Angora Alibi (8 page)

T
ommy was right about the rain. When Izzy finally locked up the shop, waved the others
off, and climbed into her car, fat drops were falling onto the windshield. She sat
there for a minute, switching on the radio as she watched the taillights of Nell’s
car disappear down Harbor Road.

After Janie and Tommy left, they’d reheated the quesadillas in the microwave and stayed
long enough to fill both their stomachs and the need to make a little progress on
the booties and rompers and tiny sweaters that needed to be finished for the baby
shower. Willow and Jane Brewster had insisted on planning it—small, they promised
Izzy, just good friends. They hadn’t decided on the theme yet, but no matter what
it was, the tiny outfits needed to be finished soon.

Janie’s move, however, had interrupted the usual rhythm of their Thursday-night knitting—the
slow, easy hours they looked forward to all week. Their tonic, as Birdie put it. Their
pocket of peace.

But they’d make up for it as they always did when unexpected circumstances cut their
Thursday evening short. A Sunday morning together when the shop was closed or a knitting
rendezvous on Birdie’s veranda or Nell’s deck. It was a need as deep as their friendship—the
joy of casting on and binding off, of slipping strands of silky yarn through their
fingers, of creating warmth and softness to cradle a newborn babe or protect an old
fisherman from harsh winter winds.

Izzy turned out the lights and followed the others out, locking the shop door behind
her.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a nor’easter this time, folks,” the radio weatherman had said.
“Just a good old-fashioned summer rain to make the grass and flowers grow. Enough
to wash off the sidewalks and docks and freshen up the town. ‘A good rain.’”

A good rain.

But not good for everything.

Not good for a yellow angora baby blanket, for starters.

Izzy slipped her keys in the ignition and started up the car, the methodical sound
of the wipers filling the small car. She sat still for a minute. And then, as if the
car had made up its own mind, she turned sharply at the corner of Harbor Road and
headed toward the winding beach road.

She drove carefully, past joggers scurrying for cover, past the turn off to Canary
Cove, Sandpiper Beach, the yacht club, and on north toward the cove, where she and
Sam spent many hours. Sometimes they’d sit on the rocks that anchored it at both ends
and watch the moon turn the water into a changing kaleidoscope of night colors. Or
curl up on a blanket, pressing their bodies into the sand as deep night sounds surrounded
them. Then they would gather their things and walk slowly back up the hill and through
the sleepy neighborhood to Marigold Street, to home.

Filled with children in the daytime, Paley’s Cove frequently hosted bonfire parties
and packs of college kids at night. But tonight it was quiet, people heeding the weatherman’s
advice.

Izzy pulled off the road and onto the gravel parking area, just a single car deep
and curving along the stretch of beach. Her beach. That’s how she thought of it.

Her
beach.

She left the headlights on and climbed out of the car, barely noticing the rain, which
fell heavier now. Her hair hung in damp multicolored rivulets, her sweater smelling
of wet cotton. She tucked her chin to her chest and hurried along the wall until she
reached the three small steps to the beach. At first she just stood there, staring
out past the deserted beach to the ocean, unable to tell in the heavy night where
the water ended and the black sky began. It was a thick sea of darkness. She closed
her eyes, wiped the rain from her forehead, then slowly moved her head to the side
and opened them again.

Of course it was there, just as she knew it would be. The edge of the yellow blanket
sticking out, soggy and limp.

Without a second thought, Izzy tugged the offending car seat from the sand and carried
it back to her car. She opened the trunk and in one clumsy movement hefted the wet
seat inside and slammed the trunk shut. In seconds, she was back behind the wheel,
her wet fingers grasping the leather covering. She pulled slowly out of the parking
lot, an irrational relief flooding her body.

Hormones. In full rhapsody.

The rain came down in glassy sheets now, and Izzy stopped along the side of the road,
letting the wipers do their work. A light from behind drew her eyes to the rearview
mirror, but it wasn’t a car. Far down, at the bend in the road, a single steady headlight
pierced through the darkness. A bike? she wondered, and almost turned around to see
if the rider needed help.

But at that moment an engine gunned into life and the headlight began to move. Relieved,
Izzy pulled back onto the road and made her way home.

S
am was still drinking his Saturday-morning coffee when Izzy noticed the problem. But
then, as Sam said, it wasn’t
really
a problem. A stuck car trunk was all it was. Easily fixed.

Izzy had tried to open the trunk so she could take a lamp into the yarn shop, one
she thought would look nice in the apartment above the shop. A housewarming present
for Janie. But the trunk didn’t open. Not with her key. Not with the spare.

She stood there in the driveway for a minute, thinking back to Thursday night when
it had opened just fine. Easy as pie. She’d tossed the abandoned car seat inside,
closed it tightly, and relished the peculiar sense of relief that flooded over her,
right along with the rain.

Out of sight, out of mind.
And it had been. She came home, parked the car in the driveway, and tumbled directly
into bed. In minutes, she was sound asleep. And an early-morning run along the cove
the next day had been peaceful and serene.

Sam came outside in his bare feet, set his coffee mug on top of the car, and poked
at the lock for a minute, putting the key in, twisting it hard. He stood back, his
brow furrowed, and ran his fingers around the lock. Then he glanced over at Izzy,
an amused smile creasing his face.

“You tried really hard to open it,” he said. “What did you use, a sledgehammer?”

She smiled sweetly. “No, darling. I treat my little VW with great respect. I used
a key. I save the sledgehammer for your car.”

Sam looked at the lock again. It was surrounded by dings and dents. The lock itself
looked as if a tool had been forced into it and twisted hard, to no effect, other
than messing it up.

“It looks like someone tried to pry the trunk open. What’s in there? Anything important?”

Izzy looked at the trunk. Certainly nothing anyone would want. A drenched baby seat
that had sat on the beach for days and played havoc with her dreams? No, Sam would
definitely think her crazy. She looked up and shrugged. “Nothing important.”

He looked at the damaged hood again, then retrieved his coffee cup from the roof.

“It’s not a big deal, Iz. I’ll call Pickard’s Auto Shop on Monday and take it in.”
He took the lamp and fit it into the backseat of her car, then opened the front door
while Izzy tossed in her bag and slid in after it. Sam leaned through the open window
and held Izzy’s head between his two large hands. He looked into her eyes, then pulled
her close and kissed her soundly. Pulling slightly away, he whispered into the sliver
of air between them, “But next time, Rosie Riveter, give me a holler before you take
the blowtorch to it.”

•   •   •

The voice was the same, but the doelike figure that flew down the yarn shop back steps
a few hours later was a little taller, the tan legs longer by an inch than the summer
before. But there was no mistaking the wild dark hair that flew in all directions
and the freckles dancing across her nose.

Gabby Marietti was back.

In one flying leap, Purl was off the window seat, landing squarely in Gabby’s outstretched
arms.

While Gabby hugged Purl, Nell hugged Birdie’s young granddaughter—cat and all. Gabby
Marietti belonged to all of them, or at least that’s how they looked at it. Since
coming unexpectedly into Birdie’s life the summer before, Gabby and her uncle Nick
had made the trip to Sea Harbor every chance they got—Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring
break. She had to check on her nonna, Gabby would say. But it was also because whenever
Gabby left Sea Harbor to return to her father and her Central Park condominium, she
left a little bit of herself behind—and the lure to return and fill that hole grew
stronger and stronger.

“So, tell me what you’ve been doing since you got back in town,” Nell said.

“She’s been one busy girl.” Izzy walked down the steps carrying a basket filled with
summery cotton yarn. “She’s already signed up to teach a class for me and it’s nearly
full. We’re going to pick out a project today. You’re just in time to help, Aunt Nell.”

Gabby took the basket from Izzy. “Yep, it’s true. And I’m helping Willow in her art
gallery
and
,” she said, her voice lifting nearly to the ceiling, “I’ve been fishing with the
cool Ocean’s Edge guys. You know Kevin? And Tyler, he’s Esther’s grandson. Did you
know sometimes Kevin catches his own fish to try out new recipes? And yours truly
helped him and Tyler catch a cod. A
cod
! Huge. This big!” Her hands stretched as wide as the doorway.

“Amazing. What can I say?” Nell said.

Gabby laughed. She dropped the basket of yarn on the library table. Her hair flew
along with the movement of her body, the halo effect rivaling any of Izzy’s angora
yarns.

Gabby grew serious, squeezing a skein of the yarn. “But you know what one of the very
best parts of this summer is? I’ll be here to welcome baby Perry.” She turned and
wrapped her arms around Izzy. “I’m going to help Willow with the shower—and we need
to start right now playing music for the baby. We should talk and laugh a lot so she’ll
know our voices when she arrives.”

“I doubt we’ll have any problems on that front,” Nell said, laughing.

“She?” Izzy’s eyebrows lifted. “Everyone except me seems to have very definite ideas
about the sex of this baby. I’ll have to have twins, though, to satisfy everyone.”

Gabby giggled. “Okay, a baby Sam will be great, too.”

“Sam will be happy you think so . . . ,” Izzy said, then paused, looking up as footsteps
and a jumble of words rumbled across the floor of the upstairs apartment.

“Good grief, not again,” Nell said.

Mae Anderson, Izzy’s shop manager, appeared in the doorway just as the voices reached
a crescendo. She moved her palms up and down as if to quiet the air and calm everyone
down. “Don’t get excited, Izzy, or that baby will drop out right here. Janie Levin
knows how to handle herself. She’ll be fine. And no plaster has fallen loose from
the ceiling, far’s I can tell, anyway.”

“I hear a guy’s voice. Who’s that?” Gabby asked.

The voices continued, rumbling across the floor above.

“It’s no one,” Izzy said, then stopped herself. Clearly it was
someone
. “I don’t think you know him, Gabby. His name is Justin Dorsey. He’s a distant relative
of Janie’s.”

“Justin? Oh, sure, I know him. He gave me a ride on the coolest bike yesterday. A
Honda—really fast.”

Nell dropped a skein of yarn. “You what?”

“He was down on the dock talking to Tyler and Kevin. He’s cool. We drove down to Paley’s
Cove. Then back up here. He was real careful with me on the back, and I had a helmet
on.”

Nell sighed. Would she be like this with Izzy’s child? So cautious, frightened by
things that made noise and went too fast?

Izzy rummaged through the balls of yarn, then began sorting the skeins into piles
by their lyrical names—tourmaline, goldenrod, plum crazy, driftwood—trying with each
luscious color to force her mind off the ruckus above.

“I think something’s happened,” Gabby said. “Janie sounds upset.”

Janie Levin rarely raised her voice. They all looked up again.

Mae crossed her arms across her chest. “Well, you know what they say about too many
cooks. I say just leave the girl alone. Janie can certainly care for herself.”

But neither Izzy nor Nell subscribed easily to the “leave alone” school of thought,
especially when a large thump rattled the window blinds. Finally Izzy stood. “Justin
was supposed to be helping Janie move the last of her things. But something is obviously
wrong up there.”

The words from above were muffled, not easily discernible, but Gabby was right: Janie
Levin was terribly upset.

“I’m going to check on them,” Izzy said finally, heading for the shop’s side door.

“You’re not going up there alone,” Nell said. “Gabby, maybe you can help Mae in the
shop. Back in a minute.”

It wasn’t until they reached the apartment door that Nell realized Gabby had followed
her up the outside stairway.

“In case we need to call someone,” Gabby whispered, holding up her cell phone.

A light knock on the door went unanswered. Izzy opened it a crack, just as Janie’s
voice filtered through the crack.

“Sometimes I could kill you, Justin Dorsey,” she said, her voice choked with tears.
“There must be something wrong with you. Please, just get out and stay out. I don’t
care where you go, just away from me. This time I mean it. Out!”

With that, she jerked the door wide-open and found herself face-to-face with Izzy,
Nell, and Gabby, pressed together on the small porch landing.

Her hand dropped as if the doorknob had been on fire.

Behind her, Justin stood with his hands shoved in his pockets and a confused expression
on his face. A child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, and wondering what all
the fuss was about.

But Janie’s face reflected something more serious than a cookie jar theft. She was
furious. Her forehead was damp and tears rolled down her face.

She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and looked at Izzy. “I’m so sorry.
So sorry.”

Before she could say anything further, Justin walked around her and through the door.
He half smiled as he brushed past Nell, Izzy, and Gabby.

“It’s okay,” Janie called after him. “Go ahead, just take it.” A set of car keys flew
through the heated air. Justin caught them in one hand. “Janie, I’m—”

“Just go,” she said.

Justin turned and, taking the steps two at a time, headed for the small car parked
in the alley.

Nell, Izzy, and Gabby watched the fleeing figure as he hopped into Janie’s small car.
The engine roared to life and in the next instant, Justin backed out of the alley
and disappeared down Harbor Road.

Izzy turned toward the door. “I’m so sorry we barged in like this, Janie. Clearly
we interrupted something—”

“No, no. It’s your apartment, Izzy.” Janie shook her head back and forth, a tangle
of crimson waves falling over her forehead. She stepped back and motioned them into
the apartment. “You must have thought I was tearing the place apart. I’m sorry you
had to hear all that.” She looked at Gabby and managed a small smile. “Honest, Gabby.
I don’t usually yell like that.”

“Well, I do,” Gabby said. “Our cook, Sophie, says sometimes you just need to yell.
It’s the only thing that works.”

Janie gave her a quick hug.

“Are you all right? Did Justin break something?” Nell asked, looking around. She half
hoped that was the problem, but suspected this was worse than a broken dish.

“No. In fact—” Janie turned around and pointed toward a large box on the floor.

The lid had been removed and inside, on pads of tissue, was a set of pottery, one
easily recognized. It came from the Brewster Gallery in Canary Cove—each plate uniquely
designed and fired by the artist. Each a collector’s item. Each beautiful—and expensive.

Nell leaned over and picked up a piece. “These are so beautiful, Janie. Ham and Jane
are amazingly talented.”

“Justin gave them to me.”

Gabby frowned. “You yelled at him because he gave you a present?”

Jane shook her head and tried to smile. “No, sweetie, it’s not that. He did something
else that made me angry.” She looked again at the dishes. “But if he had any practical
sense, he wouldn’t have done this, either.” She looked up at Izzy and Nell. “How could
he afford these?”

“He probably wanted to replace the ones he broke the other day,” Izzy said.

Janie’s voice turned cold. “One month ago, I had to pay Justin’s rent at the boardinghouse
because he was broke. I had to give him money for food and begged Dr. Lily to give
him more hours.”

For an awkward moment they stood side by side, looking down at a gift that should
have elicited happiness. Instead, Janie’s anger was pressing down on the room like
a dark cloud.

“All right, then,” Nell said, breaking the silence. “Justin seems to be working all
over town. Jane and Ham often need help packing and shipping at the gallery—and more
than once, they’ve paid in art if someone prefers it. Maybe that’s how he got this
lovely pottery.”

“Sure. That’s probably what happened. It’s a smart way to be paid,” Izzy added. “They’re
so generous and I’m sure they gave him a great deal. You know how they are, Janie.”

Nell nodded along with Izzy’s affirmation. It
was
true. Nell was fully aware of the Brewsters’ generosity, especially if they felt
they were helping someone in need. And Justin, clearly, was in need.

“Yeah. That’s the truth,” Gabby added with great conviction. “I have the coolest mermaid
statue Ham gave me last summer and all’s I did was sweep out the studio for him—and
I’m not a very good sweeper. Really bad, in fact.” Her hands flew out in the air.

It was Gabby who finally drew a smile from Janie.

But the dishes couldn’t have been the source of the argument. Nell looked around the
room, wondering what else Justin had done to upset Janie so badly.

“What else is going on here?” Izzy asked. “Maybe we can help?”

“No,” Janie said. “Nothing.” But her voice betrayed her denial.

“Why don’t we help you unpack some of these things?” Nell said, sensing Janie’s need
for distance from whatever her cousin had done. She looked around at Janie’s collection
of garage sale finds, the boxes stacked along the wall, a pile of towels and sheets.

The apartment seemed smaller with all of Janie’s things piled around, but no less
wonderful. Nell loved this space and hoped Janie would, too. Shortly after Izzy opened
the yarn studio a few years before, Nell and Ben had helped Izzy turn the second floor
into a cozy apartment, thinking she might want to live there. It was open and bright,
with skylights and a butcher-block island separating the galley kitchen from the living
area. Beyond the kitchen and living area, a wide archway led to a bedroom with a high
wooden bed, once a guest bed in Nell and Ben’s Boston brownstone. But Nell’s favorite
space, what made it the perfect Harbor Road apartment, was the window seat below the
mullioned windows, a perfect match to that in the room below—along with the same perfect
view.