Trimmed With Murder (11 page)

Finally Amber asked, “Have you ever been to Ocean View?”

“Yes. It's a beautiful place. A few of my first husband's family members lived there,” Birdie said. “The Favazza family donated money for some of the buildings.”

Amber nodded. “I thought so. Your name is on that elaborate plaque in the lobby.”

Birdie chuckled. “You have a good memory.”

“Memory? No, not so good, not really. Some things are better not remembered. Best buried.” A sadness seemed to overwhelm her as she spoke, one that traveled from her face down into her whole body. She took a deep breath. “Ocean View is like a resort.” But the tone in her voice indicated it might not be one in which she'd like to spend time. “When I was little it scared me. Sometimes I had nightmares after I'd been there.”

“Yes,” Birdie agreed. “I can see it would be a bit overwhelming to a small child.”

“My mother lived there. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And then she died there.”

Birdie was quiet, watching the emotions play out on the young woman's face. Sadness. But edged with an anger Birdie couldn't put into context. She wasn't sure if it was directed at herself or someone else—or at Ocean View.

“You've lived in this place a long time, haven't you?” Amber said suddenly. “Esther says you represent the heart and soul of Sea Harbor. In her words, you are ‘infinitely wise.'”

Birdie chuckled. “I don't know about that. We all do the best we can with the life we have, now, don't we? But yes, I have lived here a long time, that's absolutely true. Sometimes I think it has been hundreds of years.”

Amber was quiet for a minute, her eyes wandering over the crowd until they settled again on the Cummingses, standing now with the mayor and a group of dignitaries. Without turning back to Birdie, she said quietly, almost as if to herself, “Bad things have happened in this town. I need to do something about it. I promised her—”

Birdie was silent, waiting for Amber to say more.

She turned back to Birdie, her voice now thick with emotion. “I need wisdom. Esther says you have that.”

Birdie waited. She held back from suggesting Amber talk to Father Northcutt, thinking this might be more up his alley.

“Could I talk to you about all the awful stuff? Maybe it will help me see it clearly, help me make decisions. I've talked to my mother, but—” Again her voice dropped, the end of her thoughts lying on the frozen ground.

“Of course you may. Anger is a poisonous thing and I think you have more of it stored up than one body can bear. Sometimes hearing your thoughts spoken out loud brings clarity to them—and hopefully will relieve that anger and send it off. Would you like to talk now? We could take a walk among the new trees. And it's quiet there.”

Amber turned and looked toward the winding pathways. She shifted her gaze to the giant tent where crowds of people mingled and speakers carried the music from the gazebo into their revelry. For a moment she seemed to be listening to the music and the voices that poured out into the cold night.

Finally she pushed up the cuff of her jacket and checked her watch. She looked at Birdie. “I'm sorry. I can't tonight. I've already—” She looked off again, then focused back. “I have to talk with someone tonight. It'd be better to talk after that. Later—”

Amber fiddled with the edge of her glove, then asked, “Maybe tomorrow? Maybe things will be more clear to me then.”

“Tomorrow would be lovely.”

They set the time and place, and Amber smiled a thank-you, a smile that seemed to take great effort. It was weighed down by a burden that was too heavy for one woman to carry, Birdie thought. Whatever it was, she would do what she could to share it, to lessen it and ease Amber's distress.

Amber started to turn away, then suddenly turned back and to Birdie's surprise, wrapped her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

Before Birdie could respond, Amber turned and walked briskly away from the tall heater, the darkening night folding in around her.

Birdie watched her for a minute, wondering about the emotion that enveloped her. It was in her eyes, her tone, her entire body. Slowly she pulled herself loose from the disconcerting feeling and walked over to the tent, looking around for Nell.

The crowd had grown, people milling around, families feeling the effects of hot dogs, chili, and the huge pizza slices offered at the stand just beyond the tent. When the old-fashioned lamplights turned on, parents began collecting wayward children and headed toward their cars. Birdie spotted Ben's tall head, and worked her way back to friends.

Ben handed her a hot mug of cider and suggested that they leave soon.

“There you are,” Charlie said, working his way over to them. “I almost couldn't find you in this crowd. Janie couldn't find the right tree, so it took us a while.” He looked around. “Hey, where's Amber?”

“I was talking with her for a bit,” Birdie said. “But I think she wanted to be alone. That happens to all of us, Charlie. It's the way of women.” She tried to ease his concern with a smile.

But Charlie didn't seem convinced. He headed out of the tent and toward the heater, looking over the tops of heads and peering into the darkening night. Nell followed him, scanning the crowd.

Large groups of college-aged kids were moving into the tent, filling in the spaces vacated by families and children. On the frosty lawns, beer was passed around, music pulsed from iPads, and laughter rolled down toward the harbor lights.

A festive night.

“Could she have gone home?” Nell asked. “I'm not sure she was in a party mood, Charlie. That happens to all of us at times.”

Charlie shook his head, his concern growing. “No, she wasn't. Amber is moody, but tonight it was something else. Even if she says otherwise, I don't think she should be alone.”

A crowd was gathering near the gazebo where the Fractured Fish had given the stage over to a lively singing group accompanied by several electric guitarists beating out an upbeat collection of holiday music. The crowd was loving it, swaying to the beat, their movement adding protection against the cold.

“I think I see her. There she is,” Nell said, pointing toward the back of the white bandstand. Charlie took a few steps forward, looking beyond the fan of spotlights on the gazebo to a cleared, darkened space beside the structure where Andy Risso's drums were piled in cases on a dolly, ready to move to his truck.

Nell frowned, suddenly not sure if it was really Amber she was seeing.

The woman she thought was Amber was standing with Andy Risso, whose ponytailed profile was unmistakable even in the shadowy light. One arm was wrapped around the slender woman, his blond head bent and his fingers caressing her tangled mass of hair, then patting it affectionately.

Amber's face was buried in his chest.

Beside Nell, Charlie froze. He took a deep breath and his voice dropped. “Yeah, you're right. That's her.”

His fingers curled into a tight fist.

Then, without another word, he turned his back on Nell and strode resolutely into the tent and toward a cooler filled to the brim with beer.

Nell stood still, wishing away the look she had seen in Charlie's eyes. She took a deep breath and commanded the uncomfortable swell inside her to go away. It must have been the slice of pizza Ben had put in front of her, reminding her they hadn't had dinner.

When she looked up again, Andy Risso and Amber were gone.

She looked back inside the tent.

And so was Charlie.

It was a short time later that Ben whispered in her ear. He was ready to go, ready to build his own fire at home. Izzy and Sam had left, heading to the Gull Tavern with Danny and Cass and friends for a nightcap.

They walked toward the parking lot, away from the sound of the waves and wind that was whipping up off the water. Ben's arm looped around Nell's shoulder, pulling her into the protective shield of his body.

“Nice evening?” he asked.

Nell pressed closer to his side, one arm sliding around his waist. The uncomfortable feeling hadn't gone away, but instead of the sharper sensation she had felt earlier, it had settled into a dull feeling more easily identified.

It wasn't indigestion.

It was dread.

C
ass was up early Sunday morning, her concern over a broken lock pulling her from her disturbed dreams and from bed while the sky was still dark.

Danny found her in the kitchen cradling a giant mug of coffee between her palms. He forked his fingers through his thick head of sleep-tousled hair, trying unsuccessfully to tame it. He squinted at her. “That
is
you, right, Cass?”

Cass laughed and Danny put his glasses on, then walked across the chilly kitchen, wrapping her in a morning hug. “Yeah, it's you.”

“I could rent you out,” Cass said. “Best bear hugs on Cape Ann.”

“Or anywhere,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “So, what's up? It's practically the middle of the night. Did you forget it's Sunday—the day of no work, no writing, no fishing, no lobsters, no office work? Just lazy lolling around and letting me pay inordinate amounts of attention to you. Or . . . or perchance . . . you to me?”

Cass took a drink of coffee. Then she took a step away so she wouldn't give in and let Danny lure her back to bed. “Here's the thing. I want to lollygag and frolic and loll around with you, but I need to go check on something down at the dock.”

“Now? On Sunday?” Danny looked at the clock. “It's still dark out.”

“It'll be light by the time I get dressed. I noticed last night when we were walking up to the harbor parking lot that the lock on that cage where we keep the lobster traps was broken off.”

“Why didn't you say something then?”

“We were headed to the Gull to have fun. And I figured it could wait until morning. But you know how that goes. I wasn't worried until it woke me up, then bounced around in my head until it became way more important than it really is. But it'll stay there, irritating me, until I go check it out and replace the lock.”

“Geesh, Cass,” Danny began. Then he forced away his disappointment, turned, and started back toward the bedrooms.

“What?” Cass said. “You're going back to sleep?”

“No.” He tossed the word back over his shoulder without turning around. “I'm getting my jeans on. You think I'm letting you go down to the harbor alone? Who knows? One of those night watchmen might have the hots for you. Know it or not, you're one hot lobsterwoman, Cass Halloran.”

•   •   •

When they walked outside, they were both surprised to discover it had snowed during the night, a light blanket that quieted the world. A few snowflakes were still falling, just enough to turn the almost dawn into a magical moment.

“Currier and Ives,” Danny said, turning the key in the ignition.

“Currier and Ives,” Cass echoed, looking through the window in awe, as if she had never seen snowflakes before. Or at least, not ones quite like this. And not with this strange feeling swelling her heart, happy that she wasn't sitting alone in the cab of the truck. Happy that a sleepy, bespectacled writer was next to her.

Without a thought, she suddenly leaned across the seat and kissed him, a lingering kind of kiss. Then she pulled away and said, “I love you, Danny Brandley. Now drive.”

•   •   •

The slip where the Halloran lobster boats were moored was on the far side of the harbor, the opposite side of the main harbor parking lot that just the night before had held SUVs and families, couples and visitors, shop owners and fishermen, all there for a good time on a chilly winter evening.

But at this hour, with the sun just beginning its ascent, the lot was empty, the lights casting eerie shadows across the freshly fallen snow.

“Come on, let's get this done,” Danny said, reaching over and opening the passenger door for Cass. “You realize, don't you, that this is one of those favors that demand a huge payback? Huge.” He jumped out his side and together they headed to the commercial side of the pier. It was the side where rusty fenced-in bins held lobster traps and buoys and odds and ends. Where instead of the holiday scent of pine trees, they breathed in the strong odor of fish, oil, and dank, ocean-logged equipment.

Danny had brought a flashlight and shone it on the broken lock. Cass pulled it off and opened the bin, looking around. The traps were piled high, covered with snow. The white blanket was untouched by human footsteps or a thief's fingerprints.

“Okay, then,” Cass said, tossing the old padlock on top of a lobster cage and quickly snapping the new one in place. “Job well done, partner.”

Danny was standing a few feet away, closer to the water, and looking across to where gaslights still lit the newly planted trees in Harbor Park. The tent hadn't been taken down yet, and its white peaks were stark against the sky that was just beginning to lighten above the water.

“Let's go for a walk,” he said when Cass came up beside him.

She looked at him quizzically.

He took her gloved hand in his. “It's eerily beautiful.” Then he looked down at her with mock sternness. “And you're in no position to say no, young lady. No arguments. This is the kind of thing writers like to do when they can't be lollygagging.”

“As long as you don't start singing Christmas carols,” Cass said, and matched her step to his.

They walked around the pier, over to the Harbor Green. The gazebo was a white castle against the sky, its low security lights making it seem twice its size. They walked around the mountain-peaked tent, then slowly down a path that meandered along the ocean side of the newly planted trees. They walked past the copses of evergreens, imagining them lit up, their branches heavy with handmade ornaments.

Still holding Danny's hand, Cass led him into the thick of the trees, a pathway so narrow you could touch trees on either side, with an occasional bench breaking the space.

Danny breathed in the crisp air, tilting his head back as snowflakes landed lazily on his face.

But while Danny was looking up, Cass was looking down—at the winding pathway, the shadows the fir trees were casting on the fresh blanket of snow, startling in its purity.

And in the precise moment that Danny Brandley was catching a snowflake on the tip of his tongue, Cass Halloran screamed, a bloodcurdling and terrifying sound.

Even to a man who made a living writing murder mysteries.