Trimmed With Murder Page 3

  Laura laughed, pleased. She worked ferociously hard on events like these, pulling in family and friends and anyone else who might make the events more successful. The young mother and civic leader was the consummate fund-raiser. She pointed across the crowded lobby to where Janie Levin was directing people to the coatroom and passed the accolade along. Janie’s red curls bounced as she greeted group after group. “Janie gets tons of credit for this. She was a huge help. She even talked her brother into helping.”

  “Janie’s a gem,” Lily Virgilio said, leaning into the conversation. “The best nurse I ever had. You two are a dynamic duo, Laura, but I forbid you to steal her away from me.”

  Laura brushed off the compliments. “The free clinic is essential to this town.” She looked over at a group standing near the bar and nodded their way. “I think having civic leaders like Alphonso Santos and Stuart Cummings come on board so quickly is proof of how highly people regard it.”

  It was especially generous of Stuart, Nell thought. In spite of his jovial, good-fellow manner, there was a sadness on his face that reflected the family’s recent loss. Lydia Cummings’s death had been expected, following a lingering illness, but nevertheless the family matriarch’s passing had been a blow to her two grown children and to the entire north shore.

  “I hesitated to approach Stuart so soon after his mother’s death,” Laura said, “but then he approached me and insisted Cummings Nurseries support it. He said his mother was completely behind the free clinic and she’d want her family involved.”

  “That’s true,” Birdie said. “Lydia was nothing if not generous with her money.” She waved Laura off as she was called to another group.

  “Where’s Iz?” Sam asked, looking over the heads of the women. “She was with me a minute ago. Then she disappeared.”

  “She’s probably in the ladies’ room or caught up with friends,” Nell said. “If you can’t find her, come back and help Ben and me ‘work the crowd,’ as Laura put it. A handsome man on each arm makes it ever so much easier.”

  • • •

  Izzy Perry stood at the edge of the crowd, far enough away to be swallowed up in the groups of people swarming about the lobby. She saw Sam looking for her and ducked around the corner, her cell phone in her hand.

  “Our daughter is fine,” Sam had insisted a few minutes earlier. “She’s in good hands. Trust me. Trust the sitter. Relax and enjoy yourself, m’love.”

  He was right. Of course he was right. But between the community center and her home on the other side of town, a storm raged. And suddenly that placed a whole menacing world between her and her small daughter.

  She cupped a hand over one ear and pressed her cell phone against the other, listening carefully to what she knew she’d hear when the ringing stopped and Stella Palazola picked up the phone. And it was exactly what she heard.

  She ended the conversation and slipped the phone back into her purse. Abby was fine, ate a whole bowl of Izzy’s homemade brown rice with carrots, and Stella was in heaven playing blocks with the toddler.

  Why was she being such a worrywart? It was the weather, she told herself. The rain was turning to sleet and the sound of pellets beating against the large windows was disconcerting. Each time the door opened to welcome more guests, the sleet pounded louder, more persistent. Determined to be heard.

  She stepped into the crowded lobby and looked around for her aunt and uncle, but it was Sam she spotted first, his sandy hair still wet and glistening. He must have gone briefly outside, wondering if that was where she was. She felt a twinge of guilt, but he was happily listening to something her aunt Nell was saying now, his head held low and his warm brown eyes looking up every now and then, scanning the tops of heads.

  Sam. Her Sam.

  Sam Perry had been in and out of Izzy’s life for as long as she could remember—a friend of her older brother, Jack, he’d spent many summers with the Chambers family. An only child adopted by an older couple, Sam loved the chaotic family life of the Chambers brood. He was the one who sometimes stood up for her when her older and younger brothers teased her mercilessly. Sometimes he teased her right back. But he was always there, it seemed. Always a part of the pack.

  But back then he was inconsequential to her life. And when she had headed east to college and law school—and finally abandoned her law practice for a new life in Sea Harbor—he was removed from it almost completely, except for a few random encounters over the years and mentions now and then from her mother or her brother Jack. And then, even those mentions became fewer.

  Inconsequential. That was what he had been. Until that summer day when he’d come to Sea Harbor as a guest of the Canary Cove Art Colony. He’d been invited to be a guest lecturer for a photography class—and he had never left.

  Izzy took a deep breath as the memories swirled around her. And then the door to the community center opened again, people hurried in, and the frigid night air gusted into the room, pressing against her heart and pushing her memories back into their pockets.

  More people joined Sam and the others now as the crowd swelled, with Birdie waving to friends and neighbors she’d known for decades, making people feel at home, talking up the benefit as they praised Lily Virgilio’s free health clinic.

  Holiday cheer—they were scattering it everywhere, like rose petals at a wedding.

  Izzy waited for it to touch her, to wrap her up in its warmth. Instead she felt the cold, the freezing rain.

  And she wasn’t sure why.

  “Come on, Scrooge,” Cass Halloran whispered near her shoulder. “Let’s party.” She wrapped one arm around Izzy’s waist and spun her around. “Who can resist dancing to ‘Frosty the Snowman’?”

  Izzy laughed in spite of herself. Cass knew her inside and out. She knew not to pry, not to scold. It’s just an Izzy mood, she’d be telling herself and anyone else who might ask. She’d shake it off soon.

  And Cass also knew that sometimes, every now and then, Izzy’s mood portended something unexpected. Sometimes something good, sometimes not so good.

  “So, did you see our Seaside Knitters’ name on one of those miniature trees? The real ones are going to be more of a challenge to decorate.”

  “Yep,” Cass said. She grabbed two glasses of punch from a passing waiter and handed one to Izzy. “But I’m going to be between the devil and the raging sea on this one. Some of the Halloran crew members have bought a tree and they’re threatening to win the whole competition.”

  “Pete and that motley crew of fishermen? Decorating a tree? Nah, not a chance. It’ll be trimmed with clumps of seaweed.” Izzy spotted Pete Halloran across the way, his blond head thrown back and laughing heartily at something tiny Willow Adams had said. Oh, my. She hadn’t considered Willow. The artist had Pete wrapped around her little finger, and as different as the two were, they were madly in love with each other, as least as far as anyone could tell. “Argh,” Izzy said. “I forgot those lugs have partners and friends and wives in their life who might actually be creative. Like Willow. Surely it’s not fair to let artists into this competition, is it?”

  “Absolutely fair,” Laura Danvers said, passing by. The event coordinator was waving her hands in the air, encouraging the crowd to move into the wooden-beamed room off the lobby. “All’s fair in love and war and winning our first annual tree decorating contest,” she said with a grin.

  In minutes Laura had all but a few groups of stragglers crowding into the large room, its floor-to-ceiling windows aglow with hanging stars and snowflakes. Ropes of greenery hung from one beam to the next, and candles in thick-glassed lanterns decorated the tables and seating areas scattered across the room.

  Laura climbed the steps to a narrow stage at one end of the room and tapped on the microphone to quiet everyone.

  Cass and Izzy made their way through the wide doors, trailing after the others. Sam took a step back and pulled Izzy i
nto a hug, then leaned low and whispered in her ear, “So . . . how’s the sitter? Has the house burned down? Has our toddler whipped Stella at poker again?”

  Izzy wrinkled her nose at him. Was she that transparent that she couldn’t make a phone call without Sam knowing it? “Shush,” she said, pointing to the other side of the room, where Laura was introducing Dr. Lily Virgilio and explaining the tree decorating project that was going to bring in sleighs full of money for the clinic. Laura’s excitement was contagious and the crowd cheered wildly as each team was announced—from the Altar Society ladies at Our Lady of Safe Seas Church to the Portuguese fishermen poker club to a local running club—and everything in between. The competition grew more boisterous and voices traveled all the way up to the high ceilings as burly fishermen and tiny white-haired women and a well-conditioned running club stood and waved and urged people to pledge to their team—the winning team.

  Finally Laura tapped on the microphone and hushed everyone to silence again so she could introduce and thank the people behind the holiday competition—the Sea Harbor Chamber of Commerce, cochaired by Alphonso Santos and Stuart Cummings.

  “Two generous men who have thrown themselves into this project wholeheartedly and completely,” Laura said in her polished voice.

  The crowd cheered as the two men took the stage, the distinguished heads of Santos Construction Company and Cummings Northshore Nurseries.

  Alphonso took the microphone first. “You’ve all seen the Cummings guys at work along the Harbor Green these past couple weeks? Not an easy task with this weather. They’ve been mulching and feeding and whatever else you do to the dozens of young trees that have been planted over there. If you haven’t seen them, they’ll be ready to admire in a week or so. So come on down, then, bring the kids. The Cummingses not only planted each of those trees; they donated every last one.” He paused for the applause, then continued.

  “We’ll have name cards ready next week, a fine weatherproof holder for them in front of each tree. You’ll have a chance to pick your tree, and that’s the tree you’ll turn into a work of art. The chamber challenges each of you to make your tree the best lit, the best decorated—and, of course, the best funded—” He looked out over the audience, his eyebrows lifting. “Stu and I are thinking every last one of you can’t wait to scribble your name on a team’s pledge card, right?” He waited for the cheering to die down and handed the phone over to Stuart Cummings, who along with his wife and sister, Barbara, owned a fleet of successful nurseries up and down the north shore.

  “We only have a few weeks, my friends,” Stuart intoned, his voice too loud for a microphone and his belly nearly touching the stand. “We’re keeping the rules simple. Those trees we planted down at the harbor are young and small—so treat them with care. No real lobster traps on these trees—that’ll have to wait till next year. But pick a theme and go with it.” He peered around the group, his eyebrows pulled together in fake severity. Finally he settled on a burly fisherman known to everyone in town as Cod and said with a scolding grin, “But we’ll keep it all in wicked good taste, you got that, Cod?”

  The crowd laughed heartily as friends pounded on the fisherman’s broad back.

  Laura came back to the mic next and finally quieted the crowd. She took a few questions and gave the dates for the final decorating event along with a reminder to show up a week from Saturday to pick out a tree.

  “Now enjoy this delicious food being passed around along with the best eggnog on Cape Ann—or so the bartender tells me. And last but definitely not least, please welcome our very own Fractured Fish band.” The crowd erupted in applause as Pete Halloran, Merry Jackson, and drummer Andy Risso began tuning up in a corner of the room. “Take it away, Pete,” Laura said with a wave of her hands, and moved off the stage with the chamber cochairs following behind her.

  In minutes, holiday music filled the air and waiters circled the room with steaming bowls of chowder, plates piled high with lobster rolls, and a dessert table groaning beneath chocolate pies and cakes and puddings.

  Nell and Birdie found a spot near the fireplace and happily accepted bowls of chowder a waiter set down in front of them. Nell waved at Zack Levin, working as a server tonight. He was conscientiously picking up empty bowls of chili and taking them off to the kitchen. She remembered the days when she had witnessed the young man being reamed by a restaurant owner for not being so responsible. This new Zack made her smile.

  Rachel Wooten wandered by and Nell waved the city attorney over.

  “If you’re looking for your husband, he headed over to the bar with Sam and Ben,” Birdie said. “Sit with us. It’s much cozier here and we have a marvelous view of all the goings-on.”

  Nell pulled up a chair for Rachel. She frowned as her friend sat down beside her. “You’ve been working too hard, Rachel. I see it in your eyes. Is everything all right?”

  Rachel managed a smile. “I’m fine,” she said, sinking back into the chair. “Things at the courthouse actually slow down around the holidays. It’s another matter I’m caught up in that’s putting extra wrinkles on my face—” She stopped talking as several neighbors walked by.

  “Ben mentioned you were executor of Lydia Cummings’s estate.”

  Rachel nodded. “Yes. Ben’s been a help to me. I don’t often take on private clients, but I’ve helped Lydia over the years with legal matters. Trusts and wills. That sort of thing. Somehow details that seemed simple when someone is alive can become more complicated once they’re gone.”

  “I’m sure the family is relieved Lydia’s affairs are in good hands.” Nell looked over at Stuart Cummings, standing next to his sister. His head was lowered as he listened intently to whatever Barbara was saying. She seemed to have something other than decorating trees on her mind.

  Rachel followed Nell’s look. “I hope so. They knew I handled legal matters for their mother. But they’d like the estate settled soon. I don’t blame them. But sometimes there are complications, especially with all the properties Cummings Northshore Nurseries now has.”

  A waitress approached with a tray of eggnog and set three glasses down on the small table in front of them.

  “To the holidays,” Birdie said, lifting her glass. “And to the town we love.” She nodded across the room to the band area, where the Fractured Fish had begun playing a medley of holiday favorites. Her eyes crinkled with laughter as she watched Henrietta O’Neal, as wide as she was tall, balancing her portly frame on her nephew Garrett’s arm, moving slowly in a semblance of a dance. Garrett was looking down at his feet, as if counting the steps to a dance. The glass in his tortoiseshell frames caught the light from the ceiling and turned them transparent.

  Soon Esther and Richard Gibson joined the couple, moving into the small cleared space in front of the band and dancing very slowly to “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” their gray heads touching and eyes nearly closed.

  “Esther needed a break tonight,” Rachel said, watching them over the rim of her eggnog glass.

  “Lydia’s death has been difficult for her,” Birdie said.

  “And then some. She seems to know the most about Lydia’s life—intimate things that Lydia didn’t share with her children. She’s been wonderful helping me sort through things. That, in addition to helping Father Northcutt with that massive funeral.”

  “And grieving her friend at the same time,” Birdie added.

  Rachel nodded, her eyes tired.

  “But you’ll figure it all out, Rachel. You always do,” Nell said.

  • • •

  From their spot near a giant wreath, Izzy and Cass were also watching the dancing couples. Henrietta had finally hobbled over to a chair and insisted Barbara Cummings take her place on the dance floor. She seemed relieved to sit, and watched briefly while her fifty-year-old nephew, Garrett, stumbled through a dance with Barbara.

  Barbara and Garrett’s names were
often tossed about in Izzy’s shop as customers gathered in the back room to knit and purl and discuss the town’s secrets and transgressions. The sturdy businesswoman and the quiet accountant, at least ten years her junior, were an odd couple. It almost sounded like the stuff of cinema, someone had said. Not in terms of romantic movies, but in terms of “not real.” Pretend. But they were nearly always together, whether discussing successful financial reports or things more intimate was anyone’s guess. They both seemed comfortable with the arrangement, whatever it was.

  The couple danced briefly before Garrett trailed Barbara off the dance floor and to the bar, leaving Esther and Richard dancing alone in the shadow of a giant Christmas tree.

  Izzy looked over at the Christmas tree, so high it nearly touched the beams crisscrossing the vaulted cedar ceiling. “That tree makes me think of the one my dad cut down every year and helped us decorate. Then he’d wire up speakers outside and play Christmas songs for the whole neighborhood to hear, like it or not. My ornery brothers would try to switch the music, put on Pink Floyd or Michael Jackson.”

  Cass laughed. “Your brothers were brats. So was mine. Are your parents coming for Christmas?”

  “Dad is taking Mom to Hawaii this year. Escape the Kansas cold. Maybe that’s why I’m melancholy tonight—not having family here for the holidays.”

  A flash of light beyond the Christmas tree interrupted the memories. They glanced out the tall windows. A police car was pulling up to the front door.

  “I hope no one’s sick,” Cass said, looking around. But the music was still playing, people were laughing and moving around, and the small dance floor was now crowded with people swirling and dipping along with Esther and Richard.

  Janie Levin had seen the car pull up, too, and smiled a secret smile as she paused near Cass and Izzy. Her green eyes were bright. “It’s probably Tommy,” she whispered. “He’s on duty tonight and said he’d try to stop by if things were slow.”

  “Hmm,” Cass said, her eyebrows lifting. “So, do I have this right? Our hard-earned taxes are supporting a lovers’ tryst, is that what’s going on here?”