Angora Alibi (29 page)

To be killed.

The music from the beach silenced their footsteps, but as they neared the granite
wall that shielded the Danvers property, they heard faint voices, muted and broken
by the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.

Nell crept closer, her hands pressed against the rock, guiding her way.

“We need to talk. . . .”

It was Martin’s voice. Tired—but thick with anger.

They crowded close to the boulder, Nell in the front, crouched down behind a bank
of thick wild rosebushes and tangled sea grass. They could see shadows on the beach.

Cass pressed close behind her, and Izzy and Birdie followed, stepping gingerly over
the rocky path. They couldn’t see much—but they could hear.

They had no plan. No weapons. Just the urgent need to get Martin Seltzer out of the
shielded stretch of beach before he killed someone.

The voices continued. “I’ve nothing to say to you. You’re a murderer. You’re going
to prison for the rest of your life.”

For a minute, Nell froze. She thought she heard a click, a gun being cocked?

“No, Martin,” she called out, rushing around the side of the boulder, prepared to
talk him out of an act he’d regret the rest of his life.

Tamara Danvers and Martin Seltzer turned and stared at her.

“What are you doing here?” Tamara’s feckless question was tossed away by a pounding
wave.

“Nell, it’s okay,” Martin said. He put out one hand, as if to shove her back into
the night.

But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t Martin who held a gun.

It was Tamara Danvers, and she had it aimed directly at Martin Seltzer’s heart. She
moved as stealthily as a tiger, backing away from the cliff, her back toward the water,
as if Martin might try to escape through the sea and she was preparing to stop him.

Nell thought of the women standing behind her. The police were probably on their way.
Talk. Talk,
she told herself.

She looked over at Tamara. A beam of moonlight lit her face. It was calm, controlled.
Her hands were steady.

“The baby wasn’t Franklin’s, it was Tyler Gibson’s, wasn’t it, Tamara? Poor Tyler,
who has no idea he was almost a father.”

Tamara allowed a curious smile, as if thinking back to her time with the bartender,
somehow enjoying the memory. Her bare feet were planted in the sand, her shadow still.
“Yes. The baby that wasn’t Franklin’s,” she murmured. “He wasn’t even in the country
those nights. I was lonely. An ironic happenstance.” Her voice was almost singsong,
but with a chilling edge. “I got pregnant. Franklin wanted a baby. It was karma.”

“Until it wasn’t,” Martin said. “Two innocent people killed for no reason.”

She nodded. “Yes. It was unfortunate that the miscarriage didn’t happen a bit sooner.
But that wiped the plate clean, in a way. What if the baby looked like Tyler? It was
better this way. I will get pregnant again and give him his heir. Rightfully his,
this time.”

She fell silent, as if planning in her mind what she would do next.

Talk, Nell,
she told herself again. “Dr. Seltzer was right about Justin’s bad habits. He listened
at the door, he overheard your conversation.”

“And he thought he could make a quick fast buck. And then another. I grew up with
kids like that. I know what they are like.”

“But Dr. Seltzer didn’t know about that, Tamara. He didn’t know Justin was blackmailing
you. And then, later, he didn’t know you’d killed him. And he wouldn’t have betrayed
your confidence about the pregnancy because he’s a good man. He takes that very seriously.
How foolish your distrust of people is.”

She glanced over at Martin. They were right about Martin’s code of ethics. He was
like a confessor, Janie had said. A good listener. But once he examined the calendars
and knew that Tamara had been in his office the day the morphine was stolen, he had
begun to piece it all together.

“People’s values change when they’re accused of murder,” Tamara said. She hadn’t taken
her eyes off Martin, somehow considering Nell less threatening. “Having him go to
prison would be awful for his daughter. I saw him watching her today, hating her worry.
Knowing he’d caused it. He’d betray any confidence to protect his Lily.”

Her voice was tinged with envy as she talked about a father’s love, something she
probably had never had herself until Franklin—and his money—came into her life.

“And when he did—when he told the police I was carrying Tyler’s baby and desperate
for my husband not to find out—they’d look further and find out Justin knew about
it . . . that he overheard our private conversation. It wouldn’t take long to move
along the chain, just like you did, Nell.”

“Tamara, this is foolish. Don’t make it worse.”

Tamara’s laugh was unpleasant. “Don’t you worry about me, Nell. Franklin will know
exactly what happened here.” She glared at Martin. “I told him how you came on to
me in the clinic, Dr. Seltzer. How you’d lure me into your office, put your hands
on me—”

Martin winced at the awful accusation—one that explained Franklin Danvers’ unyielding
certainty that Martin Seltzer was a murderer. Tamara had convinced him of that, smoothly,
adeptly, probably the same way she’d convinced him to marry her.

“So he bought me this little gun,” she said, glancing down. “He’ll not be surprised
that you came here, looking for me, hoping to satisfy your infatuation. And he won’t
be surprised if I was so frightened I used the gun he’d carefully taught me how to
shoot. And then Nell . . . Nell came to save me and was caught in the cross fire.
So unfortunate.”

They could hear Martin’s harsh laugh. “It was all in vain, you foolish, arrogant woman,”
he said. “That’s the saddest part of all. Both murders. No one would ever have known
that the baby you were carrying wasn’t your husband’s. Tyler Gibson had no idea that
a pregnancy had come out of your reckless behavior. No one would ever have connected
him to it.”

“Just you,” Tamara said.

The women standing behind the granite wall could see Tamara’s silhouette in the moonlight,
but Nell and Martin were hidden from their sight. Cass pushed back into the darkness
and texted Ben.
Hurry!
, she wrote.

Nell thought about Tamara’s Roxbury childhood, not so different from Justin’s, probably.
Difficult. But she’d been good at escaping. Good at finding a husband with everything
she had never had—

But she wasn’t nearly as good at murder.

Nell’s breath caught in her lungs, tight and painful. She wondered if the others could
hear her heartbeat, loud and raucous to her own ears. And she wondered about Izzy.

“Horace Stevenson’s death was a mystery to us for a while,” Nell said, filling in
the silence. “What could he have known? An old man with bad vision. And then we realized
that Horace’s vision was bad, but his other senses filled in for him.”

“Horace. He was a nice man. I saw him the night I was looking for Justin’s gear. And
he saw me. He was walking the beach and he waved at me, though he didn’t now who it
was. He probably thought it was Franklin because they’d often see each other on the
beach when they couldn’t sleep.

“So after Justin was dead, I’d check on Horace every few days, take him soup, talk
to him, just to be sure he didn’t know anything. And then last Friday he asked if
I’d come by. He needed to talk to me, he said.

“I didn’t know for sure why, so I planned ahead.”

“You saw Dr. Seltzer that Friday—we checked the calendar. And you took the morphine
from his desk. And for good measure, the scuba book you found in Franklin’s library.”

“Always prepared.” She laughed. “I waited until I knew he’d have his whiskey there,
then went over to talk. He figured out it wasn’t Franklin he saw after all, he told
me. It was me he had seen that night going into the dive shed. He was positive of
it. So he’d have to tell the authorities, but because we were friends, he wanted to
tell me first so I wouldn’t be surprised. He truly was a decent fellow. I tried to
tell him it couldn’t have been me, but he was sure, he said. I could tell from his
voice that he was serious—and completely coherent. They might have believed him. It
was a chance I couldn’t take. He never told me how he was sure, but the certainty
was in his voice.”

“It was because of your scent,” Nell said calmly.

Tamara frowned. “My sense? What does that mean?”

“No, not sense—that’s what we thought for a while, too. It was your scent—Chanel Number
Five. Just like you gave to Izzy for her shower. We know one another’s scents—women
especially—but not in an obvious way. Not in the way Harold did. He smelled you there.
That’s how he was certain it was you. He even knew the name of it, though it sounded
more like
channel
when he said it out loud. And when we let Red smell the perfume on a piece of paper,
the dog went wild. That’s when we knew that same scent must have visited Horace the
night he was murdered. And Red remembered it in horror.”

Nell had run out of things to say, and she could see the agitation starting to pinch
Tamara’s face. Her calm demeanor was disappearing, her grip on the gun tighter.

Nell turned slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of movement, of the women behind the
wall.

And then the night lit up as headlights came toward them along the beach. The screech
of brakes. And next a rush of blue uniforms, some wading in the water, emerged through
the blackness.

Tamara jerked her head, spun around, then raised the gun.

But it wasn’t the lights shining in her eyes that stopped her.

Nor the women.

It was Franklin Danvers’ voice.

He came through the thick wooden door just behind Martin, the same door Tamara had
used to sneak out into the night to make sure Justin’s dive was a fatal one.

The voice was fierce and commanding, the figure imposing and stolid. Franklin Danvers
walked over to his wife and slapped the gun to the sand.

He kicked it away and waited for a policeman to pick it up and wrap it in plastic.
Then, without a word, he walked away from his wife and toward Chief Jerry Thompson,
waiting at the side of the granite boulder.

Martin Seltzer slid his back down the side of the stone wall, breathing heavily. Birdie
moved quickly to his side, offering comforting words until a young police officer
relieved her. He leaned over the older man, handing him a bottle of water and a supporting
hand. They’d sent for an ambulance, he said. Just in case. And his daughter was on
her way.

Ben and Sam were next, racing across the wet sand. They’d called the police, then
driven like madmen toward the beach.

“Izzy?” Sam yelled out into the darkness. “Izzy, where are you?”

Nell spun around.

But Izzy was gone.

“She’s up there.” A policeman hurrying off to read Tamara Danvers her rights, handcuffs
dangling from his belt, pointed back toward the cars lined up at the edge of the beach.
“Over there.”

They reached her in seconds.

“Anyone coming?” she said calmly, reaching for the car door. “I’m on my way to have
a baby.”

Then she handed Sam the car keys.

N
othing could deter Laura Danvers from celebrating the new baby—and the fact that the
baby herself would attend was a bonus that filled her with great pleasure.

The chosen Saturday was cool and dry, the party set to begin just before sunset—a
perfect time to celebrate this new baby, one that the entire town of Sea Harbor, or
so it seemed—was welcoming into its arms with love and joy.

Abigail Kathleen Perry had come into the world quickly, once she knew the world was
ready for her. In a heartbeat, this tiny baby—with a head of Sam’s sandy locks, a
sweet round face that seemed to smile as Sam rested her in her mother’s arms—changed
forever the moment, the day, the summer, and many Sea Harbor lives.

Izzy’s parents arrived on the first plane out of Kansas City, and Nell and her sister
wept in tandem, sharing this lovely miracle Izzy had brought into the world.

Sam allowed no talk of the past weeks in the birthing room—not when Abigail was present.
Only positive, nurturing vibes were to touch his baby girl, he said, and then he held
her close and carried her to the window to explain what a wonderful town she was living
in, what a wonderful, brave, sometimes foolish mother she had, and how loved she would
always be.

•   •   •

It was over a glass of wine on Sam and Izzy’s deck a week later that they finally
revisited the scene, filling in the blanks, though there weren’t many of them. It
took that long for the men in the knitters’ lives to face the danger their wives might
have been in. Could have been in. And to allow the night on the beach to be talked
about in their presence.

But the joy of sweet Abigail assuaged all things, and the worries were allowed to
fade.

The police had uncovered that Tami Ashland was Tamara’s given name. She’d been a problem
child growing up. No father, just like Justin. And no real sense of right and wrong.
Right
was what Tamara wanted for herself.
Wrong
were people in her life who prevented that. Even her surprise pregnancy—the one-week
stand with a handsome, gullible Tyler Gibson while her husband was in Europe—didn’t
concern her. Her husband wanted a baby, and she would give him one. But when an overly
attentive Franklin began asking for every possible precaution and test, she worried
some, and talked it over with Martin Seltzer, confiding in him her uncertainty over
the baby’s father’s identity. He assured her everything was fine—the tests Martin
had asked for were for other things, not paternity. No one would know.

And somehow, perhaps resulting from a talk between Ben and Jerry Thompson, the police
had been able to keep it out of Esther’s hearing range and out of Mary Pisano’s column
that the father
might
have been an unsuspecting Gloucester fellow.

Tyler Gibson might never know. Or he might, if Esther uncovered the truth—and decided
that truth was the better part of valor. Perhaps there was an important lesson in
it all for her cherished grandson.

But Justin Dorsey, standing outside the door, waiting to fix a computer, did know.

And so Tami’s troubles began.

“I don’t think any of it bothered her—not even the fact that two people had been needlessly
murdered to protect her lie,” Nell had said.

“The woman didn’t take chances,” Birdie concluded, “even if it meant killing an innocent
old man.”

“Would his testimony have been taken seriously?” Cass wondered.

Ben shrugged. “Who are we to say eyesight is more dependable than scent? Coming from
someone like Horace, his words might have been the nail in Tamara’s coffin.”

•   •   •

But it was over, at last, and on a cool lovely Saturday a few weeks later, exactly
at sundown, Laura and Elliot Danvers welcomed Abigail Kathleen Perry, her dog, Red,
and her parents, Izzy and Sam, into their home.

The rolling grounds, in a hilly neighborhood overlooking the ocean, were filled with
balloons and music—and there would be dancing later, Laura said as she took the tiny
Abby into her arms and whirled her out onto the patio. When she handed her back to
her father, Laura’s face was wet with tears.

“What is it about babies?” she asked, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

But they all knew what it was. It was about innocence and joy and a future.

It was about life.

Izzy hugged Laura close. “You’re amazing, you know. To do this after the sadness that
has been brought to your family.”

Laura shook her head. This was exactly what she should be doing. “Uncle Franklin is
going to be fine,” she said. “We’ve had some long talks, and even convinced him to
stay with us for a couple of nights. Remember what I said about realizing money isn’t
always the answer? I think he’s beginning to get it. Take a look.” She nodded toward
the stretch of lawn beyond the patio.

Franklin Danvers sat on an old-fashioned swing hanging from two giant maple trees.
And on either side of him was one of Laura’s young daughters. As Izzy watched, Gabby
Marietti approached the swing, her mass of hair haloed by the setting sun. She said
something that brought a smile to Franklin’s serious face, and then she squeezed in
beside them, the girls squealing a welcome.

“Babies and children have healing powers,” Laura said simply.

Every room in the Danvers home was filled with vases of bright summer flowers—roses
and cape daisies, pink and blue hydrangea blooms, tulips, and pansies from the garden.
Children ran freely and a crib was set up in the sunroom, should it be needed.

And on the patio, long tables groaned beneath platters of lobster rolls, calamari,
cheesy fries, and bright-colored salads.

Laura’s husband, Elliot, was everywhere, fixing drinks, greeting guests, and making
sure the platters remained full.

Esther Gibson strolled over to Nell, her eyes misty. “I love babies, you know. And
look what they grow up to be. Sweet grandbabies.”

They all laughed as she looked over at Tyler Gibson, twisting his legs into a crazy
kind of dance with Willow, Pete, and Merry Jackson, his hair flopping to the music.

Ben and Sam ushered them over to a table beneath a tree, where Danny and Cass had
filled plates for everyone with lobster rolls and cheesy fries.

Izzy settled down with Abby on her lap, her small, sweet body resting on the yellow
cable blanket that Nell had knitted over the months as she’d entertained dreams of
this baby, the baby girl who was now the center of their lives. Red sat at her side,
dreaming dreams for this child of grace. Simply a miracle, she thought.

Close by, Birdie chatted with Henrietta O’Neal and the man she now introduced as her
new gentleman friend. In a rare, uncharacteristic gesture, Martin Seltzer lifted Birdie’s
hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Then he turned and looked over at the tree—to
Cass, to Nell, to Izzy. To Franklin Danvers.

The nod of his head and a slight smile told them what was in his heart and on his
mind. And they all nodded back, ridiculously happy that this once-cranky man had been
given a new lease on life, for however long that might be. Beside him, watching, Henrietta
chuckled, and then she told him it was time to eat. He was as skinny as a rat’s tail,
she said.

Sam looked around. “My daughter—where is she?”

This time it was Lily who had whisked the baby away. She was standing alone on the
edge of the patio, holding the baby in her arms, humming to her. A song perhaps her
father or mother had once hummed to her. Their eyes seemed locked together. When Janie
and Tommy joined her, they looped their arms around each other, bound together by
an infant’s smile.

And then Sam was back, taking Abigail into his arms, not able to be away from his
daughter for long.

“Attention,” Laura said. Behind her Elliot and his girls happily pounded on an old
washtub with wooden spoons to hush the crowd.

“The sun is about to set,” Laura said, her practiced speaker’s voice reaching to the
ends of the yard. “It’s time to raise our glasses and toast the new baby who has come
into our lives. To Abigail Kathleen Perry—peace and love and happiness.”

Shouts of “Welcome” echoed throughout the yard as Sam stood proudly with his baby
girl in his arms.

“But wait, wait, a surprise,” Laura said. She stepped aside and pointed toward the
center of the patio, where Pete, Merry, and Andy had set up their equipment and were
testing the microphones. They bowed slightly to the applause.

“This is a gift to Abigail Kathleen from the Fractured Fish,” Pete said into the microphone.
Behind him, Merry trilled chords on her keyboard and Andy rolled the drums.

And then Gabby appeared out of nowhere, her black hair flying. She took the microphone
from Pete’s hand and lifted her head, her eyes on the baby in Sam Perry’s arms. And
in a full, rich voice that went clear up to an emerging moon, she belted out “Welcome
to the World,” filling the air with the lilting song.

Sam pulled Izzy from her chair and wrapped his other arm around her, with tiny Abby
cradled between them, her face turned up. Next to them, Red kept the beat, his tail
thumping on the grass.

Then they began to dance—the new family, twirling around.

And Gabby sang on:
“Welcome to the world / That will hold you tight.”

Her arms motioned for the others to join in—family and friends, old voices blending
with new, welcoming Abby into their lives. “Come dance. Rejoice,” her motions said.

“Love is all around you / And here to stay.”