Murder Among the Angels (7 page)

“She should have had enough time to look at them by now,” Jerry had said impatiently shortly after Charlotte’s arrival. The fact that he was willing to postpone a meal to call someone who probably would have called him as soon as she had finished her report was a sign that the case had gotten hold of Jerry. After two years of stolen bicycles and speeding tickets, he was a man with a mission.

He got through to Dr. Herman right away, and Charlotte could tell from the expression on his face, as well as from the general drift of his side of the conversation, which was liberally sprinkled with words like “rhinoplasty,” that he’d struck pay dirt.

“Lister was right,” he said after hanging up. “Both victims had had plastic surgery. Leonore had noticed the abrasions on the cheekbones of the first skull, just as Lister had, but she also wrote them off to a natural anomaly. But the evidence of plastic surgery on the second skull is clear-cut.”

“So,” said Charlotte. “Cheek implants for the first victim …”

“And a chin implant, posterior mandible implants, cheek implants, and brow implants for the second victim. Leonore said that one, if not both, had probably had nose jobs too, given the extensive nature of the other surgery, but without the nasal cartilage, there was no way to tell that for sure.”

Charlotte sat pensively for a moment in the chair facing Jerry’s desk, and then said: “I’ve had a night to sleep on this.”

“And?”

“I see two problems with the plastic surgeon scenario. First, why would a plastic surgeon have used a meat cleaver to dismember the bodies? You said it was a meat cleaver, right?”

Jerry nodded. “No question about that, according to Leonore.”

“It seems to me that a plastic surgeon would have much more sophisticated and efficient instruments—surgical saws and the like—at his disposal.”

“Good point,” said Jerry. “Unless he didn’t want to draw attention to himself as a member of the surgical profession. What’s number two?”

“Wouldn’t a plastic surgeon have been aware that the skulls would reveal that the victims had undergone plastic surgery? Especially the skull with the chin implant. And if that were the case, why would he have deposited the skulls in cemeteries for anyone to find?”

“Why kill his patients in the first place? If criminals were rational, they wouldn’t be criminals,” Jerry said. He went on: “Maybe he thought nobody would notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. The fact that we suspect a plastic surgeon of being the murderer doesn’t make us that much the wiser.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did some calling around this morning. There are over five thousand plastic surgeons in the United States, and nearly three hundred in the greater New York metropolitan area alone.” He picked up an accordion-folded computer printout that was four inches thick. “Here are their names and addresses.”

Charlotte picked up the stack of papers. “Do you want me to start calling?” she asked, eager to make herself useful.

Jerry threw up his hands. “What would you ask them?”

Their dilemma about what to do next was alleviated, for the moment at any rate, by the buzzing of Jerry’s intercom. The dispatcher was on the line. “There’s a woman down here who insists that she has to see you,” the dispatcher said. “I’m sorry, Chief,” she added. “She won’t take no for an answer.”

Jerry pressed the intercom button. “Who is she?” he asked.

“Lothian Archibald,” she replied.

At the mention of the name, Jerry looked exasperated. “Okay,” he said resignedly. “Send her up.” He looked at Charlotte. “Edward Archibald was the founder of Zion Hill,” he said.

“I remember Lister saying that,” Charlotte said. “He commissioned the angel statues for the church.”

“He also built the church and virtually every other public building in town. The Archibald name still carries a lot of weight around here. To a certain extent, this place is still an Archibald fiefdom.”

“And you’re one of the serfs?”

“You’ve got it. She’s one of Edward Archibald’s daughters.” There was a knock at the door, and Jerry rose to answer it. A moment later, he admitted a woman in her sixties with a round, pleasant-looking face, and close-cropped gray hair going to white.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, Chief D’Angelo, but this will only take a minute. It’s very important.”

Jerry made a point of looking at his watch, and then invited her to sit down next to Charlotte, whom he introduced as his old friend, Mrs. Lundstrom. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’ve seen her again.”

“How did you know?” she said, oblivious to the sarcasm in Jerry’s voice. “I know you didn’t believe me before,” she went on. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I believed myself. I could have been making a mistake; it was from such a distance. But this time I’m absolutely sure.”

“Where?” Jerry asked.

“It was at the drugstore—the one on the corner of Main Street and the Albany Post Road in Tarrytown. Last Tuesday.”

“If you were so sure, why didn’t you say anything to her?”

She stammered. “I was so shocked, I guess; the idea didn’t even occur to me. Also, I wondered if she would respond. If it really
was
her, why hasn’t she come forward? It’s been nine months since the first time I saw her. But I did speak to her later. After I bought the camera.”

“After you what?”

“I was worried that you wouldn’t believe me. So I bought one of those disposable cameras and took a picture of her. She was browsing in the hair products aisle. She didn’t even notice. Then I went up to her and asked her if she knew someone named Lily Louria.”

“Any relation to the cosmetic surgeon?” Charlotte interjected.

“His late wife,” Jerry responded. “She died two and a half years ago in a drowning accident in Cozumel, Mexico. Her body was never recovered.”

Charlotte was beginning to get the picture. This woman apparently thought the cosmetic surgeon’s wife had come back from the dead. Judging from Jerry’s attitude, he thought she was a nut case.

“Why?” he asked. “Do you know him?”

Charlotte nodded.

Jerry gave her an appraising look, and then turned back to the Archibald woman. “And?” he prompted.

“When I got up closer to her, I could smell her perfume,” Miss Archibald continued. “Then I was absolutely sure. She always wore the same perfume: Muguet. She ordered it from Grasse, France. Her mother always wore that scent too.”

“What did she say?” Jerry asked.

“It was very odd.” A puzzled look came over the woman’s face. “I’m positive she recognized her name. But she pretended not to. Or maybe it wasn’t a conscious recognition.” She paused for a moment, and then announced: “I think she’s a victim of amnesia.”

Jerry completed her thought: “Who was miraculously washed ashore in some Mexican seacoast village, and then lost her memory. Miss Archibald, this is real life, not the movies.”

“It would explain why she hasn’t identified herself,” she said. “It would also explain why she seemed to only vaguely recognize the name.”

“If she were a victim of amnesia, why would she be here?” Jerry asked.

“Maybe she was subconsciously drawn back here by some kind of homing instinct, but couldn’t remember enough to know why. I have the photograph here,” the woman continued. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out an envelope, and passed it across the desk to Jerry.

Jerry pulled the photo out of the envelope and studied it for a moment. “This woman has brown hair. Your niece had red hair.”

“She could have dyed it,” the woman protested. “Besides, Lily always wore sunglasses like that, and she often wore a scarf.”

Jerry passed the photograph to Charlotte. It showed a young woman wearing oversized sunglasses and a silk scarf tied under her chin. All that showed of her hair was her dark brown bangs. She was holding a container of some kind of beauty product, and reading the directions.

Charlotte passed the photograph back to Jerry.

“Do you still have the photo of her I gave you?” the woman asked.

Jerry swiveled his chair around to face the filing cabinet behind his desk. Then he opened a drawer and pulled a photograph out of a file. Holding it in one hand and the snapshot in the other, he compared the two.

“See?” the woman said.

After studying the photographs for a minute, Jerry handed the first one back to Miss Archibald. “To tell you the truth, Miss Archibald, I can’t make anything out of this photograph.” His glance shifted to Charlotte. “This woman could be anyone from Jackie Kennedy to Charlotte Graham.”

Charlotte struggled to suppress a smile.

“Maybe
you
can’t tell, but I can tell,” Miss Archibald objected, her chest puffed out with self-righteousness. “I raised Lily. She was like my own daughter. I would recognize her anywhere.”

Charlotte studied the photograph that Jerry had passed to her. It showed a stunningly beautiful young woman with a flawless complexion; long, wavy, red hair; and large, dreamy, green eyes. She was sitting on a lounge chair. “She looks like a statue of an angel that we saw at Omega Studios,” Charlotte said.

Miss Archibald looked at Charlotte, seeming to notice her for the first time. “The model for that statue was Lillian Archibald, who was Lily’s mother and my sister,” she explained. “Lily was the spitting image of her mother. In fact, I’ve never seen a mother and daughter who looked so much alike.”

Jerry leaned forward in his chair and looked Miss Archibald in the eye. “You say that she may have recognized the name. But what about you? You raised her as if you were her mother. She might not have rushed into your arms, but don’t you think she would have shown a glimmer of recognition?”

Miss Archibald slumped back in her plastic chair.

“Ergo, she is not your niece,” Jerry said.

“Please, Chief D’Angelo,” she begged.

“Miss Archibald,” Jerry said, his patience fraying, “what is it, exactly, that you would like me to do?”

“I followed her home.”

“You followed her home,” Jerry repeated with a look of annoyance.

Miss Archibald ignored him. “She lives in a two-family house at 33 Liberty Street in Corinth, and her name is Doreen Mileski. I got her last name from the mailbox,” she added.

Jerry ripped off a sheet of paper from a memo pad and wrote down the name and address. “And her first name from the mail in the mailbox,” he said.

Miss Archibald nodded.

“Do you know that tampering with the mail is a federal offense?”

The woman sat there, implacable.

“I repeat my question. What would you like me to do?”

“Find out more about her,” she replied. “Where she came from. I know the police can get previous addresses. How she ended up here.”

“Miss Archibald,” Jerry continued, his tone more gentle now, “even if I had the resources to do what you ask, I wouldn’t pursue this. A snapshot of a woman whose face is almost fully concealed is not enough evidence to prove that your niece did not drown in Cozumel two and a half years ago.”

Miss Archibald pursed her lips.

“Also, I cannot go around spying on private citizens for no good reason other than a remote resemblance to a dead person.”

“What about the perfume?” she asked.

Jerry shrugged. “Coincidence,” he said. “A vivid imagination.”

“I was debating whether I should come here,” Miss Archibald said. “That’s why I waited over a week.” Picking up the photograph, she put it back into her handbag, and then rose to leave. “I guess it was a waste of time.”

The hope had drained from her face, leaving her looking old and pale.

Coming out from behind his desk, Jerry steered her gently toward the door. “I’m very sorry,” he said as he showed her out.

“This is the third time she’s been in,” Jerry said after she had gone. “The first time was last August; the second was last month. Plus, she keeps calling. She’s an annoyance, but I can’t be too hard on her. I feel sorry for her. She raised the girl and her brother after their parents were killed in an airplane crash. She devoted her life to them. It’s hard to let go.”

Charlotte was sympathetic too. She remembered how she used to see Linc Crawford, the only man she had ever loved, after he died. She’d be walking along, and there he would be. Her heart would do a loop-de-loop in her chest and then she’d realize with a pang that it was only someone who looked like him. After more than thirty years, it still happened from time to time.

“It’s especially hard to let go when you believe in angels.”

“What?” Charlotte asked.

“Have I told you about this community?” Jerry asked.

“No. Though you did mention that most of the inhabitants were members of some sort of religious sect.”

“Swedenborgians,” he said, and proceeded to tell Charlotte about the history of the community, and the Swedenborgian belief in a heaven populated by various hierarchies of angels.

“Then this Lily Louria is a relative of the founder.”

“The granddaughter,” Jerry said. He continued: “By and large, the Swedenborgians believe that it’s dangerous to try to see over to the other side, as they call the afterworld. But they admit that the barrier is sometimes lowered, allowing people to communicate with the angels.”

“And is this what Miss Archibald thinks happened to her?” Charlotte asked. “That her niece appeared to her as an angel?”

“At first, she did. Or, I should say, she was confused. She wasn’t sure if the young woman she saw was an angel, or a real person. If she had believed wholeheartedly that the young woman she saw was an angel, she wouldn’t have bothered coming to me. I don’t deal with angels,” he added.

“I would think that real people would be hard enough,” Charlotte said. “I wonder if you can photograph an angel?” she mused.

Jerry continued: “But after the second sighting, she was convinced she was a real person. And now, of course, she’s come up with the amnesia scenario.”

“How exactly did the niece die?” Charlotte asked.

“She was on vacation with her husband, Dr. Louria.”

“Is he a Swedenborgian?” Charlotte asked, thinking it must be hard to reconcile a belief in angels with a career in medicine.

“No. They met when he moved here. Most of the houses on the river side of River Road have been bought up by non-Swedenborgians. They’ve become too expensive for the locals.”