The Silver Anniversary Murder (10 page)

“There’s something else. I have to bury—” She stopped, overcome with grief. “My parents,” she said finally.

“You’ll have to identify yourself to claim them.”

“I hate to think of them in a morgue. I want them safe in a nice green cemetery.”

I said nothing. This was the big decision she had to make and she had to do it by herself.

“I tell you what,” she said. “Let’s give it two weeks. If we don’t make any progress, I’ll reconsider.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Now I think I should get back to the motel. I’m feeling tired and I need to rest and be alone.”

“Do you have money?”

“That’s not a problem.”

“I’ll drive you back.”

10

Ariana Brinker was staying at the local motel where Sister Joseph had once stayed when we were working on a local homicide. I suggested she rest as long as she wanted and then call me. We could all have dinner together chez Brooks and plan a strategy later on in the evening. I told her I had a five-year-old and that we might be off at the town pool later in the afternoon, but she could leave a message.

Eddie and I left for the pool. His swimming was becoming more even and less like play and I was glad we had given him lessons last summer. He remembered how to coordinate his breathing, and I was pleased to see how much he wanted to continue learning. We swam side by side in a lap lane, and he was grinning when we came to the end.

Back home, we dressed and went downstairs to get dinner together. The phone rang as I was mixing good spices into our rosemary meat loaf. Might as well use the oven while the kitchen was still cool enough. We would have enough months of grilling starting anytime soon.

“This is Ariana.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Yes. I didn’t expect to. And I’ve made a reservation to fly to Chicago tomorrow and return here on Wednesday. Is that all right with you?”

“It’s fine. I assume you’re going to pick up the will and come right back.”

“Yes. And get some more clothes. I’ll need to talk to the lawyer when I get back. I’m sure the name and address are with the will. I expect the lawyer has no idea my parents are dead.”

“Right. You and I are the only two people at this point who know their real names.”

I told her I would pick her up in twenty minutes. Then I let Eddie know we were having company for dinner. “Her name is Ariana,” I said.

“Is she your friend?”

“She’s a young lady I just met. She’s very nice, honey. I think you’ll like her. She works in a bookstore.”

That provoked his interest. He started to tell me about all the books he needed.

“Maybe we’ll go to our bookstore when school is out. You’ll need some books to read over the summer.” He wasn’t exactly reading yet, but he knew what I meant.

I explained to Ariana that my husband was a police lieutenant in New York City. She tensed as I said it, but I assured her that since this case was out of his jurisdiction, he would not interfere. And he would be helpful if there was information we were not privy to as private citizens.

Ariana and Eddie seemed charmed by each other. I heard laughter from the family room as I set the table. Jack came home, having been forewarned by me. He shook hands with Ariana and expressed his condolences. She said a soft “Thank you” and brushed away welling tears.

When Eddie was tucked away, we sat in the family room with coffee and a fruit pie I had picked up at the bakery after our swim. My Jewish friend Melanie told me that Jews offer sweets to the bereaved to ease their sorrow. That has stuck with me, sounding like a reasonable response to the anguish of loss.

“Jack,” I said after we had chatted for a while, “Ariana and her parents lived in a number of locations around the country. And she was born in Portland, Oregon. We have some family names but no addresses. Is there a way we can find the phone numbers of these people on the Internet?”

“Boy,” he said, “get them a computer and suddenly they’re experts in tracking down missing people.”

Ariana smiled. “Did you just get a computer?”

“At the end of last year,” I said. “It had never occurred to me but Jack thought we should have one, especially since Eddie is starting to read and everyone he knows has one.”

Jack said, “I’ll check with a guy at work tomorrow— he’s more computer literate than I am—and see how to proceed. It’s a good idea. If you have your parents’ names, you might find people with the same last name in Portland or nearby.”

“And I remember people who lived near us in a couple of places. If they’re still alive, we can talk to them.”

“Sounds like a good way to start,” Jack said. “But you should certainly talk to the lawyer who has the original of your parents’ will. They may have added or subtracted something recently without letting you know. Chris solved a case not long ago where that happened. And the lawyer may have information in his notes or may recollect something that could be helpful. For all we know, your parents may have told him who was looking for them.”

Ariana leaned forward. “I hadn’t thought of that. And he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone if they were his clients.”

“Right.”

Her eyes were bright. “I really have to talk to him. The sooner I get that will, the better I’ll feel.”

I asked her if her copy of the will was in a safe place.

“In a safe-deposit box in a bank. No one besides me has access to it.”

“That’s good.”

“I have some information on the second autopsy,” Jack said. “Joe Fox called after you did.”

“Second autopsy?” Ariana seemed surprised.

“They couldn’t determine the cause of your mother’s death in the first one so they got a hotshot ME to come out from the city. His name’s Byron Durham and we’ve been known to refer to him as Lord Byron.”

I laughed. “He must be something.”

“He is.” Jack turned to Ariana. “If you don’t want to hear about this, I’ll keep quiet.”

“I have to hear. I have to know everything.”

“It looks as though your mother was chloroformed.”

“How do they know that?” I asked.

“Chloroform leaves chemical burns in the nose, mouth, and windpipe and some traces in the lungs if enough tissue is there. It’s not easy to detect, which is probably why it was missed by the first ME, who, I’m told, is new to the job. The analysis by Dr. Durham says the chloroform was administered with a pad, sponge, or rag, and he sees the burns inside the nose and mouth.”

“Chloroform,” Ariana said thoughtfully. “Someone could have held a rag over her face, standing behind her maybe, with his arms around her.”

“That’s one way it could be done. Nice and clean. No blood, no bullet, no stab wounds. And when you’re ten miles away from the crime scene, you drop the rag in someone’s garbage that’s to be collected the next morning.”

“Was there any jewelry on either body? Anything to identify them?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Your father’s ring finger showed signs of a ring, probably a wedding ring.”

“He wore one, yes. But Mom did too, a thin diamond band that was either white gold or platinum. And she had a diamond engagement ring that she always wore too. She had very thin fingers. Maybe the rings didn’t leave a mark.”

“And were easy to remove,” I suggested.

We talked for a while longer and then Ariana said she wanted to get back to the motel. Her flight would leave early and she had arranged for a taxi to pick her up. I admired her self-reliance, especially at such a time. She promised she would call if she had enough time on Wednesday between going to the bank and getting out to O’Hare airport for the return trip.

In the meantime, I said, I would contact the company her mother worked for in White Plains and see what they could tell me about her.

As she picked up her bag to leave with Jack, Ariana called, “Say good-bye to Eddie for me.”

I talked to Elsie that evening, telling her that I might be taking a trip and could she—?

“Of course, Chris,” she said, not letting me finish my request. “You know I look forward to your being busy so I get my quality time with Eddie.”

“What would I do without you?” I said.

“You’d have a much more boring life—and so would I.”

It was true. These detours from the norm filled my life both intellectually and substantively. What I was now involved in was tantalizing; besides the homicides, there was a bereaved daughter who needed answers and didn’t know where to look. I hoped the list of former residences and the will would set us on a successful path.

Jack called from New York after lunch on Tuesday to say he knew how to locate phone books on the Internet and we could do some looking tonight. I was glad he said “we.” I don’t use the computer for much myself, although I have learned how to send and receive e-mail. I was surprised at the number of people I knew who already kept in touch that way. In fact, when I know that Jack will be busy in meetings, I e-mail him instead of calling. Since I count my pennies, I’m always happy to save the cost of a call to New York.

Earlier that morning I had called the White Plains number and reached someone who knew Rosette Parker, the name the deceased used at work and at the bank.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker is no longer with us,” the woman said crisply.

“I know that,” I responded. “Are you aware that she died about a month ago?”

There was silence for several seconds. “Would you repeat that?” the woman asked.

I said it again.

“Rosette died?”

“Yes. In May.”

“That’s why she stopped coming to work. We didn’t know what to think.” The somewhat officious voice softened. “She was always so conscientious, we couldn’t understand why she would suddenly not show up. We called her home number but it just rang and rang.”

I arranged to drive up and explain what happened. As I was already dressed and ready to go, I alerted Elsie and then I dashed.

I had to sign in and show ID in the building, and then I took the elevator to the third and top floor. Elizabeth Olson, with whom I had spoken, happened to be walking past the reception area as I asked for her, and she led me to her bright, windowed office where I sat in a comfortable chair.

She reiterated her surprise when Rosette had simply stopped coming to work, mentioning clients Rosette had been working with who couldn’t believe she had abandoned them.

“She was murdered,” I said when I got a chance to speak.

“No!”

I told her briefly how I became involved in the situation, and I watched her face register shock. Then I said, “There are some strange things in Rosette’s life that no one is able to explain at this time. I’d just like to know what you knew about her, such as if she had any friends here in the office.”

“No, she didn’t have friends. She didn’t go out for dinner with the others when they got together. She didn’t socialize with any of us. Nothing against her, you understand. She intimated she was needed at home, and when she finished her work, she took off.”

“So no one here knows her very well.”

“But we all liked her. And her clients adored her. I could give you a list of the people she was doing projects for if you think that will help.”

“I’d appreciate that. And I wonder if you have the things that were in her office.”

“We do. We assumed she’d come back and claim them at some point. Come with me.”

I followed her once again, this time to a supply room filled with tall shelves of pads, pencils, pens, diskettes, and all the other paraphernalia of a modern office. In a corner was a locked safe, and Elizabeth Olson opened it and pulled out a cardboard box marked ROSETTE.

“These are all the things that belonged to her. Why don’t you have a look? You can sit at a table in the coffee room and take as much time as you want.”

She carried the box for me, and I made myself comfortable at a Formica table. I declined coffee, afraid I might inadvertently spill some on the contents of the box. Then I began to go through it.

If I had expected to find an agenda with scribbled appointments and notes about personal things, I would have been disappointed. What I did find was a good-looking desk set with a matching silver pen and pencil, but nothing was engraved on the nameplate. Elizabeth Olson told me that the pads and pencils Rosette used were removed because they belonged to the company. That left very little. A box of Kleenex was the largest item in the box. A bottle of black ink indicated that Rosette owned a fountain pen, although it was not there. The most interesting item in the box was a heavy brown file folder marked PERSONAL in thick black ink. Inside were pages of notes in pencil and ink, along with a few sheets apparently printed from a computer, and the sheets were sorted into groups and paper-clipped together. Each group had a cover page with a name and company on it.

What she had done was make notes and comments to herself that she could use to ingratiate herself with the clients. In several cases there was a wife’s or husband’s name, a birth date, a favorite restaurant or food. One client wanted sushi for lunch; another favored pasta.

When I finished looking through the meager contents of the box, I asked Elizabeth if I might take this folder with me, and she said that would be fine. They had already photocopied it. She suggested I take the pen and pencil set as well. I had the feeling she didn’t want the company involved in a murder investigation, and if they had nothing of Rosette’s, they would be spared. I inserted the folder in an envelope she offered me. Then she scrounged up a plastic bag for the desk set and sent me on my way.

In late afternoon, Ariana called to say she had arrived safely and was packing a larger bag. She intended to be at the bank tomorrow morning when it opened and would go to the airport from there. If all worked as planned, she would be in Oakwood tomorrow evening.

I spent the afternoon calling the people in the file. In every case the person I contacted was shocked and saddened to hear what had happened to Rosette. Eulogies poured out of them. She was such a fine person, such an original and artistic thinker. She was so easy to get along with. Who could have done such a thing?

Not one of them would speculate on the last question. It certainly had nothing to do with business. In that, of course, I was in complete agreement.

On Wednesday morning Ariana called from O’Hare airport to say she had just spoken to the lawyer. “She’ll see me tomorrow morning, Chris. Will you come too?”

“Sure. What’s her name?”

“Beverly Weingarten. Her office is in lower Manhattan. ” She told me the address. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Absolutely.”

“I made it for eleven. I wasn’t sure how long it would take us to get into the city.”

“Very good. We’ll have an easy trip.”