The Happy Birthday Murder Page 20

“What is it?”

  “A piece of candy.”

  “Can I see it, Eddie?”

  He looked at me as though making a judgment. In that moment, he looked very small and I felt very big and overbearing. “You can see it, but it’s mine.” He opened his fist slowly. In his hand was a little ball of chocolate.

  “Can I have it, Eddie? Just to look at?”

  “No!” He made a fist again. “It’s mine.”

  “I know it’s yours, but I really need to see it.”

  He opened his fist again, his eyes on mine. I knew I had to take it from him and I knew he would be angry, but sometimes you just have to do what’s right, especially when your child’s health is concerned. I grabbed for it and Eddie burst into tears. He screamed and kicked, and as I was trying to pacify him I heard the doorbell ring.

  I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and wiped his eyes although he hadn’t stopped crying. “Let’s go downstairs, Eddie. Someone’s at the door.”

  “I want my magic candy.”

  “We have lots of candy downstairs, lots and lots of candy.”

  “That’s my magic candy. Ryan’s brother said—”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Come on, honey. Someone’s here for the party. Let’s go.”

  We went downstairs, where Elsie had just opened the door for the first guest. In a few minutes, Eddie was himself again, delighted to be given a beautifully wrapped present from a nursery school friend. A minute later, Mel arrived with Sari and Noah and more packages. I slipped into the kitchen and put the chocolate ball in a plastic bag, then hid it on a high shelf. The doorbell kept ringing and friends kept coming. Jack showed up at the back door, but I was too busy to tell him what I had found. Maybe it was the answer we had been looking for.

  —

  There is something touching about a party that is over, about the leftover wrappings and balloons and streamers and paper plates with pieces of cake and puddles of melted ice cream on them. The beautiful paper tablecloth was ripped and doused with soda; napkins lay on the floor; balloons wallowed in corners.

  My son was four. He had a life of his own, filled with friends who were important to him. He made choices, played games, sang songs, and misbehaved with the best of them. I felt weary and teary as I gathered up the leavings, grateful that Aunt Meg had a table pad made decades ago to protect the wood. Today it had paid for itself.

  Eddie was upstairs sleeping, Elsie had gone home, and Jack had taken the magic ball of chocolate to the hospital to have it analyzed. After everyone had gone and I had told Jack about it, he had asked Eddie some questions. Eddie didn’t remember Ryan’s brother’s name, but I recalled that an older brother had been at the party, now well over a month ago. I hadn’t said anything to Pat Damon, Ryan’s mother, because I didn’t want to agitate her before we knew if there was anything besides chocolate in the ball.

  Eddie had said that the brother had given the magic balls to some of the children at the party and told them not to eat them till they were home. He said they would give the kids good dreams. I wondered if he had eaten one himself. Eddie had been given one and had found a second one on the grass. Somehow it had turned up this afternoon and he decided to eat it before his party. I had appeared at his door at a most auspicious moment.

  I filled a large plastic bag with what was now garbage and took it out to our garbage can. It would be collected tomorrow. I went back to the dining room to see what damage had been done. I didn’t want to run the vacuum while Eddie was sleeping, so I had some work for tomorrow morning. I put the table pad away and replaced the centerpiece. Except for the occasional balloon bouncing as I passed, the dining room looked pretty civil again.

  Jack had mentioned that there was no news on the fingerprints and I was rather glad. One thing at a time, I thought. I was happy to have a large chunk of cake in the refrigerator and a ton of pizza slices in the freezer and refrigerator. I wasn’t sure I would suggest pizza again as a quick meal for a long time.

  My work done, I sat down in the family room with the paper, which I had barely looked at this morning. By the time Jack got back, I was fast asleep.

  —

  Friday was a pretty normal day. On Saturday Elsie and Gene were coming over to help celebrate Eddie’s birthday without the crowd. There was plenty of pizza, a favorite of Gene’s as well as ours, and I would get some fresh cupcakes for the occasion. I wasn’t sure how we would all tolerate so much sweet stuff, but I knew we would try. In between, Eddie had nursery school this morning, which left me alone to put the house in order. As soon as he was gone, I went up to his room and checked every drawer to see if any more of the little candy balls had been secreted. I didn’t look forward to telling Pat Damon the source of the illness that had marred her son’s birthday, if it turned out that the candy balls contained some poison, but I wanted to know as soon as possible if that was it. Jack had turned over the plastic bag to the same emergency room doctor whom we had seen the night of Ryan’s party, and he had promised to send it along to whoever would analyze it.

  I found nothing in Eddie’s drawers except the clothes that were supposed to be there, and I was relieved. I wondered for a moment which child had been spared a night of agony by accidentally losing his magic candy ball. And I was very thankful that Eddie had put his second one away and not eaten it.

  He came home from nursery school and we had lunch together. He asked for pizza, but I said we would have pizza and a salad tonight. For lunch we would stick to what I considered healthy food, an egg salad sandwich and some carrot sticks. He was tired enough after lunch that he took a nap. I sat down with the paper and a moment later the phone rang.

  “Got word on the prints,” Jack said as I picked up.

  I held my breath for a moment, then said, “Tell me.”

  “They’re hers, no doubt about it.”

  I hadn’t expected anything else, but I felt a wave of sadness. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not taking it to the Oakwood Police yet. I have a feeling—”

  “About what?” I asked, surprised at his hesitation.

  “You know, when Larry Filmore died, the police did a quick check of his background.”

  “And found nothing.”

  “Right. Did anyone check Laura’s background?”

  “Why should they?” I heard myself sounding annoyed. “She didn’t kill him, Jack. We know who killed him. It’s just a matter of proving it or getting him to admit it.”

  “I don’t dispute that. I’m just feeling a little itchy about Laura. She was at least partly responsible for a man’s death and she evaded the law. I want to see if there’s anything else.”

  “There isn’t,” I said firmly.

  “You may be right,” my husband said with a tone of voice I had heard before. “Let me just run her prints through NCIC and see if we come up with anything.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Boy, would I like a piece of rare roast beef for dinner,” he said with mock enthusiasm.

  “Roast beef! Roast beef! I have a refrigerator full of pizza.”

  “Well, I guess that’ll have to do.”

  “And most of the leftover slices have mushrooms and pepperoni.”

  “I’ll force myself.”

  “You better.”

  “See you later.”

  —

  I asked him when he came home if anything else had turned up. He said no, but he’d left our number in case something did. This wasn’t exactly a priority request, so it might not be processed for some time. All over the country, police departments were researching the backgrounds of people arrested for crimes they had just committed and attempting to match prints found at the scene of some crime committed in the recent past. We had learned what we needed to about Laura, and Jack had decided to turn over his evidence to the Oakwood Police after our little party on Saturday afternoon.

  Laura and I had not spoken for several days, and I hoped she would not call out of the
blue. I made Jack promise that I could talk to her before he spoke to the police. I didn’t look forward to our meeting, but I couldn’t just let her be arrested with no warning.

  I must have been very subdued on Saturday because Elsie asked if I was all right. I assured her I was. She had gotten Eddie a set of child’s gardening tools so he could help me in the spring and summer, a gift I knew we would both appreciate. And in her very kind, grandmotherly way, she had bought a present for my cousin Gene, one of the miniature cars he collected. You would have thought it was his birthday, the way his face lit up.

  We took Gene to Greenwillow and then drove home. Eddie wanted to do some digging with his new shovel, but it was too cold out. He refused to put the tools in the garage with the big tools, so we took them up to his room and I reminded him that they were to be used out-of-doors only. All I needed now was for him to try digging up the floor.

  There were no messages. Jack’s parents were vacationing in Florida, which was why they hadn’t come out for the birthday party. When they returned, we would probably do it all over again, but for the moment, the parties were behind us.

  “You want to talk to Laura Filmore?” Jack asked.

  “I thought maybe I’d wait till you hear from NCIC.”

  He gave me a smile. “You worried she has a record?”

  “No, but it doesn’t hurt to wait.”

  “And you don’t want to do this anyway.”

  “Not really. What do you think they’ll do to her, Jack?”

  “Hard to say. There are a lot of violations involved. She left the scene of an accident and a man died. Not to mention the drug charge.”

  “This is the wrong way for this to end.”

  At that moment, the phone rang.

  24

  It was for Jack and I knew it was about Laura. He spoke in a low voice, listening a lot, asking a few questions, eventually writing notes on a pad near the telephone. I heard a soft whistle, a number of words of surprise, and my heart froze. He was on much longer than I anticipated, and I wasn’t looking forward to what he had to tell me when he got off.

  Finally, he hung up and joined me in the family room. “You ready for a long story?” he asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “Well brace yourself.”

  “This is about Laura’s prints?”

  “That’s the beginning,” he said.

  “Let me hear it.”

  “Remember the persimmon?”

  My head swam a little. “She gave me one. I left it on the counter to ripen. It was delicious.”

  “Remember what she told you? That they picked them from trees when she was a kid?”

  It came back to me. “And she said before that that she grew up in Wisconsin.”

  “Well, she didn’t grow up in Wisconsin; she went to school there. But she may have picked persimmons as a child. She was born in Georgia and her name was Luann Carter.”

  “Luann?”

  “Right. The prints on the picture and the cigarette both belong to Luann Carter, who dropped out of school in Wisconsin, hooked up with a group of radical antiwar young people, and went on a rampage across the country that included stealing cars and money and even left a couple of homicides in their wake.”

  “This is impossible, Jack.” I could feel everything inside me tightening, including my vocal cords.

  “I wish it were.”

  “You said homicides?”

  “I didn’t get everything he said—he’ll fax the whole report to the office—but somewhere in the Midwest the gang robbed a hardware store and killed the owner and a cop who answered a call from a bystander.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “There were five people in the gang, three men and two women. Two of the men were arrested after that robbery. The other three got away. They drove west and were involved in at least two other armed robberies before they dropped out of sight. The man was eventually found dead of a drug overdose in San Francisco. The other woman turned herself in when the FBI was closing in on her a few years ago and she made a sweet deal. Luann Carter disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “When did all this happen?” I asked, surprised to hear my voice almost a whisper.

  “Late sixties, early seventies.”

  “She was young.”

  “She was over eighteen.”

  “She came to New York,” I said, putting it together. “She met Larry Filmore; they fell in love and married. She told him she was Laura something and she became Laura Filmore.”

  “I’d guess that’s the short version.”

  I felt cold, almost to the point of trembling. “She can’t have killed anyone, Jack. She’s just not that kind of person.”

  “Not now she isn’t. People change. But she’s wanted by the FBI.”

  “Does your contact have her current name and address?”

  “Nobody does except us.”

  “I have to think about this overnight.”

  “No problem.”

  —

  It was one of the worst nights of my life. I had cleaned out my aunt’s cartons and learned of two deaths. Two men had died and their sneakers had been switched. Now, a month and a half later, I had inadvertently turned up a person wanted for murder, a fine and decent woman who was as good a member of our community as any I had ever met.

  I felt as conflicted about this as I had ever felt. I knew I had no choice. Laura had to be turned in. Jack would give me time, but not indefinitely. I had to see Laura soon and then walk away to let the police do their job. All I had wanted was to find Paul Norman and prove he had killed Larry Filmore and caused the death of Darby Maxwell. I had almost, but not quite, done that. It occurred to me that if Laura hadn’t been smoking marijuana that night in the car over twelve years ago, both her husband and Darby would still be alive, as well, perhaps, as the man in the car who had died in the accident. It was a terrible what-if. The consequences of that small action had ranged so far and affected so many people, it was hard to accept.

  I got up Sunday morning, happy that I was going to mass with my family. When we left the church, we shook hands with the priest, who asked if I was all right.

  “Fine, thank you,” I said.

  “You look a little pale, Chris. Don’t let the cold weather get you down.”

  I promised I would look after myself. We walked out to the car and Jack drove us home. He was cooking today, and I was thankful for that. But it also took away my one possible excuse not to confront Laura.

  We got home and divvied up the Times, Jack looking at the sports section first, I at the news of the week. I couldn’t concentrate.

  “You make a decision?” Jack asked.

  “I’ll go this afternoon.”

  “You mind if I alert the Oakwood Police about her?”

  “After I leave the house, please. And I don’t want them moving in on her till I leave. I have to hear her out. I have to give her a chance to explain herself. It may be the last time she can do that. I’m sure she’ll call a lawyer.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  We had a light lunch and I waited till one, then told Eddie I had to go out for a while, but he could stay home and help Daddy prepare dinner. Eddie liked that, working with Jack, whether it was cooking or hammering nails.

  I drove over to Laura’s beautiful house and pulled into her driveway. It occurred to me that every day of her life she walked in and out of the garage where she had found her husband’s body twelve years ago. I shuddered at the thought.

  I walked around to the front door and pushed the button, hearing the musical chimes echo inside. No one answered. I pushed the bell again, waited a moment, and walked away. I had been given a reprieve.

  “You looking for Laura?”

  I looked around. A woman walking a dog had stopped at the foot of the driveway.

  “Yes. She doesn’t seem to be home.”

  “I think she went to the cemetery.”

  “Did someone die?”


  “No, it’s some kind of anniversary. Her husband is buried in the Catholic cemetery just at the edge of town.”

  “Yes, I know it.” My aunt and uncle were buried there, having lived and died in Oakwood. “Thank you.”

  “Sure.”

  She went on her way, talking to her dog. I got back in the car and made my way out of the small community of large houses that made up Oakwood’s most expensive living area. At the main road, I turned toward the cemetery rather than going home.

  I could remember the funerals of my uncle and aunt, a number of years apart but both of them after my mother died. I turned into the entrance and went into the main building. A woman at a desk told me where to find the grave of Lawrence Filmore. It wasn’t all that far from my relatives.

  I located the section and parked my car at the side of the road behind Laura’s empty car. As always, it was quiet and peaceful here, the trees bare except for the occasional evergreen. I walked down a path that would take me to the Filmore plot. By the time I saw Laura, sitting on a stone bench and looking off into the distance, I was almost trembling. As I approached, I noticed once again what a good-looking woman she was. Her blond hair seemed to fall just the way she would want it to. Her coat was camel-colored and a brown scarf peeked over the collar.

  I had changed my clothes after we came back from church and I looked much more casual than she, but she always looked well and carefully dressed, her nails lacquered, her cheeks slightly pink, whether from the cold or otherwise, I could not tell. I stepped on some dry leaves that crackled, and she turned toward me.

  “Chris?”

  “Hi. Your neighbor said you were here.”

  “You came out here to see me?”

  “We have to talk, Laura. I thought this was as good a place as any.”

  She watched me as I neared the bench, then moved over to give me a place to sit. “This is where Larry is buried,” she said. “I’ll be buried over there, to the right.”

  The stone was simple, gray granite with a cross on top, his name and the dates of his birth and death engraved underneath. As I often do, I subtracted one date from the other, realizing the difference was exactly fifty, almost to the day. The happy birthday party. It had marked the end of his life. On the grass in front of the stone was a large bouquet of flowers.