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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.
    Such an ordinary thing to do . . . on such an un-ordinary day. A trim to even the ends of her hair before the bevy of holiday gatherings began. Maybe a splash of color, a highlight or two.
    She had thought about canceling her appointment.
    "Why would you do that?" Ben asked earlier as he poured coffee for them. What could Nell do to change events? To alter the unraveling of the day?
    Nothing. That was what. Nothing at all. She tried to call Mary, but she didn't pick up. Nell left a message. She was there to help if help was needed. There would certainly be plenty going on at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. Plenty of hovering family members. Plenty of lawyers, executors. Sometimes even friends could be in the way at such times.
    So Nell had bundled up, slipped into furry boots, and walked along the snowy streets to Harbor Road and the comfort of M.J.'s Salon.
    She had always considered waiting in M.J.'s a gift and often got there early, a treat to herself. An interlude in her life, free of phones, of writing grants, planning talks, of household chores, of responsibilities. With the recent renovation, M.J. had tried to rename the salon "Pleasure," but the name didn't stick. Some thought the name a bit risque. Others, like Nell, simply couldn't change old habits, and M.J.'s Hair Salon it remained. But risque or not, Nell thought, the attempted name fit what M.J. offered to her customers. Pleasure and, even more important, escape.
    Today that was especially true. She knew that wherever she went, she'd be reminded of last night's events. Although the paper didn't mention her name or Birdie's, people would know they were the ones who had found Pamela's body. Somehow, in that mysterious way small towns work, people would know.
    And there'd be endless questions, suppositions, talk. People would wonder in sad tones about the gorgeous, wealthy editor who had everything the world had to offer. And who had ended her life alone. In a snowbank.
    Suicide . Nell's college friend Shelly Archer had taken her own life at the beginning of their senior year. It had haunted Nell for years.
    She and her friends had analyzed Shelly's death endlessly, hoping for a shred of understanding, for some comfort that reason might bring to them. They'd been angry, hurt, devastated. Furious at Shelly that she hadn't allowed them in, given them a chance to help her, as if their own anger would lessen their sadness. And then they had broken down and grieved the unfathomable loss of someone they thought they knew so well.
    Nell had been with Pamela Pisano hours before she died. Had she missed a sign? A plea for help?
    But nothing in the conversation bespoke a woman in pain.
    Nell sipped her coffee, then closed her eyes and thought of the fashion editor in her expensive coat and her tall boots, walking out of the tea shop. She'd held her head high, and she'd been smiling, as if anticipating that something good was about to happen. That was the look Nell remembered.
    Something good. Something pleasurable.
    Nell set her coffee down and looked out the window, focusing on the bright sunshine reflecting off the snow along Harbor Road. People walked by quickly, collars turned up, heads leaning into the wind. She spotted Mary Halloran, Cass' mother, heading to work at Our Lady of the Seas.
    Mary spotted Nell and waved, then paused briefly at the window. She lifted her shoulders slightly in a gesture of helplessness, then followed it up with a sad smile.
    An acknowledgment of the death. Nell nodded back, then closed her eyes and settled back into the soft chair. Relax , she ordered herself.
    That's what the waiting area of the