Working Murder (15 page)

Mr. Lighter cleared his throat. “My daughter is in charge of the thrift shop at St.
Clement's Church.”

“Wonderful!”

Tina opened a closet and what seemed to be a hundred garments hung there. Happily, most
were in plastic bags; May had always loved clothes and was meticulous about them. I
started at one end and Tina at the other, and together we swept the lot onto the floor.
Mr. Lighter gasped.

“Are you sure you ladies don't want—”

“We're sure.” Tina was opening and closing handbags, turning out tissues, combs,
cosmetics, and change. On the back of a chair lay the mink coat. I picked it up,
thinking sadly that May had probably thrown it there when she returned from dinner with
Tully at La Maison Bleue. It was, of course, magnificent, if you like that kind of
magnificence.

I said: “Maybe this should go in the estate sale.”

“Yes, I think it should,” said Mr. Lighter, a little nervously.

I carried it into the living room and Tina called: “Be sure to go through the pockets.”

They yielded one thing, a crumpled paper napkin from La Maison Bleue, though “crumpled”
hardly described it; it was in shreds. It had been clawed and rent. There were spots of
blood where the long nails May habitually wore had dug into her flesh.

Poor, poor lady.

Sadd was in a suit as I prepared to leave for the airport. “You've been prowling the
streets of Manhattan, and now you're mad to get back. After all the effort I've put into
your conversion to Florida, I find you dancing around the golden calf.”

Henry said: “You'd better let her dance out to the car. The airport traffic will be
brutal.”

Sadd buttonholed me. “You're not to stay up there waiting for Tully to die or make a full
recovery. Tina, make her promise to be back in Florida in a week.”

“And back in New York in a month.” Tina hugged me.

“Treacherous girl!” Sadd glared at her as I kissed him and told him to take care of
himself. Hen asked to go to the airport with us.

“If you're in your duds in twenty seconds,” said Henry, and I embraced Loki once more and
we were off.

As we neared the expressway Henry reached into the backseat for a portfolio. He said:
“Here's some in-flight reading. It's all the Ellen documents, including a copy of the
anonymous letter. I kept the original. I have a plan of sorts.”

“Fingerprinting?” I asked foolishly.

“Oh, Lord, no. We've all manhandled it beginning with May.”

“What does ‘manhandled' mean?” said Hen. He pronounced it so nearly perfectly that I had
to hug him.

“It means what I'm doing to you now, love. What's the plan, Henry? Dear God, it's snowing
again.”

Henry put on the wipers. “Going on the theory that Ellen might be alive—because I don't
buy Peter Angier's conviction she can't be—alive and able to write a letter or have it
written for her, I thought I'd put a ‘personal' notice in some of the papers. I'd use a
few phrases from the letter, enough to indicate I have it, and suggest getting in touch
with me regarding a mutual friend's will.”

“Do you think”—I was a little stunned at the thought—"that she might not know May is
dead?”

“Might not.”

“But if one doesn't read the obituaries, is one likely to read the ‘personals'?”

“Much more likely. Those things fascinate people.”

I contemplated the sordidness of it. “So now there might be something in it for her. Or
for her—her—”

“Keeper.” He turned off at the airport exit.

“Henry, promise me you'll let Tina in on this.”

“I already have. And Sadd's right, Mom—don't stay up in Gloucester too long. Tully
doesn't have a whole lot of claim on you. I hope he's better, but whatever happens,
Paula and I will take care of it between us.”

The traffic at Departures was horrendous. I said:

“Don't dream of parking. Dump me here. Darling Hen, let me manhandle you once more.”

I boarded, clutching the portfolio, but in-flight reading gave way to a persistent
in-flight thought. Sick or well, Tully was going to answer a question that had bothered
me since leaving May's apartment: What cruel or blundering thing had he said to cause
the pain that had shredded that paper napkin? They had talked about Ellen and, he
claimed, May had been “calm.” Calm? Those fingers were convulsed.

THE OLD-FASHIONED, SEDATE LOBBY OF THE Parker House in Boston had blossomed, a few years
ago, into a festive place for tea and drinks. From where I sat in a nook near the main
door, the snow looked equally festive as it whirled down through the twilight of Tremont
Street, and the pot of tea before me made the moment cosy, but the yellowing,
eight-by-ten glossy photograph in my hand made it somber.

It was of Ellen Dawson in an evening dress. She was seated on a hassock, and the white
folds billowed about her, accentuating her black hair. Pure Brenda Frazier, but more
animated.

I looked at my watch, then at the door. Andy Fortina, Paula's husband, was, to use his
own phrase, a “punctuality freak,” while Paula struggled never to be more than half an
hour late. Thus I calculated that Paula, coming from home, might make it in time to
order dinner. Andy, coming from his office, would be here in three and a half minutes.

Three and a half minutes, then, to decide whether or not to involve them in the Ellen
matter. Three and a half minutes to put the stuff spread before me on the tea table back
in the portfolio or leave it out.

I took one of those minutes to pour a fresh cup of tea, eat a cucumber sandwich, and
study Ellen's picture. I'd forgotten, or never realized, how tiny she was. I'd seen her
once in our childhood and remembered a lively little girl who loved to play jacks. Aunt
Robby and I had traveled to Boston for a family wedding, and at the reception, held in a
house on Beacon Hill, Ellen and I had sat on the stairs like Beth and Amy peeking down
at the party, consuming goodies, and playing jacks. She was skilled, I was klutzy, and
I'd liked her.

Now, gazing at the pretty, merry face, I wished I'd known her. If she was still alive,
how had she aged? Was that jet black hair as white as my own? Was she—oh, God—bent, mad,
hostage?

“Who's that?” It was my son-in-law's voice behind me, two minutes early. Well, that
settled it. As he kissed me, I said: “It's somebody I'll tell you about,” and he sat
down and let me pour him tea.

“I'll have my one precious drink before dinner. I plan to lose twenty pounds by the first
of March.” Andy always planned to lose twenty pounds by the first of something. He had
what Evelyn Waugh called “a Latin love of bread.”

“You look great, Clara. Florida agrees with you. What's in these microscopic sandwiches?
Liver pate—my favorite on earth.” He picked up Ellen's picture. “This looks like an old
movie photo.” Andy worked for an education film company and was a thirties' movie buff.
“Let's see ... prettier than Janet Gaynor ... not as pretty as Frances Drake ... more
like Maureen O'Sullivan but not so Irish ... Jean Parker! She looks like Jean Parker.”

Not unlike, I agreed.

“Who is it? Don't tell me.” He sipped his tea and studied the photograph. “It's a glossy,
so it was probably destined for the newspaper. If not an actress, maybe a debutante.
That strapless white dress is definitely late thirties....”

“Strapless? It can't be. Her parents would never have allowed it.” I leaned over to look.

“You're right. Thin straps. Parents? Who is she?”

“Mother!”

I jumped up to hug Paula, only five minutes late.

“This is a miracle,” said Andy. “You're not due for another hour.”

“Don't be fresh.” Paula sat down hanging onto my hand. “Mrs. Kelly came early and even
offered to feed Janey. What's all this?” She looked at the array on the tea table.

Andy said: “This is called ‘The Old Photo Game' or ‘Who is She and Where is She Now?'”

“I don't know where she is now,” Paula took Ellen's picture from his hand, “but I do know
that her first name is Ellen.”

I looked at her, stunned. “How do you know that?”

“This picture—a better copy—is in an album at Uncle Tully's house. It's signed ‘Love,
Ellen.' I went up to Gloucester to see him this morning.” Paula sat down and reached for
the teapot. “I called the nurse and she said he was fairly lucid—I guess he hadn't
been—and a visitor might do him good, so Janey and I went up on the train—did she ever
love that train!—and when we got there, the nurse was giving him a bath so we sat in the
living room, and I looked around for something to read. The house is a
mess
. I
found a bunch of old albums in one of the bookcases. So who is this? Wife? Daughter? Old
girl friend?”

“Niece.”

“Oh.” A boring world. Paula promptly lost interest and poured herself tea, sternly
inquiring of her husband if he was responsible for the empty sandwich plate, which he
was. I ordered more, deciding that I still need not involve them. I started to gather up
the documents, but Andy had picked up a clipping and was absorbed in it.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that this girl split from some dance back in
1939?”

“Yes.”

“When did she show up again?”

“Never.”

They looked at each other. Paula said, reaching for another clipping: “And she was Uncle
Tully's niece?” She read the headline aloud. “hunt for missing girl spreads to other new
england states. the search for ellen dawson—she was related to you, too, Mom?”

I nodded. “Remember the old lady we used to take you and Henry to visit on Park
Avenue—the one who just died?”

“Sure. Aunt May.”

“Her daughter.”

Andy said, staring at the picture: “And nobody knows what became of this kid?”

I shook my head.

“Or if she's alive or dead?”

I shook my head.

“How old would she be now?”

“About my age.”

“Oh, she's got to be dead.”

“Thank you.”

We laughed, which helped. Andy said: “I only meant—after all these years ... Was there
ever a ransom demand?”

“Never.”

Paula said: “I bet she eloped with some guy her family didn't like.”

“They seem to think not.” I quaked a bit.

“What a great movie.” Andy closed his eyes. “She elopes with this guy—maybe he's
married—and it doesn't work and she's too proud to go home. He leaves her and she
dies—maybe kills herself—”

“No, I want it more upbeat,” said Paula. “She marries again and lives happily but in
obscurity—”

“—and that's her sitting over there with that poodle,” I said.

“Where did you get all this stuff, Clara?” Andy poured himself more tea.

I hesitated, peering into the empty teapot. The anonymous letter, still safely tucked
inside the portfolio, had been ticking in my head like a bomb. The ticking had begun
that morning when Henry said he was going to try to contact the writer. Was this wise?
Might it involve risk? Was it fair to extend that risk to Paula's family, who were even
closer, geographically, to the fatal scene?

I stood up. “All this had been in May's apartment for years. I was asked to go there and
collect her things.” I swept everything together. “Now, listen: I'm going to take it all
back upstairs to my room. Order more tea and I'll be right back. Then I want to hear
about Tully and about Janey—”

Neither was listening. Andy held a police report with a map of the roads that led to Bass
Rocks Beach. Paula began reading aloud, aghast: “'Dear Sara: Forgive me for my silence
of the last year but my heart is breaking and I must ask if you know anything that might
help at this terrible time —'
Mom!
”

I sat down again.

It took through dinner and well into the evening to relate everything, withholding the
anonymous letter and Sadd's involvement. At ten o'clock Andy rolled over on the bed in
my sixth-floor room, holding a picture of the Eastern Shores Yacht Club over his head.
He studied it intently as Paula finished reading a synopsis of Tina and Henry's first
visit to May's apartment. The lights of Boston glimmered through the snow now tapering
off.

Andy said: “This club. I think my grandfather was the chef there once. Didn't it bum
down?”

“Yes.”

“He used to take me up there with him sometimes. We'd go to the beach, it was right near
the club. I'll bet that was the same beach Ellen and her pals went to.”

I thought of Sadd's words: “She'd make some excuse, it wasn't far.”

Paula said: “What do Henry and Tina plan to do now that Aunt May is dead?”

“Their first inclination was to drop it but—”

“—but no way!” Andy laughed.

“What are you going to do, Mom?”

“I'm not sure.”

“You are so.” Paula is supposed to look like me, but her teasing smile is all Henry
Gamadge. “You're going to do what Dad would have done—try to find out what happened to
her.”

I said firmly: “Well, I know what I'm going to do right now—I'm going to bed and you two
are going home.”

Paula said dreamily: “That Jim Cavanaugh. For my money, he's not in the clear. Oh, I know
Ellen's not buried in that weirdo mausoleum—you told us what the guilty secret there
was—but it doesn't mean he couldn't have been waiting for her that night.”

Andy said with conviction: “There was a guy involved. There had to be.”

I went to the closet for my nightgown. “May I remind you that you have a sitter? And I
have to be on a train tomorrow morning.”

“I brought you a timetable.” Paula took it from her purse. “I don't know what poor Tully
is like when he's well, but he sure is a skeleton now.”