The Happy Birthday Murder Read online

  To my absolute delight, I found when I got down to the wet and icky stuff that there was nothing in this carton that anyone in his right mind would save one more minute. I retied the cord and left the carton for Jack to carry upstairs to be disposed of on our next garbage collection day.

  Thrilled with my success, I dragged over carton number two. This one was not tied. Instead, the four top flaps were interleaved to keep it closed. I pulled them open and started my way down.

  This collection of material was more memorabilia than financial documents and therefore much more interesting to me. Nice and dry on top were a few old photograph albums that appeared to date from my aunt’s childhood. They had stiff board covers and black pages filled with black-and-white snapshots pasted in with triangular corner holders. I flipped a few pages, marveling at the children whom I knew only as adults, then closed it and set it aside. Unlike the contents of the last carton, these things were treasures, and I would handle them as such.

  I dug deeper, carefully stacking loose pictures and envelopes of photos and newspaper clippings, many of them about events that happened before I was born. About halfway down, I found a black-and-white marbled notebook of the kind that schoolchildren use, or used to many years ago. I opened it and found it was a kind of journal written by my aunt. The entries were not made daily or even weekly, although sometimes they were. Each one was dated and events or personal thoughts were recorded, sometimes in full sentences, sometimes just in phrases. I read some and was sorry I had. This volume had been written during that terrible year that Gene, my aunt and uncle’s only child, had been ill and, to complicate matters, I was living with them, as my mother had died. I could sense Aunt Meg’s misery and anxiety. She had choices to make that year that would have been difficult in the best of circumstances, and these were the worst.

  Lower down in the carton were more journals, some written in similar schoolbooks, some in fancier notebooks, probably gifts from people who knew Aunt Meg enjoyed writing. A glance at each one was all I allowed myself. Time was running short and I wanted to get as much of this task done as possible before Eddie came home. I picked up one item after another, made a judgment, and put it in the dry carton I had brought from upstairs.

  After several journals and envelopes of snapshots that had not yet been pasted into albums, I found a small envelope, hand-addressed to my aunt. I opened it and began to read the letter inside.

  Dear Mrs. Wirth,

  I cannot thank you enough for helping me through this terrible time. I don’t know what I would have done without you. My grief is nearly unbearable. Thank you for your kindness, your warmth, your understanding. I will never forget you.

  Sincerely,

  Betty Linton

  —

  The name meant nothing to me, but I saved the note. There was an envelope right underneath it, also hand-addressed, and I pulled out the letter inside.

  Dear Meg,

  I saw you at the funeral but didn’t get a chance to speak to you. I know how fond you were of Darby and I understand what a personal loss this must be to you. You always treated him as though he were your own. I’m sure Gene will miss him as well.

  If I can be of any help, please call. If you just want to talk or complain to a sympathetic ear—I know you never complain, but maybe you should once in a while—I am here. I will not be embarrassed by tears, dear.

  This has been such a terrible time what with all the other things that have been happening. God bless you. I think of you often.

  —

  The note was signed Celia, with no last name. I could not recall a Celia in my aunt’s life, but that didn’t mean anything. After I went to live at St. Stephen’s, I didn’t see a lot of my aunt for several years until I began, as an adult, to drive down to Oakwood once a month to visit her and Gene.

  I thought, however, that the name Darby rang a faint bell. I put the letter back in its envelope and the envelope in the fresh carton, then picked up the next item in the old carton. It was a memorial card for the funeral of Darby Maxwell, who died at the age of twenty-two. The card showed a traditional picture of Jesus on one side and Darby’s name, the date of his death, and the Lord’s Prayer on the other. I saved the card and continued my search.

  Paper-clipped together were several yellowing newspaper clippings. The top one was a small obituary for Darby Maxwell. Darby had died “an accidental death” while on a trip away from his home, which was Greenwillow. That, of course, gave me the connection. Greenwillow is the residence for retarded adults that my cousin Gene has lived in for many years. I glanced at my watch, took the memorial card with me, and went upstairs. There I called Greenwillow and asked to talk to the director.

  “Chris,” she said with obvious pleasure, “how nice to hear from you. I know you slip in and out, but I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “You’re always busy, Virginia. Do you have a minute now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I want to ask you about someone who I think was a resident some years ago. His name was Darby Maxwell.”

  “Darby. Yes, of course. Poor Darby. What a terrible story that was.”

  “I take it he died.”

  “Yes, and we were all brokenhearted.”

  “Did my cousin know him?”

  “They were best friends, Chris. They were close in age and they liked many of the same things. They were frequently together. Gene was devastated when Darby didn’t come back.”

  “And my aunt,” I went on. “Was she close to Darby, too?”

  “Very close. Darby’s mother had moved away—she had remarried. I remember that we talked about it, whether she should move him to another facility closer to where she lived. I thought moving him would be a mistake. His friends were here; he had lived here for several years. After she left, your aunt really filled in as a second mother. She would pick both young men up and take them to church. She would have them home for Sunday dinner. I don’t mean to say that Darby’s mother didn’t visit and watch over him, but her visits were somewhat limited.” Virginia McAlpine is a woman who dislikes criticizing others.

  “If I drop over this afternoon, would you tell me about Darby’s death? It’s almost time for my son to come home from nursery school right now.”

  “I’ll be in today and I’ll look forward to your visit. Can you tell me why you’re suddenly interested in something that happened so many years ago?”

  I told her about my digging through Aunt Margaret’s things. “I found some notes thanking her for her help and kindness when Darby died. It’s something about my aunt that I didn’t know. She obviously did many good things in her life besides caring for me, and she kept all these things to herself. It’s a whole side of her I know nothing about.”

  “It will be my pleasure to tell you the story.”

  —

  We got over there about three o’clock. Gene was playing a game with a friend, but as soon as he saw us he came over. He and Eddie get along just fine, and I left them in the activities area and went to Virginia’s office. We exchanged greetings, talked for a few minutes about Gene, and then got down to the story of Darby Maxwell.

  “Darby was a little younger than Gene, I think,” she began, “but they got along wonderfully. His parents divorced when Darby was fairly young and after Darby came to live in Greenwillow—that was at the old location, of course—Mrs. Maxwell remarried and became Mrs. Linton. For her, it was a new life. Her first husband had left her because of Darby. It was a situation he just couldn’t handle. She was a devoted mother and visited probably once a month, less than she would have liked, but it was quite a drive for her to get here.

  “Darby always visited her in Connecticut for two weeks in the summer or fall and usually went to her for Christmas, as I remember. The tragedy happened during one of those fall visits. All I can tell you is what I heard and read in the news reports. Darby and his mother went to visit friends, people who lived in a country house with a lot of space out back. The prope
rty bordered on woods. The story is that Darby and his friend, who was not retarded, went out back and walked into the woods. Somehow, Darby got away from his friend and was lost.

  “They didn’t find him for many days, although I know that a search was organized that same day. There was a pond somewhere in all that land and they dragged it, looking for him. The weather turned bad a couple of days after he disappeared. It rained very heavily, it got cold at night as it sometimes does in September, and the experts began to despair of finding him alive. When they finally did find him, it was in a place they had passed before, several times, in fact. So he must have been alive during that part of the search. It was very sad. Gene was distraught; I can tell you that.”

  “That really is a terrible story,” I said. “Was the funeral around here?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Linton felt that his friends should be able to attend and we all did. She went to her old church, not here in Oakwood but nearby. He was buried in Connecticut.”

  “What part did my aunt play in all this?”

  “She helped Mrs. Linton make the arrangements. I believe she even had her stay at her home for a couple of nights. Your aunt felt she had lost one of her own, but the truth is, she would have done it for anyone here; she was that kind of person.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say. She never told me about this. I suppose it must have happened ten or twelve years ago.”

  “About that, yes. I could look up the date.”

  “I have some clippings in an old carton,” I said. “I’m sure the date is on one of them. Not that it matters. I really wanted to know what Margaret’s part was in all this.”

  “She was more than helpful.”

  “Would you mind if I talked to Gene about Darby?”

  “I don’t think there’s any harm. I’m sure he’ll remember. He has a good memory for things that are important to him.”

  That was certainly true. “Thank you, Virginia. It’s been good talking to you.”

  I left her to her work and went out to find my son and my cousin. They were giggling together, some of Gene’s beloved miniature cars on the floor between them. I watched from a distance, happy that my son accepted Gene and that Gene got along well with Eddie. When there was a lull, I walked over and sat down on the floor with them. I talked to Gene for a minute or two, checking as I always did to make sure he was getting along well, eating well, and enjoying his life. Eddie played by himself with the cars as we talked.

  Finally I said, “Gene, do you remember Darby?”

  “My friend Darby?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Darby died. I cried and cried. He was my friend.”

  “Did your mama know Darby?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did Darby go to your house sometimes?”

  “Uh-huh. He came for dinner. Mama made dinner.”

  “He must have been a very nice boy,” I said.

  “He was. He was my best friend. He went away and died.”

  “I’m glad you remember him.” I patted Gene on the back. We are almost exactly the same age, and I reflect sometimes on how I grew from a girl to a woman while Gene’s body became that of a man while his personality remained that of a sweet child. In a few years Eddie will have outgrown him intellectually, but I hope they stay friends forever, as Gene and I have.

  We stayed a little while longer; then Eddie and I went home to get dinner ready and wait for Jack to come home. Later in the evening, after Eddie was asleep, I told Jack about my basement cleanup and where it had led me. As always, I was sorry Jack and Aunt Meg had never met. They were each part of a different segment of my life.

  3

  I heard nothing more about the mysterious bug that had attacked the children at Ryan’s birthday party. I called Pat, his mother, but she had no answers, and I called the hospital, but the people I talked to seemed confused and weren’t sure what I was talking about. I didn’t think that was a very good sign, but I told myself that everyone nowadays is overworked and since no one had been seriously injured, perhaps they were taking the incident less seriously than we mothers.

  It wasn’t till Friday of that week that I got back to the cartons in the basement. I had left them in such a way that I could pick up exactly where I had left off. I continued digging in the old, mildewing carton, taking out a handful of things that were next in line for a decision. To my surprise, I was immediately confronted with another death.

  It was at that moment that it registered in my brain what the mysterious Celia had meant in the letter she had written Aunt Meg after Darby’s funeral. She had referred to all the terrible things that had happened and perhaps it was this second funeral—or rather, this first one, as I was reading in reverse chronological order—that she had meant.

  Again there was a holy card, this one with the name of Lawrence Norton Filmore, who had died at the age of fifty. The obituary in the local paper contained a photograph of a good-looking man with a mustache over a happy smile. The copy extended to two columns and detailed a life of work, family, and philanthropy. It appeared that he had lived right here in Oakwood and his funeral was at the church that Aunt Meg attended, as well as Jack, Eddie, and I. The address in the paper was a mile or so from where we lived, but I didn’t recall Aunt Meg ever mentioning him to me.

  The startling thing about the obituary was in the second paragraph: “The cause of death was an apparent suicide.” Suicide is a very delicate situation in the Catholic Church. Traditionally, victims of suicide were not allowed a Catholic funeral. In recent times, however, a more generous approach to suicide has come about. Although taking one’s life is a sin, it is thought that the victim may have had doubts about his act at a moment when it was too late to go back, such as after the finger pulled the trigger. Looked at that way, the victim can be forgiven, and nowadays many suicides are given Catholic funerals and buried in hallowed ground. This was apparently one of those cases, as the church was mentioned in the article.

  Another newspaper clipping, this one written several days before the obituary, talked about the disappearance of Mr. Filmore just after a large party given in celebration of his birthday. Almost four hundred people had attended, and from the description, it sounded like quite a bash. I looked at the next items in the carton, and sure enough, there was an invitation to Aunt Meg for the party. “You are invited to the Happy Birthday Party for Larry Filmore,” the text said. “Please help us celebrate half a century of the life of a great man. No presents will be accepted. Instead, please give a donation to a favorite charity or one of the following.” Three organizations were mentioned, one of them a special fund at the church.

  Yet another newspaper article appeared to have been published a day or two after the big birthday party, giving names of prominent guests, the menu, the band, and a description of the decorations, which sounded lovely. I could only imagine the surprise and shock of the family after the object of this grand celebration took his life. Even today, I thought, they must still be wondering why.

  I rummaged through the papers nearby and found a note from Laura Filmore thanking Margaret for her kindness, etc., after Larry died. What a time my aunt must have had, I thought, two deaths in such a short period of time, two people she was deeply fond of. I was curious about this suicide but knew I couldn’t ask Melanie Gross, my closest friend in town, as she hadn’t lived here a dozen years ago. I looked at my watch, saw I had some time before Eddie’s nursery school ended, and gathered together the documents concerning Lawrence Filmore. I took them upstairs and called my next-door neighbor, Midge McDonald, who has lived here much longer than I. She was home and invited me over for a cup of coffee. Armed with my papers, I went.

  —

  Midge is a very cheerful woman who married young, by which I mean in her early twenties, and now has a teenager and two children approaching their teens. She is one of those people who always seem to be busy, and I had been surprised to find her at home. Her house is to the left of ours as you face them
, one of the older homes on the street. Beyond our house on the other side are houses built in a newer style at a later time.

  By the time I got to her door, the coffee was already dripping into a filter paper and filling the air with a wonderful fragrance. On the kitchen table were two ceramic cups and saucers in bright colors as well as matching sugar and creamer in the center of the table.

  “It’s great to see you, Chris,” she said. “Sometimes I think we pass in the night. I haven’t set eyes on you for weeks.”

  “I’ve been doing a bunch of word processing for my lawyer friend in New York and I’m teaching a new course this semester, so I’ve been doing a lot of reading for it.”

  “That’s wonderful. I wish I could teach.”

  “You do plenty of other things.”

  “I guess we all do. What’s all that stuff?” She was looking at my rubber-banded bunch of papers from the basement.

  “I was wondering if you remembered a man named Lawrence Filmore. He died about a dozen years ago and I think you lived here then.”

  “I sure do,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite mine. “He committed suicide, Chris. The circumstances were very strange.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I didn’t know him personally, but your aunt did. I remember talking to her about it afterward. He had some big birthday, fifty or sixty, and disappeared the next morning. No one had any idea where he was for days and then he was found dead. He had shot himself.”