Murder Wears Mittens

Book 1: Seaside Knitters Society

by Sally Goldenbaum

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

After retrieving fresh lobster nets from a local laundromat, Cass Halloran rushes to attend a last-minute gathering with her knitting circle. But Cass can't stop worrying about the lonely boy she saw hanging around the dryers and the school uniform he left behind in a hurry. When she and her friends return the lost clothing the next day, they find the child and his younger sister alone, seemingly abandoned by their mother.

The knitters decide to facilitate a family reunion, but, when the death of a recluse from the edge of town occurs, they end up investigating a crime instead-especially once they discover that the missing mother and one of their own are tied to both the victim’s hidden fortune and her murder... Before scandalous secrets break bonds and rumors tear Sea Harbor apart, the Seaside Knitters must string together the truth about the victim all while preventing a greedy murderer from making another move!

Release date: August 29, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

Kayla Stewart leaned against the old tree. Its gnarled branches, shaped by decades of ocean winds and nor’easters pounding the miles of shoreline, creaked menacingly in the cold wet wind. She glanced across the yard at the gray Cardozo house as if she were seeing it for the first time. Two long windows stared back at her—glaring, judging, as if they already knew why she was there.

She turned away, dismissing the image, and looked around the property—the scrub bushes, a tree hugging the corner of the house, a narrow walkway. And acres that wound back to the dense woods and beyond.

The familiar terrain calmed her. A patch of garden was just visible along one side of the house, wedged between a gravel path and the gray siding. A row of nasturtiums Kayla had planted last spring outlined the walkway. She remembered tossing the seeds on a whim, willy-nilly, thinking a little color would provide a good vibe for the house. But it had surprised her when something beautiful came from her random gesture, the scattered seeds turning into leafy crimson and yellow plants. It had made her smile, and unless she had imagined it, had softened the homeowner’s lined face, too.

Dolores Cardozo’s face came to her now, the familiar lines and wrinkles etched in her mind—a face so dark and weathered from the elements that Kayla wasn’t sure what nationality or race Dolores would claim as her heritage. When she asked her about it one day, Dolores had chuckled, the ambiguity seeming to please her. She never answered.

Was that face peering at her right this minute, as Dolores stood in the darkness, looking at her from one of the windows, her long white hair pulled back in a ponytail, or maybe loose, falling over her shoulders? Was she wondering why Kayla was standing in the wet chill of the day, no bundle of food in her arms?

The first day Kayla had made her way out to the Cardozo property, driving her old beat-up Chevy along the rutted roads, she had gotten lost, in spite of the clear directions given to her. A wrong turn had taken her to a patch of gravel, a parking spot alongside the road that led to several hiking paths. Kayla had parked the car and walked along one of the paths, long and narrow, curling through the woods until suddenly it all opened up to a vast clearing—a silent quarry filling the space. She had stood at the edge of the once active granite pit and stared down at a bottomless pool of water held intact by massive slabs of granite. The day had been crisp and clear, with sunlight reflecting off the water so white and bright she had to squint her eyes. It was one of the most beautiful sights Kayla Stewart had ever seen. She’d stood there for a long time, mesmerized by the black water, the sky above, and the air, crystallized into tiny diamonds.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

The song had hummed in her head that day. A good day. A new chapter in her life.

From then on she had welcomed the solitude that always met her at the Cardozo place. Her body would loosen, her shoulders relaxing and the tight kinks giving away to the space around her. It was a meditation, helping her think about her life as it slowly reassembled itself little by little, the pieces shifting and turning until they fit together in a comfortable way.

When she had shared the thought later with Sister Fiona, the nun had nodded in that way she had, and Kayla had seen the satisfied look on her face as if she were the one who had put the thought there to begin with. And then the slight lift at the corners of her wide mouth brought on by the incongruous thought of Kayla meditating at all.

On one of her trips to Dolores’s home, she realized that next to the solitude and the woman in the small house, it was the unlocked doors that she liked. Unlocked doors and wild and free land with a silence so profound that she could hear her own heartbeat when she walked through it.

Peace.

But tonight it was hard to hang on to that peace. It was flying around her like loose feathers, difficult to grasp.

The late afternoon shadows felt ominous with creatures crawling out from behind the trees, rattling Kayla’s resolve. They fueled the burning in her chest, the discomfort, the distaste that coated her tongue. She wanted to be home cleaning up the kitchen. Reading Where the Red Fern Grows to the kids, all of them huddled together beneath a blanket, the soft warm bodies of Christopher and Sarah Grace making Kayla’s heart hum.

Soon she’d be there. This wouldn’t take long.

She forked her fingers through her short-cropped hair, then tugged a baseball cap on, frowning as spokes of black hair poked out. It had been a mistake to cut her hair so drastically. Sarah Grace had cried when she saw it. She said that she missed the long hair Kayla would let her twist into braids and tie ribbons around. She said it made her mother look like a boy.

She’d done it impulsively, the day she’d seen the photo in the paper. A picture of her. Her long black hair framing her face. The waves she could never control touching her cheeks. Thick, shiny black hair. The kind people wanted to touch. Striking, people said. Distinctive. Memorable.

All of the things Kayla didn’t want to be. She didn’t want anyone to remember. Ever.

But cutting her hair hadn’t worked, and she had promised her daughter that she would let it grow. Hair grows fast, she had consoled Sarah Grace as she wiped away her tears.

The wind picked up and Kayla pulled the edges of her jacket tight. She wrapped her arms around herself. Some of the waitstaff at the Ocean’s Edge Restaurant had told her she’d love September and October in Sea Harbor: late summer blooms, leaves beginning to turn, and most of all, the space that opened up in the town when summer people went back to Boston or New York or somewhere. The streets became their own again, the restaurants less crowded, the beaches wide and welcoming, the cool sand soothing.

But today had been damp and cold, not at all what had been promised.

Kayla rubbed away the bumps beneath the thin jacket fabric and tried to ignore the headache that began to pinch her face, tugging at her forehead and narrowing her eyes. She rubbed her temples, knowing before the headache took hold completely why it threatened. Favors tethered you to people, you owed them, no matter what. And what they’d ask of you in return could ruin your life.

The day Kayla turned eighteen, she had celebrated her birthday by running away from her last foster home in North Dakota. It was in the middle of a North Dakota snowstorm so blinding no one could have found her even if they had tried. She had vowed that day never to be dependent on anything or anyone again. Dependency brought pain and deception—and it eroded the bubble she tried so hard to construct around herself.

Depending on others wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she’d been told. Ask and you shall receive, Sister Fiona always said. Kayla had cringed at the words. She knew about favors—favors that beget favors, that stole her body and soul.

She admitted to herself there had been decent people along the way, like when she ended up in Idaho and a woman a few years older than herself had helped her out. Her name was Angel. Angel! Kayla had ridiculed the name, scoffed at it. But Angel had been tough, her life once a mess, just like Kayla’s. Later on, Kayla came to understand that “Angel” had been a perfect name for the tough girl with the purple hair who believed anyone could pull themselves together if they decided to do it.

And sure, Sister Fiona, as bossy as she could be, was a part of the whole life raft deal. Maybe she was better than okay. Maybe she and Angel had saved her life.

After all, Fiona had brought her to Dolores.

Sea Harbor, Massachusetts, was a place for living, the nun had told Kayla. Sea Harbor was where problems could be solved. Where kids could thrive. Where pasts could be buried.

So she swallowed her fear and her secrets, buried them deep down inside her where no one would find them.

But someone had.

Kayla took a deep breath, curled her fingers into a ball and stared at the house. It was now or never. She needed to tell her what she had done. And then to beg . . .

She blocked from her mind what she’d do if it all fell apart.

And then, with steely resolve, she walked along the path, past the nasturtiums and the darkened windows, to the back door.

The door she knew was never locked.

The wind slammed the door shut behind Cass Halloran as she walked into the Harbor Road Laundromat. She bunched up a fistful of unruly dark hair, damp from the wet, salty air, and bound it with a scrunchie she pulled from her wrist.

Beneath an old sweatshirt, her stomach complained, reminding her that it had been hours since she had eaten. Quiet, she murmured. Nell’s homemade lasagna is just minutes away. At least that’s what her friend Izzy’s texts had been promising her for the last hour. And that made the hunger bearable at least. Homemade. Even the lasagna noodles would be made from scratch, a fact that still puzzled Cass. Noodles were like crackers and baked beans. They came in boxes, cans, or bags. No one made them. But much to Cass’s sublime happiness, Nell Endicott had proved every one of her assumptions wrong.

Earlier that day, Cass had made her own plans for the evening. She’d finish the company laundry and race home, out of the chilly night, to a waiting Danny Brandley, who would warm her up nicely in the cozy seaside house where they co-lived, a term a relative had recently—and pointedly—coined. Her fiancé would massage her feet while she’d stretch out in front of a fire he’d have laid. A fire in September, unheard of, but it sounded perfect and wonderful and there was plenty of cut wood out near the garage.

She was bone weary. Probably, she told herself, because it was Saturday—a day off—and instead she’d spent the day putting out fires. Everything seemed to have gone wrong at the Halloran Lobster Company that day—including a breakdown of the commercial washer and dryer they used for nets and sweatshirts, towels, and all things smelling of fish. Which was nearly everything. So she had dragged them all to the Laundromat, then run errands while waiting for the machines to do their thing. She hoped the bad day wasn’t an omen. Nor the reason her weariness had a touch of worry attached to it. Silly. All would be better once she got home.

And that’s when her friend Izzy’s texts started messing with her plans.

Nell is cooking lasagna. Says we should get over there ASAP. There’ll be champagne. Pick me up at my yarn shop.

Danny followed up with

Hey, babe. The Endicotts are feeding us. I know you were dead set on my grilled cheese. I’ll make it up to you.

So Danny was headed to Ben and Nell’s, too. It was all about homemade lasagna and champagne.

The group of friends had missed their usual Friday night dinner at Ben and Nell’s because the couple was out of town for the day. Friday night dinner was a ritual born when the Endicotts had retired and settled permanently in Sea Harbor. It had become a comforting staple in Cass’s life, right along with the older couple themselves, more family now than friends. Maybe that’s what this was about—Nell feeling guilty, knowing that none of them took canceling dinner on the Endicott deck lightly. It was therapy and friendship and amazing food all mixed up together in one bundle—something they all held sacred.

Sure, that was it. And that was fine with Cass. Few things outdid Danny’s foot massages, but Nell’s cooking might be one of them. Champagne? she texted back to Danny. You’re kidding me? Her fiancé knew she hated champagne, but the thought of lasagna caused her stomach to dance.

Danny sent two kissing, carefree emoticons back.

She stuck her phone in her pocket and set her laundry basket beneath the round door of the dryer, pulled it open, her mind still on the lasagna. And beer. Ben would most certainly have beer. Who drank champagne with lasagna?

She pulled out a damp towel, grimaced, and tossed it back in. Next she felt something fuzzy and pulled out a small pink sweater, its buttons caught in a ratty fisherman’s net. She pulled them apart and stared at the clothing. It was soft and pretty and tiny. Nicely hand knit.

Cass frowned, then reached in and pulled out another net, this one tangled up with a small plaid skirt. Cass leaned over and looked in, then pulled out a pair of boy’s jeans and several other small garments.

She glanced around the room. The harsh fluorescent lights lit up every corner. She was completely alone. Even the girl who usually worked nights was absent, most likely having a burger and beer across the street at Jake Risso’s tavern.

Cass felt a peculiar twist in her stomach, an unexpected pang that something was wrong. Then just as quickly, realization dawned and she tried to lighten up. Well sure. A busy mom ran out of change and found a creative solution—Cass’s dryer was going strong so she had tossed in her own items, probably thinking she’d be back before Cass. Creative, Cass thought, something she herself had done once or twice in college. But the poor woman was in for a surprise if that pretty pink sweater ended up making her daughter smell like a lobster.

The imagined scenario somewhat easing the tension she felt, Cass mounded all the damp clothes back into the dryer and slipped a couple more quarters into the slot. She listened for the familiar tumbling of the net hooks against the dryer drum, and stretched her toned shoulders back, working out the kinks. Though Cass did little exercise, lifting lobster traps and machinery kept her lean and trim—and strong—a fact new members of her crusty fishermen crew figured out quickly when they’d find themselves misled by her lovely Irish face with its long lashes and prominent cheekbones. She headed for a chair across the room and sat down, stretching her legs out in front of her. Buy new jeans, she thought, the permanent saltwater stains at the edges of her jeans looking shiny in the glare of the fluorescent light.

A large clock near the washing machines reminded her of how late it was. They’d all be as hungry as she was. She sent Izzy a message to go on without her, but her friend refused.

Don’t be a martyr, Izzy replied. I’ll wait. Birdie’s coming too, and bringing wine and Ella’s brownies. Something about a surprise.

Ella’s brownies? Cass’s stomach reacted instantly. Buttermilk, Valrhona chocolate, rich, gooey frosting. Birdie Favazza had stopped cooking long before her seventy-fifth—or was it her eightieth?—birthday, but her amazing housekeeper, Ella, spared no calories or expense in making perfect brownies. Only when Cass had exhausted the mental taste of the brownies did she consider the rest of the message.

A surprise? What is that about? Good news, she supposed, which would account for the champagne, though Izzy seemed slightly rattled, if one could be rattled in a text. Maybe she was just hungry, too.

Cass stretched her legs out in front of her, leaned her head against the wall, and closed her eyes briefly, her attention going back to the noisy dryer and the delicate sweater inside, vying with the menacing lobster nets. She had a sudden urge to take it out, rescue it, keep it safe for a little girl who liked pink. Then she rolled her head against the wall and scolded herself for conjuring up a story about nothing.

Outside branches slapped against the front windows. Cass looked over, hoping to see a woman in exercise clothes race in, maybe leaving a kid in a soccer uniform sitting in the back of the car. She’d scoop out her clothes and head home to the rest of her family. The thought comforted Cass briefly, but she couldn’t completely push away the irrational worry that the sweater was lost, tumbling around in a stranger’s dryer.

And the troubled thoughts wouldn’t go away. Would a mother come all the way to the Laundromat with so few clothes and on such a crummy night? And all kids’ clothes, no tights or underwear or . . .

Still she hoped for the mom, but no one rushed through the front door settling Cass’s crazy thoughts. All she saw through the windows were swaying branches on the pear tree at the curb and a flickering of lamplights.

She glanced again at the clock and thought about her waiting friends. Okay, Halloran, think about surprises, not some stranger’s laundry. What surprise is huge enough to explain the flurry of texts? Her mind went blank. It wasn’t that they didn’t have their share of good news—even some that merited bubbly beverages. They’d had champagne when Danny sold his first mystery, when Cass opened her new lobster warehouse and office. When Izzy’s yarn shop had its first profitable year. And other times, too.

But none of those events were actually surprises—simply celebrations of good happenings. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last surprise any of them had pulled on the others—unless it was that December night not so long ago when she had knelt down in a patch of snow and proposed to Danny Brandley in front of her friends and practically the whole town. All of them had been surprised that night—even the one who did the proposing, Cass admitted.

The hollow sound of the wind, chilled air, and the slamming of a door jerked her from the flood of memory. Next, footsteps and the click of nails on the linoleum floor echoed in the large room. Cass opened her eyes and sat up. A slender figure came into view behind the line of vending machines. The mom, Cass thought, surprising herself at the relief that swept through her.

But when her eyes focused, it wasn’t a woman—or a dad. It was a young boy—followed closely by a shaggy wet dog. The boy was focused, his eyes straight ahead. Strands of wet hair fell across his forehead and he looked cold in a thin T-shirt, no jacket.

There was only one dryer with clothes in it—hers—and Cass watched as he headed directly for it. He jerked the door open and leaned in, elbow deep, then pulled out a handful of clothes and roughly separated his own from Cass’s tangled towels and nets, throwing those back inside. The dog sat at his side, keeping guard.

Cass glanced through the front windows, squinting to see a car parked at the curb, headlights on and the engine running, a mom behind the wheel waiting for her young son. But all she could see was the silhouette of an old bike leaning against the glass.

She felt the twist in her stomach return. A cold black night. A dog, a bike, and a kid.

She started to get up, the movement immediately turning the dog’s head toward her. One ear stood erect as its eyes locked into hers. It assessed her with a soft growl, throaty and not very threatening, much to Cass’s relief. The boy, intent on his task, seemed to not have noticed.

Cass took a deep breath and started to get up again, slowly and quietly, not wanting to scare the boy. She wanted to assure him it was okay to use her dryer—she’d done it herself once or twice. But hey, she’d tell him, she had a truck parked in the alley. How about a ride home? The dog, too? No problem.

But at the movement the dog bounded across the room in a blur of gold, its nails clattering on the linoleum floor, until it landed squarely in front of Cass.

The young boy dropped the clothes and stared across the room.

Cass let the dog smell her hand, then spoke softly to it, its floppy tail assuring her they could be friends. But her eyes were on the frightened boy across the room, his dark eyes staring, his mouth set. A deer in headlights.

Finally, the boy broke his stare and looked at the clothes he had pulled out of the dryer drum, then back to Cass. His brow was furrowed now, his thin body stretched tight.

Cass stood up, leaning over slightly as she kneaded the dog’s ears. “Hey,” she said, her voice friendly, nonthreatening. “It’s cool that you used the dryer. Not to wor—”

But the boy seemed unmoved by her smile or affection for his dog and turned abruptly back to the dryer, pulling out a few more pieces of clothes.

“Let me help,” Cass said. Help? She wasn’t sure how or what kind. There was something desperate about the boy. “I could—”

But the end of her sentence fell flat as the boy stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled to the dog, then shoved the clothes into his backpack as if his life depended on it. He turned once more toward the dog, yelled, “Shep, come,” and headed toward the exit.

Before Cass could react, he disappeared through the open door, the dog at his heels.

Cass yelled after him as she ran, too, then tripped over her clothes basket. She regained her balance and caught the door a second before it closed. Stepping on to the sidewalk, she peered down the street.

But all she could see was a disappearing backpack strapped to a boy’s shoulders as he pedaled wildly down the Harbor Road sidewalk. The dog kept pace, a tail flying in the wind.

“Stop!” Cass yelled. But her words were blown away by the wind as a boy and a dog were quickly swallowed up by the dark night.

Fleeing whatever danger they might have imagined they’d left behind.

“About time.”

Sam Perry was waiting at the front door of the Endicotts’ home, one foot holding it open, a bottle of Sam Adams in one hand and the other pulling Izzy into a hug. He had a strange grin on his face.

Izzy slipped from beneath his arm and took a step away, examining her husband’s face. “Okay, you, what’re you up to? What’s with the big surprise? Cass and I are starving.”

Her teasing voice wasn’t entirely pleasant. The weather had been weird, the shop busier than usual, and Sam had texted several times that their daughter, Abby, had been fussy all day. The two-year-old was the peaceful heart of the Perry family—but for some reason, as if expecting strange things to be happening, Abby had been as unpredictable as the weather.

Before Sam could answer, Cass stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

Sam looked at her. “You’re a mess, Cass. The polar plunge isn’t until January.”

Cass looked down. Her jacket was soaked, and wet strands of hair fell across her face. She’d started down the street after the boy, instinctively afraid. But she had no idea of what, so she’d finally gone back inside the Laundromat and tried to think ahead to brownies and lasagna.

“It’s nasty out there,” was all she said to Sam. “So what gives around here? Surprises usually herald nine months without wine. You pregnant, Sam?”

Sam laughed. “Not after dealing with our angel baby all day, while Izzy here fiddled around in her yarn shop, free as a bird. Ten-minute nap, that was it. But she’s asleep now in Nell’s guest room—so don’t either of you gals go hootin’ and hollerin’ and waking her up.”

“My goddaughter, Abigail Kathleen, is perfect.” Cass shook off her jacket and hung it on a hook beside the door. “But there’s a strange vibe in the air today along with the crappy weather. There was this kid—I can’t get him off my mind—”

Sam interrupted. “I agree. Crazy vibes. Strange things are happening here, too. Just you wait.”

Cass looked at Izzy, then back to Sam. She forced her own worry aside. “What?”

“Okay, out with it,” Izzy said. They both looked down the hallway toward the back of the house.

The house was unusually quiet, but they supposed people were talking softly for sleeping Abby’s sake. In the distance, music was playing, but not as loud as usual. Some Phil Collins or Stevie Wonder eighties music—which meant Sam had plugged his music in first.

“Come on, come, come,” Sam urged. They followed him through the entry that opened up into the long airy room running along the entire back of the Endicott house. It was framed in windows and French doors and filled with comfortable slip-covered furniture around a fireplace at one end. At the other was an open kitchen with an enormous island that seemed to center their lives and hosted important announcements—good and bad.

Tonight was no exception.

On the island stood the bottle of champagne, with glasses neatly lined up around it. A stack of dinner plates behind it, the smell of lasagna wafting from the oven. And standing center stage—flanked on either side by Ben and Nell, the diminutive, silvery-haired Birdie Favazza, and Danny Brandley—was the surprise.

“Hey, beautiful ladies,” the tall, floppy-haired man said. “Long time no see.”

“Charlie!” Izzy dropped her bag and flew across the pine floor. Charlie Chambers’s arms opened wide to embrace his older sister. Izzy squeezed his broad shoulders hard, and when she finally released him, Cass moved in and did the same.

“Wow. Now this is a surprise,” Cass said, and pummeled him with a tumble of questions: “How long are you staying? When did you come? Why didn’t you let us know, you big jerk?”

“You look great,” Izzy finally said, her voice husky. She grabbed a tissue from the counter.

Charlie brushed a thick strand of dark blond hair off her cheek. “Hey, you too.”

Nell watched her nephew and niece’s reunion with a flood of memories—summers on the ranch watching them squabble and giggle with their older brother, Jack—the three Chambers kids running wild, their skin turning bronze beneath the Kansas sky. Charlie always had a football in his hand those long-ago summers, Jack a book, while Izzy was more interested in horses and not having to wear a dress for three months. But the Chambers’s only daughter had eventually shed her pigtails and grown tall and graceful, heading off to an east coast law school, impressing her professors and associates who remembered Isabel Chambers long after meeting her. Maybe not her name, but they remembered the enormous brown eyes that filled her face, the dimples that punctuated a wide smile in her fine-boned face, and the tall figure of a woman whose slightly irregular features fit together in an intriguing way.

Charlie, the family jock, had taken a different path, dropping in and out of the family’s life for a while. But he’d come back a while ago, and now here he was again, standing right in front of them. Safe and whole.

Cass was the first to move beyond the welcome. She eyed the champagne, then looked at Charlie. “Hey, this is a great surprise, Charlie. But a champagne surprise? You don’t even like champagne.”

“You think maybe I’m just a beer-level surprise?” Charlie asked.

“Something else is going on here, dude. I know you too well. Out with it.” Cass stuck her hands on her hips, her eyes holding him to an answer.

Charlie’s head fell back and he laughed. He looked across the island. “Aunt Nell, if you drag this out any longer, it may backfire. They may all send me back.”

Ben stepped up, his glass held in the air. “Hold up your glasses, folks. Charlie’s here to stay.” It took less time than it did to down the champagne to explain that Charlie’d be working for the town’s family practitioner, Dr. Glenn Mackenzie.

Nurse practitioner extraordinaire was how Nell put it. “That’s what Glenn was looking for. I saw the ad and e-mailed it to Charlie, knowing he was the perfect person to fill the bill.”

Charlie got the job but had asked Ben and Nell to keep it quiet. Just for a while, he’d said.

The reason for keeping it a secret, they’d both suspected, was so their nephew could change his mind, a possibility not entirely out of character for Charlie.

But he hadn’t.. . .