Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (17 page)

I looked at the empty roasting pan lying face down in the back yard and considered going outside to retrieve it.
Maybe later,
I decided.
Maybe never.
I turned away from the window. Armando shut the inside door firmly and pulled me close for a hug. “That was interesting,” he commented with his usual understatement. “Are you okay?”

“Hey, everybody's got to make a living,” I said as lightly as I could manage. “I'd rather they ate our burned turkey than one of the live wild ones.”

I straightened up and smiled brightly at him, determined not to let the incident spoil our day. “How about brunch at the diner? They're open today. Then maybe we can catch that new Meryl Streep comedy we've been wanting to see. It would be a good time to go, since everyone else will be doing their Christmas stuff at home today.”

“Good idea,” Armando agreed, going along with me. “Even you cannot get into too much trouble eating scrambled eggs and watching a movie.” He gave me a final pat and went upstairs to get into the shower. I sank into the big easy chair with my back to the window and drew deep breaths. I had had quite enough of the wonders of nature for one morning.

As a rule, Christmas was the one day a year that the diner was closed, but this year, Marianna and her husband, the owners, had decided to experiment with keeping it open. Judging from the line of waiting customers that filled the entryway, the experiment was a success. Nothing like being the only game in town. We were trying to decide whether to leave or wait it out when Marianna spotted us from her post behind the cash register.

“Your friends are already inside,” she called out, waving us in. “Yes, Kate, you,” she added in response to my puzzled expression.

With apologies to those still waiting, we eeled through the mob and entered the main seating area, where Margo and John occupied a booth along the near wall.

“Marianna assumed we were meeting you. Can we crash your party?”

Margo whooped and jumped up to give Armando a hug before hustling us into the booth and reseating herself next to her husband. I noticed there was no food on the table, just cups and saucers.

“Did you just get here? How on earth did you snag a booth with that crowd in the lobby?” I wanted to know.

“We've been here for quite a while,” John sighed. As always, he was immaculately turned out in a cream-colored turtleneck and gray slacks. “I'd settle for coffee, if I were you, because the kitchen is overwhelmed.”

As if to illustrate his words, Sherri rushed up to our table bearing a pot of coffee. At her signal, a beleaguered busboy plunked down cups and saucers, which Sherri filled deftly. She refilled Margo's and John's cups before speeding off to the next table. I sympathized with her and the rest of the staff, who wore the same shell-shocked expression on their faces. Clearly, it was possible to have too much of a good thing.

“This is crazy,” was Armando's only comment, “but at least the coffee is good.”

“It always is,” Margo agreed. “That's partly why we keep comin’ here. So tell us all about Emma's fella. Was he worth all the fuss and feathers? Did Christmas Eve come up to his standards?”

Armando and I groaned in unison, but by the time we had filled in our friends on the events of the preceding twenty-four hours, a harassed waitress I had never seen before during my regular visits had somehow contrived to take and deliver our orders. I could not imagine how these hard-working people could put in a grueling shift at the diner, then go home to serve a meal to their families, let alone deal with Christmas. For their sakes, I hoped they were all Jewish.

My story of the ruined turkey, complete with smoke alarms and coyote attack, hadn't been especially funny at the time, but my recitation had Margo laughing so hard, she had to wipe her eyes, and fastidious John nearly spit coffee on the table. “Turkey fart,” he choked, and we all howled yet again.

“Stop now,” Margo gasped, holding her sides. “I can't take anymore. Our quiet little dinner at Spris can't compete with your evenin’, although it was absolutely wonderful,” she added, putting her hand over her new husband's.

John beamed back at her. “Dessert was spectacular,” he agreed.

At the word
dessert
, Armando smiled broadly at me. “It is always the best part, is it not?”

I grinned at him. “Well, it was certainly better than the turkey. Who's up for a movie? We haven't seen one in ages and thought we'd go see the new Meryl Streep comedy while everyone else in town is doing their Christmas thing.”

Margo and John were in. “Might as well make the most of my first Christmas Day off in ten years,” said John. “I always used to work that day so the married guys could be with their families, but now, I'm one of them.” He didn't look at all unhappy about his change in status.

We made our way out of the diner and consulted a newspaper, the last one in a nearby vending machine. “We can just make the matinee in Plainville, if we get a move on,” I reported.

“You'll have to give us an extra minute,” John commented, his hand on Margo's shoulder. “Our car doesn't move until Mrs. Harkness here fixes her lipstick.” Honestly, the two of them were bordering on downright sappy with all of this billing and cooing.

“I know,” I sympathized. “Sometimes I think I've waited half of my adult life while Margo checks her make-up. We'll see you there.”

On the way to the theater, I called Strutter's house to check on the invalids and was surprised when Strutter herself answered the phone. “Oh, I wish I could go with you,” she moaned before a coughing fit overtook her. “Where is that blasted Kleenex box? Answering the phone is about all Mama will let me do. Says I can do it right from this bed, so that's where I stay. John drops by now and then, and my son was allowed to show me his Christmas loot from the doorway this morning, but I'm not sure I still have a baby. Mama won't allow Olivia anywhere near me. I miss her fat cheeks,” she finished mournfully.

“Think of it as a well-earned vacation,” I offered in an attempt to mollify her.

She harrumphed. “A vacation is Mai Tais on the beach. A vacation is a big ol’ cruise ship with Disney characters and activity directors for the kids. This is just solitary confinement, Girl.” She paused to honk into a tissue. “What's going on with the O’Halloran situation?” she asked. “I'm so bored, I exist on other people's drama.”

I spent the rest of the ride filling her in on the latest about Roberta and Joseph O’Halloran, while she continued to cough and blow her nose. “Don't worry about Vista Views,” I finished up. “Nothing happens during the week between Christmas and New Year's anyway, and Margo will keep an eye on things, if she can tear herself away from John for ten minutes.”

Strutter chuckled. “Still honeymooning, huh?”

“
Ad nauseam
,” I confirmed. “You take care of yourself.”

We pulled into the parking lot at the Plainville 20 Theaters in good time for the one-thirty showing that had been listed in the newspaper. The sea of cars confronting us was daunting. I had never seen the lot so full. John and Margo pulled up next to us as we dithered at the far edge of the lot where a few empty spaces still remained.

“A new three-D movie opened today,” said Armando. “Perhaps that is the reason for the crowd.”

“I'll go see what's up,” John decided. “You guys park, and I'll be right back.” He got out of the car and loped off, moving as easily through the rows of parked cars as a man half his age.

“Is he cute, or what?” Margo cooed as she walked around to the driver's side and took his place.

We wedged our cars into slots, and Margo climbed in with us to wait. In just a few minutes, John returned, only slightly out of breath. “It sold out right in front of me,” he reported. “One minute, seats were available, and then pffft! Sold out.” He opened the rear door of the Jetta and perched on the seat next to Margo, his long legs folded nearly under his chin.

“It's just amazin’ that all these people spend Christmas Day at the movies,” Margo marveled. “So much for Norman Rockwell's depictions of Christmas in small-town America.”

“Let's not go there,” I begged her, still smarting from the events of the previous evening.

John's cell phone rang, and he got out of the car to take the call. “Occupational hazard,” Margo explained. “Even when he's not officially on duty, he's on call.”

Armando nodded his understanding. “That is true of so many jobs these days, is it not? The TeleCom technicians must always be available by telephone. Instead of freeing us to do other things, I often think all of these devices just keep us on electronic leashes, pulling at us day and night.” He changed the subject. “Where can we go that others will not be today?”

“I have a suggestion,” said John as he rejoined us. “How about Riverside Park?”

We looked at each other blankly. “Gee,” I said, “a brisk walk by the river in twenty-degree weather. Sounds like fun.”

“Not fun, maybe, but interesting. A call came into the Hartford Police Department a few minutes ago and was referred to Wethersfield. A jogger at the park spotted a folded-up wheelchair in the brush behind the main building where the path runs right next to the river. The water's high now, because of the rain we had, so it kind of bothered him. Said there was a plastic bag with some men's clothes in it.”

“You think it's the chair James O’Halloran took out of the Wadsworth last week,” I surmised.

“I more than think it. There's a metal tag on the frame identifying it as property of the Wadsworth Atheneum.” He headed for his car. Margo climbed out of the Jetta and joined him.

“We'll go with you,” said Armando.

R
iverside Park
lay just north of downtown Hartford on the Connecticut River. As we drove along the entry road, I was struck by the abandoned feel of a summer venue in the dead of winter. Even the dazzling sunshine couldn't mitigate the desolation. Anyone who has had reason to visit a lakeside cottage in December has doubtless had the same lonely sensation. The park, which would be bustling with boaters and ballplayers in a few short months, seemed almost eerie in its emptiness.

Our two-car caravan pulled into the parking lot next to the Jaycees Community Boathouse, an inelegantly named structure that was actually a spacious banquet facility. It, too, sat empty. Only two cars were in the lot, a Hartford police cruiser and a beat-up Chevy. We parked next to the cruiser and joined the uniformed officer who stood talking with a young man wearing wind pants and sneakers. Presumably, he was the jogger who had spotted the wheelchair.

The officer, fortyish and leathery, acknowledged John's introductions with a short nod and got back to the business at hand. “Mr. DiNardi here,” he gestured to the jogger, who lifted a hand in greeting, “jogs in this park three times a week. Has a regular route about two miles long. Goes up that path there by the river, runs a mile out, turns around and finishes back here at the boathouse.” DiNardi nodded in confirmation. “He hasn't been here in about a week.”

“I pulled a hamstring,” DiNardi admitted sheepishly.

“He got back to it today. Took his usual route, arrived back here, and sat down on that wall over there to cool out.”

“Big Christmas brunch at my in-laws,” DiNardi grinned, then quickly sobered. “That's when I saw the chair over there.” He pointed to a nearby clump of bushes and underbrush. A collapsible wheelchair and a plastic garbage bag sat on the grass where the sidewalk ended.

We all trooped over to have a look. I was amazed that no barrier existed between the sidewalk and the river. The muddy water slid by swiftly and silently just a few feet from the sidewalk and at nearly the same level. Anyone who was the least bit unsteady on his feet could fall right in. I shivered and kept to the inside of the path. I noticed that Margo did the same thing.

“It wasn't there the last time I jogged here. I would have noticed. But today, there it was, kind of shoved underneath those bushes. It was one of the wheels that caught my eye,” DiNardi reported. “I guess it belongs to the museum. At least, that's what the tag on the frame says. I was glad to see that it didn't belong to a person. I mean, where is he or she?” He glanced at the river, then looked away.” Then I opened the bag and saw those clothes. That's when I called the cops.” He stopped talking and swallowed hard. I knew how he felt. My stomach wasn't all that happy either.

“When was the last time you ran here?” John asked him.

DiNardi thought about it. “It would have been a week ago Wednesday,” he said finally. “I run here on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays most weeks.”

The next day, Thursday, had been the date of the gala, and on Sunday, Joseph O’Halloran's body had washed up in Wethersfield Cove, which I guessed was about two miles downstream from where we stood. My shivering increased, and Armando put his arm around my shoulders.

After thanking DiNardi and sending him on his way, John and the Hartford officer consulted briefly about the best way to transport the evidence. Together, they maneuvered the chair and the garbage bag into the trunk of the cruiser while Armando shepherded Margo and me back to our cars. We waited for John in the Jetta, the heater going full blast. The day had suddenly turned raw and bleak.

“I don't know about you, but that river slidin’ by so fast and quiet just gives me the creeps,” said Margo, hugging herself.