A Holiday Yarn (7 page)

"Someone from the industry. A competitor. Pamela had made some sizable enemies in the industry and had even suggested that Pisano Publications give her an allowance for body-guard protection."

"Jeez," Izzy said.

"Yes. But I suppose it'd be a relief if it were true. This could be wrapped up neatly in record time."

Like a Christmas present, Nell thought. Nice and neat with a bow on top.

But life rarely took that path. And all businesses had competition, but publishing rivals didn't kill one another off like movie gangsters did.

Satisfied there were no traces of anything edible left on his plate, Ben took out his wallet and left several bills on the table. They slipped back into their winter coats and gathered up knitting bags and purses.

Nell looked over and waved at Father Northcutt. She smiled at Sal and Beatrice. A younger man sitting in the fourth chair was looking out the window, frowning. A folded-up newspaper sat in front of him.

"Who's the good-looking guy with the Scaglias?" Izzy asked to Ben's back.

"A relative," Ben said over his shoulder. "Troy or Terry. Something like that. His brother is married to Beatrice's sister. The guy is a model. But he lost his last job in the city, so he's doing odd jobs for the Scaglias and some handiwork for Father Larry's church. Sal and Beatrice are putting him up for a while until he gets his life together."

"That's nice of them," Nell said.

"Apparently Beatrice's brother-in-law is contributing a hunk of money to her political campaign. There was some incentive."

"With looks like that, he should be modeling, not doing odd jobs," Izzy said.

Nell looked back and caught the man's profile. Grecian-like, a strong, straight nose and chin, with thick blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was good-looking, she agreed, though even from a distance she could see lines and the results of too much tanning.

Nell turned away, then stopped and looked back again.

"What's wrong?" Izzy asked.

"I've seen him somewhere."

"He's been here a few weeks. You've probably seen him around town," Ben said.

Nell looked again. Where had it been? Somewhere that mattered. But her memory refused to clear, and the niggling thought stayed there like an irritating fly, just on the edges of her consciousness.

Silly, she thought. She shouldn't let it bother her. There were far more important things on her plate than a man she'd never been introduced to.

Even one as good-looking as Troy or Terry, or whoever he was.

Chapter 9

T
he parking lot at the Ravenswood-by-the-Sea bed-and-breakfast was remarkably peaceful when they pulled in. It looked like a normal afternoon, the street quiet, just as Ravenswood Road and the lovely neighborhood tended to be.

Mary's little blue Honda was parked in the half-moon drive. Another car that Nell didn't recognize was parked on the other side of the bricked area, just in front of the pathway to the carriage house. But there were no flashing lights or yellow tape closing off the drive. No police hovering over the area. No curiosity seekers.

"The police just left," Mary explained as she ushered them in the front door. Georgia, the floppy goldendoodle, bounced beside her, her curly head and tail bobbing a welcome.

"They've been here for hours. It's such a mess. So awful. They're asking a million questions. Who would want to kill Pamela?" Her blue eyes filled her tear-stained face.

Then she waved the air in front of her as if erasing the thought and answered her own question. "Well, me, I suppose. And lots of other people. Pamela was a handful. But of course we wouldn't have done it, not really." She shook her head of dark curls. "Come back to the kitchen."

The large kitchen was a shining mass of stainless steel with a butcher-block island that ran down the center like a fault line. The enormous Viking stove held a teakettle that whistled as they walked through the door. A mix of cinnamon, butter, and rising yeast dough filled the warm air with homespun odors.

Birdie sat on a stool at the island. At the sink, a dark-haired man in a T-shirt and jeans was scouring pots. His muscular back spoke of skiing, bike riding, or heavy lifting.

A plaid, well-used dog bed and bowl of water sat beneath the small kitchen desk. Georgia immediately curled up on the bed.

"Cinnamon rolls," Birdie said, pointing to a bowl of dough still sitting on the island. "Comfort food."

"I'd recognize that delicious aroma anywhere." Nell looked over to the sink. "So, Kevin, you're the chef that Mary stole away from Ocean's Edge?"

Kevin Sullivan turned around. "Guilty." The serious look that lengthened his face softened, and he managed a grin. "Mary needed someone to keep that mess of a family fed. She's a friend. She asks, I come." He waved a hello to Izzy as she slid onto the stool next to Birdie.

"Your cinnamon rolls alone will bring guests to this place, Kev," Izzy said. "Good move, Mary."

Mary put a hand on the young man's well-muscled arm, her fingers barely spanning the top. "I wouldn't survive without him. He's chief cook and therapist."

Kevin laughed. "I've been called lots of things, but that's a new one."

"Well, it's true." Mary turned toward the others. "Things are a mess around here, as you might imagine. The police are tramping all over the place. The neighbors are in an uproar. Look at this."

Mary scooped up a stack of tattered posters and passed them around.

CLOSED.

HOUSE OF MURDER.

EVIL LIVES HERE.

"They were all along the roadside, up and down Ravenswood Road, like those political signs we put out for elections. Kevin saw them on his morning jog, and he and Birdie tore them down."

"I knew some of the neighbors weren't thrilled with the guesthouse idea, but this?" Nell frowned at the posters. "This is mean."

"Someone wants the B and B closed down," Ben said.

"Before it even opens." Mary lifted her small body up onto a stool. She settled her sneakers on the rung and leaned her elbows on the island top. "I suppose they think a murder occurring on the back porch might scare guests away."

"They might be right," Ben said, a concerned look pulling his brows together. "But this is a nasty trick."

Mary sighed. Less than five feet tall, Mary Pisano often boasted about buying her clothes in the juniors department of Macy's. Nell thought she bought her spirit there, too. In her mid-forties, Mary was as energetic as a teenager. In addition to cheering up the town with her chatty "About Town" column, Mary was a collector of needy creatures--birds with broken wings, baby rabbits, lost souls. Her door was never closed. Nell suspected it was a way of staving off loneliness when her fisherman husband was at sea for long stretches. But it was more than that--it was who she was. And right now she was someone deeply concerned about her sister's murder, which had occurred just outside her back door.

"The real crime with these posters is using a tragedy to promote a cause," Ben said.

"Pamela's death," Izzy said.

"Her murder. A cheap thing to do, using that to keep the B and B from opening. Did you show these to the police?"

"She did," Kevin said. He wiped his hands on a towel, put on oven mitts, and pulled a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven.

"They didn't seem interested," Mary said. "I understand. The bigger issue, of course, is finding whoever killed Pamela."

"What happened to the business-associate suspect?"

"That's the neat-and-clean solution my cousins proposed. They happen to dislike one of Pamela's competitors intensely. But it's ridiculous to think some Fortune Five Hundred company sent someone to Sea Harbor to kill Pamela. Mostly, the family just wants this whole thing to go away. It's not good for business."

For the next few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was that of warm cinnamon rolls being passed around the island and the contented licking of fingers.

Finally Ben asked, "Did Jerry mention other suspects?"

Mary shook her head.

Kevin watched Mary, then spoke, his brown eyes still on his boss. "They asked me a lot of questions. Mary wants to pretend it didn't matter."

"Why?" Ben helped himself to another roll.

"Because Pamela hung out in the kitchen a lot the first few days she was here. She'd go out back to smoke, then come back in here and hang out."

"So?" Izzy asked, puzzled. "I'd hang out in here, too, if you were popping out cinnamon rolls like this every day."

Kevin was quiet. His eyes turned hard.

Mary pulled her body up as straight as the pine tree outside the kitchen window. "It wasn't for the food. Cousin Pamela liked younger men. Handsome men. She had the hots for Kevin, you might say."

Nell held back a smile. It was a good thing that Mary hadn't decided on politics as a career. Diplomacy wasn't her forte. She looked over at Kevin, who was clearly embarrassed by the conversation. But surely it wasn't the first time someone had come on to him. He was a ruggedly handsome man. "Pamela had good taste. But I'm not sure why that would be an issue. Whether you reciprocated or not."

"He didn't," Mary said sharply. Embarrassed at the tone of her own voice, she gave a short laugh. "Sorry. I shouldn't be so outspoken, but I brought Kevin into this horrible mess. And we need to find out who the true perpetrator is and get Kevin out of the picture. He shouldn't have to suffer such indignities." She slapped one hand down on the island.

Georgia jumped, then settled back down.

Sometimes Mary Pisano seemed years older than she was. It wasn't because of her looks, though years of being a fisherman's wife--and those early years of helping her Ed down on the docks--had tanned her skin, along with adding a few sun-kissed furrows to her forehead. It was the way she put things, as if she had lived her youth in Jane Austen's day. It was the way she looked at the world. An Elizabeth Bennett, perhaps, with a touch of Emma thrown in. An arranger of lives, a role she took on with some frequency in her newspaper column.

"So you set the police straight, Kevin?" Ben asked.

"Of course he did," Mary answered quickly. "He had no interest whatsoever in Pamela. None. Zilch. I warned you about her, didn't I, Kevin?" She spun her head around to look at him, then went on. "Finally I told Pamela to stay out of my kitchen. I told her I wasn't paying Kevin for her to distract him, and, besides, I reminded her, he was almost ten years younger than she. I told her he'd quit if she didn't stop bothering him, and then where would we be? Kevin's food was the one thing that kept everyone from killing each other during those meetings." A bright flush covered her cheeks as emotions spilled out of her.

Georgia scratched at the door.

"So what's the problem?" Ben said. He walked toward the door to let the dog out.

Mary waved him away. "Georgia won't go out unless one of us says it's okay--Kevin, me, Nancy--someone she knows and loves. Silly pup."

"I'll let her out," Kevin strode across the kitchen and disappeared through the door with Georgia close behind.

Ben picked up the thread of conversation. "If Kevin and Pamela had nothing to do with each other, why would the police care?"

"The police sometimes have a difficult time believing that someone would push a beautiful woman like Pamela away. But they would." She shook her head. "Anyone who values his self-respect would. And besides that, until they find the real murderer, they'll be bothering Kevin and me and lord knows who else around here. That's the problem. As long as there are questions in people's minds and fear in the community, whoever made up these posters will be using it against the opening of the bed-and-breakfast. And that's a real problem."

"So we all have motivation to keep our eyes and ears open. Right?" Birdie asked. Her brows lifted into wispy bangs.

A sudden banging outside drew their attention to the door.

Kevin walked back in with the dog. "It's just the painter. He finally showed up."

Mary nodded. "I don't mind if he's late. As long as he comes."

Kevin shrugged.

The noise changed from a banging sound to heavy boots stomping up the back porch stairs.

"There's still some work to be done before we officially open," Mary explained. She paused.

Nell read into the pause and knew that the words "if we open" were dangling from Mary's lips. She held them back and continued.

"One of the guys is doing the painting touch-ups. He's a good painter and needs the extra money."

Nell looked through the kitchen windows. A metal ladder was hoisted across one of them, banging against the house. Next a gloved hand grasped a rung.

She squinted against the late-afternoon light. A man leaned over and picked up a bucket of paint.

His profile filled the windowpane.

That's it
, she thought, her memory finally clearing. She'd seen him right here one day when she and Izzy had stopped to talk about colors for the quilts with Mary and Nancy Hughes.

As the man pulled himself upright, he glanced in the kitchen window and caught Nell staring at him.

It happened quickly, before Nell could look away.

He seemed amused, and a sly smile curved his lips. It was the smile of someone used to being looked at, admired. Of someone who knew exactly how people responded to him.

He winked.

Nell felt shivers travel up and down her arms.

For the second time that day, she found herself pulling her stare away from the ponytailed man.

Troy DeLuca. The model, as Izzy had said.

And, so it seemed, Mary Pisano's painter.

When she looked back, he was gone, the slight shaking of the ladder the only sign that he'd been there at all.

Chapter 10

T
hey had stayed longer than they'd intended at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea, but the time had been well spent. Both Mary and Kevin needed to talk.

"It doesn't make sense to me that the police are concentrating on Kevin," Nell said. She followed Ben into the warmth of their kitchen, glad to be home. Sunday evenings were for settling in, for soup and bread and the comfort of Ben.

"He's kind of a quiet guy, but it was clear to me he had no use for Pamela," Ben said.

"I don't think he was alone in his feelings."

"No. But they need to talk to everyone. Who knows? Jerry will probably be calling you again. You spent time with Pamela that day."

Nell thought about Ben's comment while he retreated to his den and she busied herself in the kitchen, switching on lights and taking a pot of homemade soup from the refrigerator. She lit a burner beneath the soup and stirred it absently, mixing mushrooms and tofu with the wine-flavored base.

She and Birdie had been questioned the night of the murder, of course. But what would she say to Chief Thompson if he questioned her about earlier that day? Nothing of interest or importance, certainly.

She and Pamela had met by chance, and she hadn't found the time with Pamela unpleasant. The opposite, in fact. She was interesting and opinionated, and Nell found the combination a nice one, no matter what others thought.

She didn't know why Pamela had been over in Canary Cove that morning, but she herself was there, wasn't she? And without a good reason, other than Polly's scones--which were worth traveling much farther than Canary Cove for.

And then she remembered the ending of the conversation, and sweet Tommy Porter's face as he looked at Pamela Pisano through the tea-shop window.

It was an understandable look. His brother was one of the many notches in Pamela's belt. Played with and tossed aside.

At the time, it had meant nothing.

But now?

And the look on Pamela's face, when she abandoned her car and walked on down the street. Her face lifted in greeting?

She wrapped the croissants in foil and put them in the warming oven.

Ordinary gestures that suddenly took on more ominous meanings.

Nell looked out the window at the fading light. That was the thing about winter that she didn't like--the early onset of darkness.

Gaslights outlined small piles of snow lining the flagstone walkway in the backyard. The snow looked gray in the low light, the gray of old snow.

Christmas lights turned on beyond the woods that filled the back of their property--the Endicott Woods, as they'd been called for a generation. They blinked behind the waving branches of the trees along Sand Beach Drive.

Nell imagined sweet young voices singing about Rudolph and Frosty. She and Ben had seen the carolers on their way home--a Brownie troop walking from house to house, their eyes filled with Christmas. Their young voices holding hope, promise, and peace.

But it was hard to hear the joy and innocence, though she knew it was there.

That's what murder did to a town.

It masked its innocence.