The April Fools' Day Murder Page 4

  At some point he will probably enroll in one of the prep courses given by retired chiefs and lieutenants that coach people for the exam. The classes are given days, nights, and weekends, so we’ll go through that again, but he’s waiting till he has done some work on the subject matter himself.

  I thought about it as I drove to the Platts’ house. Our lives are never static. I’m planning to change the course I’ve been teaching since I left the convent, as I don’t want to grow stale, and with a small child, no day is exactly the same as the last one.

  The large car that Roger Platt had driven last night was nowhere to be seen. I parked at the curb and walked to the front door, not altogether sure what I was going to say if Mrs. Platt happened to be home.

  She was home, and she pulled the door open and looked at me with surprise. “Mrs. Brooks.”

  “Chris. Do you have a minute?”

  “Well, I was going to go over to Winnie’s to see how she’s doing but I don’t have to leave right away. Please come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  This time she took my coat and hung it in the front closet. She asked me if I’d like a cup of tea or coffee, but I was so stuffed from our brunch that I declined. We went into the living room and sat down.

  “I was very concerned,” I began, “when I saw your mother-in-law walking on that dark road last night.”

  “She doesn’t drive. She stopped driving years ago. I don’t think she even bothers to renew her license anymore.”

  “That’s not the point. That’s a fast road, there are no lights till you get right into the center of town, and frankly, I couldn’t understand why no one picked her up to bring her over here.” I knew I was talking about things that were none of my business, but I felt a woman’s safety was involved, and I was hoping my hostess would let some interesting information drop.

  “Roger was supposed to go there.” She looked sad or distressed.

  “But he didn’t. It seems odd. His father was murdered yesterday. His mother is bereaved.”

  “I suppose to an outsider it might look a bit odd. My husband doesn’t get along well with his parents, at least not with his father. The reasons go way back. I’m not sure I even understand them myself. Life isn’t simple anymore. If it ever was.”

  “Is he on good terms with his mother?”

  “Reasonably good terms. She’s a nice woman and I feel very sorry for her. She lived with a difficult man and she gave birth to another one. Sometimes I think it’s a miracle she’s kept her sanity.”

  “She seemed very determined last night to see her son.”

  “She was. They had a good talk and then Roger drove her home. I’m going to see her this afternoon and bring something over that she can eat for dinner.”

  “By herself?” I asked.

  “I think it’s better that way.”

  “Mrs. Platt—”

  “Doris. My name is Doris.”

  “Doris, I worry about a woman alone in that isolated location.”

  “Yes, I do too, but I don’t know what to do about it at this point. I don’t think she should come here.”

  “Doesn’t she like it here?”

  The question obviously disturbed her. “She wouldn’t be happy here. That’s all I can say.”

  I was starting to get a feeling about why that might be true. “Does your husband live here?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “I happen to know that he didn’t come home after he drove his mother home last night. He went to an apartment in another town.”

  She looked at me as though I had just said something so incredible that she could not respond. “I don’t know why you say that,” she said finally. Now she looked scared. I had hit on something she didn’t want to talk about.

  “I was out last night and I saw his car come from Winnie’s house. When it turned in the wrong direction on Oakwood Avenue, I followed it.” It wasn’t the exact truth, but it was close enough.

  “My God,” she whispered.

  “Your husband doesn’t live here, does he?”

  She shook her head.

  “Winnie doesn’t know it, does she?”

  “No.” It was still a whisper. “Neither does anyone else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one knows. The neighbors don’t know. My friends don’t know. My mother doesn’t know. My children don’t know either.”

  “How old are they?”

  “They’re both out of college. They don’t live at home.”

  “And when they visit?”

  “Roger is here. He’s here for his parents. If we’re invited to a dinner party, he decides whether or not to go and we both go together. We’ve done this for a long time.”

  “Doris,” I said, almost reeling from her admission, “do you know where Roger lives?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know where he’s living right now. I have a phone number. I know where he works. This is the way he wants it.”

  I had a million questions to ask, but most of them were too personal and grew out of my curiosity, not my desire to find her father-in-law’s killer. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know where he lives if you’d like the address.”

  She thought about it. “Yes, if you have it.”

  I wrote it down and handed it to her.

  She looked at it and set it on the table nearby. “That’s an expensive complex,” she said finally.

  “Doris, you said your father-in-law was a difficult man. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

  She shook her head. “When I said difficult, I meant that he wasn’t easy to live with. He was a demanding husband, or so Winnie seemed to feel. And Roger complained about him as a father from the day I met him. But there are many people who genuinely loved him. I know he had a good relationship with the high school drama society. He contributed to it so they could finance their plays. Some of the sets were expensive, and Willard wanted them to have the best.”

  “How did this relationship come about?” I asked.

  “I think he did some acting as a young man. It was something that stayed with him. He and Winnie went into the city a lot for the theater. He wasn’t interested in sports, either as a player or a spectator, but theater just captivated him.”

  “I see. He sounds like an interesting person.”

  “He was. Winnie will miss him.”

  I noticed she didn’t mention Roger. “Last night, when I was driving her here, she said she hadn’t driven since the accident. Can you tell me what happened?”

  She looked uncomfortable, as though she didn’t want to dredge up a past unhappiness. “She was driving and someone died.”

  I waited to see if she would tell me more, who the victim was, but she sat silently. “Who died, Doris?”

  Her eyes filled. “My youngest child.”

  “Oh, how terrible.” I felt a chill rush through my body. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t her fault. She picked him up from Boy Scouts because I asked her to. It was snowing and the roads were slick. She wasn’t speeding or anything like that. They did an investigation afterward. But she lost control and skidded into a tree at the side of the road. Eric was killed instantly.”

  My own eyes were tearing at that point. She had described the worst of all possible disasters. “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “That was the end of everything, the end of my marriage, almost the end of my life. Roger couldn’t accept that it was an unavoidable accident. He blamed me for asking her to pick Eric up. He blamed Winnie for not driving well. He blamed his father for letting his mother drive, as though Willard could have prevented it.” She looked thoughtful. “I suppose he could have. He was that kind of man.”

  “I’m sorry to have brought up these painful memories,” I said. “Thank you for being so forthcoming. I think I ought to go home now. I guess I just thought there might be a motive for murder in something you could tell me.”

  “I
don’t think so. Roger stayed on somewhat good terms with his mother after that, although whatever warmth had been there was gone after the accident. But if you’re thinking he might have killed his father because of it, I don’t see that at all.”

  “Neither do I. I’m in the phone book, Doris. We’re on Pine Brook Road. If you think of anything, please let me know.”

  “Why you? Why not the police?”

  “Of course you should let the police know first. It’s just that sometimes I look at things in a different way and I see things they don’t quite get.”

  “I’ll get your coat,” she said.

  6

  When I walked into the family room, I could see Jack’s papers where he had set them aside when Gene woke up and started to talk to him. I relieved Jack, who went upstairs to the study, and Gene and I played some simple games till I heard Eddie. When Eddie was up, I took him with me when I drove Gene back to Greenwillow. The first thing Gene did when we went inside was describe the buffet to the first person who would listen. We left him there and went back home, stopping at Melanie’s house. There were no cars parked in the driveway that weren’t hers so I assumed she had no company.

  “Hello, hello!” she said when we rang her bell. “Come on in. I was just thinking about you guys.”

  “Where’s Sari?” Eddie asked, pulling his jacket off. He felt as much at home here as in our own house.

  “Right upstairs, sweetie. You know the way.” She watched as he negotiated the stairs, then turned to me. “How was the brunch?”

  “Fabulous. I had more fun watching Gene and Eddie than filling my face. What a great spread.”

  “It is great. Don’t tell my kids you were there. We try to save that for special treats. Tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’m still full.”

  “Then tea-less talk.”

  We had walked into the family room and plunked ourselves in our usual favorite chairs. “Tell me what you know about Willard Platt,” I said.

  “Oh, Chris, you’re not.”

  “I am. This is a weird family, Mel. There are so many secrets and skeletons in their closets, I wonder if they check what they say before they say it.”

  “Really. Does that mean you have a suspect?”

  “Not at the moment. Did you know Mrs. Platt was in a serious automobile accident some years ago?”

  “I heard something. Wasn’t a child hurt?”

  “Killed. Her own grandson.”

  “Oh, my God. And she was driving?”

  “Yes.”

  “How terrible. I wonder how she lives with herself. I could see that as a motive for murder, but—”

  “Maybe a motive for murdering her,” I said, “but not her husband.”

  “Anybody hate him?”

  “The son didn’t get along with him.” I had decided not to publicize the details of the Platts’ marriage. That was their business, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with the murder of Roger’s father. “But do you murder your father when you’re almost fifty because you haven’t gotten along with him for the last thirty or forty years?”

  “Sounds like a stretch. If I were going to get rid of someone, I think I’d do it when the wounds were fresh and I was full of hate. After that you get to feeling—you know, why bother?”

  “Exactly. So that’s where I am. Have you heard anything through the Oakwood grapevine?”

  “Nothing. I talked to some people, but all they said was what we already know, that he was murdered. It’s such an isolated place, how would anybody get there without a car?”

  I had asked myself the same question. “Suppose the killer walked up there?”

  “People do it all the time,” Mel said. “It’s kind of a favorite hiking destination, the top of that hill.”

  “What’s on the other side?” I asked.

  “Got me. Let me think. It may still be Oakwood over there. I’ll have to look at a map.” She thought for a moment. “That is Oakwood, but it isn’t very developed. One of these days some builder will come along and that’ll be it.”

  I knew what she meant. All the open spaces were getting eaten up as the hunger for suburban houses increased.

  We talked a little more about the murder, then about other things. I could smell her dinner in the oven and realized that although I had no intention of eating again today, most of the rest of the world was anticipating another meal. I collected Eddie and we said our goodbyes.

  At home, Eddie ate a light supper and drank milk. Jack and I just passed.

  “I made a phone call while you were out,” Jack said that evening.

  “In between entertaining Gene and studying.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Hey, Gene’s no trouble. And I get a kick out of his observations. He sees life in a very interesting way. Anyhow, I called our favorite police department and asked about Mrs. Platt’s accident.”

  “I’ve heard about it from the family. What did the police say?”

  “It was an awful tragedy. Happened maybe five years ago. She had picked up her grandson to take him home and she hit an icy patch on Oakwood Avenue. I guess the car spun around or something and hit a tree. The boy was killed. She walked away with scratches but I’m sure her psyche suffered the kind of pain that will never go away.”

  “That’s about what I heard. Her daughter-in-law, Doris, whose son it was, doesn’t blame her. But Roger does.”

  “Look, I can’t judge anyone in that situation. Something like that can make you crazy forever. And it’s not a motive for anyone to kill her husband.”

  “The son blames him for letting Winnie drive.”

  “He may as well blame the car manufacturer. If you’re going to kill, you kill the one who was behind the wheel.”

  “So this is all interesting but no motive. Do the cops have any leads?”

  “Not that they told me. Frankly, I think they’re looking at a blank wall. This is a guy who’s got friends and enemies, people who can’t stand him and people who think he’s the cat’s meow. What kind of a guy lies down on the cold grass waiting for a group of high school kids to find him and pull a fake knife out of his back?”

  “I think I’ll talk to Winnie Platt tomorrow. I’ve gotten her daughter-in-law’s view of things. Let me see how that compares with her view.”

  “Way to go,” Jack said. “I wonder if anyone’s got his eye on the land up on that hill.”

  Monday is a day Eddie and I are home together, so I took him with me on the trip up the hill. I had no idea when the funeral for Willard Platt would be but it usually takes an extra day or so for the autopsy to be performed, and he had died on a Saturday afternoon. There was no chance it would be today.

  As I drove up the hill past the nursery, I found myself hoping someone in the Platt family would be keeping Winnie company, but there were no cars in the drive when we got there. I parked outside the closed garage and Eddie and I walked up to the front door. I had some cheese, fruit, and crackers with me, and I had decided to ask Mrs. Platt if I could do some shopping for her.

  “Mrs. Brooks,” she said as she opened the door. “Come in. And you too, young man.”

  “This is Eddie. And I’m Chris.”

  “Yes. Chris.”

  I gave her the bag of food and she thanked me profusely. She was better dressed today, wearing a black skirt, a gray blouse, and a white cardigan sweater that looked expertly hand knit.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions,” I said when we were seated in a huge room with a cathedral ceiling and striking views.

  “About what?”

  “About your husband, his background, his relationship with the drama society.”

  “I don’t understand. What is your interest in all this?”

  “I happened to see your husband on the grass when he was waiting for the students in the treasure hunt. I called the police because I thought he was dead.” I looked over to where Eddie was happily munching a cookie and playing with some things on the floor near the firepla
ce.

  “I heard about that. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “So when I heard later in the day what had happened, I felt a personal interest in the situation.”

  “Aren’t you the one who brought Greenwillow to Oakwood?”

  I hesitated a moment. That had been such a divisive battle the summer that I moved into Aunt Meg’s house that I wondered if she would throw me out if she had been on the other side. There are still people in town who look the other way when they see me. “I was in favor of it, yes,” I said honestly.

  “It has worked out very nicely, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “Did you know my husband?”

  “No, I didn’t.” I decided not to mention Eddie’s run-in with him some weeks earlier.

  “I met him after the war, when he was studying in New York on the GI Bill. He went into the war a boy and came out of it a hardened man. He saw action in the Pacific.”

  “I’m sure that would harden anyone.”

  “Will was a tough man.” She left it there, as though that were the final description of her husband.

  “Tell me about the April Fools’ Day treasure hunt,” I said, just to get her talking.

  “The drama club has been a favorite cause of his for years. He did a little acting in the late Forties and early Fifties, around the time I met him. I thought he would end up on Broadway or in Hollywood, but it didn’t happen. He went into business instead, but he never lost his love of the theater. There were nights he went down to the high school when they were rehearsing and he read with one of the actors. He just loved it.” She reached into a pocket in her sweater and took out a tissue, pressed it to her eyes, then put it back. “The treasure hunt was actually his idea, although the students didn’t know it. I helped out on that myself. Wait. I’ll show you.” She got up and went to a drawer built into one wall of the room.

  As she rummaged through it, I realized that there were many drawers, some of them the size of file drawers, and I wondered if this magnificent room might have been her husband’s study. She came back with a folder and showed me a few pages.

  “I wrote the clues for the hunt. Here’s the one that Will took part in.” She pointed to one of the short verses on the page.