The April Fools' Day Murder Page 14

  “Did you stay long?”

  “I couldn’t. I asked Mrs. Platt if she’d like a cup of tea or to come inside but she turned me down. Then I saw my kids coming out and I didn’t want them to see what happened, so I went back inside. Can I ask why you’re interested in this?”

  “I’m trying to figure out who murdered Willard Platt,” I said. “I just wanted to know more about the accident.”

  “There can’t be any connection, it happened so long ago. The boy was their grandson. I think Mrs. Platt was driving him home from Boy Scouts or something.”

  “You didn’t see any other car that could have been involved in the accident?”

  “A second car? No. And she never said anything about a second car. It was snowing and there were icy patches on the road. She was probably driving too fast.”

  Which might account for how slowly she had driven us this morning. “Thanks, Carolyn,” I said, getting up.

  “Did I help?” she asked with a smile.

  “Not really. I keep learning new things but they don’t fit together. Yet.”

  “Well, you could ask Fran Goldman across Oakwood Avenue. I saw her at the car that night. Maybe she saw something.”

  I said I would, but not today. I retrieved Eddie with some difficulty and we drove home.

  “It was Officer Malcolm who was first on the scene,” Jack said over dinner. We knew Officer Malcolm. He was a young man and must have been fairly new on the police force when the accident happened. “It really shook him up.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “He said Mrs. P was falling apart, but she didn’t seem to be hurt beyond some cuts.”

  “What about the boy?”

  “Looked very bad. They needed the jaws of life to get him out, and by that time he was gone.”

  “What a horror.”

  “Yeah.”

  I got Eddie off to bed before Detective Joe Fox arrived. It was the first time I’d seen him since our somewhat contentious relationship the year before. This time he was not only in a good mood, he brought me a small bunch of flowers.

  Jack had a fire going and we sat and gabbed a bit before Joe Fox patted the file on the sofa next to him and asked what I wanted to know.

  I told him what was going on, and he said he didn’t think the accident could have played any part in the current homicide. It appeared to be a one-car accident that happened the way Mrs. Platt had described it. “The only broken glass came from the car she was driving,” he said.

  “And I guess if there’d been paint scrapes you would have seen it.”

  “You bet I would. Good cup of coffee, Mrs. Brooks.”

  “Thank you.” I glanced at Jack, who had made the coffee.

  Joe Fox opened the file jacket and looked through several sheets of paper. “She was properly licensed, she was wearing the required glasses, the car was registered to her, it looked to be in good condition. Why would you think this has anything to do with the homicide of her husband five or six years later?”

  “Actually, it was Sister Joseph’s idea. You remember Sister Joseph?”

  “I do indeed. Fine lady. I gave her a hard time, as I remember, which she didn’t deserve.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that.”

  “I’m not involved in the current homicide investigation,” he said, “but it sounds like an interesting case, a man killed with his own weapon.”

  “A cane that held a two-edged blade.”

  “And the scuttlebutt is he didn’t need a cane. Is that true?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Just liked to walk around with a deadly weapon, I guess.”

  “He’d been shot when he was a young man,” Jack said. “Just after the war. Chris thinks he may have been afraid that the shooter might come back and get him.”

  “This is fifty years later. The shooter’s probably dead and buried by now. Wild story.” He looked at the blazing fire thoughtfully. Then he turned to me. “If there’s something you know about this homicide that you’d like to tell the police,” he said, “you can tell me and I’ll let them know.”

  There were things I knew but nothing I wanted to tell the police at that point. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “It’s over a week, Mrs. Brooks. From what I’ve heard, there’s someone they like for this, but they don’t have anything concrete.”

  “I don’t know who did it. If I figure it out, you can be sure I won’t keep it to myself. I told you what I knew, didn’t I?”

  “You certainly did. And you didn’t even brag about how much more you uncovered than I did.”

  I smiled and offered him another piece of cake, which he accepted. That was the end of our conversation about the accident. There was nothing I wanted to tell him and not much more he could tell us. As I had heard, no charges were ever pressed against Winnie for the accident. What she suffered was self-inflicted, and it was a life sentence.

  After Joe Fox left, we cleaned up the dishes, watched some late news, and went upstairs. As I was getting ready for bed the phone rang, giving me an uneasy feeling.

  “This is Maureen Benzinger,” the voice said. “Is this Chris Bennett?”

  “Yes it is. Is something wrong, Mrs. Benzinger?”

  “Everything’s wrong. My sister was taken to the hospital this afternoon.” A sob escaped her. “She’s in very bad shape. I don’t think she’ll make it this time.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “She asked to see you.”

  “What?”

  “She said she wants to see you. Can you come tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I teach in the morning.”

  “Well, if you don’t get there soon, she won’t be there anymore. It’s Jacoby Hospital in the Bronx. It’s not too far from Amelia’s apartment.”

  “I can find it,” I said, meaning that Jack would tell me how to get there.

  “Come soon.” She hung up.

  I stood with the phone in my hand till Jack asked what was the matter. I told him.

  “She wants to get it off her chest.”

  “I guess so.” I hung up the phone, which was making annoying noises. “I’ll drive down after my class. Can you route me to Jacoby Hospital?”

  “No problem. Here’s what you do.…”

  20

  I took my leftover lunch from Monday to the college, grabbed a bottle of cold juice, and stuffed my lunch in my mouth the minute my class was over, apologizing that I could not stay to answer questions. I try to be available, especially right after class, as I don’t rate an office, but I was literally fighting against time. For all I knew, Amelia had passed from the earth overnight, but I had to make the effort.

  And it was truly an effort. I felt queasy just thinking about what was in store for me. Amelia Chester had looked so bad when I’d seen her on Saturday, I didn’t want to have to look at her in worse condition. Still, this was almost a dying wish, and I had to respect it.

  I was down at the hospital before two, my lunch sitting uncomfortably in my stomach. I found my way to the desk and was told someone was in Mrs. Chester’s room, but I could go up. I assumed the visitor was her sister.

  I gathered myself together before I reached the door, knocked, and walked in. An old woman sat in a chair looking tired and worn. A thin pale figure lay on the bed, the head raised slightly.

  The woman in the chair got up and looked at me. “Are you Miss Bennett?”

  “Yes,” I said softly. “Mrs. Benzinger?”

  She nodded. “I’m her sister. She’s sleeping. I don’t know if she’ll wake up.”

  “Did she give you a message for me?”

  “She just said to call you. Said she wanted to tell you something.” She walked over to the bed and put her hand on the pale white hand that lay on the cover. “Amelia? Amelia, dear, someone’s here to see you.”

  A shudder ran through Amelia’s upper body but her eyes remained closed. Whatever makeup she might have been wearing when
she was taken to the hospital had been washed off, leaving her face as pale as her hand. A little red color still marked her lips like the memory of a better time. On the far side of the bed a clear fluid dripped from a bag to a tube and into her other hand. I stood away from the bed and watched, sensing I was too late, understanding the meaning of the phrase: “She took the secret to her grave.”

  Mrs. Benzinger brushed her sister’s forehead and patted her hand. Amelia did not move. “She’s come to see you, dear. Chris has come to see you. You asked for her, remember?” When there was no response, she turned around and shook her head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Can I get you something to eat or drink? There must be a cafeteria.”

  “Yes, downstairs. I could use a cup of coffee and a Danish. I don’t like to leave her, in case she wakes up.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I took the elevator down and got coffee and pastry for both of us. It didn’t bother me at all that I had missed Amelia’s confession. What difference did it make now? She was not Willard Platt’s killer. I got on the elevator and went back up. Mrs. Benzinger smiled when she saw the food. I had to be firm about her not paying me.

  I sat in the second chair and we opened the bags. The coffee was better than I expected and the pastry was just what I needed, something sweet to give me a lift.

  “I’m sorry you missed her,” Mrs. Benzinger said, obviously believing that Amelia had lapsed into a coma.

  “I’m sorry she’s in such distress. This must be very painful for you too.”

  “She’s my only sister.”

  There was a sound and I looked toward the bed.

  “Reen?” It was faint and breathy but it was Amelia.

  “She’s awake!” Maureen Benzinger got up and went to the bed. “Amelia? Did you have a good sleep, dear? Chris is here to see you.”

  I couldn’t hear what the response was but Mrs. Benzinger turned and motioned me to the bedside. Amelia’s eyes were open and she fixed them on me.

  “Mrs. Chester? I’m Chris. You asked to see me.”

  “Chris.” She moved her hand so it touched mine. “Chris. I want to tell you. About the gun. About Will.” It was a struggle for her to put the words together.

  “Yes. I’m listening.”

  “—shot Will.”

  “Who?” I asked. The first word had been little more than a puff of air.

  “Harry,” she said, pushing the word out. “Harry Franks … Harry … shot Will.”

  “Harry Franks shot Will,” I repeated, stunned by the revelation.

  “Harry. Yes. Harry.” She closed her eyes.

  “She’s fallen asleep again,” her sister said. “I don’t think you’ll get any more out of her today. She really exerted herself.”

  “She told me what she wanted to tell me.”

  “Did you understand her?”

  “Yes I did.” I looked back at the sleeping woman, then at my watch. It was time to go.

  Downstairs, I called Jack. “His best friend shot him?”

  “That’s what she said. I don’t think we even talked about Harry on Saturday so she wouldn’t know I’d ever heard of him. I’ll have to talk to him, Jack, but I can’t do it today. I don’t have his address and I don’t have the time. I think he lives in Manhattan, and that’s quite a drive from here. What I want to know is whether he owns a car or has a license.”

  “I’ll find out before I leave today. You don’t honestly think he came out to Oakwood to settle a fifty-year-old score, do you?”

  “No, but I have to check it out now that Amelia has told me her story.”

  “OK, honey. I’ve got my orders.”

  I drove back to Oakwood and went straight to Melanie’s house without picking up Eddie.

  When she opened the door, she said, “What happened to you? You look terrible.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I need some tea and sympathy.”

  “I’ve got plenty of both. Come on in.”

  I almost collapsed when I got to her sofa. I had the feeling I had been running on pure momentum, and when I came to a stop, I was totally without energy. I sat and rested while Mel made the tea, nearly falling asleep in those few minutes. The whiff of tea brought me back.

  “Tell me,” Mel said. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  I told her, consuming two cups of tea and more cake than I usually eat in a week. But as it went down and warmed me, it revived me. I finished the story of the hospital in the Bronx, in the room of the dying woman who had been Willard Platt’s first wife.

  “You don’t really think this little old man came and stuck a knife in his friend on April Fools’ Day, do you?”

  “No. Jack is checking on whether he has a car or a license, just to cover all bases, but I don’t think he had anything to do with it. I don’t think this was a planned murder. I think it happened because Willard and the killer argued about something. No one would come from New York or anywhere else to kill Willard Platt with the victim’s own cane.”

  “His wife could,” Mel said. “She knew the cane would be there in the garage. She kills him with it, takes it in the house, brings it down to the basement, opens the window a crack, and goes upstairs to discover the body. It’s the simplest solution.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “Neither do I. Have another piece of cake. Your color is coming back. I just don’t see seventy-year-old women offing their husbands by pushing a knife into them. Does that make me politically incorrect?”

  I laughed. “The son could have done it almost as easily. He could have scooted around the front of the house and—”

  “How would he know to go around the front?” Mel asked.

  “Good question. Maybe he knew his mother always sat in the back. Or maybe he went around the garage, saw his mother through the window, and retraced his steps. But there’s another possibility. He could have tossed the cane in his car and driven back when no one was home, like during the funeral.”

  “Which would explain why he wasn’t at the funeral. Good point, Chris. And he has a key, so he goes inside, dumps the cane, and goes home. Was anyone in the house during the funeral?”

  “I don’t think so. I went back to the house with Willard’s friend Harry when the service was over. We needed a key to get in.”

  “So who else is there?”

  “Mr. Vitale, the nurseryman.”

  “Well, he had it easy,” Mel said, as though she were a great expert on carrying out a homicide. “He could take the cane with him, maybe even hide it in the woods across the road from the Platts’, and just shove it through the window when he saw everybody leaving the house. You said the Platts thought the window might have been open a crack.”

  “Yes. But why did he wait years to do this?”

  “Maybe Willard made his life miserable in a million little ways that built up his anger. Maybe he reached the breaking point. Those things happen, you know. You should have seen what you looked like when you came in. You were on the verge of collapse. Maybe for Vitale it wasn’t a physical thing so much as a mental one. Maybe Willard needled him about things. You never know.”

  I was almost laughing as I listened to her. She was concocting a great scenario for murder. “Maybe you’re right. He certainly didn’t tell me the whole truth about that land deal, assuming Roger did.”

  “So you’ve got two men with long-standing grievances against Willard Platt. The wife has the best opportunity, it seems to me. What’s her motive?”

  “Just living with a difficult man for almost fifty years.”

  “That’d do it for me,” Mel said cheerily. “But I hope I wouldn’t wait fifty years and I hope I wouldn’t think that murder is a better solution than divorce.”

  “Maybe it’s a generational difference,” I said. “Anyway, I just can’t see that nice, grandmotherly woman doing what was done to her husband. Thrusting a knife in someone’s body cannot be an easy thing to do.”

 
We sat quietly for a minute or two. “It was the hospital that did it to me,” I said. “I’m not even sure that poor woman was alive when I left the room.”

  “It was brave of you to go to her, Chris. She’s not a friend or a relative. I bet she was pleased you came.”

  “I only went for the information.”

  “But you went. How many people do you think visited her?”

  There couldn’t have been too many. Besides her sister, who else was nearby? I looked at my watch. “I’d better get Eddie. He’s at Elsie’s and it’s been a long day for both of them. I just wanted to revive myself a little before picking him up.” Mel walked me to the car and said the kind of nice things that she is famous for. I gave her a hug before I drove away.

  The call came while we were eating dinner. It was Mrs. Benzinger to say that Amelia had passed away that afternoon. She wasn’t sure exactly when but she was grateful that her sister had been able to say whatever it was she had told me.

  I said a few phrases of condolence, surprised at how hard this death was affecting me. A few days ago I had never heard of this woman; today I had listened to a deathbed statement. I had the feeling she had kept herself going until I got there.

  “Amelia?” Jack asked as I hung up.

  I nodded. Eddie was at the table, and we would not talk about this till later.

  Jack had the coffee made when I came down from putting Eddie to bed. He’d had a good time today, starting with nursery school where they had made something out of clay that he would bring home when it dried and got painted. Then Elsie had taken him for a walk and taught him the names of some trees. I read to him and he fell asleep.

  “Your friend Harry Franks doesn’t own a car and has no valid license,” Jack said.

  “I didn’t think so. I called Winnie when I got home and she gave me his phone number and address. He lives on the West Side of Manhattan. I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

  Jack looked at me with a twinkle and some detective humor slipped into what he said. “You’re not afraid he’ll shoot you?”