“Stop,” Izzy cried, her laughter causing hiccups and tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Sam, take me away from all this.”
Ben offered to pack up Izzy’s presents and they sent Sam and Izzy and Cass and Danny on their way to their car, watching from the curb as they moved down the middle of the street, Danny still singing, his arm looped around Cass, Sam and Izzy entwined. Heads back, the air above filled with their laughter.
“What great gifts they are,” Nell said, a rush of emotion flooding her chest.
“Yes,” Ben said. “And speaking of gifts, I’m off to get your car, Nellie. I will trust the two of you to guard Izzy’s presents. Back shortly.”
Birdie went into the gallery briefly while Nell stood beneath the fishtail sign, thinking back over the lovely shower. Special people. It had been an enjoyable evening, and in spite of the conversation with Laura, a welcome respite from thoughts of murder.
While gallery lights flickered out all up and down Canary Cove Road, the music was reaching its peak, rolling down the road now like a full spring rain. Nell watched the crowd filling the Palate deck. Several guests from the shower were already there, standing near the rail. Tamara Danvers was crossing the street alongside a young woman who had been helping out in Willow’s gallery.
A little farther down, standing alone in the shadow of the Artist’s Palate sign, was Tyler Gibson, leaning against the wall as he watched Tamara Danvers—or perhaps the woman with her—move up the steps.
The belt buckle. Nell started to call to him. She’d never returned it. It was still heavy and cumbersome, taking up too much room in her everyday bag. Which was sitting on her bed at home. She lowered her hand. Tomorrow or Monday. She’d return it soon. And perhaps Tyler would know how it got mixed up in Justin’s belonging. A loose end. A small frayed piece of yarn. Probably unimportant, something that needed to be snipped off.
But maybe not. Nell stared across the street, snippets of conversation racing through her head. Tyler might just be more crucial than they’d given him credit for. Perhaps they’d misread his role completely. The thought sent a chill racing through her.
At that moment, Tyler looked her way—gave a small wave, a nod of his head. Then he disappeared up the stairs and into the press of bodies waiting for tables at the bar and grill.
Chapter 32
Laura Danvers brought her oldest daughter, Sara, to Gabby’s Sunday-afternoon class. Instead of the lightweight beanie pattern she had taught last summer, Gabby had talked Izzy into an easy headband project. “But it will have my signature flower,” Gabby proudly told the class, holding up a large crochet flower that would be attached to the side of the finished band. “And the band will also keep your ears warm,” she said.
“Sara is now, at the age of eight, officially grown-up,” Laura said, standing in the back of the room with Nell. Birdie was busy passing out patterns, following her granddaughter’s directive. “Gabby’s class has become a rite of passage.”
Laura cradled a cup of hot tea in her hand. It was a gloomy June day, one that forgot it was summer, and instead of the beach, vacationers walked up and down Harbor Road, visited Canary Cove galleries, or hiked over in Ravenswood Park with fleeces and jeans replacing swimsuits. A day for hot tea.
“It’s a good day for the kids to be in a knitting shop—safe and warm and cozy,” Nell said.
Laura nodded. “Not a lot of that around here lately—safe and cozy. When will this all end? The pointing of fingers, the rumors. Everything. Did you see that poor Tyler Gibson last night? He was hanging outside the Palate like he’d lost his best friend. And Janie and Dr. Lily. What a mess.”
Izzy joined them, telling them quietly that Gabby had everything under control, Mae and her nieces were there to help, so why didn’t they all go down to Harry’s deli? She was starving.
“Occupational hazard,” Laura teased, patting her stomach. Then she whispered to her daughter that she’d be just down the street.
“How did your aunt do last night?” Izzy asked as they walked out onto the street. “I barely got a chance to talk to her.”
“I think she enjoyed herself. She went out with some friends afterward, which surprised me a little, but people deal with things differently. Maybe that’s her way, but . . .”
They waited, knowing there was more to Laura’s thought. She seemed to be working through her understanding of her aunt as they talked.
“Tamara was happy about the pregnancy. Franklin, of course, was thrilled. But then a few weeks ago—it was just a few days after the gala at the community center—there was a shift, and she started to act jittery. I thought it was just morning sickness, but now I don’t think so. Something was truly bothering her. I took her out to lunch, tried to get her to talk about it, but she insisted things were okay. Janie was puzzled, too, because Tamara’s checkups were fine. She didn’t even really need checkups, Janie said, but Franklin insisted everything be watched carefully. He was always there with her, right at her side.”
“What about Franklin?”
“I don’t think he noticed—except during that episode with Justin Dorsey. That upset both of them.”
“And then she had a miscarriage,” Birdie said.
“Yes. She had just started to act like herself again when that happened. I tried to help her that day, but she said she didn’t need any help, that she’d be fine. And she seemed fine. Really fine, in fact.”
“Some people like to get through things alone, I guess,” Izzy said. “Me? I’d be the opposite.”
Laura agreed. “I went through a kind of mourning after I had a miscarriage. I think it was the process of letting go of a dream. But Tamara doesn’t seem to be going through anything. In fact, she’s more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a while. Not so with her husband. Uncle Franklin is having a hard time with it.”
“Sam took some photos at their house Friday,” Izzy said. “Nell and I tagged along. She seemed fine that day, and happy to be showing us their home. It’s a beautiful place.”
Laura nodded. “A beautiful museum. But Tamara loves all that.”
“Where is she from?” Izzy asked.
“Roxbury,” Laura said. “I wouldn’t even know that if she hadn’t had a friend visit when Franklin was out of town. Tamara had insinuated she was from Brookline. But her friend blew her cover. They both grew up in a neighborhood we wouldn’t want to walk through alone, was how her friend described it. Marrying someone like Franklin and leaving that behind was a dream Tamara had had since she was little. Her friend was proud of her because she had finally done it. I don’t think Franklin knows where she was raised, even now.”
“She doesn’t have family?”
“A mother and brother, but she doesn’t have anything to do with them.”
The rich tomato and garlic odors of Harry’s deli interrupted their thoughts and they walked into the tiled entry. The noontime crowd had thinned out, leaving scattered customers at the counter ordering fresh meats and cheeses. Harry waved over the counter and told them to find themselves a booth.
Once they were settled in a back booth, Izzy picked up the conversation. Franklin Danvers’ wife intrigued her. And puzzled all of them. “Was it a fairy-tale wedding?”
“No. They got married on the spur of the moment. We hadn’t even met Tamara, although Uncle Franklin had us come to the courthouse that day to be witnesses. It was quick and tidy, just like Uncle Franklin likes things.”
Harry walked over, wiping his hands on his apron. “Beautiful ladies, what can I get for you today? Chicken cacciatore? Eggplant Parmesan? My magnifico stuffed pork chops?”
They held their stomachs as the list grew longer; then Izzy finally got a word in to stop him. “Harry, stop. How about a plate of those little Italian sandwiches that the summer people have talked you into making?”
He threw up his hands. “Such crazy ideas. Small plates, they call them. Ridicolaggine.”
They laughed. In Harry’s deli, plates were huge.
&
nbsp; Harry planted his hands on the table. “So, how are you all coping with this mess? Not a way we want to start our summer, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, Harry,” Birdie said. “Has it affected your business any?”
“We’re gonna be okay, but folks don’t like roaming around in a town that might have a killer lurking behind a gaslight, you know? I think that Justin kid screwed up his own murder, maybe on purpose, sent the police running in circles. He’s probably somewhere up there laughing at all of us.”
They looked at him, curious.
“I mean the whole pot-selling thing—that’s what everyone’s so excited about. Who kills for that? Nobody. Not like that. And not Horace, no matter what the old man saw or thought he saw.”
“What did Horace see?” Nell asked. “I’m confused now, Harry.”
“Aw, who knows? Horace can’t see much, everyone knows that. But, swear on my mother’s grave, he can tell when he walks in that door what kind of sauce I’m cooking. Knows it right down to the flakes of basil.”
“I’ve never seen him in here,” Birdie said, surprised.
“Only on Fridays. Gus McClucken sometimes brought him in before driving him home with his dog food. Kind of a treat for the old man—none of that small-plate stuff for those two. Great old guy.”
“Was he in here last Friday?” Nell asked.
“Sure was. I made a special Bolognese that day. Old Horace knew what it was before he stepped foot through the door.”
“And he told you he saw something?” Birdie asked.
“Saw, smell, whatever. He was kind of excited that day, like he had been trying to figure something out for a while, and suddenly it made sense. The lightbulb went on. You know that feeling? Sometimes when I get a sauce just right . . .”
“What made sense, Harry?” Birdie pulled him back to the topic.
“Now, that’s the question. I don’t know. Something about a channel.”
“Channel?”
Harry shrugged. He sliced his hand through the air. “Channel. Like taking your boat through a channel?” He scratched his head. “He said now he knew what he saw. It made sense, he said. The channel. Go figure.
“But whatever. What I’m really saying is this. Horace knew something. And maybe other folks, too. But what is everyone talking about? Selling a little pot on a beach. No one kills for that.”
They had no argument with the deli owner. It was almost as if Harry had heard them talking and was echoing their words, forcing them to examine them again. “We’re looking in all the wrong places,” Birdie had said. Turning over the wrong stones. Nell was convinced of it, and she knew Izzy, Birdie, and Cass were, too.
More now than ever. So what other stones were left to look under? Where were they? And for heaven’s sake, what kind of channel did Horace see? One that got him killed?
When no one responded to Harry’s assessment, nor changed their orders, he threw his hands in the air again and went to the kitchen to put together the ridiculously sized sandwiches.
Laura checked her watch and said she was going to head back. “I ate lunch. I just came with you for the company. I want to get back and watch Sara learn to knit.” Then she added with motherly pride, “It’s a big deal. Rite of passage. Her first knitting project.”
Izzy liked that. Rite of passage. A good name for her next teen knitting class.
“One more thing before you go,” Nell said, “and it’s probably none of my business—but I’m curious.”
“My favorite kind of question,” Laura said.
“Tamara and Franklin got married about a year ago, right?”
“About that.”
“They got pregnant quickly.”
“I think it was part of the master plan,” Laura said. “Uncle Franklin never hid the fact that he wanted an heir, so it was nice that it worked out so quickly. And then, well, a big disappointment. But Tamara is confident the second time will be a charm. Her words, not mine.” She grabbed her bag, slipped it over her shoulder, and was off.
Nell watched her walk away, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “Tamara was one of Lily’s patients who occasionally talked with Dr. Seltzer. I wonder if Franklin went with her. He seemed awfully sure Seltzer was the murderer. Why do you suppose he was so sure?”
“Or did he want Martin Seltzer to be the murderer?” Birdie said. “He made it clear he didn’t like Justin. Did he want to get himself out of the spotlight?” She remembered the look Justin had leveled at Franklin that night at the Edge. It wasn’t mean, just curious, she thought. A strange look. “I wonder if there was more of a connection between those two than we thought.”
The sandwiches came, but they barely tasted them. Their thoughts rolled around the Formica-topped table, bumping into each other, then rolling away until finally Nell called a halt.
“We know where the answer is. It’s right there in Lily’s clinic. And we’ve plenty of questions. We just need to find the right one. . . .”
The deli was almost empty now. An old Frank Sinatra song played in the distance, floating on the garlic-scented air. Behind the front counter, Harry hummed along with Old Blue Eyes, his eyes closed, his head back. Call me . . . irresponsible. . . .
“That’s what Justin was. Irresponsible,” Nell said.
“Not a crime, not worth taking a life for,” Birdie said.
“Until it was. Until he tried to threaten someone who had too much to lose. And then his irresponsibility was suddenly worth killing for.”
Chapter 33
We’re looking in all the wrong places. . . .
The words echoed in Izzy’s knitting room Monday morning as they sat around the library table, trying to collect the random snatches of conversation and observations made over the long weekend. They had arrived an hour before, brisk showers waking them up, along with Nell’s directive that they be clearheaded, alert.
On the table were mugs of hot coffee and half-eaten cinnamon rolls.
None of them doubted that Martin Seltzer had motive and opportunity to kill Justin. And they were just as convinced that he hadn’t done it.
And all of them knew that old Harry was right. Justin’s murder had nothing to do with stealing pot from a small garden on the clinic roof.
Justin had bigger fish to fry.
“He found out something that no one else knew about. It was important enough that someone would kill to keep him silent,” Izzy said. “If we can figure that out . . .”
“I think we will have the murderer,” Cass said.
The room fell silent.
A knock on the alley door broke into the silence, and Janie Levin opened it, peeking in. “Hey, can I come in?”
Birdie poured her a cup of coffee and they pulled out a chair.
“I can’t stay. I want to get in early today to help Dr. Lily put out fires. It’s been crazy.” She reached into her large tote and pulled out a beat-up fanny pack. “But look what I found yesterday.”
“Where did you find it?” Izzy asked.
“I cleaned my car out, the first time since all this happened, and it was stuck down between the seats. I think Justin probably stuck it there when he went to the dive Sunday. And . . .”
And he never had the chance to retrieve it.
Nell unzipped it and pulled the canvas folds apart. Inside, she fingered dozens of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
Cass whistled.
Janie said, “I know. When I saw that money, I nearly fainted. I didn’t count it—but there’s a lot.” She checked her watch. “I need to run, but, Nell, you had asked me to keep an eye out for this—so here it is. I suppose the police or someone will want a look at it—”
“I can take care of that for you, Janie. I’ll give it to Ben—or drop it off myself.”
Janie waved and was off, prepared for a busy day at the Virgilio Clinic.
“Well,” Birdie said, her hands flat on the table.
“This is what we saw at the Edge.”
“He was meeting someo
ne that Saturday,” Izzy said. “This must have been why it was so important.”
“So whoever he was blackmailing gave him money earlier in the week that he used to buy some things—”
“And donate to the church’s fund,” Izzy added, wanting to soften the crime.
“And then handed this over on Saturday,” Nell said. “And probably realized by the second time that there’d be a third, a fourth, and who knows how many requests?”
“So they killed him.”
Nell fingered the cables on her baby blanket. The facts were there, but still twisted, just like the blanket. She looked again inside the fanny pack and pulled out the envelope, smoothing it out on the table. She frowned.
“What is it?” Birdie asked.
“I’ve seen an envelope like this before. In fact, it was sitting on my counter and I shoved it into a drawer just this morning.”
“It’s a dirty white envelope,” Cass said. “So what?”
“No, it’s not. It’s thicker than most—elegant parchment. Here, feel it. And if you rub your fingers lightly over it, you can feel something.”
“Like a water seal?” Izzy asked.
“Maybe.” She took the envelope and slipped it back inside the fanny pack. “The one I have is the one that Justin put Birdie’s neck- lace in. I don’t know why I didn’t throw it out. But I didn’t, and I think I’ll have a second look at it.” She zipped up the fanny pack and slipped it into her bag.
“There’s one more thing. After talking to Gus and Harry, I’m convinced Horace saw the person who killed Justin. I think that’s what he was trying to say that day in front of the hardware store. He was down there walking the beach that night and saw someone enter the dive shack. But his eyes are so bad he wouldn’t have been able to make out features. And he was probably confused. He didn’t connect the dots—or maybe couldn’t quite process whom he saw—until later in the week. He said something to the effect that it finally made sense.”
Angora Alibi Page 27