In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  She nodded yes, explaining that Stella had been helping her aunt prepare the garden in the backyard for winter by digging up bulbs to store in the basement. “Aunt Virginia has quite a fine garden each summer. She takes fastidious care of each plant.”

  “And this would have been around what time?”

  “Three o’clock.” Her reply was certain.

  “And no one else was home at the time, other than your cousin?”

  She confirmed it, going on to explain that Maud Muncie, their cook and general house keeper, had been shopping in town; she herself had just taken the dogs for a walk.

  “Do you think your aunt or Stella would have heard a noise in the house from where they were working?”

  “Certainly not my aunt—she’s half deaf. Stella may have heard something. But when I’m outdoors, I never hear any sound from inside the house. Especially when it’s cold enough that our windows are closed, like today.”

  As one terrier nuzzled closer to her, a thought occurred to me. “Miss Wingate, do you walk your dogs around the same time every day?”

  “I try to,” she said. “Unless the weather is awful.”

  “And how does your aunt usually spend her late afternoons?” I spoke casually, trying to sound as though my question had no real significance. If Sarah’s killer had been watching the Wingate house, tracking their comings and goings, I’d rather Miss Wingate not suspect that fact.

  If she followed my logic, she did not betray any anxiety. “Most weekday afternoons around three o’clock Aunt Virginia takes her tea with Mrs. Stratton, our next-door neighbor in the yellow Colonial. Today, she didn’t, since Mrs. Stratton planned to join us for dinner.”

  “Right.” I wrote the name in my small notebook. The assisting officers from Yonkers would be questioning Mrs. Stratton, as well as all the other surrounding neighbors, this very evening.

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary while you were walking? Any sight or sound unfamiliar to you?”

  “There was a man,” Abigail said. “He was unfamiliar to me, and strangely dressed, so of course now I wonder if I saw . . .” She took a moment to compose herself. “But he did not act suspiciously.”

  “Can you give me any more detail?” I asked. “Where he was, what he was wearing.” My attention was fully focused.

  “One of the dogs became distracted by a squirrel on our way back to the house at the end of our walk. She raced toward the trees near the ravine that runs by the south corner of our property. She kept barking and would not leave the area, so I leaned down to leash her. And when I did, I saw a man walking below, heading deeper into the woods.” Abigail caught her breath a moment before continuing. “To be honest, I didn’t notice much about him. I had no reason to, then. All I recall is his hat, which was odd given today’s weather. It was large and bushy, made of fur.”

  I thought I could picture it: almost cylindrical, made of brown or black fur, and rounded so as to cover one’s ears. Such hats were common in the bitter cold of a New York January, but they seemed out of place in the slight chill of a November afternoon. Yet Abigail maintained that apart from the man’s hat, nothing else about him had seemed remarkable: He had walked briskly, but not hurriedly, and had appeared to know exactly where he was going.

  “And you heard nothing unusual while you were out?”

  She considered her answer a moment before she responded.

  “Now that you mention it, there was a really loud sound soon after I began to walk, but it was just some animal in the woods. Actually, it terrified the dogs. It sounded like the wail of a loon—though of course it couldn’t have been. There are no loons around here.”

  “It definitely originated from the woods?” I studied her carefully. I wanted her to be sure, for the timing alone rendered the sound suspicious to me.

  “Definitely. Humans do not make noises like that.”

  I determined to move on, and somehow I managed to elicit the facts of twenty-five-year-old Sarah Wingate’s life with relative ease. Her upbringing had been comfortable, typical of a New York upper-middle-class family. The family had moved to Boston when she was thirteen, the result of an opportunity for her father, a banker, to start a new branch in that city. But she had returned to New York to pursue her studies. Gifted in math, Sarah had just begun her fourth year in Columbia’s graduate program in mathematics, having finished her undergraduate degree at Barnard. She was apparently doing well in her work, and had even published two papers—the primary criterion for succeeding in academic work. According to Abigail, Sarah had seemed content and happy, and while certainly she had experienced the usual difficulties one would expect a woman to encounter in graduate education—especially in a man’s field such as mathematics—Sarah had never complained.

  “Of course, I’m sure she was the target of an occasional snub or rude remark,” Miss Wingate said, “but she was very confident in her abilities. I think she just ignored anyone who tried to belittle her ambitions or achievements. Such people were simply not worth her time.”

  “Did your cousin ever mention anyone she disliked? Or anyone who may have sufficiently resented her—”

  “Enough to do this?” Miss Wingate broke in, horrified. “Oh, no . . . I would hardly think so. Certainly people begrudged her; some may have felt that she was taking a place at Columbia that properly belonged to a man, or that well-bred young ladies belonged at home. But from all Sarah told me, she encountered nothing that amounted to more than petty jealousy or resentment.”

  And yet, it was possible that Sarah may have been uncomfortable discussing such matters with her family, so I took Abigail Wingate’s opinion with a grain of salt. Sarah’s classmates or professors could well offer a different estimation.

  “Was there perhaps a gentleman?” I asked, trying to phrase the question of any romantic interest discreetly.

  Miss Wingate’s answer was absolute. “I’m quite certain she had no beau. Her parents often introduced her to suitable young men, hoping she would make a good match. But Sarah was uninterested.”

  In response to further questions about Sarah’s family, it became clear that Sarah had been closest with the Wingates. Abigail and her aunt constituted Sarah’s only family nearby, for Sarah’s parents split their time between Boston and Eu rope, where they were now.

  Miss Wingate went on to describe Sarah’s activities during the past few days in detail. Sarah had arrived unannounced in Dobson late Friday night, surprising Abigail and her aunt. Sarah had apologized for the lack of advance notice, explaining only that she needed a quiet place to study; her subsequent time had been spent working, and she had joined them only for meals and the occasional brief walk.

  I glanced at my watch, and realized time was growing short, for we would need to escort the Wingates to friends for the night. I had learned all I could about their daily habits; now I broached the toughest part of the interview and asked her to describe what she had seen upon returning home. It was painful to listen to Miss Wingate describe the harrowing experience: She had entered the kitchen, unleashed the dogs, and put away her coat in the hall closet. As she turned on a few lights in the kitchen, she had heard the smaller terrier whining upstairs. Perplexed as to why, she had gone upstairs to check out the source of the dog’s concern and discovered her cousin’s horrific murder. The rest, I already knew.

  “One final question,” I said, standing. “Would you please take a quick look at this necklace?” I gently opened the locket for Miss Wingate, holding it within its protective handkerchief close enough that she might see.

  “We believe this to be Sarah’s,” I said, implicitly asking her to confirm it.

  She nodded with a numb expression I initially mistook for sorrow.

  “And the man opposite is her father?”

  She did not answer immediately. When she looked up at me, her eyes were filled with tears and bewilderment. “He is old enough to be her father. But no, I’ve never seen him before.” Her brow furrowed, creating deep
lines across her face. “Why would she have a picture of this man in her locket?”

  It was a rhetorical question, for how could I know, but I answered her anyway to keep her from worrying unnecessarily. “It may be someone she spoke of, whom you would recognize by name.”

  “Maybe,” she said. She sounded unconvinced.

  “Was she wearing this locket when you saw her earlier today?”

  “I don’t think so. She rarely wore jewelry at all, except on special occasions. Or, at least, that used to be her practice.” She looked at me with heavy, brooding eyes. “Seeing this picture makes me wonder how much I really knew about Sarah’s life.”

  I did not answer her; there was little I could say. Under the close scrutiny of a crime investigation, all manner of private details became public knowledge. And it was the rare person who did not harbor some secret, be it large or small. No one’s life was ever quite what it seemed.

  We became aware from the noises at the back of the house that Joe had brought the others inside. Amid the general uproar, we heard an agitated, querulous voice. “But of course I’m sleeping here tonight! This is my house, and my things are here.”

  Mrs. Wingate, it would seem, strenuously objected to our suggestion that she and her niece spend the night elsewhere. Most people whose homes are invaded by crime—any crime, even a lesser one than this—prefer to spend time away. After a murder, many choose never to return at all. But such emotions were apparently foreign to Mrs. Wingate. Joe carefully placated her in reply: it was “only for one night,” and “wouldn’t she be more comfortable with neighbors after such a harrowing afternoon?” The response was a vehement no, coupled with a firm statement that she intended to sleep in her own bed that night and would not hear otherwise.

  As Abigail Wingate went to reason with her aunt, I bid Joe good night. I had one task still to accomplish in town, and a brief walk in the cold night air would help to restore my senses.

  As I walked beyond the cobblestone driveway and down the hill toward the village, I found myself increasingly disturbed. Despite my assurances to Abigail Wingate, Stella’s disappearance was worrisome, another piece of a mystery that was becoming more puzzling the more we uncovered. It was possible Stella had seen or heard something important, especially since it now appeared she had run away. And so many details of this case were confounding. What was I to make of a braid of hair taken from Sarah’s head for unknown reasons? Or the locket she kept with an unknown man’s picture inside? But it was Sarah Wingate herself who bothered me most. She was an unlikely victim, her aunt’s home an unlikely setting. Why had someone killed her with such ferocity?

  All these unanswered questions so troubled me that even the sight of the Hudson River below, shimmering from the reflection of light from the full moon above, did little to calm the turbulent disorder in my mind.

  CHAPTER 3

  Well past eleven o’clock, I found myself at O’Malley’s having a late dinner with Peter Voyt, the local photographer I had asked to develop the crime-scene pictures. He had agreed to do so immediately, so long as I paid for his dinner afterward. “Come and join me,” he had said, adding, “I daresay you’ve eaten nothing yourself for dinner.”

  It was true, for even had there been time, what I had seen earlier this evening had entirely ruined my appetite. But there was an unrelenting pounding in my head that would not go away unless I ate something, so I agreed. And because it would have been inappropriate not to include my boss, I stopped by the in-town Colonial Joe shared with his wife and found him ready and willing to join us. Joe had just eaten a cold dinner, but he was never one to turn down a pint of ale.

  At this late hour, O’Malley’s was uncrowded, with only a handful of men clustered near the bar. It was well past their official dinner hours, but they were always willing to make something from the kitchen for regulars like me, who ate there most nights. I had been told when I first moved to Dobson that, come dinnertime, everyone went to O’Malley’s. By “everyone,” people of course meant unmarried men like myself with little time or inclination to cook for themselves. O’Malley’s food was decent and their comfortable tables made it easy to linger and talk—even when the subject of conversation was as terrible as ours that night.

  Peter, Joe, and I sat at a table by the fireplace where the searing warmth was a comforting reminder that we were safe and alive. As we reviewed the photographs, Joe assured me that more interviews were being done even as we spoke, for the Yonkers police department had assigned a junior detective to help us with the case; he was continuing to interview the neighbors that very night. Still, we were frustrated by the initial lack of evidence or witnesses, and the photographs displayed in front of us did little to allay our concerns as we tried to imagine possible scenarios for how the killing had occurred.

  “Sheer butchery.” I grimaced in disgust, sliding the photographs back into a plain envelope. “He’s a monster, whoever did this.”

  “You’ve referred to the killer as a ‘he’ all night. Are you quite sure the killer is a man?” Peter had directed his question to me. He leaned back and peered at me through small wire-rimmed glasses. He was a slight man with a remarkable eye for evaluating those he photographed, and the unusual assignment I’d given him had more than piqued his interest. “You’ve found some footprints that appear to be from a man’s boot, but there’s no way of knowing for sure they were left by the murderer. And, ludicrous as it may seem, you can’t rule out the possibility that a woman could have worn thick socks and men’s boots.”

  I took a large spoonful of the lentil soup that had just been placed before me. Though not as good as I remembered at McSorley’s in the city, it was piping hot, which was exactly what I needed. “I would suspect the killer is male in part because most killers are,” I said, “but in this case, I am convinced of it because the crime was so brutal.”

  Peter listened intently as he pushed his empty glass of ale to the side.

  I went on to explain, “When women kill, they usually choose methods that are less messy, like poisoning, or that require little physical strength.” I leaned back and gazed into the fire; the image of Sarah Wingate’s battered, lifeless face seemed to lurk within the flames. “To put this murder in practical terms, I don’t think even a strong, muscular woman would have had the strength to accomplish what was done to Sarah Wingate.”

  Joe nodded in agreement. “You didn’t see the victim in person, Peter, but even judging from how she was injured . . .” He shuddered at the memory. “I agree with Ziele that it had to be a man who did it, and a large or heavyset man at that.”

  “Have you found the weapon used?” Peter asked.

  “No,” I replied. “We’ll have to search the grounds—and the woods—more thoroughly tomorrow.”

  “Any idea what you’re looking for?”

  “Something with a broad, blunt edge,” I said.

  I had begun to recognize my own habit of mind in Peter’s questions. Like me, he attempted to sanitize the horror of this crime by reducing it to base analytical terms. Today, in the midst of so much blood, I had trouble facing up to the Wingate crime scene. But tomorrow I would have no difficulty reviewing and analyzing the autopsy report. It was always far easier to deal with the violence of murder when it was reduced to words and facts on paper.

  We ate and drank in silence, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts, until Peter interrupted us. “Let’s look sharp, boys. We’ve got company.”

  I turned around and saw a tall, lean figure purposefully striding toward us. John Fuller, our mayor, was sputtering with anger, and we were fortunate that his respect for our fellow diners—not to mention his own self-interest—kept his voice civil and controlled when he spoke to us.

  “Good evening, Chief.” His icy stare was directed at Joe. “You’ve got time for socializing, but no time to inform your mayor about the first murder this town’s seen in twelve years?”

  Joe responded evenly, his voice filled with gravity. “If you’ve
heard about the murder, then you’ve also heard what a horrific scene it was. Can’t think you would begrudge a spot of dinner to men who have worked such a tough case.”

  “Dinner?” The mayor looked pointedly at Joe’s empty pint glass before continuing to complain. “I had to hear the news from Mrs. Keane.”

  I groaned inwardly; the interference of the village busybody certainly would not help matters. I had seen her among the group of neighbors clustered on the Wingate property. Since she could know only the barest of details, she no doubt embellished them with whatever her fertile imagination could invent.

  “She had quite a tale to relate,” the mayor said, continuing to berate us for not notifying him. Because he had known the Wingates so well, he was personally offended, but his true concern involved how the public would react.

  “This kind of news can cause widespread panic if we don’t handle it right,” he said. He rambled on in terms that ignored the loss of human life we had witnessed today; he was more concerned with how Dobson’s business community would react. If businesses were scared away, tax revenues would be lost. But once he finished saying his piece, he bid us good night. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on this one, men. I expect to see regular reports—and solid progress, mind you. We need this case solved straightaway.” He walked away with a confident step, as though his command alone could accomplish the task at hand.

  Of course, I knew better. For every murder case I solved in the city, there were at least ten I didn’t. Merely wanting to solve a case wasn’t enough. And neither was political pressure. You also needed sufficient skill, intelligence, and more than your fair share of luck. But a man like Fuller—who was less concerned with the murder itself than he was with its political fallout—would never understand that.

  “Did you have any thoughts about the locket?” I asked quietly after the mayor left, for I had asked Peter his opinion about the two miniature photographs it contained.