasn’t a Sea Harbor native, but that land, that bar, was so important to him.”

  “He proved his father wrong, at least,” Merry said.

  “Not a happy relationship?” Cass asked.

  “Nope. Hank grew up in the shadow of successful siblings. Me, too. My brother was so smart. I hated following in his footsteps. Hank was the ne’er-do-well in his family. When he dropped out of college, his dad pretty much disowned him.”

  “How’d he end up here?” A transplant herself, Willow loved stories of other people landing on “her turf,” as she called it.

  “Hank had a relative who let him stay up here if he shaped up. ‘Tough love’ was how he described his process. The relative yanked his chain. Made him stop partying and get a job.”

  “Sounds like my kind of person,” Birdie said.

  Merry smiled. “Sometimes it works, I guess. Hank got a job, worked hard, and even inherited the place when his relative died.”

  “And that’s when the Artist’s Palate was born,” Jane Brewster said. “I remember the day that ramshackle bait shop was torn down. Ham and Willow’s dad, Aidan, helped Hank tear it down. We all celebrated. The place had become a drug house or who knows what, but we were thrilled to see it go.”

  “Not to mention getting a restaurant right in your own neighborhood,” Nell said.

  “That was nice, too. It’s a great place. You must be proud of it, Merry.”

  “I am.”

  And proud of Hank, too, Nell could see. Some people had to “survive” family situations—like Harmony and Tiffany. Hank. And others were nurtured and blossomed in the bosom of families. Life was unpredictable.

  They lapsed into silence again, savoring the comfort of the night, of friends, until finally Jane Brewster stood and stretched, her figure looking ghostly on the moonlit deck. “Saturday is an early day for us. I’m going to collect my man and head home.”

  Merry echoed her sentiments, and Cass yawned agreement.

  When the sounds of movement drifted through the open doors, the men disbanded, and soon a chorus of good-byes and the crunch of wheels on the gravel drive left the house half-empty.

  “One more thing,” Sam said, motioning for Izzy, Nell, Cass, and Birdie to stay put.

  Ben and Pete stood behind in the doorway, smiles lighting their faces.

  Birdie looked at each of them. “You men look like the proverbial cat and missing canary.”

  “They’re up to no good,” Izzy asked. “Sam, are you all right?”

  Sam laughed. “Yes. And you will be, too. We have a surprise for the four of you.”

  Izzy’s brows pulled together. “You know I don’t much like surprises, Sam. . . .”

  Sam ignored her. “We’ve cleared your schedules for tomorrow afternoon. Meet at Ben and Nell’s at one o’clock.”

  Nell thought about the next day. “We’re helping Sheila . . .” she began.

  “In the morning,” Ben said. “Afternoon is clear.

  Cass looked at Pete.

  “No problem, sis. Andy is going out with me on the Lady Lobster to set some traps. And those college kids we hired are doing a good job. You’re not needed.”

  “Not needed?” Cass looked indignant; then she looked at Sam. “You don’t have us going to some spa or a Chippendales show or some embarrassing prewedding thing, do you?”

  “Spa?”

  “Chippendales?”

  “Prewedding thing?”

  The men laughed.

  Izzy glared at Sam.

  “Marriage is built on trust,” he said. He slipped a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned down, whispering, “Is this any way to begin our life together, Iz? Suspicion? Distrust?”

  Izzy wiggled free and looked over at the others.

  Nell chuckled.

  And with that Ben offered Birdie a hand and helped her out of the chair. “Time to get the show on the road,” he said, moving toward the front door. “This body needs a bed. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

  A new day, indeed, Nell thought, following him out the door. She looked over at his face in the moonlight.

  The sudden rush of emotion that swept through her had nothing to do with a new day. At that moment, the present was all Nell ne
eded.

  Chapter 23

  Ben was ready to leave the house by the time Nell had showered and come down for coffee the next morning.

  He had things to do, he told her with an enigmatic smile, then disappeared into the garage.

  Nell waved him off. She was completely in Izzy’s camp. She didn’t much like surprises, especially right now when their peaceful life had been jarred by one too many. But she had no time to think about it now. She checked her watch. Time to go.

  Nell skipped the coffee, found her purse, phone, and keys, and left the house. Claire was already in the yard, hose in hand, watering the gerbera daisies.

  Nell waved, made a mental note to check in with Claire later, more to see what her mental state was than her garden state, then got in the car and headed down the hill.

  She’d pick up Izzy, Cass, and Birdie along the way to the bed-and-breakfast.

  Mae and her nieces had practically insisted Izzy not come in this morning. They’d handle the yarn studio just fine, thank you. Mae then reminded Izzy that she should be taking more time off and spending less time stocking yarn shelves. She should be getting ready for a wedding. Her own, Mae said with some emphasis.

  Getting ready for a wedding. That was what they should all be doing, Nell thought as she stopped in front of Izzy’s house. Thinking about the wedding. About picking up cocktail napkins and making sure the champagne had been ordered. Thinking about Izzy’s wedding shawl. That was what this glorious June was to be about. And here they were, for the second day in a row, packing up a dead woman’s belongings.

  Izzy and Cass climbed into the car and in short order they pulled into Birdie’s drive, just as she came out the side door carrying a stack of flattened boxes and tape. “We probably won’t need these. Somehow I have a feeling we will be needed more for moral support than anything else. But maybe we’ll learn something along the way.”

  Birdie was in her mover-and-shaker mode, Nell could tell. Things were moving too slowly for the octogenarian, even though she had tried to put it into perspective for all of them the night before. It had been a matter of only days, not months, since Tiffany was killed. And the police were doing a fine job. But they sometimes had restraints, Birdie said—like laws and rules that slowed them down.