The Wedding Shawl (23 page)

“There’s something poignant about that,” Nell said.

M.J. agreed. “The two girls met up with Andy at the school gym and did whatever kids do at those events. Apparently Tiffany was off talking to a chaperone, and when she went back to find them, they were standing near the door, arguing. They’d been doing that a lot, she said. But this night it seemed worse. They walked outside and she followed them. Harmony started walking fast across the parking lot, trying to get away from him, but he chased her to her car.”

“While Tiffany watched.”

M.J. nodded. “And that was it. That was the last time she saw Harmony.”

“So she thought they went off together?”

“She
saw
them go off together, at least to the car.” M.J. moved to the basement entrance.

Nell looked at the metal bulkhead. It was open, leaning against the building and exposing the stone steps leading below. She paused at the top, then took a quick breath and followed M.J. and Birdie down the steps.

Unlike the last time she was here, the basement was ablaze with lights. The workmen had strung them up everywhere. The shelves had been dismantled, and supplies were packed away in clearly marked boxes. In a far corner, Tim and a worker were cutting pieces of drywall with an electric saw while another man screwed joists in place along the wall. The air was thick with sawdust.

“You can see why I want to get Tiffany’s things out,” M.J. said, her voice straining over the noise of the saw.

They turned toward a door at the opposite side of the basement, and M.J. opened the door. “This was Tiffany’s office.”

A sudden movement in the center of the room sent the three women reeling backward.

M.J. let out a yelp.

The figure screamed.

“Tanya!” M.J. regained her composure and stared at the frightened young woman sitting behind the desk.

She stared at M.J., one hand still in the open desk drawer. Tape and scissors and notepads were scattered across the surface.

“What do you think you’re doing down here, Tanya?”

Tanya immediately stood at attention, tipping back the chair. Her long brown ponytail whipped behind her. “I … I was making sure that—” Her voice faltered.

The expression on the young woman’s face was so distressed that Nell felt a sudden impulse to wrap an arm around her and assure her it’d be all right.

But she had absolutely no idea if it would be.

“Making sure that what?” M.J. asked. Then, before Tanya burst into tears, she suggested she leave, go upstairs where she was needed at the desk, and they’d talk about this later.

Tanya bowed her head and scuttled by Nell and Birdie, trying unsuccessfully to smile their way.

M.J. looked at the desk and the open drawer. “I have no idea what this is about, but I’ll definitely find out.” She walked over behind the desk and looked into the deep side drawer that seemed to be of interest. She rummaged through it, then looked up and sighed. “For all her faults, she’s not a bad person.”

Nell smiled. And neither was M.J. Arcado. Calm and cool, and always looking at the half-full glass, even when her life had been turned upside down.

“You handled that well, M.J.,” Birdie said. “I’m impressed.”

“I suppose having preteens at home helps,” she said with a wry smile. “Except Tanya isn’t twelve. She should know better. Going through Harmony’s personal things like this is inexcusable.”

Nell looked around the room as M.J. checked again through the drawer. She had managed to make a cheery small space for Tiffany in this secluded basement spot. She imagined the young woman down here, sitting at the desk. Making calls and keeping records of her clients. Feeling accomplished. Feeling at home.

Colorful ocean-view prints hung on the walls, and a long wooden bookcase held magazines and books and framed photos. Some personal items—a small box for hair clips or jewelry, a stuffed animal perched on a shelf, a tray with water glasses and a pitcher next to it. In front of the desk, two chairs sat side by side. Several area rugs added color to the room, and in one corner, a small couch was piled with cushy pillows; an iPod dock sat on a table next to it. M.J.’s big television that they used with training CDs was on a cart in one corner.

“What a nice room—such a surprise in the middle of the basement. It’s like a cozy den.”

“Sometimes I think Tiffany liked it down here better than where she lived. She often stayed late if she didn’t have anything else to do, rather than going back to the boardinghouse. She’d organize the storage room or just settle in here, reading the massive collection of wedding magazines she collected, listening to music. She’s the one who made it so homey. She was at the house one night, and I let her rummage through my basement, picking out pillows, rugs; anything not in use was hers to bring over here. And she did.”

She pointed to some boxes in the corner. “You can use those to put her things in. I’ve tagged what stays. The furniture and office supplies, TV. But most everything else belonged to Tiffany. The books, photos, mementoes—those are hers.”

M.J. thanked them again, then excused herself and went out to give the workmen more instructions before hurrying upstairs to the salon.

“This is more than an office,” Nell said, walking around the room.

“It reminds me of a college dorm room.” Birdie pointed to a bulletin board filled with newspaper clippings, poems, articles, and ads cut from magazines.

A space in the corner of the bulletin board was empty.
The birthday card,
Nell thought. The one that led the police to Sheila. In the center of the board was a photo of the Fractured Fish along with an article about the band. A small refrigerator was just beneath the bulletin board.

“She could have entertained friends down here,” Birdie said.

They looked around in silence, but their thoughts were twisting and turning together, pulling tight on the threads of Tiffany’s life.
Maybe she did.

It wouldn’t have been odd at all for Tiffany to have invited people other than clients down here. It would have been a normal thing to do.

Nell rubbed her arms against the sudden chill brought on by memories of that night. Was Tiffany walking someone to the door that night? Was it someone she knew, someone she might have invited there herself? Had it been a planned meeting?

There were no prints, no real signs of robbery. No forced door.

Only a dead body to mark the horrible invasion of Tiffany’s space.

Nell walked over to the bookcase and began filling a box with books. Mostly paperbacks—romances and sweet family sagas. Some hairstyling manuals. Lots of self-help books. She scooped them up and placed them in the box. If Sheila didn’t mind, she’d look through them more carefully later. Perhaps they’d provide a peek into the woman who had chosen to fill her cozy office with them. In a closed cupboard beneath the bookcase she found a few more CDs, plastic plates and cups, a pair of sneakers and some socks, running shorts and shirt, and other assorted clothes, even some pieces of lingerie. She piled the personal items in another box beside the books. A raincoat and jacket hung on brass hooks near the door, and Nell took them off, along with an old backpack hanging beneath the jacket.

It took less than an hour and several cardboard boxes to pack up all of Tiffany Ciccolo’s things.

Tiffany’s life, neatly packed away in cardboard boxes.

Birdie and Nell carried the boxes out to the steps and went back for a quick final check. Behind them the hammering continued and a staircase began to take shape in the far corner.

Nell surveyed the room while Birdie emptied a wastebasket.

The space looked lonely now.

She put her finger on the light switch, and a sudden wave of sadness swept through her. The warmth was gone, and in its place was a sterile, cold office with a metal desk, empty shelves, and silence. She turned out the light.

Tiffany Ciccolo was gone.

Chapter 22

O
utside, the sun was shining, and the bright, pleasant day defied the sadness they left behind in the salon basement. An ordinary day.

Life went on.

“I’ll box sit while you get the car,” Birdie said.

But when Nell drove down the alley a few minutes later, Birdie wasn’t alone on her boxes. A frustrated Tanya Gordon stood over her, her hands on her hips.

She spun around at the sound of wheels on the gravel alleyway, then blurted out to neither of them in particular, “I know it looked bad.”

“Well, it didn’t look good,” Nell said. She climbed out of the car and walked around to the back, lifting up the back door of the CRV.

“I was just looking for something, like pictures of Andy, maybe. Something cool. Something no one else would want. I don’t steal.”

Birdie frowned. “Tanya, you can take Andy’s photo anytime you want. Just go to a concert with your cell phone.”

Tanya stared at the ground. She kicked a stone with her shoe, and it skittered into the dirt. “She didn’t like me.”

“And you didn’t like her, I suspect,” Birdie said. “Sometimes that happens.”

Tanya was silent for a moment. Then she said, “M.J. thought I made things up about Tiffany. That I gossiped. She thought Tiffany was perfect. But she wasn’t.”

“Few of us are,” Birdie said.

Nell walked over to the boxes. “It sounds like you mean something specific.”

Tanya seemed relieved that someone would listen to her. “We all knew she wanted to marry Andy Risso. And she’d have done anything to get him.
Anything.
” She gave Birdie and Nell a knowing look.
Read between the lines,
it said.
You know what I mean.

“Tanya, what were you really doing in Tiffany’s office? You weren’t looking for pictures of Andy Risso, were you?”

Tanya sighed. “Okay. I was looking for a preggers test. Or something. There. That’s it. I heard her, I swear. She said something about them having a baby between them. I thought … I thought if I found something, showed M.J. that I wasn’t a gossip—”

“And maybe that Tiffany wasn’t as perfect as M.J. thought she was?” Nell picked up a box and carried it to the back of the car.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“So if Tiffany was less perfect, you looked better?” Birdie said. Her voice was kind, but her message was clear.

Tanya kicked another stone. Then she looked up and managed a half smile. “Dumb, huh?”

“Yes, dear.” Birdie patted her hand. “Now, about what you think you heard that night? Sometimes too many beers can distort hearing. So I suggest you leave that alone. Instead, you might want to concentrate on proving to M.J. that she can trust you. Once you’ve done that, who knows what will happen? I suspect good things.”

Tanya stood there for a minute longer. Then she looked down at the boxes. “You guys get in the car. I’ll load these for you. I work out, you know.”

Standing in the doorway at the top of the steps, M.J. smiled, then disappeared back inside.

Nell dropped Birdie at home a short while later, along with a reminder that Friday night dinner was at Sam’s that night, not Sandswept Lane. The Endicott deck was being sprayed, and the house was a bit of a mess. Sam was giving Nell a nice gift.

He had insisted Nell not bring a thing for dinner, and in a surprise move, she had agreed. It would be a welcome relief to sit back on Sam’s deck, look out over the ocean, and push away thoughts of M.J.’s basement and young women losing their lives before they’d barely begun to live. For a brief time she’d abandon all thoughts of the painting touch-ups that the upstairs bathrooms needed before the wedding, the small gift bags they needed to put together, and a dozen other things that Izzy had added to her wedding list.

The sun was sinking in the west by the time Nell and Ben drove up hilly Magnolia Street, through a lovely old neighborhood. The narrow streets were lined with trees and well-kept friendly homes, all just a stone’s throw from the sea. Ben pulled into the gravel parking strip in front of Sam’s house and waved to Cass, who drove in right beside them.

Izzy had found the small shingled house for Sam a few years before when he had come to Sea Harbor to teach a summer photography class and then decided to stay a while. A photojournalist could live anywhere. Being near Izzy and the sea wasn’t a bad choice.

The house was small and airy, wood and glass, with open spaces disguising the size. All it needed was a woman’s touch. And in a few short weeks, it would be getting plenty of that.

Cass opened the truck door for Birdie, and Danny Brandley unfolded himself from the small back space. “I’m declaring war on this truck,” he announced, greeting Nell and Ben.

“Don’t knock it, Brandley,” Cass scolded. “Beggars can’t be choosers, as Mary Halloran often used to tell her children.”

“Well, dear,” Birdie offered gently, “it does smell a little like your crustacean friends.”

Cass laughed and helped Danny unload the beer and cooler of haddock from the truck bed. They had told Sam they’d stop at the dock and bring whatever looked the freshest. And the haddock had won—firm and white and ready for the grill.

Music streamed through the house, meeting them at the open front door. In the distance, through the wall of glass in the family room, they could see Sam on the deck, standing by the grill with Pete and Andy.

Ben held the door as they paraded through the clean white entrance. Off to the right, Izzy and Willow tossed a salad on the small kitchen butcher block, and Nell wandered in while the others took the fish out back.

After quick hugs, Nell nodded toward the deck. “I’m glad Andy’s here.”

Willow grinned. “It’s Pete’s doing. We stopped by Andy’s apartment, and Pete told him if he didn’t come with us, we’d camp out on his floor all night.” She grimaced. “I was holding my breath on that one. Pete’s place is a mess, but Andy’s? Let’s say I’d rather ride in Cass’ truck.”

Nell laughed. “But he came. That’s good.”

“He’s taken up meditation, he told me. Maybe become a Buddhist. Who knows.”

“If it helps him through this, it’s a good thing.”

Izzy nodded toward the stove. “How about you give that a stir, Aunt Nell. It’s an experiment. Inspired by you.”