New Year's Eve Murder (5 page)

“Get her?” Jack asked, walking into the kitchen.

“Got her and she knows something. But I have to go down and see her in person.”

“Great. Give me a little quality time alone with my son.”

“You won't mind?” I asked, with all the hesitation I felt.

“I'll love it. Where are those emergency bottles we bought and never used?”

“Right here.” I opened the cabinet.

“Terrific. Don't hurry back. I've got lots of things to talk to him about.”

“You sure you can handle it?”

He gave me a hug and kiss. “You sure
you
can?”

The truth was, I wasn't.

So that was how I came to leave my house, my husband, and my baby behind, possibly to struggle through a first feeding without me. I promised myself I would not call to check up on them or rush home to make the two P.M. nursing. I was a woman of the world, I had a job to do, and I would do it. I drove down the street without looking back.

Mrs. Halliday lived in a different part of Brooklyn, in a much smaller house than the Starks'. It took a turn around the block before I found an empty space, and then a brisk walk in the cold took me to her house. The tiny patch of grass in front of it had long ago been replaced with concrete, which had lifted unevenly over the years, probably because of the roots of the single tree planted there. I went up the front walk and rang the bell.

“You must be Miss Bennett. Come in.”

“Thank you. Please call me Chris. It's nice and warm in here.”

“It's an old house, built like a fortress. Let me have your coat.”

Mrs. Halliday wasn't what I expected. She was tall and fairly slim, wearing dark brown pants, a white blouse, and a tan suede vest. Her hair was cut short and was still in a state of flux, turning from dark to gray in a very attractive way. There was nothing “little” or “old” about
her. I could imagine this woman having a job or catching the eye of a good-looking man.

“Lunch is on the table,” she said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I'm surprised to see you alone. I thought I'd have the pleasure of a baby's company.”

I think I blushed a little. “I left him with his father. I'm not sure who's more nervous.”

She smiled. “By the time you get home, no one will be nervous any more.”

I liked her. The smile was genuine, the voice sincere. If she'd been my teacher when I was ten, I would have wanted to keep her forever as Susan had.

We sat down at the kitchen table where two salads were waiting for us. Each was garnished with half a hard-boiled egg, slices of cucumber, and some lettuce that wasn't iceberg. An array of salad dressings was clustered on the table and we each picked a different one.

“Where do you want me to begin?” my hostess asked, after offering me a choice of soft drinks.

“How did your friendship with Susan start?”

“She was my pupil when she was ten or eleven and I was correspondingly younger. She was a child of talent and depth and had great inner beauty. She was a little withdrawn perhaps, but with much inside that was trying to get out. She may have been overwhelmed by her parents, who are go-getters in their own right. Not that they neglected her; they didn't. She was brought up in a house full of love and has developed into a spectacular young woman.”

“Do you know about her relationship with Kevin Angstrom?”

“Oh yes. We've talked about him.”

“I haven't met her father,” I said. “Do you know anything about him?”

“I probably haven't seen him since Susan was a pupil
of mine. She's very fond of him. I think he's a good man.”

“And Mrs. Stark?”

“I talk to her from time to time. I think she's a good mother and a good person.”

This was a woman of firm beliefs but I couldn't judge how accurate her appraisals were. Much of what she thought about Susan's parents could be a reflection of Susan's own feelings. I thought it was interesting that she had expressed no opinion whatever about Kevin, only admitting she knew about him.

“How often do you and Susan get together?” I asked.

“Very irregularly. I think Susan feels I'm a lonely, retired schoolteacher, but she's only half right. I retired a few years ago for a number of reasons we don't have to go into, and I work at another job a few days a week. I'm far from lonely, but I appreciate Susan's concern and I love seeing her. Whenever she drops by, I'm happy.”

“Do you have a family, Mrs. Halliday?”

“I do. I was married years ago, widowed, but left with one daughter. I have no complaints.”

“You said on the phone that you might be able to help me find Susan. I'd be very grateful for anything you can tell me.”

“I had second thoughts after we spoke, but Mrs. Stark is really so upset at Susan's disappearance that I decided to tell you enough to give you a direction to move in. She seems to trust you, said you are a friend of an old friend.”

“That's true.”

“Are the police involved?”

“Minimally. Susan is an adult and she has a right to go where she pleases and not tell her family or her boyfriend. She borrowed someone's car and even though she hasn't returned it when she promised to, the owner of the car wasn't planning on using it this weekend anyway.
So it adds up to Susan missing a New Year's Eve party, returning a car late, and not calling home.”

“I think you mentioned fifty miles?”

“She told the car's owner she might put a total of a hundred miles on the car.”

“Well, that would certainly be the range.”

“You know where she was going?”

“I know that Susan has been trying to find someone for many years. I can't tell you who the person is because it would cause a great deal of consternation in her family, and I don't know if this person even exists. But Susan believes that—” she paused, then said, “—this person exists.” She didn't want to say “he” or “she.”

“It's some time since I've seen Susan, a month or more,” she continued. “She told me last time we spoke that she had a good lead, that the place was upstate, up the Hudson somewhere. Maybe your fifty miles would get you there.”

“Do you have a name, a town, an address?”

“I do if I can coax it out of my mind.”

I sat quietly while Mrs. Halliday closed her eyes. After a moment she pushed her chair back and stood, walked to the kitchen window, and looked out at the snowy back yard.

“Something like Blazerville,” she said finally, and turned back to the window as though the inspiration might continue.

I wrote it down. The name didn't ring a bell. St. Stephen's Convent is “up the Hudson” and I've driven along both sides of the river for years.

“Blazertown?” she asked, as though I might have an answer.

“Now that I have a direction, I can look at a good map and find whichever town it is,” I said. “Do you have a name for the person?”

“Susan never told me.” She was facing me now, her back against the sink. “But it's an old farmhouse that no one's living in anymore. Except this person, of course.”

“Do you have a street name, the name of a neighbor, anything that would get me closer than the town?”

“The name of the farmer. Remember the old song?” She sang, “ ‘Old MacDonald had a farm, Ee-i-ee-i-o.' It wasn't MacDonald but it was something like that. I can't remember much else. I only remember this ‘Blazer' because she let it slip once. She never said it again. I've known for most of the years of our friendship that something was bothering Susan, that there was someone she needed to find. She said several times that her life was a jigsaw puzzle with one huge piece missing. That's the piece she's been searching for, but she's never come out and said something like, ‘I'm going to meet Aunt Margaret if it's the last thing I do.' ”

“Mrs. Halliday, I've been told by someone who knows Susan very well that she thinks she's adopted.”

She smiled. “That's pretty foolish, isn't it?” she said.

“I think so. Her friend thinks so.”

“So what is it that makes Susan believe that? That's what you should be asking.”

“So you don't think she's off visiting her natural mother?”

“I think her natural mother lives with her natural father where Susan grew up. As to whom she's visiting, I don't really know, Chris, and anything I suspect I've gleaned from years of listening.”

I heard her say “whom” and was reminded I was in the presence of a teacher, one old enough to make distinctions that my generation had all but abandoned. “Then she's never really told you?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Do you think her mother would have any idea if I could think of a good way of putting it to her?”

“I think if you talk to Mrs. Stark about the possibility that Susan is adopted, she'll be very distressed, especially at this time. It will mean to her that her child missed something in their relationship. And I'm sure she feels that nothing is missing.”

“From what I've heard, Susan has a very good relationship with her parents.”

“I've heard the same. And I've heard it from Susan herself.”

“I have a feeling I'm more confused now than when I came in.”

“Why don't you just wait a day or so? Susan isn't expected back at work till Monday. Maybe she found this person and needs some time to think about things. Maybe she didn't find anyone, and that's given her more to think about. She borrowed a car, she said she was driving a hundred miles round-trip. She may just want to be alone for a day or two.”

“She had a date with Kevin for New Year's Eve,” I said.

“Ah yes, Kevin.”

There it was again, the feeling that she was avoiding saying something negative. “Do you know much about him?”

“Only what Susan's told me. He sounds like a very nice young man. Perhaps ‘young man' is a bit inaccurate. He's in his thirties, I believe.”

“I think so. I met him yesterday. He seemed almost frantic at Susan's disappearance.”

“Why didn't she tell him?” Mrs. Halliday mused. “They have a close relationship. I expect they'll marry. Is there something about him that kept her from telling him her secret?”

“Why didn't she tell you?” I countered.

“You're right to ask. In many ways I'm the perfect person for her to have told. I'm not family. I'm not judgmental. I love her dearly.”

It was a question I would ask myself.

I walked through the cold to my car. It was too late to attempt to get home for Eddie's two-ish nursing, and although I was still nervous about leaving father and son alone, another part of me was glad. I would take my time, stop to do some shopping on the way. I had witnessed Dr. Campbell cutting the physical cord; now I would take Step Number One toward cutting the deeper, emotional one that bound me to my sweet infant son. I had the sense that something momentous was happening, something only I was aware of in this great world where people were going their own ways on a sunny winter Saturday. I passed a woman with two young children, one in a stroller. Had she been as affected as I the first time she left them? I waved to the little girl, the older one, and she smiled and waved back. I pulled my keys out and let myself into my car. I was a wife, a mother, and a free woman. I felt very good about all three.

I thought about Mrs. Halliday on the way home. She probably knew or suspected more than she had told me but unless there was an indication of foul play, it wasn't likely she would open up further. I had a direction, a possible town, the name of a farmer—although I didn't quite understand what role he played in all this. Jack would help me find the town and a phone book might do the rest.

I got home a little after four with a bag of groceries. I went around to the front of the house to check on the mail and let myself into the living room through the front
door. Since we built the addition, we don't use the living room much. There wasn't a sound, so I kept quiet. I hung up my coat, dropped the bag in the kitchen, and went on to the family room, which is a couple of steps down from the kitchen. It was perfectly silent and I looked around, seeing my husband stretched out on the leather sofa, fast asleep. A little sound made me turn my head. Eddie was sitting in his baby chair on the floor near the sofa. I walked toward him, and he gave me the biggest smile of his life.

“Hi, little sweetheart,” I said with absolute joy. “You recognize me, don't you? It's Mommy.”

The smile lingered and he moved his arms and legs as I bent to pick him up.

“Chris?” Jack's sleepy voice said.

“He knows me, Jack,” I said. “Look how happy he is to see me.”

“Oh boy. I must've dropped off.”

I sat down next to Jack with Eddie on my lap. His little hands were waving. “Did Daddy take good care of you?” I asked.

“He ate like a horse, burped like a champ, slept for an hour, and then I couldn't keep him quiet. He wore me out.”

“Go back to sleep, honey. I'll keep him company.”

“Were you worried?”

“Me? I knew I'd left him in good hands.”

“I mean about me. This was a first, you know?”

I took a deep breath. “I knew you could handle it.” Then I sat back and relaxed.

After I put Eddie to bed Jack filled me in on his day. While I was out Jill had telephoned to say the police had come to interview her last night, and she hadn't sounded happy about it. She wished people would just leave her alone.

Then Jack had called the detective who caught the case and he had said words to the effect that, hey, a gal borrows a car, says she's taking a hundred-mile drive, and she knows the car doesn't have to be back till Sunday night. What's the problem?

The problem was, she hadn't called home and had missed a big date, but the detective didn't seem to think much of that. You never knew a girl who took longer getting home than she said?

“So then I called Kevin,” Jack went on. “That wasn't just a zero; it was a minus. If you want my opinion, he doesn't know the first thing about what's going on in Susan's head. He doesn't know where she went or why. He knows something's bothering her but she's never let him in on her secret. And it really gripes him to have to admit it.”

“Even to a nice guy like you.”

“Even that. So where are you?”

I told him what I'd learned from Mrs. Halliday.

“Looks like you're light-years ahead of anyone else. Let me have a look at the map.”

He left the family room and went upstairs to where such things are filed away, or at least stacked. When he came back, he was already scrutinizing a map. “Maybe it's too small to be listed. I'll call the Six Five and see if anyone there can help me.” The Six Five is his precinct in Brooklyn.

I looked at the map while he went to the kitchen to make the call. I had turned down his suggestion of a telephone in this room or of a portable phone. It was less than two and a half years since I had left the spare and frugal life of a nun, and something in me rebelled at filling my life and my home with the kinds of extras I saw on the small screen all the time. We had a huge family room now, where a beautiful fire was burning in our magnificent fireplace (that I had argued against but gladly lost that battle), surrounded by new furniture that I had been sure we could do without. A few steps into the kitchen to make a call or answer the phone would do neither of us any harm.

“Got it!” Jack said triumphantly, as he came back. “How does Bladesville grab you?”

“Sounds good. How far is it from Brooklyn?”

“Within the fifty-miles-give-or-take range. I've got the number of the local sheriffs office and the nearest state trooper barracks. It's too small a town to make the map of New York State. Shall I give them a call and ask for the address of Old MacDonald?”

“Absolutely.” I got up and stood at the steps to the kitchen to listen to the call. This was cop-to-cop talk and it went smoothly, with Jack doing a lot of writing and uh-huh-ing. When he hung up, he looked happy.

“Even got you driving instructions,” he said. We went
back to our warm seats near the fire. “It's not Old MacDonald. It's Fred Donaldson.”

“Close enough. What's the story?”

“Farmer Donaldson is retired, sold off part of his land a couple of years ago, but kept the part with the old farmhouse, not for sentimental reasons, according to Deputy Gridley, but because it's less desirable for builders.”

“They're putting up split-levels in Bladesville?”

“Sounds like it. And it sounds like he's your guy.”

“It sure does. I hope he hasn't gone south for the winter.”

“I'll give him a call.”

I could see that Jack was enjoying this. And I was glad he was making the calls. I'm still not happy talking to strangers on the phone.

I listened as he obviously spoke to the farmer himself, making up a story that he might be interested in the real estate. That, I thought, would keep him at home even if it made my appearance at his door a little suspicious. Personally, I hate making up stories although I know it's done all the time.

“He'll be there tomorrow,” Jack said. “Wasn't planning on going anywhere. You up for a trip?”

“I think I have to make it. What about you?”

“I'll baby-sit. I've got a lot of reading to do.”

“What do I do if the worst happens?” I was sure he'd know what I meant.

“Just back out of there and head for the nearest sheriffs office or substation. Don't touch anything, don't move anything. No heroics, OK? And have them call me so I can get you home in time for the next feeding.” He leaned over and patted my hand. “You'll know when you walk in—if the door is unlocked and no one answers. You'll smell it. If someone died in there three days
earlier, you'll know right away. Just get out and either report it, or come home and I'll make the call.” I didn't have to tell him I was scared.

We talked about whether or not to call Arnold or Ada Stark and decided against it. If Susan had surfaced, we would have heard. There was no reason to alert or alarm anyone. By tomorrow evening I might well know a lot more, and I would pass it along.

I got the laundry going and made some formula for Jack to use. When Eddie got up for his ten o'clock, I was ready for him and ready for bed. I was asleep minutes after my son.

I slept like a log. When the little cry awoke me in the dark, I felt curiously refreshed. I glanced at the clock on my night table. It was a quarter to six. Eddie had slept through the night!

I went to early mass and dropped in to visit my cousin Gene, who lives at Greenwillow, the home for adults with retardation several blocks from our house. I told him that as soon as I could, I would have him over for dinner and to see the baby. The idea of my having a baby confused him, but he has a very sweet disposition and he appeared to accept it. He had seen Eddie only once, at the baptism at Jack's family church in Brooklyn. Now it was time to have him see Eddie in the house where they could get to know each other, but I would have to let it go another week.

I got home in time for the late-morning nursing, after which Eddie very cooperatively fell asleep. I told Jack I would be back in seven hours or less—I was hoping for much less—and he gave me some last-minute suggestions and a kiss. I took the map, the directions, the names, and the addresses, got one more kiss, and set out.

Since we live northeast of Brooklyn, on the north shore of Long Island Sound, my trip was considerably shorter than Susan Stark's had been, if indeed she made this trip. I was able to drive slightly west and then pick up the road north along the Hudson. Farmer Fred Donaldson wasn't living in Bladesville anymore; he had moved to a nearby town, and I drove there first since Jack hadn't been able to get the farmhouse address from the deputy sheriff.

Mr. Donaldson had traded in a farm and a farmhouse for a neat one-story house on perhaps half an acre, the kind that might be built on the land he had sold. His front lawn was covered with snow but his walk was shoveled, as was the driveway to the two-car garage. I parked in front and walked to the door.

A lean man with weather-beaten skin opened the door at my ring. “Help ya?” he asked.

“I hope so. I'm Chris Bennett and I'm looking for a young woman who may be living in your farmhouse.”

“Don't have a farmhouse.”

“I thought—”

“You lookin' to buy a piece of property?”

“No, I'm looking for a—”

“Can't help ya.”

“Mr. Donaldson, it's very important that I find this person.”

“You the folks who called last night?”

“I didn't call,” I said, speaking the truth in a narrow sense.

He considered for a moment. “What do you want this girl for?”

“Her mother's looking for her. Her fiancé is looking for her.”

“You her sister?”

“No. I'm her friend.”

“Step inside. It's cold out there.”

I walked into a small foyer in a very warm house. “I'd like to know the address of the farmhouse so I can run over and talk to her.”

“What's her name?” the farmer asked.

“Susan Stark.”

“Ain't the name she gave me.”

“What name did she give you?” At least he had admitted there was a female living at the house.

“Sally Smith or some such nonsense. Took me for a fool. No ID, no nothin'. Said she needed a place to live for a while, said she'd pay cash in advance.”

I opened my bag and found the photo Ada had given me. “Is this the person?”

He took it in his hand and held it at arm's length. “Maybe yes. Maybe no,” he said without conviction. He turned away. “Mother, come here,” he called.

A woman about his age came in, carrying a dish towel. She smiled at me and we exchanged hellos.

“This the gal who rented the farmhouse?”

She was wearing glasses and held the picture close to her face. “That's her. Different clothes, but that's her.”

“What was she wearing?” I asked, although it didn't make much difference.

“Oh, blue jeans, I guess. Big, heavy shoes.”

“Hair's different,” her husband said.

“Girls change their hair, Fred. Don't make 'em different people.”

“Suit yourself.”

“When did she come to you?” I asked.

“Five, six months ago. Paid for six months. Time's up end of February.” He pronounced it without the first
r.

So she must have seen the house in July. “How did she happen to come to you for a place to live?”

“Said she had a friend lived somewheres around here. Never said who the friend was. You ain't from the police, are you?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“Fred,” his wife said, “leave it be.”

“No one's supposed to live there,” he said, as his wife frowned. “It's a hazard.” He said the word sarcastically, implying it had been a decision made by someone else.

“Could you tell me how to get there?” I asked, reaching into my bag for a pen and paper.

He spelled out the route with his wife making critical comments as he went along: That road wasn't likely to be plowed, shouldn't you tell the lady to go the other way round? I hoped there would be someone along the road who could help me if I needed it. When I had the best of their combined directions, I thanked them and went out to my car.

It was still a bit of a trip to Bladesville, a town you could easily miss if your attention wandered. I drove past the little grocery store that looked like a relic of another century and made a left turn at the next corner. Probably there was a mall nearby where people went to buy their weekly necessities, and the little store I had just passed existed because people have food emergencies and cravings.

The road began to slope uphill, as I had been warned, and I slowed to make sure I didn't skid. Somewhere ahead there would be a right turn and then I would be on the road Mrs. Donaldson had thought I might better approach from the other direction. I hoped I wouldn't have to turn around and start over. And I wondered, as I drove slowly, keeping my eye out for the turn, how many people would be willing to buy split-levels quite this far from the center of town and whether this road could be
kept free enough of snow that a school bus could drive on it safely in a bad winter.

I saw the right turn coming and cornered smoothly. The road had indeed been plowed, just wide enough for a single car to pass, but I didn't worry much that I would encounter traffic. I passed one working farm, a four-wheel drive parked up near the house and signs of life like chimney smoke. It was a big farm, the fields covered with snow and the barns in good shape.

And then I saw it, a weathered, shabby house, a faded red barn half fallen down. I slowed, looking for a driveway. I saw tire tracks and I turned onto the property, following them. There was no mailbox at the road, no smoke, no visible car. I drove as close to the house as I dared. The car had good radials, courtesy of Jack, but I didn't want to put them to the test.

“Well, this is it,” I said aloud. I took my handbag for no reason and got out of the car. The snow crunched beneath my boots; the wind blew cold and stirred it up into a flurry. I was scared. Everything that had happened since New Year's Eve had led me to this lonely place, this falling-down barn and sad-looking house.

I went to the door and pressed the bell. There was no sound, and for the first time it occurred to me there might be no electricity inside. How could she live in a house with no light, no heat, perhaps even no water? And why would she want to?

I knocked, pressed my ear to the door, and heard nothing. “Susan?” I called. “Anybody home?”

Nothing. I walked to my left to the first window, but it was curtained and I couldn't see inside. So was the next one, and the next I went back to the center of the front porch and down the stairs, then to the side of the house and along it. Some windows had shades drawn; some looked as though sheets had been stretched across them. I
continued along, pressing through high snow, circling the house, calling as much to hear the sound of my own voice as to alert anyone inside.

There was a back door but it, too, yielded no results. I turned the knob and pushed, but it was locked. I kept going, looking for a car, a truck, any kind of transportation, but there wasn't even a tire track back here. Finally, I completed my circle and went up the stairs to the front porch.

I knew what I had to do. I had to turn the knob and push the front door to see if it was open. Either that or I had to find the sheriffs department and ask them to do it, making a fool of myself if they came up here and found the door unlocked. You dragged us up here to turn a doorknob? Well, probably a little more polite than that, but embarrassing nevertheless.

I called Susan's name one last time. I knew there was no one in there, no one who could hear me. I grasped the knob and turned, then pushed the door. It opened easily.

“Susan?” I called, my voice a little less strong, a lot less certain. “Anyone home?”