The Wedding Shawl

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Nell was silent. She thought of Izzy and how she’d been raised. Her family had loved her unconditionally and allowed her the freedom to be herself. Even when she’d tossed aside a promising law career, her father had swallowed his disappointment and replaced it with pride when the yarn studio in Sea Harbor prospered.

  “I tried to work around Richard’s rants and to give Harmony what I thought she needed. I was so young when I had her—nearly a child myself. But I threw myself into being her mother with every ounce of energy I had. I gave her lots of love. Support. Understanding. I was so proud of her.” Claire’s words caught in her throat. “I’d make up excuses of where she was so she could be with friends. Never, of course, at our house.”

  Nell thought about Marie Risso and how she’d opened her doors to Harmony, and all because her mother bravely made it possible. That explained her having a boyfriend. A life apart from the one behind the closed doors of the Farrow home.

  Nell could see exhaustion settling into the contours of Claire’s face. The lines in her forehead were deeper, and her eyes were red and swollen. But leaving her alone, suggesting she rest, didn’t seem a wise option.

  “The new grasses are coming today, right, Claire?” she asked. Claire nodded.

  “How about if I give you time to shower and dress, get something to eat. A little time for yourself. Then I’ll meet you in back with our garden tools this afternoon? I think we both need some time in the sun, time with the earth. What do you say?”

  Claire managed a tentative smile and pushed back her chair. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she wore no makeup, and in spite of the burden weighing on her shoulders, she looked young. In fact, she looked very much like the young graduate peering out from this morning’s Sea Harbor Gazette.

  Nell walked toward the door, then turned back to be sure Claire was all right. There were lots more things to be said, but there’d be time.

  Claire had headed to the bathroom. She turned, her hand on the knob, and looked at Nell. The semblance of a smile was still there, but beneath it was the raw pain Nell had seen earlier. “You’re being kind, Nell.”

  “We’re friends, Claire. It’s what friends do.”

  “But you don’t know everything, and right now, that seems unfair. If you’re my friend, you need to know the truth. Richard knew it—and that’s why he left me.” She paused, choosing her words carefully.

  “You need to know what really happened that night,” she said. “I did it. I’m the reason my daughter died.”

  Nell walked slowly up to the house, her heart heavy.

  Claire hadn’t finished her last thought. Hadn’t explained it to Nell. She had simply stopped talking, as if no explanation were necessary. And then she had turned the other way and walked into the bathroom, and Nell had heard the sound of the shower spray beating against the tile. Beating against a woman who felt she needed to be punished.

  Nell’s mind was fuzzy; parts of the conversation with Claire were disjointed. By the time she reached the deck she had chosen to abandon Claire’s last words entirely. They didn’t make sense. Until Claire explained more fully what she meant, Nell would ignore them and concentrate instead on a mother coming back to Cape Ann to heal herself. To somehow find her daughter’s spirit. To find peace.

  She thought about Claire’s journey. About her former husband. Her daughter. A family ripped apart in the cruelest way.

  When she walked into the kitchen, the ringing of the phone pulled her from her thoughts.

  Ben wondered if she was there. He said he’d be home shortly for lunch.

  He’d had an interesting morning, and there were some things he needed to talk to her about.

  Chapter 16

  Although the robbery motive is still out there, the police are looking seriously at other possibilities. It’s going to affect people we know.”

  Ben leaned against the counter in the kitchen, watching Nell cut an avocado into thin strips. Izzy straddled a stool on the other side of the island, checking messages on her phone.

  A morning meeting at the courthouse had ended in a long conversation with Ben’s good friend Jerry Thompson. Often Ben and Jerry used each other as sounding boards, playing on each other’s strengths. They also knew the other’s word was good. Things that should remain private, would. This turn of events, Ben said, was probably already on blogs and the local talk show or running along the bottom of the soap operas like school closings in the winter—a mini news flash. People would know that the police were trying to find someone who wanted Tiffany dead.

  “Why the sudden change in thinking, Uncle Ben?” Izzy looked up from her phone. She’d stopped in for lunch, too. She was starving, she said, and though the yarn shop was busy, Mae insisted she leave and find food somewhere—her growling stomach wasn’t good for business. “Go to your aunt’s,” she’d commanded, pointing at the door. “She’ll have food.” And Izzy had happily complied, sprinting up the hill to Ben and Nell’s home.

  “It’s different things,” Ben said. “Though I think the robbery idea was put out there without much logic to it. It was a motive for people to latch onto until the police had time to do some more investigating. Robberies aren’t that uncommon, which makes them easier to live with, I guess. It’s awful if it ends in murder, but it seems more accidental, less frightening, and people see it on TV all the time.

  “But then the investigators started asking the obvious questions. Why would someone take a cell phone but leave a television or fancy CD player? And why the salon and not a bar or McClucken’s Hardware? Things we were all thinking. A few conversations with staff at M.J.’s led them to consider Tiffany more closely, and that she might have been the target, not the few items stolen. They’ll look at everything, of course.”

  “Tiffany was sweet. Ordinary. It’s awful to think that someone might have wanted her dead,” Izzy said. “I hate that thought.”

  “I wonder what talk at the salon turned the police in this direction,” Nell said. She set a platter of tomatoes, watercress, avocado, pickles, and slices of chicken and provolone on the island. A small bowl of spicy yogurt-dill-mayo sauce sat beside three plates. “This is a help-yourself lunch.”

  “I suppose whatever was said was more than gossip?” Izzy offered, taking one of the plates.

  Nell glanced at her, having had the same thought. Tanya wasn’t one to hold back, and she didn’t much like Tiffany; that was clear to everyone.

  Ben poured them each a glass of iced tea. “It seems Tiffany was upset that week about something—and that wasn’t normal for her. She was usually on an even keel. But recently she was forgetting appointments and not her usual efficient self. That was one thing.”

  Nell and Izzy looked at each other. That certainly matched their experience with Tiffany.

  “There’s not much information, not yet, but they’ll be talking to other people, too. Tiffany and Andy Risso had some kind of a relationship. And we know they had an angry exchange that night at the Palate.”

  Another episode they’d personally experienced. Nell flashed back to the look on Tiffany’s face that night. Something was bothering her. But the exchange had seemed angry only on Andy’s part. At least from a distance. Tiffany had seemed earnest, at first, then distraught at Andy’s reaction to whatever she’d said.

  And in love.

  “So . . . do they have any theories?” Izzy piled her roll high with chicken, cheese, and greens, then slathered it with the sauce.

  Nell glanced out the window, waiting for Ben’s answer. She hadn’t seen any movement in the cottage. She assumed Claire would prefer to be alone for a while, rather than join them for lunch. She’d go down soon, as planned. They could garden or talk or take a walk. Whatever Claire needed. And then later, she’d let Claire tell Ben her story herself. It was hers to tell, not Nell’s.

  Ben was silent, chewing thoughtfully on his sandwich. He wiped a stray sprout from his mouth and finally shook his head. “No theories that I’m aware of. The poli
ce don’t exactly know where to go with the two girls’ friendship—but it’s an odd coincidence, everyone agrees. They’ll have to explore it. But the Farrows haven’t lived around here for years. Tiffany Ciccolo has no family here, just her mom, who is pretty far along with dementia, Jerry said. There are more dead ends there than anything else.”

  Nell’s breath caught in her chest. Claire’s name wasn’t the same as her daughter’s. Fifteen years had passed. No one would automatically connect her to Harmony Farrow. But the police needed to know, at least. Although at that moment, Nell wasn’t sure why. Claire had been through her hell. Why put her through it again?

  Nell looked over at Ben. He was scooping up the crumbs around his place, then walked over to the sink. “Sorry to eat and run,” he said over his shoulder. “I have another meeting, this one about the boys’ club program. This retiring is going to be the death of me.”

  “I need to run, too. I promised Mae I’d be back in a jiff. A ride, Uncle Ben?” Izzy slid off the stool and put her plate in the sink.

  They each gave Nell a quick kiss and disappeared out the door to Ben’s car, honking another good-bye as they backed down the drive.

  Nell stood at the door, watching them disappear down the road. She suddenly felt disloyal, as if she were keeping a secret from Ben. But he had rushed out, and tossing after him the news that Claire Russell, their houseguest, was Harmony Farrow’s mother, didn’t seem quite right. She would tell him at dinner, when they would have time to talk about it.

  But deep down a part of her was relieved she hadn’t told him. Nor Izzy. This was Claire’s information to tell. Not hers.

  Claire. A mother who had suffered the greatest loss a mother could experience.

  Claire . . .

  Nell frowned, her mind playing with the shadows splashed across the driveway, moving this way and that as the breeze played with the branches. Claire.

  She had barely mentioned Tiffany this morning. That girl, she’d called her once.

  And then Nell remembered the look on Claire’s face as she’d sat in the Adirondack chair, staring at the deck door.

  It wasn’t Izzy she was looking at. Nor a few minutes later when she stared at Izzy’s car.

  It was Tiffany. Now it made sense.

  And the look was one Nell would like to forget.

  Nell cleaned up the kitchen, returned a few phone calls, and went upstairs to slip into jeans and a T-shirt. Claire wasn’t outside yet, either, so she took her time. The time alone was probably a good thing.

  Things certainly hadn’t turned out as Claire had planned. She had come back to Cape Ann to put a life back together. Not to have an old life pulled apart all over again.

  It occurred to Nell then that Claire hadn’t referred to Harmony’s dying as a murder. Nor made any reference to who might have done this to her daughter. Maybe that made it even more awful, more difficult to accept. Or maybe it was something else.

  She grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then headed to the garage for her gardening gloves and a trowel. It was nearly two. Claire would be ready to work. There were so many things Nell wanted to ask, but she’d hold her silence and let Claire decide.

  There was time.

  Nell walked out the back door of the garage and into the afternoon sunshine.

  It was a perfect day for gardening. Bright sunlight and a cool breeze.

  The wheelbarrow was parked where she’d seen it that morning, just at the edge of the cottage. Claire’s gloves and tools were lined up neatly inside it. A sack of mulch was leaning against a tree.

  Nell frowned. She glanced over at the door. It was closed, and the window they’d been sitting in front of a few hours earlier was shut. Claire’s gardening clogs were lined up neatly beside the door.

  Nell walked up the step and along the narrow porch below the windows. She peered through a window, her chest tightening.

  The water glasses they’d used earlier were put away; the bed in the alcove was neatly made up.

  Nell rapped on the door, but she knew before the sound echoed through the cottage that no one would answer.

  Claire Russell was gone.

  Chapter 17

  “She’ll be back,” Ben assured her as they drove along Harbor Road on their way to the store. The sky was a deepening blue, with brilliant rose bands painted across it as the sun slipped down behind the western edges of the town.

  Nell had spent an hour working in the garden alone, somehow sure that if Claire knew she was messing with her plantings, she would show up in an instant.

  But when Ben returned from his meeting and Claire still wasn’t back, he suggested a quick trip to the new cheese store on Oak Street. “You know what they say about a watched pot,” Ben said. “Besides, I need a bite of manchego tonight. Just a small sliver.”

  So Nell had gone with him to the Cheese Closet, and they’d walked the narrow aisles of the charming new shop, filling a basket with cheeses, crackers and olives, jars of pickled onions and sweet gherkins, black olive tapenade and homemade salsa. Ben looked longingly at the smoked salmon and applewood ham. Nell laughed and dropped them into the basket next.

  And in between paying for far more than a hunk of manchego cheese and climbing back into Ben’s car, Nell quietly told Ben the story of Claire Farrow Russell.

  Claire wouldn’t mind. Nell was suddenly sure of that. But even if she did, the news would come out.

  Ben had listened carefully, as he usually did. Asked a question here and there. Before he turned the ignition to head back home, he’d hugged her close. “That’s a sad story,” he said. “A broken life. Hopefully it can be mended.”

  They had each lapsed into their own thoughts then, knowing that mending a heartache as great as Claire’s might take a lifetime to do.

  “This will teach us to leave our house unlocked,” Ben joked when they walked into their house.

  Pete, Willow, and Merry sat at the island, Sam and Izzy were piling beer into the refrigerator, and Cass was washing her hands at the sink. Standing outside, alone on the deck, was Andy Risso.

  “Hi,” Izzy said, her head poking around the refrigerator door.

  “Hi back,” Nell said. “What’s up?”

  Merry looked up, a blush traveling across her cheeks and forehead. “This isn’t too cool, is it? Barging in like this.” She looked around at Izzy, then Pete and Cass. “They said you wouldn’t mind.”

  Nell laughed. Merry’s enormous eyes filled her face, and she looked like a child caught with her hands in the cookie jar. She hadn’t spent as much time at the Endicott home as some of the others. The open-door policy was foreign to her. “We don’t mind at all, sweetie.”

  “We had a late-afternoon band practice, and then Andy got that outrageous phone call,” Merry began, glancing out to the porch.

  “What call?” Nell turned and saw Andy standing at the railing by himself, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.

  Merry rushed on. “And we usually go out somewhere after practice. Izzy and Sam were going to join us tonight.”

  Pete filled in. “But after the call, well, we didn’t feel much like the Gull—”

  “The Edge was packed,” Izzy added.

  “And Wednesdays at the Artist’s Palate are crazy busy. Hank would be waving at me every other minute to help,” Merry said.

  “No excuses necessary,” Nell said. It flattered her, if truth be known, that Izzy felt so comfortable bringing her friends to the house unannounced. Nell suspected that once Izzy sold her little cottage and moved into Sam’s wonderful seaside home, that would change. So she’d relish it while she had it, and she was happy to have it, tonight especially. Claire’s VW was still missing from the side of the drive where she’d been parking it, and Nell would have spent the evening worrying. Company was good.

  She looked over at Sam. He was helping Ben unload the cheese shop treasures, most of which would be spread out on the center island and promptly eaten, she suspected. She took s
ome platters from the cupboard and handed them to him for the ham and salmon.

  “You’re nice to let us barge in like this,” he said. “Pete’s band was bummed out, so Dr. Izzy suggested coming over here. A place to talk without crowds and noise. So we picked up some beer, thought we’d order a couple pizzas.” He looked at the spread that was magically appearing from the thick Cheese Closet bags and laughed. “Looks like we lucked out. Sure beats pizza.”

  “You wanted to talk?” Ben asked. “About anything in particular?”

  Before anyone had a chance to answer, Andy walked in from the deck, his bottle empty. He set it on the island and managed a lopsided smile. “Hope you don’t mind the invasion of the Fractured Fish and friends.”

  “Nope,” Ben said. “Not in the slightest. Glad to have you, Andy.” Ben clapped him on the back.

  “Good folks, these guys,” Andy said, looking around the room. Cass was turning on the CD player and Izzy was heating up some bread she’d brought along.

  No one even noticed when Birdie appeared, her light step carrying her across the room. “A party without me? Shame on all of you,” she said, then chuckled and began slicing the applewood ham. “Andy, dear, I’ve just been to the police station.”

  “You, too?” Andy said.

  Ben frowned. “What’s going on?”