Chapter 17
Ella’s announcement brought with it a scurrying of bodies, as if the chief of the Sea Harbor police was about to catch the women at something nefarious. What they felt, they admitted later, was guilt. They were, after all, trying to do his job.
But by the time Jerry walked through the doors, they were calm and collected, with yarn scattered everywhere and needles clicking.
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” he said, forking his fingers through his graying hair. “I was on my way home and had to pass right by here. I should have called first, I know, but Ben thought it’d be okay to just drop by.”
“Ben?” Nell frowned. Ben and Sam went out early that morning, something to do with the sailing class they were going to teach later in the summer. “Checking locations,” Ben had told her.
“He and Sam came down to the station this morning.” Jerry nodded at Izzy. “That’s how I knew you’d all be over here at Birdie’s fine place.” He looked around the veranda and back at the house, and shook his head. “Birdie, this is an amazing place you have here. Beautiful. Sonny Favazza must have loved his lady exceedingly to build so grand a place for her.”
Everyone in Sea Harbor knew the story of Sonny and Birdie’s romance and the home he built for her. When the young Sonny swept Birdie off her feet all those years ago, he used the family land high on the hill as the place to begin their life together.
“Thank you, Jerry. Coffee and a lemon bar?” She handed him the plate.
When Jerry was finally settled with the plate balanced on his knees and a cup of Ella’s strong coffee beside him, he launched into the reason he’d come.
“It’s the Dorsey murder,” he began. And for the next twenty minutes, while the knitters sat uncharacteristically quiet, he gave them a report of all the hours and work that had already gone into finding Justin’s killer.
The list of folks interviewed was a long one. And the list of alibis short, but that was understandable. “The equipment had been checked Saturday morning. Gus and Andy dropped it off in the storage shed Saturday night around dinnertime. They locked it up and left. So that leaves the gear unattended in Gus’ store that day—and during the night when it was locked in the shed.”
Nell frowned. “So you’re not sure when it was tampered with?”
“Although we haven’t made it public, we think it was at night.” He looked around, then went on. “That left lots of time for some- one to go down and fiddle with the dive tanks before the early-morning dive. Most people were asleep for some of those hours. But we’re looking at it from all angles. And we have our arms around it pretty tight. We will find the guy who did this. That’s a promise.”
“Jerry, why are you telling us this?” Nell asked. The fact that he’d been with Ben was not a good sign. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Jerry took the last bite of his lemon bar and declared it the best he’d ever had. Then he said, “It’s not confidential, what I’ve told you. You’ll read it in the paper. People want to know what’s going on. They have a right to that.
“And yes, you’re right. There’s more. But before we get into that, I’m here because you’ve got people caring about you who think you may be wading off into waters that aren’t yours to wade in. This is murder. It’s serious business—we try to calm people down in the reports that get printed, but it can be dangerous, and I wanted to tell you that myself because . . . well, because I know each one of you. And I know you want this to all be over as much as I do and . . . well, and sometimes you think you can speed it up a little.”
He wiped his brow and looked at each of them. “You can’t.”
Nell watched the frustration on his face. Poor Jerry. He was doing Ben and Sam a favor, figuring a warning coming from him would bear more weight. She smiled at him and hoped it held a thank-you. Then she said, “You said there was more?”
“Yes. You’ll read about this, too.” He paused for longer than was comfortable, and Birdie finally cleared her throat, urging the police chief to speak.
“You all know old Horace Stevenson?”
“Of course,” Birdie said. “He’s older than I am. We oldies stick together.”
“Yes, well, you know he lives down there on Paley’s Cove. A small house, you’ve all seen it from the beach.”
They nodded. Everyone knew Horace. They all knew Red, too, and were strangely comforted that he and Horace had each other. The dog had even been known to pull a young child out of a strong current one summer. Nell thought of her conversation with him the day before—and his anger over a murder in Paley’s Cove. She wondered if that was what the chief was going to talk to them about. Perhaps Horace knew more than he had said yesterday
Izzy spoke up. “Horace and I are friends, and Sam, too.” She thought about Sam helping the old man, fixing a broken step. “We share a love of the cove, I guess. He told me that he used to walk that beach with his wife every single day, rain or snow or shine, and after he buried her at sea, he just kept doing it, and the sand became his mandala.”
Jerry looked at her. “What’s that?”
“A mandala—like the Tibetan monks build out of colored sand—intricate geometric patterns. When they’re all finished, they collect the sand and pour it into a river, sending it on its way to the ocean. Horace said it represents the transitory nature of life. He and Red create designs in the sand with their footprints—a mandala in his wife Ruth’s memory. And then the tide comes in and takes it away, out to the world—out to his Ruth, he says.”
They were silent for a few minutes, thinking about the old man and his dog. And of his wife, honored every day by Horace and Red.
“I knew the old man loved that cove and the beach. It was almost sacred to him. Now I know why,” Jerry said.
“You’re talking about him as if he’s not there anymore,” Nell said.
Jerry coughed once, then said, “Horace died last night—or early this morning. We’re not sure exactly when. Right outside his house, sitting on the porch in that old rocking chair.”
Izzy’s face fell.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Nell said. She looked over at Izzy.
Jerry followed her look. “Actually, Sam and Ben were the ones who found him.” He looked up, his bushy eyebrows lifting, as if that explained everything. “They noticed Red running in circles along the beach, howling something awful. They were looking for a good place to teach the Boys’ Club lifesaving class or some such thing—but I suppose you know that.”
Izzy and Nell nodded. Every summer Ben and Sam taught sailing to underprivileged kids. Lifesaving was the first step, and they needed just the right beach.
“Was it a heart attack?” Birdie asked. “Perhaps he just drifted off. That would be a lovely way to go—sitting on his porch, his faithful dog at his side. We should all be so fortunate.”
“We don’t know yet how he died. It may have been a heart attack. But a strange thing happened when the emergency medical fellows moved him—a key fell out of his pocket. We thought it was his house key at first, though everyone knew Harold never locked that place up, not ever.
“Then Sam thought he recognized it. It looked like the key Andy Risso used to lock up that supply shed where they’d stored the dive equipment that night.”
“And?” Cass asked.
“Yeah.” Jerry shook his head. “And that’s exactly what it was. The key fit.”