Working Murder (4 page)

“
My
hip!” I snorted.

Henry took the buried steps two at a time. Sadd and I struggled out of the car in the
graceful way that persons our age do, muttering imprecations against advancing years,
small automobiles, and the inexcusability of the weather.

“First time I've seen my breath in three years,” said Sadd. “Appalling sight.”

Henry had reappeared with a broom and was sweeping a path up the stairs near the iron
railing. He called: “Hang on here. It's safer than any human help.”

Sadd and I began a hand-over-hand clutch of the railing like a pair of superannuated
mountaineers. I thought of the beach where two days ago I had napped, the firm, warm
sand better than any mattress.

I said: “This is absurd.”

Sadd said: “This is obscene.” Then he added: “And for heaven's sake, don't say anything
about what you suspect.”

“I don't suspect anything. I know.”

Tina was out again, stretching her arms to us. “You two are good sports!” She grasped my
hand, Henry grasped Sadd's, and they lugged us over the top step and into the house.

Inside, Nice Ugly was merely nice and not at all ugly. I'd always liked the way their
renovations had opened up the rooms, preserved useful antiquities such as the pantry,
and revealed a fireplace in which a heavenly blaze now crackled. Within minutes we were
divested of our coats; I was mercifully shown to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, and
introduced by Tina to a smiling Puerto Rican woman—"Teresita, a recent joy of my
life!”—who was ladling out soup for Hen. He immediately said: “Gran, what's the
difference between a giraffe with mumps and a—” but the soup cut him off, and his mother
and I fled down the hall.

“He's riddle-mad since you gave him that book for Christmas.” Tina hugged me. “It's awful
to drag you up here for this, but I am so glad to see you!”

How pretty she looked in a red skirt and white sweater, her long, black hair very shiny.
Tina and I were old friends. I'd known her before my son did—had, in fact, introduced
them. She was a “lady lawyer” (she teased me about the reactionary term) in the firm
that my husband's best friend had founded and my son, Henry, had proudly joined.

She said: “You must be in an absolute daze. I told Henry to begin at the beginning and
not leave a thing out. We'll have lunch in front of the fire.”

We'd reached the living room, where Henry was fencing with the blaze and Loki lay curled
on the sofa. He accepted my tearful embrace without opening his eyes (I had, after all,
deserted him). Sadd, glass in hand, sat with shoeless feet extended to the fire.

He said: “When people ask me how I can stand living in Florida I reply that my feet are
never cold there.”

“Hear, hear,” I said, sinking onto the sofa and pulling Loki onto my lap. I kicked off my
own shoes and held my feet gratefully to the fire. Tina poured me a glass of wine and
sat down beside me. She said: “Henry, begin.”

“Right.” He stored the poker and crossed the room to a desk, returning with a notebook.
“But first, I have to ask Sadd a question: how much of the story May told me about the
mausoleum is true?”

“All of it, probably,” said Sadd. “Did she say that Jim Cavanaugh is buried there alone
because his family anathematized him?”

Henry nodded. “Something like that. And he's rumored to have used some of the crypts to
house the bodies of pals who fell out with him. ‘Jim's buddies are in there with him,'
people still say.”

Tina said: “Secret midnight burials!—isn't it wonderful? Of course, the cemetery
officials stoutly deny any possibility of—”

“What has all this to do with poor May?” I asked crossly.

“I think”—Henry gazed into the fire with a look of combined concentration and dreaminess
I'd so often seen on his father's face—"that the two things might be connected.”

“What two things?” Sadd and I spoke together.

“May's overdose and the mausoleum.”

We just sat there for a minute. Sadd, who'd been flapping his feet at the fire, held them
motionless. Then he said what I was about to:

“I thought you said her problem had to do with her daughter's disappearance.”

“That too.”

“HENRY”—TINA JUMPED UP—"IF YOU DON'T begin at the beginning, they'll go mad.” She started
out of the room. “Hen's school van will be here any minute—be right back.”

“OK. Here goes.” Henry laid his notebook open on his knees and sat hunched over it. His
father again. I was beginning to feel a little numb. Sadd hadn't moved.

“About two weeks ago, we got a phone call from May inviting us to dinner. We were rather
surprised. I hadn't seen her in years, and Tina had never met her. How old was she,
Mom?”

“Late eighties. May was a dazzling debutante before I was born. Her first year out, she
made what was called a ‘brilliant marriage,' and Ellen was born a year later.”

“Never broke stride, though,” said Sadd.

“No.” Memories were crowding in on me. “She and Frank loved the social whirl. But
afterward ... it was different.”

Henry nodded. “So I gathered. Dad told me about this case once. It fascinated him. He
always wanted to reopen it, but it was so close to home he thought it might bring you
grief.”

Oh, stop, stop. I closed my eyes and stroked Loki's back.

Henry went on: “Well, of course we went—to dinner, I mean. Tina said she never felt such
vibes of suffering. May was very frail but didn't beat around the bush—she knew we were
lawyers, we were ‘family,' and she wanted us to reopen Ellen's case.”

“It was never closed,” said Sadd, his eyes on the fire.

“So I found out.” Henry turned a page of his notebook. “It's still on the files of the
Salem, Massachusetts, courthouse.”

“Poor May.” I was feeling horribly depressed. “What had come over her?”

“Mom, you'd have felt so sorry for her. She said she knew she couldn't last much
longer—did you know she had emphysema?—and she wanted to try once more, as she put it,
to ‘lay Ellen to rest in her mind.' My first impulse was to dissuade her, and Tina tried
to, but May was adamant—and so forlorn and ill and—well, Tina and I were both thinking
the same thing: it takes a long time to get something like this rolling, and May could
be dead before we'd made much headway. So we told her we'd have to have access to files
and records, et cetera, and she said yes, she had a lot and could tell us where to get
more—all we needed. Then Tina said that since she knew nothing about the case, would May
give us a brief synopsis. I expected something general and rambling, but May started
right out—‘I'd picked up Ellen's prom gown from the dressmaker that afternoon'—and never
stopped for half an hour. We were in the living room having coffee, and the only light
was the one over the big portrait of Ellen as a child—you've seen it—pink sash,
ringlets, hair ribbon—classic Elsie Dinsmore. Honestly, I expected Vincent Price to walk
in any minute.”

Sadd pulled on his shoes and stood up. “I'm going to the bathroom. Tell your mother what
May told you—I know the story—and don't say anything about the present situation till I
get back. I don't want to miss anything new.”

He went out, shoelaces napping, looking, I thought, rather more stooped than usual.

I said: “I hope this isn't too upsetting for Sadd. He remembers it all, you see.”

Henry said: “Mom, I feel like a louse.”

“Darling, you had no choice. I wouldn't have wanted you to handle it alone. You did
exactly right to bring us. Besides”—I swallowed hard— “you said your dad...”

“Always wanted to have a go at this one. Wouldn't he be proud to know that you—”

“You and I. You and I.” I would
not
be emotional. I put Loki down on the rug and
made my voice calm. “Poor, poor May. You said her brother-in-law, Tully, found her this
morning?”

“Yes. Thank God he was there to handle it.”

Teresita appeared at this moment bearing sandwiches and coffee and proceeded to set
little trays before us. I'd been hungry, but now my mouth was dry, and I knew it would
be hard to swallow. Henry spread some loose pages on his tray. While he was talking,
Tina came back and stood eating a sandwich and looking at the fire.

“On the night of June 11, 1938, Miss Hammond's School for Girls held its graduation dance
as usual at the Eastern Shores Yacht Club in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Miss Hammond's,
which folded in 1958, was located in the posh, north-of-Boston town of Wenham but always
held this dance at the Eastern Shores because most of the students' parents were members
there. The club was very old, very distinguished, and”—Henry peered at his
notes—"'restricted.' What does that mean?”

I said: “No Jewish members.”

Henry snorted. “Well, holy shit, then didn't it just get what it deserved!”

“What did it get?” I was bewildered.

Tina said: “He means all the bad publicity about the Ellen thing.”

“Oh, it got much better than that.” Henry grinned and waved a clipping. “That charming
joint burned to the ground in 1949 with”—he looked at the clipping—"'heavy financial
loss.' Let's hope the loss was ‘restricted.' Members only.”

Tina, whose mother was Jewish, looked bored. She said: “Get on with it, Henry.”

“'Ellen Dawson, graduating with honors from Miss Hammond's, had celebrated her eighteenth
birthday a few weeks before. She was the only child of Frank and May Dawson, who live in
Boston and summer in the fashionable'—that word is all over this account—‘Bass Rocks
section of Gloucester. Their cottage'—another throw-back word—‘was next to that of Mrs.
Dawson's sister, Irene Hewitt, and her husband, Tully. The brothers-in-law were partners
in the brokerage firm of Dawson, Hewitt, and Jerome.'”

Henry turned a page. I put my half-eaten sandwich back on my plate.

“Ellen wanted to go to college and study medicine. We gather that most of her classmates
wanted to ‘come out' and study marriage. It appears that she was that unique thing, a
pretty, brainy girl who was popular with boys and girls alike.”

“Sounds like me,” said Tina, plopping down on the sofa beside me.

I loved this girl. I said: “But probably not as lucky as you, dear. Your folks were proud
as punch when you decided on law school. I'd guess May was more disappointed than proud
that Ellen wanted a career.”

Henry nodded. “I gather that back in her day May was the super-duper deb-of-the-year. She
probably hoped that Ellen would follow in her distinguished footsteps. Anyway...” His
voice grew somber. “The end was near.”

Tina's shoulder touching mine was comforting. Henry hunched over his notes, his hands in
his hair.

“Ellen's date for the prom was a boy named Foster Warren, who was a senior at Roxbury
Latin School in Boston. Ellen was to be taken, not home after the dance, but to her aunt
and uncle's, which was virtually the same thing; she had spent all her summers in and
out of the big house next door. Uncle Tully and Aunt Irene, who had no children of their
own, were like second parents. The reason for the arrangement that night, May explained
to us, was that her husband had not been well all week and she didn't want him waked up
when Ellen, and possibly some of her friends, checked in around two a.m. Ellen had also
dressed next door at Uncle and Aunty's, popped over to show Daddy her prom gown, gave
him and Mom a kiss ... and they never saw her again.”

We sat still for a few seconds, then Tina said:

“That's pretty much all May told us that night. Since then she's sent us tons of
material, and we've also done some research on our own. Shall I give Clara a few vital
statistics?”

Henry nodded and lay back in his chair, his eyes closed.

Tina started: “Foster picked Ellen up about nine, and they drove—” She stopped. Was it
something in my face? I felt utterly wretched. She said briskly: “It can wait. Here's
Sadd. Get to yesterday, Henry.”

Henry said: “You talk, hon. You got the phone call.”

Tina pondered for a moment, then said: “It was about nine o'clock yesterday morning. I
was just leaving to take Hen for a haircut when the phone rang. I called to Teresita to
take it and say I'd be home in an hour, but she came out of the kitchen and said I'd
better talk to Mrs. Dawson, who was upset. ‘Upset' was putting it mildly. May was
practically incoherent—and coughing of course—and at first I thought she must be going
on about Lloyd because she'd called the day before to talk about that mausoleum
business. Finally, it came through: She'd been trying to get Henry at the office because
something frightening had happened. She'd just gotten an anonymous letter in the mail
telling her to drop the Ellen investigation.”

Sadd sat forward in his chair. I couldn't move.

“I said I'd get in touch with Henry—fortunately I knew the client he was with—and I asked
May if she'd like me to come over and stay with her. She said, oh, yes, please, that her
brother-in-law, Tully, had arrived the night before, down from Boston for Lloyd's
funeral, but that he'd gone out to Rye to see some friends and she was alone and the
letter had just come and it frightened her. I called Henry, and he said he'd meet me
there. I took Hen with me because I wasn't sure how long we'd be, and Teresita goes home
at five. We arrived at 740 Park almost together and took the elevator up to May's and
walked into her apartment while she was talking to you and Sadd on the phone.”

Henry said: “I knew the minute I spoke to you that she hadn't mentioned the letter or
Ellen. I think asking you to come for Lloyd's funeral was just a desperate excuse to
have more family here to talk to.”