Pushing Murder (9 page)

Captain Redmond leaned over and said in my ear, “This is mostly press. If anyone speaks to you, I wouldn't mention knowing the victim or you'll be swamped.”

Captain, you read my mind. I nodded and tried to look grateful, though I had an uneasy feeling he was saving me for himself alone. Mrs. Ling pushed me down the aisle and asked if I wanted to be helped into a pew. I said no, I'd just sit here for a minute or two. Was this left front pew where the—the woman was found? No, the captain said, it was the right one.

He walked back down the aisle, and Mrs. Ling slid into another pew. I sat contemplating the shiny wooden seat, the ramrod-straight back, the low kneeling bench. I envisioned the “broken blossoms” and Janet slumped here clutching her scapular. I thought gratefully of Kit extricating it for me. I was glad it was lying in my drawer upstairs and not amid the contents of Janet's pocketbook, being pawed over …

Why, oh, why had I come? Or why couldn't some non-English-speaking broom pusher have brought me down? I stared at the altar, which was bare of the flowers that should adorn it. Something else was missing—the little red light that had flickered there yesterday.

Captain Redmond had come back up the aisle and was squatting beside my chair. He said, “Pretty altar, isn't it?”

“Yes.” I roused myself and tried to think of something innocuous to say. “But where's the little light?”

“Light?”

Clara, you fool! “Er—yes, I peeked in here once before, and there was a pretty red light on the altar.” I started to turn my chair, and Mrs. Ling stood up.

“That would have been the Sanctuary Lamp,” said the captain. “It means the Blessed Sacrament is in the tabernacle. The Sisters took it away when all hell broke loose yesterday. When did you say you were here?”

“Oh, quite a while ago.” We started down the aisle, and my lie flew up to the sacred rafters and bounced back in my face.

Through the door came an elderly nun. She smiled and nodded, then said, “Aren't you the lady who was here yesterday in the wheelchair? I remember that pretty white hair of yours. And to think it was less than an hour before that poor woman was killed!”

And as if that wasn't enough, the door opened again, and Dan stood there. “Oh, hi, Captain Redmond.”

“Hello, Dan. What brings you here?”

10

Mortified and exhausted, I was assisted back into bed by Kit and a scolding Sister Agnes, who said I'd tired myself and she didn't think I should let that policeman talking to my son in the hall come in and tire me further. I groaned and said it was the last thing I wanted anyway.

Sadd, reading by the window, said, “There's a well-worn quotation about practicing to deceive.”

Sister Agnes checked my temperature, said that all my prayers were to be uttered in bed from now on, and left.

Straightening my pillows, Kit said, “I don't know why you're so hung up on when we were in the chapel. We didn't even know Folsom was coming back at that point. We just went down to see Dan.”

“And Dan had just gotten mugged because of Folsom.” I was weakly belligerent. “And I was desperate to disassociate myself from her. Now, thanks to Mrs. Ling and a sweet old nun, I'm a liar and Captain Redmond is breathing down my neck.” I reached for my water decanter. “I hope Henry and Dan aren't out there spilling the rest of the beans.”

“No.” Kit took the glass from me. “They know you want Dunlop kept out of it for now. But they can't deny that Folsom's murder and your attempted one are possibly connected.”

“Possibly. I'll give the captain
possibly
but no more.”

“Shall I let them in?”

“Give me five minutes.” I settled myself grimly. “Then you may open the door of the cage. The lion tamer will be ready with her chair. And Kit”—she turned at the door—“get hold of a Fairfield, Connecticut, phone book. I want to know if Loretta Vaughan is in it.”

“She is. Dan looked her up.”

She went out, and Sadd stood up. “Your mail is on the table beside you.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at it without interest.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“I want you to go back to Florida. You've been a pal.”

He looked out the window. “And leave this platitudinously lovely white Christmas? The snow has stopped, it's a beautifully bright afternoon, and the streets are clear. I'm tempted to take a walk.”

“Why don't you? Henry and I used to love to walk around the Village.” I felt the old pang.

He turned from the window. “Maybe I'll stroll up to Cornelia Street.”

“Sadd! And drop in on Pushing Murder?”

“Why not? I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet.”

“Wonderful!” I started to hug my knees but couldn't. “Chat with Dwight as if everything were hunky-dory—”

“I have never been able to discover the origin of that phrase.”

“—even though he must know you know everything. We have to keep him assured that Sal will remain oblivious.”

“In her fool's paradise.” Sadd pulled on the dear, familiar parka. “Except that she's no fool, which makes it worse.”

He went out, announcing to my visitors as he passed them that he was going to “stretch his legs.”

Henry, Dan, and Kit filed in, followed by Captain Redmond, and I said immediately, “Captain, I apologize for fibbing to you. I'm just scared to death for a friend of mine.”

“I can understand that, Mrs. Gamadge.”

They all sat down, and I played hostess. “I'd love a cup of coffee. Would anyone else?”

No, no one would. Henry went out, and the hostess rattled on. “So you know Dan and Kit.”

“Sure do.” The captain smiled. “I've been kidding Dan about that cast. A sharp-shooting New York boy like him getting mugged.” He went on, looking not at me but at them. “You've got a couple of smart kids watching out for you, Mrs. Gamadge.”

“Don't I know it.”

The captain crossed his legs and looked back at me. “Your son tells me you've been involved in a certain amount of crime yourself.”

“I've dabbled,” I murmured. “It was mostly my husband…”

“Then you know that the bottom line is evidence. Do you have any evidence in the Folsom murder?”

“Not a shred.”

“Just a hefty suspicion?”

“Yes.”

“Can I persuade you to share—”

“No. Please. No.”

He hesitated. “I can't pressure you, Mrs. Gamadge. You aren't a witness and for all I know you may be on the wrong track.”

“Yes, yes, I may be,” I said eagerly.

“But you don't really think so, do you?” he said. I squirmed. “How will you feel if this person kills again?”

“He won't, as long as I keep my mouth shut.”

“Do you have to keep it shut forever?”

“No. Just till Saturday.”

He looked at me steadily. “At which point he will take off, and you and your friend will be safe from him—you hope.”

“Something like that,” I said uncomfortably. “But believe me, Captain, we'll work night and day to put you on his trail. He has a long record, and with the evidence we're trying for—”

“We could help with that, you know.”

“Of course you could, but I don't dare risk it.”

Henry had returned with my coffee and handed it to me. “Captain,” he said, “the hostage my mother is trying to protect is all unsuspecting. Our man isn't going to budge from her side till he splits for good.”

“Is it his wife?”

I said nothing. This game of Twenty Questions was getting too warm. Time to play tired old lady. I lay back wearily.

The captain stood up looking awkward and annoyed. He said, “You know enough about criminal law, Mrs. Gamadge, to realize that there's something called
obstructing justice
which—”

“But I'm doing everything in my power to bring justice about!”

“It may not be enough.”

“But then, it may, it may!” I forgot weary and sat forward. “And I promise you just as soon—”

“Did you know that Folsom was checked into the Plaza?”

The question was so unexpected that I floundered. “I know—that is—I know she lives—lived in Connecticut.”

“The Plaza receipt was in her pocketbook, but the electronic door card wasn't.”

Dunlop had taken it! I said, inanely, “Robbery.”

The captain shook his head. “You don't have to kill a woman to rob her. No, more likely blackmail. We went to the room, and there were signs of a search—but then, you probably know that.”

Weary time again. “Captain, do you mind if I don't talk anymore? I'm just a wee bit tired.”

He held out his hand. “Take care of yourself. When will they let you go home?”

“Christmas Eve, I hope.” I pressed his hand gratefully. “May I ask you something?”

He grinned. “Sure you're not just a wee bit too…?”

My gang laughed, and I ignored them. “Do you know who the beneficiaries are?”

“Her lawyer told me off the record that all Folsom's money goes to her charities. Her next of kin are an old priest and a sister-in-law who's richer than she was. They both live in Fairfield, and I'll be paying them a call.”

I said, “Captain, you're a good sport, and I'm hoping to give you the biggest, fattest Christmas present you ever got.”

“Thanks. I just hope it doesn't cost you your life.”

He went out, and I exploded. “Dunlop took the door card!”

“No, he didn't,” said Dan. “I did.” He held it aloft.

Henry and I stared, and Kit smiled smugly. “No flies on
that
cast.”

I said, “Dan—how?”

He tucked it back in his wallet. “While Kit was prying loose that thing in Folsom's hand—what's it called?—”

“Scapular.”

“—I dug in the pocketbook fast. I was pretty sure he'd have grabbed the cash—he had—and a room key if he saw one. But I guess Dunlop hasn't been in any class joints lately because he apparently didn't recognize the card as a key. Anyway, it was still there, and while Kit was phoning the police I was in a cab to the Plaza. There wasn't much in the room, just clothes and a couple of books. I left a few drawers open hoping the police would figure robbery, but Redmond's no dope. When I got back to the hospital, one of the cops—a guy I know—said, ‘Your wife found a body while you were resting on your ass—I mean your cast.'”

We laughed, and Dan took something from his pocket. He said, “I did lift this because I thought you'd like to have it.”

He handed me a worn little black leather prayer book bristling with cards picturing saints and other devotional graphics. One caught my eye and made me gag: a white-robed angel guiding a child away from a precipice. On it was written, “For Janet, herself a guardian angel. Allen, May 1965.”

Bastard. I closed the book and laid it beside the scapular.

I said, “Sadd's gone up to Pushing Murder to do some shopping and imply to Dwight that we're playing the game with him.”

“I went last night,” said Kit. Your friend Sal is a sweetheart. Dunlop never lets her out of his sight. He showed me his Santa Claus costume and said to bring my son on Christmas Eve.”

“In the words of Sheridan Whiteside,” I said, “I may vomit.”

“Exactly how long do we have?” Henry asked.

Dan looked at his watch. “This is Wednesday. So the rest of today and forty-eight hours.”

“It sounds so much less when you say hours,” I complained.

“Two and a half days,” said Kit consolingly.

Grim silence. Then I said, “I want to talk to Loretta Vaughan and that priest uncle of Janet's. Do you have the number, Dan?” He nodded and opened a notebook.

“Do you know them?” asked Henry.

“I've never met him and I haven't seen her in years. I wish I knew more about them.”

Dan looked at his pad. “The priest, Father Robert Folsom, is almost ninety and lives in Mrs. Vaughan's home at 5 Cobb Road, in Fairfield, the same house she's lived in since her marriage in 1950. Her husband died twenty years ago, and she still partly manages the business, which is plastics.
Partly
because of what I'll tell you in a minute. She's horrified at what has happened to her sister-in-law; she remembers Clara Gamadge very well and would rather talk to her than to the police. I said you were in the hospital, and she said she hoped it was nothing serious, and I said it wasn't. She said that she and ‘Father Bob,' as she called him, would be happy to come to the hospital any time you say. Morning would be the best because she has a drinking problem and—I quote—‘must arrange to be sober.'”

Three pairs of admiring eyes gazed at Dan as he handed me the pad. I looked at my watch. “Three o'clock. She's well in her cups, but I can't wait.” I reached for the phone.

“Oh,” said Dan, “she added that if she was unable to talk to you, Father Bob would, but that he's a little deaf.”

I suppressed a groan, punched numbers, and Kit giggled.

“Don't knock it,” said Henry. “Ninety and deaf but sober could be more help than drunk at any age.”

The phone receiver was lifted, and an extremely pleasant, clear voice said, “Father Folsom speaking.”

“Father, this is Clara Gamadge. I was a friend of poor Janet's.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gamadge, we understood you might call. This is a terrible shock, and you're in the hospital, which makes it worse for you.”

I flashed a triumphant look at my cohorts and said gratefully, “It's ghastly for all of us. I believe Dan—the young man who talked to Loretta—told her I'd had some experience with criminal investigation.”

“Yes, Loretta mentioned that. I found it quite extraordinary. In fact, I wasn't sure that she—er—got it right.”