by Lee Harris
I could feel my skin prickle. “Did he say when she moved?”
“That day,” Jane Galotti said. “The day the little boy died. He was sure of the date because she settled up for her room or apartment or whatever it was she lived in. Came home from the hospital, packed her bags, and moved out. Never left a forwarding address.”
If I were looking for suspicious behavior, I certainly had it. But maybe the poor woman was afraid that, being a foreigner, she might be accused wrongly. “Let’s go back to the night the little boy died. Did anything happen while Hazel was having her lunch that might make someone think that the German woman was involved in the boy’s death?”
“If you mean did anyone see her do something to kill him, I have to say no. But she was in his room.”
“How do you know that, Mrs. Galotti?”
“My friend Mary Catherine was the night nurse on that floor for nearly a hundred years, or so it must’ve seemed sometimes, and she saw that woman in the little boy’s room.”
Maybe it was my friendship with Arnold Gold, a lawyer who truly believes in equal opportunity to defend oneself against charges, and maybe it was because I try to be fair-minded even when it isn’t easy, but I found myself taking the poor woman’s side since she wasn’t there to set the record straight herself. “But isn’t that the job of the night people? To check up on patients?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you said that Hazel had let them know she was going down to the cafeteria.”
“That’s what Hazel told me, and I believe her.”
“So why was that unusual, for that woman to be in a patient’s room? Why would anyone think it strange?”
“Because Mary Catherine walked down the hall, and when she walked back the woman was still there. Because she was there when Hazel was out to lunch.” Jane Galotti spoke with fierce determination. She believed the woman was a killer, and she wanted me to believe it, too. “And the boy was dead when she came back.”
“And a couple of hours later the woman went home, packed her bags, moved out of her apartment, and was never seen again. It’s very compelling.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Galotti.”
She smiled. “Now if I could just think of her name.”
“You’ve given me more than enough. But if it comes to you, here’s my address and phone number. Call collect. I’d like to hear anything you can think of.”
She had a beautiful smile. “It’s been so nice having a young person come to visit. I hope you liked the brownies. You didn’t eat many.”
I had limited myself to one, showing more willpower than I thought I possessed. “They’re wonderful. I’m trying not to eat too many sweets.”
“Look at you. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll put a few in a plastic bag, and you take them home for later.”
“My husband will appreciate them. Thank you.”
“And I’ll call if I think of that name.”
At that point, I wasn’t sure what I would do with it.
15
I felt totally wiped out on the drive home. I had been going since morning, had neglected to eat lunch, had forgotten my milk, and I was tired and hungry and loaded with guilt. This baby inside me needed calcium and iron and vitamins, and all I had ingested since breakfast was cookies and a brownie, not an exemplary diet for anyone. I wasn’t doing a very good job as a baby producer, and I had no one to blame but myself.
The trip was interminable, twenty miles longer than the reverse since Jane Galotti lived deeper in Connecticut than Evelyn Krassky. And it was emotionally longer because I now had all the information I was likely to get from the Connecticut end, and although I knew a lot more, including the likelihood of a thirty-year-old murder, I didn’t see where any of it connected to a man who had skated on thin ice and broken through.
One big question in my mind was whether the man married to Carlotta French was the little boy who had presumably died twenty-eight or twenty-nine years ago. Dr. Windham had removed the child’s eyes; he would have known that he was working on a dead body. But was it possible the German woman had not killed the child—a crime for which I could think of no motive—but substituted a dead body for a living Val Krassky? Would Hazel, the private nurse, really have known that the dead child and the living child were different? Had Dr. Fowler seen the dead child? Dr. Windham had, but he hadn’t known him. All he had done was remove the eyes.
And if that little Krassky boy had lived, what had become of him? Was there some adoption scheme involved or had the nurse’s aide taken him herself? My head was throbbing.
By the time I turned down Pine Brook Road and coasted by the Grosses’ house, I was weary with looking at angles and possibilities that bore no fruit. Why does a woman kill a child she doesn’t even know? What could she possibly gain from it? And if she hadn’t killed the boy, why did she run?
As I began to turn up my driveway, I was startled to see a maroon van alongside the house. The builders! I had totally put them out of my mind. I backed out of the drive and parked at the curb, feeling the weight of knowing I would have constant companions in my home for the next who-knew-how-long. I had been salivating at the thought of dropping on my own bed in my own room and taking a short nap. Now I was reminded that my bed wasn’t in my room anymore, and my room probably wasn’t even much of a room. And I had company.
I walked up the front walk and picked up the mail, went inside the front door, which I didn’t use very often, and glided by the answering machine with my head averted. There would be a call from Carlotta. I hadn’t called her since I got home, promising she would hear from me today, but if I knew Carlotta, she wouldn’t be able to wait for my call. I went up the stairs and looked inside my old bedroom. No one was there and the room, though empty, was largely intact. I went back down, out the back door, and around to the back of the house. The lawn behind the kitchen was a little ragged, and a sketchy frame for the addition was already in place. What looked like an acre of blue plastic covered the structure. Here I was investigating a man’s disappearance for the better part of a week, still trying to put things together, and these men had, in less than one full day, erected a good piece of the frame for a two-story addition.
We all said hello and then good-bye; they were finishing up for the day and would be back tomorrow, bright and early. I waved them away, went back in the house, and collapsed on the sofa.
I didn’t stay there long. I went to the refrigerator to pour myself a generous glass of skim milk and downed it so quickly that I completely bypassed the taste. That alleviated a small portion of guilt. Then I listened to the answering machine.
“Chris, this is Carlotta, Monday morning. Is anything happening? I’m going to call or visit the high school that Val went to. I’m going to try very hard to find someone who’ll look up his address at the time he went there. Everyone in the Buffalo area knows about the lake accident, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find a sympathetic soul to take pity on me. Call when you can.” The machine told me the call had come in not long after I had left for Connecticut. Then I heard Carlotta’s voice again. “Chris? It’s Carlotta. I’ve got an address!” She sounded very excited. “I drove over to the house, but no one was home. It’s one of those two-families that are all over the area. The owner usually lives in the downstairs flat, but no one answered either bell. Call when you get home.”
Well, I was home and I had had my milk. I dialed Carlotta’s number.
“Hello?” There was an eagerness in her voice, as if she had been waiting by the phone for me to call.
“Carlotta, it’s Chris. I just got home. That’s very good news that you found where Val lived.”
“I wish I could have talked to someone. I took the names from the mailboxes. Maybe I’ll call this evening. Have you found out any more about those people in Connecticut?”
“Quite a lot. I’ve just spent the day up there.”
“Talking to the parents?”
&n
bsp; “Not the parents, the other Krasskys. They’re in-laws, and they put me in touch with a retired surgeon who knew all about the death of the little boy.”
“Then he did die,” she said with disappointment.
“Yes, he died. I can’t say for certain that the child they buried was their own, but it looks as though it was. It also looks as though a nurse’s aide may have murdered him.”
“Murdered the child?”
“A lot of people thought so at the time, but they kept it very quiet. Don’t ask me why she did it. I have no idea and no one else does. The suspect packed her bags and disappeared the day the child died.”
“You think—my God—you think she took a live boy with her and left behind a dead one?”
“I don’t know what to say, Carlotta. She just disappeared—cleared out her apartment, settled up her rent, didn’t collect her last paycheck, and was never seen again.”
“This is absolutely crazy.”
“My feelings exactly. I don’t know if there’s anything else I can learn up there. I think I’ve exhausted my leads.”
“And yourself, too, probably.”
I appreciated her concern. “That, too. What I’d like to find out is whether the woman who may have killed the little boy lived in that house in Buffalo. I need something to link your husband with that child, although I really can’t tell you why. I keep asking myself where that will lead, and the answer seems to be that I’ll find out when I find the link. If there is one.”
“It still doesn’t tell us who killed Matty on the ice,” Carlotta said.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Or where Val is now.”
“No,” I agreed, “it doesn’t tell us that either. Maybe that address in Buffalo will help.”
“Will you come back tomorrow after you teach your class?”
“I can’t, Carlotta. I have laundry to do, I have papers to correct, I have a class to prepare for next week. And I think I’d like to talk to an old friend of mine who usually comes up with some interesting insights when I need them.”
“Sorry. I’m being pushy.”
“Don’t apologize. Let me get back to you when I know what’s going on.”
“Thanks. And take it easy.”
The last was easy. I got a load of laundry going and sat down with the paper. When I’d read enough of other people’s problems, I reheated some leftovers for my dinner. The brownies from Jane Galotti had saved me. There would be something sweet for Jack when he came home from law school tonight. Just as the semester I was teaching was coming to an end, so was his, and not a moment too soon. He needed a breather before the summer semester started, some time away from the books, some dinners at home with his wife, who was missing him very much at that moment.
I kept my eye on my watch. The daily schedule at St. Stephen’s Convent, where I spent fifteen wonderful years before leaving to become a layperson, was permanently imbedded in my brain. I wanted to talk to my friend Sister Joseph, the General Superior, after she finished dinner and before she was too tired to think. The nuns of St. Stephen’s arise at five in the morning, and by evening they’re ready for bed. By nine o’clock there’s hardly a sound except for the late-nighter’s who are finishing their showers.
At seven-thirty I called. A voice I didn’t recognize answered, and I asked for Joseph.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Chris Bennett.”
“One moment, please.”
I wondered, while I waited, if the voice was that of a novice. In these days of shrinking convents, a novice is almost a novelty. Most days my friend Sister Angela is on bells, but at night, I supposed, she was relieved.
“Chris, is it really you?”
“Joseph. Yes. How are you?”
“Enjoying our beautiful spring. We’re going to have a vegetable garden near the Villa. This afternoon we paced it off and started turning over the earth.”
“That sounds like hard work.”
“Well, we think it’ll be worth it. One of the local farms shut down last fall. They sold the land to a developer.”
“How awful.”
“That’s how we felt. How many ripe tomatoes will we lose to those little houses? We decided to be aggressive and plant our own. The Villa nuns have taken it upon themselves to plant the seeds. I must say, those little seedlings are cute as can be.”
I smiled. I had learned the same thing myself in our backyard. “Good for you.”
“I hope this call means we’ll get to see you.”
“I’d like to. Would it surprise you if I told you I’m working on a fascinating case that makes no sense at all?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. In fact, I think you’ve just whetted my appetite. I don’t suppose you could meet me in New York on Wednesday?”
“Wednesday would be perfect. Are you going to the Chancery?”
“Not this time. I’m meeting Sister Cecelia. You remember that she’s going to nursing school.”
“I do remember. Shall I come to her apartment?”
“That would make things very convenient. How’s two? I want to have lunch with Cecelia. I’m sure we’ll be through by then.”
I called Carlotta and told her the earliest I could fly to Buffalo would be Thursday, and I would let her know at least a day ahead. She was disappointed, but I assured her that taking the time to see Joseph would be well worth the delay.
When I got off the phone, I did something I don’t do very often. I sat down in front of the television set, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
At my class on Tuesday, we reviewed much of what we had studied during the spring semester. A paper was due the following week—that would give me plenty of work, I thought, hoping I had some answers to Carlotta’s case by then—and the week after that was the final. I had the usual range of questions and problems from my students: Could they hand the paper in the day of the exam? (No.) What exactly did the assignment mean? (See me after class if no one else has the same question.) Would it be OK to hand in a paper that wasn’t as long as the assignment, like half as long maybe? (No.) Do you need footnotes? (Yes.) And finally, Could I give you my paper today? (You bet!)
I had my usual pleasant meal in the college cafeteria, ending with a glass of skim, and then drove home to my builders and my preparation for next week, including reading the term paper I had just been given. Happily, and not unexpectedly, it was a clear A, and I hoped not the last.
The noise from the builders, hammering mostly, was unrelenting, and I looked forward to my trip into New York tomorrow to get away from it all.
Late in the afternoon Carlotta called. “I talked to the owner of the building where Val lived,” she said. “Last night, but I didn’t want to bother you.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. They bought the house twelve years ago, about half a dozen years after Val graduated from high school. They don’t have any idea who lived there then.”
“What about the tenant who was living there when they moved in?”
“They’re new. The old tenant moved out several years ago, and it wasn’t a German woman and her son. It was a family with three daughters.”
“Then it isn’t ours,” I said. “Someone must have preceded them. We’ll have to find the former owner or that former tenant and see what they remember.”
“The former owners were an elderly couple who’d lived there for over forty years, and they went to a retirement home when they sold. I have their name, and the name of the home the new owner thinks is where they went. To tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid to call. What if they’ve died?”
I understood her reluctance. “Give me the information you have, Carlotta. I’ll call the home and ask about them. Then, if one or both of them is alive, I’ll call and see if I can arrange to meet them later in the week.”
“When do you think you’ll come back?”
“Let’s say Thursday. I’m meeting my friend tomo
rrow afternoon.”
“Get your laundry done?” Carlotta asked with a smile in her voice.
“All done. And I’m trying to blow away the dust, but with the builders, it’s a thankless job.”
“I’ll call the airline and get you a ticket.”
“Sounds good.” I copied down her names and phone numbers and said good-bye. The difficult part was mine. I took a deep breath and called the retirement home.
“Good afternoon, Golden Days Retirement Home.”
“I’m trying to reach Mr. or Mrs. Stanley Kazmarek.”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Kazmarek has passed away. Who is this, please?”
“My name is Christine Bennett. I live in Oakwood, down near New York City. May I speak to Mr. Kazmarek?”
She took a second to consider. “I’ll put you through.”
It rang three times before being picked up. “Hello?” It was an old voice.
“Mr. Kazmarek, my name is Christine Bennett.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Christine,” I said, raising my voice. “Christine Bennett.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, sir. I’m trying to find some people who lived in your old house.”
“I don’t live there anymore.”
“I know that. But I thought you might remember the people who used to live upstairs.”
“I remember them. Nice folks.”
For a moment I considered asking my questions, but I decided to wait. Face-to-face always works better, especially when there’s a hearing problem, which I sensed there was. “Could I come by on Thursday afternoon and see you, Mr. Kazmarek?”
“What for?”
“To ask you about the people who lived in your old house.”
“They were nice people,” he said.
I didn’t feel very good about this. “Will you be home on Thursday afternoon?”
“I’m home every afternoon, except if I have to go to the doctor.”
“Good. Then I’ll come on Thursday. Is that all right?”
