The Christmas Night Murder Read online

  The people I met in the first weeks after I left St. Stephen’s have become both friends and family to me. First there was Melanie Gross, then Jack, and a little later Arnold Gold. I could see Mel and Hal from the back of the chapel, Harriet Gold sitting beside Jack’s parents, and here, to take me to my future husband, was Arnold, this tough old lawyer who had choked up when I asked him to give me away, this tireless advocate who never turned away a person in trouble, never asked if they could pay for his services, this wonderfully bighearted man who had once told me he had grown up hating cops but who had taken Jack into his family circle, saying, “I can always use another son-in-law.” On my wedding day he looked improbably exquisite, his lanky frame in a well-tailored suit, his hair absolutely silver and almost in place, a man who was as close as anyone would ever come to being my father. We hugged and waited for our musical cue as I wiped away a tear and he squeezed my hand.

  My friend from high school, Maddie Clark, who was my matron of honor, gave me a quick smile and started down the aisle on the arm of Jack’s brother. I took a deep breath and grinned up at Arnold. Then the music changed and we started our walk.

  On this cold, end-of-December day, I sat in the last row of pews, looking at the masses of red poinsettias and remembering the white roses of August, the moment, how I felt when I saw Jack at the far end of the white carpet, how Arnold and I kissed, my veil held high to accommodate, how I turned to Jack and we exchanged a smile. I had never felt more sure or less nervous than I felt at that moment. In some magical way I knew that we were meant for each other, that I was the last of his women as he was the first and the last of my men. I had an immensely powerful desire to be with him and make him happy, a feeling that persists to this day.

  The altar was bare as we stood before it. To the right were three candles and we walked over to them and each of us lit one. Then together we lit the one in the middle, symbolizing our union. After that there were the readings we had chosen, and then the marriage ceremony. This was followed by the offertory.

  Halfway down the length of the chapel there was a lateral aisle and in it, on the right, a table with the offerings and a magnificent altar cloth that had been commissioned by Jack’s mother as a gift for the convent and made by Sister Gracia, who worked on it for months. Four nuns carried the cloth down the aisle, unfolded it, and laid it on the altar, the embroidery evoking gasps. Two of them then returned with the bread and wine so the mass could continue.

  My wedding dress was the greatest extravagance of my life. I had gone shopping with Melanie Gross and her mother, Marilyn Margulies, determined to wear a street-length white dress or suit. But the moment I saw myself in yards of white lace and peau de soie, I changed my mind, with the agreement and encouragement of Mel and her mother. They showered me with compliments, delicious adjectives describing my physical attributes, how they would all be enhanced by a gown that flowed, a bodice that revealed, a train that lingered. I remember laughing at first, then realizing how much I had missed in not having a mother after my fifteenth year.

  Except for me the chapel was empty, conducive to thought. What I wanted to do was get inside the house at 211 Hawthorne Street. Although it had surely been redecorated, I felt that just being there would inspire me, would evoke ideas, open new avenues. I wanted to see the room that poor Julia had lived in; I wanted to see where she had killed herself. Poor child, I thought, sitting in my pew. She wanted to join her mother. I wondered where the rest of the family had been that Christmas Night, why they had left her alone so long that she had been able to do that terrible thing.

  There was a sound, almost a groan, and a figure in a brown habit rose from a pew near the front of the chapel. I had not been alone after all. Someone had been kneeling the whole time I had sat there, praying silently. The figure turned and I recognized Sister Mary Teresa.

  I waited till she had acknowledged me and then passed me before standing and following her outside. “I was looking for you,” I said. “Would you like to have a cup of tea with me?”

  She seemed almost dazed, as though kneeling for so long had affected her equilibrium or made her drowsy. “That would be nice. Sister Edward, isn’t it?”

  “Chris,” I said. “I was Sister Edward when I was at St. Stephen’s.” I had taken the names of my parents, Edward and Frances.

  “Oh, of course, of course. Silly of me. My head must be somewhere else.”

  We turned toward the Mother House. I kept my pace painfully slow to match hers. She walked as though she had to think about the process, this foot, then that foot. Joseph was right; she had deteriorated greatly since I had left.

  “Wonderful weather,” I said blandly.

  “Good weather for Christmas, yes. Snow before and sun after. I like winter. I just don’t like the cold.”

  “Winter’s nice,” I agreed, ignoring her contradiction.

  “Where are you living now, Sister Edward?”

  “In a small town called Oakwood. My aunt had a house there.”

  “You used to have a cousin there, didn’t you? Some little fella you always visited?”

  I marveled at her mind, its strengths and its lapses. “You have a good memory. He’s not so little, but I used to visit him regularly. He’s in a home for retarded adults. He’s very happy there.”

  “Do they take him to mass?”

  “Every Sunday. Sometimes I take him, and then we go somewhere for lunch. He enjoys that.”

  “Very important to take him to mass.”

  We had arrived at the Mother House. I held the door open for her and we went inside.

  “Want a cup of tea?” she said.

  “Good idea. I’ll make it for us. Let me take your coat.”

  “I like to keep it on. Takes me awhile to warm up.”

  I picked up our mugs and we went back to the kitchen, where two nuns were preparing dinner. They had a kettle on the stove and the water came to a boil quickly. Sister Mary Teresa sat at a table away from them and I got a teapot and some tea together. The cooks were noisy, talking and banging things around, and I didn’t want any distractions, especially with someone whose memory was so fragile. When the tea had steeped, I asked her if she’d rather go back to the community room, where it would be quieter.

  “Lots of noises here,” she said, pushing her chair back. “We can sit somewhere else.”

  When we were resettled, I poured the tea and we sipped it. I noticed how she held her hands around the hot mug. “Do your fingers hurt?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Everything hurts sometimes. Fingers, toes, knees, legs. I don’t have my teeth anymore, so they can’t hurt, that’s one good thing. You have your teeth?”

  “All except a wisdom tooth.”

  “That’s what we need, a little wisdom.”

  “Sister Mary Teresa, do you remember Julia Farragut?”

  “That poor child. Of course I remember her. She would have made a wonderful nun. She was so dedicated, such a fine young person.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “She trusted me. There were problems in her home. She told me about them.”

  “Do you remember what those problems were?”

  She put her hands around the mug and held it. Then she raised it and sipped and sipped again. “Her mother was ill. It was tragic. She killed herself, you know.”

  “I heard.”

  “Thanksgiving. Sister Clare Angela, God have mercy on her soul, got the phone call. It tore poor Julia apart.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “She had a good upbringing, that girl. They were a good family, even if the mother had some problems.”

  “Did you ever visit Julia at home?” I asked.

  She put her mug down and looked at me. “I don’t think so. Should I? I only knew her here. I never went to her home.” She smiled and her eyes were suddenly clear and full of reason and intelligence, as though she had returned to her full self.

  “I wondered because I drove by the Farragut house this mo
rning.”

  “They don’t live there anymore.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Someone must have told me. I just remember hearing that they’d moved.”

  “You know that Father Hudson McCormick is missing.”

  “Everyone knows that. He didn’t come on Christmas Day. I was praying for him in the chapel.”

  “Do you know the rumors about Father McCormick and Julia?” I asked hesitantly.

  “I won’t talk about that. Sister Clare Angela said we were never to discuss it. She was right. This convent has never had a scandal, and that’s because we’ve always held our tongues and minded our business. I won’t be the first one to break a promise—or the last.”

  It didn’t surprise me that she gave Sister Clare Angela’s admonition to keep quiet more weight than Joseph’s instruction to speak freely to me. “Did Julia talk to you about it, Sister?”

  She was still wearing her coat, although I had taken mine off in the kitchen. Now she opened the buttons, revealing the brown habit underneath. She had a lined face and thick glasses in rimless frames, an old woman who had spent half a century in this convent and could be counted on to protect its honor and the honor of the General Superior who had been her friend.

  “We had enough to talk about without that. And she was too much of a lady.”

  “For what?”

  “Christine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Christine. Julia was a fine young lady, a dear girl.” Two tears fell onto her cheeks, puddling at the rim of the lenses. She took a tissue out of her coat pocket and patted her face. “It’s time for me to go. Thank you for the tea.”

  “I’ll walk you back to the villa.”

  “Thank you, I like to walk alone. The air is good for me and I’m in no hurry. Fast or slow, I always get where I’m going. My memory fails me sometimes, but my legs never do. I’ll let you clean up the tea things and put my mug back in my drawer.”

  I walked her to the door and stood outside in the cold, watching as she made her way slowly along the clean path. She stopped now and then and looked up at the sky, or perhaps at a bird or a tree, then plodded along again.

  I went inside and did as she had told me.

  11

  Angela came into the kitchen and told me Joseph was looking for me. I dried my hands and took the two mugs, dropping them off as I went. Joseph was in her office.

  “I know you would have told me if there was anything new, but I thought you might just want to throw some ideas around.”

  I sat at the table. The depth of her anxiety was clear from her invitation, from her acknowledgment that she expected nothing new from me. What she wanted was the comfort of my company. Perhaps for the first time in the sixteen years we had known each other, she was allowing herself to communicate fear, admitting her own inability to cope. It made it that much harder for me as I realized a burden had subtly shifted to my shoulders. The pressure was terrible on both of us. We were not merely looking for a killer; we were trying to keep a man we loved from dying—if he was still alive.

  “I’ve been to see Walter Farragut’s mother.”

  Her face relaxed as though I had said I’d found Hudson safe and sound. “Oh Chris, that’s wonderful. I was so afraid there was nothing, that there was nowhere to turn. Tell me about it.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. She’s Mrs. Cornelius Farragut, in her seventies, I’d guess, and lives in a retirement community halfway between Riverview and here. She won’t say where her son lives. I found out, too, that Julia had a brother. She told Angela there were no brothers, but she had one and he’s alive somewhere, but Mrs. Farragut won’t give an inch. Jack is trying to find the two men through Motor Vehicles. If they own cars in New York State, we may be able to track them down.”

  “Go on.” She had sat across from me and taken a pencil and a sheet of blank paper, but she had written nothing.

  “Let’s start with the little we know. Hudson’s car was found outside the Farraguts’ old house yesterday morning. That means it was left there either the night of Thursday the twenty-sixth or the early morning of the twenty-seventh. Let’s say—and I don’t believe this—that Hudson left it there himself to send us a message of remorse. That means he had no transportation. He would have had to take the train out of Riverview. I think we should find out what the schedule is and see if anyone at the station remembers him. Do you have any photos of him?”

  “I can find one.”

  “Now let’s look at the other possibility. A kidnapper or killer, someone who knew and loved Julia Farragut, met Hudson at the rest stop on Christmas Day and forced him to drive somewhere. It’s possible”—I looked across the table at her—“that Hudson has been dead since Christmas Night.”

  “I know that.”

  “He gets rid of the body—or he’s holding Hudson somewhere for reasons that I can’t imagine—and decides to leave the car in front of the Farragut house to send a message of vengeance. But he has the same problem. He has to go back to wherever he started from.”

  “And that means the train.”

  “So it seems to me I’d better talk to the people in the station, find out if anyone saw Hudson or if they saw anyone waiting for a train besides the regulars.”

  “Let me find a picture of Hudson.” She went to a cabinet and pulled out a box of pictures. She went through them quickly, finally handing me one. It was a color snapshot of Hudson with two of the nuns in front of the chapel.

  “This is fine,” I said.

  “Are you going now?”

  “After I make a phone call.”

  Joseph looked at her watch. “We’ll put your dinner away. We’ve just been given a microwave oven as a gift. When it came, I couldn’t think what we’d do with it, but I’m told they’re great reheaters. You can be the first to try it.”

  I was about to get up, but I changed my mind. “That house. Were you ever in the Farragut house?”

  “No. It’s possible Sister Clare Angela was. I think Mr. Farragut visited here with Julia, but I never really knew where they lived.”

  “It’s an amazing house. I can see that the new owners have given it a new paint job and probably replaced some windows. It looks new and sparkling. I can’t quite explain it, but it does something to me. I feel that I want to get in there.”

  “Why? To see what?” She said it urgently, as though I were holding something important back.

  “I don’t know. I just want to see where Julia Farragut lived. And died,” I added. “It was very quiet when I was there this morning and I didn’t want to ring in case they were all sleeping. Maybe after I go to the train station, I’ll see if anyone’s home.”

  “Would you like someone to go with you?”

  “Thanks, Joseph, I think I have to do this alone.”

  “We’ll see you later.”

  I started out. “Leave the instruction manual for the microwave in plain sight. I’m all thumbs when it comes to technology.”

  —

  The train station was a disappointment. They had closed down before midnight on Thursday and not reopened till early Friday morning. The ticket agent shook his head when he saw the picture of Hudson.

  “Are there any trains after midnight?” I asked.

  “We got a few in both directions. You can get your ticket on board. Don’t need to keep this place open for a couple of passengers.”

  I went out to the parking lot and walked around. A sign announced in no uncertain terms that cars without a permit would be ticketed and towed at the owner’s expense. It was a long commute to New York, but there were probably people who did it daily. They would come here early, park their cars, hop a train for the city. Or perhaps they went north to Albany or some town between. I looked at the cars, not knowing what I was looking for. Then I got into my own car and drove to Hawthorne Street.

  —

  Number 211 was as quiet as when I had parked there thi
s morning, but I walked up the flagstone path, up the stairs to the wide veranda, and rang the bell. A lamp in a front window was lighted and I could just make out the sound of music from inside. But no one answered my ring, and after a few futile minutes I decided no one was home and a timer was turning on lights at dusk and perhaps a radio or television set.

  I went back to the street and walked to the house next door. It was even larger than 211 and also set back. This one was painted cream with blue shutters and trim and a blue double door as well. I rang the bell and a woman opened it almost immediately.

  “Yes?” She said it with the restrained hostility of one who suspects you are selling something.

  “My name is Christine Bennett and I’m looking for the people next door at number 211. I wondered if you knew where they were.”

  “They won’t be back till after New Year’s. They’re in St. Croix for the holiday.”

  “I see. I wonder—were you friends of the Farraguts?”

  “Is this about the Jeep they found yesterday?”

  “In a way it is. I used to teach at St. Stephen’s, the convent where Julia Farragut was a novice.”

  “Why don’t you come in. It’s cold out there.”

  “Thank you.”

  She was a tall, slender woman in her fifties, her hair not quite gold and professionally arranged, dressed in the kind of flowing pants outfit you see in fashion magazines. I followed her through a spectacular living room with a grand piano almost lost in one corner and into a smaller room that was comfortably overstuffed.

  “Please sit down. You’re…?”

  “Chris Bennett.”

  “I’m Marilyn Belvedere. Can you tell me what’s going on? One of our neighbors saw that car when he was walking his dog yesterday and he said there’d been something in the local paper about it. The police were all over it, but they wouldn’t say anything. I’m afraid I’m just not up on the local news.”

  “Father Hudson McCormick was on his way from Buffalo to St. Stephen’s on Christmas Day. He called in the afternoon from Albany and that was the last we heard from him. He was our priest when Julia Farragut was at the convent.”