Working Murder (9 page)

“I made a phone call myself today—rather an interesting one.”

They looked at me with gratifying anticipation. I recounted my conversation with Mr.
Cassidy, ending dramatically: “And he said the person who'd been out there asking
questions was a
woman
!”

Sadd sat up, Henry grinned, and Tina looked sheepish. She said: “Don't get your hopes up.
It was me.”

Our burst of laughter sent Loki under the sofa. I spanked Tina as she bent over Hen.
“Wretched girl! Why didn't you tell us you'd been to Holy Martyrs?”

“I honestly meant to, Clara”—she was pulling marshmallow from Hen's hair—"but it was the
day before May crashed and with everything that's happened, I forgot to.”

“Tell us now,” said Sadd. “We've never seen the place. What's it like?”

“Incredible.” Tina settled down beside Hen to prevent further depredations to the rug.
“I'd been curious about Holy Martyrs ever since May described it to us, so I hied myself
out there. Really, you have to see it to believe it. Acres and acres of stone monuments.
It looks like an Edward Gorey set. According to Mr. Cassidy—who wasn't one bit happy
about my questions—the cemetery was opened back in the eighteen-eighties. You simply
don't believe such a place still exists—especially in the middle of New York.”

Sadd leaned forward. “Did you see the Dawson mausoleum?”

“No, damn it, I couldn't find the place.” Tina ran her hands through her hair in what I'd
come to recognize as a gesture of frustration. “Here's what happened: First, I went to
the office and told Mr. Cassidy some tale about how I'd just been to a burial near the
Dawson mausoleum and somebody had told me about only one person being buried there and
it made me curious. Well, Mr. Cassidy got very huffy and said there was nothing unusual
about that because people often used to build those mausoleums and then the family died
out or moved away—”

“—or hated them,” from Henry.

“—or hated them, which I thought but didn't say, and then I asked Mr. Cassidy, who was
the one person buried there? and he said it was James Cavanaugh, a wealthy contractor—”

“—and bootlegger—” We were a Greek chorus.

“—and I didn't dare pump him any more or ask how to get to the place—I'd just faked being
there—so I started to drive around that cemetery and there was my mistake. It's mammoth.
Finally, I had to give up because Hen was due home from school.”

Tina put a marshmallow in her mouth and added: “So you guys will just have to go out
there and find the family monstrosity.”

I said: “We're lucky. We don't need Mr. Cassidy. We have Martin. Sadd, did you make that
phone call to Father Dever?”

Sadd snapped his fingers and stood up. “What's the name of his church?”

“St. Agnes, in Hollis.”

“That should do it. Shall we take Martin to lunch tomorrow—that is, if his social
calendar permits?”

“Absolutely.”

“Tell him not to dress,” called Henry, as Sadd trotted off.

Tina said: “You can use my car. But I should warn you—more snow is forecast.”

I quailed. “Don't tell Sadd. He might back out. Henry, come with us. Don't you want to
see Holy Martyrs?”

“Mom”—Henry piled glasses together—"if I don't get into the office tomorrow, I'll be a
candidate for Holy Martyrs myself, meaning I'm
dead
.”

He departed for his study, Tina dragged Hen off to the bathtub, and Loki emerged from
under the sofa and indicated that we were alone. I picked him up and fed him a wheat
cracker from the hors d'oeuvre tray; he had acquired a passion for them since belonging
to Hen. I stared into the fire, envisioning again the echoing tomb of James Cavanaugh
with my name large upon it. I wondered if my parents, who died of influenza when I was
two, had contributed to the attitude that caused the vengeful use of their name. I hoped
not. How passé that kind of snobbishness seemed now.

Sadd returned, waving a piece of paper. Father Dever was a peach. Anybody who took an
interest in poor Marty Cavanaugh was a saint. Marty had no phone—one got the impression
that possibly Marty had no home—but the good Father would see to it that Marty would be
at St. Agnes's rectory at noon tomorrow, spruced up and ready for a visit from his kind
relatives from Florida. And here was the good part: Holy Martyrs Cemetery, which figured
prominently in the driving directions, appeared to be no distance at all from St. Agnes.

“So we take Marty out to lunch”—Sadd sat down and stretched his legs—"then do some
sightseeing. One thing we're certain of: He knows his way to the revered resting place.
Let's hope he's wearing all his jewelry.”

“Sadd”—I'd only been half listening—"answer me honestly: Is Tully right? Will we be out
of line going into that mausoleum tomorrow? Suppose some cemetery guard—I mean—we'd look
like a pair of idiots or worse—”

“It occurred to me.” Sadd beat Loki to the last wheat cracker. “But to use your own
phrase, the place does belong to us. And our advanced age adds innocence. We're a pair
of eccentric oldsters reliving our past, remembering the days of Jim Cavanaugh and the
speakeasies—”

I was giggling now.

“—and undoubtedly the great piles of snow, which I'm sure border all approaches to the
mausoleum, will shield us nicely in the search for our roots.”

“All right, all right. Answer me one more thing: Why do you suppose Martin goes in
there?”

Sadd shrugged. “Probably some sort of morbid death wish. Father Dever says he's close to
the DTs. And speaking of death wishes, I hope you've accepted the fact that May's was
the result of that letter.”

I hadn't, but I said I supposed so.

“Good. May she rest in peace.”

The phone rang and was answered in the kitchen. Sadd went on: “Shouldn't we be making
plans to return to a more civilized climate? How about the day after tomorrow? Surely
you've had enough of this lovely weather.”

No, Sadd, it wasn't the letter that killed poor May. It was the letter writer.

Tina appeared. “That was Mr. Lighter on the phone, May's lawyer.”

Sadd said, yawning: “In the words of Mr. Stiggins, ‘has she left me any small token?'”

Tina smiled. “No, she left everything to a fund called Children and Hunger. The portrait
of Ellen goes to Tully, and there was one bequest: fifty thousand dollars to Jon. You'll
never hear the end of the chanting now, Sadd. Supper's ready.”

THE SNOW WAS DESULTORY AND THE SUN holding its own when Sadd stopped the car before an
enormous, old, red-brick church in a congested area of Hollis. Steep steps led straight
up from the street and were topped by a statue of a pious-looking young lady holding a
lily and pointing to her heart.

“St. Agnes, no doubt.” Sadd turned off the ignition. I'm always relieved when Sadd turns
off the ignition. His driving is erratic, and snow promotes it to hair-raising. “And
stop implying that I'm jealous of Jon.”

“I'm not implying anything.” Actually, I was preoccupied with another aspect of Jon's
good fortune.

“I don't need the money”—Sadd pulled off gloves—"though it's always nice to get. And of
course, Jon will blow it on more arty caterwauling.”

“Really, Sadd, you sound like Archie Bunker.”

“I suppose I do. What's that creature trying to tell us?”

A gnomish figure brandished the broom with which he was sweeping the church steps.

“I think he's pointing.” Our eyes traveled to a sign across the street, church parking. I
said, as Sadd started the car again, “I wonder if May had told Jon or will it come as a
lovely surprise.”

“He said when she made her first donation she promised him more.” With what could only
have been the protection of St. Agnes, Sadd got us parked between a school bus and a
snowbank. “Why do you ask? Are you casting Jon as May's murderer? I thought you'd given
that stuff up.”

“I'm casting him as somebody she might have told about reopening the Ellen thing. They
appeared to have been in touch lately.”

“Never thought of that. Let's ask him.”

I squeezed myself out of the car and into the eighteen inches he'd left me, yanked the
door from the snowbank, and crossly demanded the one pair of gloves we had between us.
Sadd yielded them reluctantly, said something about the stores being always open and I
said yes, and why didn't he avail himself of them, and we walked across the street. The
gnome had reached the bottom step in his sweeping. He said:

“Might you be the visitors Father Dever is expecting?”

“We might that,” said Sadd in a bad brogue.

“The rectory's in the back. Down Le Roy Street there, first door.”

No, Jon could not have been a threat to May. He was too guileless. Hints, possibly
flattery, would be his only weapons, and early fulfillment of hopes just a dazzling
surprise.

We were upon the sanded steps that led to the door marked rectory. Sadd stopped, skidding
a little on a bare sliver.

“If you're thinking Jon may have written the anonymous letter—”

“Don't be absurd. Ring the bell—I'm cold.”

But the door opened, and there stood a white-haired, smiling Victor McLaglen in a
clerical collar.

“And this would be Mrs. Gamadge and Mr. Saddlier. I'm Father Dever. Come in, come in,
we're all delighted.”

It wasn't a brogue in the strict sense but the marvelous inflection of the educated
Irish. I could listen to it forever. But—"
all
delighted"? Not “both"? Who besides
himself and Martin could be there and be delighted? We were stamping off snow and being
relieved of coats, and Father Dever was talking about a place in Florida where he and
his brother, a monsignor in Syracuse, were considering buying for their retirement. Now
we entered a spanking clean parlor where sat Martin, his hair combed, beneath a picture
of a bishop. On a horsehair sofa sat another man, Martin's age, with white and crêpey
skin, as stiff and gimlet-eyed as Martin was hunched and rheumy.

Father Dever said: “Mrs. Gamadge, you've met this gentleman—on the phone, at least—Frank
Cassidy. He's with Holy Martyrs Cemetery. He was kind enough to drive Marty here. And
this is Mr. Saddlier, Frank.”

If Mr. Cassidy was delighted, he concealed it as he rose and shook hands with us. Then he
sat down again and looked even less delighted. I smiled at Martin, who did not rise but
who managed to extract a hand from the grubby folds of his coat and surrender it to us.
Then I nodded brightly at Mr. Cassidy.

“Why, of course! Mr. Cassidy and I had such a nice chat yesterday. What a pleasant
coincidence that he knows you, Martin.”

Martin did not vouchsafe a reply, and Father Dever said: “They're by way of being
related, Mrs. Gamadge. As am I. You see before you three persons with a common
grandmother—or is it grandfather, Frank? I never get it right.”

I said merrily: “Perhaps all five of us are related! I was a Dawson and they're related
to the Cavanaughs.”

“And the Saddliers are related to the Dawsons,” cried Sadd.

“So this could very well be a family reunion,” I chirped.

Father Dever slapped his knee. “A cause for celebration!”

He rose and went to the door calling “Rosie, please!” We were a weird party: three of us
chatty and relaxed, the other two silent and blank-faced. A stout woman appeared, and
Father Dever asked her to bring sherry. The lopsided jollity continued as he returned to
his seat, sat forward, his great hands on his knees, and beamed about.

“Now, let's try to figure this out: Which of us is his own grandpaw?”

Sadd laughed with what I knew was genuine appreciation. He said: “I love this sort of
thing. Take your name, for instance, Father. How do the Devers connect with, say, the
Cavanaughs?”

“It's all a multicousinship, Mr. Saddlier.” The giant priest leaned back and stretched
his legs. “A cousin of mine, Maura Dever, a lovely girl, married James Cavanaugh, a
thorough-going rascal. You may know of him.”

“Vaguely, vaguely,” said Sadd.

“Mrs. Gamadge knows of him.” Mr. Cassidy spoke suddenly and clearly.

“Yes, indeed.” I was proud of my quick nod. “We had a chat about his mausoleum
yesterday.”

“Oh, that dreadful place!” Father Dever threw up his hands. “Should be torn down.”

Mr. Cassidy spoke again, defensively. “That was a real showplace once. Styles change,
that's all. Do you know what it would cost to build it today?”

“Do you know anybody who'd
want
to build it today?” Father Dever laughed and
touched the man's thin arm. “Frank's a real company man. Every piece of crumbling cement
in Holy Martyrs is dear to him.”

“It's very understandable,” I said. “I was impressed when he told me he'd given his whole
life to it.”

My little encomium did not cause Mr. Cassidy to look upon me more favorably. He stared at
the floor and said:

“I don't want people thinking there's something wrong with the mausoleum. That kind of
thing reflects on Holy Martyrs—all those stories about why Jim Cavanaugh is the only one
buried there. He's the only one because his brother Martin wanted to be buried in
Massachusetts in his wife's family plot and his brother Lloyd went out to Ohio and
started a family there, and his wife, Maura”—his voice faltered here—"she wanted to be
buried in Ireland—”

“Where she'd gone to die of drink, poor lamb.” Father Dever's hand was still on the thin
arm. “Frank, Frank, there's no use trying to whitewash—”

“I won't have Holy Martyrs made to sound like someplace in a cheapo thriller! Every inch
of it is consecrated ground—”