The April Fools' Day Murder Read online

  We were standing there in his living room, facing each other a few feet apart, two strangers linked by a murder and all the detritus that had surfaced in its wake. He had to know what the key was, and if he didn’t tell me, no one else would. Toni and Winnie had locked the gate. It was the family against the rest of the world. “You still see your wife, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I have nothing against her. I just don’t seem able to live with anyone anymore, not since my boy died. I need to be alone. I need to be responsible for only one person.” He sat down in the nearest chair, as though he no longer had the strength to stand. The conversation was enervating him. “And I couldn’t live in that house anymore with my son gone. He was the most wonderful child, smart, loving, good-natured. He was the child I tried to be for my father when I was young except I never did anything right. How could he have thought that money would make a difference to me?” He looked up.

  “He didn’t know you,” I said softly.

  “That’s the truth. He never tried. All I ever wanted from him was his love and approval, and they were the two things he didn’t give me—couldn’t give me, because he didn’t love me and didn’t approve of me. I was an April Fools’ Day joke to him. That’s when I was born, did you know? And when he was murdered, I was out having a drink with a friend to celebrate.”

  “Then you have an alibi,” I said.

  “Probably not. I think we actually got started a little later in the day. I even turned my cell phone off so I could enjoy the moment.”

  Which was why his wife hadn’t been able to reach him. “I see.”

  “You know, my life is easier now with my father gone. If I want to see my mother, I can just go over there. I don’t have to ask whether it’ll inconvenience him or annoy him. I’m glad he’s gone. He was a thorn in my side and it’s been pulled now and the wound is mending. If you think I’m confessing to something, I’m not. I’m just being honest. My life is easier and I’m glad he’s gone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you intend to tell the police about the second will?”

  “Not unless I’m asked, and I can’t see that they’ll ask me.”

  “Did you ever see it?”

  “No. Toni called and told me about it.”

  “Well …” He stood. “Thanks.” He held out his hand and we shook.

  “Come on, Eddie,” I said.

  “No. I wanna look at the pictures.”

  “We have magazines at home. Let’s go.”

  He waited a moment, looking at a double-page spread of a red car, then came over to me. I said goodbye and we left.

  25

  Driving home I wondered if I cared anymore who had killed Willard Platt. Roger had suffered enough in his life, most recently because of the death of his son. I could understand his feelings, his urge to get out of the house after that death. The boy had been a young teenager. He would have made noise, laughed, talked, argued, played music. The absence of the sound must have been chilling. The emptiness for the parents must have been unbearable. I looked in the car mirror and checked my little boy, looking out the window as we neared home. I could not imagine my life without him, with the knowledge that this young life had ended. And for Roger Platt there were all those other emotions stemming from his relationship with his father.

  What a strange man Willard Platt had been. I remembered the day at Prince’s when Eddie nearly ran him down with the cart and I had seen the cane lying on the floor. He had no murderous enemies, hadn’t had them for decades. He didn’t need to carry a concealed weapon to protect himself. He used a cane because it set him apart from other people, called attention to himself, perhaps made people act deferentially toward him. That was what he wanted, deference, something his son had never given him.

  I have often wondered where anger comes from. There are people who seem to respond to situations with anger when evenhandedness would be more appropriate and accomplish more. Among the nuns I have known at St. Stephen’s, there have been women with such good hearts, women who would help you before they were asked. Yet I never wondered why they were so good, as I now wondered why someone like Willard Platt was filled with so much anger. The woman who had stopped to talk to me at Prince’s had said he was famous for suing people. It wasn’t a reputation I would want for myself. Perhaps it padded his ego, made him feel powerful. And yet this same man lay down on the grass in front of his house and waited for teams of high school students to locate him so they could share in a treasure hunt.

  A strange man. And now his wife and his daughter, and his son too, it appeared, had been drawn into a deception that even I was marginally involved in. I felt deeply conflicted. I possessed information, the existence of which I could not prove, but which was material to a homicide. If I told the police what I knew, they might arrest Roger and they would surely give Winnie a hard time. If I kept it to myself, I had my conscience to live with. But if the second will no longer existed, if the police could not find it and Winnie denied its existence, how could it have any effect on the case?

  I could not believe that Roger had killed his father. I thought it more likely that Winnie had. Here it was her son’s birthday, and her husband, instead of doing something nice for their son, was playing games with other people’s children. Maybe she sat in the sunny windowed room at the back of her beautiful home and thought about it, stewed about it, eventually exploded with anger over it. It occurred to me that she might actually have heard my cries and the banging on the front door and refused to answer for her own reasons, but the frantic sounds could have started her thinking about how badly her husband had treated their son. What if I hadn’t driven up the hill that afternoon? Would Willard Platt still be alive?

  At home, Eddie jumped down onto the driveway and ran to the back door. I followed more slowly. I had a feeling I had accumulated all the information about this case that I was likely to find, and I still had nothing convincing. Somewhere in that collection of information had to be the answer or answers that would finger a killer.

  We went inside and I started cooking dinner, handing Eddie small pieces of raw vegetables to eat with his apple juice. I did all my tasks automatically, my mind trying to sift through the facts, the events, to find the thing that was wrong or the thing that should have rung a bell.

  What if Harry had lied to me about the ownership of the gun? Suppose it was Harry’s, not Willard’s. Where did that leave me? Nowhere, I thought. It made little difference whose gun it had been. What if he had kept it for half a century, not tossed it in the river? I shrugged as I peeled potatoes. It made no difference. All I had learned from that story was that there was a reason Willard Platt began to carry a cane, even a reason why he carried canes that were weapons. It didn’t give me a clue to his killer.

  Amelia was gone and she hadn’t killed Willard. I didn’t think Harry had either. Vitale was still a good suspect, a man simmering with hatred for many years.

  And how could Winnie have thought she could buy me off with a gift of land? Did I come across as the kind of person who would lie for money? That troubled me. I put down my scraper, pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, leaning my face in my hands. Let’s think about this, Kix, I instructed myself silently. Suppose you and Jack had the money to build a house on a piece of property worth almost half a million dollars. Would you have been more receptive to the bribe? OK, don’t call it a bribe; call it an offer. Might you have said you wanted to think about it rather than turning it down immediately?

  How can anyone know what one would do if circumstances were different? I believed—I wanted to believe—that whenever such an offer came to me, whatever the circumstances of my life, I would have turned it down as quickly and firmly as I had done today.

  “Mommy?”

  I looked up, almost surprised to see my little son in front of me. “What, sweetheart?” I said.

  “Are you crying?”

  He had seen me with my face down in my hands, so deep in thought I had not been
aware of where I was. I felt terrible. “Oh no, Eddie.” I scooped him up and set him on my lap, my arms around him. “I was just thinking about something.”

  “I thought you were crying.”

  “No.” I stroked his hair, curly like his father’s. “I’m very happy, honey. I have nothing to cry about.” I kissed his forehead, gave him a squeeze, and held him in my arms. I had scared him and wished I were able to undo the last few minutes. “Everything’s fine. Daddy’s coming home soon and we’ll have a good dinner together.”

  He hopped off my lap. “Can I have a pretzel?”

  “Sure.” I got him one and took one for myself. They were long rods and we crunched them together and he giggled. I patted his head and went back to making dinner.

  26

  “You’re telling me this woman, this Toni something who’s the Platts’ daughter, called you from Chicago or wherever she lives and offered you an acre of prime land that could be worth half a million dollars just because you’ve been so nice to Mom.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Eddie was off to bed and we were sitting in our accustomed places in the family room, sipping our coffee and talking about what we had waited hours to discuss.

  “And when you questioned her about the second will, the will she called to tell you about the other night, she said it didn’t exist.”

  “You’ve got it. And her mother had told her brother, when he called her, that there was no second will. He was very annoyed with me for making up a false story.”

  “But the sister set him straight.”

  “Apparently. He had the good grace to apologize to me for the accusation.”

  “This is quite a family,” Jack said. “They’re better organized than organized criminals.”

  “Jack, I’ve been mulling this over all day. Stewing about it is more accurate. I know something that I can’t prove about a document that has probably been destroyed by now. Its existence would make Roger Platt the prime suspect in his father’s killing.”

  “You don’t think he did it.”

  “Except for the fact that it happened on his birthday, which does change things, I have to admit. People get very sensitive on important dates, their birthdays, their anniversaries, the days that people who mattered to them died. If I didn’t feel so sorry for him, the discovery of the new will and the fact that the murder happened on Roger’s birthday might tilt me toward him. But it’s all speculation, as I’ve been saying over and over. Frankly, I think I’ve come around to your position, that Winnie did it but she wants me to think Roger did to spare herself.”

  “You think she planned it for a long time?”

  “She kept her license up-to-date.”

  “And we have only her daughter’s word for it that her hearing is bad.”

  “True.” I hadn’t thought of that. I had considered everything Toni told me to be true since she wasn’t a suspect. But the deafness in one ear was a very convenient explanation for Winnie’s behavior, or lack of it, when I banged on her front door.

  “I’ll tell you how I see it; what the mayor told you about the value of the land, Vitale looks good to me for this.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “He’s right there, he hops across the road and up the hill. Maybe something new happened recently that we don’t know about between him and Platt and he boiled over, especially if he found out what that land is worth.”

  “But we’re going around in circles, Jack. We have three good suspects but nothing convincing on any one of them. I think I should let this rest, let my mind take a breather. It’s making me dizzy, going around in circles. All I can see is second wills, canes, a knife in the back that isn’t a knife.”

  “Then let it rest. Maybe the police’ll figure something out. They do, you know.” He gave me a sly smile.

  “I know. And I appreciate their hard work. Imagine if Toni had called them before she called me about the will. The Platts could never have gotten away with retracting their statement.”

  “The cops would’ve been at their door in five minutes to read it.”

  “But they were too smart to call the cops. I think Toni called me before she and her mother had thought through the implications of the new will. In the end, they didn’t want me knowing it either. I wish I knew the lawyer who drew it up for Willard.”

  “Lotta lawyers in this country.”

  And probably most of them in commuting distance of New York. “I’m taking the day off tomorrow,” I announced. “I am taking my son for new shoes, which he badly needs. I’m going to call Mel to come over after she finishes teaching and we can talk about spring planting and town politics and forget this ever happened.”

  “Sounds like the right thing to do. Mind if I hit the books?”

  “Not at all. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m getting there, but it’ll take time. Some things have changed since I was on the street. I’m in a maze of laws and ordinances. Nothing that pertains to the Platt homicide unfortunately. Wish I could pull something out of a hat.”

  So did I, but I’m not that kind of dreamer. We finished our coffee and he took a pad of paper and a couple of books out and started reading while I went through the parts of the Times I hadn’t read yet. Maybe a penitent killer would call and confess. But if he did, I hoped he would call the police station, not my number. Their credibility was a lot greater than mine.

  As I had promised, I took Eddie for shoes on Friday morning. I had heard mothers complain about the cost of children’s shoes before I was in a situation where it made an impression on me. Now it did. My pediatrician suggested what kind of shoes Eddie needed, and I did what he told me, gulping at the price and telling myself my son’s well-being did not have a price tag. But when the salesman asked if he could show me a pair of sneakers for myself, I looked down at the worn canvas on my feet and said, “Oh, I think these are good for another season,” suppressing the doubt I had that they would make it through the summer months. It’s not that we are poor; it’s that big purchases still make me quiver.

  Eddie loved the shoes. He thought they looked just like Daddy’s and I told him they did. He practically pranced out of the store as I followed with a bag containing the old ones.

  “Where do you want to go now?” I asked when we were out on the street.

  “I wanna see Daddy.”

  “We can’t do that, honey. He’s working in New York and that’s a long drive. He’ll be home for dinner.”

  “I wanna see Mel.”

  “Mel’s teaching. She’ll be home when school is over. She’s coming to visit with Sari and Noah, how’s that?”

  “OK.”

  “Let’s go see if we can get our new tree planted this weekend.”

  We drove up to the nursery and Mr. Vitale came to talk to me. “I think we can do it Saturday,” he said, looking at a schedule. “The ground’s warmed up in the last couple of weeks.”

  “Someone will be home whenever you come.”

  “Fine. You find out anything about the Platt murder?”

  “I’ve turned over a lot of rocks but no killer has crawled out yet. I’m giving it up for a while. Nothing leads anywhere. Someone told me the Platts own about ten acres up there.” I nodded up the hill.

  “About that.”

  “The mayor said it’s worth close to half a million dollars an acre.”

  “That’s an exaggeration,” Vitale said. “If it were worth that, I’d close the nursery tomorrow and sell the land. I could do better putting the money in a CD and living off the income than working my head off seven days a week.”

  “How many acres do you have here?”

  “About seven, give or take. Want to look at your tree?”

  “Sure. Come on, Eddie, let’s look at our new tree.”

  We went down the slope and found it and once again I fell in love with it. The shape was so perfect, the branches so beautifully curved, like a small umbrella waiting to grow into a large one.
All around us trees and shrubs displayed buds that were nearly ready to open. This was really my time of year.

  “That’s my tree,” Eddie said, pointing to it.

  “Well, let’s see what grows faster, young man, you or that tree,” Mr. Vitale said.

  “I’m growing up.” Eddie stretched his hands high to make his point.

  “You may do it, son. That little tree’s going to get bigger, but I’ll bet you hit six feet before it hits three. See you Saturday, Mrs. Brooks.”

  And as always I found it hard to believe that a man who could be nice to a child could have committed a murder. “Thank you,” I said as he walked away.

  “You like the tree, honey?” I said to Eddie.

  “It’s a nice tree. It’s a baby tree.”

  “Yes it is. It won’t grow very big, but it’ll have beautiful leaves and it’ll grow this way.” I showed him an approximate width with my hands. “Ready to go?”

  “OK.”

  What Mr. Vitale had said about the price of the land rang true. He certainly didn’t work at a nine-to-five job five days a week. He was open seven days a week in spring, summer, and fall, and I was sure his work was physically demanding. It made sense that if he could realize the kind of money those seven acres would bring at almost half a million per, he might consider living on the income. My work netted me very little, although I loved it, but after twenty-five years or so of back-breaking work, a man might understandably look for an easier life.

  So maybe the mayor’s estimate had been high—Roger thought it might be—and Mr. Vitale wasn’t as potentially wealthy as I had thought. Nor would an extra acre of land have made a substantial difference in his life. Ask enough questions and the answers will drive you crazy.

  I spent Eddie’s nap time correcting papers from my class. Some semesters you get a class of great students; this was not one of them. I had a few shining lights but the rest were having a hard time staying awake. Having decided that the fault might well be mine, I had asked to be relieved of this class and assigned to a composition class in the fall. There would be more work, but it would be different and I was afraid of stagnating.