Scrapbook of Murder

by Lois Winston

  Now Carmen and Elena’s innocent act of rebellion fifty years ago, and its devastating aftermath, had set Lupe on a quest for the truth about that night. And I definitely didn’t have a good feeling about the flapping of this particular butterfly’s wings.

  TEN

  My phone rang shortly after I arrived home that evening. I hadn’t even had a chance to remove my coat and kick off my heels. I fished my cell phone out of my purse and rolled my eyes when I saw Lupe’s name on the display. What now?

  Part of me wished Elena hadn’t told us the circumstances surrounding Carmen’s pregnancy. I feared Lupe’s obsession over finding her mother’s rapist might unhinge her, especially if she couldn’t find the perpetrator.

  Then again, maybe this was Lupe’s way of dealing with the grief that consumed her. Focusing on a half-century-old crime might be all that was keeping her from reliving the all too fresh nightmare of a far more heinous one.

  Either way, I felt too guilty not to answer her call. I swiped the screen and placed the phone up to my ear. “Hi, Lupe.”

  “It’s Elena,” answered a choked voice at the other end.

  Calling from Lupe’s phone? A cold shiver skittered up my spine. I didn’t have to ask to know something was terribly wrong. “Elena?”

  “Lupe’s in the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was crossing the street. A car ran a red light. She’s unconscious. The doctors…” She choked on a sob. “…the doctors…they don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

  For the second time that day my legs wanted to collapse under me. I grabbed for the wall. “What hospital?”

  “Overlook.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I grabbed my wallet from my purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill as I headed down the hall in search of my sons. I found them sprawled on their beds, Alex with his nose buried in his chemistry textbook, Nick working on a math assignment.

  Alex glanced up as I entered the room. “Hi, Mom. When’s dinner?”

  I handed him the money. “As soon as you pick it up. Order a pizza. There’s salad in the fridge. I need to run out.”

  “Where?” asked Nick.

  “The hospital. Lupe’s been injured.”

  Alex yanked his head up out of his textbook. “How?”

  “Hit by a car.”

  Nick threw his legs over the side of the bed. “Will she be okay?”

  I hesitated. Maybe Elena had exaggerated the severity of Lupe’s injuries, either due to her own fear or from not completely understanding the doctor. Either way, I thought it best not to say anything to the boys until I had more information. “I hope so.”

  “If they need someone to watch the kids,” said Alex, “we can probably rearrange our schedules.” He nodded toward his brother.

  “Sure,” said Nick. “We’ll figure it out.”

  ~*~

  Half an hour later I stood outside the ICU, staring at Lupe through a pane of glass. Only immediate family members were allowed inside the room and even then, no more than two at a time.

  Bandages wrapped Lupe’s head. She wore a full cast on her left leg, which was suspended by a pulley, and another cast on her right wrist. Bruises covered most of her exposed flesh. Andrew Betancourt, Lupe’s husband, sat in a chair beside her bed, his hand cupping Lupe’s left hand, his gaze fixed on his wife’s battered face as he spoke to her. A multitude of tubes ran from her body to an IV and various whirring and beeping machines.

  “She’s unconscious,” said Elena, who had joined me in the hall when I arrived. “The doctors performed surgery to relieve swelling on her brain, but she also sustained internal injuries. They give her about a fifty/fifty chance of making a full recovery. They’ve done all they can. It’s up to Lupe and God now.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Elena heaved a ragged sigh. “According to what bystanders told the police, Lupe was crossing Broad Street at Elm, along with several other people. They were all in the crosswalk and had the green light. A panel van came barreling down Broad at a high rate of speed, mowed into them, and kept going. Lupe and two other women took the brunt of the impact. One is in the next room. The other died at the scene.”

  “A panel van? You’re sure?”

  “That’s what I was told. Why?”

  Lupe had nearly been run off Rt. 22 by a speeding panel van earlier in the day. Thousands of panel vans traversed New Jersey roads every day, but could this be more than coincidence? I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  However, I had an extremely bad feeling about Lupe’s accident. Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe Lupe’s snooping into her mother’s past had caught someone’s attention, someone who didn’t want Lupe exposing his sordid history.

  Luckily, Elena didn’t press me because I wasn’t prepared to explain Lupe’s trip to Our Lady of Peace and the earlier near miss on Rt. 22. If I even hinted of a connection between Carmen’s rape and the hit-and-run, Elena would blame herself for Lupe’s injuries. There was already more than enough guilt going around. I saw no point in heaping on another dose, especially since all I had at this point was conjecture.

  I needed to learn if there was a connection between the two incidents. If video existed of the accident on Rt. 22 and the hit-and-run in Westfield, I’d know if the same panel van had caused both. Or perhaps witnesses had taken down the license plate numbers of both vehicles. And I knew just the person to ask, although I doubted he’d divulge any information. He’d parrot the standard line about not being able to discuss an ongoing investigation.

  No matter. I simply wanted to plant the seed, alerting Union County Detective Sam Spader of the possible connection between Lupe and the two incidents. Given our history, I was certain he’d find my information credible. And if by chance he didn’t? I had more than a passing acquaintance with two of Westfield’s finest.

  When the P.A. system announced the end of visiting hours, I approached Andrew as he stepped out of Lupe’s room. Today’s tragedy seemed to have aged him considerably since I last saw him at Carmen’s funeral only weeks ago. The fine lines around his mouth and eyes etched deeper into a face once full of life but now old and haggard. Andrew had always reminded me of Mark Ruffalo. Now he looked more like Mark Ruffalo’s grandfather.

  After telling him how sorry I was, I added, “If you need anyone to watch the kids after school or in the evening, Alex and Nick have volunteered.”

  He grasped my hands in both of his and fought back tears as he spoke. “Thanks. I think we’ve got it covered for now with various family members, but I’ll keep the boys’ offer in mind.”

  I nodded. He and Elena made their way toward the nurses’ station, and I headed for the elevator.

  As soon as I returned to my car, I placed a call to Detective Spader. We had met several months ago at the Sunnyside of Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center where my mother-in-law was recuperating from a minor stroke. Less than twenty-four hours after Lucille’s arrival at the facility, her ninety-eight-year-old roommate was murdered in bed. Based on witness accounts of Lucille’s animosity toward her roommate, she became Spader’s prime suspect.

  I knew my mother-in-law didn’t murder Lyndella Wegner. Lucille is all bark and no bite. Mostly. With few exceptions, her loathing of Lyndella was no greater than her hostility toward just about every life form on the planet.

  Her dead son and his father top the exceptions list. However, neither thought very highly of her. The former tried to kill her, and the latter walked out on her nearly fifty years ago. The Daughters of the October Revolution might hold her in high esteem as their leader, but not a single member cares enough about her to offer her a place to live, which is why she and I are stuck with each other.

  Since I wasn’t about to see a killer get away with murder, I had set out to prove Spader wrong. After my nosing around unmasked the true perpetrator, the detective admitted to a grudging respect for me. That respect continued to grow after I helped
solve two recent neighborhood murders.

  Spader answered his phone on the second ring. This didn’t surprise me. From my earlier dealings with him, I suspected he divided the twenty-four hours of any given day between headquarters and his department-issued unmarked car. Perhaps he occasionally crashed in a small apartment somewhere, but judging from his consistently rumpled look, not very often.

  The guy didn’t appear to have a life beyond his work. He had never mentioned a Mrs. Spader or any little Spaders. I often wondered if his parents were Dashiell Hammett fans, casting their son’s destiny when they christened him with a tongue-in-cheek homage to the author’s iconic fictional detective.

  He answered with his trademark snark. “Mrs. Pollack. To what do I owe this honor? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

  I ignored the snark and got straight down to business. “I’m calling about the hit-and-run that occurred in downtown Westfield late this afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you caught the driver?”

  “Not yet. And you should know by now I’m never at liberty to discuss an ongoing case.”

  I expected nothing less than the standard party line from Spader. “I do.”

  Annoyance crept into his voice. “Then what’s your reason for calling? You have some connection to this case?”

  “No direct connection, not with me, but I have reason to believe there may be one between the hit-and-run in Westfield and an accident that occurred earlier in the day on Rt. 22 in Watchung.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I told him about the panel van that had nearly run Lupe off the road hours before the hit-and-run.

  “Are you suggesting someone deliberately tried to kill Lupe Betancourt?”

  “I’m suggesting you might want to see if the dots connect.”

  “Are you home?”

  “I will be in less than half an hour. I’m leaving the hospital now.”

  “I’ll meet you at your house.”

  ~*~

  When I arrived home, I found Detective Spader already waiting for me. As I pulled into my driveway, he cut his engine and stepped from his car. We entered the house together.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I said, motioning toward the living room. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Spader nodded as he turned into the living room while I went in search of the boys to tell them I was home and report on Lupe’s condition.

  A moment later I heard Lucille shouting. “How dare you barge into this house? You’re trampling on my rights. Where’s your warrant?”

  I rushed back into the living room. Spader’s arms were crossed over his barrel chest, his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows knit together under a deeply furrowed brow. Lucille stood with one hand on her hip, the other clutching her cane. They stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other. Mephisto cowered under one of the end tables.

  Ralph flew in from the kitchen and perched on the bookcase. “I throw thy name against the bruising stones,” he squawked. “Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act One, Scene Two.”

  Under the circumstances, a rousing chorus of “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here” might also have been appropriate, but Ralph only quotes Shakespeare. I stepped between the two warring factions before my mother-in-law provoked Spader enough to cuff her and haul her down to headquarters. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she spent the night in a cell. “I invited him in, Lucille.”

  She turned on me. “He has no right to search my room.”

  Spader and I exchanged a knowing glance. The detective was well aware of Lucille’s paranoia when it came to the police, but I’m sure he wondered, as did I, just what my mother-in-law had squirreled away in her bedroom. I shook my head, making a mental note to search her room the next time she gallivanted off with her fellow commie sisters. “He’s not here about you, Lucille. He has no intention of searching your room.”

  “Unless I should?” asked Spader, casting a suspicious eye on my mother-in-law.

  “Not helping,” I muttered under my breath.

  Lucille responded by pounding her cane on the floor, a gesture that had little impact, given the muffling properties of the living room carpet, and spearing Spader with her best evil eye. “Unless we’re now living in a police state, my privacy is guaranteed by the Constitution.” She turned in search of her dog. “Come, Manifesto.” Then she waddled out of the living room and down the hall to her bedroom. I don’t think she realized Devil Dog had refused to follow her.

  Spader stared at Lucille’s departing back. “I don’t envy you, Mrs. Pollack.”

  I matched his frown with one of my own. “I don’t envy me.”

  My stomach chose that moment to vocalize—in a less than subtle way—a reminder that I hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Would you mind if we speak in the kitchen?” I asked.

  Spader chuckled. “Not at all.” He followed me through the dining room and into the kitchen. I indicated for him to take a seat at the table.

  Alex had said they’d left two slices of pizza for me in the refrigerator, but I discovered the empty box on the kitchen counter. I checked the fridge, hoping to find a plate with the two slices but no such luck. If I had to place a bet, my money would be on Lucille feeding the leftover slices to Devil Dog after the boys cleaned up the dishes. Either that or she returned to the kitchen to scarf them down herself. The woman ate more than the average sumo wrestler.

  I settled for a hunk of sharp cheddar, a couple of Granny Smith apples, and a half-empty box of water crackers. I didn’t bother slicing the cheese or apples, just placed them on a cutting board with a sharp knife and set them in the center of the table.

  A glass of wine would have hit the spot this evening, but I no longer kept any wine in the house. My mother-in-law never met a bottle she didn’t consume in one sitting, and I couldn’t afford to keep her in the grape. For that reason, all wine was safely locked up in Zack’s apartment. Between Lucille’s inability to climb the steep staircase outside the garage and her lack of a key, I no longer had to worry about her pilfering my pinot.

  I grabbed two glasses from the cabinet and filled them with ice and tap water, placing one in front of Spader, the other across the table from where he sat. Then I added two sets of silverware and plates before settling in the seat across from him. “Help yourself,” I said, motioning to the food.

  “Thanks. I haven’t eaten since lunch.” He appeared to have dropped a few pounds since I last saw him, his bulging belly no longer looking nine months pregnant but merely six or seven. I also noticed that the ruptured capillaries on his nose were less pronounced, and his shirt pocket no longer contained the ever-present pack of cigarettes. Perhaps he’d wised up about the precarious state of his health and decided to quit smoking, lose some weight, and cut back on his drinking. If so, he just might live to see retirement, something that was far from a certainty when we first met.

  He placed a wedge of cheese on a cracker and popped it into his mouth. Speaking around the food, he asked, “So why am I here, Mrs. Pollack?”

  ELEVEN

  On my drive back from the hospital in Summit to Westfield I had wrestled with how much to tell Detective Spader. Did I have the right to divulge Lupe’s private family history without her consent?

  Now as I nibbled on a slice of apple, I finally came to the reluctant conclusion that I had no choice. If today’s accidents were somehow connected to Lupe digging into her mother’s past, someone was desperate enough to keep her from finding the answers she sought. That person had to be stopped.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled the entire story, beginning with Lupe bringing me the suitcase filled with photographs.

  “That family has certainly had its share of tragedy,” said Spader when I’d finished my tale, “but I’m not sure today’s two incidents were anything more than coincidence. I’ll have to check with Somerset County to see if they have any information on the driver responsible for the first crash. Did Mrs. Betancourt mention
any other details?”

  “Like what?”

  “Make and model of the vehicle? The color? Condition? Identifying markings? Maybe a partial plate number? Anything that would lead us to connect it to the hit-and-run.”

  “Nothing, only that it was a panel van.”

  “Of which there are tens of thousands on the road.”

  “I know.”

  “Luckily, we have a detailed description and plate number from the hit-and-run,” he said. “If traffic cams caught the earlier incident or the Somerset police have witness reports, we’ll know if it’s the same vehicle.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  He motioned toward the coffee pot sitting on my counter. “Any chance I could bum a cup? I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  “Of course.” I switched on the coffee maker. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black.”

  While I prepared the coffee, Spader said, “If anyone else had come to me with this conspiracy theory, I would have dismissed it immediately.”

  “So, you agree with me that there could be a connection?”

  “I think you have a way of seeing things that I’ve learned to accept as credible.”

  “Thank you for taking me seriously.”

  Spader snorted. “Don’t let it go to your head. One thing puzzles me, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said Mrs. Betancourt discovered the names of the boys who had attended the party by checking a yearbook at Our Lady of Peace. The first accident occurred within minutes of her leaving the school. Given the short timeframe, I don’t see how her search to uncover the rapist’s name could in any way connect to the crash on Rt. 22.”