The Wedding Shawl Page 20

  Sometimes ordinary folks could speed things up a bit.

  Sheila was waiting outside when they drove up the long Ravenswood-by-the-Sea drive, just across the street from Birdie’s estate. Mary Pisano stood beside her as the car pulled up. She walked over to Nell’s window and handed them each a travel mug of strong Colombian brew, while Sheila climbed in beside Izzy and Cass.

  “Compliments of Ravenswood-by-the-Sea,” Mary said, waving them off.

  Nell sipped the coffee gratefully, urging life into her still-sleepy body, and drove back through town.

  The boardinghouse where Tiffany had lived was on Bell Street in an older neighborhood that now housed many rentals.

  Nell pulled up in front of a once-grand three-story Victorian home. A sign in the yard read SUITE FOR RENT.

  They climbed out of the car and followed Sheila up the painted wooden steps.

  A row of mismatched rocking chairs lined the porch, and pancake-sized flakes of gray paint fell from above the bay window. It was an old-fashioned place with some rough edges, but it looked comfortable. The décor, however, made Nell suspect that Tiffany had been several decades younger than the other residents.

  The landlady—“Just call me Mrs. Bridge,” she told them—ushered them through the entry hall, muttering soft condolences to Sheila. “A lovely girl, a lovely girl,” she said several times.

  Mrs. Bridge pointed with a chubby index finger toward a back hall and the kitchen—a public space for all residents, she explained—and the winding staircase that led to the upper rooms. “We have a lovely place here. Suites, you understand, not just a room like some other boardinghouses.”

  Then she walked them through the parlor, a formal space with velvet chaises, lace doilies on gateleg tables, and a series of dusty porcelain angels gracing the mantel top. Heavy brocade drapes kept the room in semidarkness.

  “Residents relax here or may entertain if they so choose,” the buxom woman explained. “Tiffany was a good renter,” she said, again lowering her voice. “She always paid her rent on time. I was sad that she was going to move out. Hoping to get married, she said. And then this horrible thing happened. Unbelievable. The residents were aghast.”

  “Tiffany told you she was getting married?” Sheila asked.

  “Not in so many words, but I knew there was a man in her life. She said they had something special between them. Course, I didn’t push her on that. None of my business. But I guessed she had some plans to settle down and start a family.”

  Sheila’s expression didn’t change.

  “Except for my place, hers was the only first-floor suite,” Mrs. Bridge went on. “It’s a lovely space, with an outside entrance as well as the hall door. She liked that, being able to come and go as she wanted without walking through the house and disturbing anyone. Sometimes she’d work late at night or would be out late because she went to listen to the band. She loved music, you know. Never missed a performance of that fish group.”

  Sheila’s shoulders grew rigid.

  Nell noticed the shift and stepped in. “It sounds like you and Tiffany were friends, Mrs. Bridge.”

  “Friends? Friendly, maybe, I’d call it. Sweet girl. No trouble. And she’d bring me milk and bread when my bad hip kept me in on icy days.”

  “Did Tiffany have friends over?” Cass asked.

  “Not that I saw. Like I said, she wasn’t here much.”

  Sheila smiled at the landlady. “You’ve been kind, Mrs. Bridge. We’ll make sure that the apartment is clean and everything removed.”

  Sheila was anxious to get this over with. To pack up Tiffany’s things and move on. To put a sad, grueling week behind her. Nell could hardly blame her.

  “Oh, there’s no cleaning you’ll be needing to do. Tiffany kept what few things she had here neat as a pin. I checked the place yesterday. Clean as a whistle. You would hardly know anyone lived there. It was always like that.” She took out her key and unlocked the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said, and lumbered down the hallway.

  They stepped back, letting Sheila go in first.

  Sheila took a deep breath, then opened the door and took a step inside.

  She stopped suddenly, the movement so unexpected that Nell bumped into her from behind.

  Her purse dropped from her shoulder and fell heavily to the floor.

  “Good lord,” Birdie said, easing her body between Nell and Sheila.

  They stood, frozen in place, staring in silence at the scene in front of them.

  Tiffany’s room was average size, with a couch and chairs, television stand and desk. A galley kitchen at one end held cupboards and miniature-sized kitchen appliances.

  But from one end to the other, the long room looked like a nor’easter had blown in one end, rearranged the room’s contents, and then flown out the other.

  Couch cushions littered the floor, desk drawers were toppled from runners, and loose papers were tossed haphazardly everywhere. A floor lamp leaned precariously against the wall.

  Through the archway at the other end of the room, they could see a bed, a dresser, and an open closet in similar disarray.

  Cass was the first to pull her phone from her pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Sheila asked.

  “Calling the police.”

  “Why?”

  “Sheila,” Nell said softly, one hand on her arm, “someone has broken in here and ransacked your sister’s room. Someone who may have killed her. Someone who may still be walking around this town. The police need to come.”

  “It won’t bring her back. What’s done is done.”

  And with that, the tears came, and Sheila Ciccolo folded up onto the floor and allowed herself to mourn for a life she had walked out on twenty-one years before.

  Esther Gibson took Cass’ call and said she’d have men there in minutes—or less.

  Cass told her there was probably no rush. No one was hurt or dying.

  That had already been done.

  Next, Birdie went down the hall and came back with a distraught Mrs. Bridge. She stood in the doorway, her hands covering her open mouth, her massive chest heaving in and out.

  “The police are on their way,” Birdie said.

  “We don’t know if anything was taken,” Nell said, “but someone was clearly looking for something.”

  “She didn’t have much here,” Mrs. Bridge said when she found her voice. “No pictures, nothing. No valuables. She told me so herself. She got rid of it, I suppose. And I double-checked yesterday, just in case there was something, you know, that might be valuable.”

  She had moved it all to her office, Nell thought. That was why the basement room in the salon was so cozy—and the rooms they stood in so sterile. Even amidst the mess, it was impersonal and cold. Only her clothes spoke of the woman who had once rented the space.

  Nell walked into the bedroom where Izzy was standing, staring at the mess but careful not to touch anything.

  Izzy looked up.

  Nell wrapped an arm around Izzy’s shoulders. She wished she could whisk her away from all this.

  “I wish I had had the chance to know her,” Izzy said, and walked out of her aunt’s protective embrace.

  Nell walked into the bathroom and looked at the pile of bottles in the sink. No drugs. A bottle of fish oil capsules. Vitamins C and E. That was it. She followed Izzy back into the living room just as the police arrived.

  Tommy nodded familiarly at each of the women, then took time to talk with Sheila. This was an awful thing, he said. They’d find this person if it was the last thing they did. He knew how difficult it was for her.

  Nell watched the young man she’d known since his paper route days. She remembered the teenage crush he revived each summer when Izzy came to visit. And then he had pulled it out in adulthood when Izzy moved to Sea Harbor permanently. But in recent times, Tommy had found a love of his own, a nursing student who reveled in Tommy’s strengths. And each year Tommy became more of a gentleman,
more at ease in his policeman’s shoes, and more supportive and sensitive to the vulnerable people he sometimes had to deal with. Tommy Porter would be chief someday, was her silent prediction.

  “Nell,” he said, coming up beside her, “I guess you can all leave. We’ll look around. See if we can pick up any prints. Sorry you had to come upon this. Geesh. One more thing, huh?”

  Nell smiled.

  “The intruder came through the back door. The lock’s been jimmied, but even a kid could have done it. Mrs. Bridge here says the lawn service people have been out back for hours. And they worked yesterday until about eight.”

  “So it happened during the night?”

  “Looks like it. We checked this place out thoroughly after Tiffany died. It was spotless, not much around. Nothing valuable. So I’m not sure anything was even taken during the break-in. The television is still here. An alarm clock in the other room. A flowerpot with some change in it. So what did he or she want?” He scratched his head.

  “The big question,” Izzy said.

  “Yep. The big question. And whatever it was or is or has been, was it worth killing a nice person for? That’s the real question, far’s I can see.”

  They left quietly, leaving Mrs. Bridge on the phone with a locksmith.

  Sheila had gratefully accepted Mrs. Bridge and Tommy’s generous offer to pack up Tiffany’s things once they were finished with their investigation. It was mostly clothes and makeup, as far as they could tell, but Mrs. Bridge would be on top of it, securing what was hers and treating Tiffany’s things with care.

  Sheila asked to be dropped off at the bed-and-breakfast. She had another meeting with the lawyer. More paperwork. And after that, she said with a touch of embarrassment, she was going over to the nursing home to see her mother.

  “A little overdue. She won’t know me.”

  “But you’ll know her,” Nell said.

  “Yes, I will.”

  Father Northcutt was taking her. And they’d have a little dinner afterward. “I haven’t talked to him since Davey Delaney and I stole the vigil lights from the Blessed Virgin Mary’s altar in eighth grade. But I think this means he’s forgiven me.”

  “I think it does,” Nell agreed. She shifted the car into reverse.

  They waited until Sheila was out of earshot before dissecting the morning, but opinions had already been formed and gushed forth.

  “Tiffany was murdered because she had something that someone wanted,” Izzy said.

  “Or it was something incriminating. But incriminating to what?”

  “Harmony Farrow’s death. It has to be,” Cass said.

  “That would be the link. Tiffany knew something about what really happened to Harmony that night.”

  Nell idled the car once again in Birdie’s driveway. “But why wouldn’t she have told anyone? The police, Claire . . .”

  “If she knew the killer, she certainly would have,” Izzy insisted. “She couldn’t have lived with that. Harmony was her best friend.”

  “But what if she thought it would have incriminated someone she cared about. And that maybe it was more of an accident. So she protected that person.”

  Cass bit down on her bottom lip. She stared out the window. Birdie played with the strap on her backpack, and Nell’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel.

  Izzy sighed. “Our brains are on overload. I find myself looking for clues in wedding invitations, being suspicious of people who are sending regrets. As if not coming to my wedding makes them murder suspects. This is crazy.”

  That was exactly what it was. Crazy. Ridiculous. And the only way to sort it all out was to do what they did best. Get out their knitting, do some frogging to get rid of the dead ends, and begin to knit it all back together again. Weaving in loose ends. Filling in holes. And then they would know who killed Tiffany Ciccolo. Nell looked at Birdie, then turned and looked in the backseat at Izzy and Cass.

  “I don’t know if our ‘surprise’ today will have us in a bar or a salon, in a movie or on a train ride, but bring your knitting and comfortable clothes. Prepare for any alternatives, because we’ve some work to do.”

  Chapter 24

  Sam and Ben did it up right, blindfolds and all. But the smell of the sea and the groaning wooden boards beneath their feet refused to be disguised.

  They stood out on a pier, each of them gripping an arm of Ben’s or Sam’s, chins lifted into the salty air for balance.

  “Be quiet for a minute and listen. Then the blinds come off,” Sam said sternly.

  “This was Sam’s idea,” Ben began. “It came to him last night between muddling mojitos, grilling the haddock, and feeling the stress of the week emanating from your lovely bodies. So all the guys put their heads together and came up with this plan. Here’s the deal.”

  Izzy fidgeted next to Sam and touched the cloth covering her eyes. Sam took her hand away, then kept it wrapped in his own.

  “We’re crazy about the four of you,” Sam said. “That’s number one. And number two, we know you better than you know yourselves sometimes. Here’s what we know up front and is not subject to debate: You’re the damnedest, most stubborn women it has been our pleasure to meet. The only way you’ll relax is if we take you away from civilization for a few hours with nothing to do but enjoy each other and be pampered a little. And make my bride-to-be think of the amazing life ahead of her instead of all the worries rolling up and down Harbor Road.” He squeezed Izzy’s hand.

  “Drumroll,” Ben said, and they slipped the folded scarves from each of the women’s eyes.

  Docked in front of them, at the deepest end of the pier, was a fifty-foot schooner, its three sails already hoisted and silhouetted against the blue sky.

  Their surprised yelps collided midair.

  “A schooner! Sam, are you crazy?” Izzy said, her face bright with excitement.

  “Maybe a little. Think of it as your bachelorette party.”

  “Whose boat is this?” Cass was clearly in awe. “It’s a beauty. Pure luxury.”

  “Hank Jackson knew a guy who knew a guy, wealthy frat brother, we think. He called him last night from Sam’s, pulled in some favors, and voilà—”

  “But . . .” Nell looked dubious. “Ben, none of us has ever sailed a schooner. . . .”

  “And that’s why the boat comes with a crew.” They walked closer and watched a fit man with a tan face and laugh lines fanning from his eyes climb up out of the cabin. Behind him, a woman in shorts and a blue denim shirt waved. “We’re all ready for you, ladies. All aboard?”

  “We’re going sailing,” Birdie said. Her voice lifted along with her entire face. “How glorious. You are truly delightful men. We shall keep you. Now, if you’d be so kind as to gather our bags?” She walked over to the boat and accepted the broad flat hand that reached out to steady her. “My Sonny would be in his glory.”

  “Wait up, Birdie,” Cass yelled, excitement dripping from her voice. “You’re not going without me.”

  Nell turned to look up at Ben. She started to say something, but he pressed a finger against her lips. “Enjoy,” he whispered, and slipped a set of car keys into her hand. “We’ll leave your car in the parking lot for the return trip.”

  They looked at Izzy and Sam, arms wound around each other.

  “It’s a calm day,” Sam said to her. “I ordered that, too. Didn’t want to take any chances. Can’t lose you now with all these people coming to town expecting a wedding.”

  “This is . . . it’s . . .”

  Sam looked over the top of her head. “Ben, could you video this with your iPhone? Izzy is at a loss for words.”

  Izzy wiped a tear away, kissed Sam soundly on the lips, and hurried after Nell.

  “You know they just wanted to keep us from snooping around, don’t you?” she said to Nell’s back, her voice still thick with emotion.

  Nell nodded. She knew.

  On board, George Hanson introduced himself and his wife, Ellie. “Ellie’s the best co
ok on the Atlantic, bar none,” he bragged. “Everything fresh, wholesome, incredible.”

  “Food? We get food, too?” Cass said.

  In minutes they were happily settled on the comfortable aft deck while George guided the schooner along the harbor and out to the open sea. “Won’t be too exciting today with this low wind,” he shouted back to them. Ellie passed out big floppy hats.

  “And that is just dandy with me,” Birdie said, tugging on her hat. “A gentle sail will suit this sailor just fine.”

  “Look,” Cass said, pointing to the shore as they passed the banks of the Canary Cove Art Colony.

  Merry Jackson stood waving wildly on the rocky strip of land below the Artist’s Palate. Then she picked up a hand-lettered sign that read: AHOY, MATIES. HAVE FUN!

  “It looks like this wasn’t a secret to anyone but us,” Izzy laughed. “Sneaky friends.”

  “We’re usually booked up this time of year,” Ellie told them. “But right before Hank called last night, our charter for today canceled. Karma. So settle back, enjoy yourselves, and nibbles will be ready shortly.”

  “Amazing,” Izzy said. She pulled her bare legs up on the cushioned bench, wrapped her arms around them, and leaned her head back, her hair flying in the breeze. “Heavenly.”

  “Ben and Sam are as transparent as glass. This is their subtle way of keeping us out of trouble,” Nell said. “Izzy’s right.”

  “Works for me,” Cass said.

  “But instead, what they’ve given us is what we’ve desperately needed,” Birdie said, pulling her nearly finished sweater from her bag. It was coming along nicely. Mary could wear it in the fall on Coffee’s patio when the weather turned chilly. The rich caramel color would look wonderful on her. “They’ve given us this amazing together-time away from phones and customers and computers, from errands and lobster boats, meetings and cooking. Time away from Sea Harbor. It’s deliciously perfect.” Caught up in the drama of her monologue, Birdie waved her knitting needles in the air and went on.