Jane glanced down at the names on the long white sheets of paper. “Ben, Margarethe, and Birdie are our hope for the future,” she said. “You are generous folks.”
“And while we’re slinging praise,” Ham said, “here’s to you, Sam.” He lifted a brandy snifter into the air. “The kids love your class. A lot of them have never viewed anything through a lens, and this is so good for them. They see things differently, themselves included.”
“It’s a good group—a mix of kids from all over town—and everyone helps out, even Izzy,” Sam said. “The kids and I are going to invade her knitting studio one of these days—it’s the perfect place to play with interior color and shadows and lighting.”
“That’s a terrific idea,” Nell said.
“Once I saw that window with those dripping hanks of color, I knew I needed an excuse to get in there to photograph them. I figured Iz couldn’t say no to the kids.”
“He’s absolutely right,” Izzy said. “No way I’d let Sam in the studio without a covey of kids around him.”
“Some of the kids’ photographs might look nice in the shop,” Nell said. “Maybe you could have a kids’ art showing, Izzy.”
Izzy’s brows lifted. “Good idea. We might as well use Sam to the fullest while he’s here.”
Ben walked up, announcing that his bus was about to leave. “Call me what you will—but Cinderella and I are on the same schedule.” He glanced at his watch. “And my chariot is about to turn into a pumpkin. Any riders?”
Nell touched Birdie on the arm. “Birdie, what do you say we leave the younger set to the final brandy toasts and head out?”
Birdie protested for effect, but took Ben’s outstretched arm when offered.
Ham and Jane went off to thank Margarethe, and Nell watched the others heading for the tent and some late-night dancing. She watched them walk off, then followed Birdie and Ben out to the car.
It wasn’t until Ben had sent for their car to be brought around that Nell and Birdie realized their wraps were still upstairs.
“I’ll just be a minute, Ben,” Nell said. “You and Birdie wait for the car and I’ll pick up our wraps.”
Birdie agreed, admitting, for once in her life, that her body was a bit weary and if saved that long flight of stairs, she’d be grateful.
Nell hurried up the outside steps and into the house, looking for Stella or one of the other young women who had taken their wraps hours before.
But the music in the tent had picked up its tempo, pumping a beat across the yard and into the house that Nell could feel inside her chest. There would be no hope of finding any of them now, Nell thought. She suspected the whole coterie of teenagers hired to help were now in the tent, enjoying the late-night crowd and the music. Well, good for them, she thought, and headed up the circle of steps to the second floor. After a decade or two of parties at the Framinghams’, she could surely find her own wrap.
Nell peered into a large, open suite opposite the top of the staircase and spotted the pile of coats and shawls neatly positioned across the beds and divan. She spotted her own black shawl immediately, just inside the door and folded nicely on the back of a loveseat. Birdie’s was next to it, the elegant red butterfly shawl draped over a mountain of silk pillows as if on display. Nell smiled, wondering how many youthful bodies had modeled it in the course of the evening.
She draped both shawls over her arm and turned to leave when a series of high-pitched giggles stopped her just inside the doorway.
Nell looked back. The two rooms of the suite were connected by a short hallway, lined on either side by mirrored closet doors. In the mirrors’ reflection, Nell spotted Stella Palazola and two friends, each one twirling like models, their shoulders covered in guests’ lacy shawls and silk brocade jackets.
The teenagers hadn’t seen Nell. Their full attention was given to the whirling, elegant images looking back at them from the mirrors.
Nell smiled, remembering Birdie’s story. She’d have to tell Birdie they thought hers was the prettiest. As she turned to leave, not wanting to disturb their fun, a bright flash of color in the mirror caught Nell’s eye. She paused, then took a step back into the room. And in the next moment, Nell’s body froze. She took a slow breath and focused on the image in the mirror.
Stella was draped in a lacy cashmere sweater, her reflection a flash of brilliant color. It wasn’t an ordinary sweater or shawl, but one Nell would have recognized from miles away.
Before Nell could collect her thoughts, Nancy Hughes and several other friends from the Historical Society board walked into the room, chatting and laughing.
“Nell, I haven’t seen you all evening,” Nancy said effusively, hugging Nell. “And here we all are, the older generation, heading for our coats and off to bed.”
“You don’t exactly fit the description of older generation, Nancy,” Nell said, pushing a calmness into her voice that her body failed to absorb. Her back was to the closets, but she could feel the movement behind her.
“Well, older than the generation still tearing up the dance floor,” Nancy said. “Alex claims we haven’t danced this much since our wedding. He’s collapsed at the front door, waiting to take his weary wife home.”
Nell nodded politely as they chatted about the party, the food, and the piles of money raised for Canary Cove and the Arts Academy, while searching for their wraps in the neatly arranged piles.
When they finally left, Nell turned toward the closets. The hall was empty, just as she knew it would be. The voices would have sent the teenagers scurrying out the other side of the suite. She walked through to the small sitting room at the other end. It was empty as well, except for more coats and wraps arranged neatly on the back of the chairs and couches.
Nell walked over and began picking through the piles of garments. They wouldn’t have left with the sweater, surely, but there was no sign of the brilliant cashmere wrap.
“May I help you, Mrs. Endicott?”
Nell turned and looked into the smiling face of one of Mae Anderson’s nieces.
“Hello, Rose,” Nell said, standing straight. “I think I’m fine. I thought maybe I had picked up the wrong wrap, but I must have been mistaken.”
“Okay. Sure. Some of us are going swimming, if you want to come,” Rose said. Her eyes twinkled, and she held up a tiny swim-suit. “Miz Framingham said we could use the pool before we go home. She doesn’t need us to help anymore.”
“Well, good. You have fun, Rose. Would you believe I forgot my suit?” Nell forced a smile and left Rose her privacy to change.
Nell’s heart fluttered as she hurried down the steps and out to the waiting car. Ben reached across the seat, opened the door, and Nell slid in beside him, handing Birdie her shawl and snapping her seat belt in place. She looked straight ahead, collecting her thoughts as Ben maneuvered the car around the circle and out onto the road.
“Nell,” Birdie said, leaning forward from the backseat and tapping her on the shoulder, “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Nell took another slow breath, forcing her heartbeat back to normal. She looked over at Ben, then twisted her shoulders to look back at Birdie.
“Birdie, that’s exactly what I’ve seen,” she said. “I’ve seen a ghost.”
Chapter 26
It was hours later that Nell finally turned out the light and fell into a light sleep, one punctuated by dreams of mirrors and falling skeins of yarn, and glistening golden threads tangled and misshapen.
“It was the sweater Angie was wearing the night she died. I would stake my life on it,” she told Ben as they lay side by side, unable to sleep. “The Chinese yarn in that sweater was unique and the saffron shade exquisite. And Izzy had designed it herself, so it couldn’t be a copy. It was a work of art,” Nell said.
“You’re sure the mirror didn’t distort it, Nell?” Ben asked.
“I don’t think so, Ben.” Nell knew Ben wanted to understand, but it was hard to explain to h
im that she knew that sweater intimately. It wasn’t like any other sweater. During those days and nights when they fixed up the shop, she and Izzy would take timeouts to knit and talk and plan. She had watched the spun cashmere fibers turn into a soft luxurious wrap beneath Izzy’s expert fingers. The sweater became a part of those special months when aunt and niece renewed their relationship, shared intimate thoughts, and together looked ahead to Izzy’s new life in Sea Harbor.
When Izzy had loaned the sweater to Angie—good advertising or not—Nell had had to bite back her disapproval. But Izzy had promised it was just a short-term loan and it would come back soon.
But it hadn’t come back. It had been looped in a soft knot around Angie’s shoulders the night she died.
There was only one explanation, Nell told Ben. Someone invited to the Framingham arts benefit had murdered Angie. Or if not, knew who did. Nell was sure of it. And Izzy’s saffron-colored cashmere sweater was the key.
Sunday’s skies were cloudy over Sea Harbor, with a gusty, warm wind tossing the waves and luring sailboats out into the waters. Ben suggested they get out in the fresh air and have a taste of Sweet Petunia’s Sunday special.
Though they had eaten enough the night before to last several days, Nell was determined to talk to Stella Palazola. And Annabelle’s restaurant was the one sure place of finding her on a Sunday morning. She didn’t want to embarrass Stella by letting on that she’d seen her trying on guests’ clothing—she would have to go about it delicately—but she had to find out more about the sweater—Izzy’s sweater—that had grabbed the teenager’s fancy.
On their way over to Annabelle’s, Izzy called. “Sam and I are coming, too,” she said.
Sam and I. Nell snapped her cell phone closed. That had a nice ring to it.
Izzy and Sam had already claimed a table in a far corner of the deck when Ben and Nell arrived at Annabelle’s. The smell of fresh herbs and rich coffee greeted them as Izzy waved them over.
“I thought the whole town—including you two—would be sleeping in this morning,” Nell said, sitting down next to Izzy. “Did you stay late?”
“Way too late,” Sam said. “I felt like an old fogy when I collapsed around two. I didn’t think I’d ever get Izzy out of there— she’s a dancing fool.”
“I think it was the dress,” Izzy said. “Kind of like Dorothy’s red slippers in The Wizard of Oz. I couldn’t stop. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. But it seemed all of five minutes later—though it was actually more like nine this morning—when Cass called and woke me up.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine. Cass goes to Coffee’s early on Sundays—she’s afraid she won’t get a good seat. And she ran into Birdie . . . And Birdie told her about the sweater.” Izzy shifted in her chair and tilted her head to one side. “And the earphones they found in Gideon’s pack—a double whammy. So we know Gideon ravaged Angie’s apartment. Tell me everything, Aunt Nell. I can’t believe the sweater is somehow still around.”
“And here I thought it was our company that brought you to brunch,” Ben said.
“That, too, Ben, but I can’t believe my sweater is still alive. I haven’t talked about it because it seemed so selfish. A lost sweater—even that sweater—is nothing compared to Angie’s murder.”
Nell nodded, understanding Izzy’s conflicted emotions. She repeated her jarring encounter in the coat room the night before, explaining the history of the sweater to Sam, and looking up now and then to be sure Stella wasn’t close by. She hadn’t seen the young waitress yet, but Stella had a habit of appearing out of thin air if she sniffed news or gossip. Nell needed to talk to her, and soon, but she didn’t want to frighten her, either. The fear of Stella clamming up and denying there ever was a sweater was real if the teenager thought she’d get in trouble.
“Could the sweater have been left on the breakwater and found by someone the next day?” Sam asked. “Maybe they realized its value—or just liked it—and decided to keep it?”
Nell had considered that same scenario, then dismissed it. “That seems logical, Sam. It certainly could have slipped off her shoulders. Or Angie could have set it down while talking. Or, if she fought off someone, it could have slipped off.” She took a drink of her coffee and then continued. “All those things are possibilities. Except that the sweater would never have survived the night.”
Ben looked up from the Times and took off his reading glasses. “Why not, Nell?” He looked down at the lightweight cotton sweater that Nell had knit for him when they still lived in Boston. “This one has lasted a long time.”
Izzy was about to repeat Ben’s question, when her eyes suddenly widened and she slapped the tabletop with one hand. Coffee sloshed against the sides of the mug. “Of course it wouldn’t have survived. It rained that night, that’s why,” she said. She turned sideways to look at Nell. “Nell, you’re brilliant.”
“Not only did it rain, we had high winds that night,” Ben added. “You’re right, Nell.”
“And if by some miracle the sweater hadn’t been blown out to sea,” Nell continued, “it would have been drenched with salty sea water and muddy debris. It would have been destroyed. The sweater I saw last night was in beautiful shape. It was perfect.”
“But why would someone wear the sweater to an event where it could be recognized?” Sam asked.
“That’s puzzling,” Nell admitted. “Unless it had been a gift— whoever murdered Angie gave it to someone. Maybe someone who isn’t from Sea Harbor. There were people from all around the Cape, from Boston, too, invited to the party.”
“Like all of Tony’s friends,” Izzy said softly.
From across the room, Ben spotted Stella and waved her over to take their orders. “I think Stella is avoiding us. Do you think she knows you saw her last night, Nell?”
Before Nell could answer, Stella walked over to the table, her glasses fogged from the steam in the kitchen.
Noticing her glasses, Nell realized that Stella hadn’t had them on last night. It would have been a miracle if she had recognized her in the softly lit room.
“Hi, guys,” Stella said with a wide grin. “Cool party, huh?” Stella wore a skimpy T-shirt today, and over it, a small tank top that ended just above her waist. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “I had, like, such a cool time.”
“You and your friends work hard at those affairs,” Nell said.
“Oh, geesh, that’s not work. Work was, like, getting up this morning,” Stella said. She looked at them through her tinted glasses, her lips turned up in a mysterious smile.
“How about some more coffee, Stella,” Ben asked, holding up his cup. “And I think we’re ready to order.”
Stella poured coffee all around, then pulled a pad and pencil from the pocket of her shorts. She turned to Sam. “My mom’s Sunday frittata special is, like, awesome. Today she put salmon in it. Cheese, mushrooms. Potatoes. Sour cream.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have,” Sam said.
Stella grinned again, this time only at Sam, and disappeared.
“I think she missed your orders,” Sam said.
Ben laughed. “Sometimes Stella asks, sometimes not. Fortunately, Annabelle doesn’t cook an egg we don’t like.”
When Ben and Sam began talking about the Sox-Yankee game, Nell turned toward Izzy, but her niece’s attention was somewhere else. She was looking beyond the deck railing, over the treetops and galleries, to the robust waves lapping against the rocky shore in the distance. Izzy seemed intent on something that Nell couldn’t see. She looked younger than her years today, Nell thought. And worried.
Izzy turned back and took another drink of her coffee, playing with the toast on her plate. “I really had a good time last night. I think it’s the first time since Angie died that I was able to put it all aside for a few hours. And I’m glad I didn’t know all this then. The sweater. Gideon breaking in.” She paused, and looked up into Nell’s face. “I want so badly for all this to end, Aunt
Nell. It’s too close, you know? It’s touching us.” She pressed a finger into her arm.
Nell wanted to reach out and wrap her niece in a hug like she used to do when Izzy was a little girl and would beg Nell to make the world fair and right. “Just do it, Auntie Nell,” she’d plead when a friend’s parents were divorcing or her dog got sick or a baby bird fell out of a tree. Just do it. She wanted to promise Izzy that she would, that the suspicions and cloud hanging heavy over her shop would go away—poof!—as easy as erasing a headache with an aspirin. Instead, she touched Izzy’s hand where it rested on the tabletop and said, “Me, too, Izzy.”
Stella returned with heaping platters of frittatas and placed them down in front of them, poured more coffee, and hurried off. Nell watched her go, wondering when she’d be able to get her alone. The restaurant was packed and Stella hadn’t stood still since they arrived.
“Was there any more talk of Gideon last night?” Ben asked.
“Some,” Izzy said. She picked up a piece of toast from her plate and smothered it with blueberry jam. “It came up a few times, but no one liked Gideon very much, so news of his death wasn’t as jarring as it might have been. Some people thought he got what he deserved. He was a poacher. But still . . .” Izzy paused.
“Still . . . ?” Ben asked.
“Well, it was a horrible way to die, no matter what people thought of him. And I can’t imagine how someone could have hit him so forcefully and not stopped to see if they could help. People in Sea Harbor aren’t like that. Besides, that road is a dead end. Why would anyone have been on it?”
Ben had proposed the same inconsistency the night before, and Nell wondered how the police explained it. “I suppose someone who’d been drinking might have made a wrong turn, but with all the debris and rusted trucks at the end of that road, it seems they would have hit other things in addition to George Gideon.”
“It’s a little too coincidental,” Ben said.
Nell sipped her coffee. Coincidental or intentional? she wondered.
Ben directed the conversation on to other things—sailboat races and explaining to Sam the upcoming Fourth of July party held on Pelican Green, the park that stretched down to the harbor. “Lobster rolls, fried clams, plenty of beer—and the best fireworks on Cape Ann. It’s a good time for all,” he said.
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