Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (10 page)

John returned to the table looking somber. He motioned to me to hang up.

“Mary, listen. I have to go right now, but I'll call you back in just a few minutes, okay? I'm sure we'll know more very soon. Hang in there just a little longer.”

“Kate?” It was as if Mary, too, sensed that important information was about to be forthcoming. “If you learn anything, anything at all, please tell me. It's been long enough now that the news probably won't be good, but I can take it. Anything is better than this not knowing. Promise me.”

I assessed John's grim expression before answering her, but she had a point. Not knowing had to be the absolute worst.

“I promise,” I assured her and ended the call. Across the aisle, Ginnie and her companion stared curiously. John eased his lanky frame back into the booth beside Margo and turned his back on them. He spoke quietly.

“A body just washed up in Wethersfield Cove.”

“James O’Halloran?” I blurted, wanting him to deny it.

“The odds are good, I'm afraid. It's a middle-aged man wearing a Santa Claus suit.”

“W
hat's
the address?” Margo asked, and I realized that I didn't know.

“I'll drive. I sold them their house, remember.” Strutter led the way to her gray Lexus, a dignified vehicle that seemed to fit the circumstances.

I had relayed to Mary as gently as possible what John had told me about James’ body washing up in the Cove. I explained that the coroner would be asking her to come in and identify the remains at some point and offered to accompany her.

“Oh, please, please!” she begged in a ragged voice. “Let me see him now. I can't sit here waiting for an official call. If you won't come and get me, I'm going to drive myself to the Cove this minute. There has to be an end to this.”

“Not a good idea,” John pronounced. “No telling what condition the body is in after days in the water. At least let the coroner's crew get him cleaned up a little before she has to view the remains.”

“If we don't bring her, John, she'll drive herself. She knows where he is.”

John shot Margo a “Help me!” look.

“It will be terrible for Mary wherever she has to do this, Darlin’,” she reminded him softly. “The images are already in her mind. At least this way, she won't have to drive herself, and we'll be there to support her.”

He gave up. “It's a public place. If she shows up against my advice, there's nothing I can do about it.”

“Will the police at the scene allow her to see him?” Strutter put in.

“They will if John tells them to. In any event, they won't be able to stop her,” I predicted, “even if she has to climb over the crime scene tape and take down a couple of officers to do it.”

Mary was waiting for us at the door of the cozy, gray-shingled Cape Cod house on Wolcott Hill Road. She wore slacks and a sweater in decorous gray and a camelhair coat. Her make-up was subdued but in place. She accepted the front passenger seat, and Margo joined me in the back.

“Thank you for doing this, all of you,” she offered in a voice that was perfectly composed.

Strutter looked at us in the rearview mirror.
This woman is on the ragged edge,
she telegraphed before putting the Lexus into reverse, as if we had any doubts. We were all silent on the short trip. Wethersfield Cove is a natural inlet on the Connecticut River. It lies on the far side of the historic district where Old Main Street runs out at the bottom of a long grade. The parking lot extends all the way to the water's edge.

A recent rain had swelled the river and raised the water level in the Cove. Two police cruisers, a black sedan, and an ambulance were clustered near a small knot of official personnel at the water's edge that included John Harkness. Strutter pulled up next to the black sedan, and we all got out. John spoke briefly to one of the young officers and came to join us.

Mary's composure was becoming downright eerie. “May I please see my husband, Lieutenant?”

“It's not too bad,” John said to us all, but mostly to Mary. “The water is cold at this time of year, so …” he didn't finish. He didn't have to.

The men at the scene had obviously been forewarned of Mary's arrival and had done what they could to soften the appearance of the body without interfering with the work of the coroner. James lay face down in the sand in his sodden, garish Santa Claus garb. His head was turned to the left, the skin blue and the lips pale. His left hand was raised above his head. A blanket covered most of his torso, which must have been grotesquely bloated.

Mary approached the little tableau calmly with Margo and me on either side of her. Strutter brought up the rear, averting her eyes. The men stepped aside, their faces displaying professional sympathy, and allowed us to stand only a few feet from the remains. For a few seconds, Mary gazed almost tenderly at the body before us. Then she stiffened. Margo and I each grabbed an arm, not knowing what to expect.

“It's not James,” Mary said finally. “Oh my God, it's not my husband.” With that, she dropped to her knees in the sand and collapsed into tears.

Strutter, the natural mother of our group, knelt beside Mary to comfort her. Margo and I reluctantly stepped closer to the body for a better look.

“That's James,” I told her and John. “His glasses are gone, but I saw him several times before Thursday night. I sat across from him at a meeting, and that's him. Look, there's his bald spot. I remember seeing it when I was behind him in the crowd Thursday night. He was on his way to the Education Office to change into the very suit he's wearing now. Poor Mary,” I finished up. “She simply can't face the truth.”

“Who can blame her?” said Margo, hugging John's arm. “I'd be in complete denial, too.”

“No!” Mary wailed. “No, no, no!” She broke free of Strutter's restraining arms and scrambled to her feet. “He's not wearing a wedding ring. James hasn't taken off his wedding band since the day we were married.”

“I'm sorry, Ma'am, but that could have happened in the water,” said one of the young officers apologetically.

Mary dragged the sleeve of her coat across her streaming eyes and nose and shook her finger at the bloated corpse. “You're not listening to me, Officer. Do you really believe that a wife of more than thirty years wouldn't recognize her husband? That man has a bald spot on the back of his head. My husband had a full head of hair. That body is not James O’Halloran. It's his brother Joseph.”

The mood at the UCC on Monday morning was somber. The easy banter among collegial staff members had been replaced with uncertain courtesy. News of the discovery of Joseph's body, along with James’ inexplicable disappearance, had spread through the ranks like wildfire. Everyone was fairly bursting with questions for which there were no answers.

Far from achieving closure, Mary O’Halloran had had hysterics at the edge of the Cove. A second ambulance had been summoned to transport her to Hartford Hospital, where she had been admitted overnight for observation. A concerned neighbor woman knocked on the O’Hallorans’ door while Strutter was packing a bag for Mary. She offered to lock up the house and even to stay with Mary when she was released, which relieved us all mightily.

“ ‘Tis a sad turn of events to be sure,” Sister Marguerite said for the fourth time that morning. On this occasion, it was to the Archbishop of the Hartford diocese with whom she was talking on the phone. “I will certainly keep you informed. Thank you for calling.” She hung up and sighed. “The problem is that we have no information to share. This thing is a complete mystery.”

Aloysius, snug in his corner bed, thumped his tail in agreement. Since I had no comfort or insights to offer, I took myself back to my desk to be of what practical assistance I could manage.

Before I tackled the welter of post-gala paperwork that awaited me, I went in search of a much-needed cup of coffee, which my nose told me Shirley had just brewed. I met up with her in the little kitchenette.

“Good morning, Kate,” was her unusually subdued greeting. She absently straightened one of the many little Christmas trees that fairly littered the place. Last week, they had struck me as whimsical and festive. This morning, they clashed sourly with the mood of the people who worked in the building. “I wonder if I should put all this stuff back in the basement,” Shirley read my thoughts.

“I wouldn't,” I said, pouring out my coffee. “The clients and others who come through here would find it odd, don't you think?”

“I guess.” She looked around uncertainly. “It just feels inappropriate somehow, like wearing a red dress to a funeral.”

Her analogy made me smile. “Shirley, can you think back to Thursday before everyone left to go over to the Wadsworth?” I followed her back to her desk in the reception area. “Do you remember if anyone called James that day whose voice you didn't recognize? A man, middle aged. Probably didn't want to give you his name.”

“You mean the brother, don't you? The one whose body was found yesterday.” She shuddered. “I've been up all night thinking about him. Why didn't we know anything about this brother. Joseph, is it?”

I nodded. “He was a bit of a black sheep, according to James’ wife. Turned up every few years when he needed money for one of his crazy financial schemes. He was in the area that day, because he called the house, and I believe I saw him at the gala Thursday night. He looked so much like his brother, I mistook him for James. What we can't figure out is how he got into the Wadsworth to begin with.”

“It wouldn't have been that difficult, considering all of the volunteers we had to recruit at the last minute to replace the people who were down with the flu,” Shirley reminded me. She had a good point. There was a semi-official list started by Mary Alice before she was ordered home to bed, but over the last couple of weeks, that had pretty much deteriorated. I myself had recruited Strutter and Margo to help out. I didn't even remember if I gave their names to Lois Billard or Shirley or anyone else who might have been interested. By Thursday afternoon, we had just been grateful when the majority of our eleventh-hour volunteers actually showed up.

“To answer your question, no, I don't remember a call to James from a man. There was a woman, though.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, I'm fairly certain that was on Thursday. It had to be, because James wasn't here after that.”

I was surprised by this unexpected curve. “A woman called James here? How old a woman? Did she have an accent of any kind? Sorry,” I apologized. “It's just the first possible lead we've had since James disappeared. Can you remember anything at all?”

She thought for a moment. “It was fairly early. I had just taken the phone off the night system, and it rang immediately. I remember, because I was making the coffee, and it interrupted me.”

I knew how much Shirley relished her morning coffee and could well imagine her annoyance.

“What did she say?” I prompted.

“She asked specifically for James, but there was something odd about the way she did it, as if she didn't really know him.”

“Did she ask for Mr. O’Halloran? Or maybe she got his name a little wrong?”

“That's it. She called him Jim. I've never known anyone to call him Jim or Jimmy, so at first I thought it was a telemarketer, one of those brash ones that try to get by you by acting too familiar.”

“Jim, hmmm. Then what?”

“Well, I told her he wasn't in the office yet and put her through to his voice mailbox. When James came in a few minutes later, I told him he had a message waiting, and that was that.”

“No other calls?”

She stirred her coffee and tried to remember. “I don't think so, Kate, but the place was a madhouse that morning. We were all running around trying to get ready to go over to the Wadsworth. I wasn't the only one answering the phone. When it rang, whoever was nearest picked it up. You know how it can get.”

I did indeed know how it could get. The office would never qualify as spacious, even for the twenty or so employees who worked there. Add delivery people, clients, and other visitors coming in for meetings or what have you, and things could be very crowded and noisy. By contrast, the place seemed unnaturally quiet today.

When I returned to my desk, the message light on the phone was blinking. “I'm working at home today, Kate,” said the IT Coordinator in my ear. Marilyn was a vivacious redhead whose staggering task it was to keep all of the UCC’s employees networked. “Do me a favor and change the back-up tape in the server, would you?’

I was happy to help Mary out, of course, but technical expertise has never been my strong point. I was a little nonplussed, but if Marilyn thought I could handle it, I reasoned, then I probably could. She would never expose the computer equipment to possible damage by the technically inept.

Following her instructions, I collected one of the numbered cassettes and the keys to the server cage from her office, then headed up the stairs to the second floor of the building. Only a few cubicles were occupied, and all of the half-dozen offices belonging to the senior managers were dark. I looked around uncertainly for the staircase leading to the unfinished third floor, where Marilyn had said the server was located.

“Changing the tape?” asked a cheerful youngster from behind a pile of cardboard-bound grants and proposals on her desk. I recognized her as the development director's assistant but couldn't quite come up with her name. “We all have to do that once in a while. Stairs are back there. Just feel for the light switch when you open the door.” She pointed over her shoulder to the unmarked door at the end of the short aisle.