“But it’s considerable?” Cass said.
Birdie nodded and then she turned to Ben. “Are you thinking Kayla knew about it ahead of time?”
Ben thought about the question, not answering it directly. Instead, he said, “Maybe. And maybe this is just a feeling I have that I should shake off.”
“Before you shake, explain your feeling,” Birdie said.
“All right, here it is. Imagine that you are Kayla Stewart and someone tells you that you are included in a will written by a woman you did a few nice deeds for—taking her food, whatever. What would you think she might leave you in her will?”
Birdie considered the question, remembering Kayla’s reaction when she’d talked to her at the market. It seemed appropriate according to Ben’s hypothetical. “Something small. I suspected Kayla thought that, too. In fact, when I told her about the meeting at the market last Saturday, she wasn’t very interested in it. I had trouble holding her attention. She had something else on her mind. I was concerned she might not even show up.”
Ben chuckled. “So that’s why you insisted I drive her over? I was the watchdog to make sure she got there?”
Birdie laughed. “Yes. And you are a splendid watchdog, Ben Endicott.”
The waitress cleared the plates and brought fresh coffee and a plate of lemon bars. When she had walked off, Cass said, “Ben, something is going on in your head. You’re not usually the suspicious type.”
Ben poured a few drops of cream into his coffee. “You’re right, and I’m not very good at it. It’s an impression I had, that’s all, nothing more. And it wouldn’t hold up under much scrutiny. Any scrutiny, in fact. Besides, I’m hoping I’m wrong.”
“But something made you think that way,” Nell said. The irony of the situation didn’t escape any of the women sitting around the table. Impressions were valuable and even sacred to them, something Ben sometimes warned them about. Impressions and emotions didn’t convict people, he’d said more times than they could count.
“It was the way she reacted. I was sitting next to her through the whole reading of the will, close enough to feel any sudden movements, vibes. Kayla listened to everything in complete silence, not commenting or taking notes, as some others around us were doing. That’s her way, I think. Quiet and attentive. She seemed almost invisible, or at least wanting to be.”
He looked at Birdie and continued. “But when you finished reading the list of the beneficiaries and moved on to the trust—with Kayla as the sole beneficiary—she didn’t move a muscle. No movements, not even an involuntary twitch. No changes in breathing, no gasps, no indication of surprise, nothing. Others reacted plenty to their good fortune—happy gasps, congratulations to one another, even some scattered applause when their favorite foundation or charity got a boost. But when Kayla heard that she was the recipient of a sizable trust fund, she didn’t make a sound.”
They found themselves nodding along with Ben’s words. Imagining the scene. Then frowning. The image of a woman finding out that her life and her children’s lives were about to change in a way other people might dream about was not what Ben was describing.
“Do you think Dolores might have told her before she died?” Nell asked. She spoke the words slowly, hoping Ben’s answer would wipe that possibility off the table. Kayla’s narrow shoulders were already carrying more than their share of suspicion in the Cardozo murder.
Ben took a small lemon bar and finished it before answering. He wiped the sugar from his hands. “That was my thought—no, my fear—too. Like Cass said, being named in the will of someone who has been murdered arouses suspicion. And when you add Kayla being at the scene, it moves her closer to the front of the line.
“But,” he said, his tone a bit lighter, “I talked to Fiona on my way over here and she seemed relatively sure that Dolores wouldn’t have told her. There wouldn’t have been reason to, for starters, and she added that it wasn’t the way Dolores did things. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I called Elliott Danvers, and he said the same thing. Dolores wanted her affairs kept private. They’d talked about it only days before she died. I don’t think Fiona even knew about the will before Dolores died. And she was probably her closest friend.”
“She may not have known about Kayla’s trust, but Aunt Fiona told my ma that she and Dolores talked about the Cardozo land sometimes, ideas for its use. I doubt that part of the will surprised her.”
“I suppose that means that Davey Delaney doesn’t need to send Fiona roses?” Birdie asked.
Ben laughed. “Probably not, though it takes a lot to deter a Delaney.”
“He’s no match for my aunt,” Cass said.
“So if not Dolores, then who could have told her?” Nell asked.
“Or when,” Birdie said, the thought causing her to push away the last remnant of her lemon bar. Her appetite seemed to have taken a shift.
Ben had no idea. Birdie, Cass, and Nell kept their thoughts quiet.
“And again,” Ben added, “this thing with Kayla is just an impression, not a fact. I hope she didn’t know. But you know everyone in that room will probably be asked that question. Dolores was murdered. Money is the oldest motive in the books.”
Nell watched Ben, seeing concern beneath the tired eyes. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” she said. “What did Kayla say about the will when you drove her home.”
Ben’s reply came slowly, as if he himself didn’t completely understand what he was about to say. He looked out the window at the billowing clouds, the stark white sail of a lone boat heading out to sea. Finally, he shifted his attention back to the table.
“I’m not sure how to answer that. I’ll try, though, because I think Kayla needs our support and our help, although I’ll be damned if I know what that is and how we do it.”
And then he repeated what had happened once he and Kayla were alone in his car.
When Ben was finished, Nell and Birdie sat quietly, pulling apart his words and their own confused thoughts.
Cass got up and walked to the wall of windows framing the sea, her hands shoved in the pockets of her jeans, her own experience floating around on the edges of Kayla’s. A curse. Cass understood.
Ben stood and rotated his shoulders, his head working out the kinks. He picked up the check and told Nell he’d bring fresh fish home for dinner, then headed across the dining room.
Nell watched him walk around the tables toward the hostess station, his steps slowed by thoughts of Kayla Stewart. She knew that he had a meeting over at city hall, he had said, but being this close to the Sea Dreamer would encourage a detour and she wasn’t surprised when he walked out the side door and headed toward the pier instead of to his car. He’d go to the slip, if only to lean against the hull of the forty-two-foot sailboat—and his day would become calmer because of it.
Birdie suggested she needed something to clear her head, fresh air maybe.
No one resisted and they collected their sweaters and walked out the sliding back doors, across the empty patio, and down a set of stairs to the beach and the welcoming arms of ocean air and smooth sand.
“Hey, there. We meet again. Same place, even.”
Hannah Swenson was waving and heading toward them from the opposite direction. She wore a sailing hat, shorts, and a T-shirt with Seaside Initiative silk-screened across it in rainbow colors. Her blond hair was loose today, escaping beneath the hat and blowing across tan and toned bare shoulders.
“I just saw Ben,” she said. “From a distance. Just to wave.”
“Down at the slips?” Nell asked.
“Yes, headed toward his boat, I think. He was deep in thought or I’d have stopped him to let him know I finally bit the bullet. I bought a small sailboat—not as fancy as his, but it’s nice. I was checking it out today, hence the unusual getup.” She looked down the length of her body. “Not my usual navy blue suit.”
“But more comfortable,” Birdie said. “You’re a sailor? Is there anything you don’t do, Hannah Swenson?”
> “Oh, yes. Lots of things, Birdie. Confession? I don’t sail. Crazy, right? But my son, Jason, does. This sweet dinghy will make the most wonderful early Christmas gift for him.”
“What? Wow. That’s putting it mildly,” Cass said. “Lucky son.”
“He works hard,” Hannah said, pushing a silky strand of hair from her cheek. “He’s a wonderful son. He deserves it.”
“You look more relaxed than when we saw you the other day,” Nell said. “This is a wild guess, but is the board retreat over?”
Hannah laughed. “It is. It’s off my calendar for another year. Hurray. And it went well. I was able to announce a few new grants approved recently and the board promised to bring some heavy hitters to an event I’m planning. We may get the new office furniture we need. Better computers. Workshop leaders. The struggle for donations is always out there, as you well know, Nell. The bigger the donor, the better,” she said.
“The only trick is finding them,” Nell said with a smile. “It’s the endless plight of a nonprofit. But when you do good things, the money will come in. It’s worth all that begging in the end, right? I’m glad things are coming along. Good for you.”
Hannah blushed slightly, dipped her head, then waved a good-bye and headed for the patio, her long, toned legs taking the steps easily.
The others turned and continued their walk down to the water’s edge, the cool sea breeze ruffling hair and cooling their arms and faces, the warm sun soothing the chill away.
“Ma calls this feeling ‘Baked Alaska,’” Cass said. “Cold and hot. Just like the dessert.”
Nell chuckled, then realized Birdie was no longer beside them. She turned around.
Birdie was standing where they’d left her, watching Hannah Swenson disappear across the patio.
Nell frowned. “Birdie?”
Birdie turned around, scolding herself with a shake of her head, and headed toward them, kicking up sand as she hurried. “I’m sorry, dears. I was lost in thought for a moment.”
“You’re thinking about this job you’ve taken on, aren’t you?” Nell asked. “You know the one—the job that was going to be simple and easy. But somewhere between simple and easy it took a turn. At least on the emotional front.”
Birdie smiled. “No, honestly, Nell, managing Kayla’s trust with Elliott will be a pleasure and a privilege. I like that family. And the fact that it will provide financial security for those beautiful children brings me joy. Actually, I was thinking about Hannah Swenson.”
“She has a difficult job, that’s certain, but Hannah is enterprising and it sounds like new donors are stepping up,” Nell said.
Birdie nodded. “I was on the board a few years ago, before Hannah was director. The Seaside Initiative does good work. The excellent workshops that you did for them is a case in point. What happened to those?”
“The funding dried up for that project. That’s the challenge of nonprofits. The Seaside Initiative relies on grants and the generosity of donors to run effectively.”
Nell looked up toward the clubhouse. Hannah had disappeared from sight.
“Perhaps it’s just the kind of day I’ve had that’s making me acutely aware of the impact generous people like Dolores Cardozo have on nonprofits,” Birdie said. “Wealthy donors are necessary to the life of those organizations.”
Nell nodded. “That’s certainly true. Donors are important for their survival.”
Birdie nodded. “Hmm.” She looked up toward the clubhouse again and this time she spotted Hannah, standing with a glass of water in her hand, talking with a group of women in tennis attire. “I had a question for Hannah. But it looks like she’s met up with friends.”
Nell looked up at the women, the attractive director in their midst. She glanced at Birdie, climbing into her thoughts.
“I’ll ask her the next time I see her. We seem to be running into her with some regularity. Shall we go?”
She looped her arm through Nell’s and the three women continued down to the water’s edge.
Chapter 24
Izzy sat in the backseat of Nell’s CRV. She was humming along to some eighties tune on the radio, one she couldn’t identify. She watched the trees passing by the window. They were close enough to touch, their edges starting to turn, some already a brilliant orange or red. She opened the window a crack, breathing in the crisp fall smell as it floated around the car, creating welcoming images of bonfires and thick cotton sweaters.
In the back of the car, boxes shifted around. Izzy glanced over her shoulder. “I hope we have room for everything.”
“We will,” Nell said.
The Seaside Knitting Studio had free classes booked all day for those knitting for the HMS drive, helping knitters turn heels in socks and loop colorful lace designs into scarves. At Mae’s urging, Izzy had agreed to take some of the completed items out to the Clothing Closet to free up space in the yarn shop’s back room.
“Don’t fret, Izzy. There’s no mess too big for the likes of us,” Birdie said. She sat in the front seat beside Nell, well into her third shale pleated scarf. She was working this one up in a brilliant blue wool alpaca blend. She fingered the little pleated pockets in the scarf and smiled at the pleasure a clever design and beautiful yarn created. The simple things in life.
Nell turned the wheel sharply to avoid a skunk meandering across the road. Worrying about a mess in a clothing center was a nice reprieve from the other messes facing them—the more complicated mess of wills and abandoned bikes and the murder of a generous woman who spent her life doing good things without anyone knowing about it.
Cass sat in the backseat next to Izzy. It was a workday for her, but Izzy had convinced her to take a break—they needed her brawn to move some boxes, she’d said. But mostly they’d all felt the need to be together, to sort through the uncertainty that hovered over them, begging for clarification. Muddled thoughts about an inheritance, two innocent kids, and a murdered woman who had, for reasons that were anything but clear, tried to make Kayla Stewart’s life easier, her children’s lives more secure.
“I think maybe Charlie is volunteering at the free clinic today,” Izzy said, looking up ahead as the car slowly took the curves along the narrow road. She squinted at the sunlight filtering through the trees and slanting across the windows of the car.
“We’ll look for him, then,” Birdie said. The Sea Harbor Free Health Clinic was in the same wing of the Anja-Angelina Community Center as the Clothing Closet, both in comfortable quarters deemed to be even more comfortable and efficient once Dolores Cardozo’s moneys were distributed.
They rounded the last bend in the road. The trees fell back and the land spread out in front of them, a clearing anchored by a magnificent lodge with pine walls, high ceilings, and tall panels of glass that brought the woods and sunshine inside the spacious rooms used to host many community events and parties. A community center like no other, the Chamber of Commerce boasted in vacation flyers.
Although located within the town limits of Sea Harbor, the lodge and natural reserve had the feeling of being far away from everything. It was a magnificent refuge, a place to escape with the sounds of wind and wildlife and ocean waves providing a background symphony.
It was a place to think.
Nell parked in the circle drive near the health clinic and Clothes Closet wing, and together they pulled the boxes out of the back and lugged them into the shop.
The clothing center was open today but empty of people except for Esther Gibson, the police dispatcher, who sat in an old rocking chair near one of the windows, letting the sun’s rays warm her arthritic knees. Her cane was beside her on the floor and an open knitting basket sat at her side. “I was about to drift off, but for you, dear ladies, I’ll keep these tired eyes open.”
“It’s very quiet in here,” Izzy said, walking over and giving Esther a hug. “What did you do with everyone?”
“I ran them off.” Esther chuckled. “I always snag this time to volunteer because I don’t
have to do anything but sit here and knit.”
“Or snooze.” Cass laughed.
Nell fingered a lacy dress on a mannequin near the window. Laura Danvers probably donated it, she thought, checking out the designer label. The whole shop was a fashionable boutique, complete with mannequins sporting T-shirts and jeans and dresses, small curtained dressing rooms along one side, and a vase of fresh flowers at the checkout counter. The only thing missing was a cash register or credit card reader. Everything was free.
“I love this place,” Cass said as she dropped into a comfortable faded chair across from Esther. She pointed to the brilliant orange hat with snowflakes scattered around the rim that was lying on Esther’s ample lap. “Esther, that is one cool hat.”
“I brought in a bunch of these hats that my ladies knit up for the warmth project.” Her ladies, they all knew, were women in the addiction center adjacent to the jail.
Esther reached into a box in front of her and pulled out another. A fluffy angora baby hat. “Isn’t this the softest thing you’ve ever seen? Probably knit by someone who has a little one somewhere, just waiting for her mom to get back to her.” Esther’s voice was cheery, but the affection she felt for her ladies clearly informed her words.
“It must be wonderful therapy for the women,” Birdie said. “You’re a genius for starting this program.”
Esther laughed. “Oh no, there’s no genius in the Gibson family. The genius is all Sister Fiona’s. Those Hallorans are smart, you know.” Her eyes twinkled as she looked over at Cass. “And kind, too.”
Cass’s response was lost in the sound of heavy footsteps. They all turned their heads toward the door.
“Hey, I thought I saw a familiar car out there.” Charlie Chamber strode across the room, his white medical coat flapping against his jeans.
Izzy looked at the jacket in amazement. It was covered with colorful doodles and cartoons, tiny faces and names in a child’s scrawl. Then she gave her brother a hug. “Nice jacket. Did you spill spaghetti on it?”
“It’s a collector’s item, one of a kind,” he said. “Patients’ art. They doodle on my jacket with permanent markers. And no, you can’t have it.” He eyed the kolaches sitting next to the coffeepot. “You brought those for me, right, Esther?”
Murder Wears Mittens Page 20