The Christmas Night Murder Read online

  “Then he’s the one who—”

  “There were charges made against him, Mrs. Belvedere. I knew him and I don’t believe there was any truth to them.”

  “I don’t know what to believe about that whole situation.”

  “Did you know the Farraguts?”

  “I thought I did.” She reached out and switched on a lamp next to the chair she was sitting in. The walls were covered with a fabric that matched the upholstery and the thick rug. Along the edges of the room a beautiful old wooden floor gleamed with polish. “We’ve lived here a long time and the Farraguts moved in a few years after we did. Serena and I became friends.”

  “Is that Walter’s wife?”

  “Yes. They had the little boy and Julia was a few years old when they got here. They were a very nice family, I thought.”

  “Was Walter’s mother with them when they moved in?”

  “She was already here. She and her husband, Cornelius, had owned the house for years. When she was widowed, she invited Walter to live with her. But it was always her house. And she let you know it if you got it wrong.”

  The characterization didn’t surprise me. There was nothing reticent about old Mrs. Farragut. “I understand Serena was hospitalized,” I said, turning back to the unlucky wife.

  “She had a nervous breakdown at one point. I could see it coming.”

  “In what way, Mrs. Belvedere?”

  She folded her hands and unfolded them. “She was a poor soul who found life hard to handle. Maybe it was a genetic defect. The daughter, after all…” She left it hanging.

  “Was there anything you knew about that she couldn’t cope with?”

  “Mother?” It was a man’s voice and we both turned toward the door we had entered. A young man, thirtyish, was standing there in his bathrobe.

  “Tom, you’re up. Dad was looking for you.”

  “I’m going out for a while. I’ll get myself dinner.”

  “Have a good time, dear.” Marilyn Belvedere turned back to me as her son walked away. “They turn the clock around, don’t they?” she said with a smile. “At least during vacations. I always look forward to having him, and then I only see him for a few minutes at a time. He lives in his own apartment now.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, wanting to get back to more important things. “We were talking about Serena Farragut.”

  “Why is this important?”

  “Because someone has kidnapped or killed Father McCormick.”

  “I don’t see what Serena Farragut’s nervous breakdown can possibly have to do with that priest.”

  “I don’t either,” I admitted, “but there’s some connection between Father McCormick’s disappearance and the Farraguts. That’s why his car was left in front of the house.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She looked pained, as though she knew what I was after but didn’t want to talk about it, as though her son’s interruption had reminded her to keep quiet. “I wish I could help you.”

  “I think you can.”

  She pressed her lips together and crossed her legs, tossing silky fabric. “It wasn’t a happy family,” she said finally. “I don’t know what else I can say. They certainty had enough money, but that isn’t everything. Maybe it was the presence of Walter’s mother, the friction between the women, maybe it was something else. These things happen, even in the best of families.”

  “What things?”

  “Unhappiness,” she said vaguely.

  “You mentioned a son.”

  “Foster, yes.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “He was a problem. That’s all I can tell you. Foster was always in trouble.”

  I took a chance. “Was your son friendly with him?”

  “Not at all. They didn’t get along. Tom had nothing to do with him.”

  “Do you know where Walter Farragut is now?”

  That was the question that disturbed her more than any of my others. “Miss Bennett, after all the years we were friendly with that family, all the misery and tears I shared with Serena, including standing at her grave seven years ago, they left without a word. I haven’t seen Walter Farragut since the day he moved out of that house. Even his mother didn’t give me a forwarding address. I haven’t gotten so much as a Christmas card from her. They left this town and the waters came together over their lives. There’s nothing left of them, nothing left of my friend Serena, not a tree planted in her memory or a plaque in the school. She gave to this town, and when the women’s club decided to hold a lunch in her memory, Walter refused to attend. They were a strange family.”

  “What about the new people? Do you know them?”

  “The Corcorans? They’re wonderful. I couldn’t ask for better neighbors.”

  “Do you have the key to their house?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought they might have left it with you while they’re away. I could see they have lovely plants inside. I would hope someone would water them.”

  “I water them.”

  “I’d like to get a look at the house, especially where Julia lived.”

  “I couldn’t let you in. And they’ve changed a lot of things.”

  “Did the Corcorans know about Julia’s suicide when they moved in?”

  “They weren’t told. I understand there’s a law now; they have to tell you things like that before you buy. But at that time it wasn’t law yet, and the house had been on the market for some time with people afraid to live in it. The realtor just kept her mouth shut and the Corcorans didn’t find out till they’d moved in. I can tell you they weren’t happy about it.”

  “Were you aware that Julia was seriously depressed?”

  “I’m not a professional and I’m not sure I can tell the difference between extreme unhappiness and depression. Her mother’s death had a terrible effect on her, which didn’t surprise me. She was only eighteen or so when it happened. I assumed she would get over it, but she didn’t live long enough.”

  “Were you here when she committed suicide?”

  “We were here. I remember hearing the sirens and seeing the lights. I even remember seeing them carry that poor girl out in a plastic bag.” A chill seemed to go through her body as she said it.

  “I wonder that they left her alone on Christmas after she had suffered such a loss.”

  “She wasn’t alone. It’s a big house. You could probably have a party in one part of it and not hear it in another.”

  I wrote down my name and the phone number at St. Stephen’s. “If you change your mind, I’d like to come with you on your watering visit. I wouldn’t leave your sight.”

  She looked at the piece of paper. “I’ll think about it,” she said. Then she walked me to the front door.

  12

  There was a dinner plate full of food in the refrigerator and handwritten instructions telling me what to do with it. I put the plastic-wrapped dish in the new microwave, punched some buttons, and watched. A light went on, a digital clock counted down, a bell rang, and lo and behold! I had a hot meal.

  Jack used to live in a small apartment in Brooklyn Heights where he had miniaturized appliances, including a half dishwasher and a small microwave. He didn’t use it much when I was there because he always enjoyed cooking, but the few times he stuck something cold inside and pulled it out steaming, I must admit I marveled. As I did tonight. I sat by myself, my notebook open, and ate slices of roast beef, beets, mashed potatoes, and a nice salad that had also been left for me in the refrigerator.

  Everything I had heard about the Farraguts indicated an unhappy family with a lot of problems, but I had nothing specific to work with. The phrases in my book left no room for interpretation. Extreme unhappiness and depression. They were a strange family. Misery and tears. Foster was always in trouble. It wasn’t a happy family. Friction between the women. There were problems in her home. She was a poor soul who found it hard to cope with the world. The child was in pieces. I was bac
k at old Mrs. Farragut’s comments now. Even Joseph had told me that Julia was an unstable person. But there was a big difference between being unstable and taking your life, and if she was unstable when she arrived at St. Stephen’s, if there were problems in her home when she was growing up, Hudson McCormick was in no way responsible for the troubles she brought with her to the convent.

  The phone in the kitchen rang as I was finishing my salad. I got up and answered it.

  “Chris? It’s Angela.”

  “Hi. I’m just finishing dinner.”

  “Jack called while you were out. He asked to talk to Joseph and she said she’d like to see you when you have a minute.”

  “Thanks, Angela.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve found him.”

  “No. I’m just picking up a trail of misery that goes back years. But it doesn’t seem to be pointing anywhere.”

  “See you later then.”

  I washed my dishes and carried my notes upstairs to Joseph’s office. “Did Jack locate those addresses?” I asked as I went inside.

  “One of them, yes. The one for the father, Walter Farragut. He’s living a little farther downstate now, closer to New York. Jack is pretty sure this is the Walter Farragut you’re looking for. The age fits. He said there were a number of Farraguts.”

  “Good. I’ll try to see him tomorrow. Maybe I can get Jack to meet me there. I’m not sure he’s a man I look forward to speaking to alone.”

  “There’s more, and this is something of a shocker. Jack couldn’t find a current license for the son, Foster, and he did some additional checking. Foster’s in jail, Chris. He’s been there for almost two years.”

  —

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but just as there was a huge chasm between troubled and suicidal, there was at least as great a gap between in trouble and in jail. Still, the news effectively ruled out my likeliest suspect in the kidnapping of Hudson McCormick. Someone daring enough to have been in trouble was just the kind of person who could have waylaid an unsuspecting priest and taken him somewhere to exact revenge.

  I called Jack, who said he would contact the prison to see if he could find out anything else about Foster Farragut. What he had learned from a police file was that Foster had used an unregistered handgun to pistol-whip an old friend, whom he then robbed. It was an ugly crime committed by a man from a family wealthy enough to keep him financially content. Unless his father had chosen not to.

  In the meantime there was no word from any source on Hudson. We agreed to speak again in the morning and decide how to approach Walter Farragut.

  I checked the nuns watching television downstairs, then got my coat and went outside. It was a clear, moonlit night. The huge wreath on the roof of the mother house almost glowed in the celestial light. The cold had eased off thanks to a warm front coming up from the south. I wondered where Hudson was, how he was spending his night, if he was still alive.

  I went to the villa to talk to Sister Mary Teresa again if she was of clear mind. She was sitting with a group of elderly nuns who were chatting and laughing.

  “Sister Dolores,” I said, spotting the Christmas-dinner cook. “I haven’t thanked you for the wonderful meal you made.”

  “I’m sure you did,” she said. “I’ve lost count of the thank-you’s. Maybe I should spend more time in the kitchen in my old age. I had an awfully good time fixing that meal.”

  “I was at a convent in northern Pennsylvania last year where the sisters put up jams and jellies and sell them in a tiny store. People from all around come and buy them.”

  “That sounds like fun.” She had a face that looked like fun, with full cheeks and sparkling eyes, and a body that showed her enjoyment of food. She had once told me that her father had been a baker and she had grown up with floury hands. “What do you say, Sisters?”

  There was some agreement along with some good-natured calls for her to enjoy her retirement. They were a nice group of elderly women, women I had known for sixteen years. At that time many of them had been vigorous, active people. Now they were plagued with physical ailments or worse. A couple of them sat silently, barely aware of their surroundings. Others needed help getting around. They had outlived their parents and many of their siblings, and now the convent was truly their family. I spoke to a few of them, then found Sister Mary Teresa.

  “Could we talk for a few minutes?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said brightly. “Didn’t we talk this afternoon?”

  “Yes, but something’s come up.” I held out my hand and she used it for leverage as she rose with difficulty. Then we walked to the far side of the large room and sat in two adjacent seats.

  “I’d like to ask you about Julia Farragut again.”

  “I told you this afternoon. She was a lovely girl, would have made a good nun.”

  “Did you know she had a brother?”

  She looked at me through the thick lenses. “I never heard about a brother.”

  “His name is Foster.”

  “Foster.” She looked at her hands as they rested in her lap. “I don’t know that name, Foster.”

  “She never talked to you about him?”

  “It’s all so long ago. It’s hard to remember.” But she was disturbed. The name—or the mention of a brother—had stirred something in her, reminded her of something, made her uncomfortable. “My memory isn’t what it used to be.” She opened and closed her hands as though to get the circulation going.

  “When Julia died, did you and Sister Clare Angela go to the funeral?”

  “Yes, we did. I remember that. It was very cold. Sister Clare Angela drove.”

  “Did the whole convent go?”

  She shook her head. “They didn’t want it.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “The family. Julia’s father. It was a suicide, you know. Of course I’ve always been convinced she had a change of heart at the end, when it was too late. So it wasn’t really a suicide. It was an accident. She had a Catholic burial. The priest—I’ve forgotten his name—”

  “Father Grimes?”

  Her face broke into a smile. “Yes, Father Grimes. How did you know?”

  “I met him.”

  “I think Father Grimes thought so, too, that it was an accident. I know she went to heaven, poor soul.”

  “I’m sure she did. Then you and Sister Clare Angela were the only nuns at the funeral?”

  “The only ones. Just Sister Clare Angela and me.” She looked at the watch she wore, a large round white face with clear Arabic numbers. “I should go now, Christine. Thank you for coming.”

  I said good night and watched her go. As she passed the group of nuns she waved to them. When she was gone, I left the villa.

  —

  Outside, I turned away from the Mother House and started walking. With the bright moon and the milder weather, it was a good night to make up for the morning walks I had missed in Oakwood. Nothing would make up for my lost days and nights with Jack, but we would have other times together and Hudson would have nothing if we didn’t find him.

  Sister Mary Teresa’s clever manipulation of Julia’s suicide into an unfortunate accident intrigued me. It was a theological point I had heard argued many times. Catholicism does not condone suicide. There was a time when a person who committed suicide could not be buried in hallowed ground. There were priests who would not officiate at the funeral. But Catholicism is not unbending, not without understanding and sympathy. After all, how are we, the survivors, to know whether the poor soul, in his last moment of life, after he has taken the irrevocable step, did not regret his act? How can any of the living be certain that after the trigger was pulled or the poison swallowed or the stool kicked out from under, the dying victim did not instantly repent and wish he could undo his last act? Because we feel merciful toward people who have erred, it is usually assumed nowadays that the victim was sorry, that given the time and the opportunity, he would undo or reconsider.

  That
was how Mary Teresa felt, that Julia had had a change of heart when it was tragically too late to do anything about it. It was a kindness from a kind woman and I felt a warmth toward her. I felt glad that Julia had had someone like Mary Teresa to talk to and to comfort her. St. Stephen’s was an institution, a place on a map, a collection of buildings and trees and lawns and statues, but most of all it was a group of women who were good and kind. I was not only happy to have spent fifteen years here; I was proud of it.

  13

  There was noise everywhere, the screams of women, the sound of running. My first thought was that there was a fire, but there had been no alarm, no knock on my door, no official warning, no telltale smell of smoke.

  I got out of bed and pulled my robe out of the closet. Out in the hall a group of nuns stood in robes and nightcaps, some crying. I ran over to them, putting my robe on as I went.

  “What happened?”

  Sister Gracia turned to me. “It’s Sister Mary Teresa.”

  “Oh no.”

  “She dead, Chris.”

  “Oh how awful. Was it a heart attack?”

  “She’s been murdered!” one of the other nuns said shrilly, her voice out of control. “Murdered. They left her lying in the cold near the chapel.”

  My heart was pounding. “Have you seen Joseph?”

  “She’s going there now. To the chapel.”

  I ran back to my room and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, sneakers, and wool socks. I took my coat and bag and flew out of the room. The group was still standing there, but I didn’t stop to say anything. I had forgotten my watch, but it was still dark and the nuns had not yet gotten up for morning prayers, so I assumed it was earlier than five.

  It was freezing outside, but I was moving so fast I didn’t mind it. The occasional floodlights that were turned on from dusk to dawn were still lighted and helped me find my way.

  A small group of nuns in coats over their nightgowns were huddled outside the chapel. I recognized Joseph as I approached and I called to her.

  She turned to face me. “Chris. We’ve had a tragedy.”