The Valentine's Day Murder (18 page)

“Joseph, this is very disturbing.”

“Disturbing, but is it outrageous from the point of view of reasonableness?”

I shook my head. “Go on.”

“Maybe she can’t find exactly the documentation she wants; maybe the records are locked up at night. Maybe she finds something but it isn’t quite right. And then there’s another possibility—no, let me leave that. One night while she’s on duty, the perfect child is brought onto her floor with a medical problem that is potentially fatal. Perhaps the child even looks like hers.”

“Joseph, this is terrible.”

“Yes, it is. It’s dark and ugly, but from what you’ve told me, I think something dark and ugly may have happened in the life of Valentine Krassky who did or did not cross Lake Erie on Valentine’s Day.”

“So you think this nurse’s aide murdered the Krassky boy and transformed her son into Valentine Krassky.”

“I think it’s possible.”

“Then really all she needed was the fact that the boy was dead and the information on his medical chart.”

“Which probably contained his parents’ names, their
address, maybe even the hospital the boy was born in if he was born in that same hospital.”

“He probably was,” I said. “They were living in the same house. They didn’t move until after the hospital settled with them.”

“So instead of waiting for the perfect child, this woman produced one.”

“I think I will have a cup of tea,” I said, somewhat defiantly. I poured for both of us, squeezed a little lemon in mine, and sipped it. “She had to get away from Connecticut, didn’t she?”

“I would think so. She couldn’t chance putting the boy into a local school where someone would recognize the name.”

“If this is true, I wonder whether Val had any inkling of it.”

“We’ll never know if he doesn’t turn up alive. And even if he did, Chris, he’s in no way to blame for what his mother may have done.”

“What a terrible secret,” I said.

“If true,” Joseph reminded me.

“And if it’s true, does it connect with what happened on the lake that night almost thirty years later?”

“That may be the harder question. But I have some suggestions which will mean some additional work.” She looked down at the pages she had filled during our talk. “I know that the hospital records are closed to you, but I think you might go back to Connecticut and walk through the cemetery where the original Val Krassky is buried.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I’m not sure, but I would take a look at the names and dates on the tombstones.”

“OK.” I made a note, wondering when I would have time to get back there.

“And then you should think about the wife who made the funeral and the wife who didn’t make the funeral. In fact, find out what you can about both wives.”

“All right.”

“And now I’m going to ask a question that I think nobody has asked so far because it sounds almost foolish. You know the old children’s riddle: ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ And the answer is always: ‘To get to the other side.’ I think the assumption, and very likely the correct assumption, about why those three men walked across the ice to Canada is reflected in the old joke. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe you could ask the question: ‘Why did they cross the lake to Canada?’ ”

“It was a narrow strip,” I said, giving her an answer she didn’t want, “the shortest distance between two points. They could cross the border without going through customs. It was a lark.”

“Perhaps it was.” Joseph moved a page and looked at another. “Those phone bills you checked. Carlotta was able to identify all the people Val called, is that right?”

“Yes, and none were likely ‘safe houses’ for him. They were business associates. He didn’t spend a lot of time on the phone with old buddies, and he had no relatives that she knew of. Also, there were no calls attributable to him after Valentine’s Day.”

“We wouldn’t expect his mother to stay around if she had killed a child.”

“Hardly.”

“But in any case, Carlotta checked out people across the country.”

“She did,” I said. “Mostly her friends, but she checked after he disappeared.”

“Chris, there are other ways to make phone calls if you don’t want your wife to know you’re making them.”

I stared at her. People put calls on the same credit cards they use to buy clothes and meals with. As a person who has been unrelenting in not wanting to possess a credit card, I sometimes forget that most of the world is not like me. “I’ll check that,” I said.

“And then there’s the red scarf,” Joseph said. “It makes me wonder. How did the red scarf manage to get on the ice?”

“I think we all assumed that it was used by one person to help another stay out of the water.”

“Unsuccessfully.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Then why didn’t it go down with the drowning man?”

I had no answer. “He would have clung to it, wouldn’t he?”

“It seems to me that would be the instinctive thing to do, to hang on to the lifeline, even after the other person let go or was dragged into the water himself. Something about that scarf troubles me, Chris. Did Matty toss it to one of the other men as he started to go down? Did neither of the others pick it up, and it just lay on the ice the rest of the night? Or did something else happen, perhaps something very sinister that no one has thought of, that caused the death of those two men and perhaps the third?”

“Involving the scarf?”

“Yes, somehow.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” I said.

Joseph smiled and moved the papers off to one side. “Now, what can you tell me about the Brooks family?”

“Well,” I said, knowing that this was the moment, “it’s expanding. I’m pregnant, Joseph.”

“That’s wonderful, Chris. I couldn’t want better news. Then this may be your last case for a long time.”

“I rather think so. I’d like to continue teaching if I can find a suitable sitter. It’s only one morning a week, and I think it’ll be good to keep my own life going. And maybe I can continue doing some work for Arnold at home. But another case? I don’t really see how I could.”

“Whatever you decide, I know it’ll be the right thing. And I’m very pleased. May I tell the sisters?”

“Of course.”

She looked at her watch, a serviceable stainless steel case with a large, round face. “I took the luxury of driving in. I think I’d better get going before everyone else in New York starts for home.”

“Let’s walk together. My car is around the corner.”

By chance we were in the same garage. I let Joseph get her car first. Then I retrieved mine and started for home, Matty’s red scarf waving in the back of my mind.

It was too late in the day to think about dashing off to Connecticut to walk around the cemetery. Cemeteries close about five o’clock, and it would take the better part of two hours to get from Manhattan to where I had been on Monday. So I drove home and arrived in time to say good-bye to my builders.

There was a message from Carlotta on the answering machine, and I called her back right away. A ticket would be waiting for me at La Guardia, and she would be at the Buffalo airport to meet me. We were on.

When Jack came home from his law school classes, we sat at the kitchen table, and while he ate, I told him about my afternoon with Joseph.

“For a woman who looks on the bright side of life, Sister Joseph sure picks up on the dark and ugly,” he said.

“But it looks like she may be onto something. I’d been thinking about the switching of a dead body for a live one, about kidnapping the living child, about some crazy adoption scheme, all that kind of stuff. It was messy, and there were so many loose ends that I couldn’t put together. What she suggested may be right. And there aren’t many loose ends.”

“Except what, if anything, it has to do with three guys crossing a frozen lake thirty years later.”

“Maybe there isn’t any connection, Jack. If you took a person at random and looked into his past, you might find out all sorts of pleasant and unpleasant things about him.”

“Baggage.”

“Right. And it might have nothing to do with whether he mows his lawn or screams at his kids.”

“Sounds like you’re arguing the opposite side. You’re usually telling me how much our history is a part of our present.”

I waved it off. “Just showing you I can go either way. Maybe nothing’s there. It isn’t really the crossing of the lake; it’s the bullet in Matty. If those men had just fallen through the ice, it would be an accident. Something else happened; that’s what makes this so interesting. I hope this Mr. Kazmarek tells us something useful tomorrow.”

“Get him his chocolate?”

“A whole pound. Want a piece? I’m starting to think a pound of chocolate may not be the best thing for an old man to eat.”

“No thanks. Gotta watch my midsection. I don’t want my kid to think I’m fat.”

I got up from the table and kissed him on my way to the sink. I hadn’t even felt the baby move yet, and it was changing our lives.

Carlotta met me at the same time and the same place at the Buffalo airport, and we went downstairs to the luggage area like veterans. From there we drove to a restaurant in suburban Buffalo for lunch. The retirement home that Stanley Kazmarek lived in was also on the outskirts
of the city, and by the time we got there, it was just about two. I wasn’t sure whether he would even remember that we had an appointment.

There was a front desk with a phone board and what looked like a computer screen, and a woman with a smile waiting for us.

“I’m here to see Stanley Kazmarek,” I said.

“Oh, yes. He did say he was expecting a lady. You can go right up. It’s number three-C.”

“I’ve brought him some chocolate. Do you know if he has any dietary restrictions?”

“Let me check with the dietician.” She dialed a number and held a brief conversation. “She says he’s sound as can be, but no one should overindulge.”

I considered that a message to me. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Thanks for asking.”

We went upstairs and rang his doorbell. I could hear him inside, singing something I couldn’t recognize.

Suddenly the door was pulled open. “Yeah,” he said.

“Mr. Kazmarek, I’m Christine Bennett. We talked on the phone the other day.”

“Was that you who called?”

“Yes, it was. This is my friend, Carlotta French.”

“You from the insurance company?”

“No, sir. We’re trying to find the people who used to live in your house in Buffalo.”

“Sure, sure. Come in. You got something for me?” His eyes were sparkling in anticipation. He was a paunchy man, not much taller than I. He wore a pair of corduroy pants, a gray shirt with no tie, and a very rumpled jacket that was missing a button. We followed him into a small living room that could not have accommodated many
more guests and sat on a sofa just big enough for two. He plumped into a worn chair that faced the television set.

“I brought you some chocolate, Mr. Kazmarek.”

He leaned forward for it. “I like chocolate. I don’t get much anymore. Not since my wife died.”

I wondered whether he was aware that you could buy it for yourself. “Mr. Kazmarek, do you remember the people who rented the upstairs flat when you owned your house?”

He ignored me. He peered into the bag with its foil lining, then pulled out a chunk of chocolate. His lips moved into a smile. He took a bite out of it with difficulty, then sat back and enjoyed it. Carlotta and I watched. He never offered us any, never thanked us, never even acknowledged that we were there. He seemed transported to another place. Finally, he folded down the top of the bag and set it aside.

“Who did you say you were?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled in a questioning frown.

“I’m Chris Bennett. This is Carlotta French. We’re trying to find the people who rented the flat above yours in the house you owned.”

“The one over by Starin?”

“That’s the one.”

“Nice house,” he said. “Big rooms. We raised our kids there. This place is so small.” He looked around claustrophobically. “I still think we shouldn’ta moved but my wife, she said it was too much to take care of and she didn’t want the responsibility.”

“The people upstairs,” I said. “Do you remember them?”

“Yeah. They had a bunch of girls. One of them had a nice voice. She used to sing all the time.”

“Do you remember who lived there before that family moved in?”

“Before the one with the girls?”

“Yes.”

He made a face, trying to remember. “There was some folks lived there a long time. What was their name? Had a boy and a girl, I think.”

“Do you remember their name?”

“With an L. Lit—, Lip—, Lish—. I wish I could remember it. Lipchinski! That’s it. They were the Lipchinskis.”

I wrote it down, as near as I could spell it. “A husband and wife?” I asked.

“A whole family, the mother, the father, the sister, the brother.”

“Was the boy’s name Val?”

“Val?”

“Yes, like Valentine.”

“A boy named Valentine?”

“Yes.”

“Never heard of him. The Lipchinski boy was a name like John. Nice boy. Terrible thing, what happened to him.”

I could feel Carlotta tense. “What happened to him?” I asked.

“Went into the army after high school. Got killed in an accident. I remember it like it was yesterday.” He seemed sure of himself now. “We went to the funeral, Mary and me. Funny you should bring that up. I haven’t thought of that boy for years.”

I gave him a minute to work through his memories. “Maybe the people I’m looking for were before the Lipchinskis,” I said, knowing that I was going back too far.

“Before them? There wasn’t anybody before them.”

“About twenty years ago,” I said, picking a time when Val would have been in high school.

“Twenty years ago? What am I now—eighty-three?”

“About that,” I said.

“So I was sixty. I don’t remember. Besides, the Lipchinskis lived there when we bought the house. That boy was born there. If my wife was alive, she could tell you all about it.”

I felt a wave of disappointment pass through me. He seemed to know what he was talking about. If he had a name or date slightly wrong, he was still doing well. “Mr. Kazmarek, there was a boy who went to Bennett High School about twenty years ago and he gave your address as his home.”