The Christmas Night Murder (9 page)

“I wonder that they left her alone on Christmas after she had suffered such a loss.”

“She wasn't alone. It's a big house. You could probably have a party in one part of it and not hear it in another.”

I wrote down my name and the phone number at St. Stephen's. “If you change your mind, I'd like to come with you on your watering visit. I wouldn't leave your sight.”

She looked at the piece of paper. “I'll think about it,” she said. Then she walked me to the front door.

There was a dinner plate full of food in the refrigerator and handwritten instructions telling me what to do with it. I put the plastic-wrapped dish in the new microwave, punched some buttons, and watched. A light went on, a digital clock counted down, a bell rang, and lo and behold! I had a hot meal.

Jack used to live in a small apartment in Brooklyn Heights where he had miniaturized appliances, including a half dishwasher and a small microwave. He didn't use it much when I was there because he always enjoyed cooking, but the few times he stuck something cold inside and pulled it out steaming, I must admit I marveled. As I did tonight. I sat by myself, my notebook open, and ate slices of roast beef, beets, mashed potatoes, and a nice salad that had also been left for me in the refrigerator.

Everything I had heard about the Farraguts indicated an unhappy family with a lot of problems, but I had nothing specific to work with. The phrases in my book left no room for interpretation.
Extreme unhappiness and depression. They were a strange family. Misery and tears. Foster was always in trouble. It wasn't a happy family. Friction between the women. There were problems in her home. She was a poor soul who found it hard to cope with the world. The child was in pieces
. I was back at old Mrs. Farragut's comments now. Even Joseph had told me that Julia was an unstable person. But there was a big difference between being unstable and taking your life, and if she was unstable when she arrived at St. Stephen's, if
there were problems in her home
when she was growing up, Hudson McCormick was in no way responsible for the troubles she brought with her to the convent.

The phone in the kitchen rang as I was finishing my salad. I got up and answered it.

“Chris? It's Angela.”

“Hi. I'm just finishing dinner.”

“Jack called while you were out. He asked to talk to Joseph and she said she'd like to see you when you have a minute.”

“Thanks, Angela.”

“I don't suppose you've found him.”

“No. I'm just picking up a trail of misery that goes back years. But it doesn't seem to be pointing anywhere.”

“See you later then.”

I washed my dishes and carried my notes upstairs to Joseph's office. “Did Jack locate those addresses?” I asked as I went inside.

“One of them, yes. The one for the father, Walter Farragut. He's living a little farther downstate now, closer to New York. Jack is pretty sure this is the Walter Farragut you're looking for. The age fits. He said there were a number of Farraguts.”

“Good. I'll try to see him tomorrow. Maybe I can get Jack to meet me there. I'm not sure he's a man I look forward to speaking to alone.”

“There's more, and this is something of a shocker. Jack couldn't find a current license for the son, Foster, and he did some additional checking. Foster's in jail, Chris. He's been there for almost two years.”

Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised, but just as there was a huge chasm between
troubled
and
suicidal
, there was at least as great a gap between
in trouble
and
in jail
. Still, the news effectively ruled out my likeliest suspect in the kidnapping of Hudson McCormick. Someone daring enough to have been in trouble was just the kind of person who could have waylaid an unsuspecting priest and taken him somewhere to exact revenge.

I called Jack, who said he would contact the prison to see if he could find out anything else about Foster Farragut. What he had learned from a police file was that Foster had used an unregistered handgun to pistol-whip an old friend, whom he then robbed. It was an ugly crime committed by
a man from a family wealthy enough to keep him financially content. Unless his father had chosen not to.

In the meantime there was no word from any source on Hudson. We agreed to speak again in the morning and decide how to approach Walter Farragut.

I checked the nuns watching television downstairs, then got my coat and went outside. It was a clear, moonlit night. The huge wreath on the roof of the mother house almost glowed in the celestial light. The cold had eased off thanks to a warm front coming up from the south. I wondered where Hudson was, how he was spending his night, if he was still alive.

I went to the villa to talk to Sister Mary Teresa again if she was of clear mind. She was sitting with a group of elderly nuns who were chatting and laughing.

“Sister Dolores,” I said, spotting the Christmas-dinner cook. “I haven't thanked you for the wonderful meal you made.”

“I'm sure you did,” she said. “I've lost count of the thank-you's. Maybe I should spend more time in the kitchen in my old age. I had an awfully good time fixing that meal.”

“I was at a convent in northern Pennsylvania last year where the sisters put up jams and jellies and sell them in a tiny store. People from all around come and buy them.”

“That sounds like fun.” She had a face that looked like fun, with full cheeks and sparkling eyes, and a body that showed her enjoyment of food. She had once told me that her father had been a baker and she had grown up with floury hands. “What do you say, Sisters?”

There was some agreement along with some good-natured calls for her to enjoy her retirement. They were a nice group of elderly women, women I had known for sixteen years. At that time many of them had been vigorous, active people. Now they were plagued with physical ailments or worse. A couple of them sat silently, barely aware of their surroundings. Others needed help getting around. They had outlived their parents and many of their siblings, and now the convent was truly their family. I spoke to a few of them, then found Sister Mary Teresa.

“Could we talk for a few minutes?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said brightly. “Didn't we talk this afternoon?”

“Yes, but something's come up.” I held out my hand and she used it for leverage as she rose with difficulty. Then we walked to the far side of the large room and sat in two adjacent seats.

“I'd like to ask you about Julia Farragut again.”

“I told you this afternoon. She was a lovely girl, would have made a good nun.”

“Did you know she had a brother?”

She looked at me through the thick lenses. “I never heard about a brother.”

“His name is Foster.”

“Foster.” She looked at her hands as they rested in her lap. “I don't know that name, Foster.”

“She never talked to you about him?”

“It's all so long ago. It's hard to remember.” But she was disturbed. The name—or the mention of a brother—had stirred something in her, reminded her of something, made her uncomfortable. “My memory isn't what it used to be.” She opened and closed her hands as though to get the circulation going.

“When Julia died, did you and Sister Clare Angela go to the funeral?”

“Yes, we did. I remember that. It was very cold. Sister Clare Angela drove.”

“Did the whole convent go?”

She shook her head. “They didn't want it.”

“Who didn't?”

“The family. Julia's father. It was a suicide, you know. Of course I've always been convinced she had a change of heart at the end, when it was too late. So it wasn't really a suicide. It was an accident. She had a Catholic burial. The priest—I've forgotten his name—”

“Father Grimes?”

Her face broke into a smile. “Yes, Father Grimes. How did you know?”

“I met him.”

“I think Father Grimes thought so, too, that it was an accident. I know she went to heaven, poor soul.”

“I'm sure she did. Then you and Sister Clare Angela were the only nuns at the funeral?”

“The only ones. Just Sister Clare Angela and me.” She looked at the watch she wore, a large round white face with clear Arabic numbers. “I should go now, Christine. Thank you for coming.”

I said good night and watched her go. As she passed the group of nuns she waved to them. When she was gone, I left the villa.

Outside, I turned away from the Mother House and started walking. With the bright moon and the milder weather, it was a good night to make up for the morning walks I had missed in Oakwood. Nothing would make up for my lost days and nights with Jack, but we would have other times together and Hudson would have nothing if we didn't find him.

Sister Mary Teresa's clever manipulation of Julia's suicide into an unfortunate accident intrigued me. It was a theological point I had heard argued many times. Catholicism does not condone suicide. There was a time when a person who committed suicide could not be buried in hallowed ground. There were priests who would not officiate at the funeral. But Catholicism is not unbending, not without understanding and sympathy. After all, how are we, the survivors, to know whether the poor soul, in his last moment of life, after he has taken the irrevocable step, did not regret his act? How can any of the living be certain that after the trigger was pulled or the poison swallowed or the stool kicked out from under, the dying victim did not instantly repent and wish he could undo his last act? Because we feel merciful toward people who have erred, it is usually assumed nowadays that the victim was sorry, that given the time and the opportunity, he would undo or reconsider.

That was how Mary Teresa felt, that Julia had had a change of heart when it was tragically too late to do anything about it. It was a kindness from a kind woman and I felt a warmth toward her. I felt glad that Julia had had someone like Mary Teresa to talk to and to comfort her. St. Stephen's was an institution, a place on a map, a collection of buildings and trees and lawns and statues, but
most of all it was a group of women who were good and kind. I was not only happy to have spent fifteen years here; I was proud of it.

There was noise everywhere, the screams of women, the sound of running. My first thought was that there was a fire, but there had been no alarm, no knock on my door, no official warning, no telltale smell of smoke.

I got out of bed and pulled my robe out of the closet. Out in the hall a group of nuns stood in robes and nightcaps, some crying. I ran over to them, putting my robe on as I went.

“What happened?”

Sister Gracia turned to me. “It's Sister Mary Teresa.”

“Oh no.”

“She dead, Chris.”

“Oh how awful. Was it a heart attack?”

“She's been murdered!” one of the other nuns said shrilly, her voice out of control. “Murdered. They left her lying in the cold near the chapel.”

My heart was pounding. “Have you seen Joseph?”

“She's going there now. To the chapel.”

I ran back to my room and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, sneakers, and wool socks. I took my coat and bag and flew out of the room. The group was still standing there, but I didn't stop to say anything. I had forgotten my watch, but it was still dark and the nuns had not yet gotten up for morning prayers, so I assumed it was earlier than five.

It was freezing outside, but I was moving so fast I didn't mind it. The occasional floodlights that were turned on from dusk to dawn were still lighted and helped me find my way.

A small group of nuns in coats over their nightgowns
were huddled outside the chapel. I recognized Joseph as I approached and I called to her.

She turned to face me. “Chris. We've had a tragedy.”

“Tell me.”

“It's Sister Mary Teresa. Harold found her a little while ago. I think she's been strangled. Angela's gone to call Father Kramer. Did Sister Mary Elizabeth find you?”

“No. I woke up when I heard the commotion in the hall. She must have missed me.”

“Listen to me, Chris. We don't have time to talk now. I want to stay with Mary Teresa. I will have someone call the police when I think to do it. They will not enter the villa until I have personally walked through it to make certain no one is there. I want you to go to Mary Teresa's room right now and go through it. Somehow this has to be connected to Hudson's disappearance.”

“I'm on my way.”

“Do you have gloves?”

“I'm wearing them.”

“Good. We're a law-abiding convent and we will cooperate with the police in every way, but they have refused to cooperate with us in the disappearance of Hudson. We have begged them to do something, anything, to find him, and they have done little or nothing. I think it's up to us to find out whatever we can before they get here and shut us out of their investigation.”

“Do you think she was killed in the chapel?” I asked. This was very important for the convent, as it would indicate a desecration and the chapel could not be used until it had been resanctified.

“I don't think so. The door was closed and the lights were off. It probably happened out here. We don't have time to talk now. I'll see you later.”

She turned back to the group in front of the chapel and I took off for the villa, my mind reconstructing my last talk with Mary Teresa only a few hours before. I had mentioned the name Foster and she had become disturbed, her face screwing up, her hands opening and closing. She had not known Julia had a brother, but the name Foster meant something to her. It was she who had broken off the conversation, looking at her watch and saying she had to go.
Where had she gone? Not to join the sisters. She had walked past them. Had she gone to meet someone? Had someone called her earlier in the day and arranged to meet her that evening?

I pushed open the villa door. Inside, the nuns were gathered, old women in nightgowns and robes, their heads covered with little nightcaps the older nuns wore to bed. In case they died in their sleep, the cap was “God's holy habit,” which would protect them.

I dashed up the stairs as they watched me, remembering approximately where Mary Teresa's room was. Inside, I turned on the light and pulled down the window shade. The bed was made. She had not slept in it tonight or else she had gotten up, dressed, made her bed, and gone out, and that seemed very unlikely. It isn't easy to get up at four in the morning, even if you're used to five. An autopsy would tell us the time of death, but I was pretty sure Mary Teresa had agreed to meet someone after she and I had had our conversation last night.

Her missal and a black handbag were on top of her dresser. The missal had a few pages marked with ribbons but was otherwise empty. I sat on the easy chair and opened the bag, laying the contents on the night table next to me, piece by piece. There was no wallet. Sister Mary Teresa had probably never walked out with more than a dollar on her person, and that could fit easily in a change purse. There was a thick wad of tissues, folded twice, three remembrance cards from funerals she had attended this year, two of them for St. Stephen's nuns, one for a man named Joseph J. Morgan, and a change purse on a cord anchored to the lining. Something was inside, but when I opened it, all I found was a penny and a marble. I was not surprised. Most of the time life at St. Stephen's required no money.

I pulled out two letters and read them quickly. One was from a young niece or grandniece, a child who wrote in carefully shaped printed letters on lightly ruled pencil lines and described school and a baby brother. The other was from an adult named Ann-Marie who was obviously reiterating an invitation to visit and sounded genuinely sincere.
The return address was Syracuse. I jotted down the name and address in my own notebook.

A piece of newsprint turned out to be a clipping from a local newspaper announcing the end of the first semester at St. Stephen's College and the nuns' plans for Christmas.

General Superior Sister Joseph is looking forward to the visit of Father Hudson McCormick who has been, most recently, serving a parish in Wyoming. It will be Father McCormick's first visit to the area since leaving for the west seven years ago
.

So it wasn't exactly a secret that he was coming back.

There were several safety pins of different sizes along the bottom of the bag, a loose black hook without an eye, a small tube of Vaseline, half-used, a pair of glasses in a case, and a very worn address book.

She must have had the book for decades. I opened it to the
A
page and saw the name Gladys Arnold with an address and phone number and the notation
Died Jan. 3, 1972
. I turned to the
F
s and went down the page. There were no Farraguts, no Fosters. Then I went back to the As and went through the whole book.

They must have been largely friends and relatives, many of them living in New York State with zip codes close to the Syracuse one of the letter from Ann-Marie. An awful lot of the people listed had died, and each one had a date of death added. Whoever they were, she had kept up with them till the end.

I put everything back and left the bag where I had found it on top of the dresser. Then I went through the drawers, feeling like a voyeur, a sad one who got no pleasure out of seeing an old woman's underclothes, warm cotton underpants, sturdy brassieres, heavy gauge stockings, some of them carefully repaired to stop the inevitable runs.

The drawers yielded no secrets. There were medications in the top drawer from a pharmacy in town, prescribed by a doctor who was commonly called when a nun fell ill. Sister Mary Teresa took a number of pills every day for a variety of ailments including high blood pressure and arthritis. In a lower drawer a beautifully knit brown Shetland cardigan
lay wrapped in tissue paper. The label sewn into the ribbing around the neck read
From the Knitting Needles of Ann-Marie Jenkins
. Ann-Marie would truly mourn her aunt's loss.

But there were no papers, no notes, no phone numbers or names in the dresser, and when I finished, I went to the closet. A nun's closet is monochromatic. The hanging habits were all the same shade of brown. A bathrobe in a beige washable velour was the only piece of clothing that was distinctly different. I put my hand in each of the pockets but turned up only a used tissue. No other pocket on any of the other garments yielded any more. On the floor were a pair of warm slippers and a second pair of comfortable oxford shoes. There was also a pair of warm boots that she had not needed last night because Harold had done such a good job of cleaning the paths, good enough that her killer would have left no footprints. All the shoes were empty, as I found out when I shook them.

I closed the closet door and went over to the desk, which was standard in a nun's room. Inside the large, shallow drawer across the top were the usual contents of desks: pencils, ballpoint pens, a box of inexpensive stationery, three stamps, a ruler from a local hardware store, a couple of buttons, and a small pencil sharpener. The only other drawer, along the right side, contained mostly snapshots of children, each with a date, and some sepia-toned photographs of people who were probably Mary Teresa's parents and siblings, of whom there were many.

So there was nothing. I was sure that by now Joseph would have called the police and they would be here momentarily. I stood with my back to the door, looking at the neat bed, the handbag atop the dresser, the clean desktop, the night table with the lamp on top. The night table. I ran back and pulled open the only drawer. Inside was Mary Teresa's New Testament, some tissues, a paperback mystery with a bookmark at page 227, and another tube of Vaseline. The Bible had several remembrance cards stuck in it like bookmarks. The first one I looked at said,
May Jesus have mercy on the soul of Julia Farragut
. As I started to look at the card more carefully, there was a knock on the door and Joseph walked in.

“They're here, Chris. Have you found anything?”

“Nothing. I was just looking at her Bible. The remembrance card for Julia Farragut is here along with a lot of others.”

“Give it to me. I can carry it out more easily than you can.”

“I'm not sure there's anything in it that we're interested in.”

“No, but you've just begun to look at it and you're not sure there isn't. Round up the nuns downstairs and walk out with them. I'll go around turning off lights in case anyone downstairs is looking up.”

“See you later.”

The nuns downstairs had dressed and I helped them on with their coats and let one lean on my arm as we walked outside and turned toward the mother house. “Sister Joseph will be out in a minute,” I said to the nearest police officer.

“Thank you, ma'am.”

I escorted the group slowly to the Mother House.