The April Fools' Day Murder (3 page)

“Don’t worry. It won’t.”

I guess I’m still that gullible kid that my father played jokes on. I believed him.

It’s the understatement of the year to say that I am not an accomplished cook. I’m so much better than I was when I left the convent at age thirty, that I sometimes think I’m better than I am. What I’ve done is learn, with the help of Jack and my friend Mel, to cook things that are fail-safe and that taste good besides. I can now roast a chicken whose wonderful scent permeates the house and gives me a couple of hours of olfactory pleasure before I dig in to appreciate the taste.

But it’s Jack who really loves to cook, and I’ve made up my mind it’s probably in the genes, as his sister runs a catering business with their mother, obviously an inherited talent. So on weekends I defer to his greater ability and skill and reserve my pleasure for eating. He clatters around more than I do, and I think he uses more pots and pans, but it’s worth it. On that April first, I was just glad I didn’t have a meal to cook.

When Eddie got up, we went out for a walk, ending up at the home of a neighbor who had recently moved in with a small boy almost exactly Eddie’s age. I didn’t tell Janet, the mother, what I had gone through earlier. Instead we put the two little boys together with a lot of toys and we talked about local politics and a little gossip.

After about an hour and a half I got Eddie to agree to go home and we left. I was feeling much better and even starting to think that I had overdone it. Maybe if I had
touched Mr. Platt, I would have seen he was still alive. But I had been so scared and it was a crime scene. I shuddered as I thought about it.

Jack was organizing his ingredients for dinner when we got home, so Eddie and I set the table and then went into the family room to get out of Jack’s way. I hadn’t seen the paper yet and I was reading a story that involved the NYPD, a subject close to our hearts since it’s not just Jack’s employer but also a huge piece of his life, when the phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” I called, dropping the paper and making for the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Chris, it’s Mel. Have you heard?”

“Heard what? Mel, if this is an April Fools’ joke, I don’t want to hear it.”

“What happened? You don’t sound your usual chipper self.”

“I’m not my usual chipper self. It’s been a tough April Fools’ Day.”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, this is no joke. There’s been a murder in Oakwood.”

I almost groaned. “Mel, there hasn’t been a murder. It was an April Fools’ Day prank, a treasure hunt or something. He’s alive and well and I don’t know how the story has gotten around. There’s nothing to it.”

There was silence. “I didn’t even tell you who was murdered.”

“No one was murdered. Believe me. It’s just a bad joke.”

“It’s not a joke, Chris. He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” I asked.

“Willard Platt, the man who lives over on the hill above the nursery.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s the murder that isn’t a murder. I’m responsible for the uproar, in a way.” I outlined what had happened, my trip to the nursery, my discovery of the apparently dead body, and then the repercussions. “So you see,” I finished, “there’s nothing to it. It was all some kind of joke and I got in the middle of it by accident and I really don’t want this awful story spread any further.”

Mel said nothing.

“Mel? Are you there?”

“I’m very confused.”

“Well, there’s nothing to be confused about. He’s alive and well and was just cooperating with the high school drama club.”

“I’ll call you back.” She hung up.

I put the phone back and looked at Jack, who had stopped working to see what was going on. “This terrible story is making the rounds,” I said. “That was Mel. What possessed me to go to that nursery today? Why couldn’t I have stayed home and read the paper?”

“Because you’re not a stay-at-home person. I’m sorry this has gotten out of hand. I don’t know who’s spreading the story. Can’t be the high school kids. From what the cop told me, it sounds like they just came, took what they were looking for, and left.”

“Well it isn’t me,” I grumbled. “I’m not telling anyone.” I took a carrot stick from the counter and started chewing as I went back to the family room.

I picked up the
Times
and found the article I had been reading, looked down the column till I located my place,
and started reading again. Eddie came over and asked for a pretzel and we went back to the kitchen to fortify ourselves. I happen to like pretzels too, so I took one for myself.

When I got back into the
Times
once more, the phone rang. I jumped up, feeling surly, and walked past Jack to the phone. “Hello,” I said in a less than pleasant voice.

“Chris?” It was Mel.

“Yes. Sorry. I’m feeling peeved.”

“Chris, Willard Platt is dead. He was stabbed to death this afternoon—not very long ago—outside his house. One of the teachers was over at the police station a little while ago and heard about it. There’s no question. He’s dead.”

I held the phone at my side for a moment, trying to think of what to say. Then I brought it back to my ear. “I’ll call you back.”

“You’re not gonna tell me he’s dead,” Jack said.

“Please call the police, Jack. I just want this settled so I can put it behind me.”

He rinsed his hands and dried them on a paper towel, took the phone and dialed. I listened while he identified himself and asked the question. There were a lot of uh-huhs and finally a thank-you. He hung up and looked me. “It’s no joke. Platt was out working in his garage, according to his wife. This was after the high school kids and the police left. She called him in for something and he didn’t answer, so she went to look. She found him dead on the ground outside the garage.”

I felt close to tears. I had the sense of not knowing what was real and what was fantasy. I had found a body that was not a body and now the man was dead, probably
having been murdered not far from where I’d seen him lying.

“Sit down,” Jack said.

I sat at the kitchen table, aware that this was the second time today that I had lived through this scene.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said.

I shrugged and shook my head, swallowed to get rid of the lump. “This can’t be happening.”

“He wasn’t kidding me.”

“What is going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d better call Mel. I think she thinks I’m losing my mind, probably because I am.” I got up and dialed her number. It was busy. She was probably calling around to find out what was happening. I hung up.

“We need a cordless phone, Chris. We’re the last Americans without one.”

“Joseph doesn’t have one.” Sister Joseph is the General Superior of St. Stephen’s Convent, my home as a nun. She is also the person in the world I feel closest to outside my immediate family.

“We do not live in a convent. Maybe I’ll give them one as a gift next Christmas.”

I smiled.

“Thank God you can smile. I thought you’d really gone to pieces.”

“I am in pieces. The smile is a reflex. What does Joseph need a cordless phone for? She takes calls at her desk. I don’t think she wants to walk around talking. She wouldn’t have her notes in front of her. And don’t even think of a cell phone. Women walk up and down the aisles of the
supermarket now talking to their friends. And when they’re driving, they forget to go on the green light because their conversations are so important.”

Jack grinned. “Good. You haven’t lost it. Glad your value system’s still in place.”

I poked him and tried Mel’s number again.

“Hello?”

“It’s Chris.”

“Chris. Are you OK?”

“No, but I’m surviving. You’re right and I’m right. Mr. Platt was apparently murdered sometime after I thought he was but he wasn’t.”

“Right. Do they know who did it?”

“If they do, they didn’t tell Jack. He called the police and they usually answer him pretty fully. Professional confidences exchanged between police are a currency of the job.” I sketched out what he had heard.

“This is very scary.”

“I know.”

“There’s a killer in Oakwood. Hold on. I want to lock my kitchen door.” I heard her open the door and slam it shut. “OK. I feel better. Not really, but you know.”

I did know. “Look, Mel, I have to think. I’ll call you later.”

“Make it tomorrow. We’re going out tonight. Except I wonder if I want to leave the kids with a sitter after this.”

I wondered the same thing. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up. Then I checked the doors to the outside, making sure they were closed tightly and locked.

“We have a killer in town,” I said to Jack, looking over my shoulder to make sure Eddie wasn’t listening. “Mel’s
scared and I’m scared and I think all reasonable people should be scared.”

“Stop being so damn reasonable. You’re right. This is really a bad scene. We’ll talk about this later.”

4

The rest of the afternoon was crazy. The phone kept ringing with neighbors asking what we knew, since Jack always had a little more information than most of the other townspeople. The Platts lived in an area where they had no neighbors and there was little direct information, but everyone seemed to have heard that there was a murder. I ran back and forth from the family room to the kitchen so many times I was ready to run out and buy a cordless phone myself by the time we sat down to dinner.

The dinner, of course, was very good. Although Jack’s fingernails were black from pulling apart the oil-cured olives to remove the pits, he agreed the dish was worth the trouble. We grated some fresh Parmesan over it—Jack won’t let me buy the already grated stuff anymore; he says it isn’t flavorful enough—and it was a great treat.

After Eddie was off to bed, I started thinking about tomorrow’s breakfast and that’s when I discovered I was out of milk. At the same time, Jack asked if we had anything sweet to go with our coffee?

It had been on my shopping list, which was totally forgotten after my discovery of Willard Platt’s “body.”

“I’ll go and get something. I need milk anyway.”

“I’ll go. You stay home.”

I looked at him, assessing the situation. “I’ll feel better if I’m in a car and you’re home with Eddie.”

“Chris, I really don’t think—”

“We don’t know what’s going on, Jack. The parking lot at Prince’s is well-lighted. And I want you home.”

“OK. Let me walk you out to the car.”

That’s when I knew that what he was saying and what he was thinking were two different things. I backed out of the driveway and went up to Oakwood Avenue. Where we live, it’s a quiet, residential street, but farther along there are stores, including the supermarket I was aiming for. But not far from our street, I came to the road up to the nursery and the Platts’ house. On a sudden whim, I turned right.

The nursery was closed for the night, a few lights on here and there to discourage unwanted visitors. I continued up the hill to the Platts’. There were lights on and yellow crime scene tape marking off the driveway and the garage. I sat for a moment, looking at the still house and grounds, wondering if Mrs. Platt had remained at home. After a couple of minutes, I made my U-turn and went back down the hill, turned onto Oakwood Avenue, and continued toward Prince’s.

Oakwood Avenue is not well-lighted until you get into the center business area. At this point it was just one lane in each direction with a line down the center that alternately allowed this lane of traffic or that one to pass. Suddenly on my right I saw a dark figure walking just to the right of the road, hardly far enough away to be safe from a wide car or a truck. I slammed my brakes on, feeling the panic of having almost been involved in a terrible
accident. The dark figure was just to my right and silhouetted in my headlight. I inched forward and wound down the window, remembering to put my emergency blinkers on so I would not get smacked from behind.

The figure turned and looked at me. It was a woman, an older woman. She looked almost lost.

“Can I help you?” I said. “Can I take you somewhere?”

“I’m just going to my son’s house.”

“Is it far?”

“It’s just in the next town.”

“The next town? Please get in. I’ll drive you.”

She hesitated, perhaps wondering, as I had, if it was safe to get in the car of a stranger. I guess I didn’t look very forbidding as she pulled the door open and sat down beside me. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

“I’m Chris Brooks,” I said, using my married name, as in this milieu I would be known as Jack’s wife.

“I’m Winnie Platt.”

“Mrs. Platt!” I didn’t know what to say. “Are you—are you Willard Platt’s wife?”

“For forty-eight years,” she said.

“I heard what happened. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Where is your son’s house?” I asked, wondering why her son had not come to see her when he heard the news of his father’s death.

“Just keep going. I’ll show you where to turn.”

I pulled onto the road and drove toward the center of town. “It’s really dangerous to walk on Oakwood Avenue. Cars come by at forty miles an hour. You weren’t very visible.”

“I don’t drive,” she said. “I used to, but I haven’t driven since the accident.”

I let that be. “Are you all right, Mrs. Platt?”

“Yes.”

“Could I stop and get you something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry. My daughter-in-law will have something if I need it.”

I made a few turns at her direction and crossed over into the adjoining town. It had much the same character as Oakwood, and without a sign at the border, you wouldn’t know you had traded in one mayor and council for another, one police department for another, one volunteer fire department for one just like it.

I had taken note of the mileage when I picked her up. Her little walk was over a mile and a half. I pulled into the driveway of a house larger and newer than ours. “Will you stay overnight?” I asked.

“I don’t like to stay in other people’s houses. I just want to talk to my son. He’ll drive me home.”

I got out of the car and went around to help her out. We walked to the front door together and she pushed the bell. A woman older than I opened the door and seemed stunned to see Mrs. Platt.