The Christening Day Murder (7 page)

“So that’s it,” he said, slipping his pen back into his pocket as he came to the last name on the list, Walter Zanders.

“What about people who worked in Studsburg and lived somewhere else?”

“Like Mrs. Castro in the rectory? There were some like that. Jackie Peters, who helped out in the gas station sometimes. A few boys from the high school used to get summer work with the farm families. Let’s see.” He looked down at his empty coffee cup for a full minute. “If there was anyone else, it’s gone.”

There had to be someone else. I asked him about young men who might have had a girlfriend from another town, as he himself had, but that question seemed to press his memory further than he could handle. “It’s a long time, Kix. I can remember who they married, but it’s a stretch to remember who they went out with. Some of those fellows had a lot of girlfriends.”

I thanked them both and saw them to the door. Sitting at the dining room table, I went over the list, marking the names of people who now lived in the Studsburg area or anywhere else that I considered accessible. The Degenkamps were in Ithaca living with their son, who was a professor at the Cornell College of Agriculture. The mayor, Fred Larkin, had first moved near Owego, and then, in the late sixties, moved again, this time to a town I found on my map not far from Studsburg. I wondered why the Stiflers hadn’t invited the Larkins to the baptism. Father Hartman was listed, too. After a brief stint of about a year at the chancery in Rochester, he had obviously been assigned a new parish in another small town in the diocese. He would be relatively easy to reach by car or phone if I had any questions.

But the important question, the one that would start me
on my way, was still far from being answered. I did the dishes from our coffee hour, pressing my imagination to come up with something. Then I went upstairs, showered, and got ready for bed. But I sat propped on my bed for a long time, mentally reviewing the photos I had seen that afternoon in the photo album, the questions I had asked the Stiflers. Harry’s example of Mrs. Castro, the rectory housekeeper, was exactly the kind of person I was looking for, a woman who came to town in the morning and left in the evening. I knew without asking that Mrs. Castro would be too old to fit the description of the victim. Rectories didn’t hire twenty-five-year-old women as housekeepers. But maybe somebody had had a maid.

As the thought hit me, I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and put my slippers on. Then I got up and started walking. There had to have been a couple of rich families in Studsburg, and they would very likely have hired someone to clean and maybe even cook for them. It didn’t take a red-hot imagination to figure out the kind of scenario that could lead to murder: a rich young man, a pretty young girl from the wrong kind of family, a love affair, perhaps with the complications that seem almost inevitably to ensue.

I rubbed my hands on my arms to warm myself, having put the heat down for the night when I came upstairs. Suddenly my blood was circulating overtime. The clock on my night table said 10:10. Too late to call the Stiflers. I got back in bed and turned off the light, certain that I had it. Some family in the area had missed their daughter but had not reported it, perhaps because they mistakenly thought she had run away with a forbidden young man. Being a maid, she wouldn’t be included in the Stiflers’ guest list,
but if she was seen around the church on the Fourth of July, no one would be surprised
. She belonged there even if she didn’t really belong.

A little while later, reaching unsuccessfully for sleep, I felt the excitement of the chase translate itself into sexual excitement. I wished Jack were there. Things would be so
much simpler—and more gratifying—if we lived together, but we were nowhere near that. He was a confirmed New Yorker, and I was dedicated to life in Oakwood. I stretched and turned. We would work everything out. I was on my way.

   Fifteen of my thirty years were spent at St. Stephen’s Convent. Having left after much soul-searching and for none of the popular reasons of today—a man or a crisis of faith—I have many friends there. The best of them is the General Superior, Sister Joseph, whom I met the moment I stepped into the Mother House of the convent when my aunt delivered me on what I always think of as the worst night of my life. Joseph is a good fifteen years older than I, which was a great help during my early years at the convent but has never proved a hindrance to our friendship. On Thursday morning I called her.

“Chris, it’s good to hear from you. How’s the law work going?”

“It’s on and off, hectic, and very satisfying. How are you?”

She was fine and had tidbits of news for me, which I listened to eagerly. “But I imagine you have news to tell us,” she said finally.

“More like a request.” I gave her as brief a description of the Studsburg murder as I could manage and then came to my point. “I think I may be onto a way to identify the victim, but I’ll need to question people in the Studsburg area, and I can’t drive there every day.”

“Of course not. You’ll have to stay overnight.”

“Which I can’t afford.”

“But if you had a place to stay, like a convent …” She left it hanging tantalizingly.

“It would be wonderful,” I said.

“I can’t get you into a Franciscan convent; there aren’t any in the area. But that won’t bother you, will it?”

“Any place that takes me is fine.”

“Give me some time to work on it.”

Arnold Gold had some work for me, so I took the train into the city and put in several hours. He was defending a homeless man who had been accused of assaulting a tourist, falsely accused as far as Arnold was concerned. As I looked over the documents, I found that I agreed with him.

When I got home, I took a chance and called the sheriff’s department upstate to see if there was any news from the dentists.

“Wish I could tell you something,” Deputy Drago said. “We did hear from one old fellow who searched his records right away and found nothing. That’s about where it is.”

I asked him again to keep me in mind and rang off. A little while later, the phone rang.

“Chris,” Sister Joseph’s voice said, “I’ve been trying you since early afternoon”

I explained I’d been in the city and asked what was up.

“I got an OK from the first convent I called. It’s just over the New York border in Pennsylvania, about twenty or thirty miles from where I estimate your Studsburg to be. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful. What order are they?”

“They’re Josephites. It’s a small convent, and most of the nuns are older women, but that shouldn’t make a difference.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I think they’d be pleased if you participated.”

“I look forward to it.”

She gave me all the necessary particulars and I wrote them down, feeling a sense of excitement. People who are professional investigators, or professional anythings, have many options and great flexibility compared to an amateur. I can’t charge expenses to a client and I am therefore limited by my pocketbook, which is very spare. Having a safe, inexpensive place to stay—I would contribute to the convent—gave me the edge I needed to proceed.

First I called Harry Stifler.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said in answer to my question.
“There were some families with money, and they did have housekeepers. The Randalls had a woman about the age of my mother, I’d guess, a Mrs. Quinn who’d been there for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if she went with them when they moved. But there was a young girl who worked for the Eberlings, and you know, there may have been a little hanky-panky going on. Check that list, Kix. I think they moved not too far from Studsburg.”

He mentioned two other families, the Newburys and the Ritters, both of whom had young women in their employ. All three names were on the list, and the Ritters had apparently settled in a town in Westchester County, which is where I live. I got the number from information and called.

“Hello?” an old woman’s voice said.

“Mrs. Ritter?”

“Yes? You’ll have to speak up, please. I don’t hear so well.”

“Mrs. Ritter,” I said, raising my voice, “I’m a friend of Harry and Carol Stifler, who used to live in Studsburg.”

“Studsburg? My, I haven’t talked to anyone from Studsburg for a long while.”

I gave her a short explanation. “I was wondering about the young lady who worked for you in Studsburg. Do you remember her?”

“You mean Darlene?”

“Yes, it could have been Darlene. Do you remember her last name?”

“Yes, it was Jackson, Darlene Jackson. She used to come and clean for us a couple of times a week. That was a big house we had in those day.”

“Do you know what happened to her after you left Studsburg, Mrs. Ritter?”

“She got a job somewhere; I don’t remember exactly. I think she may have gone to work for a real estate man or something like that.”

“Did you ever hear from her?” I asked.

“Yes, we did. A couple of years later she sent us an invitation
to her wedding. We didn’t go, of course, but we sent a nice present. I think that’s what she wanted. And then a year or so after that, we got a snapshot of her with a little baby, and we sent another present. I don’t think we heard from her after that. The little fellow must be nearly thirty now.”

I had cringed at her interpretation of why the wedding invitation had been sent. “I expect so,” I said, crossing her name off my list of possible leads.

When I’d hung up, I checked the address for the Newburys. They had moved to Florida, and I decided to wait before calling them. Instead, I called Father Hartman.

“Yes, Chris,” he said when I reminded him who I was. “Good to hear from you.”

I told him I was informally looking into the Studsburg murder, and he asked if anything new had come to light.

“The coroner determined the victim was a young woman—I suppose you know that.”

“Yes, I heard something on the news.”

“And the sheriff’s department is trying to find out who she is by looking for old dental records. So far, they have only one dentist who’s checked, and he can’t find a match. I’m afraid if we wait for the law enforcement people to move, another thirty years may go by, so I’m going to look into it myself.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if an amateur does better than the professionals. Do you have any idea who she was?”

“I think she may have been someone who didn’t live in Studsburg but who worked there, like a housekeeper. I wondered if you remembered any families that had young women working for them.”

“Interesting idea,” he said. “And there were people like that. The ones I think of first off were the Ritters. They were members of the church and they had a girl who came in to work for them a few times a week. I don’t remember her name.”

“It was Darlene Jackson,” I said, and explained how I knew. “Can you think of anyone else?”

“Well, let me explain something first about Studsburg. It was not a monolithic town. I’d say it was fairly evenly divided between Catholics and Protestants, although St. Mary Immaculate was the only church in town. And there were a few Jewish families as well. Except for the usual neighborly squabbles, I’d say it was a model community. But as a pastor, I knew my parishioners well, and the other townspeople much less well. There were many families I never met, so I’m probably not your best source.”

“Did you now the Eberlings?” I asked.

“Everyone knew them,” he said. “They had a very big house and a lot of money. Their church was in another town. J.J. published the local newspaper, and I used to see him when I went down to put in a church notice. I don’t think I ever met his family. You want to know if a young woman worked for them?”

“Yes.”

There was a silence. Then he said, “There was some gossip, Chris. It’s a long time ago, and I’ve never thought much of gossip. I’d feel better if you didn’t ask me about it.”

“Sure,” I said. “Aside from the Eberlings and the Ritters, were there any others?”

“There must have been, but I really don’t remember. I know I’m not being very helpful.”

“But you have been, and I appreciate it. Will it trouble you if I call again?”

“Not at all, Chris,” he said, sounding genuinely sincere. “I know I balked on the Eberlings, and I have no doubt someone will fill you in on the reason, but I want to know who that poor person buried in my church was as much as you do, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

As I sat down with the paper a few minutes later, I remembered the brief exchange between the Degenkamps the afternoon we met before the baptism. Something about scandals and a sharp caution from Ellie. Henry had eased out of
it smoothly with an innocuous tale of embezzlement. Had that been a quick substitution for the Eberling scandal? I couldn’t be sure, but I knew what my first destination would be after I returned to the old town.

   I put in a full day at Arnold’s office on Friday, taking only a few minutes off to call the convent and confirm our arrangement. I had decided to drive up on Sunday, stay over one night, and return on Monday. My class was Tuesday morning, and I could decide then whether to return. The nun who answered knew who I was and said any time I arrived would be all right, and if I happened to come during evening prayers—

“I’ll wait in the chapel,” I said.

“We look forward to your visit, Christine.”

During the afternoon I took some papers into Arnold’s office, and he invited me to sit down. “I hear you may not be available next week,” he opened.

So I told him about Studsburg. Give Arnold an entrée into a legal case and he’s all ears. “Thirty years dead and buried,” he said reflectively. “Before I got to know you, I wouldn’t have given you a chance in hell of finding anything useful, but I guess if anyone can, it’s you.” He was referring to the first case I’d fallen into, when I’d met him. “Certainly smacks of premeditation. And you’ve pretty much accounted for all the young girls in town?”

“If my sources are right, and I have no reason to think they aren’t.”

“I like your idea that it was someone who came and went. Of course, it may have been someone from far away who was inveigled there just to meet her death. If that’s so, the dentists won’t turn up anything, and you’ve got lots of problems.”