Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  “Had Noeleen been living here long before she took the job with the Posts?” Elizabeth said.

  “Not very long, no. Only a month or two. Both girls were looking for jobs. Noeleen was hoping to live in and save the cost of lodging.”

  “Both girls?” Kaminsky’s head popped up.

  “Noeleen and her cousin Orla Cullen. Orla’s been living here with us for almost a year now. She was taking care of an elderly gentleman during the day, but the poor man died suddenly so she was back to looking for a job.”

  Mrs. Lis smoothed her apron with rough, red hands.

  “Before Noeleen came over from Ireland, she and Orla would send letters back and forth to each other. Orla was always waiting by the door when the postman came. She would be so happy when she had word from her cousin. Noeleen’s parents were gone and her last relative in the old country was an elderly aunt. When she passed, Orla persuaded Noeleen to come to New York.”

  “What was Noeleen like?” Kaminsky said.

  “She was a good girl.” Mrs. Lis sat up straighter and threw out her chest as if she expected an argument. “She was brought up with religion—a good Catholic girl. Before she went to live at the Posts’, she attended Mass at St. Patrick’s right down the street. Never missed a Sunday and went most weekdays as well.”

  “Mrs. Lis,” Elizabeth said as gently as possible. “Would it surprise you to know that Noeleen was in the family way?”

  Mrs. Lis looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water at her. Her jaw went slack and her mouth opened as if to protest.

  “That can’t be. I told you—Noeleen was a good girl. She would never…” Mrs. Lis stared Elizabeth in the eye. “Who told you that? They must have been lying.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The medical examiner reported it.”

  “The medical examiner!” Mrs. Lis made an exclamation that sounded like a cry of pain. “I can’t bear to think of them cutting the poor girl open. There was no need. She was a good girl. She deserves a decent burial.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about Noeleen?” Elizabeth said. “It sounds as if you were fond of her.”

  Mrs. Lis relaxed slightly. “She had a quiet way about her. And she was tidy. She kept her room just so. Not like some of them.” Mrs. Lis cast her eyes upwards.

  “Can we see her room?” Elizabeth said. “And if I could take a picture?”

  “The room’s been let but they haven’t moved in yet. I’ve some of the things Noeleen left behind in a box. I can show you that if you like. She said she was coming to get them but she never did. And now it’s too late.” Mrs. Lis put her hands on her knees and heaved herself out of her chair.

  Elizabeth took her camera out of its case as they followed Mrs. Lis up the stairs. The top step creaked loudly and Elizabeth jumped. Mrs. Lis pointed to it.

  “I can hear if someone comes in late. We have a curfew of eleven o’clock. I don’t want to be woken up at all hours with tenants coming and going. I work a long day, and I deserve my rest.”

  “Was Noeleen ever late?” Elizabeth said as they walked down a long corridor with numerous doors on either side.

  “Not while she was here, she wasn’t. It wasn’t like her to go gallivanting around and stay out till all hours.”

  They were almost to the end of the hallway when Mrs. Lis stopped and opened one of the doors. She stood aside to let Elizabeth and Kaminsky enter.

  The room could have belonged to anyone—there was nothing to distinguish it. A single bed covered with a worn but clean white chenille spread, and with a headboard that reminded Elizabeth of the beds in the hospital where she’d spent so much time, was against one wall. A plain but serviceable bureau was against the other. Scratches on the top of the bureau showed plenty of use had been gotten out of it already. A small desk was the only other piece of furniture.

  The cream-colored lace curtains in the window looked frivolous when compared to the sterility of the rest of the décor. For some reason, they made Elizabeth sad. Everything was very clean but also soulless.

  She snapped a few pictures and then put her camera way.

  “You said you had a box of Noeleen’s things?” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Lis nodded. “Yes. I’ll go get it. You can wait in the parlor.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky headed back downstairs.

  “What did you think?” Elizabeth said when they’d perched on the sofa again. It was stiff and uncomfortable and felt scratchy against her legs.

  “I’ve seen prison cells with more personality,” Kaminsky said, fidgeting with his pencil. “But surely when Noeleen had the room there were pictures up—you know movie stars and the like that all you young girls go for.”

  “I hope so.”

  But Elizabeth wondered—that didn’t accord with the picture Mrs. Lis was painting of Noeleen.

  The top stair creaked and seconds later Mrs. Lis came into view clutching a small cardboard box hardly bigger than a shoebox.

  Elizabeth felt another wave of sadness. Were the contents of that box really all that was left of Noeleen?

  Mrs. Lis shoved the box at Elizabeth. “I don’t know what to do with these things now that Noeleen is gone.”

  “I wonder why Noeleen didn’t take everything with her when she moved to the Posts’?” Elizabeth took the lid off the box and stifled a sneeze as dust rose in the air.

  “I think she missed these things,” Mrs. Lis said, kneading her hands.

  Elizabeth began taking the contents out of the box one by one. There was a prayer card with a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the front. One of the corners was missing and there was a crease across the middle. Elizabeth turned it over and read the name on the back—Siobhan Mary Ryan and the dates September 10, 1899–March 9, 1935.

  Mrs. Lis pointed at the card. “I found that wedged in one of the drawers. No wonder Noeleen didn’t see it.”

  Elizabeth handed the card to Kaminsky. “Her mother?”

  Kaminsky glanced at it. “Probably.”

  Elizabeth looked in the box again. There was a small statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Much of the color had been rubbed off as if it had been handled repeatedly. Underneath it was a blue tin of Ex-Lax and a box of Smith Brothers cough drops. Elizabeth held them up.

  “Was Noeleen sick a lot?”

  “No more than most I’d say.” Mrs. Lis frowned and rubbed the palm of her left hand with the thumb of her right.

  “Was Noeleen friends with any of your other tenants?” Elizabeth returned the items to the box and put on the lid. “Other than her cousin Orla?”

  “Ruby, Barbara and Jane liked to go to the pictures on Saturdays, but I don’t think Noeleen ever joined them. She wasn’t the sort of girl to be interested in the pictures and things like that.”

  “I thought all girls liked the movies,” Kaminsky said.

  “The other girls did, but Noeleen was different. She was quiet. She spent her time in her room.”

  “Did she have a fella?” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Lis looked startled. “A suitor, you mean? I don’t think so. I don’t allow strange men in the house. It only leads to trouble.”

  “What about the men who live here?” Kaminsky said. “Did she seem interested in any of them?”

  “Are you going to put all this in your story?” Mrs. Lis said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t see what any of it has to do with poor Noeleen being killed the way she was.”

  “We have to paint a picture of the victim, see—to get the readers’ sympathy.”

  Mrs. Lis nodded, seemingly satisfied.

  Elizabeth didn’t think they were going to get more out of her. Kaminsky was obviously inclined to agree because he put his notebook and pencil back in his pocket and stood up.

  “Is there any chance
we could speak to Noeleen’s cousin Orla?”

  Mrs. Lis also got to her feet. “She’s not in at the moment. She’s gone off to work.”

  Elizabeth glanced at Kaminsky. “Where does she work?”

  “Samuel Kass—it’s a garment manufacturer over on Seventh Avenue and Thirty-Sixth Street, but she won’t want you visiting her there. She’ll be back by five-thirty, but I put dinner on the table at six and she’ll be wanting to eat.”

  “We’ll come back then.” Kaminsky stood and picked up his hat.

  Mrs. Lis showed them out and waited on the stoop watching as they headed down the street.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth was glad to be back in the fresh air and sunshine. The dark and brooding atmosphere of Mrs. Lis’s parlor had made her feel claustrophobic.

  They were walking toward the subway entrance when Kaminsky stopped and fished around in his pocket for his pack of Camels. He shook one out, lit it and narrowed his eyes as smoke rose from the tip.

  “It certainly seems like this Noeleen was a real religious type of dame, don’t you think? Her landlady mentioned it. Mrs. Brown, the Posts’ cook, said she went to early Mass every day….And then there was that statue Mrs. Lis found. It looked as if Noeleen had had it for a long time.”

  “Yes. The paint was all worn off.”

  “I think our story is this,” Kaminsky said, propping his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gesturing with his hands as if he was writing a headline across the sky. “ ‘Good Catholic Girl Finds Herself Pregnant.’ Or better maybe—‘Pregnant Catholic Girl Brutally Stabbed.’ ” He glanced at Elizabeth. “What do you think?”

  “I think that’s horrible,” Elizabeth said, appalled. “That makes Noeleen sound like some sort of loose woman.”

  Elizabeth had been touched by the contents of Mrs. Lis’s box—the obviously cherished prayer card, the worn statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. “I don’t think that’s true at all.”

  “How did Noeleen find herself pregnant then?”

  “I don’t know.” Elizabeth bit her lip. “Maybe she was forced against her will.”

  Kaminsky gripped his cigarette between his thumb and index finger and took a long drag. He blew out the smoke. “You’ve got an interesting idea there, Biz. I think you have the nose to be a reporter.” He tapped his own nose. “So maybe some lothario forces himself on Noeleen even though, being a good Catholic girl, she says no. She gets pregnant.” He dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. “She begs him to make an honest woman of her. He refuses. She insists.” Kaminsky balled his fists at his side. “So they fight and, in the heat of the moment, he stabs her.” He made a slashing motion with his arm. “The hurricane provides the perfect cover-up until the caretaker comes along and finds her body.”

  Elizabeth rolled a pebble around under the toe of her shoe. “Before you write anything, we need to find out what really happened. We owe it to Noeleen.”

  “That’s a great idea, but the boss is clamoring for a story yesterday.”

  Elizabeth lifted her chin. “We’d better get going then. Mrs. Brown said the Posts had sent her priest to comfort her. I wonder if he was Noeleen’s priest as well and if he can tell us anything.”

  “You know as well as I do that he’s not going to tell us anything Noeleen told him in confidence.”

  “No, but he might be able to paint a more complete picture of Noeleen. Things don’t add up the way they are. Anyway, it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”

  “By any chance do you remember the name of the church Mrs. Brown mentioned?”

  “St. Vincent Ferrer. A college classmate of mine was married there. The priest was Father McGrath.”

  “Well don’t just stand there. Let’s get a move on,” Kaminsky said as he headed toward the entrance to the subway.

  Chapter 6

  St. Vincent Ferrer stood on the corner of Sixty-Sixth Street and Lexington Avenue, its grand limestone front with its buttresses and Crucifixion panel over the entrance, making it appear as grand as any European cathedral.

  Elizabeth grabbed Kaminsky’s arm. “I’d like to get some pictures of the church.”

  “Good idea.”

  Elizabeth stood across the street and studied the church until she’d decided on the best angle. She took her camera from its case and snapped half a dozen photographs. Several passersby turned their heads and watched out of curiosity.

  She motioned to Kaminsky. “Okay. Let’s cross the street.”

  The light at the corner was red but there was a break in the traffic streaming down Lexington Avenue.

  “Come on,” Kaminsky said and they dashed across the street.

  * * *

  —

  The priory was a five-story red-brick building to the south of the church—on the northeast corner of Sixty-Fifth Street and Lexington Avenue. A high brownstone stoop with a cast-iron railing led to the recessed and arched first floor entrance.

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky mounted the steps and Elizabeth rang the bell. After several minutes, the door opened silently and a priest with small wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose and a bald spot like a monk’s tonsure stood in front of them.

  His smile was kind. “I’m Father Thomas. May I help you?”

  Kaminsky fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his press card.

  “We’re with the Daily Trumpet and we wondered if we could speak to Father McGrath.”

  Father Thomas looked confused. “You want to speak with Father McGrath?”

  Kaminsky nodded.

  Father Thomas wrinkled his forehead. “This is quite unusual. Father McGrath is young and somewhat impetuous. I hesitate to ask what he’s gotten himself into.”

  Kaminsky held up a hand. “This isn’t about Father McGrath. It’s about one of his parishioners.”

  Father Thomas fingered the cross hanging from a cord around his neck. “I’m sure you realize Father McGrath can hardly divulge confidential information about one of our congregation.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said, smiling reassuringly at the priest. “We’re doing a story about Noeleen Donovan. You may have heard of her?”

  “That poor girl.” Father Thomas crossed himself.

  “We were told she attended early Mass here every morning. We merely need to confirm that and a few other details for our story.”

  Father Thomas opened the door wider. “Father McGrath took the early morning services. I’m sure he can help you.” He motioned for them to enter. “If you don’t mind waiting in the parlor.”

  He led them into a small sitting room furnished with richly colored Oriental rugs and dark overstuffed furniture. A crucifix hung on one wall. Elizabeth sat on the sofa while Kaminsky paced the room.

  They heard footsteps and turned toward the door to see Father McGrath pausing on the threshold.

  Elizabeth’s first thought was that he looked too young to be a priest—surely he was barely her age. She couldn’t imagine committing to marriage at this point in her life, let alone to the priesthood.

  He had pale skin, thick dark hair and vivid blue eyes. He wasn’t particularly tall but had broad shoulders and large hands. He hesitated, seemingly reluctant to enter the room.

  “Father McGrath?” Kaminsky held out his hand and introduced himself.

  Father McGrath ducked his head. “Yes.” He shook Kaminsky’s hand.

  “This is Biz Adams, my photographer,” Kaminsky said, jerking his head in Elizabeth’s direction.

  Father McGrath nodded at Elizabeth. “Father Thomas said this is about Miss Donovan?”

  There was a slight lilt to his words, and Elizabeth suspected that, like Noeleen, he’d come to New York from his native Ireland.

  Kaminsky sat down and pulled out his notebook. McGra
th perched on the edge of the sofa and fiddled with the cross around his neck.

  “Miss Donovan was a parishioner of St. Vincent Ferrer, I understand,” Kaminsky began.

  McGrath nodded. “She came to the early morning service nearly every day to take Communion.”

  “You must have gotten to know her then,” Kaminsky said.

  McGrath smoothed the folds of his cassock. “We spoke occasionally.” He brushed his thatch of hair off his forehead. “Why are you writing about Miss Donovan?” He gestured toward Kaminsky’s notebook.

  “It’s what they call a human interest story. The public is curious about Miss Donovan since she was the victim of a vicious crime. They want to know more about her.” Kaminsky paused. “Besides, Miss Donovan is something of a puzzle.”

  Father McGrath frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Kaminsky held his hands out, palms up. “You say Miss Donovan was very devout—coming to early Mass every morning, taking Communion.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she wasn’t married?” Kaminsky said.

  McGrath shook his head.

  “But she was pregnant.”

  McGrath jumped and his elbow hit a small ornamental clock on the table by his side, sending it crashing to the floor. He stared at it in dismay for a moment then turned to Kaminsky.

  “That can’t be.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” Elizabeth said gently. “The medical examiner confirmed it.”

  “So you see what I mean?” Kaminsky said. “Here she’s a good Catholic girl who comes to Mass every day, but on the other hand she obviously isn’t adverse to a little hanky-panky with her beau.”

  “She didn’t have a beau,” McGrath blurted out.

  Kaminsky looked as if Father McGrath had suddenly admitted to believing in Santa Claus.

  “Listen, Father. I’m sure you try to see the best in people and, believe me, that’s a good thing. But facts are facts. Miss Donovan was pregnant, pure and simple.” He leaned forward. “Did Miss Donovan maybe confide in you? She was in something of a predicament. Once the Posts realized she was pregnant, they wouldn’t have let her stay on. And then where would she be? Who would hire her? How would she live?” Before McGrath could say anything, Kaminsky held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to reveal anything Miss Donovan might have told you in confidence.”