Such an ordinary thing to do . . . on such an un-ordinary day. A trim to even the ends of her hair before the bevy of holiday gatherings began. Maybe a splash of color, a highlight or two.
She had thought about canceling her appointment.
“Why would you do that?” Ben asked earlier as he poured coffee for them. What could Nell do to change events? To alter the unraveling of the day?
Nothing. That was what. Nothing at all. She tried to call Mary, but she didn’t pick up. Nell left a message. She was there to help if help was needed. There would certainly be plenty going on at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. Plenty of hovering family members. Plenty of lawyers, executors. Sometimes even friends could be in the way at such times.
So Nell had bundled up, slipped into furry boots, and walked along the snowy streets to Harbor Road and the comfort of M.J.’s Salon.
She had always considered waiting in M.J.’s a gift and often got there early, a treat to herself. An interlude in her life, free of phones, of writing grants, planning talks, of household chores, of responsibilities. With the recent renovation, M.J. had tried to rename the salon “Pleasure,” but the name didn’t stick. Some thought the name a bit risqué. Others, like Nell, simply couldn’t change old habits, and M.J.’s Hair Salon it remained. But risqué or not, Nell thought, the attempted name fit what M.J. offered to her customers. Pleasure and, even more important, escape.
Today that was especially true. She knew that wherever she went, she’d be reminded of last night’s events. Although the paper didn’t mention her name or Birdie’s, people would know they were the ones who had found Pamela’s body. Somehow, in that mysterious way small towns work, people would know.
And there’d be endless questions, suppositions, talk. People would wonder in sad tones about the gorgeous, wealthy editor who had everything the world had to offer. And who had ended her life alone. In a snowbank.
Suicide. Nell’s college friend Shelly Archer had taken her own life at the beginning of their senior year. It had haunted Nell for years.
She and her friends had analyzed Shelly’s death endlessly, hoping for a shred of understanding, for some comfort that reason might bring to them. They’d been angry, hurt, devastated. Furious at Shelly that she hadn’t allowed them in, given them a chance to help her, as if their own anger would lessen their sadness. And then they had broken down and grieved the unfathomable loss of someone they thought they knew so well.
Nell had been with Pamela Pisano hours before she died. Had she missed a sign? A plea for help?
But nothing in the conversation bespoke a woman in pain.
Nell sipped her coffee, then closed her eyes and thought of the fashion editor in her expensive coat and her tall boots, walking out of the tea shop. She’d held her head high, and she’d been smiling, as if anticipating that something good was about to happen. That was the look Nell remembered.
Something good. Something pleasurable.
Nell set her coffee down and looked out the window, focusing on the bright sunshine reflecting off the snow along Harbor Road. People walked by quickly, collars turned up, heads leaning into the wind. She spotted Mary Halloran, Cass’ mother, heading to work at Our Lady of the Seas.
Mary spotted Nell and waved, then paused briefly at the window. She lifted her shoulders slightly in a gesture of helplessness, then followed it up with a sad smile.
An acknowledgment of the death. Nell nodded back, then closed her eyes and settled back into the soft chair. Relax, she ordered herself.
That’s what the waiting area of the salon was about. M.J. had added comfortable chairs, small tables piled high with current magazines, and displays of handmade jewelry and purses from local artists. A small bookshelf was crammed with used paper-backs. Across from it, a bar was built into the wall with coffee, water, tea, and later in the day, wine.
The background chatter fell away, and soft music began to fill Nell’s soul and ease away the tension. A magazine slipped from her fingers.
“Aunt Nell!”
Nell’s eyes shot open.
Cass and Izzy stood on either side of the chair, staring down at her.
“Are you all right?” Izzy asked.
Nell took a breath. “I . . . I’m fine. Just dozing, I guess. What are you two doing here?” Nell pushed herself forward in the chair and tried to clear her head.
Izzy and Cass sank onto a couch.
“It’s just seeing you like that, with your eyes closed—”
“You’ve been staring at the picture in the morning paper. I’m very much alive, Izzy, dear.”
The front door opened, bringing in a gust of cold air. Birdie walked into the salon lounge and dropped her backpack to the floor. She slipped out of her puffy down coat and walked over to her friends. “Mae said I’d find you all here. ‘A gathering of the minds,’ she said.”
Izzy laughed. “A gathering of friends works better for me. I should be helping her open, but I wanted to be sure you were okay—both of you. This is awful. I can’t get my mind around it. Here we spent the evening discussing this woman, and now she’s dead. And you two were there.”
“We’re fine, sweetie,” Nell assured her. “But poor Mary isn’t.”
“ ‘A single gunshot. No signs of struggle,’ ” Izzy said. “At least that’s what Mae said.”
“I wonder how she knows that.” The fact that Pamela hadn’t struggled and seemed to simply slip down into a dead, snow-cushioned sleep had been obvious to Nell and Birdie. The snow around her was untouched. But the news story hadn’t gotten into that much detail.
“Her sister works with Esther Gibson in the police dispatch office.”
“That explains it.” Esther, a thirty-year veteran of the dispatch office, always knew things before anyone else—sometimes, Ben often teased the white-haired woman, even before they happened.
“The paper didn’t say much else,” Cass said. “So . . . what do you two know?”
“Not very much,” Nell said.
“We went to the Ocean’s Edge after you left last night,” Cass said. “Mary was there. She and Nancy were making some final design decisions for the carriage house and had lost track of time, I guess. When she saw us, Mary was frantic—she realized she was supposed to be meeting you. She rushed out, leaving poor Nancy with a pile of papers and an unfinished bottle of wine.”
Mary had told her and Birdie as much when she arrived. The meeting with Nancy had started late, and they’d had a few glasses of wine.
“The stars weren’t lined up right,” was how Mary had put it. And Nell knew what she meant. If only she’d stayed at the Ravenswood house longer, or returned sooner, then maybe. They were recriminations that even she and Birdie had felt. What if they’d left Izzy’s earlier? What if?
“Mary arrived to a driveway lined with police cars and an ambulance. At first, she thought one of us had fallen on the ice,” Nell said.
“A far better option,” Birdie said.
“Where were all the Pisanos? Were you there by yourselves?”
Birdie nodded. “They had a predinner meeting, late afternoon. Then they headed to the Gull Tavern to celebrate the fact that they’d finished yet another annual family meeting without killing one another.”
“So they all went to the Gull . . . except for Pamela?”
“Pamela would have considered the Gull a bit crass,” Birdie said.
“ ‘Dirty’ was the word she used,” Cass said. “I told her my brother Pete was playing, but she told me Pete wasn’t her type, as if I were trying to fix her up.”
Izzy managed a small laugh. “Can you imagine sweet, hug-gable Pete with Pamela?”
“Mary said she had other plans, though she didn’t say what they were. I don’t think she liked hanging around some of the cousins any more than she had to,” Birdie said. “She didn’t mince words when talking about her family.”
That was true. Nell thought about Pamela’s less-than-pleasant descriptions of Agnes and Mary.
�
��I can’t imagine Agnes went to the Gull, either,” Birdie said.
“She probably went home. She has a lovely place over near Rockport,” Nell said.
A familiar voice floated in from the busy salon.
“So, ladies, you’ve heard the news?”
Laura Danvers stood on the step to the service room. The young society leader’s hair was separated into foil-wrapped plackets, and her narrow shoulders were draped in a smock. She held a bottle of spring water in one hand.
“Suicide—that’s what they’re saying.”
Nell nodded.
“I’ve read that suicide around the holidays is not uncommon.” Laura took a drink from her water bottle.
“But tragic, no matter when it happens,” Birdie said.
Concern shadowed Laura’s face. “Yes, of course. Absolutely tragic. But somehow we need to make sure this doesn’t weigh us all down. We need to . . . to move on and get beyond this dreadful . . . happening.”
“Move on?” Cass repeated.
“What I mean is, it’s the holidays. It’s time to be with our families and friends, to be joyous and grateful for what we have. And, well, I guess what I’m saying is that I hope all of you will still be at our holiday party tomorrow night. Elliott and I talked—and we think we need to keep to our plans—”
Laura looked genuinely sad, but determined, Nell thought. She had her mother’s tenacity and diplomacy. The young civic leader would go far.
“Of course we’ll be there, dear,” Birdie said, easing the moment. “It will be lovely and a needed distraction.”
“It’s a nice idea to hold it at the historical museum. The party will bring people’s attention back to one of our town’s treasures,” Nell said.
Izzy assured Laura that she’d be there, too, with or without Sam. She stood and picked up her bag, and Cass followed, telling Laura that she and Danny Brandley would be there—“with bells on,” she added.
They were off, Izzy to the yarn shop for a busy day of classes and Christmas sales, and Cass to don her warmest wintry slicker, brave the ocean air, and check on the lobster traps that she and her brother, Pete, owned.
Nell watched them leave, wondering why Sam might not come to the party. Of course he would; he was very good about attending these affairs—even when he’d rather be off skiing or taking photographs or talking to Ben about sailboats. Sam had a knack for fitting in anywhere he went, a photographer’s gift, she supposed. His awards for capturing people’s raw emotion certainly spoke to the comfort and trust people placed in him.
She tucked away a reminder to ask Ben whether he knew what was up with Sam Perry.
“Pamela Pisano was going to come to the party,” Laura said. Her tone changed, her voice edged with disappointment. “I invited her weeks ago when I heard she’d be in town. She was looking forward to it and was bringing a photographer to take photos of the museum and the holiday dresses. It would make a good angle for a magazine story, Pamela told me. A small-town holiday party that highlights a community landmark.”
A young woman wearing a skinny skirt and clunky shoes came up behind Laura and tapped her on the shoulder. “Time to rinse,” she said with a cheery smile.
Laura turned to follow her, then looked back and said sadly, “She even told me what she was going to wear—a new Versace.”
Nell watched the young woman walk back into the maze of hair dryers, mirrors, and rotating chairs.
Of course. That was it—the cause for the regret and slight irritation she had heard in Laura’s voice. She wasn’t coldhearted. But it would have been an amazing coup for her party to be featured in Pamela’s popular national magazine, not to mention the attention it would bring to the museum. It was a huge disappointment to Laura, even in light of the tragic circumstances that would prevent it from happening.
A waving hand called to her. M.J.’s assistant. Time to go.
Only later, during the gentle wash and neck massage that turned her body to liquid calm, did she replay Laura’s conversation in her mind. But it wasn’t the hostess’ regret that pulled Nell out of her massage stupor.
It was Pamela’s commitment to the holiday party. Her promises to Laura. Choosing a dress. She’d even talked about buying a condo.
Exactly how many commitments and plans did one make—how many slots on a social calendar fill—before taking one’s own life?
Chapter 5
Nell dressed warmly for Laura Danvers’ party Saturday night. She liked the lovely feel of silky, sleeveless dresses, but she also liked to be warm. The silvery wool dress she took from her closet had long sleeves and a scoop neckline and flowed to her ankles, perfect for combating the drafts that old buildings were noted for.
Slipping into a long black coat, Nell wondered briefly whether the chill that permeated her bones was weather induced—or came from somewhere else. An hour with Mary Pisano at the small, unpretentious home she shared with Ed Ambrose, her fisherman husband, had revealed little news regarding Pamela’s death. She’d been fine at the meeting that afternoon, Mary had said. Her usual argumentative self.
Try as she might, Nell couldn’t extricate the image from her mind—the single trickle of blood warning onlookers that it wasn’t sleep that held the beautiful woman immobile in the snow.
“Let it go, Nellie,” Ben urged, holding open the door to his car. “Just for tonight.” His lips touched her cheek as she slid onto the seat. A comforting kiss.
Nell nodded, smiled. Let it go. Let it go. The words swung back and forth, a pendulum in her head. She climbed into the car and turned on the radio, hoping for the sounds of a symphony or jazz, a trumpet solo to warm the chilly air.
But Nell knew deep down that it would take more than music or Ben’s words to shake her free of the image of Pamela’s cold body. And it wasn’t just because of the obvious—finding a dead body. The whole experience had disoriented her. Confused her thinking. She wouldn’t have been able to put words to the reason if Ben had asked her why, but she knew it to be true.
Ben turned a knob on the dashboard and warm air circled around her. But inside, Nell shivered.
As the poet said, there were miles to go before they slept.
The Sea Harbor Historical Museum was located in an old house just off Harbor Road and across the street from a small park. Four brick pathways crisscrossed the square, converging at a small gazebo at its center. As if dressed for a party, tree branches along the pathways were draped with thousands of tiny Christmas lights, and hundreds of luminaries lined the pathways, their flickering candlelight lighting partygoers’ steps to the museum.
For the past few years, Laura and her banker husband had hosted the first big party of the season in their spacious home out on Sea Harbor Point, and each year Laura used the occasion to benefit a Sea Harbor need. This year Laura was determined to highlight the historical society building and to encourage residents to support needed repairs, staff hirings, and the acquisition of new exhibits and books.
“If anyone can bring attention to this old building, Laura Danvers can,” Nell said as she and Ben walked across the street. Izzy and Birdie followed close behind.
The three-story structure shimmered like a winter jewel with two enormous wreaths on the double doors and electric candles in every window. A shutter that just last week had been hanging loose was fastened tightly, ready for a party.
Even though the roof needed repairs, and here and there paint flaked from the eaves, the building was beautiful—a New England Colonial built a century before as a vacation home for a wealthy Boston businessman and his large family. Over the years, the home had gone through additions and changes and had finally been added to the historic registry and turned into a museum. It now housed exhibits, an impressive library, staff offices, and a paneled hall for events—especially festive tonight for Laura and Elliott’s party.
The double doors opened, and several teenage helpers dressed in holiday finery took their coats and pointed them toward the main hall.
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sp; Laura stood in the wide opening, composed, welcoming, and in a beautiful emerald green dress covered with tiny pearls.
She hugged Nell tightly. “Thanks for coming. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“Of course not. And you haven’t let us down, either. This is magnificent.” She looked into the hall, brimming with guests and alive with color and lights.
At the far end, with faces bright and free of the world’s worries, a choir of young boys and girls stood in a semicircle, their small bodies as straight as the candlesticks they clutched in their hands. Their sweet voices rose into the air as a single silvery sound, their mouths perfect ovals as they sang about coming home for Christmas and walking in a winter wonderland.
“A wonderland. That’s what you’ve created, Laura. You’ve done yourself proud,” Birdie said.
Alongside the singers, a tree nearly touched the high ceiling. It was covered with ornaments made and donated by Canary Cove artists. Each one reminded guests of their heritage—small wooden mermaids and lobster buoys, crocheted starfish and ceramic lobsters, and whales and sailboats. Tiny wreaths fashioned from yarn in Willow Adams’ unique style. And all for sale, a tasteful lettered signed told them. Proceeds to benefit the Sea Harbor Historic Museum.
On another wall, leaping flames in a huge old fireplace cast warm shadows across the room and lit round, smiling faces as the choir finished a number and bowed in unison, beaming at the applause. Small hands waved vigorously to proud parents.
Waiters, balancing trays of champagne and wine, pastry-wrapped olives, and small seafood quiches, moved through the festive crowd.
“Sam left a message he’d meet us here,” Izzy said, looking around the crowded room. She stood to the side, nervously fingering a lacy knit shawl around her bare shoulders. Beneath, a shimmering dress flowed over her narrow hips to the floor. Her eyes moved from group to group, looking for the sandy-haired photographer.
A Holiday Yarn Page 4