Working Murder (16 page)

Depression settled on me. “He was always thin. What's actually wrong with him—pneumonia?”

“I guess so. The nurse didn't talk much, but she was nice. She took Janey out to the
kitchen and gave her lunch. I don't think the poor guy knew who I was. He kept asking
me, and I kept saying I was your daughter, and then he'd say, ‘dear Clara, dear Henry,
how are they?'”

I cringed. “I dread this.”

“Maybe you shouldn't go, Mom.”

“Of course I should. It's what I came for.”

“It's what used to be called, in my parochial school days, a ‘corporal work of mercy.'”
Andy reached for the portfolio and began gathering up the documents.

Paula said: “Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?”

“Certainly not. I want you on your way by the time I finish brushing my teeth.”

I went into the bathroom, from where I could hear the murmur of their voices and the
rustle of papers. Then there was a sudden silence and Andy said: “My God.”

Still clutching my toothbrush, I looked out. They held the anonymous letter between them.

Paula said, looking pale: “It slid out when we opened the portfolio.” Andy's hand,
holding the letter, shook as he sat down.

I said resignedly: “Call Room Service. We're going to need sustenance for this.”

The train that ran, and still runs, between Boston and the port city of Gloucester thirty
miles to the north, was one of the ways that Ellen Dawson could have conveyed herself—or
been conveyed—into oblivion on that June night.

I thought of this as I looked out of the grimy train window at the snow-bordered
bleakness of Boston Harbor, and the hour-long run to Gloucester began. The line, I'd
been told by a venerable Parker House waiter at breakfast, used to be the Boston and
Maine but was now part of the city transport system. He took it every day from his home
in Lynn, and I was to try for one of the shiny new cars, where the heat came up better
and the seats were more comfortable. I had, of course, been jostled into one of the old
cars with a paucity of heat and cracked leather seats.

We slowed and stopped, and the train disgorged a swarm of students at what proclaimed
itself as Bunker Hill Community College. I sighed with relief and put my purse and
parcel on the seat beside me.

The parcel was a nuisance and an embarrassment. When I'd called Tully's nurse to say I'd
be arriving on the eleven-forty train and would take a cab to the house, she'd asked me
to please bring Mr. Hewitt another pair of pajamas. He had but one pair and it—she
suppressed a giggle—was on its last legs. Really, I thought impatiently as I walked the
few snowy blocks to Filene's, Tully couldn't be in such a state of penury. I felt a
twinge of guilt at the familiar exasperation that always attended thoughts of Tully. I'd
awakened in the middle of the night conscious that he probably could not talk rationally
of his dinner with May, and my question regarding the conversation that had upset her
would go unanswered.

The train stopped at Salem, and passengers poured on. A youth carrying an enormous
skateboard paused beside me and gazed at purse and parcel. I transferred them to my lap
and he sank down. I took the timetable from the purse and looked at the return trains.
There was one at five-eighteen. That would give me about four hours to consult with the
nurse, sit with Tully and remind him of who I was, and possibly get over to the
Gloucester public library. Ruth Angier had said she'd written her article on Ellen ten
years ago in the
New England Journal
. It was still a popular monthly, and I might
find it in the back issues. I was curious to learn how Peter had answered her questions.

The skateboard tipped perilously toward me as its owner felt in his pocket for his
ticket. The waiting conductor caught my eye and rolled his. He said: “Watch the lady
with that thing,” and I smiled a martyr's smile.

Gloucester at last. The depot was the usual dingy one in the usual dismal district of a
fine, historic city. As I took the last, deep, ankle-breaking step from train to
platform, I heard my name.

“Mrs. Gamadge?”

A woman my age in a red parka and well-worn slacks was walking toward me. A wool cap sat
on her spiky gray hair, and her voice was hearty and pleasant.

“My name's Hester Connell—friend of Tully's. I thought you might like a ride over.” My
gratitude was so deep I could only gawk and smile. “I just talked to the nurse, and she
said you'd be on this train. Here's the car—if it can still be called that.”

I found my voice as she tucked me into the front seat of a dilapidated sedan, and I said
it was the most beautiful car I'd ever seen,
ever
.

Hester laughed. “Know how you feel. Damn cabs are never around when you need ‘em. What a
trip for you. I understand you're all the way from Florida.”

“Well, not today.” I smiled. “How's Tully?”

“Bad. He can't make it. And this morning something happened that nearly did him in. Do
you mind if I stop here? Peggy—she's the nurse—asked me to bring her a quart of milk.”

She was out of the car before I could ask what had nearly done Tully in. I sat staring at
the sign over the grocery store in a kind of resigned stupor. Now she was back, and we
lumbered into the traffic. Hester was quite a driver. She said: “You have to ride this
thing like a buffalo.”

“What happened to upset Tully this morning?”

“It seems some picture was delivered, a big thing all crated up, and when it arrived
Tully was asleep. Peggy had it put on the back porch, and when he woke up he struggled
out of bed to look out at his garden—he does this constantly, poor guy—and he saw the
crate and wanted to know what it was, so Peggy—she's such a good soul—got a hammer and
started to pull the slats off, and the first thing you know, Tully's passed out on the
floor. She never got further than the top of the frame, so it couldn't have been the
picture that threw him. Must have been the exertion.”

HESTER BLEW HER APPALLING-SOUNDING horn at a refrigerator truck that blocked the main
street. “Out of the way, fish,” she muttered. I looked out at the crowded waters of the
harbor, lifeblood of this city for three hundred years. Now we headed to the right of a
sign that read: “Eastern Point, Scenic Route.” Hester said:

“Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Gamadge. You related to Tully?”

“Not closely. But you know how it is at our stage. Not many of us left.”

“Damn right. Plan to stay a while?”

“A few days if it helps.”

“Rough weather for a Floridian.”

“Oh, I'm a New Yorker. I've just been visiting in Florida. Have you always lived here?”

“Since year one.”

“How long have you known Tully?”

“Ages. Knew his wife, Irene. Knew her sister, May Dawson. My parents had the house next
to the Dawsons for years. The Hewitts were on one side, and we were on the other. Of
course, they were summer people and we were year-rounders. My father sold most of the
real estate along Bass Rocks.”

“Did you know Ellen Dawson?”

“Sure did. You familiar with the story?”

“Yes.”

“That business haunted me for years. Ellen was a few years younger than I was. She went
to that ritzy private school, and I went to Gloucester High, so I only saw her in the
summers, but she was a good kid—I liked her. My parents played bridge with Tully and
Irene the night she disappeared. Have you had lunch? Want to stop someplace?”

“I don't want a thing.” Except for you to keep talking, I wanted to add. We were passing
a sign: rocky neck, first art colony in america. I said: “This place must teem in the
summer.”

“Teem is the word.”

I made my voice reflective. “I've only visited Gloucester once before. My husband and I
were on our way to Maine, and we stopped to see Tully. That was after May and Frank
moved to New York. She just died, you know.”

Hester nodded. “And not two weeks before that, I got a letter from her saying she was
going to reopen Ellen's case. Of all the pathetic, misguided notions. I say it was a
mercy she was taken.”

We emerged from a winding road in a snow-packed, wooded area, and the Atlantic surged
suddenly before us. I gasped.

“I'd forgotten how spectacular this is.”

“Same old ocean.” Hester turned down a broad road. “But most of the rest of it is totally
changed. Look at that motel—right out of Atlantic City. And a lot of the big old
places—ours included—are guest houses.”

“You don't live here now?”

“No. When my father died in 1960, my mother and I bought a house in Rockport, next town
over. I taught school there for years. Never married. Here we are.” Hester turned into
an unplowed driveway and gunned her way to the middle of it. “By the way, where are you
staying? Not here with Tully, I hope. You couldn't stand it.”

I looked up at the great, old weatherbeaten house, a single attic shutter flapping, and
said thankfully: “I'm at the Parker House.”

“In Boston?” Hester looked horrified. “You'll be
dead
going back and forth. Glad
to have you stay with me—ten minutes from here.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Connell. You've already been so kind—”

“Talk about it later. This your package? Where's that damn milk? Watch your door—it tends
to fall off.”

Hester must have been a wonderful teacher. I felt shepherded, secure, informed,
instructed—and tempted to accept her invitation.
Her parents had played bridge with
Tully and Irene the night Ellen disappeared
. In the words of the song, Hester if
ever I should leave you ... it wouldn't be tonight.

She was right about the car door. The wind whipping in from the ocean sent it crashing
back against the hood. Hester came around saying, “Let me do it,” and heaved it back in
place. We were blown up the ten steps to the porch, which was empty and snow-drifted. I
had a fleeting vision of tea trays, long shadows, wicker furniture, and Mah-Jongg. The
front door opened, and a young and pretty nurse greeted us.

Hester said: “This is Mrs. Gamadge, Peggy.”

“Gee, your daughter looks just like you.” Peggy won my heart at once. She accepted the
milk. “Thank you, Miss Connell. Mr. Hewitt isn't too good. He had that fall, you know.
I'll be right back—his lunch is on the stove.”

She disappeared. Hester put our coats on a tipsy rack that stood more or less in the
middle of the hall. Closed double doors on our right led, I assumed, to the bedroom
(converted from dining room). We walked into the living room, which was inexpressibly
dreary. The general impression was one of disorder, neglect, and lifelessness. Curtains
hung stiff with grime, the rug gave off little puffs of dust at each footstep, and the
furniture stood about in no particular order, appearing to have been shoved here and
there for a passing purpose and never replaced. A handsome knee-hole desk bore a jumble
of papers, a gooseneck lamp, and an ancient typewriter; business of sorts was apparently
conducted here. A card table near the window was piled with magazines and newspapers. I
glimpsed a corner of the faded felt cover painted with spades and clubs. Possibly the
very table that seated the players who played the game that covered the hours that saw
the tragedy that Jack built.

Hester said: “Ghastly, isn't it. Look here.”

She took an open checkbook from the desk and held it out to me, saying: “I didn't pry.
Peggy showed it to me. We're old friends—I taught her in the eighth grade.”

The checkbook was the kind with three checks to a page. Not more than ten had been
written, but as Hester flicked the pages I saw that dozens had been signed. A
treasurer's nightmare.

I said: “Is he mad?”

“In this case, not so mad as you'd think.” Hester closed the checkbook and found a seat
for herself on the edge of a bentwood chair piled with seed catalogues. “Peggy told me
that the first day she came, Tully, who was still fairly
compos mentis
, asked her
to bring him the checkbook and sat up in bed signing all those checks. He told her she
was to pay herself any salary she wanted, pay the doctor, pay any bills that came in,
and this way he'd be certain of not being taken to the hospital.”

I said: “Carte blanche if she'd just keep him here?”

Hester nodded. “He's just lucky she's an honest girl.” She stood up and looked around. “I
wonder where Tully keeps his booze? Irene always had some in that breakfront.”

Peggy came in with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Have you ladies had lunch? I can
fix—”

“You have a fix right there, Peggy, thank you.” Hester took the wine from her. “But do
you mind if we sit in the kitchen? This room gives me the creeps.”

“Sit at the kitchen table, Miss Connell, and make yourselves sandwiches. There's ham in
the fridge. I'm going to see if he's awake.”

The kitchen showed signs of recent sprucing, antiquated though everything was. Peggy had
obviously done some clearing and scrubbing, and I was grateful for the sandwich Hester
made. What a cheerful spot it must have been once, with the blue Atlantic always
performing for you as you stood at the sink.

“Now, look,” Hester sat opposite me at the table, “you can't pile back and forth on that
train. Stay with me and give it three days. Then, if Tully is still with us, I'll handle
it till the end.”

“Miss Connell—”

“Hester.”

“Hester, you are what my children would call a ‘neat lady.' I just wish Tully knew how
fortunate he is—”

“Oh, bosh. Other people are in and out, too.”

“But you're special. I know you're that special one.”

“I'm the oldest one, that's for sure. Nobody along here remembers as far back as I do.
Tully and I could always talk.”