Patterns in the Sand by Sally Goldenbaum

have,” Nell said. “I believe you tried to buy it.”
     
     
Ben laughed. “It’s a great old guy. Aidan captured the fisherman stance perfectly. He has this wise, knowing, longing-for-the-sea look. If you pull on the fellow’s gnarled hand the front of the wooden sculpture opens up, and Aidan kept papers and things on the shelves inside. There was an envelope with my name on it. Inside it was the will. He’d even gotten a couple of fishermen over in Gloucester to witness it.”
     
     
“So that’s what Aidan wanted to talk to you about,” Nell said.
     
     
Ben nodded. “I’ve talked to Aidan a few times about financial things and this was an update, I guess.”
     
     
“There is no rest for the kindhearted, Ben Endicott,” Birdie joked.
     
     
“I believe the word is ‘wicked,’ Birdie,” Ben said.
     
     
“No matter.” Birdie’s fingers waved the air. “But it is a good thing you do, my dear friend.”
     
     
Nell smiled at Birdie, knowing she had sought Ben’s advice on an occasion or two. And the Canary Cove artists, especially, seemed to prefer Ben’s advice to a lawyer with LTD behind his name and an office with a polished lobby.
     
     
“What does the paper say, Nell?” Ben asked.
     
     
“Not much. It must have been too late last night when news of Aidan’s heir leaked out. There’s talk about other things, though—the problems with the art council, Aidan’s many romances, that sort of thing. I am sure the news will be leaking out in dribs and drabs. Mary Pisano seems to be devoting her chatty little column entirely to solving the murder.”
     
     
“Suspects,” Birdie said. “Everyone wants suspects.”
     
     
In the distance, Nell heard the sound of a bike crunching on gravel. She looked up and saw Willow pedaling down the side pathway toward the front of the house. She was alone and looked determined to get somewhere quickly.
     
     
“Ben, it’s Willow. Let’s not let her find out about her inheritance from some rumor making its way around Coffee’s or wherever she’s headed in such a hurry.”
     
     
Ben moved quickly toward the front door, opened it, and called to her. Minutes later, Willow appeared in the family room, her backpack hanging from one shoulder. She lowered it to a lump on the ground and cast a puzzled look at Nell. “What’s up?”
     
     
“First, have some coffee,” Nell said.
     
     
Izzy beat her to the counter and filled a mug halfway, then poured in half-and-half until the coffee turned a rich mocha color. “You seem like a cream kind of person.”
     
     
Willow smiled, her eyes still holding questions. “I was on my way to the knitting studio, Izzy. I thought I could help you so we can get this over with, like maybe Saturday. Then I need to leave. I’m moving on.”
     
     
“You may need to stick around for a bit, Willow,” Ben said. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
     
     
“I knew there was something going on, with all of you sitting here like this, like a jury or something. What happened? Did the police decide to press charges because I slept in your window, Izzy? That was so dumb of me. Could Purl be my defense? She lured me in.” She attempted a smile. “If I go to jail, Purl goes with me.”
     
     
“No, of course not. No charges.”
     
     
Ben cleared his throat. “Willow, we found out last night that Aidan Peabody—the man who died last Saturday—”
     
     
“The man who was killed,” Willow said.
     
     
Nell looked over at Willow, surprised at her tone. It was more curious than the expected low, sad tone people used with deaths—planned or otherwise. But then, she reminded herself, Willow was a stranger in this town.
     
     
Ben nodded. “Aidan left a will.”
     
     
Willow leaned her back against the center island, her sandals planted firmly on the floor. She looked at Ben and held her coffee mug up to her lips so the steam rose in front of her face. “Is that unusual? People do that, right?” she said. “Most artists are starving though, I guess. His place was an