Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

  He walked slowly, picking his way across the spike grass and rocky sand toward a narrow opening between two boulders. He heard them before he saw them.

  “We’re a match made in heaven, Kayla,” Richie Pisano was saying, the ocean breeze pushing his voice toward the rocks. “What you’ve given me is pittance. Nice, but hey, the world is our oyster now. We’ll be rolling in it soon. Think of your kids, Kayla. Don’t forget the kids.”

  Charlie climbed closer until he could see Kayla’s long shadow in the sand, detailed by moonlight. Her hands were balled up at her side, her body so still he wondered if she was breathing.

  And then he heard a loud, angry voice, unleashed, rising over the crash of the waves. Strong and forceful and clear.

  “You’re a miserable thief. Don’t touch me. It has to stop. I’m through.”

  The words swirled up around Charlie. Don’t touch me. . . .

  In minutes—or maybe it was seconds—the former football player was over the mound of granite and had pummeled the redheaded, freckle-faced reporter to the ground, one fist meeting a cheek with forceful certainty. And then another.

  “Charlie, stop!” Kayla screamed into his ear, but all Charlie could hear was the echo of her voice commanding the man now lying on the ground to not touch her.

  It was when the tears came, when Kayla sobbed, that Charlie moved away from him and turned to comfort the woman with tears streaming down her face. He wrapped her in his arms, one eye on the man on the sand.

  Richie pulled himself up, his fingers lightly probing the bruises on his face. Blood streamed from his nose and over his chin, collecting on his shirt. One lip puffed up like a balloon. He looked over at Charlie, his injured mouth twisting into a grin. “Not a good move, Charlie boy. You’ll regret this. You want a police record, too, just like our Kayla here?” He laughed, then looked at Kayla and nodded as if they were caught up together in some secret web of understanding. “See you, babe. Soon.”

  And he was gone.

  Charlie walked Kayla to his car. They sat in the front seat looking out, the ocean stretching out in front of them, the full moon creating brilliant, rippling pathways across the water. For a long time they said nothing.

  Finally, Charlie spoke, his voice even and calm. “I saw a newspaper photo of you today at the soup pantry. The old Kayla with long, wavy black hair. That’s when it clicked. I remembered where I’d seen you before.”

  Kayla didn’t move, tears still streaming down her face.

  But Charlie sensed her surprise. He went on. “You were working with kids on a playground in Idaho, doing the same community service I had done at that same place years before, assigned there by the same rehab program that had helped me get my life back. And yours, too, I suspect.”

  Kayla took the tissue Charlie handed her, her eyes wide, focused on the moon, but she listened to every word.

  He’d gone back to Idaho to thank an old friend a couple years ago, he said, and he had seen her there, playing with the kids. Her hair, rich and dark and flowing over her narrow shoulders, had made her stand out, be noticeable. He’d asked his friend about her because she looked so young, but also tough. Strong. And he recognized the look on her face because he’d been there himself. The look of ongoing recovery, of breathing fresh air and waking up to the world.

  “Your friend was Angel,” Kayla said, her voice hushed.

  “Yes, it was. Angel. That’s where you met Sister Fiona, too. It wasn’t until I saw the photo that I put it all together. That bighearted nun brought you here with Sarah Grace and Christopher because it would be a good place for the three of you. You’d leave your past behind and begin a new life.”

  Kayla began to cry again. A low unbearably sad sound that filled the car and Charlie’s heart.

  He sat quietly, his eyes focused on the waves.

  Finally, Kayla sank back into the seat, and in time, she began to talk, filling in the gaps before Charlie even asked. Her defenses were gone. There wasn’t any fight left.

  “It’s over,” she said.

  Charlie listened to every word, picking up bits and pieces until he knew more about her than maybe she knew about herself.

  Richie Pisano had wanted a story, and he found one as he hung around, prodding and plotting, asking questions, at first out of curiosity. An ambitious reporter looking for gossip or scandal. Something attention worthy. Then probing deeper when he spotted an opportunity, an old woman with money all over her house and a young woman with ready access.

  She had mentioned Idaho to Richie once, and he called newspapers, explored public records, traced Kayla’s life all the way from Sea Harbor back to jail.

  And then he put it all together in a package and blackmailed her.

  He’d not tell a soul, keep her past life a secret, he promised her, her kids free of the scandal that would ruin them if this small town knew their mother had been in jail, in rehab, in a dark place. Even giving birth without knowing who the dads were.

  All she had to do was get him some of Dolores Cardozo’s money now and then. Loose change, he called it. He’d seen it himself. The demands grew and the ante was upped when Richie spotted Dolores Cardozo in the Danvers Bank one day while he was researching a story there. So he snooped around and listened to private conversations until he discovered that Dolores Cardozo was one rich lady.

  It’d be simple, he told Kayla. All she had to do was ask for it, tell Dolores a kid needed an operation or something. Cardozo was crazy about Kayla, he could tell. One lump sum was all he was asking for. And then he’d leave her alone. He promised. But he was in a hurry, had some debts of his own to pay off.

  “I couldn’t take it anymore,” Kayla said. “I knew it would never end. So I went out that night to tell Dolores everything. What I’d done. What Richie had made me do. And I’d beg her forgiveness and ask for her help.”

  Charlie filled in the rest himself.

  It might have ended there. Except Dolores Cardozo was murdered.

  And in her will, Kayla Stewart would receive more than even Richie Pisano dreamed possible. Having lost her own sister to drugs and suicide, she considered Kayla her second chance. She would do everything in her power to save her.

  She would be sure that Kayla and her children had a good life.

  An irony of awful proportions. Kayla’s trust was music to Richie’s ears, manna from heaven. He’d plant himself in Kayla’s life permanently—and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Charlie finally allowed himself to look over at Kayla. Her face was red with tears, her breathing finally slowed. Her face utterly sad.

  And, in Charlie’s eyes, excruciatingly beautiful.

  Chapter 33

  Ben wasn’t home when Nell came in carrying white cartons of leftovers. He’d be happy whenever he did get in and discovered a midnight snack to beat all midnight snacks. She checked the clock. It was almost midnight—late for Ben, and the scribbled note he’d left in the kitchen told her little.

  Had to go out for a bit. Don’t wait up. Hope the evening was great. See you in the morning.

  Nell made herself some sleepy tea and carried it upstairs, the sheets of paper in her other hand. She took a quick shower, got into her pajamas, and slipped into bed, counting on the comfort of downy pillows and a soft duvet to ease the task ahead.

  Then she put on her reading glasses, spread a line of typing sheets across the comforter, and began to read.

  She was especially interested in the last couple years. Agencies who benefited, and those who didn’t. And those who had benefited at one time and were then discontinued. Some small organizations had received money two or three years in a row and then disappeared from Dolores’s list. It didn’t surprise Nell nor did it reflect poorly on the organization. It was the way of nonprofits and of society’s needs. Sometimes they were replaced by bigger groups, ones that could fill the same need more efficiently. Some simply lost steam.

  She noticed Jake Risso’s name in the box at the bottom and fro
wned, then looked closer. The Gull Tavern owner? Jake was a good sort with a big heart but Nell couldn’t imagine him even toying with the idea of starting a charity. Nor did she remember talk of it. Every second of Jake’s free time was spent in his old fishing boat. She circled his name and scribbled a note beside it before moving on to the next.

  With a pencil in hand and a finger leading her from one line to the next, she worked her way through the list, circling some numbers or names, drawing arrows here and there, and finally gathering all the sheets into a pile, putting them on the nightstand, and leaning back into the pillow.

  She thought of Birdie, Cass, and Izzy, imagining them doing the same thing, their minds gathering information and wanting to shut it out at the same time. Wanting to come to the end of the road, and hoping somehow to find a rainbow there, not a murderer. But the rainbow would have to wait.

  A blanket of sadness settled between her body and the comforter.

  She wondered if Dolores had had the same feeling as she had put it all together. Good people doing bad things. And to what end?

  But Nell herself could guess the answer to that. And she suspected Dolores Cardozo had, too.

  * * *

  Ben was already downstairs when Nell finally awoke the next morning. It was midmorning. Nell couldn’t remember sleeping that late since graduate school when study sometimes turned her night into day. Now it was uncomfortable, as if time had a different meaning when one got older. She hadn’t heard Ben come in the night before and wondered for a second if he’d ever come to bed.

  But the wrinkled sheets and pillow on the floor told her he had been there, at least for a while. She had tried to stay awake until he got in, but the long day had won out and plunged her into a fitful night of disconnected dreams. From the looks of the bed, Ben had had a long night, too.

  She showered and dressed quickly, then followed the smell of strong coffee down the back steps and into the kitchen. Ben’s coffee was magical. It began the day right. And she hoped it would end right, too, although she had no idea at that moment what the word right might mean.

  Ben was at the sink, staring out into the backyard. He wore slacks and a button-down shirt.

  A meeting? Nell frowned. She couldn’t remember his plans for the beginning of the week. The past days seemed to have been lived from moment to moment rather than calendar reminders. “Ben?”

  He turned around quickly as if he’d been suddenly pulled back from some other world. His lids were heavy. Nell wondered if he’d gotten any sleep at all.

  “What’s wrong? Where were you last night?”

  He managed a semblance of a smile and poured her a cup of coffee. “Last night, my love, I was at the police station, getting one fellow out of jail and putting another one in.”

  And then he explained the call he’d gotten from Charlie—and where their nephew had gone after Nell had seen him at the Ocean’s Edge Restaurant the night before.

  Ben called Sam, who got a neighbor to stay with Abby, and the two went down to the station together.

  Richie Pisano had meant what he’d said to Charlie. His spite got the better of his judgment and he reported an assault, telling the police where they might find the guy who’d messed up his face. The police had picked up Charlie, still sitting in his car on Sandpiper Beach with Kayla Stewart still wrapped in his arms.

  But Richie Pisano had made one grave mistake. He had counted on Kayla remaining steadfast no matter what happened. She was bound to him. Protecting her kids from scandal and shame was the rope that held her in its firm grip.

  Richie Pisano was wrong.

  With Charlie Chambers beside her, Kayla told the police everything they needed to know—the whole sad story of the last few months—how he’d found out her past and used it against her. She explained that she’d gone out to see Dolores Cardozo with hopes she would help her pay Richie off and banish him from her life. But instead, she had found her friend lying on the floor, dead.

  It had taken less than an hour for Chief Jerry Thompson to put everything together and send Tommy Porter to pick up the redheaded reporter. He was sitting in the Gull Tavern nursing his injuries with beer, pleased with himself, at least until he saw the police car parked at the curb, a light spinning on top.

  Nell’s mouth opened and closed several times while Ben talked, but not a single word came out. She was stunned, her heart filled with anguish for the young woman who had lived under that awful cloud. For the pain Richie had caused. And for all sorts of things she hadn’t had time to process.

  “What will happen now?” Nell asked.

  Ben checked his watch. “It may take a little time to figure it out, but we’re going to go over it today. I’m headed to the station to meet briefly with Jerry—as you’d expect, his mind is going in different directions. This thing with Richie Pisano has shaken up a lot of things for the police, not the least of which is the Cardozo murder. He had been seen at the Cardozo house. And he was known for spreading crisp fifty dollar bills around town. He was definitely a suspect.

  “But whatever happens with Richie now it will include protecting Kayla and her children’s privacy, which is what Kayla herself has been trying to do, although in a misguided way.”

  Nell understood why Kayla had been silent about it all. She wasn’t willing to risk tearing apart the only semblance of ordinary life she had ever been able to build for her children.

  Ben held Nell close, then kissed her soundly, grabbed his keys, and headed out to his car.

  It was only after Ben left and she glanced at her phone that she saw the list of text messages. And it was then she realized she hadn’t said a word to Ben about the records Elliott Danvers had given them. About the suspicions, about Dolores’s careful screening. But maybe it was just as well. There were still holes in their suspicions. Questions that still needed logical, sound answers.

  She read through the texts. Izzy, Cass, and Birdie were headed to the yarn shop, ready to add up numbers right along with Dolores Cardozo.

  Nell was relieved. Cass was excellent with this sort of thing, Birdie was wise, and Izzy’s mind was logical and clear. Maybe one of them had seen something she hadn’t. Part of her hoped so. The other part wanted this to be the end of it all. Finally.

  She slipped on a light jacket, then assembled her printouts in order, the ones with arrows and circles and highlighted boxes on top. She glanced down at one of the sheets.

  Jake Risso’s name popped out of the box. Jake and Marie Risso. And then the name: Healthy Eating for Kids. It was an old project from some years ago, before Jake’s wife died.

  She texted Izzy to say she’d be there after a quick stop at Jake Risso’s Gull Tavern,and she headed out the door.

  * * *

  Jake was wiping off an empty bar when Nell walked in. Surprised, he hurried around it and greeted Nell with a hug. “What’s up, Nell?”

  “Got a minute for a couple questions?”

  “For you I have a week of minutes. Always.” He grinned and motioned Nell over to a table in the corner. “What’s your pleasure? Beer? Wine?”

  Nell laughed. “It’s a little early for me, Jake. All I need is you. I learned recently that you and your Marie used to manage a small nonprofit and I have a couple questions about it. I think it involved kids and cooking?”

  Jake’s hands went up in the air, a smile filling his whole face. “Sure you have questions. Like how could old Jake teach kids to plant and cook? Hah, you know it was my Marie. She was a saint. Everyone loved her cooking, so it was a natural. And that little garden she had out back?” He looked down at his rotund middle and shook his head. “I don’t eat so well since she passed.”

  “So Marie taught kids to cook?”

  “Yup. She taught them how to garden, too, then cook the good things they grew. Mostly kids who didn’t have much. They used the kitchen in the back. It was a great time.”

  “It sounds terrific. How did you fund it?”

  “We put a little into it. �
�Seed money’ we called it and laughed since most of it went for seeds. Some of my regulars donated, too. But then Marie wrote some grants or whatever it is you do to make it more official for the tax man. Then we got lucky and got one big chunk of scharole. Marie was thrilled.” He looked around as if someone might be eavesdropping on something that had happened years before.

  “And then what happened?”

  Jake looked embarrassed. “Well, after Marie died some waitstaff here tried to keep it alive, just because Marie had loved it, but you know how that goes. And then, well—”

  “Then that yearly contribution stopped coming?”

  Jake met her look. “Yeah, it did, but it was almost a relief. Especially when it was explained that the effort wouldn’t really die. It’d just be better.”

  “You knew why the contribution stopped?”

  “Sure. She explained it all.”

  “Who did?”

  Jake took a deep breath, then let it all out, the burst of air ruffling a napkin on the table. “Okay, it don’t matter anymore, I suppose, now that the good lady is gone and people know she was rich. Ms. Cardozo, she was the one giving the funds for our project. Maybe you already know that since you’re askin’. She wrote a letter telling me she’d like to move the funds. There was a new program doing the same thing at that club for boys and girls. She was so smart, she knew to the penny what we were spending on ours and said maybe The Boys and Girls Club could combine our effort with theirs and make it more efficient. Consolidate, she said. And maybe they’d set up a scholarship over there in Marie’s name. Or maybe a bench in the garden with her name on it. And they did. I go sit there sometimes and can feel Marie’s smile.”

  “She explained it all,” Nell said quietly, processing her own thoughts.

  But Jake heard her. “Sure she did. She sent me a letter, then came to see me, too.” He chuckled. “She said she’d walked past my bar for years and had yet to taste my special brew. This was her chance. So we sat back there in the kitchen, drank a fine one, and she explained it all again. That’s when I knew where the money was coming from each September—her fiscal year. She paid everyone that courtesy, she told me. Always sent a letter explaining her decisions. What she said made sense. I run a business. I know that sort of thing. It was the right thing to do.”