The Valentine's Day Murder (23 page)

She checked a book and wrote down the plot number and driving instructions on a pad, tearing the sheet off when she was done.

“And also Matthew Franklin,” I said.

She opened the book again and looked through it. “I’m sorry, but there doesn’t seem to be a grave for that name. Is it a recent burial?”

“No. It’s quite a long time ago.”

“Are you sure it’s this cemetery?”

“Maybe I got it wrong,” I said. “Thank you for the other one. We’ll drive over.”

“I’m not sure I want to see this,” Carlotta said as I drove slowly on the winding road.

“You can stay in the car.”

“Maybe Matty isn’t part of the scam.”

“Maybe the original was buried in another cemetery.”

“Matty looks as American as any man I’ve ever known.”

“We all come from somewhere, Carlotta.”

“True.”

“Here we are.” I pulled to the side, leaving just enough room for one car to go by. We got out and walked, checking names as we went.

The stone was dark marble and read
VALENTINE KRASSKY
, with the dates of his birth and death, a mere six years apart.

Carlotta began to cry. “How could anyone kill a child?” she said.

In front of the stone was a fresh bouquet of flowers. “His parents must have come here,” I said. “I’m afraid I stirred up the misery in their lives.”

Carlotta turned away and started walking. I let her go. We had made this long trip and learned nothing. Matty’s namesake wasn’t buried here, if indeed there were one. I couldn’t go around to all the cemeteries in Connecticut, and there was no guarantee that the namesake was even from Connecticut. The mysterious woman with the accent might have worked in another state before or after working around here.

I looked around for Carlotta but didn’t see her. She wasn’t in the car, and she didn’t seem to be in the direction she had wandered off in. I started walking myself, looking idly at the stones as though Matty’s name might materialize on one of them, but, of course, it didn’t.
Ahead of me a group was gathered, and I realized a funeral was taking place.

It took me a minute to recognize the sound of my own name being called from far away. I stopped and turned around, shading my eyes from the bright sun. Carlotta was waving through the trees, signaling me to come to her. I was wearing my sneakers so I ran, not very fast, but I got there quickly.

“Look at this,” Carlotta said, pointing.

I stood in front of a simple stone that read
CLARK ANDREW THAYER, BELOVED SON, AGE TWO
, and the dates of the child’s birth and death. A terrible chill went through me. All three men were linked in life and in death, maybe in two deaths apiece.

“What do we do now?” Carlotta asked.

I ignored the question. “Was Clark younger than Val and Matty? It looks like it from the date of his birth.”

“He said he was.”

“This boy died before Val Krassky. Maybe Val was the last of the lot, and she was in a hurry to get it done.”

“You think she killed this one, too?”

“I have no way of knowing, and I don’t want to upset another family. One was too much. Let’s drive back.” The beginnings of a theory were finally starting to form. Something Bambi had said to me. Maybe she had gotten it wrong. Maybe … “Stay over till Tuesday. I’ll fly back with you Tuesday afternoon, after I’ve taught my class. Maybe we can put all this to rest—with a little luck.”

“What are you thinking?”

We walked toward the car. “I think there was a blood relationship. I think they seemed as close as brothers because they were brothers.”

“Is that why Val kept that life insurance policy?
Because Matty was his brother, and he wasn’t doing well and Val wanted to look after him?”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe it was more than that. But I think we have a good chance of finding out now.”

“Do you think Val’s alive?”

“I still can’t tell you that. But if he’s alive, I think the Winkels know. And we may be able to persuade them to tell us. Now that we’re armed with information.”

“You don’t think Tuesday’s too late?”

“I think they’ll come back to that house,” I said. “We’ll talk to them. Right on Rosegarden Lane.”

I knew that Monday was a hard day for Carlotta, but it was a very pleasant day for me. I got to walk with Melanie early in the morning, got to watch the builders as they worked on the addition, got to see my husband when he came home late in the evening after his class. Of such simple things is pleasure made.

When I had a minute I called information in Ontario for a number for Winkel at the Rosegarden Lane address, but there was none, not even an unlisted one. I asked for a number in the name of Krassky but that, too, yielded nothing.

I had little preparation for my class; tomorrow was the last one of the semester. Next Tuesday I would give my final, and all that remained was a thorough review of the poems and poets we had covered. It was the sort of thing I could do with my eyes closed.

The class went well, but several students lingered when it was over, trying to get me to disclose the exact questions that would be on the final. It never failed, and I never failed to keep it all to myself. When the last of them gave up, I dashed to my car and drove home, picked up my suitcase, called Jack to say good-bye, and went to Amy Grant’s house to get Carlotta. She came out
wearing pants and a blouse with a kind of jacket-shirt over all, as the day was cool and breezy. She put her bag in the backseat, and we started for La Guardia.

“That’s a beautiful shirt,” I said. “It’s just right on a day like this.”

“It’s Val’s. He got it last year and I’ve worn it more than he ever did.” She rubbed a sleeve, feeling the fineness of the fabric.

I started to say something, but my mind did a little jig, and those pieces of litter that were really unconnected scraps of information started to move toward that elusive structure.

“Did you say something?” Carlotta asked.

“No. Sorry, I was just thinking.”

She laughed. “You don’t have to apologize for that. It’s neither immoral nor fattening.”

But this time it had been productive. Finally.

I persuaded Carlotta to stay home, and I took Val’s Mercedes and drove to Bambi Thayer’s house. A little girl who looked very much like Bambi was standing on the driveway talking to another little girl. I parked at the curb and walked over to the children. “Are you Mrs. Thayer’s daughter?” I asked the obvious look-alike.

“Uh-huh.”

“Is she home?”

“She’s in the back. Who are you?”

“Chris Bennett.”

“Oh.”

“I was sorry to hear about your daddy,” I said.

She said, “Thank you,” as though she had been told how to respond.

“I didn’t know him but I heard he was a wonderful person.”

“He was.”

“I’m sure you’ll always remember him. When was the last time you saw him?”

“He came home from the store before he went out to dinner with Uncle Val and Uncle Matty. It was Uncle Val’s birthday.”

“Yes, I remember. Can I go in the back and find your mom?”

“Sure.”

I walked along a path at the side of the house and came to a splendid backyard. Bambi was sitting on a deck watching a small television set. I called, “Hi.”

“Oh. It’s you.” She leaned over and shut off the TV. “Come on up.”

I went up and sat in the second chair. “It’s beautiful back here.”

“I love it. Clark and I used to sit here all the time.”

“Bambi, is it possible that Clark went to some other high school besides Bennett?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because Bennett has no record of his being a student there.”

She looked confused. “Why would you even ask them?”

“Because I’ve learned some funny things about Val and Matty. It seems they lived in the same house during high school.”

“Maybe that’s how they got to be friends.”

“Maybe.” I didn’t want to tell her any more than I had to. “But Clark doesn’t seem to have gone to Bennett.”

“Well, he said he did. They probably just lost the
records. It’s a stupid thing to lie about. If he said he went there, he went there.”

“Did he ever mention a family named Winkel?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You dated Val at one time, didn’t you?”

Her look turned to disgust. “Please go away,” she said. “My husband is dead. All our husbands are dead. Where is this taking you? Why do you have to dredge up the past? It’s gone. Can’t you let it be gone?” She looked away, composing herself. “It doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t you ever have a boyfriend before you got married?”

It was one of those moments when I saw myself as different. “I didn’t,” I said. “I was a nun for almost fifteen years.”

“A nun.” Her eyebrows went up and her face softened. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything that would offend you.”

“You didn’t. I left the convent when I was thirty and met my husband soon after. We were married about a year later. I’m afraid dating is something I never did in my life.”

“That’s weird.” Of the three wives, she seemed the youngest, the sweetest, and the most innocent. Now she seemed a little nonplussed.

“Will you tell me about you and Val?”

“It was nothing. I met him at a party and we went out for a while. He was in college, and I went out there to visit him. That’s how I met Jake. Jake told you about it, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I think he had the feeling it was hot and heavy, and maybe it was, but Val wasn’t for me and I sure wasn’t for
Val. A couple of years later, Val told Clark to give me a call. It didn’t work out right away but when it did, it was right.”

“That was nice of Val.”

“He was a nice guy. They were all nice guys.” Her eyes filled.

“Did Clark know you had gone out with Val?”

She pressed her lips together. “He knew Val knew me. Clark was a very old-fashioned kind of man. It might have upset him if he’d known I’d had a—relationship with his friend.”

“So you don’t think Clark ever found out that it was more than a date or two?”

“He didn’t hear it from me. Carlotta wasn’t around when it happened, and neither was Annie.”

“But Jake was,” I said.

“Why would Jake say anything?”

“Did Jake ever hang out with the three men?”

“Sometimes.”

“Bambi, you told me last time we talked that Annie came from New York City or New Jersey. Are you sure of that?”

“Somewhere around there,” she said. “One place is as good as another. She’s not from around here.”

I stood and thanked her for talking to me. Then I went down the stairs to the lawn and around the house to the street. The little girls were gone, but a few toys had been left carelessly on the driveway. I picked them up and put them on the edge of the grass.

So much came back to Jake. Jake knew about the mysterious phone calls to Canada. Jake knew about the brief but torrid relationship Val had had with Bambi. Jake knew that Val had known Annie before she met Matty.

But Jake hadn’t given up anything willingly. I had had to pry information out of him, make far-fetched guesses that he then confirmed. If he knew things that Val wanted kept secret, he had certainly appeared to be trying to keep them from me.

I worked my way over to Annie Franklin’s house. Here, too, children were playing in the street and on driveways. I thought of the little being that was growing inside me. Would I ever be relaxed enough as a mother to let my child play on Pine Brook Road? Would I be able to let my child out of my sight? At this time, they were unanswerable questions.

I parked a couple of houses away from Annie’s and walked to her driveway where some boys were shooting baskets. I tried to pick out the one who was Matty and Annie’s son, but this time I failed. As I stood watching, a boy about eight or nine grabbed the ball and turned to me.

“You lookin’ for my mom?”

“Yes. Is she inside?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I’m Chris Bennett. What’s your name?”

“Matt.”

“Hi, Matt. I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Yeah.” He looked pained.

“I didn’t know him but I heard he was a very nice person.”

“Yeah, he was.”

“When did you see him for the last time?”

“The night it happened. I was in bed already, and he came home to put his other boots on. He came in my room and said good night.”

I tried to keep my excitement to myself.
Matty had come home that night
. “It’s nice that you saw him.”

“Yeah. I remember it. You wanna go inside and look for my mom?”

“Yes.”

“Go in the front door. It’s open.” He turned to his pals and tossed the ball.

I didn’t want to let on that I knew. Annie had lied to me. If her son had seen Matty, she had seen him, too. I rang the doorbell, putting it together. Matty had owned a handgun, whether Annie knew about it or not, and he had picked it up when he went home to change his boots. Somehow, as he held the gun on one of the other two men on the ice, one of them had managed to turn it back on Matty.

It had to be Val, I thought. From everyone’s description of Clark, he didn’t seem like the one to shoot at his oldest friend.

“Hi, Chris. Come in.” Annie had opened the door.

“It’s lovely out this evening.”

“Yes. I should be out there instead of in here.” She was wearing black jeans and a shirt of faded blue. She took me through the house to the room at the back. “Sit anywhere. I can’t believe you still have questions.”

My big question had now been answered, and I had to be careful how I phrased the smaller questions so she wouldn’t guess that I knew about Matty coming home. “I’ve been thinking about Matty’s mother,” I said, coming in from left field. “I think you said she lived in England.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“Did you look for an address for her after the accident?”

“I wouldn’t know where to look. I keep the family address book.”

“Maybe he kept it at work.”

“Why would he do that? And why do you care? I don’t see what difference this makes.”

“I’m looking for anything that will explain who killed Matty and why. And if Val is still alive, I want to find him.”