The Good Friday Murder (8 page)

“It was missing?”

“It wasn't in the closet. James's coat was there, and both raincoats. Each boy had a nice, warm dark winter coat and a raincoat. Mrs. Talley had her fur coat there, a Persian lamb, a beautiful coat, you know? And her wool coat and her spring coat. That was about all. But when it was time for the boys to be taken away, Robert's coat wasn't in the closet.”

“Did you look for it, Magda?”

“Oh yes. I was there the whole day. I didn't have carfare and I was afraid to ask. And since the boys knew me, I would
sit with one and then the other while the police questioned them, to keep them calm and quiet, you know?”

“Yes, I understand. And when it came time to leave?”

“I went to the closet and looked for their coats.”

“And one coat wasn't there,” I prompted.

“Robert's coat. They had the same coats, and Mrs. Talley had put a piece of tape in the coats with their name in big letters. Robert knew to read his name, and James knew to read his.”

“Is there anywhere else the coats could have been?”

“Nowhere. Mrs. Talley put everything in its place. When I came home with the boys on Good Friday, I hung the coats in the closet.”

“And if Mrs. Talley died on Friday, probably they hadn't been out since.”

“That is what I think. There is one more thing.”

The news had gotten me very excited. “Yes,” I said.

“When I opened the closet, there was a big hole in between the coats.”

“A hole?”

“Like maybe someone went push, push, push till he found what he was looking for. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do. As if he was looking for a man's coat to put on.”

“Yes, to cover up the blood on his shirt.”

“And when he found it, he left the ‘hole' between the coats.”

“Yes!” Magda sounded pleased that I was following her story.

“Magda, did you tell anyone about the missing coat?”

“When I couldn't find Robert's coat, I told that policeman—I forget his name now.”

“O'Connor?” I suggested hesitantly.

“Yes! O'Connor! That was the name. A good-looking young man, he was, with blue eyes. I said, ‘Robert's coat is not in the closet,' and he said, ‘Find something else. It's seven o'clock and it's Easter Sunday. I must get home.' ”

I could hear the young, handsome detective saying it in his
own words: “Look, it's seven o'clock on Easter Sunday and I gotta get home. Just find something for him to put on, will ya?”

“What did you do, Magda?” I asked.

“I gave Robert his raincoat. Christine, I have my scrapbook in front of me. I have the picture from the newspaper of the boys coming out of the apartment house. Even in the dark, you can see one has a dark coat and one has a light one.”

“You can see it in the picture?”

“I am looking at it now.”

“Magda, this is really very exciting news,” I said. Then something struck me. “But how is it that you didn't mention the missing coat to the reporters when you were interviewed for the newspapers?”

She made a little
mmm
sound and then said nothing. “I think…” she said hesitantly, but didn't go on. “Oh yes, now I remember. In the afternoon, when the policemen were finished asking me questions, I went outside the apartment for a little while. It really smelled awful in there, you know? And in the hall there were some newspaper people. I remember one man had a smelly cigar that made me cough. That's when I gave the interviews. Later, when we were ready to go, is when I found the coat missing.”

It sounded right to me. The reporters needed that story for the Monday morning papers. “I have one more question. Did you let it go that way or did you ever report it to the police?”

“Well, when I got home, I forgot all about it. I had so much to tell my parents. But the next day, I remembered and I told my mother. I told her maybe it meant that a man had killed Mrs. Talley and stolen Robert's coat.”

“Yes,” I said, encouraging her.

“And my mother, God rest her soul, she said, ‘Call that policeman and tell him.' ”

“And did you?”

“I called the police station and asked for Detective O'Connor. But he wasn't there. So I left a message. I said
one coat was missing from the apartment and maybe someone had taken it.”

“Did Detective O'Connor call you back?”

“Never.” It sounded very final.

“I don't suppose you remember who you told.” I threw it out, knowing there was no chance.

“No.” She sounded thoughtful. “I talked to one, then another. It's so long…It was a funny name, you know?”

She remembered something. I almost crossed my fingers. “Yes,” I said, encouraging her again.

“Like a fruit.”

“A fruit?” I echoed. “You mean like apple or pear or plum?”

“Something else. I don't know. It's too long to remember such a little thing.”

“Magda, I'm going to check the file and see if it's mentioned anywhere. This is really very important. Thank you so much for calling.”

“God bless you, Christine,” Magda said.

I said my good-byes and hung up, my heart beating as though I had been running. It was real and it was tangible. Someone had pushed the coats aside, looking for something he could put on to cover his bloody clothes. Someone else had killed Mrs. Talley. I had it now, the physical evidence—or lack of it—that I had been searching for. There had been a killer, and he had gotten away with it for forty years.

But today his luck had run out.

I awoke with the kind of exuberance one needs to get moving early. But that left me with five hours before ten o'clock, Jack Brooks's starting time at work, the earliest I could call him. I ran, meeting Melanie and thanking her for Sunday dinner—she had called and invited me over, and I had gone and loved it—and then I came back, dressed, ate, and sat down at the dining room table to look over my notes.

I had to find out which apartment on the fifth floor the Talley's had lived in and see who had lived beneath them, whether that woman might still be alive, whether she would have a different opinion of the Talleys from the fairly benign ones I had heard. Then I had to figure out what to do about locating Patrick Talley's family. I had some ideas about that, and perhaps I would begin after talking to Jack Brooks.

At eight-thirty the phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered, wondering who would be calling so early.

“Hi, it's Jack. I didn't get you up, did I?”

“Been up since five, did my exercise and had my breakfast. What are you doing at work before nine?”

“I'm calling from home. I wanted to get you before you left. Tried you yesterday, but you were out.”

“I went up to New Hope and spent some time talking to the psychiatrist who got James Talley into the group home.”

“You're really moving.” He sounded impressed, and that made me feel pretty good.

“Jack, I found out something very exciting last night. Magda called back.”

“You found her?”

“On Saturday. Infant of Prague paid off. She didn't have much that was new when I saw her, but last night she did. When the police were ready to take the twins into custody, she went to the closet for their coats, and Robert's coat was missing.”

“She look anywhere else?”

“She says Mrs. Talley was tidy and methodical. Also, Magda was probably the last person to bring the boys back to the apartment. They'd been out on Good Friday morning—and
she hung up their coats herself
when they got back.” I said it with emphasis. “The coats were there when she left the apartment.”

“You think someone put it on and walked out.”

“I do.”

“Because his clothes were bloody.”

“Yes.”

He made a little whistling sound. “You could be right.”

“There's more. She told O'Connor, but he kind of waved it off. Said it was Easter Sunday and he was in a rush.”

“Hungry,” Jack Brooks said.

I laughed. “I know. Cops always think of their stomachs first. She called the precinct the next day and told someone about the missing coat.”

“Not O'Connor.”

“He wasn't there.”

“So that's lost.”

“Maybe not.” I was surprised at my own enthusiasm and optimism. “She remembers that she left the message with someone who had a name like a fruit.”

“A fruit?”

“That's what she says.”

“I never heard of anyone named Joe Peach.”

“Well, maybe something will occur to one of us.”

“You know, there was a guy named Applebaum here a couple of years ago. I think his father was on the job. Let me look into it.”

“Applebaum,” I echoed. “I hadn't thought of anything like that.”

“Well, it sounds like you've been busy. I've got something for you, too. I found O'Connor.”

“You did!” I was ready to jump for joy.

“Retired and lives in Valley Stream, Long Island. I've got his number here.”

“Shoot.”

I wrote it down, glancing at my watch to see if I could decently call. I couldn't. It wasn't nine yet.

“I've talked to him myself so he'll be expecting to hear from you. Sounds like a boring old guy who sits and watches TV all day. You know where Valley Stream is?”

“Roughly.”

“You can take the Throgs Neck Bridge and get on the Cross Island. Shouldn't take you too long. He can probably give you directions if he can tear himself away from the screen.”

“I'll call in a little while. When you get to work, could you look up the Talleys' apartment number? Magda says there was a problem with the people downstairs.”

“Will do. But I don't want you ringing doorbells.”

“I've already done it.”

“Chris, this is New York. It's full of crazies.”

“I've just talked to a couple of people who remember the day of the murder. A little old lady in the apartment house and a man across the street, both in their eighties. The man remembers coming home from church and seeing all those blue-and-white police cars.”

“They weren't blue and white.”

“What?”

“Not in 1950. They were green and white. Either he doesn't remember or his memory's gone.”

“He was so sure,” I said. “I wrote it down just the way he said it.”
The whole side of the street was filled with blue-and-white police cars.

“Sorry.”

“I'd better go back,” I said.

“Call O'Connor first. But go easy. This was his case, and he
knows
he handled it right.”

“I'm all tact.”

“I'll get back to you with the Talleys' apartment number.”

Kevin O'Connor's wife answered when I called. Her husband was out playing golf but should be back by ten or ten-thirty. He liked to play early, before it got too hot.

I got in the car and drove over to Greenwillow. James was out in the garden, presumably pulling weeds and picking up litter. I went out back and stood near the building, watching him. He looked lost, as though someone hadn't given him thorough enough instructions about what to do. He was in his shirt-sleeves, looking down at the ground, not moving. From where I stood, I couldn't tell what he was looking at, if anything.

I felt an immense wave of sorrow. Here was a man who, although retarded, had once possessed gifts so remarkable that he was the subject of study and the object of wonder. Now he had lost everything—his brother, his mother, his gifts, even the simple skills he had mastered as a child.

I walked over to him. As I approached, I saw a small piece of litter in front of him, perhaps a gum wrapper.

“Good morning, James,” I said.

He looked up without recognition.

“I'm Chris. We've met before. You're James, aren't you?”

He nodded.

“Let me help you.” I bent and picked up the piece of paper. James was holding a small, green plastic bag. “It goes in here, doesn't it?”

He nodded again. “My name is James.”

“Yes, I know.” I put the paper in his bag. “There's another piece of litter. Why don't you pick it up?”

He looked at the ground, then bent, picked up the paper, and put it in the bag.

“We make a good team,” I said. “There's some more.”

As we walked, I said, “James, do you remember Magda?”

He said, “Magda,” and looked at me penetratingly.

“I saw Magda a few days ago. She remembers you. She thinks of you.”

“Magda. See Magda.”

“I saw her, yes. I think she'll come to visit you.”

His face looked fearful. His eyebrows, which were thick and dense, came together as his face contracted. “Magda,” he said again. “Do you know where my brother is?”

“Yes, I do, James. I do know where he is. He's fine. He asks for you.”

“My brother.”

“Your brother, Robert.”

He seemed to tremble. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Everything's all right,” I said. “Come, let's clean up some more.”

I spent some time with Gene afterward, then reported to Virginia McAlpin on my visit to New Hope. When we had finished talking, it was ten-thirty and Mrs. McAlpin offered her telephone so that I could call Kevin O'Connor. He had just come home and he thought one o'clock would be a good time for us to meet. He remembered the Talley murder pretty well, he told me, but he wasn't sure he could add to the material in the file. I said I'd be there at one, and he gave me directions.

I went home to kill the intervening time and have a light, early lunch. Just as I was sitting down to a salad and iced coffee, Jack Brooks called.

“Got that apartment number for you,” he said. “The Talleys lived in 5C.”

“Could you hold on a moment?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I put the phone down and went into the dining room. My papers were spread out and I was able to put my hand on the interview with Selma Franklin very quickly. My insides did something strange as I picked up the open notebook.

“Jack, are you sure?” I asked, getting back to the phone.

“Sure I'm sure. It's right here in front of me.”

“The woman I interviewed, Selma Franklin, the one who was so sympathetic, who seemed to like Mrs. Talley and have such warm feelings toward the twins, she lived in the apartment underneath 5C. She's the one Magda said Mrs. Talley didn't get along with.”

“Happens.”

“But she was so good to children, so—I don't know, maybe I'm just not very good at this.”

“You're damned good. You found Magda, you talked to the psychiatrist, you're going to see O'Connor. Just remember, people lie. People lie for reasons you can't guess. You ask a question and it opens up a part of their life you don't know about and they have to protect it. Maybe this Franklin woman was having an affair with Mr. Talley.”

I laughed. “Not likely.”

“Maybe not, but stranger things have happened. Anyway, I doubt whether a woman killed Mrs. Talley.”

“Me, too.” I glanced at my watch. “Thanks, Jack. I'll call you after I talk to Kevin O'Connor.”

“Not so fast. Can I see you sometime? Like socially?”

“Sure,” I said a little weakly.

“You say ‘sure,' but you don't sound it.”

“I'd like to,” I said. I really wanted to, but I was feeling panicky at the prospect.

“Maybe dinner. I know a nice place up that way,”

“I'd like that very much.”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday.”

“Good.”

“I'll call you later.”

“I'll be here.”

I hung up and went back to lunch.