The Christmas Night Murder Page 7

  “Where would he go if he left the car there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where would anyone who left the car there go?”

  It was a question that nagged at me, too. “I don’t know that, either. I’d like to find Mr. Farragut and see if he can shed some light on all of this.” I was hoping she wouldn’t ask me for a connection, since there didn’t seem to be one.

  “I could give you the name of Mr. Farragut’s lawyer, but I know for a fact that he’s in the Virgin Islands for the holiday. I tell you what. I haven’t looked at the Farragut file, so I haven’t taken any information out of it. My boss probably wouldn’t want me to disclose the address, but I live here in town and I knew the Farraguts well enough that they gave me a forwarding address. So I’m speaking as a citizen, not a realtor.”

  “Understood,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “I got a Christmas card from Mrs. Farragut last week and—”

  “Mrs. Farragut?” I felt a chill as I heard the name.

  “Walter’s mother, Mrs. Cornelius Farragut. She lived with them. It was her house. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, I didn’t. How old is she?”

  “Pretty far along now. Late seventies anyway. Let me call my husband. He’ll find the address for me.” She picked up the phone and made a quick call, writing as she listened. From what I could tell, her husband was reading from an address book near the phone. “Here it is.” She handed me the paper. “Good luck. I hope you find the missing priest.”

  “Thank you.” I looked at the address. “Do she and her son still live together?”

  “I don’t know. She never writes about him, and I usually only hear from her at Christmas. As far as I know, she’s in terrific health, both mentally and physically.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  She assured me it was nothing, but it was a lot more than that. It was the first piece of solid information I had gotten.

  —

  I drove back to 211 Hawthorne Street and parked in front of the house next door. A man was walking a large dog across the street and didn’t look my way at all. I got out and walked slowly toward 211. There was no distinct boundary between it and the property I had parked in front of. This was a friendly, fenceless street. One lawn ran into another and the land on this side of the street rose gracefully from the curb, so that all the houses were high and prominent.

  I stopped in front of the old Farragut house. The slate walk had a step or two every five or ten feet to accommodate the rise. The door looked new, a natural dark brown with an oval window in the center, etched to make it thickly translucent. At the far end, the left side of the house as you faced it, there was a long gravel driveway that ran alongside the house and curved at the back. The driveway was plowed or blown so that it was clear. A side door opened onto it, probably the way the family came and went. In many communities, front doors have become obsolete, like the beautifully furnished living rooms that no one ever uses except for company, while the family spends all its time in a den or family room.

  I kept walking, looking up the slope through trees until I was pretty sure I had reached the next homestead. Then I turned and started back. If it had been summer, with leaves on all the trees, I would not have been able to see it, but because of the bareness and the white of the snow, I could make out a structure at the end of the driveway. It looked more like an old barn than a garage. The doors were closed and there were no cars in sight. I kept walking, eventually stopping to admire the house I had parked in front of, a larger, fussier Victorian painted cream with blue trim. I got in my car and drove back to the center of town and found a telephone.

  Joseph was surprised to hear of the elder Mrs. Farragut. She recognized the address as a town somewhat north of Riverview but still well south of St. Stephen’s. I told her I was on my way there now and had nothing else to report.

  —

  Mrs. Farragut’s new residence was an apartment in a complex built for senior citizens. Besides groups of garden apartments, there was a community building, from which I could hear music and singing. I wondered if Mrs. Farragut was a little old lady in a running suit who spent her days in structured activities. When I had left my car in a spot designated for visitors and rung her doorbell, I found I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The woman who opened the door was tiny and dainty, dressed in a rose-pink suit with the ruffle of a white silk blouse showing at the collar. Her slender legs were fitted into elegant black leather shoes with a two-inch heel. I felt as though I had interrupted her on her way to a luncheon. By contrast, my skirt and sweater, comfortable shoes, and oversized shoulder bag, which I abused badly, made me wonder if my wardrobe needed some fine-tuning.

  What was most distinctive about her was her scent. It was delicate and warm, faintly floral, and very light. There was nothing old-ladyish about it, nothing heavy, nothing to make me wrinkle my nose in distaste.

  “Can I help you,” she said, without making it a question.

  “Mrs. Farragut, I’m Christine Bennett. I was a teacher at St. Stephen’s College for several years and—”

  “St. Stephen’s.” She said it as though those were the concluding words of the conversation.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I have anything to say about St. Stephen’s.”

  “Mrs. Farragut, a man’s life may be in danger.” I decided to be direct. What I had said was true.

  “Someone’s life is always in danger. Come inside, please. I don’t need neighbors asking questions.”

  I stepped into a beautifully furnished living room with a thick Oriental rug in shades of blue that were picked up in the upholstery and the heavy draperies, which were opened to let in the sunlight.

  “Thank you. You have a beautiful home.”

  “Take your coat off and leave it on the chair near the phone. I’m sure this won’t take long.”

  I was starting to feel like a kindergartner, but I did as she said, sitting in a chair that faced the windows, holding my shoulderbag on my lap so that I could take out my pen and notebook if I learned anything important.

  “What is it that you want?” She sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. She had an exquisite face, the face of a great beauty. The lines of age only added interesting details. I could imagine this woman entering a room and having all eyes turn to admire her. I could also imagine her accepting such admiration as her due.

  “Father Hudson McCormick was on his way to St. Stephen’s on Christmas Day. He never arrived. Yesterday his car was found in front of 211 Hawthorne Street in Riverview.” I delivered it as a complete package. She had to know who Hudson was, just as the address was part of her permanent memory.

  “What precisely do you expect me to say about that?”

  “His disappearance has to be connected to what happened to your granddaughter seven years ago. If you know anything that might help us to find Father McCormick, I hope you’ll tell me.”

  “The only thing I can tell you is what you apparently already know. During the time my granddaughter was at your convent, Father McCormick acted in a very unpriestly manner. If he went to our old home to apologize to us, he’s a few years too late. We aren’t there anymore.”

  “I don’t think he went to apologize. I don’t think he went there at all. I think someone has kidnapped him—or worse—and left the car on Hawthorne Street to indicate a connection with your family.”

  “Forgive me for being frank, but I think that’s preposterous. With a little effort you could probably write potboilers. The man simply left his car and a lot of foolish people are reading silly things into it.”

  “Mrs. Farragut, were you living in the house on Hawthorne Street when Julia came home from St. Stephen’s?”

  She looked at me with her picture-perfect face tilted slightly as though she knew how to show it off to advantage. “I owned the house. Of course I lived there.”

  “Can you tell me about Julia during that period of time? H
er mental state?”

  “She was a wreck. What else would you expect? She had lost her mother, her confessor had abused her, her vocation was destroyed. The child was in pieces.”

  “Did you get help for her?”

  “None of this is your business, Miss Bennett. None of this has anything to do with the car left on Hawthorne Street. It’s Saturday morning and I have many things to accomplish today.”

  “Can you tell me about Julia’s mother?” I said, ignoring her implied suggestion that I leave.

  “She was a poor soul who found it hard to cope with the world.”

  “I understand her problems began when she lost a child.”

  “Her problems began when she was born.” She seemed not to want to go on, but I waited, hoping she would resume. “My daughter-in-law was a lovely person. When she was well, she was a good wife to her husband and a good mother to her children.”

  “Did Julia have a sister?”

  “She had a brother. Foster is now nearly thirty.”

  I hoped my shock didn’t show. Angela had told a convincing story about Julia being an only child, about her mother losing a son and not being able to have another. Was nothing that Julia Farragut had said the truth?

  “Where is Foster living now?” I asked.

  Mrs. Farragut’s lips moved into a half smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve said about all I can, more than I intended. I don’t know how you found me, but you’ll have to work a lot harder to find Foster. I have no intention of giving him up to you.”

  “What about your son?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Has your son remarried?” I asked. I felt there might have been an event in his life that precipitated the move.

  Mrs. Farragut stood. “I think it’s time for you to leave, my dear. I hope you find your priest. I suggest you do what the police do and see if he took a train out of Riverview after leaving his car. He’s probably playing games with you. Wherever he is, he deserves to be punished.”

  I got up and put my coat on. “Why didn’t your family press charges against him if you were so convinced he’d done something terrible to Julia?”

  “The victim died,” she said tautly. “There was no witness and no case.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “Be careful on the front walk. It may be slippery.” She shut the door.

  10

  What stayed with me was her scent. Far from being overpowering, its delicacy was haunting. For me it had special significance. While I had let my hair grow and had it styled when it was long enough, bought myself simple but fashionable clothes, and become a thoroughly secular person in the year and a half since I left the convent, I had never used perfume. More than clothes or jewelry or hairstyle, perfume seemed too confusing to allow me to make a selection. On several occasions I had sniffed some in cosmetics departments and brought home samples on cardboard or in tiny test vials, but I had never actually put any on my skin. Unlike a ring or a necklace, which I could remove easily, there seemed a permanence to perfume that kept me from trying it. What if I hated having it there and could not wash it off effectively? What if Jack hated it? What if it gave me a headache or made me ill?

  Now, at the age of thirty-one, I was entranced by the scent of a woman more than twice my age. Although there was nothing distinctively old about Mrs. Farragut, it seemed odd to me that of all the scents I had experienced on other people, this one would make such an impression.

  I drove into town, where I stopped at a coffee shop and found a telephone with a small, local directory hanging from a chain. The only Farragut listed was the one I had just visited. What I needed was a larger directory for the county or area, but there was none around. I decided to try something that had worked for me before, so I turned the car around and drove back to Riverview. The Catholic church was easy to find and I went to the rectory where the pastor was just on his way out. He glanced at his watch and agreed to hear my question. It didn’t take long for him to give me an answer.

  “I can tell you without looking at the records. Walter Farragut left Riverview without so much as a fare-thee-well. I can tell you I was surprised—I was hurt, if you want me to be honest—because Walter had been generous, had served on committees, had always been someone we could count on.”

  “You knew they were moving, didn’t you, Father Grimes?”

  “Everyone in Riverview knew they were moving. The house was up for sale for a long time. It was a weak market and they wanted a lot of money for it. But when the sale was made, Walter picked up and left. Only his mother came to me to have her records sent to her new parish.”

  “Father Grimes, I’m a friend of Father Hudson McCormick.”

  “Oh, good heavens, I know who you mean. Is there any word? Have they found him yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard since this morning. I feel somehow the Farragut family is the key to his disappearance.”

  “You may be right. That was a terrible ordeal they went through.”

  “Did you know Julia, Father?”

  “Quite well. I came here before her confirmation and I knew her until her death.” He set his lips and shook his head. “She and I talked about her entering St. Stephen’s. I was all for it.”

  “And her family?”

  “I believe they were, too, except for her mother. I think her mother would have liked her to stay home.”

  “Did you know her mother had problems?”

  “I knew. I visited her at the hospital on several occasions. I never dreamed her life would end the way it did, or that her daughter’s would.”

  I took a chance and asked a question that had been nagging at me. “Was anything going on in that family that might have contributed to the suicides of the two women?”

  He looked at me for a long moment. He was a man in his fifties or sixties, balding, his face lined as though he carried the worries of his parish in his own soul.

  “I wish I could answer that,” he said, and I knew I had reached the end. Either he didn’t know anything, or the privacy of the confessional prevented him from answering.

  “Thank you,” I said. I drove back to St. Stephen’s.

  —

  I found some leftovers in the kitchen and made myself lunch. While I was eating, Angela stuck her head in.

  “Jack’s on the phone. I’ll transfer the call.”

  “Thanks, Angela.” The phone rang briefly and I picked it up.

  “Get anything?” he asked.

  “The runaround.” I told him what I had and hadn’t learned.

  “The state police have nothing more on Father McCormick. The local police in Riverview have been through the vehicle and lifted prints. They’ll do what they can with them, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. In cold weather people wear gloves for warmth, and it’s been pretty cold. They’ve also been through the contents of the car. It sure looks like he intended to complete this trip. He had Christmas gifts for a lot of people with Sister in front of their names, and there’s even one for you. The suitcases are full of his clothes, the clerical kind and pretty casual stuff. And there are envelopes of snapshots that I assume he was going to show around. There sure isn’t any indication that he was planning a detour.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said.

  “It looks like we’ve both drawn blanks. If someone’s holding him for ransom, they’re not too anxious to deal or we’d have heard from them by now. So it doesn’t look good, Chris.”

  “I know. I’ve been sitting here trying to think where to go next. Is there any chance you can find out where Walter or Foster Farragut lives through the DMV?” They were sure to own cars and I couldn’t think of any other way of locating them unless their old neighbors on Hawthorne Street knew where they had gone, and I felt that if they hadn’t let their pastor know, they might not have let anyone else know.

  “I’ll give it a try. I think one of the guys here in Oakwood will do me a favor. Otherwise, I’ll call Brooklyn and see who’s working today.
”

  “I’m scared, Jack. I’m scared for Hudson.”

  “I know, honey. I’ll get on it right away.”

  I washed my dishes slowly, pushing myself to think of some other direction to move in. After what I had learned this morning, I no longer felt that talking to the nuns would be fruitful. If Julia had lied to Angela, who had been especially friendly toward her, what likelihood was there of learning anything useful from anyone else? Still, there was one I ought to talk to.

  I left the mother house and walked to the villa. It was afternoon and many of the nuns there would be taking a nap, but I would try anyway. I had to find Hudson soon or it was all over.

  One nun in the villa that I was particularly fond of was visiting family, and I would miss her. Two nuns were sitting on a sofa reading magazines. I asked for Sister Mary Teresa and they pointed me toward her room.

  The names of the nuns were on the doors on white cards lettered by hand in an italic print, a talent I recalled one of the younger nuns had. When I found Sister Mary Teresa’s room, I stood at the door and listened. There was no sound. I tapped lightly with my fingernail but got no response. Very quietly I turned the doorknob and looked inside.

  The room was empty. I pulled the door closed again, stopped to chat with the nuns who were reading, and went back outside. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting in the sun, but I checked the patio anyway. The snow had been cleared, but no one was there. I backtracked and went down to the path to the chapel.

  Even in the cold, even with the trees bare and the beautiful grounds covered with snow, I had no difficulty remembering the day in August when I had walked from the Mother House in my wedding dress, accompanied by the nuns of St. Stephen’s, on a morning so bright and so beautiful that I could not have imagined anything more perfect. The chapel, a small structure in the traditional shape of a cross, had been decorated with white flowers so that it looked light and airy. Joseph led the nuns, carrying the crucifix. She was followed by two sisters carrying candles. Then the rest of the Franciscan sisters followed down the aisle. When I entered, I had a fleeting sense of sadness that my parents had not lived for this happy occasion. Then I turned and saw Arnold Gold.