The Christmas Night Murder Read online

  The Pennsylvania car drove out of its slot and the handler of the second dog gave him a piece of Hudson’s clothing to sniff again. The dog sniffed the ground, turning around, until suddenly he seemed to pick up the scent the other dog had. Revitalized, he barked once and took off toward the building, following the identical path. I watched him turn at the same point and make for the snowy rise behind the parking lot.

  Jack had followed the first dog. Now he came back to where I stood with the Golds between the first row of parked cars and the building. “Looks like he got out of his car, walked toward the building, then back to the snow, then cut diagonally back to his car. The dogs can’t seem to find any other direction that he moved. He probably never got into the building.”

  “Then he didn’t call from here,” I said. “There are no phones outside.”

  “He could have called from the rest stop north of here. It’s also south of Albany. Maybe he wanted to wait till the last minute to change his clothes.”

  “So what we’ve got,” Arnold said, “is that he walked over to the taped area—and we don’t know which route he took there and which back—dropped some articles of clothing, and took the other route back to his car.”

  “With or without someone who was forcing him with a weapon,” I said.

  “And then they—or he—drove away.” Jack summed it up.

  “If it was the car they were after, they would’ve left Hudson behind.”

  “It couldn’t have been the car, Arnold. He would never have spent a lot of money on a car. Even if he’d had the money, and he probably didn’t, he would have given it away before he’d spend it on a car.”

  “It seems to me that leaves two possibilities. One is that someone was after him, for reasons currently unknown. The other is that something happened to make him decide not to keep his date with St. Stephen’s.”

  “That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” Jack said.

  —

  We threw hypothetical scenarios at each other all the way back to St. Stephen’s but came up with nothing workable. By the time we got to the convent, the state police had called Joseph and told her about as much as we knew. They assured her they would keep looking for Hudson, but she sensed a resignation in what the officer said. The bloodhounds, which had been led up and down the strip along the thruway after we left, had found nothing, and all the police were convinced of was that Hudson—or whoever the owner of the clothing was—had left his car, walked back to the snowy area, and returned to the car, completing a circle that was more like a triangle. The snow had been so trampled that any footprints Hudson might have left were completely obliterated.

  Most of the nuns had gone off to bed. The fire had also gone to sleep, but we got it going again and Joseph and I made coffee and cut some cake that had been on the long table in the afternoon. Then the five of us sat around the fire and talked.

  “Tell me what you feel, Sister Joseph,” Arnold said.

  Joseph put her cup down and sat with her hands in her lap. “I feel something terrible has happened to him. I know something terrible has happened. We’ve been corresponding for months to set this day up. You didn’t have to read between the lines to sense his joy at coming back here. It was in every word.”

  “Do you have the letters?”

  “All of them.”

  “Tell me why he left, Sister.”

  “It was something he always wanted to do, something he had to work out with church authorities because he would no longer be under the direction of one diocese. He wanted to go to communities where there weren’t many Catholics and there wasn’t a priest, except now and then. He wanted to become part of those communities, to make a difference, to bring the people together, give a religious meaning to their lives, so that when he left, they would remember, they would be stronger. He never moved on until he was sure there was leadership, till he knew they could make it without him.”

  “If I asked you to describe his personality, what kind of person he seemed to you, what would you say?”

  “Carefree and serious,” Joseph said without a pause. “He’s a friendly, outgoing man, loves a party, laughs a lot. And he’s deeply religious, deeply committed. He cares. He cares about everyone and everything. He listens; he has time for people.” She turned to look at me.

  “I second everything.”

  Arnold leaned forward. He was still looking at Joseph as though she were the only one there. “Assume someone wanted to harm him. You knew him well and you knew him a long time. Tell me who and tell me why.”

  She turned her face toward the fire. For a long time she sat looking at it, not a muscle in her face moving. Finally she turned back to face Arnold and shook her head.

  Harriet stood up. “Tomorrow’s a workday, dear.”

  “Right.” It was one of those years when Christmas hit the middle of the week. For Arnold, Thursday and Friday would be spent in the office. He stood and shook hands.

  We walked the Golds to the door and Jack went out to the parking lot with them while I collected cups and saucers and took them to the kitchen, where I made fast work of washing them up.

  Joseph handed me a key and said, “This will let you into the dormitory. I’ve left the door of 102 open. The key is on the dresser. There’s only enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing, so we’ve put a very adequate electric heater in the room. The water’s hot, so your shower shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Whenever you wake up, we’ll have breakfast for you.”

  “We’re going to find him, Joseph.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Go on up. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  I watched her go, a tall woman who held herself proudly. Although we were all upset, I thought that Arnold’s questions had rattled her even more, but I didn’t know why. There was no reason I could think of for anyone to wish harm to Hudson and I had no idea who would want to do so.

  Jack came in a few minutes after Joseph had gone upstairs. It struck me that he had been outside with the Golds for rather a long time. He put his arm around me and kissed me.

  “Feels like a long time since we’ve been alone together anywhere.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here today, you and Arnold. Your calm has really helped. I’ve never seen Joseph so upset, even though she’s working hard at concealing it.”

  “We’re all working hard. Let’s find our room.”

  “It’s not much of a walk. We can leave the car where it is.”

  “Lead the way.”

  4

  I sat on the edge of the narrow bed that was mine for the night, wearing the rose-colored nightgown that Jack’s sister had given me as an engagement present. It was the most elegant and luxurious piece of clothing I had ever owned, spaghetti straps down to a permanently pleated gown with yards of yummy fabric that looked more like an evening gown than something to sleep in. Knowing where I was going to spend the night, I would have been smarter to take along a flannel nightie, but I couldn’t resist the appeal of wearing something so fine in a place so spare.

  Jack opened the door, returning from the long trek to the shower room. “Gotta be forty in that hall, but it’s nice in here. Boy, do you look gorgeous. You wore that on our wedding night, didn’t you?”

  “It’s the one your sister gave me.” I stood and turned a full circle, relishing the feel of the soft fabric as it swirled around my legs and ankles.

  Jack took his bathrobe off and put his arms around me, lighting fires inside. “The bed’s too narrow, and even thinking of sex in this place gives me the creeps, but that’s all I can think of right now.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “I don’t think it makes any difference. We’ll probably end up on the floor.”

  He laughed and sat me down on my bed, but I was right. A couple of minutes later, aided only by pillows, we made love on the wooden floor of a dormitory room that couldn’t have wi
tnessed such activity in all the years of its existence. I found that exciting and Jack must have, too, because it was very good, a good way to end Christmas.

  —

  “You think Sister Joseph is holding something back?”

  We were sitting on my bed in the dark room, the only light the occasional red glow of the heater as the thermostat turned it on. “I know her very well, Jack. She didn’t answer Arnold, and I think she wouldn’t lie except perhaps to save a life. If there was something she wanted to avoid saying, saying nothing may have been the most honorable way out.”

  “So you tell me. You remember him well. You thought he was a wonderful person. Everybody irritates someone. Who had a gripe against him? Who didn’t like the way he counseled the students? Who hated his sermons?”

  “No one ever complained to me. He was well liked. He’s a great person.”

  “What was it like when he left? Was it sudden? Were there whispers?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. I wasn’t here that year.”

  “What do you mean, you weren’t here? Where else could you have been?”

  “It was the year I went for my master’s. I stayed at school over Thanksgiving, I remember, and I asked permission to visit Aunt Meg at Christmas.”

  “Christmas is a long vacation. You spent the whole time in Oakwood?”

  I thought about it. “No, I didn’t. I stayed through the holiday and then I came up here. Hudson was gone, I’m sure of it.”

  “So he left before Christmas.”

  “He must have.”

  “Before you left for school in the fall, was he talking about going away?”

  “Not to me, but there was no reason why he’d talk to me about something like that. He would have talked to Sister Clare Angela, the superior, or Joseph, maybe to some of the nuns that he was particularly friendly with, but I was kind of a kid. He might have told me after it was in the bag, but I wasn’t around. Why do you think there’s something funny about his leaving? It was something he always wanted to do, travel, work with poor communities.”

  “Because Arnold hit her with two questions that she refused to answer. If I’d asked you the same question—who would harm Hudson and why?—what would you say?”

  “Nobody. He never gave anyone a reason not to like him.”

  “But she didn’t say that. And it left both Arnold and me feeling uncomfortable. Why do you think she didn’t answer the way you did?”

  —

  There was only one possible reason. “Because for her it wasn’t true. You think something happened that year I was away, that first semester, probably.”

  “Right. Besides the convent, where else did he serve?”

  “There’s a small, old church in the village. He lived in the rectory there and that was officially his parish, although he had a lot of duties associated with St. Stephen’s. He would offer mass for us at six A.M. and then one at the church later. Father Kramer took over as pastor of the church when Hudson left, and continued here, too.”

  “Do you know where he was before?”

  “Father Kramer? Somewhere near Newburgh. I don’t remember where.”

  “So he wouldn’t remember anything firsthand about that year.”

  “No. Tell me what you’re thinking, Jack.”

  “Nothing very substantial. It just seems possible that something happened at that little church in the village, someone got angry at Hudson for something, and it precipitated his leaving.”

  “And the person carried a grudge,” I said. “But how would this unknown person even know that Hudson was coming back today?”

  “How about this? Hudson gets to the rest stop near Albany and calls St. Stephen’s. But this other thing is on his mind. So he makes a second call to someone who lives around here and says, ‘Let’s talk. I’ll meet you at the next rest stop in an hour.’ ”

  “And the meeting takes a bad turn.”

  “It means we’ve got to find the phone he called St. Stephen’s from and see what the next call was.”

  I didn’t like it, but it fit a lot of what we knew.

  “There’s another possibility,” Jack went on. “He gets to the rest stop where he’s going to change from his traveling clothes to his clerical suit and he just can’t do it. He can’t face the convent.”

  “But why?”

  “Sister Joseph knows.”

  “Then where is he, Jack?”

  “Who knows? In a hotel somewhere. On his way back to Buffalo. Sitting in his car at the side of a road trying to make sense out of his life.”

  “You’re awfully melodramatic for a cop.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He sounded playful. “How can a cop from Brooklyn appreciate melodrama? I should leave that for poetry teachers.”

  “What I’m really afraid of is that what happened to Hudson was random violence, someone seeing a watch he was wearing and trying to get it away from him, threatening him with a gun. Maybe he did have a car someone wanted, one of those four-by-fours I always see in the supermarket parking lot. His parishes always covered a lot of territory. Maybe he needed that kind of car or truck to get around difficult terrain, to carry things to parishioners. Maybe this is a car jacking after all and somehow he ended up being taken with the car.”

  “Let’s sleep on it.”

  I kissed him and he got off the bed, waited for me to get under the covers, and tucked me in. Then he turned the heater down a little and turned the light off.

  The bed was narrow and not very comfortable. At home we had a brand-new one with a firm mattress and lots of room. This was the first time I was alone in bed since my marriage last August. Somehow I knew it wasn’t going to be my last.

  —

  There was no news from the state police in the morning. The trail had dried up at the rest stop. All they could be sure of was that the owner of the clerical clothing—who might or might not be Hudson—had gotten out of his car, walked out of the parking lot to the snowy area in back, dropped some of his clothing, and gone back to the car. With the people using the parking lot such a transient group, it was impossible to find anyone who might remember a Wyoming car. But they now had a license plate number and a description of the vehicle Hudson had been driving. As it turned out, I was right. It was one of those all-terrain vehicles with heavy-duty tires, purchased used several years ago. Although the police were now fairly skeptical about the possibility of foul play, they promised they would keep a lookout for the vehicle.

  After breakfast, we drove into town and found the Church of the Visitation. It had been built late in the nineteenth century and little about it had changed. The trees nearby were gnarled with age. Like many old churches, its entrance was flush with the street, the double doors thick wood with wrought-iron trim.

  We went inside and I dipped my fingers in the font of holy water and crossed myself. The interior was beautiful, high windows all around letting in the daylight, polished old pews that had taken their knocks. I walked around to one of the side altars and lit my usual three candles, one each for my mother, my father, and my aunt Meg.

  Jack had his wallet open, but I motioned him away. Perhaps when I’ve been married longer I’ll feel different about it, but I’ve always felt I have to pay myself with money I have earned or money that would come out of my daily expenses. There was a statue of a very sweet Mary at the altar, and I smiled up at her as I walked away.

  Jack took my hand and we walked to the sanctuary. No one was around. A side door to the outside was locked, so we went back to the front door and out to the street. The rectory, a newer red-brick building, was next door. I rang the bell and heard a woman calling that she was on her way.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly as she opened the door. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Father. He’s gone to the hospital to visit a sick parishioner.”

  “You’re Mrs. Pfeiffer, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Yes, I am. You look familiar, too, but I can’t place the face.”

  �
��I was Sister Edward Frances at St. Stephen’s.”

  “Oh, of course you were! Come on in, Sister. Well, it isn’t Sister anymore now, is it?”

  “No, I’m Chris Bennett, Chris Bennett Brooks. This is my husband, Jack.”

  She said how delighted she was to meet him and invited us to sit down. When we turned her down on coffee, I was afraid we’d wounded her mortally.

  “But you’ll stay for lunch,” she insisted. “I’ve just made the best turkey salad you’ll get anywhere.”

  I looked at Jack and he agreed with a grin. It wasn’t the kind of treatment he got when he went out with a partner to interview a possible witness about a crime.

  “You’re really the one I wanted to see, Mrs. Pfeiffer. You’ve been here for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “My goodness, yes. I lost my husband in my thirties and I needed a job, and I won’t tell you how many years it’s been since then.”

  “You were here when Father McCormick came.”

  “Yes indeed. A wonderful man. Father Kramer told me this morning that he didn’t get to the convent last night. I hope you’re not bringing me bad news.”

  “No, no news at all. We don’t know anything more than you do. I just wanted to ask you about the years Father McCormick served in this parish.”

  “I was here the whole time,” she said. “I was here when he came and here when he left. Are you trying to find him? Is that it?”

  “We’re trying to figure out whether someone in the parish might have wanted to harm him.”

  “Impossible.” She looked shocked. “Who would harm a priest?”

  “Do you remember any disagreements while he was here? Any person or people who might have been unhappy with him as pastor?”

  “No one. Never.” She was adamant. I was asking for something she could not conceive of.

  “Just think for a minute. Parish politics can be the making or undoing of a priest. One person thinks another has been shown favoritism. Someone thinks he’s gotten the wrong end of the stick.” I sat back and let her get her thoughts together. Jack had walked away from us, leaving us to face each other across a scarred coffee table.