The Wedding Shawl

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Jerry had shrugged and admitted he hadn’t known that connection, though it would probably surface. He wasn’t chief back when the Farrow case was in the news.

  “Heard about it some, but that’s about all,” he said. And then he agreed that it was certainly an irony—two young friends, both dying tragically. An irony. But he had intentionally stopped with that, unwilling to add weight or meaning to a coincidence.

  A coincidence. Two best friends killed fifteen years apart. The thought had lingered on the edge of Nell’s consciousness all night, until Ben finally turned out the bedside light and convinced her that there were more interesting things to think about right then.

  But when the sun came up, the thought was back, as if it had just taken a little rest and picked up some energy on the way. Now it presented itself as an annoying buzz that interfered with mundane pleasures—like enjoying Coffee’s rich cinnamon roll.

  Two young girls dead. Coincidence?

  “It must be a coincidence. What else could it be?” Birdie asked now, pulling out a chair opposite Nell and sitting down. She set her bike helmet and backpack on the flagstone floor at her feet.

  Nell managed a half smile. “There should be a law against you mining my thoughts the way you do.”

  Birdie reached across the table and patted Nell’s hand. “Nonsense. That’s what old friends do.”

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence, Birdie?”

  “Coincidence . . . or synchronicity. Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure I believe in coincidences anymore.”

  “And that’s because they don’t exist,” a clear voice beside Nell declared.

  They looked up into the suntanned face of Mary Pisano. She stood beside the table, trim and fit in plaid Bermuda shorts and a crisp white blouse, probably from the preteen department, which was where she bought most of her clothes. “Everything in life is connected,” she said, more forcefully. “A web. At least that’s how I see it.”

  “Mary, I didn’t know you were so new age,” Birdie said.

  Mary laughed. “I don’t like labels, but I do think we sometimes fail to see the synchronicity in events because we’re just too busy all the time; we move too fast without stopping to think—or maybe, for some reason, we don’t want to see the connection in the events that make up our lives.” She put down her coffee cup.

  “Here’s a perfect example,” Mary went on. “When I saw you two over here, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence that I was sitting just a few feet away. You’d be talking about what I was thinking about. So, I said to myself, we’ll just do it together.” Mary reached back and pulled over a chair from her own table—her unofficial reserved seat. Everyone knew the table beneath the leafy maple tree to be hers, a place she occupied nearly every morning in decent weather. Her computer on her lap, she sat there and composed her “About Town” column for the Sea Harbor Gazette, the contents of which were sometimes gleaned from the conversations spinning around her on the crowded patio.

  “Here,” Nell said, pushing the plate with her giant cinnamon roll to the center of the table. “Pick away.”

  Mary seemed to have an agenda, but Nell wasn’t sure exactly what it was. They’d find out in good time, she supposed. Mary didn’t hold back.

  But sometimes it took some chitchat to get her where she wanted to be.

  Birdie pulled off a piece of the flaky roll and set it on a napkin. “How’s your bed-and-breakfast doing?” she asked. A rhetorical question at best, since everyone in town knew the answer. Ravenswood-by-the-Sea was booked solid. Thriving. Birdie herself lived in the coveted Ravenswood neighborhood, just across the street from the old Pisano estate, which Mary had transformed into a lavish B and B. Though its doors had been open less than a year, its reputation was already bringing return guests from Boston and New York. The most comfortable beds on the Atlantic Coast, a recent travel magazine had written alongside photographs of the magnificent home. With breakfasts that Emeril Lagasse would die for. Exquisite lawns, woods for hiking.

  “It’s fine. My grandfather would approve of what I’ve done with his home. And even my obstinate relatives are coming around. And it will shine when we put all the Chamberses up for Izzy’s wedding.”

  Nell smiled. “Not to mention Izzy’s glorious reception.”

  “Absolutely. It’s going to be beyond belief. And that’s one of the reasons we need to clear up this awful mess.”

  “Awful mess?” Birdie said.

  “That’s what’s pressing on us this morning. Right? This awful business surrounding Tiffany Ciccolo’s death. That sweet young woman. This is truly horrible.”

  Birdie and Nell sat back and sipped their coffee, listening, nodding. They knew Mary wasn’t finished—she would go on for a while, and it wouldn’t do any good to interrupt.

  “It’s summer, for heaven’s sake. I told Jerry Thompson that he’d better have something for me today, some news to put people’s minds at rest. I want to know that they’ve caught the thief and put him away somewhere far from here; that’s what the town needs. The thought of robbers roaming Harbor Road is distasteful. And frightening.

  “There, I’ve said my piece.” Mary took off her sunglasses and picked up a large mug of coffee. Her fingers wrapped around it, and her blue eyes peered over the rim, waiting for their response.

  “If it was a robbery, Mary, I would think the person would be long gone from Cape Ann.”

  “That’s what Tommy Porter said when he stopped in here earlier this morning—that the guy might be long gone. Maybe as far away as Florida, he said. Not a very bright robber if he’d head for Florida at this time of year, I told him.

  “But I knew that was just the police party line, and I told Tommy as much. He didn’t need to play coy with me. He could trust me with the truth. Is there a suspect? Who? Why? We need some answers here.” She set her mug down on the table.

  Nell held back a smile. As if anything Mary Pisano was told would stay confidential. She was as well-intentioned as anyone on earth, but to Mary, secrets were meant to be printed in her column.

  Nell looked around the patio. People were busy reading the paper, talking, some men and women in business attire, teenagers in shorts and tank tops headed for the beach. She wondered if she was imagining that the heads leaning close together, the lowered voices, were wondering about Harbor Road’s robber, too. Today’s paper gave an update that was really a rehash, nothing new added, except that Tiffany Ciccolo was a wonderful young woman who would be terribly missed by all the clients of M.J.’s salon.

  Nell knew that no news was Jerry’s way of handling these things. Even if there was something new, the chief would keep it under wraps, unless putting it out for public scrutiny would help catch the person who had broken into M.J.’s cellar—and left a young woman dead.

  Beside her, Mary rolled a pencil between her hands, then stopped and started tapping it on the table. Finally she sighed and pushed back her chair, looking over at another table where the front page of the paper held the word ROBBERY in ninety-two-point Helvetica font. “A robbery; that’s what they’re saying.”

  “Do you think it was something other than a robbery, Mary?”

  Nell and Birdie both looked at the younger woman, keeping their opinions to themselves. Experience had taught them how easily one’s words could make it into Mary Pisano’s chatty column.

  Mary hesitated as if the question caught her by surprise. “Do I think it was a robbery . . .” she repeated slowly. Finally she answered in the definitive tone they were used to hearing from her. “Of course I do. Of course it was a robbery.”

  She paused, just long enough for her voice to lose some of its robust confidence, and when she spoke again, a note of wishfulness crept into her tone. “It had to have been a robbery. . . .”

  Because. The unspoken word dangled in the air, as loud and clear as if it’d been spoken aloud.

  Abruptly, Mary picked up her paper cup, turned around, and walked over to
the shade of the old maple tree. She sat down on the bench, her back straight, her feet just touching the ground. Before her fingers ever reached the keyboard, her latest column began to take shape.

  Birdie and Nell gathered their things and walked out onto the sidewalk. They collected Birdie’s bike and walked it down the street to the yarn studio and a class they’d agreed to help Izzy teach.

  “Because,” Nell repeated aloud.

  Birdie nodded as the thought that was impossible to digest surfaced and stood its ground, planting itself directly in their path.

  Because . . . because if it wasn’t a robbery, then someone had wanted to kill Tiffany Ciccolo.

  Chapter 13

  Izzy’s yarn shop window was everything she had said it was—mountains of buttery-soft summer yarn. Mae’s teenage nieces, Jillian and Rose, had done a wonderful job creating a beach scene, complete with sand castles, to provide a backdrop for the yarn. Piled in sand buckets and picnic baskets were balls of amazing cotton and cotton blends in the colors of summer: cotton candy and mint leaf, lemonade, peaches and cream, and sweet orchid. Sky and summer sea. And sitting in the corner of the window, right in the middle of several skeins of limeade-colored cotton, was Purl, the knitting shop’s cherished cat, happy in her yarn paradise.

  Birdie and Nell stood at the window, only the glass preventing them from digging their fingers into the soft yarn.

  I’ll get some for Claire, Nell thought. She was a beautiful knitter. She would create something extraordinary from Izzy’s new yarn.

  Nell had sat on the chilly deck in the early-morning hours, watching for some sign that Claire was still staying in the guesthouse. Finally Ben lured her inside, telling her that he’d seen a light when he went to exercise at the crack of dawn. She was there, and she was responsible. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who would sneak out in the night without saying good-bye.

  Of course she wouldn’t, Nell had agreed. What was she thinking?

  “How is Claire doing?” Birdie asked beside her.

  “She may move to Texas.”

  Birdie was silent, her eyes still lingering on the magical colors in front of them. Finally she nodded. “I think she carries a burden, Nell. I hope she doesn’t think it will be lifted by running away from it.”

  Nell was silent. She thought Claire trusted her, but her comments yesterday were troubling. Her reasons for leaving were vague, undefined. Birdie didn’t know Claire as well, and perhaps seeing it with some detachment provided more clarity. She’d talk to Claire again. If there was a problem, she and Ben would help. Certainly. But Birdie was right. Running away wouldn’t help.

  They would have stayed there indefinitely, the two friends, letting the vivid summer colors soothe their spirits, had Izzy not stepped outside to put a rubber doorstopper beneath the front entrance.

  She laughed at the sight. “I told you. Luscious, right? You want to eat it—ice cream, popsicles, peaches. Dip your fingers in, then lick them clean.”

  “Luscious only begins to describe it.”

  “I don’t think I can afford to come inside,” Birdie said, her eyes lighting on one color after another. “I want six skeins of each. Maybe seven.”

  Izzy hugged them both. “We can manage that. But come inside now. We’ve a crowd. They’re all ready to tackle that lacy beach bag I made last summer.”

  Izzy’s summer classes were always packed. Vacationers couldn’t pass her store without stopping in, and the array of classes offered made it impossible for even nonknitters to go away empty-handed. At the least, they’d leave Cape Ann that summer with a scarf filled with memories and the smell of the sea.

  Willow Adams was there to help, too, the elfin artist standing near Izzy’s “soapbox”—a small wooden platform Ben had made to lift his niece above chatty crowds as she quieted them down, gave instructions, and answered questions.

  Willow waved at Birdie and Nell and joined them near the cookie table. “Izzy said this is for advanced knitters. Don’t know what I’m doing here.” She chuckled, rearranging her thick black hair with her fingers.

  “It’s because you’re famous. Imagine coming in to knit a bag and having the well-known fiber artist Willow Adams be your guide.”

  “Hah,” Willow spurted out in denial, the sound surprisingly large considering its source. “But this is fun, things like this—and Laura’s party. That was cool. Keeps people on the right track and assured that the summer will still go on, the ocean will still be here, in spite of the sad thing that happened in M.J.’s salon.”

  “Has Pete seen much of Andy?” Nell asked.

  Willow nodded. “After Laura’s party we went looking for him. He was at the Gull, like his dad said, not working, though. He was just sitting on a stool looking at nothing. So Pete pulled him out and we took him over to the Palate. It’s not open on Sundays, but Merry and Hank were there, so they brought out a few beers and joined us. We had the place to ourselves. It pays to be buddies with a bar owner or two.”

  “Did Andy talk about Tiffany?”

  “Not much. But the rest of us did. I guess we knew Tiffany as well as anyone, because she came to all the gigs, always doing nice things for the band, bringing water bottles and treats and offering to help set up. I was sometimes around, too, because Pete can’t sing worth a darn without me staring up at him, all moonstruck.” Willow laughed again, her face and eyes lighting up. Then just as quickly, the smile left her small face and she pulled her brows together, looking from Nell to Birdie and back again. “Here’s what I think, if you want to know. Tiffany Ciccolo had fallen in love with Andy. And in a big way.”

  “And Andy knew it?”

  Willow thought for a moment. “I’m not sure—sometimes guys are dumb about things like that—but somehow I think he did know. Just a feeling. At first, when she started coming around, he wasn’t so friendly to her. All he told us was that he’d known her in high school.

  “Pete thought Tiff was a groupie—she didn’t seem to have many friends around town, but she knew Andy. And soon Andy started talking to her more. The two of them seemed to understand each other on some weird level. After a while, Andy almost expected her there, and they’d leave together, sometimes coming out with all of us—Andy, Merry and Hank, Pete and me.” She nodded over at Merry Jackson, who was sitting in the front row, her long platinum hair making her as easy to spot as the sun. “But sometimes they’d go off just the two of them. And you could see that Tiffany was feeling more familiar with Andy, touching him, holding hands, cuddling up to him—that kind of thing.

  “Andy clammed up when we’d say anything. He said not to read anything into it because there was nothing to read. But there was. I could tell—at least for Tiffany. There was that feeling that comes when . . . Well, you know—when two people are more than friends.”

  The tinkling of Izzy’s bell filtered through the room, burying the questions that filled Nell’s head. Like a wave, conversations softened across the room until there was silence.

  Willow leaned toward Nell and Birdie and whispered the end of her thought. “But it’s just a crappy ending; that’s what it comes down to. Groupie or not, girlfriend or not, we’ll miss her. It’s a bummer.”

  Then Izzy’s voice took over, first giving her usual lay-of-the-land instructions: the bathroom is off the Magic Room—Izzy’s name for the children’s playroom just opposite the galley kitchen—and there’s lemonade and iced tea on the bookcase. “And cookies—but only when we’re finished, so your yarn stays clean.”

  And then she began to describe the perfect summer project—a lacy, colorful beach bag. “It doesn’t look it, but it’ll hold your shorts, shirt, towel, and beach read, and even has a pouch for a cell phone and change,” she said, holding up a sample that Esther Gibson had worked up for Izzy during a slow day at the police station. There were oohs and aahs, though most had seen the soft drawstring bag before when they’d picked out their yarn—a blend of silk and cotton, linen and nylon. The color choices were perfect f
or the beach—bright greens and lazulite, abalone and mushroom, and a shimmering gold.

  Izzy had indeed picked a perfect project.

  Nell wandered around, weaving her way between bodies sitting cross-legged on floor cushions or around the big table. She stopped at Harriet Brandley’s side, helping her untwist her stitches as she joined a round. Some knitters sat on the steps and others in the comfortable fireplace area where the Thursday night group gathered. The beginning of the pattern was fairly simple, and except for some uncertainty about knitting in the round, the group seemed to be catching on quickly. Before long the chatter picked up again and spurts of laughter punctuated the air.

  Laura Danvers was in and out of the room, checking on her two little girls, who were in the Magic Room under Jillian’s watchful eye. But even with the interruptions, her bag was growing quickly beneath her nimble fingers.

  Time passed quickly, and when no hands were left waving in the air, Nell wound her way to the back windows where Cass sat, her jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt a sign that she’d be heading out in the Lady Lobster to check traps soon. Purl had decided to leave her window perch and sat beside her, avoiding the crowd.

  The kitten had wandered into Izzy’s shop a few years before and never left. Soon she was as much a part of the Seaside Knitting Studio as Izzy or Mae or any of the knitters who considered it a second home. Today Purl sat as still as a statue on the wide sill, looking out over a harbor filled with white sails and fishing boats. Her back was a gentle curve, her expression one of perfect peace.

  “In my next life, I want to be Purl.” Cass ran a finger lightly down the cat’s back.

  Nell chuckled and impulsively wrapped an arm around Cass. She squeezed lightly and let go. For all her toughness and the long hours she put in on the water, beneath it all, Cass Halloran was as soft and cushy as the ball of fur she gently stroked.

  Merry Jackson walked over, a floppy bag hanging from her shoulder and bouncing off a narrow hip. “Please tell Izzy thanks for me. She’s busy.” Merry nodded her head toward a frustrated Beatrice Scaglia. Beside her, Izzy sat cross-legged on the floor, holding Beatrice’s needles in her hands. A row of unraveled yarn lay curled in her lap. “Seems a bit of frogging is taking place.”