Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (18 page)

“It is a very powerful force. I am sure it has many dark secrets,” Armando agreed. He stared at the river, mesmerized.

“Imagine being down here in the dark and the rain,” I mused, remembering the night of the gala, “dragging a dead body from the parking lot or wheeling it in that chair and dumping it into the river.”

We were silent for a while, contemplating that awful scene. Armando, ever logical, raised the first question. “How could the killer be sure the body would be taken by the river? The main current is quite a distance from the bank, and there is that little inlet just south of here where it could have been snagged on a fallen tree limb.” He pointed.

Practical Margo chimed in. “Unless he was very familiar with this place, the killer wouldn't have known about the inlet, and if the water was as high that night as it is now, there would be plenty of current near the bank, as we just saw.”

“What I want to know is why James shoved the chair and the clothes under the bushes? Why didn't he pitch them into the river along with his brother's body?” I asked. Both Armando and Margo looked startled. “Well, that's what we're all thinking, isn't it? James was last seen the night of the gala, pushing a plastic garbage bag in a wheelchair out of the Atheneum. Joseph is dead, and James is missing. The evidence all points in the same direction whether we like it or not.”

John stood in the parking lot, watching the departing cruiser for a few seconds. Then he beckoned Margo to join him and waved goodbye to Armando and me.

“My lord and master is ready to leave, so I'll be sayin’ goodbye,” Margo grumbled, but I noticed that she scrambled to join John. “This has certainly been festive, y'all. Ho ho ho.”

We watched them pull away, then followed slowly.

“Where to now?” Armando asked. “Perhaps there is another crime investigation with which the police could use your help.”

I glared at his profile, which was hard for me to do. I had always found Armando's face in profile particularly appealing.

“You know perfectly well I had nothing whatsoever to do with this situation. Up until two weeks ago, I hadn't even met these people. Things just happened around me.”

Armando smiled to himself. “As they always do,
Cara
,” he agreed, patting my knee with resignation.

We drove in silence for a few miles, our minds busy with the ramifications of today's discovery. It seemed all but certain now that James O’Halloran had killed his brother Joseph the night of the UCC gala, whether accidentally or on purpose. His motive for doing so was the remaining mystery, along with his present whereabouts.

From what I knew of the man, which admittedly was very little, I could discern no sufficient motive. Joseph couldn't have been blackmailing James by threatening to tell Mary about Roberta and her son Patrick. Mary already knew about the affair, although James and Joseph may have been unaware that she also knew about James’ son born as a result of it. What other deep, dark secret might Joseph have known about James that would give him leverage over his brother? It was impossible to guess. Only James knew the answer.

That left the question of where James was. The police had sophisticated methods with which to trace missing adults, I knew. Children were tougher, since they did not drive, didn't earn or spend money, and could be more easily controlled and hidden by their abductors. Adults, however, used transportation and required housing and food, all of which had to be purchased. James had disappeared fairly spontaneously more than a week ago. The car he had driven from the UCC to the Wadsworth had been found precisely where he had parked it on the street. His credit cards had not been used, and his bank accounts were intact. He had made one sixty-dollar ATM withdrawal the day before the gala, but since then, nothing. His cell phone had not been used. I thought of the river on what must have been the most desperate night of James’ life. Had that despair driven him into the water, too?

I glanced at Armando, who was also deep in thought. Perhaps the full horror of James’ actions had overwhelmed him on that terrible night. He had thrown his brother's body into the river and made a half-hearted attempt to conceal the evidence in the underbrush. How far-fetched was it to imagine him following Joseph into the water and swimming out to where the current was the swiftest? It might have seemed fitting to let the river end his misery. It might even have been a relief.

Then how had his car been returned to its parking space on the street outside the Atheneum?

As if reading my thoughts, Armando spoke. “He would not have drowned himself,
Cara
. He would not have done that to his Mary. Whatever he did and wherever he is, his intention has always been to spare her further pain.”

I shook my head at my hopelessly romantic Latino. It was exactly the sort of muddle-headed explanation one could expect from a guy whose favorite movie in the world was
An Affair to Remember.
“By abandoning her without even an explanation? By leaving her in a permanent hell of unanswered questions, wondering how she might have helped him, if only he had given her the chance?” I demanded with some heat.

“Estupido, si?”

“Muy estupido,”
I agreed,
“y muy macho.”

Armando shrugged and smiled as he steered us off the highway at the Old Wethersfield exit. It occurred to me that the O’Hallorans’ house was less than two miles from here.

“Turn right at the next corner,” I said on impulse. “I want to check on Mary.”

“Your wish is my command. Perhaps I should acquire one of those hats with the visors that the limousine drivers seem to favor,” he said dryly, but I saw the twinkle in his eye.

In just a few minutes, we were pulling into the O’Hallorans’ driveway on Wolcott Hill Road. While I hadn't expected a party to be going on under the circumstances, I had hoped that Mary would have a visitor or two to distract her on what had to be a terrible day for her. The little Cape Cod house had an abandoned air, its windows dark, but I climbed out of the car and went to ring the front doorbell. As I listened to it echo through the house, I wondered how she and James had usually spent Christmas, but other than the cruise Mary had been anticipating so eagerly, I could think of no mention of her holiday plans.

I waited until it was obvious that no one was going to answer the door. As I turned to leave, Mary's next door neighbor, the one I had met on my first visit, popped out of her house and trotted across the adjoining lawns to speak to me.

“Hi,” she said. “I'm afraid Mary isn't at home. Can I help you with something?”

“Kate Lawrence. We met the other day when I came by to visit Mary,” I reminded her. “I work with James at the UCC.”

Recognition dawned. “Of course, now I remember. I knew you looked familiar, but things have been a little crazy around here for the past week or so. Mary isn't here,” she said again and looked uncomfortable.

“I just wanted to see how she's doing with the holiday and all,” I explained. I didn't want to put this nice woman on the spot by prying, but I was eager to know where Mary might be. Surely, she hadn't gone on the intended cruise by herself.

“I guess I'm just being silly,” the neighbor decided. She had come out of her house without a coat and hugged herself in the deepening chill. “Mary mentioned you to me and how much she appreciated your concern, so I don't see any reason not to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I asked in sudden alarm.

“The holiday just made all the strain she's been under worse. Everyone was trying so hard to keep her company and see that she had places to go, if she wanted to, and really, all she wanted was to be left alone.” I squirmed at her words, knowing I was guilty of just such misguided intentions. “She called me late yesterday evening. She was having palpitations and had trouble getting her breath. My husband and I thought she might be having a heart attack, so we rushed her right to the emergency room at Hartford Hospital.”

I was sure my dismay showed on my face. “And was it a heart attack? Is she all right now?”

“No, it wasn't a heart attack. Anxiety, the doctor who examined her said, and it's no wonder. Still, he wanted to do a battery of tests just to be sure about the heart thing, so he had her admitted for overnight observation. They gave her a very mild sedative, and she fell asleep like a stone, poor thing.”

“Yes, even temporary oblivion must be most welcome in her situation. I'd probably be drinking myself into a stupor every night, if I were in her shoes.” I noticed her shivering and shooed her back inside. “Thanks so much for telling me. I'll call the hospital to see how she's doing.”

“They won't tell you anything,” the neighbor predicted. “They won't talk to anyone but close relatives. I'll call you when I know what's what,” she said and scooted back to her house, where she ducked inside with a final wave.

“Did you find out how Mary is doing?” Armando asked as I settled myself into the passenger seat and fastened my seat belt.

“She's doing lousy, that's how she's doing,” I said sadly. “She was admitted to the hospital again last night with a severe anxiety attack.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Armando said, and I knew he meant it.

“Home, James,” I said. “I've had just about all the fun I can take for one Christmas.”

“How was your Christmas?” I asked Cindy, the technician who answered the phone at Catzablanca on Saturday morning. I had taken my cats there for years and years and was on a first-name basis with most of the staff there.

“Too short,” she replied with a sigh. “Yours?”

“Too long,” I quipped. “Don't even ask. Listen, I'm coming in with a new cat. Armando rescued her a couple of days ago from a parking lot at the airport. We don't know anything about her, except that she's very timid and has a good appetite. Can you squeeze her into the schedule today for some testing and inoculations?”

“I can't give you an appointment. It's always nuts after a holiday, but you can park her for the day. Dr. DuPont and Dr. Braun are both on today, and between the two of them, they'll figure it out. What's the cat's name?”

“Don't know yet. Spend the day with her, and let me know what you think we should call her,” I challenged her.

“You bet. See you soon.”

I wrestled a cat carrier out of my bedroom closet under Jasmine's watchful gaze. She immediately vanished underneath my bed.

“It's not for you this time,” I told her and took the carrier upstairs, where the new cat still resided in the guest bedroom. After thirty-six hours of incarceration and about six hearty meals, the ginger female had lost a good bit of her timidity. She was savvy enough to recognize a carrier and led Armando and me on a merry chase before I was finally able to nab her. Armando steadied the carrier on end while I stuffed the wriggling creature through the opening, hind legs first, and secured the latches. She bumped the sides in protest, then seemed to accept her fate, however resentfully. Throughout the whole process, she made no sound.

“Poor little thing. I can't imagine what she's already been through this week, and now this. She must be terrified. Does she speak? I've never known such a quiet cat under these circumstances. Usually, they yell bloody murder.”

Armando shrugged. “Too frightened, I guess.” He toted the carrier downstairs and out to the garage, where he deposited it carefully on the back seat of the Jetta. I closed the car door as quietly as I could manage. We returned to the kitchen for my jacket and purse.

“Emma will be here around eleven to wash glasses and help you move the furniture around. Just follow the diagram the caterer's assistant left the other night.”

“The officious little twit?” Armando misquoted me.

“Gnome,” I reminded him and kissed his cheek. “Yeah, that one. I'm sorry to stick you with this mess, but I promised Sister Marguerite that I would have that hellacious pile of correspondence answered and ready for her signature on Monday morning, so it's now or never. The vet will call here when the cat's ready to be discharged, and either you or Emma can collect her.”

I turned to go, but Armando caught the hem of my jacket. “You will be in that building all alone?”

I wasn't happy about that myself, but I covered my misgivings with what I hoped was a convincing smile. “There are not one, but two, electronically secured doors to get through before you can get into the office, and that's impossible to do unless you have the alarm code. If the silent alarm goes off, the Hartford police will be there, guns drawn, in about three minutes, and there's always 911.” My speech was as much to reassure myself as Armando. I gave him a final pat and departed. “Don't forget to give Jasmine some attention,” I called over my shoulder.

The ginger cat remained silent on our trip to the veterinary clinic. I spoke quietly to her from time to time, but I doubted that the sound of my voice would reassure her much. I wished she could tell me how she came to be under a car in the airport parking lot, but since that was impossible, I could only surmise that she had escaped from her owners, who would be frantic, in that case. Alternatively, she had been dumped by owners who no longer wanted her. Neither scenario was uplifting. I could only deal with things as they were.

Cindy, Jana and Beth were all on duty when I arrived at Catzablanca, and they crowded around to coo at the new kitty. “She's not a kitten, but she's not very old either,” Jana pronounced, and the others concurred.