Trimmed With Murder (18 page)

He shrugged and opened the door for her, then stood there for a moment, one hand on the doorframe, looking at her intently through his thick glasses.

“What?” Barbara asked, frowning. “What is it, Garrett?” She kept her eyes on him as she lowered herself into the car. A boyish sort of smile slipped awkwardly across his face. “I take care of things, Barbara,” he said. “Stu trusts me. Your mother knew I was the best thing to happen to Cummings Northshore. She knew I'd take care of what she built no matter what. I have. And I always will. I take care of things—for everyone. But mostly, I want to take care of them for you.”

Garrett paused, as if wanting his words to sink in and take on meaning. Then he shifted from one foot to the other, his voice losing the firm tone of a minute ago, and an awkwardness creeping in. He pushed his glasses up his nose and finally spoke. “Barbara, I'm here for you, always. I think it's time.”

Barbara looked up at him. “Time?”

“We should get married,” he said. He moved then, blocking Barbara Cummings from view, closed her door, and walked around the car.

A minute later the car was off across the parking lot, its driver never checking the rearview mirror to see the three figures standing a few yards away, watching the car disappear in a plume of exhaust.

“W
hat do you make of it?” Nell asked Ben that evening. She uncorked a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass as she repeated the conversations she had had with the owners of Cummings Northshore Nurseries—one that she participated in, and the other overheard.

“I think all three of you were eavesdroppers, for starters,” Ben said.

“Yes, besides that.” Nell picked up a tray of cheese and crackers and headed to the fireplace.

Ben took a drink of wine and followed her across the room. He was always cautious about placing exaggerated significance in ordinary things, a temptation when looking for a murderer they were all desperate to find. At first he didn't comment when she mentioned Garrett O'Neal's cryptic comments about taking care of things. Instead he crouched down in front of the fireplace and piled some kindling and paper balls on the logs. He struck a match and lit the paper.

“Okay, here's what I think.” He pushed himself upright, gazing into the red glow, fascinated as the paper balls exploded into flames. He moved to the couch. “Let's say that this is an ordinary day and you overheard two people who work together disagreeing about something or worrying about an office matter. I would say it means nothing. And frankly, from what you've told me, I'm not even sure it was a disagreement. Just an ordinary back-and-forth.”

Nell kicked off each shoe and tucked her feet up beneath her. She watched the flames dancing against the blackened brick behind them. “Maybe you're right, but the thing is, it's
not
an ordinary day. No days are ordinary right now.” She made room on the couch for Ben to sink down beside her.

“Are you thinking the conversation had anything to do with Amber's murder?” Ben asked.

“It's a possibility. Or something related to it. I think that's how we have to look at everything. Amber was not only related to those people, but she was messing with the business they owned.”

“The business she owned, too,” Ben reminded her.

“Exactly. And wouldn't it have benefited them if Amber was dead?” Nell said. “I know Stu seemed convinced last week that she'd sell it back to them. Now she's dead—and he seemed worried about things. But with Amber dead, he and Barbara are sole owners, right?”

“That'd be true if Amber didn't have a will. Then the property goes to next of kin. As sad as it may seem, that's Barbara and Stu. But if Amber had a will of her own, then that would dictate what happens to her share in the Cummings company.”

“Did she have a will?”

“Rachel Wooten has someone looking into it.”

“So alive, Amber wasn't a threat because Stu was sure he could buy Amber's share back. Let's assume he was right, although I don't think he really had any idea what Amber Harper was going to do.”

“I'm with you there,” Ben laughed. “But the truth is, even if Amber didn't sell it back, Cummings Northshore Nurseries is thriving. That company is making enough money to support half this town. It wouldn't have hurt them if she'd hung on to it. And Garrett is so tight with the books, I doubt if she could have done anything to harm the company. Besides, Barbara and her poker face would eventually have kept Amber in her place, don't you think?”

Nell didn't think that at all. “Amber was strong and opinionated. She might have wanted to change the way they did things, to somehow have a voice—even Esther was afraid she might want to do damage to the company.”

Ben sat back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers playing with her hair. He tugged a strand. “You're good at this, Nellie.”

Nell smiled. In Ben's mind, she was good at trying to find motives and murderers as long as she was sitting in front of a fire with him at her side, both of them playing the armchair detective game. If she took it any further, he would have a problem with it. Nell left the muddy motive question wallowing on the coffee table. “You still haven't addressed my original question, Ben. Barbara rarely shows emotion. She's so levelheaded, composed.”

Ben nodded. “True. She's a respected businesswoman. Careful and discreet when it comes to business affairs. And not very social. She keeps to herself.”

“Yet she was displeased, and in a public place.” She thought back over the conversation as she sipped her wine, then said with a chuckle, “I'm not sure which part of the conversation intrigued me the most—the beginning or the end.” She filled Ben in on Garrett's parting words.

Ben's eyebrows lifted. “Now, that
is
a surprise.”

“It was odd—I can't tell you why, exactly, but definitely odd. I almost felt sorry for him. I think he finally felt he had the right to ask.”

“It almost sounds like a business proposal,” Ben said. “People have wondered about that relationship behind closed doors for a while. Garrett is a huge asset to the company. He's quiet, but smart. And exceptionally good at what he does. What do they call the quiet Scorpios—the gray Lizard? I wouldn't be surprised if his birthday was in November. He knows financial reports backwards and forwards. In fact, that may have been what you were hearing. Barbara was concerned about something, maybe a late report or new insurance, taxes. Garrett was assuring her he had it all under control, just like he always does.”

Nell thought about what he was saying. As always, it was logical. But was murder logical? Aloud, she said, “Ben, what happens next with the inheritance?”

“Rachel asked Father Larry and me to sit in on a late-afternoon meeting with Stu and a couple of others. So they'll talk about what we've talked about, but maybe have actual facts to lay on the table. Maybe they'll have found a will—or not.”

She rolled her head on the couch cushion and looked sideways at Ben, and she could see that thoughts of wills and inheritances were leaving his mind with each sip of his wine.

She decided to do the same, finishing her wine and setting the glass on the table. She leaned her head against Ben's chest and snuggled there, her eyes on the fire, its warmth easing the tension of the week.

Ben's interpretation floated around in her drowsy thoughts. He almost always made sense. And he was known for his logic. But something was missing in his reasoning tonight—a missing or false premise? Or maybe he just had other things on his mind, like relaxing with his wife in front of the fire, going to bed early.

Ben had described Barbara Cummings as a discreet businessperson, a private woman. Nell suspected that to be true both in her personal and in her business life.

But no matter what Ben said, she felt certain the conversation reflected something more significant than insurance policies.

Nell felt sure of it, but she held her silence. For now, she willingly gave her mind and body over to the fire and to Ben's warm breath on her neck, to his arm around her—to the sound of his heartbeat against her ear, its slow regular beat hypnotizing her, blocking out all other thoughts.

•   •   •

Izzy had called the late-afternoon knitting class Holiday Help—and she made sure people knew that even those who only used fat needles and limited techniques were welcome. It was Izzy's Christmas gift to her customers.

With the help of our holiday elves,
the e-mail they had sent to customers read,
you'll receive expert assistance on how to finish your holiday gifts before finding yourselves adrift in the New Year with yarn still dangling from your fingertips.

“Elves?” Nell said to Birdie. She shook her head in mock dismay as she maneuvered the CRV out of Birdie's driveway and onto Ravenswood Road. “Did she really call us elves?”

“It was Mae,” Birdie chuckled. “I'd recognize her purple prose anywhere.”

“I hope some live bodies show up,” Nell said. “Izzy said attendance has dropped off, especially at night. The same is true at the bookstore and other shops up and down Harbor Road. One of the busiest shopping seasons—and instead people are staying home behind locked doors watching reality television shows or ordering gifts online.”

Birdie looked out the window as they approached the harbor area. Lovely festive decorations everywhere—but only a scattering of shoppers enjoying the twinkling lights. “Fear has power. Awful power,” she said. “Nell, I know Jerry has a fine police force, but I think the investigation has stagnated. No wonder people are staying home. Someone is getting away with murder—and it might be someone who isn't finished with what he started.”

The thought was sobering and uncomfortable, but Nell agreed. “Ben won't exactly come out and say that, but I think he feels the same way. The chief is under a great deal of pressure from all sides to put someone behind bars. Anyone, just to get rid of the awful fear. To have a face, a name, someone—” She stopped, her words stilled by worry.

Birdie followed the path of Nell's thoughts and stopped her. “Jerry Thompson is a thorough and fair man, we know that. He isn't going to arrest someone simply because he needs to put a town's collective mind to rest. Especially someone we know is clearly not guilty.”

They drove in silence for a while, their thoughts wrapping Charlie Chambers in a protective shield and their minds jumping ahead, planning.

As they neared the yarn shop, Birdie rested one hand on Nell's arm and said aloud what she knew they were both thinking. “Nell, we're as close as Jerry to what is going on here, or closer. And we have a vested interest that transcends all sorts of rules. We need to put our thoughts out on the table and knit them together, see where they take us—and stop worrying about stepping on toes.”

Relief spread through Nell instantly. Birdie's words unleashed feelings that had been bottled up for days now, ever since Amber had died and Charlie's life had changed. They'd all been doing the same thing, quietly, alone. Watching people, listening, coming up with conjectures that they'd held in the silence of their heads. It was time to say them out loud.

Nell pulled into the alley behind Izzy's car and turned off the ignition. She gave Birdie a long hug.

•   •   •

The shopwindows were lit up like Santa's Workshop, the light pouring from them warm and welcoming. A large display window in front matched the festive feeling. Mae's nieces had gone all out, creating a winter scene with mounds of snowy fleece covering the floor of the window, crocheted Christmas trees planted on the hilly surface. And across the “sky” above flew Santa's sleigh, pulled by reindeer wearing hand-knit hats in every color of the season.

COME KNIT WITH US
, a sign planted in the “snow” read. Behind it stood a jolly elf, his green knit outfit decorated with tiny red snowballs.

Birdie focused on the elf. “Izzy didn't mention we needed to wear costumes. I suppose I could have dug up something.”

Nell laughed and tucked her arm through Birdie's, guiding her through the bright blue door.

They were happily surprised to see people wandering around in the shop's main room. Fingers found their way into baskets of cashmere and wool and alpaca yarn. Lively voices admired the knit sweaters and hats decorating a Christmas tree in the center of the room. And everywhere tiny white lights spoke of a warm, safe place.

Birdie and Nell waved to Mae and her nieces, then made their way across the room to the back steps, lured by the chatter and the tender voice of Andrea Bocelli dreaming of a white Christmas.

“Izzy's shop,” Nell murmured as she stood in the archway, looking down at the women gathering around the fireplace and the library table, the cozy corners of chairs. “It feels safe here. No matter what lurks in the darkness beyond this shop, there's no room for fear here.”

At least that was her hope. She followed Birdie down the few steps, shrugging off her coat on the way.

Izzy stood over on the far side, encouraging people to find their niche—around the fire or table, the beanbag chairs and groupings near the window. She was clearly happy with the turnout.

Nell and Birdie stood in the back, watching Izzy work her magic, explaining things clearly but with the rush of emotion she was rarely allowed in the courtroom. Her passion had clear reign in the small yarn shop where the magical therapy of knitting happened daily. It was “the new yoga,” she'd say as a sweeping calm settled over a group of beginners or old-timers, young or old, as they worked their needles, caressed their yarn, and breathed more deeply.

Tonight's group was a hodgepodge of young and old, singles and young moms, older moms and grandmothers and professional women balancing their lives by adding a respite to crowded days. Izzy explained that there were helpers scattered around—just wave a hand, she said. They'll be there to help.

Nell looked over heads and around bodies and knew it wasn't help with knitting that was most on their minds tonight—it was the warmth, the companionship that Izzy's back room offered, not to mention the happy sounds of carols, hot tea and spicy punch, and the freshly baked Christmas cookies that Margaret Garozzo had brought from her deli. It was a safe haven in a menacing world.

A touch on her arm pulled Nell's attention away from Izzy. She looked into the carefully made-up face of Beatrice Scaglia, a brocade knitting bag holding yarn and rarely used needles hanging from her arm. Helen Cummings stood just behind her, talking to Birdie.

The fact that Beatrice and Helen were friends never failed to intrigue Nell. Barbara, it seemed, would have been a better match for Beatrice, her commanding presence and authoritative ways not unlike the mayor's. But each to his own, and Helen was probably a lot easier to be with, more amenable to whatever Beatrice had to say. She was also more available, and a good source for what was going on inside the Cummings dynasty.

“Now, when does a busy mayor find time to knit?” Nell said to Beatrice.

“Nell Endicott, don't play games with me,” Beatrice scolded. “You know I can't knit worth a tinker's damn. Someday when I get my rocker I'll have Izzy come over and teach me.”