A Holiday Yarn

by Goldenbaum, Sally

  “Well, for whatever reason, you look like you’re enjoying yourself, Agnes,” Ben said. “And that’s as it should be.” He waved at a vendor and walked off to collect a tray of hot chocolate.

  “Thank you. I’ve been back and forth this week, and I am enjoying the work. But frankly, there’s too much unfinished business here with my family to completely enjoy anything. These murders are sucking the life out of us.” Worry shadowed her face. “Pamela was family—and for better or worse, we were connected to Troy, too.” She looked up at the sky as if trying to put words to her emotions. “I was supposed to meet with him Saturday down in New York to talk about his fashion shoot. He was thrilled about it, and then he never showed up. At first I was angry, that I’d gone out on a limb for him and he blew us off. Then Mary called with the awful news that he was dead. Murdered. And in Grandfather’s backyard. It leaves you wondering why this is all happening to us . . . or who’s next.”

  “No one is next,” Birdie said with authority. “This is the end of it.”

  Nell agreed. “It’s too close to all of us.”

  “And there are too many coincidences, things that, looking back, must have been planned carefully,” Birdie said.

  Agnes frowned. “Like what?”

  Nell picked up the conversation. “The bed-and-breakfast had people in and out all the time. Yet those two times, the house was empty. Was it chance? How would the murderer have known that it’d be empty?”

  Mary nodded. “I’ve thought about that, too. Whoever did this planned it carefully—but it wouldn’t have been difficult to find out that information. You keep your eyes and ears open, you find things out.”

  You keep your eyes and ears open . . .

  An innocent comment, but both Mary and Nell were acutely aware that too many innocent comments were pointing the wrong way.

  They were pointing to the kitchen at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. Pointing to Kevin Sullivan.

  “Everyone is so focused on Ravenswood-by-the-Sea,” Mary said. “The murders may have happened there, but I think we need to look beyond the Pisano family meeting and the kitchen help to find this murderer,” Mary said with conviction.

  But Nell didn’t need convincing. She believed that to be true. It had to be true, or a very nice man was guilty of a horrible crime.

  Clapping and laughter and hundreds of small cheering voices drew their attention to a sturdy white and maroon lobster boat, slowly making its way toward the pier. Bells jingled on the sides of the boat, and a group of playful elves atop the boat’s cabin were kicking their red-tipped shoes and shaking tambourines in the air.

  At the site of the boat, Pete and the Fractured Fish broke out into their own raucous rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

  And standing up on the bow of Cass’ beautiful Lady Lobster was the man they’d been waiting for—Santa Claus in full dress, his thick white beard blowing in the breeze, his wide black belt circling his middle. August McClucken outdid himself, his “ho ho’s” rolling all the way from ship to shore. Standing beside him was a new and welcome addition. Waving her heart out, her round cheeks as red as her stocking hat, was Mrs. Claus.

  Ben lifted his binoculars. He lowered them and smiled broadly. “It’s our own Esther Gibson.”

  Esther was grinning, her white hair billowing about her. Round rimless glasses defined her clear eyes, and a red velvet cape trimmed in white was pulled tight across her ample breasts.

  Cass guided the boat in, then killed the engine as they neared the dock and looped ropes over the post. The elves—some of Esther’s grandchildren—paraded off first, and next came Mr. and Mrs. Claus, patting children on the head as they made their way to a giant throne set up near the Fractured Fish band.

  For the next hour, Santa listened and smiled, lifting little bodies on and off his wide knee. Esther sat dutifully at his side, handing out small bags of candy and toys.

  As the fire died down and the firemen covered the glowing embers with sand, the temperature dropped sharply and parents scooped up happy children and hurried them off to bed.

  A small group of friends stood around the fire rim, their attention focused on Izzy, her arms filled by a baby.

  “Do you want to keep her for the next few days until all my shopping is done?” Laura Danvers teased. “She’s much quieter in your arms.”

  Izzy grinned down at the chubby baby girl. “I’d keep her in a heartbeat.”

  Laura laughed and took the baby, settling her in a carrier while her husband gathered up the older children. “You need at least six of these, Izzy,” she said.

  Izzy smiled.

  A year ago she would have had a comeback, some quick, clever retort. Tonight, at least in her aunt’s eyes, she was hiding something that looked suspiciously like yearning.

  “There you are, dearies; how did I do?”

  Esther Gibson walked over to the group, swinging her red cape dramatically. A knit stocking cap was pulled over her gray hair.

  “The real McCoy,” Ben said.

  “The kids loved you, Esther.”

  “And I didn’t even need a costume, though I don’t know if that’s such a good thing.” She patted her middle.

  “I’ll bring the car around,” Ben called out as he and Sam made their way across the harbor grounds.

  Izzy and Nell walked slowly on either side of Esther, helping her over the snow-packed ground.

  “Is there anything new on the Ravenswood Road murders?” Nell asked.

  Esther shook her head. “My poor men are working like Trojan horses, but I think it might become one of those cold cases like on TV. Nothing leads very far. Poor Kevin Sullivan’s name is tossed about like a ship on an angry sea, but I tell them exactly what I think of that. I don’t mince words with the men. That’s how you have to treat them.”

  “Esther, do you remember a few summers ago—just before Jerry became chief—when Pamela Pisano was here helping her mother move into the nursing home?”

  Esther thought back. “Poor Dolores,” she said, her memory clearing. “She just couldn’t handle it in that big house any longer. She was forgetting things, wandering off.”

  “Pamela had a problem with a man that summer, I understand.”

  “Yes,” Esther said. “One she brought on herself, but a problem nevertheless.”

  “Mary remembers a restraining order.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was kept quiet.”

  Esther nodded.

  “Why?” Izzy asked. “When I got my first speeding ticket over on Eastern Avenue, the entire town knew it before I got back to Aunt Nell’s.”

  “I remember that,” Esther said with a wise nod of her head. “Forty-five miles when you should have been going under thirty, dearie. But this other situation, well, sometimes things need to remain private. Pamela had put a spell on this man—or whatever it was she did that made men follow her around like puppy dogs. The chief told us he was a respectable and generous man who simply went crazy over her, head over heels. He was obsessed with Pamela Pisano; that was the word the chief used.”

  There was that word again. But Nell could tell from Esther’s tone that she had far more sympathy for the obsessed man than for Pamela Pisano.

  “That still doesn’t explain the need to keep it so quiet.”

  “It was old Chief Roberts, God rest his soul. He was a kind old man, too old for the job but a good family man. His heart was in the right place.”

  They had reached the curb on Harbor Road, and Esther’s husband, Richard, sat behind the wheel of his truck, tapping the horn.

  “So the chief kept it secret? Got rid of the records?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Izzy asked.

  Esther frowned at Izzy and Nell as if they had missed part of the conversation. She turned and told her husband to hold his horses. Then she looked back, shaking her head sadly.

  “He did it because he was a gentleman. The man asked him to do it. He wanted to protect his innocent wife.
”

  Chapter 27

  “The man’s wife,” Izzy repeated the next afternoon as the knitters carved out time for a late lunch at Harry’s Deli.

  “The guy was goofy over Pamela, but he wanted to protect his wife. The dude should have thought of that before having an affair. But I suppose news of a restraining order would have been really awful for her,” Cass said, piecing it together. “He saved her that, at least.”

  “Exactly. The affair would have been spread all over town.”

  That was the conclusion Nell, Ben, Sam, and Izzy had come to the night before, as well. After talking with Esther, they’d stopped for a drink and a sandwich before heading home. The small bar and grill over in Essex offered a little privacy along with great olive and fennel tuna melts.

  Sam and Ben had listened while Izzy and Nell talked. They replayed Esther’s comments and tried to fill in the gaps about the man who had fallen in love with Pamela Pisano, and a wife behind the scenes.

  Ben was going to meet with Jerry Thompson in the morning. Even records that disappeared sometimes might not really disappear. Besides, he said with clear intent, the chief needed to know about this new direction in which they were heading. He might have a logical explanation for all their suspicions and be able to shred them to pieces in an instant.

  Nell fervently hoped so.

  She looked around the deli table at Izzy, Birdie, and Cass now. For days they had struggled with Pamela’s murder, not finding a thread that would tie the clues together. Perhaps they were about to find it.

  Thursday afternoons were normally quiet in the restaurant, but today there was a constant buzz as people ordered pastries and deli trays for the holidays, or took a break from holiday shopping for a cup of soup or grilled pastrami on rye.

  “I saw Pamela’s mother yesterday,” Birdie said without preamble. She pulled a pad of paper from her backpack and set it on the table. It was filled with scribbled notes in Birdie’s small scrawl. “Dolores Pisano is a lovely lady, even now.”

  “Did she know you?”

  Birdie shook her head no. “She said she did, but then she called me Angela. She seemed to have a difficult time dealing with the present. But when I asked her about the past, like the summer she moved into the nursing home, she remembered things in excruciating detail.”

  They leaned in closer.

  “Did she talk about Pamela? About her problems that summer with a man?”

  “Not directly. I think Pamela protected her mother from the sordid details of her life. But Dolores did remember a few things that were odd. She remembered the day Pamela came to tell her she was going back to New York. Pamela told her it was important, that it was crucial she leave, even though she had promised her mother she’d stay another few weeks.”

  “Did she tell her why?” Izzy asked.

  “I couldn’t tell. I talked to one of the nurses who’s been there as long as Dolores. She said Dolores was very upset when Pamela left early. She was just becoming comfortable in the nursing home, and Pamela’s abandoning her was difficult. She took a turn for the worse. Wouldn’t eat. Didn’t want to be there. But then a strange thing happened, and she rallied.”

  “What was that?”

  “Dolores told me about this herself. She started receiving beautiful bouquets of flowers, every single day. Enormous arrangements, roses and orchids, lilies and birds of paradise. Each day they were different, one arrangement more beautiful than the next. Dolores described them in amazing detail, like a photographer might. She remembered the kinds of flowers, how tight the buds were, the brilliant colors. It was amazing.”

  “Were the flowers from Pamela?”

  “The nurse said no. Pamela was edgy when she heard about it, nervous that someone was sending her mother flowers, and she asked the nurses to check them carefully. They thought that was an odd request—but did as she asked. The flowers meant so much to Dolores, though, that they always gave them to her. The nurse said she’d never seen such beautiful blooms.”

  Birdie sat back in her chair as Margaret Garozzo set four bowls of steaming clam chowder on the table.

  “Then another odd thing happened. One day, about a month later, the flowers stopped coming. Just like that. No notice. Dolores remembered the exact day. September 15. The nurse couldn’t verify the date, but she said Dolores sometimes remembered obscure things from her past—like the exact date she had a tetanus shot. So she was probably right about the date. And she was absolutely right that the flowers never came again. Not after that day. Every single day, then nothing. The staff and residents missed them almost as much as Dolores did.”

  Nell looked over at Birdie’s notepad. “What’s that?” She pointed to a name written out and underlined.

  Birdie looked down. “That’s the name of the florist. The staff loved the flowers so much that they remembered where they came from and started using the florist for holiday events.”

  Birdie looked up to see Mary Pisano and Nancy Hughes, weaving their way between the tables. Their faces were somber. Nancy said something to Mary, then walked toward the rest-room. Birdie waved Mary over to the table.

  “How are things going?” Nell asked. It was one of those things you say, but you already know the answer. Things are fine—as fine as they can be.

  Not so fine at all.

  “It’s not been a great day,” Mary began.

  “What?” Cass asked.

  Mary sighed. “Jerry Thompson had us come down to the station again. He’s trying to tie up some loose ends, he said. It’s distressing.”

  “What kind of loose ends?”

  “Random questions. And repeating the same things we’ve told him before. Nancy and I each talked to him this morning, separately, as if we’d have different stories, imagine. They’ve talked to family members again. And Kevin just texted me that he’s headed down to the station now.”

  “Kevin?” Izzy said. “Why?”

  “He doesn’t know any more than we do. Just confirming what we don’t know, I guess.”

  “But on the up side of things, Kevin has a month’s worth of breakfast menus made up. And as soon as the police nail this, maybe I’ll actually have overnight guests to enjoy them.”

  “I think they’re close,” Izzy said.

  Mary’s smile was slow to come. “You do?”

  “We hope so. And I know you do, too.” Birdie’s calming voice brought a genuine smile to Mary’s lips. “And I wouldn’t worry about the questions. It’s just what they do. Dotting i’s and crossing t’s.”

  “There may be a connection between the married man Pamela was involved with that summer and the murder,” Nell said.

  “Married? I didn’t know he was married,” Mary said.

  Nell nodded.

  Mary was quiet, frowning. “Married,” she said again, as if processing its significance. “What would Troy’s connection be?”

  “Maybe he knew who murdered Pamela; at least that’s a possibility.”

  “So . . . blackmail?” Mary said slowly. “That’s plausible. Troy was different after Pamela died—but not in a grieving way. He was even cockier, more arrogant than before. And it would explain all that money. I often wondered why he even stuck around to paint the eaves for us, but somehow Nancy talked him into it. Do you think the man Pamela was involved with still lives on Cape Ann?”

  Nell started to shake her head but was saved from answering by Nancy’s return and the arrival of the beefy deli owner.

  Harry Garozzo wedged himself in between Nancy and Mary, wrapping an arm around each of them. “How am I so blessed?” he said. “Six of Sea Harbor’s most ravishing ladies in my deli at the same time. God is good.”

  “You’re just a lucky man, Harry. A heck of a lucky man,” Cass said.

  “Come, come,” Harry said, and he ushered Mary and Nancy to the front of the deli, his arms still around their waists, guiding them toward a festive display of cheeses, wines, and flatbreads. “The perfect welcome for Ravenswood-by-the-Sea gues
ts,” they heard him say. “A beautiful guest basket—”

  They pulled their attention back to the table, trying to bury their increasing anxiety beneath slices of Harry’s strawberry cheesecake. A married man. A wife. In hushed tones and with heavy hearts, they tugged at the loose strands.

  Izzy was the first to stand up. “I have a class to teach. But it’s Thursday—knitting night. Will I see you later?”

  “Knitting night,” Nell repeated, startled at the loss of time.

  Birdie checked her watch. “I think Nell and I will do a little investigating. But we’ll be back in time. We’ve tossed all these things in the air. We need to bring them down calmly. One by one.”

  Nell nodded. “But I’m not sure I’ll have time to fix food for us.”

  “No problem,” Cass said. “We’ll order lobster rolls from Gracie, if need be.”

  “That would be lovely,” Birdie said.

  They bundled up and hurried off in different directions, with promises to meet at the usual time. But it wouldn’t be a usual Thursday night. They all knew that.

  Nell and Birdie sat in the Endicott CRV with the engine running, forcing heat into the car and gathering their thoughts.

  “The florist?” Birdie said. “It’s a long shot, but maybe they’ll have some record of Dolores Pisano’s flowers.”

  Nell nodded. The address Birdie had found for Flowers by Frances was in Gloucester, a short drive along the coast. An odd request like theirs would be better asked in person. Credibility could be questioned over a phone line, but people rarely—if ever—denied Birdie Favazza anything when standing in front of the diminutive matron, face to face.

  “Parking karma, as always,” Birdie said as Nell pulled into a space in front of the florist shop. It was long and narrow, as was Frances, the owner, who greeted them just inside the door. She wore a flowery name tag on her thick gray sweater and a sprig of holly in her hair.