A large brass telescope on a wooden stand was positioned in the middle of the mullioned windows, its scope aimed out toward the sea. It was always ready to take one beyond the harbor or across the town. Birdie claimed she never used it, but Nell knew differently. Twice the older woman had spotted fires in the middle of the night, and who knew how many teenage beach parties she’d discovered in the early-morning hours?
“We’ll keep her coffee cup ready in case she joins us,” Ben said, his hand on the back of the chair.
Father Northcutt was sitting with Beatrice and Sal Scaglia at a sunny corner table. He looked up and waved at Ben.
Ben waved back and said to Nell, “Seeing the good padre reminds me that I have a check for him. Back in a minute.”
“Where’s Sam?” Nell asked when Ben was out of earshot.
“Oh, you know Sam. Independent. He’s off on an adventure.” Izzy stirred an unusual amount of cream into her coffee, then looked up and offered Nell a smile.
But the smile came only from her lips. Her eyes were another matter.
“To take photographs?”
“No.” Izzy pulled a piece of knitting from a large bag. It was a colorful square, a wooly stockinette weave of reds, yellows, and pale greens. A deep blue ribbing bordered the four sides. “It’s the Knit-a-Square project,” she said, holding it up. “Just needs the ends woven in. Next I start on a KasCuddle.”
Nell smiled. They’d be doing more squares at the cookie exchange, sending them off to South Africa, where the KasCare volunteers at the church would work them up into blankets and sweaters for children with AIDS. Izzy had become inspired by photos of the amazing blankets produced for the needy families, and in months she had the whole town knitting squares for Aunt Ronda and her workers in South Africa.
“So Sam’s gone somewhere mysterious, but not to take photographs,” Nell said, reluctant to drop the subject. “Maybe he’s Christmas shopping.”
The suggestion wasn’t lost on Izzy. She frowned at Nell. Then she set her square down on the table and looked intently at Nell.
“I know you’re concerned—please don’t be. It’s just one of those things. Sam is acting strange. Maybe it’s our relationship. Maybe we’ve gotten too close and he’s scared. Like wondering what’s next for us. I haven’t put pressure on him—I’m not even sure that I want to talk about what’s next. But Sam seems to be pulling away.”
Izzy caught her bottom lip between her teeth the way Nell remembered her doing when she was young, spending summers with Ben and Nell on Cape Ann, and life wasn’t going smoothly. The grown-up Izzy showed hurt in her eyes, as well.
She tried to mask it with a casual shrug of her shoulders.
Nell waited.
“Midlife crisis maybe? Who knows?” Izzy welcomed the distraction of Jenny, the waitress, wanting their order.
“He’s only thirty-nine,” Nell said softly, more to herself than to Izzy. She ordered for herself and Ben, and sat back, sipping her coffee and watching her niece while she ordered the special frittata.
There was an opinion, pushing against her lips, trying to get out, but she held it back. Izzy was ready to talk about the next step in her relationship, even if she didn’t realize it herself. Nell could see it in Izzy’s eyes when she looked at Sam. She could hear it in her voice when she held Liz Palazola-Santos’ new baby boy in her arms or knit up a cuddle for the babies in Africa. She could even see it in the wistful look on her face when she unpacked a new load of fingerling yarn in soft greens and pinks and light blues.
And she had heard it loud and clear when Izzy had asked Nell on her wedding anniversary what being married to Ben Endicott meant to her after all these years. Life, she’d answered without thinking. It meant life.
Sam was another story. Nell knew he loved Izzy. Everyone knew it. What began as a surprise encounter with his best friend’s little sister had slowly evolved into something far more. And before long, the photographer had bought a house overlooking the ocean, traveled less, and had slipped into Izzy’s life effortlessly, as if there had always been an Izzy and Sam.
Until now.
Nell wouldn’t tell Izzy, but she’d noticed Sam’s odd behavior herself. At the past Friday night supper at the Endicotts’ he had seemed like a bystander, standing on the fringe and looking in. Most of the time, he was looking at Izzy, and his eyes held the same longing she’d seen there before. But there was something else there now, something—as hard as she tried—Nell couldn’t put her finger on.
“When your uncle and I were processing our relationship, we had to make some compromises,” she finally said. The words sounded hollow, meaningless when they left her lips.
“Processing?” Izzy drew her brows together. “Aunt Nell, processing is what you do with meat—in a plant.”
Nell lifted one shoulder; a small smile lifted her lips. “I suppose. I only meant that important decisions sometimes take time and care and understanding. Sometimes patience, too.”
Izzy sipped her coffee and looked out the windows at the ocean several blocks away. With the trees stripped of leaves, and the restaurant high on Canary Cove Hill, the ocean seemed close. A perfect backdrop for the sleepy art colony nestled in between.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, cupping her chin in her hand. “There’s something going on. He went to Colorado this morning.”
Nell frowned. “Colorado? Why?” Sam was raised in Colorado but spent much of his youth in Kansas, either in school or spending summers at Nell’s sister’s ranch. The whole family—except for the adolescent Izzy, who considered boys an odd species back then—loved Sam. And they more than made up for a family he didn’t really have.
“I don’t know why. He said he had to see a man about a horse. But not to worry. He said he’d be back.”
“Of course he will.”
“The thing is . . . ”
Izzy looked directly at Nell, and her brown eyes revealed what the “thing” was before the words came.
“I love Sam Perry,” Izzy said. “But he’s closed off a part of himself from me. He loves me. I know that. But I don’t know why he’s doing this. And I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve always known what to do in my life; you know that. College. Law school. Quitting a law practice. Opening a yarn store.
“But now I don’t. And I have a shop to run, dozens of women wanting to make baby booties and sweaters and scarves. I have orders to fill and a roof to fix.” She paused just long enough to blink away the tears gathering in her eyes. “It isn’t right for him to shut me out like this,” she said softly. “It isn’t right.”
Nell had no answer, and they fell silent, tucking away the moment as Jenny came back with heaping platters of Annabelle’s special egg creations. She set the plates down in front of them just as Ben pulled out his chair and joined them.
Ben’s eyes lit up. A ring of breakfast sausages surrounded Ben’s cheesy eggs. Chunks of curry-spiced sweet potatoes poked out of the eggs from between thin slivers of fresh lemony chard. A layer of sour cream coated the top like new-fallen snow.
“I think I’m in love with Annabelle Palazola,” Ben said. His smile was huge as he dropped his folded New York Times on the empty chair and happily dug into the creamy frittata.
Ben attacked food like he attacked life, Nell thought, watching the eggs disappear. With great pleasure and fine sensibilities. One of a myriad of reasons why she’d married him.
A vibration in her pocket pulled Nell’s attention away from food. She looked down at the number. “It’s Birdie,” she said as she lifted the phone to her ear.
The conversation was brief. “Of course . . . Certainly . . . We’ll be there soon.”
She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
“Birdie is with Mary Pisano at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. She asked us to stop by when we’re finished here.”
“Problems?”
“She didn’t say. But it wasn’t really a request as much as a directive, not Birdie’s usual way—
although she did say we could finish breakfast first.” Nell paused, thinking back over the conversation. “I thought Mary would be with the family today, considering everything, but it’s just as well she’s with Birdie.”
“Father Northcutt said he was with the family late last night when they heard the news. They were pretty shook up. Suicide in a family is difficult. There’s guilt. Confusion. A murder is a whole different story.”
“I’m sure the police will want to talk to all of them.”
Ben nodded. “Father Larry said the relatives had all come together surprisingly fast on who might want Pamela dead.”
Nell and Izzy waited.
“Someone from the industry. A competitor. Pamela had made some sizable enemies in the industry and had even suggested that Pisano Publications give her an allowance for body-guard protection.”
“Jeez,” Izzy said.
“Yes. But I suppose it’d be a relief if it were true. This could be wrapped up neatly in record time.”
Like a Christmas present, Nell thought. Nice and neat with a bow on top.
But life rarely took that path. And all businesses had competition, but publishing rivals didn’t kill one another off like movie gangsters did.
Satisfied there were no traces of anything edible left on his plate, Ben took out his wallet and left several bills on the table. They slipped back into their winter coats and gathered up knitting bags and purses.
Nell looked over and waved at Father Northcutt. She smiled at Sal and Beatrice. A younger man sitting in the fourth chair was looking out the window, frowning. A folded-up newspaper sat in front of him.
“Who’s the good-looking guy with the Scaglias?” Izzy asked to Ben’s back.
“A relative,” Ben said over his shoulder. “Troy or Terry. Something like that. His brother is married to Beatrice’s sister. The guy is a model. But he lost his last job in the city, so he’s doing odd jobs for the Scaglias and some handiwork for Father Larry’s church. Sal and Beatrice are putting him up for a while until he gets his life together.”
“That’s nice of them,” Nell said.
“Apparently Beatrice’s brother-in-law is contributing a hunk of money to her political campaign. There was some incentive.”
“With looks like that, he should be modeling, not doing odd jobs,” Izzy said.
Nell looked back and caught the man’s profile. Grecian-like, a strong, straight nose and chin, with thick blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was good-looking, she agreed, though even from a distance she could see lines and the results of too much tanning.
Nell turned away, then stopped and looked back again.
“What’s wrong?” Izzy asked.
“I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“He’s been here a few weeks. You’ve probably seen him around town,” Ben said.
Nell looked again. Where had it been? Somewhere that mattered. But her memory refused to clear, and the niggling thought stayed there like an irritating fly, just on the edges of her consciousness.
Silly, she thought. She shouldn’t let it bother her. There were far more important things on her plate than a man she’d never been introduced to.
Even one as good-looking as Troy or Terry, or whoever he was.
Chapter 9
The parking lot at the Ravenswood-by-the-Sea bed-and-breakfast was remarkably peaceful when they pulled in. It looked like a normal afternoon, the street quiet, just as Ravenswood Road and the lovely neighborhood tended to be.
Mary’s little blue Honda was parked in the half-moon drive. Another car that Nell didn’t recognize was parked on the other side of the bricked area, just in front of the pathway to the carriage house. But there were no flashing lights or yellow tape closing off the drive. No police hovering over the area. No curiosity seekers.
“The police just left,” Mary explained as she ushered them in the front door. Georgia, the floppy goldendoodle, bounced beside her, her curly head and tail bobbing a welcome.
“They’ve been here for hours. It’s such a mess. So awful. They’re asking a million questions. Who would want to kill Pamela?” Her blue eyes filled her tear-stained face.
Then she waved the air in front of her as if erasing the thought and answered her own question. “Well, me, I suppose. And lots of other people. Pamela was a handful. But of course we wouldn’t have done it, not really.” She shook her head of dark curls. “Come back to the kitchen.”
The large kitchen was a shining mass of stainless steel with a butcher-block island that ran down the center like a fault line. The enormous Viking stove held a teakettle that whistled as they walked through the door. A mix of cinnamon, butter, and rising yeast dough filled the warm air with homespun odors.
Birdie sat on a stool at the island. At the sink, a dark-haired man in a T-shirt and jeans was scouring pots. His muscular back spoke of skiing, bike riding, or heavy lifting.
A plaid, well-used dog bed and bowl of water sat beneath the small kitchen desk. Georgia immediately curled up on the bed.
“Cinnamon rolls,” Birdie said, pointing to a bowl of dough still sitting on the island. “Comfort food.”
“I’d recognize that delicious aroma anywhere.” Nell looked over to the sink. “So, Kevin, you’re the chef that Mary stole away from Ocean’s Edge?”
Kevin Sullivan turned around. “Guilty.” The serious look that lengthened his face softened, and he managed a grin. “Mary needed someone to keep that mess of a family fed. She’s a friend. She asks, I come.” He waved a hello to Izzy as she slid onto the stool next to Birdie.
“Your cinnamon rolls alone will bring guests to this place, Kev,” Izzy said. “Good move, Mary.”
Mary put a hand on the young man’s well-muscled arm, her fingers barely spanning the top. “I wouldn’t survive without him. He’s chief cook and therapist.”
Kevin laughed. “I’ve been called lots of things, but that’s a new one.”
“Well, it’s true.” Mary turned toward the others. “Things are a mess around here, as you might imagine. The police are tramping all over the place. The neighbors are in an uproar. Look at this.”
Mary scooped up a stack of tattered posters and passed them around.
CLOSED.
HOUSE OF MURDER.
EVIL LIVES HERE.
“They were all along the roadside, up and down Ravenswood Road, like those political signs we put out for elections. Kevin saw them on his morning jog, and he and Birdie tore them down.”
“I knew some of the neighbors weren’t thrilled with the guesthouse idea, but this?” Nell frowned at the posters. “This is mean.”
“Someone wants the B and B closed down,” Ben said.
“Before it even opens.” Mary lifted her small body up onto a stool. She settled her sneakers on the rung and leaned her elbows on the island top. “I suppose they think a murder occurring on the back porch might scare guests away.”
“They might be right,” Ben said, a concerned look pulling his brows together. “But this is a nasty trick.”
Mary sighed. Less than five feet tall, Mary Pisano often boasted about buying her clothes in the juniors department of Macy’s. Nell thought she bought her spirit there, too. In her mid-forties, Mary was as energetic as a teenager. In addition to cheering up the town with her chatty “About Town” column, Mary was a collector of needy creatures—birds with broken wings, baby rabbits, lost souls. Her door was never closed. Nell suspected it was a way of staving off loneliness when her fisherman husband was at sea for long stretches. But it was more than that—it was who she was. And right now she was someone deeply concerned about her sister’s murder, which had occurred just outside her back door.
“The real crime with these posters is using a tragedy to promote a cause,” Ben said.
“Pamela’s death,” Izzy said.
“Her murder. A cheap thing to do, using that to keep the B and B from opening. Did you show these to the police?”
“She did,” Kevin said. He wiped
his hands on a towel, put on oven mitts, and pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven.
“They didn’t seem interested,” Mary said. “I understand. The bigger issue, of course, is finding whoever killed Pamela.”
“What happened to the business-associate suspect?”
“That’s the neat-and-clean solution my cousins proposed. They happen to dislike one of Pamela’s competitors intensely. But it’s ridiculous to think some Fortune Five Hundred company sent someone to Sea Harbor to kill Pamela. Mostly, the family just wants this whole thing to go away. It’s not good for business.”
For the next few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was that of warm cinnamon rolls being passed around the island and the contented licking of fingers.
Finally Ben asked, “Did Jerry mention other suspects?”
Mary shook her head.
Kevin watched Mary, then spoke, his brown eyes still on his boss. “They asked me a lot of questions. Mary wants to pretend it didn’t matter.”
“Why?” Ben helped himself to another roll.
“Because Pamela hung out in the kitchen a lot the first few days she was here. She’d go out back to smoke, then come back in here and hang out.”
“So?” Izzy asked, puzzled. “I’d hang out in here, too, if you were popping out cinnamon rolls like this every day.”
Kevin was quiet. His eyes turned hard.
Mary pulled her body up as straight as the pine tree outside the kitchen window. “It wasn’t for the food. Cousin Pamela liked younger men. Handsome men. She had the hots for Kevin, you might say.”
Nell held back a smile. It was a good thing that Mary hadn’t decided on politics as a career. Diplomacy wasn’t her forte. She looked over at Kevin, who was clearly embarrassed by the conversation. But surely it wasn’t the first time someone had come on to him. He was a ruggedly handsome man. “Pamela had good taste. But I’m not sure why that would be an issue. Whether you reciprocated or not.”
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