Chapter 15
It was late Friday night when they finally went their separate ways.
Ben had called Tommy at the station and invited him to drop by after his shift. He mentioned the double chocolate brownies—but also said Janie was there. She’d had a long night. His company would be welcome.
Tommy showed up soon after and stayed close to Janie’s side, mostly listening while she filled him in.
When she finished, Birdie looked at her long face and gave her a hug. “So much sadness isn’t productive, dear.” And then she told Janie about the donation Justin had made to Father Larry’s underprivileged children fund. “He wasn’t all bad, you see. You taught him some things, Janie.”
“I knew kids like Justin when Ham and I lived in Berkeley in the early seventies,” Jane Brewster said. “Those were different times, but stealing didn’t seem so bad to runaway kids—and we met plenty of them. They had their own way of thinking: the store would always have more wallets and more knives. Rich people had more jewelry. Who would care? And if some of that money went to help someone who needed it, even better. And often it did. Like Ben said, there was an element of Robin Hood about it all—redistributing the goods to make the world a more equal place.”
Birdie smiled at Janie. “We think Justin may have been playing Robin Hood.”
For the first time that night, they saw the shadow of a smile on Janie’s pale face.
The condition of the necklace was interesting, Tommy said. Justin had probably removed the gems because they’d be easier to sell. Certainly less recognizable than the distinctive necklace from which they came.
“And he didn’t know it was Birdie’s,” Janie reminded them again. “None of us did.”
Even Tommy agreed he’d probably not have done it if he knew whose necklace it was. And for Janie’s sake he held back the words they all knew were trying to get out: But it was still wrong.
“And who knows what he planned to do with the money he’d get for the jewels?” Ben reminded them. “Buy something for Janie? A Boys’ Club contribution? Put it in Father Northcutt’s collection basket?”
The more they peeled away the layers of Justin Dorsey’s personality, the more of an enigma he became.
Janie pointed to the scribble on the envelope. It was Birdie’s phone number. “He asked me about the necklace recently,” she said. “He wondered if it had been found.” She winced when she repeated his words, the lies still a fresh affront. “I told him it was Birdie’s jewelry and she had decided to simply let it all be, not report it.
“At the time, I thought his reaction was kind of strange,” Janie went on, her eyes on Birdie’s face. “He was shocked that it was yours. And seemed very bothered by it. He liked you. He said you were one of the wisest women he’d ever met, and then he asked me to get him your phone number.” Tommy brought her a glass of water, and she went on.
“So now I suppose I get it. As wrongheaded as his thinking was, Justin didn’t steal from friends or people he liked. Stealing from anonymous sources, like a store or an auction that had anonymous donations, was apparently okay, but not from real people, especially ones he knew I loved. So he was going to meet with you and make amends. He shoved the necklace in my glove compartment so he could take it to you Sunday after his dive. But . . . he never got that chance.” Her voice was filled with such sadness that they looked away and began bringing in the dishes, leaving Janie to her moment of grief.
They looked at the necklace again, and thought of his other small thefts—books, a few small items from stores that Janie had found in his belongings, some wallets, fancy knives, scuba gear. But none of them could imagine anyone killing him for those things—and certainly not for an ornate necklace that its owner was happy to be rid of.
After Tommy finished off the pan of brownies, he and Janie left, promising to be in touch. Soon the crowd had dwindled to a few.
Ben scooped up the necklace pieces Janie had left, tossed the envelope on the kitchen island, and found a studier container for it. “There’s always next year’s auction,” he teased Birdie, then suggested Danny and Sam to join him on the deck for a glass of his prized Macallan.
Nell turned on the dishwasher and began washing wineglasses.
“I’m feeling discombobulated,” Cass said, picking up a towel. “My mom always used that word when the universe felt off-kilter.”
Izzy sat down at the island, her feet slightly swollen. Her face was drawn. “I think there’s more to all this, and it frightens me. Things are definitely off-kilter.”
“Yes, there’s more to this than finding out there was a side to Justin we didn’t know about. There’s his killer, someone who’s still out there somewhere, someone who took a life,” Birdie said. “And it’s thrown us all off. Izzy, your sixth sense, or seventh, or whatever it is, was on target. Something is not right in the universe.”
Izzy’s hands moved to the shape that now defined her. “I just ache for Janie. She’s a brave gal—but she’s a mess right now. She took Justin into her life. And now—now it’s all shattered.”
“You’re right,” Nell said. She wiped off the island, moving the empty jewelry envelope and several napkins to the side counter. “She’s strong, but she’ll need all her friends.”
“And a break from being questioned by the police. I don’t care if they’re doing their job or not,” Cass said. “That’s enough to break anyone. She’s grieving for the guy, and at the same time she’s furious with him, and then there’s suspicion that she wanted him dead. That’s heavy stuff.”
There was unspoken agreement, and then Birdie spoke again. “We all agree things are off-kilter—and that poor girl can’t begin to put her life together until the person who did this is found. There’s no room in any of our lives for the kind of fear that’s created this black cloud over Sea Harbor. And it’s certainly not the town we want to bring Izzy and Sam’s baby into.”
For a moment the only sounds in the kitchen were the wind, the dishwasher, and the comforting, familiar voices floating in from the deck.
Off-kilter.
Not the kind of world to bring a baby into.
Birdie was the first to speak. “I’m tired, dear ones. But tomorrow I will be bright and chipper, ready to continue this conversation and to knit an entire arm onto the beautiful romper I am knitting for baby Perry. Last night’s knitting session barely counted, and that baby will be wearing jeans and T-shirts before Nell finishes her blanket if we don’t get to it. We need time to knit . . . and we need time to think. Time to breathe fresh air.”
Nell peeled off her gloves and turned around. “Birdie, as usual, is absolutely right.”
“I’m in. Tomorrow?” Cass said.
“Yes, tomorrow,” Birdie said. “On my veranda. Bring your knitting.”
Of course, they all agreed.
Another agreement was made, too, this one in that silent way of old friendships. An agreement confirmed with a look and a nod of the head; as their needles worked magic and soft yarn turned into tiny baby garments, their minds would be working, too—and not on creating new patterns or figuring out a difficult entrelac pattern.
Their minds would be focused on figuring out a murder.