Patterns in the Sand

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Please, just go home. The bum. I will not worry about him. I don’t care what happens to him. Just take me home so I can watch my favorite Sunday show.”

  She set her face, hard and determined, hiding any worry behind anger at her husband’s thoughtlessness.

  Nell turned out of the parking lot, still unsure if Natalie had gotten the gist of Hank’s comment, and hoping she hadn’t. With the rain beating on the car roof, it was possible her hardened look was simply one of exasperation. Nell hoped so.

  With the sound of the wipers lulling them all into silence, Nell headed for the Sobel home for the second time in two days.

  Billy’s bike wasn’t in the drive when they arrived, but Natalie resolutely refused their offer of dinner or company and stomped into the house, closing the door firmly behind her and shutting off the porch light.

  “I wonder if they have a doghouse,” Cass murmured.

  “Billy’s going to need one,” Birdie said.

  “What do you think is her favorite show?”

  They all agreed: Desperate Housewives.

  Chapter 22

  The phone rang at six a.m., pulling Ben and Nell out of a deep sleep.

  Nell had awakened just once during the night, close to dawn. She’d slipped out of bed and silently opened the bedroom French doors, and looked out over the trees toward the ocean. The rain had stopped earlier and the air was redolent with the sweet earthy fragrance of a well-watered lawn.

  She breathed in deeply, and her thoughts turned to Billy Sobel. For Natalie’s sake—and Billy’s, too—she hoped he was sound asleep beside his wife. But he’d been troubled. Something was definitely not right with Billy. Perhaps today they would find some answers, once the police had a chance to talk to him.

  She and Ben had talked for a long while the night before—of Billy’s lifestyle and the lure of other women. Of his recent peculiar actions and the heavy drinking—at least over the past few nights. And he’d been with Ellen Marks earlier that day—not with his wife. They were good friends. Could it be more than that? If Birdie had heard correctly, Ellen had turned to Billy for help, maybe with Rebecca. But of all the people affected by the week’s happenings, Rebecca Marks somehow seemed one of the least affected.

  And then Nell’s thoughts faded, and the soft sea breeze relaxed her body and diminished the day’s concerns. She’d slipped back into bed beside Ben, looping one arm around his solid, comforting body, and drifted off to a blessedly dreamless slumber.

  Nell tugged herself from sleep now as Ben reached for the phone, being the one more accustomed to early phone calls. They always made Nell’s heart skip a beat, then pound fiercely until Ben assured her things were all right. Early phone calls never bore good news, in Nell’s imagination, and on the first ring her thoughts would turn to her sister or to Izzy, to Birdie or other friends or family.

  Ben was far more philosophical, knowing he often got calls from fishing friends who had a sudden yen to head out to sea for that choice striper or bluefish, or sailing buddies who woke up to a brisk breeze and needed someone to help raise the jib.

  But the tone in his voice this morning told Nell that it wasn’t a pleasure trip the caller was suggesting.

  He hung up the receiver and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His hands gripped the mattress edge and his head hung low between his shoulders. And then he looked back at Nell, who was patiently waiting for the news she didn’t want to hear.

  Ben reached across the summer blanket and covered her hand with his own.

  “Billy Sobel drowned last night.”

  Nell sucked in a sudden breath, and when she released it, the sadness slowly seeped into her body.

  It was the day that was to have been Billy’s special show—the opening of his new exhibit. The day after his eighth-month wedding anniversary.

  But Billy Sobel was dead, his body discovered by Finnegan, an old-time Sea Harbor fisherman who was rowing his boat around Canary Cove just as the sun came up. He spotted the body pressed by tide waters and the storm against the rocky banks and outbrush near the old Canary Cove dock, just a short way from the Artist’s Palate. What had caught his eye first, Finnegan told the police, was the sun glinting off the shiny chrome of Billy’s Harley, parked at the edge of the water.

  Billy had drowned off the end of the old dock that jutted out into the water, just down the gentle slope of land from the parking lot. The rickety structure that had been the subject of many heated arguments at monthly Canary Cove art council meetings.

  It was rotten, some said.

  A waste of money to fix, others thought. Just tear it out.

  But they had all continued to use it, to jump off the wobbly end for a dip in the deep, cold water. To sit beneath the small wooden canopy that sheltered bodies from too much sun.

  It was the Canary Cove artists’ private domain, though not really. But no one else cared about it, and so it was theirs.

  It was the pier that Jane, Ham, and Aidan had stretched out on one hot summer night, their legs hanging over the end as they drank Sam Adams and mused about the kind of funerals they’d want to have someday.

  And the day had come for Aidan, way too soon.

  And now for his neighbor Billy Sobel.

  Nell called Izzy before the news started spreading on the radio and to the early-morning crowd at Coffee’s. The body was discovered too late to make the paper—a blessing, Nell supposed. At least Natalie would have a few hours without the entire town talking about Billy’s death.

  Izzy suggested a slow run down Sandpiper Beach was in order, and she appeared at Nell’s door before she had finished tying her running shoes.

  In minutes they had walked the windy path through the Endicotts’ wooded land, across the beach road, the short bridge that sometimes spanned tidal streams, and to the smooth beach beyond. They ran in silence for a while, each collecting thoughts, turning them over, musing in private. It was a pattern they’d established early on. They would run in tandem, but each would have her own space, too. And then talk would come when the time was right.

  “ ‘Billy killed Aidan,’ is what the police are thinking,” Nell offered presently, knowing Izzy’s thoughts were hovering close to her own. “And then he might have committed suicide out of regret. He was drunk, Ben said, but they are keeping that from Natalie for now. No need to cause her more grief.”

  Izzy looked over at Nell, her elbows pumping evenly beside her hips. “The drunk part is believable, since we know he picked up a bottle of bourbon from Hank’s place. And before that, he’d had beers at the Gull. But what possible motive would he have for killing Aidan?”

  “They seemed to have been arguing about Canary Cove affairs recently. Like the James exhibit.”

  “That’s a mystery in itself. Why would Aidan have cared about the exhibit? You’d think he’d have welcomed it, unless there was a jealousy thing going on. Maybe Aidan didn’t like flashing openings, and with Natalie involved, it might have been flashy. But I don’t think he had a jealous bone in his body. Do you, Nell? Not about women or art or anything. He seemed totally comfortable in his own skin.”

  Izzy slipped a scrunchie around her hair as she ran. The ponytail bounced between her shoulder blades to the rhythm set by her body. “That was one of the things I liked so much about him.”

  “You’re right. He wasn’t the jealous type. Not at all. I wonder if we’re misreading the whole thing. And Billy, too. Maybe something totally unconnected to Aidan was bothering Billy. Something that was causing him to be depressed. And that’s what made him drink so much recently. Maybe Ellen knows something.” She said the latter half to herself, mentally making a list of things they needed to check off. There were way too many questions still filling the air around Sea Harbor for this to be wrapped up so neatly with the suicide of a nice man.

  Izzy ran on and Nell followed, her head high and the breeze riffling through her hair, lifting it from her neck. Running along the packed sandy beach with Izzy was one
of the many cherished treats that came with Izzy’s move to Sea Harbor. But her niece’s firm, trim, body provided a definite challenge for Nell when it came to conversation and running, at least at the same time. She glanced over and noticed with a slight sigh that Izzy barely broke a sweat when running with Nell at the required slower pace, and her breathing was even. Her tank top showed a slight darkening between her breasts, but the glistening on her forehead was slight—and her voice was as strong as if she were sitting on a chaise.

  Sensing her aunt’s labored breathing, Izzy slowed down, then paused at the edge of the water. She dug her toes into the wet sand and leaned over at the waist. Her fists on her hips, she breathed in deeply. They were on the far edge of the Sea Harbor Yacht Club, where the sand was tended and smooth and their footprints joined dozens of other early-morning runners who chose the smooth surface over the rocky shore farther north.

  In the distance, the Sea Harbor breakwater jutted out into the sea. Fishermen dotted the thick granite slabs, their lines heavy with bait, and nearby, crayon-colored buoys bounced in the water, marking a whole colony of sunken lobster traps, including Cass’.

  Nell shielded her eyes from the sun and looked out over the seamless expanse of sea and sky. She pinched her tank top between two fingers and peeled it free of her damp skin. “This is why we will never need therapists,” she murmured.

  Izzy smiled. “It beats a couch.”

  In silent agreement, they turned and began walking in the direction from which they’d come, back toward homes and showers and a Monday that was already turning warm, heralding an indecently perfect summer day. The calm after the storm.

  But not so calm. It was a day to comfort Natalie. To deal with another death. To try to make sense of it all. To mourn Billy Sobel.

  “It looks like Willow beat us out here today.” Nell pointed ahead.

  “Aha,” Izzy said, shielding her eyes and looking at a short dock that stretched into the water from the front of the yacht club beach. “I think you are right on.”

  Willow sat on the side of the pier, her legs hanging over the side. She was dressed in running shorts and a ragged tee with the sleeves cut off. Her short dark hair puffed out around a headband, silky waves curling around the band on both sides. Next to her, similarly dressed, was the tall lean body of Brendan Slattery. Willow’s body leaned gently against his side. Even from a distance, Nell could see the smile on Willow’s face, the tilt of her head. The gentle support of the man sitting next to her. They were deep in conversation.

  “That’s nice,” Izzy murmured. “Sometimes I watch you do that with Ben, just lean into him.”

  “Willow needs that.” Brendan had stuck by Willow from nearly the first day, always unobtrusively, but Nell would see him sometimes through the kitchen window, walking down toward the guesthouse door. Or the two of them walking up from the beach, through the shady path in the Endicott woods. In less than two weeks they’d found friendship. And perhaps more, Nell thought.

  And then the same discomforting feeling she’d had when Izzy decided to major in law, or when she dated her first college man who seemed to have been around the block too many times for Nell’s comfort level, suddenly seized her. It was that mother bear urge to protect, sometimes without rhyme or reason.

  She didn’t want Willow hurt. Nell shook off the irrational shiver.

  Izzy dragged her toe through the sand as she watched the couple on the dock, a wavy line matching up to a line of small shells and sea glass.

  Nell looked down at the crude design formed by Izzy’s toe. Lines intersected forming an interesting design. “Patterns in the sand,” she murmured. “Just like our lives, crossing over one another. Changing. Altered by the tide’s ebb and flow.”

  Izzy looked down, too. She leaned over, picked up a stick, and drew several more shapes—circles, squares, lines intersecting. “Maybe it’s because we’re knitters that we see patterns everywhere. Even in the sand.”

  Nell nodded. Maybe so, or maybe it’s because there simply are patterns everywhere—and figuring them out, learning why and how and when lives intersect might help us bring peace to this little town.

  Her thoughts moved to the lives that had so dramatically intersected with their own in recent days—Aidan and Willow, Billy, Natalie, Rebecca and Ellen and the other artists who felt the loss of Aidan Peabody. Even D. J. Delaney, trying to walk away with Willow’s inheritance and turn it into an inn.

  “Nell and Izzy, hi—” Willow waved vigorously, nearly toppling off the dock as she shouted above the sounds of the sea.

  It was the kind of wave one used to greet friends. Inch by inch, Willow’s defenses had broken down around Izzy and Nell, Cass and Birdie. And Nell suspected the small wedge—if there even was one—was about to disappear completely.

  Willow and Brendan had climbed off the dock and were walking toward them, their running shoes in their hands and happy smiles on their faces.

  “You two got an early start,” Nell said, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare.

  “Crack of dawn. Brendan appeared at the cottage door with a promise of coffee at the end of the run. What could I say?”

  Their bright spirits made Izzy and Nell pause, realization sinking into both of them at the same time.

  Izzy frowned and bit down on her bottom lip.

  “So you don’t know,” Nell said softly.

  The couple looked at her curiously.

  Of course they didn’t. They’d been out on the beach before most of Sea Harbor was awake, and they would have missed even the early-morning Coffee’s crowd, who would have heard from the fishermen, who heard the news from Finnegan.

  “Billy Sobel drowned off the Canary Cove dock last night,” Nell said. She paused for a moment as her words sunk in, and then continued. “We don’t know if it was an accident or suicide. There’s talk that he might have been depressed.”

  Willow’s shoes dropped to the sand. “He drowned . . . last night?”

  “We don’t know exactly when.”

  “While we were looking for him?”

  That thought had come to Izzy and Nell as well. When had Billy died? While they were in the parking lot, just above the dock, looking for him?

  “Why would Billy commit suicide?” Brendan asked, his arm going around Willow instinctively. “I saw him yesterday morning in the gallery. He seemed okay—a little strange, maybe, but okay. Natalie had been after him about the books. Since she started keeping them, Billy had to toe the mark a little more.”

  Willow shook her head back and forth slowly. She pulled off her headband and dropped it to the sand, looking at Nell as if she could change her words. “Not another death.”

  “Some people think Billy killed your father. And he was despondent because of that, so he killed himself.”

  Nell didn’t say what surely passed through all their minds—that if the police believed this story, Willow would no longer be a suspect, and at last she could go on with her life. They wouldn’t say it out loud out of respect for Billy, but the fact that Billy’s suicide—if, indeed, it was—would prove to be a good thing for Willow couldn’t be too far from their thoughts.

  “I sure never imagined Billy a murderer,” Brendan said. “He had a temper—everyone around Canary Cove knew that—and he had it in for Aidan this summer. They seemed to disagree on most things going on around the cove. But murder? That’s a whole different bag. And suicide? But I guess when you’re drinking, you’re not thinking straight.”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” Izzy said.

  “Is there a note?” Willow asked. “Isn’t there supposed to be a note when someone commits suicide? Maybe it was a sad, unfortunate accident. And now that poor woman will be berating herself for being so mad at him last night. How awful for her.”

  Brendan looked confused. “What woman?”

  “His wife. We drove her around in the storm last night,” Willow said. “She was looking for her husband.”

  “Did you see Bill
y? Where did you look?”

  “No, we never saw him,” Nell said. “We followed his trail as far as the Artist’s Palate, but it was raining so hard that Natalie decided to just go back home and wait for him.”

  They filled Brendan in on the events of the evening. But none of the discussion lead anywhere, accept for the devastating awareness that the five women might have been just a few yards from where Billy Sobel sat on the dock, drinking a bottle of bourbon. And about to die.

  Chapter 23

  “The whole town is talking about it,” Mae said. “Imagine, Billy Sobel killing Aidan. He had a temper, sure, but goodness gracious, getting mad enough to kill someone? Now that amazes me. And suicide? Billy Sobel?”

  Mae took a credit card from a customer and ran it through her machine, then handed the woman a sack of merino wool and a sock pattern—along with her usual pinch of advice. “Use the kitchener stitch on the toes and you’ll be a happy camper,” she encouraged the customer.

  While Mae was occupied, Nell checked the messages on her cell phone.

  Willow would be a few minutes late meeting her and Izzy in Canary Cove.

  Ben was heading to Gloucester for a late-afternoon meeting.

  And from Birdie, an announcement that Natalie was cremating Billy and burying him in New Jersey. Now what did she think about that?

  Mae’s glasses had slipped down to the slight bump on her long nose and she pushed them back in place with one finger. “What do you make of it, Nell?”

  For a second, Nell had to unscramble her thoughts and messages to figure out what Mae was talking about. Billy. Murder. Suicide. When she spoke, she surprised herself at the robust belief behind her words.

  “I don’t think Billy killed Aidan Peabody. And I don’t think Billy committed suicide.”

  “What are you saying, Nell?” Mae jerked off her glasses and pushed them up into her graying poof of hair. She stared at Nell, ignoring Harriet Brandley’s request for a pair of number eight bamboo needles.