Pushing Murder (8 page)

“Yes. Henry and Kit are both coming in.”

He went out, and I settled back to answer a series of five phone calls in quick succession.

Henry's was the first. “You sound better, Mom. I hope I didn't upset you further by emphasizing Sal's danger.”

“Of course not, dear. If I hadn't been so punchy, I'd have realized it sooner. It's frustrating—but no police yet.”

“Meanwhile you can work on Do It Yourself. You've done it before.”

“But I'm stuck here till Christmas Eve! Dr. Cullen won't let me out! Do I detect your fine hand—”

“Look—lie back and play Nero Wolfe. We'll all play Archie. We might even bring you orchids. See you later.”

Second call. “Mrs. Gamadge, this is Kit. Are you okay? Can you handle some brainstorming this afternoon?”

“I sure can. And speaking of handling things—thanks for last night.”

“Hen and Danny hit it off great. Be seeing you.”

Third call. “Clara, I'm mad and jealous.”

“Why, Tina?”

“Because Henry is taking today and tomorrow off, and he and Kit and Dan will be huddling with you, and I'm stuck in the office. Er—one more thing. Sal just called me.”

My mouth went a little dry. “At the office?”

“Yes. She said she'd tried the hospital and you weren't allowed calls this morning and she had an awful feeling she knew why. You'd heard about that woman who was murdered, and she was a friend of both of yours, and you were probably devastated.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes, you certainly were devastated, and it would be best if she not try to call you right away.”

“Bless you, Tina.”

The fourth caller was Sadd. “Have you pulled yourself together?”

“I was never apart,” I said indignantly.

“I almost was. After I delivered Hen to Kit's mother, I walked back toward the chapel, and I wish I hadn't. They were carting your poor friend out.”

“Oh, God, Sadd, why did you go near the place?”

“I didn't go near it—I wasn't allowed to. Actually, all I wanted to do was duck in that little library. I saw a book there yesterday I wanted to borrow.”

Death and disaster strike, and Sadd wants to borrow a book.

He went on, “I'm on my way over. Shall I stop at your place and get the mail?”

“Oh, Sadd, would you? I've been such a nuisance to everybody, I didn't dare ask.”

“Let's hope I don't suffer the same fate as the last person who opened your box.”

The fifth call was from Paula. Mercifully, news of the murder in St. Victor's Hospital in New York hadn't reached Boston. We chatted, she rejoiced at my progress, and we agreed she'd bring the family to New York for Christmas.

I hung up, pulled my salad forward, and reached for the fork. At the third bite the sixth call came. “Clara, this is Dwight. Feeling better?”

Down went the fork, and up came the bite. He went on briskly, “I'll try to be brief because I know you've been under strain, but it's important that we understand each other before you make any wrong moves.”

I found my voice. “You're making one now. I'm not alone.”

“Of course you're alone. I just walked past your door. I'm in the booth down the hall.”

9

It was his proximity, his close, calm, creepy proximity that filled me with horror. Not fear. I felt almost no fear, only horror—then rage at the deadly arrogance of the man.

He went on matter-of-factly, “That young man outside your door with the cast on his arm—I presume he's watching out for you? Glad to hear it. Now, Clara, regarding the point that I'm sure has been disturbing you most, you may put your mind at ease. I'm leaving New York on Christmas Day. I won't be back. Ever. That's a promise.”

“Good God!” broke from me. “A promise from
you?
”

He ignored this outburst. “I'm glad I'm leaving Sal in good hands. I've grown very fond of her. She'll need lots of support and consolation, and I'm sure you'll—”

“It's a pity”—I made my voice steady—“that Janet Folsom isn't here to help with support and consolation.”

“Who? Oh, you mean that poor woman who was murdered in the hospital? Wasn't that ghastly? We heard about it on the late news, and Sal said you both knew her. We assumed she was there to see you, which must make you feel doubly bad. Really, New York is getting worse and worse. I'll be glad to get out of it.”

My stomach turning, I said, “Will you take all of Sal's money when you go, or will you leave her enough to keep the store?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, having to leave so precipitously, I'll only be able to avail myself of—”

“—lay your hands on—”

“—the Christmas cash. But it will tide me over.” His voice became businesslike. “Now, Clara, listen to me carefully. If you in any way attempt to contact the police or prevent me from leaving, or hint at anything to Sal, it will be the worse for her. You must keep that firmly in mind.”

And this creature was standing fifty feet from me and Dan! Oh, where was a shred of evidence that would enable me to leap from my bed shrieking, “Murderer!” I told myself not to be dramatic, and as he went on I only half listened. Defeat and anger. That's what I must project. He must believe that I feel licked. He was saying, “—and we have a great idea for the store on Christmas Eve. Punch and cookies in the children's section, and yours truly will be Santa. I can't wait! I rented the costume yesterday.”

The utter desecration of it. I said, “Dwight—since that's the only name I know you by—”

“An elegant one, don't you think? I like it the best. And I was a great admirer of President Eisenhower.”

“Since you appear to hold all the cards, I guess the only thing I can say, with all my heart, is this: go to hell—literally.”

“Now, don't be a poor loser, Clara. You're a delightful lady, and I've enjoyed my dealings with you. In fact, I'd like to think I've been one of your greatest challenges.”

“Oh, you are, you are.”

“
Have been,
Clara,
have been.
It's all in the past, or will be in a few days. You mustn't forget that, for Sal's sake and possibly for your own, and—er—your family's. Well, back to the store.”

He was gone, and I sat stupefied, then called shrilly, “Dan!” He appeared. “Dwight Dunlop is just leaving the hospital headed for Cornelia Street.”

“What?”

“No time to explain. See if you can follow him!”

“I've never seen him!”

“I know. I want you to—so you can identify him—a big, tall, fleshy man—maybe you'd better dash ahead to Pushing Murder and wait for him. Don't let him see you—he'll recognize your cast. There's a coffee shop across the street—wait there. I want to be sure he does go back to the store.”

“I don't under—”

“No need to—go!”

“What about you?”

“Mr. Saddlier's on his way up—go!”

He darted off, and I sat breathing like a superannuated runner. I'd gotten rid of Dan briefly, but did I still have time?… I reached for my watch on the bedside cabinet, and my hand encountered something small and rough. Janet's scapular. I examined it for the first time. There were two squares, each imprinted with the image of the saint and connected with a double length of tape, one square apparently worn in front and the other in back. I stared at it. St. Benedict. How was he on miracles? That seemed about our only hope at this point.

A hospital volunteer, Mrs. Ling, pleasant, middle-aged, and Chinese, came in with newspapers. I hadn't looked at one since I'd landed here, but now I took a tabloid and the
New York Times.

“Isn't this murder terrible?” she said in the perfect English that both amazes and mortifies nonlinguists like myself. “One of the nurses has told me you were a friend of this woman.”

“Yes, terrible. And yes, she was a friend.”

Mrs. Ling shook her head sympathetically and withdrew. I gritted my teeth and flipped past the tabloid headline
WOMAN SLAIN ON ALTAR STEPS
to page two, where I read that “broken blossoms were strewn about the body of a woman identified as Mrs. Janet Folsom, Fairfield, Connecticut, socialite,” who was apparently in the act of “laying her floral tribute on the altar of St. Victor's Hospital chapel when she was strangled and robbed.” The police had no lead on the killer.

The
Times
eschewed what Sadd calls “that awful word
socialite
” and called Janet Folsom a “wealthy and respected philanthropist.” Only two relatives were named, a sister-in-law, Mrs. Loretta Vaughan, also of Fairfield, and an uncle of her late husband, Reverend Robert Folsom, a Benedictine priest.

The sister-in-law I knew slightly. The clerical uncle I'd not been aware of.

I folded the newspapers and pressed my buzzer. To my relief, Sister Agnes appeared. I'd better get the boss's permission this time, my team of conspirators not being present.

I said, “Sister, would it be possible to have an aid or a volunteer take me down to the chapel in the wheelchair?”

She looked doubtful. “Mrs. Gamadge—”

“I feel the need of a little spiritual consolation.” I tried to look the need, and it wasn't hard.

“Father McCarthy will be making rounds this afternoon.”

“That will be lovely, but I'd just like to say a prayer in the place where my poor friend died.”

“I'm not sure they'll let you in. I understand the police have closed the chapel temporarily.”

“In that case I'll come straight back. Please?”
Please.
I was not up for another secret flight, but if worst came to worst …

She smiled and relented. “If you promise not to stay too long.”

“Promise!”

“I'll ask Mrs. Ling to take you down. She's probably through with her papers.” Sister went to the closet. “As well as your robe, I want a blanket over your knees. The chapel is all the way in the next building.”

“Is it?” I said innocently.

“I'll remind Mrs. Ling how to get there.” I restrained myself. “Now, remember—”

“Just a quick prayer.”

Ten minutes later Mrs. Ling and I emerged from an elevator beside the chapel sign and beheld, as I'd hoped we would, a half-dozen or so policemen, any one of whom might have recognized Dan. Now I was just an anonymous old lady in a wheelchair milling with the crowd.

“Officer,” I quavered to a stocky one nearby, “I would so love to visit the chapel, but I understand there's been something awful—a murder?”

“Yes, ma'am. The chapel's closed to the public today.”

“Oh, dear. Do you suppose I could speak—I mean, is there someone in charge?”

“That's Captain Redmond right there.” He took three steps to a wiry, gray-haired officer. Ah! Captain Redmond. The horse's mouth? Mrs. Ling pushed me to a place near the wall, remarking on the crowd and hoping it wasn't going to be too much for me. Captain Redmond was approaching.

“What can I do for you, ma'am?”

“Oh, Captain, I did so want to say a prayer in the chapel. You see—”

Helpful Mrs. Ling interrupted in that fatally good English of hers. “Captain, this lady is a friend of the woman who was murdered.”

So much for carefulness. I heard my son's voice: “You'd never forgive yourself if you tipped your hand.… Consider Sal's safety.…”

Captain Redmond was looking at me with interest. He said, “A friend, now. Is that so?”

“Well, I knew her slightly.” I adjusted the blanket over my knees, avoiding his eyes. “Do you have any leads?”

“I'm afraid not.” The captain's eyes were definitely
not
avoiding mine. “May I have your name, ma'am?”

“Clara Gamadge.”

“Maybe you know why the victim was here. Maybe to visit you?”

“That's a possibility, and it makes me feel just awful. Well, I'm a little tired so perhaps I'll skip—”

“You're welcome to visit the chapel.” He was graciousness itself. “We just want to keep out the curious. I'll go with you.”

“I really shouldn't keep Mrs. Ling from—”

“I don't mind at all.” She was all solicitude. “And you said you were most anxious.”

Between graciousness and solicitude I was trapped. But keep your mouth shut, Clara. Janet Folsom was a chance acquaintance, and I had no connection with her presence here. Captain Redmond walked with us as Mrs. Ling pushed my chair down the glass corridor. I felt as if Dwight Dunlop stalked beside me and arrived with us at the leather door. Had he followed Janet, or had he waited for her? The captain nodded to a patrolman, who opened the door, and we entered the vestry. As the door started to close behind us, Sadd's voice said, “May I come in too?”

We turned, and I said quickly, “This is my cousin Charles Saddlier—Captain Redmond, Sadd.”
Don't
let Sadd say they'd told him upstairs I'd gone to say a prayer for my dear friend Janet Folsom.

Sadd indicated the library sign. “Not exactly a branch of the NYPL, but I saw a book I wanted to borrow when I was here yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” said the captain. “What time would that have been?”

I sneezed noisily, and Mrs. Ling produced a tissue.

“Oh, quite early, before all the excitement. Well”—Sadd edged toward the library—“I hope the book is in and there isn't a waiting list for it.” He smiled feebly and disappeared.

Captain Redmond held open the chapel door. A half-dozen persons, including two police officers, sat in pews or stood in the aisle, and video equipment lay about. The sun must have emerged from clouds at that moment, for the vivid old windows on one side of the chapel lit up as if controlled by a heavenly dimmer and a reddish glow bathed the transept.