The Wedding Shawl Page 23

  “Maybe she didn’t know back then that the secret would incriminate someone else.” The thought had wandered around in Nell’s head early that morning as she lay in bed, trying to piece the puzzle together. Maybe whatever it was had risen to the surface only in recent days. Or maybe there was a good reason for not revealing it. And then she’d let the thoughts go. There were too many “maybes” still clouding the picture.

  “Claire, dear,” Birdie said gently, “did the autopsy report show any injuries to Harmony that might have indicated force? Anything other than the scratches that may have come from sliding down the side of the quarry?”

  She shook her head. “But the autopsy wasn’t complete, you know.”

  Ben frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Autopsies were forbidden by Richard’s church. It was desecrating the human body. And that body had to rise again.”

  “But the death was suspicious. Autopsies are usually done in such cases.”

  “Unless you have an angry church protesting. And a medical examiner who is about to retire and doesn’t want to create a fuss. In the end, they did a cursory external examination that ascertained she drowned and didn’t have unusual external injuries. And that was it.”

  Ben was quiet. He shrugged. “I suppose things like that happen. But autopsies can reveal all sorts of things.”

  Nell read his thoughts. Of course. If Harmony had been drugged, it would have indicated that. Or . . .

  But Ben didn’t pursue it. There was no reason to. It was over.

  “Claire, the night that Tiffany Ciccolo was killed . . .” Birdie leaned her elbows on the table and looked at Claire with the gentle, unthreatening gaze that Cass often called her “mother-confessor look.” The one that could squeeze the truth out of hardened criminals. “That night we saw you walking down Harbor Road, on your way somewhere.”

  “I saw you, too. I was headed exactly where you thought I was going, and my head was full of what I wanted to say to Tiffany. ‘What did you and Harmony talk about that night?’ ‘Was she happy?’ ‘Were she and Andy dancing?’ ‘Was he gentle with her?’ ‘Was she having fun?’ All the things I never knew, the things she and I used to talk about before . . . before she closed up on me. I needed to know how to picture her in my mind, carefree, beautiful, having a wonderful time on her graduation night.”

  It made absolute sense to Nell. Of course a mother would want to know that. Every single detail.

  “Did Tiffany know you were coming?” Birdie asked.

  “Yes. I called her. It was difficult, on the phone like that. I saw her at Nell’s that day, and I was filled with the old awful feelings, that she had gone off with my daughter that night—and somehow she should have kept her safe. I know it was irrational, but seeing Tiffany so unexpectedly brought all those old feelings to the surface in a split second. I wanted to shake her. To hurt her.

  “Instead, I went for a long walk and calmed myself down. I decided that I needed to talk to her, so I called the salon. She took the call, even seemed relieved to hear my voice. She said she wanted to talk to me, too. She wanted to share Harmony’s secrets, things her mother should know, she said. She said the salon closed at seven that night, and I could come then. She’d be staying late. I think she was meeting someone later, maybe a late haircut or something.”

  “But it was later than seven when we saw you.”

  “At the last minute, I decided not to go. Why put her through that awful night? Let it go, I told myself. But, of course, I couldn’t. I kept thinking about it. About Harmony. Wondering what she meant about Harmony’s having a secret. So I walked down there, even though it was late.”

  “What happened?” Ben asked.

  “The door was locked, and only a few security lights were on. I knocked for a while, but no one came.”

  Because Tiffany was downstairs, in her cozy office, with a murderer. Nell took a long drink of water.

  The waitress returned with tall glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and four plates. She set one down in front of each of them—creamy baked eggs, perfectly cooked. Watercress and roasted peppers were scattered like confetti around the eggs, and a basil-and-cheese sauce was drizzled over the top. Chunks of banana, cantaloupe, and mango bordered the eggs like fresh flowers. “Our Sunday special. Annabelle said you’d adore it.” She set a plate down in front of each of them, then stood back, beaming at the culinary masterpieces.

  “And she was right,” Birdie said. “Beautiful as a Monet painting.”

  Janie grinned, refilled their coffee mugs, and disappeared.

  “Sometimes it happens like this, Claire,” Ben explained, with a note of apology. “They forget to ask. But it’s always exactly what you’d want—even if you had had an actual choice.”

  Claire laughed and picked up her fork. “It looks perfect. And so beautiful.” She picked up a sprig of watercress decorating the side. “Nell, you should plant this next year. It’s very good for you.”

  She was more relaxed than Nell had seen her in a while, and considering the conversation, it was a minor miracle. As the tension eased from her body, her face relaxed and the beauty hidden behind her sorrow began to emerge—inch by inch.

  “This is wonderful,” Claire said. “And here is what else is wonderful. For fifteen years I haven’t talked about my daughter to anyone. She was trapped in my head and my heart every minute of every day for all those years, until some days I thought I would crack open and disintegrate into a pile of nothing. I didn’t anticipate . . . I never thought that talking about her, letting her out of those locked rooms, would be a good thing for me, so I never even told people I had a daughter. At first—when her photo appeared in the paper alongside Tiffany’s—it was awful. But now it’s easier. It’s almost like . . . like allowing her to have had a life. Acknowledging her. Letting her come back to me.”

  “Even talking about what happened to her that night?”

  “Even that.” She sprinkled some pepper on her eggs, a dash of Cholula sauce, and dug in, as if she hadn’t eaten in a long, long time.

  The deck was filled now, as Nell had predicted, and all along the railing, conversations rose and fell and platters of every imaginable egg combination were greeted with great anticipation. Nell waved to the Brandleys, who were halfway down the row of tables. Her gaze lingered on the table next to them as the occupants shoved back their chairs, getting ready to leave.

  She turned to Claire.

  “Have you seen Andy Risso since you’ve been back?”

  She sighed. “I’ve harbored ill will for him for so long, just like I did with Tiffany. I didn’t really expect either of them would still be around Sea Harbor. I thought most of the young people would be gone, off to big cities. But here they both are.” She bit down on her lip. “I will see him. Baby steps, I guess.”

  “He’s standing over there.” Nell nodded toward the door that led inside.

  Ben and Birdie turned and looked down the row. Claire’s eyes followed theirs.

  “He’s with Esther Gibson, Father Northcutt, and his dad, Jake. Helluva nice guy,” Ben said casually. “Jake would have known Harmony, too, since she spent time over there.”

  “Esther is his godmother,” Birdie explained. “After Andy’s mother died, she filled in as best she could.”

  Jake was holding the door for Esther and Father Northcutt and spotted them as he turned. He smiled and lifted his hand in a hello. Andy looked over then. He spotted Claire and, for a minute, his face froze. But in the next instant, his smile returned, and he waved, then followed his dad through the door.

  “Andy’s mother died?”

  “She was officially diagnosed with cancer the summer after the kids graduated,” Birdie said. “Andy gave up his scholarship and went to a community college instead. He wanted to be close.”

  Claire was silent as she processed this new fact, and Nell could tell it was shattering an image Claire had held over the years. Andy going off to a fine school living the life that sho
uld have been Harmony’s, too. Certainly a reason to resent him, at least from a grieving mother’s point of view.

  “I think Andy loved Harmony very much,” Nell said. She watched as the group walked through the door. Andy hesitated once, glanced back at them, then disappeared.

  “I think he did. Harmony talked about it with me. She liked that he loved her so much. She loved him, too, in that way that teenagers do. I don’t think it was as serious for her. He was her good friend—but that last semester it changed. She clammed up when I would bring up his name. I knew they still studied together, but something was different, at least for her.”

  “Could she have been seeing someone else?”

  Claire paused. “I don’t think so,” she said finally, but her words were weak. “Maybe it’s that I want to think, even now, that she’d have told me if she were seeing someone else. I was her protector. I didn’t judge her. I loved her unconditionally. But she hadn’t said anything to me. She wouldn’t go there with me, even when I pointedly asked her what was going on. But it was clear that something was different. She had a look about her—”

  “What kind of a look?” Nell asked.

  “A blissful look. Especially graduation night. She was radiant. As if her life were suddenly about to begin. The look I’ve seen on Izzy Chambers’ face when she wanders through your backyard, pausing beneath the pine trees when no one is looking. The look I imagine she has on her face when she glimpses the wedding shawl you are knitting her.

  “That kind of look.”

  Chapter 27

  It was a picture-perfect Sunday afternoon. Sunny sky, soft breeze. A light-sweater day. Though it was late afternoon, the longer days held the sun high enough to light treetops, sending splashes of gold across Sea Harbor.

  Claire was working in the garden and had turned her iPod to soft breezy music that matched the day. Light jazz—rich, bellyfeeling vibrations of trumpets and saxophones—floated across the backyard.

  Sam, Ben, and Ham Brewster had taken Ham’s new boat out for a test sail—the fourth in a week. “You can’t be too careful,” Ham had rationalized to Nell. “You have to be sure everything works perfectly and it doesn’t capsize when we take all of you out.”

  Nell, Cass, and Birdie sat on Nell’s deck with Izzy’s wedding shawl spread out on the table in the middle of them. The knitted folds of yarn glistened, rippling weightlessly. It was almost finished. The lacy design, knit in a circle, was a true work of art. It would take the place of a train or a veil—the only thing she’d wear other than the wedding shawl was her elegant and simple dress. The Isabel gown, Birdie called it, because it seemed to be designed for Izzy and her alone—elegant, intricate, surprising. And beautiful.

  Nell fingered the widening circle, the ripples expanding, like water when a stone fell in a still pond. She stared intently at the shawl.

  “A mistake?” Birdie asked.

  Nell shook her head. “No, no. It’s perfect. I’m trying to find an answer in it. We started in the very center, right here—”

  “You’re talking about something other than the shawl,” Cass said.

  “Yes. But it’s similar. We started this shawl, not knowing what the whole would look like, casting on a few stitches, then more and more until the circle expanded.”

  Birdie looked back at the shawl. “Then the pattern began to emerge—”

  “Yes,” Nell said, her voice lifting with Birdie’s addition. “Exactly. The leaves and shells, clues to the design . . . and then it became simple again, the waves fanning out.”

  The banging of cabinet doors in the kitchen caused Nell to scoop up the folds of lace. She folded it carefully and slipped it into Birdie’s protective cloth bag. “I know that bang. Izzy’s here. And she’s hungry.” Nell held back her smile. Izzy was showing up frequently these days, often unexpectedly, for food or hugs or time alone with her and Ben. Or just to hang out. Trying to soak it all up because she thought marriage might change it somehow.

  Nell and Ben had simply smiled, enjoying her presence, and knowing that she’d have to find out for herself that some things never changed. No matter what.

  Voices accompanied the banging as the refrigerator door opened and shut. Minutes later, Izzy, Pete, and Andy appeared on the porch. Izzy carried a platter of cookies and Pete held several beers, their necks threaded through his fingers.

  “Hi,” he said. “Anyone want a beer?”

  Andy followed slowly behind them. “These guys are like leeches, aren’t they?” He offered a half smile.

  “On good days,” Birdie answered.

  “We were supposed to rehearse today—we have this, ah, this wedding reception to get ready for”—Pete looked over at Izzy—“but Merry stood us up. Said Hank needed her at the restaurant.”

  “Humph,” Birdie said. “Hank was shooting baskets when I bicycled by there this morning.”

  Andy flopped down on the chaise, his long, skinny feet dangling over the end. “Ah, Hank’s a good guy. Besides, it’d be a cold day in hell when Merry Jackson lets anyone push her around. She scares me.”

  They all laughed. Andy did, too, which pleased Nell inordinately.

  She wondered if he ever talked to anyone about all the events spinning around him. At the time of Harmony’s murder, he was just learning his mother had a terminal illness. And she would have been the one to hold him close, make the bad go away. Maybe Esther was there for him now. She was older than Andy’s mom was, but they had been close friends. Like she and Birdie were, she thought. Years were irrelevant when spirits touched.

  “So, like I said, we were walking along, thinking a hike might be okay, maybe one of the quarries or Ravenswood, when Izzy comes out of her shop looking lost.”

  “Looking hungry,” Izzy corrected.

  “Yeah. Harry’s Deli was packed. The Edge had too many ladies drinking tea.”

  “So here we are.” Izzy smiled and grabbed for a cookie before Cass devoured them all. She spotted the familiar bag at Nell’s feet, and her eyes widened.

  “Don’t touch,” Nell said. “We’re too close to finishing. You and your shawl are going to have to stay in separate rooms until your wedding day.”

  Izzy’s brows lifted, and she pressed a hand into her chest. “Breathe, breathe,” she told herself. “Geesh, a wedding day.”

  “And that demands more than cookies. At least let’s get some protein into you.” Nell disappeared and was back in minutes, her platter filled with a round of Camembert and hunks of aged Gouda, white cheddar, and a tangy goat cheese. A basket of bagel crisps and a bowl of grapes were on the side.

  Pete eyed the tray. “This settles it. I’m moving in.”

  Andy sat up, his legs bending over the side of the chaise. His smiled disappeared. “Hey, we heard what happened yesterday.”

  “I suppose the world has, now that Mary has made us the lead in her ‘About Town’ column.”

  “I heard it in the bar,” Andy said.

  “When?”

  “Last night. I was working for my dad so he could get a break. Some guys came in, vacationers, I think. I didn’t know them. They’d had a few. They said someone was working over some tires at Pelican Pier. They thought it was a big joke. They’d never have even seen it except one of the guys’ Frisbees flew in that direction. I couldn’t leave the bar, but M.J. and Alex Arcado were there with the Brewsters, and they all ran down to the pier. They didn’t see anything, though, and couldn’t find the car the guys were talking about. It was packed. Kids playing everywhere. Kites all around.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Around six, six thirty.”

  Six thirty. Someone knew they were gone for the day and that the parking lot was packed at that time on a Sunday. People having dinner at the Edge or Gracie’s Lobster Café, picnicking on the wide green space adjacent to the pier. It was a favorite place to be on an early summer night.

  And somebody, someone knew all those things.

  It’d been planned so carefully.
And done while it was still light, which was maybe the scariest part of all.

  “It’s about Tiffany’s death, isn’t it?” Andy’s voice was low, his eyes looking at Nell in a way that demanded an honest answer.

  “Yes, we think so.”

  “Someone is worried that we’re asking too many questions,” Izzy said.

  “Maybe you should stop, then,” Andy said. He looked down at his hands. One leg jiggled slightly as he talked. “The police . . .”

  “Are doing a fine job,” Birdie said. “But there are such things as neighborhood watch groups that do a fine job, too.”

  Pete laughed, a belly laugh that rolled around the deck and drew smiles. “So you’re now a neighborhood watch team?” He gave Birdie a bear hug.

  “Someone has to be, young man.” She shook off his hug and lifted herself straight. Her eyes were on Andy.

  Pete’s smile fell away. “I think that’s fine. But this is a dirty thing that’s happening here. It’s murder.” He looked hard at his sister. “Cass, when did you learn how to catch murderers? You had a hard time catching me in tag.”

  But Pete wasn’t joking. And it wasn’t Cass’ lack of skill at tag that bothered him. Nell understood. But what Pete didn’t understand, what Ben and Sam and Danny didn’t, was that women sensed danger, too. And once their antennae detected it, they’d do what they needed to do to be safe. Beside her, Birdie took Pete’s big, guitar-strumming hand in her own and held it, two of hers to one of his. Her face was smiling but her words were dead serious.

  “The thing is, Peter, the police have to go on facts. We can pepper those with intuition and emotions. Sometimes that works; sometimes it doesn’t. But until proven otherwise, that’s what’s going on here.”

  “And the facts all point to me,” Andy said. His voice was resigned but ragged.

  “That’s exactly right, Andy, dear,” Birdie said with just a touch of humor. “You could use a dose of emotion and intuition; all of you could.”

  “There are facts,” Cass said, looking at Andy. “But not a shred of proof.”