The Happy Birthday Murder

by Lee Harris

  “Why didn’t he write a note and stick it in his pocket?”

  “Because the person who was holding them was too clever for that. He may have confiscated pens and pencils. Were there any in your husband’s personal effects?”

  “No,” she said after a moment, “but he left in a hurry. He had his wallet, which had his driver’s license, but that was all.”

  “And Darby probably didn’t have anything with him, either. He was wearing casual clothes. I’ll check with Betty anyway, but that’s what I’m thinking right now.”

  “How will you proceed?”

  “Two directions,” I said. “I want to find all the houses that Darby may have come across. I want to talk to any people who remember what happened twelve years ago. And on the other hand, I want to find out all I can about your husband’s past. Do you have a problem with that?”

  She changed lanes before she answered, checking mirrors carefully. “No, I don’t. Larry was an honest man. He paid his taxes; he treated his employees well. I saw many of them weeping at his funeral. He had many business associates, a lot of whom came to the birthday party. He had good relations with them. I will help you check him out in any way I can.”

  “Thank you. You told me yesterday you asked the police not to investigate the ownership of the gun that killed him.”

  “I was feeling a little crazy at the time, Chris. I don’t know how he got it or where he got it, but he obviously got it somehow. Maybe a business acquaintance gave it to him for protection.”

  Or he got it illegally himself, I thought.

  “Something you said a few minutes ago,” she said. “About pens and pencils. They were on his dresser, Chris. I found them there in the morning after he left. But nothing else was there. And now I think about it, when the medical examiner sent back his personal effects, there was no small change, well, maybe a few cents, a nickel and some pennies. And he always had a pocketful of change.”

  “He may have spent it,” I said.

  “He could have, but if he was in captivity, as you suggest, he may have been forced to give it to his captor.”

  “Right.”

  “I remember being surprised when I opened the bag with his wallet, but then I thought maybe someone in the medical examiner’s office had taken it for himself.”

  “That’s always possible, but the police inventory everything they remove.”

  She drove without speaking. I knew she was thinking of possibilities she had not considered before. I was glad we were on this trip together with no one else around and nothing to disturb us.

  “And the wallet,” she said. “There was only one bill in it, a ten or twenty. Larry always carried a lot of money with him. It worried me, but he said you never knew when it would come in handy. I would bet he left the house with at least two hundred dollars and a pocketful of change.”

  “And there was no money in the bedroom?”

  “None at all. His good pen was there; I remember that. I gave it to my son sometime later. And a ballpoint he always carried in case he had to sign something with duplicate copies.” Her voice had turned urgent and eager. She was remembering things that had been mere facts at one time but that now had become meaningful. “But no money. And you know what? I remember hearing him gather his coins and drop them in his pocket before he left. You know how you hear something and later it comes back to you and makes sense? That’s why it struck me as strange that there were almost no coins and bills left. I know he took it all with him.”

  “You never made inquiries?”

  She let her breath out. “When I saw the sneakers and knew they weren’t Larry’s, I called up. I think I may have told you. The man I spoke to took offense. Acted as though I was accusing him of theft. So when it occurred to me, somewhat later, that the money was wrong, I didn’t want to call up again. Sneakers are one thing; money is much more serious.”

  “This is very interesting, Laura. What you’re suggesting is that his captor may have taken most of his money—not all because it would be too obvious—before he was killed. He left just enough that it wouldn’t look as though he’d been robbed, at least not to the police.”

  “You think Larry didn’t kill himself,” she said.

  “I don’t know. Can you think of anything that might make him want to?”

  Again she took time to answer, as though she was really trying to think of something so terrible that her husband would choose to end his life. “What would make a happy man kill himself?” she asked.

  “The discovery of some old misdeed, some personal failing, some accident that may have looked like an intentional crime.”

  Her face had grown very somber. She stared straight ahead, guiding the car through traffic. “Not Larry,” she said. “I knew Larry most of his life. He told me everything. I was his closest confidante. There were never any times when he didn’t come home or disappeared for long periods of time. We kept in touch, even before the era of cell phones. If he was going to be late, he called me.”

  “You said he owned a gun.”

  “Yes, but he never shot anyone.”

  “But you don’t know where it is.”

  She shook her head. “I wish I did.”

  “Will you look for it?”

  “I will. I’ll search the house. I know it isn’t in the safedeposit box because I’ve emptied that. I’ve never really looked for it. I will now.”

  “Good.”

  “This has been a very productive drive.”

  “It has. Let’s keep up the good work.”

  —

  Eddie was glad to see me and I equally glad to spend some time with him. As usual, he had some wonderful craft he had made in nursery school, a kite painted with bright colors, and I admired it and he told me how he had made it.

  Finally he said, “I’m hungry.”

  “What would you like?”

  “A chocolate chip cookie.”

  “Did Elsie make them for you?”

  “Yes.” He smiled at me. He probably knew Elsie had given me a doggie bag with at least half of what she had baked.

  “Let’s see if I have any,” I said. I opened the drawer where I kept pretzels and cookies, my junk food drawer, and looked inside, knowing they were not there.

  “I don’t want those cookies. I want Elsie’s.”

  “I wonder if I have any.”

  “You have them. I know.”

  I gave him a squeeze and a kiss. “You’re right. I just remembered where they are.” I went to the cabinet and took them out.

  We sat at the table and munched on a couple. Elsie is a dream. If I didn’t have her, my whole life would be different, and nowhere near as complete. The chocolate bits melted in my mouth. I was glad Eddie had brought up the subject.

  —

  “That’s an interesting theory,” Jack said when we were alone in the evening. “That Filmore was sending a message.”

  “The only other possibility is that the killer made them switch to make Filmore uncomfortable. But if he was smart enough to make a suicide look real, he wouldn’t have wanted anyone finding the body—or bodies—to notice something wrong with the clothing.”

  “You’re right. And if Filmore had no other way to get the word out, that would have done it. I’m sure he never imagined his death would be made to look like a suicide, but he might have thought his body would be dumped somewhere or even hidden, possibly never to be found. But if Darby’s body was found, his family would know the sneakers were wrong.”

  “What Filmore didn’t count on was that the bodies would be found in two different states. That really changed things.”

  “It did. And also that the clothing wasn’t returned to the families till later. So where are you going from here?”

  “I’m putting together a bunch of questions to ask Betty. And I want to investigate Lawrence Filmore’s past.”

  “I’ll see what I can find on Monday. Does his wife know you’re doing this?”

  “Yes, and s
he gave me her permission. She doesn’t think I’ll find anything.”

  “She may not know.” Jack got up, got a sheet of paper, and folded it twice, writing below a folded edge. He asked for whatever information I had, address, age, birth date.

  “I’m going to go to the plant he owned,” I said. “Laura gave me the address and some names before she dropped me off. They make upscale leather items, like belts and handbags and wallets. Her father-in-law started the business after the Second World War, and Larry went to work there out of college. So that was his life.”

  “And all the organizations he worked for.”

  “It’s hard to believe anyone in a charitable organization would murder a donor.”

  “You don’t know what their relationships were. You keep referring to the killer as ‘he.’ Maybe he fell for a woman at the Find a Cure for Cancer charity.”

  I smiled. “Here comes the deep, dark side of Jack Brooks.”

  “Murder’s pretty deep and dark. You think everyone who works for the good of mankind is good? You want me to cite chapter and verse?”

  “Please don’t. It’s bad enough when I hear about it on the news.”

  “Got some news myself. I signed up for a course to prep for the lieutenant’s exam.”

  “That’s great.” He had been studying by himself for several months and this was the next step. “When will it start?”

  “After the first of the year. It means nights again, honey. Can you take it?”

  “If you can, I can.” The first few years of our marriage Jack had gone to law school at night, then studied for the bar. Having him home on a regular basis was a continuing gift, but I knew he wanted to advance and this was the way up.

  “Glad to hear it. Got any more of Elsie’s cookies?”

  Two of a kind, I thought.

  9

  The next morning I called Betty Linton. Jack and I had continued our conversation the previous evening, and he had suggested some questions for me to ask.

  “I hope I didn’t scare Laura,” Betty said. “She seemed very tense. I wasn’t really lost. I just wanted to come out behind my friend’s house, not a house down the road. Some of the neighbors are a little sensitive about trespassers.”

  “She’s fine. It was a very instructive hike. We could both see how easy it would be to get turned around or walk in circles.”

  “And Darby never went walking alone. Even now, I shudder when I think about how he must have felt.”

  “Betty, I want to ask you about what happened during the time he was missing. Did you publicize his disappearance?”

  “Oh, yes. I was on local radio several times. I taped a plea for people to look for him. And I was on television with a picture of him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A bunch of us put up flyers on trees and poles with a picture and my phone number.”

  “Did you offer a reward?”

  “Ah.” She paused. “No, we didn’t. There was a lot of discussion about it. I would have paid the person who found him everything I own; I’m sure you understand that. But there was something wrong with offering a reward, as though he were a piece of property, not a person. The experts we talked to thought it was better not to.”

  I agreed with her decision and the reasons that led to it. “Did anyone call during the time he was gone?”

  “Several people. No one said they had him in their living room. Mostly they thought they’d seen him in one place or another. I let the police know whenever I got a call like that.”

  “Did you take their names and numbers?”

  “Yes, I did. But nothing ever panned out, as you know.”

  “Did anyone ever call asking for a ransom?”

  “You mean as though he had been kidnapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. And we didn’t think that had happened. There was one call, though.” Her voice drifted off.

  “What was it?”

  “It was probably just someone looking to pick up some easy cash. He asked if there was a reward.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked if he knew where Darby was. He said he didn’t, but he would really look hard if there was something in it for him.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The police had a trap on my line and they traced the call to a pay phone in town. No one was there when they got there. There was a flyer on a pole right near the phone, so I assumed the man had seen it, put a quarter in the phone, and called me up. It was annoying, but I didn’t really think much of it. He sounded very rough, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did the police follow up on it?” I asked.

  “There wasn’t much they could do. Phone booths are full of fingerprints. In fact, I think they said when they got there a woman was using the phone. I don’t think it was anything serious, Chris.”

  I was making notes as we spoke. I’ve learned not to overlook what other people think of as unimportant details, not that I thought this was necessarily meaningful. And I was well aware that whoever made the call was lost to me.

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  “What were you thinking of?”

  “Just that perhaps Darby strayed into the home of someone who thought he might use the situation for personal benefit, try to extort money for Darby’s return.”

  “Nothing like that happened.”

  “I’d like to go to the houses that Darby might have found, if you know where they are.”

  “I have a map that shows a lot of details, including houses in the area. After twelve years, I’m sure many of those people are gone.”

  “Even so.”

  “Then let’s do it. You’ve made me feel that the explanations I accepted may have been wrong. If there’s a truth I don’t know, I’d like to find out what it is.”

  We made an appointment for next week and she promised to find the list of houses and locate them on a map.

  I was aware from listening to the news over the years and from talking to Jack about interesting cases that in kidnappings there were often calls from pranksters and opportunists. The fact that the phone booth the man called from was right next to a pole with a flyer probably indicated opportunism more than anything else, although you never could tell. It was certainly heartwarming to know that people believed they had sighted Darby—and maybe one or more of them had—and had taken the time to call. If there had been a ransom demand, the police would have followed up on it, no question about that.

  With arrangements made for the Darby side of the case, I called Laura Filmore and asked whether I could talk to people at the plant her husband had owned. She had already checked and found that the night watchman who had been on duty the night her husband disappeared was still working there and still working nights. I didn’t look forward much to talking to someone in the hours after midnight, as I am the opposite of a night owl, but I thought I could get there by seven in the morning if he would be there tomorrow. She called me back fifteen minutes later and said Charlie Calhoun would be there overnight and if I got there at eight, when he went off duty, we could have a cup of coffee and talk in the cafeteria. I promised to be there.

  For all the years I lived at St. Stephen’s, I got up at five in the morning. Getting up at six-thirty was a piece of cake, and I could be back home in time for a real breakfast and mass.

  “One more thing,” I said, winding up the call. “Now that we are pretty sure your husband was in Connecticut during his disappearance, can you go back over your guest list and let me know what people at the party came in from Connecticut?”

  There was no answer.

  “Laura?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew you would ask. I told you very truthfully yesterday that I didn’t know anyone in the part of Connecticut we visited, and none of the people Betty knew matched the ones I have known, but I can’t give you any names.”

  “Then there were guest
s from Connecticut.”

  “There were and they weren’t involved. I would stake my life on it.”

  “How close were they to where we walked in the woods?”

  “They lived within the range of mileage on Larry’s car,” she said evasively. “I didn’t mention them because I can’t let you talk to them.”

  “Laura, I don’t think you can decide in advance—”

  “I have decided,” she interrupted. “That’s it. It’s final.”

  “I hope you change your mind,” I said. “If you do, you can call me.”

  “I won’t. That’s the end of it.”

  It was the end of our conversation. I had thought she had been completely forthcoming in Betty Linton’s house yesterday, but obviously she had kept this to herself. I was annoyed, but there wasn’t much I could do. Even if I could find people who had been at the party, they were unlikely to recall, after so many years, out of four hundred people the name of one person or two who might have driven down from Connecticut. I would have to let it lie.

  In the meantime, there was the delicate matter of finding out whether there were secrets in Lawrence Filmore’s past. Since Jack has a good relationship with the Oakwood Police Department, he went over there in the afternoon to see if he could wheedle information out of them. He was gone longer than I thought he would be, and Eddie and I had come home from our walk when he finally pulled into the driveway.

  “Took some doing,” he said, patting Eddie on the back.

  “Where did you go?” Eddie asked.

  “I had to talk to a policeman.”

  “I wanna talk to a policeman.”

  “They’re very busy, Eddie. Maybe another time.”

  “Learn anything?” I asked.

  “He had a pretty clean record. Coupla traffic violations, nothing serious. The file on the suicide is closed: no crime, no case. No one offered me a peek and I don’t want to upset anybody by being pushy. That’s the quickest way to wear out your welcome in this business.

  “Someone at their house was once rushed to the hospital during a party. One of the older cops remembered it. They thought it was a heart attack, but it turned out not to be serious. I don’t think there’s anything there.”