The Christmas Night Murder (8 page)

“Lots of noises here,” she said, pushing her chair back. “We can sit somewhere else.”

When we were resettled, I poured the tea and we sipped it. I noticed how she held her hands around the hot mug. “Do your fingers hurt?” I asked.

She laughed. “Everything hurts sometimes. Fingers, toes, knees, legs. I don't have my teeth anymore, so they can't hurt, that's one good thing. You have your teeth?”

“All except a wisdom tooth.”

“That's what we need, a little wisdom.”

“Sister Mary Teresa, do you remember Julia Farragut?”

“That poor child. Of course I remember her. She would have made a wonderful nun. She was so dedicated, such a fine young person.”

“Did you know her well?”

“She trusted me. There were problems in her home. She told me about them.”

“Do you remember what those problems were?”

She put her hands around the mug and held it. Then she raised it and sipped and sipped again. “Her mother was ill. It was tragic. She killed herself, you know.”

“I heard.”

“Thanksgiving. Sister Clare Angela, God have mercy on her soul, got the phone call. It tore poor Julia apart.”

“I can imagine.”

“She had a good upbringing, that girl. They were a good family, even if the mother had some problems.”

“Did you ever visit Julia at home?” I asked.

She put her mug down and looked at me. “I don't think so. Should I? I only knew her here. I never went to her home.” She smiled and her eyes were suddenly clear and full of reason and intelligence, as though she had returned to her full self.

“I wondered because I drove by the Farragut house this morning.”

“They don't live there anymore.”

“How do you know?”

“Someone must have told me. I just remember hearing that they'd moved.”

“You know that Father Hudson McCormick is missing.”

“Everyone knows that. He didn't come on Christmas Day. I was praying for him in the chapel.”

“Do you know the rumors about Father McCormick and Julia?” I asked hesitantly.

“I won't talk about that. Sister Clare Angela said we were never to discuss it. She was right. This convent has never had a scandal, and that's because we've always held our tongues and minded our business. I won't be the first one to break a promise—or the last.”

It didn't surprise me that she gave Sister Clare Angela's admonition to keep quiet more weight than Joseph's instruction to speak freely to me. “Did Julia talk to you about it, Sister?”

She was still wearing her coat, although I had taken mine off in the kitchen. Now she opened the buttons, revealing the brown habit underneath. She had a lined face and thick glasses in rimless frames, an old woman who had spent half a century in this convent and could be counted on to protect its honor and the honor of the General Superior who had been her friend.

“We had enough to talk about without that. And she was too much of a lady.”

“For what?”

“Christine, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Don't believe everything you hear, Christine. Julia was a fine young lady, a dear girl.” Two tears fell onto her cheeks, puddling at the rim of the lenses. She took a tissue out of her coat pocket and patted her face. “It's time for me to go. Thank you for the tea.”

“I'll walk you back to the villa.”

“Thank you, I like to walk alone. The air is good for me and I'm in no hurry. Fast or slow, I always get where I'm going. My memory fails me sometimes, but my legs never do. I'll let you clean up the tea things and put my mug back in my drawer.”

I walked her to the door and stood outside in the cold,
watching as she made her way slowly along the clean path. She stopped now and then and looked up at the sky, or perhaps at a bird or a tree, then plodded along again.

I went inside and did as she had told me.

Angela came into the kitchen and told me Joseph was looking for me. I dried my hands and took the two mugs, dropping them off as I went. Joseph was in her office.

“I know you would have told me if there was anything new, but I thought you might just want to throw some ideas around.”

I sat at the table. The depth of her anxiety was clear from her invitation, from her acknowledgment that she expected nothing new from me. What she wanted was the comfort of my company. Perhaps for the first time in the sixteen years we had known each other, she was allowing herself to communicate fear, admitting her own inability to cope. It made it that much harder for me as I realized a burden had subtly shifted to my shoulders. The pressure was terrible on both of us. We were not merely looking for a killer; we were trying to keep a man we loved from dying—if he was still alive.

“I've been to see Walter Farragut's mother.”

Her face relaxed as though I had said I'd found Hudson safe and sound. “Oh Chris, that's wonderful. I was so afraid there was nothing, that there was nowhere to turn. Tell me about it.”

“There isn't much to tell. She's Mrs. Cornelius Farragut, in her seventies, I'd guess, and lives in a retirement community halfway between Riverview and here. She won't say where her son lives. I found out, too, that Julia had a brother. She told Angela there were no brothers, but she had one and he's alive somewhere, but Mrs. Farragut won't give an inch. Jack is trying to find the two men through Motor Vehicles. If they own cars in New York State, we may be able to track them down.”

“Go on.” She had sat across from me and taken a pencil and a sheet of blank paper, but she had written nothing.

“Let's start with the little we know. Hudson's car was found outside the Farraguts' old house yesterday morning. That means it was left there either the night of Thursday the twenty-sixth or the early morning of the twenty-seventh. Let's say—and I don't believe this—that Hudson left it there himself to send us a message of remorse. That means he had no transportation. He would have had to take the train out of Riverview. I think we should find out what the schedule is and see if anyone at the station remembers him. Do you have any photos of him?”

“I can find one.”

“Now let's look at the other possibility. A kidnapper or killer, someone who knew and loved Julia Farragut, met Hudson at the rest stop on Christmas Day and forced him to drive somewhere. It's possible”—I looked across the table at her—“that Hudson has been dead since Christmas Night.”

“I know that.”

“He gets rid of the body—or he's holding Hudson somewhere for reasons that I can't imagine—and decides to leave the car in front of the Farragut house to send a message of vengeance. But he has the same problem. He has to go back to wherever he started from.”

“And that means the train.”

“So it seems to me I'd better talk to the people in the station, find out if anyone saw Hudson or if they saw anyone waiting for a train besides the regulars.”

“Let me find a picture of Hudson.” She went to a cabinet and pulled out a box of pictures. She went through them quickly, finally handing me one. It was a color snapshot of Hudson with two of the nuns in front of the chapel.

“This is fine,” I said.

“Are you going now?”

“After I make a phone call.”

Joseph looked at her watch. “We'll put your dinner away. We've just been given a microwave oven as a gift. When it came, I couldn't think what we'd do with it, but I'm told they're great reheaters. You can be the first to try it.”

I was about to get up, but I changed my mind. “That house. Were you ever in the Farragut house?”

“No. It's possible Sister Clare Angela was. I think Mr. Farragut visited here with Julia, but I never really knew where they lived.”

“It's an amazing house. I can see that the new owners have given it a new paint job and probably replaced some windows. It looks new and sparkling. I can't quite explain it, but it does something to me. I feel that I want to get in there.”

“Why? To see what?” She said it urgently, as though I were holding something important back.

“I don't know. I just want to see where Julia Farragut lived. And died,” I added. “It was very quiet when I was there this morning and I didn't want to ring in case they were all sleeping. Maybe after I go to the train station, I'll see if anyone's home.”

“Would you like someone to go with you?”

“Thanks, Joseph, I think I have to do this alone.”

“We'll see you later.”

I started out. “Leave the instruction manual for the microwave in plain sight. I'm all thumbs when it comes to technology.”

The train station was a disappointment. They had closed down before midnight on Thursday and not reopened till early Friday morning. The ticket agent shook his head when he saw the picture of Hudson.

“Are there any trains after midnight?” I asked.

“We got a few in both directions. You can get your ticket on board. Don't need to keep this place open for a couple of passengers.”

I went out to the parking lot and walked around. A sign announced in no uncertain terms that cars without a permit would be ticketed and towed at the owner's expense. It was a long commute to New York, but there were probably people who did it daily. They would come here early, park their cars, hop a train for the city. Or perhaps they went north to Albany or some town between. I looked at the cars, not knowing what I was looking for. Then I got into my own car and drove to Hawthorne Street.

Number 211 was as quiet as when I had parked there this morning, but I walked up the flagstone path, up the stairs to the wide veranda, and rang the bell. A lamp in a front window was lighted and I could just make out the sound of music from inside. But no one answered my ring, and after a few futile minutes I decided no one was home and a timer was turning on lights at dusk and perhaps a radio or television set.

I went back to the street and walked to the house next door. It was even larger than 211 and also set back. This one was painted cream with blue shutters and trim and a blue double door as well. I rang the bell and a woman opened it almost immediately.

“Yes?” She said it with the restrained hostility of one who suspects you are selling something.

“My name is Christine Bennett and I'm looking for the people next door at number 211. I wondered if you knew where they were.”

“They won't be back till after New Year's. They're in St. Croix for the holiday.”

“I see. I wonder—were you friends of the Farraguts?”

“Is this about the Jeep they found yesterday?”

“In a way it is. I used to teach at St. Stephen's, the convent where Julia Farragut was a novice.”

“Why don't you come in. It's cold out there.”

“Thank you.”

She was a tall, slender woman in her fifties, her hair not quite gold and professionally arranged, dressed in the kind of flowing pants outfit you see in fashion magazines. I followed her through a spectacular living room with a grand piano almost lost in one corner and into a smaller room that was comfortably overstuffed.

“Please sit down. You're…?”

“Chris Bennett.”

“I'm Marilyn Belvedere. Can you tell me what's going on? One of our neighbors saw that car when he was walking his dog yesterday and he said there'd been something in the local paper about it. The police were all over it, but they wouldn't say anything. I'm afraid I'm just not up on the local news.”

“Father Hudson McCormick was on his way from Buffalo to St. Stephen's on Christmas Day. He called in the afternoon from Albany and that was the last we heard from him. He was our priest when Julia Farragut was at the convent.”

“Then he's the one who—”

“There were charges made against him, Mrs. Belvedere. I knew him and I don't believe there was any truth to them.”

“I don't know what to believe about that whole situation.”

“Did you know the Farraguts?”

“I thought I did.” She reached out and switched on a lamp next to the chair she was sitting in. The walls were covered with a fabric that matched the upholstery and the thick rug. Along the edges of the room a beautiful old wooden floor gleamed with polish. “We've lived here a long time and the Farraguts moved in a few years after we did. Serena and I became friends.”

“Is that Walter's wife?”

“Yes. They had the little boy and Julia was a few years old when they got here. They were a very nice family, I thought.”

“Was Walter's mother with them when they moved in?”

“She was already here. She and her husband, Cornelius, had owned the house for years. When she was widowed, she invited Walter to live with her. But it was always her house. And she let you know it if you got it wrong.”

The characterization didn't surprise me. There was nothing reticent about old Mrs. Farragut. “I understand Serena was hospitalized,” I said, turning back to the unlucky wife.

“She had a nervous breakdown at one point. I could see it coming.”

“In what way, Mrs. Belvedere?”

She folded her hands and unfolded them. “She was a poor soul who found life hard to handle. Maybe it was a genetic defect. The daughter, after all…” She left it hanging.

“Was there anything you knew about that she couldn't cope with?”

“Mother?” It was a man's voice and we both turned toward
the door we had entered. A young man, thirtyish, was standing there in his bathrobe.

“Tom, you're up. Dad was looking for you.”

“I'm going out for a while. I'll get myself dinner.”

“Have a good time, dear.” Marilyn Belvedere turned back to me as her son walked away. “They turn the clock around, don't they?” she said with a smile. “At least during vacations. I always look forward to having him, and then I only see him for a few minutes at a time. He lives in his own apartment now.”

“That's nice,” I said, wanting to get back to more important things. “We were talking about Serena Farragut.”

“Why is this important?”

“Because someone has kidnapped or killed Father McCormick.”

“I don't see what Serena Farragut's nervous breakdown can possibly have to do with that priest.”

“I don't either,” I admitted, “but there's some connection between Father McCormick's disappearance and the Farraguts. That's why his car was left in front of the house.”

“I suppose you're right.” She looked pained, as though she knew what I was after but didn't want to talk about it, as though her son's interruption had reminded her to keep quiet. “I wish I could help you.”

“I think you can.”

She pressed her lips together and crossed her legs, tossing silky fabric. “It wasn't a happy family,” she said finally. “I don't know what else I can say. They certainty had enough money, but that isn't everything. Maybe it was the presence of Walter's mother, the friction between the women, maybe it was something else. These things happen, even in the best of families.”

“What things?”

“Unhappiness,” she said vaguely.

“You mentioned a son.”

“Foster, yes.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He was a problem. That's all I can tell you. Foster was always in trouble.”

I took a chance. “Was your son friendly with him?”

“Not at all. They didn't get along. Tom had nothing to do with him.”

“Do you know where Walter Farragut is now?”

That was the question that disturbed her more than any of my others. “Miss Bennett, after all the years we were friendly with that family, all the misery and tears I shared with Serena, including standing at her grave seven years ago, they left without a word. I haven't seen Walter Farragut since the day he moved out of that house. Even his mother didn't give me a forwarding address. I haven't gotten so much as a Christmas card from her. They left this town and the waters came together over their lives. There's nothing left of them, nothing left of my friend Serena, not a tree planted in her memory or a plaque in the school. She gave to this town, and when the women's club decided to hold a lunch in her memory, Walter refused to attend. They were a strange family.”

“What about the new people? Do you know them?”

“The Corcorans? They're wonderful. I couldn't ask for better neighbors.”

“Do you have the key to their house?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought they might have left it with you while they're away. I could see they have lovely plants inside. I would hope someone would water them.”

“I water them.”

“I'd like to get a look at the house, especially where Julia lived.”

“I couldn't let you in. And they've changed a lot of things.”

“Did the Corcorans know about Julia's suicide when they moved in?”

“They weren't told. I understand there's a law now; they have to tell you things like that before you buy. But at that time it wasn't law yet, and the house had been on the market for some time with people afraid to live in it. The realtor just kept her mouth shut and the Corcorans didn't find out till they'd moved in. I can tell you they weren't happy about it.”

“Were you aware that Julia was seriously depressed?”

“I'm not a professional and I'm not sure I can tell the
difference between extreme unhappiness and depression. Her mother's death had a terrible effect on her, which didn't surprise me. She was only eighteen or so when it happened. I assumed she would get over it, but she didn't live long enough.”

“Were you here when she committed suicide?”

“We were here. I remember hearing the sirens and seeing the lights. I even remember seeing them carry that poor girl out in a plastic bag.” A chill seemed to go through her body as she said it.