Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

“I think Charlie’s attracted to Kayla,” Izzy was saying beside her.

  “Maybe,” Nell said.

  Izzy looked sideways at her aunt. “But . . .?”

  Nell gave a slight shrug and pushed the thoughts aside without answering. “Ben went to the station with Kayla this morning,” she said, changing the subject. “Now that her memory’s back, she might be able to help the police figure out what happened that night. She’s a key witness—”

  “Or chief suspect,” Izzy said.

  Nell looked at her, surprised. But she shouldn’t have been. Izzy was seeing it without the filters of emotion. Exactly the way Jerry Thompson and Tommy Porter would be. The way a prosecutor would look at it. One who could even twist Kayla’s injury and blacking out into something she’d done intentionally as a cover-up—or simply something that happened accidentally after the fact.

  “I don’t mean to sound callous.” Izzy tossed the vegetables with Nell’s basil and vinegar dressing and set the bowl aside.

  “You couldn’t be callous, not if you tried.”

  “Yes, I could. I was callous in the courtroom protecting my clients. Icy, a friend told me once. I told myself it was my job, it was the circumstance. I had to do it. And there’s some truth to that, sure. But we make our own choices. I wanted to get ahead in my law firm back then. Circumstances can drive people to do things in surprising ways. Maybe that’s why I gave up my law practice. I saw it in others, too—not only people acting contrary to what their conscious tells them, but worse—seemingly good people doing terrible things. Even murder.”

  The rattle of the door disturbed the conversation, bringing in a gust of wind along with Ben, his arms loaded with bags. “Weather’s supposed to pick up, but not until late. We’ll be okay on the deck tonight.” He walked across the family room and dropped his packages on the kitchen island, then moved to the sink to give Nell a kiss on the top of her head. He hugged Izzy, too, then shrugged out of his windbreaker.

  “How did it go?” Nell asked, helping Ben unpack the bags.

  “It went fine, actually. I took Kayla for coffee first. I thought it might put her at ease. But I also wanted to get to know her a little. And that was good. We connected. I like her.” Ben pulled out some wine from one of his padded bags and lined the bottles up on the island. “She seems to be loaded down with too much baggage for a woman that age, but maybe that’s beside the point.”

  “Maybe it’s not,” Izzy said.

  “As for the police interview, Jerry was the gentleman you’d expect him to be. He tried hard to make Kayla feel like she wasn’t under scrutiny.”

  Izzy rested her palms flat on the island and looked directly at her uncle, her eyes locked into his. “But she is under scrutiny,” Izzy said. “She has to be right up there on the list.”

  Ben let Izzy’s comment go unanswered and began pulling out fixings for the Friday martinis. “She’s smart, Iz. And I think she’s honest. She detailed everything she remembered carefully and articulately. The only glitch was the last question. And that threw a shadow over everything that had gone before. The ‘Why did you go out there that night, Kayla?’ That one didn’t get an answer.”

  The conversation ended with the clamoring at the front door—not the doorbell, which none of their friends used—announcing the arrival of Cass, Danny, and the Brewsters, who filled the family area with voices and laughter and armfuls of side dishes and flowers. Jane and Ham Brewster were the Endicotts’ oldest friends in Sea Harbor—the hippy artist couple from Berkeley who had traveled to the Woodstock festival many years past, had stopped in Sea Harbor on their way back to California, and never left. And they almost never missed a Friday night gathering.

  Before the first group made it to the kitchen island, Rachel and Don Wooten—the Sea Harbor attorney and her restaurateur husband—followed. Another group came in shortly after, the deck filled, the music was turned up, and the smell of Ben’s grilled cod filled the air.

  Nell moved in and out of the house, catching snatches of conversation, bits and pieces of Sea Harbor news—ordinary and pleasant. It was as if everyone was intentionally keeping it calm, and Nell was glad. They’d had enough commotion and an event with friends and little excitement was perfect.

  “Charlie texted me. He’s not coming,” Izzy whispered in Nell’s ear a while later. Around them people filled their plates and found empty chairs around the deck.

  “Is he working? I know he’s putting in long hours.”

  “Maybe you could call it work. He’s over at the Stewarts’. Kayla’s car broke down again.” Izzy’s brows lifted into sun-streaked bangs. “So what’s that about?”

  A call for dessert prevented Nell from pursuing it further, not that she’d have an answer. She had the same question.

  * * *

  The evening ended late, with music and conversation changing course as fast as they devoured the apple crisp Rachel Wooten had made. “And I didn’t order it from Don’s restaurant,” she insisted as she carried the empty baking dish out to their car.

  But a few stragglers, reluctant to give up the deck breeze and the starry night, had pulled on sweaters and sweatshirts and settled back on the deck. Ben brought out a tray with Scotch and some glasses, a pot of coffee and pitcher of cream.

  It was the usual standbys who stayed, the knitters and Sam, Danny, and Ben.

  “So,” Izzy said, sipping Sam’s scotch, then scrunching up her face in a horrible wince and handing it back. “For a quick recap of the evening, Aunt Nell and Don Wooten only had one mad hatter encounter that I could see, Uncle Ben and Sam only brought up sailing fourteen times, and Birdie delightfully changed conversations whenever things turned to politics or a contentious pennant race.”

  “And my fair Izzy was her sweet, wonderful, adorable self,” Sam filled in, wrapping one arm around his wife and pulling her close.

  They all clapped and Izzy snuggled comfortably into Sam’s side.

  Footsteps on the deck steps broke into the quiet moment. Nell looked over, wondering what Ham Brewster had forgotten. The bearded artist nearly always returned shortly after leaving for his salad bowl, a sweater, or sometimes he’d forgotten to give his hostess a big bear of a hug.

  But tonight the sound wasn’t the familiar flop of Ham’s Birkenstocks on the wooden steps, but a slightly firmer, quicker step.

  “Hey, guys, guess I missed dinner.” Charlie pushed a hank of hair back off his forehead and flopped down in a deck chair next to Ben. He looked tired.

  His uncle immediately poured him a Scotch.

  “You missed a mighty fine dinner, son,” Ben said. “I hope it was worth it.”

  No answer. Charlie put his had back and looked up at the sky.

  “It looks like you’re trying to decide,” Izzy said. “Speak.”

  “You’re right, I’m trying to decide.”

  Nell had disappeared and returned before they knew she was gone. She handed Charlie a plate of crusty grilled cod, a dollop of lemon cream sauce on top, and long slices of roasted squash, sweet onion, and carrots with brown grill marks highlighting the tender flesh.

  “You spoil him rotten,” Izzy said.

  Izzy sounded a bit like her mother, Nell’s sister Caroline, who often accused Nell of the same thing. “Of course I do,” Nell said, then settled down next to Ben and waited for Charlie to tell them why he’d come over so late.

  He looked at the plate with longing. And then he dug in, his football appetite taking over while the others chatted, trying to ignore the speed with which he devoured the dinner.

  When his plate was nearly empty, Charlie set it on a small table beside the chair and sat back, his eyes partly closed, but the look on his face was off kilter.

  Nell watched him for a long moment. “Charlie, what’s going on with you?”

  He opened his eyes, as if expecting the question. His voice was strained and curious at once, as if he himself didn’t understand what he was about to say.

  “She doesn’t know if she
killed Dolores Cardozo or not.”

  Chapter 17

  They sat in silence as Charlie’s words settled around them. They waited.

  Charlie took a deep breath and finally continued talking, his voice not as heavy as he tried to explain. “On one hand, she’s convinced she didn’t do it,” he said, pulling at words that might make sense of it. “But I think the questioning has messed with her head. She’s second guessing herself, wondering if she saw it right, the way she remembers it. Or if the concussion has screwed her up. Was Dolores already on the floor when she got there? Could she have done something, said something . . . ?”

  “That isn’t making sense, Charlie,” Izzy said.

  He looked down the length of his long legs, stretched out in front of him. “Maybe it doesn’t. Here’s how it played out.”

  He hadn’t planned to miss dinner. He’d never miss an Endicott meal without serious cause. So here was the reason:

  He had stopped by the Stewart house to drop off some free carnival tickets a patient had given the clinic. He and Doc Mackenzie thought the Stewart kids would like them. And Kayla could use something good happening. He had planned to leave them in the mailbox.

  But Kayla was in the gravel drive of her house when he arrived, leaning under the open hood of her car. She was covered with oil and dirt and dust. The engine was dead and she was adamant that she could fix it herself. She’d promised to take the kids for ice cream and was determined not to go back on her word.

  “It was as if getting them ice cream cones was the most important thing in her life,” he said. “She was acting kind of crazy. I wondered briefly if it had something to do with the concussion, but I watched her carefully and decided it wasn’t that. It was simply that she’d made a promise to the kids and was feeling that it was one thing in her life she could control.”

  “So you were the hero,” Izzy said.

  “Superhero, that’s me. I played with the kids while she showered, then drove them all to Scoopers. It was late when we got back, the kids were tired, and the car was still broken.”

  “So you stayed and fixed it,” Nell said.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t hard. She had done more to mess it up than solve the problem. But I don’t think it’s because she doesn’t know how to fix cars. She probably does. She’s tough, and seems capable of doing just about anything she wants to do. But like I said, she wasn’t thinking clearly, at least from a mechanic’s point of view.”

  “How are the kids?” Cass asked.

  “They’re great. She’s a good mother, not that I’m much of a judge. The kids are happy. And the dog’s great.” Charlie swirled his glass of Scotch.

  “Once the car was fixed and the sky was dark—she seems to talk better in the dark—she asked if I’d stay. I hadn’t asked her about the morning meeting—somehow asking questions seems to shut her down. I wanted to, though, and hoped maybe she’d bring it up. So I stayed. And it turns out she did want to talk about it.”

  “Did she think it was a good meeting?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t think she judged it. But she thought that every word she had said to the chief was the absolute truth. I believe it. I’m not sure the woman can lie.” He paused and thought about that. Then he said, “I don’t know, maybe she’d lie for her kids, but I think it’d be hard for her. I’ve known a lot of liars, and I don’t think she’s one of them.”

  “But—” Ben pressed.

  “But. I know she still held back on why she had gone out there that night. Why? Maybe that’s why I don’t think she’s a liar. She could have made something up, told them she went out to check on Dolores Cardozo, to take her something, a whole bunch of things. But she didn’t. She simply said it wasn’t relevant, it was personal, and she wasn’t going to tell them.”

  “But does she see that it makes her look bad?” Nell said.

  “I don’t know. But it seems important to her not to tell them why, even though I can tell it’s messing with her head. I think her comment about not being sure what she did out there that night was said out of complete frustration.” He finished his Scotch and looked up, this time smiling slightly.

  None of them knew whether it was the Scotch, the heaping plate of food, or simply talking to people important in his life. But the combination seemed to have given Charlie new life. He sat forward in the chair, the weariness fading from his face. He seemed smug, almost, as if he’d figured out the secrets of the universe while devouring his uncle’s grilled cod.

  “Yeah, I’m convinced. I wasn’t until you let me talk it all out. Family therapy. Good for the soul.”

  Ben chuckled and opened his mouth to say something, but Charlie wasn’t finished.

  “And who knows,” he said, looking at Izzy, then the others, “being the superhero I am, maybe I can find out what the answer to that ‘why’ question is and stop the fuss. I’ll take care of Kayla; you guys find the bad dude.”

  He stood and looked toward the doors leading into the house, then back toward his aunt. “What’s for dessert?” he asked.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday was cloudy, a chance of rain in the forecast, and if it hadn’t been one of the last days for the outdoor market, Nell might have found an excuse not to go.

  Birdie had shown up early, wanting a cup of coffee before they left. Her groundsman Harold had brought her over and she seemed adamant they get out. “Fresh air,” she said. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “I’m meeting Kayla and the kids at the market. I’ve promised the children a treat. They’ve never had Harry Garozzo’s St. Joseph’s Day fritters.”

  “That’s shameful, ” Nell said, nodding agreement.

  She poured coffee into two mugs, and settled on one of the stools beside the oversized island.

  “Three,” Birdie said. “Izzy is coming, too.”

  “Izzy? What about the shop?”

  “It will still be there, even if Izzy is not. Mae’s twin nieces are home from school for the weekend and helping out. They’re going to decorate the window. They started early this morning. It’s a vision and will surely get everyone in town excited about the knitting project. Bamboo trees dripping with hats and mittens, knit scarves fashioned into two baskets that they’re filling with fall leaves. Even tiny little knit socks positioned up a winding, red brick road. Those girls are talented.”

  Nell imagined the sight. And she also wondered what else was on Birdie’s mind. “Have you told Kayla about Monday’s meeting?”

  “No. In fact, I haven’t told anyone about it. That’s one of today’s tasks. Chief Thompson and I decided to give it this week before we talked to the benefactors. I think Jerry was hoping the case would be solved by now and the whole thing would be a little cleaner. But nothing is solved. And with rumors beginning to circulate about Dolores’s will, it’s time to let the beneficiaries know. If we don’t, we’ll be hearing about people not even in it who are turned into instant millionaires.”

  “People, no doubt, who never laid eyes on Dolores Cardozo,” Nell said.

  “We’re here,” Izzy called, kicking off her boots in the hallway. Cass followed her in.

  “Cass,” Birdie said in surprise. “I thought I heard those cowboy boots of yours. Noisy things.”

  “Isn’t hearing supposed to dim at your age?” Cass asked with a smile. She took another mug from the cupboard and helped herself to the cream.

  Izzy wore a soft alpaca poncho that she had knit during last year’s long, cold winter. It was the color of the sea, with orange circles scattered around it playfully, slits for arms, and a fringe that touched her knees and moved in slow motion as she walked across the room. “Abby loves this poncho. She wants one just like it so we can dance together and have the fringe fly around us like butterflies.”

  They all knew that meant Izzy was probably nearly finished with it.

  Izzy filled her own cup, then waited until everyone had their coffee. “Before we head to the market, I have a couple of things I wanted to say—” It soun
ded like a prepared speech, an announcement, and the other three looked at one another, then at Izzy.

  Cass was about to tease her about the drama, then thought better of it and looked around the kitchen counter for a leftover bagel instead. “Go on. We’re all ears,” she said.

  “Mae said the newspaper called the shop again, wanting to do a story. The editor called us the Seaside Knitters Society.”

  “That has an elegant sound,” Birdie said with a smile. “I rather like it.”

  “Me too,” Izzy said. “So we need to be thinking about doing the interview and being the elegant Seaside Knitters Society. You all seem to be ignoring this request.”

  “Not intentionally,” Nell said.

  “I know,” Izzy said. “We have other things on our minds these days. But it’ll be good PR for the knitting project. I’ll tell her maybe we can meet over the weekend or next week—at least she’ll stop bothering Mae.”

  They nodded and Izzy punched a reminder into her phone. “The other thing—” Izzy said, her smile fading. And then to everyone’s surprise, her large brown eyes grew moist.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Cass said. She started to get up but Izzy stopped her, her palms out.

  “No, it’s nothing,” she said. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t know why I’m so emotional. It must be PMS or something.” She took a quick, deep breath. “The other thing is, well, I wanted to talk about Dolores Cardozo.”

  They all waited while Izzy composed herself.

  “It’s about a dream I had.”

  “About Dolores Cardozo?” Birdie asked.

  Izzy nodded. “I can tell Sam almost anything. He understands me inside and out. He’d listen to anything I had to say. But there are some things, I don’t know, things like this dream, that I can only share with you guys. You’ll get it.”

  They nodded, no one saying anything. They didn’t need to. They’d all done the same thing as their friendship deepened.

  “It was a real memory,” Izzy began, “something that happened a while ago that I’d forgotten about, but it resurfaced last night, all tangled up in a dream. And now I can’t stop thinking about her. And I’m feeling so sad.”