The Christmas Night Murder (6 page)

My heart froze. “What happened?”

“The state police called and said that an all-terrain vehicle with Wyoming plates had been spotted parked at a curb in front of a house. The town had a restriction on overnight
street parking, so it was noticed when a police car made its usual rounds. They checked the plate number and it was Hudson's car. There was some luggage inside but no blood or signs of a struggle.”

“And no sign of Hudson.”

“None. What was most remarkable, if that's the word, is where the car was parked. It was right in front of the house the Farraguts lived in when Julia was a novice.”

I slept in an empty nun's room in the Mother House. It was two doors down from the room I had occupied for many of the years I had lived at St. Stephen's. It was as simple and bare as the others, even barer because it wasn't permanently occupied. I had brought my own sheets and towels, a bar of soap, and a mug in case I had afternoon or evening coffee with the nuns.

Jack had said not to worry; he had plenty of studying he could do in advance of the coming semester. I hated to leave him. We had planned for so long to have these days together when both of us were free of work and study. Now there was the rest of the winter ahead of us before we could manage a few carefree days together again.

But after hearing Joseph's tale, I was convinced that someone had to dedicate full time to finding Hudson, and although I hoped and prayed he was being held somewhere, I added “dead or alive” to my thoughts. The significance of the location of the car could not be denied. The same possibilities still existed, that someone who hated Hudson because of his alleged abuse of Julia Farragut had somehow learned he was coming east, followed him or met him by appointment at the rest stop, waylaid him there, and left his car in front of the Farragut house as a symbol, or that he himself, finally coming to terms with a terrible chapter in his life, had left the car there to indicate his remorse. I could not believe the latter. But I had to accept, difficult as it was, the possibility that he was already dead, that he had been dead since Christmas Night, his body buried where it might never be found.

As tired as I was, I lay awake for some time trying to plan a strategy. Jack always says investigations have a flow:
known facts, information gathering, analysis, conclusions, and results. I still didn't have all the facts. Joseph didn't know whether Julia Farragut's father was still alive or where he might be living. Someone near the old house might know, or perhaps he had had a lawyer who handled the sale of the house and who would have a forwarding address. If Julia had been eighteen seven years ago, her friends from high school would now be in their mid-twenties. Old friends might be married but still living in the area. After what had happened to Julia, it was unlikely any of them would have forgotten her. But there were possible sources of information much closer to home. Now that Joseph had released the nuns of St. Stephen's to discuss whatever they knew with me, one of them might remember a conversation with Julia, a rumor, a piece of gossip that she had kept secret. I would get started first thing in the morning with step two, information gathering.

I arose at five with the nuns and joined them for morning prayers, mass, and then breakfast. Joseph spoke to them in my presence, instructing them and encouraging them to be open with me. She didn't have to add the word
honest
; that went without saying.

Angela came over to me as I left breakfast. She and I had been friends—and still are—when I was at the convent. She had come as a novice when she was eighteen, the age at which I would have entered if my family situation had been more normal. We were about the same age—she might have been a year older than I—and we had liked each other from the start. Because convents discourage close friendships—that is, exclusively close friendships, between nuns, we were perhaps on less intimate terms than I was with Melanie Gross, but secular society has fewer fears of close female friendships than a religious one has.

“Talk to me first,” she said as we walked into the large room that held the drawers assigned to each nun. Angela opened hers and dropped her napkin and ring into it. When she returned for her next meal, she would take them out again and perhaps find her mail waiting for her inside.

“Anyplace special?”

“In the switchboard room. I'm on bells as usual. It's pretty quiet this week, but just in case.”

I followed her into the room with the old-fashioned switchboard, ancient front cords and back cords, jacks connecting the board with Joseph's office, the kitchen, the villa, and several other locations so that the nuns could receive and make calls. There was also a ringer allowing Angela to call any nun to the phone. If it was slow enough today, she would switch it so that all calls would go to one phone or another, which would make it difficult to reroute them.

She sat on her little operator's chair and I pulled an old rock-maple kitchen chair over so that we faced each other. “Do you know something I should know?”

“First, let me apologize to Jack for ducking his questions.”

“He understands.”

“I was in a very uncomfortable position. We were all told to say nothing about Julia Farragut but to answer any other question you and he asked. You understand that our loyalty—”

“I understand and you don't have to explain or apologize. We're friends, Angela. I've been there myself. But now that Joseph has released you, I need to know everything.”

“I remember Julia very well. I was one of the younger nuns when she entered and she often came to me with questions, not serious religious questions but practical ones. She was studying the history of the community, as we all did our first year, and preparing for her vows. Her father had given her a large dowry and he also provided the nuns with a lot of personal necessities, so that we were spared a lot of expenses for a long time. Even after she was gone, we remembered him for that every time a tube of toothpaste ran out or we needed a new bar of soap. And you probably know, he gave the convent a large cash gift.”

“Joseph said as much.”

“But getting back to Julia. I knew about her mother, Chris. I don't know who else knew, if anyone, but she told me one day and asked me not to repeat it. One thing I know how to do is keep a secret.”

I smiled. She wasn't the only one, but I would trust her with anything. “I know.”

“She said her mother had been ill for many years, that it had started when she lost a baby maybe ten years before. It was a boy baby and Mr. Farragut had wanted a son very much. Julia said her father seemed unforgiving that her mother had lost his only son and could never have another one. Anyway, the mother was hospitalized for mental problems when Julia was a girl, not long after the loss of the baby, she thought.”

“Were there other times?” I asked.

“Yes. She didn't know how many, but she knew there were others. It was part of the reason Julia decided she never wanted to marry, that she wanted to do something else with her life.”

“Did you get the feeling that the ‘something else' could as easily have been teaching school or practicing law?”

Angela thought a moment. “It might have been, but I don't think she was just casting about for a career and stopped when she thought about being a nun. She was deeply religious, as was her mother, and I think she would have come to us eventually even if she had looked elsewhere first, if she had already entered training for another career.”

“Did she ever say anything to you about Hudson?”

“Never. His name never came up. You can be sure if I had heard something like that, I would have gone to Sister Clare Angela. Or I might have gone to Hudson himself. When I heard Julia's revelation, I was as shocked and stunned as anyone else. I still am. I absolutely don't believe it.”

“So you feel as I do, that he hasn't disappeared of his own free will.”

“Someone's done something to him, Kix,” she said with emotion, using the nickname my cousin Gene gave me when we were children and that had stuck until fairly recently. “Who could it be besides her father?”

“I don't know. I'm going to have to find him—if he's still alive.” If he wasn't, I had a very big problem on my hands. “Angela, Joseph told me the whole story last night, at least a great deal of it. Since Julia Farragut obviously
liked you and confided in you, you should be a good judge of her behavior. The way Joseph described it, she went from erratic outbursts to appearing quite normal, so that a decision to send her away at night could easily be changed the next morning almost as though she'd had a bad dream that disappeared with the darkness.”

“That's just the way it was. When we talked, we were two young women with common interests and goals. I knew a little more about the workings of the convent than she did, so I was a source of information. We even gossiped—I remember once confessing to Hudson that I had spoken maliciously about one of the nuns.” She looked pained at the memory. “It was just one of those things that tumbled out in one of our conversations and I knew as I heard myself say it that I shouldn't have.”

“We all do it, Angela. But what you're telling me is that to you Julia seemed a normal young person.”

“Absolutely. If she was having problems, she kept them to herself. Perhaps I should have been more astute when she talked about her mother, but at the time I wasn't. No family is perfect. There's a skeleton in every family's closet, even mine. It wouldn't have been kind or fair of me to jump to conclusions when it was clear this girl needed a confidante.”

“Your judgment was right, Angela. No one could have foreseen what was coming.”

An insistent buzzer sounded and Angela swiveled toward the switchboard. “Good morning, St. Stephen's Convent.” She turned to me and pointed. “She's right here, Jack. Hold on and I'll transfer you to another line.”

“Thanks,” I said, standing. “Where to?”

“Try the kitchen. It should be empty by now.”

I ran off to get my call. The last nun in the cleanup squad was just leaving and waved as I came in.

“What's the story?” Jack asked as I answered.

“It's too long to go into, but I'll give you the relevant details.” I told him briefly about Julia Farragut, finishing with her suicide and where Hudson's car had been found.

“Wow. That's some story. Look, I've got the phone number of the state-police officer that we talked to the
other day. Let me give him a call and ask some questions. When did the Farragut girl kill herself?”

“It was Christmas, Jack.”

“So it looks like someone with a long memory waited seven years to even a score.”

“It does look that way. And I have nothing at all to go on except the father. I'm going to try to locate him through his sale of the house. Then I'll see if I can find someone to give me some names of Julia's friends. The schools are all closed, so it's not going to be easy.”

“Nothing is when you start, honey. But I have to admit, there doesn't seem to be much to go on here.”

We talked a little about other things and then Jack said, “If I come up with something and you're not around, can I trust the nuns to get a message to you?”

“Joseph told them to speak freely to me about everything. And I've just gotten an apology from Angela because she stonewalled you the day after Christmas. I think you can trust them all today.”

“Then I'll talk to you later.”

It was still early in the morning, but I wanted as early a start as possible. There was someone at St. Stephen's I needed to talk to, but that could wait. According to Joseph, the Farraguts' former home was about twenty miles from there, and I wanted to be present when the real-estate agents opened for business. I went back to the switchboard room and thanked Angela for her help. She had nothing to add except, she said, her prayers for Hudson. We all had those. We had offered them at the chapel this morning.

Then I found Joseph. She gave me the last known address of Walter Farragut in the little town of Riverview along the Hudson, south of St. Stephen's. By the time I was ready to leave, it was almost eight-thirty and it would take me at least half an hour to get there since I was using local roads. I promised Joseph I would be in touch with her during the day. Then I took off.

The house was a turn-of-the-century gem, three stories with cupolas and chimneys and shuttered windows everywhere, each one with a candle and wreath in the center. It was set back from the quiet street, a snow-covered lawn stretching perhaps seventy-five feet to the curb. The house was painted pale gray with soft rose accents, and I have to admit I loved it at first sight. It reminded me for a moment of my cousin Gene's description of the house he had spent Christmas in:
They have this room and this room and this room
. I couldn't imagine how many rooms this wonderful old house had, but I wouldn't have been surprised if some were still to be discovered by the present owners.

The flagstone walk from the front veranda was neatly shoveled, as was the sidewalk as far as I could see in both directions. The other houses on the street were also large and of the same vintage as this one, indicating a core of building early in the town's history. The trees were all mammoth and their leafless branches intertwined, a summer blessing. For as far as I could see, the snow around the house was still pristine. Neither Hudson nor anyone else could have tramped on it, because there hadn't been enough new snow since Christmas to cover tracks.

There was no movement anywhere around the house, and after a minute or two of unobtrusive looking, I drove away. It was only a few blocks to the center of town, and when I got there, I saw a real-estate office down the block from a bank. As I passed I looked in the front window and saw a woman at the first desk talking into a telephone. They were open for business.

She was still on the phone when I walked through the front door, so I went down the open aisle between two rows
of desks, most of them empty, to the only other one that had an occupant. His name was Reg Fuller and he was all smiles as I sat down. I felt a little guilty. The housing market, from everything I'd heard, wasn't sparkling, and a new face might make a realtor think he had a prospective buyer.

“Good morning,” he said, offering his hand. “What can I do for you on this nice Saturday morning?”

“I'm just here for some information,” I said apologetically. “There's a house at 211 Hawthorne Street. It was owned by Walter Farragut until a few years ago.”

“I know the one you mean. Great old Victorian, beautiful house. I don't think they'd consider selling.”

“I don't blame them. It was Mr. Farragut, the former owner, that I was interested in. Do you have any idea where he went when he sold the house?”

“That's a toughie. Hold on, OK?”

“Sure.”

He went to the woman at the front desk and talked to her. Then he went to a bank of file drawers and opened one. After searching for a minute, he came back. “Our office handled that sale, but we're not supposed to give out information. Mr. Farragut left Riverview when he sold the house on Hawthorne Street.” He stopped as though that was as far as he was prepared to go.

“Do you know what town he moved to?”

He looked pained. “Come with me.”

I followed him to the woman at the desk in the front window.

“Eileen, this lady has some questions. Maybe you can help her.”

“Hi, I'm Chris Bennett,” I said. I hadn't introduced myself to Reg Fuller and I needed this woman to trust me enough to tell me something she knew she shouldn't. “I've just come down from St. Stephen's Convent—”

“Oh, I know them. The Franciscans, right?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“My friend's daughter is a student at the college.”

“Oh, really? It's very small, but it's an awfully good school. I taught there for a long time.”

“Yes, Patty's very happy there. What can I do for you?”

“It's about the house at 211 Hawthorne Street.”

“The old Farragut house. That was a tough sell. A lot went on there and buyers may like history, but they don't like reminders of violence.”

“Julia killed herself there.”

“And managed to do it on Christmas. She was a very disturbed girl. Wasn't she a student at your college?”

“A novice in the convent.”

“I see. There were other things, too.”

“Her mother.”

“Yes. You seem to know the whole story.”

“Some of it. I'm trying to track down Mr. Farragut. I know he sold the house and moved a few years ago, but I don't know where.”

“Well.” She looked down at her perfectly polished long nails. “Can you tell me what this is for?”

Which meant she would give me the information if I could win her over. “Someone is missing,” I confided, “a very remarkable man who knew Julia. Father Hudson McCormick. His car was—”

“Oh, I heard about it this morning. They found his car parked in front of the old Farragut house, didn't they?”

“That's right.”

“Aren't the police looking for him?”

“I don't know what the police are doing,” I said honestly. “They seem to have got it in their heads that he parked the car there and walked away. The nuns at St. Stephen's are afraid something's happened to him.”

“Where would he go if he left the car there?”

“I don't know.”

“Where would anyone who left the car there go?”

It was a question that nagged at me, too. “I don't know that, either. I'd like to find Mr. Farragut and see if he can shed some light on all of this.” I was hoping she wouldn't ask me for a connection, since there didn't seem to be one.

“I could give you the name of Mr. Farragut's lawyer, but I know for a fact that he's in the Virgin Islands for the holiday. I tell you what. I haven't looked at the Farragut file, so I haven't taken any information out of it. My boss probably wouldn't want me to disclose the address, but I live here in town and I knew the Farraguts well enough that
they gave me a forwarding address. So I'm speaking as a citizen, not a realtor.”

“Understood,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I got a Christmas card from Mrs. Farragut last week and—”

“Mrs. Farragut?” I felt a chill as I heard the name.

“Walter's mother, Mrs. Cornelius Farragut. She lived with them. It was her house. Didn't you know?”

“No, I didn't. How old is she?”

“Pretty far along now. Late seventies anyway. Let me call my husband. He'll find the address for me.” She picked up the phone and made a quick call, writing as she listened. From what I could tell, her husband was reading from an address book near the phone. “Here it is.” She handed me the paper. “Good luck. I hope you find the missing priest.”

“Thank you.” I looked at the address. “Do she and her son still live together?”

“I don't know. She never writes about him, and I usually only hear from her at Christmas. As far as I know, she's in terrific health, both mentally and physically.”

“I appreciate your help.”

She assured me it was nothing, but it was a lot more than that. It was the first piece of solid information I had gotten.

I drove back to 211 Hawthorne Street and parked in front of the house next door. A man was walking a large dog across the street and didn't look my way at all. I got out and walked slowly toward 211. There was no distinct boundary between it and the property I had parked in front of. This was a friendly, fenceless street. One lawn ran into another and the land on this side of the street rose gracefully from the curb, so that all the houses were high and prominent.

I stopped in front of the old Farragut house. The slate walk had a step or two every five or ten feet to accommodate the rise. The door looked new, a natural dark brown with an oval window in the center, etched to make it thickly translucent. At the far end, the left side of the house as you faced it, there was a long gravel driveway that ran alongside the house and curved at the back. The driveway was plowed or blown so that it was clear. A side door
opened onto it, probably the way the family came and went. In many communities, front doors have become obsolete, like the beautifully furnished living rooms that no one ever uses except for company, while the family spends all its time in a den or family room.

I kept walking, looking up the slope through trees until I was pretty sure I had reached the next homestead. Then I turned and started back. If it had been summer, with leaves on all the trees, I would not have been able to see it, but because of the bareness and the white of the snow, I could make out a structure at the end of the driveway. It looked more like an old barn than a garage. The doors were closed and there were no cars in sight. I kept walking, eventually stopping to admire the house I had parked in front of, a larger, fussier Victorian painted cream with blue trim. I got in my car and drove back to the center of town and found a telephone.

Joseph was surprised to hear of the elder Mrs. Farragut. She recognized the address as a town somewhat north of Riverview but still well south of St. Stephen's. I told her I was on my way there now and had nothing else to report.

Mrs. Farragut's new residence was an apartment in a complex built for senior citizens. Besides groups of garden apartments, there was a community building, from which I could hear music and singing. I wondered if Mrs. Farragut was a little old lady in a running suit who spent her days in structured activities. When I had left my car in a spot designated for visitors and rung her doorbell, I found I couldn't have been more wrong.

The woman who opened the door was tiny and dainty, dressed in a rose-pink suit with the ruffle of a white silk blouse showing at the collar. Her slender legs were fitted into elegant black leather shoes with a two-inch heel. I felt as though I had interrupted her on her way to a luncheon. By contrast, my skirt and sweater, comfortable shoes, and oversized shoulder bag, which I abused badly, made me wonder if my wardrobe needed some fine-tuning.

What was most distinctive about her was her scent. It was delicate and warm, faintly floral, and very light. There
was nothing old-ladyish about it, nothing heavy, nothing to make me wrinkle my nose in distaste.

“Can I help you,” she said, without making it a question.

“Mrs. Farragut, I'm Christine Bennett. I was a teacher at St. Stephen's College for several years and—”

“St. Stephen's.” She said it as though those were the concluding words of the conversation.

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure I have anything to say about St. Stephen's.”

“Mrs. Farragut, a man's life may be in danger.” I decided to be direct. What I had said was true.

“Someone's life is always in danger. Come inside, please. I don't need neighbors asking questions.”

I stepped into a beautifully furnished living room with a thick Oriental rug in shades of blue that were picked up in the upholstery and the heavy draperies, which were opened to let in the sunlight.

“Thank you. You have a beautiful home.”

“Take your coat off and leave it on the chair near the phone. I'm sure this won't take long.”

I was starting to feel like a kindergartner, but I did as she said, sitting in a chair that faced the windows, holding my shoulderbag on my lap so that I could take out my pen and notebook if I learned anything important.

“What is it that you want?” She sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. She had an exquisite face, the face of a great beauty. The lines of age only added interesting details. I could imagine this woman entering a room and having all eyes turn to admire her. I could also imagine her accepting such admiration as her due.

“Father Hudson McCormick was on his way to St. Stephen's on Christmas Day. He never arrived. Yesterday his car was found in front of 211 Hawthorne Street in Riverview.” I delivered it as a complete package. She had to know who Hudson was, just as the address was part of her permanent memory.

“What precisely do you expect me to say about that?”

“His disappearance has to be connected to what happened to your granddaughter seven years ago. If you know
anything that might help us to find Father McCormick, I hope you'll tell me.”

“The only thing I can tell you is what you apparently already know. During the time my granddaughter was at your convent, Father McCormick acted in a very unpriestly manner. If he went to our old home to apologize to us, he's a few years too late. We aren't there anymore.”

“I don't think he went to apologize. I don't think he went there at all. I think someone has kidnapped him—or worse—and left the car on Hawthorne Street to indicate a connection with your family.”

“Forgive me for being frank, but I think that's preposterous. With a little effort you could probably write potboilers. The man simply left his car and a lot of foolish people are reading silly things into it.”

“Mrs. Farragut, were you living in the house on Hawthorne Street when Julia came home from St. Stephen's?”

She looked at me with her picture-perfect face tilted slightly as though she knew how to show it off to advantage. “I owned the house. Of course I lived there.”

“Can you tell me about Julia during that period of time? Her mental state?”

“She was a wreck. What else would you expect? She had lost her mother, her confessor had abused her, her vocation was destroyed. The child was in pieces.”

“Did you get help for her?”

“None of this is your business, Miss Bennett. None of this has anything to do with the car left on Hawthorne Street. It's Saturday morning and I have many things to accomplish today.”

“Can you tell me about Julia's mother?” I said, ignoring her implied suggestion that I leave.

“She was a poor soul who found it hard to cope with the world.”

“I understand her problems began when she lost a child.”

“Her problems began when she was born.” She seemed not to want to go on, but I waited, hoping she would resume. “My daughter-in-law was a lovely person. When she was well, she was a good wife to her husband and a good mother to her children.”