The Christening Day Murder Page 6

  When I got home, I took a chance and called the sheriff’s department upstate to see if there was any news from the dentists.

  “Wish I could tell you something,” Deputy Drago said. “We did hear from one old fellow who searched his records right away and found nothing. That’s about where it is.”

  I asked him again to keep me in mind and rang off. A little while later, the phone rang.

  “Chris,” Sister Joseph’s voice said, “I’ve been trying you since early afternoon”

  I explained I’d been in the city and asked what was up.

  “I got an OK from the first convent I called. It’s just over the New York border in Pennsylvania, about twenty or thirty miles from where I estimate your Studsburg to be. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds wonderful. What order are they?”

  “They’re Josephites. It’s a small convent, and most of the nuns are older women, but that shouldn’t make a difference.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “I think they’d be pleased if you participated.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  She gave me all the necessary particulars and I wrote them down, feeling a sense of excitement. People who are professional investigators, or professional anythings, have many options and great flexibility compared to an amateur. I can’t charge expenses to a client and I am therefore limited by my pocketbook, which is very spare. Having a safe, inexpensive place to stay—I would contribute to the convent—gave me the edge I needed to proceed.

  First I called Harry Stifler.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he said in answer to my question. “There were some families with money, and they did have housekeepers. The Randalls had a woman about the age of my mother, I’d guess, a Mrs. Quinn who’d been there for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if she went with them when they moved. But there was a young girl who worked for the Eberlings, and you know, there may have been a little hanky-panky going on. Check that list, Kix. I think they moved not too far from Studsburg.”

  He mentioned two other families, the Newburys and the Ritters, both of whom had young women in their employ. All three names were on the list, and the Ritters had apparently settled in a town in Westchester County, which is where I live. I got the number from information and called.

  “Hello?” an old woman’s voice said.

  “Mrs. Ritter?”

  “Yes? You’ll have to speak up, please. I don’t hear so well.”

  “Mrs. Ritter,” I said, raising my voice, “I’m a friend of Harry and Carol Stifler, who used to live in Studsburg.”

  “Studsburg? My, I haven’t talked to anyone from Studsburg for a long while.”

  I gave her a short explanation. “I was wondering about the young lady who worked for you in Studsburg. Do you remember her?”

  “You mean Darlene?”

  “Yes, it could have been Darlene. Do you remember her last name?”

  “Yes, it was Jackson, Darlene Jackson. She used to come and clean for us a couple of times a week. That was a big house we had in those day.”

  “Do you know what happened to her after you left Studsburg, Mrs. Ritter?”

  “She got a job somewhere; I don’t remember exactly. I think she may have gone to work for a real estate man or something like that.”

  “Did you ever hear from her?” I asked.

  “Yes, we did. A couple of years later she sent us an invitation to her wedding. We didn’t go, of course, but we sent a nice present. I think that’s what she wanted. And then a year or so after that, we got a snapshot of her with a little baby, and we sent another present. I don’t think we heard from her after that. The little fellow must be nearly thirty now.”

  I had cringed at her interpretation of why the wedding invitation had been sent. “I expect so,” I said, crossing her name off my list of possible leads.

  When I’d hung up, I checked the address for the Newburys. They had moved to Florida, and I decided to wait before calling them. Instead, I called Father Hartman.

  “Yes, Chris,” he said when I reminded him who I was. “Good to hear from you.”

  I told him I was informally looking into the Studsburg murder, and he asked if anything new had come to light.

  “The coroner determined the victim was a young woman—I suppose you know that.”

  “Yes, I heard something on the news.”

  “And the sheriff’s department is trying to find out who she is by looking for old dental records. So far, they have only one dentist who’s checked, and he can’t find a match. I’m afraid if we wait for the law enforcement people to move, another thirty years may go by, so I’m going to look into it myself.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if an amateur does better than the professionals. Do you have any idea who she was?”

  “I think she may have been someone who didn’t live in Studsburg but who worked there, like a housekeeper. I wondered if you remembered any families that had young women working for them.”

  “Interesting idea,” he said. “And there were people like that. The ones I think of first off were the Ritters. They were members of the church and they had a girl who came in to work for them a few times a week. I don’t remember her name.”

  “It was Darlene Jackson,” I said, and explained how I knew. “Can you think of anyone else?”

  “Well, let me explain something first about Studsburg. It was not a monolithic town. I’d say it was fairly evenly divided between Catholics and Protestants, although St. Mary Immaculate was the only church in town. And there were a few Jewish families as well. Except for the usual neighborly squabbles, I’d say it was a model community. But as a pastor, I knew my parishioners well, and the other townspeople much less well. There were many families I never met, so I’m probably not your best source.”

  “Did you now the Eberlings?” I asked.

  “Everyone knew them,” he said. “They had a very big house and a lot of money. Their church was in another town. J.J. published the local newspaper, and I used to see him when I went down to put in a church notice. I don’t think I ever met his family. You want to know if a young woman worked for them?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a silence. Then he said, “There was some gossip, Chris. It’s a long time ago, and I’ve never thought much of gossip. I’d feel better if you didn’t ask me about it.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Aside from the Eberlings and the Ritters, were there any others?”

  “There must have been, but I really don’t remember. I know I’m not being very helpful.”

  “But you have been, and I appreciate it. Will it trouble you if I call again?”

  “Not at all, Chris,” he said, sounding genuinely sincere. “I know I balked on the Eberlings, and I have no doubt someone will fill you in on the reason, but I want to know who that poor person buried in my church was as much as you do, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  As I sat down with the paper a few minutes later, I remembered the brief exchange between the Degenkamps the afternoon we met before the baptism. Something about scandals and a sharp caution from Ellie. Henry had eased out of it smoothly with an innocuous tale of embezzlement. Had that been a quick substitution for the Eberling scandal? I couldn’t be sure, but I knew what my first destination would be after I returned to the old town.

  I put in a full day at Arnold’s office on Friday, taking only a few minutes off to call the convent and confirm our arrangement. I had decided to drive up on Sunday, stay over one night, and return on Monday. My class was Tuesday morning, and I could decide then whether to return. The nun who answered knew who I was and said any time I arrived would be all right, and if I happened to come during evening prayers—

  “I’ll wait in the chapel,” I said.

  “We look forward to your visit, Christine.”

  During the afternoon I took some papers into Arnold’s office, and he invited me to sit down. “I hear you may not be available next week,” he opened. />
  So I told him about Studsburg. Give Arnold an entrée into a legal case and he’s all ears. “Thirty years dead and buried,” he said reflectively. “Before I got to know you, I wouldn’t have given you a chance in hell of finding anything useful, but I guess if anyone can, it’s you.” He was referring to the first case I’d fallen into, when I’d met him. “Certainly smacks of premeditation. And you’ve pretty much accounted for all the young girls in town?”

  “If my sources are right, and I have no reason to think they aren’t.”

  “I like your idea that it was someone who came and went. Of course, it may have been someone from far away who was inveigled there just to meet her death. If that’s so, the dentists won’t turn up anything, and you’ve got lots of problems.”

  “I’ll let you know after I’ve given this a try.”

  “You have someone to stay with up there?”

  “I’m going to a convent in northern Pennsylvania.”

  He gave me a strange look. “You aren’t thinking of going back, are you? We really need you in this world.”

  As tough and ornery as he is, Arnold is the sweetest man I know. He’s become something of a father figure to me, and I sometimes think he thinks of me as his youngest daughter. “I’m here to stay,” I assured him.

  “You need me,” he said, “you call collect.”

  8

  Jack came up on Saturday afternoon, and we fulfilled a fantasy of mine by turning our kiss at the door into an act of love in very little longer than it takes to say it. Later on we went down to the private beach on the Long Island Sound that I have a part ownership in, and we walked on the sand. It was cold and windy, and I remembered the first time we had walked here during the summer, when we had just met and I was just getting used to being Christine Bennett and not Sister Edward Frances. This time we walked holding each other, partly for warmth and partly for all those other reasons lovers have for staying close. It was a placid, comfortable afternoon, finishing with dinner out. Jack stayed over, keeping my bed warm and my excitement high.

  In the morning we were both up early, and after a good breakfast, he left for Brooklyn and I set out for a convent in Pennsylvania and the beginning of a great adventure.

  There is a certain feel to a convent. When I was thirteen it was seductive, beckoning to me. When I was thirty and knew I was soon to leave, it was like a mother’s open arms, there when I needed them but not stifling. They could not hold me anymore, but they would never reject me.

  I arrived at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at three in the afternoon and was greeted by Sister Gracia. As Sisters of St. Joseph, they were dedicated to teaching, and ran a school for the lower grades on the convent property. Although wearing the habit had become optional, all the nuns I saw had adopted black suits with skirts at midcalf and a modified veil that exposed some hair above the forehead. The voluminous habit of decades ago was now part of their history. That afternoon most of the nuns were out walking or visiting. A few were in their “store” selling the nuns’ “products,” homemade preserves for which they were well known. There were no postulants or novices this year; it was an aging convent that would not endure much beyond the start of the twenty-first century.

  Sister Gracia showed me to my room, a small, spare dormitory-style room with one window, a small closet, and the essential furniture in worn, but well cared for maple. Like all rooms in a convent, this one had no mirror.

  First I made my bed with the sheets I had brought. I also had my own towel and soap, and when the bed was made, I found the communal bathroom down the hall and washed, brushing and pushing my hair into a semblance of shape by feel. Although it had grown a couple of inches since I had left St. Stephen’s, it still lacked a definite style. Style would come with time. I had found love and work and satisfaction in the months since I had taken up residence in Oakwood. I could live with unstyled hair.

  When I had hung up my clothes, I went downstairs and offered myself at the kitchen. A nun in her mid-sixties turned away from the sink and smiled at me.

  “You must be Christine Bennett. I’m Sister Concepta. You don’t have to do a thing, but if you want to, there are potatoes and carrots to peel.”

  I sat at an old butcher block and worked, perversely enjoying the opportunity to do on a large scale what I disliked doing at home on a very small scale. Sister Concepta seemed happy to have company. We talked about the convent and then about the Studsburg murder. The nuns had visited St. Mary Immaculate a few weeks ago when the county engineer had proclaimed it safe. They had gone in a bus and prayed inside. No one, of course, had imagined what lay buried in the basement.

  Together we cooked the nuns’ dinner.

  “We have some wonderful grapefruits a friend sent up from Florida,” she said. “And for dessert, some lovely ice cream. I hope you like vanilla fudge.”

  “I like everything,” I said.

  When the meat and vegetables were cooking and the tables set, Sister Concepta took me for a walk around the convent grounds. There were a couple of acres of farmland now planted with winter rye. The nuns prided themselves on being self-sufficient when it came to vegetables and berries. She showed me a small orchard of old apple trees, the blueberry bushes, the strawberry field covered with salt hay for the winter, and the raspberry canes. We looked in at the store, and I admired the hand-labeled jars arranged neatly on shelves. Finally we went together to evening prayers.

  Although I had not left St. Stephen’s because of matters of faith, my faith was presently undergoing some questioning and some revision. Without consciously making a decision, I had stopped attending mass on a regular basis during the summer. And since the first time Jack and I had made love several weeks ago, I had not gone to confession. As each week passed, I became more confused about my need to confess what was clearly a sin in the eyes of the church, while, at the same time, I became more comfortable with my physical desires and my physical and emotional relationship with Jack. I knew that sex didn’t automatically mean we were destined for a lifetime relationship, but on the other hand, it meant, for me, a wholly exclusive relationship for as long as it lasted, and I hoped—I believed—that Jack felt the same.

  As I entered a pew in the rear of the chapel, in this place that reminded me in spirit of the convent that I had loved so much and for so long, I felt a hope that I could reconcile both parts of my life. As I joined the nuns singing “Here I Am, Lord,” I experienced a closeness to my religious past that I had not felt in any of the churches I had attended since leaving St. Stephen’s.

  I spent a very enjoyable dinner and evening with the nuns, who kindly asked me nothing about my life as a sister, and instead, perhaps because they were more interested, talked about the body buried in St. Mary Immaculate. They also routed me to the town where the Eberlings lived and agreed with Joseph’s estimate that it was no more than thirty miles from the convent to Studsburg.

  I joined the nuns for morning prayers at five-thirty and then for breakfast. It was too early to leave, so I helped clean up the breakfast dishes and do some housework. At nine I got in the car and started off.

  It wasn’t hard to find. The Eberlings had exchanged a big old Victorian for a modern, architect-designed home of the early sixties. Somehow I expect large, expensive houses to be in wealthy suburbs of big cities, but that isn’t always true. There were several houses of the same stature along the road, many with walls, gatehouses, and long private roads to compounds invisible from the road. The Eberlings’ house was one of those, although there was no gatehouse and I turned in to the drive without a security check. I had intentionally not announced my arrival to make sure the family would not dream up a reason not to be home.

  The door was opened by a woman in a maid’s uniform.

  “I’d like to see Mr. or Mrs. Eberling,” I said.

  “And you are …?”

  “Christine Bennett.”

  That was apparently enough, because she asked me to wait, and left. She returned a fe
w minutes later and asked me to follow her.

  “Do I know you?” a handsome woman about seventy asked as I entered a beautiful little sitting room.

  “You don’t, Mrs. Eberling. I got your name from some people who used to live in Studsburg.”

  “Studsburg!” She smiled, sounding surprised. “Come in, dear. What was your name?”

  “Christine Bennett. Chris.” I walked over to the sofa where she was sitting and offered my hand.

  “Annie, take Miss Bennett’s coat, will you?”

  I took it off and sat in a chair. Mrs. Eberling called for coffee, and Annie left with my coat.

  “Who were the people you mentioned?”

  “The Stiflers.”

  “Stifler? I don’t remember anyone named Stifler. You’re sure they lived in Studsburg?”

  “Their infant daughter was baptized on the Fourth of July thirty years ago, the day before the town was closed.”

  “Yes, I did hear about that, but we weren’t invited. We were gone by then, of course. We commissioned this house a few months after the decision was made to flood the town, and we moved in a good month before the end. We came back that last evening for the fireworks, though. A lot of people who’d moved away did. And of course, J.J.—that’s my husband—kept the paper up till the end.”

  “You mean the press was still operating the day the town closed?”

  “Well, no. The businesses all had to close before that. The people who lived there were supposed to be out, too, but that girl was pregnant and the army let her stay till she gave birth. And then there was the christening, and everyone seemed to want to celebrate the Fourth one last time in Studsburg. We always made a big fuss about the holiday.”

  “How did your husband publish if the press was closed?”

  “Oh, he made some arrangement with another paper, I think. It was foolish of him and cost a lot of money, but he said he felt like the captain of a ship, and his paper would come out till the last day.”

  “So he came back to Studsburg to gather news every day?”

  “It was only a Tuesday and Friday paper, but yes, I suppose he did. Though now I think of it, I wonder where he worked from.” She looked thoughtful. “I think the priest may have given him a room in the rectory. That was one of the last buildings to go, you know.”