The April Fools' Day Murder Read online

  Far away

  And up the hill

  Find a weapon

  In back of Will.

  “Do you understand it?” she asked.

  “Yes. They were to find the stage dagger.”

  “That’s right. Here’s another one.”

  Quarter, dime, nickel, penny,

  Jake has few, Jake has many.

  If you are a sterling scholar,

  He’ll give you a silver dollar.

  “Who’s Jake?” I asked.

  “That’s what you have to figure out. Actually, this was one of the easier clues. All the kids know Jake’s place, even though it isn’t called that. It’s the variety store in town, where you can buy a newspaper or a lottery ticket or a birthday card.”

  I knew immediately which store she meant although I had never known the name of the man who owned it. “So they went there and he gave them a silver dollar?”

  “After they said they were sterling scholars. That was the way it went. They had to interpret the verse, then they got the treasure.”

  “And you wrote all these little poems?”

  “Will told me what he wanted and I sat down with a pencil and paper. It was fun.”

  “How did it work?” I asked. “Did every participant get all the poems?”

  “No, they all got the first one. When they solved that, they picked up the next one where they got the first treasure.”

  “So someone had to go around to all these places and leave the poems and the treasures.”

  “That’s right. Will and I did it on Friday. Everyone had already agreed to be part of it, so it was just a matter of driving around and leaving things in a bunch of places.” As she described what they had done, her spirits seemed to rise. It was a nice memory, something she had done with her husband.

  “How many students participated in the hunt?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t give you a number. I know there were three teams. One of them came in a van, one in a station wagon, and one piled into a car. But I don’t know how many were on each team. And the clues were staggered. One team started with clue number one, one with clue number two, and so on, so they didn’t get in each other’s way and one team couldn’t follow the other. I think there were eight clues, so the first team with eight treasures won.”

  “Did all three teams make it up here?”

  “Yes. I know that because when the last one was gone, Will came inside to warm up and then he went out to the garage to get some work done. That’s when it happened.” She sniffed and bit her lips together. After a moment she said, “If you want the names of the drama club members, Mr. Jovine will have them. He’s the drama coach at the high school. He’s there every day.”

  I wrote it down, thinking I would have to take a drive over to the school. “Did he and your husband get along?”

  “Mr. Jovine? Oh yes. Mr. Jovine loved Will. He knew if there was anything he needed, anything at all, Will would help.”

  “Was there a prize for the winning team?”

  “I think there was, but I don’t know what.”

  “Did you hear any cars come by after the last team left?”

  “You ask the same questions the police did. No, I didn’t. I didn’t even hear the teams when they came. I was sitting back here and knitting. They were around the front of the house.”

  “Mrs. Platt, I heard that your husband made some demands on the town when they worked on the sewers.”

  “Demands? I don’t recall he made any demands. He was concerned for our property. That same bunch had dug up someone’s front lawn a year or two before and they never got it back the way it had been. And they weren’t very nice about it. Willard didn’t want that happening here. He just made sure they would replace anything they took apart.”

  She said it very matter-of-factly. Jack had said that the town paid for things they should never have paid for. I had no idea who his source was, but it always interests me to hear both sides of an argument. Mrs. Platt made it seem that they had asked only for what was due them. And if they had gotten more, could anyone in his right mind have killed Willard Platt for getting a few shrubs at the expense of the town?

  “Mrs. Platt, I’m just trying to find someone who might have wanted your husband dead.”

  “Who could want such a thing?”

  “Did he get along with your son?”

  “They had a difficult relationship. They were two very strong-minded people. I don’t think my son is happy his father is dead. Willard got along much better with our daughter.”

  “You have a daughter too?”

  “Yes, but she lives outside of Chicago. She’s on her way here now. She’ll stay with me for a while.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure she’ll be a comfort to you.”

  “Do you want a copy of the clues for the treasure hunt?” she asked.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “I’ll make some.” She took the sheets from the folder and went to a machine behind where I was sitting and I heard the sound of the mechanism. “I hope you can read them. They’re from my originals and I wrote them in pencil.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you very much.” I folded them and put them in my bag. I knew it was time to go but I hadn’t learned very much about Willard Platt. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted your husband dead?”

  She shook her head. “I loved him. I wanted him around forever.”

  “Someone he did business with? Someone he lent money to?”

  “Will didn’t lend anyone money.”

  “He walked with a cane,” I said, remembering it from the supermarket and on the grass near his outstretched hand when I had thought he was dead.

  “He had a weakness in one leg, going back to an accident a long time ago, before I met him. He could walk without it—he often did in the house—but he felt more secure if he had it. It was almost a prop for him. I think he liked to be identified as the man with the interesting cane. He had several. They’re right over here.”

  I got up and walked over to a wooden rack near the back window. It held a collection of canes and walking sticks, most of them wood, some of them intricately carved, at least one made of what appeared to be ivory. I touched it, feeling its smoothness, seeing the grain. “These are beautiful,” I said.

  “He collected them. Most of them he never used, just enjoyed owning. Most of the time he alternated two or three favorites. The one he had on Saturday was a very plain one. He had to drop it on the grass and he didn’t want a good one getting wet and trampled.”

  I lifted a briarwood stick with a large round knurled handle on top, then an old one with a tarnishing silver handle. These had surely come from abroad, from places I had never visited.

  I wanted to ask about the old accident, but I felt I had spent enough time and worn her out enough. I asked if she wanted me to buy any groceries, and she thanked me and assured me that Doris had taken care of that. I told her to call if there was anything she needed or if she wanted to talk.

  Then Eddie and I took off.

  7

  I have the world’s greatest baby-sitter, my mother’s old friend, Elsie Rivers. She substitutes for a grandmother and does a terrific job. When we got home, I called and asked if I could leave Eddie with her after lunch and she generously invited him to have lunch with her, something I knew he would appreciate. Since I am not very inventive where food is concerned, he gets much better fare when he sees Elsie. After I left him, I went home and called the high school. They have recently installed one of those terrible “press one, press two” systems that everyone deplores and everyone else seems to use. I went through the directions, eventually reaching Mr. Jovine’s number. As luck would have it, he didn’t answer in person but on his voice-mail machine. I left a message and decided that I would drive over to the high school whether I heard from him or not. Their day ended around three, and I would try to catch him before he left.

  While I was eating my sandwich and drinking my tomato jui
ce, the phone rang. It was Mr. Jovine.

  “Thank you so much for returning my call,” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to you this afternoon. It’s about Willard Platt.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I have a free period from one to one forty-five. Can you make it then?”

  I looked at my watch. It was only a ten minute drive, probably less. “I can be there.”

  “I’ll meet you in the hall outside the main office.”

  I gulped down my sandwich, drained my juice glass, and ran.

  Oakwood High School sits on a beautiful piece of property in the heart of town. The building is set well back from the quiet road and is landscaped to provide a barrier between it and the occasional traffic. There are parking lots all around it, and I was surprised at how many cars were there. I guess if you’re seventeen and don’t have a car, you’re just not with it.

  It was a few minutes before one when I pushed one of the front doors open, looked around, and turned left into a long hall. The first door on the left was the administration office, and standing beside it was a thin man with a short dark beard.

  “Mr. Jovine?”

  “Yes.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Glad to meet you.”

  “Do you mind if we sit in the auditorium? My next class meets there.”

  “Sure. That’s fine.”

  We walked back to where the hall started, turned left and went into a large, unlighted auditorium that looked very much like the one in my school twenty years ago. We walked down the center aisle, then up several stairs to the stage. I followed him into the wings, where he turned a light on. It was a cozy little area with an old oak table and a couple of chairs. We sat down.

  “Are you a member of Will’s family?” he asked.

  “No. I’m a neighbor. I happened to be up on the hill the afternoon of the murder, when Mr. Platt was lying spread-eagled on the grass waiting for the drama students to find him.”

  He smiled. “Our treasure hunt. He was such a great sport. I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”

  “What exactly did he do for you?” I asked.

  “The question is, what didn’t he do? He helped build sets. He contributed generously when we needed to buy equipment or rent costumes. He came down and read with students who were trying to learn their parts. He kept us going is what he did.” He seemed sincerely saddened by the loss.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

  “Not in a million years. I know he ruffled some feathers in town. He was a perfectionist in an era when perfection isn’t even a goal anymore. He had fights with the mayor, he complained when a group of kids had an overnight near his house and left the place a mess. What’s wrong with that? Who wants to wake up and find garbage near his property?”

  “I understand. But being angry at things like that isn’t really a motive for murder.”

  “Just what I’m saying.”

  “How long have you taught here?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Then you didn’t know the Platts’ children.”

  “They’re way before my time. I know the son doesn’t get along with the father, but that’s not exactly news these days. Oh, and there was an accident. That happened several years ago.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It didn’t involve Will. It was his wife. She was driving one of their grandchildren somewhere on a snowy day and somehow got involved in a one-car accident. The grandchild died.”

  “I see,” I said. “How did Mr. Platt take it?”

  “Very hard. He blamed himself. Said she drove a small car and he didn’t think that was as safe as the car he drove, a bigger, heavier model. Also, he thought he should never have let his wife near the car on a day like that.”

  It’s the kind of statement that annoys me, although I understood why Willard Platt had said it, if indeed he had. I can’t imagine my husband forbidding me to drive my car if, in my judgment, I was able. But the Platts were older people and perhaps lived by a different set of rules. I wasn’t about to argue. “There was another accident, wasn’t there? Something that left Mr. Platt with a cane?”

  “Oh that.” He smiled. “That was before I knew him. I think he broke a leg. There are several stories about how it happened but the bottom line is the leg didn’t heal perfectly. He could walk without the cane, but the truth is, he liked it, thought it made him look distinguished. He had a few of them, some of them hand-carved, real works of art.”

  “But you don’t know how he broke the leg or when it happened.”

  “Not really. He never talked about it.”

  “How many students are in the drama club?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “We have fifteen this year. Fourteen of them took part in the hunt. Robby McPhail didn’t show up.”

  “Any reason?”

  “I haven’t seen him.” He looked at his watch. “He’ll be in my class in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll ask him.”

  “Could I have a list of the members?”

  “Sure.” He got up and went to a phone. In a short conversation, he asked someone to make a copy and drop it off at the main office. “It’ll be waiting for you,” he said when he came back. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you here? What’s this all about?”

  “I feel a personal interest, Mr. Jovine. I was very upset when I found Mr. Platt on Saturday afternoon. I thought he was dead and I called the police. When he was actually killed a couple of hours later, I couldn’t believe it. I just want to find out what happened.”

  “So do we all, Mrs. Brooks. I’ve talked to the police and I think they’ve talked to most of the kids in the club. I don’t think they’ve come up with anything.”

  “I haven’t either,” I admitted. “But I’m just starting.”

  “Let me know if you turn anything up.”

  I had used up most of the forty-five minutes and I didn’t want to keep him. I thanked him for his time and asked if he minded if I talked to the members of the drama club. That was all right with him, so we shook hands and I found my way back through the auditorium to the main office. The woman behind the high counter had a couple of sheets of paper for me, which I tucked in my bag. Then I went home and started making calls.

  Because the three teams hunted in a staggered order, team three should have arrived at the Platts’ first and team one last. I started calling names on the team one list first, trying to find a parent at home. On the third try a woman answered.

  “Mrs. Powell, this is Chris Brooks here in town. I’d like to ask you about your daughter’s participation in the drama club treasure hunt last Saturday.”

  “What’s your question?” she asked, sounding a little defensive.

  “Who drove the car for Ronnie’s team?”

  “Ronnie did. She drove my car. It’s a van. She’s seventeen and it was daylight.”

  “I would just like to know who was in the car with her.”

  “I don’t remember how they divided up. She’ll be home from school by four. Would you like her to call you?”

  I said I would and gave her the number. It was only a quarter after two, and whether Eddie was awake or asleep, I didn’t have to rush back to get him. I went out to the car and drove to the apartment complex where Roger Platt lived. I parked near what appeared to be a central entrance and went in to look at the mailboxes. There were four buildings altogether but I didn’t know which one I had seen Roger walk into, so I went through all the names. There was no Platt anywhere, no Roger as a first name. This man was certainly trying very hard to keep his whereabouts a secret. It occurred to me that he might not even receive mail at this address. People who didn’t know he lived here would write to him at his wife’s house. Others might be directed to a P.O. box, possibly with a fictitious name or even none at all.

  I was about to leave when a man in work clothes came out of the lobby.

  “He
lp you?” he said.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Platt.”

  “Platt? No one here by that name.”

  “He lives over in that section.” I pointed.

  “Sorry. Better check the address.”

  “He’s about six feet tall, nice looking, late forties.”

  “Sorry, miss. I can’t help you.” To emphasize that that was it, he walked away.

  I went back to my car and drove to Elsie’s.

  I knew Jack would get the highlights of the autopsy report from someone at the Oakwood Police Department. He had a good relationship with them, and that was information they would be much more likely to give him than to give me. I assumed the autopsy would be today, so it was possible he might know something when he came home, but I didn’t want to ask him at work. I took Eddie home and waited for a phone call from Ronnie Powell.

  It came at four-fifteen. “Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Yes. Is this Ronnie?”

  “Yes. My mom said you called?”

  “I wanted to ask you some questions about the treasure hunt on Saturday.”

  “That was so terrible, what happened. We didn’t hear about it till later. That poor man.”

  “Ronnie, how many people did you drive to the Platts’?”

  “Just four. There were five on team one and five on team two, but Robby McPhail didn’t come in time so we went without him.”

  I looked at my list and checked the name. “Did he come later?”

  “I don’t think so. He wasn’t in my car anyway. We waited five extra minutes and then Mr. Jovine said to get started.”

  “Have you seen him since Saturday?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Was he in school today?”

  “I’m not sure. We don’t have any classes together. I only know him from acting.”

  “Who were the other people in your car?”

  “Karen, Steve, and Missie Carter.”

  Those were the other names on my list for team one. “Did they all go through the whole treasure hunt with you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When you left the Platts’, were all four of you in the car?”