The April Fools' Day Murder (6 page)

“Mrs. Brooks,” she said as she opened the door. “Come in. And you too, young man.”

“This is Eddie. And I’m Chris.”

“Yes. Chris.”

I gave her the bag of food and she thanked me profusely. She was better dressed today, wearing a black skirt, a gray blouse, and a white cardigan sweater that looked expertly hand knit.

“I wanted to ask you some questions,” I said when we were seated in a huge room with a cathedral ceiling and striking views.

“About what?”

“About your husband, his background, his relationship with the drama society.”

“I don’t understand. What is your interest in all this?”

“I happened to see your husband on the grass when he was waiting for the students in the treasure hunt. I called the police because I thought he was dead.” I looked over
to where Eddie was happily munching a cookie and playing with some things on the floor near the fireplace.

“I heard about that. I didn’t know it was you.”

“So when I heard later in the day what had happened, I felt a personal interest in the situation.”

“Aren’t you the one who brought Greenwillow to Oakwood?”

I hesitated a moment. That had been such a divisive battle the summer that I moved into Aunt Meg’s house that I wondered if she would throw me out if she had been on the other side. There are still people in town who look the other way when they see me. “I was in favor of it, yes,” I said honestly.

“It has worked out very nicely, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Did you know my husband?”

“No, I didn’t.” I decided not to mention Eddie’s run-in with him some weeks earlier.

“I met him after the war, when he was studying in New York on the GI Bill. He went into the war a boy and came out of it a hardened man. He saw action in the Pacific.”

“I’m sure that would harden anyone.”

“Will was a tough man.” She left it there, as though that were the final description of her husband.

“Tell me about the April Fools’ Day treasure hunt,” I said, just to get her talking.

“The drama club has been a favorite cause of his for years. He did a little acting in the late Forties and early Fifties, around the time I met him. I thought he would end up on Broadway or in Hollywood, but it didn’t happen. He went into business instead, but he never lost his love of the theater. There were nights he went down to the
high school when they were rehearsing and he read with one of the actors. He just loved it.” She reached into a pocket in her sweater and took out a tissue, pressed it to her eyes, then put it back. “The treasure hunt was actually his idea, although the students didn’t know it. I helped out on that myself. Wait. I’ll show you.” She got up and went to a drawer built into one wall of the room.

As she rummaged through it, I realized that there were many drawers, some of them the size of file drawers, and I wondered if this magnificent room might have been her husband’s study. She came back with a folder and showed me a few pages.

“I wrote the clues for the hunt. Here’s the one that Will took part in.” She pointed to one of the short verses on the page.

Far away
And up the hill
Find a weapon
In back of Will.

“Do you understand it?” she asked.

“Yes. They were to find the stage dagger.”

“That’s right. Here’s another one.”

Quarter, dime, nickel, penny,
Jake has few, Jake has many.
If you are a sterling scholar,
He’ll give you a silver dollar.

“Who’s Jake?” I asked.

“That’s what you have to figure out. Actually, this was
one of the easier clues. All the kids know Jake’s place, even though it isn’t called that. It’s the variety store in town, where you can buy a newspaper or a lottery ticket or a birthday card.”

I knew immediately which store she meant although I had never known the name of the man who owned it. “So they went there and he gave them a silver dollar?”

“After they said they were sterling scholars. That was the way it went. They had to interpret the verse, then they got the treasure.”

“And you wrote all these little poems?”

“Will told me what he wanted and I sat down with a pencil and paper. It was fun.”

“How did it work?” I asked. “Did every participant get all the poems?”

“No, they all got the first one. When they solved that, they picked up the next one where they got the first treasure.”

“So someone had to go around to all these places and leave the poems and the treasures.”

“That’s right. Will and I did it on Friday. Everyone had already agreed to be part of it, so it was just a matter of driving around and leaving things in a bunch of places.” As she described what they had done, her spirits seemed to rise. It was a nice memory, something she had done with her husband.

“How many students participated in the hunt?” I asked.

“I couldn’t give you a number. I know there were three teams. One of them came in a van, one in a station wagon, and one piled into a car. But I don’t know how many were on each team. And the clues were staggered. One team
started with clue number one, one with clue number two, and so on, so they didn’t get in each other’s way and one team couldn’t follow the other. I think there were eight clues, so the first team with eight treasures won.”

“Did all three teams make it up here?”

“Yes. I know that because when the last one was gone, Will came inside to warm up and then he went out to the garage to get some work done. That’s when it happened.” She sniffed and bit her lips together. After a moment she said, “If you want the names of the drama club members, Mr. Jovine will have them. He’s the drama coach at the high school. He’s there every day.”

I wrote it down, thinking I would have to take a drive over to the school. “Did he and your husband get along?”

“Mr. Jovine? Oh yes. Mr. Jovine loved Will. He knew if there was anything he needed, anything at all, Will would help.”

“Was there a prize for the winning team?”

“I think there was, but I don’t know what.”

“Did you hear any cars come by after the last team left?”

“You ask the same questions the police did. No, I didn’t. I didn’t even hear the teams when they came. I was sitting back here and knitting. They were around the front of the house.”

“Mrs. Platt, I heard that your husband made some demands on the town when they worked on the sewers.”

“Demands? I don’t recall he made any demands. He was concerned for our property. That same bunch had dug up someone’s front lawn a year or two before and they never got it back the way it had been. And they
weren’t very nice about it. Willard didn’t want that happening here. He just made sure they would replace anything they took apart.”

She said it very matter-of-factly. Jack had said that the town paid for things they should never have paid for. I had no idea who his source was, but it always interests me to hear both sides of an argument. Mrs. Platt made it seem that they had asked only for what was due them. And if they had gotten more, could anyone in his right mind have killed Willard Platt for getting a few shrubs at the expense of the town?

“Mrs. Platt, I’m just trying to find someone who might have wanted your husband dead.”

“Who could want such a thing?”

“Did he get along with your son?”

“They had a difficult relationship. They were two very strong-minded people. I don’t think my son is happy his father is dead. Willard got along much better with our daughter.”

“You have a daughter too?”

“Yes, but she lives outside of Chicago. She’s on her way here now. She’ll stay with me for a while.”

“That’s good. I’m sure she’ll be a comfort to you.”

“Do you want a copy of the clues for the treasure hunt?” she asked.

“Yes, I would.”

“I’ll make some.” She took the sheets from the folder and went to a machine behind where I was sitting and I heard the sound of the mechanism. “I hope you can read them. They’re from my originals and I wrote them in pencil.”

“That’s fine. Thank you very much.” I folded them and
put them in my bag. I knew it was time to go but I hadn’t learned very much about Willard Platt. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted your husband dead?”

She shook her head. “I loved him. I wanted him around forever.”

“Someone he did business with? Someone he lent money to?”

“Will didn’t lend anyone money.”

“He walked with a cane,” I said, remembering it from the supermarket and on the grass near his outstretched hand when I had thought he was dead.

“He had a weakness in one leg, going back to an accident a long time ago, before I met him. He could walk without it—he often did in the house—but he felt more secure if he had it. It was almost a prop for him. I think he liked to be identified as the man with the interesting cane. He had several. They’re right over here.”

I got up and walked over to a wooden rack near the back window. It held a collection of canes and walking sticks, most of them wood, some of them intricately carved, at least one made of what appeared to be ivory. I touched it, feeling its smoothness, seeing the grain. “These are beautiful,” I said.

“He collected them. Most of them he never used, just enjoyed owning. Most of the time he alternated two or three favorites. The one he had on Saturday was a very plain one. He had to drop it on the grass and he didn’t want a good one getting wet and trampled.”

I lifted a briarwood stick with a large round knurled handle on top, then an old one with a tarnishing silver handle. These had surely come from abroad, from places I had never visited.

I wanted to ask about the old accident, but I felt I had spent enough time and worn her out enough. I asked if she wanted me to buy any groceries, and she thanked me and assured me that Doris had taken care of that. I told her to call if there was anything she needed or if she wanted to talk.

Then Eddie and I took off.

7

I have the world’s greatest baby-sitter, my mother’s old friend, Elsie Rivers. She substitutes for a grandmother and does a terrific job. When we got home, I called and asked if I could leave Eddie with her after lunch and she generously invited him to have lunch with her, something I knew he would appreciate. Since I am not very inventive where food is concerned, he gets much better fare when he sees Elsie. After I left him, I went home and called the high school. They have recently installed one of those terrible “press one, press two” systems that everyone deplores and everyone else seems to use. I went through the directions, eventually reaching Mr. Jovine’s number. As luck would have it, he didn’t answer in person but on his voice-mail machine. I left a message and decided that I would drive over to the high school whether I heard from him or not. Their day ended around three, and I would try to catch him before he left.

While I was eating my sandwich and drinking my tomato juice, the phone rang. It was Mr. Jovine.

“Thank you so much for returning my call,” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to you this afternoon. It’s about Willard Platt.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I have a free period from one to one forty-five. Can you make it then?”

I looked at my watch. It was only a ten minute drive, probably less. “I can be there.”

“I’ll meet you in the hall outside the main office.”

I gulped down my sandwich, drained my juice glass, and ran.

Oakwood High School sits on a beautiful piece of property in the heart of town. The building is set well back from the quiet road and is landscaped to provide a barrier between it and the occasional traffic. There are parking lots all around it, and I was surprised at how many cars were there. I guess if you’re seventeen and don’t have a car, you’re just not with it.

It was a few minutes before one when I pushed one of the front doors open, looked around, and turned left into a long hall. The first door on the left was the administration office, and standing beside it was a thin man with a short dark beard.

“Mr. Jovine?”

“Yes.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Mrs. Brooks?”

“Glad to meet you.”

“Do you mind if we sit in the auditorium? My next class meets there.”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

We walked back to where the hall started, turned left and went into a large, unlighted auditorium that looked very much like the one in my school twenty years ago. We walked down the center aisle, then up several stairs to the stage. I followed him into the wings, where he turned
a light on. It was a cozy little area with an old oak table and a couple of chairs. We sat down.

“Are you a member of Will’s family?” he asked.

“No. I’m a neighbor. I happened to be up on the hill the afternoon of the murder, when Mr. Platt was lying spread-eagled on the grass waiting for the drama students to find him.”

He smiled. “Our treasure hunt. He was such a great sport. I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”

“What exactly did he do for you?” I asked.

“The question is, what didn’t he do? He helped build sets. He contributed generously when we needed to buy equipment or rent costumes. He came down and read with students who were trying to learn their parts. He kept us going is what he did.” He seemed sincerely saddened by the loss.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

“Not in a million years. I know he ruffled some feathers in town. He was a perfectionist in an era when perfection isn’t even a goal anymore. He had fights with the mayor, he complained when a group of kids had an overnight near his house and left the place a mess. What’s wrong with that? Who wants to wake up and find garbage near his property?”

“I understand. But being angry at things like that isn’t really a motive for murder.”

“Just what I’m saying.”

“How long have you taught here?”

“Nine years.”

“Then you didn’t know the Platts’ children.”

“They’re way before my time. I know the son doesn’t
get along with the father, but that’s not exactly news these days. Oh, and there was an accident. That happened several years ago.”

“Tell me about it.”