“Georgia seems to like her,” Birdie offered.
“Yes, she loves Henrietta. I don’t get it, but Henrietta is very kind to Georgia. She’d beat me with her walking stick if she had half a chance, but she couldn’t be nicer to Georgia. But enough about my little neighborhood nemesis; let me show you the upstairs. It will keep me from feeling sorry for myself.”
Mary led the way up the wide, winding staircase. Halfway up, an upholstered window seat invited guests to sit and look out the round window at the snowy pathways crisscrossing the back of the estate. Or to snuggle up with a book. On the second floor, Mary had turned several small sitting rooms into bathrooms so that each bedroom suite was complete in itself with a modern bath, wide beds, Egyptian cotton linens, and comfortable seating and balcony areas.
Birdie and Nell followed her from room to room, admiring familiar art, pottery, and paintings from Ham and Jane Brewster’s studio, carved wooden fishermen and fiber art from Willow Adams’ Fishtail Gallery. And imagining the Seaside Knitters’ soft throws gracing each bed.
“You need to invite the whole town to your grand opening. Once people see what you’ve done, you’ll be booked for years. I can’t wait to put Izzy’s parents up here the next time they come. Caroline will fall in love with the place.”
“I hope so,” Mary said, but her words were flat, without that split second of joy they’d seen in her eyes when they had walked through the front door earlier, just as her first guests would do.
They followed her back to the center staircase that continued up to the third level. “This is where Grandfather Enzo stayed, even after Grandmother died. Can you believe that he stayed on the third floor? He put in that chair lift”—she pointed to an electric chair fastened to the wall on one side of the stairs—“but never used it, as far as I know.”
On the third floor, at the top of the stairs, love seats and a desk filled a cozy sitting area. On either side a carved double door opened into a bedroom.
“That room was Grandmother Helen’s,” Mary said, pointing to one side. “It’s dainty and feminine, just like she was. They each liked privacy, but my grandfather was quick to tell me they’d meet on each other’s turf when it pleased them—which was often, he’d say. Then I’d change the subject fast, not sure how far he’d go in detailing his love life.”
She led them into the other room, an area as spacious as a small apartment. “And here’s the royal boudoir.”
Casement windows filled the far wall, a fireplace, leather chair, and bookcase another. But gracing the third wall was the pièce de résistance, the massive bed, carved from thick, dark walnut with fleur-de-lis gold plume finials. It was the largest bed Nell had ever seen.
“Amazing.” She walked over to the elaborate headboard and ran her fingers over the carved swirls, loops, and intricate ropes.
“It makes you want to meet the artist.”
“We know one of them,” Mary said. She walked over and guided Nell’s fingers to a spot just at the edge of the headboard, moving her fingers around a less polished carving.
“It’s a heart,” Nell said. She put on her glasses and looked more closely. Then she laughed. “Enzo Pisano was a romantic.”
“An understatement,” Mary said.
Birdie leaned in. She chuckled. In the center of the roughly carved heart, her fingers traced the letters. “E.P.” and “H.” “Enzo and Helen. And Helen’s period is a tiny ‘O.’ Or maybe it’s another heart, a heart within a heart. Fancy.”
“As was she—fancy, I mean,” Mary said. “Grandmother Helen knew antiques, and when I found this carving after Grandfather died, I was amazed that she’d let him carve in this gorgeous wood. She wouldn’t let him sign Christmas cards—he was too sloppy.”
“Love,” Birdie said. “It allows many things.”
“Grandfather brought this bed over from Italy for her. It’s priceless. Nancy researched it for me—Italian Renaissance style, she said. We think the craftsman put it together right here in this room.”
“This explains why Enzo didn’t move down a flight or two as he got older,” Birdie said. “How could you leave this amazing bed?”
“And you’d never get it down the stairs without dismantling it,” Mary said.
Nell looked around at the rest of the room. A watercolor of the harbor hung over the fireplace, and framed photos of Enzo deep-sea fishing hung along a narrow stretch of wall.
She walked over to the window and looked out, then backed up quickly. “Oh, my.” Nell took a deep breath.
“Are you all right?”
“A touch of vertigo. I forgot how high up we were. ”
“It’s the tall ceilings and the deep slope in the back. It’s probably more like a fourth or fifth story.” Mary pointed to a door near the windows. It opened to a balcony, just big enough for two chairs and a table. “It didn’t bother Grandfather. He loved sitting out there.”
“A martini deck,” Birdie said. “Sonny insisted we have one off our bedroom.”
“Did you ever have a martini on it?” Nell asked.
Birdie’s white brows lifted playfully. “We had lots of things on it.”
A loud noise from below the windows brought them all to the window. Kevin Sullivan, wearing heavy gloves, was dragging a ladder into the backyard.
“We need to paint the eaves before it snows again,” Mary explained. “The paint has peeled away, and Nancy is afraid the wood will rot.” She pointed toward the roof overhang along the back of the house.
“Someone’s going to climb all the way up here?” Nell asked.
“Clearly not you, Nell,” Mary teased.
“I’m a sensible sissy—who prefers keeping her feet on the ground.”
Birdie watched Kevin lay the ladder alongside the back porch. “He’s a hardworking fellow, isn’t he?”
“The best,” Mary said. “I need to catch him before he leaves. Are we through here?”
Reluctantly they left the grandeur of the Enzo Pisano suite, as it would be called, and followed Mary down a flight of back stairs that went all the way down to the kitchen. “There’s coffee brewing,” she said over her shoulder.
Kevin stood at the kitchen door on a black rubber mat, stomping the snow off his boots. “Coffee’s still hot,” he said.
Beneath the smile he looked older than he had just days ago. Or weary, perhaps. “You’re not getting up there, are you, Kevin?” Nell asked.
Kevin shook his head. “I’m not much of a painter, I’m afraid.” He looked over at Mary. “Nancy was having a fit about the painting. She was in a stew today but said Troy’ll be here to finish the painting midafternoon. Who knows if he’ll show? Rumor has it he had a wild night last night, but Nancy said he’d show or else.”
“Which reminds me—where’s that metal ladder the construction crew used?”
“The construction guys took it away. Too bad; this damn thing weighs a ton. But it should work.”
She frowned. “Are you and Nancy getting along all right?”
Kevin laughed. “Don’t you have enough on your mind without worrying if your staff gets along? Yah, we’re fine. She’s a hard worker. Sometimes a tough taskmaster and kinda rigid and bossy for my taste. That’s okay, though. But DeLuca? Not so much.”
Mary began pouring coffee while Kevin grabbed his car keys from the desk and pulled his hat back on.
“How’s your mother?” Nell asked him. “I saw her group singing in the square the other day.”
“She’s fine, thanks. She loves all that, the Altar Society. Helping Father Northcutt with his projects. Directing those old ladies in song. It’s pretty much her life. And keeps her away from my pa. Not a bad thing.”
“She’s a good woman.”
They all understood the meaning behind Birdie’s words. Stories of Kevin’s rough, hard-drinking father had circulated for years. A nice man in the morning, a mean one when he hit the taverns at night. The contrast with his sweet wife and fine son was startling.
&nbs
p; “So I’m outta here. Going to Boston for the night. But DeLuca has a key if he needs anything. The fire’s out in the fireplace, and I checked all the doors. I’m working at the Edge Saturday night, but Nancy says the carriage house is move-in ready if you say it’s okay—maybe Sunday?”
“Absolutely,” Mary waved him out the door. “Go. Have fun.”
His tall shadow moved passed the kitchen windows as he headed down the steps to the parking area. A familiar path. The snow was entirely cleared away now, the porch so clean it didn’t seem to belong to the rest of the snowy landscape. No snow. No blood. No reminders, except the images imprinted in their memories.
Nell shivered, wrapping her fingers tight around the coffee mug. “Mary, the person who did this—do you think they walked around the house to get to the porch or came through the backyard? The garage?”
“None of the above. The police said unless the person had wings, there was no way he or she came from the far backyard without leaving prints. The only steps around the side of the house since it was shoveled earlier that day were yours. Pamela would have gone out the den door—that’s the one guests use. But I think the person who killed her went right out this door. The kitchen door. And that’s how Georgia got outside.”
“Couldn’t Georgia have gone out with Pamela?”
“No. Pamela didn’t like Georgia, and the feeling was quite mutual. I think that’s one of the reasons my grandfather couldn’t quite warm up to Pamela. Georgia was his love. Pamela would have had to offer the sweet thing a steak to lure her outside, and I’m not sure even that would have done it.”
They looked through the windows, challenging the porch to tell them something, to relinquish its secrets. At that moment, Georgia bounded up the steps and to the kitchen door, her large paw knocking to get in.
Mary let her in, and she made the rounds, insisting on head scratches from each of them before settling down in her bed beneath Kevin’s desk.
“I’ve gone over that day a million times,” Mary said. “The police think it happened about six thirty that evening. Usually at that time of day there would still have been people milling around, my family, the workmen, deliveries. But the family had agreed to meet at the Gull to unwind. The construction guys finished early that day. And I left to pick up some candles Nancy wanted for the dining room, and then on to meet her for a dinner meeting. I left Georgia here because I knew I was coming back that night to meet the two of you.”
“And Pamela?”
“She never intended to go to the Gull. Her excuse was vague, but we all figured she was meeting someone, probably in the carriage house. Troy, maybe? He came around looking for her, and they talked during a break, maybe making plans.”
“For that night?”
“Apparently. Troy told the police she had blown him off. Who knows if that’s true or not.”
“Was there anyone else she was seeing while she was here?”
“You mean a man?”
Nell nodded. “Tommy Porter said she was involved with some man a few summers ago—in addition to his brother Eddie.
Mary nodded. “It was a few years ago, the summer she moved Aunt Dolores into the nursing home. I remember because she was here most of the summer, taking care of the house and Aunt Dolores’ things. The thing with Eddie Porter was unfortunate—the way they were all over town together. Agnes and I knew it was doomed, that Pamela was just bored. But you don’t tell a guy that.”
“What about this other man?”
“I had forgotten about that until you mentioned it. But yes, there was someone else. Pamela wasn’t usually secretive, but she was this time, never mentioning who the guy was. I think he was the reason she tossed Eddie aside. She talked about jewelry, clothes—kind of expensive gifts, so the guy had money. One weekend she asked Agnes and me to check on Aunt Dolores because she was flying off to Maine or somewhere. And then he started calling her. It was intense, almost scary. One night we were having dinner with Grandfather, and Pamela was in the hall, screaming over the phone, telling him to leave her alone or she’d call the police. She seemed genuinely worried. And she went back to New York a couple weeks earlier than planned just to get away from him.”
“Who was he?”
“She never said. She showed off the expensive gifts—but that was it.”
“Do you think that whoever it was carried a grudge?”
“And killed her?” Mary said, her brows lifting.
“It’s possible.”
Mary thought for a minute, giving the idea time to percolate. “I don’t think she got any strange phone calls these past days, at least none I knew about. And she’s been in Sea Harbor often the past couple years, so it seems odd that whoever this guy is would pop up all of a sudden. Nancy or I would have known if anyone strange had been hanging around here, and Pamela stayed here the whole time. But back then, she was spooked; I remember that. He wouldn’t let go of her. Frankly, the way she treated men, we were a little surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.”
“Tommy Porter seemed sure this guy didn’t do it, but he didn’t explain why.”
“If Pamela threatened to call the police, maybe Tommy had an inside track,” Birdie said. “He’s a policeman—he wouldn’t rule out a suspect in a murder case lightly.”
Nell nodded. Birdie was right. But right or wrong, it didn’t take away the niggling feeling that refused to budge. Tommy might be right. But it was like an out-of-place stitch in a perfectly worked cashmere sweater—one that refused to give up its hold until it was fixed.
Birdie looked outside again. “So Pamela was the only one left here that night?”
“I think so. She was out there smoking when I left.”
“There was a pile of cigarette butts on the porch,” Birdie said.
Mary nodded. “They were wet from the snow, so the lab couldn’t get other prints, if there were any.”
“The silence of snow,” Nell murmured.
“Mary,” Birdie said, her brow pulled tight. “This thing between Kevin and Troy—what was that about? Did it have anything to do with Pamela?”
“They just didn’t like each other, that’s all. Two very different personalities with next to nothing in common. Pamela had come on to both of them; I suppose they had that in common. And both of them ended up disliking her. But that was it. No story there.”
The ringing of Mary’s phone ended the conversation.
Birdie thought Mary seemed relieved.
“If the phone hadn’t rung,” Birdie said to Nell on the way home, “she would have figured out another way to end the conversation. Once we started talking about Kevin, she was ready to move on.”
Nell agreed. There was definitely something about Troy DeLuca and Kevin Sullivan that Mary didn’t want to talk about.
It hadn’t been the time to convince Mary it might be useful information, but the weary look in her eyes told Nell that the right time might be just around the corner.
Chapter 19
People wandered over to the Endicotts’ home earlier than usual Friday night, bringing in the cold, damp air with them. Izzy—with Sam on her arm—was the first to arrive.
Izzy seemed happy, but guardedly so.
Nell hugged them both.
“How’s Boston, Sam?”
“Sin city, Nell,” he said. “Stay away.”
He had good color, Nell thought. A smile. And he hadn’t lost any weight that she could tell. Sam Perry was healthy.
She looked around Sam’s broad shoulders to Ben, standing over a tray of trout at the kitchen island, watching his wife.
He looked over the rim of his reading glasses. His eyes said, See, Nellie?
Earlier, when she’d told him about Harriet Brandley seeing Sam in Boston, Ben had bristled slightly, an unusual reaction from her calm, even-tempered mate. “His business,” he’d said. “Not ours. Not even Izzy’s, unless Sam makes it so.”
Those were Nell’s thoughts, too, of course. But seeing them together was the real
salve she needed to soothe her mind.
Danny Brandley came in next, carrying a platter of miniature lobster rolls.
“Did you make those?” Izzy asked, her brows lifting. “I know Cass didn’t.”
“You’re right, she didn’t, and yes, I did. Ben inspires me. But I’m a failure at catching lobsters. So Cass catches, I cook ’em.”
“A match made in lobster heaven,” Nell said, putting the platter on the island.
Danny laughed. “Or hell, depending on your take.”
Cass followed close behind, her cheeks wind chapped and her strong arms and body nearly buried in a thick green fisherman’s sweater Izzy had made for her. She carried two bottles of wine. “I don’t think I will ever be warm again,” she said. “It was so cold on the water this morning.”
She walked over and pulled one of Danny’s arms around her shoulders.
“Brazen hussy,” he said, and pulled her close. “Is that all I’m good for?”
Cass lifted her dark brows and shrugged. “You tell me, mystery man.”
Danny Brandley had moved back to Sea Harbor to write a mystery novel. But rather than turn into a writing recluse, he’d succumbed nicely to Cass’ advances and had effortlessly become a part of all their lives. Mary Halloran was thrilled with her daughter’s interest in Danny and had exchanged her pleading prayer novenas at Our Lady of the Seas to ones of thanksgiving.
Cass pulled free to give Nell a hug. “Where’s Birdie?”
“Harold is driving her over. He doesn’t have enough work to keep him busy, and driving Birdie’s monstrous Lincoln around town seems to fill a need.” Nell wasn’t quite sure what Birdie’s gardener did these days, even in the summer, but he and his Ella had lived in the cozy carriage house over the Favazza garage for so long, they were a part of the family. They would have a home there forever—Birdie made that abundantly clear.
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