Murder Among the Angels (20 page)

“Literally, it sounds like,” Charlotte commented.

“They were hard to resist,” he said. “Even at that age, they had that devil-may-care romantic appeal: they were orphans, they were beautiful, they were bold, they were irrepressible.”

“And they were Archibalds.”

“Especially that. They were Archibalds in a town where the face of Lily’s mother is as ubiquitous as that of the virgin mother at the Vatican. Their little clique dominated the school. Lily, Sebastian, Connie Teasdale, who was Lily’s best friend, and Peter …”

“Peter De Vries?” she asked.

He nodded. “He was Sebastian’s best friend, and he was mad about Lily. They were high school sweethearts. In fact, they were engaged to be married for a time. Lily broke off the engagement after the accident.”

“The accident in which he lost his arm?” Charlotte asked.

The pastor nodded. “He was up on the church roof, and he lost his footing. He reached out to steady himself on a cable. The cable turned out to be the grounding cable for the lightning rods. He became part of the circuit.”

“He was up on the church roof in a lightning storm?”

“He didn’t realize that a storm was brewing,” he explained. “There wasn’t any thunder until some time after he was hit.”

Charlotte shuddered at the thought. “How horrible,” she said.

“Yes, it was. The bolt came, quite literally, out of the blue. He never really got over it. He still carries a newspaper clipping that describes a study in which electromagnetic detectors were used to show that flashes of lightning often occur when no thunder is heard.”

“As if the clipping would help him understand what had happened.”

“Exactly. He shows the clipping to anyone who asks about the accident. Actually, he’s very lucky he didn’t die from the fall; he was caught in the gutter. Anyway, as I was saying, Lily broke off the engagement. I guess she didn’t want to be married to someone who wasn’t physically perfect.”

“But Dr. Louria wasn’t perfect,” Charlotte said, thinking of his ear. “I guess the difference was that he had money and position.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “He also lived in her grandfather’s house. But I often wondered if her feelings of guilt over her rejection of Peter may have played a part in her decision to marry Dr. Louria.”

“You mean that she was trying to make up for dumping Peter by marrying someone else with a physical defect?”

“Something like that. Peter was never the same after that.”

“Because she jilted him?” Charlotte asked.

“I don’t know if it was because she jilted him, or because of the accident itself. People here say that his brains were fried. That may be overstating the case, but he did suffer damage to his nervous system, and psychotic behavior can result from damage to the cerebral cortex.”

This description seemed a bit extreme to Charlotte. He had struck her as being eccentric, but not psychotic.

“Do you know the story of the Leatherman?” the pastor asked.

Charlotte shook her head.

“He’s our local legend,” the pastor said. “The Leatherman is to Zion Hill what Ichabod Crane is to Sleepy Hollow. He was a Frenchman who lived here around the time of the Civil War. I suppose you’d call him a tramp. He had a 365-mile circuit through Westchester, Putnam, and Fairfield counties that took him thirty-four days to complete. The Dutch farmers’ wives fed him. They always knew exactly when he would come, and would mark their calendars accordingly.”

“Why was he called the Leatherman?” she asked.

“Because he was always dressed from head to foot in old, patched leather. He never spoke, and he never worked. The story went that he was the son of a woodcutter who had been engaged to the daughter of a leather merchant, who jilted him for someone older and wealthier. He supposedly murdered her in a jealous rage, and then fled to America, where he wandered in sorrow, wearing leather and taking a vow of silence as self-imposed penance for his sin.”

Charlotte thought back to their meetings with Peter. On both occasions, he had been wearing a full-length leather apron. “And Peter?” she asked.

“Well, he didn’t become a tramp. But he did start wearing a leather apron, and he did start carrying a staff, as the Leatherman had. He also started acting peculiarly. One of the local kids started calling him the Leatherman, and the nickname stuck. Everyone knew the story of how Lily Archibald had jilted him after he lost his arm, you see. Come to think of it, he has something else in common with the Leatherman too.”

“What’s that?” Charlotte asked.

“I never made the connection before, but it was also about that time that he stopped cooking. He cadges his meals wherever he can, just as the Leatherman did. He often eats here, at Tina’s Kitchen, as he did yesterday. But he also eats at Sebastian’s, at the Broadway Diner, at Jack’s Luncheonette.”

“They give him free meals too?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Of course, you would expect Sebastian to. But the others do too. I guess they feel sorry for him.”

“Doesn’t he have money?” she asked, thinking of his rental properties.

“I’m sure he does. He must have quite a lot of money, actually. He earns a salary as sexton, plus he has the rental income. But having money doesn’t always go along with a middle-class lifestyle.”

Charlotte supposed that he had a point.

“I’m sure the people at the Broadway Diner and at Jack’s Luncheonette know that he has money. But money isn’t the issue. The issue is the romance of the legend. In Peter, they have someone who’s willing to keep it alive.”

“And if the price is a free lunch now and then, so be it,” said Charlotte.

“Exactly. In fact, it used to be considered an honor to feed the Leatherman. The farmers’ wives would trade his favorite recipes. Everybody loved him. He was said to be very kind, especially to animals. He would fill in the potholes in the road so the horses wouldn’t trip.”

“Fascinating,” Charlotte said.

“I think I have a pamphlet on the Leatherman here.” Setting the braiding stand aside, he rose from his chair and went over to the bookshelves. A moment later, he pulled out a slim pamphlet, which he handed to Charlotte.

The pamphlet was entitled:
The Road Between Heaven and Hell: The Last Circuits of the Leatherman
. The cover showed a photograph of a gravestone with the marker:

Final Resting Place of

J
ULES
B
OURGLAY

of Lyons, France
,

“The Leatherman”

Who regularly walked a 365-mile route through Westchester

and Connecticut from the Connecticut River to the Hudson

living in caves in the years

1858–1889

“The local historical society raised the money to erect a marker on his grave at St. James’s a few years ago,” he said as he sat back down. “His body was found in a cave near Pleasantville. The local people started looking for him when he didn’t show up for one of his meals.”

Charlotte was still studying the pamphlet, and, intrigued by a quote from a psychiatrist, read it aloud to the pastor: “This says, ‘Perhaps our attraction to him reflects the little part in some of us that would like to get away from the constraints of society.’”

“Yes. It’s true, isn’t it?” the pastor said. “We all have that little strain of wildness. Fortunately for society, it’s usually buried a little deeper than it was in the case of the Leatherman.”

“Getting back to Lily …” Charlotte said. She continued: “As you may know, one of the suspects in the look-alike murders is her husband.”

The pastor nodded.

“Can you imagine any reason why he might have wanted to murder her look-alikes? Or why anyone else might have wanted to murder them?”

“I don’t know about anyone else,” he replied, his long fingers flying over the bobbins of the braiding stand. “But I do know why Victor Louria might have wanted to murder them. Create them, and then murder them.”

“Why?” Charlotte asked.

“Jealous rage,” he replied. Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, which produced an amused reaction from the pastor. “I didn’t think I would ever see Charlotte Graham raising an eyebrow at me,” he said.

“Would you care to elaborate?” she asked.

“Actually, I wouldn’t. I hope you understand. Lily was one of my parishioners. I feel as if I’ve probably already said more than I feel comfortable with. But I’ll tell you who you
can
talk to.”

“Who’s that?” Charlotte asked.

“Her best friend, Connie Teasdale. I don’t know where Connie lives, though I suppose you could look her address up in the telephone book. But you can usually find her at Sebastian’s. She works there as a waitress.”

She must have been the Connie who had been their waitress the other day, Charlotte thought. “A pretty brunette, with long hair and blue eyes?”

He nodded.

“She was part of the clique you mentioned.”

“Yes. The four of them practically grew up together: Lily and Sebastian, and Connie and Peter. They were inseparable.”

Charlotte thanked him for his help and rose to leave.

“Before you go, I’d like to ask a favor,” the pastor said. He handed her a pen that he’d removed from the breast pocket of his clerical shirt, and then picked up her autobiography from the coffee table. “I’d be delighted if you would autograph your book for me.”

“Gladly,” said Charlotte. Taking the book, she signed it “To the Reverend Cornwall with best wishes” in her bold, round scrawl.

After leaving the Manse, she headed back down the Zion Hill Road, and then turned north toward Corinth. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard: it was now 1:45. If she went to see Connie Teasdale now, she would catch her after the lunchtime rush. Besides, she could kill two birds with one stone: talk to Connie and then eat. As fond as she was of diners, she would take Sebastian’s over the Broadway Diner any day of the week, and Jack’s Luncheonette, which she remembered having passed on their earlier visit to Corinth, was simply out of the question. She would inquire about the lilies of the valley at the wholesale florist after lunch, she decided as she turned off on the road that led to Sebastian’s.

A few minutes later, she was comfortably settled at a small table near the door, pitying Jerry, who was probably eating a submarine sandwich at his desk. She didn’t have a view of the Hudson, but there was no view to be had. Though it hadn’t yet started to rain, it was still overcast.

Connie appeared momentarily to take her cocktail order. As before, she was wearing a short black skirt and a white button-down shirt.

“Are you Connie Teasdale?” Charlotte asked.

The young woman nodded. She had a flawless complexion, a dimpled smile, and big blue eyes with thick eyelashes. She was very pretty, but in that bland, all-American way that Jack Lister had dismissed.

“Reverend Cornwall said I might find you here.” After introducing herself, she went on to say: “I wanted to talk with you about Lily Louria. I’m working with Chief D’Angelo on the look-alike murder case.” She might as well use the term that was all over the newspapers.

Connie nodded. “You came in with him the other day,” she said. “You ordered the foie gras and the grilled lamb.”

Charlotte nodded. It was refreshing to be identified in terms of foie gras and grilled lamb, instead of as an aging grande dame or an Oscar-winning star of stage and screen.

She continued: “As you may know, one of the suspects is Dr. Louria, who admits to refashioning the faces of the dead girls to resemble that of his late wife. Reverend Cornwall said that you might be able to enlighten me as to why he might have killed the look-alikes.”

“Cornwall sent you to me?” she said.

Charlotte nodded. “He didn’t want to be put in the position of talking about a dead parishioner.”

“Gossiping, in other words,” she said. “That sounds like Cornwall.”

“He said you were Lily’s best friend.”

“To the extent that a woman could be her best friend,” she said.

“What do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “Lily was one of those women who have no use for other women. Listen,” she said. “Do you want to go out to the patio? Sebastian wouldn’t approve of me chatting with a customer in the dining room.”

“Sure,” she said, and followed Connie through the French doors at the side of the dining room onto a brick-paved patio. Though it was cloudy, the air was warm, and it felt good to be outside.

Connie wiped the moisture off the seats of a pair of chairs, and they sat down. “I have about ten minutes,” she said. She took a cigarette out of a packet and lit it. Then she leaned back and took a puff, exhaling a stream of smoke into the misty air.

Charlotte looked enviously at the cigarette. She had cut back to only a couple a week as a prelude to stopping completely.

“Would you like one?” Connie asked, noticing her gaze.

“Thank you, I would,” Charlotte replied.

“I’m sorry,” Connie said as she offered her the packet. “So few people smoke anymore that I rarely bother to ask.” She flicked her lighter and held it to the tip of Charlotte’s cigarette. “I’m no psychiatrist,” she said once Charlotte’s cigarette was lit. “But I can speculate.”

“Please do,” Charlotte said.

“If the girls who were murdered were stand-ins for Lily,” she said, “he might have been taking his anger against her out on them.”

“That’s what the pastor said,” Charlotte said. “He didn’t elaborate,” she added, not wanting to give the impression that he’d been gossiping. “But I’d be delighted if you would. Anger about what?”

“Jealous anger, I’d suppose you’d call it.”

Charlotte remembered what Aunt Lothian had said about the delight Lily had taken in provoking her husband. “She was a flirt, you mean?”

“More than just a flirt,” she said. She looked over at Charlotte. “To put it crudely, Mrs. Lundstrom, she was a cock-teaser. She wasn’t happy unless every man within a radius of ten miles was chasing after her with his zipper open.”

Charlotte was stunned. She’d had the sense that there had been more to Lily than just a pretty face, and this was it.