Luanne Rice (17 page)

“And then even longer to actually embroider the fabric.
And then
put the pillows together,” Marlena said.

Marisa’s
eyes filled up. She saw Jessica clutching her big sack of sticky pine needles,
her fingers black with tar. Marisa foresaw hours of diligent embroidery ahead
for her darling daughter. Jessica stood perfectly straight, undeterred by
Marlena and Cindy’s reservations. Her love for Rose was too strong for that.
Suddenly Marisa had a memory—after Paul died, she had opened his closet,
looking for something—she couldn’t even
remember
what.

She’d seen
a bulge in the center of his suits. And there, down below, were Jessica’s thin
legs. She was just standing there among her father’s suits. She’d loved her
father so much, and that was the only way she could think to be with him.
Marisa knew that the pillow project was very much like that—a way to stay close
to Rose.

“I’ll help
her learn,” Marisa said.

“Thank you,
Mom,” Jessica said.

“So will
I
,” Marlena said. “In fact, I give needlework lessons at the
high school. I’ll teach you for free, sweetheart.”

“I’ll go
you one better,” Cindy said. “I’ll embroider the pillows myself! And I bet the
other Nanouks will too. I’ll call Anne and Doreen, you call Suzanne and
Alison.”

“Fine, and
in that case, maybe Jessica and I can concentrate on making the pillow
squares—cutting them out, sewing them together.”

“And stuffing them with pine needles when they’re done!”
Jessica
said. “And, of course, selling them—”

“I’ll bet
Anne will let us put some up at the inn’s gift shop.”

“We’ll have
to get them by Camille.”

“Who’s
Camille?” Marisa asked.

“Oooh,
Camille Neill,” Cindy said. “She’s the matriarch of the family.
Mother, grandmother, great-grandmother of four generations of
Neills.
Think Catherine the Great meets the Wicked Witch of the West,
with a soupçon of Lauren Bacall in the Fancy Feast commercials. She is the
official owner of the inn and the whale boats.”

“Imposing,”
Marisa said.

“Yes. And
she’s none too crazy about Lily.”

“How could
someone not be crazy about Lily?” Marisa asked.

“Well, it
dates back to the year she first got here. And it has something to do with
Liam.”

“Captain
Hook?” Jessica asked.

“The kids
call him that, but he’s really very dear. He’s down in Melbourne with Lily and
Rose right now.”

“Really?”
Marisa asked. “Are they—
”

“An item?
No one really knows,” Cindy said. “There has
been much speculation. Normally they act as if they can’t stand the sight of
each other.”

“But
whenever Rose has a problem, Liam is right there to help,” Marlena said.

“We’re
gossiping,” Cindy said. “It’s beneath us, as Nanouk Girls.”

“It’s not
gossip,” Marlena scoffed. “It’s concern. We love Lily and want her to be
happy.”

“With Liam Neill?”
Marisa asked.

“I think
we’ve said enough,” Cindy said somberly. “Let’s get cracking on the pillows.
Unbleached muslin or canvas, Jessica?
This is your project.
We’re just your assistants.”

“I just
hope the Fancy Feast lady lets us sell them at the inn and on the boats,”
Jessica said.

“Now is a
time for prayer,” Marlena said. “Because that’s what it will take to soften the
heart of Camille Neill.”

Chapter 16

T
aking Exit 90 off I-95, Patrick Murphy turned
into the most crowded parking lot he’d ever seen. There were cars from every
state, tour buses, motor homes, and not a parking spot to be found within
walking distance of the Mystic Aquarium. He finally parked on the other side of
the little shopping village, after beating a lady in a minivan out for the
spot.

Ten minutes
later, he was standing in line with a hundred other people, waiting to get in.
Sandwiched between a family of five from Hartford and a honeymooning couple
from Philadelphia, he eavesdropped to pass the time. Solving crimes was still
his favorite pastime, and he liked to figure out as much as he could about
every person he encountered, without them knowing he was listening.

After a few
minutes, the mom of five had to take the youngest to the bathroom, and the dad
of five took the opportunity to whip out his cell phone and call someone he
addressed as “sweet baby.” Behind him, he heard the young husband tell his new
bride that the stocks her father had given them for a wedding present had gone
up the night before, and he thought they should consider buying instead of
renting their house.

Both instances
affirmed his long-held belief that the only thing necessary to good police work
was a deep curiosity about human nature and behavior. But then he got inside
the aquarium—the super-cool air-conditioning very welcome after standing in the
blistering heat—and was faced with the humbling reason for his mission here.

He asked
directions to the membership office, thinking that over nine years later, he
was still hot on the trail of the coldest case he’d ever had. All that deep
curiosity about human nature had gotten him exactly nothing when it came to
finding out what had happened to Mara Jameson. He might as well just spend the
rest of his life praying Hail Marys for a big fat clue to drop right in his
lap.

Throngs of
kids were racing around, giving him a headache. It was a beautiful sunny day
outside. What were kids doing in here? When he was young, his parents would
have handed him a bat and a ball, or a fishing rod, and told him to go out in
the sunshine and not to come back till dinnertime. But as he followed the
crowd, he found himself being mesmerized by the glowing tanks, the schools of
fish, the eel weaving in and out of its green reef—he began to relax.

Patrick
spoke the language of fish. He looked at these and thought of how great it
would be to be in a boat on the open water, with all these fish swimming below.
Sandra had never understood that. She had thought fishing was nothing more than
sitting on deck with a beer and a pole. She hadn’t understood that it was
clouds in the sky, the water changing colors, schools of fish breaking the
surface. It was one big mystery, but a beautiful mystery—not like the kinds
that tore at Patrick’s heart every day.

Not like
Mara Jameson.

So the
aquarium tanks gave him some insight into what went on below the surface, and
when he’d had enough, he drifted out into the corridor, looking for the
administrative offices. A receptionist asked if she could help him, and he said
he hoped so, he needed to see someone in membership. A few minutes later, a
pretty blond woman came out.

“Hello, I’m
Viola de la Penne,” she said. “I’m associate director of membership.”

“Hi,” he
said. “I’m Patrick Murphy.” He paused. This was where he wanted to whip out his
old badge and show her that he was official. Instead, he said, “I’m a retired
state police detective.”

“Oh, and
with all your free time you want to join the aquarium—or maybe even volunteer!”
she said. The twinkle in her blue eyes let him think she was kidding. At least,
he hoped so. He seriously hoped he looked too tough and seasoned to be giving
seal tours to the kiddies.

“If only
there was time for such things,” he said, cracking a three-cornered smile.

“You mean,
crimes still need to be solved, speeders still need to be stopped, stuff like
that?”

“You got
it, ma’am,” he said.

“I’m only
forty-two,” she said. “Does that put me in the ‘ma’am’ category?”

“To retired
cops, I’m afraid so.”

“Hmm.
That’s a sobering thought. What can I do for
you, Retired Officer Murphy?”

He grinned
at her giving it back to him.

“I am here
about a membership,” he said. “You’re right about that. Only, it’s not for me.
It was a gift to a friend of mine.”

“What’s the
name?”

“Maeve
Jameson.”

“Was there
a problem with the category of membership? Would she like to upgrade?”

“There’s no
problem. It’s just that it was anonymous. Whoever gave it to her wanted to keep
it
secret.
I was wondering whether you could help me
figure it out. Maeve really wants to say thank you. That’s just how she is.”

“I can
understand that. I obviously have to balance the wishes of the donor, but I
don’t think there’s any harm in taking a look.”

Patrick
followed her into her office, which was filled with family photographs—a man on
the deck of a sailboat, and a beautiful dark-haired daughter. Viola sat at her
computer, looking through files. Patrick tried to lean around, to see her
screen, but he couldn’t do it discreetly enough, so he quit trying.

“Ah, here
we go,” Viola said.

“Do you
have a name?”

“Actually I
don’t, which makes it easier for me to say no to you. There’s a note here
saying that the gift was to be completely anonymous—just as you said.”

“There must
be some record of who made the gift, right?
Even if you can’t
tell me?”

Viola shook
her head, peering at the screen. “No. All I have is a note to
myself
, that the giver wanted to be sure we still had beluga
whales here. Somehow that was important—I don’t suppose there’s any harm in
telling you that.”

“Beluga?
Isn’t that caviar?”

“Retired
Detective, it’s also a type of whale, one of the few that can live in
captivity. We’ve had beluga whales here at the acquarium for many, many years.
People who are adults now still remember the thrill of seeing a whale for the
first time—right here in our tanks. There’s a show, starring Snowblind and
Snowflake, beginning in just about fifteen minutes. Perhaps you’d like to go
… .”

“Snowblind and Snowflake?”

“Yes.
Belugas are white whales.”

“Huh.”

Patrick
considered. Maybe Maeve loved whales, loved belugas in particular. Or maybe she
had taken Mara to watch whales when she was little. Or maybe one of her
ex-students wanted to give her a gift. Or maybe it was just a mistake, the gift
had been from her insurance agent or greengrocer or freaking car repairman.

“How’d the
person pay? Got a credit card number on file?”

“The payment
was in cash. I have a note to
myself, that
the
exchange rate was a little off. The payment was over—too much—once I calculated
the rate.”

“What
rate?”

“The
exchange rate—Canadian to U.S.,” Viola said. “The currency was Canadian.”

“Did you
save the envelope?”

Viola shook
her head, smiling. “Sorry. I didn’t know we were going to be investigated for
processing a gift.”

Patrick
smiled back. He thought for a minute she was flirting with him. But she had on
a wedding ring, and there were those family pictures everywhere. He was so out
of practice, he didn’t know the difference between friendly banter and
flirting. As Sandra had told him often enough, he was hopeless—in many areas.

“Look,”
Viola said. “Just to make it up to you, I’m going to
comp
you for the dolphin show.”

“Dolphins?”

“Well,
Snowflake and Snowblind make an appearance. That way, you can see the belugas
for yourself, and hopefully report back to Mrs. Jameson that they’re worth
coming to see.”

Patrick
thanked her, shook her hand, and accepted the ticket. Who had sent Maeve the
membership, and what did beluga whales have to do with anything?

He made his
way up to the marine theater and took his seat among a crowd of people from
Brooklyn. They were part of a bus tour, and by listening to the women beside
him, he realized that the tour included the Seaport, the aquarium, and dinner
and a show at the casino. One woman was divorced, and the other was a widow.
The widow was saying her grandchildren loved dolphin shows.

Patrick
squinted at the pool. He thought of Maeve, how much she missed her
granddaughter, how she had never known the great-grandchild Mara had been
carrying. What was he even doing here? Most of the time, he was 95 percent sure
that Edward Hunter had killed her, that he had hidden her body where it would
never be found. But that other 5 percent was powerful enough to send Patrick
following crazy leads, even to the marine theater.

Some marine
biologist took his place up on a platform and began his spiel about bottlenose
dolphins and Atlantic dolphins, and then some dolphins—Patrick didn’t really
notice which kind—came out and began leaping into the air like circus animals
doing tricks.
Blowing the horn, catching the rings, bumping
the beach ball.

He
remembered going to Sea World with Sandra. She had worn white shorts and a blue
halter, and she’d had
a sunburn
. Patrick had spread
sunscreen on her shoulders and wanted to forget about the dolphin show and go
back to the hotel. Now, he forced himself to stay in the moment. Sugar, one of
the dolphins, landed with a huge splash, and half the audience got soaked.

Then the
dolphins went away, and the ringmaster guy made his voice very serious. Patrick
thought it was sad that he was a scientist who spent his time making dolphins
do tricks. It made Patrick feel depressed somehow. And then the water’s surface
broke, and this big white creature stuck its head up.

Patrick was
shocked—it was huge. A whale, a real whale, right here in a tank in Mystic,
Connecticut. “This is Snowflake, our oldest beluga whale,” the ringmaster said.
“Her sister, Snowblind, is on vacation today, and won’t be performing. The
sisters come from northern waters, up in Maritime Canada, and we …”

Some kids
in the crowd sounded disappointed. Patrick found himself standing up, pushing
past the women from Brooklyn,
casting
one last look
back at the white whale. Her eyes looked bright and solemn. Patrick felt them
following him out the door, watching him go. It was the oddest sensation, being
watched by a whale.

The scientist
had said the belugas came from Canada. Viola had said the membership money came
from Canada. Patrick wondered—was there anything Canadian in Mara Jameson’s
file? He had to get back to the boat to dig up his old notes and find out.

Maeve
wasn’t feeling very well. The
heat had closed in on Hubbard’s
Point, making everything—including the roses and her—wilt
. She was
standing in the backyard, filling the yellow watering can from the hose, when
she heard a car door close. It was probably Clara’s son stopping by with his
kids to take a swim, she thought. She leaned against the weathered shingle
house, splashing her feet with the hose.

The spigot
was attached to a corner of the house, right next to a small cement circle.
Mara had always loved to create pictures out of odd materials: she would sew
little quilts, make small pillows,
embroider
wall
hangings, needlepoint bookmarks. But this was really her pride and joy: Maeve
had helped her mix up cement, they had poured it into a one-foot-diameter
circle, and Mara had pressed shells, sea glass, and a large sand dollar into
the wet concrete. It was still beautiful.

“Hello,
Maeve,”
came
the low, familiar voice that she had
heard only on the phone these last many years.

Maeve
jumped. It was Edward—holding a small glossy blue bag. She saw that he was
still tall, broad-shouldered,
confident
. He wore a
white shirt over pressed khakis. No belt, no socks.
Polished
brown loafers.
Rolex watch—the same one Mara had bought him with some of
her inheritance. The sight of that watch made her stomach turn, and she had to
literally hold on to the side of the house. She raised her eyes to his—they
were the same, cold black fire. Icy yet scorching at the same time—the
damnedest eyes she’d ever seen. And dark hair combed back, and a tan—a golf
tan, or maybe this year it was a tennis tan, or maybe he’d bought a yacht and
now it was a yachting tan.