A Holiday Yarn Read online

  As the fire burned low, talk turned away from the Pisanos to the first holiday parties of the season, Christmas pageants, food collections, and the growing pile of cuddles, tiny baby buntings ready to send off to mothers in South Africa.

  Birdie held up the beginnings of her cuddle—a small, soft yarn envelope, big enough to hold a tiny baby. They’d all knit a few over the next few weeks and send them to Soweto to cuddle babies to sleep. “And now,” she said, covering a yawn, “my time has come. An early night for me, my dears.”

  Nell agreed. They’d leave now and deliver Mary’s blanket, and she might be home before Ben fell asleep.

  “Go, both of you,” Izzy urged. “Cass and I will clean up—and then we’re off to a holiday party at the Ocean’s Edge.”

  “And don’t worry one split second about the rest of this soup, Nell,” Cass called across the room. “I’ll see that it finds a loving home.”

  Nell laughed. Nearly all Thursday night dinners ended up in Cass’s tiny refrigerator, feeding the lobster fisherwoman for at least a few days before she had to start opening her stash of canned beans. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped into her coat. “Have fun, you two. Is Sam meeting you, Iz?”

  Izzy didn’t answer. Instead, she busied herself changing the music selection on her iPod, as if it were somehow critically important that Andrea Bocelli give equal time to Norah Jones.

  Nell looked for a movement of Izzy’s narrow shoulders. A smile. A shrug. When nothing came, she forced the frown from her face and followed Birdie out the door and into the winter night.

  Chapter 3

  A brisk wind ruffled Birdie’s hair and sent it flying in all directions—a flurry of white. She tugged a knit hat tightly down over her ears and breathed in the frosty night air.

  “Christmas,” she said softly.

  “Christmas,” Nell repeated. They stood still for a moment, side by side, Nell’s tall and slender frame shadowing her diminutive friend. Though nearly twenty years separated them in age, their friendship defied the difference. They were each other’s rocks.

  Birdie hooked her arm through Nell’s, the blanket tucked beneath her other arm, and they walked slowly across to the car.

  “It’s so peaceful.” Birdie’s breath rose when she talked, feathery spirals in the black night.

  All along Harbor Road, garlands of greenery turned gaslights into festive posts. Tiny white lights outlined doors, and store windows were filled with Santas and elves, sweet dolls and toy soldiers standing guard. Soft holiday music filtered onto the sidewalk from Archie’s Bookstore, his contribution to Harbor Road’s holiday spirit.

  Nell glanced down toward the tavern on the corner. A steady stream of people hurried through the door, out of the cold and into the hot, noisy interior.

  “Jake and Andy Risso are doing a good business tonight at the Gull.”

  Birdie climbed into the front seat of Nell’s car. “Mary said most of the family is gathering at the Rissos’ bar tonight—their grand finale. Good. We’ll get her to ourselves. Maybe get some juicy Pisano gossip.”

  The route to Ravenswood Road wound past the harbor and the Ocean’s Edge restaurant, then up a hill, circling a children’s park before it merged into the stately treed neighborhood in which Birdie lived.

  Nell remembered the first time Izzy had seen the Ravenswood area—when she was small and her parents had brought her and her brothers to Sea Harbor for a summer vacation—she said it looked like a forest turning into a town. More trees than houses to a child’s eye, though, in fact, many of the homes were hidden discretely behind low stone walls and thick stands of white pine, cedar, and eastern hemlock.

  The oldest neighborhood in Sea Harbor, Ravenswood was once home to sea captains and wealthy businessmen whose money came from granite quarries and fishing fleets, or Bostonians who built elegant summer places up on the hill. Some homes still remained with the original families; others had been sold, remodeled, and updated into elegant permanent homes. Christmas decorations matched the houses, stately and grand—lovely strands of white lights twisted through the tallest of trees, enormous wreaths with red bows fastened to driveway posts, candles in long mullioned windows. A giant star that glowed atop a pine tree must have taken a crane to find a home at such heights.

  Nell slowed, then turned into a wide drive. In the distance was a discreet white sign bordered and freshly painted.

  RAVENSWOOD-BY-THE-SEA, it read.

  Ahead was Enzo Pisano’s family home, proud and welcoming, a Sea Harbor landmark for longer than anyone could remember. Enzo’s father, a celebrated sea captain, had built the house for his bride a century before—and now, thanks to Mary, it shined as brightly as it had decades earlier.

  “It’s a Norman Rockwell painting,” Birdie said. “And it keeps getting better. I think it’s perfect, and then Mary finds something else to make it even more beautiful.”

  Nell pulled into the brick parking area. They slipped out of the car and walked up a winding pathway to the front porch. Every window held a wreath; every post was wrapped in fresh greenery. Small white lights outlined the towering pines. “It’s so quiet. Mary’s expecting us, right?”

  Birdie nodded. “Although it would be understandable if she forgot, considering the week she’s had.”

  They walked up the steps. A wide porch stretched across the front of the house, from one side to the other. It was lined with rocking chairs, ghosts in the Christmas light, their arms and seats high with untouched snow.

  Nell tried the door. It was locked. She pressed the doorbell and stepped back, listening to the bell echo through the still house.

  “This would be a lovely place for a wedding,” Nell mused.

  Birdie raised her eyebrows. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  Nell peered through the frosty bay window, letting Birdie’s question hang in the icy air. She tried not to think of Izzy and Sam’s future—their business was their business.

  “And face it, Nell,” Ben had said not long ago. “Izzy may not want to get married. Maybe not ever. She might be perfectly content with her life the way it is. She has a career, great friends.”

  And he was right. At least about her not interfering. But Izzy wanted Sam—and a houseful of babies. Nell was sure of it, no matter what Ben said. It was something men didn’t always intuit as well as women.

  “I don’t think Mary’s here,” Birdie said.

  Nell pulled her coat tight. “That’s strange. You’d think there’d be a stray Pisano hanging around somewhere.”

  “Maybe Kevin is. He may not be able to hear the bell in the kitchen.”

  “Kevin?”

  “Kevin Sullivan—Moira’s boy. That sweet chef from the Ocean’s Edge. Mary managed to steal him for a week to cook for her family. We could leave the blanket with him.”

  “Okay,” Nell whispered, then laughed at herself. “How silly. What’s the matter with us, whispering? We’re not in a morgue.”

  They began walking along the porch toward the side of the house and had nearly reached the corner when they were stopped in their tracks. A raucous, frantic barking rolled around the corner, followed instantly by a large, snowy dog. It slid to a stop in front of Birdie, then stood on its hind legs and planted both front paws soundly on her narrow shoulders.

  Birdie folded up beneath the weight, the blanket falling to the side, and the dog landed happily on top of her, greedily licking her face with its pink tongue.

  Nell grabbed the dog’s collar and tugged, but the dog refused to leave the comfort of Birdie’s tiny body.

  Straining against the dog’s weight, Birdie managed to balance herself on one arm. She wrapped the other around the curly hundred pounds of shivering pup. “It’s all right, Georgia,” she said calmly. “You’re fine, sweet pup. And so am I—not that you’ve asked.”

  The words seemed to work magic, and Nell managed to extricate Birdie from Georgia’s bulk, helping her to her feet. Birdie brushed off the snow and leaned over t
he dog. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out here, Georgia?”

  Georgia’s tail hit the wooden floor in response.

  “Mary must be here somewhere, Nell,” Birdie said. “Georgia won’t go outside without her. She’s like a toddler with mommy attachment.”

  Birdie reached down and scratched the dog’s curly blond head. “Georgia’s finally gotten to a point where she lets me hold her leash when Mary and I walk together, but it’s taken a while. She grieved for Enzo for a long, long time, but Mary finally won her heart.” She looked down at the dog. “You silly sweetheart, you. Now, let’s go find your mother.”

  They walked around the corner of the house, Georgia pressed closely to Birdie’s side.

  Beyond the porch, meandering paths and the property’s natural outcropping of granite boulders, towering pines, and thick woods turned the grounds into a perfect place to hike or rest or absorb nature’s soothing magic.

  But tonight it all looked ghostly, like the rocking chairs, covered in snow.

  Nell looked up at the carriage house in the distance. Soft panels of gauze fell over the dark windows.

  She stopped, frowned. Then looked up again.

  Georgia barked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Is someone staying in the carriage house?”

  “Maybe. I think most of the rooms are being used while the family is here. Why?” Birdie looked up.

  “I thought I saw the curtain moving.”

  They stood silently, staring at the windows. The curtains were still.

  Georgia’s tail lifted.

  “I’m seeing things.” Nell tried to block out the sudden shiver that rippled up and down her arms. She thought she’d seen a light, too. But it must have been a reflection from one of the security lights.

  They walked along the back of the house, pausing at a set of French doors. Birdie and Nell peered inside. A low light in the corner revealed bookshelves, a fireplace. A library table. Birdie tried the door. Locked.

  “This doesn’t make sense. Mary wouldn’t go off and leave Georgia outside. She must be here somewhere.” They passed a windowless door to a utility room, then walked on toward the far end of the house.

  They looked through the kitchen windows. Low appliance lights—clocks and timers and control buttons—cast eerie shadows across the floor.

  “There’s no one here.”

  Birdie sighed. “I’ve led you on a goose chase.” She hugged the wrapped afghan to her chest. “I don’t know if it’s the weather or something in the air, but I don’t like being here like this, without Mary.”

  Nell felt it, too. The estate looked different at night. Mysterious somehow. Foreboding. She looked back at the shadowy woods and the towering pines that rustled in the winter breeze. The tingling sound was eerie against the black night.

  Nell looked up at the carriage house again. “Maybe in the confusion of people leaving, Mary forgot. Not a catastrophe.”

  “Or the others may have insisted she join them at the Gull.”

  But that didn’t explain an abandoned Georgia.

  “I say we take Georgia with us and run by the Gull,” Nell said. “One of the Pisanos will know where she is.”

  They began walking toward the porch steps, skirting a pile of cigarette butts that formed a shallow pit in the soft snow.

  “Messy,” Nell said, noting the debris.

  Birdie tsked in disgust. She leaned down and scratched Georgia’s head. “Come on, sweetie; let’s find Mary.”

  Georgia’s heavy tail thudded in agreement, but as they walked toward the steps, the dog pulled back and planted herself soundly on the porch.

  “Come on, girl.”

  Georgia barked, then threw her curly head back and yowled into the black air, a plaintive sound.

  Birdie looped her finger beneath Georgia’s collar and spoke firmly. “Come, Georgia. Now.”

  Ahead of them, the wind had mounded snow into the corner where the railings met, piling it high.

  It was powdery, thick, and high enough to build a snow fort.

  Georgia growled.

  Nell’s brows pulled together. She looked at Birdie, a step behind her. “What is that?” She pointed toward a smooth stretch of snow leading to the bank.

  Birdie took a step closer. Dark marks marred the smooth snow.

  Georgia pressed against her leg. Her growl was throaty now, a mournful, wounded cry.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Birdie said, patting her head.

  At first glance, the marks in the snow looked like tracks.

  “An animal?” Birdie offered. “Maybe that’s why Georgia is spooked.”

  “No,” Nell said. “I think they’re words.”

  They moved closer, and the lines took clear form. Words etched into the crusty snow with the tip of a finger or stick. Two simple words.

  I’m sorry.

  “I’m sorry?” Nell said aloud. Frowning, she moved beyond the words to the steep drift.

  At closer range, they could see shadows in the snow, a life-size imprint.

  “Oh, lord.”

  Nell lifted one hand to her mouth. With the other, she grasped Birdie’s arm so tightly that Birdie squirmed beneath the pressure.

  Running along the surface of the corner drift was a narrow red river, winding over the pile of snow like a strand of holiday yarn.

  Wordlessly, Nell and Birdie took a step closer, hoping that it was, indeed, a loose strand of yarn that the wind or a playful gull had dropped on Mary Pisano’s back porch.

  But it wasn’t the work of a gull or the wind or someone’s knitting gone astray.

  The two women stood side by side, breath trapped in their chests, staring into the shadowy snowbank.

  Behind them, the wind picked up and the whistling through the pines grew louder, more strident.

  In front of them, the motionless form was as still as the night, cradled there in the hollow of snow. Arms and legs spread playfully, as if making a snow angel.

  But no laughter filled the night, and there was no movement to the limbs, no fan of an angel’s wings.

  In the cold, blue shadows, a woman’s body lay cushioned in a bed of pure snow.

  Come play, her outstretched arms might have said.

  But her hands held a different message. One pointed toward the steps, as if seeking direction.

  The other, wrapped around the handle of a small black pistol, spoke of finding it.

  Chapter 4

  Nell sat in an oversized chair near the front window of M.J.’s Hair Salon, one ear tuned to the din of early-morning conversation. Voices rose and fell over the steady hum of hair dryers and the gentle swoosh of a broom. An occasional gasp told Nell that the morning paper was being opened, then passed from chair to chair. She looked out the window, wanting to block out the wave of sadness ebbing and flowing around her.

  As she and Birdie had done endless times the night before, she replayed the conversations they had both had that day—Pamela Pisano’s cultured voice portending her cousin’s death. The bed-and-breakfast will kill her, she had said to more than one of the knitters. Kill her.

  But she had been sorely wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Nell felt certain that at that precise moment, a photograph on the front page of the Sea Harbor Gazette held the entire town captive—in coffee shops or warm, safe kitchens, in beauty salons or on the commuter train.

  Had it not been so awful, the photo might have been considered art. Something from a minimalist exhibit she and Ben had seen recently in Boston at the ICA, perhaps.

  Pamela Pisano’s white fox coat was resting in the snow. An interesting composition in whites, except for the winding red river that flowed from the folds of her hood and down over the snow to the porch floor. The headline was simple and to the point:EDITOR OF NATIONAL FASHION MAGAZINE

  DIES OF GUNSHOT WOUND AT FAMILY HOME

  Poor Mary. Nell and Ben had read the hastily written news report at the breakfast table an hour earlie
r. It said little, leaving readers to fill in the blanks, which they would eagerly do. But the true burden of the horrible event would rest on Mary—the rumors, the curiosity seekers who would wander the grounds of the lovely bed-and-breakfast to see what they could see, the neighbors who would be sure it was a sign to close down the guesthouse before the first paying customer rested head on downy pillow.

  The police had called the death a probable suicide. The gun was in Pamela’s hand. The words in the snow were significant—a suicide note, one of the officers on the scene was quoted as calling it. I’m sorry, Pamela had written.

  But when Mary had finally shown up the night before, she had managed to push her grief aside and answer the police chief without hesitation when he’d asked about Pamela’s state of mind.

  “I can’t imagine my cousin taking her own life, ever. She thought too much of herself to ever do such a thing.”

  Mary had uttered the words with tears streaming down her small cheeks, her sadness mixed with regret and anguish and disbelief.

  Birdie had wrapped Mary’s shivering body in the new afghan, and Georgia, pressed against her side, had provided additional warmth.

  Mary didn’t intend for the words to be mean or judgmental. It was simply a fact, as Mary saw it. And she never talked around things, a trait her newspaper column gave testimony to.

  Mary wasn’t alone in her opinion. Everyone in Sea Harbor knew the controversial fashion editor and probably had an opinion about her. But suicide generated so many questions, Nell thought. Not the least of which was doubt over how well we really know a person, especially someone like Pamela Pisano, whose appearance and position seemed to define her to the public—but few knew the private person.

  Chief Jerry Thompson said that they’d consider everything, of course, and not discount Mary’s opinion. But the initial findings indicated that she had, in fact, taken her own life.

  Nell rested her head against the back of the chair. She was momentarily lulled by the hum of the hair dryers in the distance, the soothing sounds of running water in the shampoo alcove, and soft voices that rose and fell in the lavender-scented air.