Two days later, the bells at Our Lady of the Seas tolled mournfully.
All through town, people paused in the middle of eating breakfast or watching the morning news. They pulled their eyes away from the morning paper or stood silent in the line at Coffee’s, the only sound in the shop the hiss of the espresso machine.
It was instinctive, spontaneous, the reverence due to the dead.
Nell pulled her eyes away from the Sea Harbor Gazette and looked toward the window, as if she could see the bells in the hilltop steeple and the Pisano family, gathered together in the beautiful old church. “It’s a shame they kept the funeral so private. People need closure,” Nell said.
“It was for the mother,” Ben said. “The family thought it would be best to have a small service, nothing afterward. The police haven’t released Pamela’s body yet, but Father Larry put together something meaningful, I’m sure. It makes sense.”
“She’s being cremated,” Izzy piped up from her place beside the island. She sat on top of a kitchen stool pouring half-and-half into a large coffee mug.
Ben had heard that, too. He grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled a tray of blueberry scones from the oven.
“How was your run, Iz? Good?” Nell asked, shifting the conversation to a brighter note. Having Izzy sitting in their kitchen in the middle of the week, her cheeks pink from the wind and her eyes bright, was a welcome antidote to the funeral dirge being sung just a few blocks away.
“Good,” Izzy answered, her eyes glued to the flaky scone Ben slipped onto a plate and pushed over to her. Her slender legs were wrapped in long, lined running pants, a yellow Lycra jacket still warming her arms.
“I don’t know how you run along the ocean when it’s this cold.” Nell took off her reading glasses and pushed them to the top of her head. “It makes me cold to think about it.”
“We ran up in Sam’s neighborhood, not right on the beach. There are enough trees to block the wind.”
Nell felt Ben’s quick look. No questions, it said. Nell smiled at her husband and dutifully held back.
But she knew Ben held the same concerns, even if he expressed them differently. While driving home the night before, Ben admitted that Sam had been unusually quiet at the Gull. He and Izzy had left together, but there was tension between them. They’d all felt it.
Birdie had loudly declared the topic off-limits and shushed them into silence. Having buried several husbands, she felt she knew a little about lovers’ secrets, she said.
But later, in the privacy of the Endicott bedroom, secrets of loved ones could be explored delicately.
“Why can’t they just talk it out and move on?” Nell had whispered into the darkness.
Ben had laughed and turned on his side, his large arm pulling her into the curve of his body.
And then Nell laughed, too.
So easy to say. So difficult to do.
Nell had let it go—and allowed the warmth of Ben’s body to lull her to sleep.
Things looked better that morning. Izzy seemed fine—even without the interference of her aunt. Perhaps Izzy and Sam had done exactly that—talked it out, whatever “it” was, and moved on. Maybe it wasn’t so difficult after all.
“Listen to this,” Izzy said, leaning over the newspaper. She read aloud:ABOUT TOWN—SEA HARBOR, SAFE HARBOR
by Mary Pisano
The sadness of losing our beloved Pamela has been made bearable by you, the people of Sea Harbor, and for that we give great thanks. What was frightening and difficult has been eased by the comfort and loving goodwill of our friends and neighbors, and by the amazing Sea Harbor Police Department, ever vigilant, always professional.
We are comforted by the knowledge that the lost soul who brought this sadness into our lives has probably moved on, far away from Sea Harbor. A stranger who knew us not, but whose irrational act took a life.
We put our trust and our safety into our wonderful men in blue as we move forward with all of you into the joy of this holiday season, celebrating family and friends in this most amazing safe haven—our town—our sea. Our safe Sea Harbor.
“Mary’s back,” Nell said.
“Out of sight, out of mind—is that what she’s saying?” Ben asked. “Surely she doesn’t believe that someone wandered into the Pisano backyard, shot her cousin, then moved on.”
“It’s her way of trying to calm everyone’s fears. She’s removing the murder from Sea Harbor by putting a stranger ’s face on the horrible act.”
“And getting rid of the stranger,” Izzy said.
“It’s what Mary wishes were true.”
Ben refilled mugs around the island. “Neat and tidy. Mary has a knack for that, but she’s also a realist, and there’s no way she believes it herself. I’ll be interested to hear what Chief Thompson thinks about her theory.”
Cell phone chimes joined the conversation. “That’s probably Mae, trying to track you down,” Nell said, rummaging through a stack of papers on the counter, looking for her phone.
“No. Mae officially barred me from the knitting studio on Wednesdays. At least occasionally. It’s usually our slow day, and she’s insisting I stay out of her hair unless I’m teaching a class. She can be a real bulldog.”
“Good for Mae,” Nell said. She glanced down at Birdie’s number and pressed the talk button.
Birdie started talking before Nell could squeeze in more than a “Hi.”
Izzy tried to catch the gist of the conversation, but the few words Nell was allowed to utter brought little explanation.
“The poor thing.”
“She’ll freeze to death. . . . ”
And finally, “Of course. We’ll be there right away, Birdie.”
Nell and Izzy parked on the side of the driveway and walked through the snow toward the unlikely duo.
Birdie, bundled up in a heavy brown coat with a hood that covered everything but her eyes, her red nose, and her mouth, stood next to the Ravenswood-by-the-Sea sign.
Next to her, a round, determined body in a white snowsuit stood in a foot of snow holding a can of red spray paint, one finger resting on the nozzle, a walking stick in the other hand. Running across the sign was a crimson diagonal, the broad sweep of paint reaching from one corner to the other.
Henrietta O’Neal’s face was frozen in a fierce look, determined to spray one more line to complete her “X.”
“You could get arrested, Henrietta,” Birdie was saying. “This is private property.”
Henrietta would have none of it. “It used to be private property. Enzo Pisano’s private property. Now it’s a travesty to his name, a commercial den of iniquity. A death trap. A haven for murderers.” She paused long enough to wave hello to Nell and Izzy, then continued. “The devil’s hideaway, tainted by murder.”
“Oh, hush, Henrietta,” Birdie said, shivering.
Henrietta glared back at her. “So you called in reinforcements, did you? That’s fine and dandy, but it won’t get you anywhere, Bernadette Favazza.”
“You’re going to freeze to death out here,” Nell said.
“Back at you, Nell,” Henrietta scolded. Her voice was strong and fierce, belying her eighty years. “And you, Isabel Chambers, you should be at that shop of yours ordering the yarn for my new sweater, not tramping around in this snow. You’ll catch your death of cold, sweetheart.”
“Why are you ruining Mary’s new sign?” Nell asked.
“Why do you think? To keep people away. To rid this place of evil spirits. Mary Pisano isn’t in her right mind. We don’t need this in the neighborhood. We don’t want this. Strangers tromping around, doing lord knows what. It’s shameful. Disgraceful. Enzo must be rolling over in his grave, God rest his soul.”
Izzy eased the can of paint out of Henrietta’s hand while Birdie and Nell each took one of her arms, guiding her away from the sign.
A car turned into the drive, slowed at the sight of the three women, and then came to a quick stop. Mary Pisano and Nancy Hughes tumbled out
and hurried toward them.
“What are you doing here?” Mary asked. Her eyes moved to the sign and widened at the red paint.
“Your lovely sign,” Nancy cried. “What’s happened?”
“I did it.” Henrietta planted her feet in the snow and pulled herself up to her nearly five feet. Her eyes flashed.
“Why?” Mary asked.
“You cannot open this bed-and-breakfast, Mary Pisano. I forbid it.”
“Let’s go inside and talk about it, get you out of the cold,” Mary said reasonably. She began leading the group back to the driveway. Birdie cradled Henrietta’s elbow in the palm of her hand.
Henrietta walked compliantly across the snowy yard until they reached the drive. Then, suddenly, she shook herself free of Birdie’s hold, grabbed the can of red paint from Izzy, and stomped down the driveway toward the road, her short legs spinning and her elbows moving back and forth with unstoppable determination. She jabbed her walking stick into the crust of snow with each step.
“Will she be all right?” Nancy asked.
Birdie nodded. “Henrietta walks a couple miles a day, even in this crazy weather. She can’t do stairs, but she could walk from here to California if she had a mind to. She’ll be fine.” She looked at Mary sadly. “But I’m afraid your sign won’t.”
“Troy can fix it.” Mary watched Henrietta turn at the end of the drive and disappear up Ravenswood Road. “I just wonder what’s next on her list of things to do to me.” She picked up some protest posters that Henrietta had left behind and began to walk toward the house. “Nancy spotted her yesterday going up and down Harbor Road, handing these out to all the merchants.”
“Which they will all ignore,” Nell said. “Almost everyone is behind your project, Mary. Archie said it will bring new customers into the bookstore, and Harry and all the other shop and restaurant owners feel the same way. People will have a place for their relatives to stay. We’ve needed a small, lovely bed-and-breakfast here for a long time. Rockport is filled with charming places. We need some of our own.”
Mary squeezed Nell’s arm in a silent thank you. “Come,” she said. “A cup of herbal tea will help shake off the bad spirits, imagined and otherwise.” She rummaged through her purse for her key. “I don’t think I’m thinking very clearly today.”
“That’s understandable,” Nancy said. She pulled a key from her own bag and unlocked the door. They walked into the large entryway, welcomed by a leaping Georgia, who ran between Nancy and Mary, licking hands and happily wagging her tail.
It wasn’t until they were settled into the comfortable chairs in the living room with teacups and a pot of cinnamon-orange tea nearby that Nell remembered where Mary had spent the morning. It wasn’t just the ruined sign that had caused the sadness in her eyes. “Mary, I’d almost forgotten what you’ve already been through today. The funeral . . . ”
Mary waved away Nell’s words. “It’s over. Father Northcutt did a lovely job of putting together a service without a body, and my aunt Dolores—Pamela’s mother—handled it well, though I don’t know how much she understood. It was short and sweet, what everyone wanted.”
“So you can get back to leading your lives.”
“I hope. There are still things to work out about Pamela’s magazine.”
“Rumor has it that Agnes is taking over,” Birdie said.
Mary chuckled. “Rumors begun, no doubt, by Agnes. Agnes is smart enough—and she’s begged for the opportunity to show what she can do. When we met last summer, she begged us to make a decision. She wanted it in writing somewhere that if Pamela stepped down, she would be the top contender for the job. Some of my sexist cousins think a fashion magazine editor needs to be beautiful and sexy, not exactly Agnes’ profile. Anyway, it was an odd conversation because everyone knew Pamela would never have relinquished her hold on that magazine. But to get Agnes to stop talking about it, we agreed to what she asked.”
“She seemed to be confident of her position at the Danverses’ party,” Izzy said.
“Can you believe her? Two days after Pamela died? The family was upset about that. It didn’t seem respectful, I suppose.” Mary sighed. “Selfishly, I’m more interested in Ravenswood-by-the-Sea than the magazine discussions. I’m determined to finish this wonderful place and have a glorious opening that you will all come to.” She looked up at a portrait of Enzo Pisano that hung above the fireplace. “I want to do it for him. And thanks to Nancy, it might actually happen.”
“We’ll get it done,” Nancy said, her voice lifting and a smile lighting her face. “It will take more than a little red paint to stop us.”
“Not a pretty sight to come home to,” Birdie said.
“She’s a little frightening in her zeal,” Nancy said. “Why is she so adamant about this? You could have her arrested, Mary.”
Mary shrugged. “At first I thought it was just the neighborhood thing, that she thought a bed-and-breakfast was too commercial for this elegant neighborhood, but now I don’t know. She puts up signs; she’s staging war at city council meetings. She seems determined to stop me. She’s capitalizing on Pamela’s murder, which is pretty awful. She’s using it to paint the house as haunted or some other god-awful thing. But frankly, I don’t think she believes a word of what she’s saying. Something else is going on in her head, and I wish I knew what it was.”
“Henrietta has always liked causes—but usually good ones,” Nell said. “Remember her door-to-door campaign for Obama? Maybe she sees this as a cause.”
Birdie laughed at the memory of Henrietta renting an old Cape Anne school van and a driver to transport voters. “She would have driven them herself except no one would get in the van with her. The woman is a terrible driver. But this is strange behavior, even for her. She’s always been a good neighbor, welcoming new people with elaborate baskets of goodies—and she’s the first one to bring soup when someone’s sick. When Enzo had that spell a few years back, she was more dutiful than Meals on Wheels. She brought soup, lasagna, pot roast—a true Florence Nightingale.”
Mary smiled. “I remember. She’d come in, lugging her wicker baskets filled with food—and drink, I might add. I think my grandfather gained ten pounds while he was sick. He loved it.”
“So why would a nice person expend this kind of energy on something that won’t affect her at all? She’ll never even see the guests coming and going,” Nancy said.
“Exactly,” Mary said. “Why?”
So many “why’s” rattling around in this big house, Nell thought, looking around the room as the others tried to make sense of Henrietta O’Neal. Her eyes traveled to the enormous fireplace with a hand-carved walnut mantel holding photos and pottery. The shelves beside it were filled with books and small paintings, and the recently reupholstered furniture was tasteful and comfortable. She remembered coming to parties in this room, parties Enzo proudly hosted, long after his wife had died. He was the consummate host, charming and with a contagious sense of humor. There was always laughter here. A happy house. Certainly not one filled with evil spirits as Henrietta would have the world believe.
The slamming of a back door pulled her from her memories.
“It’s just Kevin,” Mary said. “That back door sticks. Did I tell you he’s going to stay on here? He’ll work part-time at the Ocean’s Edge, but once we’re up and running, he’ll handle breakfasts and a cocktail hour here for the guests.”
“That’s terrific,” Izzy said. “I think I’ll sign up for a weekend getaway myself. It would be worth it, just for those amazing little things Kevin makes with prosciutto and figs. He’ll help put you on the map.”
Mary laughed. “He’s good; that’s for sure. And it solves some problems for us. My Ed doesn’t want to move here. He loves our little house. We see each other infrequently enough without having to search for each other like we’d have to do in this big place. But I’d feel better if someone were on the grounds during the night. So Kevin is going to take over the carriage house, keep an eye
on things when the staff isn’t here.”
Nell listened and marveled at Mary’s ability to wade through the tragedy that occurred on her back porch and think of some one else’s needs at the same time. Clearly this wasn’t just a business decision. This would help Kevin enormously. He was saving up for expensive classes at the culinary institute—and a rent-free apartment would be a great help.
“When does he move in?”
Nancy answered. “Probably not for a week or so. There’s still some work to do in the carriage house. This week has set us back a little.”
In many ways, Nell thought. Murder was more than a setback. It not only ended a life; it changed the lives of those left behind, and Nell suspected they had just begun to count the ways.
“We’re all happy you’re back writing ‘About Town,’ ” Birdie said. “We missed your column.”
“I thought people might think me uncaring to go back to it so soon, but the truth of the matter is that Pamela is dead, and we’re not. Life goes on.”
“Your column indicates that the murderer is someone who didn’t live here?”
“Yes. Pamela didn’t have the highest regard for people’s lives. She fired people at the drop of a hat.”
“But lots of people get fired and they don’t . . . ” Nell began.
Then she stopped. Mary Pisano was one of the strongest people Nell knew. But she was fragile right now. She had just buried her cousin, and for today, at least, she needed the murderer to be a blank face, someone removed from her life and her town—and most especially from her bed-and-breakfast. There were plenty of reasons to think it was someone right here in Sea Harbor. But for today at least, Mary needed to believe otherwise.
“I think I’ll get more hot water for the tea,” Nell said, picking up the teapot and changing the subject. “And maybe I can talk Kevin into giving us something from his oven.”
Nell left the others discussing the bedrooms and especially Enzo Pisano’s master suite—the highlight of which was a massive walnut bed, hand carved and brought over from Italy, piece by piece. “It’s Mary’s own presidential suite,” Nancy declared proudly.
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