Patterns in the Sand by Sally Goldenbaum Page B

knit for her, and headed down the back stairs. She’d insist on making the spinach-and-feta omelet for Willow. They’d sit on the deck and talk. And things would fall in place.
     
     
But when Nell walked into the kitchen and family area, the house was eerily quiet.
     
     
The chief was gone, and a glance out the window told her his police car was blessedly absent from the driveway as well.
     
     
But Willow was gone, too—and the old bike she was borrowing no longer lay on the lawn where she’d dropped it when Ben called her in.
     
     
And Ben—much to Nell’s chagrin—Ben was gone, too.
     
     
Sometimes men have no sense , she thought. He should never have allowed Willow to get back on that bike without eating some breakfast.
     
     
But Ben had saved himself somewhat from Nell’s displeasure by leaving a sticky note on the kitchen island, right next to the portable phone. He had a meeting over at the yacht club, it read. And Willow had gone out to Brendan’s cottage to have breakfast with him. She had assured Ben before she left that she was fine, after drinking a full glass of orange juice to satisfy him.
     
     
A follow-up phone call, pulling Ben briefly from his meeting, gave Nell the details he had neglected to address. Willow had told the chief she had absolutely no idea why Aidan Peabody left her anything in his will. She had never met the man, she’d said. And, frankly, she didn’t really want any of his things—they could auction them off and give the money to a children’s foundation or something, she told Jerry.
     
     
Nor, Willow said, did she murder the man. A ridiculous suggestion, she had told the chief in very clear, somewhat colorful terms.
     
     
But in spite of her bluster, Ben thought he saw a dampness in the corner of her eyes. And he had no idea what that was about.
     
     
The interview, Ben said, had left Jerry Thompson frustrated. But it had brought color back to Willow’s cheeks, lit her eyes with fire, and by the time she set off on the bike, she had enough energy in her small body to ride from Massachusetts to Michigan or Wisconsin or wherever the hell she was from.
     
     

     
Grilled shrimp satay with a light, tangy peanut sauce, toasted pearl couscous with lemon basil, tomatoes, and chunks of fresh mozzarella cheese from Harry Garozzo’s deli. That should do it, Nell thought. Birdie would arrive with chilled wine, and Cass had already put the pistachio ice cream from Scoopers into the freezer.
     
     
The food wouldn’t lessen the drama of the day, Nell knew, but it would definitely help. And Thursday night knitting without food and drink simply wasn’t Thursday night knitting.
     
     
Nell walked over to the wall of windows at the back end of the studio’s knitting room and looked out over the harbor and the sea beyond. This view from Izzy’s shop usually brought her peace on hectic days. From here she could see all the way to the breakwater and protected beach of the yacht club at the northern edge of the town. A tentacle of land below it jutted out into the sea and held a park that was special to the whole town, Anja Angelina Park—or Angus’ Place, as the locals called it.
     
     
And a little closer in, the shore swung around like a jump rope and embraced Canary Cove, its narrow roads dotted with the studios and galleries. She could see the old rickety dock below the Artist’s Palate. It looked empty today, though from this distance, Nell couldn’t really tell. Several small motorboats, probably belonging to artists from the cove, were moored to the side of the dock closest to her and bobbed in the water. For a minute, she imagined Aidan sitting at the end of it with Jane and Ham, their legs hanging over the edge, cold beers in hand as they mused about life, art, and love—and funerals.
     
     
Had Aidan thought of his will while sitting out there with his good friends? Had he entertained the thought of leaving everything he owned and had worked a lifetime for to a strange young