The Happy Birthday Murder (3 page)

I dressed for class on Wednesday morning. I'm a bit more formal than some of the teachers, who come in wearing torn jeans and flannel shirts. I generally wear a skirt with a blouse or sweater, sometimes a jacket. Mrs. Yaeger had sounded more like my mother's generation than my own, so I surmised she would appreciate some formality. I didn't know what to expect when I parked in front of her house after I drove back from my class. Fictional killers and sleuths were swirling in my head as they tended to do when I finished teaching.

The house was one of the older ones in Oakwood, and I could see where it had been extended as so many, including ours, have. I rang the bell and a small, thin, gray-haired woman opened the door, grasped my hand firmly with enthusiasm, gave me a welcoming smile, and invited me inside.

“Would you care to join me in a glass of sherry?” she asked when my coat had been hung in the hall closet.

“That would be very nice.” I'm not much of a drinker, but I thought I could manage some sherry without falling asleep at the table.

We sat in the living room with our drinks and a platter of canapés that included thin slices of cucumber with notched edges, blue cheese, and rice crackers and some others that were less identifiable but very tasty.

“When my husband was mayor, I tried to meet as many families as I could,” my hostess said, “but I know I've missed a lot of newcomers in the last few years. I knew you'd moved in after Meg died, but I never got to meet you.”

“It's a pleasure to be here. I see you're a very good cook.”

“I've had many years to practice,” she said matter-of-factly. “I assume you're the nun Meg talked about.”

“I was, yes. I was released from my vows the spring my aunt died. She left the house to me and I thought I'd try out living here. I now have a husband and a son and we're very happy in Oakwood.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I've heard a bit about you. You were influential in moving Greenwillow into town.”

“That happened the first summer I lived here. It's made it very nice for me. I'm able to see Gene, my cousin, whenever I want.”

“That other death we talked about on the phone was his friend. It was very sad, a young man with many people who loved him, a victim of the elements.”

“My cousin remembers him very well.” I reached for what seemed to be a piece of shrimp on a triangle of toast, wondering if I would ever have the patience to create a batch of these lovely little appetizers. “Did you know either of the men who died?” I asked.

“I didn't know the one at Greenwillow—they weren't in town at that time, as you know—but I knew Larry Filmore quite well. He was a dear man, a hard worker, very generous with his money.”

“His suicide must have shocked everyone who knew him.”

“It most certainly did.” She set her empty sherry glass on the table. “Shall we go into the dining room?”

I followed her. A polished table was set for two on elegant
place mats. Elaborate silver serving pieces lay on the table, and crystal glasses were at each place. I hadn't counted on more wine with lunch, and I wondered how I would tolerate it. A beautiful salad was at each place, a roll on each bread-and-butter plate. Mrs. Yaeger poured white wine without asking, and I tasted mine as Jack had taught me to, inhaling the aroma first. I was sure it was a fine wine.

“Yes, Larry's suicide left us all reeling,” she said, picking up the thread from the living room. “Why does a man do such a thing? Why does anyone do it, but especially a man who had so much to live for? We'll never know.”

“There was nothing suspicious about it?”

“Everything was suspicious. Where did he go in the wee hours after his birthday party? Why did he leave the house? Where did he spend the time?”

“Are there any answers?”

“None that I know of. He left mysteriously; he came back mysteriously.”

“Does his wife still live in town?”

“Yes, Laura's still in the house. She has many friends and a full life, but that broken heart will never mend.”

“I assume the police did an investigation.”

“As far as I know. They had a fair idea how far he had driven, but he never got gas while he was away and never charged a toll or anything else, so they don't know where he went. And he wasn't sighted.”

“Was he shot?”

“Yes, by his own hand.”

“Was it his gun?”

“I don't remember now,” she said, breaking her roll and buttering half. “Laura would know.”

I wondered if that meant Lawrence Filmore had owned a gun. “You wrote a very lovely note to my aunt,” I said,
changing the subject somewhat. “It was filled with kindness and warmth. I'm sure she appreciated it. I found it last week in a carton in the basement and I asked Midge if she knew someone named Celia.”

She smiled. “That puts all the pieces in place. Tell me about yourself, Christine. You've certainly had an interesting and unusual background.”

I went through it all as we ate our lunch. She was a pleasant woman who clearly tried to make me feel appreciated. I thought she must have been a tremendous asset to her husband while he was mayor, but that was before I moved to Oakwood, and Meg had never mentioned either one of them.

When I left, after a homemade dessert and very good coffee, I felt as though I had a new friend.

That evening, when I next had some free time, I flipped through Aunt Meg's journals, reading an entry here and there but not devoting a lot of time to it. These I would keep. They were her thoughts, her feelings, her concerns, her pleasures, and her griefs. I found the book that corresponded in time to the two deaths I had learned about, and in that one I searched for the entries in which she wrote about them. I didn't learn much more than I had from Midge, Celia, Virginia McAlpine, and the newspaper clippings. When I was done, I set it all aside and got to work on next week's class.

I woke up on Thursday morning thinking about Darby Maxwell and his mother. After breakfast, I decided to call her, just to introduce myself and tell her my connection to her family. Virginia at Greenwillow gave me the last phone number she had, already a dozen years old, and I called.

“You must be the nun,” she said when I told her I was Meg's niece.

“I was when you knew my aunt. I'm living in her house now.” I went on to explain the details and we talked for about ten minutes. She sounded very much like my aunt in some ways, and I enjoyed listening to her voice.

Finally, she said, “If you're in Oakwood, you're not all that far from where we live in Connecticut. Would you like to come up and visit?”

I hadn't planned anything beyond the phone call and it took me a moment to answer, during which she pressed me to come. She would like to see me for lunch tomorrow, nothing fancy—“I'm not a fancy person,” she said—just good, plain food. I have to say that was very appealing, as I am a lover of good, plain food. I said yes, made my arrangements with Elsie, and felt rather pleased that I would be spending a few hours with someone who reminded me of Aunt Meg.

We live on the Long Island Sound, a body of water between the north shore of Long Island, which juts into the Atlantic Ocean, and the northeast coast of New York State and the southern coast of Connecticut, which are contiguous. As you travel north and east along this coast, the sound eventually gives way to the Atlantic.

Betty Linton lived north of the coast, somewhere in the middle of Connecticut, more or less on the way to Massachusetts. Jack and I looked at a map that evening and figured out the best way for me to go. It was fall and likely to be a very beautiful drive, with the leaves turning but not yet falling.

I got Eddie off to nursery school and told him Elsie would pick him up and I would be home later in the afternoon.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I'm visiting a lady in Connecticut.”

“Is she a nice lady?”

“I think she is.”

The drive was as pleasant as I had anticipated. When I finally reached the house I was looking for, I was surprised to find an old, well-cared-for wooden structure on several acres of land. The old-fashioned mailbox at the road said: L
INTON
and I went up a long drive and parked. I estimated the house to have been built in the middle of the nineteenth century, and many of the trees around it must have been at least that old. It was quite lovely.

Mrs. Linton came out of the front door with a smile and a wave after I got out of the car. I think I loved her at first sight. There was a resemblance to my aunt, not so much in looks but in spirit. She was spry and energetic, with an easy smile.

“You don't look a bit like your aunt,” she said, offering her hand, “but it's a pleasure to meet you. I know that you're Gene's cousin. He always talked about you.”

“He used to call me ‘the brown lady' because the Franciscan habit I wore was brown.”

“Come inside. You've had a long drive and it's chilly out here.”

The inside of the house was wonderful, lots of old wood beams, floors that were surely original and well polished. The Lintons had obviously gone to great pains to furnish the house with American antiques. There were oil lamps of great beauty that had been converted to electricity, an old hand-carved baby's rocker, and handwoven rugs. It was a treasure trove and I wished I had the time to inspect every item.

“We've had a good time filling up this house,” Betty Linton said. “It was bare when we moved in, except for a few old things that we eventually threw away. Let's sit down for a while and talk. You can try that rocking chair. It's not an antique, just old. It's the chair my mother sat in with me when I was a baby and fussed. Be careful, dear. It may put you to sleep.” She smiled.

It was carved, stained oak and I sat in it gingerly, but it was strong and firm and comfortable, even without a cushion. We talked for about half an hour, then moved into the dining room, where a fire burned in one of many fireplaces. Here there were even more things to admire. A corner cupboard caught my attention, as well as the dishes it held. Mrs. Linton said the cupboard was part of the house, but they had had it refinished. The glass panes in the doors were original and leaded. I looked through one and saw the waviness.

“It really is wonderful having you here,” Betty Linton said. “I'm afraid I didn't keep up with your aunt after my son died; it was too painful. But we did talk once or twice a year and I heard from someone when she died; maybe it was from Virginia at Greenwillow.”

“I never knew about your son. I just learned about what happened recently, when I got to cleaning out a carton of Meg's papers and found a letter from you and some news clippings. I know it was a long time ago, but I'm very sorry about Darby.”

“Thank you. It was twelve years ago, but when I think of it, which is often, it feels as though it happened just last week. He was such a good boy and he died such an unpleasant death. He must have been so frightened, so cold, so frustrated that he couldn't find his way home.”

“I talked to Gene about him after I read your letter. He remembers Darby well.”

“Thank you,” she said, as though I had complimented her.

We ate a hot casserole that bubbled as she brought it to the table. There was no wine, which was fine with me, but we drank our water from pewter cups, which were cold to the touch. I turned down her offer of coffee, and when we were finished she took me outside to see the grounds.

The sun was shining brilliantly and warmed me through
the chill air. There was an old chicken coop on the property, long empty, and a small wooden building that once must have housed a caretaker. It would have made a great place for me to do my word processing and to plan my classes and mark my papers.

About fifty feet away was a pond that Betty said her husband swam in every day of the summer. And all over were flowers and shrubs, and there was even a vegetable garden. Without walking into it, I could see orange pumpkins sitting on the ground amid green leaves and browning stems.

We went back inside and had apple cider and doughnuts in front of the warm fire. I was sorry I hadn't arranged to come when Jack could accompany me; I thought he would have loved to see this house.

“I have a wonderful husband,” Betty said as we relaxed. “The first ten years of Darby's life were very difficult, and his father simply couldn't come to terms with a child like Darby. We tried a number of residential institutions, but that only worked until Darby came home for a vacation. And of course, the expense was terrible.”

“I know,” I said.

“Finally we split up. I met Brad Linton a few years later and he changed my life. I was very lucky. Except, of course, for what happened to Darby.”

“Did you meet my aunt through Greenwillow?”

“Through our sons, yes. I didn't live in Oakwood, where your aunt lived. We were farther north. But Meg and I managed to have lunch together from time to time. And when Darby died, she was simply wonderful. I lived up here by then and I stayed at her house, as the funeral was where we used to live instead of here, and she saw to it that I survived. I don't know how else to put it.”

“Virginia said she saw a lot of Darby.”

“Oh, she did. She'd have both boys to the house for Sunday dinner on weekends when I didn't visit. She'd drop
in during the week and sit and talk to them. When I married Brad, we moved up here and my visits were curtailed. His father almost never came,” she added sadly.

“I read the clippings about Darby's death. It sounded to me as though everyone turned out to try to find him.”

“They did. They walked through the woods all that night, carrying big lanterns and calling his name. If he'd been there, he would have heard. He must have gone far away, just kept walking in the wrong direction till it was too late.”