The Wedding Shawl (36 page)

“Or to shoot them.”

Finally Nell brought up the necklace. She repeated her conversation with Laura. “I’ve been thinking about where she got it,” Nell said.

“Someone in college?”

“Maybe. But everyone has noticed how old and worn it is. We could barely read the letters.”

“So you’re thinking the person could have been older than that? Out of college?” Birdie frowned.

“Yes.”

The only sound in the room was the clock above the fireplace. In their minds, each of them was recasting the scenario.

“An older man. Why does that cast an uglier light on all this?” Izzy asked.

A question no one could answer.

“She seemed so protected. How would they have met?”

“That’s true—her world seemed small. As far as we know, she went to school, to Andy’s, and she played basketball,” Birdie said.

“We have these basketball photos,” Nell said, reminding herself. She took the envelope out of her purse and pulled out the photos Laura had collected. “Maybe they’ll tell us something. The fellows in the background are cheerleaders or assistant coaches.”

Cass looked at the top photo. “I recognize a couple of these guys. They would have been college age.”

Izzy squinted in an attempt to bring the faces into focus. “I wish it popped a little more. Some of these guys are fading into the background—especially those in the back row.”

“It looks like Harmony has something around her neck,” Izzy said. She squinted to bring the image into focus. “The necklace, do you think?”

They took turns looking, but the figures were too small.

They flipped through the others quickly. Photos of players running down the court, a blur of movement. Others of the girls sitting on the bench and some candid shots taken at a team picnic.

Nell slipped the photos back into the envelope. “I’ll see if Ben can blow these up. Maybe there’s someone in the background or something we’re missing. That will be my homework.”

“Speaking of homework—it’s been a long day,” Birdie said.

Nell agreed. “And it’s late.”

There were no objections, and the weary group stood and gathered their bags and knitting supplies. They barely spoke, moving back and forth in slow motion, used to the routine—pulling shades, checking windows, helping Izzy lock doors and turn out lights.

Harbor Road was peaceful when they finally made their way out the front door and across the street to their cars. “We’re the quiet end of Harbor Road,” Izzy said, nodding toward the sound of music coming from the pier. “That end never sleeps.”

They hugged one another good night and climbed into their cars.

From across the street, Purl watched the cars pull out of their parking places and drive on down the street. She circled the window, flicking her tail, then jumped directly onto a pile of cushy green cashmere, right next to the sand castle. Life was good.

Purl settled in—and she would have gone right to sleep, her evening at an end, except for the intriguing shadow that passed in front of the window.

It paused, big and dark, and peered through the window. Purl’s back curved, and she stared through the glass, as still as a statue. The figure nodded, as if acknowledging her presence, then slowly began to walk back and forth, a faint sound accompanying its movement. Swish. Swish. Once. Twice. Three times.

And then it was gone.

Quiet fell again, and Purl curled back into a ball, comfortable in the heavenly cloud of yarn. And in minutes—or maybe less—the only sound filling the glass display window was the soft purring of a sleeping cat.

Chapter 32

T
he call came early the next day from Mae Anderson. Her words were clipped and demanding. “Come down to the shop, Nell. And bring Ben.”

“Izzy?” Nell’s heart was in her throat.

“She’s fine. Everyone’s fine. That’s the good news. Just come.”

Ben had the engine running by the time Nell had grabbed her purse and climbed in beside him. In minutes they pulled up outside the shop. Tommy Porter and Chief Thompson stood on either side of Mae. She was fuming.

But the color in her angry face was no match for the jagged line of red paint sprayed from one corner of Izzy’s window to the other.

Tommy had a camera and took some shots, then slipped the camera back into his pocket.

Izzy and Sam pulled up next. Izzy was out of the car in an instant and stood in silence, staring at the window.

“What do you think, Jerry?” Ben said, standing next to the police chief.

“I think someone is desperate.”

“And dangerous,” Tommy added.

“Maybe,” Ben said. “But it’s a damn cowardly thing to do. Slashed tires, then spray-paint a window?”

“I’ve already called a window washer,” Mae said. “Got the fellow out of bed.”

“It’ll be okay,” Izzy said. “An easy fix. Thanks, Mae.”

“We can’t hide Mae’s nieces’ window display,” Nell said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Certainly not.” Izzy smiled. “Jillian and Rose did a beautiful job.”

Nell was amazed at the calmness in Izzy’s voice, but when she stepped closer and wrapped Izzy in her arms, she could feel a shiver pass through her.

“This was meant for all of us, Aunt Nell,” Izzy whispered. “Another warning.”

Nell nodded.

They gave Tommy the information that he needed, letting him know what time they’d closed up the night before. By the time he had finished his notes, the window washer had arrived with paintremoval equipment, and before they had even moved on inside, the river of red was reduced to a trickle.

“That will show the villain,” Mae said through clenched teeth. “He’ll get no satisfaction whatsoever from people seeing his handiwork. For all he knows if he walks down this street today, it never happened. It was all a bad nightmare. Maybe it’ll drive the fool crazy.”

But they all knew it wasn’t satisfaction the “fool” wanted; it was cessation. And there was no way that was going to happen. Not now.

When Ben and Nell arrived home a short while later, Birdie was in their kitchen.

“Harold dropped me off. I’ve put the coffee on.”

“Did Izzy call you?” Birdie’s sixth sense mystified Nell. Sometimes she seemed to know things before they happened.

“Esther called me. She took Mae’s call at the police station. I’m going to string this person up by his toes.”

“No harm was done, Birdie,” Ben said. He walked around the island and gave her a quick hug.

“Not to people, maybe. But think of Izzy’s window. And Purl sleeps in that display window, the poor thing.”

“If only she could talk,” Nell said. “Whoever did this must have been waiting for us to leave last night.”

“Somehow, doing something to the knitting shop is doing something to all of us, and I think that was intended. Just like slashing your tires. We were all going to be in that car. We were all in the shop last night.”

“He knows entirely too much about you,” Ben said. “That
is
dangerous.”

Nell had watched the worry lines deepen in Ben’s forehead as he talked to Jerry Thompson. But strangely, both men seemed to be calmed down by the vandalism, almost as if, as Ben had said, it made the man seem more cowardly than anything else. She had overheard the chief say something to Tommy to that effect, too—that if the guy wanted to, he could have seriously hurt someone. Even the tire slashing could have been worse—something done to the brakes or steering column, for example, that would actually have hurt the women riding in the car. But these were cowardly scare tactics, not the kind of maliciousness they could have been.

“Did it point to a teenager maybe?” Tommy had asked. But the question had gone unanswered.

What Tommy’s question did do was remind Nell of the photos of teenage basketball players that were still in her purse. While Birdie put in some toast, Nell found her purse and pulled them out again.

Ben cleared off the island, and Nell spread them out one after another. Ben stood next to her, looking closely. “Can’t wait to talk to Dave Harrison about his exposure settings,” he said wryly.

“It was fifteen years ago,” Nell retorted. “Besides, Dave was a great dad to Laura, sitting through all those games and taking pictures on top of it.”

“The community center didn’t have much support back then. I guess Dave stepped in as photographer so they didn’t have to pay someone to take an official team photo.”

A sudden thought flitted through Nell’s head. “Ben, will you be seeing him anytime soon?”

“Him?” he said absently, picking up one of the photographs and looking at it more closely.

“Dave Harrison. Laura Danvers’ dad.”

Ben set the photo down. “I see him all the time. We joke about who joined which committee first; the curse of retirement, Dave calls it.”

“Then there’s something I think you should ask him. I think this basketball team might be important. It’s the one thing Harmony seemed to enjoy. Something beyond school, beyond home.”

“And beyond Andy Risso,” Birdie added.

“Exactly. I think there’s something here that we’re not seeing. Laura said her dad never missed a game. Maybe he saw something that Laura didn’t notice. The kind of thing you see from the stands, but maybe not when you’re sitting on the bench or running down the court.”

Ben chewed on that for a moment, then agreed to do it. In fact, he was seeing Dave later in the day at the yacht club. Maybe there’d be time to talk.

Both Nell and Birdie could see exactly what was going on in Ben’s head. The more involved he was with this, the closer watch he could keep on them. Involvement created a protective cloak.

Birdie buttered a piece of toast and slathered it with peach jam. She took a bite, her eyes on Nell.

Nell was still staring at the photographs, her coffee growing cold at her side. Something in the photos was important. But what?

Ben was watching her, too. “Let me scan those into the computer for you before I leave. You can play around with them and maybe see something you don’t see now. I’ll leave the computer on when I leave.”

“Perfect.” Nell thanked him, then asked Birdie how they’d go about getting more information on the Markham Quarry. Dates, ownership, that sort of thing.

“I’m ahead of you on this one, Nell. I’m ready when you are. That’s why I’m here.”

Some of the quarry history Birdie remembered herself. Stories about the eccentric Penelope Markham abounded. A Boston Brahmin spinster, she’d inherited the quarry from her father. For some reason, she liked to visit it at odd times, even though the cabin, built years before, had no plumbing or electricity. In her later years, she came less often, but one was never sure when she’d show up. Birdie couldn’t remember when the property was sold to the county or when Penelope died, though she didn’t think it was that long ago. In any case, it’d be easy to find out.

The Registrar of Deeds office was in the City Offices Building. Beatrice Scaglia’s husband, Sal, had been the registrar for years and greeted the two women warmly.

“It’s been a while,” he said. “What can I do for you? Please, have a seat.” Sal was clearly pleased with the interruption to his day. He was alone in the room with a hefty pile of papers on his desk, but otherwise his only company was still, dusty air. To either side of his desk were filing cabinets and, back against the wall, a row of empty desks, each with a computer, a small pad of paper, and a pen. “It’s a slow day.” He laughed.

They exchanged niceties, talked briefly about Izzy and Sam’s upcoming wedding, and then the women got down to business.

“The Markham Quarry,” Birdie said. “We’re doing a little research and wondered what kind of deeds you might have on it.”

“Well, all of them, Birdie. There’s not a plot of land around here that we can’t trace. Well, except for the Markham Quarry, because it doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean?” Birdie scooted forward on the straightbacked chair. She frowned at him.

Sal laughed at his own attempt at a joke. “What I mean is, it’s not the Markham Quarry anymore. In fact, it really doesn’t have a name, which may be why everyone still calls it that. In our records it’s identified by a number.”

“Of course,” Nell said patiently. “We should have realized that, Sal.”

“That’s the place where that young girl died, you know. It was a while ago, almost fifteen years. Awful thing.” Sal put on his glasses and tapped some keys on his computer. He looked around the screen. “Yep, you’ll find everything you need. He scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper and shoved it across his desk. “Here’s the plot number. Help yourself to a computer and let me know if you need anything else.”

They pulled over an extra chair and settled in behind the screen. Nell brought up a history of the land, and they read it together, silently, scanning down the rows of type. It was an interesting story. The granite quarry had been an active one for almost fifty years, passing from two Finnish families to the Markham family. Penelope Markham’s father, a widower, was killed in a quarry accident while visiting the site, and his only daughter inherited it, eventually closing it down when the granite industry began to diminish.

Nell then brought up the numerous legal deeds that passed the property from one hand to another.

“It looks like the deed went into her estate in the late nineties. That must be when she died.”

“Hmm. So all those scared kids were afraid of a ghost with a shotgun,” Birdie said.

“Reputations live on.”

“Did it go to the county from her estate?”

Nell pulled up another file. “No. The county bought it a few years later.”

She pulled up a final file and quickly read through the legalese, then read more slowly. Suddenly she stopped. With her finger she underlined a single sentence on the screen.

Birdie followed the movement of her finger, reading word by word. Penelope Markham had willed the land to a single relative.

She took in a deep breath, then slowly expelled it.

Nell sighed. “It could mean nothing,” she said.

They both read it one more time, then jotted down a few notes and closed out of the file. And they knew it meant more than nothing.