Murder Wears Mittens Page 4

  Shep bounded over to her, licking an outstretched hand, then settling himself happily at her feet.

  Sister Fiona looked around the room, greeting Nell and Izzy, then Birdie in turn. And finally her niece. But it was clear her attention was on the children, her face softening as she assessed them from a distance. They were standing still in the middle of the messy kitchen, seemingly unsure of the mood among the women surrounding them—or the formidable woman in the doorway.

  “Hey, Sarah Grace. Christopher,” Sister Fiona said, her voice soft with affection and her hands outstretched toward them.

  In an instant, as if released by the smile and the sound of their names, both children flew over to her. Sarah Grace nearly tumbled over Shep as she vied with the dog to be closest to the nun.

  “Like I said, what brings you here?” Cass asked.

  “Father Larry told me you were here.” She mussed up Christopher’s hair and smiled down at Sarah Grace. “He thought you might need some help.”

  “Help doing what?” Cass asked, but her voice had softened, her eyes, too, as she looked at the kids.

  Her aunt dismissed the question. She reached down and kneaded one of Shep’s ears, then looked again at the mess in the kitchen.

  Nell followed her glance as it continued into the adjoining room, where a rug and sofa were littered with popcorn. Blankets and pillows were piled on the floor in front of a television.

  Sister Fiona’s smile dimmed but her voice was considerate, careful. “Where’s your mom, Chris?”

  “Running errands.” Christopher’s answer came quickly, as if he had been rehearsing the line. He glared at Sarah Grace, sealing her lips with his look.

  Sister Fiona accepted the boy’s answer. Then she gave Christopher an encouraging nod and suggested he and his sister go into the living room for a while to watch cartoons.

  Surprised, he poked Sarah Grace in the shoulder and ran off, eagerly following the suggestion. Shep bounced along behind them.

  As soon as the children were out of earshot, Sister Fiona looked at Cass. “So, what’s going on?”

  Cass explained the Laundromat incident to her aunt. “It was nasty out. Not fit for a young kid. Something didn’t seem right.”

  Sister Fiona was quiet.

  “So that’s it. I was concerned, that’s all,” Cass finished. “I figured they’d need these. Wouldn’t want a cranky principal to wonder why they were out of step with the other kids.”

  That drew a half smile from her aunt. Cass went on, “We expected to hand them over to a parent and be on our way. But that didn’t happen, and from the looks of the house, these kids have been alone for a while. The place was like a fort when we got here, everything locked as if they were protecting themselves from the enemy.”

  Nell and Izzy had busied themselves cleaning the stove, putting dishes in the dishwasher, and rummaging around for more bread and cheese. But their ears were tuned in to the conversation.

  Birdie walked over. “You seem to know this family, Sister,” she said. “The children are clearly fond of you.”

  Sister Fiona Halloran made a tsking sound with her tongue, her cropped dark hair shaking with the sound. “Birdie Favazza, since when are you formal with me? You’ve known me all my life, for better or worse. Let’s leave the ‘Sister’ moniker to the kids and their parents. Keeps them just enough afraid of me to do what I say.”

  Birdie laughed. She glanced into the living room. “I was trying to show respect in case the kids heard me. And I haven’t seen you much since you’ve been back in town, Fiona.”

  Fiona’s laugh was robust. “You thought I was turned into a proper nun, you mean? No, I’m as ornery as I ever was.” She looked at Cass and lifted one brow, “And no lip outta you on that topic, Cass Halloran.”

  Cass managed a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But back to what Birdie was saying—what’s your relationship with these kids? Just the school?”

  Fiona mulled Cass’s question over for a minute. Finally, she said, “Yes. I’m the cranky principal. Both kids go to Our Lady of Safe Seas, but I’m sure you know that from the uniform. Same one you wore. The Stewart family moved to Sea Harbor late last year.”

  “So you know their parents, too?” Cass asked.

  Fiona looked into the living room, satisfied when she saw the kids laughing at a purple creature bounding across the television screen, totally oblivious of any adult conversation. “There’s only one parent. The mother. And yes, I know her. She works hard for her kids. A good lady, good mom.”

  “Where is she?” Cass asked.

  “You heard the little guy. She’s running errands.”

  “Was she running errands all night?” Cass’s voice had a slight edge to it, but she quickly took it down a notch. “All I’m saying is that it doesn’t look like she’s been around for a while. These kids are little. Who’s responsible for them?”

  Fiona gave her niece the look that probably worked like a Taser on eighth-grade boys.

  But Cass was reluctant to step down completely. “I was worried about Christopher last night. He’s so young and he looked scared, like he was doing something he shouldn’t be doing. And riding his bike in the dark? What was that about?”

  “Wasn’t Shep with him?” Fiona leaned down and scratched the dog’s head. He was still leaning against her leg, and if dogs could smile, Fiona had enticed one out of Shep.

  “Shep? So you’re saying dogs can parent now?” The flush in Cass’s cheeks deepened to the color of Izzy’s crimson blouse.

  Nell broke into the tension from the stove, “A fresh batch of grilled cheese sandwiches are almost ready for the kids. Anyone else hungry?”

  Sister Fiona looked relieved at the interruption. “Thanks, Nell. That’s exactly what the kids need. Food.” She turned to Cass. “I appreciate what you’ve done, Cass. You’re just like your dad. A good heart. My big brother would go out of his way to help anyone, even knocked around a few bullies who picked on me. He was the good kid in the family. Me—well, not so much maybe, but I do have a little of his protective instinct in me.”

  She started to say something else but thought better of it. Instead she lightened her tone and said, “Those sandwiches smell great. Who wants to pour the milk?”

  * * *

  The four women left soon after, nudged out the front door by Fiona, who stayed behind. She was staying there with the kids until their mother came home from running her errands.

  “She works hard for these two. Loves them like the dickens.” Then she thanked them sincerely for their help and stood at the door, waving good-bye while they walked to the car. Her message was clear that she was in charge now. They were no longer needed.

  Nell started to open the car door, then turned back, the keys dangling from her fingers. Fiona was still standing in the open doorway. But her eyes were no longer on the four women whom she had politely expelled from the small square house on Elm Street.

  Instead she looked off into nothingness, or so it seemed to Nell. Her confident, take-charge demeanor was less pronounced, and her shoulders were slightly slumped. But it was the look on the nun’s face that Nell couldn’t dismiss. The confident smile had faded and been replaced by something she herself was familiar with: a deep worry that holds one prisoner, squeezes one’s heart until it has been resolved. The kind of worry that tells you everything is really not all right, no matter what words come out of your mouth or what face you put on to cover up the emotion.

  * * *

  Nell stood in a circle of moonlight, looking through the bedroom windows. In the distance, the sea pounded the shore, a rollicking tide erasing the beach, lap by lap. She could still hear signs of life, a group of teenagers on the beach, music blaring, neighbors sitting on porches having a nightcap. She and Ben had decided to retire early, Ben weary from a day of sailing with friends, Nell exhausted from things she couldn’t put her finger on.

  Across the room, Ben was already in bed, his reading glasses at the end of his no
se, a sailing book resting on his chest.

  He had listened thoughtfully as she had replayed her day over dinner, explaining about the children, about the vague feeling that something wasn’t right in that house. “It’s probably much ado about nothing,” she’d said finally, following her words with a forced chuckle.

  Ben had nodded and agreed, all the while knowing that while it was probably exactly that, his wife didn’t believe a single word of the quote.

  Nell rested her palms on the windowsill now, still niggled with uncomfortable thoughts. She knew it was because children were involved. And that look on Fiona’s face. Much ado. Sure, it could be nothing, and yet . . .

  And yet what? She looked over at Ben again. He was already lost in the world of the sea, vicariously sailing around the world with the intrepid Joshua Slocum on his wooden sloop.

  She envied his ability to disengage from an event or topic or conversation and totally immerse himself in something else. It was a gift. Ben didn’t hang on to things like she did. Disturbing thoughts didn’t linger in his head long, not unless there was a reason for them to stay there. Let it go, Nellie, he would say to her gently.

  Just minutes later she heard the sounds of Ben dozing off, his book sliding to the floor, his breathing slow and rhythmic.

  She took a deep breath, matching his breathing, feeling her tangled thoughts dissolve. Let it go, Nellie. She walked over to the bed and the warmth she’d find curling up next to him.

  She rested her head on the pillow, her eyes closed. One arm looped comfortably over Ben. And then her eyes opened wide.

  At first the sound was undefined, and then quickly became familiar as sirens and horns filled the night air.

  Sounds that in Sea Harbor could mean something as simple as rescuing a cat caught up in a tree.

  Or in the darkness of night could take on another tone completely.

  Sounds that could signal lives changing in a single instant.

  Chapter 6

  For Cass Halloran, Mondays were sacred: her day off, free of lobsters and broken trawls and billings. It almost always began with an espresso and chocolate éclair on Coffees’ patio with the Boston Globe smoothed out on the wrought iron table. Izzy usually joined her before heading down Harbor Road to open her yarn shop; sometimes Birdie or Nell or other friends would stop by, knowing where Cass would be. And on some days everyone left her alone, which was always fine with Cass.

  Today her thoughts were still lingering on the two kids, wondering if their mom had ironed the uniforms she’d pulled from the dryer. Wondering if they’d made it to school okay. Wondering why Fiona hadn’t called to let her know everything was fine.

  “Hey, Cass.” Izzy sat down. She dropped her bag on the floor. “You’re a million miles away. Where’ve you been, girlfriend?”

  “Sorry. I’m back now.”

  “It’s the Stewart kids, isn’t it? They’ve gotten to you.”

  “I think it was the uniforms. I had a dream last night of me and my brother running around like demons while our ma ironed the life out of those uniforms, then sewing patch after patch on the knees and seat of Pete’s pants. In the dream he pulled on the threads of the patch until the leg of his pants fell off on the playground. So, yeah, I guess I was thinking about those two kids getting off to school today, just like we used to do. And hoping it all went okay.”

  “And that no pants fell off?”

  Cass laughed. “Yeah. I hope they’re okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  Cass shrugged.

  Izzy pointed to Cass’s phone, sitting on the table between them. “Just call your aunt. She’ll tell you the mom came home with groceries, the kids arrived at school safe and sound, uniforms clean and neat, and you can smile again, easy peasy.”

  Cass looked at her phone. “You’re so smart, Iz. Must be that Harvard law degree. But for your information, I tried her earlier—and I went to Salem State. But I’ll try again.” She picked up the phone and tapped in the number. This time a live voice answered.

  Izzy listened discreetly, picking off more of Cass’s pastry as she leaned in.

  Cass spoke quietly, explaining she was just wondering if the kids got off to school okay.

  There was a pause while Cass listened, her frown deepening. It was replaced a second later by a puzzled look and the phone being shoved back into her pocket. “She hung up on me.”

  “No she didn’t. I heard her talking.”

  “Maybe. She sounded rushed, and her voice competed with wind or something, like she was in her car. She pretty much said, ‘Of course the kids are fine—why wouldn’t they be?’ But she couldn’t talk. She was needed somewhere else—an emergency. She had important things to do. And that was it. No good-bye.”

  Izzy took a drink of coffee. “Well, my grandma Chambers never said good-bye. Some people just don’t.”

  “Fiona sounded odd, though. She said the word emergency as if she meant it. But she probably just wanted to get off the phone.”

  “Maybe there was something urgent,” Izzy said. “Maybe not. Sometimes when Fiona comes into the shop for yarn, she acts that way, like getting the right yarn is an absolute emergency. I think she accomplishes as much as she does because she treats everything that way—everything is important, an emergency.”

  “Maybe,” Cass said, her voice muddled with distracted thoughts.

  “But she didn’t connect the kids to the emergency, right?” Izzy asked.

  Before Cass could answer, Birdie and Nell walked out of the coffee shop patio door carrying mugs and knitting bags. The Sea Harbor Gazette was tucked beneath Birdie’s arm.

  Before they were barely seated, Birdie had smoothed out the folded paper.

  “Have you read this?” she asked.

  Cass tapped her own paper, the Boston Globe, which was anchored to the table by a heavy coffee mug. “Danny subscribes to this one now. We’re big-time.”

  “Snobs,” Izzy said.

  “Yep. That and it provides more grist for the mill—for his mysteries anyway.”

  “He couldn’t find enough murderous ideas from our paper?” Nell asked.

  Birdie made a clucking sound that brought their attention back to her and her finger tapping on the paper. “He shouldn’t be so hasty. Look at this. I’m sure Danny could easily turn this into a mystery. It’s already a mystery to me.” The finger landed on a block of text down in the corner on the front page.

  They all leaned over their hometown paper, with its hometown way of saying things. Nell slipped on her glasses and read aloud:

  NEWS FLASH

  Dolores Francesca Maria Cardozo, longtime resident of Sea Harbor, has died unexpectedly. Dolores was 76. Details of her death will be released soon.

  “Who’s Dolores Francesca Maria Cardozo?” Izzy asked. She looked around the table at three blank faces.

  “A name like that would be hard to forget, right?” Cass said.

  “It has a familiar ring to it, though,” Birdie said. She stared off, forcing her memory to clear. “Dolores . . . Dolores. It will come to me. But no matter who she is, this is a peculiar way to announce her death.”

  Nell read it again. “It’s almost an announcement. If it were the mayor or a prominent figure and the death had occurred unexpectedly, it might merit this news flash attention. But otherwise. . .”

  “It’s not exactly sinister, but it’s sort of mysterious. I wonder if my ma knows her,” Cass said.

  “Sure she will. Mary Halloran knows everyone, living or dead,” Izzy said.

  The slam of the wrought iron back gate interrupted and they looked over to see the Sea Harbor Gazette’s “About Town” columnist, Mary Pisano, stomping on to Coffees’ patio as if she’d just been betrayed. She spotted the four women and dropped her computer case on her regular table, then detoured their way. A look of consternation pinched her small round face. “So you’ve seen it,” she said without preamble, pointing to the newspaper on the table.

  Shy of
five feet tall, Mary Pisano nevertheless commanded attention. In addition to her chatty column in the family-owned Sea Harbor Gazette, she owned Ravenswood-by-the-Sea bed-and-breakfast. Together the two “projects” added legitimacy to her reputation for knowing everything that was happening—or ever had happened or would happen—in Sea Harbor and beyond. Ben often accused her of knowing the Patriot’s score before the game started.

  “Who is she, Mary?” Birdie asked.

  “I know the name. Cardozo. Cardozo. It will come to me, but certainly not because of the information provided here.” She slapped the paper with the flat of her hand.

  Cass pushed her sunglasses into her mass of thick black hair. “Who wrote the announcement?”

  “Hah. I know exactly who wrote it.” Mary paused for effect. “Howdy Doody.”

  “The old fifties marionette?” Nell asked. “Shame on him.”

  “Richie Pisano—red hair and freckles, just like that wooden puppet. You’ve probably seen him around. He’s been poking his nose into everything.”

  “Who is he?” Izzy asked.

  “A distant relative, I’m sorry to say. Richie wiled away a few years in at least three colleges, then a stint in the service. His most recent venture is journalism, probably because his dad owns a dozen of our Pisano papers and Richie’d be sure to land a job somewhere.” Mary paused for a breath, and then her face softened a little. “Anyway, his dad lives in New Hampshire and got him this job, probably to put some distance between them.”

  “How old is he?” Izzy asked.

  “Twenty-nine, thirty. I know. It sounds like I was describing a kid. I was never that crazy about that arm of the family. He can be frustrating as all get out. But the Gazette editor says he’s okay and can string sentences together. She did add that he sometimes oversteps his bounds.” Mary pointed again at the newspaper. “Case in point.”

  “Why isn’t there more information?” Birdie asked.