The Christening Day Murder (24 page)

I’m not any better at these occasions than anyone else is. I just gear myself up, knowing that the people I visit will take some comfort from my presence. As I got out of the car, an elderly couple came out of the house. I waited till they had made their cautious way down the long slate walk to their car and then went to the door. It was opened by the younger Mrs. D.

“Miss Bennett,” she said with surprise. “Please come in. Have you had a long drive?”

I told her I had and asked if the funeral would be the next day, as scheduled.

“Yes, they’ve done an autopsy, although my mother-in-law wasn’t very happy about it. It was what they suspected, a heart attack coupled with exposure. We have no idea what made him park his car and go walking on such a cold day.”

She took me to the living room, where a handful of mostly older people were sitting with Ellie. Eric Degenkamp, his
wife said, was at the funeral home, making some final arrangements. He would be back soon.

Ellie recognized me and shook my hand. “It was a heart attack,” she said. “He must have felt it coming on and got out of the car to get help. He was sitting next to a tree when they found him.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“He shouldn’t’ve gone out. It was too cold. But you can’t tell a grown man anything.”

“I think he liked his independence,” I said.

“He did. He was a very independent man, my Henry.”

Eric walked in just then and went to whisper something to his mother. I moved away and found a seat next to a woman who looked very old and very healthy. We introduced ourselves and she said, “I’m ninety-three years old.”

“You look wonderful,” I said honestly.

“That’s what comes of living in Ithaca for sixty years. People live long, healthy lives in Ithaca.”

We made small talk for a few minutes and she insisted I sample the cookies she had baked that morning. When she left a few minutes later, I decided I had stayed long enough myself. I went to Ellie to say good-bye.

“You think Fred said something to him?” she asked me. “You think he brought on Henry’s heart attack?”

“I don’t know, Ellie. I hope not. Fred didn’t tell you anything when you called that day?”

“He didn’t say anything at all to me. He wasn’t home. It was his wife I talked to. She said Fred had gone out. He left after he called Henry.”

I tried to keep my face from showing my surprise. If Fred had left his house after he called Henry, he could have been ten minutes behind me on the way to Ithaca, and the two men could have met while I was at the Degenkamp home. It looked as though I had begun to penetrate Fred Larkin’s fortress and he had driven to Ithaca to warn Henry to keep quiet about something.

“You think Henry went out to meet him?” Ellie asked.

“I think it’s possible.”

“I thought this was all over a long time ago,” she said.

“I need someone to talk to me about it,” I said softly.

“Not me,” she said. “I’m finished talking. You know who to see.”

“I don’t.”

“Who do people tell their secrets to?”

I stared at her.

“Ask him about the time capsule,” she said. “See what he says.” She pressed her lips together, then relaxed. “Thank you for coming, Christine.”

Her daughter-in-law walked me to the door. “She’s holding up very well. My father-in-law’s health wasn’t very good, and he never took care of himself the way the doctor said he should.”

She opened the door for me and I stepped outside. At the foot of the walk an old blue car was parked. Something about it struck me. I stood looking at it, trying to remember.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. D. called from the doorway.

“Whose car is that?”

“It was my father-in-law’s. Eric just used it to go to the funeral home.”

“Did your in-laws drive that car to Studsburg a couple of weeks ago for the baptism?”

“I’m sure they did. He loved that car. He’d never drive anything else.”

“Thank you,” I said.

It was the car I’d seen parked at the edge of Studsburg when I made my late afternoon visit to St. Mary Immaculate and stumbled on Candy Phillips’s body. Either Henry Degenkamp had opened the grave or he knew who did because he saw him.

I got in my car and drove to the nearest pay phone.

Carol Stifler answered her phone on the second ring. I asked her to get the
Herald
, and when she came back I told her I wanted to hear the article about Father Hartman. Pages turned as I wondered how long the old newsprint would survive the abuse we were giving it.

“Got it,” she said. “ ‘Father Hartman Looks To the Future.’ ”

“That’s it. I’m listening.”

“ ‘Father Gregory Hartman is looking forward to a year at least at the chancery in Rochester. While a city of three hundred thousand will mean quite a change from a parish of two hundred forty-seven, Father Hartman is sure—’ Is this really what you want to hear, Kix?”

“Skip to the next paragraph.”

“ ‘Father’s apartment in the rectory of Saint—’ ”

“Try the next one.”

“ ‘On another note, Father Hartman’s interest in the future extends beyond his work in Rochester and beyond the millennium. Before he leaves Studsburg for the last time on July fifth, he will bury a mint set of coins in the basement of St. Mary Immaculate.’ Oh my God,” Carol said. “I don’t think I ever read this.”

“Go on, Carol.”

“ ‘While it is unlikely that anyone will ever uncover the coins, Father believes that God has mysterious ways. “There are floods like the great flood in the Old Testament and there are droughts,” he told this reporter. “The waters parted
once, they may part again in another era. Who knows whether Studsburg will remain underwater forever? For that future archeologist, whenever he happens upon them, these coins will remind him of the year this town ceased to exist, of the civilization it was part of, of the people who loved living here.”

“ ‘This reporter can only hope that favored person steps softly among the memories.’ That’s it, Kix. I don’t believe what I’ve just read. You aren’t telling me Father Hartman—”

“No, I don’t think he killed anyone. Thanks, Carol. I have some traveling to do.”

“Oh, Christine, I’m feeling very scared.”

I wasn’t feeling very calm myself.

   It is well know that the confessional is sealed. If someone had confessed to Father Hartman that he had killed Candy Phillips, I would expect that the priest would listen, instruct him in the strongest terms to turn himself in, and give him conditional absolution, the condition being that the penitent do what the priest told him to do. The priest might offer assistance and prayer, but he would never discuss the content of the confession with another person.

So it was not with great optimism that I pulled into the driveway of Father Hartman’s rectory. But now that I knew some of the relevant questions to ask, there was a chance that he had knowledge acquired outside the confessional, and he might be willing to share it with me.

There was a parishioner in his office when I arrived, and I took a seat in the outside room. The housekeeper asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee, but I turned her down. As I sat waiting, a young curate in a cassock came down the stairs, said a cheery hello, and left by a side door. It was probably his turn to hear confessions in the church across the driveway from the rectory.

While I waited, I tried to assemble the facts I had collected piecemeal from the
Herald
and the many people I had interviewed.
It seems amazing sometimes how tiny snippets of information from diverse informants with a variety of axes to grind can add up to a solution, even a complex one, like a lot of small streams coming together to form a mighty river.

The door opened and Father Hartman and a young, troubled-looking man came out.

“Christine,” the priest said with a warm smile. “How nice to see you.” He walked the young man to the door, patted him on the shoulder, and came back to me.

“Do you have time for a few questions?”

“You bet. Come on in.”

It was small and homey with a fireplace and old furniture. Father Hartman took a seat on a chair instead of behind his desk, and I sat more or less opposite him.

“I’m afraid no luck on your initials,” he said.

For a moment I forgot what he was talking about. Then I remembered the medal. “This is about something else. About the time capsule.”

He smiled. “The time capsule, yes. The time capsule that wasn’t. Where did you hear about it?”

“It was written up in the last issue of the
Studsburg Herald.”

He looked puzzled. “There was no last issue. I mean, J.J. Eberling promised one for the fifth of July, but he came by and said there wasn’t any, he was sorry, it just hadn’t worked out.”

“He put it together, printed it at the Steuben Press, and started to give them out at the bridge on Main Street. Someone stopped him.”

“I see.”

“Can you tell me about the capsule, Father?”

“It was just a little idea I had. I’d always been fascinated by those capsules they buried at famous places like the World’s Fair and the Times Building. I thought there might come a time when Studsburg emerged from the depths, possibly even a time when St. Mary Immaculate crumbled and fell. I thought there should be something there to remind a
future generation that this lake was once a town, that it died in a certain year, that Americans lived there. I wrote to the treasury or the mint, I forget exactly, and ordered a mint set of coins. My intention was to bury them in the basement of the church on that last morning.”

“Did you?”

“I couldn’t. I had opened up a hole in a wall under the stairs a day or so earlier, and I had mortar and whatever else the hardware store sold me so I could seal it up again. I hadn’t said anything about it till J.J. Eberling came to me for my exit interview, so to speak.”

“And you told him about it then.”

“That’s right. And about my plans for the next year. The last issue was supposed to be a kind of compendium of everybody’s future plans and pictures from the picnic and fireworks. But he said he ran into some obstacle and couldn’t get it published.”

“What about your time capsule?”

“I went to the church that last morning and celebrated my last mass, feeling very sad and very nostalgic, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Then I went back to the rectory and finished my packing. We had to leave the town by noon, and a few people dropped by to say a last good-bye, although we’d done that the night before. It must have been around that time that J.J. Eberling dropped in and said he was sorry, there wouldn’t be any final edition of the
Herald.”

“Did he seem upset?” I asked.

“J.J. was one of those men who existed behind a smooth veneer. I heard those rumors you mentioned, that there had been incidents involving him with a teenage girl. Nothing ever fazed him. I expect he died without a line of worry on his face. There was something almost unreal about him. Maybe that’s why I never tried to develop a personal relationship with him. It certainly wasn’t because he wasn’t a member of my parish. I was on very friendly terms with a Jewish family in town. They used to invite me to their Friday
evening dinner sometimes and substitute fish for their usual chicken. That was before John the Twenty-third, of course.”

“And the capsule,” I prompted.

“It must have been eleven o’clock by the time I took the coins and went back to the church. I had them in a metal box I’d picked up somewhere. I couldn’t bury anything besides metal because of the water. I went in the back way, as I usually did—the door was near the rectory—and went down to the basement to put the box in the opening and seal it up, but somebody had done it for me. The sealing material was gone and the wall was solid. I was at a loss. I looked around, expecting someone to pop out of the shadows and yell ‘Surprise!’ But no one was there. I decided someone must have played a joke on me and I left it at that. I had no idea what the purpose of the prank was.”

“Until someone confessed to you that he had killed the schoolteacher.”

“You know I can’t respond to that.”

“Yes, I do know.” I was certain now that I was right. If he had not known, he would have denied it. There would have been no reason for him not to. “What happened to the coins?” I asked.

“I took them with me. I’d broken the sealed package they were displayed in to put them in the box. When I got to Rochester, I was able to find a picture framer to set them up again.” He nodded toward the wall behind me. “They’re right over there”

I went and looked. The familiar coins were still bright and shiny, pure and untouched. His idea of burying them had been a good one. Made of metal, they would not have bounced around much, not sustained damage.

“Have you heard that Henry Degenkamp is dead?” I asked, returning to my chair.

“I got a phone call. They said it was a heart attack.”

“Father, Henry died because he knew who murdered Candy Phillips.”

He shook his head slowly. “You know better than this, Chris.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me what you aren’t allowed to tell me. I’m asking for guidance. Even if I can’t bring this man to justice, I want him exposed.”

“I’ll tell you whatever I know that I’ve learned outside the confessional.”

“Fred Larkin and Candy Phillips were lovers. Gwen Larkin found out about it, and Fred killed Candy the night of the fireworks. He probably lured her there with some kind of promise. She had already left Studsburg at the end of the semester and she came back for the Fourth of July. After he killed her, his relationship with his wife deteriorated. Less than a year later he rigged her car and she went off the road and hit a tree and died. After it happened, he never told anyone from Studsburg except his closest friends that she was dead.”

“I knew she was dead,” the priest said. “And if Fred killed her, he didn’t tell me, and I don’t believe he did. I think he loved Gwen. While they were married, I don’t think there was another woman in his life. I don’t for one moment believe that he and the schoolteacher were lovers. I’m sorry to say that just about everything you believe to be true is false, Chris. If that’s the guidance you need, I hope it helps you.”