A Holiday Yarn

by Goldenbaum, Sally

  Birdie sighed, loud enough to draw smiles and lighten the mood. “First of all, I know your mother, Kevin Sullivan, and shame on you for not giving her more credit.” Birdie shook one finger in the air. “She loves you, for heaven’s sake.

  “And secondly, Pamela was being cruel. You had rejected her and she was using the only thing she could think of to get back at you. A double shame on her.”

  Nell looked at Cass and Izzy. Kevin’s confession meant nothing to them. Maybe they knew it already, probably so, but the fact was that it didn’t matter. Just like it didn’t matter to Jeffrey at the bar, and the multitude of others who knew Kevin. It was his business, not anyone else’s, just like Izzy’s relationship with Sam was definitely off-limits for public discussion.

  The lightbulb went on in Nell’s head as Birdie was ordering Irish coffee for everyone. Of course. She should have realized this right away.

  Mary wasn’t trying to protect Kevin because he was gay. She wasn’t trying to hide his secret from the world.

  She was trying to hide him from the police—and with good cause.

  His reaction to Pamela’s threats to talk to his mother and Troy’s cruel teasing gave him a nice, neat, pat motive for murder. Perhaps even two murders.

  Chapter 23

  That night, the much-predicted snow finally fell—lovely flakes that hushed the town. Nell cradled a mug of coffee in her hands and looked out the kitchen window the next morning. Snow mesmerized her. She felt like a child again, safe and protected in a white world. It was always new, always a miracle.

  Ben watched her from across the room. “Bus drivers, cab drivers, pilots, commuters—I don’t think any of them share your awe, Nell. They’re only thankful that it’s Sunday and not the beginning of a messy workweek.”

  “The kids love it. Look—” She pointed out the back window to a few neighborhood kids traipsing through their wooded backyard to a short hill beyond. They were bundled up in bright red scarves and puffy jackets, carrying snow saucers, sheets of plastic, a wooden sled. Anything to get them down the hill faster than the sled next to them.

  “Remember when Izzy and her college friends would come up here on weekends and do that very thing? Only they’d head for the bigger hill—over near Sam’s house.”

  Nell turned and leaned against the counter. “And speaking of Sam—I was so busy telling you about my day yesterday that I didn’t ask.”

  “I noticed that. Sam’s fine.”

  “That’s it? Fine?”

  Ben pulled the Week in Review section from the Times and smoothed it out on the table. “Fine.”

  Nell looked at him closely. “Fine. All right.” She wouldn’t get any further, but Ben’s worry lines were absent, his face calm. He was holding something back, but it was something neutral, not good or bad. Years of holding tight to client confidences made Ben Endicott as safe and immovable as a bank vault. She walked around the table and kissed him lightly on the ear. “So be it.”

  “I think it’ll be all right, Nell,” he said simply, and continued to scan the column headlines.

  “I wish I felt as confident about everything going on up on Ravenswood Road. Talking with Kevin only worried me more.”

  “You don’t think he’s guilty, do you?”

  “No. But I only think that because I like him. He was there, Ben; he didn’t like Pamela, and she could have hurt his mother terribly. And Troy knew all about it. That fellow had about as much integrity as a slug. What will people think who don’t know Kevin or don’t care about him?” She thought again about the hardness in Kevin’s voice and eyes when he talked about the ridicule and the cruel way both Pamela and Troy approached people. It was a look that gave her chills and made her wonder, not for the first time, what would push a person—even a good person—to murder.

  Aloud she said, “Mary feels responsible for putting Kevin in the middle of all this. She’s the one who lured him to Ravenswood-by-the-Sea in the first place.”

  “I saw the chief at the club last night. We talked briefly at the bar, and he says Troy DeLuca’s death has confused the investigation. They were looking into some gambling debts, a rather wild lifestyle, then the money he was throwing around. He was definitely a person of interest. And then suddenly he’s dead.”

  “Beatrice said he was broke when he came to Sea Harbor. Looking into his sudden windfall made sense. Maybe it’s still important. Jerry thinks the two murders are connected, doesn’t he?”

  Ben laughed at the tone in her voice. “It’s clear you’ve all decided they are. Jerry would be silly not to agree, now, wouldn’t he?”

  “They’re connected, Ben.”

  Ben slipped off his glasses and reached for the coffeepot. “You’re probably right. It makes sense. It’s just your methods of deduction that I wonder about.” He refilled Nell’s mug.

  “Don’t knock our methods until they fail. Then I’ll listen.”

  “That’s fair, I suppose.”

  Ben paused.

  Nell watched the worry lines appear, the frowns so deep across his forehead that she could trace them easily with her finger. And she knew what would come next. It was a thought that certainly hadn’t escaped any of them, but saying it out loud would make Ben feel better, just like it made her feel better when Ben drove into Boston with her words trailing after him, Drive carefully, Ben. . . .

  “This is heavy-duty stuff, Nell,” Ben said. His elbows pressed into the butcher block. He held her gaze, his intelligent blue eyes locking into hers. “Two murders, probably by the same person. There’s someone out there who doesn’t hesitate to kill people—for whatever reason. This is nasty, dangerous stuff.”

  Later that day, Izzy and Nell snowshoed out Nell’s backyard and down the path behind the Endicott home. The trail fanned out and widened beyond the trees, looping lazily alongside the beach access road, heading north, with smaller, veinlike pathways breaking off and moving up into neighborhoods bordering the water. In summer, it was a well-trafficked path, with neighbors and friends, kids and teenagers and summer people, all headed to the long stretch of beach, the yacht club, or the breakwater beyond. In winter it boasted an easy snowshoeing trail, not much elevation, winding through stands of pine and oak.

  The quiet surrounding them was so thick and lovely that Nell felt sure that if she stumbled, the quiet would be like an airbag, holding her up.

  Their backpacks were light, holding shoes and water, dry socks and energy bars, a place to fold up parkas if they needed to strip down a layer.

  “We don’t get that much time together these days,” Izzy said, “just the two of us. It’s nice.”

  An understatement, in Nell’s opinion. Exercise with Izzy always did wonders for her body and soul. It was exactly what the doctor ordered for a bright, snowy Sunday.

  “I thought we’d head toward Sam’s house. My mother sent me some Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue Sauce from Kansas City and asked me to give some to Sam. ‘His favorite,’ she said.” They came to a slight incline and skied down on their shoes, the breeze tossing Izzy’s hair about her head. “She thinks she’s fooling me, but I know exactly why she does things like that.”

  “Why is that?” Nell leaned into her poles as they moved through a stretch of powder.

  “It’s the connection. She brings Sam up all the time. And sending him things through me adds strength to that connection. I can’t explain it. But I know my mom.”

  “She loves Sam.”

  “That’s part of it. Why did I hook up with someone my entire family knows and likes? It makes it more complicated.” Izzy moved her poles to skirt a small boulder in the path. “Speaking of Sam, did he and Ben have a nice dinner last night?”

  “They always do. Ben didn’t say much.”

  Izzy pointed with the tip of her pole to a trail that meandered off through the trees. “This is the turn to Sam’s. We can take it slow.”

  “Are things better with Sam? Normal? Okay?”

  “Still a roller-coaster ride. But
I have new resolve. I’m not going to let it get to me. If I know anything about Sam Perry, it’s that he’d never, not in a million years, intentionally hurt me. So whatever’s going on in that thick head of his, it’s wellintentioned.” Her breath plumed up in front of her. “At least that’s my story today, Aunt Nell. Ask me again tomorrow—it may be different. A couple days ago, his moods nearly sent me packing. Or him packing. But today’s a new day. End of story.”

  The low-rise path took them up through a scattering of white pine and mountain laurel, which gave way to a yard and wide deck that spanned the back of the house. It was an ideal spot for whale watching and martinis after a day at the beach. From the elevation, they could even see the yacht club pier, sailboat races, and winter fishing.

  Izzy had found the house for Sam, and it was next to perfect. Part beach house, part cozy family home, in a friendly neighborhood. Clean and simple with plenty of glass and wood. When Nell saw it for the first time, she knew Izzy had found her own dream house. But Sam was writing the check. Her niece was a clever girl.

  “Is Sam home?”

  “I don’t know. But home or not, I’m not lugging these heavy jars back home. He also has some photos for the studio that he keeps forgetting to drop off.” She stomped clumsily up the three steps to the snowy deck, her snowshoes creating webs in the powder, and peered through the windows. “Let’s try the front.”

  The other side of the cedar-shingled house faced Magnolia Street. There was no car in the gravel drive. Izzy looked through the windows on either side of the door, then fished a key from her pocket. “Breaking and entering,” she said.

  They sat on the small bench outside the door and unclipped their snowshoes, then walked into the small entry hall. The house was open and airy, with views of the deck, the trees, and the endless sea from almost every spot.

  Nell wandered into the family room at the back of the house while Izzy fished through a stack of envelopes on the hallway table.

  A simple fireplace with a cherry mantel and soapstone surround anchored one end of the room. Although Sam had lived here almost three years, the house hadn’t changed much. The built-in bookcases and cabinets held a few more books, perhaps, and Izzy had hung one of Willow Adams’ magnificent yarn sculptures above the fireplace, but it was clean and simple. Too clean and simple.

  It needed a woman’s touch. Izzy had made inroads where she could, but the stark beauty of the lovely home lacked the warmth her niece could bring to it, given a chance.

  Nell shook off her meanderings and looked back down the hallway, where Izzy stared down at a Federal Express envelope. Nell couldn’t read the look on her face, but it definitely didn’t reflect the sunny conversation they’d had on the way over.

  “Izzy?”

  Izzy’s head flew up, as if she’d been caught with her hands in the cookie jar.

  “What?”

  Nell frowned. “Ready to go?”

  “Oh, sure.” She stared down at the envelope again. “It’s Sam’s mail. I shouldn’t be looking at it.”

  “No. You shouldn’t.”

  “But look.” She held the envelope out for Nell to see.

  The letter was addressed to Samuel Perry.

  “It’s from Boston General Hospital.”

  Nell had seen the return address immediately. Harold Adams, PhD, MD. Boston General.

  “Sam had a physical?”

  “No. He goes to Doc Hamilton, just like the rest of us.”

  “Maybe the medical practice is buying some photographs from him?”

  “An overnight letter to buy photographs?” Izzy flapped it in the air.

  “Izzy,” she said gently, “it’s Sam’s mail.”

  “What is he keeping from me?” Izzy’s face fell, and a look of anguish filled her eyes. She stared at her aunt, begging her to explain away the fear.

  Her voice was thick, tears pushing hard against her words. “Aunt Nell, what’s wrong with Sam?”

  “It’s unfortunate that Izzy looked at Sam’s mail.”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that.” Nell sat at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of wine, her eyes following Ben as he whisked together a green chili paste, a little wine, a cup of coconut milk. “I don’t think it was intentional. She was looking for some photos, and there it was.”

  Ben placed the liquid over a low flame, tossed in a handful of chopped scallions, and stirred it with one hand, holding his wineglass with the other. Sunday night dinner at home—alone—was uncommon during holiday season, and Ben was determined to make the most of it. A roaring fire. Music. Nell.

  And a home-cooked meal.

  “Try Thai,” Nell had urged. “It’s easy; I’ll prompt from the wings.”

  “Does Sam know she saw his mail?” On another burner, Ben heated olive oil in a skillet and tossed in chopped scallions and garlic, grated fresh ginger.

  “I suppose she’ll say something to him.”

  “Then that’s the end of it, isn’t it? For us, anyway.”

  “She’s worried, Ben; that’s all. It was from a hospital. And he’s not been himself these past few weeks. You’ve noticed it.”

  “I understand. It’s a tough thing—sharing. And it’s new to Sam. He’s—what—almost forty? Never been married. He’s a very private guy. What couples choose to hand over to one another is so individual. It’s not a right or wrong thing, it’s . . . it’s personal. Sam’s proud.”

  “Izzy wants to know she can trust him.”

  “Maybe it isn’t about trust.” Ben lifted the lid and checked the jasmine rice. Its nutty aroma brought a calmness into the air. Soothing. He took it off the burner and fluffed it with a fork. “Maybe it’s a matter of who Sam is.”

  Who Sam is.

  “So it ends up being a choice they both have to make,” Ben went on. “What they are comfortable with. What trust means to each of them.”

  Nell watched Ben while he talked, his strong chin resolute. His eyes moving from the rice to the sauce to Nell’s face.

  He smiled at her. His eyes suggested she let it go. The expression on his face spoke of many things.

  In the end, it was the sweet guitar music and scallops swimming in Ben’s spicy coconut sauce that convinced Nell to let it go—at least for tonight.

  And over a nightcap several hours later, Ben convinced her they had their own sharing to attend to.

  Chapter 24

  Coffee’s was thinning out, the early-morning drinkers already gone and the lunch crowd not yet lining up. Nell searched over the tops of heads for Cass’ black hair. She held a jumbo-sized cup of Coffee’s special brew in her hand.

  Monday was always a holiday for Cass, even during the thick of lobster fishing. She liked the tenor of a day that found most people heading back to work. She could own her own leisure, she said, rather than succumb to weekend special events dictated by the newspaper.

  Summers found her parked on the patio, a sixteen-ounce triple cappuccino with real whipped cream sitting in front of her, her feet up on a bench, looking at the sky or a magazine or a book.

  In winter she sat in front of the fire, her feet on the stone hearth, windows behind her. It was her chair, she declared to Clarence Lanigan, and the owner dutifully tried to shoo others away if he knew Cass was coming.

  “Saved for you,” Cass said as Nell approached. She lifted a stack of magazines from a chair and put her feet on the floor.

  “I don’t imagine you endear yourself to people waiting for a place to sit,” Nell said, looking around.

  Cass laughed, unbothered. “Izzy’s joining us for our private tour.”

  Birdie’s dramatic description of Enzo Pisano’s bedroom had intrigued Izzy and Cass. They begged for a tour, and Mary would love the distraction.

  Cass’ brows lifted, and her eyes focused on a spot behind Nell. She waved.

  Nell turned and looked up at Tommy Porter.

  “Hey, Tommy,” Cass said. “Looks like you’re off today?” She eyed his jeans and heavy suede ja
cket. “Join us.”

  “Just off for the morning,” he said. “It’s crazy around the station. The chief has us all giving up some off time.”

  “You’ve got a mess on your hands.”

  Tommy nodded. He pulled up a chair and straddled it. “A royal mess. But I don’t mind. It’s my job.”

  Tommy Porter had never left Sea Harbor except for two years at Northern Essex Community College. The first policeman in a family of fishermen, he loved his work passionately, was proud of his degree in law enforcement, and according to Chief Thompson, was doing a crackerjack job. Nell smiled at him. “Any new developments?”

  “Still trying to pull apart this DeLuca mess. No fingerprints, nuthin’. People here weren’t crazy about the guy, but no one knew him well enough to kill him, far as we can tell.”

  “Could it have been an accident?”

  “Not likely. The rungs were cut. An easy thing to do, and no one would notice. Cut on a slant, they fit back together just like normal. I suppose it could have been intended for someone else. But Mary says that ladder isn’t used much. The workmen brought their own.”

  “Any motives?”

  Tommy shook his head. “I wanted him to be the guy that killed—”

  Footsteps interrupted his words. He looked up. “Hey, Izzy.”

  Izzy pulled up a chair. “Tommy, you look like you could use some sleep.”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s nuts. If we could keep Mrs. O’Neal away from that place, it’d be a little easier maybe.”

  “What’s she done now?”

  “Just the usual. Today she put up new posters. There’s one over there on Coffee’s bulletin board. It has photos of the spot where Pamela Pisano died and one where DeLuca fell. It says, “Would you want a friend or relative to sleep in this house?”

  Nell sighed. “That’s got to stop.”

  “Free speech,” Tommy muttered. “She sure has somethin’ stuck in her craw.”

  “It seems that way,” Nell said.

  “Did any of you know Pamela very well?” Tommy asked.

  “Kind of like everyone else. Not well. But since she dated Eddie—you probably knew her better,” Izzy said.