Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Elliott had followed her look. “Our resident reporter. He’s everywhere I look. Chumming it up with the staff. Flirting his way across the lunchroom. Hopefully, he’ll have his story and be out of here soon. I don’t want to offend the Gazette’s editor but I wouldn’t mind at all offending this kid.”

  Birdie listened, then looked back to the lobby. The women had moved on, but Richie was still there. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he seemed to be recording attendance—and not especially happy with what he saw.

  * * *

  Kayla Stewart walked with Ben Endicott across the parking lot, his long strides slowing to match her own. Kayla looked up at the sleek glass building in the distance, identified by the tall letters spread across the second story: Danvers Family Bank. The bank building was on the north end of Sea Harbor, anchoring a half circle of office buildings, all landscaped with small trees and pots overflowing with fall mums.

  Kayla kept her eyes on the building, one foot moving in front of the other.

  She hadn’t wanted to come.

  Instead, she wanted to turn the calendar back, to forget this was happening and travel back those months to late spring and early summer, to lazy days when she’d pack sandwiches and take the kids to Sandpiper Beach, where she would lie flat on the cool sand, letting Sarah Grace and Christopher bury every inch of her body except for her head and her arms. The kids’ high giggles would spin around her, filling her whole being with joy. The days had been simple and easy. She didn’t have extra money, but enough. A decent job, generous tips, good days. Happy days. Safe days.

  Until they weren’t.

  But even then, there was a way. There was always a way.

  But none of it had gone as she had planned. None of it.

  The thought of Dolores Cardozo came to her suddenly. Unbidden and powerful and shattering, as if Dolores herself were standing at the door to the bank building, watching Kayla approach. Tears sprang to her eyes instantly, the cry in her heart as deep and mournful and silent as death.

  “Kayla?”

  The steady voice of Ben Endicott brought her back to the present. She looked up.

  Ben was standing at the heavy glass door, holding it open for her. His face was calm, his manner easy, friendly.

  Protective.

  “We’re here,” he said. “It’s going to be fine, Kayla.”

  Kayla looked through the door into the marble lobby. She placed a hand on the flat plane of her abdomen, pressing away the uneasiness.

  “Shall we?”

  Kayla nodded and walked slowly into the building.

  * * *

  Birdie scanned the group one more time. She stopped when her eyes settled on a familiar, well-built man standing near the bar that held the coffee and rolls. His coffee cup was balanced in one hand, a pastry in the other. Davey Delaney managed to juggle both of them, along with a conversation with Sister Fiona.

  More of a monologue, Birdie decided. Fiona appeared to be half listening, her attention directed toward the door. Wondering where Kayla was, Birdie guessed. She checked her own watch. There was still time.

  She looked back at Davey. But why was he here? According to his mother, Davey was now the top man at Delaney Construction, finally giving his father some well-earned rest. D.J. would never give up the reins entirely, everyone knew that, but at least he was giving his son a chance.

  Birdie had known Davey Delaney since before he was born—and the rest of the family longer than that. They were decent folks, including Davey, although she knew from Ben that his volatile temper was often on display at city hall meetings. Davey would come with gloves on, ready to fight when he wanted zoning laws changed or some land reclassified, or a dozen other things that would profit his construction and development company.

  But this wasn’t city hall, and the Delaney Company wasn’t a beneficiary.

  And then it came to her. Of course. Davey wanted Dolores’s land. Badly. Not the house—he would bulldoze that in a New York second. But he’d been fighting for that land near the old quarry for years. The Cardozo land.

  She thought of Joe Duncan and wondered if Davey was one of the riffraff run off by Dunc’s gun. The thought made her smile. Davey wouldn’t be intimidated by the crusty neighbor, but the gun? Maybe.

  Father Northcutt had seen Davey come in, too. He walked over to Birdie’s side. He smiled wryly. “Our friend Davey just wants a heads-up to see who he needs to start sending flowers to so he can get his hands on that land.”

  Birdie’s smile widened at his words, then broke into a laugh, joining Father Larry’s deep-throated chuckle.

  Davey Delaney was in for a surprise.

  She shuffled her papers, looking around once more at several onlookers out in the lobby, more office staff with large curiosities. Mary Pisano’s homage to Dolores had stirred up conjectures and a buzz about her estate, a riff in bars and coffee shops. But soon the double walnut doors would be closed and they’d have to wait a few hours before gathering at Coffees or the Gull for the newest wave of rumors.

  Ben and Kayla were the last to arrive, just a minute before Birdie and Elliott walked up to a table podium at the front of the room. Birdie made sure her smile reached Kayla before moving to Elliott’s side as he welcomed everyone to his bank and reminded them of the coffee and pastries in the back. He explained they wouldn’t be there long—it was a simple reading of Miss Cardozo’s will. He also welcomed anyone with questions in the days to come to contact himself or Birdie Favazza.

  Birdie stood as tall as she could to see over the podium. She explained briefly how it all worked. The will would go through probate before moneys were distributed, but because Dolores Cardozo was not only generous, but a “financial genius,” her last will and testament was clean and orderly—and could probably be used as a model for anyone studying estate law in the future.

  “Dolores has made my job very simple,” she said. “She paid for everything from funeral expenses to taxes ahead of time, leaving no debt.” Birdie straightened her glasses and looked at the papers in front of her, then looked up and chuckled. “I mean, how many of you pay your utility bills forward for the entire year? And with such an exact calculation that she almost always hit the amount dead-on.”

  The crowd laughed.

  Birdie gave a few more instructions and repeated that she and Elliott would be available to answer questions. There’d be packets handed out to each of them at the end. She was going to skip over the legalese at the beginning of the document so no one was tempted to snooze but suggested they all read it at their leisure when they got home.

  The list wasn’t as long as the number of people in the room indicated. Some directors had brought their CFOs along, and several individuals had come with a friend or partner. And then there were the uninvited. And the police, whom Birdie judiciously refrained from looking at.

  Then she got right down to business, beginning with organizations.

  The Bountiful Bowl Café was first on the alphabetized list, and although Father Northcutt and Sister Fiona knew they were benefiting, they both beamed, knowing they would now be able to fix the café’s stove, handle the utility bills without worry, hire a manager, and then some.

  The list went on, including Dr. Lily Virgilio’s Free Health Clinic, where Charlie volunteered, and the adjacent Community Closet—which, thanks to the knitters’ HMS project, would soon be filled with hundreds of hand-knit hats, mittens, socks, and scarves. Several small and obscure Cape Ann organizations that most of them had never heard of were not forgotten. The police dispatcher Esther Gibson’s initiative to teach incarcerated women how to knit was not forgotten. Esther beamed from her chair in the corner of the room, lifting her eyes from a half-knit hat in gratitude. She’d be in Izzy’s shop soon, buying baskets of yarn and needles and courting volunteers along the way. When it came to Marian Brandley’s bequest, there was a ripple of applause. Dolores had set aside plenty for the library, but she had also rewarded Marian herself for a lifetime
of promoting library use and assisting all those who entered her doors.

  Although Birdie had read the will many times in the last couple days, the generosity of the testator continued to move her. Dolores Cardozo was defining generosity in a new way. Selflessly and silently.

  “Goodness is everywhere,” Birdie said with a catch in her voice. “And Dolores Cardozo seemed to know exactly where to find it.”

  It might not have been obvious to the recipients, but it was clear to Birdie and Elliott that Dolores Cardozo had not only singled out people doing decent, ordinary things, she had found them through careful looking, through attention to life around her.

  And also through assiduous effort. Elliott had told Birdie that Dolores had examined the budgets of every one of the organizations; dissected mission statements and annual reports; paid meticulous attention to how moneys were spent, to anticipated expenses and needs—and she had quietly and invisibly probed into the leadership and of each group. In Elliott’s opinion, her thoroughness was extraordinary; he wished he could have hired her for the bank’s foundation. He had teased her once about being a ghost and listening in on board meetings and decision-making conferences. And she hadn’t denied it.

  “Yes,” Birdie said at one point, removing her glasses and looking out at the gathering, “Dolores Cardozo was an amazing woman. One we won’t soon forget. And you, each one of you, are footnotes to her life.” Her blue-veined hands applauded those in front of her, and then she put her glasses back on and continued.

  Some of the bequests were simply statements of names and amounts; others included wry notes. There were generous gifts to a teenager she’d seen stopping traffic so an old woman could cross a busy street; a woman who came to Dolores’s house to wash her hair because she had noticed leaves and dirt in her pretty white hair when she’d walked by the salon one day; a craftsman from Maine who had made her precious wooden cane, carving the handle to fit the curves of her hand; Claire Russell, a fellow vegetarian, who made sure the soup pantry had plenty of organic zucchini and tomatoes at no cost; and a whole host of ordinary folks who had in some way affected either Dolores Cardozo’s life or—even more often—someone else’s.

  Butchers and bakers and walking stick makers.

  Birdie took a deep breath, soaking in the spirit of Dolores Cardozo. She examined the faces in the crowd, each with a story to tell. Each with emotions rising to the surface. She hoped Dolores was looking down on it all, seeing what she had set in motion.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Davey Delaney, standing near the coffeepot, fidgeting.

  Dolores’s house and land were next on the list.

  She read it with a smile in her voice: “I give my interest in my property and house at Eight Old Quarry Road, which was my residence my entire life, together with any insurance on such real property, to Sister Mary Fiona Halloran.”

  There was a slight gasp coming from pockets of the room, then some shuffling of chairs and soft conversation as people looked around for the nun who was now landed gentry, as some would see it.

  Sister Fiona sat quietly in her chair, her thoughts unreadable. But a smile played at the corners of her lips. Her head was back, her eyes cast upward, as if she were enjoying a private and playful moment with her friend, Dolores Cardozo.

  The reading of the will was nearly finished, one bequest remaining.

  Many who were there thought the magnitude of the bequests already announced would deplete any Sea Harbor estate. Whatever was left would be trivial, a small trust, perhaps for a pet or her church. People began turning in their seats, talking with neighbors, readying themselves to call relatives—others to send happy texts to board members and staff. Everywhere there were smiles on the faces of good, simple people, surprised at their sudden fortune—and inordinately grateful.

  Birdie ignored the background din, her heart growing heavy as she looked over at Kayla Stewart. Kayla sat still, her face unreadable, her eyes not leaving Birdie’s face. Would this be a blessing or a burden she was placing on this young mother’s shoulders? Dolores had planned for it so wisely, almost as if Kayla were her own daughter. She had appointed trustees to guide Kayla for several years—to help keep her inheritance safe—after which Kayla would manage on her own. But no matter how many protections Dolores had built in, her life-altering gift to the young mother of two could carry with it a burden of suspicion, a motive for murder, that Dolores Cardozo never anticipated.

  Birdie cleared her throat and then began to read the words that would change lives.

  “I give, devise, and bequeath the remainder of my estate, consolidated entirely into a trust fund of stocks, bonds, annuities, and other investments, to Kayla Stewart. . . .”

  By the time Birdie finished reading the bequest, including the stipulation that she and Elliott Danvers would serve as trustees to the trust, people had moved on, excited at their good fortune, and with only a few of them aware of the significance of the final bequest.

  But Kayla Stewart had heard every word of it, her face impassive, her body still, unresponsive.

  Kayla Stewart—who had walked into the glass-fronted Danvers Family Bank an hour before without ever having had a savings account anywhere—walked out of the bank a short while later a wealthy woman.

  Chapter 22

  There was nothing Ben could say to stop the tears.

  Kayla had climbed into his car and doubled over, and started to cry. It was a sound that would ring in Ben’s head for days—an inconsolable heart-wrenching sound.

  Finally, Kayla straightened up, accepted the box of tissue that Ben handed her, and fastened her seat belt. The tears had continued on the drive home, her sobs quieter, with slow breaths in between.

  When they arrived at the house, Ben turned off the engine and sat quietly, waiting.

  Kayla looked out the window, as if not sure where she was. Then she pulled herself together and sat back, her head pressed against the seat. She breathed deeply, steadying herself, pulling tissues from the box. Finally, she rolled her head to the side and looked at the patient man sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “I’m twenty-nine,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, thickened by crying.

  Ben smiled. One hand rested on the top of the steering wheel. “Old lady,” he said. “But well preserved.”

  Although her lips tried to return the smile, the effort was blurred by a new stream of tears that rolled across her cheekbones, around a single dimple in one cheek, the rill collecting near her chin before it fell like raindrops. She reached for the door handle but her eyes were still on Ben.

  Her hand dropped. “I thought I had it figured out,” she said, her voice rough with tears. “My life. Sea Harbor. A good place, a good life . . . a good . . .”

  She stopped, sputtered, searching for words. “What Dolores Cardozo did . . . what she did for me . . . it . . . the . . .” She stopped, the words never making it to a sentence and falling flat as she reached for another tissue and blew her nose. “Why?” she asked, her words muffled by the tissue.

  “Why?” Ben asked.

  Kayla met his eyes and held them. “Why is this . . . this gift from a kind and generous and wonderful dead woman, why is it killing me? Why is it turning into a curse?”

  Chapter 23

  Ben walked into the yacht club dining room and looked around. He was late for lunch, half expecting an empty room. But as always, there were those who lingered, resisting real-world responsibilities as they sat with a view of the sea and the club’s signature sandwiches and salads, chowders or soups lulling them into two-and sometimes three-hour lunches.

  Ben wouldn’t be one of them—nor would the women he was meeting. He hoped they had waited for him.

  He spotted Nell’s waving hand and wound his way quickly to a table for four along the side of the room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ben said. “I had to answer some calls.” He kissed the top of Nell’s head and smiled across at Birdie and Cass.

  A bowl of cl
am chowder sat at the empty place and Ben eyed it hungrily. He sat down and snapped his napkin onto his lap.

  “I’ve told Cass and Nell about the bank meeting,” Birdie said. “Now it’s your turn with what came after. Is Kayla all right?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. Charlie texted me wondering the same. I suggested he stop over there, just to make sure everything’s okay. It’s a lot to process and Charlie’s a good listener.”

  “Birdie said her reaction was strange,” Cass said. “I get it, all the thoughts that must be running through her head. When old man Finnegan left me all that money a few years ago, I wanted to kneel down and thank the lord for saving the Halloran Lobster Company. But in the next breath I wanted to run away. I knew what was coming. When your benefactor has just been murdered, inheriting brings a whole lot more with it than money.”

  Ben nodded and slowly spooned up his chowder.

  “Izzy said she’s already heard snippets about the will,” Birdie said. “Rumblings in the shop. Esther Gibson came in and filled her in a little. I wasn’t sure how many heard about the bequest made to Kayla, but Esther had. She was curious—and surprised.”

  “Everyone will be, I imagine,” Nell said.

  “I’m not sure Kayla was,” Ben said, drawing puzzled looks.

  Birdie stirred her coffee. “Well, she knew why she was there, that she was mentioned in the will. The enormity of it was probably a surprise.”

  “Sure. I don’t mean that exactly,” Ben said. He took another spoonful of chowder and smiled a thanks to Nell. The yacht club’s wine-laced soup was not what she’d usually order for her cholesterol-conscious husband. She was indulging him, figuring comfort food might be in order, and he knew it.

  “Are you saying she knew there was a trust?” Birdie asked. “I’m not sure how she could have known. In fact, even Elliott isn’t sure yet about the exact amount of the trust. There are a few bank investments that haven’t been calculated.”