The Good Friday Murder Page 12

  I took my coffee cup back into the kitchen, called Information for the area code for Grand Bahama Island, and reached Information there in a few seconds.

  “I’d like the number for Patrick Talley,” I told the operator who had answered with a pleasing lilt.

  She came back quickly. “There’s no number for Mr. Patrick.”

  “What about Mrs. Patrick or Anne?”

  “One moment.”

  I waited, hoping.

  “Yes, Mrs. P. is here.” She gave me the street and number, and I thanked her and hung up.

  I looked at the address she had given me for a minute, then looked up the Grosses’ number and dialed. Mel answered right away.

  “Mel, it’s Chris Bennett. I know this is a crazy time to call, but do you know the Bahamas at all?”

  “We went to Bermuda once, but that’s about it.”

  “Did anyone you know ever go there or would you know someone who’s familiar with the island?”

  “Let’s see, my uncle and aunt vacation there sometimes. Should I call him?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  I gave her the Talley address and said I wanted to know what the neighborhood was like.

  “I’ll get him at the office today.”

  “Wonderful. And, Mel, if he needs to call someone in the Bahamas, I’ll pay for the call. It’s really important.”

  “On my uncle’s phone bill, a call to the moon wouldn’t be noticed. But I’ll relay your offer.”

  I thanked her and went back to my papers.

  I spent a couple of hours looking at what I had and didn’t have. I didn’t have a report on the Antonetti boy, but that might amount to nothing. I didn’t have Kevin O’Connor’s partner yet. I didn’t have the man with the fruitlike name who had taken Magda’s message to O’Connor that a man’s overcoat was missing from the Talley closet. But all of these things seemed fairly inconsequential.

  What I had was interesting but ultimately led me nowhere. I had Selma Franklin, who had lived underneath the Talleys in 1950 and didn’t get along with Mrs. Talley because of the noise the Talleys made. I had Mr. Antonetti, who had lied about seeing what went on so that he wouldn’t have to admit he had missed Easter Sunday mass. Scratch that, I thought. Nothing there. I had Magda’s story, backed up by a photo in a newspaper, that a coat had been missing from the closet when the twins were arrested. That was something. Add to that Detective O’Connor’s abrupt change of demeanor when I brought up the missing coat, and I was sure it was important. I had a psychiatrist’s educated opinion that James Talley had not killed his mother.

  And I had Patrick Talley, the one person in the world who really benefited from the death of his wife and incarceration of his sons. There was no question in my mind that his then companion, Anne Garfield, would have lied to the police about what time he came home on Good Friday to protect him—whether she knew he had done it or not. If he had driven into New York after his business lunch, he could easily have killed his wife and made it back home in time for dinner (a thought I found repelling). It was probably no more than an hour’s drive from the George Washington Bridge to Ocean Avenue near King’s Highway in Brooklyn. And with Alberta out of the way, he was free to marry Anne—which he did—was able to buy a better house—which he did—was in a position to live a more sumptuous life—which he obviously had.

  Then there was the Bahamas connection. Was I just becoming unduly suspicious or was there something very peculiar about Patrick Talley’s death? As a matter of fact, I didn’t really know when he had died. I knew when Anne Talley sold the house. Patrick might have died long before—or he might still have been alive in the vacation “bungalow” on Grand Bahama Island.

  But where did this leave me? I had gotten all I could from the Talley children. Perhaps I could get someone in the Bahamas to look up the date of Patrick’s death, but so what?

  I sat back and looked at the array of paper on the table. I was now certain the twins had not killed their mother, and I had one good suspect who was dead over twenty years and buried in a foreign country. And I had talked to almost everyone who had had anything to do with the case. Jack Brooks had been helpful, but he doubted that I would turn up anything conclusive. I needed another point of view, a person who looked at the world differently, uniquely.

  I went to the kitchen, sat on a chair, and dialed a number from memory.

  A familiar voice answered. “St. Stephen’s Convent, Sister Angela speaking.”

  “Angela,” I said happily. “I’m so glad to hear your voice. This is—” And then I faltered. “This is Christine Bennett,” I said finally, and added, “Sister Edward Frances.”

  “Hello,” Angela’s sweet voice came back. “How are you?”

  “Fine, happy, getting used to things.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I’m on bells today or I might have missed you. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to talk to Mother Joseph—if she isn’t busy.”

  “Hold on. I saw her go to her office a little while ago. Let me see if she’ll take your call.”

  There was a click and I waited. Angela had just graduated from St. Stephen’s College, was one of the more recent additions to the convent and a very promising one. I had smiled when she said she was “on bells.” I hadn’t heard that expression for answering the phone and door since I’d left.

  I had asked to speak to the General Superior—that’s the new designation, by the way—for a special reason. When you enter St. Stephen’s, you are assigned a spiritual director, a nun who is older, hopefully wiser, someone who can lead you, listen to you, guide you. It was my good fortune to have Sister Joseph, then a young woman in her thirties, as mine. Today, fifteen years later, she was serving her first term as General Superior of the convent, an indication of the esteem of the nuns who had elected her.

  “She’ll talk to you,” Angela said, returning to the line.

  “Thanks, honey.”

  And then Joseph’s calm, assured voice said, “Christine, I wondered how long it would be before I heard your voice again.”

  We had a brief chat and then I told her I had a problem to discuss with her. She was planning to visit her family for the Fourth of July weekend, which started Wednesday, an awkward day, and eventually we agreed on Sunday. I would drive up for dinner at noon and stay to thrash out my problem. When I hung up, I had the feeling I was on the way to an answer.

  —

  At eleven I called Melanie again. “Hal is a lawyer, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “Right. He’s with a firm in Manhattan.”

  “I’d like to know how to get some information on a will that was probated a long time ago.”

  “Come on over about eight tonight. We’ll have coffee and something and you can talk.”

  “I’ll bring the something.”

  “Aren’t you a dear,” Melanie said.

  I was just getting ready to find Aunt Meg’s old lawn mower (before the town of Oakwood cited me for being unkempt) when the phone rang. It was Jack.

  “Got something for you,” he said. “I located O’Connor’s partner.”

  “You did?”

  “I talked to him a few minutes ago. Name’s Herb Stassky and he lives in Florida. Got a pencil?”

  “In my hand.”

  He gave me the number. “How’s six-thirty tomorrow?”

  “Fine. Call if you get lost.”

  “I won’t,” he said ambiguously. “See you tomorrow.”

  I pressed the switch hook and waited, then lifted my finger and got a dial tone. If Herb Stassky had been at home when Jack called, I might as well see if he was still in. I dialed the number.

  A man answered on the second ring.

  “Is this Herb Stassky?”

  “Yup.”

  I introduced myself.

  “You the gal looking into that old murder?”

  “I’m the one. If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a c
ouple of questions.”

  “Sure.”

  I gave him a little background to refresh his memory, which seemed to be somewhat stronger than O’Connor’s had been. Then I said, “When you were ready to take the twins down to the station, one of their overcoats was missing. Do you remember that?”

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “The girl who was there, the baby-sitter, she’s the one who noticed it.”

  “The little blonde with the accent?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yeah, she said somethin’.”

  “Did you make a note of that, that there was a coat missing?”

  “Y’know, you should talk to Kevin about that. It was his case.”

  “But you were his partner.”

  I heard him let out his breath, rippling his lips. “What difference does it make? The case was open-and-shut.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Kevin was.”

  “So you didn’t bother to write down that a man’s coat was missing.” I stated it.

  “Look, you want the truth? It wasn’t my case and I figure those twins did it. They’re probably dead and buried by now, but—”

  “They’re not. They’re alive. They’re sixty-nine years old.”

  “Jeez.” He paused, then said, “Jeez,” again. “Well, whatever, I thought it should go in the file that the coat was missing. The girl was so sure. But O’Connor said it would just hold things up. That’s it. I left it out. I thought about it, you know? But it wasn’t my case and there wasn’t anyone else could’ve killed her.”

  “So O’Connor told you not to include it.”

  “It was his case.”

  I figured that was the closest I would get him to say it. “The girl, Magda, she told me she left a message for O’Connor a day or two later about the coat.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Guy named Petrie took it.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Petrie.” He pronounced it Pea-Tree, Peachtree! “He was a friend of mine, that’s how come I remember. Petrie and me, we used to have a beer together after work sometimes. He got shot in the sixties and went out on three-quarters disability pension.”

  “Mr. Stassky, were you as convinced as Detective O’Connor that the twins were guilty?”

  “Sure I was,” he said without hesitating.

  “Even after Magda pointed out that the coat was missing?”

  “Look, nothing is ever perfect unless you see it happen yourself. Every case has inconsistencies. Ask anybody, they’ll tell you. Nothing fits a hundred percent. You do the best with what you have. So a coat was missing. Maybe one o’ those guys went out and left it somewhere. They were mentals, for God’s sake. We asked them—you know how long we asked them? The girl told us they were like retarded geniuses; they could remember everything that ever happened in their whole life. So why didn’t they tell us if someone else did it? Because they did it and they were hiding the truth. You’re right, we shoulda put the missing coat in the file. But we didn’t and it happened a hundred years ago.”

  I thanked him and got off the phone. I was sorry I had upset him, but the call had been worth it. He had confirmed Magda’s story down to the barest detail.

  I spent the rest of Friday mowing the lawn and shopping for household necessities. In the evening, armed with a cherry pie from a local bakery, I went to the Grosses’.

  I learned a lot from Hal that night about court-appointed lawyers and probating wills. It had occurred to me while I was talking to the Talleys that Mrs. Talley might have had a will, and even if she didn’t, she had a diamond ring and a fur coat and maybe a small bank account. I wanted to find out who had inherited it. Hal said I shouldn’t bother going to Brooklyn to make the search. He had a cousin who was home from law school for the summer who would probably love the chance to do it herself. He made the phone call while I was there, and she agreed. She would go down first thing Monday morning.

  The next day was Saturday, the day of my first date. I opened my closet door first thing in the morning, saw the yellow dress, and knew it was wrong. Nervous as a kid, I did something I had never imagined doing in my life: I spent the whole day buying a dress and a pair of shoes after having my hair cut.

  18

  Jack arrived punctually at six-thirty. I had the feeling he had done what I had two nights earlier when I went to see Kathleen Mackey, find the place, leave, and return at the appointed time.

  “You live in a whole house,” he said as he entered the small foyer.

  “My aunt died a few months ago and left it to me.” I walked into the living room, conscious of my clothes, of myself as a single woman going to dinner with a man. The dress was a fluid silk, beige or tan or some such color and white, with a longish skirt.

  A friend who had left the convent several years earlier had offered practical suggestions when I told her of my imminent departure. You could always spot ex-nuns, she said, because they have no sense of color, no idea what matches what. She told me to stick to solid colors and stay away from polyester. “That’s all they wear,” she said, “stuff that goes into the wash and back on the body.” I had scrupulously bought only natural fibers since starting my new life.

  “Where did you live before?” He sat on the sofa as I sat on a nearby chair. He was wearing a summer suit with a white shirt and a dark silk tie with a small pattern, a drastic change from his casual work clothes.

  “Up the Hudson, near where I was teaching.”

  “Better down here,” he said. “Easier winters.”

  “May I offer you a drink?” Aunt Meg had left a cabinetful of almost antique bottles of liquor, most of them opened but rarely used.

  “We’ll have something when we get where we’re going. You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go. I’ve got some interesting things to tell you.”

  —

  So at age thirty, I, Christine Marie Bennett, had my first date. I thought later that I couldn’t have chosen a better person to have it with, and nervous as I was, I didn’t disgrace myself. Probably that was because I knew him a little, liked him a little, and had plenty to talk to him about.

  We drove to a restaurant overlooking the Long Island Sound. I’m not sure whether we were in New York; or Connecticut, but it didn’t matter. It was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and I was so excited about where I was and what I was doing that the next morning I couldn’t remember what I’d had to eat.

  I do remember that after we had ordered drinks, Jack pulled out one of his famous folded pieces of paper. He opened it once, bent it back so that it stayed open, and said, “I’ve got something about Paul Antonetti.”

  “He did get in trouble with the police.”

  “Sure did. He mugged a little old lady and snatched her purse.”

  “When?”

  “About four in the afternoon on April seventh.”

  “April seventh was Good Friday.”

  “Which probably added to his old man’s ire.”

  “Did he use a weapon?” I asked, almost holding my breath.

  Jack smiled as though he’d been waiting for the question. “How’s a switchblade?”

  “A knife,” I said, feeling that rush of excitement that a good discovery can bring on. “Was she cut?”

  “Only scared. She gave him her purse and he ran. There’s a note that the purse was recovered a few days later. He’d tossed it in some garbage after taking the money.”

  “I guess she didn’t say that his shirt was covered with blood.”

  “Not in the file. She would have if she’d seen it.”

  “But the time doesn’t fit,” I said, thinking it through. “If he was arrested at four, either he’d already killed Mrs. Talley and he’d be covered with her blood, or he couldn’t have done it later because he was in the police station.”

  “He wasn’t picked up till Saturday.”

  I stared at him. “Then how…?”

  “The woman reported the t
heft right after it happened. By accident, she saw him in the street the next day, flagged an RMP patrol car, and they took him in. Plenty of time for him to have changed his clothes. If you really think a kid did it.”

  “He’s the only person so far who would have known the twins were retarded but very likely wouldn’t have known they were savants.”

  “So you think he went on a Good Friday rampage.”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  “Remember, nothing was taken from the Talley apartment—except the coat. If burglary was his motive, he changed his mind.”

  “He got scared,” I said. “He hadn’t expected blood, not to mention murder. When he saw what he’d done, he ran.”

  “By the way—” he looked down at his paper again “—his alleged knife was never found.”

  “Then how…?”

  “The woman’s testimony. She heard the click as he opened it. She saw it. He denied ever having a knife. And by the way, his father made his bail. Cash. He must’ve kept a lot in the house.”

  We had been sipping our drinks as we talked. Now the waiter handed us menus. I laid mine down without looking at it. “Poor Mr. Antonetti,” I said. “That must have been the worst weekend of his life.”

  —

  Through the beginning of the meal I told Jack about my conversation with the Talley brother and sister. He made a few comments and then said he would try to find Paul Antonetti, indicating to me that he thought the boy was a possible suspect. Then, quite suddenly, we stopped talking about the case and started talking about ourselves. I felt very comfortable with him. We seemed to share a lot of the values that people need to share if they are to trust each other, if they are to be friends.

  As we talked, I felt that I was the one holding back the most. I didn’t lie to him, I just neglected to tell him that I’d spent the last fifteen years in a convent. I think I did that because I wanted him to think of me as he would any other American woman—single, college-educated, a teacher—without the stereotypes that being a nun might suggest. I certainly didn’t want him to know that this was my first date with a man. Looking back as I drove to St. Stephen’s the next day, I felt quite sure that I had carried it off.