Murder Wears Mittens

by Sally Goldenbaum

  So Dolores’s generosity wasn’t completely anonymous, at least not to people who stopped receiving it. But she didn’t just cut people off without notice. Nell felt a twist inside of her as another piece of the puzzle fell into place, the thud so loud she was sure Jake must have heard it. She slipped her purse strap over her shoulder and got up to leave.

  At the door she looked back at Jake, his face now filled with memories of his wife, Marie, seeing her out there planting seeds with the kids, teaching them about good food. “There’s one thing that puzzles me, Jake. No one in this town seemed to know Dolores Cardozo was wealthy until she died. But people like you who had at one time benefited from her wealth—you knew. Secrets like that aren’t kept easily in small towns. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  For a brief moment Jake looked at her as if she had asked him something absurd, like if he loved the Red Sox or fishing. And then he laughed, stood up himself, and headed back to the bar, calling over his shoulder, “Because, Nellie, m’dear, she asked me not to.”

  * * *

  Izzy’s shop was closed for regular business, but the store was bustling, people coming in with bags of knit items and leaving empty-handed.

  “The last day for donations for the HMS drive,” Mae explained to Nell, as she directed someone from a Brownie troop to a box marked SOCKS. “Can you believe it? Look at this room of riches.” She pointed to boxes lining a wall. “Not to mention what’s already out at the clothing center.”

  Each day there were more hats and socks and mittens and scarves, some in boxes and bags left at the yarn shop door before Mae came in to open up each morning. All colors and softness and kinds of yarn—merino and cotton and soft fuzzy angora. Everyone would be kept warm during the harsh winter to come. Like prayer shawls, the winter warmth project would help both ends of the body and both ends of the giving spectrum, the givers and the receivers. And in Sea Harbor, sometimes the two were the same.

  “It’s great, Mae. And so are you. What would Izzy do without you?”

  “That’s the question of the day.” Mae laughed and sent Nell on to the back room and out of her way.

  There were a few more boxes in the knitting room, too, marked neatly and ready for final items.

  Izzy sat at the long table finishing telling Birdie and Cass about Kayla, Charlie, and Richie Pisano. They looked up when Nell walked over, their expressions of sadness and shock matching what she’d felt earlier that day.

  “That awful young man,” Birdie said with unusual venom in her voice. “Using that young woman the way he did. Shame, shame, shame.”

  But their shock was tempered with regret when they reflected on the last weeks. All those small signs they wished they’d noticed. They knew that Kayla was suffering, that something in her life was terribly wrong; why hadn’t they figured it out?

  “Because we were focused on a murder,” Birdie finally said. Their attention was misdirected. The small signs would have been interpreted differently as they somehow tried to connect them to Dolores’s murder. “And we still are,” she added.

  Nell pulled out a chair and sat down. “Birdie’s right. Kayla and the kids are in good hands now—Chief Thompson will make sure Richie’s threats are buried. The awful cloud of suspicion is finally lifted and Richie will be punished appropriately. I have no doubt about that. Ben said we will know more soon but it’s all being taken care of.”

  Birdie agreed. “Gratitude is in order, not regrets.”

  Gratitude. Celebrating the present. Yes, Birdie was right. Nell took the mug of coffee Izzy handed her and wrapped her fingers around it, reluctant for a moment to move away from Birdie’s wise advice.

  But there was still a murderer out there somewhere, and even though Kayla might be free of police suspicion, it wouldn’t be lifted completely until someone else was behind bars.

  She looked down at a yellow pad in front of Izzy and the printouts next to it. Numbers and boxes and names and figures. The thorny issue of Dolores Cardozo’s paperwork was there in front of them, begging for attention.

  “So what went on at the tavern?” Cass asked.

  Nell repeated the conversation she’d had with Jake and how he had honored Dolores’s privacy. “It was so simple for him,” Nell said. “Dolores asked for anonymity. And he agreed. Honorable and simple.”

  But it was the letter itself that was important—the fact that Dolores didn’t just cut people off and leave them hanging, wondering why annual monies they’d counted on had suddenly stopped coming. She explained why, graciously, kindly, intelligently. And she helped them decide the next step if there was one. Dolores Cardozo was exceedingly fair.

  Birdie had made several calls to acquaintances whose names appeared in the “box,” as they were starting to call it, and had heard the same story: they had each received a serious but gracious letter explaining why the funds had been discontinued and applauding the group for the good work it had done. “And they all honored Dolores’s request to respect her privacy.”

  Izzy took a deep breath and fiddled with the papers she had pored over that morning. “So we now know that all the names in all these boxes on all these sheets are people who knew Dolores had stopped funding them. And they knew why.”

  Nell expressed what they were all thinking. “It’s the recent ones that are important.”

  They were quiet for a moment, aware that they were speaking in code, reluctant to mention real names, names of people. A person.

  Izzy picked up Nell’s list. The one that Dolores herself had put together just weeks ago. September, the beginning of her fiscal year. One group in particular had received money from the Cardozo fund for years, but it had stopped this year. “Instead of money, a letter had come,” Izzy said, as if reading a play.

  Nell picked up her coffee mug again. She was suddenly chilled. “Explaining why.”

  The silence that followed was heavy. The names seemed to take on their own life. But there was only one that mattered.

  Nell had taken out the newspaper article Dolores had stabbed with her pencil. Cass took it from her and started to unfold it. “How weird it would be if that awful twerp of a reporter actually helped reveal Dolores’s murderer.”

  But an article wasn’t proof, they knew.

  A yellow sheet of scrap paper fell from the fold as Cass smoothed out the cheap newsprint. “Hey, what’s this?”

  Nell looked at it. She’d almost forgotten about it. “It’s a piece of scrap paper Marian found with the newspaper that day. She saved it in case Dolores needed it.”

  Cass was silent, her eyes moving up and down and across the sheet of scribbled numbers. “She was adding up numbers, expenses against income, salaries, donations. It doesn’t say what organization she was checking but it’s similar to what our accountant does—though not on scrap paper. It’s a check to make sure everything lines up and there isn’t any discrepancy. It wouldn’t be too hard to find out what group had these expenses.”

  Nell took the sheet and looked at some of the items on it. She frowned. Then checked the article again and passed it around to the others as the words came together, telling a story that even Richie Pisano hadn’t intended to tell.

  It wasn’t proof.

  But it was the beginning of proof.

  And Izzy was right. People normally wouldn’t murder Santa Claus because they didn’t get the present they wanted. But they might if Santa told them why they weren’t getting it.

  And while their coffee got cold, they outlined their imagined details of the sad and terrible murder of a woman they had come to respect and appreciate and like.

  In the distance the hum of voices rose and fell as knitters came and went, showing off their projects to each other, then gently placing the hats, mittens, socks, and scarves in their proper place. Mae appeared now and then, quietly adding new items to the boxes near the back room fireplace.

  Nell stepped over to the window to call Jerry Thompson. Then she tried Ben, leaving brief messages for both. They nee
ded to talk.

  Back at the table Cass was running her finger over a header that appeared on each annual list, right above the year:

  The Dolores Francesca Maria Cardozo Fund

  2014 . . . 2016 . . . 2017

  “An elegant name for an elegant lady,” Birdie said, looking over Cass’s shoulder.

  Mae walked down the steps again, her arms full, a scarf dangling from her fingers. Nell hurried over and relieved her of a few items about to fall.

  “These just came in. It may be the last of the group donations,” the shop manager said.

  Nell fingered the soft scarf on the top of the pile. Then she handed the rest back to Mae and unfolded the scarf, letting the silky yarn flow over her hands. She walked over to the table. “Look at this gorgeous piece. It’s qiviut, I think.”

  “Yes,” said Mae. “Beautiful, isn’t it. It takes everything in me not to sneak it into my bag.”

  Izzy took the scarf from Nell, frowning and about to speak when a voice floated down the steps to the knitting room. “You dropped one, Mae,” Hannah Swenson said, walking down the steps.

  Then she looked around and spotted the others, her tan face lifting into a smile. “What a great surprise,” she said, walking over to the table. She looked around and smiled happily at each of them.

  Birdie offered her a cup of coffee while Izzy and Nell commented on the gorgeous scarves Hannah had brought in, their praise coming too quickly. “I can’t quite believe you’re donating these,” Izzy said.

  “It’s the warmest fiber in the world, did you know that?” Hannah asked.

  “And you’re paying for every strand of warmth,” Nell said.

  “Well, no matter. It makes me feel good to donate it.”

  “I hope whoever gets it appreciates the luxury item they’re wrapping around their neck,” Birdie said.

  Hannah looked over at her, a note of pride in her voice. “I will know. That’s what matters.”

  Hannah walked closer to the table, holding the coffee mug in both hands. “What are you all doing in here? Finishing up your projects for the drive?”

  She looked at a basket in the middle of the table, filled with needles and place markers, a pair of scissors. But there wasn’t any yarn or half-knit mittens or patterns anywhere. It was then Hannah noticed the printouts—and at closer glance, the words at the top of each.

  The Dolores Francesca Maria Cardozo Fund

  The knitters were still, making no attempt to cover anything up.

  Hannah’s voice changed and color drained from her face. “What are those? What are you doing?”

  No one answered.

  Hannah looked at each of them, at the sheets of paper and the circled names and numbers. She took a step back and focused on Izzy, sitting at the end of the table.

  “Izzy,” she said, her voice shaky. “You have a daughter. I have a son.”

  Izzy nodded and the others listened, not sure where Hannah was taking them.

  “You’d do anything for your little girl. Anything. That’s what we parents do. Sacrifice. Jason needs so much. The best schools, clothes—”

  “Sailboats?” Cass asked. “A trip to Europe? A mother with expensive clothes, a hip condo?”

  She stared at Cass, not answering.

  “Dolores figured out what you were doing,” Nell said quietly. “I thought it strange that you made the same appeals, fund-raiser after fund-raiser, for the same things. Furniture, plumbing, new shades and lighting and adequate space for workshops. More staff. Laudable things. But the furniture and shades and lighting never happened, the donations funneled in other directions.” In Hannah’s direction, they now knew.

  “And then you asked for those things yet again, as Richie Pisano detailed in his newspaper article a few weeks ago.” Birdie held up the already yellowed clipping.

  “I don’t think you understand how this all works, Nell. Dolores Cardozo didn’t understand. I got her letter terminating her annual donation. That was okay, that was fine. I am enterprising and have wonderful connections. But then . . . then she had the audacity to tell me why she was doing it.

  “So I went out to see her, just to explain why it happened, to explain that I had a son to support. Bills. To make her understand that I wasn’t a thief. My son was going to Harvard Law School, I told her.”

  Her voice turned hard as she revisited that Saturday. “I didn’t care about her money, her measly annual gift. But she insisted that she had to report the discrepancies she found, the small blips in the accounting records she’d fine combed her way through.”

  “Small blips?” Nell said. “Hannah, what you were doing wasn’t small. You were stealing donors’ money. Lots of it.”

  Hannah still wasn’t listening. “It probably wasn’t even legal for Dolores to go through my records the way she did, and I told her that. ‘They aren’t your records,’ she said to me, as if she were the judge, teaching me something. And she accused me of stealing, of fraud. Of all sorts of things. . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked over their heads as if explaining something to herself. “I knew then that I couldn’t convince her. I knew she was going to send me to prison. And that couldn’t happen. How would . . . what would it do to Jason?”

  A slight sound from the top of the steps turned their attention to Mae Anderson, standing still, her face ashen and her arms full of mittens and hats.

  Behind her, Jerry Thompson and Tommy Porter stood quietly, listening, their faces sad.

  Uncovering a murderer was never a time to rejoice. Not even when the nightmare was finally over.

  Chapter 34

  It took over three hours and more than a half-dozen people sitting around the well-used conference table in the Sea Harbor police station to determine Richie Pisano’s fate.

  It was early on a chilly Friday morning, with a breeze coming through the single window that someone had gratefully opened a crack to move the stale air around.

  Richie was there, happy to be in civilian clothes after two weeks in jail clothes, with several lawyers from his father’s prestigious New Hampshire law firm lined up in chairs beside him. His father was at the far end of the row, disassociating himself as best he could from the adult son he was having to deal with again. Chief Jerry Thompson, Tommy Porter, and an attorney for the department sat opposite them. Ben Endicott was there, too, with Kayla and another attorney well versed in blackmail cases.

  Conferring with Ben and the attorney, Kayla had agreed not to press charges against Richie Pisano, but only if he agreed to certain terms, all spelled out in an airtight document that he had to sign. Any infraction of the terms would send him to jail for what could be a very long time. He was not ever to talk to Kayla Stewart again, or to approach her for any reason, in any way, or to divulge to anyone personal details about Kayla or her family or her life. Nor was he allowed to return to Cape Ann.

  Richie was also committed to three years of community service in some tiny town in a remote corner of New Mexico, one chosen by his father for its distance from New Hampshire, where he and his wife lived. Richie had done a couple of other undesirable things, all of which were coming to the surface and all of which the Pisano family was eager to bury as deeply as they could.

  When it was over, all the parties approved of the course of action, although some more than others. Charlie Chambers, who waited out the proceedings at the school playground with two children and a dog, would have preferred to wipe the man off the face of the earth.

  * * *

  “He was lucky,” Ben said later that morning. “Kayla was mature and thoughtful and did him a favor in agreeing to it all.”

  They sat around the kitchen island, Abby playing in the toy corner of Nell and Ben’s family room. They all needed to be elsewhere—it was a day packed full of activities. But for the first time since Hannah had been led away, they felt a kind of joy inching its way back into their lives.

  “Why did Kayla agree to it?” Cass asked. She was in Charlie’s camp, thinking sen
ding Richie to Timbuktu was a more desirable outcome.

  “Because it was the path of least notoriety. It wouldn’t make the papers like a court case would. He would be out of her life more completely, more solidly than if he’d been put in jail for a dozen years.” It was Danny who spoke, his eyes on Cass, one arm around her shoulder.

  “It all centers around Kayla doing the best thing to protect her kids,” Izzy said, moving closer to Sam. “Protecting those we love.”

  “Yes,” Nell said. “Of course it does.” She watched Izzy’s head turn, her eyes on a curly-haired toddler a few feet away, playing with a Lightning McQueen car.

  “A claim Hannah Swenson made, too,” Nell said. The contrast loomed large as they considered what the woman had done in the name of her son.

  “When did you begin to suspect her, Aunt Nell?” Izzy asked. “She floated in and out of my head a few times, but the connection seemed vague until this week. And then it began to come together in vivid colors.”

  “I think it was when we started examining Dolores’s giving. You were the one, Izzy, who convinced us all it was unlikely for someone to kill a benefactor because they didn’t make the cut. So I wondered what other reason there could be. I had some connection with Hannah and the Seaside Initiative, remember, and I knew what the needs of the Seaside Initiative were. I also knew that somehow, in spite of her healthy donation pool, some basic needs hadn’t been met—things she was asking donors for, then not initiated when the money came in. I just didn’t put it all together until there was a reason to. And then, learning how carefully Dolores chose the groups she helped, some of those observations came back.”