“Is that so?” Izzy said, sitting down next to him. The name was beginning to feel comfortable.
“So, would you guys like to ask me any questions before we get started? Make sure you’re comfortable with me?”
“It’s not really a question,” Izzy said. “I just want to be sure we’re on the same page. We were surprised you wanted to do a feature on us—we’re not all that interesting—but it’s fine, as long as the project we’re doing gets nice coverage. That’s what’s really interesting.”
Richie chuckled. “Well, here’s the thing. This town has more to offer than being a dot on a map. You just need to scratch your way through the surface and you see all sorts of stuff. You’d be amazed at what I’ve discovered. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, now,” Birdie said pleasantly, “that’s interesting. I’m not sure how much surface there is to scratch but we’ll see. You did a nice job writing about the food pantry. It’ll be nice to have Izzy’s shop and the knitting pro—”
“You liked the food pantry article, too?” Richie broke in. “That’s great. I got lots of compliments on it. I met lots of great people doing that, hanging out over there, and I learned a lot. It helped me steer my ship, plan ahead, if you know what I mean.”
“You learned a lot about the Bountiful Bowl, you mean?” Birdie asked. She frowned, expressing the confusion they were all feeling. Richie Pisano was a decent writer, apparently, but his conversation seemed a bit scattered.
“So, here’s the thing, Miss Birdie. You have to follow the arrows, catch the way the wind is blowing. Everything leads to something else. You meet people, and they tell you things, lead you to other people, and in between all of that are other projects, more people, interesting tidbits. You collect ’em all. The secret is to just keep your ears clean and your eyes open—and then the whole town becomes an opportunity.”
They listened politely, although Richie Pisano’s enthusiastic explanation left them wondering what he’d been doing before coming in to the yarn shop.
“What kinds of opportunity are you discovering or looking for?” Nell asked nicely, trying to bring some sense to Richie’s talk. “I agree that Sea Harbor is full of opportunity.”
Richie leaned forward, his hands flat on the table now, his face serious as he gave the question more attention than Nell had intended. He seemed to be enjoying the chance to be the focus of all their attention. Finally, he said, “My editor gives me that opportunity to be a better writer by letting me write these human interest stories. Absolutely. She says I’m good at it.”
He seemed to blush slightly, but it was difficult to tell beneath the wash of freckles.
“But it also gives me the opportunity to meet people. I do research on people I interview—it’s a big part of my work. I’m good at it. It’s all so interconnected, you know? One person leads to another and another. It’s this huge, widening circle, and in every ring of it there’s something to explore, some kind of opportunity for me. You just have to open your eyes. Do you get it?”
There was silence as they tried to process Richie’s thoughts. His grin was slightly off and Nell wondered briefly if he was putting them on and everything coming out of his mouth was a joke or one giant tease. Or if there was a point to anything he was saying.
Finally, she asked, “Can you give us an example of what you’re talking about? She also said you were very thorough when you wrote the article on the Bountiful Bowl Café a while back. Is that what you’re talking about? Did you find opportunities as you worked on other articles?”
Richie grinned. “Yeah, I’ve written good articles for the local rag. Better than most, as far as I can tell. And as for opportunities, sure there were mega opportunities. You have to look for them is the thing. But if you do, you’ll find them. You dig a little and there it is—a diamond in the rough.”
Warming to his subject, Richie went on.
“I thought a few times folks were going to kick me out of those places, like the bank, the soup place, but you just have to know how to treat people and you’d be surprised what doors open. Case in point—the Bountiful Bowl Café. The nun introduced me to Kayla Stewart, and she let me ride shotgun with her while I was doing my research. I got to know Kayla really well. A lot about her, too. Interesting gal. You just have to scratch the surface, like I said. And that’s when you find it, a diamond in the rough—that was Kayla.”
Cass frowned and opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.
“Are you and Kayla friends?” Birdie asked.
Richie nodded, smiled. “Sure. I know Mr. Endicott gives her rides sometimes. She’s had some trouble with her car.”
A strange segue, Nell thought. And how did he know Ben gave Kayla a ride? Was Richie Pisano Kayla’s boyfriend or was he stalking her? She thought of Charlie, then looked back to Richie.
“So you helped Kayla deliver meals,” Izzy was saying. “Did you ever meet Dolores Cardozo while you were doing that?”
“Dolores Cardozo. Wow, now that was a surprise, right? Geesh. Poor lady. Dead. Terrible thing. I was on the graveyard shift that night. It was terrible. I went out to the Cardozo place with Kayla a few times.” His fingers were drumming the table as he talked. Nervously, as if talk of murder wasn’t why he was there. “But I never met the Cardozo lady. I saw the house from a distance—that was about it. Kayla was pretty proprietary about it all. She made me stay in the car. Dolores didn’t like company, she said, and I guess the gal had a BB gun she’d use if people got too close.”
“But Dolores didn’t mind Kayla coming in?” Izzy asked.
“No, she liked Kayla. They’d talk. I waited thirty minutes one time, checked out the whole neighborhood while I was waiting for her. You know there’s a quarry back there? It’s cool.” He looked down at his iPad and turned it on. “I should stop talking about myself and start asking you guys some questions, right?”
“I have a question first,” Cass said. “Opportunities are pretty important to you. Why are you writing about us? What opportunity could we provide—knitting lessons?”
They all laughed, Richie the hardest. Too hard.
Finally, he said, “Hey, you’re the Seaside Knitters Society. Cream of the crop. The wonderful ladies who know everything about anything going on in Sea Harbor. Someone told me that you four together were about as close to the beating heart of this place as you could get. And that’s where I want to be, too. Close to the heart, feel the beat. Right?”
* * *
It was nearly five when they walked Richie Pisano to the shop’s front door.
After Cass’s question and Richie Pisano’s strange answer, the interview had morphed into questions Richie Pisano had carefully constructed, ones that had little to do with the yarn shop and the knitting project that dozens of people were generously participating in. The HMS project to warm the town.
Richie Pisano was more interested in the women organizing it, where they came from, what their husbands, living and dead, had done, what the women themselves had done before . . . well, as he put it, before knitting. And how Birdie Favazza ended up in that huge mansion up on the cliff.
The knitters would have none of it. Personal lives were personal. But they did give Richie the story about that Thursday night so long ago that they’d all met in the knitting shop, lured in by Nell’s seafood pasta, and had begun a weekly, near sacred tradition that deepened their friendship into the richest colors of a Sea Harbor sunset. How Nell’s amazing meals and Birdie’s Pinot became as integral to the evening as the piles of soft, fleecy angora and sea silk and fine merino yarn. How they’d sit in front of a blazing fire and knit their hearts out—head-hugger hats for friends with cancer, a wedding shawl for Izzy’s wedding, baby booties, prayer shawls, and now, during this glorious fall, how they were joining with all the knitters on Cape Ann to knit hats and mittens and socks and scarves to ensure that everyone on the rocky cape was kept warm and toasty during the robust, windy, and snowy winter to come.
/> By the time he left, the Seaside Knitters had written their own story for him, nearly word for word.
Richie, who seemed to have snoozed during parts of it, could take it or leave it.
* * *
“Was that just an hour?” Cass asked. They watched Richie climb into a bright red jeep and gun the engine.
“A long hour,” Nell agreed.
“That red car clashes with his hair,” Izzy said. “The guy has no fashion sense.”
Birdie chuckled as they walked back down to the comfort of their knitting room. “I think a recap is in order. Perhaps over that extra bottle of Pinot Gris I brought in last week.”
Adele was still singing and in minutes Izzy had the wineglasses out, along with a round of Camembert and plenty of crackers.
“How do you recap that?” Cass asked. “I think we got our story in place, but all that talk that came before it? What was that about? He’s weird.” She pulled her legs up beneath her on an overstuffed chair, making room for Purl to join her.
Izzy sat down across from her. She’d already finished one floppy winter hat and pulled out a ball of chunky purple yarn for the next. “See this yarn?” She untangled several strands of the cozy wool and cotton blend. “This color is called ‘giggle.’ That’s what I wanted to do halfway through all that talk about opportunity. And then just when I thought I might embarrass him by laughing at his sincere monologue, I started to shiver. What he was saying was suddenly not funny.”
“And what was he saying?” Cass asked without a hint of sarcasm. She shared Izzy’s feeling.
“That’s the thing,” Izzy went on. “I’m not sure. But as personable as Richie Pisano tries to be, he’s a little bit scary. He reminds me of a professor I had in law school. He could be charming, but he’d sometimes give these crazy lectures and we’d all walk out wondering what we’d just heard. And then we’d wonder if he’d done it on purpose, just to mess with us.”
Nell’s fingers were moving, her needles clicking as she worked on the second sock, a strand of bright blue yarn curling up in her lap. “He said he and Kayla are good friends.”
“I don’t like the idea that he might be Kayla’s friend,” Cass said, her words drawing smiles, even from herself. “What I mean is, well, I don’t know what I mean. It’s just a feeling. But the way he said it, how well he’d gotten to know her. Almost like he was bragging about it—all in that nice, friendly, smiley, Jimmy Olsen way. And then all that confusing talk about opportunity. What was that about? I was half sincere when I asked him what he hoped to get from us. It sounded . . . it sounded opportunistic.”
They were quiet for the next few minutes, letting the thoughts settle as Izzy spread Camembert on the crackers and passed them around.
She sat back and sipped her wine. “He went out to Dolores’s house with Kayla,” she said, taking the conversation in a different direction. “So he knew where she lived.”
“He said he never got out of the car—but he knew there was a quarry nearby,” Cass added. She looked over at Birdie. “You’re being awfully quiet, Ms. Favazza,” she said.
Birdie lifted her head, her fingers still playing with the plush red scarf puddling in her lap as it grew longer and longer. “Richie Pisano might be a fine young man, who knows? But he’s not what I expected. I suspect his goals aren’t exactly those of a cub reporter on a small-town newspaper. He’s friendly enough, but that being said”—she looked over at Nell—“I saw your face when he talked about going out to Dolores’s house with Kayla. That bothered you. Me too.”
Birdie was pulling them back from jumping to conclusions, and she was right to do it. But it was an unusual time, and sometimes suspicions were okay as long as they looked at them from all sides.
“There’s something about all his talk that doesn’t sit right,” Nell said slowly. “And as he said himself, you have to follow the arrows. I think Richie Pisano knows more than he’s saying.”
“About Dolores?” Izzy asked.
Nell picked up her wineglass and drank it slowly. She didn’t have an answer. None of them did. They were playing with emotions—their reaction to Richie—and with feelings that were scattered and unformed.
But a woman had been murdered. And she wondered briefly, thinking back on the odd interview and Richie’s confusing talk, if murder itself might be thought of as an opportunity.
Chapter 21
The elegant bank board room was filling up with early arrivals, including many of Cape Ann’s nonprofit directors and CFOs, surprised and happy to be included in however small a way, yet awkwardly wanting to express condolences to acknowledge their benefactor’s death—a benefactor who was a virtual stranger to most of them.
But there was no one there to accept the condolences—not a daughter or son, a husband, or even a distant relative. In fact, there was no one with the name Cardozo anywhere in the Danvers Bank executive meeting room.
When Father Lawrence Northcutt walked in with Birdie, the popular priest was greeted with hugs and greetings and some relief, the kind a pastor can effect when there is both expectation and uncertainty in the air. He sensed the awkwardness and immediately assumed the role of accepting condolences.
“Dolores was a good person, a generous parishioner we will all dearly miss,” he said, and then he spoke individually and in groups about a quiet woman who had already benefited their community—and would continue to do so, even in death.
And finally, when he had people’s attention, he said, “Weddings and funerals are the two things that can tear families apart. You toss in inheritances and it can only get more complicated. I’m here to keep the peace.” His smile was wide, filling his round face as people nodded to his words.
Marian Brandley, Danny’s aunt, came up to Birdie with a huge smile filling her pleasant face. “Now tell me this, Birdie, how in heaven’s name did I end up on this list? Isn’t this one for the books?” Marian laughed at her own choice of words. Known as Marian the librarian, the well-loved Sea Harbor head librarian was plainspoken, friendly, and known by every single Sea Harbor Library patron—which included the entire town. Between Marian and her brother, Archie, who owned the Sea Harbor Bookstore, they were unofficially considered Sea Harbor literati. What one hadn’t read, the other had. The two also competed regularly as to who had been the biggest influence on Danny Brandley, the successful mystery author: his aunt or his father. What wasn’t in contention, however, was their unabashed and loving pride for Danny and for each other.
“I was thrilled to see your name. And the library’s bequest, too. Every single one of us should remember you in our wills. But it is curious when you scan through the list. I’m sure many people are happily puzzled at seeing their names on it.”
Marian’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I’m sure that’s true. I knew Dolores, though not in one single way that should merit a mention in her will. I’ll miss her. I loved watching that keen mind of hers pull things together.”
“You noticed that in the library?”
“I did. She was one of my regulars.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that she was an avid reader, but I’m learning that she avoided crowds. And your library is always buzzing.”
“Oh, she signed out books, sure, but her time in the library was spent sitting in her ‘office,’ as she called it. Not reading.”
“Office?”
“One of those small computer alcoves in the research room. They’re identical, but Dolores claimed one particular one had good karma. I believe firmly in good karma so I tried to make sure it wasn’t in use when Dolores needed it—which was often, especially recently. Once or twice I even shuffled people about when I saw her coming.”
“It’s odd that she didn’t have her own computer.”
“They don’t get good Wi-Fi out on Old Quarry Road—but lord, now we know she could have bought her own computer store.” Marian chuckled. “Maybe she just liked my Colombian dark roast. I always kept some brewing in the back room for her. I
t was strong enough to make your hair stand up straight.”
“Did you like her?” Birdie asked. Everyone in that room liked Dolores today, of course. But Marian was a straight shooter, kind and honest at once.
She considered Birdie’s question, but not for long. “Yes, I did. Dolores was unique, a character, but a decent and very intelligent one. She was even good on computers. She knew her way around the Internet better than Google. Every now and then I’d help out a bit, but not often and usually just with system glitches.”
“I’m having a hard time visualizing the Dolores who walked all over Cape Ann with her walking stick with the computer, Dolores. How did she use it? Was she secretly playing FreeCell and reading the New York Times like so many of my friends?”
“Dolores? Oh, good grief, no. Dolores came in to work. She was all business. Writing down figures. Calculating something or another. Checking ledgers, programs. This sheet and that sheet. The woman was a human calculator. She was very serious about it. I asked her about it once and she said she both loved and respected numbers. They were sacred and pure, and then she added gravely, ‘And they should never ever be abused.’ I had a brief fleeting feeling that I had just cheated on a math test and been caught.”
Birdie chuckled but tucked the conversation away. From all she’d learned, Dolores Cardozo didn’t speak frivolously.
Birdie joined Elliott Danvers on the other side of the room and the two looked over the short agenda, then chatted quietly, with one eye on the door, mentally recording each arrival. Chief Jerry Thompson came in, gave a small wave to Elliott and Birdie, and then followed Tommy to chairs near the back of the room. Beyond the open board room doors people hovered, peering in, then walking on. Bank personnel, Birdie supposed. And by now they probably all knew why the crowd was gathering. When she glanced into the lobby again, she was surprised to see a mop of red hair in the distance.
Richie Pisano was chatting with two young women near the door, but his eyes kept drifting to those inside the room.
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