“I thought so.”
Fiona had come onto both their radar screens over morning coffee. It was Ben who mentioned the affection she had for the family, and how they sometimes forgot that she and Dolores Cardozo were actually friends. Fiona was burdened with worry over a family she cared about, and going through personal loss at the same time. Not an easy coupling.
Hopefully, she’d be able to relax on the deck for a few hours. It had worked its magic many times before.
* * *
The Brewsters had arrived with Jane’s now-famous peanut butter coleslaw and newsy tidbits from the Canary Cove Art Colony: a new exhibit opening up, several new artists looking for gallery space, and another benefit that Hannah Swenson had talked them into doing for the Seaside Initiative.
Rachel listened as they moved out to the deck.
“I don’t see Hannah for weeks, and then I seem to run into her every day,” Nell said to Rachel.
“She’s a busy lady, I guess.”
“Who is?” Don asked, offering wine and martinis as people gathered.
“Your ex-sister-in-law,” Nell said.
“No on no,” Don said. “It’s several branches of the tree away from that.” He set the empty drink tray on a table.
“She told us about her son,” Birdie said. “Law school. Apparently Hannah’s son—your nephew?—is quite an achiever.”
“He’s not actually my nephew. He came with Hannah, as it were, who married Tim Wooten, a cousin of mine, I forget which number. Once you get past first and second cousins I get befuddled. Like what would my dad’s nephew’s kids be? Or my dad’s brother’s nephews? Are they my cousins?” He waved it off with a bewildered look and a laugh, then took a long swallow of his martini. “Anyway, it wasn’t the happiest of unions from what I hear. I think Hannah is the kind of person who needs to be taken care of—and in a nice manner, if you know what I mean. Tim looked the part—handsome and showy in sports cars and golf club memberships he finagled out of someone.”
“Well he must have left her comfortable,” Izzy said. “For which I’m grateful. Hannah has excellent taste and buys my most luxurious yarn.”
“And one of those great new condos over near the point,” Jane said. “We had a meeting there. I told her I’m moving in.”
“That’s interesting,” Rachel said. “Hannah must be good at making ends meet, though I never saw that side of her. And she does have good taste. But there wasn’t any money at all in the divorce settlement. Like Don said, Tim was one of those charming, handsome guys who looked rich, and I think that was what Hannah thought, too. But . . .” She let the sentence fall away, uncomfortable with the discussion.
Don wasn’t as discreet. “The guy was a likeable deadbeat who liked beautiful women,” he said. He caught Rachel’s look. “Well, he was. So my wife is right—the divorce didn’t make Hannah’s life easier. But she’s smart. She got herself a job, and maybe she’s good at handling money—better than she was at handling Tim anyway.”
“Who’s good at handling money?” Cass walked out carrying a tray with cheese sticks, olives, and a bowl of sweet gherkins.
“You, my love,” Danny said, walking over and wrapping an arm around her. He cuddled her close and kissed the top of her head. “You’re good at handling me, money, lobsters, you name it.”
“Not all at the same time, I hope,” Rachel said. “Lobster claws are vicious.”
Their laughter was interrupted by a familiar voice coming through the open French doors. “Is this where the party is?”
The words carried the hint of an Irish brogue.
“Aunt Fiona?” At the sound of the voice, Cass spun around, out of Danny’s arms. The look on her face said she was fourteen and had just been caught in a dark alley kissing the paperboy.
Fiona stepped out on the deck, smiling all around and breathing in the tantalizing grill odors. “I am definitely in the right place.” She waved at her niece.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Ben called over from his spot at the grill. He wiped his hands on his chef’s apron, walked over, and greeted her with a hug. “You know everyone here, right?”
Greetings came quick, friendly and with familiarity, and in minutes Fiona had told everyone present to drop the “sister.” She was among friends.
And they did, welcoming her into the group as comfortably as if she’d been there every week.
Nell stood near the door with Charlie, a basket of chips and dip in her hand. “Our dear Fiona doesn’t meet a stranger, does she? She’s a good woman.”
Charlie watched the nun circulate the group, her greetings friendly, her eyes attentive, her smile open. “What’s Cass’s problem with her aunt?” he asked.
“Cass doesn’t allow people to interfere in her life, especially her love life. Occasionally Fiona tries to do it, I think. But it’s what family does sometimes. Besides, I think Cass is mellowing. There’s something different about her these days.”
Charlie leaned back against the door frame, absently stabbing the olive in his martini with a toothpick, but his eyes were on Cass. They had become good buddy-type friends, maybe because they were so similar in some ways. He didn’t like people interfering in his life either. Except that’s exactly what he was doing to someone else’s life. Not interfering maybe, but peeling it like an onion to see what was underneath.
Across the deck Fiona approached her niece and they moved a few steps away from the group, standing beneath the branches of the old maple tree that guarded the deck and the picnic table. Whatever the conversation, the nun showed little disapproval, only sincere attention as she leaned in to hear what Cass was saying to her.
Nell was watching them, too. “Cass is talking about the children,” she said.
Charlie nodded. There was no need to name which children. Sarah Grace and Christopher. It was another way in which he and his friend Cass were alike. For whatever reason, they were both becoming tethered to Kayla Stewart and her kids. Irrational.
“Fiona cares a lot about that family,” Nell said.
“Do you know why?” Charlie asked. “I’ve been wondering about it. I asked Kayla, but she mumbled something about nuns being like that. It’s their job, she said. But I didn’t buy it. Fiona has hundreds of kids over at that school. Why are these two so special?”
“I asked her once,” Nell said. “The answer must have been vague because I don’t remember it. But Cass’s mother said her sister-in-law has been like that since Kayla arrived late last year. ‘A mother hen,’ Mary Halloran called her. She talked Don Wooten into hiring Kayla at the Ocean’s Edge, and even helped her find a house. Maybe she does it for others, too, and we just don’t hear about it.”
“Maybe,” Charlie said. He chewed his olive, then drained the glass and offered to pass the basket of cheese sticks around. Besides, he’d never had a chance to ask Fiona his potato riddle.
“Go for it.” Nell laughed and went back inside to bring out the chilled tuna.
* * *
Fiona didn’t seem surprised when Charlie walked over to her. She suggested they sit on the deck steps and get a glimpse of the water while there was still enough light left. The ocean was just visible over the tops of the trees, and in an hour it would all be black, as if swallowed up by the sky.
Charlie grabbed a beer from the cooler and followed Fiona across the deck. She settled herself on a step, her legs bent and her sneakers resting on a lower step. Charlie sat down next to her, each of them comfortable with the quiet moment. The music and voices were a pleasant hum in the background.
Charlie spoke first. “My sister lived here for years before I even visited her. I didn’t know this kind of place existed.”
“It’s beautiful, that’s for sure. And Izzy and Sam seem very happy here. But Sea Harbor is a small place. That brings both challenges and comfort. Probably in equal doses. I was fine leaving Sea Harbor, but I’m happy to be back.”
“Where did you go?”
“Different places. My order had gr
ade schools in the Midwest—probably close to where you grew up. I was in Kansas City for a few years, and then to a school farther west.”
“Idaho?”
She nodded without comment.
“Teaching?”
“At first, but it was a small town, schools consolidated, and mine closed. I moved into a different field after that. I taught in a correctional institution for a while. And then became involved in helping women in different ways. It was a good opportunity for me. Stretched me in good ways. Sometimes you have to leave home to find yourself and reach your full potential, even if you’re in a religious order, like I am. But when my project ran out of money, I came back home. And that was fine, too.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “There’s some weird serendipity going on here. I ended up in Idaho for a while. And that kind of happened to me, too. I was a college dropout, a messed-up ski bum. Then it got worse and I really catapulted myself off the deep end. But somehow the land of potatoes straightened me out.”
“Potatoes can do that.” Sister Fiona looked over at him for the first time. She smiled.
It was the same kind of smile Charlie had seen on Cass. Compassionate and kind—but protected, just in case someone might think her “soft.”
“When were you there?” Fiona asked.
“Long time ago. A dozen years maybe. I had dropped out of college and roamed around. I ended up in a little off-the-map kind of place not too far from Boise. Beautiful place.”
Fiona was watching him closely. “Ten or fifteen years ago? That was before I knew Idaho existed. But I’m sure the mountains were still there back then. The rivers.”
“The potatoes,” Charlie added.
Fiona laughed.
“I circled back through there two, three years ago to see an old friend, to thank her for some things she did for me. Like save my life.” He shrugged, his lips lifting into a crooked smile.
Fiona was listening with full attention now, her brows pulling together as if she was piecing things together in her head. She sat back against the wooden step and looked over the trees at the disappearing ocean, the black sky settling down for the night. “That can happen, you know. Lives can be saved, even in Idaho. Besides the mountains and potatoes, they’ve got themselves some good angels over there.”
It was Charlie’s turn to stare.
Fiona kept her gaze above the treetops, her voice quiet but clear. “Angel Martini. Your name hadn’t connected before, Charlie. Nor should it have. It’s not an uncommon name. Charlie Chambers. I’m guessing that it was you, anyway. Angel mentioned someone to me; it was after this guy had come back to see her. She was touched that he’d come back, and happy that he wasn’t dead—she said it could have gone either way with that guy for a while. She didn’t call the guy Charlie, though; she called him Chambers.” She turned her head and looked at him.
Charlie shook his head. “She called me lots of names. That was one of the nicer ones.”
Fiona laughed. “Angel had a way with words.”
Charlie leaned back against the step, smiling as if he’d been visited by an old friend. “Wow. So you knew Angel.”
“I still do. She’s there in Idaho, working on programs at the Y to keep kids out of trouble. Angel and I worked together some. She was tough and wise for her age.”
“Tough? That doesn’t begin to touch Angel.”
Fiona laughed. “She has a way about her. She made me realize the true value in volunteering and it worked well with my own project.”
“Your own project?”
Sister Fiona leaned forward, starting to say something. Then, in the next breath, she held back, as if uncertain about what it was she wanted to say. Instead of speaking, she reached up with one hand and wound her fingers around the railing, pulling herself up and looking back toward the grill area, where people were getting up from their chairs and moving around, cleaning up glasses, picking up appetizer plates. Ben and Nell were ushering everyone toward the long table, announcing that the tuna steaks would get cold if they didn’t hurry.
Birdie stood near the table, pointing out empty places. Her glass was raised, ready to toast her friends.
Charlie followed Fiona over to the table, where baskets of rolls, pots of butter, and a winding river of small candles anchored nature’s table runner of autumn leaves.
Once they had all touched their glasses to Birdie’s familiar toast—to friends, to family, to life, and to gratitude—the feast began in earnest with the passing of dishes, the crisscrossing of conversations, the laughter and the cheers of triumph for another Endicott dinner on the deck. Charlie looked around at the sea of faces, this coterie of friends and family who were quickly being woven into the fabric of his life.
It wasn’t until his eyes settled on Fiona, seated between Rachel Wooten and Uncle Ben, candlelight reflecting off her strong-boned Irish features, that Charlie began to rerun their conversation, a conversation he’d begun with the one person he thought might have some insight into Kayla Stewart. Maybe the only person who could explain her perplexing and frustrating behavior—her fears, her secrets, and her refusal to accept help from those who wanted nothing more than to help clear her of suspicion of murder.
Charlie knew from the look on Fiona’s face when he had approached her that she was aware of what he wanted to discuss. She knew it was about Kayla. She knew he cared about her. She had welcomed the conversation, taking him away from the mainstream chatter on the deck—to talk about Kayla Stewart.
But not once was Kayla’s name mentioned.
So why, Charlie wondered now, why had he felt Kayla Stewart sitting right there between Fiona and him the whole time?
Chapter 28
“Walking in someone’s shoes can be uncomfortable, especially when they don’t fit,” Birdie said. She stopped on the trail and stared down at her sneakers.
“Perhaps you, we, all of us have Dolores’s shoes on the wrong feet,” Nell said, then frowned at her own analogy, not sure of where she was going with it. But she was glad for the chance to stop. The momentary rest felt good. The trail they had taken was beautiful, but circuitous, and longer than they’d expected.
Ahead of them, they saw Cass stumble. “Be careful up here,” she called over her shoulder, one hand on Izzy’s arm while she regained her balance. “There’re lots of gnarly roots crossing the path.” She began to lead the way again, pushing aside tangles of bittersweet and catbrier.
“I think the old quarry should be just ahead,” Birdie said. “I remember coming out here years ago with Sonny, long after the quarries had closed for business and the rains and springs had filled them with water. This one became one of the safer ones in which to swim.”
They’d planned a Saturday hike in Ravenswood Park over in Gloucester—an easy hike up to the lookout for an aerial view of the city. Their hopes were it would magically clear their heads and bring things into focus. Not to mention offer much needed exercise and fresh air. But when Cass suggested a hike around the old quarry near Dolores Cardozo’s house instead, they had all jumped on the idea. They wouldn’t get an aerial view, but maybe the land itself would release some of its secrets and help them get closer to Dolores, to hear her secrets, to feel her connection to Kayla Stewart, who was now mired in the messy aftermath of her death.
Perhaps walking her land, softened by her own footsteps, would be the same as walking in her shoes.
The trail took a sharp left and they shouldered their way through a bramble of thorny bushes, the reward coming just minutes later as the woods suddenly fell back, a curtain lifted, and the old quarry appeared before them.
“Wow. I remember this. We came out here as kids, too,” Cass said, her voice soft with memory as she looked over the blue-black water held in its perfect pool by endless walls of granite. “We’d jump off that ledge right over there.” She pointed to an outcropping where a stone ledge provided perfect access to brave kids wanting to jump into the water. “It was a respectable twenty-five-foot jump. My sh
ow-off brother soon called it a baby leap—although to this day my mother doesn’t know about it—and he took off with his macho friends for the Klondike quarry, an eighty-foot plunge, and never came back here again.”
Izzy and Nell shuddered.
“Maybe it’s because we’re not natives of the area,” Nell said. “But I can’t imagine it.”
“No, it’s because you’re sane,” Cass said. She walked over to a large flat table of granite, found her footing, and climbed up. “This is more my speed these days.” She settled herself cross-legged on top. Nell and Izzy followed.
Birdie walked over to the edge of the quarry, cautiously looking over the edge. “There’s something surreal about it all. Imagine having this in your backyard, as Dolores did. It’s magical. So beautiful.”
“There’s a trail that circles the quarry,” Izzy said. “It’s great for running. Every now and then I’d see Dolores out here. She could probably walk every inch of this quarry blindfolded. Always with her walking stick, always calm, composed.”
Birdie looked behind the ledge, back through the woods. She pointed to a small trail. “That one may lead to her house.”
They all looked over, imagining a slender white-haired woman, her long ponytail moving between narrow shoulder blades, walking the paths.
Cass reached out a hand and Birdie took it, climbing up onto the flat boulder.
“So we’ve walked her walk, at least some of it. Now what was she thinking as she circled this quarry?” Birdie asked. She settled down next to Cass, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “What was important to her?”
“We know she walked right into people’s lives, intimately, whether they knew she was there or not,” Nell said, nodding, encouraged as their jumbled thoughts smoothed out, just like the water below.
“I know we’re repeating our thoughts, but that’s okay. Slight nuances can spin a fact in different ways,” Izzy said. “One thing, though, moving forward: if we think Kayla is innocent, we need to distance her from all this, set her connection to Dolores aside so we can think outside that box and move on to a murderer. Someone we might have seen yesterday or today or tomorrow. Someone walking around our town.”
Murder Wears Mittens Page 24