Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “I’m Birdie Favazza.” She turned her head back toward Nell. “And this is my friend, Nell Endicott.”

  Their names seemed to carry enough recognition that the man relaxed slightly. There were few on Cape Ann who didn’t know the Favazza name.

  “Joe Duncan,” the man said, pointing without turning to a house across the road. The house was similar to Dolores’s—plain and small—except it lacked the acres of yard and woods and quarry that was unique to the Cardozo property. That, and a small porch tacked on the front, with two identical rocking chairs sitting side by side.

  “It’s a sad time for the neighborhood,” Nell said.

  The man nodded gravely.

  “Were you friends of Miss Cardozo, Joe?” Birdie asked.

  “Dolly—that’s what we call her—didn’t socialize much. But then, most of us around here don’t. That’s why we live here. It’s quiet. Peaceful. It makes my Marlene happy not to have people around.” He looked over at Dolores’s house. “Or at least that’s how it used to be. Now it’s a wicked mess around here. Don’t much like strangers.” He shifted his gun under his arm as he spoke.

  Birdie gave Nell a quick glance, wondering if the two of them were included in his statement.

  Nell leaned across Birdie, coming closer to the window. “I suppose you’ve had your share of police traffic this week, Joe? It can’t be pleasant for you.”

  Nell’s expression of empathy seemed to relax the man’s shoulders and his face became less somber. He nodded slowly, his narrow chin and the skin below it taking several shapes as it dipped low. “Yes’m, plenty of them. They upset Marlene no end, wanting to come up on our porch, then asking a million questions.”

  “I suppose they wondered if you saw anything, if maybe you could help them out,” Birdie said.

  “Yep. They wanted to know if we were home that day. Where would we go? I asked them, but then I remembered that it was a Saturday. We went into town. Well, I did, anyways. Marlene doesn’t go out. I always go in on Saturday.” He shook his head as if it had been the worst decision of his life. “Was late getting back. Had my oil changed that day. Ran into a mess of trouble with the truck. Marlene was mad as the dickens that dinner’d be late.”

  “And Marlene didn’t see anything either? So it was quiet out here that day?” Birdie asked.

  “Quiet as can be. Saw Dolly coming back from a walk as I was heading out. She came back earlier than usual, if I remember right. Saturdays she usually went to the library.”

  “Do you know why she came back early?” Nell asked.

  “Nope. Maybe she didn’t go to the library that day. Who knows? What does it matter? Sometimes we get hikers out here in the fall, taking those trails back there along the road. Public access. So that’s how they go. I heard one or two of them that day. Maybe a bunch. Can’t remember. It was an ordinary day until the next one, when we found out Dolly was dead. The sirens nearly caused my Marlene to have a heart attack. And now, it’s no better, with these dagnabbit curiosity seekers, folks just coming by to see what they can see. And then, sure, there’s the usual hounds we’ve seen around here for months.”

  “Usual hounds?”

  “A whole rat pack of ’em. My wife, Marlene, calls them the vultures. Riffraff, that’s what they are. Damn riffraff. Some with fancy measuring tools. All computerized these days. They’ve been coming by for months. Dolly chased a couple away with an old BB gun she kept in her garage. That plus some salty words that sent my wife closing the windows. Dolly sparred with the best of them—and my Marlene don’t like to hear that kind of talk.” He chuckled. “There was no way in hell those fancy developers and construction workers were going to talk her out of her land, and we were behind her one hundred and fifty-two percent on that one. We had her back, she had ours. It’s our land, that much is for sure. She’d never sell it.”

  Nell glanced up and down the road. She wondered if our meant the Duncans’. The nearest house was barely visible, all the way down the road and behind a tangle of scrub bushes.

  “So that’s died down now, I suppose,” Birdie said.

  “Oh, don’t you believe it. It’s a whole new ball game. With Dolly gone it’s open season on this land. I hear talk of one of those big-box stores or a liquor store, a whole string of stores—you name it.

  “But it’s not going to happen,” he went on. “Imagine what one of those developments would do to my birds.”

  “Your birds?” Birdie asked.

  He touched his binoculars with an arthritic index finger. “I’m a birder. Been doing it for more years than you can count. Just this week I spotted a purple finch, Wilson’s snipe, even a ruby-crowned kinglet. Not many get by old Dunc. I love my birds. And my bins.” He patted the rubber armoring on the binoculars hanging around his neck. Bird talk had added a whole spirited dimension to Joe Duncan.

  Nell leaned over Birdie to look more closely at the binoculars. They were definitely high end, the kind Ben had been talking about getting for the sailboat. “Birding is a great hobby around Cape Ann, I hear. And those are fine lenses you have.”

  “Sure are. They’re the best. Saved for two years to buy ’em.” This time his laugh was more of a guffaw. “You’d be surprised what these beauties can see.”

  “Oh?” Birdie’s smile came from her eyes. Intimate. A “tell me your secrets” kind of smile.

  “Okay, I know you want to. Here, you take a look, Ms. Favazza,” he said, pulling the cord over his head and thrusting the binoculars through the open car window. “It’s not only birds this baby sees. Brings the whole world right into your head.”

  Birdie took the binoculars, adjusted them, and looked through the finely cut lenses. Dunc was right. It brought the world into your head. And along with it, the quarry trails and the trees, mailboxes—and nearly all the rooms of Dolores Cardozo’s small house.

  * * *

  Lambswool Farm was busy, a John Deere tractor plowing a distant field, a riding mower creating neat grassy designs in a vast stretch of land that rolled all the way to the sea. Nearby, a flock of sheep settled in a field, ignoring an Australian shepherd practicing his herding skills.

  The farm acreage had been in the Favazza family for generations—but none of the deceased would have recognized the postcard perfect land that had been recently transformed into a working organic farm, complete with chef’s farm-to-table gourmet dinners served, in season, on long white-clothed picnic tables with a view of the sea. Although Birdie had handed over all responsibility for Lambswool Farm to Claire Russell and her staff, Birdie never failed to feel a swell of joy as she approached the farm. Her Sonny would have loved it.

  Nell pulled in beside a truck and turned off the engine. “I know what you’re thinking, Birdie. Coming out here affects me, too. Basking in the fresh air of Lambswool Farm is like taking a shower after walking through mud. It’s pure magic. We both needed this.”

  They climbed out of the car almost forgetting the week that was, one they wanted to put as far behind them as possible.

  Activity across the way from the working barn drew them toward a long table, groaning beneath the weight of multicolored squash, edamame, spinach and arugula, and vegetables they couldn’t even begin to identify.

  “I’m glad you came,” Claire Russell called over to them, waving them closer. “Manna from heaven. Look at this windfall.” She picked up a giant crooked-neck squash that looked more like a swan than a vegetable. She handed them each a cloth bag with a silk-screened image of the farm on the side. “Scavenge to your hearts’ content. The rest I’ll take over to the food pantry at the church.”

  Claire was dressed in her usual uniform: a floppy straw hat and jeans, a pair of gardening gloves sticking out of the back pocket, her fading brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  Hiring a friend to accomplish that friend’s lifelong dream had not only been a smart financial decision for Birdie—Claire quickly proved that her business savvy matched her gardening expertise—it had also given Clai
re a way to deal with grieving a dear friend who had died the year before.

  Nell watched her as she broke into a ready smile, the well-earned lines in her face soft, the hollowness disappearing steadily. Lambswool Farm’s magic and healing powers didn’t discriminate; they were there for all who needed them.

  The sound of giggles in the distance were familiar ones and the three women turned in that direction as Birdie’s granddaughter Gabby and her friend Daisy climbed across a fence and started toward the barn. They leaned into one another as they walked, heads bent together in some secret girl talk. Gabby’s uncontrollable blue-black hair fell over her eyes, and she brushed it back impatiently, her fingers pushing the thick curly mass over one ear.

  When Gabby glanced up long enough to spot her nona, she changed directions and ran over, wrapped Birdie in a giant hug. The freckled preteen was now taller than Birdie by an inch, and proudly showed it off, standing straight as a reed, her arm around her grandmother.

  “We’re famous, Nona—again,” Gabby announced.

  Daisy grinned her agreement, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Or about to be anyway,” she said. Her short hair bounced as she grabbed Gabby’s elbow, pointing toward the barn. “Gotta go. Interview time.”

  “We’ll do autographs later,” Gabby called out over her shoulder as they headed across the drive.

  Claire laughed and filled in the blanks: “The farm is being written up again,” she added in a plaintiff tone, her voice low so that the retreating girls wouldn’t hear. The opening of Lambswool Farm a year before had presaged a flurry of media attention, from North Shore magazines to a few television appearances by celebrity guest chefs to a long article in the Boston Globe. And as wonderful as television cameras and reporters were for the business, it could be disrupting to the busy life of a working farm.

  “The girls have become a great help out here—and they love it so much—that I thought they could handle this one. They know almost as much about the place as you or I do, Birdie. Besides, they have a zillion dramatic stories about lambs being born, saddling horses, meeting famous chefs, and riding on that John Deere. They’ll bring a vigor to an article that yours truly might not succeed in doing. They’re loving it.”

  “What magazine is it this time?” Birdie asked. “The New York Times?”

  Claire laughed. “Well, not quite, it’s—”

  But before she could finish her sentence, a young man walked out of the barn, a camera hanging around his neck, striding toward one of the pastures. He was followed closely by Gabby and Daisy. The girls’ heads were thrown back in laughter and Greta, one of Claire’s Australian shepherds, was bouncing along behind them as if he were in on a joke.

  “Hey, wait,” Claire called out to them.

  The trio stopped and turned around. Claire leaned toward Birdie and whispered, “If I’m going to exploit your granddaughter, you should probably meet the guy asking her questions.”

  The young man waved a hand in the air and headed their way with Gabby, Daisy, and the dog following.

  Nell and Birdie stared at the man as he drew near.

  “It’s Howdy Doody,” Nell said in a whisper so low only Birdie could hear.

  “But better looking,” Birdie whispered back. “I’m thinking he’s more like a Jimmy Olsen.”

  Nell chuckled, and as the man came closer, she had to agree. He was a clone of the reporter from the old Superman movies. That sweet Jimmy Olsen—Superman’s pal. Someone the young man walking toward them was too young to even know about.

  Red hair and freckles; boyish in his jeans, cowboy hat, and boots—Richie Pisano was definitely every bit as distinctive as Mary Pisano had portrayed him. And his smile as wide and welcoming as if they’d known him for a long time. Perhaps from the old television days.

  “Ladies,” he said with fingertips to his hat and a slight tip of his head. Richie wasn’t tall—just normal size—but one sensed a personality that made up for anything he might lack in other areas.

  Claire made the introductions while Richie listened to their names, nodding, smiling.

  Then he confessed, with a slight blush creeping into his cheeks, that he hadn’t really needed introductions. “I spend a lot of time digging through archives at the paper. It gives me a good handle on what’s going on around the town, knowing who’s who. I know about your generosity to Sea Harbor, Ms. Favazza, your place in the town, your husbands.” He added the last words with the suspicion of a wink that caused Birdie to frown.

  Then he turned to Nell. “And you and your husband retired here from Boston, and became integral to this burg in all sorts of ways. Very cool. I met Mr. Endicott when I was covering a committee meeting the other day at city hall. He spotted my computer screen going black and gave me his cord. Saved my life, I swear. Good man.”

  Nell smiled, slightly embarrassed at the familiarity he was espousing. Someone knowing her from behind a curtain—without permission. Yet she’d done the same with him—and even more so with Kayla Stewart. It felt different being on the other side of it.

  “Richie’s the man who quoted us in the article about the food pantry, Nona,” Gabby said, filling in a pause. “You know, the one on the fridge in your kitchen.”

  “Of course I remember, dear. I’ve only read it twenty times. It was a lovely article, Richie.”

  “Hey, thanks,” he said. “This interviewing and writing for the paper has tapped into my hidden talent. And these two gals here helped me a lot, introduced me around that food place to everyone. I got to deliver some meals with one of their drivers, Kayla Stewart, too. Do you know her? It was cool. I found out lots about her. And to top it off, the café served me the best clam chowder in, well, maybe the whole world.”

  “Of course it was the best,” Gabby said. “The Bountiful Bowl Café is a five-star kind of place.”

  Richie laughed. “Sure.” He turned to Birdie and Nell. “Claire here has been great, too, letting me hang out and ask a million questions. This place is amazing. Must be worth a bundle.”

  It wasn’t the way Birdie looked at Lambswool Farm at all, but she held a smile. “We all love it here,” she said.

  “It’s been written up by the best of the best. I’ve read all of it. But I’m grateful for you guys letting a rookie like me give it my spin.”

  “We never turn down free PR,” Claire said. Her voice was friendly but it was clear to her friends that Claire had far better things to do than accommodate yet another reporter, especially one who would be preaching to the choir. Everyone in Sea Harbor knew about Lambswool Farm—and they’d be the only ones reading his little piece.

  Richie fingered his camera, smiling with pleasure.

  “That’s a nice camera,” Birdie said, noticing the affectionate grip of his fingers on the Nikon.

  “Yep. Makes me feel like a real pro.” He grinned. “Just got me this. Had a little windfall come my way. Now all I need is a plastic press card and wristwatch to call Superman like that kid in the old movies.”

  So he did know about his twin. That was a point in his favor. “Well, it looks like you’re on your way up the ranks at the paper,” Nell said.

  “Nah. I’m good at this—it’s easy. But reporting on a small rag doesn’t pay much. You have to be innovative, keep your sights high, you know?”

  “How high?” Birdie asked.

  “Oh, who knows? Maybe I’ll travel the world. Live the good life. But for today it’s Lambswool Farm. And these two gals here have already tossed out my outline and replaced it with their own.”

  “Yours was slightly boring, no offense,” Daisy said. “We’ll show you the real Lambswool Farm. Just follow us.”

  They were off, this time Daisy and Gabby leading the way and Richie Pisano sprinting to keep up.

  Nell watched them until they were out of sight. “Interesting young man,” she said, more to herself, but both Birdie and Claire picked up on it.

  “He’s ambitious.”

  “Just like Jimmy Olsen,” Cla
ire said.

  “I suspect there are some differences,” Nell said.

  “Yes,” Birdie said with a smile. She shielded her eyes, scanning the horizon for Gabby and the others, who were quickly disappearing from sight. The sound of Greta’s barking indicated their direction.

  Nell watched Richie disappear, too, unsure of why she thought his disappearing might be a good thing. The fact that she knew little about him but he was learning all sorts of things about people she did know bothered her.

  “You’re wondering about him,” Birdie said. “I see it on your face. ‘Who is this Jimmy Olsen look-alike?’”

  Nell laughed. “I’m exposed.”

  “Well, we know, or have heard, he’s a hardworking rookie,” Birdie said.

  “Hardworking? Maybe. Rookie doesn’t seem to fit.”

  “Is seasoned reporter better?” Birdie asked. “That doesn’t fit in my mind.”

  “There’s something about him that bothers me. I have the feeling that Richie Pisano has bigger fish to fry than those found at Lambswool Farm or food pantries or a newsroom.”

  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what they were.

  Chapter 16

  “Is Charlie coming for dinner?” Nell stood next to Izzy at the sink, breathing in the loamy smell of earth as they scrubbed squash and potatoes and small sweet carrots, readying the late cultivars for the grill.

  She and Birdie had taken Claire up on her generous offer and filled several bags with vegetables before calling it quits and heading back to town.

  “I’m sure he’s coming, Aunt Nell. My brother doesn’t cook,” Izzy said.

  Nell nodded. Her mind was wandering, her thoughts scattered, the niggling feeling of leaving things unfinished. She thought about Richie the reporter—and wondered how many questions he had thrown at Kayla while they drove back and forth to the Cardozo house.

  And she wondered if Kayla had answered them.