The Christmas Night Murder (18 page)

I ended up back at Father Grimes's rectory. He gave me his living room and promised no one would bother me. Then he went upstairs.

I took out my notebook and looked over what I had just learned from Marilyn Belvedere. No one else had even hinted at the relationships in the Farragut family. If the Farraguts had moved to 211 Hawthorne Street with a ready-made family of one son and one daughter, it was easy to see why no one would suspect that the children were born of two marriages. And since there seemed no limit to the lengths Walter would go to protect his son, one could only wonder whether that included harming his daughter as well.

Backward and forward, backward and forward. I flipped back to where I had copied Sister Mary Teresa's long number onto a line on my page. Someone had written it for her, someone who wanted to make sure it would not be easily identified because it gave access to something. Not a locker or a post office box, not any credit card that I had been able to dig up, not a phone number, because it was too long and the first three numbers were not an area code and the dashes were in all the wrong places.

What happened next was like standing in a museum looking at a painting that was only pieces of color, and then seeing it again from a certain distance or in a certain light and the pieces come together and take on a form. My mind was still thinking about backward and forward and I started to read the number from the right instead of the left. It ended with -50. If you started with the zero, you had 05-1837-. And suddenly there it was. The dashes were meant to confuse, not to aid: 518 was the area code for Albany and the upper Hudson Valley! I stood up and ran to
the kitchen, where the housekeeper was putting the finishing touches on Father Grimes's dinner.

“May I use your phone?” I asked breathlessly.

“Right over there, dear. Is something wrong?”

“No. I've just never seen a phone number this long or one that starts with a zero.”

“You dial the zero first if you need the operator.”

“Why would she need the operator?”

“Who?”

“The person making the call.”

“My grandchildren call home with a special number that makes it collect. My son told me about it. They can call from anywhere in the country, any phone at all, and they don't have to pay for it.”

No one had called Mary Teresa two nights ago. She had made the call herself and it would never appear on the convent's bill. I dialed the long number and heard a ring. I had no idea what I would say if someone answered.

After the third ring, I heard a pickup. Then a strange, genderless, robotic sounding voice said, “Leave your name and number. I'll get back to you.”

I hung up, then dialed St. Stephen's. They found Joseph for me and I told her what had happened.

“You mean Mary Teresa could have telephoned this person every day and we'd never see it on our bill?”

“That's right. Something in this number must tell the telephone company it's collect. And since she could dial it without going through an operator, whoever was on the switchboard wouldn't even know she made a call.”

“And you have no idea who the person is?”

“I don't even know whether it's a man or a woman. It sounds like one of those computer voices and it doesn't identify itself.”

“We'll have to find out who that number belongs to.”

I looked at my watch. “It's too late for me to get Jack. He's on his way home now. But this has to be our killer.”

“It's hard to believe that a prison inmate could have a telephone and answering machine in his cell.”

“Which means we're back to Walter. Or old Mrs. Farragut. Maybe she took the messages.”

“Let's give it some thought, Chris.”

“I'll see you later. I still have some things to clear up in Riverview.”

The housekeeper got a hug from me and I accepted a cookie from her to tide me over till I had time for dinner. Then Father Grimes came down and I had to rebuff his invitation to stay for dinner. I was too keyed up to eat and I wanted to get back to the Farragut house to see if I could figure out what it was that I almost knew.

I retrieved my coat from the living room and put my notebook back in my bag. As Father Grimes helped me on with my coat, I heard the furnace kick on under the floor I was standing on. The whole downstairs was pleasantly overheated and I couldn't quite see why more was needed.

“Is that the furnace?” I asked him.

“Probably not to heat the rectory. The rectory and the church are one building with one furnace and several heating zones. We have to make sure the pipes don't freeze in the church basement, so we've got a zone down there that we keep warmer than the rest of the church overnight.”

“I see,” I said. “Thank you, Father.” I buttoned my coat as I ran.

This time I didn't park on the street. I drove up the driveway and shut my lights off as soon as I had a good look at where the garage was. Then I inched my way forward, past the side door where the drive was canopied and on to the back of the house. There I turned off the motor and got out of the car as quietly as possible. The house to the left was some distance away, but I didn't want to alert those people any more than I wanted Warren Belvedere after me.

This would be the side of the house where Mrs. Cornelius Farragut's private apartment had been. I pointed my flashlight through each window along the back section of the driveway but saw little. Shades were drawn over some and curtains over others. I turned the light off and continued cautiously to the back of the house.

The garage, when I reached it, looked more like a small barn than a place to keep a car, but this house had been built before the days of automobiles and the little barn made a perfect home for two cars. I looked through a window
on the left side and saw one car and space enough for more than one more.

I turned the light off and made my way carefully along the back of the house, circling a small shed built off the end of the kitchen, to the wooden staircase where Warren Belvedere had caught me earlier, keeping an eye on the side of the Belvedere house. With luck they were still having dinner and the dining room had no windows facing this direction.

Holding the railing tightly, I climbed the stairs. It was miserably cold and a light wind made it worse. When I reached the landing at the top, I cupped my hands around my flashlight and pointed it through the window on the upper half of the door. I couldn't see much beyond the wide painted boards of the floor. Turning off the light, I turned the door handle just on a whim. Incredibly, the door opened.

I let myself in and closed the door behind me, my heart pounding crazily. I was standing on the old softwood floor of a bedroom, surrounded by cartons and old furniture. The Corcorans obviously used this little apartment as an attic. I felt my way to the open door.

The only direction to go from there was to the right. Feeling safe, I turned on my flashlight. On the left was a staircase going down to a closed door. I had probably walked right by it on my visit with Marilyn. I went down the stairs and tried it, but it was locked and I went back up. On my right was a small bathroom, then another room. I pointed the flashlight inside.

A mattress was stretched across the floor and near it was the residue of a meal, a square pizza box and two paper cups. One of the cups was empty, but the other still had a spoonful of light coffee in the bottom. A couple of feet away from the mattress was an old chair. I ran the light over it, finding a couple of coins. Someone had sat here and coins had fallen from his pocket.

I went out into the hall and ran my light along it. There were no other doors. I called, “Hudson?” but there was no answer, no sound of movement. But he had been here; I was sure of that. I remembered the bang of the shutter
when Marilyn and I were in Julia's room. Had it been a shutter or had Hudson heard voices and tried to signal us?

I went back to the room with the mattress and ran the light along the wall. Near the door was a thermostat. Tonight it was set at fifty. But yesterday it had been set at a livable temperature. Someone had taken Hudson out of here last night and turned the heat down.

What had they done with him? I went back to the first bedroom and let myself out. In the dark, I went down to the ground. I had looked in the garage and no one was there. I walked along the back of the house to the potting shed that seemed stuck onto it. There was a window on each side and a padlocked door on the side facing the backyard. I held my flashlight against the window on the Belvederes' side and looked in. I could see a worktable with garden tools and ceramic pots, a pair of heavy gloves, a watering can. I moved the light, straining to see. The floor, a dirt floor, seemed so far away, but there was something there, something that looked like a blue-jeaned leg.

I tapped on the window. “Hudson,” I called. “Hudson, it's Chris. Are you all right?”

There was no movement, not a twitch. I could feel tears welling. I wasn't even certain it was Hudson, but everything inside me told me it had to be. I tapped again, holding the flashlight on what I was fairly sure was a denim-clad leg. It didn't move.

I ran across the snow to the Belvederes'. On the front porch I pressed the doorbell twice in my agitation. The musical chimes began a concert that was interrupted when Marilyn Belvedere opened the door.

“Miss Bennett,” she said, clearly surprised.

“Please call the police,” I said breathlessly. “There's a man—a body—in the Corcorans' potting shed behind the house.”

“A what?”

“
Please!
” I said, stepping inside, stamping the snow off my feet on her little mat.

“Warren?” she called. “Warren?” She went toward the living room and met him about halfway. “I think we have to call the police.” The tone of her voice implied she did not want the decision to be hers.

He saw me and his face turned furious.

“Call the police,” I said more calmly than I felt. “Right now. Right this minute.”

“I'll do it,” his wife said.

The whole area around number 211 was alive with lights. It took a call to the police chief to get permission to batter in the door of the shed, the services of a locksmith deemed too time-consuming. It was the first time I had ever seen a police officer put his shoulder to a door outside of television, where, Jack had frequently reminded me, all is fiction. Doors to New York City apartments are steel clad and succumb to the shoulder only on the screen.

I stayed back, fighting panic, hoping it was Hudson and that he was still alive. After the police broke in, the medics followed with a stretcher. I could hear male voices, commenting on the smell, the debris, the whole scene.

“He's alive,” a police officer said, coming out of the little building. “But just barely. He may not make it.”

“May I see him?” I asked.

“You don't want to and they gotta get him to the hospital pretty quick. It's gonna be touch and go. He's half-frozen and there's no sign he ate anything. How'd you know to look for him in there?”

“His car was left on the street in front of the house. Whoever kidnapped him must have driven the vehicle into the garage and hidden it there for a day or so.” I didn't mention the third-floor apartment. That would come later. “He was probably trying to get Father McCormick to tell him things that a priest can't disclose.”

“You mean he'd die instead of telling?”

“I'm sure he didn't think he'd die. He believed someone would find him. He was right.”

“You got a lot of faith, ma'am.”

Not as much as I'd like to have, I thought. “He had the faith,” I said. “Will you see to it that he's guarded in the
hospital? Whoever left him there expected him to die. If the kidnapper thinks Father McCormick can identify him—”

“I'll take care of it.”

The medics were carrying him out now. Watching, I could not keep my tears from spilling over. He was wrapped in blankets, belted down on the stretcher, his face partly covered. To be truthful, I didn't really recognize him, but I knew it had to be Hudson. They took him around the side of the house to where the ambulance had pulled up the driveway, just as it had on Christmas Night seven years ago for Julia Farragut.

I got the address of the hospital they were taking Hudson to and started down the drive to my car, which I had reparked on the street after the Belvederes called the police.

“Miss Bennett! Christine!”

I turned around and saw Marilyn Belvedere coming across the front lawn of the Corcoran house, where the snow was now trampled flat.

“How on earth did you think to look there?” she asked as she reached me.

I said something sketchy about the ATV and the house.

“Well, I'm glad it's over. You were right all along, weren't you?”

I wasn't sure what she thought I was right about “I believed he was alive. I'm thankful he is. I hope he survives.”

“Well, if there's anything we can do…”

“Thank you. Not right now.” I wished her a good night and went down the block to my car.

I called Joseph from the rectory, where Father Grimes was elated at the news.

Joseph was almost in tears. “We'll have Christmas again,” she said.

“He's in very bad shape, Joseph. He's dehydrated and he may not have had anything to eat for several days, I think, possibly since Christmas Night. And he's suffering from exposure. There was no heat at all in that shed and it was in the teens last night.”

“We're all behind him. We won't let him down. Chris, I almost forgot, you got a phone call a little while ago.”

“From Jack?”

“From a woman. She sounded very hesitant and wouldn't leave any kind of message. I spoke to her myself. She sounded almost relieved that you weren't here.”

“I wonder if it was Marilyn Belvedere. She stopped me as I was leaving the house on Hawthorne Street. I had a feeling she might want to say something but couldn't put it in words.”

“Then maybe that's who it was. Come home as soon as you can, Chris. We've got a lovely dinner for you.”

“Don't worry about me. It's Hudson we've got to think about.”

“We'll get to that right away.”

I knew she meant that the nuns would pray for him. A few might go to the hospital and wait for him to revive. I wanted to be at the hospital myself, but I knew I was close now, close enough that I had a chance of bagging a killer. First I called Melanie to see if Jack was there. He wasn't.

“He called and said he'd be late. I guess he's out on a case. I'm holding dinner for him, although he said he'd find some scraps at home.”

I laughed. “Is that what he said? Scraps?”

“His word exactly. I'll make sure he's well fed, Chris. Can I pass along a message?”

“Just tell him we've found Father McCormick alive.”

“That's wonderful.”

“It is.” I described the situation.

“That's murder,” Mel said.

“Let's hope it's only attempted murder. Thanks for looking after Jack.”

I was pretty sure the discovery of Hudson would draw out his kidnapper, especially if the kidnapper thought Hudson was alive and could identify him. Trusting that there would, indeed, be a police guard at the hospital, I dialed Mrs. Farragut's number. There was no answer. I let it ring several times, but neither she nor a machine picked up. I took another cookie, said my good-byes, and left, my thoughts turning to Marilyn Belvedere. What could she want to tell me that she hadn't had the nerve to say earlier? I drove over to find out.

She seemed nervously unhappy to see me. “This has all been so upsetting,” she said as we stood in the foyer. “Warren
and I just wanted a quiet evening. Is there something I can do for you?”

There was a fresh scent in the air and I realized I was standing under a piece of mistletoe hanging from a red ribbon. “I understand you called me at the convent.”

“When?”

“A little while ago. After I left here.”

“I'm afraid you've got the wrong person. Why would I call the convent?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, embarrassed at my mistake. “The person who called didn't leave a name and I thought…I'm really very sorry.”

She smiled. “That's all right. We're a little discombobulated tonight. Was there anything else?”

Aware that I was being ushered out, I shook my head. “Enjoy your evening.”

Dumb, I told myself, walking down to the street. But if it wasn't Marilyn Belvedere, who was it? Mrs. Farragut? Had she tried to call me before leaving the house, possibly after hearing the news from her friends at the police department or from her son? Did she even know Hudson had been found?

I got into the car, trying to sort out what I knew. Someone had left Hudson to die in that little shed, because once he knew his kidnapper, he could not be allowed to live whether he gave up secrets or not. So what had happened? The kidnapper or Hudson with a gun on him had driven from the thruway rest stop to 211 Hawthorne Street and into the garage, the kidnapper having found out in advance that the Corcorans would be away for the holidays. Hudson was then taken to the third-floor apartment, where he was fed at least once and questioned about his relationship to Julia Farragut. Then what? Then he was tied up and left in the shed, but not before the heat was turned down on the third floor. Had one of the Farraguts kept the key to that door, hoping the Corcorans would not change the lock?

I was sure the transfer to the shed had happened last night, after I had gone through the Corcoran house with Marilyn Belvedere and heard the furnace kick on. The cold of the shed would assure both that Hudson would die and that the smell of death would be minimal. Perhaps the killer
intended to come back and get rid of the body before the Corcorans returned; perhaps he intended to let the Corcorans discover it on the first day of spring planting. Any of the Farraguts would have known exactly where to leave the car, where to leave Hudson. They might even have prepared in advance by removing the Corcorans' padlock, if there was any, and getting a new one. But which of the Farraguts?

And who had called me at the convent? Mrs. Farragut? Who else could it have been? But if it had been Mrs. Farragut, wouldn't Joseph have said it was an older voice? All she had said was that it was a woman. I started the car. Two police vehicles were still parked in front of 211, a car and a station wagon, which I guessed was a crime-scene crew shared by the local towns. They would be looking for fingerprints and other evidence in the shed and might be there for hours. I drove to the center of town.

I wanted to try that phone number again, but I didn't want to bother Father Grimes. There was a diner near the main street of Riverview with a parking lot outside and several cars in it. I went inside and found the phones. I dialed the long number and waited for the brief mechanical message. Then, altering my voice, I said, “This is Sister Mary Teresa. I have a message for you. A little while ago—”

The phone was lifted and a man's voice interrupted. “Hello? Who is this?”

“This is Sister Mary Teresa,” I said again, slowly and carefully. It didn't really matter whether he thought it was she or not. The fact that someone had connected him with her would be enough to shock him.

“Sister who?”

“Sister Mary Teresa from St. Stephen's Convent.” I kept my voice flat.

“Why are you calling me?” Did I detect a note of panic?

“I have to tell you something about Father Hudson McCormick.”

“I think you must have the wrong number.” Definitely not calm.

“Father McCormick was found alive a little while ago in
the old shed behind the house that the Farraguts used to live in in Riverview.”

“Who is this?” he said loudly.

“This is Sister Mary Teresa,” I said in an almost mechanical voice. “I thought you should know that Father McCormick was found alive a little while ago. He was in an old shed—”

The phone at the other end was hung up with a bang. I replaced the receiver in the pay phone in front of me, feeling very satisfied. I hadn't recognized the voice, but he was clearly rattled. I was pretty sure I hadn't been speaking to Walter Farragut. The voice was younger, although voices can be deceptive. But I had scared someone, and with luck, I had gotten him moving. The question was, where would he go? To the hospital, to the old Farragut house, or to a family member? With luck we would find out soon. Putting a quarter into the slot, I tried Mrs. Farragut's number again, but there was still no answer.

The counter was L-shaped and I sat on a stool on the small leg. Three men sat along the long side, all eating hefty meals. I asked for a cup of hot chocolate and watched as the counterman whipped it up for me. A man and woman came in, bringing with them a gust of cold air that blew directly at me. I clutched my coat, shivering at the blast. The couple sat at one of the plastic-topped tables near my stool after wishing a loud Happy New Year to the man behind the counter, who waved and responded as he carried my whipped-cream-topped chocolate to me.

I sipped it slowly, relishing its warmth. One of the men eating dinner said something and the one next to him laughed loudly. I let my eyes pass over the three. The one nearest me looked vaguely familiar, which probably meant he was wearing something trendy that I had seen on someone else. I finished my chocolate before anyone else finished eating, paid up, and went outside.

The couple had driven a large Lincoln, which now stood just to the right of the door to the diner. Next to it were a tow truck, a van, and my car. I slowed to look at the tow truck, then got in my car to avoid the wind.

The question I was worrying was who had called me at St. Stephen's. I wasn't convinced that it wasn't Marilyn
Belvedere. Perhaps there was something she wanted to tell me that she felt she couldn't say in front of her husband, who had very likely been sitting in the living room when I came in. That meant she wouldn't speak to me unless he wasn't around. Mrs. Farragut, a slimmer possibility, didn't strike me as a hesitant person. She was pretty forceful, and I suspected she didn't consider the possibility that she might be wrong. If she had decided to divulge information to me, she wouldn't tremble at the brink.

What other women had I spoken to? There was Eileen at the real-estate office, but that didn't seem promising. Miranda Santiago's voice sounded more girlish than womanly, and her mother had been so forthcoming it was hard to believe there was anything else she could tell me. I had gone through that carton myself without any interference and I really didn't think I had missed anything. But who else was there? I had talked to the housekeepers in two rectories and had actually gotten some interesting facts from Mrs. Pfeiffer at Visitation, but that had been a dead end. OK, Kix, I said to myself silently, narrow it down. How would Jack do it? She's local, she's interested or involved, and it's a short list. Don't discard any possibility. It can't be any of them, but it has to be one of them.

The diner door opened and two men walked out, one of them getting into the tow truck after calling his good-bye to the other. I watched it back out, then turn left into the street. Something about it, something about the driver.

“OK,” I said aloud. “Let's try Sunny Gallagher.”

The counterman gave me a battered phone book and I looked up Gallagher. There were several listed, but I recognized Sunny's street name. She answered on the second ring.

“Mrs. Gallagher, this is Chris Bennett.”

“Yes, hello.”

“I understand you called me this evening at St. Stephen's.”

She said nothing. Then: “I—yes, I did. How did you know?”

When you can't answer a question, ask another, one of Arnold Gold's golden rules. “Do you have something to tell me?”

It was obviously very difficult for her, but I had expected that from Joseph's description of the call. “There is something, yes.”