Jane and Ham Brewster came in, followed closely by the Wootens. Don Wooten carried two cherry pies and a container of rum ice cream.
Rachel and Jane headed for the fireplace, rubbing the life back into their hands. Nell followed with a tray of martinis. “Ben’s cold remedy,” she said, handing one to each of them.
Jane fingered a hand-carved angel tucked into the pine branches on top of the mantel. She breathed in the smell of Christmas. “Any news on the Pisano case?”
Rachel sighed. “Poor Mary. Not only is she dealing with the police and a murder, she has Henrietta O’Neal on her hands. She just won’t give up. She’s at my office door nearly every day.” As a lawyer for the city, Rachel was in the middle of everything from property squabbles to new development.
“She plastered our galleries with posters a few days ago before we got to work. She’s on a mission,” Jane said.
“In an odd way, she’s a welcome distraction,” Rachel said. “Her antics are far more benign than searching for a murderer.”
Cass wedged her way into the group with a small plate of lobster rolls. “Speaking of murderers, tell me what you make of this: Danny and I went to the Ocean’s Edge last night for a late drink in a quiet place. But it was not to be. There sat Troy DeLuca, holding court and peeling dollar bills off a huge wad. He was treating everyone, even us. He said it was his swan song, that he was leaving Sea Harbor—tomorrow, I think he said.”
Nell felt it again—that mixture of relief and dismay at Troy’s leaving. Relief that the unpleasant man wouldn’t be around. But were they letting a murderer get away?
“Apparently Troy has plans,” Jane said. “Agnes Pisano came in the gallery yesterday to buy some art for an apartment she’s leased in New York while she gets the magazine under control. She mentioned that she was having Troy do a photo shoot in Fashion Monthly.”
“So she’s really going to hire Troy?” Cass grimaced.
“I think she’s sorry for the way Pamela treated him.”
“Which might have been reason to kill her,” Rachel said quietly. “I’m surprised Agnes isn’t more tuned in to that. Pamela was her cousin, after all. If there was any indication at all that Troy’d been there that night, I think he’d be sitting in jail, not entertaining people in a bar.”
There. Rachel had put it out there. A thought they were all toying with.
“And if he didn’t do it,” Nell said, “I can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow connected to it.” And if Troy disappeared, would they ever find out the truth?
“Agnes has benefited from her cousin’s death,” Jane said. “She probably doesn’t want to rock the boat. I think she’s keeping herself as far away from the investigation as possible.”
They all stood sipping their drinks in silence, pondering the unimaginable—that anyone they knew, anyone they saw every day, an acquaintance, a relative, could possibly have put a gun to Pamela Pisano’s head.
“Where do you suppose Troy got the cash?” Cass asked, breaking the silence. “Could he have taken it from Pamela?”
“He couldn’t have stolen enough to make a down payment on that silver Z he’s been riding around town. Unless—”
Unless what?
No one had an answer. Troy had gotten money from somewhere, and they all knew it wasn’t from painting Mary Pisano’s bed-and-breakfast.
Ben’s booming voice from the kitchen announced that grilled trout was waiting.
“Food!” Cass said with an exuberance that broke the group into laughter, shifting the mood in an instant. They filed into the dining room and gathered around the old oak table, its thick surface rough with nicks and carvings that spoke of the lives lived around it.
A cold breeze from the front door was followed by Birdie, breathless as she hung up her coat, slipped out of her boots, and rushed into the room.
“Now the party can truly begin,” Ben greeted her as Sam pulled out a chair between himself and Ham Brewster.
“Thank heavens I didn’t miss the food. And you better have saved me a martini, Ben Endicott.” She shook her finger for emphasis.
The group shuffled around while Ben did her bidding, returning as Birdie finished explaining her late arrival.
“We’re late because I insisted Harold drive up and around the bed-and-breakfast, just to be sure Henrietta wasn’t lurking out in the cold somewhere. This campaign of hers will be the death of her.”
“Was she?” Nell said, worried. The temperature had dipped and the wind was picking up. Henrietta seemed to be oblivious to weather.
“No, thank heavens. Mary hasn’t been staying there, so I thought it was worth checking. After all the racket over the weeks, it seems ominous when it’s quiet over there.”
She smiled and took the martini Ben handed her. “Bless you, sweet Ben.”
“So all was quiet. That’s good.”
Birdie nodded. “Troy’s fancy car was in the drive, so he may have been finishing up some work for Mary.”
“Were there other cars around?” Kevin said Troy had a key. A sudden image of a wild farewell party in Mary’s beautiful estate flashed across Nell’s mind.
“No. It was peaceful. Troy wasn’t burning the house down or anything.”
Ben tapped his glass, and the room fell silent. His eyes found Nell’s. He lifted his glass and his eyes locked into hers, the way he began all toasts.
“Peace,” he said. “To friends and to family.”
“Hear, hear.”
Glasses chimed as they sipped their wine and unfolded napkins across laps.
“And to the beginning of a lovely holiday season,” Birdie added.
The beginning . . .
Nell looked around the table at the faces of people she loved, lit softly by flickering candlelight. They all hoped for that beginning—the lifting of suspicion and ugliness that mingled right alongside the festive trees and carolers and bells. She looked over at Birdie, at Izzy and Cass. She could read their expressions nearly as well as Ben’s, as her own mind. Their hope as bright as the stars all over town.
Ben carried in a platter of Colorado trout, brushed with lemon juice, soy sauce, and ginger. He had grilled it outside, and the fragrance of sizzling coals wafted in behind him.
“Perfection, dear Ben,” Birdie said. “Absolute perfection.”
Bowls of jasmine rice followed, its nutty flavor enhanced with roasted red peppers, capers, and bits of bright green arugula.
Izzy brought in loaves of crisp French bread and a platter of roasted asparagus in a buttery dill sauce, then turned up a CD of Nat King Cole’s, his warm voice filling the room with “O Tannenbaum.” The next CD, Nell knew, would be livelier. Izzy gave in to Nell’s sentimental holiday music but liked it best when followed by something with more beat and rhythm.
The evening went by in a flash, far too quickly, Jane Brewster observed as they sorted through coats and boots in Ben’s den and prepared to go into the dark, cold night. “This is what we need more of—friends, Ben’s martinis, good food, Christmas cheer.”
They all agreed, and Nell and Ben stood at the door waving them off, watching until their taillights disappeared down the hill.
It was late. Most Christmas lights were out, save for the ones in the Endicotts’ own yard. Moonlight filtered through the bare tree branches, turning the snowy yard into a blue landscape.
Ben wrapped one arm around her waist and locked the door with the other.
“Izzy and Sam seemed okay,” he said, whispering into her neck.
Nell nodded, her head moving against his chest. “A little quiet, perhaps.”
They walked into the dim light of the kitchen, bodies still close. “He wants to meet me for coffee next week.”
“Sam? Why?”
“I don’t know. To talk to me about something.”
Harriet Brandley’s words, as if waiting for an excuse, tumbled back into Nell’s head. “He isn’t sick,” she said softly. She was sure of it.
But somethin
g wasn’t right. They didn’t have the old Sam back yet. But he was going to talk to Ben, a good thing. At least, if there was something on his mind, he’d be sharing it with the wisest person she knew.
Ben switched off the overhead lights and started up the stairs. “Coming?”
“In a minute.” Nell stood at the kitchen window, looking out into the profound darkness of night, to places beyond her vision.
Her thoughts were pulled to Ravenswood-by-the-Sea, imagining the beautiful estate, peaceful. Quiet. A sudden chill ran up and down her arms, and she turned toward the stairs and the comfort of Ben’s strong arms and warm body.
Peaceful. Quiet. Just the way it had been the night they’d found Pamela Pisano’s body in the snow.
Chapter 20
Nell walked into the Seaside Knitting Studio carrying a thermos of coffee, her knitting bag slung over one shoulder.
Mae Anderson laughed when she spotted the thermos. “As talented as our missy is, her coffee is god-awful.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Hope you have enough in there for me.”
“As always, Mae.” Nell chuckled and glanced toward the back room. “It’s noisy for this early hour.”
“Packed. It’s not even an official class. Just folks stuck in the middle of making Christmas gifts. They need Izzy’s surgical expertise. And yours, I presume. Izzy said she was calling in reinforcements.”
“The text message just said, ‘S.O.S. Come quick.’ ”
Nell looked into the room. Mae wasn’t exaggerating. It was crowded, with coffee mugs littering tables, a box of Dunkin’ Donuts on the sideboard, and balls of brightly colored yarn everywhere. Needles clicked; knit sleeves and toes and thumbs were held up in the air to get Izzy’s attention; voices filled the air.
Nell spotted Mary Pisano sitting near the fireplace, her laptop on her knees. Next to her, Birdie was admiring Nancy Hughes’ cowl-necked sweater. It was nearly finished, knit in a luxurious beige and deep pink cashmere. Birdie was touching it lightly with her fingertips the way knitters did, resisting the urge to press it to her cheek.
Even Agnes Pisano was there, tucked away in the corner behind her cousin Mary, working on a lacy purple shawl. Nancy Hughes was beside her. Therapy, Nell thought. Everyone needs a touch of normal. The sweetness of living in the present.
Someone had brought a platter of Santa-shaped cookies, which were being handed from one group to the next and quickly disappearing. Nell waved at Izzy, grabbed a few paper cups from the bookcase, and headed over to the fireplace.
“It’s good to see you doing something other than worrying, Mary,” she said.
“Nancy’s idea. She insisted we needed a break.”
Hearing her name, Nancy leaned into the conversation. “Not we. You, Mary.” Nancy pointed to the laptop and looked up at Nell. “But look at her idea of a break. Writing her column.”
“Which I love to do. So it is a break. It’s hard these days, though. I keep wanting to write an open letter to the person responsible for Pamela’s death, begging them to own up to it, to clear their conscience. To give us back what’s been taken away.”
Nancy just shook her head and got up to refill her coffee cup and offer Beatrice Scaglia a hand with a lazy scarf that had just fallen off her needle.
“Have you heard anything new?” Agnes asked Nell. “Ben sometimes has an inside track—”
Nell shook her head. “I think it’s confusing to the police. Maybe we need to broaden our thinking. Back away from the trees.”
“What do you mean?” Agnes stopped counting stitches, and her hands went still.
“Pamela came to Sea Harbor often, not just that trip a couple weeks ago. But we’re only looking at her activities during that short period of time. What about the bigger circle of Pamela’s Sea Harbor life?”
“Her childhood?” Mary asked.
“I was thinking more of relationships she might have had here the last few years. Relationships with men who lived here, perhaps.”
Agnes scooted her chair forward to hear better. “That’s interesting. Pamela didn’t confide much in me, probably not you, either, Mary. But when she was stuck in Sea Harbor, as she used to think about it, she survived by finding men to entertain her—we knew that. Even our grandfather worried about it. Sometimes it turned messy. Sometimes it was just casual.”
“Like with Troy DeLuca—a good-looking body that was handy,” Mary said.
Agnes nodded. “Troy was just a toy to her. She used him, and then she insulted him. There would have been a better way to handle not hiring him.”
“Which you are doing?” Birdie asked.
“I know people think I’m simply flattered by his attention. That’s ridiculous. I’m not a fool. Fashion Monthly has a shoot planned for men’s fashion, and there’s no reason not to throw him this small carrot. It might make up a little for Pamela’s insults. I have no intention of making him a fixture at the magazine. Frankly, I don’t totally trust him. He has loose lips, if you know what I mean, and I don’t like that in a person.”
“Loose lips?” Birdie frowned.
“Spreading tales. He told me last night that the police had found Pamela’s wallet in Kevin Sullivan’s belongings. Now, I’ve known Kevin since he was a kid delivering my newspapers. And he was honest to a fault. So Troy is stirring things up, telling tales; that’s what I mean.”
Birdie and Nell looked at each other. Mary’s face was expressionless. Agnes wasn’t asking them to confirm or deny Troy’s assertion, which was a good thing. She clearly didn’t believe it, and there was no reason to tell her otherwise. But how did Troy know about the wallet?
Agnes went on. “I also know it seems I moved very quickly into taking over this magazine, that I was just waiting for my chance, that I benefited from my own cousin’s murder, a very suspicious and horrible thing to do. A motive for murder, for sure.”
“That is how it looked,” Birdie admitted. She followed up her bluntness with a laugh. “It was unlike you, Agnes, dear.”
“Thank you, but it wasn’t entirely unlike me. There’s some truth to it. I was ready. I’ve wanted this position ever since Pamela sweet-talked Grandfather into giving it to her instead of me because I wasn’t pretty enough. So I waited; I bided my time. I knew someday Pamela would get tired of it or move on to greener pastures, and when she did, I’d be ready. I got better at writing and editing. I took courses on magazine production and design. If I had wanted to oust Pamela sooner, I could have.”
“How?” Mary asked.
“I could have told Grandfather that she was the one who crashed his prized Austin-Healey that summer we were all together for their anniversary. He’d have yanked the magazine from her in a New York minute if he’d known. But I had promised her I wouldn’t tell, so I didn’t. If I didn’t get rid of her in that surefire bloodless way, I certainly wouldn’t have killed her to get the job.”
“Pamela smashed that car?” Mary said, her eyes filling her face. “Good grief.”
“A couple too many beers at the club, a wild drive along a bumpy dirt road, and a tree that got in her way.”
Mary held back a laugh.
Agnes’ honesty was refreshing. Maybe they had all misjudged her. The tone in her voice was firm and intelligent. Matter-of-fact. Nell smiled. “Something tells me you’ll bring new, exciting ideas to the magazine.”
“I second that,” Birdie said. “Put me on your subscription list.”
Agnes shrugged, and a sly smile tugged at her lips. “All this proves one thing, I suppose. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
They laughed, and Birdie patted her knee. “You look every bit the editor, my dear. Even without wearing Prada.”
“Maybe giving Troy this opportunity will help him get his act together,” Mary said.
“Speaking of Troy, did he know before Pamela died that you were in line to take over Fashion Monthly?” Nell asked. It might not have been a murder motive for Agnes, but Troy was another matter.
A sudden noise from the front of the store broke into the conversation. A loud tapping on the hardwood floor followed. Seconds later Henrietta O’Neal appeared in the arch, filling it with her square body. Her face was bright red, contrasting vividly with her white snow pants, a puffy white jacket, and a knit hat.
A fleeting image of a snowman flashed across Nell’s mind, and then someone walked up behind Henrietta, changing the image entirely. She glanced over at Birdie.
Towering over Henrietta—tall, thin, and his face as white as Henrietta’s jacket—stood Harold Sampson, Birdie’s driver and groundskeeper.
The room hushed. People stopped knitting. Mary pushed her laptop aside.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here, Harold?” Birdie was up in a flash, her knitting falling to the floor. “Is Ella all right?”
Before he could answer, Henrietta spotted Izzy and waved her walking stick in the air. “I’m sorry to interrupt your little session, sweetheart, but it’s important.”
Izzy motioned that it was fine, then waited, puzzled.
“Are you all right?” Mary stood and stared at Henrietta.
Henrietta seemed confused at Mary’s question but happy to have found her.
Behind the short woman, Harold shook his head. Henrietta is not all right, the movement said.
Nell moved next to Mary, feeling the need to steady the small woman. The incongruity of the scene in front of her portended something comical—or something terribly tragic. She looked into Harold’s eyes.
They weren’t laughing.
“Henrietta?” Mary said again.
Henrietta grew serious, focusing her full attention on Mary. Her voice was earnest, her message matter-of-fact.
“It’s you I’m looking for, Mary Pisano. It’s about that painter you hired,” she said simply. “He’s dead. Plumb dead.”
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