Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries)

by Judith Ivie

  My story of the ruined turkey, complete with smoke alarms and coyote attack, hadn't been especially funny at the time, but my recitation had Margo laughing so hard, she had to wipe her eyes, and fastidious John nearly spit coffee on the table. “Turkey fart,” he choked, and we all howled yet again.

  “Stop now,” Margo gasped, holding her sides. “I can't take anymore. Our quiet little dinner at Spris can't compete with your evenin’, although it was absolutely wonderful,” she added, putting her hand over her new husband's.

  John beamed back at her. “Dessert was spectacular,” he agreed.

  At the word dessert, Armando smiled broadly at me. “It is always the best part, is it not?”

  I grinned at him. “Well, it was certainly better than the turkey. Who's up for a movie? We haven't seen one in ages and thought we'd go see the new Meryl Streep comedy while everyone else in town is doing their Christmas thing.”

  Margo and John were in. “Might as well make the most of my first Christmas Day off in ten years,” said John. “I always used to work that day so the married guys could be with their families, but now, I'm one of them.” He didn't look at all unhappy about his change in status.

  We made our way out of the diner and consulted a newspaper, the last one in a nearby vending machine. “We can just make the matinee in Plainville, if we get a move on,” I reported.

  “You'll have to give us an extra minute,” John commented, his hand on Margo's shoulder. “Our car doesn't move until Mrs. Harkness here fixes her lipstick.” Honestly, the two of them were bordering on downright sappy with all of this billing and cooing.

  “I know,” I sympathized. “Sometimes I think I've waited half of my adult life while Margo checks her make-up. We'll see you there.”

  On the way to the theater, I called Strutter's house to check on the invalids and was surprised when Strutter herself answered the phone. “Oh, I wish I could go with you,” she moaned before a coughing fit overtook her. “Where is that blasted Kleenex box? Answering the phone is about all Mama will let me do. Says I can do it right from this bed, so that's where I stay. John drops by now and then, and my son was allowed to show me his Christmas loot from the doorway this morning, but I'm not sure I still have a baby. Mama won't allow Olivia anywhere near me. I miss her fat cheeks,” she finished mournfully.

  “Think of it as a well-earned vacation,” I offered in an attempt to mollify her.

  She harrumphed. “A vacation is Mai Tais on the beach. A vacation is a big ol’ cruise ship with Disney characters and activity directors for the kids. This is just solitary confinement, Girl.” She paused to honk into a tissue. “What's going on with the O’Halloran situation?” she asked. “I'm so bored, I exist on other people's drama.”

  I spent the rest of the ride filling her in on the latest about Roberta and Joseph O’Halloran, while she continued to cough and blow her nose. “Don't worry about Vista Views,” I finished up. “Nothing happens during the week between Christmas and New Year's anyway, and Margo will keep an eye on things, if she can tear herself away from John for ten minutes.”

  Strutter chuckled. “Still honeymooning, huh?”

  “Ad nauseam,” I confirmed. “You take care of yourself.”

  We pulled into the parking lot at the Plainville 20 Theaters in good time for the one-thirty showing that had been listed in the newspaper. The sea of cars confronting us was daunting. I had never seen the lot so full. John and Margo pulled up next to us as we dithered at the far edge of the lot where a few empty spaces still remained.

  “A new three-D movie opened today,” said Armando. “Perhaps that is the reason for the crowd.”

  “I'll go see what's up,” John decided. “You guys park, and I'll be right back.” He got out of the car and loped off, moving as easily through the rows of parked cars as a man half his age.

  “Is he cute, or what?” Margo cooed as she walked around to the driver's side and took his place.

  We wedged our cars into slots, and Margo climbed in with us to wait. In just a few minutes, John returned, only slightly out of breath. “It sold out right in front of me,” he reported. “One minute, seats were available, and then pffft! Sold out.” He opened the rear door of the Jetta and perched on the seat next to Margo, his long legs folded nearly under his chin.

  “It's just amazin’ that all these people spend Christmas Day at the movies,” Margo marveled. “So much for Norman Rockwell's depictions of Christmas in small-town America.”

  “Let's not go there,” I begged her, still smarting from the events of the previous evening.

  John's cell phone rang, and he got out of the car to take the call. “Occupational hazard,” Margo explained. “Even when he's not officially on duty, he's on call.”

  Armando nodded his understanding. “That is true of so many jobs these days, is it not? The TeleCom technicians must always be available by telephone. Instead of freeing us to do other things, I often think all of these devices just keep us on electronic leashes, pulling at us day and night.” He changed the subject. “Where can we go that others will not be today?”

  “I have a suggestion,” said John as he rejoined us. “How about Riverside Park?”

  We looked at each other blankly. “Gee,” I said, “a brisk walk by the river in twenty-degree weather. Sounds like fun.”

  “Not fun, maybe, but interesting. A call came into the Hartford Police Department a few minutes ago and was referred to Wethersfield. A jogger at the park spotted a folded-up wheelchair in the brush behind the main building where the path runs right next to the river. The water's high now, because of the rain we had, so it kind of bothered him. Said there was a plastic bag with some men's clothes in it.”

  “You think it's the chair James O’Halloran took out of the Wadsworth last week,” I surmised.

  “I more than think it. There's a metal tag on the frame identifying it as property of the Wadsworth Atheneum.” He headed for his car. Margo climbed out of the Jetta and joined him.

  “We'll go with you,” said Armando.

  Eleven

  Riverside Park lay just north of downtown Hartford on the Connecticut River. As we drove along the entry road, I was struck by the abandoned feel of a summer venue in the dead of winter. Even the dazzling sunshine couldn't mitigate the desolation. Anyone who has had reason to visit a lakeside cottage in December has doubtless had the same lonely sensation. The park, which would be bustling with boaters and ballplayers in a few short months, seemed almost eerie in its emptiness.

  Our two-car caravan pulled into the parking lot next to the Jaycees Community Boathouse, an inelegantly named structure that was actually a spacious banquet facility. It, too, sat empty. Only two cars were in the lot, a Hartford police cruiser and a beat-up Chevy. We parked next to the cruiser and joined the uniformed officer who stood talking with a young man wearing wind pants and sneakers. Presumably, he was the jogger who had spotted the wheelchair.

  The officer, fortyish and leathery, acknowledged John's introductions with a short nod and got back to the business at hand. “Mr. DiNardi here,” he gestured to the jogger, who lifted a hand in greeting, “jogs in this park three times a week. Has a regular route about two miles long. Goes up that path there by the river, runs a mile out, turns around and finishes back here at the boathouse.” DiNardi nodded in confirmation. “He hasn't been here in about a week.”

  “I pulled a hamstring,” DiNardi admitted sheepishly.

  “He got back to it today. Took his usual route, arrived back here, and sat down on that wall over there to cool out.”

  “Big Christmas brunch at my in-laws,” DiNardi grinned, then quickly sobered. “That's when I saw the chair over there.” He pointed to a nearby clump of bushes and underbrush. A collapsible wheelchair and a plastic garbage bag sat on the grass where the sidewalk ended.

  We all trooped over to have a look. I was amazed that no barrier existed between the sidewalk and the river. The muddy water slid by swiftly and silently just a few fe
et from the sidewalk and at nearly the same level. Anyone who was the least bit unsteady on his feet could fall right in. I shivered and kept to the inside of the path. I noticed that Margo did the same thing.

  “It wasn't there the last time I jogged here. I would have noticed. But today, there it was, kind of shoved underneath those bushes. It was one of the wheels that caught my eye,” DiNardi reported. “I guess it belongs to the museum. At least, that's what the tag on the frame says. I was glad to see that it didn't belong to a person. I mean, where is he or she?” He glanced at the river, then looked away.” Then I opened the bag and saw those clothes. That's when I called the cops.” He stopped talking and swallowed hard. I knew how he felt. My stomach wasn't all that happy either.

  “When was the last time you ran here?” John asked him.

  DiNardi thought about it. “It would have been a week ago Wednesday,” he said finally. “I run here on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays most weeks.”

  The next day, Thursday, had been the date of the gala, and on Sunday, Joseph O’Halloran's body had washed up in Wethersfield Cove, which I guessed was about two miles downstream from where we stood. My shivering increased, and Armando put his arm around my shoulders.

  After thanking DiNardi and sending him on his way, John and the Hartford officer consulted briefly about the best way to transport the evidence. Together, they maneuvered the chair and the garbage bag into the trunk of the cruiser while Armando shepherded Margo and me back to our cars. We waited for John in the Jetta, the heater going full blast. The day had suddenly turned raw and bleak.

  “I don't know about you, but that river slidin’ by so fast and quiet just gives me the creeps,” said Margo, hugging herself.

  “It is a very powerful force. I am sure it has many dark secrets,” Armando agreed. He stared at the river, mesmerized.

  “Imagine being down here in the dark and the rain,” I mused, remembering the night of the gala, “dragging a dead body from the parking lot or wheeling it in that chair and dumping it into the river.”

  We were silent for a while, contemplating that awful scene. Armando, ever logical, raised the first question. “How could the killer be sure the body would be taken by the river? The main current is quite a distance from the bank, and there is that little inlet just south of here where it could have been snagged on a fallen tree limb.” He pointed.

  Practical Margo chimed in. “Unless he was very familiar with this place, the killer wouldn't have known about the inlet, and if the water was as high that night as it is now, there would be plenty of current near the bank, as we just saw.”

  “What I want to know is why James shoved the chair and the clothes under the bushes? Why didn't he pitch them into the river along with his brother's body?” I asked. Both Armando and Margo looked startled. “Well, that's what we're all thinking, isn't it? James was last seen the night of the gala, pushing a plastic garbage bag in a wheelchair out of the Atheneum. Joseph is dead, and James is missing. The evidence all points in the same direction whether we like it or not.”

  John stood in the parking lot, watching the departing cruiser for a few seconds. Then he beckoned Margo to join him and waved goodbye to Armando and me.

  “My lord and master is ready to leave, so I'll be sayin’ goodbye,” Margo grumbled, but I noticed that she scrambled to join John. “This has certainly been festive, y'all. Ho ho ho.”

  We watched them pull away, then followed slowly.

  “Where to now?” Armando asked. “Perhaps there is another crime investigation with which the police could use your help.”

  I glared at his profile, which was hard for me to do. I had always found Armando's face in profile particularly appealing.

  “You know perfectly well I had nothing whatsoever to do with this situation. Up until two weeks ago, I hadn't even met these people. Things just happened around me.”

  Armando smiled to himself. “As they always do, Cara,” he agreed, patting my knee with resignation.

  We drove in silence for a few miles, our minds busy with the ramifications of today's discovery. It seemed all but certain now that James O’Halloran had killed his brother Joseph the night of the UCC gala, whether accidentally or on purpose. His motive for doing so was the remaining mystery, along with his present whereabouts.

  From what I knew of the man, which admittedly was very little, I could discern no sufficient motive. Joseph couldn't have been blackmailing James by threatening to tell Mary about Roberta and her son Patrick. Mary already knew about the affair, although James and Joseph may have been unaware that she also knew about James’ son born as a result of it. What other deep, dark secret might Joseph have known about James that would give him leverage over his brother? It was impossible to guess. Only James knew the answer.

  That left the question of where James was. The police had sophisticated methods with which to trace missing adults, I knew. Children were tougher, since they did not drive, didn't earn or spend money, and could be more easily controlled and hidden by their abductors. Adults, however, used transportation and required housing and food, all of which had to be purchased. James had disappeared fairly spontaneously more than a week ago. The car he had driven from the UCC to the Wadsworth had been found precisely where he had parked it on the street. His credit cards had not been used, and his bank accounts were intact. He had made one sixty-dollar ATM withdrawal the day before the gala, but since then, nothing. His cell phone had not been used. I thought of the river on what must have been the most desperate night of James’ life. Had that despair driven him into the water, too?

  I glanced at Armando, who was also deep in thought. Perhaps the full horror of James’ actions had overwhelmed him on that terrible night. He had thrown his brother's body into the river and made a half-hearted attempt to conceal the evidence in the underbrush. How far-fetched was it to imagine him following Joseph into the water and swimming out to where the current was the swiftest? It might have seemed fitting to let the river end his misery. It might even have been a relief.

  Then how had his car been returned to its parking space on the street outside the Atheneum?

  As if reading my thoughts, Armando spoke. “He would not have drowned himself, Cara. He would not have done that to his Mary. Whatever he did and wherever he is, his intention has always been to spare her further pain.”

  I shook my head at my hopelessly romantic Latino. It was exactly the sort of muddle-headed explanation one could expect from a guy whose favorite movie in the world was An Affair to Remember.“By abandoning her without even an explanation? By leaving her in a permanent hell of unanswered questions, wondering how she might have helped him, if only he had given her the chance?” I demanded with some heat.

  “Estupido, si?”

  “Muy estupido,” I agreed, “y muy macho.”

  Armando shrugged and smiled as he steered us off the highway at the Old Wethersfield exit. It occurred to me that the O’Hallorans’ house was less than two miles from here.

  “Turn right at the next corner,” I said on impulse. “I want to check on Mary.”

  “Your wish is my command. Perhaps I should acquire one of those hats with the visors that the limousine drivers seem to favor,” he said dryly, but I saw the twinkle in his eye.

  In just a few minutes, we were pulling into the O’Hallorans’ driveway on Wolcott Hill Road. While I hadn't expected a party to be going on under the circumstances, I had hoped that Mary would have a visitor or two to distract her on what had to be a terrible day for her. The little Cape Cod house had an abandoned air, its windows dark, but I climbed out of the car and went to ring the front doorbell. As I listened to it echo through the house, I wondered how she and James had usually spent Christmas, but other than the cruise Mary had been anticipating so eagerly, I could think of no mention of her holiday plans.

  I waited until it was obvious that no one was going to answer the door. As I turned to leave, Mary's next door neighbor, the one I had met on my first visit, po
pped out of her house and trotted across the adjoining lawns to speak to me.

  “Hi,” she said. “I'm afraid Mary isn't at home. Can I help you with something?”

  “Kate Lawrence. We met the other day when I came by to visit Mary,” I reminded her. “I work with James at the UCC.”

  Recognition dawned. “Of course, now I remember. I knew you looked familiar, but things have been a little crazy around here for the past week or so. Mary isn't here,” she said again and looked uncomfortable.

  “I just wanted to see how she's doing with the holiday and all,” I explained. I didn't want to put this nice woman on the spot by prying, but I was eager to know where Mary might be. Surely, she hadn't gone on the intended cruise by herself.

  “I guess I'm just being silly,” the neighbor decided. She had come out of her house without a coat and hugged herself in the deepening chill. “Mary mentioned you to me and how much she appreciated your concern, so I don't see any reason not to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” I asked in sudden alarm.

  “The holiday just made all the strain she's been under worse. Everyone was trying so hard to keep her company and see that she had places to go, if she wanted to, and really, all she wanted was to be left alone.” I squirmed at her words, knowing I was guilty of just such misguided intentions. “She called me late yesterday evening. She was having palpitations and had trouble getting her breath. My husband and I thought she might be having a heart attack, so we rushed her right to the emergency room at Hartford Hospital.”

  I was sure my dismay showed on my face. “And was it a heart attack? Is she all right now?”

  “No, it wasn't a heart attack. Anxiety, the doctor who examined her said, and it's no wonder. Still, he wanted to do a battery of tests just to be sure about the heart thing, so he had her admitted for overnight observation. They gave her a very mild sedative, and she fell asleep like a stone, poor thing.”