Drowning In Christmas Part 9

"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 s.h.i.+vering 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 s.p.a.ce 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 h.e.l.l 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 antic.i.p.ating 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, popped 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."

"Yes, even temporary oblivion must be most welcome in her situation. I'd probably be drinking myself into a stupor every night, if I were in her shoes." I noticed her s.h.i.+vering and shooed her back inside. "Thanks so much for telling me. I'll call the hospital to see how she's doing."

"They won't tell you anything," the neighbor predicted. "They won't talk to anyone but close relatives. I'll call you when I know what's what," she said and scooted back to her house, where she ducked inside with a final wave.

"Did you find out how Mary is doing?" Armando asked as I settled myself into the pa.s.senger seat and fastened my seat belt.

"She's doing lousy, that's how she's doing," I said sadly. "She was admitted to the hospital again last night with a severe anxiety attack."

"I am very sorry to hear that," Armando said, and I knew he meant it.

"Home, James," I said. "I've had just about all the fun I can take for one Christmas."

"How was your Christmas?" I asked Cindy, the technician who answered the phone at Catzablanca on Sat.u.r.day morning. I had taken my cats there for years and years and was on a first-name basis with most of the staff there.

"Too short," she replied with a sigh. "Yours?"

"Too long," I quipped. "Don't even ask. Listen, I'm coming in with a new cat. Armando rescued her a couple of days ago from a parking lot at the airport. We don't know anything about her, except that she's very timid and has a good appet.i.te. Can you squeeze her into the schedule today for some testing and inoculations?"

"I can't give you an appointment. It's always nuts after a holiday, but you can park her for the day. Dr. DuPont and Dr. Braun are both on today, and between the two of them, they'll figure it out. What's the cat's name?"

"Don't know yet. Spend the day with her, and let me know what you think we should call her," I challenged her.

"You bet. See you soon."

I wrestled a cat carrier out of my bedroom closet under Jasmine's watchful gaze. She immediately vanished underneath my bed.

"It's not for you this time," I told her and took the carrier upstairs, where the new cat still resided in the guest bedroom. After thirty-six hours of incarceration and about six hearty meals, the ginger female had lost a good bit of her timidity. She was savvy enough to recognize a carrier and led Armando and me on a merry chase before I was finally able to nab her. Armando steadied the carrier on end while I stuffed the wriggling creature through the opening, hind legs first, and secured the latches. She b.u.mped the sides in protest, then seemed to accept her fate, however resentfully. Throughout the whole process, she made no sound.

"Poor little thing. I can't imagine what she's already been through this week, and now this. She must be terrified. Does she speak? I've never known such a quiet cat under these circ.u.mstances. Usually, they yell b.l.o.o.d.y murder."

Armando shrugged. "Too frightened, I guess." He toted the carrier downstairs and out to the garage, where he deposited it carefully on the back seat of the Jetta. I closed the car door as quietly as I could manage. We returned to the kitchen for my jacket and purse.

"Emma will be here around eleven to wash gla.s.ses and help you move the furniture around. Just follow the diagram the caterer's a.s.sistant left the other night."

"The officious little twit?" Armando misquoted me.

"Gnome," I reminded him and kissed his cheek. "Yeah, that one. I'm sorry to stick you with this mess, but I promised Sister Marguerite that I would have that h.e.l.lacious pile of correspondence answered and ready for her signature on Monday morning, so it's now or never. The vet will call here when the cat's ready to be discharged, and either you or Emma can collect her."

I turned to go, but Armando caught the hem of my jacket. "You will be in that building all alone?"

I wasn't happy about that myself, but I covered my misgivings with what I hoped was a convincing smile. "There are not one, but two, electronically secured doors to get through before you can get into the office, and that's impossible to do unless you have the alarm code. If the silent alarm goes off, the Hartford police will be there, guns drawn, in about three minutes, and there's always 911." My speech was as much to rea.s.sure myself as Armando. I gave him a final pat and departed. "Don't forget to give Jasmine some attention," I called over my shoulder.

The ginger cat remained silent on our trip to the veterinary clinic. I spoke quietly to her from time to time, but I doubted that the sound of my voice would rea.s.sure her much. I wished she could tell me how she came to be under a car in the airport parking lot, but since that was impossible, I could only surmise that she had escaped from her owners, who would be frantic, in that case. Alternatively, she had been dumped by owners who no longer wanted her. Neither scenario was uplifting. I could only deal with things as they were.

Cindy, Jana and Beth were all on duty when I arrived at Catzablanca, and they crowded around to coo at the new kitty. "She's not a kitten, but she's not very old either," Jana p.r.o.nounced, and the others concurred.

"I don't even know if she's been spayed," I admitted. "In fact, I know absolutely nothing about her."

"We'll scan her to see if she's been microchipped, in which case we can probably get her back to her owners. Otherwise, are you willing to adopt her?" Cindy asked, already knowing what my answer would be.

"If she's negative for feline leukemia, yes. Jasmine can't be exposed to that, since we stopped inoculating her against it a couple of years ago because of her age. So if this cat is positive, we'll have to find another home for her, but I'll take financial responsibility, of course. Check her out, and give Armando a call. He's at the house, or you can call me with the results of her blood test." I gave them my phone number at the UCC. "I'll talk to you later."

It broke my heart to abandon the stray one more time, but I figured she didn't know me well enough yet to care much, and she needed to be examined. I knew that she couldn't be in better hands. The technicians and Drs. DuPont and Braun would be very kind to her.

I pulled into the lot at the UCC and parked as close to the building as I could. Dark clouds had rolled in, and snow threatened once again. More likely, it would be rain, since the temperature was in the high thirties. I hoped Mother Nature would get it over with and give us a decent day tomorrow for the wedding. Before I let myself in with the coded key fob I had been issued, which was readable by the scanner outside the back door, I made sure I had the alarm code in my hand. After opening the door, I would have only thirty seconds in which to deactivate the alarm, or the police would be alerted to a possible break-in.

I entered the building and deactivated the alarm without incident. The floors had been freshly mopped, I noted, and I wiped my feet carefully on the interior doormat. Apparently, I wasn't the only one working on the day after Christmas. I waved my key fob at the second scanner just outside the main office door, and that lock was released, as well. I went in and closed the door firmly behind me, then flipped the light switch on the wall. The overhead lights went on throughout the main level. The building was strangely silent after the bustle of the last week, but I told myself that was a good thing. Without colleagues around to distract me, I could finish my work and get home more quickly.

As I pa.s.sed the little kitchen area, I knew I had been correct to a.s.sume that lunch wouldn't be a problem. After my first day at the UCC, I had realized that I was going to have to spend a lot of my time there resisting temptation if I wanted to avoid changing sizes. The staff might be accustomed to long hours and slim paychecks, but none of them would ever go hungry. On any given morning, half of the people who worked in the building arrived bearing goodies, whether leftovers from home or baked especially for everyone at work to share. Any meeting held after 11:00 a. m. was reason enough to order in pizza, and there was always plenty to spare. I had brown-bagged my lunch the first day and then realized it would be totally unnecessary. Thereafter, I had just contributed to the perpetual buffet, adding fresh fruit, carrots and celery to the mix.

The Christmas season only accelerated the food frenzy. The number and variety of the daily offerings were astounding. I became accustomed to talking with people, either on the phone or in person, whose mouths were full. This morning, breads, pies, cookies and doughnuts from last week still covered every available surface and spilled over into the conference room.

I shook my head and proceeded to my desk, where the mound of papers appeared twice the size it had been when I last saw it. How that was possible, I had no idea, but the sooner I tackled it, the better. I clicked on the little radio Mary Alice kept at her desk for company and was soon totally engrossed.

Without distractions, I was able to finalize a good deal of the post-gala correspondence and other paperwork that Sister Marguerite and Mary Alice would need in the weeks ahead. My concentration on my task was such that I was surprised to lift my head and see that it was already two o'clock. I rose creakily from my chair and stretched. My best guess was that I had another hour or so of work ahead of me, but my joints needed some exercise. I decided to take a quick walk around the block to clear my head.

After setting the security alarm, I let myself out the back door with just my key chain in my pocket. Best not to carry a handbag in this neighborhood, s.h.i.+rley had often reminded me in her kindly but realistic way. I strolled out to Asylum Avenue and turned right. Traffic was relatively light on the weekend, but there was no point in having to cross a lot of streets. Dark clouds hovered in the sky overhead, but my jacket was waterproof and had a hood, so they didn't bother me. The cold, clear air felt delicious, and I had plenty to think about. I picked up my pace to get the blood flowing and stuck my hands in my pockets as I considered the events of the past few days and those to come tomorrow.

In about a quarter of a mile, I turned right onto Asylum Place, which took me downhill to Farmington Avenue, and turned right again. After looking at the rear of the Cathedral for so many days, it was interesting to get a good look at it from the front. I paused at the bottom of the steps and craned my neck upward. The back of the structure was very utilitarian, giving the place the look of a fortress, but from the front it was very impressive. The ma.s.sive wreath suspended at the entrance softened the look still further. I was sure that the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services had been packed, but now, the Cathedral looked deserted. Well, tomorrow was Sunday, and things would be back to normal.

I walked on, enjoying the exercise and the fresh air after being confined for several hours. I turned right onto Sigourney Street, which would take me back to Asylum and the UCC office. As I rounded the corner, the clouds that I had noticed earlier opened up, and it began to rain, first a sprinkle, then in earnest. I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head and made a run for it, which amounted to a fairly sedate trot. It wouldn't do to hit an icy patch and sprain an ankle.

I reached the back door and fumbled in my pocket for the key fob that would gain me admittance. I waved it in front of the scanner and yanked open the door. That's when I remembered the code I would need to deactivate the alarm, or rather, I didn't remember it. I stood gaping at the alarm, trying to think what to do. Call the police and tell them I was an idiot? Just wait for them to show up? My heart raced. Then I noticed that the light on the alarm box, which should have been red, was green. That meant the alarm had already been deactivated, or had I not correctly set it when I left the building for my walk? I struggled to remember, but I could not actually visualize the light turning red before I'd let myself out the door. No doubt I'd done it wrong, but thank goodness no harm had been done. There were still the two electronic locks securing the office from unwanted intrusion.

My heart slowed as I climbed the short staircase to the office entrance, but not for long. On the freshly mopped floor I had noticed earlier, there was now a trail of wet, slightly muddy footprints leading directly to the interior door. I paused, key fob in hand, then laughed at my own foolishness. Of course. Another member of the staff had come into the office while I was out enjoying my walk. That explained the footprints and the fact that the alarm had been deactivated. The question was, who would be keeping me company?

I let myself in. The lights were still on, as I had left them. "h.e.l.lo!" I called loudly, not wanting to frighten any other staff member who might also think he or she was in the building alone. "It's Kate Lawrence. Anybody home?" Silence. I traversed the short hall by the conference room and stood at the bottom of the stairs. "h.e.l.lo?" I called again. "It's just me, Kate Lawrence. Who else is here toiling away on a Sat.u.r.day?" Still no answer. I climbed the first few steps to the second floor before I noticed that no lights were on upstairs. "Anybody there?" I called more doubtfully, but again, there was no response. I stopped in my tracks as the hairs on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kled atavistically.

Enlightenment washed over me. I wasn't alone in the building. Of that, I was quite certain. I was equally sure that the person who had joined me didn't want his presence known-but I did know. What's more, I knew who he was.

Twelve.

The stairs leading to the attic were wide and st.u.r.dy, no doubt constructed to facilitate the movement of heavy computer equipment up and down them. Because the original rickety steps had been replaced just a few years ago when the UCC moved in, they hadn't been used all that much and were relatively clean. The wet imprints of a man's hard-soled dress shoes stood out clearly on the first few steps.

I flipped the lights on and climbed slowly to the top, where I sat and looked around. It all looked as it had on my first visit, including the tarp-draped stack of large cartons in the far corner. It was this sad little structure that I addressed.

"James," I said in a conversational tone, "it's Kate Lawrence, Mary Alice's replacement during her maternity leave. We met at the planning meetings for the gala. My partner Charlene sold you and Mary your house in Wethersfield. Do you remember?"

I stopped talking and listened. The only sound was that of the light rain, mixed with a little sleet now, pattering on the roof and windows.

"Mary is safe, James. Your neighbor is keeping an eye on her, but she's completely distraught. She had an anxiety attack on Christmas Eve and had to be admitted to Hartford Hospital overnight. She simply cannot live with the idea that you may have abandoned her."

I paused again to allow my words to sink in. "Whatever went on between you and your brother can be sorted out. Mary loves you so much, James. She can forgive you anything if only she knows that you're alive and love her, too. At the moment, she doesn't know that. You need to tell her. It's time. It's past time."

A brisk wind had blown up. It moaned eerily through the cracks and crevices and rattled a window somewhere behind me. I s.h.i.+vered and pulled my jacket sleeves down over my hands. An almost imperceptible rustling emanated from the pile in the corner. The tarpaulin was thrown back, and James struggled wearily to his feet. He stood, swaying a little in his wet raincoat and rumpled suit, looking like one of the homeless men I had seen at the food pantry at the Cathedral. His unshaven face was haggard, his eyes bleak. Slowly, he took the dozen or so paces necessary to reach me and sank down next to me on the top step.

"Tell me about Mary," he rasped. I was pretty sure those were the first words he had spoken in a week.

"I will," I promised, "but first, we need to get you some food. Come downstairs where it's warmer. There's food all over the place down there." As I heard myself say it, I realized that James must have been living off the largesse of his colleagues all week. "You're wet. I'll heat something up for you in the microwave," I amended and rose to my feet.

James grabbed my arm. Even through my jacket, I could feel how cold his hand was. "Mary," he repeated loudly. "I have to know that she's all right. Please." I resumed my seat and twisted sideways to look him full in the face.

"She's safe, James, as I told you, but this has been the worst week of her life. She needs to hear from you. Couldn't you at least have called her?"

"Couldn't risk it," he said, his voice becoming a little clearer with use. "They can trace anything these days, and if they thought she knew where I was, they would have made her life miserable."

"Her life has been miserable, James. Can you even imagine how frightened and worried she's been, still is, not knowing if you're dead or alive? Have you been here the whole time since last Thursday night, holed up in this freezing attic?"

"I couldn't think where else to go that they wouldn't find me. I needed time to think, to figure out what to do. It wasn't so bad. I had a stadium blanket from my car and my coat. I went to the Cathedral sometimes. That's where I was now. I didn't know you'd be coming back. At night I went downstairs and made hot coffee. It wasn't easy in the dark, but it doesn't matter about me. The only thing that matters is Mary."

I searched his face. "Then how could you do this to her, James?"