A Finely Knit Murder
Page 12
“Who was that?” Elizabeth asked. “He looks familiar.”
“I’m sorry—I should have refreshed your memory,” Birdie said. “You met him at the party—he was a guest at our table.”
“I’m afraid it’s all a blur,” Elizabeth said. “But I vaguely remember meeting him or someone pointing him out.” She turned around to look again, but both the bike and rider had disappeared from sight. “The more I try to bring clarity to last night, the more the evening escapes me, turning into a hazy surreal event.”
Nell nodded. “I think we all suffer from some of that. A beautiful evening with such a tragic ending—it’s difficult to separate it all out.”
They crossed the street and walked briskly along the narrow road toward the art colony, talking about mundane things like the weather and the increasing number of sea lions basking on the harbor rocks. It would be easier to talk at Polly’s place—and the soup and sandwiches might bring the color back into Elizabeth’s face.
The two tables out in front of the Tea Shoppe were empty, and Nell suggested Birdie and Elizabeth grab one while she went inside and ordered.
Polly waved to Nell and mouthed that she’d be with her in a minute, giving Nell time to read the blackboard menu, even though in the end, she would order whatever Polly told her to order. She loved the tiny restaurant, from the hand-painted teapots lining the shelf on the wall, to the old, uneven tables and chairs that often tipped to one side or another. She never brought Ben here, fearful a chair might collapse beneath his over six-foot heft. But take-home soup was always greeted with delight.
There was a scattering of people at the half dozen tables inside. She waved at Margaret Garozzo and Harriet Brandley, two Sea Harbor natives who had known each other for fifty-plus years and never run out of things to talk about together. Their heads nearly touched as they chatted and gossiped. The cheerful expressions on their faces indicated they hadn’t heard the news of the murder yet. A cherished state, Nell thought. Harriet and Margaret were still living in a town that felt safe and relaxed. They were probably talking about a trip north to catch the early leaves, or Harriet’s son’s new book, or Izzy’s latest shipment of merino wool.
But not murder. Not yet.
A few artists Nell knew slightly looked up, waved, then went back to bowls of Polly’s cucumber dill soup and flaky rolls.
At a window table she spotted Mary Pisano and started over to say hello. Then she stopped abruptly. Mary was sitting with her cousin Teresa, whose eyes were damp, her expression distraught.
The realization hit Nell when she noticed the tears: Teresa worked at Sea Harbor Community Day School. She tried to remember her position. She wasn’t a teacher—maybe a librarian? Or an administrative assistant? She knew she’d gotten e-mail notices about board business from her occasionally.
Her oblong, frowning face—so opposite her lively cousin Mary’s round, always expressive, one—was drawn and immeasurably sad. She was younger than Mary by at least a dozen years, probably close to Izzy’s age—but her face today looked prematurely aged, as if the tragedy at the boathouse was a personal one. Her unnaturally blond hair was drab, a few strands clinging to her damp cheeks. Across from her, Mary listened, nodded, and occasionally gave her cousin’s hand a sympathetic pat.
It would be a difficult day for anyone connected to the school. Blythe was well known to the teachers and staff. And probably some of the students, too, since she seemed to be more involved there than most of the board members. And she was a colorful figure, a beautiful woman, not someone you met and forgot easily. Teresa would surely know her.
Nell turned away just as Polly called out to her from the counter—three bowls of today’s soup were ready to go. She motioned for Nell to get the door for her and she carried the tray of soup and warm rolls to the table.
Nell introduced Polly to Elizabeth. Polly wiped her hands on her apron, then shook Elizabeth’s hand. “My niece Karina is a student at your school. Look her up. Karina Farrell. She’s a wonderful girl, smart as the dickens, and she loves school. Loves it. Every single minute of it.” She spotted a customer walking through the door and flapped her hands in the air. “No rest for the wicked, now, is there?” She smiled broadly and hurried back inside.
“This place is a hidden gem,” Birdie said. “Lots of folks think it’s just a place to get tea and crumpets and we don’t tell them anything different.”
The soup was creamy, spicy, and delicious, the coffee strong and fragrant, and the conversation purposefully mellow. In a short time, the combination had brought color to Elizabeth’s cheeks and a wakefulness to her eyes.
“You two are just what I needed today. I know Jerry wants to be a help to me—but he can’t right now. It’s . . . it’s so complicated with his job, and my role at the school. The whole thing is a nightmare.”
“But Jerry is a wonderful man,” Nell said. “He’ll make this go away—for all of us.” The words were hopeful, but held little meaning.
Elizabeth breathed deeply. “I hope so, Nell. I don’t even know which way to turn or how to prioritize. I have to make some decisions—how to deal with the staff and the students, not to mention the board members. Jerry wants to separate the . . . the murder . . . from the school as much as we can. It was something that happened down at the shore. Not in the school. Not even on the terraces or the lawn. Take it away from the students and their learning here at the school as much as possible.”
It made sense, but it would be difficult to do. They knew that. Blythe was closely connected to the school. It had happened during a school event. The deceased was at the party.
And quite likely the murderer was, too.
The look in Elizabeth’s eyes told them that no matter how wise the plan was, she was more than acutely aware of the difficulty of the task.
Nell pushed back her chair and began reaching for her purse as Birdie and Elizabeth gathered napkins into a pile.
It was when Nell stood up that she noticed the man watching them from across the street, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
Josh Babson leaned lazily against the Brewster Gallery. His tall figure, nearly reaching the top of the window frame, was clearly identifiable. His eyes were focused intently on the diners in front of the teashop.
Nell turned away, slightly discomforted by his stare. She turned her attention with some relief to Mary Pisano, who was walking out the Tea Shoppe door.
Mary greeted them all warmly and began a prolonged commentary on the amazing soup she had just eaten—even though her silly cousin had barely touched hers.
A minute later, Teresa Pisano came out. At first she didn’t notice the others standing with Mary. With one hand, she was rummaging in an overstuffed shoulder bag. The other hand gripped a white take-out container of uneaten soup.
Teresa was thin to the point of being worrisome. Mary had commented recently that her cousin naively thought it made her look beautiful and had been intentionally shedding pounds. Instead she looked gaunt, and her nose seemed a little too big for her face, her shoulders too narrow, and her skinny jeans slightly loose.
Mary frowned at her cousin, nudging her to say hello. “It’s your boss, Teresa.”
Teresa looked up with a start. Her eyes flitted from Nell to Birdie, then zeroed in sharply on Elizabeth Hartley.
“Hello, Teresa,” Elizabeth said gently.
But social pleasantries seemed to be the furthest thing from Teresa Pisano’s mind. Her dark eyes lit up with sudden, unexpected anger.
For a minute they thought the younger woman was going to attack Elizabeth, but in the next second she took a step back and began to yell—her voice so shrill and harsh that Polly appeared in the doorway and a car slowed down as it passed.
Her words came out in a torrent of rage. “This is your fault, Elizabeth Hartley. You hated her—I know you did. Everyone knew it. You killed my Blythe!”
Chapter 11
F or a moment, no one moved. The shock of Teresa’s words trailed behind her like bad fumes.
In the next instant, there was a flurry of action.
Mary, her face red with shame, uttered an apology and set out after her cousin.
Polly grabbed a towel from her apron band, tsking at the waste of her delicious soup, but happy none of it had landed on Elizabeth.
Birdie handed a glass of water to a shaken Elizabeth.
Nell wiped the table clean, and Polly disappeared inside with the rags and tray of dishes.
In all, the fuss lasted less than a few minutes.
The look on Elizabeth’s face, however, told them the aftermath of Teresa Pisano’s words would last much longer.
Nell picked her bag up from the chair and handed it to her.
She looked around to be sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, and then, almost as an afterthought, she glanced across the street.
She had nearly forgotten about him, but he was still there, standing as still as the wooden statue that guarded the gallery next door.
Josh Babson hadn’t moved, his eyes fixed on the scene playing out in front of Polly Farrell’s Tea Shoppe.
Nell narrowed her eyes, straining to bring his face into focus, looking for acknowledgment of what he had seen. Their eyes met—and a careless smile seemed to curl his lip just seconds before he leaned forward, letting his cigarette drop to the sidewalk where he snubbed it out with the toe of his shoe.
He looked over once more, a brief glance, then turned and pushed open the door to the Brewster Gallery.
And then he disappeared from sight.
* * *
Birdie and Nell walked on either side of a quiet, shaken Elizabeth. They headed away from the art colony and onto a quiet street that wound its way back to Sandswept Lane and to home.
For several blocks, they walked in silence, each wrapped up in her own thoughts and emotion.
The pain in Elizabeth’s face was raw.
Finally, as they neared Elizabeth’s house, Birdie said, “People express their sadness in different ways. I suppose that is what Teresa was doing. Was she close to Blythe?”
“Close?” Elizabeth repeated the word as if examining it carefully. “Teresa knew Blythe because she came into the office often. Teresa didn’t seem to have many friends among the staff, though I couldn’t be sure of that, but Blythe was nice to her. She brought her small gifts sometimes. I suppose you could say they were friends. They spoke often.”
“That surprises me,” Nell said. “Though I have no reason to think they shouldn’t be. Except . . .”
“I know. Except they were so unlike each other. I thought that, too. I don’t know. I wondered about it. Maybe it was just . . .” Elizabeth’s words trailed off, as if there was more there, but she wasn’t sure how to address it—or if she should.
They had reached Elizabeth’s house and stopped near the front door. “Thank you for giving me part of your day,” she began. She took a step toward the door and dug her keys out of her purse.
But when she went to use it, the door opened on its own.
Nell and Birdie stared.
Elizabeth looked down at her keys as if they had failed her, then managed a short laugh. “I must have forgotten to lock it. Sometimes I do that. It upset Jerry when he noticed it one day. I wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving my place in Boston unlocked, but somehow Sea Harbor seems to be the kind of place where it would be okay.” She stopped, listening to her own words and thinking about them.
Sea Harbor was a place where you didn’t have to lock your doors . . . but where a woman could be killed with a rock during a festive school event.
“Let’s just be sure . . . ,” Nell said, and moved past Elizabeth and into the small entryway before she could object. She wasn’t sure what they were being sure of, but today wasn’t the same as yesterday or the day before. Today—and maybe all the tomorrows for a while—were days for locking doors, and for checking to see what was behind ones that weren’t.
Elizabeth tried to object, but it was too late—Nell was already inside with Birdie close behind her. Reluctantly she followed them through the door.
The bungalow was small and neat and light, with magazines stacked on the coffee table, books lined up on polished shelves, and a beautiful knit afghan in every color of the sea draped over the couch. Framed paintings of seascapes created bright spots of color against the white walls.
Elizabeth went in and checked her bedroom. She came back, announcing that it was fine. “There’s no little bear sleeping in my bed,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood, but Nell and Birdie didn’t smile. “I’ve no jewels to steal.”
“Caution isn’t a bad thing, Elizabeth,” Birdie said. “Not when someone has been murdered.”
“Of course not. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Honestly I’ve left the door unlocked before, many times. But I won’t anymore. I won’t be foolish about this.”
“You’re anything but foolish,” Birdie said. “But these are unusual times.”
“I understand. And please know that I appreciate what you’ve done for me today—the soup and walk were truly the therapy I needed. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Maybe you can get some rest now. You can’t have had more than a couple hours’ sleep last night—”
She nodded, weariness returning to her face, as if she’d somehow been given permission to let it seep in. “There will be a lot of questions. Jerry warned me of that. I know I will need a clear head. Last night is all a blur right now.”
“There’ll be questions for all of us, no doubt.”
The questions would go on and on. The hope was that there would be answers.
Nell and Birdie headed for the door.
There would be endless questions for all of them—friends and neighbors, staff and teachers and board members.
Board members. The thought hit Nell with some force. How would the board members’ interviews play out to the Sea Harbor police? A board fraught with dissension. And much of it centering on—and created by—Blythe Westerland. If they wanted to look for people with motive and opportunity, questioning the Sea Harbor Community Day School board might be hitting the mother lode.
Chapter 12
S aturday night dinner began as a somber hodgepodge.
A hodgepodge of people and a hodgepodge of food. A hodgepodge of emotion.
A gathering of people who simply wanted the warmth of food and Ben’s martinis. And the comfort of old friends.
The night was cool—sweater weather, a knitter’s dream—and the warmth from Ben’s grill and the stone fire pit that he and Sam had built was welcome.
Cass and Birdie were the first to arrive, bringing Ella’s apple crisp and fresh loaves of bread. Sam had picked up ribs that Ben would warm on the grill. The Brewsters showed up, too—with daisies from Jane’s garden and her famous peanut slaw. Probably more food than any of them could eat. But that would be all right, too.
“Is Harry coming?” Izzy asked Cass.
“Nope.” She rummaged around in the small deck refrigerator for a beer. “I thought about inviting him. I needed to be with all of you tonight, and I thought maybe he would need company, too, you know? But he doesn’t know us all that well, and so, I don’t know, I opted to come alone. He was okay with it. He totally got it. He said he was going to work on the house a little, figure out exactly what needs to be done. Originally he thought he’d stick around and supervise, but now he thinks maybe he’ll just hire the right guys and head back to Boston.”
“I suppose a lot of people who don’t live here might feel t
hat way. The town’s charm loses its luster in the face of a murder,” Birdie said.
“But you do know he’d be welcome here, Cass,” Ben said, poking the coals.
“Sure, I know. Thanks. You guys would welcome a circus clown if I picked one up along the way.”
“No, no, no circus clowns,” Izzy said. “They scare Abby.” She looked over at the sleeping blond baby, curled up next to Sam on the chaise and oblivious of everything around her but the safe warmth of her daddy.
Cass laughed. “Okay. For Abby I’ll take clowns off the pickup list. Anyway, it was a selfish decision but hey, I’m selfish.”
Birdie set a plate of crackers and cheese on the low deck table. “We didn’t talk long, but he seems like an interesting man.”
Cass didn’t reply. Instead she smeared a cracker with Brie and popped it into her mouth.
A familiar voice rumbled up the back deck steps. “Hey, guys. Anyone home?” Danny Brandley appeared, coming from around the side of the house and taking the deck steps two at a time. “I figured I’d find at least two friends here. I got a bunch. Must be friend karma.”
“You’re back.” Nell walked over and hugged him. “I’m glad. And I’m glad you found us.”
He greeted everyone on the deck with his signature slow smile, his glasses reflecting the dozens of candles Nell had lit around the deck. When he got to Cass, his look lingered and his eyebrows lifted, as if he was checking to be sure she was okay. Cass met his look and allowed a smile. I’m fine, it said. And his nod told her that was good.
Danny walked around the group and sat down next to Nell. “Not good news to come home to. Especially for all of you who were there at the party—” There was a bit of apology in his tone, as if he somehow should have been there, too.