by Lee Harris
“That certainly is unusual.”
“No one who knew him could believe it. This was a happy man, a well-to-do man, a man with a great family and a million friends. And they had all turned out to honor him and then this happened.”
“It must have been a real shock.”
“Your aunt couldn’t believe it. She used to talk about it years after it happened. Nobody knew why he had done it. You would think if something were wrong in his business, the problem would turn up eventually. But it didn’t. Or at least, I never heard anything.”
“I suppose he could have been clinically depressed,” I said.
“Lots of people are. But he seemed like a happy man.”
“Was my aunt a personal friend?”
“She said she had eaten at their home on a number of occasions. I think she worked on some of his philanthropic projects. And she knew them well enough that she was invited to the big party. What makes you interested in this? You didn’t know him yourself, did you?”
I told her about my basement escapade. Then we talked about other things, the school, the construction on some of the streets, a teacher her son was having difficulty with. We each drank a second cup of coffee and I admired her cups and saucers. They had come from the Southwest, where her parents were now living.
I was getting ready to go when Midge said, “Someone else died at about that time. I can’t quite remember the details, but I know it upset Meg a great deal, especially coming just after Mr. Filmore’s death.”
I told her what I knew of Darby Maxwell, and as I related the circumstances of his death she nodded.
“Yes, that’s what Meg was so troubled about, that young man that was a friend of her son. She grieved for him as though she had been his mother.”
“It’s strange she didn’t mention it to me,” I said. “I came down every month. I guess he must have died in between visits and she didn’t want to upset me. Although now I think about it, she did say something, but not as emotionally as you’ve described.”
“Believe me, she was very troubled. As I recall, she said he had wandered away from the family and was found a week later, dead of exposure.”
“That’s what these newspaper clippings say. Tell me, do you know anyone named Celia here in town?”
“Celia. Let’s see. I think the former mayor’s wife was named Celia.”
“That could be the person. There’s a lovely note to my aunt from a woman of that name, but there’s no return address and no last name.”
Midge looked at me through narrowed eyes. “You don’t think these deaths were murders, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said, laughing. My neighbors know what I’ve been doing these past few years, solving murders both locally and in some other places, so I could understand why she was suspicious. “I was just interested because it’s a side of my aunt that I didn’t know. She was a great person and was obviously involved in a lot more good things than she let on.”
“She sure was. I think of her a lot, Chris. She would have loved to meet your husband and see your Eddie.”
Just what I had thought. “Well, I thank you for your time. It’s almost time for Eddie to come home.”
“Drop over anytime. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.”
—
That was the end of my inquiries, or I thought it was. At night, I told Jack what I had learned. The suicide intrigued him more than Darby’s death, which he attributed to Darby’s inability to find his way back, thus becoming the victim of the outdoor weather. But the suicide of a well-loved man whose entire life appeared to be in order gave him an uncomfortable feeling.
“Of course, I think we often ask why? when we’re dealing with a suicide. Even people whose lives aren’t in order, who have money problems or emotional problems, can find help if they just say something.”
“They’re embarrassed,” I said. “Or frightened. Or uninformed. There are lots of reasons for keeping quiet. You think I should ask some questions?”
“Far be it from me to tell you not to, but it’s a long time ago and families of suicides don’t like to talk about it. I don’t think you’ll get anywhere.”
“Well, I’ll save the papers. If nothing else, they say something about my aunt.”
—
The course I was teaching on Wednesday mornings had given me the opportunity to go back and read or reread old favorite mysteries. I found myself enjoying Dorothy Sayers immensely. My problem was, when I got into one series, I hated to leave it for another, even though I was trying to read chronologically and make sense out of the development of the mystery genre. My notes became as thick as the manuscript for a book as I analyzed book after book, author after author. There was no question of reading everything Rex Stout or Agatha Christie had written; I’d have been at it forever. But I had read a good many of their books when I was a nun—mysteries were favorite reading at St. Stephen’s—so I was ahead of the game.
I stopped thinking about the unhappy deaths of a dozen years ago and concentrated on the present, preparing for my next class. But something happened to bring it all back to me. Several days after my coffee with Midge, the phone rang and a woman introduced herself as Celia Yaeger.
“I ran into your neighbor Midge McDonald yesterday,” the voice said. “She said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Oh,” I said in surprise. “Mrs. Yaeger. I believe you knew my aunt, Margaret Wirth.”
“I knew her very well, a lovely, wonderful person. I miss her in my life today even though she’s been gone for several years.” She spoke in a careful, well-modulated voice. I could imagine her presiding over a meeting or conference, everything in perfect order.
“I found a note from you among my aunt’s possessions,” I said. “It was written after Mr. Filmore died some years ago.”
“I’m sure I did write to her then. She had worked with him on at least one project and she was very helpful after he died, getting papers together, seeing to it that his good work wouldn’t be lost. And it happened at a terrible time. There was another death, too.”
“Darby Maxwell.”
“Yes, that was his name, a resident of Greenwillow. You must know about Greenwillow. Margaret’s son lives there.”
“We’re very close,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear it. What was it you wanted to ask me?”
I felt a little embarrassed. I didn’t really want to ask her anything. Midge must have misunderstood. “I was just interested in Aunt Meg’s involvement with those two people. She never talked about them.”
“Your aunt was a modest person, Mrs. Brooks. I don’t think I ever heard her toot her own horn in all the years I knew her. She probably didn’t know how. But she tooted everybody else’s; I can tell you that.”
“That’s very kind of you.” I wasn’t sure what to say and I felt awkward. “Well, I thank you for calling.”
“Why don’t we have lunch? I don’t think I’ve ever met you and you’ve lived here some time now. Can you make it tomorrow?”
I told her I could if we made it at twelve-thirty, as I was teaching, and she said that would be fine. When I got off the phone, I called Elsie Rivers, Eddie’s surrogate grandmother, and arranged for him to spend the second half of his day with her.
Then I tried to think of what Mrs. Yaeger and I would talk about.
4
I dressed for class on Wednesday morning. I’m a bit more formal than some of the teachers, who come in wearing torn jeans and flannel shirts. I generally wear a skirt with a blouse or sweater, sometimes a jacket. Mrs. Yaeger had sounded more like my mother’s generation than my own, so I surmised she would appreciate some formality. I didn’t know what to expect when I parked in front of her house after I drove back from my class. Fictional killers and sleuths were swirling in my head as they tended to do when I finished teaching.
The house was one of the older ones in Oakwood, and I could see where it had been extended as so many, including ours, have. I rang the bell
and a small, thin, gray-haired woman opened the door, grasped my hand firmly with enthusiasm, gave me a welcoming smile, and invited me inside.
“Would you care to join me in a glass of sherry?” she asked when my coat had been hung in the hall closet.
“That would be very nice.” I’m not much of a drinker, but I thought I could manage some sherry without falling asleep at the table.
We sat in the living room with our drinks and a platter of canapés that included thin slices of cucumber with notched edges, blue cheese, and rice crackers and some others that were less identifiable but very tasty.
“When my husband was mayor, I tried to meet as many families as I could,” my hostess said, “but I know I’ve missed a lot of newcomers in the last few years. I knew you’d moved in after Meg died, but I never got to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here. I see you’re a very good cook.”
“I’ve had many years to practice,” she said matter-of-factly. “I assume you’re the nun Meg talked about.”
“I was, yes. I was released from my vows the spring my aunt died. She left the house to me and I thought I’d try out living here. I now have a husband and a son and we’re very happy in Oakwood.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve heard a bit about you. You were influential in moving Greenwillow into town.”
“That happened the first summer I lived here. It’s made it very nice for me. I’m able to see Gene, my cousin, whenever I want.”
“That other death we talked about on the phone was his friend. It was very sad, a young man with many people who loved him, a victim of the elements.”
“My cousin remembers him very well.” I reached for what seemed to be a piece of shrimp on a triangle of toast, wondering if I would ever have the patience to create a batch of these lovely little appetizers. “Did you know either of the men who died?” I asked.
“I didn’t know the one at Greenwillow—they weren’t in town at that time, as you know—but I knew Larry Filmore quite well. He was a dear man, a hard worker, very generous with his money.”
“His suicide must have shocked everyone who knew him.”
“It most certainly did.” She set her empty sherry glass on the table. “Shall we go into the dining room?”
I followed her. A polished table was set for two on elegant place mats. Elaborate silver serving pieces lay on the table, and crystal glasses were at each place. I hadn’t counted on more wine with lunch, and I wondered how I would tolerate it. A beautiful salad was at each place, a roll on each bread-and-butter plate. Mrs. Yaeger poured white wine without asking, and I tasted mine as Jack had taught me to, inhaling the aroma first. I was sure it was a fine wine.
“Yes, Larry’s suicide left us all reeling,” she said, picking up the thread from the living room. “Why does a man do such a thing? Why does anyone do it, but especially a man who had so much to live for? We’ll never know.”
“There was nothing suspicious about it?”
“Everything was suspicious. Where did he go in the wee hours after his birthday party? Why did he leave the house? Where did he spend the time?”
“Are there any answers?”
“None that I know of. He left mysteriously; he came back mysteriously.”
“Does his wife still live in town?”
“Yes, Laura’s still in the house. She has many friends and a full life, but that broken heart will never mend.”
“I assume the police did an investigation.”
“As far as I know. They had a fair idea how far he had driven, but he never got gas while he was away and never charged a toll or anything else, so they don’t know where he went. And he wasn’t sighted.”
“Was he shot?”
“Yes, by his own hand.”
“Was it his gun?”
“I don’t remember now,” she said, breaking her roll and buttering half. “Laura would know.”
I wondered if that meant Lawrence Filmore had owned a gun. “You wrote a very lovely note to my aunt,” I said, changing the subject somewhat. “It was filled with kindness and warmth. I’m sure she appreciated it. I found it last week in a carton in the basement and I asked Midge if she knew someone named Celia.”
She smiled. “That puts all the pieces in place. Tell me about yourself, Christine. You’ve certainly had an interesting and unusual background.”
I went through it all as we ate our lunch. She was a pleasant woman who clearly tried to make me feel appreciated. I thought she must have been a tremendous asset to her husband while he was mayor, but that was before I moved to Oakwood, and Meg had never mentioned either one of them.
When I left, after a homemade dessert and very good coffee, I felt as though I had a new friend.
—
That evening, when I next had some free time, I flipped through Aunt Meg’s journals, reading an entry here and there but not devoting a lot of time to it. These I would keep. They were her thoughts, her feelings, her concerns, her pleasures, and her griefs. I found the book that corresponded in time to the two deaths I had learned about, and in that one I searched for the entries in which she wrote about them. I didn’t learn much more than I had from Midge, Celia, Virginia McAlpine, and the newspaper clippings. When I was done, I set it all aside and got to work on next week’s class.
—
I woke up on Thursday morning thinking about Darby Maxwell and his mother. After breakfast, I decided to call her, just to introduce myself and tell her my connection to her family. Virginia at Greenwillow gave me the last phone number she had, already a dozen years old, and I called.
“You must be the nun,” she said when I told her I was Meg’s niece.
“I was when you knew my aunt. I’m living in her house now.” I went on to explain the details and we talked for about ten minutes. She sounded very much like my aunt in some ways, and I enjoyed listening to her voice.
Finally, she said, “If you’re in Oakwood, you’re not all that far from where we live in Connecticut. Would you like to come up and visit?”
I hadn’t planned anything beyond the phone call and it took me a moment to answer, during which she pressed me to come. She would like to see me for lunch tomorrow, nothing fancy—“I’m not a fancy person,” she said—just good, plain food. I have to say that was very appealing, as I am a lover of good, plain food. I said yes, made my arrangements with Elsie, and felt rather pleased that I would be spending a few hours with someone who reminded me of Aunt Meg.
—
We live on the Long Island Sound, a body of water between the north shore of Long Island, which juts into the Atlantic Ocean, and the northeast coast of New York State and the southern coast of Connecticut, which are contiguous. As you travel north and east along this coast, the sound eventually gives way to the Atlantic.
Betty Linton lived north of the coast, somewhere in the middle of Connecticut, more or less on the way to Massachusetts. Jack and I looked at a map that evening and figured out the best way for me to go. It was fall and likely to be a very beautiful drive, with the leaves turning but not yet falling.
I got Eddie off to nursery school and told him Elsie would pick him up and I would be home later in the afternoon.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m visiting a lady in Connecticut.”
“Is she a nice lady?”
“I think she is.”
The drive was as pleasant as I had anticipated. When I finally reached the house I was looking for, I was surprised to find an old, well-cared-for wooden structure on several acres of land. The old-fashioned mailbox at the road said: LINTON and I went up a long drive and parked. I estimated the house to have been built in the middle of the nineteenth century, and many of the trees around it must have been at least that old. It was quite lovely.
Mrs. Linton came out of the front door with a smile and a wave after I got out of the car. I think I loved her at first sight. There was a resemblance to my aunt, not so much in looks but in sp
irit. She was spry and energetic, with an easy smile.
“You don’t look a bit like your aunt,” she said, offering her hand, “but it’s a pleasure to meet you. I know that you’re Gene’s cousin. He always talked about you.”
“He used to call me ‘the brown lady’ because the Franciscan habit I wore was brown.”
“Come inside. You’ve had a long drive and it’s chilly out here.”
The inside of the house was wonderful, lots of old wood beams, floors that were surely original and well polished. The Lintons had obviously gone to great pains to furnish the house with American antiques. There were oil lamps of great beauty that had been converted to electricity, an old hand-carved baby’s rocker, and handwoven rugs. It was a treasure trove and I wished I had the time to inspect every item.
“We’ve had a good time filling up this house,” Betty Linton said. “It was bare when we moved in, except for a few old things that we eventually threw away. Let’s sit down for a while and talk. You can try that rocking chair. It’s not an antique, just old. It’s the chair my mother sat in with me when I was a baby and fussed. Be careful, dear. It may put you to sleep.” She smiled.
It was carved, stained oak and I sat in it gingerly, but it was strong and firm and comfortable, even without a cushion. We talked for about half an hour, then moved into the dining room, where a fire burned in one of many fireplaces. Here there were even more things to admire. A corner cupboard caught my attention, as well as the dishes it held. Mrs. Linton said the cupboard was part of the house, but they had had it refinished. The glass panes in the doors were original and leaded. I looked through one and saw the waviness.
“It really is wonderful having you here,” Betty Linton said. “I’m afraid I didn’t keep up with your aunt after my son died; it was too painful. But we did talk once or twice a year and I heard from someone when she died; maybe it was from Virginia at Greenwillow.”