Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Things must be in turmoil over at the station,” Nell said. “It hasn’t been a good week so far.”

  Father Northcutt glanced over at the police chief’s tired face.

  “Not a good week,” Jerry concurred.

  Nell glanced at Birdie. There was a strangeness about the conversation, the words stilted and the men uncomfortable standing there with them.

  Elliott pulled his keys from his pocket, but his eyes kept going back to Birdie. He looked indecisive, as if he was playing out some kind of decision in his head, weighing the pros and cons.

  It was Elliott who finally broke the silence. “We weren’t expecting to run into you.”

  Nell felt an irrational need to apologize for something, although she had no idea what that would be. The yacht club was a popular place to go, and they often ran into friends there, though maybe not the police chief, their banker, and a priest, all at once.

  But Elliott was focusing on Birdie. “I need to talk with you about something, Birdie. May I have my office call you to set up a meeting?”

  “No, you may not,” Birdie said. She frowned. “You can’t say something so cryptic and then leave Nell and me standing here. We’d imagine wild tales.”

  Elliott tried to smile. “I don’t mean to be secretive, but it’s business, and we can talk better at the—”

  Birdie interrupted, her small frame seeming to grow taller as she faced the banker. “Good heavens, Elliott Danvers. Nell is my dearest friend in the whole world. If her presence is why you’re being evasive or subtle or whatever it is you’re being, stop it right now. If, as my banker, you are trying to tell me my Sonny’s fortune has somehow gone up in smoke and my house is in foreclosure, there’s no one I’d rather have at my side to hear it than Nell Endicott. Besides, should I be destitute, she and Ben have a delightful guest cottage I quite fancy.”

  That drew smiles. Elliott shifted his briefcase and smiled at Nell in a kind of apology, then looked back to the small formidable woman in front of him.

  “You’re right, Birdie, of course you are. We’ll still have to meet about this, but in a nutshell, Dolores Cardozo left a surprising last will and testament.”

  Birdie nodded. Of course she did. It’s something any wise woman of a certain age would do. She looked over at Nell, who suppressed a smile, reading Birdie’s thoughts: I greatly admire these three lovely men—most of the time. But today they seem a bit daft.

  Elliott cleared his throat and tried again.

  “Miss Cardozo’s will has been written with careful thought and attention to detail. That includes her choice of executor. And that, Birdie, is you.”

  Chapter 9

  Nell took a shortcut across the small park at the corner of Harbor Road. She had almost forgotten that she’d signed up for today’s shift at the church’s food pantry. She walked around to the side door of the church and noticed a large colorful sign she hadn’t seen there before.

  THE BOUNTIFUL CAFÉ, it read. WELCOME ALL! The sign was bordered in hand-painted flowers, birds, and bumblebees, clearly the work of spirited budding artists from the school.

  She pulled open the heavy door and followed the sweet smells of cinnamon and coffee that wafted up from the kitchen below.

  Once an all-purpose room, the space near the church kitchen had been completely redone and was now filled with white-clothed tables for four, creating a cozy restaurant atmosphere. On each plate was a typed menu, and each table held a slender vase holding a single flower.

  Sister Fiona had insisted on the layout, as well as merging diners and volunteers into one harmonious whole with the diners taking turns waiting tables, lettering menus, doing dishes, right alongside the volunteers.

  “I don’t wait in line at a restaurant—except at Harry’s deli—do you?” Fiona had demanded of Nell the first day she’d volunteered. And then she’d answered her own question. “No, of course you don’t.” Her voice was stern as if daring Nell to think any differently.

  Nell wove her way around the tables to the stainless steel kitchen, now exuding delicious odors. The new layout had necessitated more volunteers—Fiona had insisted on waitresses for the tables—and it made more work for the cooks, but it was worth the effort to see the faces of the diners, folks from the hidden pockets of Sea Harbor and outlying areas. Folks who needed and deserved a good restaurant meal as well as anyone—and with their dignity intact.

  Nell loved the cozy place, just as Fiona had told her she would on the day she had signed her up as a volunteer.

  “Nell, over here.” Laura Danvers waved at her from behind the wide serving counter.

  Nell followed the wave, greeting other volunteers as she walked into the kitchen and over to Izzy’s good friend. “Corn chowder,” Nell said, taking off the lid and leaning over a giant simmering pot. She breathed in the tantalizing odors—corn, turmeric and bacon, plenty of sharp cheddar cheese.

  Laura handed her a spoon. “Taste it. Do we need more salt?” She added, “It’s the Barefoot Contessa’s recipe.”

  Nell took a taste. “It’s delicious.” She set the spoon in the deep sink and looked around the room. “Is Sister Fiona here tonight?”

  “Nope. I’m in charge, for whatever that’s worth. She had something else tonight.”

  The Stewarts, Nell supposed. Cass had said she was going to stay there another night. She leaned against the counter, watching Laura choreograph the dinner plans with a bevy of volunteers. The banker’s wife was as dedicated to the project as Sister Fiona, Nell could see, watching her effortlessly pass instructions to the volunteers, check schedules, and in between tap messages into her phone. There was not a charity or benefit in town that Laura hadn’t touched in one way or another. “But there’s this whole other side to her,” Izzy had said of her friend recently. “The simple, funny, unpretentious mom and loyal friend—and in addition to everything else, Laura is an expert knitter.”

  “Did you see Gabby?” Laura asked Nell, pointing to the other end of the kitchen where two young girls were slicing bread. “She and my Daisy are in charge of bread baskets and pots of Annabelle’s apple butter that they talked her into donating. I’m putting them permanently on the donation committee. They’re awesome.”

  Nell waved at Birdie’s granddaughter. Gabby and Laura’s oldest daughter were joined at the hip, the bespeckled, studious Daisy a perfect counterpart to her carefree Gabby. Her Gabby. The thought had slipped out. But she had become close to all of Birdie’s close friends. Birdie’s granddaughter was integral to their lives, as close and loved as any blood relative could be.

  Gabby came charging around the long metal kitchen table and gave Nell a hug. “We get to waitress tonight,” she said. “Who knows, maybe Daisy and I will sing. Singing waitresses, what do you think?”

  Nell laughed.

  “As long as you don’t spill the soup,” Laura called over from a giant bulletin board, where she was running a finger down the list of today’s volunteers, checking off each one. “Did you see this article, Nell? We’re famous.” Laura pointed to a newspaper clipping that had been thumbtacked to the board.

  Gabby pulled Nell over to see it. “Daisy and I are in it,” she said proudly, then ran off to find her friend.

  Nell scanned the article, a breezy human-interest article that detailed the Bountiful Bowl and its volunteers, and sure enough, there was a shot of Daisy and Gabby stirring a pot of soup, complete with chef’s hats and a long caption about the girls’ great work. Expansive. Lots and lots of adjectives.

  “It must have been a slow news day.” Laura laughed. “It continues on the inside.”

  Nell lifted the page and glanced at the next—more long sentences, more photos of the Bountiful Bowl Cafe. She let it drop back. “Who wrote it?”

  “That reporter from the Sea Harbor Gazette. Richie somebody. The one who is probably on the outs with Mary Pisano and the Gazette editor for his announcement of Dolores Cardozo’s death. Kind of awful, don’t you think?”

  �
��I heard about that. I suppose he meant well,” Nell said.

  “It was still awful. He’s an opportunist. Makes nice to everyone, if you know what I mean. You wouldn’t believe the time he spent here, interviewing everyone, featuring some of the volunteers, the people who eat here, exploring who they are, what they are all about. Some didn’t like his questions and pushed him away, but others liked the attention. All for a little story that few people would read. Elliott said he’s hanging around the bank right now doing the same thing, somehow trying to find a story.”

  “Ambitious,” Nell said.

  Laura laughed. “He’s pretty chatty and has his nose in everything, schmoozing and asking a million questions. Elliott said he’d normally have given him a couple hours at most, mostly as a courtesy to the editor at the paper who’s a friend of ours. But the office manager had set it up and he didn’t want to embarrass anyone. Also the guy is funny and brings in donuts, so they let him hang around. He’s kind of a flirt—I saw that when he was here. I think Elliott just goes up to his office and closes the door. . . .”

  Laura’s voice trailed off as she looked back at her list, hesitating at the last name. She called over her shoulder to her daughter. “Daisy, have you or Gabby seen Kay—”

  Just then a figure raced through the restaurant area, heading their way. Laura grinned and grabbed an apron from the stack beneath the counter. She tossed it to the newcomer. “Great. Everyone’s here.”

  She turned back to Nell. “Richie picked out favorites to focus on in the article, like Daisy and Gabby. I mean, who wouldn’t? But I think he also had a crush on one of the volunteers.” She nodded at the short-haired woman who was slipping a white apron over her head. “He gave her plenty of attention. In fact, it made me a little nervous.”

  Nell looked over, her eyes moving immediately to the woman’s sweater. It was soft and slouchy, with a graceful fold in the front. Gorgeous and beautifully knit.

  “If you’d give those pots a stir,” Laura said, pointing Nell to the stove, where another pot of soup, this one filled with chicken, vegetables, and rice, was waiting.

  Nell leaned over to adjust the flame. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Laura moving closer to the newly arrived volunteer with the beautiful sweater. Laura’s face had a worried expression.

  Nell stirred the pot, catching stray words from Laura’s direction. “Hurt . . . what happened . . . go . . . doctor . . .”

  Diners were beginning to arrive and the kitchen came alive with bodies moving and voices colliding as fresh garden salads were tossed, pitchers filled with ice water, and small plates of olives, pickles, and raw veggies arranged on serving trays.

  Nell continued to catch glimpses of Laura’s worried face. She seemed oblivious to the activity around her, her attention riveted on the woman in front of her. Nell put the lid back on the pot and walked over. “Laura, is there anything I can do?”

  Laura turned toward Nell, the woman in front of her looking up now, and Nell immediately understood Laura’s concern. A thick gauze bandage covered the young woman’s forehead, the ends frayed and yellowed where the adhesive had pulled loose. A pink stain discolored the bandage at one end.

  “I’m fine, Laura,” the woman said, ignoring Nell. Her voice was so quiet it was difficult to pick up the words.

  “No, you’re not fine,” Laura said gently. “You need to see a doctor. I can take you over right now—”

  Nell rested her hand lightly on Laura’s arm to get her attention, knowing Laura was much more necessary to the evening meal than she was. “If it would help, I could drive her to the clinic—”

  “No,” the woman said, more to Laura than Nell, giving Nell only a cursory glance. She turned her back to Nell, speaking softly. “It’s not as bad as it looks. And I already have an appointment. It’s taken care of.”

  Nell stepped away, reading the young woman’s need for privacy.

  And knowing, suddenly and surely, who the young woman was.

  Although the bandaged woman didn’t know it, Kayla Stewart was no stranger to Nell. Nor were her injuries.

  She should have recognized her immediately—the short black hair, the slight, boyish figure. She matched perfectly the image that Cass had verbally painted for them, all the way to the ear pinna pierced with tiny rings. She looked tired, and Nell suspected she hadn’t eaten in recent days. Her arms were wound around herself, the sleeves of the soft sweater curling over her fingers, as if that was all that was holding her together.

  * * *

  An hour later, Laura brought Kayla over to the stove, where Nell was stirring the last pot of simmering soup, adding cream and broth when the soup became too thick.

  Laura introduced the two women and left Kayla there to help Nell refill bowls of soup.

  For a while the two women worked quietly next to each other, passing and filling bowls, placing them on the waitresses’ trays. It wasn’t until the pot was nearly empty and desserts were being passed to the tables that Nell decided she needed to let Kayla know the connection between them. It felt deceptive, somehow, not saying anything. But she started by talking about the woman’s sweater, the stitches even more admirable close up and the mulberry merino wool and silk yarn rich and lustrous. Nell fought to keep from touching it.

  “Kayla, your sweater is absolutely beautiful. Did someone make it for you?”

  Kayla looked down at the arms of the sweater, pushed up now to keep them clean, as if she’d never seen it before. Then she said matter-of-factly, “Thanks. I knit it a few years ago.”

  “I am very impressed. It’s lovely.”

  When the conversation wasn’t picked up by Kayla, Nell plunged in. “Kayla, I owe you an explanation.”

  Kayla touched the bandage lightly with her fingers, the frown beneath it tightening uncomfortably. “No you don’t. I was the one who was rude. I just needed to talk to Laura, that’s all.” She looked at the soup pot, not Nell, while she talked.

  Kayla surely knew about the group of women who had come to her house. Fiona would have told her, knowing if she hadn’t, Sarah Grace would have. But Kayla had a right to have faces to put to the visitors, especially if she had any lingering worries about it, which Izzy was sure she would have. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about last Sunday when you weren’t home,” Nell said.

  Kayla’s frown deepened. She fingered her ear, twisting the rings gently, large green eyes now focused intently on Nell. She was silent, waiting.

  “My friend Cass Halloran found some school clothes that Father Northcutt thought belonged to your children. He gave us your address so we brought them by. You weren’t home so we left them with the children. They’re beautiful, by the way. I hope we didn’t frighten them.”

  Kayla took a steadying breath. “So you were one of them. . . .” She spoke slowly, as if fitting a piece into a mental puzzle, matching a face to a story. Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “There were four of you. Sister Fiona told me about it. Who were the others?”

  “Birdie Favazza,” Nell began.

  Kayla repeated the name, almost to herself, and said softly, “Sea Harbor’s wise materfamilias.”

  Nell’s brows lifted. “Do you know Birdie?”

  “No. But a lady I know . . . used to know . . .” she paused for a moment and looked away, as if the look of sadness that shadowed her face was private. When she looked back it was gone. “She talked about the Favazzas once, Birdie and her husband. They were good people, wise and kind in the best of ways.” Kayla’s words were said more to herself, as if remembering counsel someone had once given her.

  But Nell caught each word and tucked them away. “That’s an apt description, although Birdie’s husband, Sonny, died years ago.”

  Kayla stood silent, listening, waiting.

  “We didn’t intend to go inside your house,” Nell went on. “Christopher was very clear about us staying on the porch. You’ve raised him well. It was sweet Sarah Grace and Shep who had other plans.”

  Ka
yla nodded, a slight smile lifting her mouth.

  “Izzy Perry was with us, too. She owns the yarn shop over on Harbor Road. She would love to see that sweater sometime, by the way.”

  “I’ve seen her shop window,” she said. “Gorgeous yarn. It makes me drool, but is out of my reach. Someday maybe I’ll go inside.”

  “Cass Halloran was the fourth person. She was the one who found the clothes. She and her brother have a lobster company here in Sea Harbor.”

  “Do they keep any boats near the harbor pier?”

  Nell nodded.

  “Christopher loves watching the men unload their catch. He wants to be a fisherman.”

  “Maybe Cass could take him on one of the boats sometime.”

  When Kayla didn’t answer, Nell figured she’d talked enough about Sunday’s adventure. What Nell cared about was for Kayla to have real people connected to the women who had invaded the privacy of her home, who had talked with her children, who had walked through her house. She wanted her to be able to put kind faces on the intruders.

  Kayla’s narrow face had relaxed some, especially when Nell mentioned the children. She responded immediately to the mention of their names.

  But mostly what Nell noticed—and what she’d think about later—was the look in Kayla Stewart’s eyes. They were the color of the sea, startling in their brightness. Intelligent eyes filled with profound emotion. A mirror to her soul.

  * * *

  Later, as Nell helped Laura turn out the lights in the café, she thought about Kayla Stewart again. In spite of her injury, she had worked hard all night, laughing now and then when Gabby and Daisy broke into an impromptu dance or song routine.

  “Kayla doesn’t seem old enough to have two children,” Nell said to Laura as they walked into the night, the sky lit by a sliver of moonlight.

  “I know, right? She’s twenty-nine, but she looks about nineteen. It’s the hair, I think.”

  Nell nodded, wondering why she had cut it so dramatically. It looked like she might have cut it herself.

  “Kayla shocked all of us when she cut her hair,” she said. “She had hair to die for. The most gorgeous thick black waves you can imagine. Then one day she showed up looking like a tough kid, someone out of a Dickens novel. I guess she wanted a new look—sometimes we all do things like that. And, hey, hair grows back.”