Patterns in the Sand (30 page)

 

 

In the short week he’d had the keys, Sam had somehow managed to make the place his own—at least partially so. Through the windows on either side of the open door, Nell could see clear through to the other side of the house—and far beyond, to the endless expanse of the sea.

 

 

“Isn’t it nice?” Izzy appeared from inside the small cedar-shingled house, opened the door, and relieved Nell of one of her sacks. “It’s nearly picture-perfect. A little lacking in furniture, but that’ll come, Sam says.”

 

 

“It’s lovely,” Nell said. She followed Izzy inside.

 

 

The builder had clearly loved nature—nothing distracted from the view outside the windows. One end of the living area was anchored by a simple fireplace with a cherry mantel and soapstone surround, and built-in bookcases and cabinets, all a shiny white, made up for Sam’s lack of furniture. The single cushy sofa, coffee table, butcher block kitchen island—and a couple of tall stools—were all he needed, at least for now.

 

 

“And he has a mattress,” Izzy called out from the behind the refrigerator door. “The rest is on order.”

 

 

Voices outside drew Nell’s attention to the group gathering around the fire. Several dogs from up the beach ran by, chasing a Frisbee. The owner waved as he walked by.

 

 

Ham and Jane had shown up, and helped fill the pit with mounds of potatoes, corn on the cob, and the scrubbed clams and fresh lobster. As soon as Cass, Jane, and Willow covered the feast with more wet seaweed, the men grabbed corners of the tarpaulin and covered the steamy feast, then fastened it firmly with a round of rocks.

 

 

“Beer, bring on the beer,” Ham intoned, and he and Ben went up to drag the cooler from the back of Sam’s Jeep.

 

 

Izzy went over and looped an arm around Sam’s waist. He wore torn madras shorts and a T-shirt, damp and sticky with sand and seaweed. “Good job, Perry. Jeez, I could get to like this place.”

 

 

“More than that little apartment above the shop?” He rubbed one large hand along her back.

 

 

A salty breeze came in off the water, carrying with it the sweet smell of summer. Izzy smiled into Sam’s day-old beard.

 

 

Nell watched the two of them, standing together, their bare feet buried in the sand. An image she would share with her sister when she called her over the weekend, reporting in on what a gift it was to have Caroline’s daughter, Izzy, so present in her life. And now Sam, too—a childhood friend of Izzy’s brothers from summers on their Kansas ranch. The older friend who teased Izzy crazy back then, and who found her again a half country away, and didn’t drive her crazy anymore. At least not in the same way. It made Caroline chuckle when Nell filled her in, as sisters do. And it filled Nell with a warmth she wouldn’t have anticipated.

 

 

She looked beyond Izzy and Sam, to Cass and Birdie up on the deck, stretched out on the Adirondack chairs, watching daylight fade over the ocean. Ham and Jane had walked down the beach, their footsteps weaving with the edge of the tide, bending over now and then to pick up a shell or piece of smooth sea glass that would find its way into a piece of Jane’s pottery.

 

 

“Wicked nice?” Ben said, coming up behind Nell and wrapping a light sweater around her shoulders.

 

 

She nodded against his chest. It was, indeed. The respite they all needed from the fogginess of their days.

 

 

“But the world is still out there with all its warts and unsolved problems, is what my Nell is thinking.”

 

 

She moved her head again. “But that doesn’t mean this isn’t a lovely moment. It’s these moments that get us through the rest.”

 

 

“I talked to Jerry before coming out here,” Ben said.

 

 

Sam and Izzy, hearing the police chief’s name, stepped closer to hear what Ben would say.

 

 

“They’ve been looking into Billy Sobel more closely than we knew, it seems, looking for a connection between him and Aidan. The rifts those two had were more than rumors, apparently. But they couldn’t nail down a logical reason, at least not one that would lead to murder. There were disagreements, maybe personality problems. Billy had a temper, and they haven’t ruled him out completely as Aidan’s murderer. But it just doesn’t quite add up, Jerry said. There are certainly those who
want
Billy to be the culprit, and Jerry is aware of the comfort in that kind of closure. Billy is dead, too. So no mess, no bother, to put an awful, practical spin on it. But they’re going to talk to Natalie, see where it goes.”

 

 

“Which just might send her over the edge,” Izzy said. “She’s not the most stable woman in the world, especially now. This is an awful time for her.”

 

 

“She’ll be okay, Iz. She’s a tough lady,” Ben said.

 

 

“But if Billy killed Aidan, then how do they account for
his
death?”

 

 

“If, in fact, someone did make sure that he didn’t get back up out of the ocean, they don’t think it was a local, Jerry said. The police have already done lots of prying into Billy’s New Jersey ties, even before he was killed. It seems Billy’s longtime business associates weren’t always the most upstanding citizens. He owed money, too—to a couple of tough guys. Everyone knew he gambled. They’re looking into it on that end now, and have pretty much dismissed his murder as having a local connection. Fact of the matter is, people here liked Billy. He was a good guy.”

 

 

“Natalie said he got two phone calls that night. One was from you, Ben, and the other must have been from the person he was meeting down at the dock. It had to have been someone he knew.”

 

 

“I agree. That’s a wrinkle.”

 

 

“I don’t understand how they can tie this up so quickly. It just happened.” Nell took the beer that Sam offered her.

 

 

“As I said, they’d been prying into his life before he was ever killed. Maybe that’s why Billy was so jittery those past few days, afraid something would be discovered.”

 

 

“So they don’t think there’s any connection between the two deaths?”

 

 

Ben forked his fingers through his hair. “That’s the thinking.”

 

 

That, Nell thought to herself, was a fly-by-night assumption. Some people might be able to paint the conclusion they wanted and go on with their lives. But she knew for a fact that most people were not that way. And especially her family and friends so closely touched by these murders. Comfort and closure would take a lot more than suppositions. It would take knowing without a doubt who killed Aidan Peabody and Billy Sobel. And knowing that the person who did it was safely and permanently behind bars.

 

 

But there wasn’t any sense in ruining a lovely clambake with her thoughts. They could wait. They would have to wait. But tomorrow was another day, and even without easy access to the black tablet in her purse that held her week’s schedule, Nell knew what the next day would bring.

 

 

“Have you met any of your neighbors, Sam?” she asked aloud, determined not to ruin the evening. She looked up and down the beach at the lovely beach homes, each one different and inviting in its own way. This stretch of the Sea Harbor coast was mostly residential, with small lanes leading to clusters of houses nearly hidden in stand of trees on the roadside, and wide-open to the sea on the other.

 

 

“Harriet and Archie Brandley’s daughter lives a few houses down, on a little lane that runs back from the sea.” Izzy pointed to a gabled house across the road with a fenced-in area filled with children’s play equipment.

 

 

“Brendan lives right over there,” Willow piped up. “Just beyond that white fence and stand of pines.” His house was nearly invisible, but just a short walk from Sam’s.

 

 

“He’s a good chap,” Sam said. “He brought me a bottle of scotch and a case of beer when I moved in, then helped me make a dent in at least a few of the bottles.”

 

 

“Where is he, by the way?” Nell asked.

 

 

“Brendan’ll be here,” Jane said, carrying over a plate of bruschetta, each piece coated with creamy goat cheese and sprinkled with toasted pine nuts. The group helped themselves without hesitation. “He was our Clark Kent this afternoon. The police were at the Sobel Gallery, and when Natalie showed up, they suggested she leave until they were finished with their investigation. She became irate and essentially staged her own sit-in, poor thing, berating them and yelling at them to leave. She said it was her gallery, her things. It was pretty emotional. Brendan offered to take her to the Palate for something to eat and then take her home. He’d been helping Billy in the gallery a lot, and I think he understands her a little better than we do. We owe him big. And I think poor Tommy Porter will see that he gets a certificate of valor from the Sea Harbor PD.”

 

 

“But he was determined not to miss the clambake. He promised he’d be over before the lobsters were cracked,” Ham added. “He just wanted to be sure Natalie was okay.”

 

 

Nell listened, feeling a pinch of guilt. She had meant to check in on Natalie again that afternoon, maybe bring her along to the clambake, but time had gotten away from her. She vowed to stop in tomorrow—and tucked away a silent thank-you to Brendan for his kindness.

 

 

“Sam Perry, your kitchen is useless,” Cass yelled from the deck, using her cupped hands as a megaphone. “No butter. How’re we gonna eat our corn? And lobsters without lemon butter? Where are you from, man?”

 

 

Sam laughed and yelled back. “My kitchen is worse than useless. I wouldn’t even have salt and pepper if Izzy here hadn’t done a little care package thing for me.”

 

 

“No biggie,” Willow said. “I know Brendan has plenty of everything—he’s quite a cook. I’ll just run down—”

 

 

“Can you get in?” Izzy asked.

 

 

Willow gave an impish grin. “That’s not exactly a problem for me.”

 

 

The group laughed, but Willow quickly confessed that she had a key. She’d given up breaking into places, she said, at least for a while.

 

 

“I’ll walk with you,” Nell said. “I’d love to see the inside of Brendan’s place. These houses are so lovely.”

 

 

Together they walked down the beach, their bare feet kicking up sand and their heads held back to catch the evening breeze.

 

 

“Brendan’s place is different from Sam’s—a little more rustic. I think it’s the hiker in him.”

 

 

Willow motioned for Nell to follow her up the steps and into a screened-in porch running along the side of the brown-shingled house. Inside, the dwelling was clean and cozy, with a large stone fireplace along one wall, rough and rustic. A galley kitchen was off to the side and the dining table showed signs of Brendan’s teaching and his own hobby—a stack of art books and cups filled with pens and colored pencils.

 

 

Nell absently perused the titles of the books. Some textbooks, some on painting, and a familiar book on New England artists—the same one Archie Brandley had run out of.

 

 

People wanted to learn more about the reclusive artist so they could view the found paintings with knowledge and knowing some tidbits about his life, Archie had said.

 

 

Nell remembered that she had her own copy, confiscated from Aidan’s den, and made a note to look at it soon and then pass it back to Willow. Brendan, apparently, was one of the lucky ones who had gotten one before Archie ran out.

 

 

“Here it is,” Willow said, pulling a box of butter from the refrigerator. “What else?”

 

 

“Maybe some Tabasco sauce.”

 

 

Willow opened a cupboard and took out a slender red bottle. A row of medicine and vitamins was lined up on the shelf beneath.

 

 

“It looks like Brendan is into vitamins,” Nell observed.

 

 

“He’s kind of a health nut. Calcium, vitamins B, K, X—whatever. I don’t take much of anything myself. I don’t like medicine. Except one night when I was really upset and couldn’t sleep. Brendan lent me one of his sleeping pills—he has trouble sometimes. I was out like a light.”

 

 

“What was it?”

 

 

“That one.” Willow pointed to a small bottle.

 

 

Nell slipped on her glasses and looked at it. “This would definitely put you out,” she agreed. “My brother-in-law had a terrible bout of insomnia in college and had to take Nembutal a couple times.”

 

 

“Yeah. Brendan is so healthy—but that sleeping problem is the pits. He loves to hike—and worries sometimes that he’ll be camping up on a mountaintop and won’t be able to sleep all night, and then he’ll have climb down without being alert. He’s a very careful guy.”

 

 

Nell walked through the living area. “This is a lived-in place. It’s comfortable. It looks like Brendan.” She pointed to a GIS-rendered topographic map tacked to the wall. “The White Mountains—one of my favorite spots. Is that where Brendan hikes?”

 

 

“I think he hikes wherever there’s a rise in the ground. He runs over in Ravenswood Park sometimes, just for the view. But yes, he talks a lot about the White Mountains. He knows every trail, I think. He has a stack of pictures somewhere.”

 

 

Willow looked around, then picked up a stack of photographs from the bookcase and handed them to Nell.

 

 

Nell slipped on her glasses and looked through the photos. “What memories these bring back. Ben and I camped our way through graduate school. We’d go up to the Whites every chance we got.” She held one picture up to the natural light. Brendan was sitting on top of a mountain with peaks of smaller mountains in the background. “Amazing,” she murmured.