Life went on.
And in a hospital morgue just a few miles away, quietly, without fireworks or fanfare, Aidan Peabody was pronounced dead.
“Aidan has no family we know of,” Nell said. “In the years I’ve known him, he’s never spoken of anyone.”
The sadness blanketed them, and around Coffee’s patio, hushed voices said that others were experiencing Aidan’s loss as well.
“So what will happen to his wonderful gallery and studio? That land that Aidan loved and protected,” Birdie said. “There’ll be more than a vulture or two picking away at it, I suspect.”
“Ben says there’s a will. They’re checking.”
“Sam talked to Aidan briefly Sunday afternoon,” Izzy said. “He stopped in to say hello since he hadn’t seen him for a while and knew he’d be too busy to talk that night. Aidan was in the back, going over a bunch of paperwork and seemed really distracted, but happy in an odd way, Sam thought.”
“Did Sam know why?”
Izzy shook her head. “He said something kind of cryptic—though at the time Sam just thought he was distracted because of the evening affair. But when Sam asked him how things were going in his life, he said they’d never been better. And he smiled at Sam in a way that made him think maybe there was someone new in his life—someone special. So Sam said, ‘What’s her name?’ Aidan just laughed and said Sam’d find out soon enough. Odd, huh?”
“Well, maybe not so odd,” Birdie said. “Women have always gravitated to Aidan, and once Rebecca Marks disappeared from the picture, I’m sure there were others waiting in line.”
“But Aidan wasn’t like that,” Nell said. “He seemed to move slowly when it came to allowing women into his life. Oh, sure, he’d talk to them, but he certainly didn’t jump into relationships. I think the only reason he paired up with Rebecca was because Rebecca insisted.”
Cass laughed. “And what Rebecca Marks wants, she usually gets.”
“Well, at least for a while,” Nell said. “But I wonder if Aidan could have meant something else when he talked to Sam.” But even Nell was at a loss as to what that something else could be.
A flash of red distracted Nell, and she looked over Izzy’s shoulder, toward the patio entrance.
“Look—there’s Willow. Poor thing, we’ve nearly abandoned her with all the happenings.” Nell stood and waved for her to join them.
At first Willow didn’t see them. She stood in the entrance of the coffee shop’s patio, nearly lost in the movement of people balancing trays of takeout coffee cups and pastries on both sides of her. She wore a pair of cutoff jeans, a red tank top, and her dark hair puffed out beneath a flowered headband that ran across her forehead and around her head like a crown. Her feet were slightly apart, her stance strong, as if to ward off any danger. But when Nell looked up into her eyes, she saw little bravado.
Willow finally spotted Nell’s waving hand and wound her way to their table, one hand gripping the familiar backpack and the other a cup of coffee.
“I saw Sam outside your shop, Izzy. He said you’d all probably be here.”
“And Sam was right. He knows all our bad habits.”
“Come, sit.” Cass patted a chair that she’d pulled over from another table.
“Things have been a little nuts, Willow. I’m sorry I haven’t scheduled something at the knitting shop for you. Does later this week sound good?”
Willow hesitated. She looked down into her coffee cup, then finally met Izzy’s eyes. “I don’t know, Izzy. I think all of you are great—I really do. You’ve been terrific to me—but this just doesn’t seem like a good time around here. I’m thinking of moving on, maybe heading back to Wisconsin.”
“No, Willow, you’re wrong about it not being a good time. You’ve come all this way, and my customers will love learning about your art. It’s the best time.”
“Izzy’s absolutely right,” Nell agreed. “This is a sad time because the artist who died was our friend. But having something beautiful to look forward to is a good thing at times like this.”
“And besides, dear, we simply won’t let you leave Sea Harbor on the cusp of such sadness. Our town is really a lovely place.”
The others reinforced Birdie’s sentiment, and Willow finally shrugged, but the shift of her narrow shoulders didn’t indicate a promise either way.
“I came down to the guesthouse yesterday,” Nell said. “You’d already gone out. I wanted to explain what was going on, though you can’t help but be aware of it.”
“I went running on the beach.”
Willow looked at Nell and smiled. “I really love it down there. I walk through your little bit of woods, smelling those giant pine trees, and then it all opens up and there’s the sea, right smack in front of me. It’s like everything I imagined it would be. And running on the sand like that clears my head.”
“Of course it does. It must be a bit disconcerting to have a murder occur almost before your eyes,” Birdie said.
“My eyes?” Willow looked at Birdie in surprise.
“Figuratively speaking. We were all right there, milling around Canary Cove and having a grand time. And at the same time, Aidan Peabody was dying. It’s quite awful.” Birdie pulled a section off her cinnamon roll and began to chew it slowly.
“I know people are sad about his death.”
“He was a lovely, talented man. His art is enchanting,” Nell said. “Did you meet him Saturday when you were wandering around the studios?”
“Meet him?” Willow seemed startled by the question. She took a drink of coffee, her eyes seeming to focus on Birdie’s cinnamon roll.
“Well, if you didn’t, it’s a shame. You would have liked him. Aidan was as unexpected and irreverent as his art,” Birdie said. “He made me laugh, a wonderful trait to have. I will miss him.”
“We’ll miss him. And his huge art following will miss him. But, unfortunately, there are some people who won’t,” Cass said. “Word on the water yesterday was that D. J. Delaney is moving ahead full force to get Aidan’s land.”
“You gossip while you’re pulling traps, Catherine?” Birdie looked up from her coffee.
“Old Finnegan’s traps were empty so he served up some gossip instead. Slow mornings seem to bring that out of him. Besides, the guys were all bummed. They liked Peabuddy, as they called him. He was definitely the fishermen’s artist, with all those sea-related things he carved. We all have at least one small carving—a mirror with an octopus’ arms around it or some fishy thing.”
“So what did Finnegan say?” Izzy prompted.
“He was over at the Gull last night and D.J. was practically salivating at the thought of getting his hands on this land. Aidan had three times as much land as he needed, he claimed, and it could serve others well. Like himself, for example.”
“He wants to build a set of condos or an inn or something that would put money in his pocket. That’s what he’s done with the old fish hatchery south of town,” Nell said. “Rachel Wooten told us he looked up deeds and city restrictions weeks ago.”
“He’d better be careful what he says,” Izzy said. “It sounds like a motive for murder, if you ask me.”
“Some of the gallery owners saw better uses for that land, too,” Birdie said. She pulled a pair of double-pointed needles from her backpack. A strand of bright pink yarn dangled from the cast-on row. “But Aidan liked having some green space and that lovely woods. Elbow room, as my sweet Sonny used to say. And that was certainly his choice. It’s his land.”
Birdie’s needles began clicking as she started to turn the heel on a half-finished pink-and-green-striped sock, deftly decreasing the stitches in the short row. Birdie’s portable knitting projects were predictable—socks for cafés like Coffee’s, sweaters for sitting in a friend’s home, scarves and mittens for the beach, a long walk, or a car trip. If a knitting project could not travel, she told her friends, the project would have to find other fingers to work it up.
Nell watched as Birdie p
urled two stitches together and turned the sock in the middle of the row. It was the part of knitting socks that initially scared some of them away, until Birdie made it look so easy that even Cass was thinking about trying a pair.
“Was,” Izzy said. The sadness in her voice reminded them all that beneath the gossip of neighbors, they had lost a good friend.
“The police chief thinks they’ll wind this up quickly,” Nell said. She wondered how many similar conversations were going on at other tables around the patio. Plenty, she guessed, from the hushed voices and coffee-stained newspapers sitting on tables.
“Ben talked to Jerry Thompson early this morning, and he seems confident that the town isn’t in any danger. The murder had the MO of a personal act—someone who clearly had an ax to grind with Aidan Peabody.”
Cass pushed a thick strand of hair behind her ears. “It seems that way, I guess. But I’m sure the Canary Cove artists will sleep better at night once the person is caught.”
A shadow fell across the table, blocking the sunlight, and Nell looked up into Brendan Slattery’s smile. “You’re up and about early this morning. Would you like to join us?”
Brendan raked one hand through his smooth, slightly long brown hair. “Thanks, Nell, but I’m headed over to the Sobel Gallery. Billy needs some help with the James paintings. I just wanted to ask Willow if she’s going running tomorrow.”
Nell looked from one to the other. “Do you two know each other?” She’d noticed the smile on Willow’s face when Brendan walked up.
“We met on the beach,” Willow said. “Brendan runs, too. And he’s an outsider like me.”
“Well, sort of,” Brendan said, looking apologetically at Nell as if the comment might offend her. “One year here doesn’t exactly make one a native.”
“No, I suppose not,” Birdie said, “though Sea Harbor is an open-arms kind of place, I’ve always thought.”
“I think it’s the circumstances,” Willow said. “It’s what’s happened this week that makes us not fit in. It’s a time for friends to be together, not strangers.”
Nell listened to the conversation and heard the uncomfortable edge to Willow’s voice. But she was right. She and Brendan didn’t fit in—but especially Willow. She was a young woman passing through town who had fallen into a town’s personal tragedy, without understanding or intent. And if she wanted to pack up her few belongings and leave that very day, Nell would completely understand.
But instinct told her that was not going to happen. Willow Adams was not going to leave Sea Harbor soon.
Even if she wanted to.
Chapter 8
Aidan Peabody’s funeral lived up to his wishes. It was a festive, lively affair.
“So like Aidan,” Nell said, walking up the wooden steps to the outdoor restaurant where tables were ready, a microphone set up, and baskets of peanuts and chips set out. Strings of tiny lights outlined the perimeter of the deck.
Hank and Merry Jackson’s Artist’s Palate, located just off the main road of Canary Cove, down a small side street that ran right into the Palate’s parking lot, was the perfect place for a gathering. The small bar and grill was known for its deck, which hung over the edge of the water and hosted local bands in the evening hours—reggae, rock, or soft jazz—whatever seemed to suit the night and the crowd. Hank’s food was plain but delicious—hamburgers, brats, and lobster rolls. And few left without at least a taste of Hank’s beer-batter calamari heaped high in wicker baskets.
“ ‘A wild celebration of life,’ were Aidan’s exact words.” Jane Brewster climbed the steps to the Artist’s Palate’s deck just behind Nell. “He felt strongly about it, not that planning funerals was a daily conversation in Canary Cove. But you know how you do, sometimes sitting in a bar or at the end of the old dock, just hashing out the mysteries of life. Ham, Aidan, and I used to do that a lot, hanging out at the end of the old dock.”
“And always with a Sam Adams in hand, I’d guess,” Birdie said.
“You’ve got that right.” Ham helped Birdie up the last step.
“I wonder if Father Northcutt is offended that the funeral isn’t in the church.”
Jane chuckled. “Aidan might have been able to use those special blessings. But I don’t remember him ever setting foot in Our Lady of Safe Seas, though he liked Father Northcutt well enough. He was the first to donate his art to the church auctions and made sure everyone else around here did the same. And I think he gave chunks of money to any cause Father Larry set down in front of him. But a noisy affair for his final good-bye seems far more to Aidan’s taste.”
Ham scanned the room, looking for a place to sit. A waving arm drew their attention to a large round table in the corner of the deck. Over the tops of heads, Izzy mouthed that she’d grabbed chairs for all.
Cass and her brother Pete were already at the table, frosty mugs lined up in front of them and a basket of calamari rapidly disappearing. Sam appeared, balancing a tray filled with platters of shrimp and a full pitcher of beer.
“Where’s Willow?” Izzy asked as she kissed Nell on the cheek. “And Uncle Ben?”
“Well, not together,” Nell said. “Ben got called into a last-minute meeting downtown but promised that he’d be here. It was important, he said. And Willow was meeting Brendan for a run or a bite to eat. A festive celebration for someone who died didn’t sit comfortably with her.”
“Especially someone she didn’t know,” Cass added. “I can’t say I blame her.”
Jane slipped down next to Cass and poured herself a glass of beer from the pitcher. She gathered up her long, flowing cotton skirt and tucked it beneath her. “Willow didn’t know Aidan?” She frowned.
“She didn’t know anyone here until she landed in my window last Friday night,” Izzy said.
“Hmm,” Jane said. “You’re sure?”
“That’s my understanding,” Nell said. She paused, puzzled by Jane’s look. Clearly her friend had information that said otherwise. But before Nell could pursue it, the echoing screech of a microphone hushed the crowd into silence.
Father Northcutt stood at the mic, looking more priestly than usual in his pressed black suit and stiff Roman collar.
“Good evening, everyone.” Chairs shifted at the echoing words and faces turned to face the familiar voice.
“Our thanks to Hank and Merry Jackson for letting us all gather here at their restaurant tonight.” The microphone screeched and Father Lawrence Northcutt frowned at it, then backed up a step.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ham said quietly. “Good old Father Larry. If the funeral won’t come to you, then you go to the funeral. Good man.”
The gray-haired pastor, a fixture in Sea Harbor for decades, waved his hand over the crowd as if bestowing a blessing or sprinkling holy water. Nell suspected the black suit wouldn’t be intact for long. As soon as his blessing was finished, the jacket would be hung over the back of his chair and the collar would come off while the night was still young.
“We’re not here to mourn a tragic death. Aidan would come down and curse us all if we did that,” the amiable priest continued. “We’re here tonight to celebrate a colorful, rich life.”
“He’s right about that,” Ham murmured and the group smiled.
“Our friend Aidan Peabody was a champion of the arts and I’m sure you all have stories to share.” Father Larry went on to invite the crowd to pick up the microphone when the spirit moved them, to toast their friend, to share a story or two. And above all, he urged them to follow their dear departed friend’s wish that they eat, drink, and be ever so merry.
Nell looked out over the crowd as the priest talked on about his relationship with Aidan and the generous donations the artist had made to the Our Lady of Safe Seas children’s center and food pantry. The deck was packed with artists, gallery owners, townspeople, many friends of Aidan’s, some associates, and a handful of people who were curious and enjoyed a festive gathering, whatever the reason for it.
Billy Sobel
was there with his new wife, Natalie, and a large table filled with Canary Cove artists and shop owners. Billy was a stolid sort, with thinning hair and strong limbs. Nell liked him, though she’d never experienced firsthand his reported temper. Keep him calm and happy, was Ham’s advice when dealing with Billy. He seemed calmer, though, with this new wife. She was a carefully made-up woman, years younger than Billy, with a show business background, some said. A dancer in a New Jersey casino, Birdie had heard. That was where they’d met.
Her husband’s gallery on Canary Road represented many New England artists. His recent acquisition of the lost James paintings, for all of Aidan’s protests, would benefit the whole art colony. Nell suspected that by summer’s end the paintings would be sold and Bill Sobel and his wife wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time to come.
Across the table from Billy, Rebecca Marks sat in a flowing dress hand-dyed in oranges, reds, and saffron, the neckline low and accentuating her enviable figure. Rebecca was a work of art herself, Nell thought, her beautiful features and fiery temper somehow befitting an artist. She wondered what Rebecca was thinking tonight, sitting at a memorial service for a man she seemed to have developed a recent, intense dislike for.
And a man whose bed she had shared.
Nell felt sure Rebecca would soon stand up at the microphone and talk about Aidan in glowing, respectful terms, the way one did when someone died. She’d charm the group with stories about Aidan’s work in the colony, his colorful wooden carvings, his immense knowledge of all kinds of art. And she’d tastefully hide her contentious relationship with the artist behind a perfect smile and magnetic green eyes.
Ellen Marks sat next to her sister, quiet as always. Ellen was the more stable of the sisters, or so it always seemed to Nell. They were an odd pair, but no matter, their partnership was certainly successful. The Marks women ran Lampworks, an acclaimed handblown glass gallery that had been on the cove for less than a couple years, but in that time it had established a robust reputation. The two women were day and night, yin and yang—the colorful, gorgeous artist, Rebecca, and introspective, smart, and financially savvy Ellen, preferring to be in the shadows but, Nell suspected, one to be reckoned with if push came to shove. In recent months their success had become obvious by an addition to the gallery and the purchase of a lovely home in Sea Harbor. Some called it showy, but as Jane and Ham Brewster told Nell, they didn’t care who called it showy—the shop was successful—and that meant success for the whole of the art community. And though Rebecca might be a tad arrogant at times, Ellen’s allegiance to the Canary Cove effort made up for it. She spent long hours helping Aidan and all of them on the arts council, building monthly reports and balancing the Foundation books, a thankless volunteer job that Jane said no one else wanted to do—but Ellen took it on.
Patterns in the Sand Page 6