Chapter 31
It had been planned for weeks and weeks. But somehow Izzy’s shower had snuck up on them, a wonderful ray of light in the middle of too many dreary days. Nell was concerned early on that it was planned too close to Izzy’s due date, but Izzy assured her it was perfect timing. Something to look forward to and keep her eyes off the calendar.
Nell removed the bag of gifts from the back of her car. “Canary Cove is anchoring our day,” she said, locking the car door.
“And in a lovely way,” Birdie said. “Gabby is so excited about this shower you would think she had engineered it all herself.”
They walked away from the parking lot and through the community garden, already redolent with spinach and lettuce, new potatoes and herbs.
Beyond the garden, the sea-worn galleries that housed the Canary Cove artists were lit up like New Year’s Eve. The shops were open and busy, a favorite haunt for tourists on Saturday nights. Music, drinks, food, and marvelous art.
And tonight, for those eagerly awaiting the birth of baby Perry, there’d be a special event—a shower in Willow Adams’ Fishtail Gallery and garden.
“Willow promised it would be a small group, just close friends,” Nell said.
Birdie’s laughter tinkled like the bells above the gallery doors. “Shall we lay a bet on that? I can’t imagine narrowing Izzy’s friends down to a few.”
Nell laughed. “Then I’m glad we decided to wait until the baby is here to give Izzy our knitted treasures. The children’s book shower is a great idea, but it will be nice to have our own moment with the baby.”
All along Canary Cove Road, people moved in and out of the open doors of the galleries. In the far distance, from the Artist’s Palate deck, guitars played and drums kept up the beat. People laughed and talked and carried bags with the gallery’s name silk-screened on the sides.
They spotted Izzy and Cass standing just below Willow’s gallery sign—a carved fish hung from two brass chains. Its tail was painted in brilliant colors and the words THE FISHTAIL GALLERY were carved into the body.
Izzy’s cheeks were pink, her eyes bright.
“Good day?” Nell asked, hugging her niece.
Izzy nodded, knowing exactly what her aunt was asking. “Nothing happening. But soon. I feel it. I think the clouds are about to lift.”
“I feel that way, too, Izzy. I do,” Birdie said. “We’re almost ready to welcome this sweet baby into our world. The pieces are finally falling into place.”
Although it wasn’t the right time to pursue their morning discussion, they knew that they were sharing the same ideas. Knitting had done that to them—allowed them entry into each other’s thoughts, even when they didn’t say the words out loud. The stitches would come together, the yarn would remain taut, and by the time they were ready to bind off, the whole pattern—complicated as it might have been—would make startling sense.
Even if they needed to do a bit of frogging along the way.
Inside the gallery, the crowd was upbeat and chatty, and the foursome worked their way through to the back, where a small private lounge and garden beyond was reserved for the baby shower.
Gabby spotted them and rushed over. “You’re here!” she said, her eyes bright. She hugged Izzy tightly.
Willow came up behind her. “I’m so glad to see you. A tiny fear floated around me all day that maybe you’d decide to have a baby tonight instead.”
“And miss this party?” Izzy said, hugging her. “Never.”
They followed Willow through to a cozy lounge in the back that Willow used to talk with new artists and plan exhibits. The room was already milling with friends and family, and in the center stood a nearly life-sized wooden giraffe, uniquely designed and carved years before by Willow’s deceased father. Today it was surrounded by colorful books in all sizes and shapes. And all along the walls, on the arms of chairs, and in open spaces between the guests were papier-mâché figures, painted in brilliant colors, representing characters from the books: Ferdinand the Bull, the Cat in the Hat, Paddington Bear, and Winnie the Pooh.
It was magnificent, childhood come alive.
“For baby Perry,” Willow said. “As you can see—” She looked over at a group of wild things, grinning in all their glory, with Max in the center. “The Canary Cove artists have been busy.”
Izzy’s hands went to her mouth. Tears stung her eyes. The giraffe was an heirloom, she knew, a cherished one, and the sentiment behind the gift was enormous. Not only would her baby have a giraffe to look over him or her, but a parade of her favorite childhood friends to keep him from ever—ever—being alone during a lonely night.
She hugged Willow tightly, then moved on to greet more friends as they walked in amazement among baby Perry’s new nursery friends.
“Now outside with you,” Jane Brewster announced. “Gracie’s lobster rolls, Kevin’s cucumber cups, calamari, and drinks. Come.” She took Izzy by the hand and led her out the lounge door and down the flagstone path to the secret haven that Willow’s dad had created years before. The secluded garden was located between the gallery and Aidan’s home, where Willow now lived. It was tucked away in the middle of wild roses and sea grass, nearly hidden from view except for the low garden lights along the pathway. Tiny sea urchins and mermaids, carved from wood or fired in an oven, were hidden in the grasses or hanging from small magnolia trees along the curved pathways.
The garden was crowded, as Birdie predicted. She looked at Nell knowingly. No one wanted anyone to feel left out, Willow whispered to their backs. “I guess it got a little crazy.”
They assured her it would be fine with Izzy. She’d be going home with a whole library of books and treasures, all from people who loved this new baby even before he or she arrived.
“But crowded as it may be,” Willow said, “I promised Izzy it would be short—no late nights for this mama.”
Izzy turned around, having caught the last words, and mouthed a thank-you over the tops of several heads. She headed for a stone bench and a small table that held a pitcher of iced tea. Laura Danvers squeezed down beside her and poured her a glass.
“Can’t believe it, Iz. The baby is almost here.”
“I can believe it. These last few weeks have been long ones.”
“Sure, I know. It’s been a mess. But Elliot’s uncle says it’s about over.”
“He seems to think that. But I don’t know how he can be sure.”
“Maybe he just wants to close the whole chapter. He’s pretty down on the clinic right now, too. Not a happy week for him.”
Nell brought over a plate of cucumber cups and set them down on the table. “You’re talking about Franklin?”
Laura nodded.
“It’s a hard time for him. I know how much he wanted that baby.”
“He did.” Laura was quiet for a minute. She looked around, assured that others were engaged in their own conversations, and said, “You know, he’s a strange man in some ways. I don’t think many people really know him, me included. He’s done things that have puzzled the family, but he’s the patriarch now, so no one questions him. And he has all that money. That helps put people in their place fast.”
“What kind of things?” Birdie asked, sitting down next to Nell.
Laura looked around. She spotted Tamara on the edge of the crowd and nodded in her direction.
“Tamara’s here?” Izzy said, surprised.
“She heard about it and asked to come. I hope that’s okay, Iz—”
“Sure, of course. I just didn’t think she’d—”
“Didn’t think she’d be up for a baby shower after just having a miscarriage? Wrong.” The word held an extra layer of meaning when it slipped from Laura’s mouth, not something Laura normally did. “Franklin marrying Tamara was one of the questionable things he’s done, at least to some family members. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”
“How did they meet?”
“At a business conference in Boston. She was teaching exercise routines for the spouses, and Uncle Franklin was the keynote speaker. He hadn’t been divorced from his last wife very long, and Tamara made sure he wasn’t lonely. Or so the family rumor goes.
“Franklin has a condo in Boston that he uses when he’s in town, and in no time she had moved in. She’s quite convincing. And he’s . . . who knows? He’s rich, and he likes his power. Not just over his business, but over everything.”
“Ben thinks highly of Franklin,” Nell said.
“I know. I like him, too. I just don’t always understand him. Maybe . . . maybe when he realizes that money isn’t the answer to everything, the real Franklin will come out.”
“It must be hard for people like that,” Izzy said. “He was so tough on Justin one day. And then yesterday, condemning Martin Seltzer so harshly without real proof.”
“Franklin doesn’t like things that come apart, or fray, or aren’t orderly. He wants things to line up perfectly, and having Justin just come onto his property like that and upset Tamara would be unnerving for him. And this whole murder, to have it dangling over our heads—it’s disconcerting to all of us, but to Franklin it’s somehow worse. It unsettles him. It’s just the way he’s wired. We rarely visit at his house because I’m always afraid the girls will mess something up. He’s used to putting things in their place and making them right.”
Nell thought about his frustration with the library book the day before. Such a little thing. A missing book that messed up the scuba diving shelf’s order. He seemed agitated by it. A missing book . . . She looked at Birdie and Izzy, wanted to say something, then turned her attention back to Laura and tucked the thought away.
“Well, you can bring those beautiful girls over to my house any- time,” Birdie said.
Laura grinned, then grew serious again. “When he married Tamara, Elliot and I worried a little. He’d already been married twice, and they hadn’t been easy marriages. Franklin couldn’t tolerate his wives looking at other men or having male friends. He was just like his own father, Elliot said. There were rules, and then there were rules.”
“Do you know why his marriages didn’t work out?” Birdie asked.
They all knew it was a personal question. But somehow in the light of two murders, nothing seemed sacred. And Laura clearly wanted to talk.
“You probably heard the same rumors I did, Birdie. Even though the Danvers family keeps things under wraps, things leak out. His first wife had no idea what she was in for. She was from New York, loved that life, the museums, the city. And she felt isolated up here. She told me once that she never knew having children was a part of the plan. And I’m not sure about Elizabeth, his second wife. She was younger than Tamara, and lonely, I think. There was talk she had a male friend, and well, I don’t know the truth of it, but I do know that in Franklin’s mind, infidelity is as unforgivable as murder.”
She looked over at Tamara again. “Yet I sometimes feel sorry for his spouse, whoever she might be. She occupies a room in his life, a corner, but not the whole mansion. That would make me lonely.”
Tamara stood alone now on the edge of the crowd, drinking wine, her face calm and composed. Was she lonely? Nell wondered. Tamara seemed more self-sufficient, the sort of person who would take control and not allow unwanted feelings to mar her life.
Before Nell could turn away, Tamara’s eyes met hers. She held Nell’s gaze for a minute, then smiled. It was an unreadable smile, Nell thought later. But before she could return it, Tamara moved out of sight.
Willow kept true to her word, and before an hour had passed, she and Jane carried decorated wicker baskets, brimming with books, into the room and set them down in front of Izzy. Everyone’s favorite book. A library of children’s classics.
“All we need is a baby,” Izzy said, her voice thick with emotion.
Gabby followed with a basket of creams, shower gels, lotions, scented candles, bottles of bubble bath, and fresh-smelling soaps. “Everyone brought their favorite scent or soap or whatever,” she said, setting it down on the table. “It’s to pamper our Izzy. Baby Perry is special . . . but so are you.”
After Izzy expressed her thanks and the food was nearly gone, the crowd thinned quickly, some drifting off to enjoy the art festivities on Canary Road, others, like Izzy Perry, to go home.
Ben, Danny, Sam, and Ham Brewster had been hanging out at the Artist’s Palate, listening to Pete and the Fractured Fish play a medley of eighties tunes. They moved across the street, bottles of beer in their hands, moving to the beat.
Mild-mannered Danny Brandley was pumped. “Love that fist-thumping rock,” he said. His legs were moving, his eyes closed, as he grabbed Cass and twirled her around on the sidewalk, belting out the lyrics to “Eye of the Tiger.”
“Stop,” Izzy cried, her laughter causing hiccups and tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Sam, take me away from all this.”
Ben offered to pack up Izzy’s presents and they sent Sam and Izzy and Cass and Danny on their way to their car, watching from the curb as they moved down the middle of the street, Danny still singing, his arm looped around Cass, Sam and Izzy entwined. Heads back, the air above filled with their laughter.
“What great gifts they are,” Nell said, a rush of emotion flooding her chest.
“Yes,” Ben said. “And speaking of gifts, I’m off to get your car, Nellie. I will trust the two of you to guard Izzy’s presents. Back shortly.”
Birdie went into the gallery briefly while Nell stood beneath the fishtail sign, thinking back over the lovely shower. Special people. It had been an enjoyable evening, and in spite of the conversation with Laura, a welcome respite from thoughts of murder.
While gallery lights flickered out all up and down Canary Cove Road, the music was reaching its peak, rolling down the road now like a full spring rain. Nell watched the crowd filling the Palate deck. Several guests from the shower were already there, standing near the rail. Tamara Danvers was crossing the street alongside a young woman who had been helping out in Willow’s gallery.
A little farther down, standing alone in the shadow of the Artist’s Palate sign, was Tyler Gibson, leaning against the wall as he watched Tamara Danvers—or perhaps the woman with her—move up the steps.
The belt buckle. Nell started to call to him. She’d never returned it. It was still heavy and cumbersome, taking up too much room in her everyday bag. Which was sitting on her bed at home. She lowered her hand. Tomorrow or Monday. She’d return it soon. And perhaps Tyler would know how it got mixed up in Justin’s belonging. A loose end. A small frayed piece of yarn. Probably unimportant, something that needed to be snipped off.
But maybe not. Nell stared across the street, snippets of conversation racing through her head. Tyler might just be more crucial than they’d given him credit for. Perhaps they’d misread his role completely. The thought sent a chill racing through her.
At that moment, Tyler looked her way—gave a small wave, a nod of his head. Then he disappeared up the stairs and into the press of bodies waiting for tables at the bar and grill.