Easier to do what
? Nell wondered. In one short week of knowing Willow, she felt sure the woman couldnt kill anyone. But growing up beneath that cloud of hatred that her grandparents had nurtured in her could certainly do awful things to ones mind.
Do you need a lawyer, Willow?
Willow shook her head vehemently. No. I talked to Ben today. He was helping someone move into a house near Brendans and we talked a bit. He told me hed find me a lawyer if I needed one.
Ben was helping our friend Sam, Nell said. So Ben knows what youve told us?
Yes. He said I should tell the police about the relationship thing, too, that itd be better if I told them Aidan was my father rather than them finding out on their own. He said hed help me deal with it.
Well, then, youre in good hands, Birdie said. Her needles were moving more slowly as the weight of Willows story settled in. She put her knitting down, sensing the end of the story. At least for now.
And speaking of hands, I suggest we help ourselves to Nells feast. I, for one, am starving. She reached for her wineglass.
Cass stood up, the mention of food a reprieve from the weight of the evening.
Youll think youve died and gone to heaven. Cass moved toward the food with a speed far greater than the lobsters that crawled into her traps.
Willow managed a small laugh at Cass quick rush toward food. Heaven? Ill race you, Cass.
The shrimp satay lightened the mood considerably, and though Nell was swallowing at least a dozen questions along with the couscous and shrimp, she suspected the answers would come out in their own good time. Willow seemed to trust them now. Too many questions might disturb that trust.
Izzy settled herself back on the couch, a full plate in her lap, and looked down at Willows backpack. Youve been here a week, and I have yet to see any of your work. She picked up a wooden stick holding a marinated shrimp and dipped it into the sauce that Nell had set on the coffee table.
I have one piece here, almost finished. Willow took a forkful of Nells couscous and bit into a creamy chunk of fresh mozzarella, flavored with the lemon, dill, and olive oil. She wiped a small grain from the edge of her mouth. Her eyes closed and she smiled contentedly. Amazing, she murmured. Cass is right. Heaven. Grams was pretty much a potatoes and pressure-cooker pork cook. I never imagined food could be so tasty and light.
The backpack, Izzy said, nudging Willow in the side.
Willow leaned over and unzipped the battered canvas bag and pulled out a mass of startling color. Brilliant blues, greens, and deep red yarn spilled from her fingers. And at the bottom, she pulled out the piece she was working on: handspun yarn fashioned into a work of art, not yet finished, but its shape already showing definition.
Nell reached over and touched a twisted row of kettle-dyed wool in as many thicknesses as shades of blue. The colors ranged from the deep blue, nearly black of ocean water at its purest, to the startling blue-green when sunlight and the oceans microscopic plants turn the water into a turquoise blanket. Willow had used sensuous silk threadsreds, corals, and shimmering goldto bind the yarn together into a blend that resembled, in its flowing curves and hanging strands, an octopus or jellyfish, or strands of algae or plankton.
Its lovely, Willow. Nell traced the graceful curve of the bound yarn. Some of the strands were knit together and others, chunky and sinewy, draped from the piece gracefully.
Its beautiful, Izzy said.
Birdie and Cass chimed in, amazed at the wondrous art coming from the beat-up backpack lying on the floor.
Do you have other pieces? Nell asked.
I thought about doing a series about sand and sea. Weird, huh? Ive never seen the sea. But it was in me somehow. Something trying to get out.
You dont need to be giving a talk to my customers. Izzy rose from the couch and took her empty plate over to the coffee table. Lots of people need to see these.
Cass got up to help, dropping a half-finished bouclé hat on the chair behind her. Once Cass discovered that the handwoven yarn hid her mistakes like a bleach pen on coffee spills, she never went back to fine wool for the hats and scarves she doled out to her fishermen friendsand an equal number for the chemo caps. Even her mother was amazed at the chunky wear that came from Cass fingers.
Your art has an ocean feel to it, Cass said, talking around the last piece of shrimp. It seems perfect for people who come to Canary Cove looking for regional art. Sams photos of my
Lady Lobster
have sold like crazyand he took those shots as a favor to me. But people love that kind of thing. Canary Cove would love this. She scooped up the napkins, wiped a few crumbs off the table, and took them into the galley kitchen off the knitting room, retrieving a cold bottle of Birdies wine on her way back.
As long as you have to sit around here for a while, we might as well make it productive. Birdie sat back in her chair and began to work on her cap, a satisfied smile on her face. Who knows? Maybe we should plan a show.
Nell looked up from retrieving a dropped stitch on Willows sweater. Willow, sweetie, you havent said a word. Here we are, planning your future and not letting you get a word in edgewise.
Willow folded her legs up beneath her, the pair of shorts looking slightly too long on her legs. She looked down at her lap and fingered her work-in-progress. And then she looked back at the women who had taken her into their lives without question or judgment.
You are kind of amazing. I dont think Ive met people like you, even in our little Wisconsin townand people were pretty nice there. But think about itI break into your store, Izzy, and take over Nells guesthouse. And Birdie and Cass treat me like family. And here you are, all of you, sticking your necks out for someone you dont know at all. And what you
do
know isnt all that wonderful. Willow stopped and looked around the room, as if committing it to memory.
But I cant let you do that, she said.
And why not? asked Birdie, her words carrying a touch of indignation. Her back straightened and she slipped her glasses into her smooth nest egg of gray hair.
Telling Birdie what she could or couldnt do wasnt a habit of people who knew her.
Well, heres why. Do you honestly think anyoneeven in this nice townis going to spend time looking at the art work of a suspected murderer? A . . . a . . . a Lizzie Borden? Think about it now.
She looked intently into each one of their faces, her black eyes flashing. Well, do you?
The irony of it was, Nell told Ben as they sat down to coffee the next day, that Willow Adams words matchedif not exactly, very closelya headline in Mary Pisanos About Town column in the
Sea Harbor Gazette
the next morning:
Is there a Lizzie Borden in our midst?
Mary asked her readers.
Chapter 14
S
o, Nell, whattaya think?
Harry Garozzo leaned over the small deli table, his square hands pressed flat on the surface and his nose hovering perilously close to Nells.
Nell pushed back in her chair, not wanting to offend Harry but requiring a slight distance. About what, Harry?
One blunt finger pointed to the newspaper lying next to Nells mug of coffee.
Wisconsin woman a suspect in artists murder,
the headline read.
Theyre talking about our little friend. One week ago I find this flower child asleep in Izzys window. Today shes maybe a murderer? What gives, Nell? What gives? The furrows in his brow deepened in concern.
A breeze blew in the open deli window behind Nell, carrying the sounds of a Sea Harbor daycharter boats carrying tourists over to Tillies Ledge or Wildcat Knoll to snag a striped bass or bluefish for dinner. Captain Jeremiahs whale-watching boat chugging out to the open sea, filled to the brim with tourists hoping for a humpback sighting. Cass and Pete would have left the harbor hours ago, taking the
Lady Lobster
out to check and bait their traps.
A normal day.
But it didnt seem normal at all.
Willows demeanor the night before hadnt fooled any of the knitters. Beneath the bravado hovered a vulnerable woman who had stumbled into a most unfortunate situation.
Shes not a murderer, Harry. Shes a frightened young woman who came to Sea Harbor looking for her father.
And found him dead? What. A coincidence? Harrys thick brows lifted up into his receding hairline. A coincidence, Nell?
Nell looked out the window. A coincidence. Yes. That was exactly what it was, Nell felt sure. And a deadly one.
Ive heard talk, Nell Harry went on.
Of course you have, Harry. There will always be talk.
Harry Garozzo, what are you stirring up here? Birdie Favazza walked up behind him and placed her small hand on his wide back. Gossip? Shame on you, Harry.
Birdie pulled out a chair and sat opposite Nell, a sweet smile followed her chiding to the deli owner.
Birdie, my love, the only thing Ill be stirring up today is my cold strawberry soup. You come back in an hour and Ill have you some. He grinned at Birdie, then dropped the smile to accommodate more serious conversation. As I was just saying to Nell, people talk in my place. And Willow Adams name is being bandied about between bites of my Italian egg sandwich like I dunna know what. He looked at Birdie and touched his lips with two fingers. Your Sonny, he woulda loved them, Birdie Favazza: thick rustic bread, my marinara sauce
Im sure he would have, Harry. And I will indulge at a later date. Now you were saying?
Harry dropped his hands back to the table and looked from one woman to the other, his thick brows pulling close together until they formed a single line across his face. Rebecca Marks was in this morning to pick up a box of my taralli, and her pink tongue was wagging like the flag at Pelican Pier. Harry looked around at the tables on either side to be sure no one was listening, but most of his midmorning customers were summer people more interested in Harrys chocolate chip connoli than in town gossip. He turned back to Birdie and Nell.
Rebecca says that we all shoulda known Aidan had a secret life. He was the kind whod have a kid hidden somewhere. A love child, she called it.
Her
, Harry. Willow is a person.
Sure. Her. Of course shes a person. I even kind of like the little thing. But people are pulling out facts, not letting their hearts rule them like you sometimes do.
Nell frowned at him.
Thats a
good
thing, Nell. You care about people. But no matterrumor has it that the young girl was probably driven to her crime by her own fathers misdeeds.
Now thats downright foolish. It was Birdie, speaking in the voice that sank ships, as her Sonny used to say.
Harry shrugged. Im just the messenger, ladies. But Rebecca was pretty convincing that once we all faced facts about Willow Adams, and cleaned up and sold Aidans messy gallery to some respectable artist, we could get on with our lives. Thats what she said in a nutshell. And she herself would promote doing that soon.
And just how is she going to do that? Its not hers to sell.
You know Rebecca. She could move the Rockies to Cape Ann if she set her mind to it. And for all their nice gestures at Aidans funeral, Rebecca says there were lots of Canary Cove artists who share her suspicions and feelings. Even Jane.
Jane Brewster?
Harry nodded, his lips pressed together as if guarding a secret, not something Harry did easily.
The sounds of the bell above the door and the bright chatter of customers brought Harrys attention back to more immediate things. He straightened his stance and looked from Nell to Birdie.
