Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “So that’s who made the front page of the paper,” Nell said. “Ben’s right, then. That long white ponytail was a trademark. I often saw her walking the beach. Alive is the word that always came to mind, though she never stopped to talk.”

  Izzy was smiling. “One time, this was a while ago, I was jogging with Abby in her stroller and we ran into her. Where were we?” She tugged at a memory, then gave it up and took a swig of Sam’s beer.

  “Birdie will know her with this description,” Nell said. “It was the long string of names that wasn’t familiar. I was imagining a wealthy Italian dowager and couldn’t come up with a single one in Sea Harbor. That’s one mystery solved then. Are you planning her funeral?”

  Nell looked over at Ben, who was strangely silent. “Ben?” she said.

  Ben shook his head. “No. And I’m sorry for dragging this out. I just wanted to make sure you knew who we were talking about. Here’s what’s going on. The police got a call last night to go to her home. When they got there, they found her on the floor.”

  The sirens again, Nell thought. “A heart attack?” she asked.

  “No.” Fiona drummed her fingers along the island top, her square chin set and her eyes blazing. “Dolores was clubbed to death with her own walking stick. Some bloody fool killed her.”

  For a few moments the only sounds in the room were those of the wind picking up, rustling the leaves in the maple tree, exciting the gulls, and in the distance, beyond the Endicott Woods, the incoming tide crashing against the shore.

  “Murdered,” Sam finally said. “What?”

  Nell looked over at Ben. He was unusually silent, and she could tell this wasn’t finished.

  Father Larry sipped his whiskey, his blunt fingers magnified through the crystal glass. “The announcement in the paper was a mistake and you can bet our Mary Pisano is pinning some young reporter’s ears back.”

  Nell and Izzy nodded; yes, that was true.

  “But whoever did it was correct in saying that there were more details to come. They’ll be spreading through town by tomorrow. It’s a horrible crime and the good people of Sea Harbor need to hear about it, it’s their right. Right now the police are exploring all the things you’d expect them to be looking at, including the possibility of robbery.”

  “I’ve done a couple photo shoots out there,” Sam said. “The neighborhood doesn’t seem to be the kind that would attract a serious thief.”

  “Probably true. But Jerry Thompson doesn’t want to rule anything out,” Ben said. “I talked to the chief briefly. He said the house was sloppily ransacked, things in disarray.”

  “I guess that sounds like a robbery—but it still doesn’t sit right. To rob one of those little houses—and then to kill the person? To what end?” Nell asked.

  “Dolores had some money stashed around her house. She kept it in strange places,” Fiona said. “Cookie jars, under a mattress, in an old coal stove she didn’t use. She sometimes joked to me about it. And it wasn’t nickels and quarters. She preferred fifty-dollar bills, as neat and clean as if she’d minted them herself. The house may not have looked like much, but there was money in it.”

  They’d all heard about people like that—Nell had a great aunt who died and left thousands of bills hidden in suitcases in her attic. But there was something more to this. A simple burglary in an eccentric woman’s house—even a robbery that ended tragically in a death—couldn’t be what had brought Father Larry, Ben, and Fiona together at their house, late on a Monday. The look was still there on Ben’s face. The one that said there was more to say.

  “Well, it’s about more than the fifty-dollar bills,” Ben said. “Elliott Danvers went to the police when he heard the news. He had a meeting scheduled with Dolores that she didn’t show up for.”

  “Elliott?” Nell asked. “She was meeting with a banker?”

  “Her banker. Elliott helped her with money matters, and not the fifty-dollar bills stashed around the house. Dolores Cardozo was a very wealthy woman.”

  “Rich?” Izzy and Nell spoke in unison. It matched nothing that had come before it.

  “Geez,” Sam said.

  “Sure, one doesn’t have to look rich to be rich, but—” Izzy’s words fell off and then she smiled at the image of her hiker friend and the secret she held tight to her chest.

  Nell smiled, too. The thought of Dolores eating food from the Bountiful Bowl Café was somehow lovely. She was beginning to wish she had known Dolores Cardozo—and not at all because she was wealthy, but because no one knew it.

  Everyone was still sitting quietly and Nell wondered briefly if she should order pizza for everyone, or if they were about to leave. She looked up at the clock.

  Finally, Father Larry put down his glass. “Jerry Thompson, good man that he is, contacted me when the police were called to the house. He didn’t know if Dolores’d be wanting the last rites, you see. The chief is considerate about things like that—he noticed the crucifix on her wall and maybe had seen Dolores at Mass now and then.”

  “Who was it who called the police?” Sam asked.

  “Claire Russell,” Ben said.

  “Claire?” Nell said. Claire had suffered her own share of heartache over the years. A daughter dying as a teenager, losing her best friend and lover so recently. She didn’t need this. Finding a dead body was an awful thing, one not easily put to rest.

  “Yes. She was leaving Lambswool Farm after one of their sold-out farm dinners. She drives right by Dolores’s house on her way home—a shortcut she discovered. Somehow she and Dolores had become acquainted in recent years. So when Claire saw a light on in the house, she decided to drop off some spinach and tomatoes that hadn’t been used for the dinner. When Dolores didn’t answer the door, Claire figured she was out walking, so she went on in to leave the bag on the kitchen table. That’s when she found her. At first, she thought like you did, Izzy. That Dolores had had a heart attack. So she called nine-one-one, and the police called Father Larry,” Fiona said.

  “But before I even got there,” the priest said, “they knew she hadn’t died of a heart attack. Blunt force trauma, someone said. Awful thing. It was far too late for the last rites when I got there, so I gave Dolores a blessing and said a small prayer to send her off in peace, dear lady.”

  Nell looked over at Izzy, knowing the lawyer gene in her niece was recording the details as they fell in place—as if it were important somehow for all of them to remember them. Sunday night. While she and Ben walked the beach, watching the tide—the miracles of nature unfolding in front of them—someone was murdering Dolores Cardozo.

  “She’d been dead for a while,” Fiona said, as if watching their minds trying to work out a timetable. “They don’t know for sure how long, but the coroner said it could have been as long as twenty-four hours. They’ll know more soon.”

  Sam frowned. “That’s a long time. And no one knew?”

  “Dolores wasn’t exactly sociable,” Fiona said. “I probably saw her as much as anyone. Well, no. Not as much as—” She stopped, considering her words. Then she reached for her beer and left the sentence hanging there.

  “So you’re saying it might have happened as early as Saturday, Saturday night? And the police didn’t discover her body until yesterday,” Izzy said, rearranging the order.

  Nell thought back. They’d been dealing with their own mystery during some of that time. Two young children who lived on Elm Street.

  Fiona was studying Nell. She nodded. “You had your own drama going on yesterday.”

  Nell frowned. She and Birdie often read each other’s minds, finished sentences. But she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about Sister Mary Fiona intruding on her mental space. But she nodded back, politely. After all, Fiona had been a part of it, too, in a way. But showing up Sunday surely wasn’t what was on the nun’s mind today, what brought her to their home. In fact, there was no reason to think about that incident at all. Not in the middle of a discussion about a murder.

 
She looked at Fiona intently, and wondered.

  Fiona went on, talking about meeting the four of them at the Stewart home. She seemed to be digressing completely from the uncomfortable talk about a murder. But Ben and Father Larry made no move to pull her back. And the expressions on their faces suggested the others not do so either.

  “Nell,” Fiona said, “I know you suspected that I wasn’t entirely sure things were okay in that house yesterday. I meant every word of their mom being a good mother, but I wasn’t at all sure where she was. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t running errands at Marshalls or Target or the Market Basket.”

  “Why is that?” Sam asked. “Izzy sometimes calls Marshalls her Sunday Church.”

  Father Larry chuckled.

  Fiona kept talking, as if she’d never get to the end of the story if she stopped. “For starters, Kayla didn’t have a car this weekend. It’s over in Shelby Pickard’s shop, waiting for some part that I had offered to help her pay for. Money is tight in the Stewart household but she needs her car. She’s been getting around for a few days on an old bike I gave her.”

  “So where was she?” Izzy asked.

  “I didn’t know, at least not when I saw all of you. Scared me silly. Those two kids are Kayla’s life. Her whole life. She would never have left them alone for hours if she could help it. Leaving them alone all night? Never, not in a million years would she do that. So I started calling around, waitresses at the Ocean’s Edge, where she works. A couple babysitters she uses. Anyone I could think of. A waitress she works with had heard from her on Saturday but not since. She’d been looking for someone to watch the kids for an hour, the woman told me. A neighbor said the same, but they were leaving town. The babysitters I reached said the same. She needed someone for just an hour but there was a big event at the high school that night and none of them could help. I suspect she even called me, but my phone had run out of batteries Saturday. She finally told Christopher that she was running an errand and would be back soon. She did that a few times, he said, like when she’d run to the grocery store for milk.

  “Anyway, no one had heard from her since Saturday so I started calling clinics, ERs. The Beverly Hospital said a young woman fitting her description had been brought in.”

  The images of two beautiful children played across Nell’s mind like a slow-motion movie. Her chest tightened.

  “She’s okay,” Fiona said immediately, and Nell released the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

  “She had a bump on her head and a badly bruised forehead—as if she’d fallen and hit something. Apparently the blow to her head resulted in a concussion. But she’ll be fine. Kayla Stewart is a very strong woman and has experienced far greater hurt than a bump on the head. When the doc heard she was riding a bike—Christopher saw her riding off on it—he said she could have lost control, maybe flew off it and hit her head on a boulder. He said accidents like that are a dime a dozen around here with granite boulders all along the roads.”

  But Fiona was using the same tone of voice she used to convince them that the kids were okay the day before, and that their mother would be back shortly. Kayla may be all right, but something wasn’t. Nell watched the concern flooding Fiona’s face as she continued.

  “Kayla was found wandering around on a back road, not knowing where or who she was—which, of course, was why she didn’t get in touch with me—or someone—to be with the kids. A man driving by spotted her weaving on and off the easement, right into the road. At first he thought she’d been drinking and might get hit, so he stopped. She couldn’t tell him her name or address. She didn’t have a wallet or phone with her. Nothing. Her forehead was bleeding, the blood running down her face—so he took her to the emergency room over in Beverly, where he was headed.”

  “Amnesia?” Izzy said.

  “Yes. Temporary amnesia, the doctor said. I called a sitter for the kids and went over to the hospital.” She took the thumb of whiskey Father Larry pushed in front of her and swallowed it down in a single gulp, as if the sting to her throat would bolster her to get the rest of the story out. “She knew I looked familiar when I walked in but at first she couldn’t remember my name. She was fuzzy. The doc said her memory would come back, probably soon, but it was unpredictable. She had had a slight concussion and he was keeping her overnight. He suggested I talk about her family to try to pull her out of the haze.

  “As soon as I mentioned Sarah Grace and Christopher, she went crazy. Frantic. Memories of her kids came back instantly. And she was wild with worry, pushing herself up and flinging her legs over the side of the bed, pummeling me with questions. Where were they? Had she left them somewhere? Were they all right?

  “It was only after I told her several times that they were fine and healthy and safe that she began to settle down. She was insisting I find clothes for her and take her home. Finally, after promising I’d stay the night with the kids just like I’d done the night before, she settled back into the pillows. A nurse gave her a sedative. She was sleeping when I left.”

  “How awful for her, realizing the children had been alone for so long,” Nell said.

  Sister Fiona didn’t answer at first. It was clear she was playing the role of protector, not only of the kids but of their mother, too. Finally, she said, haltingly, “She remembered only bits and pieces—not that she had been gone overnight. She remembered that she had something she needed to do—an important errand that would take less than an hour. She couldn’t remember what it was or where she was going—or how she had gotten out to that road where the man from Beverly found her. All I know is what I finally pulled out of Christopher after all of you left the house yesterday. His mother had made them an early dinner and told them she was going to run an errand. Christopher was in charge, she told him, and shouldn’t let anyone in. She’d be home in time for dessert. The only reason he’d gone to the Laundromat that night was because Sarah Grace had spilled chocolate milk on her uniform and he wanted to surprise his mother so she wouldn’t have to do it and they could go to the park on Sunday.”

  “And then what?” Sam asked.

  “And that’s it. She didn’t come home. But she couldn’t remember anything else, once she had gotten on her bike and headed out from home. She has no idea what caused the lump on her head.”

  Izzy, Sam, and Nell sat in silence, fragments of what they were hearing floating around in their heads.

  It was Izzy, her desire for order and logic working overtime, who looked at Ben. “Uncle Ben, what are we missing? First we’re talking about the awful murder of a woman we don’t know well. And now, about the mother of two kids who had an accident. This whole conversation is disjointed. Why were the three of you sitting in the den talking about these two incidents—at least I presume that’s what was going on behind the closed door?” She paused for a breath and looked at Fiona and Father Larry, then back to Ben. “Why? What’s the connection?”

  “Okay, you’re right, Izzy,” Ben said. “Here’s what connects everything. When the police roped off Dolores’s property, they found a bike leaning against a tree in her yard, not far from the house. The bike belonged to Kayla Stewart.”

  Chapter 8

  Cass knew the instant Nell and Izzy told her about what had happened to Kayla Stewart’s bike, the injury, the night in the hospital she now had a face to go with Christopher and Sarah Grace’s mother.

  She sat in the cool sand near the wide steps of the Sea Harbor Yacht Club patio, facing the sea as she took in the news that hadn’t made the morning paper. She had kicked off her Birks and was pushing her heels into the sand, her knees bent and her hands cradling her head as if holding in the chunks of the story she was hearing for the first time.

  Behind her, Izzy, Nell, and Birdie sat in a semicircle of Adirondack chairs, coffee mugs from the club patio balanced on the wide arms.

  The sun was warm, beating down on bare arms, the cool ocean breeze a soothing salve. Birdie’s knitting bag sat opened at her feet, but her eyes were on
Izzy and Nell as they repeated everything they knew about Kayla’s missing two days. And a bike that was now in residence at the Sea Harbor police station.

  The four women had planned to come together Tuesday morning—somewhere—to list community groups that might help with their new knitting project. The HMS project, Izzy’s shop manager Mae called it. Hats, Mittens, Scarves. A community effort that would result in enough hats, mittens scarves and socks to warm anyone in need for the long winter ahead.

  Nell suggested they avoid Izzy’s busy shop and Harbor Road activity, retreating instead to the yacht club patio and beach. That area would be nearly deserted on a Tuesday morning, and the club’s coffee was much preferable to what Izzy produced in her back room. They’d also avoid the storm that was sure to grow as more details of Dolores Cardozo’s murder were passed around the town coffee shop, the deli, the bookstore, and along the sidewalks of Harbor Road.

  But mostly it was the power of the sea they wanted, the calming motion of the tide that would cushion their thoughts and talk of Dolores Cardozo’s murder and the mystery of where Kayla Stewart had been—and why.

  They had all read the article in the morning paper, the earnest reporter fulfilling his promise to provide details of Dolores’s death, although the article was once again scant in true details. The two-inch headline that covered the front page was nearly as big as the article that followed. Mary Pisano had clearly not corralled her reporter as adeptly as she had hoped. Birdie had brought the paper with her and read it aloud, puzzled by its brevity and tone:

  Dolores Francesca Maria Cardozo met her untimely demise in the living room of her own home, a small woodstove-heated house on Old Quarry Road. She was killed by a blow to the head during what may have been a robbery gone bad.

  The exact time the robber ransacked Miss Cardozo’s home and delivered the fatal blow has not been determined. However, reports indicate that her body was discovered Sunday by a Sea Harbor resident delivering spinach to the victim, who was a vegetarian.