The Wedding Shawl Read online

  “Now, where did you say you’ve been today?” He pulled out a stubby pencil and started scribbling on the spiral pad. Nell and Birdie dutifully filled him in while the others stood off to the side talking quietly. They knew that where they’d been or where they were going or who owned the schooner didn’t make a whit of difference. But Tommy asked for the information, so they would give it to him. And at the end of it all, they would tell Tommy what they firmly believed to have happened in the harbor parking lot.

  Someone wanted to send a message to Izzy and Cass, to Birdie and Nell, and that person wanted them to hear it loud and clear.

  Mind your own business, the slashed tires said. The words roared around the parking lot as if shouted from the steeple of Our Lady of the Seas.

  Mind your own business . . . or else.

  They were tired and sunburned, but not ready to leave one another, so they gathered at the Ocean’s Edge restaurant for a nightcap. The hostess led them through the dining room to the cozy lounge, filled with leather couches around low tables and a skylight that brought the moon inside. Open windows all along the back framed the harbor, lit now with the lights of boats bobbing in the black water. In the background, music played and occasional hoots of laughter pierced the air from Saturday night revelers. Cheers from the bar broke out at every Sox pitch replayed on the huge flat television screen.

  Tommy had told them that they’d question people—but on a Saturday the park area next to the lot was always packed. Dogs, Frisbees, families and kids, tourists watching the parade of boats. And all day long people would be driving in and out of that lot, pulling picnic baskets and kites and bikes out of the backs of SUVs. Who would notice someone bending down near the side of a car?

  “A needle-in-a-haystack kind of search,” Tommy had said. “But we’ll sure give it our all. You can bet on that.”

  Ben ordered drinks for everyone and a pot of ginger tea for Nell, who couldn’t rid herself of a slight chill.

  Ben’s face was grim. “It’s gotten serious; you all know that.” He looked around at them. “You’ve been noticeably involved in all this—from discovering the body, the break-in at Tiffany’s house, cleaning out her office. People talk. People know those things.”

  “But who knew my car would be in the lot today? We didn’t even know that until you gave me the keys, Ben.”

  The silence was ominous. Filled with each of them searching through the day, the party at Sam’s. Finally Cass said, “It doesn’t make any difference. We can make a list of people who knew the four of us were on the schooner today. But Nell’s car is noticeable. She still has bumper stickers from the last presidential election on her car.”

  “And from last year’s Save the Arts campaign,” Izzy added.

  It was true. People in Sea Harbor knew one another’s cars, for better or worse. And ones with distinctive markings especially.

  “So . . . the person who did this, the person who murdered Tiffany, is someone who knows us,” Cass said. “Someone who knows the kind of car Nell drives. That’s personal.” She took a long drink of the beer Ben had ordered for her and sat back.

  Nell watched her carefully. Sometimes she thought she knew Cass better than Cass knew herself. And what she read in her tan, lovely face was exactly what she’d expect. Cass was angry. Ben glanced over, and he saw it, too. Her dark eyes flashed, and her shoulders stiffened. Battling the whims of nature to build a successful lobsterfishing business had strengthened Cass in ways that transcended the muscles in her arms. Cass was a fighter.

  Birdie was more difficult to read, but she wasn’t afraid; Nell could see that. Birdie knew practically everyone in Sea Harbor, and the look in her eyes said that she dared a single one of them to hurt those dear to her. She would fight them tooth and nail. And she would win.

  “So the facts are that someone who wasn’t afraid to slice through your tires in the middle of town—maybe in the middle of the afternoon—probably isn’t afraid of a lot of things.”

  The worry on Ben’s face was planted deep in the furrows across his brow. They often teased Ben about the lack of gray in his hair, a contrast to his best friend Ham’s salty beard. But today Nell thought she saw a few sprinkles, a few white hairs born of the women sitting around him.

  Nell took his hand in hers and played with his fingers, but he didn’t respond and his jaw remained set, along with the concern in his brown eyes.

  “So what do we do about it?” he said flatly. He looked around at each of them.

  Nell knew what he wanted from them, and what he knew he surely wouldn’t get. He wanted each of them to give him her solemn word that they would let the police figure this case out. They’d back off and insulate themselves against any kind of danger, real or otherwise. That they would stay safe.

  Birdie met Ben’s eyes and smiled. She sipped her wine, biding her time, seeking acceptable words. Ones that might soften the look on her dear friend’s face. She set the glass down on the table and leaned slightly forward. “I imagine,” she said slowly, “that we’ll do what we always do, only more carefully. We will live our lives, celebrate daily those we love—” She looked over at Izzy and Sam, their bodies pressed close together on the small love seat. “We’ll listen carefully to what goes on around us, and we’ll most certainly avoid danger. We’ll not be foolish, Ben Endicott; you know that. But we—”

  Her words fell off.

  Birdie was right. They’d be careful and they would stay safe. They had every reason in the world, some of them sitting right there in front of them, to do exactly that. But in the silence of their minds, Nell, Izzy, and Cass finished Birdie’s sentence—

  We’ll not be foolish . . . but we’ll find this awful person who has disrupted our lives and the lives of those we love.

  Safely, but surely. And then we will move on.

  Chapter 26

  Nell and Ben lay side by side beneath the sheet, the windows open and white moonlight washing across the bed. They’d had a nightcap, at Ben’s suggestion, but sleep still seemed miles away.

  “It’s a dangerous game,” he said, his eyes focused on the ceiling fan.

  Nell moved her head on the pillow, her body still. Yes. It was a dangerous game. Each of them had felt it keenly tonight, each in different ways. Sam’s, Ben’s, and Danny’s anger was tied up in a fierce caveman need to protect the women they loved. Grab clubs and slay the invisible beast.

  Nell knew from the expressions on Birdie’s, Cass’, and Izzy’s faces that they felt the same anger, the same fear as she did. The four of them were the ones who’d been threatened. Someone—maybe someone who lived down the street or on Harbor Road, or someone they talked to in the supermarket—had images of the four of them in his head, knew who they were, knew Nell’s car. Somebody had intentionally and effectively taken a knife and pushed it through the thick rubber of her tires, listening as the air slowly hissed out into the harbor air.

  It was personal.

  And it made them angry.

  A day ago they were chasing bubbles in the air that popped as soon as they touched them. But today it was different. Today they knew that something they had done or asked or said was worrying someone, worrying them enough to ruin the ending of a beautiful day.

  Beside her Ben stirred, his lids growing heavy. “Let it go, Nell,” he murmured.

  Nell rolled onto her side and wrapped one arm across his chest, wide and familiar and comforting. Through her palm, she felt the slow in and out of his breathing. She breathed in the lingering scent of Old Spice and rubbed her hand back and forth across his chest.

  He pulled his eyes open and rolled his head on the pillow, his eyes holding her still.

  “You are my life. My life.”

  Nell leaned up on one elbow and pressed her fingertips against his lips. Then she leaned down, kissing away the emotions of the night. She pulled away and looked into his eyes.

  Ben was her life, too—her lover, her best friend, her eyes said.

  And as the mo
on played over the curves of their bodies, she showed him without a doubt that her eyes spoke the truth.

  Ben suggested that Claire join them for breakfast the next morning, and Nell delivered the message. She stood at the door of the guest cottage, urging Claire to come.

  “It’s Ben’s big indulgence of the week, Annabelle Palazola’s eggs. And if you haven’t been to the Sweet Petunia, that’s practically criminal. It’s an institution.”

  Claire seemed in need of company, even though, at first, she protested the invitation. But it didn’t take Nell long to convince her to meet them in the driveway in ten minutes. She realized early on that Claire initially protested any kindness. It made Nell wonder what living a nomadic life for nearly fifteen years did to one’s sense of worth, not to mention one’s ability to trust.

  The Sweet Petunia was off the beaten path—up a narrow Canary Cove Road just beyond Willow Adams’ Fishtail Gallery.

  “It’s been here less than ten years,” Nell said as Ben maneuvered his Prius into a parking space beside the restaurant. “It was an old house, halfway up the hill, nearly hidden in the woods. Annabelle bought it after her husband drowned at sea. People pitched in to help—like the old barn raising, almost, wanting her to know she wasn’t alone. Annabelle had four children to raise—and this restaurant enabled her to do it. She’s done an amazing job—both as a mother and as a restaurant owner.”

  “And as a cook,” Ben said. “She makes the best eggs you’ve ever tasted.”

  Annabelle herself met them at the door of the restaurant. She wiped her hands on her apron, pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and shook Claire’s hand. “You’re the amazing gardener Nell’s been telling me about. Welcome.” She lifted a stack of menus from the hostess desk and motioned for them to follow her through the inside restaurant to the deck beyond.

  “You’re early today. You get your pick of places.” She spread her arms wide. The narrow deck, just wide enough for a long line of tables, stretched around two sides of the restaurant and looked out over the tops of trees to the art colony below, and beyond that, the harbor waters.

  “A true bird’s-eye view,” Nell said, picking a table for five in the corner. “Even without the eggs, you can see why we like it here.”

  Annabelle got them settled with menus, turned over their mugs and filled them with steaming coffee, then hurried back inside as voices announced more guests.

  “We never know who might show up,” Nell explained, seeing Claire glance at the empty places. “And the tables out here will all be snapped up as soon as church services are over and the first wave of runners have showered.”

  Claire laughed. “Small-town life. So predictable.”

  “Well, yes. That’s good and bad, I suppose. But it’s certainly a part of our lives.”

  Ben unfolded the Sunday New York Times, another Sunday morning ritual at Annabelle’s, Nell explained. “And here’s my ritual.” She pulled out an arm of the sweater she was knitting for her sister Caroline. “It’s all predictable,” she said, “but predictability breeds comfort, I think.”

  “I suppose.” Claire sipped her coffee. “We didn’t experience the true small-town feeling when we lived here before. Being out on the edges of the town removed us a little. We didn’t know everyone, like you do. In fact, we hardly knew anyone. I suppose some of that was Richard. But we were rather isolated in a strange way.”

  “Was that difficult for Harmony? Did she miss being more a part of the town? Having lots of friends living close by?”

  “Well, she wasn’t a part of the popular group, I guess you would say. But I think she was content with her life the way it was. She had a boyfriend, a girlfriend. She won academic awards. She played basketball—I guess that was where she mixed with a larger group.”

  “Did you go to her games?”

  Claire paused. She poured some cream into her coffee and stirred it with her spoon. “Sometimes I went, but I couldn’t always manage it. I know this sounds like we led a double life, Harmony and me, but her father didn’t approve of girls playing sports. He never knew about it. There was a good program at the community center, and I encouraged her to do it. I thought she needed that experience, to be a part of a team.”

  “Did she like it?”

  Claire smiled. “Yes. And she was a good player. She talked the coach into taking Tiffany, too. Tiffany was awkward, but she seemed to come into her own on the court. It was a rewarding experience for both the girls.”

  Nell smiled, remembering Izzy at that age. She played on a soccer team, and it was a terrific experience. It brought out the best in her, leadership qualities she didn’t know she had, a sense of physical well-being, not to mention the genuine thrill of cheering teammates on and being a part of something bigger than yourself.

  Izzy’s dad was her coach back then, and if for no other reason, Nell knew then and there that her sister Caroline had chosen a fine man to marry. Craig’s compassion and gentleness brought out the best in even the shy or awkward girls on the team, and his ear was the recipient of more teenage problems and angst than the school counselor’s. She smiled at the memory and hoped that Harmony—and Tiffany, too—had had such experiences.

  Claire was looking out over the woods and galleries below, and Nell could almost see Harmony there in the treetops, bringing pleasure to her mother through memories. When Claire turned back to Nell, a faint happiness lingered.

  “Harmony wasn’t unhappy in high school. She loved getting good grades, the honor society. And her small group of friends. And then, that last semester, there was a shift, not a bad one, but she seemed different somehow. She laughed at me when I mentioned it, but there was definitely a change. A mother can see those things. She acted as if things had come together for her in exactly the way she wanted them to. It was as if she knew what was ahead for her.”

  “College, I suppose? I remember Izzy going through that. Her mother would tell me how excited she was, but scared, too, all at the same time.”

  “I’m not sure. It wasn’t so clear with Harmony. She had the scholarship to BU, but the closer graduation got, the less interested she seemed. Those last couple weeks I could hardly get her to talk about college. We’d accepted the scholarship and sent in the papers, but I couldn’t get her to sign up for orientation. Think about a dorm room. None of it. She’d just smile happily and make excuses when I brought it up.”

  A young woman set a basket of miniature blueberry muffins on the table. “Straight from the oven, Miz Endicott,” she said. “Delish.”

  “Thanks, Janie,” Nell said as the waitress sailed off, traversing the narrow deck as if on roller skates.

  Standing in her wake was Birdie, bright and smiley in a pair of neon green Bermuda shorts, knee socks, and a canary yellow T-shirt.

  Ben looked at her over the top of his reading glasses. “Birdie, you look like a radioactive elf.”

  Birdie waved him to silence. “It keeps crazy drivers from running me down on my bike.” She gave Nell a hug and greeted Claire warmly. “I picked this up at the newsstand.” She dropped the Sunday Sea Harbor Gazette in the middle of the table. It was folded open to Mary Pisano’s “About Town” column. She sat down next to Ben.

  Nell slid on her glasses, took a deep breath, and read aloud:

  “Summertime: When the Livin’ Is Uneasy.”

  “Catchy,” Ben said, but his voice registered wariness.

  Nell went on:

  It’s June. The weather is splendid, the sea breeze soothing. The flowers are a riot of color and the beaches are beckoning. But all is not what it should be in our magnificent town. When a lovely boardinghouse is broken into and when the tires of one of our cherished residents’ car are slashed in the middle of a public place, we need a call to action. We need the good citizens of Sea Harbor to sit up and take notice. We need to say “no!” to vandalism. To say “no” to mindless destruction. We need to be vigilant neighbors on the watch for one another.

  And most importa
nt of all, we need to rid our town of those who do mortal harm to others. And we need to do it now.

  Ben put down his coffee. “It could have been worse.”

  “She’s following the police line. Vandalism. I suppose that’s fine.”

  “Except for that last little line.”

  Claire looked puzzled, and Nell hurried to explain.

  “Someone slashed the tires on my car yesterday while we were out sailing.”

  “I’m so sorry. How awful. Why would someone do something like that?”

  Nell took a deep breath. “We think it was a warning to us from someone who didn’t like us asking questions about Tiffany Ciccolo’s death.”

  Claire’s head shot up. “Why would someone target you?”

  “Because sometimes Nell, Birdie, and company try too hard to help the police do their job,” Ben said. His expression was grave.

  Nell ignored him. “And though I know it’s difficult for you to have this brought up again, we think this death is connected to Harmony’s.”

  Claire sucked in a breath of air, then released it slowly. She took a drink of water and sat back in her chair. “I think so, too.”

  “You do?” Birdie was incredulous. “Somehow, I thought . . .”

  “That I didn’t care who did it? Or didn’t want to know what really happened that night? I suppose I went through a stage like that when I was just numb. All that had any reality to me was that Harmony was gone and nothing would bring her back. Then I would switch over and lash out at the unknown person who had been with her. I would hate that person, rail at them in my dreams. Who were they? Why didn’t anyone know what happened?

  “But I’ve had years to think about it. And Tiffany’s death brings a new dimension to it, too. I think she knew something, something important about Harmony. I can feel it in my bones, almost as if Harmony is telling me. I don’t know why she kept it a secret, but I know she knew something.”