Murder Wears Mittens Read online

  “Richie was probably on the graveyard shift—hanging around the police station or the hospital, heard about the death, and slipped it in quickly.”

  “The police station?” Nell glanced back at the announcement.

  “Well, you know. Someone dies. An ambulance is called. It goes over the police scanner and, voila, there’s a reporter hiding behind a tree who catches it all. But Richie will hear about this, I’m sure of that.”

  Sirens. Of course. The sirens that Nell had carried with her into sleep the night before. “Why did Richie think she was important enough to merit an announcement like this?” she asked.

  Mary looked at Nell over the rim of her glasses, then stared at the paper as if the details had been printed in invisible ink and would soon rise to the surface. “That’s a good question.”

  A shadow—tall and narrow—fell across the newspaper, blocking out the morning sun. It was followed by a distinct clearing of a throat.

  “Hi, ladies. Sorry to interrupt.”

  Mary spun around and looked up—way up—into Hannah Swenson’s clear brown eyes. “Oh, good grief.” Her hands flew up to her cheeks. “I completely forgot.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Hannah brushed away the apology. “You weren’t difficult to find. It’s Monday, and you have a column to write.” She glanced down at the newspaper. “Is something going on?”

  Mary glanced back at the paper. “We’re not sure. Someone seems to have died last night and it made the front page of the paper. Do you know her?”

  Hannah picked up the paper and read the announcement thoughtfully. As director of the Seaside Initiative nonprofit, she was well connected. She looked up. “You’d think I would. It’s an elegant name. But no, I don’t think so.”

  “Which,” Mary said, “brings us to why I was supposed to meet Hannah this morning and completely and totally forgot.”

  Hannah explained. “Mary is helping me arrange a board retreat at Ravenswood-by-the-Sea. We’re going to acknowledge some big donors and I figured if the board and I don’t impress them, Mary’s elegant bed-and-breakfast will. ”

  “A perfect place,” Nell said. “And it sounds like things are going well at the Seaside Initiative. We’ve been to several of the recent fund-raisers—the last one was packed.”

  Hannah nodded. “And a good thing. We have lots of needs.” Her voice showed the uncertainty that came with managing any nonprofit when public funds were tight and fund-raising was difficult. She added, “Hills and valleys. Always seeking new donations.”

  A retired nonprofit director herself, Nell understood. She’d been on Hannah’s advisory board and knew of the difficulty in keeping things running. It was the plight of nonprofits, and even though the initiative did good work—helping other nonprofits along the shore, all the way up to New Hampshire, with workshops and joint purchasing arrangements and public policy work—it always needed money.

  “But on a happy note,” Hannah said, looking at Nell, “your old paperboy is getting ready for law school—hopefully at Harvard. ”

  “That’s wonderful,” Nell said. “You should be very proud of Jason.”

  “I am,” Hannah said, beaming. “He’s studying for the LSATs as we speak.”

  Mary began thumping her sneaker on the flagstone patio, ready to move on to other things. “The day’s getting away from us,” she said. “Come, Hannah, let’s pretend I didn’t forget about you and we’ll figure out this retreat in no time. It will be wonderful.”

  She gave a friendly but dismissive wave to the women around the table and motioned for Hannah to follow her, moving as quickly as an impatient preteen to the table beneath the maple tree. The About Town column would wait and the morning distractions would be set aside while she gave her full attention to florists, food, room assignments, and serving needs for a board retreat.

  But Mary Pisano wouldn’t forget the irreverent death notice, either. They were all sure of that. Richie Pisano was not about to escape his distant relative’s disapproval, no matter how personable he was.

  * * *

  A short while later the small box on the front page of the Sea Harbor Gazette was almost forgotten as the four women cleaned the mess of crumbs from the table, returned their heavy mugs to the tray at the patio door, and went their separate ways to move on into their day: Izzy to her yarn shop to do some planning for a city-wide knitting project—the knitting of hats, mittens, socks, and scarves to keep all of Sea Harbor warm, come winter; Birdie and Nell to a lecture in Boston.

  And Cass to help herself to another éclair, after which she would head out to do nothing—her favorite way to spend a day off.

  But nothing could be anything, she reasoned, so when the faint sounds of recess at Our Lady of Safe Seas Elementary School reached her ears, Cass followed them, walking down the tree-lined streets, glancing up at the granite church tower, then slowing when she approached the school that Cass herself had attended. The playground looked the same, ringed by a chain-link fence, though colorful play equipment now stood where Cass remembered steel monkey bars and a giant metal merry-go-round on the asphalt-coated ground.

  She stood outside the fence, watching dozens of small bodies in motion, whirling and twirling like whirligigs from a maple tree. On one side of the yard, a wide stretch of grass cushioned the knees of a group of boys kicking a soccer ball. With a twinge of relief, Cass spotted Christopher Stewart on the edge of the gang of boys. He was haphazardly kicking the ball when it came his way. She strained to see his face better. Chris was clearly not into the game, his shoulders slumped. But he is here, Cass thought. So Fiona had told the truth.

  On the other side of the playground, she spotted Sarah Grace’s blond hair. She was playing with a group of equally pint-sized girls, following each other up a climbing gym, then sliding down the slide, their laughter light and breezy and lifting Cass’s spirits along with the sweet sound.

  The scene was normal, ordinary. Cass shook her head. She was a crazy person for giving the kids’ situation a second thought, for imagining a mother missing, defenseless kids with only a dog to protect them. For doubting her aunt’s assurances. What had gotten into her? She had enough to worry about managing a company. There was no room for kids in her thoughts, no reason to suddenly let emotions take over her life.

  Her mother would say it was because she was finally beginning to think about building a nest. A concept Cass readily disallowed.

  Only birds build nests, she had told her mother.

  But when Cass turned to walk away from the playground, she felt the emotion grow, as if someone had released a dozen butterflies around her heart.

  She shook away the tangled emotions and looked back to the playground. The kids were starting to line up to go back inside, the youngest ones first, their innocence cloaking them in a protective halo.

  A sound nearby caused Cass to look down the fence. She realized for the first time that she wasn’t alone. A few yards down—partially hidden by a scrub tree whose trunk had grown in and out of the fence squares—a stranger leaned on the metal railing, body tight against it as if the galvanized mesh was the only thing holding the person upright. At first Cass thought it was a boy—short dark hair, slender and shapeless. But when she took off her sunglasses and looked again, the delicate features of a woman’s face came clear. Large sunglasses covered nearly half of her small face, shadowing sharp cheekbones. A white headband spanned her forehead. Cass squinted. No, a thick piece of gauze, taped in place. A bandage.

  The woman didn’t move, not even when the last child had disappeared into the bowels of the old school. The teacher holding the door came back out and carefully scanned the playground, checking the yard for stragglers, then walked back in, pulling the heavy door tight behind her.

  And still the woman stood there, her eyes scanning the playground as if it were still alive with young bodies whirling across the asphalt.

  Finally, feeling as if she were somehow intruding on the woman’s privacy, Cass turne
d away. Time to leave.

  A choking sound, muffled and strained, stopped her.

  Cass turned back quietly and looked through the knobby vines growing through the fence. The woman’s shoulders were slumped, her glasses pushed into her hair now, her bandaged forehead low as she cradled her head in her arms. Her sobs increased, so fierce that the fence vibrated all the way down to where Cass’s fingers still rested on a small square link of metal.

  She began to walk toward the stranger.

  Cass’s nothing day had turned into something.

  Chapter 7

  “The traffic on 128 was a mess.” Nell’s words preceded her as she opened the back door and pressed the button to close the garage. “A long day and a nice one—a great lecture at the Stewart Gardner. But I’m glad to be home.”

  Seeing Ben’s car in the garage had lifted her spirits. She knew before looking across the open living space where he’d be: sitting at the kitchen island, mail and books and papers spread on top. He’d be helping himself to a chilled Sam Adams, or, depending on the ease or unease of a day of city hall committee meetings, maybe slowly drinking one of his perfect martinis.

  But the room was silent.

  “Ben?” Nell frowned and dropped her bag on the bench beside the door. She looked out to the deck. Beyond the glass doors, the sky was pressing down on the day, bringing the line of solar lights around the railing to life. A sliver of moon peered through the branches of the maple tree that grew through the deck. But there was no Ben stretched out in his favorite chaise, looking for the first star.

  She went back inside and headed toward the back stairs. But a light beneath the closed den door caught her attention. She stopped. Listened.

  Doors, even Ben’s den door, were rarely closed in the Endicott household. But before Nell could check, the banging of the front screen door, followed by familiar footsteps, brought Izzy and Sam into the family room.

  “Hey, beautiful lady.” Sam wrapped Nell in a hug.

  “I thought you were headed to the Gull Tavern?” Nell said. “Game night?”

  “The game is in Kansas City and got rained out or tornadoed out or something.”

  “But we didn’t want to waste having a sitter so—” Izzy said.

  “So here we are.” Sam’s grin was slow—the same one that had endeared him to Nell that day he’d walked into this same room those years before. There he stood—an award-winning photographer giving a lecture series at the art colony her friends Ham and Jane had founded. She knew right then that she didn’t want him to leave their lives. Not ever. And he hadn’t, marrying her niece Izzy to seal the deal.

  Sam went on. “We thought we’d drop in to watch the stars come out. I’ll get us a pizza later.” He held up a six-pack of beer and set it on a table.

  “Stars my foot,” Izzy said. “He wants to talk to Ben about yet another sailing project—and he wants to be close to a television in case the game is resuscitated. And I want to knit with my favorite aunt.” She glanced back toward the front door. “But are we interrupting something? Whose car is that out front?”

  Nell hadn’t noticed a car when she drove in, but before she could check, the den door opened and Ben walked out.

  Behind him, getting up from a pair of wing chairs, were Father Northcutt and Sister Mary Fiona Halloran.

  “I thought I heard voices,” Nell said, clearly surprised. “But then, sometimes Ben talks back to his computer.” She smiled, hoping it hid her surprise at least a little. Everyone knew the Endicotts’ door was a revolving one, but there was something about the combination of Sister Fiona and Father Larry behind closed doors with Ben that didn’t fit the usual gathering.

  Ben kissed Nell on the forehead. “Hi, Nellie,” he said. It’s all fine, his tone and gesture relayed, but his somber face made Nell wonder.

  Father Larry fared better. He readily apologized to Nell for the surprise visit. “There’s been a bit of news,” he said. He looked at Ben, smiled with his usual calmness, and then went on, his chins wobbling. “Sure and we should talk. Perhaps with a wee bit of aqua vitae, Ben?”

  “Great idea, padre,” Ben said, already moving toward a silver tray of bottles and glasses near the oversized island.

  The others trailed after him while Sam began snapping the caps off the beer he’d brought.

  Nell rummaged in the refrigerator, her thoughts scattered, half listening to the idle chatter behind her. Perhaps a dose of small talk would soften whatever Father Larry wanted to talk about. She knew Ben had spent the afternoon at city hall and wondered if that precipitated the den conversation. Somehow his retirement had morphed into his involvement in every aspect of Sea Harbor life. But it was a good thing, he always said. And the Dream Weaver—the sailboat he and Sam had invested in—was always there when days got too busy or stressful.

  She pulled out packages of cheese, a jar of tapenade, a bowl of gherkins and olives, her mind mulling over the look on Ben’s face as he’d walked out of the den. She closed the refrigerator and took a wooden platter from a shelf and began filling it with snacks.

  “You have a nice art collection,” Fiona was saying, glancing at the framed seascapes on the family room walls. But her voice was distracted, her eyes not focusing on art.

  Sam pulled out a stool for her. “Would you like a glass of wine? Beer?”

  She nodded with a grateful smile and reached for a Sam Adams.

  Nell watched the exchange, wondering if the visit was somehow connected to the “emergency” Fiona had mentioned to Cass that morning. She set a stack of napkins on the island and looked around at the others. “All right. We’re set here. Now what is up with the three of you?” She aimed the question at Ben, but made it clear she’d take an answer from anyone. One of them, however, had better speak up.

  Izzy and Sam pulled out stools and sat on either side of Fiona and helped themselves to the cheese, listening.

  Ben glanced over at the newspaper on the countertop. “So you’ve seen today’s paper?”

  Nell glanced at it. “Headlines, at least. And the odd box on the front page about the woman who died. Is that what this is about?”

  Ben said yes.

  “We all think we know her from somewhere,” Izzy said. “But we can’t place her. Maybe it’s all those names. It makes her sound like nobility.”

  “Did you know her, Ben?” Nell asked.

  “Yes, but only slightly,” Ben said. “She lived on several acres out near the old quarry. Her property is prime land for development and a series of builders and investors have rotated in and out of our planning committee meetings at city hall trying to figure out how to get their hands on it. Their ideas are endless. I talked to her a couple of times about it. Davey Delaney tried to have the area rezoned so she might want to leave, but Miss Cardozo had absolutely no interest in the large amounts of money they were throwing at her.” He looked over at Father Northcutt, who was busy smearing a spoonful of tapenade on a hunk of sourdough bread. “Larry, you knew her better than I did. Fiona, you too.”

  “She was a good lady,” Fiona said. There was sadness in her voice that spoke of friendship.

  “She was a parishioner at Our Lady of Safe Seas,” the priest added, careful as he always was not to insinuate judgment on those who didn’t belong to his church—or maybe belonged but attended infrequently. “Dolores was a good soul. I liked her. I think she preferred Sister here to me, though she tolerated me nicely and seemed fond of the food pantry, being a regular over there.” He looked at Fiona and chuckled. “And of course she liked it even more once Fiona turned it into a five-star restaurant. Dolores had good taste. She also liked a nip of my Irish whiskey now and again, something some of my other Italian friends seem to think is next to heresy.”

  “Was she a volunteer at the Bountiful Bowl Café?” Nell asked. “Maybe I’ve seen her.”

  “No,” Fiona said. “Dolores ate there.” Fiona went on, correcting herself. “Actually, she usually had meals delivered to her. She’d check
out the menu ahead of time, then tell me what she wanted. She didn’t like crowds.”

  So Dolores was on food stamps, Nell thought. The situation was becoming more and more curious.

  “I’m assuming you were surprised she died?” Sam asked.

  Sam’s question was logical, but Nell heard in his voice another question—the same one she and Izzy were toying with. It was sad that the woman had died, but why were they spending all this time discussing a woman they didn’t really know? And why all the worried looks?

  “No. Dolores was fit as a fiddle,” Fiona said. “She walked every single day, no matter the weather. She walked all over Cape Ann—all the way over to Gloucester some days, up to Babson Quarry, Rockport, the library, always carrying her trusty walking stick.”

  “Wait, wait. Stop. Walking stick?” Izzy asked. Her face lit up and she slapped her hand down on the island, rattling a bowl of peanuts. “Of course. The Wizard—that’s what we called her. Her walking stick was huge, just like that ornate thing the wizard Alastor Moody had in Harry Potter books. Sure, that’s who it is. Dolores.

  “My running pals and I saw her all the time. She told us her name once, but it never stuck—she was always “The Wizard” to us. Once we were running near the old quarry and ran into her, almost literally. We stopped to make sure she was okay. She overheard Laura Danvers or someone say the nickname “Wizard.” I didn’t want her to think we thought she was a witch or anything so I explained to her how it came about. She loved it. Clapped her hands and repeated the name in her gravely voice. She had read every Harry Potter book so knew exactly who Alastor Moody was, but she assured us that unlike that wizard, she still had all her body parts. And then she laughed some more.”

  Izzy was on a roll, her memories of the woman who had died coming back to her in waves. “She was strong and fit for someone her age. She walked straight, her chin lifted, as if she was taking the whole world in—and kind of meditating at the same time. She had this long white ponytail, and was almost as thin as her walking stick, but she never seemed out of breath. I’m not even sure why she used the walking stick, except she said she liked the feel of it.”